Murder Walks the Plank (27 page)

Rachel rolled to a stop, frowned at the bike. Cole had a nice bike. Lots nicer in its way than his house. He kept it polished and clean. There was no trace of salt rust on the pedals or the kickstand or the frame. Funny that he'd bang it down, the handlebars twisted, the front wheel sharply angled, the good-quality blue leather seat stubbed against a rotten old tree stump. A skink poked his reddish head out of the broken center of the trunk. After a frozen instant, the lizard skittered over the tilted seat, disappeared into head-high grass.

Rachel waited a moment to be sure the skink wasn't coming back toward her, then balanced her bike on its kickstand. She skirted Cole's bike. She was halfway up the front steps when she heard a low, hoarse call from the side of the house.

 

The tour bus belched smoke. Annie poked out the nose of the Volvo, swung the wheel hard right to swerve back into her lane. The oncoming traffic whizzed past,
making her progress behind the lumbering coach seem even slower. She listened to Ingrid's message: “…so I think I know who made the whispery call yesterday. You remember, there was a call for you that I could scarcely hear. Anyway, a few minutes ago”—Annie judged the time. Ingrid's call was logged in at 12:05 p.m. A few minutes prior to that would have been around noon—“you got a call. Young voice. Male. He was really disappointed when you weren't here, said he needed to talk to you, that you had asked any of the guys who had been on the lookout on the
Island Packet
Sunday night to get in touch with you if they had anything to report. I thought this might be important. He wasn't whispering today, so I guess he wasn't worried about anyone overhearing him, but he sounded stressed. I gave him your cell number and I wanted to alert you that he might call. He said his name was Cole Crandall. Hope Pamela's continuing to improve. We've had a lot of calls about her. I told everyone she was in Savannah at a private nursing facility. Everything's fine here. A book club from Beaufort came by and cleaned us out of all our Joan Coggin titles, said they'd seen your review of
Who Killed the Curate?
in our newsletter.”

Annie turned off the air-conditioning to block the acrid fumes from the tour bus. She noted the Tomlin family's roadside produce stand with its mounds of squash and cucumbers and plump home-grown tomatoes and red onions and big green-and-white-striped watermelons. Their stand was less than a half mile from Sand Dollar Road. The bus then had to turn right or left. Hopefully not left, as that would be her turn to go to the Island Hills Country Club.

The second message began: 12:09
P.M
. “Mrs. Darling, this is Cole Crandall. I was one of the guys on
lookout Sunday night on the mystery cruise. The lady fell from the deck I was patrolling. You asked me if I saw anything. Well, I didn't see her. Like I told everybody, I'd gone in to get a Pepsi. Just before I went inside, I was walking toward the back of the boat and I heard a funny noise somewhere behind me, a kind of popping sound. I turned around and looked back. There was a lifeboat there. I didn't see a soul. Anyway, after a minute, I walked on down to the end. I looked over the stern, then came back along the deck to the doors. It was hot, and I decided since there wasn't anything going on outside I'd go in. Anyway, I was in line for a Pepsi—”

Annie wished she had a big fizzy Pepsi right this minute. She could almost feel the buzz on her tongue, the sweet trickle down her throat. Maybe she'd stop at the golf snack shop, get a couple for her and Max. Oh, one for Billy, too. Heck, she'd buy a half dozen. It would be a thirsty crew winching that car out of the lagoon. The bus slowed to a crawl. It took all Annie's willpower not to push the horn and hold it.

“—when all the commotion started. I ran out on the deck and people were pointing and yelling. I thought they were pointing at me, then I saw her falling. She'd gone over the side right by that lifeboat. By the time they got her out of the water and into the saloon, everybody wanted to know if I'd seen her go over and of course I hadn't. I didn't think even once about that noise. I mean, it was just a little popping sound. I never thought of it again until yesterday afternoon when I heard it again.” His voice sounded thin. “The minute I heard it, I knew what it was. But it doesn't make any sense. Why would Stuart's dad have been up there on that deck? And if he was, why didn't he tell anybody?
Maybe he saw something. He's a lawyer. I thought lawyers always helped out the cops unless they're on the other side. But I don't think Stuart's dad is that kind of lawyer. Like I said, I heard that sound just before I went inside. So he must have been on the other side of the lifeboat, cracking his knuckles. Yesterday afternoon—he and Stuart were fussing at each other cause Stuart wanted some money so we could go buy some CDs—”

Annie imagined Cole's discomfort, unwilling witness to bickering.

“—and I wished then that I could go home but I didn't want to see my mom, but that's about something else—”

About jealousy and resentment and grief for a faraway dad. Annie understood and realized, too, that Cole had no idea she had any connection to Pudge.

“—anyway I was stuck there at Stuart's at least for last night. Anyway Mr. Reed popped his knuckles and I guess I got a funny look on my face because he kept staring at me when he thought I wasn't looking. So he gave Stuart the money and we rode our bikes downtown. I tried to call you when Stuart was listening on the earphones but you weren't at the store then either. And last night when Stuart and I were out at the pool, his dad came out and he kept worming the conversation around to that Sunday night and what I'd seen on the boat. Stuart was making fun of me”—his voice was tight with embarrassment—“saying there I was right next to the big show and missed every bit of it. Mr. Reed said there probably wasn't much to see, and it was a shame when people got depressed and nobody helped them. I said I didn't know the lady, and Mr. Reed said she was one of those do-gooders—”

Annie's hand tightened on the cell. She heard the echo of Reed's dismissiveness.

“—and she'd almost been a pest to Mrs. Heath, but Mrs. Heath was always nice to her because she felt sorry for her. Anyway, he finally went in the house and left us alone. Stuart said his dad was really sorry about Mrs. Heath. I didn't know who Mrs. Heath was, but Stuart said she'd just died and she'd been a big client of his dad's. Anyway, I thought I'd tell you because this morning at breakfast, Mr. Reed started to pop his knuckles again and then he stopped and stared at me and I felt creepy. I decided I'd go home after school even though my mom—anyway, I don't know anything about the lady who fell off the boat and I didn't see anything but I heard that noise and I think that's what it was.” His voice was puzzled, but more than puzzlement, there was a thin edge of fear. “I know”—his voice dropped to a mumble—“that's what it was, but it's crazy. Nobody'll believe me. Maybe I shouldn't have called—”

Annie heard the faraway shrill of a bell.

“Anyway, I got to go to class.” The connection ended.

The tour bus ground to a halt at the stop sign at Sand Dollar Road.

Annie felt cold and hot at the same time. Cold with apprehension, hot with panic.

Ladyfingers! Pamela had cried out in delirium, her voice frantic with fear. She'd heard those little pops just before she was struck and thought them to be tiny firecrackers. Annie had a quick memory of hot and dusty July Fourths, and taking strings of dainty firecrackers out in the backyard and setting them off—pop, pop, pop—so similar to the crackle of popping
knuckles. Pamela wouldn't have been surprised to hear vagrant firecrackers, not in the South on a summer night, but she would, of course, have disapproved, thinking them a hazard on the excursion boat. She heard the pop, pop, pop, and then there was the sudden searing flash of pain.

Pamela and Cole hadn't heard firecrackers Sunday night. They heard Wayne Reed, crouched in darkness behind the lifeboat, waiting his chance, desperate for Cole to go into the saloon and leave the deck clear for murder, waiting, every nerve taut, muscles tensed, one palm pushing against the knuckles of the opposite hand, an unconscious response to stress. A nervous habit. Probably he never heard the sound himself, was unaware of his action. Lots of people had nervous habits. A tic of a facial muscle. Repeated throat clearing. Cracking knuckles.

Wayne Reed…Where was he? Max had gone to demand an accounting. An accounting…That would surely be done now. What exactly had been in Duff's estate when he died? What had happened to those properties and those monies? Thoughts raced through Annie's mind. It would turn out to be something like that, money that had disappeared, a sale of property that was misrepresented to Meg, nothing that would matter or be discovered so long as Reed continued as the attorney for Meg and, especially, for her heirs. But if everything had to be listed and valued, theft or fraud would be revealed.

Where was Wayne Reed now? Why had he left specific instructions that he must not be disturbed? If the question ever arose as to his whereabouts this afternoon, his secretary would testify that he was in his office.

An alibi?

Annie swallowed, felt the thud of her heart as if she'd run all out. She stared at the car clock. School was over. Cole Crandall wasn't going back to the Reed house. He was too wary to return there, though still struggling to understand what he knew. Instead he'd chosen to go home, home to an empty house, his mother at work. Cole's house. Oh God, where was it? What had Pudge told her about Sylvia, that she'd rented a place that was pretty run-down and isolated but she said it had a great marsh view and every morning she saw a great blue heron she'd named Buddy, and he admired…Painted Lady Lane. That was it, Painted Lady Lane, a fancy name for one of those modest dirt roads that angled toward the Sound from Bay Street.

The bus, with a burst of oily black smoke, began a laborious turn to the left.

Messages. A third message. Had Cole called again? Annie punched, watched the unending procession of cars, snout to bumper, waiting for her chance to turn right. It was such a small island. She could be there in minutes, four or five at the most if the summer traffic didn't slow her. If she screeched up to Cole's house and everything was all right, well, it would be good for a laugh tonight with Max and Rachel. She could hear Rachel now, folding her hands to mimic a bugle call and shouting, “Annie Darling to the rescue!”

The third message began: 3:09
P.M
. “Annie—”

There wasn't quite enough room, and a Mercedes jammed on its brakes and blew a horn that sounded like the steam whistle of the
Queen Mary
as Annie gunned her Volvo into the lane.

“—I'm going by Cole's house.” Her voice was stiff,
the words were hurried. “I decided to ask him to come over Friday night. I know he doesn't like Pudge and I'm going to tell him Pudge is
swell
.” She put a militant emphasis on
swell
. “Then I'm going to go home and change and meet some kids at the beach. See ya.”

I'm going by Cole's house, I'm going by
—

“Rachel. Oh, Rachel, honey.” Annie fumbled to end the call, swung out to pass a bread truck, swerved back just in time to avoid a collision. Tears burned her eyes. Her hand shook as she punched nine-one-one.

 

Rachel reached the edge of the shabby house. The hard yet cajoling voice grew more distinct. “Cole, where are you?” She eased close to the wood, felt a curl of peeling paint against one cheek, peered around the corner.

A man stood with his back to her. A soft slouch hat, brim turned down, hid his head. He had on a long-sleeved cotton work shirt, baggy khaki shorts, Adidas running shoes. He stood in a forward crouch, arms swinging loosely. He looked like somebody getting ready to jump, but there wasn't anything to jump at. The left side pocket of his shorts bunched and sagged. Dark gloves poked out of a back pocket.

Rachel's eyes fastened on the back pocket. Soft leather gloves. Annie had given Pudge some gloves like that for Christmas, but Pudge's were tan, not black. Nobody needed gloves in August. She couldn't take her eyes off the dark, empty glove fingers drooping out of that pocket.

The man took a step forward, his head moving in a slow survey of a dark thicket that bounded one side of the marsh, a stand of cane near a weathered old shed, and the dusty, hummocky stretch between the back
porch and the reeds of the marsh. “I need to talk to you, straighten something out.” The deep voice was pleasant, with an almost jocular tone. “I don't know why you dashed away like that. But it makes me think you're a little confused. Come on now, Cole. I told Stuart I'd pick you up and we'd go have pizza.”

Rachel squinted, her eyes dazzled by the late afternoon sun off the bright green Sound. Pizza…He told Stuart…That meant he had to be Stuart's dad. But right after school Stuart got a call from his dad asking him to pick up something at the ferry dock. Did Mr. Reed mean they were going to meet later? And why did he wait, hunched and quiet, like Agatha watching a bird poised to flutter from a shrub?

The shrill peal of her cell phone started her heart hammering. She jerked back, turned, began to run. Over the pounding of blood in her ears, she heard the running thud behind her. She was almost to her bike when a rough hand caught her, pulled her around, held her fast. She opened her mouth to scream and was pulled against him in a vise-tight grip, his other hand clamping over her mouth.

 

A red-faced golfer in a sweat-stained pink polo shirt swiped at his neck with a wadded-up towel. “What the hell do you mean the hole's closed?” He teetered forward, his six-foot-four bulk looming over Lou Pirelli.

Unfazed, Lou gestured toward the fairway. “Detour, mister. This one's a crime scene. Closed until further notice.” Lou moved a few feet away, drove a stake, looped crime scene yellow tape around the top.