Murder Walks the Plank (25 page)

“You can't blame us for getting mad.” Jason shoved a hand through his hair. “I mean, for God's sake, it was so crazy. I thought maybe we could talk her out of it, but once Mother made up her mind…”

Max stepped back, sat down on the sofa opposite Jason, and listened.

 

Rachel slid an impatient glance toward the clock. Ten more minutes until the last bell. It had been the most interminable day she'd ever spent. Well, no, not the longest day. When her mother was buried…She wrenched her mind away from that cold and aching memory. The subsequent thought—that Cole looked the way she'd felt on that gray afternoon—cut through her mind with the sharpness of a polar wind. She gripped her pen, stared down at the open textbook, but she wasn't seeing the questions to be translated into Spanish. She was seeing Cole out on the terrace, and overlying that image, she was seeing Annie, a disappointed yet kind Annie, at her bedroom door last night. Rachel didn't like combining the images but they lodged hard and fast in her mind, tenacious as the bite of a snapping turtle and just about as painful.

A sharp poke in her back brought her head flying up. She realized abruptly that there was uncomfortable silence in the classroom. She raised her eyes and met Miss Peabody's sardonic gaze. Margo Peabody was a superb teacher, but her lack of patience was legendary. She combined uncompromising devotion to her students with a scathing tongue when convinced of inattention.

The whisper behind Rachel was the faintest of sounds. “Paseo de Carlota.”

Rachel was a good student and she loved Spanish, and she had indeed done her homework last night. She took a deep breath. “Paseo de la Reforma was originally called Paseo de Carlota after the French empress who ordered the creation of the avenue from the Zócalo to Chapultepec Castle. Official histories, however, say the avenue was patterned after the Champs Élysées and ordered built by her husband, the Archduke Maximilian.”

There was a flicker of surprise on Miss Peabody's face. “Yes, Rachel. And now if you'll translate beginning at
Vimos a muchos
….”

Rachel's eyes fell to the page. She translated, concluding as the bell rang. She took a moment as she gathered up her backpack to whisper a thank-you to prim Edith Callahan who sat behind her, then she turned and hurried toward the door. She moved fast, determined to be one of the first to the bike racks. She'd get her bike and look for Cole. All the way down the hall toward the door, impulses warred. He needed help. He wasn't her problem. Why did he look so scared? She couldn't go up and ask him, she just couldn't!

 

Annie carried a stack of plates to the dining room, nodding to friends, keeping a lookout for Jenna. So far she hadn't glimpsed either Jenna or Claudette. What if Claudette had found Jenna, warned her that Annie knew about Tony Sherman? Surely there hadn't been time between Claudette's hurried departure from the ruins and Annie's entry to the house. Besides, Clau
dette's exploration of the charred site had smudged her dress, stained her shoes. She'd probably gone to her room to change.

Annie hurried back to the kitchen. Imogene, her face flushed from exertion, lifted a cheese grits casserole from the oven.

Annie cleared a space on the counter, moving aside a platter with cut ham and several dishes of relishes.

Imogene set down the casserole, gazed at it with satisfaction. “No garlic. Meg said garlic in grits was an abomination. She'd be pleased.” Her expression soured. “Jenna won't like it. She hates grits. Probably because her mama liked them.”

Annie glanced toward the dining room. “I was looking for Jenna. I didn't know if she and Claudette were busy.”

Imogene bustled to the sink, began to rinse cups and saucers. “Those two.” There was no fondness in her voice. “They've been glaring at each other. It's indecent. They're fighting over where Meg should be laid to rest. Jenna says she should be by Duff, but Claudette was downright ugly this morning, said she should be put by her mama. See, her mama is on one side of Duff. Claudette wants Meg put past her mama, not next to Duff. I don't know what Claudette's thinking. A married woman belongs next to her husband. So I doubt Claudette's talking to Jenna. Claudette came through here a few minutes ago, said she'd be in her room. It's down the stairs by the front door.” Imogene waved a wet hand. “You go through the dining room to the foyer. If you'd put that platter with the angel food on the table, I'd appreciate it.”

Annie grabbed the platter and carried it to the dining room. She placed the heavy glass platter at the end
of the dining room table. She poured a cup of coffee, took a small plate, and filled it with a ham sandwich, chips, cut cold vegetables, a dash of dip, and a chocolate cream candy. In the entryway, she didn't look down the stairs, she looked up.

Christine Harmon, her sweet face molded into the gravity induced by solemn circumstances, fluttered toward Annie, a bound notebook in hand. “Annie, will you take over the phone? Why, there have been calls from everywhere! There was one from Singapore.”

“I'm sorry, Christine, I can't do the phone right now.” Annie held up the plate and cup and saucer. “I'm taking these to Jenna.”

“Oh, of course.” Christine's sharp blue eyes flitted past Annie, seeking another volunteer. “She's in the sea room. That's what they call it. I don't know why. Somewhere up there.” She gestured vaguely toward the stairs. “She said she had a headache. I don't think she's had lunch. Some food will be good for her.”

Annie walked quickly up the stairs. She was getting accustomed to the unusual vistas in the house. Anyone on the stairs was visible in all directions, but drapes, shutters, or bamboo blinds effectively masked the interior of several rooms. She looked up yet another flight. The shutters in Meg's suite were closed. She looked down at a cluster of women in the dining room and a preoccupied Imogene in the kitchen. She was confident that Jenna was in one of the rooms hidden from view. Annie glanced again at Meg's suite. No. Not likely. Instead she moved toward the north end of the house, where a bamboo shade hung down, closing off a room. Her shoes clicked on the metal grid work that served as flooring. She stopped at a closed door, knocked, then, balancing the plate atop the cup, turned the knob.

She poked her head inside. “Jenna, I've brought you lunch.” Annie blinked against brightness as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The corner room was a sweepingly empty, glorious tribute to the serenity of space. A single long, low, white leather bench and a huge square glass coffee table were the only pieces of furniture. The flooring was white, the frames for the windows white. Sun splashed through all the windows. Even the bamboo shades behind Annie were a brilliant white. The room hung suspended in a pool of sunlight, remote from the rest of the house, its focus the immensity of the sea.

Jenna Carmody sat at the far end of the white bench, looking out at the placid green water with scarcely a curl of surf. The sunlight turned her dark hair a gleaming ebony. She was all in black, a thin cotton top, knit slacks, raffia shoes. She didn't turn. She gestured toward the coffee table. “Thank you. If you'll leave it there…”

Jenna was, in effect, telling her to deposit the snack and depart. In the ordinary course of dealing with a bereaved family, Annie would have put down the plate and cup and saucer and slipped away with a murmur of condolence.

Not today. Annie put down the dishes, steeled herself, walked around the bench, turned to face Jenna.

Frowning, Jenna looked up. Slowly her pale face hardened, sharpening the jut of her cheekbones, thinning her mouth to a pinched line. “Why are you here? Haven't you done enough harm?”

“Harm?” Annie's reluctance to intrude upon grief disappeared in a surge of quick anger. “Do you want someone to get away with murdering your mother?”

Spots of color flamed in Jenna's pale face. “They're
calling it suicide.” But her voice wavered and her eyes slid away.

Annie's tone was solemn. “Jason says that can't be true.”

“Jason?” Jenna's thin hands tightened into fists. She surged to her feet. “Have you badgered him? Leave him alone. He's such a fool. We told him—” She broke off.

“To keep quiet?” Annie challenged her. “It won't do any good. You quarreled with your mother Saturday. The police know all about it.” Annie didn't go on to say that the police in the person of Billy Cameron knew and dismissed the importance of that quarrel.

“But there wasn't anyone here…. Oh. Claudette.” Jenna's face twisted with fury. “So she told the police. Well, I'll bet she didn't tell them everything. I'll bet she didn't tell them how she came to pieces when Mother told us what she was going to do. If it hadn't been so crazy, it might have been funny. Meg burbling on and on about Tony coming back and how it made her realize his love had always been the touchstone of her life. Oh”—Jenna began to pace, her hands flinging out in anger, her voice rising—“it was vintage Meg, so absorbed in herself she never even thought about how it affected all the rest of us, simply thrilled that she and Tony were going to be together again”—there was an echo of Meg's voice, light but impassioned—“and that she wouldn't take a thing with her, it wouldn't be right, and she was going to give all of Duff's estate to his son, and she and Tony would slip away to an island and spend their dwindling days together, the two of them. She laughed and said she and Tony had never had a penny between them. That's how they'd started
and that's how they'd end. Oh God, it would have been funny”—there was a sob in Jenna's throat—“except that's how it was when she dumped us on Gram, Meg being true to herself. Well, why couldn't she be true to us?” Jenna lifted a trembling hand to press against her cheek. “How about Jason and me? Duff loved us. He was our father. He wanted us to have what he'd worked so hard for. Meg was going to take everything away from us, run away with Tony. She had it all planned. She'd already talked to the lawyer and he was coming for dinner Monday night along with Tony and we were all supposed to admire her, think she was wonderful. Well, I didn't think she was wonderful. I thought she was selfish and irresponsible. And I can tell you”—the words dropped like stones into water—“that Claudette didn't think she was wonderful.”

Annie could well imagine that Claudette had been appalled.

“Meg was so self-centered.” Jenna's judgment was harsh. “She never saw anyone or anything but herself. She was the sun and the rest of us distant stars, invisible when she was present. I don't think she ever saw Claudette, not until that moment. You know how Claudette's always the perfect secretary, respectful, self-possessed, amenable. Well, not that day. She screamed at Meg, told her she'd never deserved Duff, that she'd never truly loved him, and tossing away what he'd given her was an unforgivable insult. For once Meg didn't have anything to say. She just looked at Claudette like she was a piece of furniture that had started talking. I think Mother finally understood that Claudette adored Duff. As far as Claudette was concerned, Meg was discarding everything that Duff had
earned as if it were nothing. Claudette couldn't forgive that.” Jenna wrapped her arms tight across her front, tried to ease her ragged breathing, but her face was still flushed. “If Claudette's throwing us all into the fire, she's going to get burned, too. Let her explain to the police how she told Meg she wished Meg was dead.”

Annie believed every word of it. Yes, Claudette had motive and to spare, as did Jenna and Jason. But one truth mattered most. “Your mother died before she could do anything about Duff's estate.”

Jenna stiffened at the bald declaration. She stared at Annie, her eyes huge with misery and uncertainty.

Annie was relentless. “Tony Sherman came back, he and your mother made plans to go away together, she decided to renounce Duff's estate, but they were both dead before it could happen.”

Jenna looked stricken. “Oh God, I don't know what to believe. I was so mad at her.” She swung toward the windows, walked away from Annie. “Even though we were all upset, she didn't care. She was so damn happy.” She jerked around. Her eyes implored Annie. “Maybe she found out he was dead. Maybe someone called and told her…. Oh, I don't know what happened. But I didn't hurt her. I wouldn't. And Jason never would.”

Annie heard uncertainty in her voice.

“Not Jason.” It was a cry from a big sister. “If anyone killed her, it had to be Claudette.”

 

Max punched in the number as he drove. “Billy Cameron, please. Max Darling calling.”

Mavis's voice was excited. “Billy's over at the country club, Max. Some kids playing golf bounced some
balls into the lagoon on the fourth hole and the balls bounced back!”

Max raised an eyebrow, wished the SUV in front of him could decide whether it wanted to turn right or left. Bounced back? The broad lagoon on the fourth hole was at least twelve feet deep. He remembered a greens committee meeting and the greenskeeper's reluctance to ask his staff to dredge for golf balls, thereby irritating King Tut, the ten-foot alligator in residence. Had King Tut whopped the balls with his tail? “Came back?”

“Yes! Of course, they knew that was crazy. One of them rode his bike home and came back with a boogie board. The lightest one paddled out to where the balls had popped up. He poked with a stick and he found a car. Boys”—she gave a mother's sigh—“have no sense. They knew King Tut was there, but fortunately he was sunbathing on the far bank and ignored them. Anyway, there's a wrecker out there, and the last I heard they'd just pulled out this car and it belongs to the man killed at Ghost Crab Pond. So Billy's pretty busy.”

Billy, Max thought grimly, was going to get a lot busier. But it was terrific that the car had been found. Max was convinced the trunk would yield Tony Sherman's suitcase. Very likely Sherman's billfold was somewhere in the muck at the bottom of the lagoon. If Max was right on both counts, Billy would see that his theory of a carjacking or holdup was all wet, about as wet as Sherman's car.