Dare to Die (7 page)

Crackles and snaps and occasional mutters rose as gloved hands poked the short-bladed knives into the shells. As soon as one guest moved on, plate heavy with opened shells, another set to work.

As dusk fell, the picnic tables filled. Annie scanned the crowd. She felt quick relief when she spotted Iris sitting next to Laurel. As always, Laurel was spectacularly lovely, her beauty ageless, golden hair framing chiseled features. Laurel was smiling and listening attentively. Annie felt a surge of thankfulness. Laurel was often unpredictable, but her kindness was a constant. It was no surprise that she was drawn to the loneliest guest.

Annie settled at a far table with Billy and Mavis Cameron,
Pamela Potts, Henny Brawley, and Edith Cummings. Edith was both an old friend and the island's accomplished reference librarian. Edith could discover any fact a patron fancied, including the best wildlife viewing season in Pungo, N.C. (a personal favorite of Annie's because the best season(s) listed were spring, summer, fall, and winter, and who could quarrel with that?), the highest level in British peerage below a prince (a duke), and the recipe for a Black Russian (1
¹
/
₂
ounces vodka and
³
/
₄
ounce Kahlúa).

Edith pushed aside another emptied shell. “It would be piggy to eat twenty oysters.”

“I don't think pigs like oysters.” Pamela's gaze was, as always, serious and sincere.

Billy grinned. “Pigs like a lot of stuff. My dad raised Large Whites. We fed them corn and barley meal, but Big Mama, our sow, was crazy about snails and once she ate a corn snake. She would have loved a good oyster roast.”

Henny wiped a smear of chili from her chin. “Oysters are good. Chili dogs are great.”

Annie flashed her old friend a fond smile. Henny looked elegant in a white cotton blouse and twill slacks and a striking black sweater adorned with embroidered white daisies, a perfect accent for her clothes and a perfect weight for the suddenly cooling April evening as the sun began to sink into the Sound. Henny was the kind of woman Annie admired: smart, incisive, quick-thinking, and adventurous, a WAAF pilot in World War II, an English teacher, a two-time Peace Corps volunteer after retirement, and, of course, a mystery authority. She had delighted last week in pointing out to Annie the little-known fact that the office of Charlaine Harris, bestselling author of the Sookie Stackhouse Southern vampire series, was decorated with black-and-white photos of New Orleans grave art. Annie
wondered if Charlaine Harris enjoyed Sarah Stewart Taylor's mysteries that celebrated funerary art.

Mavis leaned across the table. “How's Emma feeling?” Mavis's blue eyes were filled with concern.

Henny spooned chopped onions on her dog. “Great. I checked her out of the hospital this afternoon and took her home. She sent her regrets. I'll run some oysters over in a little while.”

“That's wonderful.” Annie's oyster knife slipped and she was grateful for the protection of the glove. “I don't suppose she remembers anything about her fall?” If only Emma's memory had returned and the question could be settled.

Pamela swung toward Annie, used her oyster knife for emphasis. “That bruise on Emma's back worried me to pieces.”

Henny's eyes narrowed. “Bruise on her back?”

As Pamela described the purplish splotch between Emma's shoulder blades, Annie pushed away a residue of uncertainty. To suppose Emma had been attacked opened up an ugly chain of thought with no basis in fact.

Billy finished the last of his beer. “Emma fell forward. Traces of blood on the footboard proved that. There was nothing in the cabin to account for an injury to her back.” He mounded mashed sweet potatoes on his spoon. “A bruise like you describe had to be caused some other way.”

Billy's calm response reassured Annie.

Henny grinned. “She doesn't remember Wednesday or, oddly enough, her struggle with the Slough of Despond, which, being Emma, was translated into writer's block. I left her at her desk, fingers flying on the keyboard. She's started a new book. In this one, a young woman shows up one evening at a tourist
court on a sea island riding a bike in the rain. Nobody knows who she is or where she came from.”

Annie looked at Billy.

His blue eyes were amused. A slight nod assured her he would be discreet. “Funny thing how head injuries affect people. Hey, Annie, have you had a piece of Miss Jolene's Key lime pie yet?”

 

V
ELVETY DARKNESS EMPHASIZED GLOWING LIGHTS STRUNG
among the live oak trees. Luminarias gleamed every few feet on either side of the paths that bordered the picnic area and led to the boardwalk and the woods. The waning crescent moon seemed pale and distant. It was nearing eleven. Max climbed the steps to the bandstand. He was no more than a dimly seen shadow until he reached the platform and the flash of the strobe lights.

Max borrowed the sticks from the drummer and sounded a brisk rat-a-tat.

Voices murmured as guests, indistinguishable in the darkness, moved nearer the bandstand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight you've enjoyed the music of the Red Hot Mohawks. I want you to meet Elrod Phipps, vocalist; Kevin Cameron, bass guitar; and Clint Guthrie, drums. Let's give them a big hand.”

The applause was strong and mixed with a few cheers. The young musicians beamed.

Annie smelled a faint scent of violets. Without surprise, she heard Laurel's throaty murmur from the dimly seen figure next to her. “How dear of Max.”

Annie agreed wholeheartedly. She gave Laurel's slender hand a squeeze.

Ben poked at the mound of ashes beneath the sheet of steel to be sure the fire was doused. Miss Jolene had long since maneuvered the steam tables into the catering van and departed. Ben and two of his staff stayed behind to take care of cleanup. The band folded up the lights and picked up their instruments.

“Good night, my dears.” Laurel blew a kiss to Max and wafted toward the parking area.

As the guests dwindled to a diehard few, Annie moved around the picnic area seeking Iris. Annie walked all the way to the boardwalk, grateful for the luminarias. Uneasiness plucked at Annie when she reached the iron railings, damp from spray as the dark water slapped against the seawall. She looked up and down the boardwalk. Lamplights glistened every hundred feet, shedding a pale radiance. To her left, the shore curved. Midway to the peninsula, Fish Haul pier jutted into the Sound. The boardwalk was empty. Darkness shrouded the pier. To her right, a cluster of lights marked downtown and the ferry dock.

A solitary man walked a black Lab. He was the only moving figure on the boardwalk.

Annie turned and hurried back to the picnic area. The last farewells were sounding. “…had a great time.” “The men's grill at eight?” “…a real feast…”

When she reached Max, she felt breathless. She gripped his arm. “I can't find Iris. Have you seen her?”

 

A
NNIE HUNCHED OVER THE WHEEL OF HER CAR, BRIGHTS
on as she searched the road ahead. She didn't dare drive faster. Deer crossed the winding roads after dark, deer and possums and raccoons, sometimes even cougars and wild boars. Annie clung to the hope that Iris had chosen to walk back to Night
ingale Courts and not thought to tell Annie. The countervoice in her mind argued, “That would have been rude. Iris wasn't rude.” Even if Iris had not enjoyed the evening—Billy was surprised she'd been willing to come to the pavilion—she'd been appreciative of the invitation and would surely have known that Annie planned to take her back to her cabin.

The dark tunnel beneath live oaks ended finally. The headlights illuminated the honeysuckle bower that marked the entrance to Nightingale Courts. A single lamplight shone. Annie wheeled into the drive, saw cars parked in front of two cabins. She noted that the old car Emma had borrowed to come to Nightingale Courts on Wednesday was no longer in front of Cabin Seven. She braked at Cabin Six, left the Volvo's lights on. They shone on the green bicycle on its stand by the steps. The windows to Cabin Six were dark.

Annie's throat was dry as she slammed out of the car and ran up the steps. The door was locked. She knocked and called. “Iris? Iris?”

There was no answer.

Annie took the extra time to get a key and open the door. The cabin was empty.

Annie stared at the place on the floor where they'd found Emma and felt a cold rush of fear.

 

M
AX QUARTERED THE PICNIC GROUNDS, THE BEAM FROM
his flashlight sweeping below tables, behind trash bins, under shrubs, around trees.

Max's cell chimed. Annie had made certain he had it on before she left. He flipped it open. “Annie?”

“I checked the cabin. It's empty. Max, where can she be?”

Max looked out at the dark water with foreboding, but he kept his voice even and measured. “She could have gone home with someone she knew. It's not like she's a stranger on the island…. Rude? Yeah, I guess. Sometimes people don't think…. Right. Call Billy if you think you should. I'll keep looking.”

 

“S
HE MAY HAVE GONE HOME WITH A FRIEND.”
B
ILLY'S VOICE
was patient.

Annie gripped the cell with one hand, the steering wheel with another. Once again, she held her speed in check and was able to jam on the brakes as a deer turned a startled face into the lights, then bolted into the woods. Annie pushed on the accelerator. “I don't think she had any friends.” Annie knew her voice was thin. It was Iris's loneliness that had cried out for comfort when Annie saw Iris on the cabin deck after Cara Wilkes left. “Emma got hurt in that cabin. I'm afraid for Iris.”

“What's Emma got to do with Iris?” He sounded bewildered.

“I don't think Emma fell.” As Annie spoke, she felt certainty. “It's like Ben says, Emma's sure-footed as a goat. She didn't fall down, she was pushed.”

“Annie, you aren't making sense.” Billy sounded irritated.

“What if someone was hidden in Iris's cabin Wednesday morning? Emma came in and somebody whammed her from behind and she fell into the footboard and that's how she hit her head and got a bruise on her back.”

He took a deep breath. “There's no proof that bruise didn't happen another time. But let's say you're right and somebody was in Iris's cabin. Why knock down an old woman? Why not say, ‘I'm waiting for Iris. She's not here right now.'”

“Maybe the person was determined not to be seen.”

He made no reply, but Annie felt his resistance, solid as a boulder. “Iris said she came back to the island”—Annie turned into the parking lot behind the pavilion—“because she wanted to find out if something she remembered or didn't quite remember was true.” It was hard to give a sense of Iris's uncertainty and worry and ultimate decisiveness from those moments of honesty in the cool water of the pool. “She said people didn't want to talk to her. What if somebody was afraid of what she might remember and came to her cabin to be sure she didn't have something written down? Maybe tonight Iris remembered.”

“If she remembered, so what? Do you think somebody pushed her off the pier? Did you see anything tonight to suggest she was in danger?”

“People weren't friendly, the ones I think she knew.” How threatening did that sound? Maybe she was conjuring trouble out of nothing. “Liz and Russell Montgomery. Buck and Fran Carlisle. Cara Wilkes.”

“They knew her.” His tone was cool. “Maybe they didn't have any reason to be happy she was back. What happened? Any quarrels?”

“No.” The admission came reluctantly. “I think that Iris,” Annie spoke slowly, trying to communicate the force of Iris's determination, “knew something that troubled her, something really bad, but she wasn't sure.”

“Maybe something tonight triggered a memory,” Billy suggested, “and she went home with somebody and they're talking it over. Maybe that's why she didn't tell you she was leaving. She was caught up in the past. And maybe,” Billy's voice was matter-of-fact, “she couldn't stay away from the sauce.”

Annie stopped next to Max's Jeep in the parking lot behind
the pavilion. “Oh.” It hadn't occurred to her that Iris might have lost her never-ending battle, the hunger for alcohol, the quivering need for a drug. Maybe that was the sad answer to her disappearance.

“She'll turn up.” Billy was relaxed. “You're chasing shadows, Annie. There's no reason to worry about Iris.”

 

M
AX SWUNG THE FLASHLIGHT TOWARD THE BROODING
darkness of the pines. “I've looked everywhere but the woods. She's not anywhere on the picnic grounds.”

Annie stared at the towering pines, a dark mass beneath the starlit sky. The breeze rustled the limbs high in the air. Frogs chortled from a pond.

“Let's go home, Annie. Maybe Billy got it right. Maybe being back on the island was too much stress and she started drinking.”

Annie remembered Iris's thin face and burdened eyes. “She was making it. One day at a time.” But what if she hadn't made it? What if she had wandered into the woods, collapsed in a stupor? Annie thought about snakes and alligators and bobcats. She would never be able to sleep, imagining Iris passed out in the woods, vulnerable to attack. “Let's take the path through the woods to the pier.” Billy had alluded to the pier; something there had been bad for Iris. If she had too much to drink, maybe she had been drawn to the pier.

When they reached the pines, the sounds of the night enveloped them, courting frogs, wind-stirred palmetto fronds, cooing chuck-will's-widows. Max's flashlight poked a beam into a tunnel of darkness created by the forest canopy above and the heavy undergrowth bordering the path. They moved slowly, swerving here to avoid a fallen limb, there to jump a dank puddle. A
nearby thrashing signaled a creature alarmed by their presence, a deer or raccoon or possibly a cougar.