Dare to Die (5 page)

“I poached a chicken breast for Agatha with a sauce of mashed sardines. Of course”—Laurel's laughter was light—“she may be a wee bit demanding at future meals. However, I knew”—Laurel's gaze was bright—“you wanted only the best for Agatha. Such a sensitive creature.”

Annie resisted an impulse to pour ice water over Agatha. It had taken months to wean her overweight feline from soft food to a twice daily portion of reduced-calorie dry food, months punctuated by sulking and outright attacks. A wee bit demanding…

Laurel touched Annie's shoulder. “My dear, such rigidity. I have a solution. But first”—she tore a sheet from the notepad and gave it to Annie—“here are the calls you've received. I kept a careful record. I invited everyone who called to join us for our exercise and meditation and to bring a friend. In addition, I made a few calls of my own.” She waved her hand at the filled aisles.

The cash register sang. Annie hurried to help Henny at the cash desk. As Henny scanned credit cards, Annie handled cash payments. There were two left in line when a gong sounded.

Startled, Annie jumped and grabbed at the countertop to keep her balance.

Henny pushed a sales receipt to the customer and leaned toward Annie. “Tai chi encourages balance, harmony, grace, and beauty.”

The last customer pushed a twenty-dollar bill and a paperback edition of Tim Myers's
A Mold for Murder
toward Annie. “Tuck a credit in my book. I'll pick it up after our class.” She turned to hurry to the coffee bar.

The gong sounded again. A hush fell.

Laurel gestured to Annie with the mallet. “Come forward, Annie. I know you will want to help me lead your wonderful patrons in our exercises. Please, let Annie through.” She swung the mallet at a bronze gong on the center table and the deep resonance filled the room.

Women moved aside and a path opened.

Henny whispered, “Five hundred and forty-two dollars and sixty-three cents.”

Annie folded the sheet of phone messages, tucked it in her pocket, and swept to the coffee area. She embraced her mother-in-law and turned to face the assembled tai chi enthusiasts.

Laurel folded her hands and bowed. Hands folded, everyone bowed to her in turn.

A beat late, Annie clasped and bowed.

Laurel's tone was warm, inviting, as soporific as a gentle waterfall. “We'll begin—Annie, dear, place your feet parallel, toes pointed straight. Bend your knees. Wrists loose, allow your arms to float…”

 

A
NNIE TURNED THE
V
OLVO INTO
N
IGHTINGALE
C
OURTS.
Five hundred and forty-two dollars and sixty-three cents…She wondered if she'd ever get the hang of Stork Spreads Its Wings. How did anyone wave one hand in one direction, the other in another, bend knees, point one foot out, lift a foot as if swinging over a log, and breathe at the right time? If the class continued, would Laurel teach it?

Laurel in Death on Demand every week?

Five hundred and forty-two dollars and sixty-three cents…

As Annie slid out of the car and tucked the keys into her pocket, she touched folded sheets of paper. She pulled the phone messages out of her pocket. Laurel had pointed with pride to her careful recording. The messages were liberally annotated with Laurel's thoughts.

Annie stopped in the shade of a willow and laughed aloud. Max would love this message with Laurel's editorial additions: “The dentist's receptionist called to confirm your appointment.
She sounds like a Viagra ad. There is nothing sexy about a filling. I almost suggested she consider voice lessons to achieve a more professional tone—cheery but bland—then decided the moment might not be opportune. Your appointment is at ten o'clock Monday. I assured her you would come.”

Laurel had adorned a message left by Pamela Potts with smiley faces, exclamation points, and heavily scored underlining with the editorial comment: “Pamela is such a dear, but she does reiterate, doesn't she? Below is an expurgated version of her call.”

As she read, Annie heard Pamela's earnest voice in her mind: “When I helped Emma dry off after her shower this afternoon, she was quite gruff when I accidentally touched her back. That's when I saw the bruise below her right shoulder blade. I was shocked, a big, purple spot with a circumference of almost four inches which as you will admit—”

Annie's smile faded.

“—is rather large. I told the nurse. She looked at it and said it was a bruise. I replied that I knew it was a bruise. The nurse said people who fall often sustain many scrapes and bruises and the attending physician would have noted the bruise and concluded it posed no threat. The nurse said the bruise would go away.” Annie imagined Pamela's soft voice, aggrieved and impatient. “Of course, it will—”

At this point, Laurel had put within parentheses: (Pamela takes discursiveness to a height not achieved by even the most skilled politicians.)

“—go away. The point is, how did it get there? As I understand the accident, Emma fell forward, not backward. Please call when you have a moment. I am uneasy. I hope you can reassure me. Did Emma perhaps lurch backward, then fall?”

Annie had planned to carry in the groceries. Instead, she took time only to grab a stack of fresh towels and hurry to Cabin Six. White curtains were closed in the front windows. No green bike was propped next to the steps.

She unlocked the door and called out, “Housekeeping,” to no response. As she stepped into dimness, she felt a prickle down her back. Just so had Emma Clyde entered this room Wednesday morning.

Annie flicked on the light. The room was cheerful, wicker easy chairs with red and yellow cushions, oak bed with a green comforter, lacy eyelet curtains fluttering from the draft of the open door, three lime green walls, the fourth a marsh scene with fiddler crabs in the mud and a yellow-crowned night heron stalking forward, one foot forever lifted in a step.

Annie left the door ajar. Though she still held the towels, she didn't move toward the bathroom. To her right, a TV sat on a dresser. A compact refrigerator was tucked between the dresser and a chest. To the left of the entrance, a small table sat beneath the window. The bed and two wicker chairs completed the furnishings.

Annie figured distances. Emma was found crumpled near the foot of the bed. If she had fallen backward and struck the edge of the dresser, she wouldn't have been found on the floor near the bed. The edge of the dresser was sharp and couldn't account for a large circular bruise beneath her right shoulder blade.

There had been traces of blood on the footboard. If Emma fell full force and struck the footboard, she would have been fallen precisely as she was found.

Why did she fall? The vinyl tiled floor was clear and smooth. Unless something was lying there and she'd tripped, the floor afforded no reason for an accident. The floor was clear when
Annie knelt beside her. Could Emma have had a dizzy turn? That was possible.

Neither dizziness nor tripping explained a bruise on her back.

Suddenly Annie heard a long-silent voice from her memory:
A hypothesis must include analysis of all possibilities
. She remembered her mystery-loving uncle Ambrose from whom she'd inherited Death on Demand and his insistence that all successful mysteries accounted for every fact.

She'd failed Uncle Ambrose's test. She hadn't even considered the most simple explanation: Emma's bruise had no connection to Cabin Six. She might have thumped against a nozzle in her hot tub or been the unfortunate recipient of a whack from a broom handle when standing in line at the supermarket. That bruise could have occurred a dozen different ways prior to Wednesday morning. Annie blew out a breath of relief.

Whenever the bruise occurred, it hadn't been caused by her fall.

Unless…Annie looked at the space behind the partially open door. When Emma entered the room someone could have stood behind the door. As it shut, the unseen figure could have jumped, fist bunched, slamming Emma forward.

However, and she could almost smell Uncle Ambrose's pipe smoke, that possibility required a desperate need by the assailant not to be seen. Iris Tilford had no reason to hide her presence in the cabin she'd rented. In any event, Billy had checked and Iris was nowhere near the cabin when Emma fell.

Did Emma surprise an intruder?

Annie looked across the room. Between the bathroom and a kitchenette, a sliding glass door opened onto a small deck that overlooked the marsh. It took only a moment to reach the door and grab the handle. The door opened easily. It had not been
locked. Which proved nothing. Perhaps it had been unlocked for days or weeks.

If it were open Wednesday morning, an intruder could have entered that way.

But Iris had found nothing out of order among her few possessions.

Annie slid shut the sliding door's lock. Whatever the fact Wednesday morning, no one could now enter the cabin from the deck. Confident she'd hear Iris on the cabin's front steps, Annie checked the top drawer in the dresser. There were a green-and-white-striped blouse and white cotton slacks. Two bras, two panties, and a neatly folded turquoise shorty nightgown completed the inventory.

Annie closed the drawer. The other drawers were empty. She found nothing in the chest. The duffel was empty, too. A frayed navy blue Atlanta Braves sweatshirt hung in the closet. In the bathroom, there were a comb, hairbrush, deodorant stick, makeup kit, toothbrush, and toothpaste.

There was nothing worth stealing. Iris's belongings were remarkable only for their meagerness. Annie added a towel to the rack and turned away. Whatever road Iris had traveled in coming to the island, she'd carried little with her except perhaps memories and sadness. As Billy had made clear, there was no mystery about Iris Tilford.

Envisioning a lurking assailant in her rented cabin made no sense.

 

A
NNIE CLUTCHED HER CELL PHONE AND REMINDED HERSELF
to be patient, but she paced restlessly as she listened to Pamela Potts's high, sweet voice: “…good of you to call and I suppose
you are right. Emma could have suffered that bruise another time. I'm afraid we'll never know for sure. Emma doesn't remember anything about being at Nightingale Courts. Although it seems an odd coincidence and I thought,” Pamela's tone was faintly accusing, “you were always suspicious of coincidences.”

Once again Annie felt uneasy. Was the bruise a coincidence? If Emma had lost her balance in the cabin, she could have lost her balance another time. Annie brushed away the memory of Ben describing the author as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Pamela began to reiterate everything they'd discussed. Annie looked yearningly at the open car trunk and sacks waiting to be carried inside. Her patience expired. She interrupted. “Tell Emma I'm glad she's feeling better and we'll miss seeing her tonight. Oh, golly, Pamela, I have to run. I'll talk to you at the picnic.” She clicked off the cell, feeling vaguely guilty. But she had much to do and little time.

As Annie retrieved the last of the groceries, Iris rode up on her bike.

Iris braked. She stepped off the bike and asked softly, “Is the lady okay?”

Annie balanced the sack as she closed the trunk. “Emma's doing fine. She's conscious and none the worse except for a headache.”

Iris looked relieved. “I'm glad.” She looked toward her cabin. “Has anybody asked for me? An old friend said she'd come and I hope I'm not late.”

“No one has been around for the last hour or so.”

Iris nodded and swung onto the seat. Dust puffed as she rode on the crushed oyster shells.

In the office, Annie unloaded the sack. As she placed the last Sprite in the refrigerator, tires crunched on the oyster-shell
drive. Annie hoped no one was arriving to check in. There was no reservation for the night. She hurried to the window and saw Cara Wilkes's late-model white Lexus convertible. Cara had represented the buyers of Annie and Max's previous house on Scarlet King Lagoon. Annie wondered if there was some kind of problem with the new owners. The car didn't stop at the office. Cara drove straight to Cabin Six.

Annie smiled. It was nice that someone was welcoming Iris home.

 

W
HEN THE LAST CLEAN TOWEL WAS SHAKEN AND FOLDED
and the fresh stack placed in the housekeeping closet, Annie brushed back a limp tendril of hair. She was hot, tired, and thirsty. She glanced at her watch. A quarter to five. She intended to arrive at the pavilion at a quarter to six. It was going to be a great party. She didn't have to worry about having a good time. She always had a good time with Max. That morning she'd unpacked a new Irish linen shirt trimmed with open-work embroidery and a long swirly skirt with matching embroidery above the hem. The shirt and skirt were the delicate light blue of a robin's egg. Her new sandals were a perfect color match. Max would reach out and take her hand and tell her she was beautiful and his eyes would tell her more.

She locked the housekeeping closet and hurried across the hummocky grass toward their cabin. She had time for a swim before she showered and dressed. The cabins at Nightingale Courts curved in a semicircle near the marsh. Three years ago Ingrid and Duane had built a pool in the center of the grassy area in front of the cabins between the palmettos that lined the oyster-shell drive and a stand of pines.

In the cabin, Annie changed into her swimsuit, slipped on thongs. She didn't bother with a cap. As she came down the steps, a towel over one arm, she glanced toward Cabin Six. Cara's white car was gone. The green bicycle rested on its kickstand. A solitary figure stood on the deck behind Cabin Six.

Annie was halfway to the line of palmettos when she stopped. She turned to look. The deck behind Cabin Six was no longer visible. But she knew what she'd glimpsed in her peripheral vision, a thin, forlorn, too-alone woman staring out at the marsh, shoulders drooping, a picture of defeat and sadness.