Death at the Door (8 page)

Annie remembered Max's story about David Corley's remarks at the men's grill. What did Jane say to Frankie at the birthday party? “Did you see Jane talk to Frankie at David's party?”

“Little difficult to see anything. Madeleine is nuts for Japanese lanterns. I say if you've got lights, use them. I could hardly tell what I had on my plate.” She lifted bony shoulders in a shrug, dropped them. “I saw the girl at one point, and she looked like she had a demon sitting on her shoulder, but for all I know she had a migraine. I don't know whether Jane talked to her or not. The whole evening seemed off-kilter to me. I don't know why. I didn't feel comfortable. Madeleine was nervy and she kept darting inside to check on that yappy Yorkie.” A pause. “Millie's kind of a cute little dog and she's nuts about Madeleine and both of them have been basket cases lately. Cats are better. They always smell good.” Again the words filled space, then, abruptly: “I saw Paul once when I don't think he knew anyone was watching him.”

Annie looked at her inquiringly.

Kate brushed back silvered hair, a gesture of impatience. “Maybe what you told me is affecting the way I remember. I was on my way inside to the bathroom. Paul was standing by the wet bar near the pool. As I consider it now, he had an odd expression on his face. He looked like a man confronting something unpleasant, definitely not a party look. I wondered what was wrong, decided he'd seen someone he didn't like. He started walking toward the end of the pool.”

“Do you know who was standing near the end of the pool?”

“I don't remember who was there. People wandered around. There was a group clustered past the pool, throwing horseshoes. He was going in that direction.”

“Is there anyone you can vouch for that could not have been beyond the pool?”

For an instant, Kate looked puzzled, then she gave an abrupt nod. “I get it. Did I see anyone when I went in the house? Only Lucy. She was coming across the den as I walked inside.”

Annie felt a flicker of excitement. When Lucy stepped outside, it would be natural for her to look about for Paul. She might have seen him walking toward the end of the pool. Lucy hadn't noticed Paul in a conversation, but she might have glimpsed who was standing beyond the pool. If Kate's perception was correct, Paul walked toward a confrontation he didn't relish.

“Who attended the party?”

Kate's dark brows drew down in a frown. “Mostly family. David and Madeleine. Jane. Sherry.” She gave Annie a quick glance. “Sherry Gillette, a sort of honorary cousin. Her stepmother was Jane's mother's best friend. I'll have to say I fault Jane there. She thought Sherry's husband was a no-good. Sherry showed up a couple of weeks ago with a bruise on her arm, but it wouldn't surprise me if she just banged into something and blamed Roger. I mean he's a social studies teacher, for Pete's sake. He's big and burly, but he looks about as threatening as Pooh Bear. Whatever.” Kate was disdainful. “Anybody with gumption could do something on their own. Instead Jane mixed in and I can tell you it never pays to get into anybody's marriage. Anyway, Sherry was here, so she came to the party. As for the rest . . . Paul and Lucy, of course. Toby Wyler from the gallery, along with Frankie. I guess Madeleine invited them because of Jane.” She gave a little snort of disdain. “I'm sure Madeleine thought Toby would hover around Jane in a worshipful way. And he did, of course. Irene and Kevin Hubbard were there. Jane played a lot of golf with Irene. Probably because she'd always beat her, even with Irene's big handicap. Jane liked to win. Kevin manages the Corley properties at the marina. Jane let him handle David's allowance. Kind of a buffer between them.”

Annie pounced. “Buffer?”

Kate's face softened. “David's the baby of the family. He hasn't settled down yet and it worried Jane. Bolton's will gave all the money to Jane, a dollar to David with a proviso that Jane share the estate when she felt David was ready. Bolton knew Jane would do the right thing, but that's too big a burden for anybody. I don't blame David for being hurt. I tried to talk to Jane but she got her back up, snapped, ‘Dad told me to be sure he was steady. He isn't there yet.' As you can imagine, a grown man—he's almost twenty-five—doesn't like having money doled out to him. That made them edgy with each other and I hate that. David's looked really stricken since she died. At least he got to have a happy birthday before this happened. I'm glad the party was fun for him. He was on a tear that night, lots of jokes.” Her smile was indulgent. “Four of his old fraternity brothers came from Atlanta. All bachelors. They drank too much, of course, but they kept things lively. None of them were at the open house on Sunday, so they aren't relevant.”

“Can you get their names and phone numbers?”

“Why? They didn't know Paul.”

“I want to talk to everyone.” One of them might be the sort who took a lively interest in new and different people and watched and noticed. “Please find out and send me a text. Names. Phones numbers.”

Kate didn't look unwilling so much as totally unimpressed with Annie's logic. “You need to talk to that girl. The more I think of it, she was upset that night. She looked like somebody falling out of a plane and the rip cord didn't work.”

•   •   •

M
ax kept his promise of anonymity for Marian as he named the file:

•   •   •

MURMURS FROM LITTLE GREEN MEN

H
e could hear her raspy, slightly breathy voice as he typed from his notes.

Tom Edmonds—Not your most robust villain. Got it from the cook that Kate Murray's cat brought in a rabbit dripping blood and Tom damn near fainted. It was Jane who scooped up the wounded critter, raced off to the vet. Turned out to be a bite in one shoulder and Bugs returned to frolic in the lower garden and all should be well in bunny land, assuming his small rabbit brain has the wit to avoid encounters with felines. How does that square with Tom battering Jane all bloody until she was dead? Sure, he was apparently dallying with Frankie Ford, he hasn't got a sou to his name, signed a prenup that a divorce with cause kept the Corley money in the family, and a local artist says nothing matters to him but his work. Might tally up to
mucho
motive for murder, but wouldn't he avoid hammers, especially one from his studio?

Kate Murray—On the scene. One tough broad. Hikes. Racquetball. Deep-sea fishes. Fought a 200-pound tarpon for five hours, got him. Cook said she slammed out of Jane's office a couple of days before David's birthday, looked “like she was ready to spit nails.” What was that all about?

David Corley—Big on charm, short on steady. Everybody in town knows his dad left stacks of gold to Big Sis and she doled out money. Apparently, she was generous. David and Madeleine don't appear to be short on cash. I understand now he gets access to his trust fund. Everybody likes him. Got a smile that makes the ladies . . . Well, 'nuff said. Funny things reporters learn when they're following up a lead. I was keeping an eye on the treasurer of a local church—that story's still building—who suddenly started driving a real fancy car and hanging out in some interesting spots. Like the new gambling dive where the island's high rollers shed greenbacks faster than a porcupine flings quills. Not your usual seedy tin building behind a bar. This place is snazzy, an antebellum house tarted up fresh. They call it Palmetto Players, though it isn't written down anywhere. They're not talking horseshoes. The upstairs bedrooms have poker tables, slots, and, in one of them, a shirt-sleeved croupier who rakes in chips like Tarzan dives after Jane. Anyway, I swanked over there with a dude the boss imported from Savannah, who was playing the role of rich guy just waiting to be bilked. Had a hell of a good time, though Vince said we could only blow five hundred and to stay off the sauce.

Max wondered how Vince Ellis, the
Gazette
publisher, entered that night's expenses. $500 misc? $500 incidental? $500 research?

Anyway, we kept an eye on our grim-faced treasurer, hunkered at the table, betting on the black, watching the red come up. Got some neat pics on my cell. Which I did verrrry carefully. My dress was filmy with flowing sleeves and you can bet your iPad nobody saw me take the shots. I value my neck. Suffice to say, I was tuned up tighter than a banjo and keeping an eye on everybody. That's how I happened to notice David Corley. I'd guess the roulette wheel was in what had been a main bedroom adjoined by a study. There was no apparent door. The remodel must have covered it up. The wall was slats of green bamboo. Got my attention because David walked right past the bar and there was nothing ahead of him but a wall. He didn't have his Brad Pitt look. I figured the squat guy marching along at his left elbow might have sucked some oxygen out of pretty boy's lungs. Not buddies on a prowl. David was on his way to a little confab and there was no joy in his heart. Squat guy came up to the wall, poked a stubby pinkie about waist high, and a panel swung in. They stepped inside, but I got a peek at a guy sitting behind a black desk. The desktop had some papers on it. Not much else except a skull. Looked real. The guy behind the desk is probably a little over six feet, good physique, curly graying hair, florid face, one of those easy smiles, but his eyes were cold as a snake's. FYI, his name's Jason Brown, arrived on the island a couple of years ago. Maybe from Tampa, maybe from Dallas, no pedigree I could find. He gestured for David to sit down with one hand, picked up the skull with the other. The door closed.

Madeleine Corley—So far as anyone knows, Madeleine and her sis-in-law were on good terms. But I picked up a tidbit at the beauty shop last week. My gal has dachshund ears when it comes to gossip. She likes to see herself as a tipster to the news ace. In case you're wondering, that's me. Anyway, I was in for a trim and she said I'd never guess what she'd heard, that Bridget Olson, whose mouth runs like a trout stream, was talking to her hairdresser and she said she'd heard that Madeleine said she was home all afternoon the day Jane was killed, BUT SHE WASN'T!, and Bridget knew that for sure because she'd dropped by to ask Madeleine to help with the animal rescue adopt-a-day the next week and she'd knocked, then gone on in because the door was unlocked and she called out and looked everywhere for Madeleine and she absolutely wasn't there. The hairdresser said maybe she was out in the garden. Bridget shook her head, said she'd asked the yard man if Madeleine was around and he said, “No ma'am, she went off that way a while ago,” and pointed to a path. Bridget said probably Madeleine had just taken a walk but it was kind of exciting to think she really hadn't been where she said she was even though it turned out that Jane's awful husband killed her, so it didn't really matter. Sometime, and Bridget has a laugh that sounds like a horse's whinny, she'd have to ask Madeleine about the Mystery of That Monday Afternoon.

Sherry Gillette—The cook has it in for her. Sherry complained about the food. So take this with a grain of salt. Maybe a whole shaker. Cook said Sherry shouted at Jane—she thinks it was the Friday before Jane died—that she'd better not cause any trouble for Roger, then came running out of Jane's office. Roger's a high school teacher, social studies. The cook then went all over trembly and said she had second sight from her Irish grandmother and she'd known something bad was going to happen, that Jane Corley was not herself and went around looking spooked. Cook believes Jane had a presentiment of her death.

Frankie Ford—Nice kid. Got a heap of trouble now. People whispering about her and Tom. Kind of hate to say it, but I'd press her about her errands that afternoon. When I talked to her, she tried to act casual but body language'll get you every time. One hand kept clenching and unclenching. What're the odds she got a little closer to the Corley place than she wants to admit?

Max was thoughtful. Marian Kenyon's crackling black eyes missed little, but Frankie Ford was under enormous pressure. Maybe her hand clenched and unclenched because of the sickening realization deep inside that Tom Edmonds was not only in jail, he was likely bound for a trial and his life was on the line.

Which brought him back to the task at hand. He still wasn't convinced of Tom's innocence, but Lucy Ransome was a smart woman. Okay, smart and grieving. But she could be right and, if Lucy was right, someone who attended David's birthday party was guilty of two murders.

Max concentrated. He pulled information from the Web, scouted out stories in past issues of the
Gazette
, made a series of phone calls. He was purposefully vague, but explained he was a lawyer trying to determine how a witness might cope in a trial. Was the potential witness intelligent, defensive, quick to anger? Character traits? Would a jury pick up on a streak of meanness, selfishness? Finally, he was ready to flesh out the dossiers for the birthday party guests plus the man who wasn't there. He liked his heading: Killer Guests Plus the Man Who Wasn't There.

The phone rang.

As he scanned the last entry, Max reached for the receiver with his left hand, clicked Save and Print with his right. As sheets furled out of the printer, he noted caller ID and felt a flicker of surprise. “Confidential Commissions. Hey, Ben.”

“Yo, Max.” Ben Parotti, owner of Parotti's Bar and Grill, the ferry, and great swaths of island real estate, spoke sotto voce. “Boot scoot this way for lunch. Got something for you.” A pause. “Oh hell, maybe I shouldn't. Hell, maybe I should. I used to play poker with Bolton.” On that husky, whispered, obscure pronouncement the connection ended.

A
nnie turned into a now familiar street. A yellow VW, driven too fast, braked abruptly. Marian Kenyon poked her head out the open driver's window, the breeze ruffling her dark hair. Marian radiated excitement, practically bouncing in the seat. “Tell Max he's tops on my list right now. I got a story, I got pics”—her thumb jerked toward the Martin house—“and tonight's
Gazette
will knock 'em dead.” For an instant, her monkey face was stern. “Trust me, when I get done, somebody on this island's going to be scared as hell because everybody in town's going to know Paul Martin was murdered.” A fist clench, a short chop, and the VW jolted past.

Annie pulled into the Martin drive. She reached for her purse, grabbed her cell, called, burst into speech as Max answered. “I just got to Lucy's and saw Marian leaving. She's going to do a story about Paul and the drawing. Max, it was brilliant to send her here.”

“Thank you, ma'am. A fair trade. What brings you to Lucy's?”

“A heads-up from Kate Murray.” Annie described Kate's view of Paul Martin at the birthday party. “If Lucy noticed who was standing on the far side of the pool, we can narrow down the possibilities. Luckiest of all would be if there was only one person there. Then we'll know.” It didn't take long for her to realize that Max's silence wasn't pulsating with excitement. “Don't you agree?”

“You're such a nice person.” His tone was kind.

Annie bristled. “Excuse me?”

“Straight from the horse's mouth?” He was gently wry.

“Oh.” Annie got it. Intelligence was only as good as its source. Had Kate played Annie like fish beguiled by a fancy lure? Maybe Kate saw Paul and interpreted his look correctly and his walk indeed signaled an approach to Jane's murderer-in-waiting. Maybe the entire story was a fabrication. Maybe Kate was laying down a false trail for Annie to follow. Maybe it didn't matter a damn who stood beyond the pool as Paul walked away from the bar. “You think she conned me?”

“Maybe she didn't. Caveat emptor. Anyway, it's smart to talk to Lucy. She's had time to think about the party. She may remember something else that will help. Meet me at Parotti's for lunch. Maybe another lead there.” He clicked off.

The front door opened. Lucy Ransome hurried across the porch and started down the steps. Lucy moved with energy. The breeze stirring her white curls, Lucy looked almost youthful in a white tee and pale violet jeans. “Did Marian tell you what she's going to do?”

“She's going to bang out a story that will jump off the page.” Annie never doubted that Marian would succeed.

Lucy smacked one small fist into the opposite palm. “Finally we're doing something for Paul. It isn't right that people think he killed himself.” She gestured toward the side yard. “Come this way. I want to show you something.” She wheeled and marched toward a wall of eight-foot stalks of pampas grass.

Annie hurried to follow. Oyster shells crackled underfoot. Annie imagined the yard in darkness, the darkness of the Wednesday night when Paul Martin died. There was a streetlamp but it was a half block distant.

Lucy walked to the end of the border of pampas grass, turned right. The thick mass of plumed stalks extended the length of the side yard as well. Beyond the house an asphalt trail led into a grove of pines. Lucy pushed through a gate flanked by the tall sentinels of pampas grass and led Annie into a secluded garden ablaze with rosy camellias and lavender-and-white rhododendron blooms. A fountain trickled softly near a gazebo. Burnt orange daylilies encircled the redbrick pool. An oyster-shell path led to the gazebo and on to the house.

Lucy gestured. “That's the door to Paul's study.”

A quiet figure could easily have slipped unseen through darkness, come to the door, perhaps knocked softly, or perhaps simply turned the knob and walked inside. “Would the door have been locked?”

Lucy shook her head. “The front door is locked during the day but not the study door or the kitchen door. Paul always closed up the house at night, locking everything up before he went to bed.”

Annie wasn't surprised. Unlocked doors weren't unusual on the island. Many people when home didn't lock any doors.

“That next morning—”

Lucy forestalled the question. “I don't know. I ran to the kitchen and called 911. It doesn't matter whether the door was locked that morning or not. The point is that Paul was in the study. He hadn't yet made his rounds of the doors in the house before going upstairs for the night, so the door would have been unlocked. In fact”—and she nodded energetically—“I think he asked someone at the party to come and talk to him. He went into the study that night in such a purposeful way. I think he expected someone to come.” Some of the vigor left her face. “If only I'd paid more attention at the party.”

That gave Annie her opening. “There might be a moment that could be helpful.” She kept her tone easy. After Max's warning, Annie wasn't counting on anything definitive. “At one point, Kate Murray came inside and she said you were just going out onto the patio. I believe Paul was walking toward a group at the end of the pool, near where they were throwing horseshoes. Think about that moment and tell me who you saw.”

Lucy was shaking her head. “I saw Paul going that way. I didn't pay much attention to the group. Besides, some of them were in shadow. Kevin Hubbard was standing a little sideways and the light from a lantern fell across his face in such an odd way.” Her eyes narrowed in consideration. “It was like seeing half a face and that half was as empty and sad as a rusted bucket.” She looked uncomfortable. “It may have just been a trick of the light.”

An empty and sad expression. Annie thought about a killer who might be watching the approach of a familiar face, now stern and set. Kevin Hubbard . . . “What do you know about Kevin?”

Lucy's gaze was troubled. “I think he has a good reputation on the island. He's had different jobs but the last few years he's been the property manager for the Corley family. They own a good portion of the buildings at the marina. He always seemed like a nice man. But he looked different that night. I didn't think about it at the time. Now, I don't know what to think.”

It was silent in the garden except for the rustle of the feathery blooms of pampas grass and the soft splash of water from a stone dolphin in the redbrick fountain.

Lucy clasped her hands tightly. “I hate the way my mind works now. I'm suspicious of everyone.”

Annie's answer was swift. “You should be.” Kevin Hubbard might be the person Paul Martin intended to warn. If not, Kevin should be able to recall those who were standing near him at that moment.

Lucy looked toward the study door. “If we'd been in the garden the night Paul died, we would know. Or if my room were on the garden side.” She saw Annie's puzzled look. “Upstairs there are two big bedrooms that face the street. Mine is on the far side of the house. I see the street from the front windows. Through the side windows, I can see the fence between our house and next door. The bedroom across the hall from me—that was Paul's—overlooks the street and the garden. That night I stood at the front window for a while. A car passed. I watched its taillights and I wondered who had been out so late. A few minutes later I went to bed. I have a clock with luminous figures. It was about fifteen minutes past midnight. But I didn't pay much attention. It was just a car. Now I wonder . . .” Her eyes held darkness. She pressed her lips together briefly, then spoke in a rush. “I want to show you Paul's study.”

They walked in silence to the door. Lucy turned the handle and they stepped inside. Cypress paneling gave the small room an aura of warmth. Filled bookcases lined two walls. The surface of the oak desk was bare. A wingback chair sat near the desk. The study furniture was old, shabby, comfortable. It should have been an enclave of peace, a man's retreat. Annie tried hard not to imagine Paul slumped over the desktop, right hand trailing above the floor. Instead she pictured Paul turning his head at a knock, perhaps calling, “Come in.”

Whoever came might reasonably, on a chilly fall evening, have worn a light jacket, whether a man or woman. The jacket would be half zipped, the gun very probably tucked within, held against one side by the pressure of an arm, hands thrust into side pockets. Had there been a few moments of talk? Had the visitor perhaps sat in a wingback chair to one side of the desk? Had there been reassurances? Promises?

Annie remembered the bloodied but blank sheet of paper and pen found beneath Paul. Had there been an agreement to write a statement assuring Jane's safety? Paul might have insisted, seeing the paper as evidence should anything happen to Jane. That would have given the visitor a reason to come around the desk and stand behind Paul. Had a hand slid into a pocket, wriggled into a loose glove, seized the gun, pulled it out, pressed the barrel to Paul's temple, fired?

If so, the visitor was swift, cool, audacious, and deadly. Such action required the kind of planning Billy discounted.

After the shot, the killer waited, heart thudding, pulse racing. Would anyone come? Would an alarm be raised?

The night remained silent.

Breathing shallowly, hands perhaps a little unsteady or perhaps rock firm, the next few minutes would have sped by, the weapon rested for the moment on a corner of the desk, Paul's hands placed on the box of cartridges, the box slipped into the bottom drawer, gunshot residue from the right-hand glove smeared on Paul's palm and fingers, his flaccid hand conformed to the gun grip, creating fingerprints, then the gun placed on the floor where it might have dropped from nerveless fingers. A final look around the study. A silent departure.

Lucy walked past the desk to the wingback chair. A tasseled decorative pillow rested against the back. She pointed at a Tiffany lamp on an oak side table. “I was too upset to think about it, but the lamp was on when I stepped into the study that morning.” She swung to face Annie. “Someone came that night. Someone sat in that chair. Paul never turned on the lamp just for himself. He was found sitting at his desk. And,” she concluded triumphantly, “the cushion was on the floor. I stumbled over it and almost fell when I turned away from the desk.”

Her small, thin face had the look of a teacher sure of her pronouncement. An equilateral triangle has three matching sides. The speed of light is 186,282 miles per second. Akhenaton's queen, elegant and imperious, was Nefertiti.

Annie looked at soft light gleaming through the vivid red, green, and amber art glass of the Tiffany lampshade. Billy Cameron could murmur about unicorns, but Annie knew Lucy was right. Death had sat in the black leather wing chair near Paul's desk and waited for its moment.

•   •   •

M
ax looked up as Ben Parotti approached and was mesmerized by Ben's appearance. Since his marriage to Miss Jolene of a mainland tea shop and her arrival on the island, wizened Ben had blossomed into sartorial splendor, discarding dingy white singlets beneath bib overalls for Tommy Bahama cool-beach-daddy attire. But today's ensemble was over the top, the dress shirt a pale lavender, trousers in a purple that matched lowering clouds in a hurricane sky.

Ben's face furrowed when he saw Max's expression. “Miss Jolene loves her Loropetalums and she thought my pants looked just like her Purple Diamond Loropetalum.” At Max's silence, he hurried on. “A shrub.” A forlorn addendum. “She made the pants for me.”

Max hurried to make amends. “I should have known. Purple Diamond. Neat idea, Ben. Give Miss Jolene my congratulations.”

Relieved, Ben glanced toward the empty chair. “Two?”

Max smiled. “She's coming. Now, Ben, about your call—”

Ben slapped down the menus. “Back in a jiffy.”

Max watched him cross the planked flooring, skirting tables as he strode toward the swinging door to the kitchen. A change of mind? Or did he want Annie here, too? Max heard quick steps, saw Annie hurrying toward him, a pale gray scoop neck tee molding softly to her, a short floral skirt revealing very, very nice legs. Her dusty blond hair was wind riffled, her gray eyes intent. A quick smile softened her serious expression as she reached the table.

He stood and thought how nice it would be to go home—now—with her and knew she saw desire in his eyes. Everything was better and brighter and sharper and happier when Annie was near.

She came around the table to touch his cheek, telling him she knew, she loved him, later, then took the opposite chair, plopped her elbows on the table, talked fast as he settled back in his chair. “. . . so I'm sure Frankie knows something she hasn't told us and Kate Murray's trying to help—I think—and if cushions could talk we'd know who came to Paul's study—”

Ben sidled up, stood at an angle to them, his eyes whipping around the partially filled dining room. “Got some specials today.” He rattled them off, Manhattan clam chowder, grilled flounder, spinach quiche. He raised his pen to his order pad.

“Fried oyster—” Annie started.

“Onion bun, double order Thousand Island, fries, iced tea. Got it.” Ben looked at Max.

“Grilled flounder sandwich. Iced tea.”

Ben reached for the menus, held them up high enough to mask his face, spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Tuesday before Jane Corley died. Saw her stalking into Kevin Hubbard's office at the marina. Got to say up front, he's a sorry”—he looked at Annie, pressed his lips together, then continued—“jerk. A few years ago, I made a bid for some town land near the lighthouse. Several bidders. Kevin's bid came in five bucks less than mine. Maybe he was lucky. Maybe he had a buddy in the know. He wasn't buying for the Corley properties, a flyer on his own. I'd bet the house he cut corners, paid somebody on the sly for the bid numbers. If he cut corners there, he'd cut 'em anywhere. FYI. BTW.” He turned away.