Engaged to Die (27 page)

The phone rang.

Annie flailed awake. Dorothy L. launched herself, using her claws. Annie felt the sting against her skin, blinked, came to her feet, lunged for the phone.

“Hello.” She heard her voice rise, knew it was lifted by fear. Max, was Max all right? She was enveloped by the atavistic unreasoning panic that blossoms at night in the dungeons of the mind when horror lurks behind doors that decently remain shut in sunshine.

“Annie.” Lou Pirelli's voice was brisk. “Got a nine-one-one. Somebody smashed in the front of your store. I'm on my way. I caught Max at Nightingale Courts. He's on his way. I thought you should know, but you don't need to come. We'll take care of everything.”

Before Lou hung up, Annie was running for the stairs, shedding her robe.

 

Death on Demand blazed with light. Great shards of glass poked from each corner of the front window. The glass in the front door—now standing wide open—was broken as well. Annie edged inside. The stench of gasoline was heavy.

“Oh damn, damn, damn.” Two of the titles in the front window—
The House Without a Key
and
The African Poison Murders
—were very fine firsts, each worth several hundred dollars. She stepped carefully toward the window, bent near the glass-covered books, sniffed. She gave a sigh of relief. No gasoline. And the rain didn't splash far enough beneath the overhang to reach the display. She turned back toward the door. Gasoline seeped from a tin that lay on its side in the entryway. She bent toward the container, then jerked
her hand back. No, there might be fingerprints. But at the very least, surely she could use something to sop up the spilling fuel.

Annie started down the central aisle. “Lou?”

The storeroom door banged open. Billy moved heavily toward her, his tired face drawn in a dark frown. That frown was directed at her. Not at the mess. Not at the intruder who'd apparently intended to set fire to her store. No, Billy's glower was aimed specifically at Annie, she had no doubt about it.

Annie stopped in surprise. Why was Billy here? Damage to her store was ugly—and she was pretty sure she knew the culprit—but vandalism was unimportant compared to murder. Why was Billy here, and why was he angry with her and not with the vandal? Then she saw Max. He came out of the storeroom. His look held love. And a question.

Annie didn't understand the hostility emanating from Billy, but she was in no mood for argument. She pointed at the front of the store. “I think I know who did this, Billy. His name is J. J. Brown. He's a big damn bully who used to work at Snug Harbor until I got him fired yesterday morning—” She heard her own word with surprise. Yesterday? It seemed an eon ago. “—for being ugly to an old lady.”

Max made a fist. “By God, he's going to pay for this. Here's what happened, Billy.” Quickly he sketched Annie's experience at the retirement home.

Billy flipped open his cell phone, punched numbers. “Mavis, put out a pickup for J. J. Brown—” He looked inquiringly at Annie.

“Six foot three. Sixty-two years old. A Gouda cheese face. Greasy black hair that hangs to his shoulders. Plaid shirt. Levis. Husky. A beer paunch.” Annie
pressed her fingertips against her temples. “Silver ring in his left ear. Brown eyes. Fat hands.”

Billy repeated the description. “Last known address Snug Harbor. Wanted for vandalism, attempted arson.” A pause. He kneaded a fist against his cheek. His tone was weary. “I don't know. I'll get this buttoned up. Yeah. See you when I see you.” He clicked off the phone, returned his gaze to Annie, and once again his face was closed and suspicious.

Annie glanced back at the tipped-over gasoline tin. “I need to clean up the mess.” She swung back to Billy. “Who can I thank for ringing up the police before Brown set fire to the place?” She didn't want to think how easy it could have been for a blaze to rage beyond control. In January no one had occasion to walk on the boardwalk of shops in the middle of the night. In summertime, lovers might stroll in the moonlight; visitors staying aboard the luxury yachts in the marina might share wine and conversation in deck chairs; even an occasional merchant might linger after hours. But this was January, the marina had no guest yachts, the one movie house was closed until spring, and the boardwalk that curved around the harbor was deserted.

Billy's eyes slitted. “A woman called. From here.” He jabbed his finger at the phone sitting on the cash desk. “From this number. Screamed somebody was smashing the front glass, tossing in gasoline. She yelled for help, hung up.”

“A woman?” Annie's mouth opened. Oh, dear God.

“Come back here.” It was a command and a brusque one. Billy headed for the storeroom, head lowered, shoulders bunched.

Annie looked at Max. His dark blue eyes were
somber. She took a deep breath, hurried to catch up with Billy.

In the storeroom, he stood on the other side of the table where they unpacked shipments of books. Three boxes sat against the wall:
Murder on the Mauretania,
Conrad Allen, St. Martin's;
Death of a Dustman,
M. C. Beaton, Warner; and
Basket Case,
Carl Hiaasen, Knopf.

Crumpled in the narrow space between the table and the wall was a moss green sleeping bag.

“So”—Billy folded his arms, demanded—“I guess you didn't have any idea somebody was spending the night here?”

“No.” She stared down at the heap of bedding. Suddenly Max was beside her, his arm around her. He gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. Annie blinked back tears. He understood. There was something infinitely sad and helpless and frightening about this uncomfortable sanctuary. Annie understood. That's why Chloe had never called. She'd been trying to get in touch with Elaine. And then the rain began. She had no place to go and she had to stay dry, but she couldn't bear to call Annie when she was using Annie's store as a hiding place. “Oh, Billy”—Annie stirred, looked toward the back door, which stood open—“where is she? Dear God, where do you suppose she is?”

Billy shoved his hat to the back of his head. “I never thought you'd do this kind of double-dealing. You lied to me, Annie.” His tone was disappointed, his gaze dark with bitterness.

Annie was too tired, too frightened to resent his accusation. But Billy was right in one assumption. The sleeping bag had to belong to Chloe Martin. No one else conceivably would have chosen to spend the night
in the storeroom. And as a practical matter, Chloe had a key. She'd often opened or closed the store during the Christmas season. As for why…it was Bob Winslow who'd looked hopefully at Annie, said that Annie was Chloe's only friend on the island, and if Chloe contacted anyone, it would be Annie. “Billy, I didn't know she was here.” Annie spoke quietly. “You can believe me or not. That doesn't matter. What matters now is where she's gone, what's happened—”

There was a thud of running feet in the alleyway. Lou Pirelli burst through the doorway. “Chief, better take a look out here. Near the end of the alley…”

For a big man, Billy moved fast. He was out the door, following the stab of Lou's flashlight. Annie and Max hurried after them, clattering down the slippery steps. A light glowed above the back stairs of Death on Demand. None of the rear entrances of the other businesses were illuminated. Once beyond the light from Death on Demand, there was only the swath cut by Lou's flashlight. They splashed through puddles. The rain had eased to a fine drizzle. Lou stopped near the end of the alley. He held out the flashlight. Its beam traveled slowly over the blue bicycle that lay on its side, the front wheel twisted into the air. A red knapsack had tumbled out of the basket. One strap lay partially submerged in a murky pool of oil-filmed water.

“Looks to me like there was a crash. But there wasn't anything to bump into. So I kept looking and here's what I found.” Lou moved the beam, sweeping it back and forth across the alley to settle on a broken piece of brick. Lou stepped closer, knelt, held the light within an inch of the fist-sized piece of brick. A tangle of red hair, perhaps three or four strands, clung to the jagged end. “That dark smear—I think it's blood.”

 

“Move it a little to the left.” Max raised the hammer.

Annie shifted the big square of plywood, wondered if he didn't have the better job. Plywood was heavy. There was still a nasty smell of gasoline even though the floor had been scrubbed and the container taken into custody last night by Lou Pirelli.

Max pounded. “Good. That gets the bottom. Now for the top…” He climbed the ladder, set to work nailing the protective sheet to the frame.

Annie stepped back. She'd get new plate glass installed tomorrow, but the plywood was protection against the weather until then.

The weather…She turned, stared out at the sweet sweep of blue sky and the glittering water. Friday's fog and Saturday's rain might never have occurred. They didn't even need a sweater on this sparkling Sunday afternoon, the kind of day that made the South Carolina seacoast a haven for winter vacationers. Golfers would pause to watch a heron in the marsh near a green, and tennis players would hear the caw of crows over the
thwock
of balls. But the forecast was for more storms, and there was a warning haze on the horizon. Annie shivered.

Max reached the ground, tossed the hammer into the tool chest, nudged it shut with his foot. “Come on, Annie, it will be okay.”

“Max”—she flung out her hands—“how can Billy still think Chloe's guilty? It's simply crazy to think Jake would ever have talked to her about those guns. She didn't know where he lived—”

Max had already heard it, chapter and verse. “Annie, you have to admit she made that call to Elaine Hasty. And you know what I found last night.”

She nodded. It was no help to Chloe's cause that the desk in Jake's cabin had been searched, the drawers left open. Lou Pirelli had left the cabin locked yesterday, but Elaine Hasty likely had a key. Elaine may have opened the door to retrieve a keepsake, left it ajar. For that matter, a window could have been unlocked. No one bothered much with locks on an island. Getting into Jake's cabin would have been easy for anyone. Unfortunately, that included Chloe. Annie grudgingly understood Billy's reasoning. The call made by Chloe to Elaine proved that Chloe knew where Elaine lived. It wasn't much of a leap to imagine Chloe coming to Nightingale Courts when her repeated calls went unanswered.

Annie charged into battle. “It makes a lot more sense that someone from the Neville house got those guns than Chloe.” It was Virginia who understood the danger that murder had been committed with one gun of a pair and the second pistol was nowhere to be found. “Obviously Virginia's scared to death. Last night she was terrified to be in the same room with those people.”

Max shrugged. “That's when she thought the gun could only have been taken by a member of the family.”

Annie pounced. “Virginia insisted that Jake didn't say a word about the guns to her.”

“Then who”—he was equally combative—

“searched Jake's cabin?”

Annie frowned at him. “You're sure it was searched?”

“I'm sorry, honey. I wish it weren't so.” His voice was kind. “Come on, let's have some coffee.” He bent down to pick up the tool chest, held open the front door of Death on Demand.

Midway down the central aisle, Annie stopped to scoop Agatha into her arms. The black cat, green eyes glistening, permitted a brief squeeze, then gave a warning hiss and squirmed free.

At the coffee bar, Annie studied the collection of mugs. She chose
Unsolved
by Bruce Graeme for Max and
Where Is She Now?
by Laurence Meynell for herself. She poured the strong black Colombian, cradled her cup, and stared at the title. “Max”—her voice was small—“I'm frightened for Chloe. Why can't they find her?” She took a gulp, welcoming the dark flavor. “And why can't they find that big jerk?” She glanced at the round-faced clock. “It's been more than twelve hours since he smashed in the window, and it looks for sure like he hurt Chloe and they haven't found a trace of either of them. Billy promised he'd call as soon as they knew anything. And there's been no word at all. Where do you suppose Brown took her?” Yesterday she'd worried that Chloe might be unjustly accused of murder. Now the fear was worse. J. J. Brown was cruel, Annie had no doubt of it, and he specialized in viciousness to those in his power. If Chloe was his prisoner…“He couldn't have got off island by the ferry.”

Agatha jumped to the top of the coffee bar, nudged her head against Max's hand. Absently, he petted her.

Annie eyed her cat coldly. She was getting tired of being an also-ran. Dorothy L. ignored Annie if Max was present. And here was Agatha, cozying up to Max—

“Damn.” Max jerked his hand so quickly he jolted the mug, and coffee splashed onto the wood. A curved welt across the back of his hand welled with blood. He glared at Agatha, who was in midair, a leap from the
coffee bar to the nearest table. “Why'd she do that?” He grabbed a paper napkin, pressed it against the wound.

Annie flipped on the cold water in the sink. “Put your hand under the water for a couple of minutes.” She watched the clock. Her vet had made it clear that cat bites needed plenty of cleansing. When she was satisfied the wound was clean, she reached into the cabinet and pulled out the rubbing alcohol, which was kept there for just such an eventuality. “Keep your hand over the sink.”

He did. “Ow.” Now the glare was for Annie. “She's your cat. Why'd she bite me?”

Annie screwed the cap back on the bottle, flung out a hand toward the front of the store. “Smashed windows. Gasoline. Pounding hammer.” A smile tugged at her lips. “Who's supposed to be in charge here?”

Slowly, he responded, a small smile but a beginning. “Cat logic?”