Engaged to Die (10 page)

Annie looked sharply at Billy. For the first time, she considered the fact that the Broward's Rock Police Department had no female employees unless you counted Billy's wife. Annie didn't, much as she liked Mavis.
The department had been understaffed ever since Pete Garrett and Joe Tyndall's reserve units were called up. That left Billy as acting chief and Lou Pirelli as his only full-time officer. No wonder Billy was looking for assistance. Frank Saulter, the former chief, would surely be willing to help out. But why had Billy asked Max and not her? Was it because Tony Hasty had lumped her with the other women who'd run through the parking lot? Or did Billy see investigations as the prerogative of men? Maybe she should pick a pack of books for his education, beginning with P. D. James's
An Unsuitable Job for a Woman.

Max looked somberly at the body. “I've never met him, Billy.”

Annie held her breath. Surely Max wasn't going to mention Chloe.

Max hesitated, but only for an instant. “He may have been a friend of the girl who's been working for Annie over Christmas, but I didn't know him. I'll be glad to help.”

“Thanks, Max.” Billy was pleased. “I can sure use a hand.”

Annie frowned at Max.

Max's steady gaze was unfazed. And determined.

Annie understood. She didn't agree, but she understood. Max might be a lighthearted, easygoing dabbler, but he took his oath as a lawyer seriously. He was an officer of the court. But dammit, he had never even practiced law. She could imagine his eventual response. He would speak to her with reason and restraint, emphasizing that the truth never injured the innocent. She would point out with equal reason, if not restraint, that Erle Stanley Gardner, famed as the creator of Perry Mason, created the Court of Last Resort
to combat miscarriages of justice. Hadn't Max ever heard of the dangers of circumstantial evidence?

“Miss, miss…” The whisper was ragged.

Annie bent close to Virginia Neville. Her breathing still shallow, Virginia demanded, “What girl are they talking about? Did some girl hurt Jake?”

“Nobody knows what happened.” Annie had no intention of telling Virginia Neville about Chloe Martin. Oh, dear heaven, where was Chloe? Why had she run from the grounds tonight? And there could be no doubt that she'd been down here at the point. The green stole made her presence clear. Somehow Annie must get in touch with her. But Annie didn't have her cell phone with her. She didn't carry it in an evening bag. Max, of course, had his, either in the car or in his pocket. Could she call Chloe? Maybe not. Such a call might be considered interfering with a murder investigation. But Chloe was not an official suspect. Not yet.

Max took a step toward Billy. “What do you want me to do?”

Billy cast a worried glance across the gardens. The fog hid the big tent and the party, but they could faintly hear the sounds of Big Band music. “Why don't you—”

Annie interrupted. “We can both help.” At the very least, Annie could assure Billy that Chloe Martin might be volatile but she wasn't violent, and she couldn't have had anything to do with Jake O'Neill's murder even if her green taffeta stole was crumpled beneath his body. Circumstantial evidence…

Billy gave Annie a perfunctory smile. “You go on up to the house, Annie.”

She felt excluded, diminished. Why was Billy dismissing her? “Billy, listen—”

The rumble of an old car overrode her voice.

Billy turned away. “That'll be the doc.” Dr. Burford wore many medical hats on the island, including that of medical examiner. He was irascible, impatient, and took wrongful death as a personal affront. Headlights poked through the low limbs of a live oak. A car door slammed. A stocky figure carrying a satchel marched across the uneven ground.

A siren wailed, came nearer, and rose to a shrill squeal as a van bumped off the road, rolling to a stop not five feet away. The door opened, framing a slim figure. “Lou's on his way, Billy. And Frank, too.” Mavis Cameron jumped to the ground. Her hair was caught back in a bun, her long face bare of makeup. She'd pulled on a navy sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. She hurried to her husband. “I loaded the videocam with night film.”

“Thanks. String the crime scene tape, Mavis. Hey, Doc”—Billy pointed toward the corpse as the doctor stomped into the light—“see what you can tell me.” Billy's tenor voice was brisk and his gestures decided as he set the investigation into motion. He waved a hand at Annie. “Annie, please take Mrs. Neville and Mr. Hasty up to the gallery.”

Annie wanted to stay there, see what was going to happen. But someone had to help this distraught woman. Virginia Neville stood a few feet away, her head bent, her hands tightly clasped, a figure of mourning and despair.

“And Max, go up to the party. Find whoever's in charge, and round up the people who knew this guy.”

 

As Max ducked inside the rear entrance to the tent, a trumpet shrieked the “Beal Street Blues.” Red, gold,
and blue spots swept the dancers. Beyond the dance floor, guests milled, drinks in hand, or clumped in boisterous groups. The roar of conversation almost matched the blare of the music. Boston Mackey had shed his jacket. He danced, ponytail swinging, with a girl in a gold top, black silk trousers, and rhinestone-studded boots. Max spotted Carl Neville and his wife standing near the dance floor. Carl's ascetic face was flushed with pleasure. He was snapping his fingers in time with the music. Irene flung back her shimmering dark hair and laughed as she raised a glass of champagne. Max threaded his way between the band and the dancers, his eyes scanning the crowd. Susan Brandt and her husband were deep in conversation near the front entrance. Max's stride checked. Susan's features were sharp and rigid. She bent toward her husband, talking fast. Rusty's reddish face looked stubborn and sulky. He stared toward the doorway, avoiding his wife's demanding gaze. Max's eyes narrowed. He swerved toward the Brandts. Rusty abruptly turned away from his wife, almost bowling over an old lady as he blundered toward the exit. Susan, anger evident in the hunch of her thin shoulders, hurried after him.

Max plunged across the dance floor. Smiling his apologies—“Sorry, sorry. Excuse me”—he wormed his way through the chattering crowd. He was grateful to step out into the cool, misty air. And the quiet. He hadn't realized the noise level inside the tent until he escaped it. He looked in every direction. Bright spotlights shone on the entrance to the tent, but the path curved into gloom between the tent and the gallery. The fog transformed the landscape and the house, smudging outlines, turning the lights from the old
house pale and ghostly, muting the twinkle of the strands draped in the live oaks.

Max began to feel foolish. So the Brandts were having a quarrel. Married people did. He'd heard a few rumors about that marriage. But there had been an intensity about the exchange between them that caught his attention. Anything out of the ordinary might be worthy of exploring on the night of a murder. Max hesitated, uncertain where they'd gone. Most likely they'd taken the dark path to the house. He moved out of the light at the entrance, stepped onto the grass alongside the path to avoid the crushed oyster shells. He came around a curve.

“…don't lie to me.” Susan Brandt's cultivated voice was so harsh as to be almost unrecognizable. The Brandts stood near a bench that overlooked a lagoon.

Max eased quietly into the dark shadows of a pine, kept his balance on the slick needles, moved nearer.

“Rusty, for God's sake, what's happened? Don't try to tell me nothing's wrong. I know you.” There was a catch in her voice. “Oh, God, how well I know you. You were late for the program. When you came in, your face was sweaty. Almost like you were sick. A few minutes ago, you looked down at your jacket and you touched it. A minute later you took your champagne glass and spilled it on your sleeve. You spilled it deliberately. That's crazy. Why did you do it?”

A siren shrilled.

Rusty grabbed his wife's arm.

She gasped. “Rusty, you're hurting me.”

“Susan, shut your mouth. Do you hear me? Shut your mouth.” His voice was rough with desperation. The siren choked off. He took a deep breath. “Listen, everything's fine. All you have to do is tell everybody
I was with you all night. And I was. I went back to the gallery once to go to the john. That's all. Now come on, let's get back to the party.” He pushed her ahead of him.

In the sharp light outside the entrance to the tent, Susan's face was empty of expression, but her wide, staring eyes were fixed on her husband as they stepped into the tent.

Max followed the Brandts. The siren probably signaled the arrival of Lou Pirelli. Billy would have the crime scene investigation in high gear. It was time for Max to get his job done. Billy wanted Max to corral everyone who knew the murdered man and bring them to the gallery. As soon as Billy finished with the crime scene, he'd come up to the gallery to question them. Billy had added one further request. He wanted Max to take special notice of their reactions to the news of Jake O'Neill's murder.

Inside the tent, the band was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” The Brandts were dancing. Not cheek to cheek. Max moved past. If ever a man looked like he'd had a shock, it was Rusty Brandt. He was going to get a bigger shock when Billy Cameron asked for the jacket to his tuxedo. That should loosen his tongue. Or his wife's.

Carl Neville stood next to the dance floor, his party mask gone. In place of the earlier high flush and ebullient smile, he gazed at the dancers with a pensive, almost forlorn, look.

Max followed his gaze. Boston Mackey, moving with grace for so big a man, was dancing with Irene Neville, his big hand heavy on her back, one meaty finger twined in her tar-black hair. Carl's wife leaned back in his embrace, her face sultry and inviting.

When Max reached Carl, the gallery director pulled his gaze away from the couple, forced a smile. “Hi, Max. Having fun?”

Max was abrupt. “Carl, I need to speak with you privately for a moment. In fact, I need to speak to everyone in the family. I'm authorized by Police Chief Cameron. There's been a crime. Will you bring your wife outside? I'll wait for you there.” He swung around, ignoring Carl's shocked call. Max wanted to see the members of the Neville family in a bright sharp light when they were told of the murder of the young man Virginia Neville had planned to marry.

He walked a few feet away from the dance floor. Louise Neville sat in a chair, tapping the toe of one shoe in time with the music. She was, as always, in black, but silver beadwork adorned the neckline and cuffs of her silk dress. Max stopped in front of her. “Miss Neville, I'm Max Darling—”

“I know you. Your mother”—there was a sudden smile on her wrinkled face—“thinks the world of you.” There was a dry note of amusement in her slow drawl.

Max smiled. “I can always count on my mother.” It wasn't appropriate to inform Miss Neville that Max knew he could always count on Laurel to complicate any given situation, often reordering quite ordinary circumstances into a surreal landscape. His laughter faded. “Miss Neville, I'm asking the members of the family to step outside for a moment. There's been a serious incident. The police are here. I'd appreciate it if you would come with me. I've already spoken to Carl.”

The old woman's eyes narrowed. She gathered her black cashmere shawl over her shoulders and rose. She studied him for an instant, her brows drawn into a frown, then gave a slight nod and turned toward the exit.

Max moved toward the Brandts. He reached them as the music ended. Leaning forward, he said quietly, “Susan, Rusty, will you come outside? I must speak with you about a serious matter.”

 

Annie poured Scotch into a tumbler. Not too much. That would be no help. Perhaps a quarter inch. She carried the glass with the shiny amber whisky across the small room. Despite the circumstances—Virginia Neville's quivering distress, the occasional faraway wail of a siren, the slam of doors—this small room, originally a library and now the office of the Neville Gallery, exuded peace, comfort, and welcome. The cypress-paneled walls were a rich tan, mellow as the glow of a banked fire. Everywhere there was elegance joined with practicality: an eighteenth-century slant-top desk perfect to display an unframed painting, a Sheraton corner stand topped by a fax machine. A mahogany secretary contained books that looked as though they'd been behind the thick greenish glass panes since the piece was new in the early eighteen hundreds. Always the bookseller, the thought darted through Annie's mind that there might be a first edition of the two volumes of Samuel Johnson's dictionary. She'd have to check and see. Deep rose damask curtains framed the two windows. Virginia Neville huddled at one end of a long Grecian couch, clutching a lumpy and faded red velvet bolster. The curved maple ends of the sofa reminded Annie of a sleigh.

Annie knelt beside the couch, held out the glass. “Mrs. Neville”—Annie spoke softly as she would at the bedside of a seriously ill person—“I've brought you some whisky. If you could drink some…”

Virginia Neville shuddered. She propped the bolster
beneath her elbow and reached for the glass. She held it with both hands, but she didn't drink. She stared at the shimmering liquid, her ravaged face drooping. “I didn't want to leave Jake down there.” Slowly she lifted her gaze. “It's so cold. He's lying there….” Tears seeped unchecked down her ashen cheeks. “Did you know we were going to get married?”

Annie blinked back tears. “Yes, Mrs. Neville, I'm so sorry.”

 

Irene Neville stared imperiously at Max, her lovely face marred by a scowl. Shivering, she folded her arms, pulling the white lace jacket tight, emphasizing the deep plunge of the V-shaped neckline. Her white satin trousers were dazzling in the glare of the spotlights focused on the entrance to the tent. She was as beautiful as a caged snow leopard and she exuded the same aura of danger. “If you've called us out here for a lecture on fire hazards, get it done. It's damned cold.”