Death at the Door (5 page)

Annie had felt instinctively that Paul Martin wouldn't have killed himself. But the evidence seemed clear despite Lucy's misgivings now. “You said yourself”—her voice was gentle—“that he was upset that week.” She heard her own words, knew they meant she'd come to terms with his death. His self-inflicted death.

Lucy nodded in vigorous agreement. “He was worried. Now I know why.” She unfolded the heavy sheet of creamy paper and carefully laid it on the table. “This is what I found in his desk. See, there's a date. He always put a date on a sketch. There it is: 10/8.”

Annie looked. Lucy seemed to see great significance in the date. October 8 was the night before Paul was shot. Annie glanced from the date to the pencil sketch, stone walls on either side of pillars with shrubs beyond, a rearing horse to the right of the pillars. Annie knew the source of the drawing, a ten-foot-tall bronze statue that stood outside the entrance to the sprawling acres of Jane Corley's estate.

There was one stark difference between the sketch and the statue. The upflung head of the statue depicted a horse pleased at its display of power, commanding, imperious. In the drawing, the horse's teeth were bared in fury, signaling danger.

Below the sketch of the pillars and horse was another drawing, this one more attenuated but readily deciphered, Shakespeare's three witches dancing around a boiling cauldron.

Annie felt a chill as she read words written in a slanting backhand:
An open house, a hard heart. Evil in a look. I saw it. I'll deal with it at the party.

Lucy tapped the sheet emphatically. “That's Paul's handwriting, and look there.”

A final sentence was underlined twice:
Protect Jane.

Lucy's words tumbled, fast as a plunging mountain stream. “He drew this Tuesday night. Wednesday night we went to David Corley's house. Madeleine had a party for his birthday. Don't you see?”

Annie tried to sort out the meanings but there was too much, Paul's preoccupation, his sketch with its bald statement,
Protect Jane
,
the snarling horse, gunsmoke residue on Paul's hand, Lucy claiming there never had been a gun, Paul planning to confront evil at a party. David Corley's birthday party? Jane would have been there.

Lucy leaned forward. “I told everyone Paul was upset, but I supposed he was worried about a patient. I never believed he was depressed or thinking about shooting himself and, the more I think about it, I don't think there ever was a gun in his desk—”

Annie held to a central fact. On the sketch Paul underlined his determination to protect Jane. But Paul died. Then Jane was murdered.

“—and now that I've seen the sketch, I'm sure Paul saw something at the art gallery open house, the Sunday night before we went to the birthday party. Paul says he saw evil in a look. It was after the open house that he was preoccupied and worried. Now I know why. He saw something at the open house that told him Jane Corley was in danger. Paul's drawing indicates he intended to deal with that at a party. He had to be talking about David Corley's birthday party because we came home from David's party and that's the night he was shot. He talked to someone, told them nothing better happen to Jane. That's why he was relaxed when we got home. If only I'd noticed which guests he talked to. But I loved sitting there watching the young people have fun. Some of David's old fraternity brothers came from Atlanta. I talked about quilt patterns with Kate Murray. I spoke to Frankie Ford but she didn't have much to say and I thought it was sad that she seemed so alone at the party. I wasn't watching Paul. All I know for certain is that when we were driving home, he wasn't upset any longer. It's not”—the negative was as emphatic as a clenched fist—“because he'd decided to shoot himself.”

Lucy's hypothesis was as flimsy as a house made of paper until Annie looked at the sketch and the double-underlined words:
Protect Jane
. If Jane Corley were alive, the sketch didn't matter, but Jane had been battered to death in her home on the Monday after Paul was shot.

“They've arrested Tom. And that's wrong.” Lucy sounded indignant and despairing all at the same time.

Annie's face creased in thought. Why was Tom's arrest wrong? Maybe Paul saw danger in Tom Edmonds's face. Maybe Paul talked to Tom at David's party. Like Henny said, there was a reason police looked at a spouse first. Unbidden came an image of Tom Edmonds with his sensitive artist face and cute but no longer perky Frankie Ford.

Lucy clapped her hands together. “You look just like Billy Cameron, patient and nice and thinking I don't understand about Tom and Frankie and anyway who had a better motive? I don't know who had any kind of motive, but I know Paul didn't kill himself. That means someone came to Paul's study that night. I told you that Paul seemed more himself after David Corley's party. He talked to someone there. That's why I know Tom Edmonds is innocent. Tom missed the party. He wasn't on the island that night. He was in Atlanta.”

“M
aybe there's a unicorn over the next sand dune.” Billy Cameron's voice was genial, which softened the words, but his blue eyes clearly held a skeptical gleam. His desk was neat, three closed folders. His computer screen showed Outlook Express. Blue skies and placid waters were postcard perfect through the window that overlooked the bay. There were no clouds on the police chief's horizon today.

Annie knew her concern had been tipped overboard like a too-small fish tossed back into the water. “Lucy brought you the sketch.”

Billy leaned back in his chair, comfortable, at ease. “Yep.” His broad face was sympathetic. “Look, Annie, you got a heart as big as Texas, but this time you don't have a dog in the hunt. Paul's scribbles are just that. Nobody followed him home from a birthday party with all the stuff that was needed to make his death look like a suicide. His sister admits he'd been upset. FYI, we didn't release it to reporters because you can't prove something from nothing, there was a blank sheet of paper on the desk and a pen next to it. Looked like he was going to write a note, didn't, got on with it.”

Annie perched on the edge of the hard wooden straight chair in front of his desk.

“Lucy said you agreed somebody could have smeared gunshot residue on Paul's hand.”

“Like I said, nobody can prove there aren't unicorns, even though nobody's ever seen one. Sure, some clever devil could have held a gun with a hand sheathed in a plastic glove, caught Paul right on the temple, shot him, stayed calm enough to strip off the glove, use the glove to swipe Paul's right thumb, palm, and part of his fingers. Of course”—now Billy leaned back and folded his arms—“that also presupposes somebody showed up ready to kill him with a gun that couldn't be traced and a half-full box of cartridges. Lots of requisites there. Not only did somebody come in the den planning to kill him, but, once he was dead, the dude was smart enough to use both of Paul's hands to put fingerprints on the cartridge box, then smeared residue on his right hand. No residue on the cartridge box. Got to keep it in order. The box had to be touched up before the residue was transferred to his right hand. Lots of planning there. Plus, we have that blank sheet of paper. Lucy probably never saw it because he fell forward and it was pretty much covered with blood. Sorry. I don't think so.”

Annie ignored Billy's dismissive tone. “He could have had the paper out for another reason.” Her words sounded empty to her. She hurried on. “The paper doesn't count. If he was going to write a suicide note, he would have. Anyway, maybe somebody plans real carefully. Paul was afraid for Jane. There's no way you can dismiss that. He knew someone planned to harm her. Billy, she's dead.”

Billy shrugged. “The dog barks and you stub your toe on a rock. Cause and effect? I don't think so. Face it, Annie, she had a two-timing husband whose fingerprints are all over the hammer that killed her.” Billy's face creased in exasperation. “No matter how much Lucy Ransome wants to change what happened, Paul Martin shot himself. There's no proof anyone came to his door, no proof the gun didn't belong to him, no proof anyone other than Tom Edmonds murdered his wife. I'm sorry Paul shot himself. He was a great guy. A good doctor. I don't know what the hell was wrong in his life. But that sketch could mean a lot of things. When people doodle, their thoughts may be scattered all over the place. Maybe Paul was thinking of a horse who needed a good dentist. Maybe Jane Corley needed to take better care of herself. Maybe he drew the witches because he was thinking about
Macbeth
and that's the evil in a glance. Maybe a lot of things. But I don't believe anyone followed Paul home from a birthday party and blew his brains out and had the balls to set up a suicide scene.”

Annie looked at Billy's square, strong, confident face. He obviously hadn't picked up a crime vibe from Paul's death. Billy never hesitated to follow a hunch. This time he didn't have a hunch and he had a man in jail whose hammer had been used to kill his wife. What happened after David Corley's birthday party had no relevance for him.

A hunch . . . Billy wasn't going to be enticed into looking further at Paul Martin's death. Billy had always said when anything occurred in a murder investigation that seemed off-kilter, pay attention, your subconscious often saw more than you realized. But maybe she thought of it now, at this moment, because the incident had seemed so wrong. She asked abruptly, “Billy, were you at Jane Corley's funeral?” She hadn't seen him, but she was certain he would have attended.

He blinked a little at the sudden transition, then nodded. “Sure.”

“Did you see the older woman who went through the line and she was upset, but I could tell it wasn't about Jane. She asked Tom something and he gestured toward David and then David wasn't nice about it, whatever it was. The woman dropped out of the line and walked out of the parish hall.”

“Can't say I did. And . . . ?”

“Billy, there was something wrong about it. I think she'd come from off island. I don't know everybody but I know a lot of people. I'd never seen her before. Who was she? Why did she come to Jane's funeral?”

He waited.

Annie turned her hands up. “I know it doesn't sound like much. But the woman appeared to be under enormous pressure. I don't think she wanted to ask whatever she asked but she forced herself and then she was rebuffed. She looked devastated as she walked away.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find her. Ask what was wrong.”

He drew a small pad closer. “Description?”

Annie pictured that moment in the parish hall. “Gray haired. Maybe fifty, maybe a little older. Sturdy. Long arms and legs, short torso. About five-five, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. Wide face. Brown eyes. Dark shadows under her eyes. A droopy mouth. Rounded chin. Scarcely any makeup. Wore a navy suit but it was old, really old. The skirt was too long. It had that shiny look when fabric's been cleaned too often.”

“I'll see what I can find out.” He squared the tablet on his desk, and Annie knew he was signaling an end to the interview. And likely to his patience.

At the door, she paused with her hand on the knob. “If Lucy's right, if the person who killed Jane also shot Paul, then Tom Edmonds is innocent. Lucy said Tom was off island the night Paul died. Would you check and see if Tom was off island?”

Billy shook his head. “I'm interested in Tom Edmonds the afternoon his wife was killed. If you want to know what he was doing some other night, check it out.”

•   •   •

“H
ey, Annie.” Barb's voice was lifted in a greeting. “Come on in. I just made pound cake.”

It was only half past nine in the morning but the scent of freshly baked cake was unmistakable.

“Three sticks of butter. And caramel-flavored whipped cream.” When Barb cooked, which was often, Max and Confidential Commissions were in a lull between clients, to phrase a lack of activity gracefully.

Barb tilted her bouffant hairdo in the direction of Max's closed office door. “He's talking to that sweet girl who works at Wyler's gallery. She has a broken heart pasted all over her face.” Barb lifted expressive eyebrows. “Honestly, divorce is so much simpler than murder. Some guys never get it right. He probably didn't have the cojones to tell Jane sayonara. Or”—a cynical moue—“he didn't want to lose out on all that money. Anyway, let me get you a slice and I'll poke the light on Max's intercom—dot and dash for an
A
—and he'll know you're here.”

Morse code? Annie decided time must indeed have been hanging heavy at Confidential Commissions. Max loved Morse code, dots were light and quick, a dash heavier and longer. Barb was probably the only secretary on the island proficient in Morse. Max also loved the Green Hornet. Was the next best thing going to be a Confidential Commissions' Superpower Ring? But now wasn't the time for lighthearted nostalgia or pound cake. She held up a hand. “Let's wait on the pound cake. I think I know why Frankie's here. I can help.”

Annie knocked lightly on the door, turned the knob.

Frankie Ford huddled in a webbed chrome chair facing Max's desk. The face she turned toward the doorway was tear-streaked and hopeless, a sad contrast to shining chestnut hair and bright-and-fresh short-sleeve white blouse and long blue chambray skirt.

Max had the aura of a man trying to be kind, but wishing he could draw the interlude to a close. He saw Annie and his eyes lighted, grateful for her interruption. He started to rise.

Annie waved him to his seat with one hand, shut the door with the other, and rushed across the room to look down at Frankie. “Where was Tom the Wednesday night before Jane was killed?”

Frankie looked at her in surprise.

“The night of David Corley's birthday party. Was Tom at the party?” Perhaps Lucy missed seeing Tom. Frankie would know. As David's brother-in-law, Tom would have been invited.

Frankie brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across one damp cheek. “Tom wasn't there.” She was clearly uncomfortable and her gaze slid away from Annie. “It was an awful evening. Jane didn't like me.” She looked miserable. “I had to be there because of the gallery. Toby always finagled any invitation he could to the Corleys because of Tom's work.”

Frankie was totally focused on how she'd spent an uncomfortable evening, apparently unaware Tom's whereabouts that night might be important. “Did Tom come late? Did he leave early?”

Frankie was bewildered. “I don't know why you care, but Tom was off island that night. He was in Atlanta.”

“Atlanta?” Annie was glad for the confirmation of Lucy's claim. “When did he go?”

“That morning.” Her voice was empty. To her, the answer didn't matter.

“When did he leave?” Could his departure be proved?

Frankie gave an impatient shrug. “The ten o'clock ferry. He drove to Atlanta to take some paintings to a gallery. He didn't come home until the next day. At David's, Jane was talking about how she had an in with the gallery owner. You'd think the paintings were chosen because of her. But the owner said Tom had a golden future. He wanted to put on a really big show.” Her face twisted in despair. “Not now, of course. Everything's over now.” Her voice quivered. “Tom was so excited. He stayed with the gallery owner. He called me about midnight. He was sorry to call so late. The owner's one of those people who likes to drink and Tom waited until the host called it a night.”

Max looked puzzled, likely wondering why Tom Edmonds's whereabouts on the night of October 9 mattered.

Annie didn't care about the phone call. People can call anywhere on a cell and say they are somewhere else. But if Tom Edmonds was having drinks with his host until late that night, he was not on the island during David Corley's party. Or moving later in darkness to slip unseen through Paul Martin's side yard to knock softly on the door to the study.

Max could check with the gallery owner. If Frankie's story was confirmed, there was no way Tom Edmonds could have returned to the island later that night. In October, the last ferry came into the harbor at ten thirty
P.M.
There wasn't another ferry until morning.

Annie grinned and turned up her thumbs. In her heart, she thought Lucy Ransome had it right. Paul was killed by the person who bludgeoned Jane. “Maybe there is a kindly Providence. Maybe Tom had an angel perched on his shoulder. Here's what happened.” She described the drawing Lucy Ransome found in her brother's desk. When she finished, she was struck by the sharp contrast in how her information was received.

Max's face crinkled in thought, but he didn't look convinced.

Frankie Ford came to her feet with a squeal and hugged Annie. “Tom's innocent. I knew he was innocent—” Frankie's eyes were wide, her voice shaky.

Annie felt a tiny inward lurch as she realized Frankie had been afraid, terribly afraid, and not solely because Tom Edmonds was in jail.

“—even though—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. Her head swiveled toward Max, back to Annie. She gulped. “I mean, things looked bad.”

Annie looked into blue eyes that harbored knowledge. Frankie knew something else, something that had made her fearful that Tom was guilty.

Max studied Frankie with narrowed eyes, then turned toward Annie. “Did Lucy Ransome take the sketch to Billy Cameron?”

Annie lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“And he said?” Max quirked a blond brow.

Annie took her time answering. “He admitted someone could have come with a gun, maybe worn a latex glove on one hand, walked behind Paul's desk, caught him by surprise, jammed the barrel to his temple, shot him, and set everything up to look like suicide, putting Paul's fingerprints on the cartridge box, wiping the gunsmoke residue on Paul's right thumb and index finger and palm. Billy didn't believe a word of it. You know how people are. Somebody claims someone else was behind an elaborate frame and everybody says that's not realistic. Billy dismissed the idea of somebody being ‘a clever devil.' He was sardonic about somebody doing ‘a lot of planning.'”

Max's face stilled. His blue eyes darkened with memories.

She wished she could bite back the words.

His gaze dropped to his desk. She knew he didn't see the magnificent red of the mahogany refectory table that served as his desk. He saw a dusty road dappled by moonlight and heard the baying of hounds. Finally, he looked up. The memory of that hot August night when he'd been taken into custody with blood—not his own—on his shirt was there in the bleakness of his gaze. “Yeah. People can make plans, snare somebody innocent. But”—his gaze at her was level—“there's a damn big difference between me and Tom. I was set up from start to finish. I had no reason to kill that woman.” He looked at Frankie, shook his head. “I'd be lying if I said I thought I could help Tom.”