Billy Cameron tapped a quart-size plastic bag that held the anonymous letter. “I wish you’d called. I would have picked this up.”
Annie looked surprised. “You’re busy. I didn’t want to take up your time.”
He looked at her quizzically. “Didn’t it occur to you that anybody could see you walk into the station? I’m trying to keep you and Max safe. You brought Iris to the picnic. The murderer has to wonder what Iris told you. You know and I know there’s nothing that gives us a lead, but murderers run scared.” Billy was suddenly stern. “Don’t discuss the contents of this letter. But,” he said, frowning, “you need a reason to explain your visit here this morning.”
He was right. She would have been noticed going into the station. People would wonder and some would ask. She nodded. “I’ll tell everyone you had more questions about the guest list.”
“All right.” He looked again at the letter. “This may mean the murderer is trying to focus attention on Buck. Or this may be gossip and someone thought we should know but doesn’t want to get involved. I’m sure there’s been a lot of talk over the years about Jocelyn’s death. I think most people believe she committed suicide.”
Annie wondered if Billy realized what his statement revealed. Clearly, he saw Iris’s murder as the result of Jocelyn’s drowning. “Someone knows a lot about the night Jocelyn died.”
Billy shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. There are lots of possibilities: The information is true, half true, or a lie. It was sent to help solve Iris’s murder, to divert us from something else, or to cause trouble for Buck Carlisle. Or”—his gaze was again troubled—“somebody wanted to see if you hotfooted it over here.”
Annie wished she didn’t feel exposed and vulnerable.
“But you got the note, you came. I’ll deal with it.” He started to rise. When she made no move, he frowned.
Annie took a deep breath. “Billy, I know something.”
“Annie, you promised to keep out of the investigation.”
She lifted a hand to forestall his attack. “I kept my promise. I haven’t tried to find out anything about Iris’s murder.” Or Jocelyn’s. “I’m not horning in on your investigation. Instead,” and she felt buoyed by her decision, “I’m making a spirit poster for Iris. I’m going to talk to people who knew her and find out nice, funny, happy things about her life.”
Billy’s thick blond brows bunched. “Iris didn’t have a nice, funny, happy life.”
Annie felt mulish. “Everybody has good things to remember. Everybody.”
“You’ll steer clear of the sports picnic, what happened there.” It wasn’t a question. It was an order.
She raised a hand as if taking an oath. “I promise.”
Billy nodded. “What have you found out?”
“It wasn’t my doing.” She was delighted to offer proof that anything she learned came to her without her instigation. “Fran Carlisle came to see me.” Annie felt as if she were betraying Fran, but Billy had to know. “If you talk to her, please keep me out of it.”
“That’s easy enough. Annie,” his voice was reassuring, “stop feeling guilty about everything. Of course you have to tell me what Fran said.”
Annie felt relieved. “What she said may be important. The anonymous letter writer may have it all wrong.” She described Fran’s emotional visit. “Jocelyn may have been in tears because of Russell Montgomery.”
Billy’s gaze was cynical. “Maybe, maybe not. For all we know, Fran’s scared that an old quarrel between Buck and Jocelyn will surface so she comes to see you to shift attention to Russell. Maybe there’s no truth at all to the note and it was written to point suspicion away from…others.”
Annie felt rebuffed. Billy wasn’t going to talk about Jocelyn’s classmates. Yet Annie knew their identities. Fran had remembered the once carefree group of friends: Fran, Buck, Liz, Russell, and Cara. They were at the sports picnic the night Jocelyn Howard died. Jocelyn’s brother Sam, who had also been one of the group, had died of a drug overdose the week before. Annie had no picture of Jocelyn or Sam, but she knew the others. She saw each face as she thought of them, intelligent Fran, likable Buck, dignified Liz, intense Russell, elusive Cara.
If Billy wouldn’t talk about them, perhaps there was hope that he had a lead to someone else. In any event, Annie wasn’t a player. All she wanted to do was to create a spirit poster for Iris.
ANNIE LOOKED TOWARD THE HARBOR AS SHE WALKED TO her car. A sloop with gold and green sails scudded near leaping porpoises. Two shrimp boats rode the jade green water in the distance. Seabirds circled above them, waiting for a succulent meal. She reached the Volvo and looked toward Main Street.
After a moment, she dropped her car keys back into her pocket. Billy hadn’t intended to focus her attention on her friends, but he had. She played doubles with Fran, Liz, and Cara. Max played golf with Russell. It had been special to Max and Annie to have friends who remembered the same movies and songs and TV shows. They were Annie and Max’s friends. They had been Iris’s friends. Wasn’t it almost like an accusation that she hadn’t spoken a word to any of them except Fran—and that had been Fran’s doing—since Iris had been killed?
There was no law that she had to ignore them. Just because she and Max were staying clear of Billy’s investigation, she didn’t have to treat their friends like pariahs.
Annie looked across the street. A discreet sign in front of a tabby building announced: CARLISLE, SMITHERMAN, AND CARLISLE, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW. A maroon Harley with chrome-plated shocks was parked at one side. Buck Carlisle loved raising a dust trail on the island’s back roads. If he was in his office on a Saturday afternoon, he likely was catching up on the week’s work and wouldn’t mind a visit. Annie gave a decisive nod and crossed the street.
BUCK CARLISLE’S OFFICE WAS SMALL BUT ATTRACTIVE. ANNIE recognized Fran’s unerring taste in the russet glow of the maple desk with matching bookcases. The office furnishings were new and of the best quality. Only the tall, dusty, beige law books were old. Two French windows, uncluttered by drapes or shutters, looked out to the harbor. One of Buck’s hand-turned wooden bowls gleamed in the sun on a coffee table. Annie was always surprised by the delicacy and beauty of Buck’s woodwork.
Buck made the office seem even smaller with his broad shoulders and stocky build. He sank down on the slate gray leather sofa beside Annie. He was casual in a yellow polo, faded jeans, and running shoes. His brown hair was tousled, his square face open and appealing. He reached out to take her hand, his expression earnest. “Fran said she’d talked to you. I almost called, then didn’t know if I should.” He sounded uncertain, bewildered. “It’s a nightmare. It’s like those awful days after Jocelyn died. We had a terrible time when we were seniors.” His brown eyes were sorrowful. “Jocelyn and her brother died that spring. Iris ran away. I always thought she left because she was trying to forget everything bad. Her mom had died a few years before. People can only handle so much. But now, everything’s crazy.” He looked bewildered. “Why would anybody kill Iris?”
“It does seem crazy.” Annie felt safe and normal. Buck was exactly as he always was, kind and friendly and open. “I didn’t come to see you about what happened. It doesn’t do any good to think about how she died. Instead, I want to do something in Iris’s memory.” Annie described a spirit poster.
Buck’s face softened. “That’s a swell idea.” He gave her a grateful look. “Everybody will want to help.” He leaned back against the sofa, the tension easing from his body. “Iris and I had a lot in common.” His gaze was faraway. “Nothing came easy for us in school. She and I were yellow birds in the first grade.” He shoved a hand through his curly brown hair. “Mrs. Blake put the readers in three groups, blue birds, red birds, and yellow birds. Everybody knew what it meant. Blue birds could read anything. Red birds stumbled. As for the yellow birds…” He squinted his eyes in a puzzled frown. “I hated being a yellow bird in front of everyone. I knew I wasn’t very smart. But one day, something wonderful happened. Mrs. Blake wanted us to sing ‘The Bear Song.’ You know, one person sings and everybody else repeats the line. She asked Iris to stand up and start. I guess Iris was sitting at the first desk or something. I don’t know why she picked her. Jocelyn was always Mrs. Blake’s favorite.” There was no rancor in his tone. “Jocelyn was everybody’s favorite, beautiful and kind and sort of shining. When she walked into a room, you didn’t see anybody else. But that day Mrs. Blake called on Iris. And”—wonderment shone in his face—“it was like we heard an angel. Iris’s voice was high and clear and sweet and perfect. We all sat there and stared. Nobody knew Iris could sing. Mrs. Blake looked stunned. She was kind of a horsefaced old gal, gruff, impatient, demanding. It was so quiet, Iris looked scared, like she’d done something wrong. She started to cry. Mrs. Blake went over to her and put her arms around her and said, ‘Thank you, honey. That was beautiful. I should have known a yellow bird would sing the best song.’ For years after that, Iris and I picked each other up when we were down. She’d look at me and say, ‘Yellow birds sing the best songs.’ When I took first in a woodworking show when we were seniors, she came up and hugged me and whispered, ‘Yellow birds sing the best songs.’” His eyes reflected remembered hurt. “My folks didn’t come to the show. Dad had a bar dinner. If I’d been on the football team, he would have come to the game. I wasn’t good enough even for third string. So what good was it that I could make a beautiful bowl? But Iris came.” He stared at Annie with mournful eyes. “She’ll never be a yellow bird again.”
LIZ MONTGOMERY REMINDED ANNIE OF A DRESDEN SHEPHERDESS. Annie wasn’t sure whether the thought was engendered by Liz’s round pliant face and flowery dress or the multitude of porcelain in her small but exquisite shop. It was easy to imagine Liz in a hat with streamers and rose-colored muslin against the backdrop of Victorian bisque figurines in soft pastel shades, cups and saucers that were elegant at teas two hundred years ago, mid-Victorian hand-painted and gilded tea sets, and a Gainsborough lady figurine from early-twentieth-century Japan. Treasures adorned every shelf and table.
“Annie.” Liz didn’t smile. She came slowly forward.
Annie realized with a small shock that she was accustomed always to seeing Liz with her lips curved in a slight smile. Today there was no hint of cheer.
“I saw you going into the police station. What’s happening?” The question was almost harsh. “Do the police have any suspects?”
Annie felt uneasy. Liz assumed Annie had inside information about Billy’s investigation. She had to make it clear that she wasn’t involved. “I have no idea. I don’t know anything about the investigation. Billy asked for the guest list for the picnic.” It wasn’t necessary to say she and Max had delivered the list early this morning.
Liz frowned and her cool gaze never left Annie’s face. “I suppose the police will talk to everyone who knew her. Well, Russell and I barely said hello last night. Max told Russell you had a long talk with her.” Her unwavering stare was faintly hostile.
Annie wasn’t surprised that Russell had already told his wife about his conversation this morning with Max. “Not really. She and I had a swim out at Nightingale Courts and that’s why I invited her to the picnic. It was very casual.”
“Russell and I were surprised to see her.” There was no indication it had been a pleasant surprise. “We said hello but didn’t have a real chance to talk.” She shook her head as if she regretted the short interlude. “Everything was fine when we left. I waved good-bye to Iris.” Something shifted in that seeking gaze, perhaps a flash of fear or perhaps the momentary shock of confronting eternity. Beringed fingers clutched at her amber necklace. “What happened?”
Annie turned her hands palms up. “No one knows. Apparently Iris went into the woods with someone.”
Now the fear in Liz’s eyes was unmistakable. “Who?” The demand was sharp.
“I think Billy—” Annie stopped. She couldn’t go around reporting what Billy had said. “I don’t know.”
Liz’s blue eyes narrowed. She was shrewd enough to know Annie had started the sentence with one thought and ended it with another.
“I don’t have any idea what the police are doing.” Annie talked fast, trying to get past the awkward moment and the suspicion in Liz’s eyes. “That’s not why I came. I just visited with Buck about a tribute to Iris.” She described the spirit poster.
This time there was no rush of approval. Liz’s round face was as unmoved as the forever frozen, milky white porcelain cheeks of a statuette. “I wish I could be helpful. But,” Liz’s tone was icy, “I’m afraid nothing I remember about Iris would be appropriate.”
Annie found herself on the way out. “…need to run some errands…glad you are bearing up so well…such a dreadful end to your evening…”
Her last glimpse of Liz in the shop doorway supplanted Annie’s image of Liz as a quaint figure with the much more impressive figure of a focused woman with memories she would not—or could not—share.
ANNIE HESITATED AT THE ENTRANCE TO YESTERDAY’S TREASURES, then reached for the antique bronze knob. Once begun, her canvass for memories of Iris would look more suspicious if abruptly ended. If she spoke only with Buck and Liz, the others would wonder why. She had no doubt that Iris’s classmates would be in touch and Annie’s visits discussed. Annie had a distinct feeling that Max was not going to be pleased with her afternoon.
As if on cue, her cell phone chimed. Annie turned away from the shop, moved to one of the cast iron park benches with a view of the harbor. She smiled at the caller ID. “Hi.”
“I talked to Father Patton and he’ll be glad to do the service.”
As always, the sound of Max’s voice lifted her.
“We’re looking ahead to ten o’clock Friday. There isn’t any family left. I’ll take care of the obituary. Marian said she’d help. I’m at the store. I thought you’d be here, but Laurel told me about the note. What does Billy think?”
“Could be something, may be nothing. Anyway”—and she felt virtuous—“it’s in his hands. I told him about my spirit poster and now I’m checking in with everybody to get some nice memories of Iris.”
An instant of silence in the ether was a clear reminder that Max was no fool. “Everybody?”
“Max,” she tried not to sound defensive, “it’s terrible if we don’t have anything to do with our friends. It’s as if we’re declaring them suspects. I decided I owed them more than that and since I need memories of Iris, I’m dropping by and visiting. That’s all I’m asking for. Buck gave me a sweet memory.”
“No questions about murder.” Again it was a demand, not a question.
“I’ve already promised Billy.” Did both Max and Billy think she was untrustworthy?
“Good. Make your visits short and sweet. And then, let’s take some time for us.” He sounded determined. The dead could be mourned, but life was to be lived.
FRAN’S SHOP WAS AS ECLECTIC AS LIZ’S WAS PREDICTABLE. Oaxacan clay statuettes were displayed on a Hans Wegner teak wall cabinet. African tribal masks hung from a Victorian iron hat tree. Yet the overall impression was not a hodgepodge but a collection of amazing vitality and exuberance. Fran’s shop had been written up in Southern Living as one of the most unusual in the sea islands, offering glimpses of exotic worlds.
Fran stood behind a counter filled with cut-glass perfume bottles. A musky scent rose from a wooden bowl filled with potpourri. Fran’s stare was wary. “I saw you go into the station.”
Billy’s concern was quickly proven correct.
Fran’s voice was clipped. “Did you tell Billy about Russell and Jocelyn?”
Annie felt stung. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to go see him anyway about—” She broke off. The last person she wanted to tell about the anonymous note was Buck’s wife. “Something that had nothing to do with Russell.”
Fran’s eyes glittered. “About what?”
Annie felt miserable. “I can’t tell you. It had nothing to do with Russell. But when Billy asked if I’d talked to anyone about Jocelyn at the sports picnic, I had to tell him what you said.”
The silence between them was stiff and strained.
Annie took a step nearer Fran. “Let’s not quarrel. We all want Iris’s murderer caught.”
Fran’s angular face looked tired and worried. “Of course we want the murderer caught. But I intend to make it clear to Billy that you misunderstood what I said.” She was decisive. “Sure, Russell was upset that night. Why not? Sam was his best friend. He didn’t want to talk to Jocelyn. Guys can’t handle emotion. That’s all it amounted to.”
“I’m sure Billy will talk to Russell, clear everything up. Anyway, that’s not why I came to see you.”
Fran heard Annie out. She was pensive. “A memory of Iris? She was always there. She hung around us.”
Annie wondered if Fran sensed the picture she painted, Fran a part of a group, Iris peripheral.
“She was like a ghost that last year, never quite real.” Fran turned her hands over in helplessness. “I don’t know if that makes any sense. I don’t know any way to say it better. I didn’t have any idea what was wrong until Sam died. That’s when I heard whispers, that he was on drugs and that Iris sold them to him. I couldn’t believe it. But when she ran away, I knew. It was awful.” Her look was bitter. “Sam was the handsomest guy in our class. We all wanted to date him.” Fran’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t talk about Iris now. I don’t want to remember.” Whirling, she moved from behind the counter, disappeared through a beaded curtain into a back room.
ANNIE PARKED IN FRONT OF THE MONTGOMERY HOUSE. SHE didn’t want to get out of her car and knock on the front door of the two-story yellow stucco home that overlooked a lagoon. Russell had built it and the house was comfortable and welcoming. Or had always been so in the past.
Annie no longer felt sure of welcome from the group that had known both Iris and Jocelyn. Maybe talking to them was a big mistake. So far, she’d done nothing but reinforce the idea that she was meddling in a police investigation. That wasn’t what she had intended.
She forced herself forward. Maybe Russell wouldn’t be home. Annie walked slowly up the walk. A buzz saw whined in the distance. Russell had recently mentioned expanding the deck. He was having a busman’s holiday this sunny April afternoon.
He saw her as she rounded the corner of the house. The buzz saw’s shrill whine was cut off. He swiped his hands on his khaki shorts and walked toward her, big, muscular, attractive. But his face was wary.
Annie felt small inside. She wondered if he’d talked with either Liz or Fran.
“Hey, Russell.” She hoped she didn’t sound as craven as she felt.
He suddenly frowned. “Is everything okay at the house? The plumber’s there even though it’s Saturday. He’s promised to keep after it until everything’s fixed.”
It was such a relief that he connected her visit with the Franklin house and not with Iris that she managed a tentative smile. “Everything’s fine at the Franklin house. We aren’t thinking much about the house now. Not after what happened last night. I’m upset that I asked her to our party and something awful happened. I’m putting together a memorial for Iris and I’m talking to people who knew her, asking for good memories. I hoped you could help.”
He looked startled. “Well, sure. I’ll talk to Liz—”
Annie interrupted. “I just spoke with her a few minutes ago.” Annie didn’t tell him his wife had declined to contribute. Maybe that wasn’t playing fair. At this point, she didn’t care. She’d set out to talk to those who’d known Iris. She was going to finish the task even if it left her friendships in shambles. She braced for another rejection as she sketched what she had in mind.
Russell looked thoughtful. “I felt sorry for Iris. She never seemed to belong. She was always around, but she didn’t have fun like the rest of us. Liz was always nice—”
Annie nodded and wondered why Liz didn’t have any good memories to share.
“—but Liz is always nice to people. Iris was real quiet. I think a lot of it went back to her mom and Hootie. Hootie was her pet owl. She’d raised him from when he was little and must have fallen out of a tree or something. Everybody said he’d die and she was stupid to try to take care of him. She didn’t pay any attention and the owl didn’t die. We were maybe nine or ten then. Maybe it would have been better if the owl had died right off.”
Annie pictured the huge eyes of an owl, heard in her mind the plaintive cry. “What happened?”
“Her grandma had fixed a big wire cage in one of their trees. Hootie got out. Somebody shot him.” Russell kicked at a pine cone on the ground. “That happened not long after her mom died. I think that’s when Iris kind of went her own way. Sometimes I thought she had a look like an owl, a real distant stare.”
THE MODEST GRAY WOOD COTTAGE SAT HIGH ON PILINGS, safe from storm surges. A wraparound deck afforded views of the Sound and the salt marsh. Annie was pleased to see Cara’s convertible parked beneath the house. Annie wondered if Cara would provide a memory. At least she’d come to see Iris at Nightingale Courts though it was after Cara’s departure that Iris had appeared lonely and troubled.
Annie hoped Cara would offer more information for Iris’s spirit poster. Annie was grateful for Buck’s and Russell’s insights. She would find a photo online of a brilliantly yellow canary. Last year she’d taken a night photo of a barred owl in their backyard. She would likely never know whether Iris’s owl was a great horned or a barred, but the photo was arresting, a frontal shot with those huge eyes. “Here’s looking at you,” they seemed to say. Iris would be pleased. Annie needed more to be satisfied with her poster. She had no intention of giving up. She would keep on looking for memories, on the island and on the mainland.
As she walked toward the cabin, the sound of her footsteps on the oyster-shell drive was lost in the throbbing whop-whop of a low-flying Coast Guard helicopter. Annie looked up, shading her eyes. She wondered if the bright orange Dolphin was returning to the Savannah air station from a usual patrol or if a boater was in trouble somewhere on the Sound.
The path approached Cara’s cabin from one side, affording a view of the deck overlooking the marsh. Cara stood at the railing, facing the undulating spartina grass and the green water beyond.
The roar of the rotors was loud and intense. Annie came near, close enough to call out. The shout died in her throat as Cara turned away from the view.
Cara’s head hung down. Tears streaked a mottled face. She clutched a portrait frame against her chest. She walked heavily to a rattan chair and sank into it, a figure of despair.
Annie hesitated, then turned away. Cara was alone, deliberately, decisively alone, plunged into a private torment. This was not a moment she intended to share. Offering solace would be an affront.
Annie hurried to her car, started it, backed and turned in the drive, grateful that the fading roar of the rotors masked her departure.
What had she seen and what did it mean? Was Cara’s grief for Iris? That would suggest a relationship far deeper than anyone knew.
If so, Billy should know.
Annie’s heart rebelled. She wouldn’t reveal Cara’s heartbreak unless she had no choice.