Death at the Door (3 page)

They nodded at familiar faces and walked across the room to the couch where Lucy sat, a small figure slumped in sadness. Lucy managed a smile as Henny reached down and gave her a hug. Annie touched her arm. “I'm sorry, Lucy.”

“Thank you for coming.” She gestured toward several Chippendale straight chairs. “Come and join us. Pamela brought in some chairs from the dining room. I was telling everyone what happened . . .” Her voice was steady, but her blue eyes held enormous sorrow and shock.

As Lucy talked, Annie and Henny slipped into two of the chairs. Annie knew that no matter how painful it was for Lucy to describe Paul's last evening, the telling helped. When loved ones face final, irrevocable separation, words that speak of the end are the beginnings of a path to acceptance. What is, is.

“. . . something was bothering him this week. He went to his office every night after dinner instead of relaxing in the den. Last night when we got home from a party, I was very tired. He said he'd be up in a little while. That was the last time I saw him. But I thought as we drove home from the party”—her voice was plaintive—“that he seemed better than he'd been for a while, more at peace.”

Janet Bristow nodded decidedly. Tall, broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, she was a decided kind of woman, president of a half-dozen clubs, blunt, offering opinions whether welcome or not. “Mark my words, he'd made up his mind. Nothing you could do, Lucy. It wouldn't have mattered if you'd stayed downstairs.” Her pugnacious expression dared anyone to disagree.

“I didn't know he had a gun.” Lucy's gaze moved toward the hall. “Of course, I'd never looked in his desk drawers. But the bottom right-hand drawer was pulled out and there was a half-full box of cartridges. The police said the gun couldn't be traced. It was old, some kind of Army .38 Special. I suppose he'd had it since he was in the service.”

She massaged one temple. “Anyway, I went upstairs and took a shower. Maybe that's when . . . I don't know. I went to bed and fell asleep. I didn't hear anything. This morning I went down and fixed breakfast but when I didn't hear Paul stirring around, I went back upstairs and his bed hadn't been slept in. That's when I started to look. I couldn't imagine where he could be. His study door was closed and he always left it open when he wasn't using it. I found him. He had fallen face-forward on his desk. There was blood . . . I came around the desk and the gun was lying on the floor by his hand.”

•   •   •

T
he church was filled to overflowing, folding chairs set up in the narthex. Annie and Max sat on the Epistle side midway to the front. They knelt, heads bowed as Father Jim read from the burial service: “‘The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; yea, it is even he that shall keep thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out, and thy coming in, from this time forth for evermore . . .'”

She felt a sting of tears. There was always sadness at funerals, even those where family and friends celebrated completion of lives fully and well lived. She had a feeling that those gathered now were bewildered, some of them resentful, and among the family there could only be emptiness, despair that they had not seen or understood or helped.

Paul Martin had left them of his own volition. Not in the goodness of time.

Paul, why?

A
nnie retrieved the newspaper from a perilous perch on a granite bench near the goldfish pond in the front yard. The delivery woman seemed to have unerring aim, but Annie was always amazed the
Gazette
wasn't frolicking with goldfish. She was late getting home—a book club from Beaufort came for the afternoon—so she trotted around to the back porch and hurried up the broad steps. Lights shone in the kitchen. She opened the door and was greeted by a delectable scent. She paused. “Mmm, something smells wonderful.”

“Flank steak simmering with onion and bay leaf, soon to be Cuban shredded beef seasoned with sauterne and Burgundy.” Max emptied the contents of a bowl into the skillet, adjusted the flame.

“Wonderful.” Every bite would be delicious. She dropped her purse on the wooden table by the door. “Sorry I'm late. You wouldn't believe how many books the Beaufort ladies bought.” Book clubs were a bookstore's best friend. “Ran out of copies of Hank Phillippi Ryan's new suspense novel.”

Max looked over his shoulder. “The rice should almost be done.”

To her continued delight, Max was, in her estimation, not only the best-looking dude on the island, tall, blond, blue-eyed, broad shouldered, and muscular, he was a wonderful chef. Moreover, she admired his willingness, despite an inherent predilection toward play rather than work, to create a truly unusual business. Confidential Commissions definitely was not a private detective agency, but Max was always willing to help people solve problems, whether it was a search for a long-missing uncle, a Civil War photograph in an archive, or the best present for a stymied husband to give the wife who had everything. The last request had resulted in a bushel of quahogs direct from Cape Cod for the client's New England–born wife.

Annie slid onto a seat at the marble counter on the center island. She opened the
Gazette
, intending to take a quick look. The main story was usually about a zoning disagreement or a controversy on the city council.

Her eyes widened. “Max.”

He turned from the stove, caught by her tone.

She read the headline. “‘Island Socialite Battered to Death.' Marian wrote the story.” The
Gazette
's ace reporter, Marian Kenyon, was an old friend. Annie read the story aloud.

“‘Jane Jessop Corley, thirty-four, island native and member of a longtime island family, was battered to death in the family room of her home at One Corley Lane sometime Monday afternoon, Police Chief Billy Cameron revealed in a news conference this morning.'”

Annie lifted her eyes from the page. “We saw Jane yesterday morning at Paul's funeral. Someone killed her that afternoon.” Her voice held disbelief.

Max joined her at the counter.

Annie remembered Jane in the receiving line in the parish hall, vividly alive, visibly sad. Annie had heard a few words of her condolences to Paul's son. “Paul was part of our lives. Dad always turned to him when things went wrong. He was our doctor but so much more than that . . .”

Annie took a breath. “‘Chief Cameron said the weapon appeared to be a sculptor's mallet belonging to Jane Corley's husband, Tom Edmonds, twenty-nine. Edmonds told police he wasn't sure when he last saw the mallet. Edmonds said he hadn't been working on a sculpture this week. Edmonds told police he could not explain the mallet's presence in the house.

“‘A 911 call from the Corley home was received by the police dispatcher at four forty-nine
P.M.
Monday. When police arrived, Edmonds led them to the scene of the crime. According to Chief Cameron, Edmonds said he discovered his wife's body shortly before five. The body was lying on the floor of the family room near a pool table.'”

“The Corley house is pretty remote, surrounded by acres of woods. You have to know where it is to find it,” Max said.

Annie understood. No one would simply wander by the house. The next sentence confirmed his thought. “‘Chief Cameron said there was no indication of a break-in at the home nor was there evidence of a struggle. He also said the victim's purse was found on a side table in the main entrance hallway and its contents appeared undisturbed. An autopsy is planned, but the initial report from the office of the medical examiner indicates death as a result of blunt trauma to the back of her head.'”

Max stepped to the stove, checking the rice. “That explains why she didn't call for help. If she was hit from behind, she didn't know she was in danger.”

Annie nodded. “‘Edmonds told police he had not seen his wife since lunch. He said that he went to his studio in the garden and was framing a canvas. He finished about four-thirty but had a drink by the pool before entering the house. Police said there is a wet bar in the poolside cabana. Edmonds told police his wife was in good spirits at lunch, but that he had not seen her since that time. Edmonds told police he heard no sounds from the house.

“‘Chief Cameron said also present in the house that afternoon were Kate Murray, Ms. Corley's personal assistant, and Sherry Gillette, a houseguest. Both were upstairs and were unaware of the crime when the body was found. Gertrude Anniston, the cook, spent part of the afternoon grocery shopping. She was otherwise occupied in the kitchen and did not leave the kitchen.

“‘Ms. Corley's first husband was the golf pro Baldwin McCrae. They were divorced in 2011. Ms. Corley married Edmonds in 2012. She retained her maiden name after both of her marriages and was the daughter of the late Bolton Corley and Sherrybeth Jessop Corley . . .'”

Annie stopped quoting. “Lots of family stuff. It all boils down to Old South and rich. Her great-grandfather married an Eastern railroad heiress.” Annie shook her head. “Jane was so hugely alive. Bigger than life.” Annie's voice was small. “Everybody else faded when they were near her. She had a strong personality, but why would anyone kill her? And it doesn't seem likely a stranger attacked her.” It wasn't only the remoteness of the house that argued against a stranger. The island had never been host to dangerous vagrants. Broward's Rock was far enough offshore and accessible only by a ferry, so people came for a purpose, to live or vacation.

Max moved back to the counter and eased the flank steak onto a cutting board, used two forks to shred the hot meat. “That sounds bad for Tom. Only he or someone familiar with his studio would be able to get that mallet.” He gestured toward the skillet with a fork. “Will you check? It's on simmer.”

Annie folded the paper and popped down from her seat. She gently stirred the onions, green pepper, and chopped garlic. “The story's definite that his mallet was the weapon.”

Max was crisp. “Not only is the house remote, the studio is definitely off the main track. You have to have been there to even know it exists. That narrows down the number of people who could have taken the mallet to Tom or maybe a handful of others.”

Annie set the table, admiring the vase with a gorgeous marigold arrangement. She'd picked the flowers early that morning. She took a deep sniff. She loved the woody, pungent scent, but this evening the smell reminded her of the fall garden tour and Jane Corley's magnificent garden with roses that ranged from ghost white to ruby red and every shade in between and beds of riotous marigolds. “I wonder if Tom locks his studio. Probably not. The Corley garden is almost on a scale with Magnolia Plantation, tons of trees and shrubs and ponds and lots of separate areas. One of the ponds has huge cypresses. In the spring when the azaleas bloom, they are reflected in the water. It's gorgeous. His studio is about halfway between the house and the cypress pond.”

Max carried the shredded beef to the skillet. “Somebody took the mallet to the house. You don't sculpt in a den.”

Annie slipped into her chair as Max carried the steaming bowl to the table. “I hope it's not Tom.” She liked Tom. He reminded her of old daguerreotypes of Stephen Foster, dark hair brushed back smoothly, deep-set eyes beneath a high forehead, a long nose, nice mouth, a sensitive, intelligent face with an aura of dreamy remoteness. He receded into a shadowy background when Jane was around. Annie had thought them an unlikely couple, though Tom had a definite appeal. He was not only an artist and a good one, he was handsome and, when encouraged, charming though diffident in conversation.

Max reached over and took her hand. “I hope not. But Billy will do the right thing.”

•   •   •

E
mma Clyde's deep voice was brusque. “As Marigold often points out to Inspector Houlihan, wisdom is rarely conventional and conventional wisdom is rarely wise.” The island mystery author's spiky hair was an improbable hydrangea red this morning, almost a match for the splash of crimson in one of the mystery watercolors above the fireplace.

Death on Demand hadn't opened yet. In the fall and winter, the bookstore opened at ten. Annie had arrived early, hoping to get off some book orders to get ahead of the Christmas rush, but it was only a few minutes after nine when the island's famous mystery author arrived, along with mystery authority Henny Brawley and Max's mother. The trio didn't worry about the locked front door, Laurel using the key Annie had never managed to retrieve from her. They'd marched straight to the coffee bar and settled around a table. It would have been churlish to remain in the storeroom, so Annie fixed mugs filled with strong Colombian. She carried the mugs to a table near the fireplace and smiled a welcome as she joined the Intrepid Trio, as Max had dubbed them.

Emma, pleased with her comment, looked from Laurel Roethke, Annie's always unpredictable mother-in-law, to Henny, whose dark eyebrows registered annoyance, though her expression remained pleasant.

Emma concluded grandly, “Tom Edmonds. Pshaw.”

Annie had never heard anyone utter
pshaw
. How Emmaesque.

Henny said mildly, “There's good reason why the spouse is always considered first in a murder case.”

Emma became her most didactic. “As an author who has had a bit of success—” She paused, waited.

Emma awaited accolades. They were the breath of life to the writer. Annie knew her duty. “Emma, you are hugely successful.” Emphasis on the adverb. Annie loathed Emma's protagonist Marigold Rembrandt, a redhead Annie found snippy and insufferable. “How many millions of books have sold now?”

Gratified, Emma took a moment to trumpet the sales figures.

A savvy bookseller, Annie wanted to murmur that of course the huge number was for books shipped, not actually sold, but life was too short to aggravate Emma. Besides, Emma's sell-through was well above 80 percent. Marigold was beloved across the nation, so what did Annie know? Besides, Emma had a trenchant mind, a devotion to her friends, and a curmudgeonly charm. Sometimes.

“Perhaps I do have a modest understanding of motivations and character. Therefore, I can categorically state that Tom Edmonds is not the stuff of which villains are made.”

Laurel smoothed a tendril of silver blond hair away from her classically lovely face and looked pensive. “I hope that is true.”

Annie's gaze sharpened. Laurel's tone indicated a personal concern. Why should Laurel have more than a passing interest in the fate of Tom Edmonds? Of course, almost everyone on the island was talking about the murder of Jane Corley. More than a week had passed. There had been no arrests. However, yesterday afternoon's
Gazette
, with its usual above-the-fold follow-up, made clear the direction of the investigation.

Henny tapped the newspaper. “Billy Cameron named Tom Edmonds ‘a person of interest.' The circuit solicitor announced an arrest is imminent.”

Laurel's husky voice dropped. “Those dear young people must be terribly frightened.” A mournful sigh.

Three sets of eyes turned to her.

Henny broke the sudden silence. “‘Dear young people?'”

Laurel made a slightly deprecatory gesture with one graceful hand. “Not that I countenance infidelity. I always found it a better practice to be divorced first.”

Annie was never quite straight on Laurel's list of husbands, which she'd buried and which she'd divorced. As for lovers . . . Some conjectures about one's mother-in-law were better avoided. At this very moment, Annie focused on maintaining a bright expression of interest without a hint of skepticism.

Laurel's vivid blue eyes briefly touched on Annie. Her quite perfect lips quivered for an instant in amusement.

Annie felt her face turn bright pink. Was it her imagination or did one perfect eyelid drop for the tiniest moment in a wink before Laurel continued?

“However, I have a sense—mind you, I know it is very unlikely in today's world—but I think the sweet young things hadn't quite reached that point. Very nineteen-fiftyish, if you know what I mean.” Laurel's perfectly arched eyebrows rose in amazement. “Simply soulful looks and secret trysts to talk and hold hands, two souls irresistibly drawn together yet mindful of the barrier between them.”

Emma's stubby fingers tightened on her coffee mug. “What are you talking about?”

Laurel's eyes widened. “I assumed all of you knew. Tom Edmonds and Frankie Ford, of course. Frankie's in my yoga class. Such a sad face in recent times. And one day I saw Tom Edmonds going into the gallery. His expression had nothing to do with art. I am not privy to their private encounters, but,” she spoke with quiet authority, “I know everything about love.”

From anyone else the sweeping statement would seem absurd. Annie considered the source, decided Tom and Frankie definitely were an item.

Laurel nodded toward Emma. “Emma's understanding of character is beyond parallel. I quite agree. Tom Edmonds committing a brutal murder seems quite inconceivable to me.”

Emma frowned, the dowager queen of crime apprised of previously unknown information. “Humph.” It was an acknowledgment that facts alter cases. “Have to say, if there's suspicion of adultery, that recasts my thinking.” She slid an unhappy sidelong glance at Henny.