Murder Walks the Plank (8 page)

Annie started to follow, but Henny grabbed her arm. “We'd better stay here, let him check on Pamela.”

As they waited, Annie paced. Surely Pamela was all right…. It seemed a long time, but it was only a few minutes later that heavy steps sounded in the main hallway and Billy Cameron came around the corner. He was in uniform, but his khaki shirt was crookedly tucked. He shoved his gun into its holster, stopped, and looked questioningly at Annie and Henny. “What's going on?”

“Pamela?” Annie's voice was thin, frightened.

“No problem.” He gave an impatient shake of his head. “Nobody's been near her except ER personnel.”

Lou Pirelli strode through the unmarked door, joined them in the hall.

Billy turned toward him. “Find anything, Lou?”

Lou clicked on the safety, lifted his floppy Braves jersey to slide the gun into a holster. “Nothing out of the ordinary. No one found loitering. After I checked on the patient, I took a look-see in the parking lot. No
body was around.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but he shot Henny and Annie a wondering glance.

“So Pamela's all right.” Annie felt giddy with relief.

“I guess the murderer—”

Billy shoved his hat to the back of his head. “Annie, I know you mean well. But I keep telling you, there's no reason to suspect Pamela's fall was anything other than an accident.”

Henny lifted her hand, jangled the keys she'd wedged beneath the door. “There was a definite attempt to gain access to the ER.” She lifted her head and looked regal despite the hour, the dark pouches under her eyes, and her purple warm-ups. “I was on guard to protect Pamela Potts.” Her glance at Billy was determined. “Look at what's happened, Billy. We all know Pamela went overboard. Eyewitnesses report she was apparently unconscious as she fell. She was on board only because she received a ticket that she understood to be from Annie Darling. Annie provided no such ticket. Moreover, no one who knows Pamela believes she attempted suicide. So we're afraid she's in danger. That's why Emma Clyde was watching the ER entrance and I was here.” Henny gestured toward the metal chair next to the door. “Somebody—”

Billy interrupted. “Plenty of people decide to kill themselves—walk out into the water and don't come back or put their heads in an oven or swig a dozen Valium with a shot of whisky—and you know what? Half the time, everybody says they were happy as larks, not a care in the world. Those kind of suicides don't talk about it. They don't leave notes. They do it. As for that ticket, somebody did her a good turn—”

“—and left no trace.” Henny's tone was silky. “I talked to Ingrid Webb tonight after Pamela was hurt.
Ingrid told me all about the ticket Pamela found in her mailbox. Ingrid said Annie didn't send a ticket. That sounded strange to me. Pamela is always precise. Pamela, in fact, doesn't have the imagination of a rabbit. If Pamela said the ticket came from Annie, she had reason to believe that was true. Why would anyone leave a ticket with a message indicating Annie had sent it? The only possible reason would be to hide the source of the ticket. I thought about Pamela and the ticket all the way home. When Emma called and asked me to come help out at the hospital, I put on my warm-ups and went by Pamela's house on my way here. We know Pamela found an envelope with a free ticket in her mailbox. There must have been some kind of message inside indicating that it came from Annie—”

“Not so fast.” Billy held up both hands like a traffic cop at noon on Saturday facing a bunch of tourist cars.

“There could have been an envelope with nothing in it but the ticket and Pamela just guessed it came from Annie. What's got you so riled up? Are you saying you went in her house and didn't find a message?”

Henny spoke with deliberation. “I not only found no message, I found no envelope.”

Lou cocked his head. “How'd you get in?”

Henny's face was suddenly sad. “The key was under the welcome mat on her front porch. That's how I got in, and that”—her voice was confident—“is how her attacker got in to retrieve the envelope.”

Billy clasped his hands behind his back, rocked back on his heels. “She threw the envelope away.”

Henny's dark eyes glinted. “I checked the wastebasket. And the garbage.” A brief smile. “Pamela has very tidy garbage. She'd discarded an empty box of shredded wheat. The other trash was neatly layered above
the cereal box. No envelopes. That tells us that someone removed the envelope and any accompanying message. The only possible reason to do so was to hide the fact that Pamela was decoyed aboard the
Island Packet
.”

Billy frowned. “You figure all that because you don't find one measly envelope? Look, the ticket came in the envelope and she put the whole thing in her purse. Her purse is at the bottom of the Sound. Hey, that's easy. Anyway, I'm not worried about tickets or envelopes. How come—”

The door leading to the ER examining rooms swung open. Brisk steps clipped toward them. Emma's caftan swirled. Her imperious blue eyes raked the group. “How come everybody's standing here? Haven't you found anybody?”

Billy wasn't cowed. His tired face was stubborn. “We've looked. There's no evidence anybody's been around here that doesn't have a right to be here. The hospital, after all”—his irony was heavy—“is open to the public.”

Annie chimed in. “But the innocent public doesn't turn off the lights.”

“Seems to me”—Billy looked at Henny—“you should have seen who turned them off.” He pointed toward the main hall. “I can see the light switches from here.”

Henny pulled a paperback book out of the jacket of her warm-ups, held it out. “I was reading….”

As Henny described the sounds she'd heard, Annie moved toward the exit, scanning the floor. She was a few feet from the doors when she crouched. “Hey,” she called back to the knot near the ER door, “there are broken oyster shells here. I'll bet that's what Henny
heard. Somebody”—she stood, pointed toward the other end of the hall—“threw the shells. Henny looked this way. That gave them time to dart into the hall and turn off the lights.”

Lou sauntered down to join her. He nudged a piece of shell with the toe of his Reebok. “Could have stuck to somebody's shoe. Maybe some kid had a bunch in his pocket, dropped them.”

Billy was dismissive. “Oyster shells don't tell us anything.”

Annie hesitated. She almost picked up the pieces, but retrieving bits of shell wouldn't prove a thing. Probably the intruder had thrown half shells, which were heavy enough to fly through the air a good distance. When they landed, they broke apart. She picked up one remnant and hurried back to the doorway where they'd gathered. She held it out to Henny.

“Clever. I expect that's exactly what I heard. I looked that way and the lights went off.” She looked soberly at Billy. “I felt that I was in danger.”

Billy glanced at the paperback, which had a lurid cover showing a man waving a gun, and gave a tired grin. He pointed at the book. “Like you said. You were reading. Somebody came along and brushed against the lights. That's all that happened. Whoever it was heard you scrambling around and got scared and hightailed it out of here.”

Henny stared at him and her gaze didn't falter. “When that ex-con was gunning for Frank,” Henny said, recalling a threat faced by former Police Chief Frank Saulter, “and you were on guard that night, how did you feel?”

Billy's eyes were suddenly thoughtful. He cleared his throat. “I hear you. Okay, the lights went out. What happened?”

“I opened the door and stepped inside. There wasn't a lock.” Her voice was tense. “So I jammed my car keys under the door.”

“You didn't see anyone.” He rubbed his cheek. “Did you hear anything out in the hall?”

“No. I'd guess the intruder had on sneakers. But the doorknob definitely moved. That's when I called nine-one-one and Emma on my cell phone.” Henny gave a small, grim smile. “I spotted the fire extinguisher. If the door had opened…”

Billy gave her an admiring nod. “Good thinking, Henny. So”—his eyes narrowed as he looked toward the exit door—“somebody could have come. Yeah. It could be. But I got to say it doesn't seem likely. Anyway, we can take some precautions.” He gestured toward Lou. “Stay the rest of the night, and tomorrow we'll decide if Pamela needs continued protection.”

Annie could have hugged him. Billy was convinced tonight's alarm didn't amount to anything and he thought their cry of murder most foul was ridiculous, but he took his duties seriously.

Emma took charge. “Billy, I appreciate your offer, but I don't think that's necessary. I've already spoken to Dr. Burford and he's made arrangements for Pamela's protection.”

Lou looked relieved at not having to spend the night in a hospital reclining chair.

Billy slowly nodded. “All right. Well”—he smothered a sudden yawn—“we'll check out everything tomorrow.”

Annie almost spoke up. There were so many entrances and exits to the hospital. If Lou stayed, it would be one more protection for Pamela. Billy and Lou were heading toward the exit, their broad backs
receding down the hallway. Annie's mouth was open, she was leaning forward, when Emma's hand clamped on her wrist. She shot a startled look at the author and saw a quick, firm head shake.

When the door closed on Billy and Lou, Annie demanded, “Why not have Lou spend the night?”

Emma was brisk and confident. “I've got Pamela covered. What really matters is convincing Billy she was a victim. I think I've got a way. I explained everything to Dr. Burford. He knows Pamela.” Her eyes glinted. “It's odd how the way of the ungodly, as Simon Templar termed predators, can be foiled through chance, though some of us might call it fate. Dr. Burford says it is extremely unlikely that Pamela jumped. He once referred her to a specialist”—she paused for emphasis—“who treated her for a terror of heights, one so severe that she can't drive in the mountains. Dr. Burford has arranged for an orderly to spend the night in her room. She's been moved out of the ER, but the room number will not be given out, not to anyone under any circumstances. Only Dr. Burford and I know where she is. Tomorrow he'll talk to Billy.”

Annie began to feel reassured. Here was Emma at her most redoubtable with the situation comfortably in hand. And if Pamela was out of the ER…“Emma, how is she?”

Emma was slow in answering. “Her breathing is good. There's an egg-shaped contusion behind her right ear.” She moved her shoulders uncomfortably. “Nasty-looking. Purplish. The CAT scan didn't reveal intracranial bleeding, although there is always that possibility. Moreover”—her gaze was somber—“there's no way to tell if she suffered any permanent damage from near drowning or from the blow. She
may wake up in a few minutes or hours or days. Or”—she took a breath—“she may never wake up. The prognosis is guardedly good.” Emma smoothed back a straggling silver curl. “Henny, if you'll give Annie a ride home, I'll make a final check on Pamela. And”—Emma's blue eyes glittered—“map a campaign.”

H
ENNY
'
S OLD
D
ODGE
jolted to a stop in the driveway. The front porch light glowed deep yellow. More light spilled from the ground floor windows. “Looks like Max waited up.”

As she slid out of the Dodge, Annie smiled at the welcoming lights, beacons of caring. Eager as she was to hurry inside, she took time to thank her old friend. She held the door open. “You were wonderful, Henny. As always.”

Henny made a shoo-away gesture. “I'm not doing anything more than you and Emma. See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Annie lifted a hand in farewell, clicked the door shut. Her spirits lifted as she hurried up the front walk, but she took a quick glance at the second floor. The upper windows were dark. She felt instant relief, thankful that Rachel was probably asleep. Annie didn't want to talk about Pudge and Sylvia and Cole. She had no answers for the hard and difficult tangle of love and loss and wanting and wishing. Max was her rock. She wished their kind of love for all the world. But to try to explain to Rachel that no matter how much we love someone, we can never decide the future for them was beyond Annie's capability tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter.

Annie opened the front door to a blaze of lights in the entryway, the breakfast nook, and the kitchen, the cheerful rattle of crockery, and the scrumptious aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate.

Max appeared in the kitchen doorway, one mitted hand holding a muffin tin. His quick glance swept her. The tension eased from his face. “Pamela's okay.”

“So far, so good.” Annie beamed at him. Lights, food, and a barefoot Max in a T-shirt and glen plaid boxer shorts changed her mood. Her fatigue evaporated.

Max put down the muffin tin. She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter. They moved together and she held tight to him, savored warmth and comfort. He gave her a hard squeeze, then held her at arm's length, his eyes admiring. “You do better justice to Nancy than Nancy did.”

For an instant Annie was blank, and then she reached up, swept off the navy cloche, glanced down at her old-fashioned blue dress. “I'd forgotten all about Nancy Drew. Oh, Max, what a long night.” Her lighthearted happiness when they'd boarded the mystery cruise seemed a lifetime ago. It had almost been a lifetime for Pamela.

They settled at the kitchen table. Annie took a huge bite of the just-out-of-the-oven roll made with freshly grated nutmeg, brown sugar, apple juice, plump raisins, and chopped pecans. Heavenly!

Dorothy L., excited by the postmidnight revelry, jumped onto the table, eying Annie's plate.

Annie made a halfhearted attempt to push her off the table.

Dorothy L. evaded her hand and scampered to Max. She ducked her head against his arm, purred.

Max stroked thick white fur. “Sweet girl. Good cat.” His tone was just this side of a coo.

Annie wrinkled her nose. “You indulge that beast.” But fair was fair, and Max often made the point that Annie was a slave to Agatha despite the black cat's tendency to bite the hand that petted. Dorothy L., he was fond of stressing, never bit. Annie decided the cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate were too divine to permit fussing about Dorothy L.'s presence on the table. With the innate perception peculiar to cats, the feline strolled back toward Annie. Annie took another bite, licked exquisite icing from one finger, then reached out and patted Dorothy L. Just one big happy family gathered around (and on) the kitchen table.

Peace, it was wonderful.

“Oh, Max.” She reached out and grabbed his hand and it didn't matter that both of them had sticky fingers from the buns. “I'm so glad to be home. What a night. Listen—”

Max refilled their mugs with hot chocolate, tumbled miniature marshmallows onto the foam. As Annie talked faster and faster, she rose, pushed back her chair, and began to pace. Max slouched, taking occasional gulps from his mug, listened intently. He didn't say a word, but his face was skeptical.

Annie paused in midharangue about Billy's failure to recognize the significance of the missing envelope. “You don't get it?”

Max rubbed his knuckles against his bristly chin. Without replying, he got up, retrieved Annie's purse from the counter. He brought the brightly patterned canvas bag to the table and carefully eased out the contents: billfold, checkbook, coin purse, car keys, cell phone, crumpled Baby Ruth wrapper, small packet of Kleenex, lipstick, compact, eye shadow, four stamped envelopes ready to mail, two bank deposit slips, a grocery list on a
note card, Selma Eichler's new paperback, a pen, two pencils, a road map, a receipt from Belk's…He held up a wedding invitation still in its envelope. He didn't say a word.

Annie gripped the back of the kitchen chair. Expressions fleeted across her face: chagrin, amusement, acknowledgment, determination. “Doesn't mean a thing. I put the envelope in my purse so I'd have the address at the store when I bought the gift. And okay, I'd forgotten it was there, ditto the candy wrapper, ditto the map. Ditto whatever. Yeah, I get your point. Pamela could have put the envelope in her purse. And I guess her purse is in the Sound. But”—she flung out a hand—“I never sent her a ticket. And if she hadn't gotten a ticket, she wouldn't have been on the cruise, and if she hadn't been on the cruise—”

“—she wouldn't have fallen in the water.” He stacked their dishes, carried them to the sink, glanced at her. “Or been pushed overboard,” he amended. “Okay. But you have to admit that everything you've told me has a reasonable explanation. The ticket may have been a perfectly innocent gift. She may simply, as Billy suggested, have assumed you sent it. She may have slipped, hit her head, and fallen from the boat. Tonight at the hospital, someone may have accidentally turned off the lights. Henny may be mistaken that the knob turned.”

“The oyster shells?” Annie pulled out the chair, plopped in it.

“Like Billy said, some kid brought in a pocketful and dropped them. You know they're everywhere.” He picked up the dishcloth, turned on the water.

Annie lifted her voice. “What did Henny hear?” She reached for her mug, finished the cocoa.

There was an odd tingling sound. They both looked at the cool air register.

Max grinned. “Something in the air-conditioning. Or some odd machine behind a closed door made some beeps. Who knows?” He began to rinse their dishes. “A funny noise and the lights went out. Guaranteed to hot up the imagination.”

Annie popped up, brought her mug, bent to open the dishwasher. She picked up the rinsed dishes, slotted them in place. “So you think I should blow off the whole thing?”

Max reached for the dishwasher soap, filled the container. He clicked the dishwasher shut, punched the button. The soft whirr began. He looked at her, a slow smile curving his lips. “I've been wrong before. And it won't hurt to nose around, especially if there's nothing to it. I'll do what I can to help.”

She flung herself into his arms, happy, grateful, relieved. Yes, she would have gone on by herself. But it was nice to know she wasn't alone. “Okay, first thing tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow. Yeah.” There was an odd tone to his voice. “Well, there's something else you need to see to. First thing.”

Annie stepped back, looked up into sympathetic eyes.

“I hate to worry you tonight.” He caught her hand. “When I got home, there were a bunch of messages on voice mail, mostly people checking on Pamela. I wrote down the names and erased those calls. Except for Laurel's. And”—his brows drew down—“Pudge's.”

Annie massaged one temple, then pushed the play button.

“Annie, my dear.” Laurel's husky voice was a deli
cate mixture of solemnity and encouragement. “Remember that it is darkest before the dawn—”

Annie raised an eyebrow. So what else was new?

“—but it is precisely at that moment when one must think most creatively. As Aesop so cogently advised: Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.” A pause. “My dear, look beyond.”

As the message ended, Annie contrasted the trite beginning with the challenging ending. Shadow…Dammit, what was this creativity thing? It was time and time past to ignore Laurel. Yet…Annie sighed. Why did she have a feeling that something of utmost importance had been said? She demanded of Laurel's son, “Look beyond what?”

Max laughed. “I assume that's a rhetorical question.” He inclined his head toward the phone. “Here's Pudge.”

As she listened, Annie glanced toward a half dozen snapshots in clear plastic frames scattered on the counter. There were similar clusters of snapshots everywhere in their house, in a bookcase in the family room, atop the piano in the living room, on a butler's table in the entryway, on windowsills in the bedrooms, on the desk in the upstairs office, old pictures and new, family members and friends. The snapshot she now studied was a favorite, her father at the bookstore holding a Death on Demand mug, his broad face alight with a carefree smile, Agatha draped comfortably on his shoulder. Trust Pudge to charm her mercurial cat, just as he charmed everyone he met. She never saw a picture of Pudge without smiling, cherishing always his look of hopeful expectation, a man who was sure that this day, this moment, this place was going to be wonderful and special. Lately that hopeful look had been
absent, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth deeper.

“…sorry about the trouble tonight.” His pleasant tenor voice sounded tired, strained. “I hope Pamela's okay. But accidents happen and you mustn't feel responsible. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.” A pause.

The pause went on so long, Annie looked questioningly at the recorder.

“Uh…” There was a sense of uncertainty. Pudge cleared his throat. “Annie, I wonder if you will do me a favor. I mean, when you have time. If you could”—a deep breath, then the words pelted her—“talk to Rachel, ask her to be nice to Cole. That's Cole Crandall, Sylvia's son. Oh hell, I don't know if it's fair to ask you. Or Rachel. But she's such a great kid. She likes everybody. Anyway, Annie, if you can help, it would mean the world to me. I'm feeling kind of down about the whole thing. I—oh, well. Let me know.” The connection ended.

Annie slowly returned the receiver to its holder. She picked up two clear plastic frames. One held the picture of her father, the other a snapshot of a dark-haired girl looking up at a laughing Pudge, her thin face adoring. Rachel had added so much happiness to their home. She'd decided to stay with Annie and Max when Pudge moved to Annie's tree house. But it was Rachel who took the most pleasure in helping decorate the tree house. And Rachel always marked off the days until his return when Pudge was off island on one of his adventurous journeys. Oh my, oh my.

After the dishes were done and they'd crept silently up the stairs, careful not to awaken Rachel, and Annie lay against the warm, familiar curve of Max's body,
she listened to the even cadence of his breath as he slept. She yearned for sleep, but her mind was beset by worry, her muscles too weary to relax. Tomorrow, what would she do tomorrow?

 

Rachel thudded down the stairs, backpack flapping. She skidded into the breakfast room, stared at the clock with wide eyes. She looked thinner than ever in her oversized clothes. A lacy blouse cascaded over denim pants that dragged on the floor, hiding all but the tips of her sneakers. “Oh golly.”

Outside, a horn blared.

“Oops, there's Lisa. Got to go.” She leaned over the breakfast table, grabbed a cinnamon roll. “Mmm.”

Annie thrust a paper napkin at her. “Rachel, you haven't had breakfast. Breakfast is an essential—”

Rachel waggled the roll as she raced toward the front door. A slam and a bang and she was gone.

“—beginning to the day.” Annie waved the napkin at Dorothy L., whose front paws were on the table.

“Don't be a pig. You've already eaten.”

Max placed a bowl on the table. “Papaya.” He bent down, nuzzled the back of her neck, gave Dorothy L. a pat.

Annie's favorite fruit. And favorite husband. “Thank you.” He knew her thanks included more than food. She dished up slices of the succulent fruit. “So Rachel's outta here. That was deliberate.”

“Missing breakfast?” Max sliced a microwave-warmed cinnamon roll.

“Yep.” Annie welcomed the distinctive taste of papaya. “She didn't want to talk to us about last night. Or the cruise. Or Pudge and Sylvia. Max, I don't know what to do.”

Max's smile was sunny. “It will come to you.” He lifted the newspaper. “Looks like Tiger's on the prowl again. If I could hit a ball that far…”

Annie finished the fruit, reached for her coffee. It was all very well for Max to be confident that Annie could smooth over Rachel's roiled emotions. Annie wasn't at all certain she could. First she must talk to Pudge, figure out what he really wanted.

Sylvia.

Annie blinked. Her subconscious had whipped out the answer just like that. Maybe that simplified—

The brisk knock at the back door came without warning.

Annie looked at the clock. Ten after seven. Who would—?

The door opened. Emma Clyde stepped inside, her heavy face bleak and drawn. Her orange caftan swirled. A triple loop carnelian necklace hung almost to her waist. Her dress was the color of a summer sunrise, the beads the richest red of dawn, but her face looked like night.

Annie felt a sudden emptiness. She struggled for breath. She pushed back her chair, stumbled to her feet, hoping, yet in her heart knowing…

Emma marched inside, sandals slapping on the parquet floor. “Wanted to tell you myself. Dr. Burford called me. Pamela died shortly after six this morning. Intracranial bleeding. Pressure on the brain stem. There wasn't a thing that could be done.”

Dead. Pamela dead.

Pamela with her smooth blond hair and wide-spaced, serious blue eyes and maddening, kind, bone-literal mind. Gone. Never to call Annie for another casserole. (“Annie, I know I can count on you for
two.”) Never to raise her hand with an earnest question at Bible study. (“Did the fish come out of the bottom of the basket or was a piece taken and instantly replaced?”) Never to pronounce the obvious as if it were an astonishing revelation. (“Dogs are nicer than a lot of people.” A thoughtful pause. “Except for pit bulls.”)