by Carolyn Hart
In actuality, the murderer could be anyone. However, departure by way of the terrace possibly meant the murderer arrived that way. Arrival and departure through the terrace door was another indication someone close to Jane or part of the family was the killer, just as only a member of that close circle attended David’s birthday party and possibly spoke with Paul.
Max glanced at the legal pad, continued to type.
French doors unlocked when police arrived. Gardener Ross Peters saw Jane Corley strolling near a pond in the lower garden beneath the terrace at approx. half past one. She waved at him, then turned and walked back toward the house. He did not see her again. However, he spent some time at the garden at David Corley’s house. Police invited the public to contact Crime Stoppers if anyone had information about persons in or around the Corley estate that afternoon. Got no response.
Max tapped the space bar, typed a new title.
• • •
GUEST LIST DAVID CORLEY PARTY
Marian’s gamine face had registered disdain at his request for the guest list. “Do you think I do society, too, and maybe sweep out after hours? Hop on a bike and deliver papers?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?” Her tone was sharp. “Harsh words, maybe? Somebody challenged to a duel?”
Max had been quick to explain all he needed was the guest list and if she’d hold on, she’d know why. In her usual efficient fashion, Marian pulled up the story that had run in the society editor’s column on the Saturday after the birthday party. All Max needed were the names.
David Corley, Madeleine Corley, Jane Corley, Kate Murray, Sherry Gillette, Kevin and Irene Hubbard, Toby Wyler, Frankie Ford, four off-islanders from Atlanta, Steve James, Harris Carson, Ken Daniels, Wendell Evans, and, of course, Paul Martin and Lucy Ransome.
Max liked to have a sense of people. He knew the islanders casually, but he wanted background. First, though, he’d record what Marian described happily as scuttlebutt. He grinned. Marian’s dark eyes had gleamed as she unloaded. “BTW. The cop shop zeroed in on Tom from the get-go, but I nosed around a bit, asked here and there who might have it in for the lady. I came up with a little list. As you might expect, check out the nearest and dearest. If anyone wants to know where you picked this up, you can say you walk in the garden every night and little green men murmur in your shell pink ear. Or you looked into Madame SpookaLook’s crystal ball in the fortuneteller’s tent at the last church rummage sale. Whatever, but nada from moi. Right?”
He’d held up his right hand. “Swear to die.” If anyone ever should ask, Marian could rest easy. He kind of liked the little green men in the garden. Who could prove otherwise?
• • •
Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the tiled floor of the shadowy entrance hall. Arched mullioned windows with stained glass did little to shed light. Tapestries of hunting scenes hung from gray stone walls. Annie was reminded of Errol Flynn movies on TBS except these massive stones were real.
Kate led the way past an enormous reception area framed by Moorish columns on one side and a formal dining hall on the other, again with mullioned windows set high in the walls. Her pace was brisk. At the end of the hallway, a broad stairway led to upper floors. She passed the steps, came to a huge oak door, partially ajar. She paused, took a quick breath, pushed it open.
They stepped into a different world, still Italianate, but with warm glowing Florentine colors, walls hung with Tom’s paintings, comfortable furniture. They stood in what was obviously the family room, a fireplace on the north wall, a pool table with a nearby wet bar, chintz-covered sofas and easy chairs, windows overlooking the flagstone terrace and the gardens that sloped beyond.
Annie’s gaze stopped at the pool table.
“Just past there. That’s where she died. Blood all around her.” Kate’s voice was uneven.
Annie looked into dark eyes filled with pain and grief. “I’m sorry.”
“Hell of a place to die. Her favorite room.” Kate hunched thin shoulders. Her stare at Annie was a glower. “Jane was more alive than a hundred people. Smart, quick, clever, never afraid.” She swallowed and her voice was thin. “Now she’s gone.” She stalked across the parquet flooring, pointed down at a too-shiny floor. “They scrubbed and scrubbed to get up her blood.” She whirled on Annie. “If you’ve talked your way in here like a slimy vulture to feast on it, then get the hell out.”
Annie met her penetrating gaze steadily. “I’m here because Lucy found a drawing in Paul’s desk . . .” The wariness in Kate’s gaze changed to intense concentration as Annie spoke of the open house, followed by Paul’s worried demeanor, the apparent lifting of his spirits following David’s birthday party, the discovery of the sketch, and the underlined words, Protect Jane. “Lucy doesn’t believe Paul ever owned a gun.”
Kate’s fingers clamped on Annie’s arm. “For God’s sake, woman, Lucy has to go to the police.”
“Lucy went. I did, too.” Annie wanted to be fair to Billy Cameron, one of the finest police officers she’d ever known. “Chief Cameron listened. He admitted someone could have set everything up to make it look like Paul killed himself. Billy didn’t believe there was someone who’d planned that well.”
Kate loosened her grip. “Let’s go out on the terrace. I don’t think I can stand being in this room much longer.” Again she moved fast, striding the few feet to the French door, yanking it open.
Annie followed her outside, welcoming the sunshine, trying not to remember the too-shiny floor near the pool table.
Kate gestured toward redwood furniture beneath gaily striped umbrellas. When they were settled, Kate was brusque. “Cops look at evidence. Billy’s got plenty. But I know Lucy.”
Kate spoke of Billy with familiarity. Annie wasn’t surprised. Billy was a native of the island. He knew everybody as only a small-town native can know them, who had been married to whom and when, why two women managed to attend the same church for a lifetime but never speak to each other, which secretary was meeting her boss at a motel on the mainland, where a missing uncle was last seen and why no one instituted a search.
Kate gave her a sharp look. “I know about cops. My husband was a beat cop in Atlanta. Gunned down when he stopped a guy who’d killed his girlfriend. Kent was twenty-four, just getting started. He had dreams. He would have been a good cop, like Billy Cameron. That’s when I came home to the island. I didn’t do much of anything for a couple of years after Kent was killed, then I did books for some local businesses. I’m good at detail. That was before Jane’s mother died. Bolton, Jane’s father, hired me to run the place after Sherrybeth died in childbirth and he needed someone to oversee taking care of David. I was a cousin of Bolton’s.” She talked, but her expression was distant, a woman thinking, digesting what Annie had told her.
She turned a troubled gaze on Annie. “Jane wasn’t herself the last few weeks. The Friday before she died, she came out on the terrace—I was weeding the pansies”—her mouth quirked—“even though Ross, the gardener, doesn’t like for me to fool with ‘his’ beds. Anyway I was out there, and Jane came out. She didn’t look . . . right. She asked me to come to her office. Once inside, she shut the door and said, ‘Something’s wrong, Kate. I can feel it.’ I asked what had disturbed her. She turned her hands up. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been uneasy the last few days. Very unlike me. But I wondered if you felt uncomfortable, too.’ I said maybe the changes in the barometer were bothering her. She looked a little grim. ‘Probably I’m out of sorts because I have to decide what to do about a husband who’s acting like a teenager with his first crush. Maybe it’s time to yank the lead, remind him who has entrée to the success he’d like to have.’ She laughed that robust laugh of hers and seemed to shake off the gloom. She was pretty emphatic. ‘I’ll deal with that little romance. And him. And her.’ That was all she said about Tom and Frankie. So”—her dark eyes challenged Annie—“if you’re right, if someone kille
d Paul and Tom was on the mainland, you need to look at that girl.”
Annie remembered Max’s story about David Corley’s remarks at the men’s grill. What did Jane say to Frankie at the birthday party? “Did you see Jane talk to Frankie at David’s party?”
“Little difficult to see anything. Madeleine is nuts for Japanese lanterns. I say if you’ve got lights, use them. I could hardly tell what I had on my plate.” She lifted bony shoulders in a shrug, dropped them. “I saw the girl at one point, and she looked like she had a demon sitting on her shoulder, but for all I know she had a migraine. I don’t know whether Jane talked to her or not. The whole evening seemed off-kilter to me. I don’t know why. I didn’t feel comfortable. Madeleine was nervy and she kept darting inside to check on that yappy Yorkie.” A pause. “Millie’s kind of a cute little dog and she’s nuts about Madeleine and both of them have been basket cases lately. Cats are better. They always smell good.” Again the words filled space, then, abruptly: “I saw Paul once when I don’t think he knew anyone was watching him.”
Annie looked at her inquiringly.
Kate brushed back silvered hair, a gesture of impatience. “Maybe what you told me is affecting the way I remember. I was on my way inside to the bathroom. Paul was standing by the wet bar near the pool. As I consider it now, he had an odd expression on his face. He looked like a man confronting something unpleasant, definitely not a party look. I wondered what was wrong, decided he’d seen someone he didn’t like. He started walking toward the end of the pool.”
“Do you know who was standing near the end of the pool?”
“I don’t remember who was there. People wandered around. There was a group clustered past the pool, throwing horseshoes. He was going in that direction.”
“Is there anyone you can vouch for that could not have been beyond the pool?”
For an instant, Kate looked puzzled, then she gave an abrupt nod. “I get it. Did I see anyone when I went in the house? Only Lucy. She was coming across the den as I walked inside.”
Annie felt a flicker of excitement. When Lucy stepped outside, it would be natural for her to look about for Paul. She might have seen him walking toward the end of the pool. Lucy hadn’t noticed Paul in a conversation, but she might have glimpsed who was standing beyond the pool. If Kate’s perception was correct, Paul walked toward a confrontation he didn’t relish.
“Who attended the party?”
Kate’s dark brows drew down in a frown. “Mostly family. David and Madeleine. Jane. Sherry.” She gave Annie a quick glance. “Sherry Gillette, a sort of honorary cousin. Her stepmother was Jane’s mother’s best friend. I’ll have to say I fault Jane there. She thought Sherry’s husband was a no-good. Sherry showed up a couple of weeks ago with a bruise on her arm, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she just banged into something and blamed Roger. I mean he’s a social studies teacher, for Pete’s sake. He’s big and burly, but he looks about as threatening as Pooh Bear. Whatever.” Kate was disdainful. “Anybody with gumption could do something on their own. Instead Jane mixed in and I can tell you it never pays to get into anybody’s marriage. Anyway, Sherry was here, so she came to the party. As for the rest . . . Paul and Lucy, of course. Toby Wyler from the gallery, along with Frankie. I guess Madeleine invited them because of Jane.” She gave a little snort of disdain. “I’m sure Madeleine thought Toby would hover around Jane in a worshipful way. And he did, of course. Irene and Kevin Hubbard were there. Jane played a lot of golf with Irene. Probably because she’d always beat her, even with Irene’s big handicap. Jane liked to win. Kevin manages the Corley properties at the marina. Jane let him handle David’s allowance. Kind of a buffer between them.”
Annie pounced. “Buffer?”
Kate’s face softened. “David’s the baby of the family. He hasn’t settled down yet and it worried Jane. Bolton’s will gave all the money to Jane, a dollar to David with a proviso that Jane share the estate when she felt David was ready. Bolton knew Jane would do the right thing, but that’s too big a burden for anybody. I don’t blame David for being hurt. I tried to talk to Jane but she got her back up, snapped, ‘Dad told me to be sure he was steady. He isn’t there yet.’ As you can imagine, a grown man—he’s almost twenty-five—doesn’t like having money doled out to him. That made them edgy with each other and I hate that. David’s looked really stricken since she died. At least he got to have a happy birthday before this happened. I’m glad the party was fun for him. He was on a tear that night, lots of jokes.” Her smile was indulgent. “Four of his old fraternity brothers came from Atlanta. All bachelors. They drank too much, of course, but they kept things lively. None of them were at the open house on Sunday, so they aren’t relevant.”
“Can you get their names and phone numbers?”
“Why? They didn’t know Paul.”
“I want to talk to everyone.” One of them might be the sort who took a lively interest in new and different people and watched and noticed. “Please find out and send me a text. Names. Phones numbers.”
Kate didn’t look unwilling so much as totally unimpressed with Annie’s logic. “You need to talk to that girl. The more I think of it, she was upset that night. She looked like somebody falling out of a plane and the rip cord didn’t work.”
• • •
Max kept his promise of anonymity for Marian as he named the file:
• • •
MURMURS FROM LITTLE GREEN MEN
He could hear her raspy, slightly breathy voice as he typed from his notes.
Tom Edmonds—Not your most robust villain. Got it from the cook that Kate Murray’s cat brought in a rabbit dripping blood and Tom damn near fainted. It was Jane who scooped up the wounded critter, raced off to the vet. Turned out to be a bite in one shoulder and Bugs returned to frolic in the lower garden and all should be well in bunny land, assuming his small rabbit brain has the wit to avoid encounters with felines. How does that square with Tom battering Jane all bloody until she was dead? Sure, he was apparently dallying with Frankie Ford, he hasn’t got a sou to his name, signed a prenup that a divorce with cause kept the Corley money in the family, and a local artist says nothing matters to him but his work. Might tally up to mucho motive for murder, but wouldn’t he avoid hammers, especially one from his studio?
Kate Murray—On the scene. One tough broad. Hikes. Racquetball. Deep-sea fishes. Fought a 200-pound tarpon for five hours, got him. Cook said she slammed out of Jane’s office a couple of days before David’s birthday, looked “like she was ready to spit nails.” What was that all about?
David Corley—Big on charm, short on steady. Everybody in town knows his dad left stacks of gold to Big Sis and she doled out money. Apparently, she was generous. David and Madeleine don’t appear to be short on cash. I understand now he gets access to his trust fund. Everybody likes him. Got a smile that makes the ladies . . . Well, ’nuff said. Funny things reporters learn when they’re following up a lead. I was keeping an eye on the treasurer of a local church—that story’s still building—who suddenly started driving a real fancy car and hanging out in some interesting spots. Like the new gambling dive where the island’s high rollers shed greenbacks faster than a porcupine flings quills. Not your usual seedy tin building behind a bar. This place is snazzy, an antebellum house tarted up fresh. They call it Palmetto Players, though it isn’t written down anywhere. They’re not talking horseshoes. The upstairs bedrooms have poker tables, slots, and, in one of them, a shirt-sleeved croupier who rakes in chips like Tarzan dives after Jane. Anyway, I swanked over there with a dude the boss imported from Savannah, who was playing the role of rich guy just waiting to be bilked. Had a hell of a good time, though Vince said we could only blow five hundred and to stay off the sauce.
Max wondered how Vince Ellis, the Gazette publisher, entered that night’s expenses. $500 misc? $500 incidental? $500 research?
Anyway, we kept an eye on our grim-faced treasur
er, hunkered at the table, betting on the black, watching the red come up. Got some neat pics on my cell. Which I did verrrry carefully. My dress was filmy with flowing sleeves and you can bet your iPad nobody saw me take the shots. I value my neck. Suffice to say, I was tuned up tighter than a banjo and keeping an eye on everybody. That’s how I happened to notice David Corley. I’d guess the roulette wheel was in what had been a main bedroom adjoined by a study. There was no apparent door. The remodel must have covered it up. The wall was slats of green bamboo. Got my attention because David walked right past the bar and there was nothing ahead of him but a wall. He didn’t have his Brad Pitt look. I figured the squat guy marching along at his left elbow might have sucked some oxygen out of pretty boy’s lungs. Not buddies on a prowl. David was on his way to a little confab and there was no joy in his heart. Squat guy came up to the wall, poked a stubby pinkie about waist high, and a panel swung in. They stepped inside, but I got a peek at a guy sitting behind a black desk. The desktop had some papers on it. Not much else except a skull. Looked real. The guy behind the desk is probably a little over six feet, good physique, curly graying hair, florid face, one of those easy smiles, but his eyes were cold as a snake’s. FYI, his name’s Jason Brown, arrived on the island a couple of years ago. Maybe from Tampa, maybe from Dallas, no pedigree I could find. He gestured for David to sit down with one hand, picked up the skull with the other. The door closed.
Madeleine Corley—So far as anyone knows, Madeleine and her sis-in-law were on good terms. But I picked up a tidbit at the beauty shop last week. My gal has dachshund ears when it comes to gossip. She likes to see herself as a tipster to the news ace. In case you’re wondering, that’s me. Anyway, I was in for a trim and she said I’d never guess what she’d heard, that Bridget Olson, whose mouth runs like a trout stream, was talking to her hairdresser and she said she’d heard that Madeleine said she was home all afternoon the day Jane was killed, BUT SHE WASN’T!, and Bridget knew that for sure because she’d dropped by to ask Madeleine to help with the animal rescue adopt-a-day the next week and she’d knocked, then gone on in because the door was unlocked and she called out and looked everywhere for Madeleine and she absolutely wasn’t there. The hairdresser said maybe she was out in the garden. Bridget shook her head, said she’d asked the yard man if Madeleine was around and he said, “No ma’am, she went off that way a while ago,” and pointed to a path. Bridget said probably Madeleine had just taken a walk but it was kind of exciting to think she really hadn’t been where she said she was even though it turned out that Jane’s awful husband killed her, so it didn’t really matter. Sometime, and Bridget has a laugh that sounds like a horse’s whinny, she’d have to ask Madeleine about the Mystery of That Monday Afternoon.