Dare to Die (13 page)

As if on cue, her cell phone chimed. Annie turned away from the shop, moved to one of the cast iron park benches with a view of the harbor. She smiled at the caller ID. “Hi.”

“I talked to Father Patton and he'll be glad to do the service.”

As always, the sound of Max's voice lifted her.

“We're looking ahead to ten o'clock Friday. There isn't any family left. I'll take care of the obituary. Marian said she'd help. I'm at the store. I thought you'd be here, but Laurel told me about the note. What does Billy think?”

“Could be something, may be nothing. Anyway”—and she felt virtuous—“it's in his hands. I told him about my spirit poster and now I'm checking in with everybody to get some nice memories of Iris.”

An instant of silence in the ether was a clear reminder that Max was no fool. “Everybody?”

“Max,” she tried not to sound defensive, “it's terrible if we don't have anything to do with our friends. It's as if we're declaring them suspects. I decided I owed them more than that and since I need memories of Iris, I'm dropping by and visiting. That's all I'm asking for. Buck gave me a sweet memory.”

“No questions about murder.” Again it was a demand, not a question.

“I've already promised Billy.” Did both Max and Billy think she was untrustworthy?

“Good. Make your visits short and sweet. And then, let's take some time for us.” He sounded determined. The dead could be mourned, but life was to be lived.

 

F
RAN'S SHOP WAS AS ECLECTIC AS
L
IZ'S WAS PREDICTABLE.
Oaxacan clay statuettes were displayed on a Hans Wegner teak wall cabinet. African tribal masks hung from a Victorian iron hat tree. Yet the overall impression was not a hodgepodge but a collection of amazing vitality and exuberance. Fran's shop had been written up in
Southern Living
as one of the most unusual in the sea islands, offering glimpses of exotic worlds.

Fran stood behind a counter filled with cut-glass perfume bottles. A musky scent rose from a wooden bowl filled with potpourri. Fran's stare was wary. “I saw you go into the station.”

Billy's concern was quickly proven correct.

Fran's voice was clipped. “Did you tell Billy about Russell and Jocelyn?”

Annie felt stung. “I didn't have a choice. I had to go see him anyway about—” She broke off. The last person she wanted to tell about the anonymous note was Buck's wife. “Something that had nothing to do with Russell.”

Fran's eyes glittered. “About what?”

Annie felt miserable. “I can't tell you. It had nothing to do with Russell. But when Billy asked if I'd talked to anyone about Jocelyn at the sports picnic, I had to tell him what you said.”

The silence between them was stiff and strained.

Annie took a step nearer Fran. “Let's not quarrel. We all want Iris's murderer caught.”

Fran's angular face looked tired and worried. “Of course we want the murderer caught. But I intend to make it clear to Billy that you misunderstood what I said.” She was decisive. “Sure, Russell was upset that night. Why not? Sam was his best friend. He didn't want to talk to Jocelyn. Guys can't handle emotion. That's all it amounted to.”

“I'm sure Billy will talk to Russell, clear everything up. Anyway, that's not why I came to see you.”

Fran heard Annie out. She was pensive. “A memory of Iris? She was always there. She hung around us.”

Annie wondered if Fran sensed the picture she painted, Fran a part of a group, Iris peripheral.

“She was like a ghost that last year, never quite real.” Fran turned her hands over in helplessness. “I don't know if that makes any sense. I don't know any way to say it better. I didn't have any idea what was wrong until Sam died. That's when I heard whispers, that he was on drugs and that Iris sold them to him. I couldn't believe it. But when she ran away, I knew. It was awful.” Her look was bitter. “Sam was the handsomest guy in our class. We all wanted to date him.” Fran's eyes filled with tears. “I can't talk about Iris now. I don't want to remember.” Whirling, she moved from behind the counter, disappeared through a beaded curtain into a back room.

 

A
NNIE PARKED IN FRONT OF THE
M
ONTGOMERY HOUSE.
S
HE
didn't want to get out of her car and knock on the front door of the two-story yellow stucco home that overlooked a lagoon. Russell had built it and the house was comfortable and welcoming. Or had always been so in the past.

Annie no longer felt sure of welcome from the group that had known both Iris and Jocelyn. Maybe talking to them was a big mistake. So far, she'd done nothing but reinforce the idea that she was meddling in a police investigation. That wasn't what she had intended.

She forced herself forward. Maybe Russell wouldn't be home. Annie walked slowly up the walk. A buzz saw whined in the distance. Russell had recently mentioned expanding the deck. He was having a busman's holiday this sunny April afternoon.

He saw her as she rounded the corner of the house. The buzz saw's shrill whine was cut off. He swiped his hands on his khaki shorts and walked toward her, big, muscular, attractive. But his face was wary.

Annie felt small inside. She wondered if he'd talked with either Liz or Fran.

“Hey, Russell.” She hoped she didn't sound as craven as she felt.

He suddenly frowned. “Is everything okay at the house? The plumber's there even though it's Saturday. He's promised to keep after it until everything's fixed.”

It was such a relief that he connected her visit with the Franklin house and not with Iris that she managed a tentative smile. “Everything's fine at the Franklin house. We aren't thinking much about the house now. Not after what happened last night.
I'm upset that I asked her to our party and something awful happened. I'm putting together a memorial for Iris and I'm talking to people who knew her, asking for good memories. I hoped you could help.”

He looked startled. “Well, sure. I'll talk to Liz—”

Annie interrupted. “I just spoke with her a few minutes ago.” Annie didn't tell him his wife had declined to contribute. Maybe that wasn't playing fair. At this point, she didn't care. She'd set out to talk to those who'd known Iris. She was going to finish the task even if it left her friendships in shambles. She braced for another rejection as she sketched what she had in mind.

Russell looked thoughtful. “I felt sorry for Iris. She never seemed to belong. She was always around, but she didn't have fun like the rest of us. Liz was always nice—”

Annie nodded and wondered why Liz didn't have any good memories to share.

“—but Liz is always nice to people. Iris was real quiet. I think a lot of it went back to her mom and Hootie. Hootie was her pet owl. She'd raised him from when he was little and must have fallen out of a tree or something. Everybody said he'd die and she was stupid to try to take care of him. She didn't pay any attention and the owl didn't die. We were maybe nine or ten then. Maybe it would have been better if the owl had died right off.”

Annie pictured the huge eyes of an owl, heard in her mind the plaintive cry. “What happened?”

“Her grandma had fixed a big wire cage in one of their trees. Hootie got out. Somebody shot him.” Russell kicked at a pine cone on the ground. “That happened not long after her mom died. I think that's when Iris kind of went her own way. Sometimes I thought she had a look like an owl, a real distant stare.”

 

T
HE MODEST GRAY WOOD COTTAGE SAT HIGH ON PILINGS,
safe from storm surges. A wraparound deck afforded views of the Sound and the salt marsh. Annie was pleased to see Cara's convertible parked beneath the house. Annie wondered if Cara would provide a memory. At least she'd come to see Iris at Nightingale Courts though it was after Cara's departure that Iris had appeared lonely and troubled.

Annie hoped Cara would offer more information for Iris's spirit poster. Annie was grateful for Buck's and Russell's insights. She would find a photo online of a brilliantly yellow canary. Last year she'd taken a night photo of a barred owl in their backyard. She would likely never know whether Iris's owl was a great horned or a barred, but the photo was arresting, a frontal shot with those huge eyes. “Here's looking at you,” they seemed to say. Iris would be pleased. Annie needed more to be satisfied with her poster. She had no intention of giving up. She would keep on looking for memories, on the island and on the mainland.

As she walked toward the cabin, the sound of her footsteps on the oyster-shell drive was lost in the throbbing
whop-whop
of a low-flying Coast Guard helicopter. Annie looked up, shading her eyes. She wondered if the bright orange Dolphin was returning to the Savannah air station from a usual patrol or if a boater was in trouble somewhere on the Sound.

The path approached Cara's cabin from one side, affording a view of the deck overlooking the marsh. Cara stood at the railing, facing the undulating spartina grass and the green water beyond.

The roar of the rotors was loud and intense. Annie came near, close enough to call out. The shout died in her throat as Cara turned away from the view.

Cara's head hung down. Tears streaked a mottled face. She clutched a portrait frame against her chest. She walked heavily to a rattan chair and sank into it, a figure of despair.

Annie hesitated, then turned away. Cara was alone, deliberately, decisively alone, plunged into a private torment. This was not a moment she intended to share. Offering solace would be an affront.

Annie hurried to her car, started it, backed and turned in the drive, grateful that the fading roar of the rotors masked her departure.

What had she seen and what did it mean? Was Cara's grief for Iris? That would suggest a relationship far deeper than anyone knew.

If so, Billy should know.

Annie's heart rebelled. She wouldn't reveal Cara's heartbreak unless she had no choice.

A
t the coffee hour after the early service, Cara Wilkes was slim and attractive in a stylish pink bouclé jacket and matching skirt and pink leather heels. She wore her usual dangling necklace. This two-strand set alternated white and pink beads, a nice accent for her suit. Her short-cut sandy hair glistened in a shaft of sunlight. Her makeup was perfect, the pink lip gloss matching the beads. Cara was animated, talking a mile a minute, waving her hands for emphasis. There was no trace of yesterday's distress.

Annie had wrestled through the night with her unwanted knowledge. If Cara's tears were related to Iris's murder, Billy should know. But there might be no connection.

In any event, she needed to ask Cara about a memory of Iris.

Annie glanced toward Max. He was deep in conversation with Father Patton. Annie skirted several groups, waited until
Cara was free, then hurried to her. She'd scarcely started to explain when Cara interrupted.

“It's a lovely idea. Buck told me all about it.” Cara smiled warmly. Her eyes were soft, then with a quick breath, she said brightly, “Fran wants to help, too. She's sent you an e-mail. Buck said she was too upset to talk to you yesterday.” Cara suddenly looked somber. “We've all been upset since Iris died. But I love the idea of a spirit poster, something beautiful for Iris.” Cara linked arms with Annie, drew her nearer the parish hall's French window, which opened to a terrace. “Come outside and let me tell you about Iris.”

The air was clear and clean and cool, April fresh before summer's onslaught of heat and humidity. They sat on a wooden bench near a fountain. The soft splash was a cheerful background to Cara's quick words. “Iris and I were both raised by our grandmothers. I wore these today for Iris.” Cara touched the necklace. “She made the necklace from beads she'd taken from some broken-up old jewelry of her mom's and gave it to me for Christmas when we were twelve. I loved jewelry even then. Iris and I always hung around together at Christmas. Our grandmothers were friends. We didn't have much family. At school programs, everybody else had moms and dads or at least moms. We always felt kind of hollow when everybody else had their families around. Iris was funny. Do you know one thing she really, really loved?”

Annie waited with a smile. Cara's eagerness was infectious.

“Olivia Newton-John's music. All because her mom loved it. ‘Magic' was Iris's favorite. Everybody made fun of her because that wasn't cool when we were kids. U2 and the Red Hot Chili Peppers were big for us. But Iris said every time she heard ‘Magic,' she thought of her mom. When she sang, I thought
Iris sounded like Olivia. She would like for that to be on her poster.”

She looked past Annie. “There's Fran and Buck. I'll tell her you'll look for her e-mail.” With that she was on her feet in her usual swift fashion and rushing toward the window.

Annie looked after Cara with a feeling of reassurance. Unless Cara was a superb actress, her sadness yesterday afternoon had no link to Iris.

But Cara hadn't mentioned her visit to Nightingale Courts.

Maybe that wasn't a good memory of Iris.

 

M
AX WAVED AWAY A WASP CIRCLING NEAR THE FRAGRANT
white blooms of the mock orange shrub. Annie always said the heavenly scent of mock orange was particularly appropriate for a shrub in the cloister between the chapel and the church. Mock orange grew to ten feet in height. He might plant the shrubbery in a crescent near their pond at the Franklin house. However, the blooming period was short lived.

He leaned against a pillar and felt at peace with the world as he waited, enjoying the tolling of the bells as parishioners strolled toward their cars. Annie had stepped into the chapel to light a candle for Iris. He looked at the massive red wooden door, pictured her kneeling in the small alcove, light slanting through stained glass to turn her blond hair to gold.

Annie was safe now.

The unexpected thought startled him. He shook his head. Billy's grim concern obviously lurked in his subconscious. Annie wasn't involved in the investigation. She'd found a positive outlet for her sadness about Iris's death. She was excited about Cara's upbeat offering for the spirit poster. He wondered if
Father Patton would approve if they played “Magic” at the service.

Of course Annie was safe. There was nothing to worry about.

 

A
NNIE MOVED FAST THROUGH THE BACK DOOR OF
D
EATH
on Demand. She'd left Max at Nightingale Courts, whipping together a great Sunday brunch. Happily, it never took long to drive the length of the island. She wanted to check her e-mails. When she received the e-mail from Fran, everyone except Liz would have contributed to Iris's spirit poster.

Agatha jumped up on the computer desk. Annie gently touched heads with her, stroked silky fur. “Don't try to tell me you're starving. I set your automatic feeder.” The latest in cat food dispensers both opened a can and dispensed dry food. It couldn't get any better at a cat Waldorf.

Agatha purred and looked as though she was smiling.

Annie smoothed Agatha's coat and clicked to Outlook Express:

A
NNIE TOOK A DEEP SATISFIED SNIFF.
N
OTHING SMELLED AS
good as their kitchen on Sunday morning, even when it consisted of a small oven and two-burner range and compact refrigerator in a rental cabin. Max was a culinary genius. Breakfast after early church was always special. Today he was topping potato and bacon pancakes with poached eggs and hollandaise sauce. Max turned off the blender. He was ready to add melted butter to the mixture of egg yolk, lemon juice, mustard, and wilted watercress.

Annie straightened one of the place mats. Ruby macaws looked poised for flight on navy linen place mats Henny had brought back from Brazil. Annie put out whipped butter to soften and poured fresh orange juice. All the comforts of home. She glanced through the sliding glass door at greening marsh grass shimmering in the morning sun. Soon they'd be on the ferry heading toward the mainland, breathing the salty scent of the sea and watching dolphins.

A thunk sounded at the cabin's front door. Perfect timing.
The Sunday morning
Gazette
had arrived. She retrieved the newspaper, discarded the ads, and placed the front section at Max's plate. She kept the sports section to check the scores of the Rangers and Astros. Some passions a girl from Texas never lost.

Max carried the laden plates to the table. He averted his gaze as Annie added a dash of ketchup to her hollandaise.

Annie ate contentedly, propping the baseball page against her orange juice. “Max, the pancakes are divine.” After all, it was Sunday. And Michael Young had four hits and—

“For God's sake.” Max slammed a hand onto the table. His face was hard and furious.

Juice slopped over the edge of her glass onto a picture of the Yankees' Alex Rodriguez hitting a home run.

“Look at this.” Max thrust the front section toward her.

Annie took the paper. She saw the headline. She'd expected it, but the large black letters destroyed her pleasure in their morning, plunged her back into sadness:

 

MURDER MARS PAVILION PARTY;

POLICE REPORT NO SUSPECTS

Max was impatient. “Not the lead story. The inset.”

Annie was glad to stop reading the lead story. She knew everything it contained. Her eyes moved to the black box with inset boldface type:

“Oh.” Annie looked at Max's angry face, eyes narrowed, jaws tensed. “It sounds like Iris told me a lot about the past.”

Max's tone was rough. “I'll call Vince. Get a retraction.”

Annie shook her head. “That would make it worse. The old no-smoke-without-fire.” She glanced down at the bold type that shouted the importance of its contents. “Actually,” her voice
was hopeful, “anyone reading it in a hurry wouldn't think much about it. People skim everything.”

Max looked grim. “The murderer won't read it in a hurry.” His gaze fastened on Annie. “From now on, it's you and me together. Day and night.” His expression softened. He reached across the table, took her hand in his, held tight. “Not exactly hard duty.”

 

L
AUGHING GULLS CIRCLED ABOVE THE FERRY, THEIR DISTINCTIVE
hyena cackle rising over the water slapping against the hull. Whitecaps rippled across the Sound. In the distance, a freighter rode low in the water. Except for them, the passengers had remained in their cars. She followed Max up steep steps. They stopped at a railing, the wheelhouse behind them.

She felt the sharpness of the breeze. Only a few days before, Iris Tilford had taken the ferry to Broward's Rock. Had she been fearful? She was embarking on an effort to discover the truth of part of her past. She must have felt the breeze and the warmth of the sun.

Iris had been alive.

Annie gripped the railing, felt the burn of tears.

Max's arm came around her. He pulled her close. “Don't cry.” His voice was soft.

“Iris was trying to do the right thing. Now she's gone.”

“None of us know how long we have.” Max touched her cheek.

“I'm frightened.” It was scarcely a whisper. She felt as if she'd touched the edge of eternity. Iris had been here and now she was gone. Forever. The world seemed huge and alien and empty.

His embrace tightened. “Don't be scared. Don't lose faith. Or hope. Despite all evil, there's goodness, too. Hold to that.”

Annie drew strength from his nearness. Whatever was to happen, she had set herself a good task and she drew comfort from it. She was going to create a tribute to Iris.

Once again she looked at the softly green water, glad for the breeze and its reminder of life and feeling. Annie wondered if they would be welcomed at the mission. Would Brother Doyle be willing to talk about Iris? Had he known her well enough to have memories to share? Could Annie find the peace she sought and the reassurance that life could be well ordered and safe?

She felt a tug on her arm.

Max's gaze intent. “Penny for your thoughts?”

The mainland came into view, a dark smudge on the horizon.

She gave him a reassuring smile and made her tone cheerful. “I hope Brother Doyle will talk to us.”

Max was positive. “Why wouldn't he? We're going to have a good day.” His eyes told her more than the words, told her he was there, she was fine, life was good. “After we go to the mission, let's catch the buffet at The Lady and Sons.”

“I'd love that. Although we don't really need two fabulous meals in one day.” Annie enjoyed Paula Deen's famous restaurant though the lines of eager customers often stretched around the block. She and Max weren't in a hurry and it was a lovely day to be outside. The restaurant closed at five on Sundays, but a late afternoon buffet could serve as an early supper. She could already taste the deviled eggs, made with mustard as deviled eggs should be. They'd be home in time to reassure Dorothy L. that she hadn't been deserted in the cabin.

As the ferry chugged toward the dock, Annie wondered if
Max wanted to delay their return to the island as long as possible. Was he afraid her efforts for Iris's poster might encroach on Billy's investigation? Max didn't need to worry. She would keep their bargain. She wouldn't ask anyone anything that related to Iris's murder.

 

T
HE MISSION WAS A SAGGING BUILDING ON A DOWN-AT-HEEL
street that spoke of loss and despair and hard times. Kirk Doyle led Annie and Max toward a corner of the converted garage. As they walked past Exercycles and a treadmill, none in use, conversation died. Perhaps fifteen or twenty people of all ages and races, including women and small children, were seated at several trestle tables, eating Sunday dinner on plastic plates. There was a smell of braised beef and yeast rolls and apple pie. Dress ranged from neat and well worn to tattered and soiled.