Dare to Die by Carolyn Hart Page B

prematurely white hair bright and crisp, and stylish. Tonight she wore a pale blue linen long jacket over matching trousers. Russell stood a step behind her. His face was somber. Max enjoyed playing golf with him and he’d been pleasant to work with as they restored the Franklin house, but tonight he seemed as distant as the waning crescent moon. He gazed toward the live oak and Iris.
    Liz’s voice was pleasant. “Everything looks beautiful. I love the way candles glow in hurricane lamps.” As she gestured toward the picnic tables, she saw Iris. For an instant, Liz stood absolutely still, then she turned back to Annie. “The hickory smoke smells wonderful. We haven’t been to an oyster roast since New Year’s.” Her island accent was as soft and throaty as the coo of mourning doves. “Nobody does oysters better than Ben. Oh, there’s Fran and Buck.” Liz lifted a hand in greeting. “Come on, Russell. Fran’s waving at us.”
    They moved away and Russell hadn’t said a word. So much, Annie thought, for social graces.
    Liz and Fran came together in a social embrace that reminded Annie of the stylized movements of Laurel’s tai chi class. Russell and Buck shook hands.
    The breeze stirred Fran Carlisle’s black hair. She and Liz joined a group of women clustered around Henny Brawley.Henny was gesturing toward the water. Russell stood a few feet away, arms folded, and looked determinedly at Ben’s fire.
    Iris was alone again. She moved out of the shadows and walked slowly toward the group of women.
    Buck’s usually genial face folded into a frown. He glanced at his wife, who was deep in conversation with Fran. Buck hesitated, then stepped toward Iris. They met near a weeping willow. Buck was a big man and his bulk made Iris appear even frailer. She stared up, her face grave.
    Cara Wilkes strolled up the steps, smiling. “Hey, guys.” As she looked past Annie and Max, her smile slid away, making her look much older.
    Annie knew she was watching Buck and Iris.
    Cara’s jaw muscles ridged, then she swung back to her hosts, once again with a smile. “Great day for a picnic.”
    â€œOysters ready.” Ben’s hoarse shout sounded over the voices and music. He carried a shovel full of steaming shells to the prepared table. Laughing and talking, guests swirled toward the table.
    Crackles and snaps and occasional mutters rose as gloved hands poked the short-bladed knives into the shells. As soon as one guest moved on, plate heavy with opened shells, another set to work.
    As dusk fell, the picnic tables filled. Annie scanned the crowd. She felt quick relief when she spotted Iris sitting next to Laurel. As always, Laurel was spectacularly lovely, her beauty ageless, golden hair framing chiseled features. Laurel was smiling and listening attentively. Annie felt a surge of thankfulness. Laurel was often unpredictable, but her kindness was a constant. It was no surprise that she was drawn to the loneliest guest.
    Annie settled at a far table with Billy and Mavis Cameron,Pamela Potts, Henny Brawley, and Edith Cummings. Edith was both an old friend and the island’s accomplished reference librarian. Edith could discover any fact a patron fancied, including the best wildlife viewing season in Pungo, N.C. (a personal favorite of Annie’s because the best season(s) listed were spring, summer, fall, and winter, and who could quarrel with that?), the highest level in British peerage below a prince (a duke), and the recipe for a Black Russian (1 1 / 2 ounces vodka and 3 / 4 ounce Kahlúa).
    Edith pushed aside another emptied shell. “It would be piggy to eat twenty oysters.”
    â€œI don’t think pigs like oysters.” Pamela’s gaze was, as always, serious and sincere.
    Billy grinned. “Pigs like a lot of stuff. My dad raised Large Whites. We fed them corn and barley meal, but Big Mama, our sow, was crazy about snails