Engaged to Die (16 page)

There was an instant of quiet between them. Annie knew that her old friend was declining to be of help in this investigation. Henny was standing by her friends. Just as Annie intended to stand by Chloe.

Henny cleared her throat. Her tone was determinedly cheerful. “Oh, hey, Annie, I've got one for you. Who is the Honorable Richard Rollison?”

Annie reached back to the memory of dog-eared paperbacks belonging to her uncle that she had enjoyed in a hammock during lazy Low Country summers. “The Toff. One of John Creasey's detectives.”

Henny was too good a sport to admit to disappointment. But she couldn't quite hide her surprise. “I would have thought before your time. Good going. Take care.” A pause. “Try not to be too upset about Chloe.”

The line buzzed. As Annie clicked off the phone, the clock struck nine. She listened to the chimes. Right now Chloe was arriving at the police station….

 

The clouds hung so low the sky seemed to sag toward the earth. Gray sky melded into gray water. The persistent drizzle dampened Max's face. A brisk onshore breeze spun cold droplets of mist. Max was grateful for the warmth of his suede jacket.

Ben Parotti's yellow slicker glistened. He poked back his cap, peered out at the white-flecked water. “Chances aren't good.” A gnarled hand jabbed at the murky harbor. “You got some currents there that can pull flotsam all the way out to the Gulf Stream. Yeah, if she tossed that dress from the end of the pier…” He shook his head. “Anyway, I'll round up some men, do some trawling.” Ben squinted at Max. “Pretty well signed her arrest warrant, didn't she?” A swarm of laughing gulls cackled overhead. Ben's derisive chuckle blended right in. “'Course, what choice did she have if there was blood all over the dress.”

Max jammed his hands into his pockets. “Annie says she threw it away because she was mad at him and knew she'd never wear the dress again.”

Ben turned up calloused palms. “Annie may be right. No telling what a pissed-off woman will do. His daddy should have warned him against riling up a female. Anyway, we'll do our best to find the dress.” Ben lifted a hand in farewell and headed for the boat slips.

Max slowly walked toward his car, his face somber. Would it do any good to call Annie? She was sure to be at the bookstore by now. He glanced at his watch. Ten after nine. He'd promised Billy that he'd come back to the station after arranging the search for Chloe's missing dress. Billy might very well arrest Chloe this morning unless she came up with information to clear herself. That didn't seem likely. At the least he might hold her as a material witness while he checked out the members of the Neville family. Max knew an arrest would be a blow to Annie. Would she insist upon Chloe's innocence despite the evidence against her? Max sighed. If so, the home front was going to be chilly for a while. Annie was hurt that Billy had cho
sen Max to help and ignored her. In any event, an arrest would most likely mark the end of Max's service as a deputy. He hoped so because he hated shutting Annie out of anything. They were a team, the two of them together. But not this time. He was slipping behind the wheel of his Maserati when his cell phone rang.

“Hello?” His voice rose hopefully. Maybe it was Annie.

“Max, meet me at the Schmidt house.” Billy was furious, his tone harsh.

Max turned on the motor. “What's wrong?”

“That girl. She didn't show up. When I catch her”—the words dropped like boulders of ice cracking off a glacier—“she's going to be sorry she was born.”

 

“Who could have killed him?” Annie looked into Agatha's cool eyes. The cat's gaze was eloquent of hidden mysteries, of danger, of a world perceived with clarity and icy disdain. “You don't know and you don't care. Agatha, it looks bad for Chloe. You'd care if you knew. She was lovely to you.”

Annie picked up the phone, slowly put it down. Okay. It wouldn't do any good to call Chloe. She was at the police station. Surely she'd taken a lawyer with her. Or maybe she'd asked her aunt and uncle to accompany her. Annie shook her head. Chloe wasn't close to them. Chloe, in fact, had no champion. Except Annie. But what could Annie do? It was up to the police to check out the statements made last night.

The phone rang. Annie looked at the caller ID. Oh. Oh well. “Hi, Laurel.”

“Annie, dear. You have been much on my mind.” The husky unforgettable voice was sad and kind.

“Your aura—”

Annie raised an eyebrow. Laurel often claimed to pick up otherworldly vibrations, although Annie often felt her mother-in-law simply wrapped her own perceptions in occult trappings, the more easily to voice comments that might otherwise offend.

“—quivers with distress. I pondered your plight, and though I cannot rescue you from concern about young Chloe—”

Annie felt a prickle at the back of her neck.

“—I believe I can be most helpful by sharing with you the sustaining words from a great poet upon the high estate of friendship. As Owen Meredith observed, ‘Ay, there are some good things in life, that fall not away with the rest. And, of all best things upon earth, I hold that a faithful friend is the best.'” A reverent pause, then a murmured, “I am always intrigued by the use of a pen name. I suppose Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton did not wish to be confused with his father. Or trade upon his illustrious name. Ah well, his words ring true whatever the attribution. Dear Annie, God-speed in your quest.”

Annie refused to speculate upon the reasons for Lord Lytton's pen name. Laurel was right. It didn't matter who said it, the sentiment caught at her heart: “…of all best things upon earth…”

What did friends do for friends? With a fine disregard for mixing metaphors, Annie said sternly to Agatha, “They don't sit around and twiddle their thumbs while Rome burns. And neither will I.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

 

The Schmidt house, a one-story bungalow of pinkish stucco, nestled beneath an ancient magnolia. The drive swung around the tree to a separate garage. Parked to
one side was a shabby blue Taurus. A discarded Christmas tree, festooned with limp icicles, was propped against a shabby white wooden fence. The house had a closed-in, withdrawn appearance like featureless mannequins in a forgotten store window.

As Max parked, a police cruiser with its siren wailing slewed to a stop behind him. The siren cut off in mid-blare. Billy slammed out of the car. Without regard for his crisp uniform trousers, he stalked through puddles, head forward, shoulders bunched, hands clenched, his normally pleasant face rutted by an angry frown.

The bungalow's front door opened. A middle-aged woman in a faded red velour jumpsuit stepped outside. She poked her head forward, her thin face anxious.

Billy slapped a massive hand on the sagging white gate. “She better be here.” His voice was a mixture of raw fury and worried uncertainty. “And she better have a damn good explanation.”

Max grabbed Billy's arm. It wouldn't do for him to charge up the walk and explode. “What's happened?”

The acting chief glowered. “I should have taken her in last night. I trusted her. And she didn't come. I've let Pete down. I've let everybody down. I blew it, Max.”

“Hey, ease up.” Max kept his tone light. “It's no big deal, Billy. Maybe she got cold feet. We can make sure she doesn't get off the island. Ben's got a search going for the dress. He'd know to call us if she got on the ferry.”

Billy's head jerked up as if somebody had socked him. “Oh, God, I didn't think about the ferry. Max, get on the horn, alert Ben.” His broad open face creased in despair. “I don't know how I could have forgot that.”

Max pulled out his cell phone. “Sure. I'll take care
of it. Anyway, it'll probably turn out she's just running late. She'd be a fool to try and run away.”

Billy kneaded his face with sharp knuckles. “A fool. Or guilty as hell.” He glanced at the woman on the porch. “Come on.”

Patches of red stained Mrs. Schmidt's cheeks. Her salt-and-pepper hair bushed in tight curls. Narrow black-rimmed glasses perched on the end of a long thin nose. When they reached the steps, she snapped, “I declare I don't know what's happening. How come you're back here this morning with your siren squealing? What are the neighbors going to think? We've never had the police at our house before. First you come in the middle of the night, and I've already had a half dozen calls this morning, people wanting to know if anything's wrong. I'll say things are wrong, the police wanting to see Miriam's girl about a murder. Miriam was always trouble, and now Chloe's even worse. We've always tried to welcome her, but she won't have anything to do with the people we know.” She tossed her head like a nervous horse.

The front door squeaked. A heavyset man stepped outside. Bulging dark eyes peered from a round face like shiny raisins protruding from thick dough. “I always told Frances that girl would come to no good end. Like mother, like daughter. Coming home last night, then going out again, that's no way to act. And she wouldn't say a word when she got home the second time, even though we'd waited up. She went into her room and locked the door, and she still hasn't come out.”

“We're here to take her into custody.” Billy tried to speak evenly, but he bristled with anger.

Mrs. Schmidt gasped, pressed her hands against her cheeks.

“Come now, Mother. The police got to do what they got to do.” Schmidt jerked his head toward the entrance. “If you'll come this way, Officer.” He bustled importantly past the living room to the right and the dining room to the left. Several doorways opened down a narrow hallway. “She hasn't even come out of her room yet. But we know she's here. Her car's still parked out there, that old blue Taurus.” The four of them crowded in front of a closed bedroom door.

Billy knocked. “This is the police. Open up.”

There was no response, no sound, no movement.

“Chloe, you come on out now.” Frances Schmidt's voice was shrill.

Billy knocked again, a thunderous rattle that shook the door in its frame. He turned the handle.

Max frowned. He turned toward Schmidt. “Bring us a screwdriver. We'd better take down that door.”

Mrs. Schmidt rushed to the doorway, flailed her hands against it. “Chloe, open up right now!”

There was no sound, no movement, no life beyond that closed door.

Schmidt brought the screwdriver, his face pale. He handed it to Billy, fingered his unshaven cheek.

Billy loosened the pins from the hinges, pulled the door free. He stepped over the threshold, his head swinging, checking the unmade, empty bed, the open closet door, the clothes strewn about.

Chloe wasn't there.

A
NNIE OPENED THE
driver's door of her Volvo and a note card fluttered to the floor. She retrieved it. As she settled behind the wheel, she studied the card and smiled. Stylized heads of a black Lab, massive faces upturned with a look of adoration, rimmed the border. Ornate lettering announced: “When Fortune's fickle, the faithful friend is found—Quintus Ennius.”

Annie's eyes widened. The postscript in Laurel's everyday handwriting—“Across the centuries, we are touched by immortal truth. Annie, I applaud you!”—scarcely registered. Annie gave an anguished glance at the motif. A Lab. Dogs. Dog…She raced the motor and jolted out of the marina parking lot. Despite the wisps of fog and the sheen of damp on the blacktop, she drove fast on the winding road. She waved at the guard as she left the gated residential area. She pulled into the island's downtown gas station next to the outdoor phone kiosk. In a moment, she'd flipped to the
O
s in the tattered phone book. Her finger slid down the names.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. The advantages of island living were many, and chief among them was the likelihood at all times of connecting with a friend. Back in the car, she followed a familiar route, pulling up in only a few minutes at the arbor that marked the en
trance to Nightingale Courts. Seven rustic cabins curved in a semicircle with a superb view of the marsh and the sound. Wisps of fog obscured the winter-brown cordgrass, hung in low patches over the gray-green water. Loons bobbed in the swells. She slammed out of the car, and shiny greenish-black grackles lifted skyward, chattering their aggravation. High in the sky, a bald eagle curved in watchful flight, most likely ready to defend its nest and baby chick.

Annie crunched up the oyster-shell path to cabin 1. Yellow curtains patterned with daisies in a deeper hue hung in the front windows. Smoke wreathed the chimney. Holly berries brightened the Christmas wreath on the door. As Annie lifted her hand to knock, the panel swung in.

Duane Webb, stocky in a blue turtleneck and baggy jeans, motioned her inside. A fiercely independent maverick, he'd spent most of his lifetime as a small-town newspaper editor, fetching up on the island in a drunken haze after the deaths of his wife and daughter in a car wreck. He'd been the driver. The drunk driver. Ingrid Jones, who managed Nightingale Courts and also worked as Annie's most valued and treasured employee, became his friend. When Ingrid disappeared and was suspected of murder, Duane pulled himself together, aware abruptly that Ingrid was not simply a friend. They'd now been married for a number of years. Duane was a committed member of AA. Sometimes he helped out at the bookstore. Mainly he ran Nightingale Courts.

Annie stayed on the doorstep. “Duane, how is Ingrid feeling?” The hip surgery had been on Wednesday. She'd come through it fine, but sometimes the days after an operation were tough.

Duane's lips curved into a wide smile. “Super. They're moving her to rehab tomorrow. I promised I'd go by the store, get her a batch of new books.” He joined Annie on the steps.

She smiled in return. “You know where the key is. Go in and take a bunch. They're on the house. I just unpacked a box of the new Bill Crider title,
A Romantic Way to Die.
Ingrid loves his books. Listen, Duane, I'm here because of Jake O'Neill.”

Duane squinted at her. “You a deputy, too? I hear Billy's got Max helping out.”

At her look of surprise, he gave a
whuff
of laughter. “Lou Pirelli's been here to check out O'Neill's place. Told me about last night. I called Vince.” Vince Ellis was the editor of
The Island Gazette.
“He filled me in. Said Billy was going to interrogate Chloe this morning.” His thick gray eyebrows bristled in a frown. “Doesn't sound good for her.”

Annie wasn't surprised at the spread of information. Broward's Rock was a very small island. But first things first. “Where's Jake's dog? Alexandre.” That was the name of the red setter Jake had brought with him to the pier, the dog that enchanted Chloe.

“Pirelli took him. It was love at first bark.” Duane's tone was wry, but his eyes were soft.

Annie heaved a huge sigh of relief. “I was worried that no one knew about him.”

“Dog's okay. How about the girl?” He was brusque, his light eyes thoughtful.

“I don't know.” Annie looked at her watch. Nine-forty. Surely Billy must be almost through with his questions. “If Chloe doesn't call me pretty soon, I'll check with Billy.” But as long as she was here…

“Duane, fill me in on Jake.” Duane and Ingrid weren't
snoops, but they paid attention to their renters, knew when there was illness or loss of a job or sorrow, knew and tried to help.

He turned up his hands. “What's to know? A show-off. Too pretty for his own good. Ingrid liked him.” Duane's tone was dry. “He was that kind of guy. Always charming to women. But Ingrid said he was cheerful and really good to his dog. That counted for a lot with her.”

“Any trouble with him?” She was grasping at straws.

Duane frowned, stared off toward the marsh.

Annie scarcely dared to breathe. There was something here, something that Duane was reluctant to tell.

Slowly he returned his gaze to Annie. He started to speak, stopped.

Annie looked deep into his eyes—skeptical, measuring, weary eyes. “Please, Duane. I'm frightened for Chloe. Right now it looks grim for her.” Annie thought about the tiny window of time between Chloe's flight through the parking lot and the discovery of O'Neill's body, not more than fifteen minutes. Unless someone else could be placed at the scene after Chloe's departure, Billy would arrest Chloe. “If you know anything that could help her…”

Duane's face creased in indecision. “Oh, hell, Annie. I don't want to make trouble for this kid just because she was mixed up with Jake. Sure, she should have had better sense, but she's a hard-luck girl. You know the kind—good-looking and they think sex will get them what they want, but they never have the brains—or instinct or native cunning, whatever it takes—to understand that men like easy sex but when they marry, that's not the girl they pick.”

Annie almost spoke, didn't.

Now his laugh was explosive. “If you could see your face! Yes'm, I know all about modern mores.
Sex and the City
and all the rest of it. Don't think I'm an old coot stuck back in history. Sure, nice girls do—but they still do it on a selective basis. The ones with brains never get tagged as an easy lay.”

“But this girl did?” How about Chloe making love with Jake on the pier in the fog when they first met? Annie pushed that thought away, hoped a jury would never hear her story.

“That's my guess. Or maybe he got tired of her. A couple of nights ago, she banged on his door, screaming that she wished he was dead. But dammit, she's a good kid. She was in one of my fishing classes at The Haven.” His face was sad, remembering a child and happy summer days at the pond near the island youth recreation center.

“Chloe's a good kid, too.” Annie's voice was sober.

“I promise I won't involve this girl unless there's reason to think she could have been at the party last night.”

Duane heaved a sigh. “Oh, hell, she was there. She works for her dad.”

Annie felt a surge of excitement. “Elaine Hasty.” She made it a statement, not a question.

“Yeah.” His voice was flat.

“She lives here?” Annie swung a hand toward the cabins.

Slowly, Duane nodded. He pointed at the next-to-last cabin. “Number 6. Next to O'Neill. That's how they met.” His face wrinkled. “Worse luck for her.”

 

Billy paced back and forth in his office, his thick shock of hair disheveled from frequent swipes by his hand.
“Okay, we got it sewed up. All boats for hire have been alerted. Ben knows to tip us if she tries to take the ferry. Is there anything else we can do?” His worried gaze implored Max.

Max folded his arms across his chest, stretched out his legs, seeking as much comfort as possible from the hard metal straight chair opposite Billy's desk. “You've got everything under control, Billy. Lou's out hunting for her.”

“When we catch her”—Billy slammed a fist into his palm—“she's going straight to jail. No bail.” His big square face was rock hard. “Not if I can help it.” He reached the far side of the office, wheeled. “I have to find her. What will Pete think?” His voice lifted in anguish. “I got to e-mail him and tell him I've lost the major suspect in the first big case since he was called up.”

Max understood Billy's chagrin and humiliation, but he wasn't going to be effective if he kept stewing about Chloe's disappearance. “Come on, Billy, let's try and figure out what she could have done. We know she's not in her car. It's parked at her aunt's house. According to her aunt, there's an old blue bicycle missing from the garage. She probably took the bike. Her aunt claims she doesn't have any friends on the island. That means she's trying to hide out on her own. We'll call the Buccaneer.” The island's upscale hotel was lucky to have 30 percent occupancy this time of year. “She won't dare use a credit card, and she probably wouldn't have enough cash to stay for long. But we can make sure. Ditto the fishing lodge. Since she's on a bike, it should be easy to find her. Lou can cover all the back roads in half a day.” Max frowned. Chloe should be easy to spot unless she hid in the forest pre
serve or found a lonely stretch of beach. “We'll get a description out to the radio stations and to the
Gazette,
asking anyone spotting her to call the police.”

Billy jolted to a stop in front of Max. “How about Annie?” His voice was harsh.

 

A purple windsock emblazoned with two red-eyed eagles hung limp in the still air. Pine straw had drifted over the steps. Light blazed through uncurtained windows. Annie looked through the smudged panes of the bedroom at the dark-haired girl flinging clothes into a cardboard box. Elaine's royal purple sweater was molded over her breasts. Tight black slacks emphasized full hips. She looked like trouble waiting to happen. But her face drooped, and she paused every so often to gulp and rub away tears from swollen eyes.

Annie steeled herself and walked up the steps. She knocked.

Elaine wiped her hand across her face. She took a deep breath, walked to the door. When she opened it, she blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

There was no good answer. Annie couldn't blurt out that she wanted to know why Elaine had screamed in the night at a man who was now lying on a slab awaiting an autopsy. Annie spoke fast, knowing the door could slam shut in her face. “I was at the party last night, Elaine. I need to talk to you. Please.”

Elaine pushed back a tangle of dark hair. Her gaze slid over Annie. “Dad said you were helping the police.” There was no warmth in her tone. “I saw you. Velvet dress. No back. Rhinestone straps. You looked like a princess. The straps were rhinestone, but I'll bet your earrings and necklace were diamonds.” She lifted her hand, touched her neck. Her fingers closed on a
gaudy red and orange ribbon with a likeness of a red setter painted on a ceramic medallion. Her face crumpled.

Annie stared at the medallion. “Did Jake paint it for you?”

Elaine turned away, stumbled back into the living room.

Annie hesitated for an instant, then pulled open the screen and stepped inside. The furniture was shabby, an old green sofa, a stained maple coffee table, a dinette that might have been new in 1950, two saggy beanbag chairs in blue vinyl, straw matting that crackled underfoot.

Elaine walked to the painted pine mantel. The fireplace held the remnants of a fire, charred wood and ash. The cabin smelled of must and old smoke. She looked up at a matted watercolor.

Annie joined her. She didn't have to ask if Jake was the artist. He'd caught a good likeness of Elaine, laughing and eager as she tossed a ball in the air for Alexandre. The dog was the focus of the painting, elegant, sturdy, straining in a high leap, glorious in his dark red beauty.

“That's who he loved.” Her voice curdled in resentment. She reached up, yanked the painting from the wall. She held it in both hands and came within a breath of crushing it. Slowly, the tension eased from her arms. Her face tight and angry, she carried the stiff cardboard to the table and put it down. “I guess I'll sell it.” Her voice was brittle. She swung to face Annie. “I got to get out of here. But I don't have any money. Everything takes money. I started packing, but I don't have anyplace to go.” Her lips twisted. “You wouldn't know about that. You've got a rich husband.”

Annie looked at her across a gulf of experience and social status and safety. Would Elaine care that Annie had waited tables in college? No. All Elaine saw were diamonds and a world far beyond her reach. “Could you go home?”

“Home?” Elaine gave a half sigh, half cry. “Go back to my dad's house? Not likely. I can work my tail off for him, but last year he told me to get out and stay out because…It doesn't matter. He says I'm a tramp. Like my mom.” Her eyes were hurt and defiant. “He burned all her pictures, but I remember what she looked like. She was real pretty. Like me. And she wanted to have fun. Is that a crime?” She tossed her hair. “Why slave all your life if you can have nice things? See, I thought Jake would marry me. We could have a nice house. I could have helped out at the gallery. But he was lying when he said he loved me. He was going to marry Mrs. Neville, just because she's rich and owns the gallery and he would have a place for his paintings. I could have killed him.”

The silence in the frowsy room grew and expanded.

Elaine pressed her fingers against her cheeks. “Somebody did. Oh, God, somebody did!” Her voice quivered. She stared at Annie, her gaze filled with misery. “I wanted to go down and look, but Dad wouldn't let me.” She pulled up the sleeve of her sweater, held out her arm. Purplish bruises marked the skin above her wrist. “He said I was just one of a long line of stupid women, running after Jake.”