Engaged to Die (6 page)

Her words evoked a sense of ease and comfort, warming as a soft shawl or a crackling fire.

Patricia Wentworth's Miss Silver always espoused
the truth. Miss Silver often quoted Alfred Lord Tennyson. There was a verse from
The Idylls of the King:
Live pure, speak true, right wrong…. And Alice Tilton's Leonidas Witherall was fond of exhorting Meredith schoolboys to tell the truth and fear no man. However, Leonidas (aka Bill Shakespeare) was wont to fudge a bit when enmeshed in the long tentacles of the octopus of fate.

Because truth once offered could not be retracted. Burning in Annie's memory was the quavery voice of an old and dreadfully frightened woman. Annie temporized. “Miss Hammond, I—”

“Oh, please, call me Stephanie. We're on a first-name basis here.” The manager smoothed back a glossy curl. Her gaze was earnest. “I want everyone to feel that we are all friends. Buddies. Calling people mister and missus is rather off-putting, don't you think?”

Annie's home state was free and easy Texas, where first names were almost invariable, except when addressing the elderly. Formal address offered a certain dignity. You didn't call someone's grandfather Al unless invited to do so. “I'm glad you care about the residents.”

Those wide blue eyes blinked. “Care? Of course we care.” Her well-modulated voice held a hint of surprise.

Annie wished she knew Stephanie Hammond. If only they'd played tennis together (Would she call the lines right? Did she drill an opponent at the net?) or gone to an oyster roast (Would she complain about the no-see-ums? Did she get easily frustrated trying to gouge open the shells?) or worked on a committee (Did she do her part? Was she dependable or all show and no substance?). The manager appeared good-
humored and cheerful and committed to her job. Did she know what was happening on her watch?

“A good deal depends upon your staff, I would assume.” Did Joseph J. Brown present one face to his boss, another to the residents?

Stephanie leaned forward, eyes glowing. “I have the world's best staff. I can promise you that. We have a registered nurse on the premises—Bonita Esperanza—and everyone loves her. Mary Harris is our program director and she's always coming up with something fun for everyone. Harry Thomas is our dietician. Jane Crandall is our chef. And we have—”

Annie flung out his name. “Joseph J. Brown?”

The manager's smile faded at Annie's crisp tone. “Why do you ask?”

Annie met her gaze. “Have you ever received any complaints about him?”

Stephanie frowned, her effervescence gone. She gave a sigh. “I suppose you mean old General Priddy. You have to understand”—she was reassuring and patient—“that when you deal with old people, they can get strange fancies. They can confuse the present and the past and imagine”—a tinkling laugh—“the most bizarre situations. One old lady is sure that Martians have a pipeline to Snug Harbor and listen to every word we say. And”—her eyes glinted—“a general is used to being in charge. I told his daughter that the general was reliving those war years, shouting in the night. But she wasn't at all reasonable and she moved him out.” Stephanie snapped her fingers. “She talked to me that morning, and that afternoon he was gone.”

Annie smoothed a wrinkle from her cream wool slacks. She said pleasantly, “Didn't that make you wonder a little?”

“Wonder?” The director sounded puzzled.

“About the validity of the general's complaint.” Into the sudden, resistant silence, Annie demanded, “What was his complaint?”

The manager fingered a candy cane earring. “Oh, it was just crazy. He didn't like J. J., that's what it came down to. He told his daughter—and I swear, she should have been a general—”

Annie kept her expression pleasant and welcoming and mentally applauded the combative general's daughter.

“—that he—the general—had accidentally bumped J. J. from behind with his wheelchair, and then, according to the general, J. J. took his wheelchair and swung him around and rolled him to his room and—” She broke off, shook her head impatiently, her tawny hair rippling. “It's too absurd.” Her eyes flashed. “I need to know why you are asking these questions.”

“Because another resident has been abused by Mr. Brown. That resident”—Annie spoke carefully—

“lives in terror of him. And I'm here to see about it.”

The manager clamped her hands on the chair arms. There was no smile now. “That is a very serious accusation, Mrs. Darling. Who is making this claim?”

“An old woman.” Annie remembered the shuddering voice: he makes you listen. “A helpless old woman who is terrified for darkness to come. He has a key that opens every door. Once he came to her room in the middle of the night and was standing at the foot of her bed when she awakened. She screamed. The next day everyone told her she'd had a nightmare.”

The manager was indignant. “Old people often have nightmares!”

Annie folded her arms. “Miss Hammond”—no,
they weren't buddies, not now—“you don't stay here at night, do you?”

Her silence answered.

“Then please listen to me. The man you've hired is cruel. He delights in frightening old people. I don't doubt there are many who've had no problem with him. He would seek out those who are vulnerable.”

Stephanie Hammond surged to her feet, her face ridged. “You must give me the name of the person involved. And the circumstances.”

Annie remembered Twila Foster's soft uncertain eyes and thin face and the clawlike fingers plucking at her lace collar and the fear, the demeaning, dreadful, terrible fear. Annie rose and the two women faced each other, wary antagonists. “What will you do?”

The manager gestured toward the door. “Why, I'll talk to J. J. and see—”

“What he has to say? What do you think he will say?” Annie spread out her hands. “Of course he'll deny everything. A nightmare.” She was sardonic. “Or she's imagining persecution. Or confused. It's easy to say an old person is imagining things. If you tell him her name, he'll whisper to her late at night in that soft high voice. He'll tell her she will have to pay. He told her once that she'd been nothing but trouble ever since she came.”

“This is all unsubstantiated. You can't expect me to take action against an employee without some kind of proof.” A flush stained her smooth cheeks.

Annie remembered the wrinkled parchment face of Twila Foster and the tremor in her old voice. “There is one way to get proof.” Annie's throat ached. Please, God, help us now. She spoke fast.

When she was done, Stephanie Hammond paced
back and forth across the small room, her face furrowed in thought. Finally, she stopped, stared hard at Annie. “All right. I'll do it.”

 

Annie leaned against the cool plastered wall. The interior door between the manager's office and the adjacent room was open a sliver, just enough to permit a line of light. This space had been Stephanie's office before she was named interim manager. Now the office was unused. It was chilly and smelled faintly dusty. The drapes were drawn, shutting out the thin winter light. Annie wondered if the heating vents were closed. She felt cold as ice. She folded her arms tight across her front, suppressed a shiver. If her scheme was unsuccessful…

A door squeaked. “I'll just take a moment of your time, Mrs. Foster. Here, please take this chair. It's the most comfortable.”

Annie edged to the line of light. She could see very little, a portion of Mrs. Foster's aluminum cane and worn black shoes that laced. But she could hear every word.

Mrs. Foster's voice was uncertain. “Stephanie, I'm sure Denise paid my rent—”

“Oh, everything's fine. Well”—the manager paused—“actually, I do have a concern. But I'll wait until J. J. gets here before—”

The cane quivered as the old woman's hand shook. “J. J.?” Twila Foster drew her breath in sharply. The cane poked forward and her thin arm came in sight. “No, I don't want to—” She broke off.

“Stephanie.” The high soft voice rolled across the room, thick as spreading oil.

“Yes. Come in, J. J. Close the door, please.” Stephanie was brisk.

The door clicked shut. He walked across the room, briefly in Annie's sight, greasy black hair curling on the shoulders of the red-and-black plaid shirt, fat hands hanging loose at his sides, dark moccasins noiseless on the parquet floor.

There was not a breath of sound from the old woman.

“Thanks, J. J. Now, I've had a complaint that you have spoken sharply to Mrs. Foster.” Stephanie cleared her throat. “Twila, I'd like to hear what you have to say.”

“No. I didn't say anything.” Her thin voice rose and cracked. “I swear I didn't. Please, I want to go back to my room.”

Annie gripped the door jamb, rested her head against the wood. Oh, God. Anyone could hear the terror in Mrs. Foster's voice. Annie blinked back tears. This was dreadful, dreadful….

“Twila,” Stephanie was impatient, “I have to—”

The door opened. “Stephanie”—a woman's voice was urgent—“we've got a problem outside. Somebody's blocking the drive and I can't get them to move. Can you please come?”

“Oh. I'm busy right now.” An exasperated breath.

“But all right. J. J., stay here. I want to see about this.” There were brisk steps. “I'll be right back.” The door closed.

There was silence.

To Annie it was a hideous silence, heavy with menace. She stood there rigid, sick with apprehension. A faint squeak sounded. Annie's head jerked toward the hall. The door opened and Stephanie slipped inside. She pulled the door slowly shut behind her and tiptoed across the cold room. Annie pulled back to give Stephanie room to see through the sliver of space.

Twila's quavering voice rose. “I didn't say anything to Stephanie. I swear I didn't.”

“Oh, but you must have, Twila.” There was no sound from the moccasins, but he moved closer and closer until he stood over the seated woman. “You made a mistake. Now, you'll have to tell Stephanie you were having a bad dream. If you don't—”

Annie hated his high soft voice. It threatened menace deadly as the pinch of poison in a Borgia ring.

Stephanie bent nearer to the line of light. Annie smelled her gingery perfume.

“—it will be too bad. Do you like bats, Twila? Perhaps there will be bats in your room at night. That might happen. It might even happen tonight. You can dream about it when you go to sleep. Bats have tiny sharp teeth. Sometimes they're rabid. I wonder what will happen when a bat is dropped into your bed? It takes almost a year for rabies to develop, and all the while you can wonder if that's how you'll die, rigid as a corpse, frothing at the mouth.”

“I won't tell her. I won't.” Twila was sobbing now, hiccuping and crying.

“Or a spider might get into one of your drawers. It could be a daddy longlegs. But it might be a brown recluse.”

Her hand shaking, Stephanie reached out, banged against the door, yanked it open. She strode into her office, thrusting out her hand. “Give me your keys, J. J. You're fired.”

J. J. whirled toward them, his brown eyes feral. His glance moved past Stephanie, settled on Annie.

Annie hated the look. It was as nasty as flipping over a flagstone and seeing slugs.

“Your keys.” Stephanie held out her hand, her face set and determined.

Slowly, like a snake easing over a bank, his hand went into his pocket. He pulled out the ring of keys. Snakes can jump, fast. His arm flashed and the keys flew toward Annie.

Her hand rose. The keys, sharp and hard and painful, struck her arm.

Brown took a step toward the connecting office, his big hands clamped into fists.

“Get out. Or I'll call the police.” Stephanie strode to her desk, grabbed up the phone.

Brown rocked back and forth on his feet and stared toward the open door to the connecting office, the open door and Annie standing there. His moon face was heavy with fury. The words to Annie were a high silky whisper. “You're going to pay, lady.”

A
NNIE TOOK A DEEP BREATH
, delighting in the swirl of fumes from beer on tap, sawdust-sprinkled wooden floors, live bait bobbing in salt-crusted barrels, chicken necks in battered coolers, and hot grease. Annie loved Parotti's, the island's oldest restaurant and bait shop, a combination unsettling to squeamish tourists. Since Ben Parotti's marriage, the restaurant wasn't quite as down home as it used to be, though live bait was still available. The menu now included quiche as well as chitterlings, the decor chintz curtains as well as sawdust. Ben was close-shaven and natty in a blue blazer and flannel slacks, a far cry from his former bristly cheeks, long underwear top, and stained corduroy trousers. Annie never ceased to marvel at the power of a woman. Or maybe it was more accurate to applaud the power of love. In the earlier days, Ben might have looked like a grouchy leprechaun, but actually he was a man waiting to fall in love with the right woman. In a moment, Ben himself would serve their table, bringing Annie a superdeluxe bowl of chili and Max an equally big bowl of catfish stew. Jalapeños and corn kernels studded the faintly sweet corn muffins. Annie picked up a muffin, warm from the oven, slathered it with real butter, and took a big bite.
“Hmmm.” Sparks danced among the logs burning in the huge stone fireplace. Only a few tables were taken, and all the customers were islanders. Not many vacationers came to Broward's Rock in January, and the windswept beaches and chill mornings were a time of peace and renewal.

Max sat across the initial-scarred wooden plank table, his eyes soft when he looked at her. Dear Max. His wavy blond hair curled a little more tightly in the winter mist. She thought him the handsomest man she'd ever known. And yes, he had strong and regular features and a stalwart chin and fjord blue eyes, but what made him handsome in her view was the character that shaped his face, the honor and steadfastness and courage and goodness.

He grinned. “Love you, too.”

She grinned in return. How wonderful to be able to look across a table without guile or caution or reserve. How wonderful to be loved. Annie reached out, grabbed his hand. “Oh, Max.” And she burst into tears.

In an instant, he was around the table and beside her in the booth, his arm warm on her shoulders. “It's okay, honey. Mrs. Foster's okay now.”

“Max,” tears edged down her cheeks, “it was hideous. She was terrified, sick with fear. It was awful.”

Max's arm tightened. “You got rid of Brown. He's out of there. The locks are being changed right now. Stephanie Hammond's not taking any chances. And all because of you.” He pulled out his handkerchief, gently wiped away the tears. “Come on, Annie”—he looked to his right—“Ben's here and he's got the best chili in the world.”

She sniffed, took the handkerchief, scrubbed her eyes. “Outside of Texas.”

As Max returned to his place, Ben slid the bowls across the planks, murmured to Max, “The missus under the weather?”

Annie scooted out of the booth, hugged a startled Ben. “I'm fine, Ben. Coming here is the best tonic in the world.”

“Always glad to have you.” Ben refilled Annie's iced tea, which southerners drink all year round, and looked at Max's tall frosted glass. “Another Bud Light?”

“Sure.” Max added a dollop of hot sauce to the stew.

Annie slid back into her seat and stirred the topping of grated cheese and steamed corn kernels into her chili.

“Peace and quiet,” she said indistinctly through a big mouthful of chili. “That's what I need. And happy faces. I've had enough drama to last me all year.” She brightened. “Rachel will be home pretty soon. I can't believe how much I've missed her.” Annie's teenage stepsister was in Florida with a friend and her family. “And Pudge gets back next week.” Annie's father was making the island his home but he was often off island for a pleasure trip. His latest was a jaunt to Rio. “We'll have a party. As far as I'm concerned, no more winter blahs.”

Max laughed. “Annie, it's only January.”

“I'm not kidding.” Her tone was determined. “No more misery. When we get home, I'm going to read the latest Mary Daheim and laugh my head off and take a hot bath—”

“And sundry other pleasures,” he murmured. He nodded thanks to Ben for the cold beer. Ben started to turn away.

“—and I'm not going to let anything upset me. Or anybody.” She banged the table for emphasis and Ben swung back.

“But if someone called, like Denise—” Max suddenly frowned, broke off.

“No way, José. I'm going to have a happy afternoon and go to a champagne gala tonight in a beautiful new dress—oh, Max, you'll love it—it doesn't have a back—and I am going to have fun, fun, fun. No more angst.” Annie held up both hands, palms forward.

Ben peered at them, shrugged, moved away.

Annie picked up another muffin. “Poor Ben. I have him thoroughly confused.”

“Calls,” Max muttered. He began to pat his pockets.

“Damn, where'd I put it?”

Annie's knife was poised above the butter. “What's wrong?”

Max found a crumpled note in the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled it out. “I forgot to tell you about the phone calls from Chloe.”

“Chloe? Speaking of angst”—Annie said wearily—

“what now?”

Max unfolded the sheet. “Three calls. In the first one, she apologizes for shutting down the store—”

Annie's head jerked up. On Friday afternoon? She looked around the big, sparsely occupied café. Okay, it was January. No big deal. Henny Brawley wouldn't be pleased to find the store closed. Henny had planned to drop by this afternoon to pick up her latest order, Kathy Lynn Emerson's
Face Down Beneath the Eleanor Cross,
Marlys Millhiser's
Killer Commute,
and Katherine Hall Page's
The Body in the Cast
. She'd call Henny and promise to bring the titles to the art exhibition tonight. Henny never missed a good party.

“—but she said she had to hunt for him.” Max raised a blond brow. “She didn't give a name, just said ‘him.'”

Annie welcomed a jolt of the strong iced tea. “She doesn't know his name.”

“No name, but apparently she has a description. In her second call, she was excited, saying somebody told her they'd seen a guy in a golfer's cap and argyle sweater out on Black Duck Road. I'm sorry to report”—Max's tone was amused—“that the sighting apparently did not lead to her quarry. In the last call, she was discouraged, lots of sighs and sniffs and sad laments. She perked up at the end and said she'd see you tonight. She said she'd decided to come to the reception at the gallery because Mr. Mackey was so nice and besides you'd said most everybody on the island came to a free party and maybe he—with hopeful insistence on the pronoun—would be there, and besides the gallery was on Black Duck Road. She asked you to call her if you had any idea what she should do.”

“Lordy,” Annie murmured.

“What's so special about this guy?” Max poured the Bud Light.

“Oh, he's some mysterious Lothario she met in the fog on the harbor pier at midnight. She fell for him and thought they were having a great love affair. Most romantic of all”—Annie's tone was dry—“they never gave each other their names. What price he's married?” Annie spooned more chili. “Anyway, he didn't show up last night and she's trying to find him. I'd call and tell her to give it up, but she's pretty determined. You'd think she would realize he can't really be interested in her or he'd tell her who he is! Maybe she'll be a little savvier the next time she meets a romantic stranger.” Annie pushed away the memory of Chloe's young, unhappy face. Chloe might have fallen in love with the idea of falling in love, but that didn't lessen the hurt.
Annie almost reached for her cell phone, then steeled her resolve. She simply wasn't going to listen to Chloe moan. The episode at Snug Harbor had definitely exceeded Annie's daily quota for misery. If it weren't for that, she'd almost certainly look for Chloe, help her in her search. But, darn it, it was time Chloe grew up a little bit. Mr. No-Name was clearly bad news. Besides, she'd see Chloe tonight at the gallery. Annie would make a special point to introduce her around. It would be an elegant party. Surely that would lift Chloe's spirits.

 

The house was almost two hundred years old. The two-story tabby structure, with wide verandahs on both the first and second floors, sat high on stuccoed brick arches. Nathaniel Neville had transformed it into an elegant art gallery. As his fortunes prospered in the heyday of the nineties, when the rich got infinitely richer and many of them chose to invest great sums in art works, Neville had built a huge and elegant Italian villa that was less than a five-minute walk through a live oak forest from the gallery.

Max curved into the circular drive. “There probably isn't a spot this close, but we'll give it a try.”

Japanese lanterns decorated both verandahs and dangled from the live oak trees. The lanterns were soft smudges of color in the fog. Through the uncurtained bay windows, Annie glimpsed men in tuxedos and women in winter gowns of silver lamé or black velvet or sparkling sequins on silk. The lighted windows were brilliant in the winter night, a welcome contrast to the patches of fog that hovered like dimly seen ghosts.

Annie wriggled in anticipation. “Oh, Max, it looks like a great party. Mr. Mackey will be pleased.” She
doubted the artist would be surprised at the success of the exhibition. Mackey had an air of confidence.

Max eased his crimson Maserati around a parked SUV that bulged into the narrow road. Some people thought they could park any damn place they wanted. Max prided himself upon his live-and-let-live, equable manner—except for hogs who didn't care whether their tasteless monstrosities of vehicles posed a hazard to others. He winced as his right fender cleared the back bumper of the SUV by perhaps a thousandth of an inch.

Without a word, Annie patted the tensed back of his hand soothingly.

He took a deep breath as the car eased past. “I'll drop you off and go back and park.”

“Golly, everybody on the island must have come if the big lot over that way”—she gestured to her left—

“is already full. Let's go back to the main road. There was a side entrance just before we got to the circular driveway.” Annie peered out into the fog.

Max regained the main road and retraced their path.

Annie held up a hand. “Slow down a little. Okay, turn here.”

Max swung to the left behind a grove of pines. The serpentine lane angled away from the massive trees. Abruptly, they left behind the sound and glow of the party. He drove slowly. “Are you sure?” The road meandered, curving back in the direction of the gallery.

“This comes out near the kitchen of the gallery. The Friends of the Library had a luncheon here over Christmas, and I helped set up the tables.” She pointed ahead.

“There. We can park by the catering van.” There were only a few cars parked in the lot, and they probably belonged to the caterer's wait staff.

Annie popped out of the car and pointed at a flag-
stone path. “That goes along the side of the house to the sidewalk in front.” She led the way. Max carried the book bag with the titles for Henny. They passed windows blazing with light, and once again there were the sounds of a party, voices and music. They reached the front yard and turned to their right, hurried up the moist wooden steps of the front porch, and stepped inside to noise and movement and color. A huge Christmas tree still glittered in the center of the spacious hallway. Great ropes of evergreen with huge red bows scalloped the cornices. Light cascaded from two magnificent chandeliers, one in the entry hall, one beyond a keystone arch that separated the entryway from the stair hall. A string quartet on the landing of the mahogany staircase played Pachelbel's Canon in D. Rush matting was laid to protect the heart pine floors. Paintings hung in the hallway and in the rooms that opened to either side.

Carl Neville stood just inside the door. Smiling, he welcomed guests with a quick handshake and an expansive wave toward the exhibition rooms and the stairway leading upstairs. He wasn't as imposing a man as his late father. Nathaniel Neville, hawk-faced and pencil thin, had dominated almost all gatherings. Slightly built Carl, his features pleasant but indeterminate, his manner diffident, scarcely made an impact on the guests sweeping inside. “Annie, Max. Good to see you. Great turnout tonight. Boston's paintings are displayed down here and upstairs, too. And there's a buffet….” He looked over Annie's shoulder. “Hello, Vince. Great to see you….”

Max turned to shake hands with Vince Ellis, editor and publisher of
The Island Gazette
.

Annie gave a happy sigh. “I'll take the books, Max,
and see if I can find Henny.” She grabbed the book bag and plunged into the crowd. Everywhere, there was color—the women's dresses, the paintings, the richness of crimson draperies. Annie caught a glimpse of herself in a long silver-framed mirror. Her black velvet dress with a plunging V neck and no back and cutout sides was surely one of the more dramatic dresses at the party. Was it too much? She straightened a rhinestone strap and smiled. Max liked it. She wandered from room to room where the paintings were displayed, greeting old friends, keeping an eye out for Henny, and admiring Boston Mackey's bold talent. The paintings were superb, sunflowers that were outbursts of gold, a shadowy lagoon bounded by cypress, a time-blackened tombstone in an abandoned graveyard, old women plaiting baskets in the shade of live oaks, children laughing as sea foam swirled around a crumbling sand castle, a beautiful woman with an enigmatic smile, an oyster roast in high summer, geese in a magnificent V against a lowering fall sky, murky water swirling around a rotting pier.

It was hard to hear over the roar of conversation. Annie had lost track of Max when he appeared at her elbow with a glass of wine. “Henny's upstairs. I'll take the books to her, then we'll do the buffet. There's chicken liver mousse and curried lamb balls. Be right back,” he shouted. Annie found a peaceful spot in an alcove and sipped the fruity chardonnay as she scanned the crowd. Carl Neville was still near the front door, welcoming guests. Boston Mackey, brown eyes gleaming, plump cheeks flaming, silver ponytail draped over one shoulder of his tuxedo, bent close to a beautiful young woman. Annie raised an amused eyebrow. Ah, the power of sex—