Laughed ’Til He Died (22 page)

“Hey, fellow, it’s hot and your mom wants you to come home. Come on, now. I know you’re here. You broke into the Haven, probably to get some food. Come on out and you can have all you want to eat.”

M
AX FELT DOUR
as he pulled the door wide, flicked on the light. He had spent the day trying to find evidence in support
of Jean. Instead, he was contributing another strand to the web that enmeshed her. He went directly to the costume trunk and lifted the lid.

Billy knelt and focused a small camera he’d taken from his pocket. “Got a nice feature. The time and date of the photo is recorded.” He pressed and the flash flickered.

The costumes were listed in order on a sheet of paper pasted on the interior of the trunk lid. Number 12 read:
Witch’s robe and hat
.

Billy looked at the picture, nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll take a couple more. Just in case.” He finished, then nodded at the chest. “As a volunteer, do you feel comfortable checking the trunk to see if the costume is there?”

Max nodded. He carefully shifted through the stacked costumes. He reached the bottom of the trunk. There was no witch costume in the trunk.

Billy made no comment. He turned and walked outside.

Max followed. He closed the door, his face drawn in a tight frown.

A
NNIE DIDN’T TAKE
time to think. Evil called in a reassuring voice on the other side of the hill. “Don’t come out, Tim,” she yelled with all her might. She wanted to run, seek sanctuary, hurl herself on the path to safety.

She couldn’t leave a thin, scared kid alone to face death.

Larry Gilbert came around the side of the hill. He held a knife in his hand. His deep-set brown eyes looked opaque, inhuman. His bony face twisted in fury.

Annie screamed: “Don’t come out, Tim. Don’t!”

T
HE SCREAM WAS
distant, yet near.

Max jerked around, stared across the lake. “That’s Annie.” The water glittered in the hot sun. There was no one to be seen anywhere. He opened his mouth to yell, and a heavy hand clapped across his face.

“Don’t give warning. There’s only one place where the sound carries across the lake like that. Follow me.” Billy broke into a run. He was a big man, but he could move fast.

Max was right behind him. The forest looked impenetrable, but Billy knew where to go. Billy was an island boy. If anyone could reach Annie in time, it was Billy. Abruptly, Billy swerved to his right, plunging into a dim tunnel in the woods. Despite the vines and creepers and broken branches, Billy didn’t slow, nor did Max. They thrashed along the path, bulling through obstructions, their breathing increasingly labored.

Annie, I’m coming, Annie, I’m coming…

G
ONE WAS THE
cool, wry, self-contained Larry Gilbert popular with island hostesses. How many times had she danced with him at the country club, felt the light pressure of his hand on her back, looked up into his smiling face? Now his features were ugly with hate, his dark eyes wild and unreasoning.

Annie backed away. “Stop, Larry.” She yelled with all her might. Yet she despaired of being heard. If no one came, she and Tim were alone against a man with a knife, a man who could not let them live. There was no one to help her, no one to help Tim. The Haven was closed. The woods were thick and wild and the only ears belonged to birds and beasts.

“Shut up.” Larry’s voice was a rasp. Sweat beaded his face.
He moved toward her, one step at a time, death gleaming in his eyes.

Behind him, a dark head eased up to look over the top of the mound.

Annie’s throat was parched. It was an effort to speak. “You can’t get both of us, Larry. Tim will stay hidden.” She raised her voice, hoping Tim would understand, heed her warning, slip back down the other side of the hill. “Tim isn’t going to come out. He’s going to run into the woods. If you come after me, he’ll run and escape and then you’re finished.”

Instead, Tim came to his feet on top of the hill. He was dirty and shaking, his clothes thick with dust, his hands grimy. His face was slack with fatigue and despair. “She didn’t have anything to do with killing him.” His voice was ragged. “Let her go. I’ll come.”

The words made no sense.

Tim began to cry, sobs shaking his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

Larry swung toward the hill. “What are you talking about?”

At that instant, Larry wasn’t looking toward Annie. He might sense peripheral movement, but that was a chance she had to take. She eased to her left, flicking her glance between Larry Gilbert and a mound of rubble behind a weathered spar uncovered by erosion.

“Booth.” There was despair in Tim’s thin voice. “I was lying there and I sighted him. I was holding my rifle and counting down and the lights went out. I heard the shot. I don’t remember pulling the trigger.”

Larry’s ravaged face was incredulous.

Annie leaned down and grabbed a piece of brick. She
straightened, the sharp-edged fragment in her right hand. It wasn’t much of a weapon against a knife. The rough lump was all she had or was likely to have.

Larry took a step toward the hill. “I thought you saw me.” His voice cracked.

Tim looked puzzled. “You came toward the path. I saw your face in the little light. I thought you were scared because of the shot and then I looked back at the stage and they had some light and Booth was bleeding.”

“Let him go, Larry. He didn’t connect you to the shot.” Annie felt a wave of terrible sadness. Tim had disappeared because he thought he’d killed a man. He’d carried anger and a rifle to the Haven Friday night and lain on the thick tree branch and looked down at the man he blamed for his injuries. Was it any wonder that when the lights went out and a shot sounded, he believed he’d pulled the trigger? All he knew was what he had intended, and his stepfather lying dead. When the police came to his house Sunday, he’d run away, terrified. He hid because he thought he was guilty of murder. He didn’t know Click and Darren had been murdered. He didn’t realize he’d looked down from the tree and seen a murderer pass.

Larry’s head jerked toward Annie. He was breathing fast, like a man at the end of a long run. His face was gaunt, despairing, driven. Merciless.

Annie saw her death and Tim’s in his eyes.

“You know.” His voice was toneless.

“Let us go, Larry. It’s too late now. Max is on his way here.” If only that were true. “There’s no point in killing us. They’re going to catch you.” She forced herself to keep her eyes on Larry, hold his attention.

“Maybe we can work something out.” Larry’s voice was hid
eously ingenuous. His face was cunning and feral with a travesty of a smile. “Tim can come down and we’ll talk about—”

“Don’t come down, Tim.” Annie’s voice rose in desperation. “He’s going to kill us. He shot Booth.”

“Damn you.” Larry sprang toward her.

Tim disappeared behind the mound.

Larry grabbed Annie’s left wrist. He lifted the knife, then gave a yell of pain.

The knife fell to the ground.

Struggling, Annie wrenched free, kicking him hard.

On top of the mound, Tim wound up and threw again with force and accuracy.

A dirt-encrusted ball struck Larry in the back of the head. He dropped to the ground.

“Police. Hands up. Police.” Billy’s shout was breathless. He thundered toward them.

Larry rolled to his feet, hunting for the knife. As he bent to grab the handle, Max tackled him and Larry slammed into the ground.

A
nnie 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.”

V
IOLET, 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.

M
EREDITH’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.”

“M
OM
?”

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.”

E
MMA
C
LYDE 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.”