Death at the Door (21 page)

Max slowly replaced the receiver. He'd plowed through his notes, recalled everything he could from all their sources, and he didn't see any way past Marian's conclusion. Frankie or Madeleine with the odds on Frankie.

He turned to his computer, e-mailed David Corley:
Annie and I delivered Madeleine's statement to Chief Cameron. He read it with care. I'm not sure of Madeleine's status in the investigation. An arrest may be announced at a news conference at 2
P.M.

He looked at the time. Eleven. He reached for the phone, shook his head. He'd leave that line open in case David called, which wouldn't surprise him. Instead, he pulled out his cell, tapped Annie's name. He frowned when he didn't get her. Maybe she didn't want to interrupt a call in progress. He left a message. “Meet me at Parotti's. Eleven thirty. Mayor's called a news conference for two.”

•   •   •

K
ate Murray's tone was dismissive. “David said you and Max are trying to help Madeleine, but those young men don't live on the island.”

Annie was equally impatient. “They were at David's party. No one has asked them if they saw Paul in a tense conversation with anyone.” As strangers to the island, none of David's friends were likely to know who Paul talked to at any time. But perhaps one of them had an eye for people, was interested in facial expressions. Paul had seen “evil in a glance.” Maybe it was asking too much to hope one of them might have seen the moment Paul spoke to his murderer. There had to have been some indication of stress or unhappiness or anger. “David must have his phone turned off. I left a message and sent a text and an e-mail but I haven't had any answer. I asked you about his friends earlier. Did you get their phone numbers?”

“Oh. Yes, I did. Hold on for a minute.” The connection went silent.

Annie kept glancing at the clock.

It was almost a full five minutes before Kate spoke again. “Sorry. I'd lost track of where I put that slip of paper, but I found it.” She rattled off the names, Steve James, Harris Carson, Ken Daniels, Wendell Evans, and phone numbers.

Annie saw her missed call from Max, listened to the message. Two
P.M.
She didn't doubt what the mayor would announce. She remembered Frankie's frightened face. Maybe by lunchtime she'd have learned something to help. She sent a text:
See you at Parotti's. Trying new tack. Will explain at lunch.

Annie began with Steve James, got him on the first ring. He listened as Annie explained she was seeking information about David's birthday party and one of the guests. “You want to know if some guy was quarreling with somebody? Sorry. I don't remember which one he was and I have to tell you, I wasn't paying a lot of attention. We were having a hell of a time. The wine flowed and the whiskey poured. I don't remember much about the evening. I was feeling no pain when Harris hauled me out to the guest quarters and I flopped on a sofa.”

Annie didn't hold out much hope but as long as she had him on the phone, she might as well confirm David's whereabouts. “David came back to the guest quarters with you.”

“Oh yeah. Last I saw of him, it was almost one and he was all of a sudden hot to get back to the house, said he'd be in big trouble, didn't realize how late he'd stayed.”

Annie frowned. For a guy who had apparently downed a lot of alcohol, Steve was awfully precise about the time. “Did you look at your watch?”

“By that time”—he was rueful—“I don't think I could have seen my arm, much less a watch. David was bleating like a little lost lamb. He held up this clock on the mantel, showed us the time. He was out of there in a flash.”

So David left the guest quarters shortly before one
A.M.
Lucy heard a car at just past midnight.

The second call was less successful. Harris Carson had no idea who Paul Martin was. He was grave about Jane's death, said he'd written a note to David. He'd thought Jane was a very interesting woman but they had only talked about painting and so far as he knew she was fine that evening. He agreed that David left the guest quarters around one. The third call was answered by an irate and sleepy Ken Daniels. “. . . who the hell . . . it's the middle of the night here . . . Got jet lag anyway . . . whoever you are, bug off . . .” The connection ended.

Annie shrugged, tried the last number. “Hell of a party.” Wendell Evans's big voice boomed through the ether. “We were smashed, skunked, in Margaritaville. We didn't schmooze a lot with the natives. First time I'd seen the guys in a while. We had plenty to talk about.”

Annie wasn't surprised when Evans was emphatic that he not only didn't know who Paul Martin talked to, he had no idea which guest was Paul Martin. She was ready to end the conversation, admit defeat, when his booming words began to register.

“. . . only started at the house. Really got down to some serious drinking when we moved out to the guesthouse and then, hell if David didn't cut it off sooner than he needed to.”

Annie raised an eyebrow. Maybe Evans thought the night was young at one
A.M.
How did the lyrics go.
Three o'clock in the morning . . .
“I understand David went back to the house at one.”

“One, hell. He got in a twit about leaving his wife with all the cleanup, said he had to get back pronto. Turns out, he was wrong about the time.”

“Wrong? The clock on the mantel—”

“Was wrong. My watch is luminous. I got up to go to the can and I always check the time. Can't tell you why. Habit. My watch said a quarter to three. The clock on the mantel read a quarter to four. It was off by a whole hour. So David left around midnight, not one in the morning like he thought. David must have noticed the clock was off the next morning when he brought us Bloody Marys. I saw him go to the mantel and take the clock down and when I looked later the time was right. Pretty good joke on him. I should have ragged him about it then. Ended the party before we'd drunk all the gin.”

•   •   •

A
nnie hung up the phone, yanked the receiver up again, tapped a familiar number. “Mavis, Annie Darling.” She was breathless, knew her voice was shaky. “I have to talk to Billy.”

“He's in conference with the mayor. I have strict orders not to disturb him. What's wrong?”

Annie held tight to the receiver. “Tell him . . .” There was too much to explain. The clock. The time. David's alibi that wasn't. The crafty way he'd made four witnesses aware of the time. Only one person needed an alibi the night Paul Martin died, the person who planned to kill him. “I'll come to the station. Send Billy an e-mail. Tell him I'm on my way and I know who killed Paul Martin.” She hung up the receiver, flung herself across the room and into the coffee area. Several startled patrons looked up as she rushed past.

At the cash desk, Ingrid called out, “What's wrong?”

Annie gestured, called out, “Find Max.” She didn't want to take the time to check Confidential Commissions. He'd called on his cell and cell calls can be made anywhere. Time. She was conscious of passing time, Billy's conference with the mayor, Frankie's likely impending arrest, officers might even now be on their way to take her into custody. Running out of time . . . “Tell him to meet me at the police station. Tell him I know who killed Paul Martin . . .” She was on the boardwalk and pelting down the steps toward the parking lot. She slammed into the Thunderbird. She was halfway to the harbor when her cell rang.

•   •   •

M
ax waggled the putter, took his stance, ready to imitate a pendulum—that was the advice the pro had given him after his putting debacle—when the front doorbell rang and hurried steps sounded.

“Max?” Ingrid skidded to a stop in the doorway. “Annie wants you to meet her at Billy's office. She ran out of the storeroom just now and asked me to tell you to meet her there. She said she knows who killed Paul Martin and then she was running up the boardwalk.”

•   •   •

A
nnie drove with one hand, held her cell with the other.

Kate Murray's voice was thin, high, frenzied. “I just found something Sherry wrote. I wish I'd never gone in her room. But I can't pretend I didn't find it. Please, I need help. Someone to come with me. I can't face it on my own—” There was a strangled sound that might have been a sob. “Please come. I'll show you. Please, say you'll come.”

Annie heard shock in Kate's voice. She sounded as if she struggled with enormous heartbreak. There was only one living person who meant enough to her to bring her to tears.

Annie gripped the cell tightly. Kate Murray had a gruff exterior, but she'd come to the Corley house when David was only a baby. David was the son Kate never had. Kate's world was dissolving around her, David guilty of murdering his sister, David soon to be arrested. “I'm sorry.” Annie heard the tremor in her own voice. “I wish I could help you. But I'm on my way to the police station.”

There was a quick-drawn breath. A sound of ragged breathing. Finally, harshly: “I'll go with you.”

Annie heard the wrenching effort that sentence took.

“Please come. I know we have to go to the police, but it's better if we go together. I can't do it by myself. I'll be at the door.”

The connection ended.

Annie knew Kate was distraught. Her voice was ragged with anguish and despair. Annie hesitated when she reached the turnoff to the harbor. A turn to the left and it was two blocks to the police station. Jane Corley's home was perhaps a half mile away. Annie looked at her watch. Only a dozen blocks. Kate had found something in Sherry's room. Sherry didn't seem the kind of person to keep a diary, but perhaps the night of Jane's death she'd scribbled something, mentioned seeing David in the early afternoon, been glad he'd seen his sister one last time, perhaps grieved that he hadn't come nearer five, been there to protect her.

Annie realized she'd made her decision as she drove past the turnoff to the harbor. Whatever Kate had found, the contents had to be devastating. The accusation must be specific, concrete. If Sherry wrote something down that pinpointed David on the terrace, that evidence was much stronger than Annie's tale of time changed on a clock and a drunken man's recollections.

The car picked up speed. The sooner she got there, the sooner she and Kate could get to Billy.

•   •   •

M
ax leaned on the golden wood counter between the small foyer and the dispatcher's desk. “She's not here yet?” Max had been puzzled when he didn't see Annie's car parked in front of the station. Now he had the sudden empty feeling that comes when you miss a step, hit the ground hard. “She has to be here.”

Mavis looked stressed. She frowned, her long face tense. “She's not here. Billy's in with the mayor and I can't disturb him.”

Max turned and went to the front door, opened it, and looked up and down the street. No Thunderbird. No Annie. The hollow feeling expanded. He swung around and was at the counter in two long strides. “Mavis, listen to me.”

Mavis looked up, eyes widening at his taut tone.

“Something's wrong. She was on her way. Running. As fast as she could go. She told Ingrid she was on her way here—to see Billy—and she knew who killed Paul Martin.”

Mavis swallowed. “The mayor—”

“To hell with the mayor. We've got to find Annie.”

Mavis rubbed one cheekbone. She looked at Max.

In her eyes, Max saw her thoughts:
Annie probably changed her mind . . . could be car trouble . . . but if she said she was coming here . . . mayor can't stand Max and he's leaning on Billy . . . under no circumstances interrupt . . .

Mavis shot him a worried look, then muttered, “Go down the hall. Wait in the break room. I'll do my best.”

•   •   •

T
rue to her Texas Panhandle upbringing, Annie often felt claustrophobic when live oaks closed overhead, plunging a road into deep shadow. She drove into dimness beneath the thick green canopy on Corley Lane. She didn't see another car. That was no surprise, since the lane served only the two Corley homes. She welcomed the instant she reached the turn into the Corley estate and the expansive front lawn overseen by the statue of the rearing horse. Still, the emptiness of the drive and the silence when she stepped out of her car seemed oppressive. The Mediterranean mansion loomed over her.

She hurried up the steps, driven by urgency. She wanted to get past the coming moments. Kate Murray's grief would be painful to witness.

The massive door swung in. Kate was waiting, one hand gripping the frame. In the pale yellow light of a wall sconce, her thin face with its high forehead, long nose, and sharp chin was gaunt. She moved jerkily, one hand gesturing down the hall. “I've got it in the family room.” She turned and moved heavily on the tiled floor of the wide hallway, her steps echoing.

Annie hesitated, then followed the shuffling figure with bowed shoulders. She would be glad to be out of this huge home with its old dark tapestries and mullioned windows set high in stone walls. No wonder the family had used these rooms for entertaining, chosen to spend time in the family room with Tom's vivid paintings hanging on softly golden walls and comfortable chintz-covered furniture and a pool table and wet bar. She pushed away the thought of the homey room with blood spreading near the pool table and Jane lying facedown.

Kate reached the massive oak door, the barrier between the public and private rooms. She turned the knob, stood aside, waiting for Annie.

Annie stepped into the family room, welcoming the change from stone walls and tiled floors to bright lights inset in a smooth white ceiling and walls that spoke of sunshine and paintings that pulsed with life.