Murder Walks the Plank

A
S THE FERRY PULLED
away from the dock, a silver haired man climbed out of his recently waxed red Mustang convertible and made his way slowly to the railing. He was natty in a blue-and-white striped silk blazer, pink linen shirt, and white sea island cotton slacks. He'd always dressed with a dramatic flair. Most men wouldn't dare. He'd always been willing to dare.

Bob Smith rested his arms on the white railing. Smiling, he looked across green water speckled with whitecaps at a dark smudge in the east, an island basking beneath the early morning sun. The warm moist air was rich with the heady scent of salt water. Gulls squalled overhead. He was aware of an eagerness that he'd not felt in years, an impatience for moments to pass so something wonderful might happen. He wanted to reach the island with an intensity and urgency that delighted him. And to think Meg had lived there for many years and he'd never known until he happened across her picture in that fancy magazine about rich folks' houses. He'd picked up the heavy slick magazine that day at the doctor's office, something to look at while he waited. Maybe he'd known even then that the news would not be good. But when
he walked out of the doctor's office, it seemed like an omen that he'd found out he was dying and discovered Meg's whereabouts on the same day. An omen.

The ferry rocked a little beneath his feet. He caught the railing, enjoyed the movement. He had always liked to be on the go. The minute he found out where Meg lived, he made up his mind to see her. He didn't give a damn if it was wise or foolish. Maybe he was past caring. She'd loved him once. All he wanted to do was say good-bye.

No, it was time to be honest, honest the way Meg had always been. He didn't give a damn about saying good-bye. That wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to see her, glory in her loveliness, hear her laughter. He'd never forgotten her.

Had she forgotten him?

 

Pamela Potts was tempted to call and say she couldn't come. It wasn't that she didn't like Mrs. Heath. Oh yes, of course, Meg. Mrs. Heath insisted that Pamela call her Meg. Pamela didn't feel comfortable using her first name. After all, Mrs. Heath—Meg—was famous. Oh well, perhaps not famous, but certainly anyone who read
People
magazine knew her name, a cover girl model who'd been linked to so many leading men, even those much younger than she. She was still a beauty though she must be near sixty, dark hair with only the faintest hint of silver, huge dark eyes, chiseled features classic as any Grecian sculpture. Even when she rested, thin and pensive, on a chaise longue, her presence dominated the room. When she laughed, well, there was something wicked about her laughter. It made Pamela think…Pamela felt her cheeks flame. Really, Mrs. Heath—Meg—shouldn't tell anyone about some things. And she
knew she embarrassed Pamela. Last time she'd thrown back her head, her long black hair swinging, and gurgled with pleasure. Catching her breath, she'd patted Pamela's hand. “Sweetie, you are simply too good. That's why I can tell you everything. Oh, it's been a grand life, Pamela.”

A grand life…

Pamela pushed away the quick thought that no one would ever term her own life grand. She'd stayed home with her invalid mother for many years. She hadn't finished college, so there weren't many jobs open to her. She didn't have the skills demanded in the computerized world. She'd managed to stay afloat because the house—a little two-bedroom frame—was paid for and she had inherited several CDs from her mother. She was very careful about money. She had to be because there was barely enough for food and taxes and medical expenses. It was frightening the way interest rates had dropped. There was less and less money and not a dime for extras. But that was all right. She volunteered all over the island and she was active at church, helping out when there was illness or death. She visited Mrs. Heath—Meg—on behalf of the church.

Everyone knew they could count on Pamela. So, she'd go to the Heath house this morning. Perhaps she could direct Mrs. Heath's thoughts more to the eternal.

 

Wayne Reed buzzed his secretary. He looked like what he was, a successful lawyer in a maroon and gray office. Despite his boyish good looks, he was turning forty this year. He was proud of his office, the heavy velvet drapes, the Persian rug, the cherry wood desk. “No calls. I'm out of the office.” Nice to be protected. If only it
were that easy to handle other problems. There was Stuart, who was close to being out of control. Maybe he should let him go live with Lori, but dammit, she'd walked out, left them both. Now she wanted Stuart to come and join her. Well, wanting wasn't getting. Maybe it was time she learned that. At least she wasn't asking for money. Money. He'd made a killing in that property deal. Clever, damn clever. The money he'd made had saved him from bankruptcy, built a fine house. Lori hadn't cared enough about the house—or him—to stay.

The phone rang. He glanced at the Caller ID and picked up the line despite his instructions to his secretary. He never ignored a call from Meg Heath. Too bad she was in poor health. However, she'd rallied this summer and he'd been to her house for several grand events. She loved to entertain, giving extravagant parties in her extravagant house. Even though she was now thin to the point of emaciation, her dark eyes feverish, her beauty and laughter still held men in thrall. Even he, twenty years her junior, had been swept away by her charm. She'd enjoyed him, then dropped him. But as she'd told him when she declined to meet him for a rendezvous, “You're a damn fine lawyer, Wayne. Let's leave it at that.” Her charm—and the money—were such that he hadn't minded. He'd handled the settling of her husband's estate and she'd kept him as her lawyer. She was a dream client. When she died, he would handle her estate. He'd miss her.

As he answered the phone, he wondered why she'd called. Whatever it was, he would be happy to oblige.

 

Claudette Taylor stared at her reflection in the mirror and saw an old woman. But her blue eyes were still bright, her skin—she'd taken pride in her complexion—
softly white. She smoothed back a strand of faded hair. Once she'd had flaming curls, now they were ginger. In addition to intelligence and competence, valuable assets for an executive secretary, she'd had a quiet charm and a wholesome attractiveness when she was young. That charm and appeal hadn't been enough to compete with Meg's effervescence and beauty. Just for a while, Claudette had hoped that Duff might turn to her after June died. There had been a deepening of their relationship. He depended upon Claudette. He appreciated her. She had always been there for him. Then he met Meg, fascinating, elusive, lovely Meg. No one could compete with Meg, certainly not she.

Claudette thought of her employer with the old familiar mixture of bitterness and sorrow. She reached out, touched the shiny silver frame that contained Duff's picture, holding to the memory of his boisterous laughter, the deep resonance of his voice, the vividness of his dark brown eyes.
Oh, Duff, she never loved you the way I would have. Never, never, never.

A bell rang softly. Meg wanted her.

Claudette walked toward the door. So odd to realize that vibrant, unquenchable Meg was nearing death. The house would be sold, of course. Neither of the children would wish to keep it. The house was too big, too dramatic, an appropriate setting only for someone like Meg. And there was no one else like Meg.

Claudette's lips twisted. Jealousy warred with admiration. She would never forgive Meg for taking Duff, but Meg was generous and fair. There wouldn't be any money worries when Meg died. Meg had told her often enough that she would be well taken care of.

 

Jenna Brown Carmody gave a swift appraisal to her
image in the gilt-framed mirror. The summer blossoms on her sheath—bright overblown roses against tan—were a perfect foil for her sleek dark hair. She looked quite perfect, as always, slender, cool, elegant. She noted the confident swing of her arms, the slight smile on her haughty face. She didn't see—would never see—that her lips were too thin and her face too hard.

She stopped, looked up the metal staircase suspended in space. Her gaze was not admiring. Too showy. And that article in the magazine was simply too nouveau riche for words. But Meg would hoot with laughter if she said anything to her. Meg didn't give a damn what anyone thought about her or her life. That had always been true. Trust her mother to have a strikingly different house, the glass-walled rooms on each level open to view. Meg always laughed and said she enjoyed living in a glass house and no one ever appreciated a place in the sun as much as she. Jenna didn't smile at the memory. She should go upstairs and visit her ailing mother. Her eyes narrowed. Sometimes she wondered just how sick Meg was. She'd always called her mother Meg. That's what everyone called Margaret Crane Brown Sherman Heath. If Meg was as weak as the doctor said, why was she insisting that they all go on this absurd harbor cruise? Of course, Meg refused to give in to illness, just as she'd spent her life refusing to conform to convention.

Jenna's features sharpened. For an instant, she looked foxlike. With an effort she loosened the tight muscles. Marie had massaged her face at the last appointment, murmured that tensed muscles creased her lovely skin. Lovely skin. Yes, she'd always had lovely skin, though men had never flocked around her as they had around Meg.

Head high, Jenna started up the steps. It was too bad that she had so little fondness for her mother. Meg Crane had garnered headlines for a quarter century in the tabloids that breathlessly recounted the antics of the jet set. Meg had parlayed a model's beauty and an adventuress's charm into an unending series of visits to the homes of the very wealthy. Jenna felt that she'd spent a lifetime living down her mother's notoriety. At least Meg had the good sense finally—after two marriages to impecunious fellow adventurers—to marry well. Her last husband, Duff Heath, was fabulously wealthy, a coal, zinc, and copper titan when those minerals mattered.

A genuine smile touched Jenna's thin lips. Dear Duff. So kind and generous. Jenna had only a hazy memory of Arthur Brown, her father. Her affection was centered on her late stepfather, who had shared her enthusiasms for art museums and charity balls. She owed everything to Duff.

 

Jason Brown ignored the blink of the answering machine. It would be a woman. One of them. His grin was as insouciant as the flick of a croupier's wrist. He paused. It might be news about that polo pony. But the message could wait until tomorrow. Most things could wait.

He crossed to the wet bar, opened the small fridge, pulled out a bottle of Bass. He flicked off the cap, drank down cold ale. He strolled to the couch, dropped onto the soft, comfortable cushions. He picked up the television remote, punched the channels looking for a soccer game. All was right with his world, a world of comfort, indulgence, and ease. He leaned back, content as a cosseted show cat.

Maybe he should listen to the messages. There were several. He reached out a long arm, pushed the button. At the third message, Jason frowned, sat up straight, the beer forgotten, his smile gone.

 

Rachel Van Meer rode past Painted Lady Lane. She stayed on the bike path, pedaled furiously, her curly dark hair flying. She curved around a huge, sweet-smelling—just like bananas—pittosporum bush, then braked so quickly her back wheel slewed. She straddled the bike, hands tight on the grips. This was dumb. She should never have come here, miles from where she lived. What if Cole saw her? That would be sooo awful. But she had to see the house, the house where Pudge was spending so much time. She'd found out the address, searched it out on the island map.

She turned the bike around, hesitated when she reached the street, then swung into Painted Lady Lane. She kept to the far side of the dusty dirt road, ready to plunge into the woods if anyone—like Cole—came into view. Her face settled into a sneer. What would Pudge think if he knew that skinny Cole Crandall was one of the gang of nobodies who hung around Stuart Reed? Pudge wouldn't think much of Stuart.

The curving road was empty of traffic. There were only occasional houses. A few were well kept with freshly painted wood. Most were shabby, and there was an abandoned farmhouse that looked spooky even in the middle of a hot August day. The Crandall house sat by itself at the end of the road. Once it had been a bright blue. Now paint hung in peels. Some balusters were missing from the front porch. How tacky.

Surely Pudge would come to his senses, stop chas
ing after Cole's mother. He couldn't possibly enjoy coming to this ratty old place. She turned her bike, rode away, glad she didn't have to live there.

 

Annie Darling beamed at the poster prominently displayed in the front window of Death on Demand. “Max, isn't it terrific?”

His blue eyes amused, her tall blond husband studied the bright colors. Murder Ahoy! was splashed in crimson letters across the towering prow of a ship that resembled the
QEII
. A series of glistening silver daggers bulleted the announcements: