Death at the Door (16 page)

Annie didn't resist the bum's rush out into the hall, though she gave the closing door a glare. As she hurried down the apartment stairs, regretting the time she'd wasted, Annie carried with her a memory of a plump face alight with excitement. Annie stopped at the ground floor, pulled out her cell, sent a text. She was pulling out of the apartment parking lot when she heard a ping. She stopped at the exit, glanced. Not the reply she'd hoped for. Instead a summons from Emma. Imperious, of course.

•   •   •

“A
s Marigold instructs the inspector—” Emma's sharp blue eyes looked from face to face, expecting rapt attention. Her forceful gaze remained an instant longer on Henny to be sure she was taking notes as Emma had requested.

Annie reminded herself that forbearance is, if not a heavenly virtue, a decided test of character. She would remain calm, attentive, and agreeable even though she loathed Emma's insufferable detective. Annie concentrated on delectable fried oysters in a bun so fresh the sesame seeds practically saluted. Parotti's never disappointed her. She noticed Ben industriously scrubbing the top of the clean table next to theirs. His back was to them, but his ears might as well be flapping.

“—succinctness is the hallmark of a good mind. Since we have others to see this afternoon, please pluck only the important information from each interview.” Emma switched cool blue eyes to Max.

Max's lips quirked in a quickly suppressed smile, then he described his foray to Calhoun Street, Hyla Harrison seeking fingerprints on an unburned portion of the leather chair next to the desk in Paul's study, and his search for a place a murderer might have felt safe in parking. “. . . a few feet into a lane, I found a patch of bent and twisted and smashed ferns. A car had obviously backed and turned, leaving tread marks between the ruts. Of course, a teenage couple might have used the lane for romance. But tire prints couldn't have been there long, since we had rain last week. I texted Billy and he sent Lou Pirelli. He made a cast.”

Emma looked pleased. “That shows Billy's looking at everything.”

There were murmurs of approval.

Max speared a shrimp from his creole. “I have an update on David Corley. He called a little while ago, said he didn't know if it was worth checking out, but Sherry Gillette tracked him down at the marina and flounced down to his boat and every guy on the dock was watching. He thought maybe she was making a scene just for attention, but she made all kinds of hints that she saw someone on the terrace the afternoon Jane was killed. When he tried to pin her down, she was evasive, told him she didn't want to get anyone in trouble. He said he got mad and asked if maybe she remembered Jane was dead and she'd better tell the cops if she had anything to tell, and she turned and ran up the pier. He said he called the station and somebody took the information but as far as he could figure out, the police don't give a damn what he tells them.”

Annie jabbed a French fry into a mound of peppered ketchup. “Sherry's the most exasperating woman on the planet. Lots of hints. Dramatic gestures. Phony emotion. But”—she frowned—“I think she actually was on her balcony that afternoon. I texted Billy, told him Sherry may know something. Or it may all be a big bid for attention. No reply from Billy.”

Laurel's classic features were composed, though her dark blue eyes were regretful. “I may know who she saw.”

The silence was absolute as each of them looked at Laurel.

Laurel beamed at each in turn. “Ross Peters is definitely a strong handsome man of the soil. He's coming over this weekend to give me some pointers”—a pause and a wicked smile—“on the design of a potting shed.”

“Ma.” Max's tone was gently chiding.

Laurel fluttered pink-tipped fingers at him. “Oh yes, the matter at hand. Ross was working in the garden of the David Corley house the afternoon Jane was murdered. David wandered down into the garden about two thirty. He stopped and chatted for a minute about football. Ross said David seemed to be in a good humor. David ambled down to the dock and took out a kayak. He headed toward the Sound. Madeleine Corley rushed out a little later, chasing her terrier. Ross said when she caught her, Madeleine scooped her up and buried her face in her fur, then snapped a leash on her collar. That was about three. She and Millie left the terrace, heading for the path to Jane's house. Ross said he turned a corner on the hedge and had his back to the house and dock, so he didn't see either Madeleine or David again. He didn't remember if the kayak was on the dock when he headed back to Jane's house, ready to call it a day. He heard the sirens when he was about halfway there and started running. He arrived about the same time as the police. He said Tom was shaking and seemed to be in shock.” Laurel looked complacent. “Ross could not have been nicer.”

Annie was not surprised. Of course he was nice.

Laurel maintained an expression of innocent pleasure in the gardener's friendliness. “As soon as I reached my car, I informed Billy by text.”

Emma nodded in satisfaction. “Billy will never be able to complain that we did not keep him informed. Interesting that Madeleine never mentioned leaving the house. That must be explained.”

Annie remembered the garrulous woman at the beauty shop and her insistence Madeleine wasn't home that afternoon. Maybe Billy would find out. But he would not make that effort unless he was convinced someone other than Tom killed Jane.

Definitely, they were keeping him informed, but Billy might possibly feel like an elephant annoyed by a swarm of sand flies.

Henny regretfully pushed away her plate of grilled bratwurst and Hoppin' John. “Wonderful. I can't manage another bite.”

Annie agreed with Henny about Miss Jolene's Hoppin' John. No one, except possibly Max, could make a better version of the black-eyed peas, rice, and ham hock dish. And the bratwurst was a delicious pairing, a variation on the usual red cabbage and German potatoes.

Henny said dryly, “I should drop a pint for luck over at the Hubbard house.” Hoppin' John for good luck was a Southern mainstay on New Year's Day. “Irene's as nervous as a snake with a hurricane coming. She claims everything was just fine between Kevin and Jane. While I was there, I looked things over. Kevin and Irene have spent lavishly. Their place is a lot fancier than where Kevin used to live and I never heard anything to indicate Irene came from any money.”

Emma nodded toward Max. “Since David Corley wants to help, ask him what Kevin earned.” She looked at Henny. “I'm not surprised Irene's jittery. I asked Kevin a simple question.” Her smile would have chilled a Mafia don. “‘When did Jane discover you were cooking the books?'”

There was a pause as she looked from face to face.

Annie folded her arms. Darned if she'd beg Emma to divulge what she knew.

Max glanced at Annie, managed not to smile. “I suspect the answer wasn't so simple.”

Emma considered his comment. “Perceptive of you.” Still, she waited.

Henny's gaze was admiring, though her dark eyes were amused. “Caught him by surprise, did you?”

Emma nodded regally, her spiky magenta hair reminding Annie of wavering cordgrass tipped by purple as the sun plunged behind pines.

Laurel smoothed back a lock of golden hair. “No doubt, of us all, your inquiry was the most pertinent, the most telling, the most”—even Laurel seemed stumped for a moment, then concluded in a rush—“the most brilliant.” Her blue eyes widened in admiration.

Satisfied, Emma cleared her throat. “Kevin stumbled and mumbled, swore he hadn't cooked the books. I administered the coup de grâce.” Now her smile was downright menacing. “I said I'd be glad to recommend my accountant, since I knew it was important to have an impartial audit to clear the air after Jane's murder and of course he'd be delighted to cooperate, wouldn't he? I doubt if he's picked himself up off the floor yet.” Her bark of laughter was triumphant. “Now”—she scooped up a last forkful of spinach quiche—“let's see what we can find out this afternoon. I suggest a rendezvous at the police station at five
P.M.
By then, we will have a great deal of information for Billy.” Her tone was utterly confident.

T
he elegantly appointed room with ornate molded cornices, sea green drapes framing old-fashioned windows, Chippendale furniture, and a Louis XV desk might have had an Old World charm except for the skull on the corner of the desk and the unstudied toughness of the man watching Max with an expressionless face. The presence of a steel-eyed subordinate standing a pace behind the desk and also watching added to the tension.

Max sat as comfortably as possible in a Hepplewhite armchair that seemed uncommonly hard. Perhaps his discomfort arose from that steady gaze, icy and challenging. Even seated, Jason Brown's height and burly physique were evident. He emanated power. Now an iron gray eyebrow was raised. “You aren't anybody. Not a cop. Not a lawyer.”

Max could have pointed out the error. He indeed had a law degree, but he didn't practice law, so there was no reason to quibble. He maintained a pleasant expression.

Brown folded his muscular arms. “You got in here by sending in a card.” He picked up a card with the Confidential Commissions logo on one side, read Max's message on the other: “‘How hard were you pushing David Corley to pay up?'” Brown's smile didn't reach his dark eyes. “Who the hell says I was pushing Corley?”

“One of your men”—Max's tone made the inoffensive noun a substitute for
thug
—“escorted David in here for a little heart-to-heart.” Max glanced at the underling. “Word has it David lost big at roulette and David's like a lot of rich guys on a stipend, lots of splash, not much cash.”

“I don't talk about guests.”

Max's smile was sunny. “I don't need to know anything more about the Palmetto Players. I know enough to be sure David Corley was asked to pay up. All I want to know is when—or if—David convinced you he was good for the bill.”

Brown absently ran a thumb alongside a small scar at the base of his jaw. Seconds passed. Finally, he grunted, opened the center drawer of the desk, picked up a small leather-bound notebook, flipped past several tabs. He glanced down, then lifted those cold brown eyes. “Wednesday, October 9.”

“Did he say where he was going to get the money?”

Brown glanced at his minion.

The man came around the desk, stared down at Max. “Out.”

•   •   •

L
aurel Roethke parked her jade green convertible in the Fish Haul Pier lot. She left the top down. Few cars were ever stolen on the island. A car would be missed almost immediately and unless the thief had big-scale water wings, the only way off the island was by ferry. She strolled to the boardwalk and out onto the pier. As always, fishermen sat on camp chairs with bait coolers at their feet and rods held over the water that slapped softly against the columns of the pier.

Laurel was pleased as admiring glances followed her. Men did love pretty dresses, especially when soft material flowed in the breeze. Really this dress was a favorite, so feminine and the most graceful design, violets against pale cream. She loved hearing the water swirl around the pilings and hearing the cries of the gulls as they circled, hoping for a tossed-away fish. A catamaran skimmed past the pier, tilting up for a daredevil ride. She heard the laughter of a long-limbed girl and her muscular and attractive shirtless captain.

Laurel smiled, sent a silent wish across the water:
Enjoy being young, my dears. Each day comes but once.

Running steps sounded behind her. She turned.

Frankie Ford slid to a stop in front of Laurel, spared one quick glance over her shoulder. “I can't stay long.” Her voice was low, breathless. “Mr. Wyler thinks I'm running some checks to the bank.” Frankie's pale face reflected dread. Her eyes looked haunted, her cheeks hollow. “Why don't they let Tom go?” Her voice broke. “Somebody set fire to Dr. Martin's house. Why would that happen unless somebody didn't want anyone looking again at the place where he died?”

Laurel hated to add to her burden, but she should be prepared. “There's some thought that the fire was set by someone who wants Tom to appear to be innocent.”

“Nobody but me would care—” She broke off, if possible looked even more upset. “Oh my God. I didn't. I wouldn't. That's awful.”

“The only thing that will help Tom is if all the truth comes out.” She gazed at Frankie kindly. “You went to his studio that afternoon.” She spoke with assurance and knew she was right when Frankie's gaze dropped. “I don't think Tom was at the studio. Later, when he claimed he'd never left his studio until he went to the pool and then across the terrace and found Jane, you were afraid he'd killed her.” Laurel felt confident in her declarations, based on Annie's conclusion that Frankie was evasive about her whereabouts when Jane was killed and that Frankie had been terrified of his guilt until she heard about the drawing Lucy Ransome found.

Frankie came alive, face turning pink, hand upheld in dismay. “I never really thought he was guilty. But it was scary that he said he was in his studio all afternoon. I know what must have happened. He found Jane dead and panicked. I'll bet he ran back to the studio and stayed there, trying to think what to do. And then, oh I know how his mind works, he decided the easiest thing was to stay there until it was time for him to finish like he always did. When I came about a quarter after three to the studio, he was gone. He must have been up at the house. I couldn't wait. Toby gets impatient if I take too long over errands.”

“Why did you go to the studio?”

Frankie brushed back a strand of reddish-brown hair. Her expression was odd, as if she looked back over a chasm that memory could scarcely bridge. “I was going to tell him I was going to look for a job in Atlanta.” The words came haltingly and Frankie's eyes held anguish.

Laurel reached out, patted her arm. “What did you expect him to do?”

Frankie looked away. “I don't know.” Her voice was dull. “I couldn't stay on the island. I couldn't keep on the way it was. I can't live my life being . . .” She trailed off.

Laurel understood. Frankie was young, desperately in love, unwilling to be a mistress.

Frankie lifted that rounded chin, but her face didn't look young. There was an empty, sad expression. “I don't think he would have come. Only painting really matters to him. That's why he didn't kill Jane.” Now her voice was hot. “He wouldn't do anything that could ruin his life as a painter.”

Laurel suspected she was right on all counts. Now the question had to be whether Frankie would commit murder rather than lose Tom. “Where did you park?”

Frankie looked utterly bewildered.

“You drove your car. You came to the studio. Where did you park? I assume you didn't want Jane to know you were there.”

Again Frankie seemed to be looking back at a long-ago moment, one that had little reality to her now. She spoke as if the information didn't matter. “Instead of turning in at the main entrance, I went about half a block and parked. There's a bike trail through the woods there. I took that. At one point, the trail crosses the path to the studio.”

“Did you see anyone?”

She shook her head.

“Did you hear anything?”

She looked weary. “I didn't hear a car or see anyone on the path, only a dog yipping in the distance.”

•   •   •

E
mma was brusque. “Fine painter. If he gets the chair for murdering his wife, prices will double.” She turned a thumb toward a haunting painting of a marsh scene.

Toby Wyler's dark eyes appraised her. She didn't miss the gleam of avarice in his gaze, reflecting a gallery owner's pleasure when a well-heeled buyer was uncanny enough to reveal intense interest.

Emma had already noted that the cards beneath the paintings did not contain a purchase price. Whatever she bought was going to cost several thousands more than before her revealing comment. She wasn't concerned. They were fine paintings and, thanks to Marigold Rembrandt, she could afford to indulge herself. However, Mr. Wyler was going to provide a great deal of information before she signed a check.

She turned bright primrose blue eyes toward him, considered his white suit that emphasized the coal black of his hair and mustache, found the effect theatrical. “It's fascinating to learn more about a woman's actions when she has only a few days to live. What time did you see Jane that day?”

His eyes narrowed. “What day?”

“The day she died.”

He moved a little on the balls of his feet, like a boxer on guard. “I didn't see her on Monday.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “I must have misunderstood. But”—she brightened—“you were at the party.”

“Party?” The pleasant tone was belied by the center of coldness in his eyes.

“David's birthday party. You were there.”

“Yes.”

Emma wandered to the wall, looked up at a large painting. He could likely price it at twenty thousand. “I rather like this. But part of the attraction would be the backstory. Painted by a man accused of murder. I was thinking of a dinner party and showing it to my guests. But”—a little sigh—“it would only be special if I could share something none of them knows. A little bit of history. How Jane looked that night, something she said.” Emma shook her head, walked to the counter, and picked up her purse. “I'll think about it.”

She was at the door when he spoke. “It's a real fine painting. I can let you have it for thirty thousand. And I don't see any harm in talking a bit about Jane.”

Emma turned, careful to maintain an eager expression.

“The problem”—his voice was doleful—“was that Jane was a good friend. It's hard to look back and remember the last time I saw her. But she wanted the best for Tom's paintings. And so do I. Can I offer you a glass of sherry and I'll see what I can recall of the birthday party?” He gestured toward an art deco sofa with an excellent view of the painting chosen by Emma.

Emma smiled and graciously settled on the soft cushions. In a moment, he returned with two glasses of sherry. Emma sipped and listened.

“. . . not my kind of party . . . not that I don't enjoy a few drinks, but David and his friends were drunk . . . sorry to say Jane was not in a good mood. Every time I saw her, she was crossways with somebody. She took David aside, gave him hell, but he blew that off. And”—he gave a deprecating shrug—“I came in for my share. She was unhappy about the slow sales at the open house. I told her some of my best customers were in Hawaii and I was sure I could place the three big landscapes when they got back. I was right. They came in yesterday and bought them. Too late for Jane. And she had sharp words for Madeleine. Probably told her to do something about David but short of tossing the rum in the swimming pool, I don't know what she could have done. Then”—his glance was sly—“Irene Hubbard came up to Jane. I couldn't see Jane's face, but I thought Irene looked pretty desperate.” He fingered his bristly black mustache. “Just before the party ended”—for the first time his tone was unstudied, without malice—“Jane looked around the room with a strange expression, like something was wrong.”

•   •   •

H
enny Brawley admired chintz-covered furniture and bookcases with bright jackets that had the appearance of use, not simply there as decor, and felt an instinctive sadness that Jane Corley met an unexpected and painful death surrounded by familiar possessions in a warm and charming room. She must have known happiness here. The care and taste evidenced by the furnishings reflected a woman who valued beauty without ostentation. The reddish-gold of the walls recalled late afternoons in Florence. Tom's paintings were hung to best display the vibrant splashes of color, the vigor of his brushstrokes. Henny glanced in passing at the pool table and noted an occasional rug had been skewed at one end, likely to hide the blotch left on the heart-pine floor after blood was cleaned away.

Kate gestured toward a sofa with plump cushions. She sat opposite Henny in a rattan chair, brushed back a lock of white gray hair. Her gaze was stern. “You know I'd do anything necessary to avenge Jane. But the police seem to think they have the right man. Maybe Lucy's wrong about Paul and the meaning of that drawing.”

Henny met that fierce stare directly. “The fire at Lucy's house was deliberately set.”

Kate's face furrowed. “I know. I suppose you could be right that Paul was murdered and the fire set to destroy some evidence. Though”—and her tone was impatient—“Lucy said the police went over his study from top to bottom, so what was there to find?” She shook her head. “I'm afraid it confirms what I've thought all along.” Her lips set in a hard line.

Henny looked at her inquiringly.

“That woman. She chased after Tom. Oh, I don't think it would have come to much. He knew what Jane could do for his career.” A shrug. “I'll admit I can't see him using his precious mallet on Jane. He thought too much of his tools. I'd heard him talk about that mallet, how the handle was worn just right for his hands. The man is obsessed with his hands.”

Henny was a little surprised by Kate's disdain.

Kate's tone was wry. “Do you think I'm intemperate? I'll admit I don't admire cheaters. But I don't think he'd have the gumption to plan a crime. I don't put it past him to connive with Frankie, let her do the dirty work. For my take, that's what happened. She killed Jane. And maybe Paul, too. She'll do anything for Tom. Including arson.” She leaned back in the chair, thin face forlorn, brown eyes grieving, body sagging. “Damn, it's hard, talking about Jane like this.” She was dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks, which emphasized the paleness of her face.

“When someone dies unexpectedly”—Henny's voice was gentle—“we're left with so many things we wish we hadn't said, moments we'd change if we could. I know it's intrusive, but everything we learn about Jane's last days may be helpful. About a week before she died, I understand you came out of her office apparently quite angry.”