Engaged to Die (24 page)

 

The back of the Brewster Arms overlooked a swimming pool embraced by clumps of palmettos. Beyond the lighted pool lay a dark lagoon. Apartment 24 was on the second level. As they walked up the outside steps, a fine rain began to fall. Annie wished she had on her down jacket instead of her windbreaker. The cold, cheerless night matched her mood. No word from Chloe. Elaine gone. Now their hopes rested on the possibility of cajoling information from an angry woman.

Max rattled the brass knocker, a dolphin curved in a graceful arc.

The outside light flicked on as the door opened. Beth Kelly looked out. For an instant, her expression was unguarded, hope flashing like a comet before destructing into the bitterness of disappointment. “What do you want?”

“Your help.” Once again Max spoke quietly. No bombast. No demand. “Annie and I are trying to find the woman who attempted to blackmail you. This won't involve you in any way. Will you talk to us for a minute?”

Annie stepped forward, edging past Max. Beth often shopped at Death on Demand. Her favorite author was Anne George, the wonderfully funny southern mystery writer whose untimely death left her fans and admirers remembering her with warmth, rereading her books to hold on to her charm. “Beth, you bought a lot of books over Christmas. Do you remember the girl who's been working for me? Chloe Martin?”

Slowly, Beth nodded. “The redhead?”

“The police think Chloe killed Jake. Chloe thought she was in love with him. He was stringing her along, but he was going to marry Virginia Neville and—”

“Stringing her along?” Beth's fingers closed around the thick gold chain that glittered on her black velour pullover. Her red lips twisted. “Join the club. You've heard about Women Who Love Too Much. I've got a better one, Women Who Pick Sorry Bastards to Love. Oh, yeah, Chloe and I can get together, talk about men—”

“Not if they put Chloe in jail.” Annie reached out.

“If we can find the girl who tried to blackmail you, we may be able to prove that Chloe is innocent.”

Beth's tear-reddened eyes looked from Annie to Max. “I don't know who called.”

“But you know where the money was to be left.” Max stated it as a fact.

Beth pushed back a strand of blond hair. “If I tell, you'll keep me out of it?”

Max nodded. “All we need is a place.”

She took a deep breath, held the door wide for them to enter.

The living room was small but cheerful, a Navajo rug hanging from one wall, watercolors of the beach above the fireplace, a red-and-yellow plaid sofa, two forest green easy chairs, another Navajo rug on the floor. Books filled the cases on one wall.

Beth waved them toward the easy chairs. She stood by the fireplace, her face somber. “How'd you know Rusty was lying?” She gave a harsh half laugh, half sob. “Why do I even ask? He's always lying. Okay, here's what happened. I got the call about four. Like Rusty said, she spoke in a whisper. She said she'd seen me last night going down the path after Jake O'Neill. She'd tell the police unless I paid up. I was to tape an envelope with five hundred dollars in twenties to the back of the Fort Loomis sign at the point. The envelope had to be in place by six o'clock.”

She reached out to the mantel, touched the Venetian glass clock shaped like a cat. It was ten minutes to six.

 

The dirt road had been scoured by last week's nor'easter. Max's hands tightened on the steering wheel as the Maserati's wheels bumped in the uneven ruts. “Damn. It's a public road. Why don't they grade it?”

Annie patted his knee. Max loved his red car, and
despite the rough ride and the slanting rain that splashed into puddles, turning the sand soft and slippery, he was driving as fast as he dared. The dashboard clock read 6:01. They were too late for the deadline set by the blackmailer, but as Max had pointed out, they weren't being blackmailed so it made no difference. However, if greed propelled Elaine, she was there right now, looking for her bonanza. Moreover, this was the likeliest road for Elaine to have taken. It ended at a turnaround about thirty yards from the fort and its sign.

“Almost there,” he said reassuringly. He reached out, turned off the car lights. “No point in announcing our arrival.” The car slowed to a cautious crawl as it came around a curve.

“Max, look!” Annie pointed to the dark shape of a car parked in the turnaround. “I'll bet that's her car.”

Max reached toward the headlight switch, changed his mind. “We'll surprise her.” He eased the Maserati to a stop. Annie started to open the door.

“Wait a minute.” Max turned and backed until the Maserati was sideways to the trunk of the parked car, effectively blocking the road. He took the flashlight from the car pocket. He turned it on just long enough to confirm that the car in the darkness was Elaine's tan Camry. “Okay,” he whispered. “Let's move quietly. See what we can find out.”

The rain pelted down. By the time they reached the graveled path that curved around the base of the ruins, Annie's hair was drenched and her clothes plastered against her. Her feet ached with cold as she splashed through puddles. She hoped Elaine Hasty was equally miserable. Where was she? Was she waiting near the sign, growing ever angrier that her hopes for quick money had come to nothing?

Rain trickled coldly down Annie's back. The physical sensation was nothing to the sudden coldness in her mind. If Elaine waited for money that hadn't come, did that mean she'd seen only Rusty and Beth, that the movement Beth had sensed on the garden path was nothing more than an inquisitive raccoon? Ahead of them the canebrake wavered in the rain.

Annie tripped over a branch. She flailed, went down, heard her own thrashing with dismay. Damn. Now Elaine would be alerted. Of course, if she was waiting to pick up a cash-stuffed envelope, she might think the noise signaled the approach of her victim. Max reached down to help her up. “I'm okay.” She knew her slacks were now muddy as well as wet. She started forward, Max close behind. They reached the tall shoots of bamboo, coming ever nearer to the circular pavement of bricks and the dark hump of the ruined fort.

Max eased ahead. Annie kept a hand on his back. Abruptly, Max stiffened, stood still.

Annie bumped into him. “What's wrong?”

He didn't answer. Instead, he clicked on the flashlight. The beam poked into the wet night, insubstantial and diffused, but there was light enough to see the body of Elaine Hasty sprawled near the Fort Loomis sign, her open, sightless eyes staring skyward in the unending wash of the rain.

“Oh, Max.” Annie leaned against him.

They stood, shocked and shaken, and there was nothing but the darkness of the night pressing against them and the sound of their quick breaths and the splash of rain and the wash of the waves against the rocks.

Then the silence shattered, broken by the
crack,
crack, crack
of faraway gunshots, dimly heard but unmistakable.

Max grabbed Annie, held her close in a protective embrace. He bent toward the road, peered into the wet darkness.

A man shouted, distance muffling the cry.

Some of the strain eased from Max's arm. “It's that way.” He gestured toward the road. “Must be up at the Neville house.” He was brusque, quick. “Get to the car. Call for help. Stay there. Lock yourself in.” He jammed the keys into her hand. “Anything odd, drive like hell. I'll go see.”

The light from the flashlight wavered as he ran.

“Max, wait!” But he was gone. Annie never hesitated, running as fast as she could after him. As she splashed through puddles, she turned on her cell phone, fumbled to find nine-one-one, pressed. When the connection was made, she shouted, “Murder. At the point near the Neville Gallery. Gunshots at the Neville house. This is Annie Darling. Max and I will be up at the house.” She clicked off the phone.

She was perhaps fifteen yards behind Max when he reached the garden behind the grandiose mansion. The ornate structure was a replica of a stuccoed villa on the Amalfi coast. Two wings extended from a central block. Two circular fountains sat on opposite sides of the tiled courtyard. Security lights glittered high in the live oak trees.

The door in the center of the main block of the house stood open. Rusty Brandt hesitated there, then bolted out into the courtyard, weaving and ducking to reach a tall stone urn. He crouched there, shouted, “Put up your hands. I've got you covered.” But he remained huddled behind the protection of the urn.

Max called out, “Hey, Rusty, Max Darling here. I heard shots. What's going on?”

Rusty cautiously peered around the urn. “Hell if I know.”

In the doorway behind him, Susan cried, “Rusty, keep down. Come back inside. I've called the police. Oh, my God, what's happening?”

Max took the terrace steps two at a time, thudded to a stop by the urn. He gave Rusty a quick glance and saw that he was unarmed.

Rusty reached out a shaking hand, grabbed Max's arm. “Have you seen anybody?”

Max was impatient. “Not a soul. Where's the trouble?”

A woman's voice called from a balcony on the south wing. “What's happened? I heard shots. Rusty, who's down there?” Every light in the courtyard came on, flooding the wet expanse with a sharp glare, revealing every statue, every stone bench, every huge pot, every palmetto, and the two fountains with water arching from twin dolphins.

Annie ran up the wide terrace steps. She had a jumbled impression of noises and movement, Susan Brandt edging out into the courtyard, Louise Neville remaining in the doorway, Irene Neville leaning over the balcony's edge, Rusty Brandt's shoulders hunched defensively, Carl Neville bursting out from a side door in swim trunks, clutching a thick cream-colored towel. Annie thudded to a stop next to Max.

Rusty's freckled face was pale, his eyes huge. “Somebody shot out a French door in Nat's study. See, over there.” He let go of Max and pointed at the north wing and a long row of French doors on the first floor. His hand still shook.

The upper panes in one French door were splintered.

Rusty was short of breath. “How'd you get here so quick? Susan just called.”

“Who shot off a gun? Who, dammit?” Irene's voice was shrill. “Wait a minute, I'm coming down,” and she banged into the house from the balcony.

Shivering, pulling the towel around his shoulders, Carl slapped barefoot over the tiles toward his brother-in-law, skidding on the slick surface. “What's going on?”

“Your dad's study—” Rusty still pointed. The curtains were open and the study was as clear to see as an elegant setting on a stage. Bookcases lined every wall. Easy chairs and sofas were scattered about the large room. One sofa faced the French doors. There was movement on the floor.

“Oh, my God, is that Virginia on the floor?” Susan's voice was shrill.

Virginia lifted her head, her eyes wild. She got up on her hands and knees, scrabbled toward the French door. Shakily, she pulled herself upright. She flung open the damaged door and plunged into the courtyard, rushing toward Rusty. “Help me.” Her voice was high and frantic. “Help me. Someone's shooting at me. Oh, God, help me.”

“Virginia!” Carl hurried forward. He moved past her, reached the entrance to the study. He stepped inside, then cried out. He bent down, clutched at his foot.

Virginia looked wildly around. “Who shot at me?”

Max reached out, gripped a thin arm. “Are you hurt?”

She stared at him and began to cry. “Oh, I thought I
was going to die.” She strained to see past him. “Who's out there?”

The rain pelted against them, harder now.

Carl braced himself against the jamb of the door. “There's glass everywhere.”

Virginia shuddered. “The glass broke.” She sounded bewildered. “There was a terrible noise. I got down on the floor. That's how I got hurt. There was glass on the floor.” She held tight to her left arm. Blood seeped between her fingers. “I didn't dare come out until I heard Rusty.”

Susan splashed across the tiles. She took Virginia's elbow. “Let's go inside. Come on, Virginia. I'll take a look at your arm.”

Irene stood on the top step of the terrace. She held up one hand to shield her face from the rain. Her magenta wool sweater and slacks were spotted by the rain. Everyone looked bedraggled. Rusty's shirt and slacks were drenched. Susan shivered, brushed back wet tendrils of hair. Carl's skin puckered from cold, and blood dripped from one foot. Max's suede jacket was drenched, his trousers sodden, and his sneakers waterlogged. Annie turned up the collar of her wind-breaker, felt the stickiness of mud on her slacks. Only Louise, standing in the doorway, her pinched face creased in worry, was dry. She held up a blanket.

“Yeah, let's get out of the damn rain.” Rusty waved his arms. “Come on, everybody. Let's take a look.” He stepped toward the open French door.

“Hold up.” Max's shout brought everyone to a standstill. “Not in there. We need to keep everything as it is for the police.”

Rusty swung around. “Oh, sure. This way, everybody.” He headed across the courtyard and up the shallow steps to the house.

Virginia ducked her head and hurried. She held her arm pressed against her blouse. Susan walked with her. As they came inside, Louise draped the blanket around Virginia's shoulders.

In the marbled hallway, the brilliant light of a chandelier revealed a motley and uneasy group. Everyone talked at once, their voices uncertain, querulous, frightened. A plump woman in an apron waited near a side door, looking about uneasily.

Outside a siren shrilled.

Annie said quietly to Max, “I called nine-one-one. They know about Elaine.”

Max nodded. “If she was shot…” He gave a considering glance toward the courtyard.

Rusty gestured toward the front door. “It's the police. Max, will you let them in? I'll take everybody”—he glanced at Carl's bloody foot and Virginia's arm—“to the breakfast room. Susan, can you see about some alcohol, bandages?”