by Carolyn Hart
Annie slid onto a seat at the marble counter on the center island. She opened the Gazette, intending to take a quick look. The main story was usually about a zoning disagreement or a controversy on the city council.
Her eyes widened. “Max.”
He turned from the stove, caught by her tone.
She read the headline. “‘Island Socialite Battered to Death.’ Marian wrote the story.” The Gazette’s ace reporter, Marian Kenyon, was an old friend. Annie read the story aloud.
“‘Jane Jessop Corley, thirty-four, island native and member of a longtime island family, was battered to death in the family room of her home at One Corley Lane sometime Monday afternoon, Police Chief Billy Cameron revealed in a news conference this morning.’”
Annie lifted her eyes from the page. “We saw Jane yesterday morning at Paul’s funeral. Someone killed her that afternoon.” Her voice held disbelief.
Max joined her at the counter.
Annie remembered Jane in the receiving line in the parish hall, vividly alive, visibly sad. Annie had heard a few words of her condolences to Paul’s son. “Paul was part of our lives. Dad always turned to him when things went wrong. He was our doctor but so much more than that . . .”
Annie took a breath. “‘Chief Cameron said the weapon appeared to be a sculptor’s mallet belonging to Jane Corley’s husband, Tom Edmonds, twenty-nine. Edmonds told police he wasn’t sure when he last saw the mallet. Edmonds said he hadn’t been working on a sculpture this week. Edmonds told police he could not explain the mallet’s presence in the house.
“‘A 911 call from the Corley home was received by the police dispatcher at four forty-nine P.M. Monday. When police arrived, Edmonds led them to the scene of the crime. According to Chief Cameron, Edmonds said he discovered his wife’s body shortly before five. The body was lying on the floor of the family room near a pool table.’”
“The Corley house is pretty remote, surrounded by acres of woods. You have to know where it is to find it,” Max said.
Annie understood. No one would simply wander by the house. The next sentence confirmed his thought. “‘Chief Cameron said there was no indication of a break-in at the home nor was there evidence of a struggle. He also said the victim’s purse was found on a side table in the main entrance hallway and its contents appeared undisturbed. An autopsy is planned, but the initial report from the office of the medical examiner indicates death as a result of blunt trauma to the back of her head.’”
Max stepped to the stove, checking the rice. “That explains why she didn’t call for help. If she was hit from behind, she didn’t know she was in danger.”
Annie nodded. “‘Edmonds told police he had not seen his wife since lunch. He said that he went to his studio in the garden and was framing a canvas. He finished about four-thirty but had a drink by the pool before entering the house. Police said there is a wet bar in the poolside cabana. Edmonds told police his wife was in good spirits at lunch, but that he had not seen her since that time. Edmonds told police he heard no sounds from the house.
“‘Chief Cameron said also present in the house that afternoon were Kate Murray, Ms. Corley’s personal assistant, and Sherry Gillette, a houseguest. Both were upstairs and were unaware of the crime when the body was found. Gertrude Anniston, the cook, spent part of the afternoon grocery shopping. She was otherwise occupied in the kitchen and did not leave the kitchen.
“‘Ms. Corley’s first husband was the golf pro Baldwin McCrae. They were divorced in 2011. Ms. Corley married Edmonds in 2012. She retained her maiden name after both of her marriages and was the daughter of the late Bolton Corley and Sherrybeth Jessop Corley . . .’”
Annie stopped quoting. “Lots of family stuff. It all boils down to Old South and rich. Her great-grandfather married an Eastern railroad heiress.” Annie shook her head. “Jane was so hugely alive. Bigger than life.” Annie’s voice was small. “Everybody else faded when they were near her. She had a strong personality, but why would anyone kill her? And it doesn’t seem likely a stranger attacked her.” It wasn’t only the remoteness of the house that argued against a stranger. The island had never been host to dangerous vagrants. Broward’s Rock was far enough offshore and accessible only by a ferry, so people came for a purpose, to live or vacation.
Max moved back to the counter and eased the flank steak onto a cutting board, used two forks to shred the hot meat. “That sounds bad for Tom. Only he or someone familiar with his studio would be able to get that mallet.” He gestured toward the skillet with a fork. “Will you check? It’s on simmer.”
Annie folded the paper and popped down from her seat. She gently stirred the onions, green pepper, and chopped garlic. “The story’s definite that his mallet was the weapon.”
Max was crisp. “Not only is the house remote, the studio is definitely off the main track. You have to have been there to even know it exists. That narrows down the number of people who could have taken the mallet to Tom or maybe a handful of others.”
Annie set the table, admiring the vase with a gorgeous marigold arrangement. She’d picked the flowers early that morning. She took a deep sniff. She loved the woody, pungent scent, but this evening the smell reminded her of the fall garden tour and Jane Corley’s magnificent garden with roses that ranged from ghost white to ruby red and every shade in between and beds of riotous marigolds. “I wonder if Tom locks his studio. Probably not. The Corley garden is almost on a scale with Magnolia Plantation, tons of trees and shrubs and ponds and lots of separate areas. One of the ponds has huge cypresses. In the spring when the azaleas bloom, they are reflected in the water. It’s gorgeous. His studio is about halfway between the house and the cypress pond.”
Max carried the shredded beef to the skillet. “Somebody took the mallet to the house. You don’t sculpt in a den.”
Annie slipped into her chair as Max carried the steaming bowl to the table. “I hope it’s not Tom.” She liked Tom. He reminded her of old daguerreotypes of Stephen Foster, dark hair brushed back smoothly, deep-set eyes beneath a high forehead, a long nose, nice mouth, a sensitive, intelligent face with an aura of dreamy remoteness. He receded into a shadowy background when Jane was around. Annie had thought them an unlikely couple, though Tom had a definite appeal. He was not only an artist and a good one, he was handsome and, when encouraged, charming though diffident in conversation.
Max reached over and took her hand. “I hope not. But Billy will do the right thing.”
• • •
Emma Clyde’s deep voice was brusque. “As Marigold often points out to Inspector Houlihan, wisdom is rarely conventional and conventional wisdom is rarely wise.” The island mystery author’s spiky hair was an improbable hydrangea red this morning, almost a match for the splash of crimson in one of the mystery watercolors above the fireplace.
Death on Demand hadn’t opened yet. In the fall and winter, the bookstore opened at ten. Annie had arrived early, hoping to get off some book orders to get ahead of the Christmas rush, but it was only a few minutes after nine when the island’s famous mystery author arrived, along with mystery authority Henny Brawley and Max’s mother. The trio didn’t worry about the locked front door, Laurel using the key Annie had never managed to retrieve from her. They’d marched straight to the coffee bar and settled around a table. It would have been churlish to remain in the storeroom, so Annie fixed mugs filled with strong Colombian. She carried the mugs to a table near the fireplace and smiled a welcome as she joined the Intrepid Trio, as Max had dubbed them.
Emma, pleased with her comment, looked from Laurel Roethke, Annie’s always unpredictable mother-in-law, to Henny, whose dark eyebrows registered annoyance, though her expression remained pleasant.
Emma concluded grandly, “Tom Edmonds. Pshaw.”
Annie had never heard anyone utter pshaw. How Emmaesque.
Henny said mildly, “There’s good reason why the spouse is
always considered first in a murder case.”
Emma became her most didactic. “As an author who has had a bit of success—” She paused, waited.
Emma awaited accolades. They were the breath of life to the writer. Annie knew her duty. “Emma, you are hugely successful.” Emphasis on the adverb. Annie loathed Emma’s protagonist Marigold Rembrandt, a redhead Annie found snippy and insufferable. “How many millions of books have sold now?”
Gratified, Emma took a moment to trumpet the sales figures.
A savvy bookseller, Annie wanted to murmur that of course the huge number was for books shipped, not actually sold, but life was too short to aggravate Emma. Besides, Emma’s sell-through was well above 80 percent. Marigold was beloved across the nation, so what did Annie know? Besides, Emma had a trenchant mind, a devotion to her friends, and a curmudgeonly charm. Sometimes.
“Perhaps I do have a modest understanding of motivations and character. Therefore, I can categorically state that Tom Edmonds is not the stuff of which villains are made.”
Laurel smoothed a tendril of silver blond hair away from her classically lovely face and looked pensive. “I hope that is true.”
Annie’s gaze sharpened. Laurel’s tone indicated a personal concern. Why should Laurel have more than a passing interest in the fate of Tom Edmonds? Of course, almost everyone on the island was talking about the murder of Jane Corley. More than a week had passed. There had been no arrests. However, yesterday afternoon’s Gazette, with its usual above-the-fold follow-up, made clear the direction of the investigation.
Henny tapped the newspaper. “Billy Cameron named Tom Edmonds ‘a person of interest.’ The circuit solicitor announced an arrest is imminent.”
Laurel’s husky voice dropped. “Those dear young people must be terribly frightened.” A mournful sigh.
Three sets of eyes turned to her.
Henny broke the sudden silence. “‘Dear young people?’”
Laurel made a slightly deprecatory gesture with one graceful hand. “Not that I countenance infidelity. I always found it a better practice to be divorced first.”
Annie was never quite straight on Laurel’s list of husbands, which she’d buried and which she’d divorced. As for lovers . . . Some conjectures about one’s mother-in-law were better avoided. At this very moment, Annie focused on maintaining a bright expression of interest without a hint of skepticism.
Laurel’s vivid blue eyes briefly touched on Annie. Her quite perfect lips quivered for an instant in amusement.
Annie felt her face turn bright pink. Was it her imagination or did one perfect eyelid drop for the tiniest moment in a wink before Laurel continued?
“However, I have a sense—mind you, I know it is very unlikely in today’s world—but I think the sweet young things hadn’t quite reached that point. Very nineteen-fiftyish, if you know what I mean.” Laurel’s perfectly arched eyebrows rose in amazement. “Simply soulful looks and secret trysts to talk and hold hands, two souls irresistibly drawn together yet mindful of the barrier between them.”
Emma’s stubby fingers tightened on her coffee mug. “What are you talking about?”
Laurel’s eyes widened. “I assumed all of you knew. Tom Edmonds and Frankie Ford, of course. Frankie’s in my yoga class. Such a sad face in recent times. And one day I saw Tom Edmonds going into the gallery. His expression had nothing to do with art. I am not privy to their private encounters, but,” she spoke with quiet authority, “I know everything about love.”
From anyone else the sweeping statement would seem absurd. Annie considered the source, decided Tom and Frankie definitely were an item.
Laurel nodded toward Emma. “Emma’s understanding of character is beyond parallel. I quite agree. Tom Edmonds committing a brutal murder seems quite inconceivable to me.”
Emma frowned, the dowager queen of crime apprised of previously unknown information. “Humph.” It was an acknowledgment that facts alter cases. “Have to say, if there’s suspicion of adultery, that recasts my thinking.” She slid an unhappy sidelong glance at Henny.
Henny was too graceful to crow. Her tone was conciliatory. “Certainly your insights into character are profound, Emma, but I rather had an inkling. I saw Tom’s and Frankie’s cars parked in the lot for the forest preserve behind the library.”
Annie popped up to retrieve the coffee hottle. Life on an island had its charms but was rather similar to inhabiting a fish tank. It was hard to find a private spot. She had recently visited the gallery and bought some ink drawings of cats for their den. Annie remembered Frankie’s sweet face above a white piqué blouse embroidered with daisies. How dreadful if Frankie was caught up in the darkness of murder.
• • •
As the service for Jane Corley ended, Max shot a questioning look at Annie. She whispered, “I think we should.” They followed the mourners walking toward the parish hall. The order of service program had invited everyone to join the family there.
Annie wasn’t surprised at the size of the crowd. Jane Corley was from a well-known island family. Less charitably, Annie imagined some of those present wouldn’t pass up a moment to have a word with Tom Edmonds. Annie knew her own motive was mixed. Yes, she’d known Jane Corley, liked her. But she couldn’t forget Laurel’s concern about Tom Edmonds and Frankie Ford. Perhaps in a way Annie wanted to banish the thought of Tom Edmonds with the sensitive face and gifted hands as a man who might have committed murder.
The receiving line moved slowly. Annie and Max were within sight of the family. Tom Edmonds’s long face held a mixture of discomfort and restiveness. Next to him was Jane’s sister-in-law, Madeleine, and brother, David. Madeleine’s austere beauty was softened by reddened eyes and trembling lips. David looked stiff and uncomfortable in a black suit and crisp white shirt, a definite change from his usual island casual wear. Next to David was Kate Murray, a stern-appearing woman with short white hair. Annie had met her a few times. She was not only some sort of family connection, she served as Jane’s personal assistant. Last in the receiving line were a dark-haired young woman, a little too heavy, talking a little too fast, and a tall, heavyset man, likely her husband. His suit was noticeably more shabby and ill fitting than Tom’s or David’s. Annie’s gaze moved back to Tom. She felt a tinge of shame. Was she like all the other vultures, there to pick apart appearances? Did he look shifty? Was he under stress? His head bent toward a gray-haired middle-aged woman who looked at him imploringly, hands twisting together. Tom tugged at his shirt collar, looked uncomfortable. He shot a look at David, turned his hand as if to point the woman toward him.
Annie was struck by the woman’s obvious distress. But she didn’t have the appearance of grief. Instead, she appeared despairing, desperate. She turned a little and Annie saw her more clearly, a broad, worn face that might once have been pretty but was now drawn and tight. She started to speak, stopped, pressed her lips together, scuttled to David, began again in a rush.
David listened for a moment then, with a frown, said something brusque and turned to the next in line. Kate Murray gave her a dismissive look and turned to speak to the dark-haired young woman, effectively preventing any conversation.
The woman’s face drooped. She turned away and Annie had a picture of a closet filled with worn, shabby clothes. She moved out of the line, head down. As she walked toward the hall door, there was defeat in every line of her body.
A few moments more, she and Max reached the family, murmuring condolences.
Tom looked down at her. “Good of you to come.” They’d met before but he gazed at her blankly. She shook his hand and the moment was past.
Annie carried with her a memory of Tom’s long face with its deep-set eyes and chiseled features. There was no indication of anguish, but his eyes held a look of shock and disbelief. She agreed with Emma. Tom was not the stuff of which villains were made.
• • •
Max was already at their favorite booth at Parotti’s Bar and Grill. They often lunched at the island’s down-home eatery but had a standing date for dinner on Mondays. As Annie often said, the week went better when it began with dinner at Parotti’s. Since gnomelike Ben Parotti had married Miss Jolene, the owner of a mainland tea shop, and brought her to his island, he had opted for polos and slacks instead of bib overalls. The café had been tweaked as well, vases with flowers on the wooden tables, quiche and sorbet in addition to the best fried oysters in the world and grits to die for, new menus unspotted by years of grease and sticky fingers. Unchanged was the sawdust-laden floor of the attached bait shop with its coolers of squid, snapper, grouper, black bass, and chicken necks.
Max slid out of the booth and reached out to touch her arm. “What’s wrong?”
His words were as reassuring as the warmth of his touch. He always knew when something had disturbed her. She held up the Gazette. “Have you seen the paper?”
His grin was small-boy mischievous. “Kind of slow at the office today. I went out to the practice tee.”
Annie was glad that he’d been out in the sun, free to swing a golf club, laugh or sigh at the result. She loved to work. Max was equable about work, but much more interested in enjoying the moment, whatever it was. He was glad to help those who came to his unusual business but happier to focus on her, on a great painting, on an absorbing book, on sitting with their white cat, Dorothy L, on his lap. In her mind, she heard Max’s voice, “Gooood cat,” and wished she could focus on happy thoughts like Max and Dorothy L and not on the distressing news she brought.
She slid into the booth. “Marian brought me a copy. Hot off the press. Sad picture of Tom Edmonds.” She pushed the newspaper across the tabletop. “Marian said the circuit solicitor continues to be the world’s biggest ass. They’ve arrested Tom and are holding him on suspicion of murder. He’s going to be arraigned tomorrow. The circuit solicitor tipped the Gazette they were going to pick him up, so Marian was out in the street with her Leica. Marian said Tom looked about as murderous as the straw man in Oz. She said she’d taken pics of lots of perps and they looked defiant, cool, hostile, smooth, sometimes vacant or nuts or high, but not like the straw man.”