Hit and Run (15 page)

‘Why
you
watch movies,' Phyllis snapped in reply.

‘Shouldn't our hikers be back soon?' AnnaLise asked, ever the peacemaker. Or at least a deflector.

Nicole, smart girl, circled around the granite-topped peninsula that held a shallow bar sink and overhead stemware rack to make her escape into the hallway, carrying a stack of napkins for cover.

‘Sooner than we know.' Mama picked up a bag of frozen corn. ‘Assuming nobody gets shot for trespassing.'

Or by Roy Smoaks, AnnaLise thought.

‘… trail is a public right-of-way,' Daisy was saying. ‘They're much more likely to break an ankle than get shot.'

‘That
is
true.' Phyllis dumped the corn into a casserole dish and added two giant cans of creamed corn. ‘The rules just say you have to provide a path, not that it can't be made of banana peels or have exposed tree roots to trip people up.'

For as long as AnnaLise could remember, property owners abutting Sutherton Lake were required to maintain a public right-of-way for hikers. Just what constituted that right-of-way – or maintenance, for that matter – was a subject of perpetual debate.

‘It's gun season for the deer hunters,' AnnaLise reminded the other two women. ‘Maybe going out for a hike wasn't the best idea.'

‘They had their minds set,' Daisy said, straightening up from peering in at the turkey. ‘And we were just as happy to have the lot of them out from underfoot.'

‘'Sides,' Mama was stirring the two types of corn together, ‘if they stay along the lake they should be just fine. Most hunters head on up the mountain.'

‘True,' AnnaLise said, thinking about her conversation with Bobby and Smoaks. ‘Which is the argument I should have used.'

‘Argument?' Phyllis looked up. ‘When?'

The journalist quickly weighed the pros and cons of adding the bullet Boozer had found – and her subsequent visit to Bradenham – to the stew of intrigue Mama and her mother already had simmering. AnnaLise came down firmly on the side of cons.

‘Joy and I were just talking earlier about what people might want to see while they're here,' she fibbed. ‘Less argument than discussion.'

Daisy looked confused. ‘Must have been before she ran over to the restaurant.'

‘Oh,' AnnaLise said, wishing she'd been even vaguer, lest she get caught in a lie. Fact was she hadn't even seen Joy yet that morning. ‘Why'd she do that?'

‘Well, we sure couldn't make Thanksgiving dinner with what was here.' Phyllis waved her hand in dismissal of the array of fresh ingredients – asparagus and shallots, whole cranberries and fennel, etc. – that had been shoved aside on the big table to make room for the likes of boxed stuffing mix and miniature marshmallows, cream of mushroom soup and, joy of joys, jellied cranberry sauce.

‘Shouldn't the can be chilled?' AnnaLise asked, pointing. The only thing worse than room-temperature jellied cranberry sauce was no jellied cranberry sauce at all.

‘You do that,' said Phyllis. ‘And while you're in the refrigerator, can you get me an egg and some milk?'

AnnaLise obliged, then watched Mama add a dash of milk and the beaten egg to the corn, along with a soupçon of sugar.

Daisy was surveying the array of cans and boxes on the table. ‘Aren't we making green bean casserole? I see cream of mushroom soup, but no beans.'

‘Freezer,' Phyllis said.

Daisy slid open the lower drawer and retrieved the prescribed bag. ‘Do you want to cook the beans first or just stir them frozen into the mushroom soup?'

But Phyllis had other things on her mind. ‘Damnation! Didn't we tell Joy to bring the Ritz Crackers?'

‘Over there.' AnnaLise's birth mother pointed to a red box next to the stove. ‘I needed a snack to keep me going through all this.'

‘Well, it's a good thing you left me enough to top off the creamed corn,' said Phyllis, pulling out a sleeve of the crackers and whacking it with a rolling pin before dumping the resultant crumbs on top of the corn mixture.

‘Thanksgiving wouldn't be a holiday without your scalloped corn,' Daisy agreed. ‘Here's some butter.' She handed over two sticks, which Phyllis cut up and used to dot the cracker crust.

‘And
that
is that.' She slid the casserole dish into the oven and straightened up, listening. ‘Is that the hikers?'

Daisy pursed her lips. ‘They'll likely be entering the house from the lake side, AnnaLise, and not see the commotion out front. What are you going to tell them?'

‘The truth, I guess,' said her daughter, ‘though I'm not sure it should come from me. Maybe Boozer?'

‘You … rang?' The man in question appropriately lurched into the kitchen. AnnaLise didn't have to see the flask in his hand to know he was drunk.

And, God help her, her first thought was to join him, as the people outside sounded to be coming ever closer. This had been Dickens Hart's soiree, yet here they were with only his acknowledged daughter to explain what—

‘Looks like you could use some food in you,' Daisy said, guiding Bacchus to a chair.

Phyllis shook her head side to side before addressing AnnaLise. ‘I don't know whether Boozer's up to joining us at the table, but we were thinking that we'd eat family-style, maybe asking Nicole and him to join us. Is that all right?'

‘Great idea,' AnnaLise said. ‘Though I'm not sure you need my approval.'

‘Don't be dense, girl,' said Phyllis. ‘You didn't just replace Dickens as the host. You damned well
own
this place now.'

‘Whoa,' AnnaLise held up her hands like double stop signs. ‘Dickens isn't even cold—'

‘Coy tells me the king is dead.' Joy Tamarack entered the kitchen from the dining room and did a sweeping bow. ‘Long live the princess.'

‘Please tell me you're not drunk, too,' AnnaLise said.

‘I'm not … drunk … too,' Joy said, spacing out her words. ‘After I got back from my trip to Mama's, Rose invited me in for a chat. She had some dynamite Mary Jane to share.' Joy snitched one of the French-fried onion rings from the can Daisy had just opened to top the beans.

Daisy slapped gently but firmly at Joy's hand. ‘You were smoking weed with the old lady in the wheelchair?'

Joy chuckled. ‘Cool broad – went to Woodstock, even.'

And, given the wheelchair, unlikely to have gone on the walk, even if the group could have stayed on only the more level surfaces.

‘At least the two of you will be hungry for dinner,' Daisy said.

‘True. Rose's having a little nap this second.'

AnnaLise frowned. ‘Where is her room? I thought there was just the master suite on the ground floor.'

‘Righty-oh, but if you're asking me how Grandma Ironsides is getting up and down between floors, well, the elevator of course.' Now Joy opened the refrigerator.

Phyllis slammed it closed, almost catching the younger woman's fingers, but also managing to knock the receiver off the wall phone in the process. ‘Hear that, AnnieLeez? You got an elevator in your new house.'

The new ‘heiress' retrieved the dangling receiver. ‘It's not mine. Besides, why does a two-story house need an elevator?'

‘Would you want to haul furniture up the staircase in the foyer?' Joy was inspecting her nearly-mangled fingers. ‘Hart had a freight elevator installed.'

AnnaLise frowned again. ‘But where? I—' The sound of the patio doors opening and a burst of conversation interrupted her.

‘Hellooo …' Patrick Hoag's voice called. ‘We're back.'

‘Perfect timing,' Mama said, opening the oven to check her turkey. ‘We'll give this bird another twenty minutes or so and then let it set before the carving. That'll give the casseroles time to brown up and everybody to have a much-needed drink before our feast.'

Feeling, if regretting, the mantle of being in charge descend upon her shoulders, AnnaLise said, ‘I guess I'd best go in and explain to them what's happened to Dickens.'

Joy followed her friend into the Lake Room which, given the patch job to one side of the French doors, was half sunlit, half wood-shaded. ‘What's wrong? Is the good girl a little stressed?'

‘The good girl, if you mean me, is a lot stressed,' AnnaLise said. ‘My father's just been “homicided,” remember?'

‘Oh sure.
Now
he's your father.'

‘Joy, cut me a break, OK? Apparently he's always been my father, just nobody chose to tell me. Including those two,' she instinctively lowered her voice, ‘smart-asses in the kitchen.'

‘Steady, girl,' Joy said. ‘You update the assembly and I'll staff the bar.'

A stoned bartender – just what they needed. ‘Given the situation, I'd prefer that those few of us who still have our wits about us stay that way,' AnnaLise said, leading the way into the big room.

‘Ah, lighten up,' Joy said, slipping behind the drinks station on the shady side of the room. ‘And
catch
up. The twenty-four hours before Thanksgiving dinner is one of the heaviest drinking periods of the year and you're running behind.'

AnnaLise stopped. ‘Is it really?'

‘Even has a name: “Blackout Wednesday.” Everybody – except you, apparently – goes back to their home towns for Thanksgiving and gets shit-faced.'

‘In order to tolerate their relatives at the big dinner?' AnnaLise watched her crowd of at least potential family, piling their coats onto Nicole's outstretched arms.

‘That, and they don't have to get up the next morning.' Joy raised a bottle of vodka over her head. ‘Who wants a Bloody Mary?'

A collective roar of approval went up.

AnnaLise glanced behind the bar, expecting to see the re-corked bottle of the cabernet Nicole had nearly served the prior night. No sign of it, but maybe the young woman had mistakenly put it in the wine cooler. The handling of fine wine was not something Nicole would have necessarily learned from her grandfather at Sal's Taproom. But she probably drew a hell of a pint of draft Hickory Stick Stout or Honey Badger Ale, not to mention all the local micro-brews.

As people gathered around the bar, AnnaLise raised her hand. ‘Everybody?'

Nobody paid her any attention, so she raised her voice. ‘Excuse me?'

Tyler Puckett, who'd just entered the room with Eddie, caught her eye and smiled.

‘You watch that boy, AnnieLeez.' Mama had arrived from the kitchen with Daisy. ‘He's just sidling up because he wants your money.'

AnnaLise ignored her and tried again. ‘Please?'

Seeming to realize something was wrong, Tyler put the pinkies of both hands to his lips and emitted a nerve-curdling whistle.

This time everybody shut up, except for his mother, Lucinda. ‘Goodness, Tyler. Do I still have to tell you it's not polite to make that awful sound in someone else's—'

‘Listen up, folks!' Joy yelled. ‘AnnaLise wants to tell you why the
gendarme
s are here.'

‘The police?' Patrick Hoag – apparently both an attorney
and
bilingual – pushed to the front of the group. ‘This is Dickens' house and obviously it's his call, but there's no need to involve the police in a simple homeowner's claim.'

‘Homeowner's …?' AnnaLise repeated blankly, before she registered that he was talking about the broken window. ‘No, it's not that. There's been a …' She swallowed and tried again, ‘I'm afraid that Dickens Hart was found dead this morning.'

‘In his bed,' Mama contributed.

‘Alone?' Shirley Hart asked, and a couple of nervous giggles were stifled.

‘What happened?' Eddie Boccaccio asked. ‘Was he on medication? Was it an overdose?'

AnnaLise frowned. ‘Overdose? Why would you—'

‘Don't be silly,' Joy contributed from the bar. ‘Dickens didn't take sleeping pills.'

‘Not when I knew him,' Lucinda Puckett agreed.

‘Same here,' Shirley agreed.

Sugar Capri, who was wearing a beret to go with her skirt and thigh-high socks, looked shell-shocked. ‘I don't know. I mean, neither of us slept—'

‘Can it, honey.' Rose Boccaccio had wheeled in silently from wherever she'd been napping. ‘Anything Dickie taught you he learned from me.'

AnnaLise tried to keep her eyes from rolling up into her head. ‘Could we all just—'

But it was a lost cause. Everybody was talking as Lacey Capri entered the room, looking bewildered. ‘Is something—'

‘I
told
you we shouldn't have come.'

‘What do we do now?'

‘Maybe we should just—'

‘Your attention, please!' a voice thundered from the hallway and, unlike AnnaLise's similar bid for attention, everybody actually shut up.

Coy Pitchford stood in the doorway, seemingly transformed. Maybe it was the booming voice he'd found or that his wife and fellow officer Charity was now standing beside him, but the acting chief seemed to have gained confidence and purpose.

Pitchford glanced curiously at the boarded-up window before he cleared his throat. ‘As AnnaLise has no doubt told you, Dickens Hart is dead, the victim of a definite homicide.'

A gasp from the crowd.

‘I hadn't quite gotten to that part,' AnnaLise said apologetically.

‘Let me just say,' Pitchford continued, ‘that this is still a fluid situation.
And
an active crime scene. Our technicians will be working in the master bedroom and that entire suite will be off limits with a guard posted. The county sheriff's department has also been contacted for their backup and assistance.'

Even though AnnaLise had anticipated the move, the words brought home the seriousness of the situation. Once the county came in, they'd likely take over the case from the town's meager force.

Not only was the chief of police out of the country – something AnnaLise hoped wouldn't bite Chuck Greystone in the butt – but Dickens Hart was well known in the state and even the region. The county, with its laboratory and experienced detective squad, would be better equipped than Sutherton to handle a high-profile investigation.