The morning clouds had fled and the day had heated up. In bright sunlight, Burl Field used a bandanna to wipe sweat from his red face. He braked the forklift and dropped to the ground. The forklift held a pallet of two-by-fours. “Yeah, Max, how can I help you?” A buzz saw whined in the cavernous interior of the lumber-yard warehouse.
Asking a man whether he spent the night with his lover could evoke a pugnacious response, but the conclusion seemed obvious. The last ferry to Broward’s Rock left the mainland at ten P.M. The first ferry departed from the mainland at seven A.M. If Elaine Jamison and Burl Field had been on the early ferry from the mainland island on June 13, neither had been on Broward’s Rock shortly after midnight on Saturday when the BlackBerry photo had been taken.
Max noted the lines of patience and good humor in Burl’s heat-reddened face. He decided truth was the best offense. “Elaine Jamison’s in big trouble, Burl. You may be able to save her from criminal prosecution. Here’s what I need to know . . .”
Annie parked in front of the Jamison house. As she hurried up the drive past several cars, skirting puddles from the morning storm, she glanced toward the garden. The time of day was different from her arrival here Tuesday morning. The humidity was heavier. The shrubs and trees still dripped from the morning storm. The wood of the gazebo gleamed wetly. But the scene was uncannily similar to Tuesday morning, except it was quiet without the shrill whine of a leaf blower. In the lagoon, Lou Pirelli moved slowly, the pole moving up and down, poking beneath roots, squishing into mud. Likely the fascination of the search had worn thin, very thin, for him.
Annie strode swiftly to Elaine’s cottage, confident that she was on an errand that would lead to victory. She felt positive that the late-night photo in the gazebo had led inexorably to Pat’s murder. Elaine spent the night on the mainland when the photo was taken. Therefore she was not the person Pat had invited to her house for Irish coffee. Annie never doubted that the deaths of Pat and Glen were connected. If Elaine was innocent of Pat’s death, she was innocent of Glen’s even if she had somehow come into possession of the murder weapon, which was still only a supposition. Billy Cameron might balk at Annie’s conclusions even though everything she suggested was logical and reasonable. But there was no proof.
Annie knocked on the front door of the cottage.
The door was jerked open. Elaine Jamison’s narrow, fine-boned face was wan, her expression haunted. She looked beyond Annie as if seeking something or someone, then slowly her gaze returned to Annie. She spoke as if from a long distance. “What do you want?” Her voice was dull and lifeless.
“To talk to you. To help you.”
Elaine’s lips trembled. “Help me? That’s hard to believe. You followed me and told the police enough to make them suspicious of me.”
“I was in the garden that morning. What else could I do? But I’ve told the police over and over that I know you didn’t shoot Glen.”
Something moved in Elaine’s eyes. It might have been a flash of gratitude, but her face was still haunted.
“That’s why I’m here.” Annie spoke in a rush. “The police—” She broke off.
Elaine looked weary. “The police think I’m guilty.” Her gaze was suddenly demanding. “Does everyone know the police are hounding me? They keep coming here. I told the kids not to come down here. I don’t want them mixed up in this.” She hesitated, then held the door open. “I have to talk to someone or I’ll go mad.”
In the living room, Elaine gestured to an easy chair for Annie. She herself settled into a corner of the sofa. She brushed back a strand of blond hair, tried to smile. “Would you like coffee? I have some made.”
“No, thank you. Elaine, I think you found the murder weapon.”
Elaine sat up straight and stared at Annie. “Are you going to hound me, too? Then go away. I’d rather be alone.”
Annie persisted. “It’s obvious you threw something into the marsh and everyone thinks it was the murder weapon. Where did you find the gun?”
“Where did I find the gun?” Elaine’s voice shook. “At least you’re original. Why don’t you ask me why I shot Glen like the police do, over and over and over again?”
Annie was impatient. “I keep telling you. I don’t think you shot Glen. But I do think you threw his Colt into the marsh. Did you find his body and take the gun? Look, if you did, go ahead and tell the police. I’ve got proof you didn’t kill him.”
Fear darted in Elaine’s blue eyes. “What do you mean?”
Annie was confused. Instead of seizing upon Annie’s belief in her innocence, Elaine seemed even more distraught. Annie spoke forcefully. “You were in Savannah the night Pat Merridew saw someone hide something in your gazebo. Marian Kenyon saw you and Burl Field on the first ferry from the mainland Sunday morning, June thirteenth.”
Elaine pressed fingers against each temple. “Nothing makes sense.” She massaged her temples, then her hands dropped. “What does Pat’s death have to do with Glen?”
“Pat saw something she shouldn’t have seen in your gazebo.” Annie gestured toward the window. “After Pat was fired, she started coming here late at night . . .”
When Annie finished, Elaine’s stare was incredulous. “Pat took a picture of a towel in the gazebo?”
Annie was decisive. “I think Glen’s gun was hidden in the towel. Pat knew who hid the towel and she tried blackmail. I know it couldn’t have been you. You were in Savannah with Burl.”
“That doesn’t sound likely to me.” Elaine’s voice was tired. She looked away from Annie, her gaze distant. “It doesn’t make sense about Pat.” It was as if she were processing the information about Pat’s death against some inner knowledge, and the facts didn’t jibe.
“The deaths must be connected.” Once again Annie felt stymied. It was absurd to believe the murders weren’t linked. She tried again. “Don’t you see? Once the police know that you can’t have committed the first crime, they’ll realize you didn’t shoot Glen. Now you can help them. Did you find the gun?”
Elaine looked defeated, weary, small against the puffy cushion. “I’ve told the police I don’t know anything about Glen’s murder. I don’t know what happened.” She lifted eyes brilliant with fear to gaze at Annie. “And that’s what I’m telling you.”
Max held his cell, waited for his call to be transferred.
“Chief Cameron.” There was an undercurrent of impatience in Billy’s voice.
Max felt he was on a short leash. “Hey, Billy. Annie and I saw Marian’s story about Elaine Jamison being a person of interest. It turns out Marian saw Elaine Jamison and Burl Field on the early-morning ferry June thirteenth. That means Elaine was in Savannah the night Pat took that photo in the Jamison gazebo. Burl Field will swear to that.”
“Thanks, Max. But”—Billy was brisk—“Elaine Jamison is a person of interest in the murder of Glen Jamison. Not,” and he repeated with emphasis, “not in the possible homicide of Pat Merridew.”
Max frowned. “Are you saying the murders are unconnected?”
“I’m saying we have one homicide and one unexplained death.”
“Pat Merridew went to the Jamison backyard—”
“Got it from you. Got it from Annie. Several times.” His tone was now gruff. “Sure, the BlackBerry photo’s odd, but we will never be able to prove what was or wasn’t in that towel. Look at it like this. If the Colt was in that towel, what was the point? I guess your theory is that the gun was hidden there until it was used to shoot Glen, which means premeditation. Maybe that’s true, maybe not. We don’t know who put the towel there or why. If it contained the gun, it’s interesting to note that Elaine Jamison lives outside of the house. Very handy for her. That’s not to say somebody in the house didn’t put the towel there, but we are never going to know. As for rendering a verdict of innocent for Elaine Jamison on the basis of the BlackBerry photo, maybe the towel was hidden there the night before and Pat Merridew found it on the night of June twelfth. Maybe Pat Merridew came ba
ck every night to look and see who might be checking on the towel and that was when she saw Elaine Jamison. You can take it from me, and you can tell Annie, the timing of that photo doesn’t matter and in no way does it knock out Elaine Jamison as a suspect in her brother’s murder. If you want to spend time figuring what may or may not have happened, give a little thought to the murder weapon. The weapon hasn’t been found. Annie saw Elaine Jamison shortly after she apparently threw something into the marsh. You want to take bets on whether she threw the murder weapon? If she had the Colt and threw it in the marsh, she was either trying to save herself, which makes her the principal suspect, or she disposed of the gun to save someone else. You know what that’s called? Accessory after the fact.”
The connection ended.
Max gave a soundless whistle. Annie was not going to be pleased at the course of Billy’s investigation.
Chapter Nine
Max used a short stroke and the ball rolled up and over a slight ridge to curl beautifully into the hole of the indoor putting green. “Way to go.” A successful putt was always a thing of beauty to him. Would Annie consider him derelict in his duty if he went over to the driving range? It was a perfect day to hit a bucket of balls and he wanted to practice his wood shots.
Max slid the putter into the bag. The phone rang. Annie. He smiled and punched his speakerphone. Maybe she’d join him. “Hey, Annie, let’s go to the club and have lunch and—”
“I grabbed a sandwich after I went to see Elaine.” Annie’s voice was discouraged. “I told her I was sure she was innocent, but I felt like I was talking to a wall. She’s like a cornered animal.”
Max picked up a pen, drew a legal pad near, doodled an ostrich with its head in a hole. “She has good reason to be scared. I told Billy about Elaine and Burl in Savannah. As far as he’s concerned, Elaine’s whereabouts that night aren’t relevant.”
Her voice rose in protest. “He can’t ignore what happened to Pat.”
“Unfortunately”—Max spoke gently—“he can. Elaine is a suspect because of her own actions. She threw something in the marsh. If she got rid of the Colt, Billy believes she is either guilty or protecting someone. As he put it, an accessory after the fact.”
Annie was subdued. “I want to help her. She won’t cooperate.”
Max drew a porcupine, quills flared. “She’s an adult. She’s made choices. Billy’s a good cop. Let it go, Annie.”
She was silent for so long he added five more porcupines to his row. “It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s play golf.”
Annie’s voice wobbled. “If I don’t try to help her, I’ll feel like I’ve turned my back on somebody in big trouble.”
Max wrote in all caps: BIG TROUBLE. “She put herself in a deep hole. You didn’t dig it, Annie.”
“I can throw her a line, find a ladder, do something. If I thought she was guilty, I’d be glad to stay at the store and be happy and not talk to people who are upset and frightened. I would leave everything to Billy, if I thought he was really looking. But he’s made up his mind. So I’ve got to see what I can find out. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Elaine poisoned Pat and shot Glen. But maybe she didn’t. She doesn’t want me to interfere, but she doesn’t have anyone on her side.”
Max sketched a slender figure standing by a hole with a lariat. Annie rarely met a lost cause she wouldn’t champion. “I understand.”
“All right.” Annie was abruptly vigorous, encouraged by her decision. “I’ll talk to the rest of the family.”
Max was sure Billy Cameron had already interviewed them, but perhaps one of them would say more to Annie than to a police officer. Max drew a little halo above a small cat with its fur on end, scrappy and determined. “Count me in. I’ll nose around. We can’t do any harm and maybe we can find out something else helpful to Elaine.”
“Right. Here’s what you can do . . .”
He jotted notes on the pad. “No stone unturned, that’s my motto.” He clicked off the call and looked at the list. It wasn’t the way he’d planned to spend his afternoon. He took a moment to fix a peanut-butter sandwich in Barb’s storeroom-cum-kitchen and carried it to his desk with a glass of milk. He glanced at Annie’s picture with a whimsical smile. “So you’ve found an underdog you’re determined to rescue.” His tone was conversational. “Even if she doesn’t want to be saved. Hey, that’s why I love you.” His smile dimmed. “But sometimes rescuers get bitten.”
Annie punched the front doorbell of the Jamison house. She was surprised that Cleo Jamison opened the door. Cleo’s beauty remained intact but it was muted, diminished by pallid skin, deep-sunken eyes, cheekbones made prominent by tightly compressed lips. The change in her appearance shocked Annie. The elegance was there, a crisp white cotton blouse, turquoise necklace against a tanned throat, beautifully tailored navy linen slacks, basket-weave navy leather loafers, but there was no trace of the confidence and, frankly, arrogance that Annie associated with Glen’s young wife, now widow.
Cleo glanced at Annie’s hands, then, with a flicker of puzzlement, said, “Yes?”
Annie realized Cleo had looked for a dish, the usual response from friends and well-wishers following a death. “Cleo, I’m Annie Darling.” They had met casually several times at the country club. “I’m a friend of Elaine’s and I’d appreciate it if I could visit with you for a few minutes.”
“Is Elaine all right?” There was a ripple of apprehension in Cleo’s husky voice.
Annie was encouraged by her concern. “I’m afraid not. She may be arrested. I’m trying to help her.”
“Elaine arrested?” Cleo looked incredulous. “That’s absurd. I’ll have to call the police. That can’t be true.” She held open the door. “Please come in.”
As Annie stepped into the hall, a young woman in a swim wrapper came down the stairs. A battered straw sun hat was perched atop glossy dark hair. She carried a beach bag and wore cherry-red flip-flops. Oversize sunglasses masked her eyes.
Cleo stiffened, her face bleak. “Surely you aren’t going to the beach today.”
“Surely I am.” The reply was caustic.
“Laura, your father—”
“My father’s dead. He’s not even decently in a mortuary. Where do they take bodies of people who’ve been shot? Have you picked out a casket yet? Maybe Kit and Tommy and I should have something to say, but you’re handling all the arrangements. The merry widow.” She ignored Annie and yanked open the front door. “You kept telling Dad I needed to work harder. Well”—her voice shook—“I’m going to work this afternoon. I’d rather be a lifeguard watching out for sharks than be here. At least I’ll be on the beach. Dad took us to the beach all the time when we were kids. I can remember him there. Without you.” She bolted through the door and onto the porch.
Cleo’s haggard face set in hard lines. She turned to Annie, spoke as if the ugly scene had never occurred. “I’ll be glad to talk to you.” She led the way down the broad central hall. Flower arrangements, large and small, lined either side of the hall and in some places were three deep. The scent of flowers was overpowering, cloying. The kitchen door at the end of the hall was ajar. There was a murmur of voices.
“We can go in here.” Cleo opened the door to a small room at the end of the main hall. As they stepped inside, she murmured vaguely, “I’m trying to contact some of Glen’s friends who live out of town.” A game table was strewn with papers. A cell phone lay next to a mug of coffee. Cleo gestured at a wooden straight chair. “This is a catchall room, but I needed somewhere quiet.”
When they were seated, Annie in a rickety Empire chair that likely was a castoff from an old dining-room table set, Cleo dropped onto a worn love seat with faded brocade upholstery. She gave Annie a searching glance. “Why would the police arrest Elaine?”
“It will be in this afternoon’s Gazette. Elaine’s been named a person of interest in the investigation.” Annie knew her voice sounded grim, but her tidings were grim.
Quick comprehension flashed in Cleo’s
eyes. Cleo was a lawyer. Though she was in civil practice, she certainly grasped the import of Elaine being officially revealed as a person of interest in the investigation. Her response was immediate and emphatic. “Elaine wouldn’t hurt Glen. That’s impossible.” She brushed back a tangle of dark hair. “Oh, I know they think she threw the missing gun in the lagoon. The police asked me if she knew how to shoot it. How would I know? Anyway, they haven’t found anything. I don’t believe Elaine shot Glen.”
“I understand she was angry with Glen because of the children.”
Cleo pressed her lips together. She folded her hands, stared down at them, seemed to draw upon some inner reserve. “I’ve always been lucky.” She looked up at Annie with dumb misery in her gaze. “Ask anyone. That’s what they’ll tell you. The lucky lady. That’s me. Beautiful, smart, quick, capable.” It was as if she were describing a stranger from a remote distance. “And lucky.” Her voice shook. “I made my own luck. That’s what I wanted Glen to do. I wanted him to stand up and not let people take advantage of him. I thought they should take responsibility for their own lives. That’s what I did. I worked. I supported myself. I earned scholarships. Nobody ever gave me anything. Glen’s kids were leeches. Laura’s twenty-four. She loses her job and whines because she can’t find another cushy deal that pays her fifty thousand a year. The best she can do is wait tables or lifeguard. Whatever she earns, she should be living on it. Instead, she comes home and lives here for free and bleeds her dad for money. I tried to get Glen to see that Laura needed to stand on her own two feet. As for Kirk Brewster, Glen didn’t owe him a place in the firm when times are tough. Glen said we had to cut back. That’s why he wanted to drop Kirk. He didn’t know Laura was going to go nuts when he gave notice to Kirk. That was a mess. As for Kit, I told Glen he put her through college and graduate school and here she was asking for more so she could go to Africa. Tommy was rude to me, day in and day out. He had his choice, be polite or go away to school. This morning . . . He was hateful. I told him to get out of the house, not come back until he could be civil. He slammed out the back door, barefoot, shirtless. I don’t know where he’s gone. I almost called Elaine but she hasn’t been up to the house since—” Cleo broke off. “At least she’s always treated me decently. Maybe she liked having the cottage. Anyway, it was better for her to have her own place. After all, I was Glen’s wife. The house didn’t need her still trying to run everything.”
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