Death of the Party (9 page)

There was a silence, then a man answered. “Yo.
Hold up there.” The command was brusque, the voice a deep growl.

Max waited. It was cool and dim in the pine forest. A cardinal flashed in a nearby tree.

A stocky man in a plaid flannel shirt, worn jeans, and brown leather boots laced to the knee plodded around a fern, stopped, folded his arms. A fringe of gray hair circled a round bald head. His sun-darkened face was as gnarled and tough as an alligator's back. Dark eyes peered from beneath grizzled brows. He stood with his legs spread apart. “This here's a private path, mister. Didn't you see the sign?” He looked as immovable as a granite boulder.

Max grinned, stuck out his hand. “Max Darling. I work for Britt. She told me I could go anywhere I wanted, look the place over.” After all, Britt said he and Annie could make themselves at home. As far as Max was concerned, he had carte blanche.

The bunched shoulders relaxed. “She said that? Well, that's okay then.” A strong hand gripped Max's.

Max was casual. “You're Harry Lyle.” The man with a fancy for locks. “Britt said you keep everything shipshape.”

“That's right. There's always something needs fixing. I was just stringing up a new aerial for the radio. Had a big wind last week with that storm.” He gestured in the direction from which he'd come. “I'll show you.” He turned and led the way.

 

Annie focused the binoculars on the long, dark, sour face of Gerald Gamble, Jeremiah's hatchet man, now
Craig Addison's executive secretary. If anyone ever looked the part of a villain, it was Gerald. Heavy-lidded dark eyes flickered from side to side, jutting cheekbones, thin lips, heavy chin.

Craig Addison smiled as he shook Britt's hand. There was no suggestion of strain in his greeting. He looked what he was, mid-thirties, handsome, successful, genial. His smile faded as he looked past his hostess toward the house where his father had died.

Gerald—suspicious—deliberate—intuitive—spooked as a horse hearing a rattlesnake—

Craig—impatient—an underlying grimness—a hint of uncertainty—a determination to fulfill an obligation—

Britt seemed animated with these guests, pausing once to point toward the bottom of the garden. Gerald and Craig were both attentive, but there was no pleasure in their faces.

 

Max estimated the yacht anchored in the cove to be fifty, maybe fifty-two feet in length. The pleasure boat glistened with care, the rails polished, the paint job fresh. “Good-looking.” His admiration was genuine.

They stood at the end of a long pier. A motorboat was moored near a ladder. Harry rocked back on the heels of his boots. “I told Ms. Barlow she should use it for charter. I handle it by myself just for her, but I could pick up a crew in Savannah if need be. Lots of folks pay ten thousand a week to charter this kind of boat. But she keeps it for herself. And to herself. She says too many folks might think they want to come to an island and after they got here want to leave if they knew there was boats handy. As far as she's concerned,
you pay for a week, you stay for a week. She tells them right off, once you come, you're here until the boat comes back to pick you up.”

Max felt like making a fist and punching the sky. What a relief to know none of them were truly marooned on this island. His relief was immediately laced with a quick anger. His employer had been a little less than forthcoming. Britt Barlow hadn't said a word about a yacht or a motorboat. This cove explained why their skipper had gone out into open ocean and then swung around the southern tip of the island to the dock. He must have been instructed to avoid the lee side and this obvious harbor. Britt had said no one could depart until Sunday and the island was not in cell phone range of the mainland. What else had she neglected to mention?

But now he knew about the yacht. That knowledge might turn out to be an ace up his sleeve. And he would be as mum as Britt had been.

He looked at the handyman. “You were putting up an aerial?”

 

Annie adjusted the binoculars, brought the image into sharp focus. She murmured aloud, “What's an elegant woman like you doing in a place like this?”

Isabel Addison shaded her eyes, gazed at the house. Her face looked somber, haunted. The women were a study in contrast, Isabel a forlorn, uncertain guest, Britt the image of a woman in charge, crisp and brisk and forceful.

Isabel Addison—struggling with emotion—fear—despair—profound sadness—a troubled spirit—but brave, very brave—

Isabel had come to Golden Silk by herself. Craig had arrived with his employee. What had happened between Craig and Isabel? Why had she left her husband the week after his father was murdered? What were her thoughts as she returned to the island? Not pleasant, Annie decided. Definitely not pleasant.

Annie sighed as she added to her notes. So far, Millicent McRae was the only guest to evince any pleasure upon arrival, and Annie doubted Millicent's effort at charm was genuine. But lack of charm didn't equate to murderous impulses.

Annie tapped the legal pad with the pen. Odd. So far she'd picked up a plethora of emotions among the arriving guests, but not a hint of guilt. Perhaps there were limits to the depth of perception employed so routinely by Laurel. Perhaps Annie lacked her mother-in-law's skill. Perhaps—and the verandah seemed darker, chillier—the murderer felt no guilt.

 

Harry's boots thumped on the pier as he led the way to shore. A metal storage shed with its door ajar sat near a cabin on stilts. He scrambled up the ladder to the cabin, waited on a narrow porch for Max. He pointed to the roof and a crisscross of wires. “Got the aerial up.” He opened the front door, stood aside for Max to enter.

The square room contained a worktable, several chairs, and, against the far wall, a built-in bench with a ham radio.

Max crossed the clean wooden floor, stood next to a swivel chair, studied the switches. Dials glowed green and gold. “Quite a setup.”

“She's got the latest equipment. I'll say one thing for Ms. Barlow, she doesn't stint on upkeep. Or staff.” Harry joined Max. “Now, what kind of work are you in, Mr. Darling?” There was a smile on his face but the eyes that watched Max had a cold, dark core.

 

Annie's lips pursed in a soundless whistle. Here came trouble. If not for her, surely for whoever stood in the path of Kim Kennedy. Britt Barlow looked wary. This might be an invitation she would rue.

Kim moved toward her hostess with the beauty of an enchantress, the stride of a Valkyrie, and the questing gaze of a smart, tough, ruthless reporter. She looked crisp and commanding in a soft wool jacket, black with a white windowpane pattern, black slacks, and black square-toed penny loafers. Kim greeted Britt with a brilliant smile, a brisk handshake.

Annie read the carmine lips in the magnified predatory face:
How kind of you to think of me.
And, Laurel-like, Annie honed in on Kim's thoughts—
No match for me—can't fool me, not now, not ever—what glorious fun—

 

“Oh.” Max's voice was casual. “I'm a consultant, Harry. People who are curious about things get in touch with me. I find answers for them. You can call me Max.” His smile was sunny as he moved to the door. “Do you use the radio as well?”

Harry stood still for an instant, his craggy face unreadable, his cold eyes on Max. “Me? Oh, no. Not my job. Ms. Barlow takes care of emergencies, and that's what it's for. Like she said, you have to be prepared.
About a month ago, a guest got sick. Heart attack. Ms. Barlow called for help and medevac was here in a little over an hour.”

He was still chatting, pointing out the storage shed, when they reached the ground. “…got ropes, extra life jackets, canned foods, flares, ship parts for minor repairs. Anything major we go into a marina in Savannah.”

“You been a sailor for long?” Max picked up a stick, pitched it toward the water.

“Off and on.” Harry folded his arms.

The stick splashed. Max picked up another, hefted it. “You from these parts?”

“Upstate.” Harry's voice was laconic. “You?”

Max brushed pine straw from his fingers. “Broward's Rock. It's pretty quiet this time of year. No tourists. But not”—he glanced toward the pines—“as quiet as here. Is that what attracted you to the job?”

The question amused Harry. “Hell, no. I get paid big bucks. Mr. Addison paid me five times what I could get shoreside. Ms. Barlow does the same. Three weeks on, one week off. First week of the month, everybody leaves. Lucinda's got a sister in Aiken. I keep an apartment in Savannah. Britt puts the maids up at a seaside motel. Everybody does their own thing. Then we come back, work for three weeks. Best of all, I do my work on my own schedule. Nobody butts me around.” His thin lips rippled in a satisfied smile. The smile wasn't reflected in his cold gaze. “Now, in your job, I bet you run into some funny setups. Though I don't know what Ms. Barlow would want you to do on Golden Silk. Everything here's pretty much aboveboard.”

Max was bland. “You'd think so, wouldn't you? But sometimes it's a good idea to check things out. Thanks for showing me around.” Max turned toward the pines. “I'll be back in touch.”

Max didn't look back. But he knew Harry watched him all the way to the woods.

 

The face was familiar to millions. At home Annie would have clicked off the TV. Now she twiddled with the focus, and Everett Crenshaw's bleached mound of hair; pale eyes; long, thin nose; arrogant, patronizing smirk; and receding chin seemed close enough to touch and much too close for comfort. Why was it that media moguls often elevated to stardom talking heads with all the charm of rabid rats? Perhaps because political commentators now gloried in aggression and bloodlust, not qualities common to cultivated correspondents. Crenshaw wore his trademark floppy red shirt with a purple cravat, skintight black trousers, and desert boots.

Everett Crenshaw—excited—with a feline quickness—always out for number one—unscrupulous—a gambler—ready to fight but only on his terms—

“Britt, you look marvelous.” He drew out the three syllables in a high mocking tone. “I'm looking forward to a most intriguing weekend.” His carrying voice professed admiration while his magnified features exuded malice.

Britt Barlow appeared unfazed. She hooked an arm through Crenshaw's, turned him toward the gardens, bent her head and spoke rapidly.

His snickering whoop of laughter faded as they walked toward the fountain.

Annie wrote rapidly. She put the binoculars on the wicker table and hurried into the room with the legal pad. The warmth of the fire didn't ease the chill she carried with her. Soon she and Max would meet Britt's guests in the lovely drawing room of Heron House.

Along with Jeremiah's ghost, of course.

M
AX LEANED AGAINST THE OPEN DOORWAY
of the bathroom, legal pad in hand. He finished reading, looked up. “Good stuff.” He almost told Annie it was awesome how in tune her observations were with his mother's visionary thought processes. He opened his mouth, closed it. Least said…

“Yes?” Annie's gray eyes were alert even though her skin was shell pink from the warmth of the bath.

“Just thinking about my talk with Harry.” Which was true in a sense. Mmm, very pink skin. What skin he could see. Which wasn't enough. Her arms and shoulders rose enticingly from a huge mound of billowy bubbles. Tendrils of blond curls peeped from beneath a shower cap. Max moved nearer the oversized claw-foot tub. “He strikes me as one tough dude. I'd be worried as hell if I thought we were stuck here with this weird mix of people. But there's a yacht, a motorboat, and a ham radio. None of which our hostess shared with us. So we won't let her know we know.” His eyes glinted. He was clearly in a tit-for-tat mood. “And if anybody gets out of line, I'm sure I can count on Harry to give me a hand.”

Annie sat up very straight. “If you need help, I'm here.”

Rising from the bubbles…sexier than any mermaid…“Indeed you are. Right here.” He tossed away the legal pad. It landed with a thud in the bedroom.

Annie's laughter was light and soft. “Hey, come on in. The water's fine…and so are you….”

 

Ice tinkled in glasses. Sweet-scented hickory logs blazed in the fireplace. Twin chandeliers glistened, the teardrop crystals enchanting as limpid water in the summer sun, a glorious reminder of days when beauty was as important as function. The crimson drapes in the drawing room were closed against evening. It might have been any elegant party in a grand plantation home except for an underlying tension among the guests, reflected in oblique glances, a certain stiffness in conversation, occasional strained pauses.

Britt Barlow moved about the room, talking, gesturing, smiling. The easy drape of her blue tulip-print silk dress emphasized her slenderness. A midnight blue hair clip with rhinestones glittered in her dark hair. She was a thoughtful hostess, making sure her guests felt welcome.

Annie maintained a steady smile while resisting the impulse to tell Millicent McRae she had as much interest in politics as in astrology and thought the two had much in common.

Millicent's smile was steady, too, the practiced accoutrement of a woman always on stage. She was dramatic in a black woolen dress with printed white butterflies rising from the hem to one shoulder. Her
ice blond hair was coiled to one side. “…expect a weekend such as this to be very instructive. I am always eager to learn more about my constituents. Britt assured me this gathering might form the core of a future support group. What prompts your enthusiasm for my programs?”

Annie recalled televised press conferences. Savvy politicos always avoided awkward queries by responding to a question that had not been asked. Her cheek muscles felt strained, but she continued to look—she hoped—eager and enthusiastic. “I believe in grassroots democracy.” Even soulful. “Everyone here strikes me as utterly committed. Just as I'm sure Jeremiah”—Annie's tone suggested she and Jeremiah had often shared political insights—“was one of your staunchest admirers. What did you and he talk about that last weekend?”

“That last weekend?” Millicent's modulated voice repeated the words slowly. Pale blue eyes fastened on Annie as if seeing her for the first time. She stared at Annie, then slowly scanned the gathering, one person at a time. As her head moved, Everett Crenshaw walked through the open double doors into the drawing room, the last of the guests to arrive for cocktails. He looked speculatively at Britt. She gave him a pleasant smile. Everett strolled toward Isabel, sitting stiffly in an Empire chair near the fire, her face averted from the group. Tonight his floppy shirt was navy silk and the cravat a pale blue. It might be a dramatic costume on screen. In person he looked absurd. But there was nothing absurd in the questing glance that ranged the room, bright, quick, intelligent eyes that missed nothing.

When Millicent's survey was complete, her face hardened, making her look like an expensive parrot, with vivid feathers and a beaked face.

Annie wanted to exclaim, as Ann Landers always advised,
Wake up and smell the coffee.
And to ask,
Is this the first time you've really looked at your fellow guests? Oh, yes, sweetheart, it's a reunion, and everyone here except Max and me has a special bond.

Millicent abruptly turned and walked away. Annie raised an eyebrow. It was as if—poof—Annie had disappeared. Obviously, she was no longer of interest to Millicent. The politician walked stiffly to the sideboard with the hors d'oeuvres. She stood with her back to the room, her shoulders rigid.

Annie sipped club soda, looked over the assemblage. Max was deep in conversation with Gerald Gamble. Craig Addison stood as far from Isabel as possible but his eyes never left her. Kim Kennedy, eyes intent, studied a pair of ornate silver candlesticks on the mantel. Jay and Dana Addison sat on the piano bench, Jay holding a mother-of-pearl picture frame. He stared at the photograph. Dana looked as broody as a mother hen with a threatened chick. Everett Crenshaw, head poked forward, prominent eyes pale as gooseberries, gestured to an aloof Isabel. Nick McRae fingered an ivory knight on a chessboard sitting atop the Louis XV commode. Hollow-cheeked Britt Barlow met Annie's gaze. Britt's smile was strained.

Balancing a tray with ease, Harry Lyle moved soft-footed across the room. He looked inquiringly at Britt. She shook her head. Harry nodded, began gathering up drink glasses.

Britt clapped her hands together. She looked solemn. “Everyone…”

Conversation fell away. Faces turned toward her.

“I want to thank each of you for coming to Golden Silk. I made some promises in the letters you received. Those promises will be kept.” She took a deep breath. Now the words came fast. “I want to explain that this weekend also serves another purpose. As I'm sure most of you have realized”—her words fell into a pool of watchful silence—“everyone here with the exception of Max and Annie Darling”—there were several quick glances toward them—“was also here the weekend Jeremiah died.” Her voice was uneven. “I suppose I should have broached my plan to everyone in advance, but I was afraid some of you might feel uncomfortable and decline to come.” She made a helpless gesture. “That's why I couched the invitations as I did. But,” she added hastily, “I have every intention of making sure everyone receives exactly what I promised. Anyway, now you are here and I can explain in person. I hope you'll agree this is the right thing to do and be willing to help.”

Millicent McRae glared at Britt. “I understood this to be a gathering of politically astute individuals interested in taking part in my campaign. If that is not the case, I demand to return to the mainland. Immediately.”

Britt was calm but determined. “I hope you will see fit to cooperate when I explain. Whether you do or don't, no one can depart until Sunday afternoon. I have arranged for everyone to be picked up at five o'clock. Until then”—her tone was decided—“you are my guests.”

Annie exchanged a long look with Max. Only they—and Britt and her staff—knew transportation was within a stone's throw. But perhaps Britt's deception was necessary. Millicent was not the only restive guest.

Gerald Gamble's bony face flushed a dark red. “Sequestering guests against their will certainly amounts to a criminal act. If we are truly marooned here, I will hold you accountable to the law.”

“Well, well,” Everett Crenshaw drawled in malicious amusement. “We all should have known better.” His voice was slightly thick. He took a gulp from his glass. “Golden Silk, those are spiders to watch out for. An orb weaver with a golden body and golden legs. High fashion in the arachnid world.” He gave a high giggle. “Did you know Golden Silks spin huge webs between trees and that those webs are strong enough to trap a rider on a horse? Oh hey, I love knowing things like that. Little facts to titillate the masses. But Britt's outdoing even a Golden Silk. Damned if she hasn't trapped herself an island full of visitors. What a coup.”

A frown hardened Craig Addison's customarily pleasant face. He strode to Britt, loomed over her. “What's going on?” It was the abrupt demand of a man now accustomed to being in charge.

Isabel Addison lifted a hand to her lips. Her face was grave, her dark eyes filled with foreboding.

Britt turned out her hands toward Craig in a plea. “I wrote you that I planned to create a memorial here on the island in your father's memory. That's what I want to do.” Her voice was suddenly upbeat and her face
alight with enthusiasm. She looked around the room at unreceptive, questioning faces. “All of us together. We can do it.” She might have been a cheerleader urging a team to victory. “We were here the weekend he died. I want each one of us to think back to our last encounter with him, talk about the way he was. We can create a dramatic picture of a great man's final hours. And”—her smile was bright with pride—“I want it to be done right and that's why I invited Mr. and Mrs. Darling to join us.” Her smile included them. “Max and Annie are oral historians, skilled in eliciting the kind of details that bring a narrative to life. I know you will enjoy talking to them.”

Max's expression was genial. Annie ducked her head modestly while admiring their hostess's convincing demeanor. Annie was quite sure that Britt despised Jeremiah Addison. Yet now she recalled him as a great man with utter conviction in her voice. Annie was impressed. If she and Max carried off their roles as well, the investigation should be duck soup. Duck soup sounded rather greasy and not at all appetizing. Why should boiling a duck be synonymous with ease? Annie pictured the limp carcass of a duck in a cauldron then firmly reined in her mind. It was all right to emulate Laurel's thought processes to hone intuitiveness but it should not become a habit.

“And, of course,” Britt added, looking hopefully at Everett and Kim, “I hope Everett and Kim will describe our efforts and create wonderfully compelling stories.”

Kim's burst of laughter was abrupt and genuine. She flicked an impudent glance at Britt. “Honey, personal
recollections are way too tame for today's market unless you throw in some arson or incest or big-time larceny. That might add enough spice. Or you could bet the island against the most interesting revelation about Jeremiah. You know, up the stakes. Like the old-time plantation owner wagering the home place on a throw of the dice. I suspect”—her cool eyes moved around the room—“some of those present might know some dandy facts about Jeremiah.” Kim was the epitome of relaxed elegance, slim and complacent in a black collarless jacket and a sand-colored blouse that matched her flared slacks. She reached out, picked up the two-foot-tall candlestick, held it up until lights from the chandelier were reflected in bright sharp flashes. “I'll be glad to play your game. I have some interesting memories of Jeremiah. And I'll take these”—she waggled the candlestick—“as a memento.”

“Take them?” Isabel's voice was puzzled.

Kim pointed the silver piece at Britt. “I've got it down in black and white. She said I can pick out something to remember Jeremiah by. Ask the lady. Maybe she'll open it up for everyone. But first come, first served. These candlesticks are mine.”

A gong sounded. Harry stepped into the doorway and announced, “Dinner is served.”

 

Annie sipped fruity chardonnay and made occasional admiring comments about the menu to Jay Addison, who sat to her left. Jay's replies were monosyllabic. He never looked toward her. Annie's enthusiasm was genuine. The buffet was extraordinary: Roquefort-stuffed shrimp and chilled corn-and-crab flan, baked trout on
orange wild rice, tamale pie, oysters Florentine, acorn squash with raisins and walnuts, carrots with cognac, and asparagus with chopped egg and butter sauce. Annie knew Max would find time over the weekend for a chef-to-chef visit with Lucinda.

Despite Annie's enchantment with the delectable food, she paid attention to business. She ostensibly devoted her attention to Jay, but focused on the muttered exchanges between Craig Addison and Gerald Gamble. Every so often she snatched a quick look at the two men, who sat across from each other.

Gerald, his long face dour, squashed pieces of a cloverleaf roll into tiny pellets. “It's a damn fool idea. Oral history.”

Craig scooped up a carrot. His ill humor in the drawing room was gone, but he looked weary. “I suppose it's well meant. In any event, it can't do any harm.” His lips quirked in a wry smile. “It would have surprised the hell out of Dad to know Britt planned anything in his honor.”

Gerald shot a glare at Britt. “Maybe she feels guilty.”

“I wouldn't have thought so.” Craig's answer was absentminded. He stared at his wife at the other end of the table. Their glances met. Isabel turned quickly to Everett Crenshaw. The reporter raised an eyebrow, looked from Isabel to her husband. Everett had carried a full tumbler of whisky to the table. He drank the last portion, held up the glass as Harry came into the dining room. Max gazed admiringly at Kim Kennedy, listened as if entranced. The former intern's lips curved in a seductive smile. The candlesticks were placed promi
nently by her plate. She placed a possessive hand on Max's arm, gave him a smile and a lingering squeeze.

Annie's eyes narrowed.

Kim released Max and reached for the decanter of wine, refilled her glass and Max's.

Max looked briefly toward Annie, winked. His expression suggested a man had to do what a man had to do.

Annie glared and got a quick, wicked grin in response.

Gerald speared a crumb-and-cheese-topped oyster. Sautéed spinach dangled from the fork. “What's so special about Jeremiah's last couple of days? If she wanted to round up memories, I could give her a list of people who knew him well.” He radiated disapproval.