Death at the Door

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie slowed for a stop sign, saw an empty school bus likely on its way to take students home from school. Barefoot . . . She tucked that bit of knowledge away. For now, Madeleine’s choice of footwear or its lack didn’t matter. What mattered was whether she had gone all the way to Jane Corley’s house on the afternoon of the murder. Annie’s plan to confront Madeleine, claim that she had been seen on the terrace, was thwarted. Maybe tomorrow she would be able to talk to Madeleine. But now she had some leverage to use with Sherry Gillette, who had to reveal what—if anything—she had seen from the balcony. Annie would state with authority that Madeleine had come to Jane’s house and tell Sherry it was time to stop playing games.

  Although she had to take several twisty lanes, Buccaneer Arms was actually very near the pocket of old homes. She could have walked on bike paths much more quickly. She pulled into the same parking space she’d occupied earlier. As she crossed the blacktop to the exterior stairs, she considered her options. Should she encourage Sherry that she could be a star witness?

  Annie hurried up the cement steps to the third floor, pulled open a creaky door. Or maybe she could finagle information by telling Sherry that Madeleine insisted she didn’t see anyone on any of the balconies when she dropped in that afternoon. Unless she misjudged Sherry mightily, Sherry would rush to insist Madeleine should have seen Sherry because Sherry certainly saw Madeleine.

  As she walked down the hallway, her elation subsided. Okay, she could then report to Billy that Madeleine had been spotted on Jane’s terrace and Billy might agree to ask her when she was there and why, but the single fact of Sherry seeing her was not enough to make Madeleine a suspect.

  Annie sighed. She had come this far. She might as well talk to Sherry. She glanced at the numbers. Two doors to go. Buccaneer apartments would have profited from fresh paint in the hallway, but the ceiling lights were generously bright. Dimmer lighting might have made the surroundings more attractive, diminishing the starkness of scuffs and scrapes. She reached Apartment 7, knocked.

  Silence.

  She knocked again, loudly, waited, noticing the bronze knocker was dull and tarnished. She didn’t think it was in Sherry’s nature not to answer a door. She would be curious. Annie reached in her purse, drew out a small notepad, wrote fast: Sherry, urgent that we talk. There is some question whether you were on your balcony. She hesitated. That was enough. Annie could imagine a very good reason why Sherry might not have been on the balcony. Perhaps Sherry saw Madeleine—if she did—from a hiding place in the family room. If Sherry killed Jane, it would be much better for her to claim to have been on her balcony all afternoon.

  Annie folded the note, wrote Sherry on one side. And maybe, her thought was wry, she should try her hand at writing mysteries as well as selling them. All of her speculation was just that, imagining what could have happened and she didn’t have any facts to back her up, just Sherry’s hints that she might have seen someone from the balcony and Madeleine arriving home without shoes.

  She looked for a letter slot in the door. The Buccaneer didn’t run to such niceties. Likely there were letter boxes in the ground-floor foyer. Annie pawed through her purse. Lots of interesting flotsam—a key she didn’t remember, a shiny blue marble, a ticket stub to a Braves game, a cellophane-wrapped, tired-looking praline—but no Scotch tape. Maybe she could slide the note beneath the door. She bent down, stiffened, stared.

  • • •

  Officer Hyla Harrison’s auburn hair was drawn back in a tight bun. As always her French blue uniform was immaculate. She spoke to Annie while still studying the stained floor. “Could be blood. Looks like blood.” She knocked firmly on the door. She waited a moment, tried again. No answer. She pulled a cell from a pocket. “The manager can help us.” She tapped the phone, was answered on the second ring. “Ma’am, this is Broward’s Rock Police Officer Hyla Harrison. I’m upstairs at the apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Roger Gillette. We’ve had a call that the occupant may need assistance. Can you bring up a key, please.” She put away the cell, reached into a knapsack she’d placed on the floor. “I’ll make a test while we’re waiting.”

  Annie waited tensely.

  Kneeling, Hyla gave a swift spray from a canister. She unsnapped a small flashlight from her belt, turned it on, held steady the sharp white beam.

  Annie and Officer Lou Pirelli, broad face intent beneath his curly dark hair, both bent forward.

  As Hyla aimed the beam, a reddish smear perhaps six inches from the doorsill turned pale green. Hyla was immobile for an instant, then she came to her feet. She flicked on her lapel-pin camera with one hand, retrieved her cell with the other. “Buccaneer apartments, third floor, Apartment 7. No response to knocking on the door. Stain on floor sprayed. Test positive. Yes, sir.”

  She returned the phone to its holder. Pulling on plastic gloves, she leaned toward the door, careful to keep a good distance from the green-and-red smudge on the floor. Now the knocking was thunderous. “Police. Open the door. Police.”

  Loud enough to wake the dead . . .

  Annie leaned against the opposite wall, fought away dreadful visions.

  A door down the hall popped open. A tiny woman with frizzy gray hair and an anxious expression peered out. “What’s going on?” Her voice was shrill.

  Hyla ignored her. Using only the tips of the gloved fingers on her right hand, she tried to twist the knob. The knob remained rigid. The door was locked. Hyla nodded at Lou. “Get the manager. We need to check inside.”

  Lou moved fast and the sound of his thudding footsteps echoed up the stairwell.

  “Oh my, oh, oh my. Has something awful happened?” The neighbor clung to the doorjamb, her eyes wide and anxious.

  Hyla turned. “Ma’am, everything is under control. We are simply responding to a call. Please remain in your apartment. Thank you.”

  Annie wasn’t surprised to see the woman withdraw and shut the door. Hyla had an air of authority that few would question and never twice.

  Hyla once again knocked.

  No response.

  The exterior door at the end of the hallway opened and she heard a cheerful whistle. A country music song . . . Annie recognized the old tune, “Friends in Low Places,” a rowdy, fun song, a perennial on the jukebox at Parotti’s. The whistler was about half the length of the hall when he broke off, stopped, and stared, looking from Hyla to the door to the apartment. He was big, muscular with a reddish face and a mass of curly black hair. His green-checked shirt was rolled to the elbows and a little tight across the chest, his brown khakis wrinkled. A backpack dangled from over one shoulder.

  Annie wished she was anywhere other than that hallway. Until he saw Hyla in her uniform, Roger Gillette had sounded like a man who had enjoyed a good day, his expression pleased and satisfied. Now he was puzzled. He walked slowly toward them.

  “Hey, why are you standing in front of my door?” He moved a little faster, the backpack sliding down. He grabbed the strap with his left hand.

  Hyla’s face had its cop look, serious, intent, noncommittal. “Sir, may I see your identification? Officer Hyla Harrison.”

  “What for?” He was perhaps a foot from Hyla now.

  “We responded to a call that a resident might be in need of assistance. There is a bloodstain on the floor outside the door to Apartment 7.” She didn’t look down but she watched his gaze drop.

  Gillette stiffened, looked bewildered. “Blood?” His head jerked up. “That stuff’s blood?”

  “Yes, sir. Your identification, please.”

  Slowly he reached to a back pocket, pulled out a billfold. He flipped it open, handed it to Hyla, but he was looking at the door now. “Where’s Sherry? Hey, Sherry?” He was loud, but his voice had a scared edge. He jammed a hand in the pocket of his khaki pants, pulled out a set of keys, moved forward.

  “Sir.” Hyla’s tone stopped him short. “If you don’t mind, I’ll
open the door. I want to be careful not to touch the knob.” She held out his billfold.

  “You think . . .” His voice cracked. Slowly, he took the billfold, dropped the keys into her hand. “The fourth one.” Now his face looked like a man staring at something he doesn’t understand, something threatening, dangerous, incomprehensible.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The woman’s tone was querulous. “I know you’re in a police uniform, but you don’t have a search warrant and—” The voice broke off.

  Neither Roger nor Annie turned to look. They watched Hyla insert the key, turn, never touching the knob. The door swung in.

  Roger Gillette took a step forward.

  Hyla moved in front of him, barring the way. “Stay here, sir. Please.”

  But he pushed forward to stand next to her. Then his face crumpled. “Oh my God. Oh my God . . .”

  11

  The Buccaneer Arms was only a couple of football fields in distance from the police station, separated by Pavilion Park and thick woods. Fast-moving police, including Billy Cameron, arrived in less than five minutes.

  Annie and a stricken Roger Gillette, his body shaken by recurrent tremors, were sequestered at the end of the hall near the stairway farthest from the Gillette apartment. Officer Boots Townsend, a fairly new addition to the staff, stood stiffly by them, though his light blue eyes looked longingly toward Officers Harrison and Pirelli outside the open doorway and he strained to hear as they spoke to a grim-faced Billy Cameron. Annie tried to eavesdrop as well, but their voices were too low to be heard. Roger slumped against the wall, oblivious to them.

  Footsteps thudded on the stairway. Marian Kenyon burst into the hall. The reporter’s dark eyes noted Annie, had a flash of understanding and commiseration for Roger, settled on Billy Cameron and, standing a few feet away, Billy’s wife, Mavis, who doubled as dispatcher and crime scene tech. A blue-canvas carryall rested on the floor by her feet.

  Townsend turned toward Marian, held up a thin hand. Sandy-haired and youthful despite a valiant attempt at a goatee that looked like orange peach fuzz, he looked like a high school chemistry teacher confronting an untended Bunsen burner with a blue flame flaring too high. “Ma’am, crime scene. No admittance.”

  Marian flicked him a brief glance. “Gazette.”

  Townsend looked blank, started to move as Marian took several steps toward the apartment.

  Annie spoke up quickly. “She’s a reporter. Chief Cameron knows her.”

  Townsend hesitated and Marian was past him. “Hey, Chief.” She had her notebook in one hand, stubby pencil in the other. Marian had an electronic notepad, but she preferred pencil and paper for initial notes.

  Billy glanced her way, pointed to a spot about ten feet from the open doorway.

  Marian nodded, skidded to a stop there. She understood boundaries. She was near enough to see and hear, not close enough to impede the investigation.

  Marian’s shoulders hunkered. From the back, she looked like a cat crouched to spring, and Annie knew Marian had spotted the smudged blood with the telltale splotch that had turned green.

  “Why are they just standing there?” The raspy voice seemed to come from Annie’s elbow.

  Startled, Annie looked around.

  A tiny woman with a topknot of white hair above a lined leathery face stood in her doorway, peering down the hall. “If something bad’s happened, how come they don’t do nothing?”

  Annie gave her a reassuring smile. “They’re waiting for the medical examiner. The police can’t investigate until he officially pronounces death.”

  Officer Townsend cleared his throat. “Witnesses are asked not to speak to anyone.”

  The old lady’s nose wrinkled. “Put it in a sock, sonny. The lady’s just being polite.” She looked down the hall again. “I worked in a hospital for forty-nine years. I could tell ’em if somebody’s dead.” She glanced at Annie. “Seven always made a lot of noise.”

  Annie realized the neighbor was referring to the Gillette apartment.

  “A carrying voice. Heard her on her balcony a while ago. Then she closed the sliding door.”

  Officer Townsend pulled out a small notebook. “Your name, ma’am?”

  “JoJo Jenkins. RN, retired.” But she was craning to see past Annie. “There’s Doc Burford. Good man. I’d forgot he did autopsies and things for the county. Guess they’ll move things along now.”

  The officers clustered near the open door moved out of the way as the medical examiner thumped past. His big face beneath a mop of grayish-brown hair was somber. T. W. Burford, MD, ME, chief of staff at Broward’s Rock Hospital, resented death. Even more, he resented untimely death. Big-shouldered and burly, he carried a satchel that looked small in his huge hand. He stepped carefully over the blood smudge, disappeared from view.

  He was out in the hall within a couple of minutes. He, too, had a carrying voice. “Death caused by blunt trauma to back of head. Likely within the last hour. Massive blood loss. Look for stained clothes. No weapon readily visible. I can say better after the autopsy, but it looks like there’s some detritus embedded in the wound. Maybe a heavy stick from the woods.” He jerked his head to the north. “Lots of broken sticks in the Pavilion woods. Lots of luck finding it. Time your exit when nobody’s in the lot, spring for the woods, heave it away.”

  • • •

  Despite the closed door, sounds from the hallway seeped into the police break room, doors slamming, rapid steps, the discordant jangle of ringing phones.

  They sat quietly around a long Formica-topped table, the toll of another death reflected in each face. Max’s lips were set in a grim line. He made occasional notes on a legal pad. Henny Brawley’s chiseled features were somber, a strong contrast to her elegant attire chosen for cheer, a drape-front rose cashmere sweater and white slacks. She clasped a chipped coffee mug, looked down into its depths as if seeking answers. Emma Clyde’s square jaw jutted. She stared into space, her cold blue eyes thoughtful. Occasionally, she gave an almost imperceptible nod, apparently approving an internal dialogue. Laurel Roethke’s expression was . . . misty.

  Annie thought for a moment, decided she understood, once again felt a swift rush of affection. Laurel was sad, sad for Sherry, sad that her desperate need for attention led her to a bloody end, sad that her husband was the first to see her body, sad that Annie had not arrived in time to find out the truth and keep Sherry safe.

  “I should have made her tell me this morning.” Annie’s voice was husky.

  Laurel reached across the table, took her hand. “Oh, my dear, none of us can make others do as we wish. Sherry made a decision and the result for her was forever bad.”

  The door opened. Weariness creased Billy Cameron’s broad face, emphasized dark smudges beneath his eyes. He stepped inside, carrying a folder, and walked to the table. He stood at one end, spread the folder open on the table. “I appreciate all of you coming and making statements.” For an instant the grimness of his expression was lightened by a brief smile. “Some towns have volunteer firefighters. I guess Broward’s Rock has volunteer peace officers.” Something else glinted in his eyes, perhaps a touch of malice. “The mayor’s got his nose out of joint, says there ought to be a law against people snooping. But a man’s free tonight who might not be if Annie hadn’t come to the Gillette apartment when she did. Roger Gillette has every minute of his day accounted for and a friend brought him home from school because Roger’s car is in the shop. The friend saw him walk into the apartment house and they both wondered at the patrol car there. Officers were already on the scene because of Annie’s call. Roger walked up the stairs and found Officer Harrison and Annie outside his door. When Harrison opened the door, Sherry Gillette was dead. We know he didn’t kill her because a neighbor heard her on her balcony not more than a half hour earlier. Roger was in class. Time of death is always dicey to pin down. If he’d come home, found
her, called for help, we’d still be questioning him because she hadn’t been dead long, maybe less than a half hour when she was found. Roger Gillette’s broken up, but he isn’t in a cell right now. Funny thing, all this stuff about a rocky marriage. Probably true, but I’d say the guy was nuts about her, knew she was a mess, tried to deal with it. But he’s not in jail tonight for a murder he didn’t commit.” Billy glanced at Annie.

  Laurel reached over and patted Annie’s hand.

  Billy was somber again. “Unlike Tom Edmonds. The mayor doesn’t agree, wants to hunker down and hold Tom. I told him no way. Obviously the murders of Jane Corley and Sherry Gillette are connected. Tom was in a cell when Gillette was killed. I told the mayor, we’re starting from scratch. We have to go over everything again. Here’s how I see it. Paul Martin was right. Paul knew Jane Corley was in danger. He thought he could discourage anything serious by confronting someone. On his drawing, he made it clear he intended to issue a warning at David Corley’s birthday party. We’ll take him at his word. Paul spoke to someone at the party. Paul was shot later that night.” He glanced at his notes. “Lucy Ransome heard a car at shortly after twelve the night Paul was shot. A neighbor called 911 at two fifteen A.M. the night of the fire. So far, the responses are what you’d expect. David and Madeleine were cleaning up after the party the first night. The second night they say they were in bed—together. Ditto the Hubbards. No alibis for Kate Murray, Frankie Ford, or Toby Wyler. We’ll keep pressing. But you people talked to them when they weren’t on alert. I want gut reactions.” He nodded toward Emma.

  “Toby Wyler.” She leaned back, folded her arms, looked majestic in a sea blue caftan. “I may have to use him in a book one of these days, the way he kept stroking his mustache, especially when he was ingenuously fingering other attendees at the birthday party as likely suspects. As for the new status quo, he’s as satisfied as Poppa Bear back in a big chair. Tom’s safely in his corral again. I asked some art friends about the gallery. They’d heard sales were down, had been for a year or so, and he owed money for some remodeling. Hard to say if he’d commit murder to stay solvent.” Her smile was thin. “People do. He mostly presented an aura of complete confidence, but that mustache got a workout. Big contrast to Kevin Hubbard, who was as antsy as a West Pointer facing an unexpected inspection with porn hidden under the mattress. Hubbard may not be guilty of murder, but he looked like he’d spotted debtor’s prison when I asked him about the accounts.”