Dare to Die (15 page)

Water gushed at the window, a steady strong stream that sloshed toward the roof and washed through the broken window to drench her.

“Jump, dammit, jump.” Duane's shout rose above the fire.

Annie swung the carrier up and pushed it through. “Get the carrier.” Thankfully, the weight shifted away. Dorothy L. was safe.

“Jump!” Duane's shout was almost lost in the mind-numbing roar of water and flames.

Fire blazed above and on either side. The smell of smoke and charred wood choked her. Max swept her up and thrust her into the night. Strong arms reached up and took her.

She twisted, screaming for Max.

A canvas-gloved hand pummeled her, beating out sparks on her nightgown. She was lifted, carried past the tangle of hoses. She struggled to be free. “Ma'am, please. You're all right. Here…” And she was thrust forward.

“It's okay, Annie.” Duane reached out to grab her. “They got Max out.”

She sagged against him and looked toward the cabin. Dancing flames illuminated firemen in white plastic helmets and bright yellow gear.

Duane's smoke-smudged face glowered at her. He held Dorothy L.'s carrier under one arm. “Damn fools. You almost got killed saving a damn cat.”

Annie felt tears streak her face. “She saved us. You saved all three of us.”

Max, blond hair darkened by ash, stubbled face set and angry, bare-chested and limping, streaked with grime and dirt, his tartan boxers plastered against him, came toward her, his arms open.

She ran to him, held him tight, breathed smoke and Max and the marsh. All that mattered in the world was his body next to hers.

T
he pumper truck headlights illuminated the cabin as the roof collapsed. Sparks swirled up within a dark column of smoke shot through with flame. Water slammed into the cabin from four hoses. Firefighters, two fire trucks, the fire chief's sedan, three police cars, and an ambulance jammed the clearing in front of the cabins.

Face grim, arms folded, Billy Cameron stood near a police cruiser, watching. The Ohio vacationers, disheveled in hastily donned tees and shorts, huddled near the office. The bigger man kept yelling. “Turn one of those hoses on our cars…. We've got rights….”

Duane bunched his hands into fists, stalked toward the loud-mouth. “Shut up.” He waited until there was silence, stalked back to Annie and Max.

“Somebody started that fire. I smelled gasoline when I came outside.” Duane looked toward the blaze. “That's why
the cabin's a goner. Gas was splashed all the way around it. Thank God the firehouse is close.”

Annie had smelled gasoline before the fire began, smelled it in half-sleep, mixed the sour stench into a dream of smoke-belching trucks. She huddled in a lawn chair, a fire truck masking her view of the flaming cabin. She had no desire to watch. She and Max would have died if not for Dorothy L.'s insistent cries and Duane's courageous rescue. She and Max had been enveloped by fire, noxious smoke choking them. She tried to stop trembling. Despite the warm blanket wrapped around her, her teeth chattered.

“Here.” Henny Brawley handed Annie a plastic cup. “Hot tea. Drink it.” Henny was impeccable, hair brushed, makeup fresh, warm-up jacket zipped against the offshore breeze. She handed a second cup to Max. “I'd offer Scotch but you'll need a pain pill. Not a good combo.” She glanced at his feet.

Max sat with his feet propped on a small webbed stool covered by a blood-spattered towel. A redheaded EMT with the build of a sumo wrestler held a Maglite trained on Max's feet. The second EMT, thin and rangy with a bald head and a snake tattoo crawling across the back of one hand, stemmed the bleeding with small pads, then covered Max's feet with clean gauze and tape. “Need to get you to E.R. They'll clean the wounds with Betadine, remove the glass, and stitch up a couple of deep cuts. They'll take X-rays to make sure they don't miss anything. Glass shows up on X-rays. We'll get the gurney.” His soft British accent seemed incongruous on a Southern sea island.

Max looked pale and tired. He twisted to look toward the gutted cabin. “I need to talk to Billy.” He gave Annie a worried glance. “The front door wouldn't open.”

“There will be plenty of time for that.” Annie knew Max
was hurting. The Crocs had saved her feet from injury, but he'd stepped barefoot on glass shards from the broken window as they escaped. Lines of pain pulled at his mouth.

Max handed the plastic cup to Henny, managed a faint smile. “Do you always careen around the marsh after midnight, carrying hot tea for wounded friends?”

Henny gestured toward dark water and the shoreline that curved, forming a small bay. “I was on my deck across the bay. When I saw flames, I knew it was Nightingale Courts. I called nine-one-one and came over to see if I could help.”

“With hot tea. Thanks, Henny. If it hadn't been for Duane…”

Annie grabbed Max's hand. “And Dorothy L.”

Henny reached down for the carrier. “I'll bet you want to thank her in person.”

Annie shot her a grateful glance. Dorothy L. was a guaranteed stress buster.

Henny eased the carrier onto Max's lap. Max opened the grill wide enough to slip his hand inside. “Good girl. Brave girl. Smart girl.” Some of the tension eased from his body. “She's purring. I can feel the rumble in her throat.”

Annie smiled. She'd always known that Max was Dorothy L.'s preferred person, but that was all right. Dorothy L. now had carte blanche. Whatever she wanted, she would have. Annie gradually began to feel warm, warm and safe and cared for.

A purple Chrysler PT slewed around the Nightingale Courts arbor, rocked to a stop in front of the office. Marian Kenyon slammed out of the car. A bandanna corralled frizzy dark hair. A Gamecock sweatshirt flopped to the knees of faded jeans. She held a notebook. A camera dangled from a strap around her neck.

Marian skirted the police cars, ignoring Sgt. Harrison's
shout, and came even with the nose of the first truck. She lifted the camera, clicked rapidly.

Sgt. Harrison, freckled face grim in the light from the spots, marched to the reporter and gestured emphatically toward the office.

Marian tried to duck around her and move toward Billy.

Harrison blocked the way, gestured again.

Marian turned and surveyed the motley gathering in front of the office, the vacationing couples in dry clothes, a grimy Duane in a once-white T-shirt and red shorts, Henny stylish in a peach warm-up, and headed straight for blanket-draped Annie and immobilized Max.

The EMTs maneuvered the gurney next to Max. “Okay. We're going to roll you over—”

Max ignored them. He snapped shut the grill, handed the carrier to Henny, and swung his legs toward the ground. “Hey. Marian.” His tone was curt.

Marian stopped in front of him. She looked at the bloody towel and her face furrowed in empathy.

The slender EMT clamped a restraining hand on one leg. “Hold up, buddy. You won't be walking on these babies for a while. You got some deep cuts on the right heel and left in-step.”

Max's tensed muscles slowly relaxed. He glared up at Marian. “You almost got us killed, you and your story about Iris talking to Annie. You scared the murderer and we got trapped in a burning cabin.”

Marian suddenly looked diminished, older, her gamine face forlorn.

Annie pushed up from her chair, stumbling as her feet tangled in the trailing blanket. She gave Marian a hug. “You didn't
mean to cause us trouble.” She turned, held out a hand to Max, tried to keep the blanket from sliding to the ground.

Marian's eyes glistened with tears. “I was trying to gig Iris's friends. Her so-called friends. Nobody would give me anything.”

Max was unrelenting. “You gave someone the idea Annie knew a lot.”

Marian stared at the flame-laced column of smoke, her face drawn in misery.

Henny lightly touched Max's arm. “A murderer sees threats everywhere. It probably didn't take Marian's story to put Annie in danger. Everyone on the island knows people talk to Annie.” Her smile was sweet. “That's why we love her.”

 

T
HE MAROON
R
OLLS
-R
OYCE GLIDED INTO THE TURNAROUND
drive at the emergency room. Emma Clyde parked by the main door between N
O
P
ARKING
signs. Emma considered such signs aimed at lesser mortals. Moreover, at this late hour, or very early hour depending upon perspective, the drive was empty.

Annie had hesitated to call Emma from the hospital, despite Henny's earlier assurances that Emma had offered them refuge and would be quick to come. In fact, Annie's cell rang as Max was being checked out. A wide-awake Emma said she would be there in a jiffy, explaining she'd been alerted by a friend in the E.R.

The automatic door wheezed open. The orderly pushed the wheelchair outside. Annie followed, grateful to escape the antiseptic smell of the hospital. A ratchet of frogs sounded from the lagoon at the front of the hospital. The air felt cool and silky. She was grateful for Henny's warm-up jacket. She smiled at the flam
ing hibiscus on Max's shirt. Duane's T-shirts were too small, but he'd found a floppy Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts for Max. Max's hair was uncombed, he was unshaven, and his bandaged feet were elevated. Max sagged to one side of the wheelchair, sleepy from the painkiller.

Emma bustled from the car. Her spiky hair, purplish in the glare of the hospital lights, looked droopy but that was the only sign of disarray. Of course, her usual costume, a flowing caftan, was unlikely to reflect hasty dressing. This caftan blazed with coral and white peonies against a black background, an interesting fashion combination with black leather Reeboks. The caftan's bright colors made it definite that Emma had regained her combative spirit.

Emma stopped at the bottom of the sloping ramp, planted her hands on her hips. “I've seen drowned rats that looked better. As Marigold tells Inspector Houlihan, ‘Call me next time before you get in trouble. I could save you some wear and tear.'”

Emma was a sport to retrieve them from the emergency room although Annie had protested that they could stay at the Sea Side Inn. Emma insisted she was eager to put them up and her home was always equipped for guests with a ground-floor guest suite perfect for a wheelchair. However, Emma quoting Marigold frazzled Annie. At the best of times, she loathed Marigold Rembrandt, Emma's sleuth who enjoyed making Inspector Houlihan look like an idiot. This was not the best of times.

“But”—Emma seemed to realize she was booming and dropped her voice—“I don't imagine I looked great when you found me comatose in Cabin Six. Turnabout's fair play. Tomorrow when you are once again sleek rats”—she chuckled at her own humor—“we'll gather round the campfire and talk about
the strange events that have occurred at Nightingale Courts.” She reached for a handle and a rear door of the Rolls-Royce opened as smoothly as the door to a bank vault. The muscular orderly transferred Max smoothly to the seat, gave them a brisk smile, and turned away with the wheelchair.

Emma gestured toward the trunk. “Henny brought over a collapsible wheelchair. Dorothy L.'s already comfortable in your quarters.” She was matter-of-fact.

Annie was too dazed to do more than nod. Henny once again had proven her resourcefulness, providing comfort for their cat heroine and producing a wheelchair in the darkest watch of the night, smoothly as a magician exchanging a scarf for a rabbit.

Annie sank into the seat next to Max. The Rolls-Royce flowed away from the hospital, majestic as a luxury liner and just as comfortable. She reached over the driver's seat and gave Emma's shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you.” She sank into the feather-soft embrace of the leather seat, but she carried with her an indelible memory of fire and fear.

 

A
NNIE OPENED THE SLATS OF THE SHUTTERS, LOOKED OUT
at a paved terrace that ended at the dunes. As the ocean breeze swept inland, the sea oats bent toward the house. Beyond the dunes, green water glittered in bright sunlight.

A knock sounded on the door of the sitting room. Annie hurried to the door.

Emma's tall, thin housekeeper, cheerful, unflappable Essie Faye, smiled and gestured at two suitcases near the door. “Mrs. Brawley brought them. She left a note.”

Annie tucked the envelope under her arm and carried in the cases. Behind her Essie Faye set the table in the sitting room and
arranged dishes on the buffet. “Smoked salmon, sliced Vidalia onions, cream cheese and capers, scrambled eggs with country-cut bacon and cheese grits, mixed fruit. If you need anything more, let me know.”

“Thank you, Essie Faye. Everything looks wonderful.” As the door closed behind the housekeeper, Annie hurried to the bathroom and nudged the door. Sitting on a wooden bench, Max was half in, half out of the shower and half soaped. He scrubbed with a cloth. “Remind me to shake the hand of the next person I see in a wheelchair. What a hassle—and mine is temporary.” He spoke cheerfully, but he was pale and Annie suspected his feet throbbed. He'd shaken his head at pain pills this morning, saying only that he was okay and he didn't want to feel fuzzy, he had work to do.

Annie flapped the sheet of paper. “Henny's been busy.” Annie read aloud:

Annie had forgotten that Ben ran the lock shop and tag agency, but his finger was in most island business pies.

Max was cautious not to bump his feet as he dressed. When he rolled to the table in his wheelchair, Annie poured him a cup of coffee and brought filled plates.

“Max, we've got to find out—”

He held up his hand. “Breakfast first, Mrs. Darling.”

Despite her sense of urgency at the passage of time and her focus on fighting back against their attacker, Annie found she was voraciously hungry. They both ate huge breakfasts.

Annie refilled their coffee cups.

Max's face was grim. “Someone wants you to die and I'm trapped in a wheelchair.”

Annie gestured at the domed ceiling of the sitting room with its elaborate frescoes. “It will take more than a tin of gas to set Emma's house on fire.” Dorothy L. stretched in comfort on a velvet pillow in a window seat.

For survivors of a fire, they appeared remarkably unscathed, except for Max's bandaged feet and the telltale lines of pain at the corners of his mouth and a splotch of red on Annie's arm from a burning ember. Thanks to Henny, they were both attired in their own clothes.

“Don't try to change the subject. Look, Annie”—his voice was calm and reasonable—“there's no point in taking chances. Deirdre's been wanting you to visit. This is a good time. It's great weather in San Diego.”

Annie smiled. “It's always great weather in San Diego. We'll plan a trip. Your sister is a lot of fun.” Annie didn't complete her thought. Deirdre was quite entertaining except that she ex
pected guests to fully participate in her current enthusiasm. The last time they'd seen Deirdre, she was deeply engaged in training ferrets to play soccer with a Ping-Pong ball. Her mother's daughter, but that was a thought better left unexpressed. “We have unfinished business here.”