ANNIE GLANCED IN her rearview mirror. That blue Ford had been behind her red Volvo on Saturday when she went to the store. She’d spotted it on Sunday afternoon when she and Max went to the club for brunch. Now it was behind her this morning, obviously having waited for her to pass one of the side roads that opened onto Sand Dollar Road. It didn’t take the perspicacity of G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown to guess the identity of the driver.
Annie picked up speed. It didn’t matter. Her too-late father could trail her around the island from now until next summer and she wouldn’t change her mind. She had too much to do, including shopping for Max and thinking about the future—a future that did not include the driver of the blue Ford. She slammed out of her car, ignoring the Ford as it parked in the lane behind her. Whistling “Jingle Bells,” she hurried toward the boardwalk.
Red and green Christmas garlands were wrapped around the light poles and strung along the seawall. The sun sparkled on jade-green water and boats ranging from sailfish to yachts. Annie took a deep breath and looked beyond the harbor to a pod of porpoises playfully diving. It was already in the fifties and would reach the low sixties, a December day that made winter seem far away. A happy day, and a day she was determined to keep that way, despite the blue Ford. And Laurel.
Annie heard footsteps behind her.
She walked faster, reached Death on Demand, unlocked the door and hurried inside. She moved purposefully down the center aisle, accompanied by Agatha, who nipped at her ankle in between emitting sharp yowls.
“I am not late,” Annie protested. “And you have dry food; delicious, nutritious dry food.” Annie picked up speed and was glad for evasion skills perfected in long-ago soccer games. She reached the coffee bar unscathed, shook down fresh food, opened a can of dietary soft food.
Agatha glared, then crouched over her bowl.
Gradually, Annie relaxed. The front door hadn’t opened. Okay, should she string the Christmas lights around the mugs shelved behind the coffee bar? Or unpack some of the boxes of books that had arrived Saturday? She moved briskly to the storeroom and picked up the box marked COFFEE BAR CHRISTMAS LIGHTS.
As Annie deposited the box on the coffee bar, the phone rang. She reached out.
“Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore east of Atlanta.” She loved the phrase, which rolled over her tongue as easily as a Godiva chocolate.
“And south of Pittsburgh,” came a cheerful voice.
“Henny!” Henrietta Brawley was Death on Demand’s best customer, a club woman of enormous skill and dedication, a gifted actress, a former schoolteacher, a onetime Peace Corps volunteer and she was, most of all, one of Annie’s best friends. Annie felt only a small pang as she realized that Henny, vacationing in Pittsburgh, had probably done a lot of her book shopping at Mystery Lovers Bookshop in the Pittsburgh suburb of Oakmont. But this wasn’t the season to be piggy. “Say hello to Mary Alice for me.” Annie had met Mary Alice Gorman, the ebullient owner, at a mystery conference.
“Will do. Annie, I’ve actually seen the hospital where Mary Roberts Rinehart went to nursing school!” Sheer delight lifted her voice. “I tried to figure out the wing where she and the others were quarantined with that smallpox outbreak over Christmas of 1895.”
Annie lifted the lid of the box, pulled out a strand and began to untangle it. Why had she put the lights away snarled like a ball of yarn attacked by Agatha?
A black nose poked over the edge of the box.
Oh. Right. Agatha had no doubt helped with the dismantling last Christmas, which might have encouraged a dump-it-in-fast mentality. A black paw patted the end of the strand. Annie reached for another strand. Maybe she could work with this one while Agatha investigated the first.
“Gosh, Henny, the actual building?” Mary Roberts Rinehart, once the grande dame of American mystery writers, had entered nursing school in late August of 1893 at the tender age of sixteen. It was there that she met a handsome young surgeon, Dr. Stanley Marshall Rinehart, who tutored her in German (an excuse to meet) and later would become her husband.
“Yes. I even walked down the halls. But I don’t know where the smallpox ward was. In Christmas 1895 when she was quarantined with a rowdy group of patients, she and Stanley sang Christmas carols to quiet them down. You know, they both had excellent singing voices. Oh, Annie”—a sigh of pure happiness—“I am having so much fun. Except—”
Annie pushed the stepstool behind the coffee bar, climbed, and carefully clipped the strand to the edge of the mug shelves.
“—I’m snowed in. Eight inches and it’s still falling. So I decided to make a few calls.”
Annie reached the end of one strand, leaned perilously sideways to snag another from the box. Agatha crouched to jump for the dangling end. Annie slipped loose a bracelet of bells and tossed it over Agatha’s head. The cat turned in midjump. Annie was applauding her own quick-wittedness and missed most of Henny’s sentence. “…wondered if you’d spoken with her.”
“Henny, you’re the first person I’ve talked to this morning. Except for Max.” The second strand clipped into place nicely. Annie reached for the third strand.
“I hope Max isn’t too worried,” Henny said quietly. “I’m afraid Laurel truly needs psychiatric help.”
The strand slithered from Annie’s hands, caromed off the counter, clattered to the floor, one end landing in Agatha’s water bowl.
“You talked to Laurel?” Annie sat down on the ladder.
“Well, you know how it is to talk to Laurel.” Henny sighed. “Annie, she is trying to communicate with that race car driver. You know, her third husband. Or maybe he was her second. And he’s dead. When I asked why, she would only say, ‘I must. I must,’ and then she skittered off, oh, you know how she does, and she chattered about crystals and gamma rays and auras—”
“Henny, you remember that woman—I don’t recall her name, Ophelia something or other, and she lived at Nightingale Courts—”
“Of course I remember,” Henny interrupted crisply. “That’s when Ingrid disappeared. Right after your wedding.”
That frightening disappearance had been solved with the help of Henny and Laurel. “You remember how Laurel wandered around murmuring about the boundaries of the mind and how we should open ourselves up to cosmic fields—”
“This time it’s different.” Henny spoke with finality, and Henny was not an alarmist. She was smart, empathetic, clever, a world-class mystery reader, and Laurel’s good friend. “I’m sorry, Annie. I’ll bet Max won’t admit there’s a problem”—Henny knew both of them very well indeed—“and I know it’s Christmas and you’re busy as you can be, but Laurel needs help.” There was a pause, then she added, her tone puzzled, “I tried Miss Dora first. She stays in touch with Laurel. But, Annie, it was the oddest thing. Miss Dora was evasive.”
Annie stared at the phone. This pronouncement was almost more shocking than Henny’s concern for Laurel. Miss Dora Brevard, the doyenne of Chastain, South Carolina, was direct, to the point and never minced words.
“Anyway, I could probably get to Nome before I could get home. The airports are closed, but I have a huge stack—Oh well, Annie, have a great Christmas—but see about Laurel.”
Annie didn’t even try to retrieve the felled light strand from Agatha, who was pulling it toward the front of the store. Instead, she walked slowly up the central aisle. By the time she reached the cash desk, she had the beginnings of a plan. It took six calls to find Pamela Potts.
“Oh hi, Annie.” Pamela took opportunities as they came. “You are so good to call. I’m sure we can count on you for two casseroles, can’t we? I’m at the church now and we need to restock the freezer.”
Annie would have promised anything short of Max on a platter. “Listen Pamela, what time of day did you see Laurel at the cemetery?” Annie glanced toward the clock. A quarter to eleven.
“The church bell was striking, Annie. It was straight-up noon.”
“Thanks, Pamela.”
Max kept his expression pleasant but noncommittal as he shook hands with his visitor. But he felt stunned. Annie’s dad. Max glanced at the picture on his desk, dear Annie with her steady gray eyes and sandy hair and grave smile, then looked at an older, masculine version of that treasured face.
Pudge Laurance stared at Annie’s picture for a measurable moment, too, before he spoke. “You’re Annie’s husband?”
Max stood a little straighter, felt the intensity of another pair of gray eyes. He was absurdly pleased when Pudge Laurance smiled, a smile uncannily like Annie’s, and said softly, “You love her?”
“I do.” Max said it as firmly as he had spoken on the memorable day of his and Annie’s wedding.
Pudge grabbed Max’s hand, pumped it again. “I’m Pudge Laurance and I need your help.”
Max found his visitor was instantly likable, his face genial, his tone affable. There was charm here and an appealing plaintiveness. But Max stepped back, folded his arms. “Annie doesn’t want to see you. She said”—Max cleared his throat—“that you were twenty-five years too late.”
Pudge’s eyes were deep pools of sadness. Lines etched a suddenly anguished face. His mouth drooped beneath his mustache. “Please.” He pointed at the chair in front of Max’s desk. “Will you hear me out?”
Sandy hair, gray eyes, a face with lines that told of laughter and good humor. Max looked again at Annie’s picture. She was so determined. And so hurt. Maybe there weren’t any words that could undo the silence of twenty-five years.
What harm could it do to listen?
Max waved toward the chair.
Pudge’s grin was both insouciant and sad, ingratiating and abashed. It caught at Max’s heart.
Dust curled from beneath the Volvo’s wheels. In the thin light of the December sun, the long avenue beneath the live oaks had the murky quality of a grainy black and white photograph. Swaths of Spanish moss hung straight and still. The springlike warmth of the day didn’t pierce the glossy green leaves. Annie shivered and rolled up her windows. It didn’t take much imagination to hear the clip-clop of black hearses pulling a funeral hearse. A local legend held that on nights of the full moon, a tall woman in a long black cloak walked restlessly up and down the lane, seeking her husband who had been lost at sea in 1793.
Annie abruptly braked as a raccoon darted across the road. There were always explanations for sightings of that sort—a raccoon, for example, partially glimpsed, or an odd play of shadow in the lights of a car (but not in the 1800s), or simply a projection from the viewer’s mind.
Whatever, Annie picked up speed. The sooner she got out of this dim tunnel, the happier she would be. Probably Laurel wouldn’t come to the cemetery today. But the only way for Annie to judge Laurel’s mental state would be to see for herself. She was more worried by Henny’s call than she wanted to admit. Max, of course, continued to refuse to entertain any thought that Laurel’s actions might be a cause for concern.
The road curved to the right and came out of the live oak tunnel on a bluff above the Sound. The water glistened like polished jade. Stone walls marked the boundary of the cemetery. An iron gate marked the entrance. The gate was open.
Laurel’s latest car, a bright blue restored Morris Minor, was parked near a line of pittosporum shrubs to one side of the small whitewashed chapel which every year came closer to extinction. When first raised, the little chapel must have been far distant from the bluffs facing the Sound. Erosion at the pace of three feet a year from the force of tidal currents and storm surf had brought the crumbling shoreline within a stone’s throw. Henny Brawley was chair of a committee raising funds to move the chapel. The cemetery, laid out to the south, was as yet in no danger.
Annie parked behind the shiny Morris. The slam of the Volvo door startled a deer in a nearby shrub. The deer bolted, its fluffy white tail readily visible in contrast to its dusky gray winter coat.
The onshore breeze rustled the shrubs as Annie stepped through the gate. Graves with tumbling, weathered headstones seemed to be tucked at random among the graceful slash pines, glossy-leaved magnolias and, of course, the ever-present live oaks. Annie was not a graveyard habitué. She looked around and felt as out of place as a redneck in a tearoom. She had no business here in this serene enclave of peace and farewell.
She would have turned back, but she heard a faraway murmur, the sound of a voice she knew well. Annie took a deep breath and walked swiftly, following the dusty gray path as it wound past family lots and occasional lone graves. Some of these bore fresh Christmas wreaths. She stopped to look down at one grave:
WALTER WALLACE
APRIL 12, 1840–JUNE 16, 1863
It didn’t take a history book to know that war had claimed a short life. The wreath was so fresh that when Annie leaned down to straighten the bow, she could smell the fresh pine. Pamela Potts had come this way.
The husky voice murmured on the other side of a clump of pines.
Annie ducked through the pines, slipping a little on slick golden needles. She pushed aside a limb.
Laurel had obviously given some thought to her appearance. Annie wondered what it revealed of her mother-in-law’s psyche that she had selected (quite a nice foil for her blond beauty) a navy wool gabardine jacket with gold-cord-trimmed sleeves, peaked lapels, six gold-tone crest buttons and flap pockets with a gold-and-white-striped blouse and white wool slacks. The gold cord on the jacket matched the gold-trim chain on her navy kidskin flats. Laurel looked equally ready to man a flotilla or tap-dance in The Pirates of Penzance.
A half dozen graves ranged on ground sloping down from a ridge. Laurel stood with one hand on the marble steering wheel that jutted from the largest gravestone.
“…know that you are most likely very busy. Why, if the crowds cheered for you here, I can imagine the shouts that must ring among the clouds.” A faint frown marred that beautiful face. “Can shouts ring among clouds? One might think there would be a damping effect. Well”—a small laugh—“no matter. I’m sure there are sound engineers who have studied this problem in depth. If, indeed, it is a problem. But I am sure”—there was a burst of confidence in her husky voice—“that race you must. Why, what would heaven be if we could not pursue the activities which afforded us the most joy in our earthly realm?” Laurel smoothed a tendril of golden hair stirred by the wind.
Annie thought of five husbands and earthly joy.
“Each heart must follow its proclivities. So”—Laurel patted the steering wheel—“I know you are racing. And therefore”—a sunny smile—“I’m sure that you know Buddy. Oh, how Buddy loves to race!” She clasped her hands together. “Dear Go-Dog—I hope you won’t mind my addressing you so familiarly, but I feel as if we are confreres, I have ventured so often to this quiet glen—please”—and now her tone was brisk—“tell Buddy that I truly must speak with him.” There was the slightest hint of impatience. “I know he’s busy, too.” Her eyes widened. “Oh dear, I hope you aren’t competitors. But no, no, I would not have been led here were that the case and truly I have to thank Providence for this opportunity.” She beamed at the marble steering wheel. “I awoke one night with the clearest picture in my mind—stock cars, a great smash-up—oh, that was such a shame, Go-Dog, and you were in the lead—and a white marble steering wheel. It led me right to you. And I must depend upon your good offices because dear Buddy is buried in Milan and I truly haven’t time to go there. I need his advice. I have decided to liquidate a great amount of stock—oh, those particulars are neither here nor there—and use it for the good of mankind. Now, there are those who might have difficulty seeing Buddy as a financial adviser. But”—she leaned closer to the stone—“once I was getting ready to sell my Microsoft stock and do you know what happened? Buddy’s little red Porsche simply zoomed into my room late one night and he jumped out. He looked dashing in his racing goggles and soft leather hat and white silk muffler—fringed silk—and he said firmly, ‘Ne vends pas ces stocks, ma chérie.’” She raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, Buddy was Italian, but he also spoke French when—well, at some of our more special moments. Of course, I held on to that stock and you know how well it’s done. So I won’t listen to anyone but Buddy. Now, it may be that I shan’t have to bother you again.” A soft laugh. “Although I hope I’ve not been a bother. Do you know, I think you and I should have got on famously had we met at an earlier time.” A pause. “When you were alive. Because I feel so drawn to this lovely spot.” One coral-tipped hand was flung wide. “However, it may be that I am being led. I received the loveliest call from a Friend. That’s a Friend of the Library, Go-Dog. In any event, she’s told me about the most marvelous place to reach out to the Other Side—the Evermore Foundation. She said its president—Dr. Swanson—is simply wonderful! The kindest man, and he is able to put you in touch with everyone! Well, not exactly everyone. No frivolous or mean-spirited contacts are permitted. Don’t you think that’s lovely? To keep the plane of connection at a very high level? But I wanted you to be the first to know because you may be responsible for that call.” She wagged a pink-tipped finger playfully. “Of course, if I don’t speak with Buddy, I will hurry right back to you. Good-bye for now, Go-Dog.” Laurel gave the steering wheel a final soft pat.
Annie plunged down the slope, skidding a little on the pine needles.
Laurel reached out to keep her from falling. “Annie, my dear. What a pleasant surprise.”
Annie looked deep into bright blue eyes. Crazed blue eyes? “Laurel…” Despite Annie’s firm intention to sound casual and unconcerned, she sounded like a Budweiser lizard spotting a frog. “You can’t talk to dead people.”
Laurel’s laugh was as light and sweet as distant wind chimes. The gaze she bent on Annie expressed chagrin, disappointment and just a soupçon of embarrassment. “My dear, I would have expected better of you.” Clearly the embarrassment was on Annie’s behalf. A delicate sigh. “But we all do what we can do. I’m sure you mean well.”
“Laurel.” Annie looked deep into those eyes, searching for even a hint of humor. Laurel had evidenced other odd enthusiasms through the years, wedding customs and saints and ghosts and Shakespeare, but she had not sought counsel from the dead. Especially not financial counsel.
Laurel’s eyes met Annie’s, her gaze kindly, interested and utterly serious. She clasped her hands to her heart. “Annie, you will excuse me, I know, but I feel compelled to continue my quest. I know that if I can talk to Buddy, everything will be all right.” Her lower lip trembled. “You see, I have felt quite frightened and it came to me—things do, you know—that everything would be all right if only I could talk to Buddy.”
Laurel frightened! Annie couldn’t have been more shocked had Go-Dog suddenly materialized beside them. She stared at her mother-in-law and saw uncertainty and despair in her eyes and bowed shoulders in the elegant jacket and an aura of frailness and confusion.
Laurel pressed one hand to her lips, then she looked past Annie.
It was painful to Annie to see the effort it took for Laurel to lift her face and manage a smile.
But Laurel was almost her old insouciant self when she called out, “Gertrude, what a pleasure to see you.” Laurel clapped her hands together. “Why, Annie, look who’s here! It’s Gertrude.”
Annie looked over her shoulder.
Gertrude Parker’s long, horsey face sported a strained smile and she had the decency to avert her eyes from Annie.
Annie stared at her frostily. Clearly Gertrude had crept up to hear Laurel’s soliloquy, intending to bring an eyewitness report to as many islanders as she could reach by phone and E-mail before the ten o’clock news.
“Hello, Laurel, Annie.” Gertrude’s voice was a high whinny. Her eyes glistened with interest. She came even with Annie, stepped past to look avidly at Go-Dog’s grave.
Laurel gazed around the clearing. “Isn’t this cheerful! So many of us converging right here!” Laurel looked beyond Gertrude and Annie toward the pines. “Are you with Gertrude?” Then she blinked. “Oh my. Oh, Annie.”
Annie didn’t look around again. She knew who stood behind her. Worry about Laurel was swept away by a furious spurt of anger. How dare he follow her! And wouldn’t this be a choice item for Gertrude’s gossip mill? What would she emphasize, Laurel’s tête-à-têtes with Johnny Go-Dog Davis or the intriguing appearance of Annie Laurance Darling’s father? Annie could imagine Gertrude’s unctuous tone: Well, my dear, I am not one to gossip, but I was out tending to some graves, oh you know, I just feel it is my duty at Christmastime, and I happened to overhear Laurel Roethke, you know, she’s Max Darling’s mother, and she was talking, that’s the only way I can put it, she was simply having a conversation with Go-Dog Davis. And to cap it off, here came Annie Darling and she looked like she was worried to death. (A little giggle.) And then, you won’t believe this, but this man came up behind us…
Annie was damned if she was going to give Gertrude anything to crow about. She said briskly, “Laurel, my”—it took enormous effort—“father’s visiting and, of course, he’s eager to meet you.”
Annie had to hand it to Laurel. No one would imagine there was anything peculiar either in the circumstances of this meeting or in the locale. Laurel bestowed a charming smile on Pudge Laurance. “Such a pleasure. We have so much in common, don’t we? Our dear children have truly made a love match and isn’t that simply the greatest achievement of all?” As Laurel burbled, she somehow maneuvered Gertrude—surely she didn’t actually push her—toward the path and they were walking out of the cemetery.
Annie knew that Laurel, with her uncanny ability to pick up on nuances, perceived Annie’s turmoil and she was deflecting Gertrude just as surely as a magician whips a red scarf to conceal the hidden ace. Gertrude kept attempting to turn and look back at Annie and her father, but Laurel firmly grasped her arm and moved them ahead at a rapid rate. And, of course, Annie thought sourly, she was also avoiding a grilling by Annie.
Annie allowed herself to lag back. She didn’t intend to talk to her unwelcome companion, but she was not eager to end up by the gate to face Gertrude’s scrutiny. She walked slowly and stared down at the dusty gray path.
“There’s something rotten going on.” Pudge Laurance reached out and gripped Annie’s arm.
She swung to face him, yanking her arm free. She realized abruptly that he wasn’t looking at her. He had stopped, too, but his eyes followed the women on the path as they curved around a clump of pines and out of sight. His pleasant face was somber, his gaze worried. He tugged at his mustache.
“What do you mean?” Why should he care about gossip? Besides, no man would likely pick up on Laurel’s artful handling of Gertrude and the reason why. As for Laurel—and no doubt he, too, had overheard that disturbing soliloquy—why should he care what Laurel did?
He bent his head, deep in thought, fingers still tugging at his mustache.
In the silence, Annie studied the man who meant both too much and too little to her. He might have been any island visitor, a blue polo shirt and white crew-neck sweater, khaki slacks, running shoes, but his intelligent features were too bleak for a man on a holiday. He looked up, and his eyes demanded her attention.
“This Dr. Swanson she talked about—”
So he had overheard Laurel.
“—he’s the guy Happy says is taking advantage of her sister. He…”
Annie folded her arms, held them tightly against her. She shut out his voice. What was it he had said that first day—“Annie, I’ve looked for you for a long, long time?” Had she ever, even for an instant, believed that he had come to the island seeking her?
“Happy?” Annie’s voice was harsh. “Who’s Happy?”
Pudge Laurance shoved a hand through his hair. A lock dangled forward and he looked boyish—boyish and uncertain. He swallowed. “Happy’s my ex-wife and her sister is—”
Annie didn’t wait to hear. She broke into a run, the dust scuffing beneath her feet. She never wanted to hear about this wife or any wife. Ex-wife. That would be expected, wouldn’t it, of a man who wasn’t there for anyone, not for Annie’s mother or Annie or this Happy, whoever she was. Annie felt the hot rush of tears. He hadn’t come to the island to look for her. She should have known that right from the first. She happened to be living where he came to see an ex-wife. That was right in character, wasn’t it? His arrival had nothing to do with Annie.
As she burst through the gate, veered toward her car, she saw Laurel’s outstretched hand, heard her soft, “Oh,” and she saw, too, the avid delight in Gertrude’s face. Ignoring them both as well as the shout from behind her, Annie slammed into the Volvo, twisted the ignition, pumped the gas and jolted the Volvo back far enough from the blue Morris to swing around and gun toward the dim tunnel beneath the live oaks.