Authors: Carolyn Hart
Engaged to Die (4 page)
“Now”âhe was suddenly businesslikeâ“those easels are too close together.”
In a flurry of action, with Chloe and Max and Annie responding to his directions, Mackey had the watercolors placed to his liking: One by the cash register. One by the coffee bar. Numbers three and five on either side of the fireplace. Number four near the long line of bookcases holding hard-boiled mysteries.
He led the way to the first painting and looked at Annie. “You got 'em figured, haven't you? I did them in order of publication, of course.”
Annie looked at each painting in turn.
The first: A man's body, its bearded face rigid with horror, lay in a dirty unfurnished room. Splashes of blood surrounded the victim who, however, appeared unmarked by wounds. Three men stared at the fourth, who knelt by the corpse. The first observer was tall, white-faced, and flaxen-haired. The second was a sallow, rat-faced fellow with beady eyes. The third had a military bearing though he was sadly emaciated and held his left arm in a stiff and unnatural manner. Oddly, his haggard face was tanned nut-brown though he wore a thick overcoat. The kneeling detective, his eyes sharp and piercing, was distinguished by a thin hawklike nose and prominent square chin. He was excessively lean, and the hands that examined the victim were blotted with ink and stained by chemicals.
The second: A dignified man with an egg-shaped head, dandified mustache, and glowing green eyes stood by a rumpled bed, observing the overturned bedside table and the debris lying on the floorâa reading lamp broken into two pieces, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee cup.
The third: Two teenage boys clambered up the rickety ladder, several rungs missing or dangling, of an abandoned water tower near the railroad tracks. Their faces were determined, excited, eager. The boy near the top of the tower had straight dark hair, dark eyes, and a serious face. Close behind, pulling himself over the broken rungs, came a muscular, blue-eyed blond, who looked ready for any adventure.
The fourth: Light filtered through drawn blinds. A stocky man lay on the dining room floor, his right arm outstretched, his right hand folded around the blue-and-white handle of an ice pick that was embedded in the left breast of a dead woman. She lay on her back,
her coarse brown hair fluffed around her face, her long muscular legs in line with the kitchen door. Her right stocking was laddered with a run.
The fifth: Inside a moving van filled with furniture and rugs and lamps, a slim, blue-eyed blond girl pointed her flashlight at an old-fashioned clock that lay on a blanket atop a table. A crescent decorated the top of the clock above the square face.
The images were tantalizing. Of course she knew these books. In just a momentâalmost any instantâshe'd be able to rattle off all five titles. Number one was easy. And number two. But the othersâoh, the answers were certainly on the tip of her tongue. Well, maybe lurking at the back of her mind, to be honest. She was a mystery expert. She could talk about mystery writers from Delano Ames to Margaret Tayler Yates. She knew titles from
The A.B.C. Murders
to
The Zebra-Striped Hearse
. But maybe she'd never realized how challenging it was for her customers to look at a drawing or a painting and come up with the title and the author. She said hopefully, “Your watercolors are lovely, so full of movementâ”
Max's eyes glinted with amusement. He leaned against the coffee bar. “Tell us about tonight's exhibition, Boston.”
The phone rang. Gratefully, Annie reached for it.
“Annie.” The cheerful familiar voice was eager.
Annie smiled. “Hi, Henny.”
Henny Brawley was definitely the best customer of Death on Demand. She knew, loved, absorbed, and inhaled mysteries, everything from the toughest to the most genteel. Her dark hair was silvered, her eyes wise with age, and her mind always on a quest. Henny had been young during World War II, and she'd never met
a challenge she didn't take. One of her main aims in life was to demonstrate with panache and finality that she indeed knew mysteries better than anyone, including Annie. Her latest pleasure was flinging a name or place at Annie and awaiting the mystery connection. “Hepzibah.”
Annie managed not to crow. She replied casually, “Maud Silver's middle name.”
“Hmm. More anon.” The phone clicked off.
Chloe darted toward the coffee bar. “A cappuccino, Mr. Mackey? Max? Or espresso?”
“Espresso,” the artist boomed.
Annie was still smiling as she studied the paintings. Her panic began to subside. Oh, of course. Sure. She knew one and two. But the third, fourth, and fifthâ¦
The coffeemaker bubbled and hissed.
The artist pulled a crumpled brochure from his pocket. “It's going to be quite a party. Of course”âhis tone was wryâ“Virginia is celebrating more than my paintings. But that's all right.” His smile was magnanimous. “Why not celebrate romance? The more people who come to the party, the merrier. Who knows? Maybe somebody who comes for scandal will have a pocket full of cash and the wit to recognize true worth in art.” He smiled admiringly at Chloe as he accepted the tiny espresso cup. He breathed deeply, inhaling the rich dark coffee aroma.
“Cream or milk, Max?” Chloe opened the door of the small refrigerator.
“Skim, please.” Max winked at Annie.
Annie knew she should admire such character. In fact, she found Max's restraint odious. She moved to the coffee bar, reached for the whipped cream can, added a double shot to her mug, and winked back.
Chloe expertly moved the levers. “Scandal?” She turned, swiftly selected a mug. As she held it under the spout, the title was clearly visible:
The Scandal-Monger
by William Le Queux.
Max waved away whipped cream.
Mackey gulped down the espresso, shuddered. “Ahhh.” He placed the cup on the coffee bar, overflowed onto a stool, and folded his big arms across his paunch. “Now, I like the Nevilles.”
Annie and Max exchanged amused glances. Mackey's verb quivered with import. He was getting ready to dish out gossip with gusto despite his assertion. Annie knew all of the family except the late-come second Mrs. Neville. Irene played tennis of the smash-it-in-your-face-if-you-try-the-net sort. Carl was a good customer, especially fond of cerebral mysteries by writers such as Michael Innes. Susan was an assistant director of the Altar Guild. Rusty had his own table in the card room at the club and was reputed to be a man to watch at poker. Louise drifted through the Neville Gallery, her cold, watchful gaze keeping careful track of visitors.
“Good art people,” Mackey boomed. “I was worried for a while after Natty died. But Virginia's left things pretty much up to Carl and Susan. Virginia inherited everything but the house. Hell, that's a crime, really. A man's supposed to take care of his family. You can bet I've made a will, and my kids get everything. I don't blame Natty for marrying Virginia. I mean, she's a sweet lady and she was good to him. By all accounts, she's been damn decent, left the running of the gallery to Carl and Susan, made a will leaving everything to them, that sort of thing. But now the fat's in the fire.” He flung out his mammoth hands. “Sex and money.
They cause trouble every time. I wouldn't think Virginia would be such a fool, marrying somebody half her age.” Suddenly his bristly eyebrows arched, his mouth curved into an O, and he burst into raucous laughter. “By God, what's sauce for the gander.”
Mackey became aware of three sets of eyes regarding him blankly. He turned his hands palms up. “Come to think of it, I've been married four times and each bride was younger than the last. And each one dumped me faster than her predecessor.” His full lips spread in a huge smile. “But I can't say I didn't enjoy the hell out of each one for the duration. So more power to Virginia. Like I say, if she wants to announce her engagement to this young guy at my party, hey, that's all right. Of course, the family's not happy. To put it mildly.” He heaved himself to his feet. “Anyway, be sure and come. Seven o'clock tomorrow night. Neville Gallery. Get a ringside seat.” He whopped a big fist into an open palm. “Pow. Pow. Pow.”
F
OG PRESSED AGAINST
the windows. The Tiffany shade of the brass lamp near the bed glowed like Tower of London jewels. Flames danced in the fireplace.
Annie smiled into the softness of dark blue eyes. Max's thick blond hair was mussed, his regular features relaxed and contented. He lifted her hand, drew it to his lips, gently kissed her palm. Annie turned her hand, squeezed his fingers, then sat bolt upright, tugging the sheet to her bare shoulders. Even with a fire, the bedroom was chilly. Her mind raced. There were books to unpack, customers to call. She should be at the store. After all, it was the middle of the afternoon.
Max didn't move. His eyes admired her, understood her. “The store will keep.” He gave a satisfied sigh. “I knew today was going to be a good day. A very good day.”
Annie laughed and reached for her robe.
The phone rang.
“Let it ring.” His voice was drowsy. “Check the caller ID. Probably a mortgage company or a sweepstakes pitch. We don't need anything. Or anybody. Just you and me on a January afternoon⦔
Annie reached for the phone. She glanced at the
caller ID. Unknown. But it might be an important call. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”
“Annie, Denise Abbott. I'm sorry to bother you at homeâ”
Annie pulled her robe shut.
“âbut there wasn't any answer at Max's office. So I called your store and the clerk said you were taking the afternoon off. I guess it's slow as molasses there. Listen, I need some help. If you and Max could do me a favor, I'd really appreciate it.” Denise's words rattled like seeds in a shaken pod, edgy, hollow, distant. “I don't know if you know about Daveâ”
Annie had always liked Denise Abbott, an elegant ash blond who loved turquoise and always dripped with beads. She'd managed the Vibrant Woman dress shop on the harbor boardwalk until her husband, Dave, was diagnosed with liver cancer. Nothing had worked, and they'd gone to Mexico in search of a holistic cure. “âbut he's lots worse. I'm calling from a pay phone at the gas mart. We're staying at Dave's sister's home in Fresno. He's real sick, Annie.”
The cheer and happiness of the room faded. “Denise, I'm so sorâ”
“That's not the reason I called.” Her tone was thin.
“Except that's why I can't come back to the island. I've got this problem and I didn't know who to call, and then I thought about Max.”
Annie covered the receiver. “Max,” her call was soft. Then she spoke to Denise. “Max is here. Do you want to talk to him?”
Max was on his feet, pulling on his shorts. He came around the bed, sat beside her.
Denise spoke fast. “That's okay. I can tell you, Annie. And maybe this is better. I don't know if a man
would understand. Anyway, do you remember my grandmother, Twila Foster?”
Annie recalled a tiny old woman with deep-set dark eyes in a wrinkled parchment face. She crocheted afghans and sold them through the Proud Pelican gift shop a few doors down from Death on Demand. Annie had bought one as a Christmas present for Max's mother. “Does she still make those beautiful afghans?”
“Oh, I wish. But she can barely see now.” A quick indrawn breath. “Macular degeneration. She doesn't even watch TV anymore. She's living in a retirement place called Snug Harbor. Do you know it?”
“Yes. It's really nice, isn't it?” Annie knew the building, a red brick hexagon. The unusual design offered a central recreation and dining room with residents living in the five remaining segments that angled from the entrance. Each room faced out with a view of the marsh or maritime forest. It was the island's newest retirement home, designed for people who were able to function without assistance.
“I guess.” Denise's tone was doubtful. “They acted like everything would be taken care of for Gran. You know, all her meals provided and her room kept tidy and her laundry done and lots of activities. It costs⦔ A sigh. “The manager's all bright and perky. Her name's Stephanie. She burbles on and on about how much fun they have. I guess some of them do. They play bridge and bingo and have people come and speak. Annie, I thought it was swell. Anyway, Gran's been there almost a year now. I call her once a week. At least, I try to, but things have been”âjust for an instant Denise's voice quiveredâ“real hard. I called last night and Gran sounded funny. I've been thinking for a while that she wasn't like herself. I asked her what was
wrong, and real quick she told me everything was fine, she was just a little tired. But I know her voice. Gran has a real sweet voice, like children singing. I swear she sounded”âa thoughtful pauseâ“oh, God, I think she sounded scared. Now what could she be scared about? Anyway, she whispered that she was all right and she had to go. She hung up on me. I thought about it, and it didn't seem right to me. But this morning Dave was really hurting. I just got a minute to get away. I called Grandma's doctor and they kind of gave me the runaround, but they said she'd been in for a regular checkup a few weeks ago and she was just fine. I started to call Grandma, then I thought it wouldn't do any good. Maybe she's just blue and lonely and doesn't want me to know because of Dave. But if you could go and see about her, make sure she's all right, I'd really appreciate it. She's in room seventeen. I don't know how much Max charges, but one of these days I'll get back to work, and I can sign a noteâ”
“You won't do any such thing.” Annie was crisp.
“Of course I'll go see your grandma. It will be fun for me. You aren't to say a word about moneyâor you'll make me mad. And I'm ferocious as a tiger when I get going.” She made a deep-throated growling noise.
Denise's laughter was shaky, but she laughed. “Oh, Annie, thank you.”
Â
The headlights scarcely pierced the tufts of cottony fog. Annie drove slowly, peering at the dimly seen glisten of the asphalt road, almost indistinguishable from the dusk-shrouded trees. Winter's early sunset combined with the fog to alter the landscape, hide familiar vistas.
A shiny white sign to her right marked the entrance to St. Mary's by the Sea. Annie's grip on the wheel
eased. She was almost there. Around this bendâ¦She strained to see, made a sharp turn at the last minute. She'd not realized that Snug Harbor was so remote from island traffic. Not that Broward's Rock teemed with vehicles even at the height of the tourist season. Accessible only by ferry, the island was just right, Annie thought with satisfaction. Not too big, not too little. Broward's Rock would never suffer the bumper-to-bumper congestion of Hilton Head.
The road ended in a circular drive that curved beneath a porte cochere at the entrance to Snug Harbor. Annie pulled into a parking lot to the right. She didn't bother to lock her car. Another advantage of island living. When she reached the entrance, she pulled on the door. It didn't budge.
Annie glanced at a sign posted next to a doorbell:
Â
Main door locked after business hours
9 to 5, MâF; 9 to noon weekends
Â
Business hours? People lived here. Did they get to see visitors only in the daytime? She glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes after five. Annie pushed the bell, held it for several seconds. She waited a moment, rang again.
The door swung open. “Coming, coming.” The overhead lighting in the entryway was muted, casting a bluish light. A moon face stared down at her, ghostly in the dim illumination. Overlong black hair flowed onto his shoulders. He filled the doorway, a hulking figure in a wool plaid shirt, bright swaths of red against black, and baggy gray trousers. “Yeah?” The single word was faintly insolent. Dark eyes stared at her. The big face offered no welcome.
Annie smiled, the kind of smile automatic in common social interchange. “Hello. I'm Annie Darling. I'm here to visit a resident.”
He didn't move. “It's almost time for their dinner.” His voice was uncommonly high and soft. “You plan to stay for dinner? You have to have a reservation.”
“No. This is a surprise visit to an old friend. I'll just pop right in and right out.” She took a step forward, almost butting up against his chest.
Grudgingly, he stepped back.
Annie stepped into an oval reception area with shining parquet floors and a machine-made Oriental rug. Red and green balls glistened on a huge artificial Christmas tree. Silver swags festooned the branches. Hallways opened to the left and right. Straight ahead was a commons area with several sofas and easy chairs occupied by a half dozen old women and one bent and wizened man. Their wrinkled faces passive and weary, most silently watched the images flickering on an oversize television screen. Small Christmas trees decorated with popcorn balls and handmade paper chains dotted the room. Beyond the commons was a large dining room. White cloths covered round tables. Place settings gleamed in the lights of two chandeliers. Murals of the Low Country covered interior walls: sea myrtle blossoming with a November mantle of feathery ivory flowers, swarms of fiddler crabs crossing steamy mud flats, the rotting weathered wood of a bateau abandoned on a marsh hummock, a majestic purplish blue Louisiana heron in a willow swamp.
The only sounds were the muted murmur of the television, the thunk of a cane on the parquet, the rattle of dishes behind a service doorway into the dining area, and piped-in music from a recording of “Begin the Beguine” by Tommy Dorsey.
Annie skirted the big man, glancing to her right and left, trying to determine which way to turn to find room 17. She didn't want to ask directions of this oaf.
“Lady.” His high voice was sharp, like the shriek of wind in telephone lines.
Annie looked back.
A meaty hand pointed toward a curved reception desk. “You got to sign in.”
Annie gave him stare for stare. But rules were rules, even if she didn't like his attitude. Annie walked to the desk. A ledger lay open, the ruled columns labeled: Visitor, Resident, Time In, Time Out, Date.
Annie wrote her name. She hesitated for a moment, then scrawled an indecipherable squiggle in the Resident slot. It most certainly did not read Twila Foster. What business was it of moon face whom Annie visited? She flipped the cover shut and veered to her left into a broad hall. She felt eyes following her. She walked briskly as if she knew her way. The room numbers in this hall were in the fifties. Annie did some quick figuring. Each segment of the hexagon held ten rooms. She passed a cross hall and glimpsed the dining room to her right. As she walked, the numbers lessened. She found room 17 on the far side of the building. It would have been much quicker had she turned to her right from the main entry.
She looked behind her. The corridor was empty. Quickly she stepped to the door, knocked softly.
In a moment, it opened. A tiny woman peered through thick glasses, her gaze uncertain. A soft cashmere shawl hung from thin shoulders. Her green silk dress was shabby but had once been lovely. A cameo brooch was pinned, a little lopsidedly, to the bodice.
“Mrs. Foster? Do you remember me?” Annie held
out her hands, clasped cold, clawlike fingers. “I'm Annie Darling, a friend of Denise's. I've come toâ”
A gong sounded, once, twice, three times.
Doors opened, up and down the hallway. Old people, some leaning on canes and walkers, a few in wheelchairs, moved slowly toward the nearest cross hall.
Mrs. Foster fumbled near the door, picked up an aluminum cane. “Oh, I wish I could stop and see you,” she said breathlessly. “But I have to get to dinner. I mustn't be late.” And she was out in the hall with Annie, pulling shut her door. She stopped, looked up at Annie. “I'm sorry. I really am. But I mustn't be late.”
Annie was puzzled. She'd had a most casual acquaintance with Denise's grandmother, scarcely more than saying hello in passing. Annie understood that old people in retirement homes look forward to their meals. Meals punctuate days reduced to aimless conversation and bouts of bingo and sing-alongs and long somnolent hours perhaps filled with happy memories, perhaps not. But there was no eagerness in Twila Foster's soft voice. There was fear.
They stood in the hall amid the lemminglike movement toward the cross hall and stared at each other.
Twila Foster's old face suddenly crumpled. “I'm sorry.” A hand plucked at the lace collar at her throat. “You must think I'm rude. But I mustn't be late.” She ducked her head and followed the others.
“I'll walk with you.” Annie kept slow pace. She bent over and said softly, “I'm just here to check on you. Denise is worried that something's wrong.”
The old lady stumbled to a stop. “Oh, no. Please. Tell her everything is all right. Please.” It was almost a sob. A trembling hand clutched at Annie's arm. Her
head poked forward as she looked toward the dining room. “You didn't tell him, did you?”
“Him?” Annie, too, looked toward the dining room.
Mrs. Foster's words were hurried, desperate. “He's in charge at night. Please don't tell him. Please.” And she lurched away from Annie.
Â
Annie placed her cup and saucer on the mantel, held out her hands to the fire, but the cheerful warmth didn't touch the core of coldness in her mind. Despite a wonderful dinnerâMax loved to cook, and tonight's beef fillets with stuffed artichokes had been spectacularâAnnie felt hollow. She stepped away from the fire, began to pace. “I'm going over there tomorrow and find out what's what.”
Max frowned. “We need more information, Annie. Why don't you call Mrs. Foster? That protects her from anyone knowing she's spoken to you. It seems pretty clear she's scared of the guy who's there at night. Let me get the number.” He strode to the breakfast room, reached for the telephone book drawer.
Annie picked up the cordless phone.
Max scanned the directory. “Okay.” He read off the numbers. Dorothy L., her white fur winter-thick, jumped up on the kitchen counter, batted at Max's fingers. He picked up the chunky white cat, nuzzled her ruff.