Murder Walks the Plank (14 page)

She breathed deeply when she stepped inside. She loved the fascinating mixture of odors: fish bait, sawdust, beer on tap, and good old all-American french fry grease. The din was familiar and cheerful: swing on the jukebox, the rumble of animated conversation, the slam and bang of pans from the kitchen. When she first came to the island, Parotti's was a fisherman's delight with the best in chicken necks, mullet, mackerel, and live shrimp or minnows for bait. The food was mostly fried. Since Ben Parotti's marriage to Miss Jolene, who had owned a tea shop, there'd been a civilizing influence and now quiche was available as well as fried clams, oysters, and shrimp.

Unlike winter, when the old wooden booths and scarred wooden tables were sparsely filled, Parotti's was jammed today, every spot at the bar taken and a long line of people sitting on a narrow wooden bench to the left of the entrance.

Natty in a green sport coat, cream-colored polo shirt, and white slacks, Ben strode toward her, menus in hand. Not, of course, that she ever needed a menu. His welcoming smile slid into a sad frown as he segued from café host to owner of the
Island Packet
excursion boat. “Heard the bad news about Pamela Potts. Damn shame. I got to say again”—and his tone was combative—“she sure hadn't no call to be on the other side of that chain. But whether she fell or got pushed, like you say, it's a crime she's gone.”

Annie's eyes brimmed. She blinked, reached out, patted his arm. “Thanks, Ben.”

“Nice lady.” He folded his lips, shook his head in tribute. “Anyway”—he brightened—“got your table ready. Max gave me a call.”

Annie tried to ignore the sullen glances from the waiting customers. A burly tourist called out, “Thought you didn't take reservations.”

Ben was unruffled. His crusty voice was mellow for him. “This here's a reg'lar, mister.” He led her to a table in full view of the front door and pulled out a chair for her. If looks could kill…

Annie slipped into the chair, glad to focus on the here and now. She whispered, “Ben, aren't you afraid you'll lose business?”

“In August?” His raspy chuckle sounded over Fats Domino's “Blueberry Hill.” “They keep coming. Don't matter how long they have to wait. Course we got the best food on the island.” He was a satisfied
gnome who was master of all he surveyed. “So what'll it be? The usual?”

“Yes. But I'll wait and order when Max gets here.” She put down her purse and opened the newspaper. She scanned the front page: lawsuits over building covenants, the latest political news, a report on the excavation of the
Monitor,
and, at the bottom of the page, a boxed inset in boldface type:

Another murder? Annie felt a tingle in her mind. A tingle. That's what happened in the mind of Frances and Richard Lockridge's madcap sleuth Pam North when she had a hunch. Annie had a hunch. She spread mental wings over it, protective as a mother hen. By golly, maybe Emma was right. Maybe Emma's imaginative certainty would prove to be justified. Because this was definitely an unusual story in the
Gazette,
the kind of story Pamela would have been certain to read to Meg Heath. Almost as if she'd been a part of their morning news hour, Annie imagined Meg's burbling laughter and imperious instruction, “Scandal, my dear. That's what I like to hear.” So, yes, had Pamela been at Meg's this morning, there would have been—with several gasps of dismay by Pamela—a perusal of the most exciting news in the paper. Murder trumps
lawsuits, politics, and the watery end of the first armored warship.

Annie felt a misgiving. What possible connection could there be between this elderly victim, Pamela Potts, and Meg Heath?

Annie grabbed her cell phone. Wait until she told Emma. It was too bad she hadn't gone into the newsroom. They would know a lot more now about the murder victim. She clicked on the cell. Two sharp peals signaled messages.

Annie called up the first message. Her mother-in-law's husky voice was reflective: “As I told dear Maxwell, I am rather in the guise of a scientist seeking to study an elusive butterfly. They are such elegant creatures, swooping silently through the air, lovely and graceful, and quite predictable once the observer determines the flower that attracts that particular species. I rather see Meg Heath as a zebra, hovering over a passion flower. Passion.” The noun was rich with meaning. Annie had a vision of moonlit nights and lovers meeting. “Ah, what passion attracted Meg? Oh”—a trill of laughter—“men, of course.” The implication was clear. What was life without men? “But there are other passions. I believe I've found a glimpse of Meg's heart. Before her health began to fail, she was very active in island social events. I've been calling friends, asking for reminiscences of Meg—”

Annie gave a short exasperated sigh. So much for her effort to keep a lid on public revelations of Meg's death until there was an official announcement from the authorities. But Annie wasn't responsible for Laurel, and Billy could speak to Max's mother if he didn't like her activities.

“—and I was told of a book review Meg presented
at a Ladies of the Leaf meeting, a biography of one of the theater's grande dames. In the course of an exciting and far-flung career, the actress had left her daughter for long periods with her mother. In the discussion that followed, there was a great deal of criticism of what would be described by some as abandonment. Meg championed the actress. At one point she lifted her head and faced them all, saying, ‘Choices have to be made. My children grew up with my mother, yet I didn't have the excuse of plays or films. I had to be a wanderer.' My friend told me some of the women never felt quite the same about Meg after that. But Meg was willing to accept responsibility for her actions. I think she was always willing to admit to the truth in her life as she understood it. I suspect”—and Laurel's tone was tinged with sadness—“we all can wish we had her courage.”

Annie wondered what long-ago memory troubled Laurel. It was easy for Annie to be sardonic about her mother-in-law's five marriages and her mesmerizing attractiveness to men, but Laurel's search for love, for connection, for belonging was evidence that beyond her bright smile, sunny disposition, and gaiety lay profound loneliness.

Laurel's brightness was never quenched for long. “So, Dear Child, I know you recall
The Three Musketeers
—”

Annie concentrated, trying hard to bridge the gulf between a declaration of truth at the Ladies of the Leaf book club and the tale of adventure by Alexandre Dumas.

“—and perhaps you recall the passage: ‘D'Artagnan admired by what fragile and unknown threads the destinies of nations and the lives of men are sometimes suspended.'”

Fragile threads…Annie held tight to the cell phone. The phone was real. She felt the hard plastic case in her hand. Imaginary threads shimmered in her mind in shades ranging from palest gold to midnight black. They were imaginary, but perhaps the reality they suggested—the consequences of an individual's thoughts, beliefs, and actions on the outcome of fate—was as pertinent to a modern death as the long-ago machinations of a lover to affairs of state.

“If we can find the proper strand, all will be known.” The connection ended.

The proper strand…Annie glanced again at the boldface box on the front page of the
Gazette
. But first…She punched for the second message:

“Annie, Emma.” The raspy voice was gruff. “Cell phones are a pestilence, but why the hell don't you have yours on? Been trying to get in touch for hours. Well, for a while. In any event, Max said he was having lunch with you. Here are your instructions—”

Annie's eyes slitted. Did Emma think she was Leslie Ford's Colonel Primrose ordering Grace Latham about?

“Take the two
P.M
. ferry to the mainland. Drive south for three-point-four miles. Turn left on Slash Pine Road. Go to the end of the pier. You will be met. Password: Avenger.” Click.

Annie was torn between irritation and fascination. Emma was undoubtedly the rudest person she'd ever known. But she was also canny, clever, and mad as hell about Pamela's murder. Okay, okay. Annie punched the Save button. She could follow orders, even though she hated to leave the island just when she was making some progress.

Was she making progress? What did she really know? She dropped the cell phone in her purse. As she grabbed her notebook, the front door opened and Max walked in, a smile on his face and a folder under his arm.

The smile was for her.

T
HE MOMENT EXPANDED
beyond ordinary time, encompassing past, present, and future. It took only seconds for Max to walk to the table, his face alight with anticipation, but into that brief span Annie packed memory and emotion and thankfulness. Perhaps the sadness in Laurel's voice permeated Annie's mind like the memory of a fragrance, triggering a wash of emotion. The rumble of sound that was Parotti's in summer faded. It was as if Max moved in a circle of love, everything excluded but her. He came toward her as he had on the night when they'd first met, with easy confidence and charm and determination. What a difference that night had made. He'd taken her hand, held it, and she'd not been surprised. Perhaps she'd known in that first instant that they would always be linked, although she'd resisted his charm in the early days. In fact, she'd run away from New York, fled to the island to escape him. He'd followed with his unfailing good humor and—for her—total commitment.

They were so different. He came from a background of privilege. She'd known months when macaroni and cheese was all she could afford. Max elevated the pursuit of pleasure to an art form. Annie made To-Do lists
with joy. He was a dilettante; she was a taskmaster. He coasted; she struggled.

Together they loved.

Annie pushed back her chair, rose. They'd met so many times for lunch at Parotti's, during sultry summers and sun-drenched autumns, misty winters and azalea-bright springs. She'd taken those luncheons for granted, absorbed with the urgencies of the moment, the lost book order, the upcoming author signing, the tennis match she'd won, her hopes for him to work harder, worry about his mother's startling enthusiasms. But at this moment, she knew what mattered: the two of them together, come what may, heart to heart, hand in hand. She moved into his arms, welcomed the containment of his embrace.

“Love you,” she murmured.

“Always.” His lips were warm against her ear.

The café sounds swirled around them, “Moonlight Serenade” on the jukebox, the clatter of dishes, the swell of voices, and in particular one high-pitched observation, “Honeymooners, of course.”

Max laughed. “Sounds good to me.” He gave her another squeeze. “Hey, let's go home.”

Annie smiled, loving his response. The folder poked into her back. She reached over her shoulder, grabbed it. “Have you found out a lot?” Then she shook her head, blond hair flying, holding the folder unopened. “Max, have you seen the
Gazette
? I've got a wild idea. But it makes sense to me. Did you know Meg was murdered? That's not official, but she died of an overdose and Billy's there and—”

“No and yes. No time to read the newspaper, but I talked to Emma.” He pulled out her chair.

Annie sat down, still clutching the folder. “Emma.”
Even Annie was amazed at the layers of meaning she loaded into two syllables: outrage, resentment, respect, hostility, fear, and surrender.

Max threw back his head and roared, a peal of mirth that made those nearby smile. Except Annie.

She glared. Her voice was stiff. “If you think it's funny to be treated like a mouse cornered by Agatha, maybe you ought to jump into the tiger's cage at the Atlanta zoo.”

Max reached across the table, patted her hand. “I know. Emma's tough. Obviously you got her message—”

Ben Parotti stopped at the table, waggled menus. “Glad to see you and the missus in good spirits.” He glanced at Annie. “Fried flounder sandwich, heavy on the tartar sauce, coleslaw and fries with iced tea. Unsweetened.” He gave her a thumbs-up. “Oyster season opens in a couple of weeks.”

Annie was passionate about Ben's fried oyster sandwiches. Flounder was next best.

Ben looked at Max.

Max didn't need a menu either. “Fish chowder. Pile on the hot smoked sausage.” He looked to see if there was a bottle of tabasco sauce on the table. “And a Bud Light.”

As Ben turned away, Annie called out, “A double order of jalapeño corn muffins.” Annie adored the treats, which were studded with kernels of sweet corn and thick with jalapeño slices. Her glower returned. “Yeah, I got Emma's message.”

Max scooted his chair closer. “I'll come with you. A password and a pier at the end of Slash Pine Road. That's almost as good as a treasure map with X marks the spot.”

There was no denying that Emma had flair. “Oh dammit, I'll go. She's probably found out something we need to know. But look at this—” Annie pushed the
Gazette
toward him, pointed at the boxed inset.

Ben brought Max's beer and Annie's tea and the basket with hot jalapeño corn muffins nestled in a red-checked napkin and two miniature crocks of fresh whipped butter. But he didn't move on after delivering the food. He kneaded one cheek with a rough hand. “Anything I can do about Pamela, you let me know. Like if you want to look over the boat again.” He swung on his heel and marched away.

Max looked after him. “Happened on his watch. I know he's upset.”

“It wasn't his fault.” Her tone was firm. “Or Pamela's fault.” Annie pointed again at the front page of the
Gazette
. “Look at the bulletin, Max.”

Max scanned the paper, gazed inquiringly at Annie.

She picked up a warm muffin, poked a hole, and dropped in a glob of the soft butter. “I've got to go see what Emma's up to, but maybe you can find out more”—she spoke in an indistinct mumble over a mouthful of muffin—“about the dead guy. You can drop in at the
Gazette,
talk to Marian Kenyon.”

His face puzzled, Max tapped the front page. “What's the connection?”

She was not quite defensive. “You know how Laurel encourages us to be creative. It may be a reach, but I didn't find anything else in the paper that anyone could possibly care about. Look at it—” She pointed at the
Gazette
. “What if”—was she on a creative tear, thanks to Laurel?—“this guy was somebody Meg knew? She was planning a special dinner for tonight. What if this guy was one of the guests?” Annie was de
termined to find out whom Meg had invited. Did Claudette know the guest list as well as the menu? “What if the minute Meg heard the description of the unidentified dead man, she'd know who it was? What if she talked about him to Pamela and maybe there was something…” She trailed off. It was easy in an Eric Ambler novel or an Alistair MacLean thriller. Somebody had the specifications of a new weapon or there was a cache of gold hidden by the Nazis. Right this minute, with “Begin the Beguine” throbbing in the background, tourists looking askance at the bait barrels, and Ben bringing a steaming bowl of chowder and a mountainous po' boy fried flounder sandwich to their table, she saw no way to take imaginary threads and bind an unknown homicide victim to the deaths of Meg Heath and Pamela Potts. “Oh, I don't know,” she admitted. “But it seems strange that an unidentified corpse shows up the same weekend two women are murdered.”

“Yeah.” Max wasn't convinced. He sprinkled tabasco in his chowder. “But I'll be glad to talk to Marian, see what I can find out.” He read the bulletin again. “It says he was shot. Wonder if they found a gun? At least he's definitely a murder victim.”

The massive sandwich stopped midway to Annie's mouth. “Excuse me?”

Max poured more beer into his still frosty glass. “Come on, Annie, face it. Pamela could have fallen—”

“Fallen?” She put down the sandwich, a clear indication of her distress. “She wouldn't climb over the chain. I know she—”

He held up a hand. “Easy. Let's just discuss it.” His lips twitched. “Have I ever told you that you look like a porcupine when you're mad? Anyway, Pamela could
have fallen. Meg may have popped pills into her wine. But if this guy was shot, that's a different matter.”

Annie took a big bite. She ate, then looked at him soberly. “Why are you so reluctant to think Pamela and Meg were victims, too?”

Max spooned up broth and okra and sausage. “Meg was dying. She wasn't expected to live another six months. What was so urgent that somebody had to kill her last night? And the idea that somebody shoved Pamela into the ocean to keep her from reading—” He looked past Annie toward the door. A broad smile lighted his face. He lifted his left hand and gestured. He put down his spoon, pushed back his chair.

Annie twisted to look. Max was rising, moving to greet her father and Sylvia Crandall. It was too late to stop him. Of course he was going to ask Pudge and Sylvia to join them. On any other day she would have been—well, maybe pleased was too strong a word, and darn it, why did she have this aversion to Sylvia?—but it would have been fine. Today she was appalled. She had a horrid sense of unease and urgency, though truth to tell, Emma had already thrown a wrench in her plans for the afternoon. Max might think Emma's brusque orders funny. Annie wasn't amused. Now there would be the distraction of dealing with Pudge and Sylvia as well as Annie's foray off island. She sat frozen in her seat.

Pudge looked toward Annie. Her father was at one and the same moment both familiar and strange: sandy hair a little askew from the wind, gray eyes seeking reassurance, genial face hopeful yet uncertain. He was Pudge but not the Pudge she'd come to know and love. He lacked his usual easy manner. Instead of strolling across the floor with an insouciant smile, shoulders in
a relaxed slouch, this man planted his feet like a soldier crossing a bog. Sylvia Crandall, pale and tense, clung to his arm as if he were a rescuer leading her to safety. Sylvia's linen dress was worthy of Gauguin, red hibiscus flaring against a cream background, but the narrow face beneath the cap of sleek chestnut hair drooped in discontent. She gripped the handle of her crimson woven bag so tightly that her fingers looked cramped.

For an instant too long, Annie stared blankly toward the door.

Her father checked in midstride. His hand closed over Sylvia's and they came to a stop. Pudge looked toward Annie, his gray eyes met hers in mute appeal.

Annie knew Pudge had seen her stare, blank at best, unfriendly at worst. She scrambled to her feet, forced a smile, knew Pudge would know it was forced. She felt a thrill at that knowledge. She'd spent so many years without her father, it was amazing to realize that he was here now, coming toward her, love and trust in his gaze. Pudge knew. So surely he knew, too, that whatever held her back—she pushed away the thought of Sylvia—there was a bond that nothing could destroy. Thoughts and emotions swirled and she wished she could channel her mind, exclude all the untidy ragtag feelings threatening to tumble out in public, bumptious as spaniel puppies.

It was the firm handclasp between Pudge and Max that propelled her forward. It spoke of friendship and admiration and connection. She hurried to the three-some, gripped Pudge's other hand, and, surprising herself, reached out to take Sylvia's long, slender, cold hand in a welcoming grasp. “Come join us.”

Max, oblivious to Annie's initial hesitation, shep
herded them back to the table, pulled out a chair for Sylvia, his voice warm and friendly. “Glad to see you. Annie and I are trying to figure out what happened yesterday to Pamela.” He shot Annie a warning glance.

She understood. At this point, so far as the public knew, Pamela's death was an accident, and they wouldn't discuss Meg's death. But Pamela's fall had happened on Annie's cruise.

Pudge's face creased in concern. “I heard Pamela died this morning. Damn shame.” But his voice was abstracted and his eyes kept darting toward Sylvia.

Sylvia still stood beside the chair Max had pulled out. The rigid line of her body was as clear as a shout that she didn't want to sit down.

Pudge gestured at the chair. “I'll order us something quick.” He glanced at Ben, who stood nearby with menus. “Hey, Ben, two bowls of chowder. Iced tea. Unsweetened.”

Ben nodded and backed away.

“You'll feel a lot better when we eat something.” Pudge's tone was hearty. A quick flush stained Sylvia's pale cheeks. She dropped into the chair, sat like a stone.

As Annie slipped into her seat, she was struck anew by the validity of the Mars-Venus analogy of male-female relationships. Pudge wanted to think there was something he could do that would banish Sylvia's misery. A bowl of chowder to the rescue. Sylvia would have liked to shove all of them into a boat without oars and send it into the Atlantic. Max looked at the deaths of Pamela and Meg from the outside in, and Annie looked from the inside out, and both of them were sure they were right. And in Max's male view,
here was good old Pudge, so of course they would eat together with no thought to the vibrations of latent hostility exuded by the two women whose faces were determinedly molded in pleasant masks. But Annie realized there was more than hostility in Sylvia's face. Annie looked into dark eyes stricken by unhappiness. Annie's gaze swiveled to her father. He watched Sylvia, his face heavy with pain.

Maybe it was time to toss pretense. And jealousy. As the word fluttered in her mind, dark as a brown bat skittering against the rose sky of evening, Annie felt a sense of relief. The release was as welcome as yanking a thorn from tender skin.

“Sylvia.” Annie's voice was gentle. “What's wrong?”

Sylvia clasped her hands together, long, thin, elegant fingers bedecked with several old-fashioned rings, the nails a glistening pink, all of a piece with her highly bred beauty, the chiseled perfection of thin features, the glisten of softly brown hair. Tears spilled from anguished eyes, ran unchecked down sunken cheeks.

Ben's look was uneasy as he placed the big tumblers of iced tea in front of Pudge and Sylvia. He eased quietly toward the kitchen.

Annie stared across the table at Sylvia. She didn't see the haughty fashion plate she'd always found cool and unappealing. She saw a quite beautiful older woman struggling to regain her composure.

Pudge slammed his hand on the table. “Dammit, Sylvia, I'll go get him.” He scooted back his chair.