Dead By Midnight (2 page)

She stood in the shadows and hugged ideas of revenge.

Oyster shells crackled. She was alert, wary. It was past midnight. Pat watched a dimly seen figure slip through the moonlit garden to the gazebo. Footsteps sounded on the gazebo steps. A flashlight flared, illuminating the interior. The beam settled on a wooden bench. The shadow behind the light knelt for a few minutes, then rose. The light was turned off. Footsteps again thudded softly on the wooden steps. Pat watched the swift, confident return toward the house until the visitor to the gazebo was out of sight behind shrubbery.

Pat waited a few minutes. No one stirred in the garden. She walked swiftly to the gazebo and edged up the steps. She bent and used her pencil flash for a quick flicker. A rolled-up brown towel was taped beneath the bench. She knelt and touched the towel. Oh. She took a quick breath. She didn’t need to remove and unroll the lumpy towel to know what it covered. She thought for a moment, then smiled grimly as she reached in her other pocket.

A moment later she moved swiftly along the path in the woods, using the pocket flash to light her way. A thought darted as swiftly as a minnow: knowledge was power.

H
enny Brawley sat on her verandah overlooking the marsh. The spartina grass glimmered gold in the morning sun, rippling in a light breeze. Fiddler crabs skittered on the mudflats as the tide ebbed. She took a sip of rich, black Sumatra coffee and breathed deeply of the distinctive marsh scent. All would be well in her sea island world except, of course, for the challenge of personalities. But Henny wasn’t irritated. Detecting motives, choosing the right word at the right time to achieve a desired effect, provided a never-ending challenge in her role as a volunteer, and was almost as much fun as reading clever, multilayered mysteries.

Henny laughed aloud. As soon as she identified one more of the paintings hanging this month in the Death on Demand mystery bookstore, she would break a current tie with Emma Clyde. Emma, the island’s famed mystery author, was also—Henny was willing to give credit where credit was due—an omnivorous mystery reader and a worthy opponent in the contest. Each painting represented a particular mystery novel. The first viewer to identify titles and authors would win free coffee for a month and a new book. She would choose the latest by either Jasper Fforde or Rosemary Harris.

Henny could almost recall the book depicted in the third painting, but not quite. Browsing the store’s shelves this afternoon, she was certain something would nudge her memory. However, first she needed to help her old friend Pat Merridew, who had applied for the paid manager’s job at the Helping Hands Center, a private charity that threw out lifelines to the sick, the old, the troubled.

There was a fly in the ointment. One of the board members was a stickler for checking references, which seemed a trifle absurd on an island the size of Broward’s Rock. All of them knew Pat Merridew, admittedly a bit quirky and sometimes fractious, but whatever her shortcomings, Pat exuded energy and she knew everyone in town.

Of course, there had to be a reason why Pat had lost her job at the law firm. That was the point made by Rachel Thompson in her brusque way. “Depend on it, Henny, there’s a story there. We can’t hire Pat until we know what’s what.”

Henny had made no headway when she’d suggested that Pat was simply another casualty of Cleo Jamison’s remake of her husband’s life and office. Rachel had insisted, “We must know the truth of the matter.”

Henny flipped open her cell, punched a number.

“Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster.” The unfamiliar feminine voice was obviously young. The new receptionist, no doubt.

Henny raised an eyebrow. Kirk Brewster’s name was still included in the firm name. But not for long. Glen should be ashamed. Of course, everyone had been struggling with hard times. “This is Henny Brawley calling for Mr. Jamison.” She and Glen had worked together on fund-raising for the island youth center.

“May I ask the subject of your call?” The voice was chirpy.

Henny felt as if a door had slammed in her face. If Pat had answered, the call would have been put through without question if Glen was in the office and available. It would take the new receptionist time to learn the ropes. “I’m calling in regard to a recommendation for Pat Merridew.”

“How is that spelled, please?”

Henny responded politely, though she was annoyed. Pat had worked at the firm for more than twenty years. Was she already completely forgotten?

“Thank you. One moment, please.”

Henny understood that Kirk had started looking for a job on the mainland, but law firms had cut back on hiring in the face of the economic downturn. Kirk’s record was amazing. He’d been number one in his law class and made junior partner in a mainline Atlanta firm in four years, instead of the usual seven. He would likely still be on the fast track to an equity partnership except for his sister’s serious illness. Both parents were dead and he was the only family she had. Henny felt sure Kirk would eventually receive an offer, but that didn’t change the fact that his single-mom sister had leukemia and depended upon Kirk to help with her two little boys. The grim news had come only a few months after he made partner at the Atlanta law firm, but he’d immediately resigned and returned to the island. If he had to leave Broward’s Rock, his nephews would suffer.

The chirrupy voice returned. “Mr. Jamison is in conference, but Mrs. Jamison is available.”

Henny hesitated. She could call Glen at home tonight. But she’d promised Rachel she’d check this morning. Before she could answer, Cleo came on the line. “Cleo Jamison.”

Henny raised a disdainful eyebrow. Cleo dismissed niceties such as hello. Implicit in her tone was the conviction that she, Cleo, was due homage. Cleo had succeeded in conveying her sense of self-worth to the community of Broward’s Rock. Since her arrival on the island a few years ago, she’d excelled as a rising young lawyer, married the widowed senior partner, and now she dominated the island’s social scene, young, beautiful, and joyously self-confident.

Henny spoke pleasantly. “Hi, Cleo. Henny Brawley. I need a rec for Pat. She’s applied to work at Helping Hands. Of course, the job isn’t on a level with her work at the firm. She’ll be overqualified but we’ll be glad to have someone to sort and arrange the clothes and household goods.”
And you screwed her royally, so now’s the time to pony up some help, lady.

“Pat?” A sigh of regret. “I wish I could be helpful, but as I told Rachel this morning—”

Henny’s eyes narrowed. Rachel was humorless, didactic, pompous, and perhaps the wealthiest member of the Helping Hands board. Rachel was pleased to provide support, but only if people and proposals met with her approval. Had she called Cleo?

“—I’m afraid Pat’s become a bit unbalanced. She wasn’t the right face for the firm now. The firm wants to project an up-to-the-minute image, youthful, forward-looking. Glen explained it to her as kindly as possible—”

“Pat doesn’t need a youthful image at Helping Hands.” Henny’s tone was sharp, but she knew it was a stiletto flick at an opponent who wore emotional chain mail.

“Of course not.” Cleo sounded amused. “But Rachel agreed that it wouldn’t do to hire someone who is emotionally unstable.” Now Cleo’s voice was metallic. “Last weekend she slipped into the house and accused Glen of ruining her life. There was a dreadful scene. She refused to leave until I threatened to call the police. Of course, she’s old—”

Henny was icy. “Not quite fifty.” Cleo knew full well that Henny was a septuagenarian. Cleo was arrogantly on the sunny side of thirty.

“Oh, perhaps it’s hot flashes.” Cleo was dismissive. “In any event, you’d better check with Rachel. I gave her a ring when I heard Pat had applied to Helping Hands. I thought she should know the truth. But I suggested a charming young woman who’s working on her certification for home health. Ciao.”

Henny listened to the buzzing line, clicked off the handset. Was Cleo’s tale of Pat’s behavior true? Whether it was or not, Pat wouldn’t get the job. It was too late to try to talk to Glen.

Henny sipped coffee. She watched a majestic blue heron poised to capture a fish. The heron’s beak darted into the murky green water, lofted its prey. The great bird swallowed and the fish was gone, plucked from its summer moment in the warm water just as Pat had been ousted from her once secure job.

A
nnie Darling looked out at the teeming marina as she hurried toward the boardwalk that fronted the shops. She took a deep breath of the sea-scented onshore breeze. It was a perfect June day, the sky a soft blue without a trace of clouds. Herring gulls bobbed in pea-green water. Fishermen dotted the pier that jutted into the sound. Boaters hosed down decks or maneuvered their crafts, everything from sunfish to sloops to catamarans to yachts. She shaded her eyes to search the marina. She felt, as always, a quick thrill when she saw Max, blond hair glinting in the sunlight. He was on his way out into the sound to take a run in his new fiberglass powerboat. He’d excused his absence from his office on the grounds that having a new powerboat and not taking it out the first day qualified as cruel and unusual punishment. It would have been fun to join him, but the bookstore needed all hands at the ready on a sunny summer day.

In fact, she needed extra help. She and Ingrid, her loyal clerk, were working long hours. Too long, according to Max. This morning when she attempted to slip from bed an hour early, the better to take care of needed orders, he’d caught her hand and tugged her back to his side, murmuring that early birds surely deserved a playful launch.

A smile touched her lips. How could she resist Max, his blond hair tousled, his stubbled cheeks bristly, his lips seeking. So she not only wasn’t early, she was a few minutes late. She walked faster, passing his office with a smile. Jaunty letters announced:
CONFIDENTIAL COMMISSIONS
. Max specialized in solving problems. He always made his status clear to prospective employers. He was not a private detective. The state of South Carolina had particular and specific requirements for the licensing of private detectives. There was no law that a man couldn’t offer advice and assistance to those in a spot of trouble.

Annie reached Death on Demand. As always, she was pleased and proud to see her storefront. A new cream-colored wooden sign hung above the front door. DEATH ON DEMAND gleamed in gold letters. A dagger dripping bright red drops pointed to the legend:
The Lowcountry’s Finest Mystery Bookstore
.

Annie took an instant to glance in approval at the display behind the plate glass of the front window. Ranged on a beach chair were brightly jacketed books sure to please summer sun worshippers:
Our Lady of Immaculate Deception
by Nancy Martin,
Cemetery Road
by Gar Anthony Haywood,
The Puzzle Lady vs. The Sudoku Lady
by Parnell Hall,
A Night Too Dark
by Dana Stabenow,
The Bone Chamber
by Robin Burcell, and
Revenge for Old Times’ Sake
by Kris Neri.

The bell jangled as she pushed open the door. She eyed the recently hung poster at the end of the thriller section. She loved to tell the story of its discovery. Last month she and Max had wandered around a flea market in Savannah. Next to a particularly eclectic booth sat a worn old trunk adorned with this sign:

MYSTERY CONTENTS, YOURS FOR TEN BUCKS

She’d grabbed Max’s arm. “Mystery contents!”

“To you and me, maybe. Not to the shopkeeper.”

“Cynicism does not become you.” Annie had always loved mystery packages with unknown contents. She remembered with delight
The Iron Clew
by Phoebe Atwood Taylor writing as Alice Tilton in which three brown packages powered the plot. Thriller writer Robert L. Duncan advised authors when they were stuck to have a package of unknown provenance left at a hotel desk for the hero.

All the way home Max speculated about what she would find, possibly old
National Geographic
s (the trunk was heavy), maybe discarded cowboy boots, or Kewpie dolls from a carnival. At Death on Demand, Max had hefted the trunk on a table. He found a chisel in the back room. As he pried open the lid, his suggestions continued, “ . . . stuffed moose heads . . . old Pittsburgh phone books . . . hand-knitted purple tea cozies . . .”

The lid popped up, as if snapped by an invisible hand.

“Oh.” Annie’s spirits had drooped at the sight of a dun-colored worn army-issue blanket, likely 1940s vintage. She’d lifted out one and a second and a third.

Max had taken pity at seeing her crestfallen expression. “Hey, they’ll make a great gift for animal rescue. Put those back and I’ll take the trunk over.”

But maybe . . . just maybe . . . She kept on pulling out blankets. At the very bottom of the trunk, there was a rectangle covered by brown butcher paper. Annie lifted out the thin, stiff package and eased open the sealed wrapping. She had turned to Max and held up a poster and her smile was at a thousand watts.

Now customers shared her joy with the vintage movie poster for
Murder, My Sweet,
starring Dick Powell and Claire Trevor in the 1944 film version of Raymond Chandler’s
Farewell, My Lovely
. The yellow letters of the title were as bright as the day the poster was created. Annie could almost smell buttered popcorn.