Dare to Die (4 page)

“About ten-fifteen.”

“Iris said she'd been downtown. I'll check it out.”

 

A
NNIE HURRIED INTO THE HOSPITAL.
S
OON THERE WOULD
be an around-the-clock schedule set up with Altar Guild members taking turns sitting with Emma. Emma's room was at the far end of the second floor.

Annie felt as if she'd climbed a tall mountain, taking over at Nightingale Courts, cleaning the cabins, the shock of Emma's injury, racing to leave a note for Max as soon as she'd mopped up the spilled water in Cabin Five, driving fast to the hospital, hoping once again that Sgt. Harrison was otherwise occupied. There was a long wait in the E.R. waiting room. It was a couple of hours before Emma was transferred to a room and another twenty minutes before Dr. Burford walked down the hall. He nodded to her and stepped into Emma's room.

Annie scarcely remembered when the day had begun. The day had begun so well. If only it had ended well, too. She eased open Emma's door. Dr. Burford, his craggy face intent, stood at the bedside. Emma lay unmoving, her face pale beneath the neat bandage, IV in place. The nurse frowned at Annie and shook her head. Annie closed the door and leaned against the stippled plaster wall.

Her cell rang. Quickly, she flipped it open, silencing the tune, which seemed raucous in the quiet of a hospital hallway.

“Is Emma okay?” Max's voice was worried.

“I don't—” The door to Emma's room opened. “Hold on a minute.”

Dr. Burford pulled the door shut behind him. Always gruff, he never wasted words. He gave Annie an abrupt nod. “Vital signs stable. Minimal blood loss. She's regained consciousness, but now she's asleep. The CT scan showed no significant brain injury. A simple concussion. She needs to be quiet for couple of days. Tell the mother hens—”

Annie knew he had experience with Altar Guild members taking care of one of their own.

“—to keep the noise level down. Emma's head will be pounding when she wakes up.” He turned away.

Annie followed. “Did she say what happened?”

Burford was brusque. “Go ask a psychic. Emma won't remember where she was, much less what happened. She may not remember the day at all.” With that he strode down the hall, a man in a hurry, always.

Annie lifted the cell. “Did you hear?”

“Every word. It sounds like Emma's going to be fine.”

Max's voice seemed to come from a long distance. “Yes.” Annie felt weak from relief. She'd felt responsible for Emma's injury. Annie shouldn't have left Emma on her own in the office.

“Annie!”

She pulled herself together. “I'm fine. Just a little hungry.”

“Have you had lunch?”

The elevator door opened. Pamela Potts and Henny Brawley hurried toward her. Annie immediately felt better. Having Henny there obscurely made Annie feel that of course everything was going to be all right. Henny had that effect. Pamela was serious, kind, and always came when needed.

“Not yet.” That's why she felt lightheaded.

“Meet me at Parotti's.”

“I should stay here with Emma.”

“She's doing great. I heard Doc say so. I'll bet the hall is swarming with Altar Guild members.” Max knew the church ladies could be counted on.

The second elevator sang. Three more women spilled out and headed for her.

Annie felt buoyed. “I'm on my way.”

 

P
AROTTI'S
B
AR AND
G
RILL, ACROSS FROM THE FERRY LANDING,
was an island institution. As Annie pushed through the heavy oak door, she took a deep, satisfied breath, enjoying the mixture of scents: sawdust, live bait, hot grease, and beer on tap.

Max slid out of a booth and strode toward her. Tall, blond, and solidly built, he moved with easy grace.

She hurried toward him. When she was tired or weary or worried, emotion welled up, threatening to overcome her. She'd come so near to losing him when he was falsely—and so persuasively—accused of a crime during the hot days of August. She came into his arms, clung.

“Hey,” his tone was soft, “it's okay, honey. Everything's okay.” He gave her a quick hug, turned her toward the booth. “I've ordered for you. A double fried-oyster sandwich deluxe on an onion bun, horseradish mayo laced with barbecue sauce, curly fries, jalapeño cheese grits, and cole slaw.”

Annie was touched. At Parotti's, Max always hoped to encourage her—by his sterling example—to order poached sole on a bed of endive. She always smiled pleasantly and ordered what she pleased. She gripped his hand until they moved apart to slide into the hard wooden booth. “Max, it's my fault…” and the words spilled out. “…I should have known not to leave Emma there by herself.”

He reached across the table, placed a firm finger lightly on her lips. “Did Emma say she planned to snoop? No. Are you a mind reader? No. Case closed.”

Annie felt as if she'd shed a huge burden. Truly, it hadn't occurred to her that Emma would filch a key and enter Cabin Six. Her tense shoulders relaxed. Annie realized she was starving. She looked toward the kitchen.

Ben headed toward them, easily balancing the tray. When she'd first come to the island, the bar and grill had smelled fishier and an unshaven Ben, a wad of tobacco lodged in one cheek and with all the charm of an ill-tempered leprechaun, had slouched about in a faded red union suit and worn bib overalls. Then he met Miss Jolene, who owned a tea shop on the mainland. Their match was proof positive that love works miracles. Miss Jolene, as mistress and chef of Parotti's Bar and Grill, introduced quiche and salads to the menu, added fresh flowers in clear glass milk bottles to each table, and transformed Ben into a blazer-and-slacks-clad leprechaun, always freshly shaved and snapping Wrigley's Spearmint as he worked. Then and now, he had a finger in every island pie.

Ben unloaded the tray with practiced ease. “Any word on Ingrid's sister?”

That Ben was aware of Ingrid's hurried departure came as no surprise.

Annie picked up the oyster sandwich. “Not yet. Ingrid will probably call tonight.” Annie took a bite. The sandwich was perfection, fried oysters crisp on the outside, succulent on the inside, onion bun toasted with a dash of butter.

“Too bad Emma got hurt trying to help out. I hear she fell down.” Ben looked puzzled. “Emma's sure-footed as a mountain goat.” He gave a bark of laughter. “And just as ornery. They say Iris Tilford found her.” He slid the tray under one arm, settled back on his heels. “Iris came in on the ferry last night. She's been gone a long time. It gave me a turn to see her. She looks like she's been through a wringer. She waited for me, asked if I still rented bikes. I opened up the shed, got her a good one.”

Annie remembered the sturdy green bike propped by the cabin door. “Iris was out on her bike this morning. She'd stopped
at the Gas'n Go. She found Emma when she got back. It's lucky she wasn't out all day.”

Ben looked thoughtful. “It surprises me Iris came back with her grandma gone. Iris missed the funeral. I wonder if she's home to stay.” He glanced at her glass. “I'll freshen up your tea.”

As Ben moved away, Max poured the rest of his Bud Light into the frosted glass. He averted his eyes as Annie added a splash of tartar sauce to her condiment-laden, cornmeal-crusted oysters. “There should be limits.”

Annie resisted the temptation to add another splash of tartar sauce. “How about steamed shrimp for dinner?” The cabin had a small kitchenette and she'd bought a pound of shrimp yesterday and fresh spinach and homegrown tomatoes. She felt virtuous. Of course she loved healthy eating.

Max shook his head. “One serving of steamed fish doesn't balance out that.” He pointed at her offending plate. Annie licked a streak of barbecue sauce from one finger and gave him a sunny smile.

The wooden door creaked open and Billy Cameron walked in. He paused to adjust his eyes to the dimness, then raised a hand in greeting and walked toward them.

Max started to rise and Billy waved his hand. “Keep your seat. Saw your cars outside. I thought you'd be glad to know everything checked out with Iris. Libby Callahan saw her talking on the pay phone by the ferry just as the ten-thirty bells chimed at St. Mary's. Iris was still at the pay phone ten minutes later when Libby came out of the yarn shop. It's a good twenty-five-minute bike ride to the Gas'n Go, another five minutes to Nightingale Courts. Iris's clear from the time you last saw Emma until Emma was found at eleven-ten. So, Emma fell down and that's all there is to it. Which is what I expected.”

“Have a cup of coffee with us.” Max slid closer to the wall.

Billy grinned. “It's Wednesday and that's Miss Jolene's coconut cream pie day.”

Ben arrived with the tea pitcher. “Hey, Billy. One coffee black and pie coming up.”

“Make that two pieces of pie.” Annie swiped one last curly fry through ketchup and gave Max another sunny smile.

As Max and Billy debated the finer points of mullet versus mackerel as bait for blue marlins, Annie spooned the creamy pie with its exquisitely toasted fresh coconut flakes and began a mental to-do list: grocery-shop to replenish the Nightingale Courts soda and snack counter, wash soiled sheets, pick up flowers for Emma—

Without warning Ben's hoarse words echoed in her mind:…
sure-footed as a mountain goat
.

Annie looked toward Billy, then shrugged. It was silly to let Ben's offhand comment make her uneasy. Billy had checked everything out. Iris certainly hadn't surprised Emma in her cabin and pushed her. Besides, as Billy had made clear, there was no mystery about Iris Tilford.

E
mma's eyes blinked open. She looked vague, then her gaze, lucid and baffled, settled on Annie. “My head hurts.”

Pamela Potts, soft blond hair swaying in her haste, reached out to adjust Emma's pillow. “Now, now, we need to be quiet and rest.”

Emma glared at Pamela. “Where am I?” It was a snarl.

Annie felt a curl of delight. What a great start for Friday. TGIF. Doc Burford had been reassuring, but it had worried Annie that Emma had slept most of the time since her injury on Wednesday. Now, finally, Emma was awake. Moreover, she was herself, crusty, overbearing, and demanding despite her pale face, bandaged head, IV, and wrinkled hospital gown. Annie smiled, said softly, “In the hospital.”

Annie moved closer with her vase filled with pink carnations. She was glad she'd waited until this morning to bring
the flowers. They would be absolutely fresh and aromatic. She pushed aside an oblong planter with lovely trailing blooms of lavender. As her hand touched a bloom, she smiled at the sweet familiar smell.

Pamela took a deep breath. “Oh, what a glorious scent. Liz Montgomery brought the planter. They are her very own Homestead Purple.” Pamela clutched the planter, held it near the bed. “Can you smell them, Emma?”

Emma's eyes glittered. “Of course I can smell. It's my head that hurts, not my nose.”

“Lavender.” Pamela was as ecstatic as a high priestess at a flower-laden altar. “Lavender has great healing properties.” Her tone was earnest. “Lavender lifts depression, eases nausea, and soothes insect bites. Liz is so thoughtful.”

“I'm not depressed,” Emma snapped. “My stomach would be fine if I had some food, and I don't itch.”

Pamela replaced the planter and reached for the carnations. “Here are Annie's beautiful carnations.” She held the vase close for Emma's inspection.

Emma's nose wrinkled. “Spicy.”

Pamela nodded happily. “Carnations and cloves both contain eugenol. That's what gives carnations their heavy scent. And did you know,” she positively chirruped in happiness, “eugenol is a colorless liquid phenol used as an antiseptic by dentists.” Pamela placed the vase next to the planter. “The Altar Guild sent a dozen red roses”—she pointed to a gorgeous bouquet among several vases on the windowsill—“and they smell heavenly, too.”

Emma was no longer listening. She lifted a hand to her head. She looked uncertainly around the room, slowly sank back onto the pillow. Her blue eyes glazed over, closed, fluttered open.
In a startled tone, she said, “I was walking—” She stopped, as if she'd run into a wall. “Something reminded me.” Her gaze slid from the partially raised window sash to the open bathroom door to Pamela standing near the chair to Annie at the bedside table. “Something…” She shook her head, winced. Her fingers touched the bandage. “What's this?”

Pamela poured water from a carafe into a plastic cup. “We had a little fall and bumped our head.”

Emma's gaze at Pamela was withering. “
We
didn't do any such thing.” She struggled onto one elbow, winced.

“Do you want to sit up?” At Emma's nod, Annie pushed the control and the head portion of the bed rose.

When Emma was comfortably settled, she waved away the water. “Coffee. I need coffee.”

Pamela looked uncertain. “Do you think that's wise?”

“Wise be damned.” Emma's cheeks turned pink.

Annie hurried to intervene. Emma liked Pamela, admitted Pamela was true-blue, but even at the best of times Pamela pushed Emma dangerously near the edge. This wasn't the best of times. “Pamela, maybe we should check with the nurse and see if we can get coffee and some breakfast for Emma, too.”

Pamela always seized an opportunity to serve. When the door closed behind her, Annie slipped into the chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like death warmed over.” Emma's eyes gleamed. “That was the title of a Mary Collins book. She didn't write enough books.”

Annie agreed. The California author published six novels to critical acclaim between 1941 and 1949, then disappeared from the annals of mystery writers.

Emma glowered. “I don't remember falling.”

Annie nodded. That's what Doc Burford had predicted.

Emma once again gently touched the bandage. “What happened?”

Annie hesitated, then began delicately. “You were at the store. We were talking about a guest at Nightingale Courts who arrived on her bicycle in the rain.”

There was no flicker of memory in Emma's cornflower blue eyes.

“Ingrid got word her sister was sick. She and Duane had to leave in a hurry. I promised to take care of everything while they were gone. You came out to Nightingale Courts.” Obviously, Emma had no idea she'd been engaged in illegal behavior. Annie made a quick decision. Billy had assumed Emma was engaged in housekeeping. Annie was a firm believer in not disturbing sleeping dogs. “You took towels to Cabin Six”—Annie watched Emma closely—“and the guest found you unconscious. Apparently you tripped and banged your head on the footboard.”

“I tripped?” Emma's eyebrows rose. “That was stupid.” She brushed her fingers across the bandage. “How long have I been here?”

“You fell Wednesday. It's Friday morning.” As far as Annie was concerned, it was definitely TGIF. She'd always loved Fridays, but this one was special: Emma was going to be fine, Ingrid had called to say that her sister was doing well and might be able to go home this afternoon, the weather was early April perfect, sunny and cloudless, with a high in the low seventies, and tonight she and Max would greet their friends at the harbor pavilion.

 

“N
OT UNTIL NEXT WEEK?”
M
AX FROWNED.

Russell Montgomery swiped at his cheeks with an oversize
bandanna, his face red despite the shade from his Panama hat. “The plumber's tied up in Bluffton. He swears he'll get to the Franklin house by Monday at the latest.”

Max switched his gaze from Russell's defensive expression to the shining columns of the Franklin house. The pillars glistened ivory white, and the moss green of the tabby walls had the muted glow of sunlight slanting through seawater. Max's impatience seeped away. Russell was doing the best he could and the date that they moved in scarcely mattered. When he remembered how near he'd come to having a broken life—jailed for a crime he hadn't committed and rescued only by Annie's bravery and Billy's honor—a delayed move was no big thing.

Max's gaze turned back. His smile was genuine. “Thanks, Russell. Hey, we're looking forward to seeing you and Liz tonight.”

Russell's face stiffened. “Yeah. That'll be great.” He wiped the kerchief against his neck, stuffed it in a pocket, and forced a smile. “Yeah. And thanks for cutting me some slack on the house. I'll get it done.” He gave a short nod, then turned and strode away, his work boots crackling on the oyster-shell path. He slammed into his truck.

Max watched as the pickup disappeared behind the live oaks. Had he offended Russell? Maybe his irritation over the delay had been too evident and the reference to the party seemed patronizing.

Max shrugged. Whatever. Nothing was going to diminish his pleasure in the party. Wait till Annie saw that banner!

 

A
NNIE PUSHED THE SIX-PACKS OF
C
OKE DEEPER INTO HER
trunk. She wedged the Sprites next to the grocery sacks. When
Ingrid and Duane got home, they would find everything in good order.

Annie glanced at the sky, the sun beginning its afternoon downward arc. Errands and a quick grilled chicken salad at the Cosy Corner Tea Shoppe had taken most of the day. If she hurried straight to Nightingale Courts, she could finish her tasks and have time for a dip in the pool before getting ready for the party. She felt a squiggle of eagerness. Max had firmly insisted she was not to come near the pavilion until a quarter to six. He had everything under control and all she needed to bring was her party face.

She turned on the motor and drove out of the parking lot. However, she swerved left instead of right, heading for Death on Demand. Some desires could not be denied. After all, Agatha would have missed her. Which reminded her that Dorothy L., their good-humored white cat, also needed playtime this afternoon. In her equable fashion, Dorothy L. was tolerating their temporary quarters at Nightingale Courts with her usual equanimity.

Annie found a shady spot beneath a weeping willow in the harbor parking lot. She walked fast to the wooden steps to the boardwalk. The shop fronts curved in a semicircle facing the marina. Gleaming yachts, sportfishing charters, sleek cruisers, sturdy outboards, and sailing dinghies rode at anchor. Laughing gulls cackled overhead.

Annie stopped at the top of the steps and stared. Women in bright spring clothes milled outside the front door of Death on Demand. She recognized Friends of the Library members, tennis players, golfers, quilters…. High voices rose in good-humored conversation, then there was forward movement. “The doors are open…such a lovely idea…Absolutely novel…”

Annie followed the crowd and squeezed inside the bookstore. She glimpsed Henny at the cash desk. Their eyes met. Henny grinned and turned a cheerful thumbs-up.

Laurel's beguiling voice, soft yet always heard, lifted above the chatter. “My dears, welcome. We have gathered to enhance our minds, bodies, and spirits. We shall explore the yin and the yang.” Her smile was beatific. Her hands rose as if in benediction. Laurel's spun gold hair was perfectly coiffed in a Peter Pan cut. Her classic features offered ageless beauty. Standing in the center of the coffee bar area, she was elegant in a red silk tai chi uniform, the jacket with traditional loop-and-knot closures, the slacks loose fitting yet beautifully styled, soft white leather shoes a dazzling counterpoint. Her blue eyes were dreamy yet acutely aware of each and every person present. That perceptive gaze reached Annie.

“Oohh.” Laurel's sigh of pleasure elicited smiles. “How lovely. Here is our dear Annie. We owe the grace of our surroundings to Annie, who shares with this fortunate island her devotion to books that elevate character, just as tai chi elevates bodies and souls. I have allotted fifteen minutes before we begin our tai chi”—it was as if she bestowed a treasure sought by many and achieved by few—“for each of you to purchase the book of your choice and to view the mystery paintings above the fireplace.” Now her glowing smile was almost beatific. “You will note the lovely watercolors. Many of you may not know the history behind the paintings. Members of our island watercolor society volunteer to provide the paintings. After the contest ends every month, the paintings are raffled off by the society to raise money for scholarships. This month our artist is Gus Winship, who teaches art in the high school. Aren't his paintings wonderful!” Laurel waved a graceful hand at the watercolors.

Every month Annie hung five paintings, each scene representing a critical moment in a superb mystery. Henny Brawley was the runaway winner of the contests, which afforded coffee for a month and a free (noncollectible) book. Henny hadn't paid for a cup of coffee in months.

Obediently, the tai chi neophytes turned toward the paintings. Appreciative oohs and ahs rose.

In the first painting, a petite silver-haired woman with sparkling black eyes and a turned-up nose held a pistol with casual ease and dropped several boxes of bullets into the pockets of her red shirt-jacket. A flaming redhead in an orange Auburn T-shirt and floral stretch leggings gingerly gripped a handgun. A rifle leaned against the wall near a stack of moving boxes.

In the second painting, the wine cellar was dark and shadowy, lit only by a candle set on a small table. A man tied to a chair was dressed in finery, the latest fashion in doublet and breeches. His face looked highborn but there was an air of dishonor about him. An imperious figure, with aristocratic features, spare high cheekbones, and zeal-burned blue eyes, stared at the captive coldly. Three men stood at the foot of the stairs, a huge redhead, a slender young man with intelligent dark eyes, and an elegant blond dandy. Behind them on the steps, a pale young woman in a green velvet dress with a white collar watched with haunted eyes.

In the third painting, a fiftyish blonde with a face well seasoned by living trained a shotgun on a trim man in a dark suit. A slender blonde, perhaps ten years younger, used her foot to nudge a gun out of his reach on the floor. The well-kept interior of the trailer, with comfortable chairs and the casual disarray of happy living, books, and children's toys, was in stark contrast to the burning and dangerous fury in his grim face.

In the fourth painting, a gorgeous blonde grappled with a Rhodesian ridgeback in a graveled parking area, skinning her elbows and ripping the knees of her jeans as the lean, powerful dog struggled to escape.

In the fifth painting, a dark-haired leggy young woman ran full tilt down an aisle between stacked merchandise in a department store storeroom, throwing picture frames, candles, wreaths, Christmas ornaments, pots and pans as she tried to escape her pursuer.

Annie looked at the uplifted faces and felt a surge of hope. Maybe this month the contest would be won by someone other than Henny. After the watercolors were admired, the women fanned through Death on Demand, eagerly scanning the shelves.

Annie approached her mother-in-law in awe. “We've never had this many customers in April.”

Laurel beamed. “Seek and ye shall find.”

Annie almost pointed out that Laurel was mixing cultures, then, as often in dealing with her mother-in-law, Annie remained mute.

Laurel traced a finger delicately across the green-and-gold dragon embroidered on her jacket. “Everything has gone splendidly.” She turned to the coffee bar to pick up a notepad.

Annie looked at the coffee bar. Agatha stretched on her back atop her red cushion, eyes half open, paws apart. If she'd been in a cartoon, an appropriate caption would read:
Glutton at rest; Indifferent to owner's absence.