Annie sat in the backseat of Max’s Jeep, one arm around Tim’s thin shoulders. He cried in jerky, gulping sobs.
“It’s all right, honey.” Annie’s voice was soft. “We’re taking you home to your mom. Everything’s all right now.”
Max glanced over his shoulder. “You were brave, Tim. You’ve had a tough time, thinking you’d shot a man. Now you know you didn’t. If you hadn’t been quick and smart, Annie could have been killed. Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
Tim sat a little straighter. His breathing began to ease. “I’m a pitcher. At least,” now his voice drooped, “I used to be. But,” he sounded eager, “I’m going to have another operation and they think a rod will work and I’ll be able to walk right again and maybe even run. If I do, I’ll go out for baseball. I can throw.” He spoke with quiet pride.
“Yes, you can.” Max’s admiration was obvious. “Thank God.”
Tim swiped at his splotchy face. “It all happened pretty fast. I wasn’t thinking about being brave. But,” and he slid a shy sideways glance at Annie, “you tried to help me. I couldn’t let him hurt you. I had a bunch of grapeshot I’d dug out of the hill. I was half-nuts wondering what I was going to do, so I started digging. I used a piece of old brick. I found almost a dozen.” He twisted against the seat belt and shoved his hand in his pocket and brought out a couple of dirt-encrusted iron balls. “See? They’re real dirty, but they’re solid iron.”
The Jeep turned into the big circular drive. Sunlight sparkled on the red tile roof. Neva Wagner flew down the shallow front steps and ran toward the car.
Max stopped the Jeep.
Tim flung open the door and tumbled into his mother’s arms.
She held to him, sobbing. “Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. I’m so sorry.”
He pulled back, looked up at her, his face earnest. “Mom, listen, I wasn’t going to really hurt Booth. I was aiming at his leg. ’Cause of my leg. And now I’m sorry. Oh Mom, I’m sorry.”
VIOLET, MAUVE, ROSE, and gold streaked the sky above the darkening marsh as the sun set. Brilliantly green spartina grass swayed in a gentle breeze, rustling like softly snapped cards. An unseen clapper rail cackled.
Giselle, her wasted face illuminated by joy, pointed at a great blue heron stalking in shallow water.
Jean watched her sister. “He’s a big guy.” She’d never been much to notice birds until they’d moved to the island. Now she knew so much about so many of them, thanks to Giselle. Jean doubted her sister could see the four-foot-tall, slate-colored bird with great clarity, but she still took pleasure in whatever fuzzy image she perceived.
They sat, as they did every evening, on the deck overlooking the marsh. Jean reached over to tuck the quilt more snugly around Giselle’s waist.
Giselle turned. “I’m so happy.” The glow of the sunset made her face lovely despite its thinness.
Jean took her sister’s hand and smiled through her tears. Whatever days remained, she and Giselle could spend them together in this peaceful place on this beautiful island, thanks to good people. She knew suddenly that when Giselle was gone, she would stay on the island, do her best for all the kids.
Whenever she saw the marsh, she would remember Giselle.
MEREDITH’S HEART-SHAPED FACE was eager. “I’ll come and see you, Mom. You’ll do great. When you get out, we can go home to Atlanta.”
Ellen trembled. She wanted a drink so badly. Just one drink. That would make her feel steady, give her strength.
A car pulled up in front of the inn.
She felt Meredith’s hand, warm on her elbow. “They’re here.”
The car from the rehab clinic stopped and a middle-aged woman stepped out and came briskly toward them.
Ellen pulled Meredith into her arms. “I’ll do my best, baby. I’ll do my best.”
“MOM?”
At the soft cry, Darren Dubois’s mother came out of the chair next to the hospital bed. She leaned down and took her son’s hand. “Darren.” Tears spilled down her face.
He blinked, looking puzzled. “My shoulder hurts.” He gazed around the small narrow room at the white walls and the television mounted high on the wall opposite the end of the bed. “Where am I? What happened to me?”
“Oh, Darren.” She told him in a rush, the shooting, the helicopter ride to Savannah, the long days and nights as the swelling decreased in his brain. “You were hurt so bad. Not so much from the shot but when you hit your head.”
His eyes widened in terror. He struggled to sit up. “Click told me…a joke with Mr. Gilbert…that night I followed Mr. Gilbert…he was in a highwayman costume with a mask. I saw him go into the woods…the next day when they found the costume in the lake I thought he had to be the one who shot Mr. Wagner. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I set a trap…”
“He’s in jail, honey. But when no one was sure who shot you, the police chief put out the word you’d died and he sent an officer to sit outside the door,” she nodded her head, “to protect you. He kept you safe. And when you get well,” her voice was stern, “you are going down to that police station and thank everyone there and you are going to do cleanup and whatever work you can do to help.”
“The police chief sent somebody to see over me?”
“He did. He’s a fine man, Chief Cameron. I told him you’d be coming.”
“Maybe,” there was an eager gleam in Darren’s eyes, “he’ll let me watch them work. I’d like to be a policeman. I can figure things out.”
EMMA CLYDE EXUDED self-satisfaction. “The solution came from the Rectangle of Interest. As I told everyone.” Her supercilious gaze swept around the coffee area at Death on Demand. It was after hours.
Annie loved her bookstore when the aisles teemed with readers. She also loved the store when the front shutters were closed and old and dear friends gathered.
Emma was a picture of summer comfort in a seersucker caftan that improbably featured bat-size red butterflies against a white background. Laurel’s lime-green linen dress and matching headband emphasized the camellia perfection of her skin and the silver gold of her hair. Henny was bright in a raspberry T-shirt and slacks.
Emma, as always, assumed that she was the central figure. She nodded emphatically. “Tim Talbot’s knowledge meant the murderer’s apprehension was assured.”
“Not quite.” Annie intended to sound crisp. Instead, her voice was wobbly. “Tim saved our lives. If he hadn’t dug around in that old site and found grapeshot, Larry would have killed us.”
Max’s tone was admiring. “He found a perfect weapon. They’re made of iron and about the size of a golf ball. He zinged Larry’s arm, knocking the knife out of his hand, then got him in the back of the head.” Max’s grin was huge. “It turns out Tim was a super Little League pitcher.”
Henny commented mildly, “Sometimes it seems so much a matter of one card falling and then another. Once Larry realized Tim must have seen him when he darted into the woods, Larry had to try and find him. When Rosalind Parker called the directors to say someone had broken into the Haven kitchen, Larry started searching in the vicinity of the Haven. Larry considered himself something of an authority on island history. He knew all about a fort there.”
Laurel spoke proudly, “If Max hadn’t kept trying to help Jean, he and Billy wouldn’t have been there to hear Annie’s shout.”
Max was grim. “I had all the pieces and I didn’t fit them together. Larry said he tried to sell a rare stamp he’d bought at a discount from Booth, and the stamp was a fake. Larry figured if he could get access to Booth’s computer he could switch funds to his account and later claim that Booth had agreed to give him the money in exchange for his vote against Jean. Everything depended upon Click. Larry spun Click some kind of tale about putting a joke program into Booth’s computer. What Larry needed were passwords. Click thought he was part of a joke that would be explained at the program Friday night. Instead, Larry got the information he needed, met Click at the nature preserve, and killed him. Larry pulled out Click’s pockets to get back the money he’d paid. When Booth was playing golf Friday morning, Larry slipped into his study. He switched the funds. That’s why Booth had to die that night. When he ran into Booth at the Haven that night, Larry clapped him on the back and placed the tape on the back of his shirt. He would have gotten away with everything if it weren’t,” and his voice was proud, “for Annie.”
Emma looked dour.
Annie felt a moment’s compunction. Fair was fair. “If I hadn’t gone to look at Emma’s Rectangle of Interest, I wouldn’t have realized what Tim probably saw. As Emma said, Tim made all the difference.”
“A celebration is in order.” Henny opened a special cabinet. She worked swiftly, bourbon and Coke for Emma, sherry for Laurel, gin and tonics for herself and Annie, a Dos Equis for Max.
Henny served the drinks to murmured thank-yous. She lifted her glass. “A toast to our dear brave Annie, to persevering Max, to prescient Emma—”
Emma’s nod was regal.
“—to perceptive Laurel and to moi—”
As they raised their glasses, Henny cleared her throat and nodded toward the watercolors: “—The island’s champion mystery reader.” Her glance at Emma was triumphant. She pointed at the paintings in order. “Her Royal Spyness by Rhys Bowen, Southern Fried by Cathy Pickens, The Witch Doctor’s Wife by Tamar Myers, A Vicky Hill Exclusive! by Hannah Dennison, and All the Wrong Moves by Merline Lovelace.”