Death at the Door

by Carolyn Hart

  Billy’s gaze moved to Henny.

  Henny gave a brief nod. “Irene Hubbard’s strung tight. I don’t know whether she’s afraid Kevin will be accused of stealing—or murder. On the other hand, Kate Murray wasn’t worried about the fact that she and Jane quarreled. Kate raised hell with Jane about not paying David’s gambling debts because someone in Jason Brown’s outfit threatened to kill Madeleine’s dog if David didn’t pay up. Kate was gruff but she said people who don’t have kids—and she looked at that snarly cat of hers—get all tied up emotionally with their animals and Madeleine was absolutely distraught. Kate insists everything was all straightened out before Jane died because Jane agreed to stand good for the debt.”

  Billy made a note. “Did Madeleine know the dog was safe?”

  Henny turned graceful hands palms up. “I have no idea.”

  “We’ll find out.” He sounded determined.

  Max was casual. “David had plenty of time to tell Madeleine before Jane died. I had a tête-à-tête—short—with Jason Brown. Not a chummy man. David was a damn fool to get in hock to him. It looks like David’s in the clear. According to Jason, David told him on the Wednesday before Jane died that he was going to get his money. That confirms David’s claim that Jane had agreed to cover the debts.”

  “If the debt was going to be paid”—Billy figured out loud—“Madeleine had no reason to want Jane dead.” His face wrinkled. “Killing a woman so your husband will inherit money to save your pooch seems like a stretch anyway.”

  “Still”—Laurel’s voice was regretful—“Madeleine walked toward Jane Corley’s house at two thirty that afternoon. Possibly you should ask Tom Edmonds where he was when Frankie Ford came to his studio shortly after three.”

  Billy frowned. “If Edmonds saw his sister-in-law, he kept quiet about it.”

  “Since he claimed he never left his studio until he went to the pool and stopped for a drink, that rather precluded his reporting on anything he saw.” Laurel’s tone was mild.

  Annie mentally gave her mother-in-law a thumbs-up. Laurel had reasonably explained why Tom wouldn’t have mentioned anything he couldn’t have seen or heard from his studio. In fact, Tom might know something that could change the direction of the investigation. She saw Billy make a note.

  Laurel beamed at Billy. “Shortsighted of Tom. But once you lie . . . Perhaps now if he is reassured that he is no longer a suspect, he might be more forthcoming.”

  Billy nodded agreement. “I’ll be on him like a bat on a june bug. He and everyone around Jane Corley are going to answer some tough questions.”

  Annie felt tension draining away. They had succeeded in their efforts to free Tom Edmonds and expose Paul Martin’s death as murder. Now a determined police chief was on the hunt.

  Billy tapped his pad. “We’ll find out where the guests at David Corley’s birthday party were at critical times, including this afternoon between two and three.” He looked at Annie. “You talked to Mrs. Gillette this morning.”

  “Yes.” Only this morning . . . Annie tried to keep the wobble away from her lips.

  Billy understood. “From what I’ve been told, she loved to grandstand. This was the time when she meant what she said, but you couldn’t know that. I looked over the transcript. The day of the murder, she didn’t say a word about seeing anybody. Lou talked to her. She was hysterical, wondered if she and Kate Murray were in danger. She kept crying and saying she’d been in her room and hadn’t heard a thing. It’s possible she confused the time of the murder with the time Tom called 911 and that’s why she didn’t mention seeing anyone who came earlier in the afternoon. Once she knew Tom was innocent, she’d see the importance of another visitor. Think back to this morning. Try to strip away the histrionics. Do you have any sense of what she actually saw?”

  Annie recalled the small living room with its shabby decor, the slipcovers slightly soiled, the untidy pile of magazines, a wilting fern in a raffia basket near the balcony door. The door had been open and a slight breeze stirred the fronds. She remembered the sheen of Sherry’s sateen blouse and a Raggedy Ann propped in a bookshelf in one corner. She wondered if the doll had been a plump little girl’s best friend and confidante. She remembered Sherry’s eyes gleaming with excitement and the little wriggle she gave as she hinted at what she may have seen. “I think she really did see someone on the terrace. She almost told me but decided the payoff wasn’t big enough. I wasn’t enough of an audience. I think she decided it would be more exhilarating, she’d get more attention, if she contacted the person she saw.”

  Billy folded his arms. “She went to the marina, talked to David Corley. But”—he seemed to be thinking out loud—“Corley told her to go to the cops and he called us after she left. If he isn’t the person she saw, why go see him?”

  Max shrugged. “Stringing out the fun, probably. Tease David a little, get him to urge her to contact you. Maybe she went to see him so she could tell the visitor that David wanted her to go to the police. Maybe she figured he’d call the police and she could tell the visitor that she was willing to keep quiet, maybe for a nice gift. David did just as she expected. He called you. He said Lou took down the information.”

  “Lou dropped by the apartment house around noon but she wasn’t home. He left a message on her phone, asked her to call us.” Billy looked tired. “She had plenty of chances to go in another direction. She didn’t.”

  Emma’s face crunched in thought. “There may be another reason she went to see David. As Marigold always advises, follow the money. Who profits big time from Jane’s murder? Her brother, David, and her husband, Tom. Sherry couldn’t contact Tom, so she goes to David. Maybe her plan was to tantalize him with the fact that she could expose Jane’s murderer and she would do so if properly rewarded?”

  Billy looked skeptical. “That’s not what David Corley told Lou.”

  Emma’s tone was kindly. “As Marigold reminds the inspector, no one ever quite tells the police everything.”

  “He didn’t have to tell us anything. He could have kept quiet.” Billy was brusque and Annie didn’t blame him. He didn’t need tips from Marigold.

  Henny Brawley’s dark eyes were thoughtful. “Sherry had a piercing voice. Unless I miss my guess, she was probably loud at the marina, put on a show. People would have noticed her talking to him. Either he is what he seems to be, a grieving brother who wants justice done for his sister, or, if he has something to hide, he figured that Sherry’s visit would be noticed and he had no option but to call the police.”

  Laurel’s face reflected sorrow. “He may well have something to hide. He isn’t very steady, but you can’t help but see how much he loves his wife.”

  Annie blinked and knew the others shared her puzzlement. Had always-spacey Laurel finally lost contact with reality, much as a hot air balloon jolts skyward if untethered? Everyone stared at her with varying degrees of apprehension.

  Laurel’s gaze was dreamy. “The way he looks at her whenever they are in the same room.” She glanced from face to face. “I’m quite sure of that.”

  Annie doubted any of them were willing to contradict Laurel’s dicta in matters of the heart.

  Max looked puzzled. “I agree. David loves his wife. What does that have to do with Sherry’s murder?”

  “Oh my dear.” Her voice was sad. “Madeleine started on the path to Jane’s house. What if Sherry saw Madeleine and told David she would be willing to keep quiet—for a price?”

  Emma’s ice blue eyes moved to Annie. “You talked to Madeleine. What did she say?”

  Annie shook her head. “I didn’t see her.”

  Emma frowned. “Madeleine was on your list.”

  Annie didn’t appreciate the implication she had shirked her duty. “I tried.” She knew her tone was sharp. “The maid said Madeleine had just arrived home and was all upset and didn’t want to see anyone. That’s when I decide
d to go to the Buccaneer. I was going to tell Sherry a witness said Madeleine was on the terrace.”

  Billy was suddenly alert. “You went directly to the Buccaneer from Madeleine’s house?”

  Annie nodded.

  “Probably took all of six minutes. You found the blood spot, called. If Madeleine arrived home just before you reached the house, that’s maybe ten to fifteen minutes after Sherry died. The maid said Madeleine was upset?”

  Annie nodded slowly. “She’d just arrived home. She told the maid she didn’t want to see anyone and ran upstairs.”

  “Any indication why she was upset?”

  “I don’t know.” Annie frowned. “There was one odd thing. The maid said she ran into the house barefoot.”

  “Barefoot?” Emma’s blue eyes took on a particular recognizable gleam, an author tantalized by an idea.

  Annie was sure that Emma was instantly leagues away in the world she inhabited with Marigold Rembrandt, her thoughts racing: Why was a grown woman barefoot? Where were her shoes? What happened to her shoes?

  Billy sat up straight. “No shoes?” He sat for a moment, broad face folded in thought. Abruptly, he looked toward the windows at dusk turning to darkness. He yanked his cell from his belt. “Hyla, institute a floor-by-floor search for a pair of women’s shoes.” He listened, nodded. “Right.” He flicked to another number. “Lou, use flashlights and check the parking lot . . .”

  • • •

  Annie loved the boardwalk in early morning, a hint of mist curling up from the marina, the storefronts mostly dark. Death on Demand’s plate glass window was an exception. Golden light spilled over the miniature train winding past a station, an inn, a tavern, café, water tower, a flock of sheep on a dirt road, and a straggly row of wooden houses. Seven books curved in a horseshoe in front of the tracks, their covers beckoning armchair travelers: The Mystery of the Blue Train by Agatha Christie, Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith, The Insane Train by Sheldon Russell, The Blackpool Highflyer by Andrew Martin, The Silk Train Murder by Sharon Rowse, Murder on the Ballarat Train by Kerry Greenwood, and Great Black Kanba by Constance and Gwenyth Little. Annie sighed happily. The posters with the Vogue covers and the other books made the display one of her all-time favorites.

  Annie was smiling as she unlocked the front door. She turned on the lights and looked into emerald green eyes.

  Agatha chirped. Imperiously. Coiled on the cash desk, her tail flicked.

  “I’m not late.” Annie knew she sounded defensive.

  Another chirp. A sleek black body flowed to the floor, started down the aisle, paused, looked back, ears flattened.

  Annie didn’t need an announcement. Agatha was hungry. She wanted food NOW. She didn’t care that it was right on the dot eight A.M. and her usual breakfast time. Maybe Ingrid had been stingy with the rations last evening. Annie tried to ease past but a paw flicked out and a tiny red welt marked Annie’s ankle.

  Annie didn’t have a remnant of dignity and knew anyone looking inside would think she was demented, but she raced down the center aisle, skidded to a stop behind the coffee bar, yanked up a sack of dry food, filled a blue stone bowl, and placed it atop the coffee bar.

  Agatha landed there at the same instant. Annie removed her fingers just in time. She provided a fresh bowl of water, then took a moment to dab an antiseptic wipe on her ankle. She always kept them handy. She turned on the coffeemaker, settled on a stool at the coffee bar.

  It wasn’t just the food, of course.

  “I know, sweetie. I haven’t been here.” Cats resent any departure from their routine. That routine included the timely appearance of Staff. Agatha’s Staff started with Annie, included Ingrid as necessary. Agatha occasionally deigned to accept attention from Max. She tolerated Henny, loathed Emma, adored Laurel. “You are the world’s most gorgeous cat. The most intelligent. There isn’t a finer cat in the world.” Agatha ate but her ears indicated she was listening.

  The coffeemaker pinged. Annie poured a mug. “Everything’s going to be fine, Agatha. I’m back at work.” She glanced toward the storeroom. As always there was much to do, books to order, books to unpack, events to plan. It was nice to be free of worry for Tom Edmonds and to know Lucy Ransome was going to get well and that finally a real investigation had started into the death of her brother. Finding out what happened to Paul Martin, Jane Corley, and Sherry Gillette was Billy Cameron’s responsibility, not hers and Max’s, not Emma’s, Henny’s, and Laurel’s. Max was already at the men’s grill, eating breakfast with his golf foursome before a leisurely nine holes, quitting before it got too hot. Henny and Laurel had taken the early ferry, planning a several-day shopping trip to Atlanta. Emma had sent a terse text at daybreak: On Marigold’s Pleasure. Cruising until plot thickens. Title: Head Over Heels in Murder.

  Annie raised an eyebrow. She’d heard Emma speak about writing and knew the author often started with a title, book to come. It seemed an odd approach to Annie.

  Annie looked disconsolately around Death on Demand, but the bright book jackets, intriguing watercolors, even the ferns so reminiscent of the sunroom in Mary Roberts Rinehart’s Washington, D.C., Massachusetts Avenue house didn’t work their usual magic. She felt restless and dissatisfied. Everyone else was content to mark finis to the sad reality of Jane’s brutal murder, bookended by Paul Martin’s and Sherry Gillette’s deaths.

  Annie looked at Agatha. “I want to know what’s happening.”

  Limpid green eyes stared at her.

  Annie had a good idea of Agatha’s response. She would say, “Why do anything else when you can adore me?”

  Annie cautiously slipped a hand behind Agatha’s head, smoothed silky fur. “I can’t walk away.” Not until and unless she could shed the dreadful feeling that she could have done more, should have done more to wring the truth from Sherry. Sherry might be alive now if she had told Annie what she knew.

  12

  The Gazette’s small newsroom was very quiet. Annie hurried past a couple of untenanted desks; smiled a greeting at the matronly white-haired woman who managed the Life section and knew every birth, death, and scandal in between on the island; and headed toward a far corner and an old wooden desk mounded with papers.

  The slap of her shoes on the wooden floor seemed loud, out of place.

  Marian Kenyon looked around. She swiveled from her screen and waved at a rickety wooden chair.

  Annie dropped into the seat, wondering how to begin, but Marian saved her the trouble.

  “Billy’s keeping his hole card covered.” Marian swiped an ink-smudged hand through tangled short dark curls. “But you can have what I’ve got. I hung around the Buccaneer yesterday evening, trying to catch people coming home from work. I was about to call it a night when all of a sudden cops were swarming all over the place, going door to door, scouring—love that word—the parking lot, including the Dumpster.” She slapped a hand on the scarred wooden desktop, “Finally cops were bunched around the Dumpster and you would have thought they were guarding a melting reactor. I couldn’t get closer than twenty yards and I only glimpsed Mavis as she climbed a stepladder to the Dumpster.” Marian’s nose wrinkled.

  Since Mavis doubled as a crime tech, somebody obviously had spotted something in the trash that needed tender loving care as it was taken into evidence.

  “I had my camera trained but all I got was Mavis’s back as she plopped something into an evidence bag.” Marian’s frustration was obvious. “Billy’s got his lips zipped. But, this morning”—her eyes brightened—“I got a little something. There is a person of interest and there will be a news conference at ten A.M.”

  • • •

  It was déjà vu all over again on the steps of the police station, soft October sunshine, a pleasant breeze off the harbor, Billy Cameron big and powerful, face impassive, arms folded. Mayor Cosgrove was natty in a blue blazer, pink shirt, and tan trousers. A
crowd of perhaps twenty pressed as near as possible. Marian Kenyon was just to the left of the front steps.

  The blond TV reporter from Savannah thrust out her mic. “Mayor, can you explain why the Broward’s Rock police appear unable to find the guilty party in what appears to be a rash of murders?”

  The mayor’s fat cheeks puffed. “Proper investigative techniques were employed, though”—he sounded sour—“it now appears that the police”—his look at Billy was cold—“missed the possibility of murder in the death of Paul Martin, and that, of course, would have entirely altered subsequent events. I remember thinking at the time that Paul Martin was not a likely suicide victim.”

  Annie wondered if a shout of “liar, liar, pants on fire” would puncture the mayor’s composure. Not likely. He had no doubt persuaded himself that he had entertained suspicions and been overridden by a zealous police chief.

  Billy stood immobile, not a muscle moving in his face.

  The mic swung toward Billy. “Chief, can you account for the botched investigation?”

  Billy’s tone was patient. “All the evidence in the death of Dr. Martin was consistent with suicide. However, the subsequent arson of his home, apparently in response to a reopened investigation, raised the possibility that his death was linked to the murder of Jane Corley. Police have since learned that Sherry Gillette may have observed someone at Jane Corley’s home the afternoon of her death. In light of Mrs. Gillette’s murder, Tom Edmonds is no longer considered a suspect in his wife’s murder and has been released.”