Dare to Die by Carolyn Hart

best on the island and the view of the bay from the pavilion is great.” But who was she to tell a native islander? Annie rushed on, aware of Iris’s limited wardrobe.“It’s down home. Everyone will be casual. There’s a mixture of people. You’ll probably know a lot of them.” She made a quick decision to leave the linen outfit in the closet, substitute a striped red-and-white tee, jeans, and red sandals.
    â€œA party at the pavilion.” Iris’s expression was a mixture of uncertainty and trepidation. “The last time I was there…” Her voice trailed away.
    â€œPlease come. Then you’ll know you’re home.” The pavilion hosted every kind of event from fund drives to school groups to political rallies to private parties. “Do you remember how the harbor lights spill across the water after the sun goes down?” Annie loved the harbor after dark, the smell of creosoted timbers and saltwater, the soft whisper of the sea against the pilings, an occasional glimpse of faraway lights as cabin cruisers sailed past carrying their passengers to nearby docks or faraway ports.
    Iris stroked to the ladder. She looked up, her face resolute. “I’ll come.” She climbed up the ladder. “I’ll be quick.” She walked away.
    Annie stared at the thin hurrying figure. She’d hoped to offer friendship, yet Iris seemed grim, as if she were fulfilling a duty.
    Â 
    T HE HEAVY THROB OF GUITARS, DRUMS, AND PIANO ECHOED FROM a stage set up halfway between the picnic tables and a grove of pines. A gangly young teenager with a white stripe of hair bristling from a shaved head painted red belted out “You’re Sixteen.” A hand-painted sign hung from the stage: T HE R ED H OT M OHAWKS , appearing every Saturday night at The Haven, a buck a couple. Max taught tennis at The Haven, the island’s recreation center for teens. Now she understood why he’d casuallymentioned the Mohawks over the last several weeks. The vocalist moved back and forth on the stage, bending and stamping, apparently heavily influenced by a vision of an Indian powwow. Annie was glad the band was on the far side of the tables. The sound was loud but not loud enough to make guests shout to be heard.
    The pavilion sat on a slight rise overlooking the harbor. There were tables in the open-air pavilion, but Max liked his picnics to be beneath the stars. Their party was set up for the picnic tables that dotted the sweep of sandy ground between the pavilion and the boardwalk. Annie admired the centerpieces she’d designed, hurricane lamps with candles in the center of each table. Black anchor line was coiled around the bronze base of each lamp.
    Ben Parotti’s face was flushed from the heat of the roaring hickory fire beneath a sheet of steel balanced on concrete blocks. Bushel bags of oysters were piled nearby and a stack of water-soaked burlap bags. Miss Jolene directed two women behind a line of steam tables. Hot dogs bobbed in bubbling hot water. No Low Country oyster roast was complete without chili dogs and squash casserole, plenty of draft beer and sweet tea.
    Sheets from the Broward’s Rock Gazette covered one stone table. Oyster knives paired with stainless steel mesh oyster gloves were ranged around the perimeter of the table. When the roast began, Ben would steam the oysters for five to ten minutes, then shovel them onto the shucking table and everyone would set to work. They had invited forty guests, so Ben had five bags of oysters ready to steam, figuring around twelve to fifteen oysters per guest. Once a plate was loaded with oysters, the steam tables would be next.
    â€œCome on, Iris.” Annie ran up the steps to the pavilion.Guests walked toward the pavilion from the oyster-shell parking lot. She had barely arrived in time to greet the first arrivals. She skidded to a stop, stared up at the brilliant banner.
    Max strode toward her, grinning,