Death of the Party

T
HE ROOM WASN'T MOVING.
Britt Barlow held to that reality, no matter her dizziness. Yet the words in the letter blurred before her eyes.

Britt remembered a long-ago day in a small third-floor apartment in Mexico City, the rumble of wrenched walls, the swaying floor, the sweep of gut-sickening terror. She'd survived that earthquake, just as she'd survived divorce and loss and sadness and, once, a fury that had threatened to capsize her world.

Britt waited for that first shock to pass. She would survive. No matter what happened, she had always been a survivor. Earthquake, fire, flood, pestilence…Damn the world. She would fight this new threat as she'd always fought, with steely determination, with craft and guile, with a devil-be-damned smile.

The words in the letter came back into focus. “…I saw you that morning…understand the estate is settled…perhaps we could have a little talk about financial matters….”

Britt felt hot and sick. She glanced at the mirror above the fireplace. Other than the bright flush on her narrow cheeks, she looked much as she had when she
finished dressing this morning, the vermilion sweater a vivid contrast to cream wool slacks. She stared at her image as if appraising a stranger: glossy black curls, clover green eyes, a restless look of expectancy. With a twisting pang of incipient loss, she remembered Loomis's words to her just before he left the island last week. “I love your face, Britt. You have”—he'd paused, searched for his thought, brought it out with a triumphant grin—“the face of adventure. That's the kind of woman I've always written about. I made you up long before I met you. I didn't think you existed. Now I know you do. It has to be us, Britt. The two of us together.” He'd kissed her, a kiss that held a promise of indescribable joy. “I'll be back. Count on it.” Loomis was the late love of a life that had known so much loss. She'd never again expected to thrill when a man walked into her room. She loved the way he looked, the way he walked, the way he talked, his brilliance, his wry humor, his innate kindness.

She crumpled the letter, shoved it into the pocket of her slacks, folded her arms, began to pace. All right. The truth was going to come out. Jeremiah Addison had been murdered. Until now she'd pushed away all memory of that moment when she'd stood at the top of the staircase and looked down at the crumpled body lying at the base of the white marble steps, blood slowly pooling beneath his battered head. The downstairs hallway light had illumined death in a pool of brightness. She'd stared for a long moment, poised to hurry down if there was any sign of life. But death was obvious in the rag-doll limpness of his limbs, the awkward crook of his neck. Jeremiah Addison had
not survived his plunge down the steep stone steps. It would have been a miracle had he survived that headfirst fall. He'd always considered himself a miracle man, but his luck had finally run out.

She'd pulled her gaze away, knowing that no one could help Jeremiah now. She'd looked instead at the taut shiny wire stretched ankle high from the wall to a baluster. Why hadn't he glimpsed the wire? The answer was easy and such a commentary on the man. Jeremiah expected the world and everything in it to give way before him. He always strode forward at top speed, his long legs moving fast. He was Jeremiah Addison and the world waited on him. He didn't look down. He always looked ahead, focused on the next encounter, the next objective, the next triumph. He'd plunged fast down the steps and the wire had snagged him, flung him headfirst to his death.

Britt felt the wad of the crumpled letter in her pocket. Jeremiah had been dead for a year and a half. Now she had to remember everything that had happened and accept the fact that she'd been observed that silent summer morning. She continued to pace, though her breath came quickly and her chest ached.

She could have made a different choice when she stood there at the top of the stairs. If she'd screamed, some of the staff downstairs would have come running. The truth would have been there to see, Jeremiah dead and the means of his death apparent.

Murder. The word was harsh but no harsher than the reality. An investigation would have been launched. Everyone on the island, the very private and isolated South Carolina sea island of Golden Silk, would have
been caught up in a homicide investigation. Oh, there were plenty of suspects, each with a burning reason to do away with rich, powerful, arrogant Jeremiah Addison.

Including herself, of course. Everyone knew she hated Jeremiah. He'd barely tolerated her presence on the island even though she was a great help with Cissy.

She could have screamed when she found him dead. She had not. Instead, with scarcely a moment's pause, she'd drawn a deep, steadying breath and whirled to run down the hallway to a bathroom. She'd grabbed a washcloth, raced lightly back to the stairway, listening all the while for a door to open, footsteps, a cry of horror, but the hallway remained silent.

Silent as a grave.

She'd worked fast in the early morning stillness, pulling out the nail from the wall, unfastening the thin but formidable strand from the baluster, checking to see if the telltale hole was obvious, grateful when the speck in the wall was easily covered by a fleck of lint from the carpet. She'd mashed the wire into a lump, put the coil and the nail in the pocket of her robe, and fled down the hall to her room. She'd waited there until a maid's shout brought them all tumbling from their rooms.

Everyone said, “What a terrible accident.”

She'd been glad to leave it at that. Because she had to take care of Cissy. It wasn't until after Jeremiah's funeral that she'd truly believed the chapter finished. In fact, she'd rarely thought about Jeremiah's death through the next harrowing months as Cissy weak
ened, the cancer ferocious and unrelenting. Finally, Cissy slipped away, leaving Britt numb and exhausted. Cissy had inherited Golden Silk as part of her portion of Jeremiah's estate. That had been included in the prenuptial agreement when Cissy became his second wife. With Cissy's death, the island belonged to Britt. Golden Silk became Britt's haven and joy. She'd not spared an instant recalling Jeremiah and how he'd died.

Now she would have to remember every detail about Jeremiah and those who were there that fateful day. Thoughts fluttered through her mind. She walked more slowly, finally came to a stop, leaned her head against the cool white mantel.

Her fingers curled around the paper in her pocket.

Not much time passed, but time enough. Britt lifted her head. Her green eyes glinted. Her features molded into a mask of determination. It was always better to let sleeping dogs lie, but she had no choice. Oh, yes, she could make an arrangement with the letter writer—or to be clear about it, pay blackmail. If she paid off, that would be accepted as an admission of guilt and she would evermore be at the mercy of that silent observer. She had no intention of taking responsibility for Jeremiah's death. Behind her scheming and hoping and figuring, there was Loomis with his thin, kindly face, erudite, surprising, caring. He was worth fighting for. They could build a wonderful life together, but not if she had to look over her shoulder, and worry and wonder what might happen.

Abruptly, she laughed. She loved to take chances. She always bet on the red. Maybe her penchant for
gambling had prepared her for this moment. Now she would take the biggest gamble of her life. The only way to save herself was to trap a murderer, serve the accused up on a silver platter to the police.

But how?

 

Dana Addison kept putting off the moment. But finally, the children were asleep. This was their time, hers and Jay's, the golden moment of peace at the end of the day. They usually relaxed against the softness of the tartan plaid sofa, his arm crooked comfortably around her shoulders, the chatter of the television a familiar accompaniment as they talked.

She stopped in the doorway of the family room. It was a haven of happiness against whatever happened in the world. She wanted to cling to the moment but she had no choice. She had to tell him.

Jay looked up, a smile lighting his sensitive face. She was swept by tenderness. She loved everything about him, his bigness, his gentleness, the way he impatiently brushed back the tangle of brown hair that stubbornly drooped into his face. He was doing so much better. It seemed to her that he was more confident every day, that he stood straighter, looked at the world more directly. He'd been so beaten down by his father. Jeremiah had been cruel and unrelenting in his disdain for his youngest son.

“Dana.” Jay pushed up from the sofa, strode toward her, his face concerned. “What's wrong?”

She felt the hot burn of tears. He knew, of course. He always knew when she was upset.

“Teddy? Alice?” His eyes jerked toward the stairs.

“They're fine.” She took a deep breath. “They're asleep. Oh, Jay, it's about your mother.”

“Mama?” There was an echo of a little boy in his voice.

Dana reached out, gripped his hands. “I heard from Britt Barlow today.”

He frowned, puzzled, uncertain. But not worried. Not defensive. Not yet.

Dana talked fast, wanting to get the words out, get past the pain she knew would come. “She's invited us to Heron House.” His hands were suddenly rigid in hers. “She was doing some remodeling in the Meadowlark Room. You know she's turned the house into a bed-and-breakfast and named all the rooms. The Meadowlark Room—” She broke off at the terrible stillness of his face.

“Mother's room?” His voice was uneven.

Dana wanted to shout and cry, wrap her arms around him, push away the world and its awful weight. “Britt found some kind of note in that room. It has directions to a hidden spot. She doesn't know whether she should explore. She thinks the writing is your mother's….”

 

The Honorable Millicent McRae did not have pleasant memories of Heron House, the exquisite South Carolina sea island plantation that had served as a showcase for Jeremiah Addison. Her last visit, hers and Nick's, had been in response to a summons from Jeremiah. There was no reason to sugarcoat the truth. She had received an invitation she could not refuse. Jeremiah had said only a few words in that telephone conversation, but enough for her to realize that she was
in his power. So she and Nick had come. Now she had another invitation. But this one…

Financial support…
Millicent relished the delicacy. So there were some people—she wondered who they might be—who saw her as a winner and wanted to establish rapport. Money talked. Of course, it always demanded an answer. That was the reality of politics.
Give and take. If the well heeled took the most, who was she to fight the system? Because there was no other way to win. She was determined always to win.

Golden Silk. She'd hated the island. Jeremiah could have ruined her. But he couldn't hurt her now.

Millicent picked up her Mont Blanc pen, scrawled an acceptance, placed the card within the stamped envelope. She felt the same eagerness that suffuses a big-game hunter as the safari begins.

 

The office was enormous, stretching the width of the narrow building, with banks of windows all around. In a steady drizzle, downtown Atlanta was hazy and ill defined, a poorly done Impressionist painting sans color. Usually when he stepped into the room, Gerald Gamble saw his reflection in the panes and the movement would catch Craig's attention. Not today. There was nothing but dull grayness and Craig Addison hunched over the keyboard, powerful fingers thumping the keys.

Gerald loved watching Craig at work. It was not a pleasure he could voice or share. No one would understand. Or a listener would see what wasn't there instead of what was. Yes, Gerald was a company man. He'd worked for Jeremiah Addison for almost thirty years, and always kept his mouth shut. He'd seen the empire grow from a half dozen small newspapers in the South to almost forty across the nation as well as television stations and, lately, magazines and book publishers. Addison Media was a name known and feared by industrialists, brokers, politicians, and others in the business. Gerald had always done his best for the
company. But he'd not realized how angry he'd been with Jeremiah until he was dead.

Craig Addison's blond hair shone in the light from the lamp. He wore his hair short but nothing tamped down the tight curls he deplored. His white shirt had begun the day crisp but now was wrinkled, with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Even a back view spoke to Craig's strengths, his solid athletic appearance, his determination. His focus.

Gerald took an instant longer to savor the moment, Craig in his element, in charge, and likely lifting his lance to tilt at windmills that his father had ignored. Jeremiah had believed in no cause but his own. Craig was a foot soldier for the downtrodden.

Gerald marveled at the difference made by one man's death. Though he and Craig had joined in praise of Jeremiah Addison at the memorial service and on several occasions since, Gerald knew he would have been resentful had he been Craig. Enough, he would have said. It was almost as though Craig felt he owed a debt to his father, more than the fact of his inheritance. Gerald felt a quiver of uneasiness. But perhaps this time Craig would decline the opportunity to attend a dedication in Jeremiah's memory.