Death at the Door

by Carolyn Hart

  A hunch . . . Billy wasn’t going to be enticed into looking further at Paul Martin’s death. Billy had always said when anything occurred in a murder investigation that seemed off-kilter, pay attention, your subconscious often saw more than you realized. But maybe she thought of it now, at this moment, because the incident had seemed so wrong. She asked abruptly, “Billy, were you at Jane Corley’s funeral?” She hadn’t seen him, but she was certain he would have attended.

  He blinked a little at the sudden transition, then nodded. “Sure.”

  “Did you see the older woman who went through the line and she was upset, but I could tell it wasn’t about Jane. She asked Tom something and he gestured toward David and then David wasn’t nice about it, whatever it was. The woman dropped out of the line and walked out of the parish hall.”

  “Can’t say I did. And . . . ?”

  “Billy, there was something wrong about it. I think she’d come from off island. I don’t know everybody but I know a lot of people. I’d never seen her before. Who was she? Why did she come to Jane’s funeral?”

  He waited.

  Annie turned her hands up. “I know it doesn’t sound like much. But the woman appeared to be under enormous pressure. I don’t think she wanted to ask whatever she asked but she forced herself and then she was rebuffed. She looked devastated as she walked away.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find her. Ask what was wrong.”

  He drew a small pad closer. “Description?”

  Annie pictured that moment in the parish hall. “Gray haired. Maybe fifty, maybe a little older. Sturdy. Long arms and legs, short torso. About five-five, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. Wide face. Brown eyes. Dark shadows under her eyes. A droopy mouth. Rounded chin. Scarcely any makeup. Wore a navy suit but it was old, really old. The skirt was too long. It had that shiny look when fabric’s been cleaned too often.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.” He squared the tablet on his desk, and Annie knew he was signaling an end to the interview. And likely to his patience.

  At the door, she paused with her hand on the knob. “If Lucy’s right, if the person who killed Jane also shot Paul, then Tom Edmonds is innocent. Lucy said Tom was off island the night Paul died. Would you check and see if Tom was off island?”

  Billy shook his head. “I’m interested in Tom Edmonds the afternoon his wife was killed. If you want to know what he was doing some other night, check it out.”

  • • •

  “Hey, Annie.” Barb’s voice was lifted in a greeting. “Come on in. I just made pound cake.”

  It was only half past nine in the morning but the scent of freshly baked cake was unmistakable.

  “Three sticks of butter. And caramel-flavored whipped cream.” When Barb cooked, which was often, Max and Confidential Commissions were in a lull between clients, to phrase a lack of activity gracefully.

  Barb tilted her bouffant hairdo in the direction of Max’s closed office door. “He’s talking to that sweet girl who works at Wyler’s gallery. She has a broken heart pasted all over her face.” Barb lifted expressive eyebrows. “Honestly, divorce is so much simpler than murder. Some guys never get it right. He probably didn’t have the cojones to tell Jane sayonara. Or”—a cynical moue—“he didn’t want to lose out on all that money. Anyway, let me get you a slice and I’ll poke the light on Max’s intercom—dot and dash for an A—and he’ll know you’re here.”

  Morse code? Annie decided time must indeed have been hanging heavy at Confidential Commissions. Max loved Morse code, dots were light and quick, a dash heavier and longer. Barb was probably the only secretary on the island proficient in Morse. Max also loved the Green Hornet. Was the next best thing going to be a Confidential Commissions’ Superpower Ring? But now wasn’t the time for lighthearted nostalgia or pound cake. She held up a hand. “Let’s wait on the pound cake. I think I know why Frankie’s here. I can help.”

  Annie knocked lightly on the door, turned the knob.

  Frankie Ford huddled in a webbed chrome chair facing Max’s desk. The face she turned toward the doorway was tear-streaked and hopeless, a sad contrast to shining chestnut hair and bright-and-fresh short-sleeve white blouse and long blue chambray skirt.

  Max had the aura of a man trying to be kind, but wishing he could draw the interlude to a close. He saw Annie and his eyes lighted, grateful for her interruption. He started to rise.

  Annie waved him to his seat with one hand, shut the door with the other, and rushed across the room to look down at Frankie. “Where was Tom the Wednesday night before Jane was killed?”

  Frankie looked at her in surprise.

  “The night of David Corley’s birthday party. Was Tom at the party?” Perhaps Lucy missed seeing Tom. Frankie would know. As David’s brother-in-law, Tom would have been invited.

  Frankie brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across one damp cheek. “Tom wasn’t there.” She was clearly uncomfortable and her gaze slid away from Annie. “It was an awful evening. Jane didn’t like me.” She looked miserable. “I had to be there because of the gallery. Toby always finagled any invitation he could to the Corleys because of Tom’s work.”

  Frankie was totally focused on how she’d spent an uncomfortable evening, apparently unaware Tom’s whereabouts that night might be important. “Did Tom come late? Did he leave early?”

  Frankie was bewildered. “I don’t know why you care, but Tom was off island that night. He was in Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta?” Annie was glad for the confirmation of Lucy’s claim. “When did he go?”

  “That morning.” Her voice was empty. To her, the answer didn’t matter.

  “When did he leave?” Could his departure be proved?

  Frankie gave an impatient shrug. “The ten o’clock ferry. He drove to Atlanta to take some paintings to a gallery. He didn’t come home until the next day. At David’s, Jane was talking about how she had an in with the gallery owner. You’d think the paintings were chosen because of her. But the owner said Tom had a golden future. He wanted to put on a really big show.” Her face twisted in despair. “Not now, of course. Everything’s over now.” Her voice quivered. “Tom was so excited. He stayed with the gallery owner. He called me about midnight. He was sorry to call so late. The owner’s one of those people who likes to drink and Tom waited until the host called it a night.”

  Max looked puzzled, likely wondering why Tom Edmonds’s whereabouts on the night of October 9 mattered.

  Annie didn’t care about the phone call. People can call anywhere on a cell and say they are somewhere else. But if Tom Edmonds was having drinks with his host until late that night, he was not on the island during David Corley’s party. Or moving later in darkness to slip unseen through Paul Martin’s side yard to knock softly on the door to the study.

  Max could check with the gallery owner. If Frankie’s story was confirmed, there was no way Tom Edmonds could have returned to the island later that night. In October, the last ferry came into the harbor at ten thirty P.M. There wasn’t another ferry until morning.

  Annie grinned and turned up her thumbs. In her heart, she thought Lucy Ransome had it right. Paul was killed by the person who bludgeoned Jane. “Maybe there is a kindly Providence. Maybe Tom had an angel perched on his shoulder. Here’s what happened.” She described the drawing Lucy Ransome found in her brother’s desk. When she finished, she was struck by the sharp contrast in how her information was received.

  Max’s face crinkled in thought, but he didn’t look convinced.

  Frankie Ford came to her feet with a squeal and hugged Annie. “Tom’s innocent. I knew he was innocent—” Frankie’s eyes were wide, her voice shaky.

  Annie felt a tiny inward lurch as she realized Frankie had been afraid, terribly afraid, and not solely because Tom Edmonds was in jail.

  “—even though—” She cl
apped a hand over her mouth. Her head swiveled toward Max, back to Annie. She gulped. “I mean, things looked bad.”

  Annie looked into blue eyes that harbored knowledge. Frankie knew something else, something that had made her fearful that Tom was guilty.

  Max studied Frankie with narrowed eyes, then turned toward Annie. “Did Lucy Ransome take the sketch to Billy Cameron?”

  Annie lifted her chin. “Yes.”

  “And he said?” Max quirked a blond brow.

  Annie took her time answering. “He admitted someone could have come with a gun, maybe worn a latex glove on one hand, walked behind Paul’s desk, caught him by surprise, jammed the barrel to his temple, shot him, and set everything up to look like suicide, putting Paul’s fingerprints on the cartridge box, wiping the gunsmoke residue on Paul’s right thumb and index finger and palm. Billy didn’t believe a word of it. You know how people are. Somebody claims someone else was behind an elaborate frame and everybody says that’s not realistic. Billy dismissed the idea of somebody being ‘a clever devil.’ He was sardonic about somebody doing ‘a lot of planning.’”

  Max’s face stilled. His blue eyes darkened with memories.

  She wished she could bite back the words.

  His gaze dropped to his desk. She knew he didn’t see the magnificent red of the mahogany refectory table that served as his desk. He saw a dusty road dappled by moonlight and heard the baying of hounds. Finally, he looked up. The memory of that hot August night when he’d been taken into custody with blood—not his own—on his shirt was there in the bleakness of his gaze. “Yeah. People can make plans, snare somebody innocent. But”—his gaze at her was level—“there’s a damn big difference between me and Tom. I was set up from start to finish. I had no reason to kill that woman.” He looked at Frankie, shook his head. “I’d be lying if I said I thought I could help Tom.”

  Her face turned white. Slowly she pushed up from the chair, walked blindly toward the door.

  Annie hurried after her, caught her arm. “Wait, Frankie, please.” Annie turned toward Max. “If we send Frankie away, she doesn’t have any hope. Maybe you’re right”—Annie heard Frankie’s indrawn breath—“maybe Tom’s guilty. He’s got a reason to want Jane dead.”

  She saw certainty in Max’s eyes and realized he was basing his opinion on something she didn’t know, something he didn’t want to mention in front of Frankie. For an instant, she doubted her conviction. But Lucy knew her brother well. She knew he’d been worried. She knew that worry was gone when they came home from David’s party. She’d never heard him speak of a gun. More than that, Annie remembered how Paul Martin fought to save a woman who wanted to discard life.

  Life mattered to Paul, that of his family, his wife, his patients. Himself. Now in his grave, he bore the burden of having taken his own life. If that was a lie, Paul deserved better.

  “Maybe we need to remember that Tom’s innocent until proven guilty.” She gazed steadily at Max. “Let’s find out the truth. If Tom’s guilty, nothing we discover will make a difference for him. If he’s innocent, we save his life.”

  Max’s face softened. His blue eyes told her he loved her, admired her, thought she was stubborn and wrong, but he was on her team. He stood and came around the desk. He looked down at Frankie, his face regretful. “Tom looks guilty to me. But my wife”—a tilt of his head toward Annie—“sometimes sees a reality not apparent to anyone else.” He shot Annie a wry look. “Maybe this is one of those times. We’ll do what we can.”

  Annie wanted to throw her arms around him and give him a huge hug. He had no faith that Tom was innocent, but he would help look for the truth of Jane’s murder. She turned to Frankie. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  • • •

  Max leaned back in his comfortable red leather chair, arms behind his head, feet crossed, and studied the photograph of Annie on the corner of his desk. Flyaway dusty blond hair, serious gray eyes, lips slightly curved in a smile. “Sweetie,” he addressed the picture mildly, “have I ever told you that you have a talent for strays, you are a sucker for sob stories, and you always see sunshine behind a cloud big enough to blot out the sky? There’s no happy ending to this one.”

  After Frankie and Annie left, he’d texted Annie what he overheard in the men’s grill at the country club. David Corley was lunching with a friend who loudly groused about an upcoming family reunion and a cousin who always had something unpleasant to say to everyone. David responded he should count himself lucky, at least he was dealing with a cousin and not a sister who could double as a vampire. Max remembered David’s exasperated words, “It’s my birthday, for God’s sake, and Jane is busy sharpening a stake for the heart of this cute kid who had to be there to show off some of Tom’s paintings. Sure, I’ve heard the gossip. Tom has the hots for her but, still, couldn’t Jane have picked a different time?” And, Max pointed out in his text, that conversation occurred after the birthday party and before Jane was murdered. He knew Annie would scan her phone before she and Frankie settled down to talk. Annie should know the word was out on the island that there was more between Frankie and Tom than interest in his art.

  He spoke firmly to the smiling picture. “That cute kid with the gorgeous hair had a motive as well as Tom if the rumors David heard are true. I know,” he answered her imagined response, “Tom was in Atlanta the night Paul Martin died.” Max was thoughtful. He agreed that Paul Martin blowing out his brains for his sister to find didn’t sound like the man and doctor he’d known. “Okay, Annie. I’ll root around like a hungry hog. But I’m checking out everybody, including the lovebirds.”

  He turned to his computer. Everything had a beginning. If Lucy Ransome was right, the beginning of the end for Paul Martin started at the October 6 open house at Wyler Art Gallery. He began to type.

  RUN-UP TO MURDER

  Sunday, October 6—Dr. Paul Martin and sister Lucy Ransome attended an open house in honor of Tom Edmonds at Wyler Art Gallery.

  Tuesday, October 8—Paul sketched the horse at the entrance to Jane Corley’s estate. Protect Jane underlined twice. Also, An open house, a hard heart. Evil in a look. I saw it. I’ll deal with it at the party.

  Wednesday, October 9—Paul and Lucy attended a birthday party for David Corley, Jane’s brother, at David and Madeleine’s home.

  Wednesday, October 9—Lucy said good night to Paul, leaving him in his study.

  Thursday, October 10—Lucy found Paul at his desk in his study, dead of a gunshot wound to the head. Circumstances compatible with suicide. Lucy had no knowledge that he possessed a gun.

  Monday, October 14—Jane Corley bludgeoned to death at her home during the afternoon. Weapon a sculptor’s mallet belonging to her husband. Tom Edmonds discovered her body and called police at approximately a quarter to five.

  Monday, October 21—Tom Edmonds taken into custody.

  Tuesday, October 22—Lucy Ransome finds sketch.

  Max tapped the first paragraph. He and Annie had attended the open house at Wyler Art Gallery. Guests wandered from the wide entry hall where wine and hors d’oeuvres were served into the long gallery to stroll through a display of Tom’s paintings. Max methodically re-created his own movements that night, recalling glimpses of particular faces.

  Jane Corley dominated the evening. She greeted guests with a flourish of her champagne flute. In an off-shoulder ruby dress, she’d appeared glamorous despite her too-strong features. Her ebullient laughter could be heard in every corner. She’d led the way into the gallery, sweeping guests before her like so many obedient children, and it was she who pulled the cord to unveil the central painting. She’d presented her usual commanding aura that evening.

  Another memory slid into his mind. As he’d turned away from the unveiling—Annie was across the room talking to Henny Brawley—he’d noticed Paul Martin a few feet away from the oil painting of Jane standing at the end of a pier. Paul was
n’t looking at the painting. He stared into the distance. He stood, a little stooped, holding a glass of wine, but his face was not that of a man enjoying his evening or judging art. The muscles of his face were slightly slack, drooping, a man who’d seen or thought something unexpected, something disturbing.

  Max considered the possibilities. Lucy insisted Paul hadn’t been the same since the open house. Maybe he indeed saw something that evening that led him to fear for Jane’s life. It was equally possible he had a sudden touch of vertigo or his mind dredged up something ominous from a patient’s symptoms that hadn’t occurred to him or he was plunged into dark despairing thoughts about his own life.

  It wasn’t helpful to imagine what-ifs. Max knew he needed to focus on verifiable facts. Most important, who among those attending might have had reason to want Jane to cease to live. He knew the best place to start. He glanced at his watch, made a quick call. “You going to be in the newsroom for a while?”

  Marian Kenyon was brisk. “Just finishing up the story about Tom Edmonds’s arraignment. Nothing else exciting on the news front. You got something for me?”

  • • •

  Frankie Ford looked hopefully across the worktable in the Death on Demand storeroom-cum-office. Her tone was excited. “What can you do?” Although her face was still splotchy, the tears had stopped.

  Annie felt the burden of Frankie’s eagerness and hoped that she could do something to help. “Mostly talk to people”—she saw Frankie droop—“who were close to Jane. This crime was planned by someone familiar with the house and with Tom’s studio. No stranger dropped by Tom’s studio and filched that mallet. The studio is too remote for an outsider to find.”

  Frankie’s eyes widened. Perhaps for the first time, she focused on who might have killed Jane rather than her fear for Tom. Overwhelmed by the threat to Tom, Frankie apparently hadn’t thought about the crime and how it was committed.

  “Do you think someone wanted Tom to be blamed?” Frankie’s voice was faint.