Free Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 by Scandal in Fair Haven

Kay’s daughter Brigit, no doubt. I tucked the album back in the pocket. My fingers touched another slick surface. I pulled out a holder with asingle picture, a man in swim trunks shading his eyes against the sun.
    Not Craig.
    Definitely not Craig.
    Six feet tall. Built like a boxer, strong chest, powerful legs, sturdy shoulders and arms. A crop of thick, curly brown hair. An open, attractive face with a devil-may-care smile.
    I turned the photo over. The inscription on the back read simply:
Hilton Head
.
    I studied the man’s face and smile for a moment more. I wouldn’t forget this picture.
    No woman would.
    I returned it to the pocket, zipped it shut.
    I held the purse beneath the rose lamp, opened it wide for a thorough check, then replaced all the belongings.
    All that one would expect to find in a woman’s purse— except for one thing.
    I looked over the table.
    No keys.
    Hmm. Had she dropped them in the pocket of what she was wearing that afternoon?
    I’d have to find out.
    I put the purse down.
    The message light on the recorder continued to blink.
    I punched the Play button.
    “Craig, this is Melissa Higgins from Patty Kay’s guild, calling on Monday morning at nine. We’ll plan on bringing food for luncheon after the services Wednesday, if that is agreeable to you. My number is 555-2094. We’re so sorry. If there’s anything else we can do, please call me.”
    The second call was in sharp, emotional contrast.
“Craig, I can’t believe it! They can’t keep you in jail. Oh, it’s soawful! Call me.”
The voice was young. Quite young. And terribly upset.
    The next two calls were also from the girl. She didn’t identify herself.
    The fifth call was a woman’s voice, hesitant and guarded.
“Craig, this is Stevie. Call me if you can.”
    Melissa Higgins called a second time. Her voice was jerkily nervous.
“Uh, Craig, the guild
—
uh, one of our members talked to Pamela and we’ll be serving the food at her house after the funeral. Thank you very much. ”
The disconnection was abrupt. Melissa obviously had learned of Craig’s arrest.
    The seventh call was the young voice, still fraught with unhappiness.
“Craig, I’ll do everything I can, I promise. I won’t let this happen!”
    I punched the Save button.
    Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser. I wanted to know who the young caller was. And I intended to find out about Stevie. Her tone was so carefully uninflected.
    But for now I still had much to explore. I opened the door on the left side of the hall. It was another entrance to the kitchen. To the right, an archway opened into a game room. I looked inside. Six carousel horses provided much of the seating.
    I pulled myself up to sit sidesaddle on a wooden roan with its head tossing and mane ruffled. My weight apparently triggered a tape of tinny carousel music so faint that it seemed more a memory than a sound. If the carved mounts had begun to move, I wouldn’t have been surprised. As the reedy tune tinkled, I surveyed the expensive assortment of entertainment devices, a huge television screen, VCR, pool table, Ping-Pong table, game tables. An unfinished game of checkers remained atop a table in front of the limestone fireplace. A box of marshmallows sat on the fireplace ledge.
    When I dismounted, the music cut off instantly. Ichecked out the cabinets. They contained an astonishing array of board games, reams of photograph albums, and flamboyantly titled home movie cassettes. All were dated. Among the most recent were
Our Madcap Stay in Rio, Brigit’s Sweet 16, To-and-Fro Aboard the World’s Most Boring Yacht, Christmas with the Mudville Clan, Let’s Have Another Round
, and
Fair Haven Fives at the Tennis Spa
.
    I picked up the last one, dated only the month before. I turned on the television and VCR and slipped in the cassette.
    In living color with sound to match.
    Scene: a semitropical tennis retreat.
    I watched and was impressed with the tennis prowess of the four women. I understood the tape’s