Engaged to Die (29 page)

Billy pulled some coins from his pocket, moved over to the machine, inserted two quarters, punched. He picked up a can of Dr Pepper, opened it, drank deeply. He squinted at her, a quizzical, puzzled look. “How stupid do you think they are? Rusty Brandt or
Susan? Carl Neville, Irene? Louise Neville? Any of them? Virginia could be killed any time. Drown in the pool. Fall off a boat. An overdose. You can bet she's taking something to sleep. Everybody would agree she's upset, depressed. So why shoot Elaine with a gun that can be linked to the family, then run up and shoot at Virginia, tie the crimes to that house? It doesn't make any sense. No, you mark my words, Annie. There's emotion—”

Annie heard his words. Emotion. And passion. Billy kept talking about passion.

“—behind this crime, not reason. Sure the Neville family wants the money. But nobody hates Virginia. She may be in their way, but she's a nice lady. Sure, they should have inherited, but only a damn fool would have shot at Virginia and tossed that gun in the fountain. I don't see any damn fools in that house. But if you want passion, who ran away from the point sobbing? Who threw her dress in the sound? Who demanded to see Elaine? There's only one person who fits, Annie, and it's Chloe Martin.”

“One person…” Annie spoke slowly, pressed her fingers against her temples. Her eyes widened.

“Annie?” Billy stared at her.

Max stepped near. “Annie.”

It was as though their voices came from far away. She understood abruptly with a clarity that transformed her thoughts. Oh, yes, now she saw, and she was dazzled by the cleverness. A magician waves a scarlet scarf in one hand while plucking a coin from midair with the other. The coin, of course, was secreted in a sleeve masked by the rippling silk. The trick is in dazzling the eye, diverting attention.

“Billy, I know who killed him.” There was utter con
fidence in her voice. “I know who killed Elaine. I know who shot into the study. Here's what happened….”

Before she finished, Max was nodding. His eyes applauded her. He looked swiftly at Billy because there was only one opinion that counted.

Billy finished off the soda, crumpled the can. His face was crumpled, too, brow furrowed, mouth turned down. Slowly, he nodded. “I got to admit that's a possibility, but—”

Annie reached out, touched his arm, her fingers feather-soft against his sleeve. “I know. You don't believe it. But be honest, it could have happened that way. Couldn't it have?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. It's clever.”

“I can prove it.” Annie clapped her hands together. “I know, I know, you're going to arrest Chloe. But there's an easy way to prove whether I'm right. And we can do it tomorrow while Chloe's still in the hospital.”

Billy waited, face skeptical, hand squeezing the lump of aluminum.

Annie spoke over the crackling sound of the metal. “The Nevilles are a prominent family. Murder's been done—twice—close to their home and gallery, attempted a third time from their courtyard. It would be politic for the police chief to offer a report to the family members about the progress of the investigation. Here's what we can do….” As she talked, she felt Max's resistance, saw his face tighten into a worried frown. He started to speak. She put a finger to her lips, shook her head.

Billy listened, his blunt head bent forward. When she finished, he stared down at his hands clasped together, his face expressionless.

Annie looked at him. Funny, she'd never noticed that Billy's face was so much heavier now. Lines splayed from his eyes, ran in a deep furrow from his lips. He had a generous mouth, so often spread in a happy grin. He lifted his head, his face filled with trouble and uncertainty, and stared into her eyes.

She didn't know what he was looking for. Maybe memories. They shared a lot of memories, she and Max and Billy. It was Annie who'd solved a crime that threatened to engulf Mavis when she sought sanctuary on the island. If it hadn't been for Annie, Mavis might once again have fled, leaving behind the love that Billy offered. Annie and Max had helped Billy in other ways, been his supporters and friends for a long time.

And he had been their friend.

Billy looked away, lifted his arm, tossed the crumpled can in an arc to land in the wastebasket. He reached to his shirt pocket, drew out a folded square of cream note card, glanced at it with an odd half-smile. “Yeah.” He turned toward Max. “I forgot to tell you when I first got here. I ran into your mom in the hospital parking lot.” He reached into his pockets, pulled out a set of keys to the Maserati, tossed them to Max. “She knew you'd left your car at the marina when you and Annie set out in your boat. Somebody told her you'd docked at the main harbor after Chloe was found. Anyway, your mom knew you'd need your car. So she went by your house, got an extra set of keys, brought the car here. Henny was waiting to take her home. So your car's downstairs when you're ready to go.” Billy pressed his lips together, looked at the note card, then handed it to Annie.

Max bent near and they read it together: “Pilpay—Honest men esteem and value nothing so much in this world as a real friend.”

Annie reached out, clasped Billy's big warm hand. Max placed his hand over both.

Billy's mouth spread slowly in a smile. “So I guess tomorrow I'd better set up a meeting at the Neville house….”

 

Max stood in front of the fireplace, hands jammed into the pockets of his red robe. His face was in shadow, but Annie didn't mistake the hard ridge of his jaw, knew his dark blue eyes were somber with doubt. And fear. “I don't like it.” His voice was heavy.

“It's the only way.” Annie spoke quietly. Her gaze moved to the glowing logs in the fireplace. Sparks suddenly showered, cheerful and comforting. A cold rain splashed against the windows, but the room was warm, filled with safety and love and layers of happiness. She sat very still. She wanted to shiver. Yes, she was scared. But…She lifted her face, ran her hand through tangled hair. “I'll be all right. We've got it planned perfectly.”

Max turned, picked up the poker, jabbed it roughly against the log. The wood blazed, throwing his face into clear relief, bleak, worried, foreboding. “Yeah. Well, maybe nobody will come.”

If Chloe was guilty, no one would come.

But Annie was certain. Yes, the murderer would come. The murderer would have to come.

 

The Florentine gold of the Neville house was muted by the drizzle and the lowering sky. Lumpy black clouds piled overhead like coals heaped in a scuttle. Annie pulled up the hood of her all-weather coat, welcoming the protection from the persistent rain. The magnificent villa with its balconies and ornate stonework and red-tiled roof was still majestic, but it had a rather tatty
air on this stormy January morning, a shutter hanging askew on the second floor, fronds of palmettos littering the cobbled pavement, mounds of wet leaves pressing against the front steps. Billy's mud-splashed cruiser, as out of place as a spurned lover at a wedding, was parked behind a cluster of cars, a sleek silver Mercedes, a red Porsche, a Ford SUV, a BMW sedan, a black Lexus, and a dark blue older Lincoln Continental. Annie counted. So everyone in the Neville family was there.

Carl Neville held the huge front door open. The center panes of ruby red and jade green art glass were repeated in small squares above the lintel. On a sunny day the panes would blaze like jewels in a crown. Today they were dull. Carl's long pleasant face lighted with a smile. “Good of you to come on a morning like this. Everybody's in the living room. This way.” He gestured to an arch framed by painted Italian tiles.

As they entered the wide, deep room, Annie had a swift impression of understated elegance, sofas in a golden biscuit shade, deeper hues of honey from the chairs, and a brilliant splash of color from a carnelian vase on a balustrade near a starkly white pillar. She realized at once that the room with its muted colors, white tables, and expanse of white-framed mirrors had been created to showcase one person. Irene Neville, her dark hair gleaming, her aquiline face dramatic with sharp black brows and crimson lip gloss, stood with one arm resting gracefully on a shoulder-high white marble mantel. Irene was in her element, confident, assured, imperious yet gracious. The drape of her emerald green jacket was perfect, the contrast with her cream wool slacks sensuous. There was no distress marring her lovely face this morning. She nodded re
gally to Annie and Max but kept her attention focused on Billy Cameron, her expression of courtesy undermined by a distinct aura of condescension.

The others were there, but they were bit players to the star. Annie and Max took empire chairs on either side of a sofa.

Carl moved to his wife, waited for her attention. His sandy hair drooped over his narrow forehead. He was unremarkable in a gray cashmere pullover, gray wool slacks, black loafers. Perhaps unknown to himself, he bent forward, shoulders bowed, hands clasped, the eternal supplicant.

Reddish face pugnacious, feet outstretched and crossed, Rusty Brandt lounged in an overstuffed chair with pebbled fabric dull as oatmeal. His faded red hair was still wet from a shower. His navy tattersall shirt looked expensive, his chinos new and crisp. He stared at Billy, his blue eyes wary above puffy pouches.

Susan Brandt smoothed back a strand of fair hair. Her chiseled features were set in a determinedly blank expression. She perched stiffly at the end of one of the big sofas, her fingers plucking at the tassels on a bulky cushion. Her navy wool dress, the somber color relieved only by bright gold buttons, made her look emaciated. She ignored her husband.

Louise Neville stood stiff as a poker in a shapeless black dress. Her wizened face was alert, like a grizzled old terrier watching strangers approach.

Virginia Neville sat to one side of the wide room on a hard straight bench near a window, clearly distanced from the others. She sat immobile, but her light blue eyes darted around the room. She'd taken pains with her hair, the coronet braids perfectly arranged, and with her makeup, a touch of pink on her cheeks, a light
gloss on her lips. But no manner of artifice or care could lessen the ravages of her face, the eyes hollowed, the skin blotchy and swollen, the lips drooping. She'd chosen a burgundy silk dress, possibly in an attempt to overshadow her paleness with the rich fabric. The effect was as garish as draping a skeleton in scarlet. From her necklace hung a silver butterfly, each wing studded with tiny diamonds. The beauty of the striking jewelry was in stark and dreadful contrast to her stricken face.

Annie glanced at them all. It was a far different group from last night. What a difference clean, dry clothes made. Last night everyone had looked bedraggled. But more than their appearances was different. Last night fear was an unseen guest. This morning even Virginia appeared calm. She no longer quivered with terror. Annie wondered if she'd had second thoughts about her offer to return the Neville money to her late husband's children.

“…hope to set everyone's mind at rest.” A rested Billy looked genial, his broad face pleasant. His uniform was crisp, khaki shirt ironed and starched, wrinkle-free khaki trousers creased, black shoes shiny as obsidian despite a glisten of raindrops. He stood at ease, arms behind his back.

Irene clapped her hands together. “It's very good of you to take time to speak with us. It's reassuring to know that our brave officers of the law are defending us against dangerous criminals.” She raised one sleek eyebrow. “I've heard the murders and the attack on Virginia were all committed by a young woman who was working in their store.” She glanced toward Annie and Max. “Quite a desperado. But you've finally corralled her, I understand.” There was the faintest suggestion of irony.

Carl moved restively, sent his wife a warning glance. Louise fingered the drooping collar of her dress, her hooded eyes intent.

Billy was reflected in the mirror over the mantel and in the series of decorated mirrors ranged on the opposite wall. The room seemed filled with his burly uniformed reflection. “We have had excellent cooperation from our citizens.” His tone was unruffled. If offense had been meant, none had been taken.

Carl pushed his glasses higher on his nose and his tense shoulders relaxed.

Billy was, in fact, expansive. He rocked back on his heels, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. “I am happy to report that we have a suspect in custody. The young woman in question, Chloe Martin, is presently in the hospital. She's suffered a head wound and a broken leg—”

Annie thought the addition of a broken leg to Chloe's wounds was artful, and she was pleased that the imaginary injury had been her idea. No one listening to Billy would doubt that Chloe was immobilized. And helpless.

“—and she's recovering from a concussion. The leg has been set. We expect that she will be discharged perhaps tomorrow afternoon. She will then be booked and formal arraignment set.”

“I suppose she's under guard?” Irene straightened a silver filigree box on the mantel.

Billy's expression was avuncular. Annie had a quick memory of Billy playing Santa Claus at the Christmas party at The Haven. “Ma'am,” his voice was hearty, “there's no danger at all that she will cause any more trouble. Actually, we don't have a formal guard—our force is limited—but she is physically unable to leave her hospital bed. She will be transferred to the jail in a
wheelchair. You can be assured that there is no further danger to the community or to Mrs. Neville.”

Susan twined a length of a tassel around her finger. “How did she get hurt?”

Billy glanced toward Annie. “She was accosted in an alleyway down by the marina. That incident is not related to the current investigation.”

“There seems to have been an uncommon amount of crime these past few days.” Irene's tone was disdainful.

Susan twined two tassels together. “I'm afraid I don't understand any of it. Why did this girl kill Jake? Why did she kill Elaine Hasty and shoot at Virginia? None of it makes any sense to me.”