Death at the Door

by Carolyn Hart

  “Who did Mrs. Gillette see?”

  Billy spoke in a neutral tone. “Mrs. Gillette mentioned to several people that she may have seen someone from a balcony of Jane Corley’s home that afternoon, but she did not contact police.”

  The blonde broke in. “The police report says Mrs. Gillette’s body was discovered at shortly after three P.M. yesterday. When was she killed? Where? Manner of death?”

  “Time of death could have been between a quarter hour before the discovery of the body at three oh-two P.M. up to an hour prior. Death occurred at her home. Cause of death was blunt trauma to the head. No weapon has been found.”

  “Any idea as to what was used to kill her?”

  “The forensic examination revealed traces of bark and dirt in the head wound. The medical examiner believes the murder weapon was a branch approximately two inches in diameter and perhaps eighteen to twenty inches in length. A thorough search of the apartment house and surrounding area failed to uncover a likely weapon.”

  The blond TV reporter looked skeptical. “Who picks up a stick to kill somebody? Where’d the stick come from?”

  Billy gave her a level look. “Blunt instruments are everywhere. Why the killer used a branch is unknown at this time. All we can say with certainty is that the murder weapon was a length of wood and it was both brought to the apartment and removed from the apartment.”

  Marian took a step forward. “Can you describe the position of Mrs. Gillette’s body?”

  Billy shot her a look of respect.

  Annie looked from Billy to Marian, puzzled.

  Marian’s intelligent dark eyes never left Billy’s face.

  Billy nodded. “Mrs. Gillette was found facedown. She was apparently attacked as she walked away from the door. This suggests her assailant was someone she knew. The likelihood is that the killer followed her into the apartment and immediately struck her down.”

  Annie understood. Sherry Gillette was self-absorbed, but even she might notice and wonder if a guest came in carrying a stout branch. Instead, she had opened the door to someone who must have kept the intended weapon out of sight and struck her before she realized there was possible danger.

  The blonde edged in front of Marian. “More particulars on the victim. Age? Next of kin?”

  “Twenty-seven. Husband, Roger Gillette.”

  “Any marital discord?” The reporter’s features sharpened, reminding Annie of a vulture on attack.

  “Mr. Gillette’s whereabouts during the time when his wife was murdered have been verified and he is absolutely not a person of interest.”

  The TV reporter looked disappointed. “Is there a person of interest?”

  Mayor Cosgrove intervened. “The investigation has other avenues to follow.” His glance at Billy was combative.

  The reporter shot a look from the mayor to Billy. “Chief Cameron, is there a person of interest?”

  Billy looked even more stolid than usual. “The investigation continues. Material evidence was recovered from the parking lot at the Buccaneer.”

  Cosgrove pressed his lips together, glared at Billy.

  Marian looked from the mayor to Billy. “Chief?” Her tone was sharp.

  The other reporters and the watching crowd sensed drama. Annie felt her breath catch in her throat.

  Billy hesitated only a fraction of an instant, then nodded. “The search of the property around the Buccaneer apartments yielded a pair of women’s webbed red leather shoes. The right shoe sole was stained with blood matching that of Mrs. Gillette. An effort had been made to wipe away the blood but it had seeped into the sole and was also found in the crevice between the sole and the upper portion of the shoe. The shoe is a size five and one half medium. The shoe has been identified as the property of Mrs. Madeleine Corley, sister-in-law of the late Jane Corley. An island resident who visited the David Corley home yesterday was told by a housekeeper—”

  Annie knew this reference came from her statement to the police late yesterday afternoon.

  “—that Mrs. Corley arrived home in an agitated state and not wearing any shoes at approximately ten minutes after three. Mrs. Gillette’s body was discovered at two minutes after three P.M. Mrs. Corley is at present under a physician’s care and has not yet spoken to police. Police have informed Mrs. Corley’s husband that she is a person of interest.”

  A slender mustachioed reporter for a rival station stepped in front of the blonde, held out his mic. “Is an arrest imminent?”

  Mayor Cosgrove broke in. “Absolutely not. The investigation will continue. The press conference is concluded.” He turned and stamped inside the police station.

  • • •

  Marian Kenyon glared at the phone. She’d called Madeleine Corley’s house every five minutes for almost an hour. Ditto her cell. Ditto same for David Corley. Okay, no one would answer the phone. But there was another way . . . She tapped a text to David Corley: Better to get Madeleine’s story out before the aft news cycle. She had to be in death apt to get blood on her shoes. What’s the deal?

  A few minutes later, she heard the soft blip of in incoming text and was surprised to see a message from David Corley: Mrs. Corley remains under a doctor’s supervision and isn’t able at this time to speak with police.

  Marian raised a sardonic eyebrow. Not the world’s best answer but it was an answer. Marian stared at her desktop. All right. She knew, the cops knew, even the mayor had to admit, Madeleine Corley was inside the Gillette apartment either at the time of the murder or she arrived shortly afterward. The cops would have covered the apartment house like a blanket, trying to pin down the time of her arrival and departure. But maybe they missed a witness.

  • • •

  Max looked across the wooden tabletop of their favorite booth. Ben Parotti encouraged tasteful carvings. An A with both legs serving as half of an M had been Max’s contribution. Other designs included an anchor with a lei, several hearts containing initials, what might be the Saint Louis arch, and, Annie’s favorite, a simple carving of Kilroy Was Here, bald head and nose and clinging hands draped over a wall. Henny Brawley had explained the WWII graffiti to Annie and Max one winter evening over hot chocolate. During the war years, Kilroy was everywhere, the farthest reaches of desert, on board ships, flying high above jungles, slogging through snow.

  Annie always wondered about those who carved Ben’s tabletops. Parotti’s had been a rather seedy bar and bait shop begun in the 1930s by Ben’s grandfather William. Had a serviceman on leave marked Kilroy’s appearance on the island? Where had the soldier, perhaps sailor, gone? Shipped to Europe, possibly the Pacific? Had he come safely home? Was the arch carved by a vacationer from Saint Louis or maybe a Cardinals fan? Were couples united in hearts still together?

  “Usual?” Ben Parotti’s leprechaun face was patient. October wasn’t a busy month.

  Annie looked up from her reverie, smiled. “In a month with an R, how can you ask?”

  Ben nodded. “Fried oyster san, onion bun, heavy on the Thousand Island.” He looked at Max.

  Max had picked up some sun from his morning on the course. “I had to beat my way out of five sand traps. May have set a course record. I’ll take grilled bratwurst, all the fixings, a Bud Light, and a couple of glasses of water.”

  Ben gave a hoarse bark of laughter. “Five sand traps? Maybe you better start practicing on the beach.” He was still laughing as he turned away.

  Max’s look at Annie was droll. “Actually six if you count the fact that I scudded the ball about five feet in the trap on eight, had to take another shot, and then . . .”

  Annie munched her oyster sandwich, the succulent oysters hot and crisp in just the right amount of cornmeal as he continued.

  “. . . I whacked it and it looped up like an arch—”

  She ran a finger over the carving.

  “—and ran right to the
hole.”

  Her eyes widened.

  His smile was rueful. “Stopped on the lip of the cup. But I had fun and I only lost forty dollars. How was your morning?”

  Annie grinned. “No sand traps. But”—she was a little shamefaced—“I went to the news conference about Sherry Gillette.”

  Her looked at her sharply. “You told her to go to the cops. David told her. She didn’t.”

  Still . . . Annie pushed the thought away. “I know. Billy’s got everything in hand. We’re relieved from duty.” Nonetheless, she brought Max up to date and saw one eyebrow quirk as she described the discovery of red shoes and Billy’s designation of Madeleine as a person of interest. “I guess I shouldn’t be shocked that Madeleine Corley is a person of interest.” It was only as she said the words out loud that Annie realized how truly surprised she was. “I don’t know what you think, but I think that’s crazy. Madeleine . . .” A quick memory of Madeleine at the church garden party flashed in her mind, elegantly dressed in summery white with a parasol, the flowing dress making her glossy dark hair a deeper hue than ever, her magnolia fair skin and thin spare features. Only Madeleine could carry a parasol and appear utterly fashionable. Although Madeleine was likely five foot seven or eight, she was slightly built. “Can you imagine Madeleine hitting someone?”

  Max rearranged the sauerkraut on the bratwurst. “I have a little trouble with it.” He looked thoughtful. “How did her shoes get bloody?”

  Annie felt a little sick, remembering the smear of blood in the hallway. “The blood was Sherry’s. Madeleine must have been there.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Why didn’t she call the police?” Max’s question was simple.

  “I guess she was scared.” Maybe Madeleine had very good reason to be frightened. “The mayor cut off the news conference. Obviously he doesn’t want Billy ruffling rich feathers. But Marian bayed like a hound. She kept right on their heels when they went back into the station, shouting, ‘Has Madeleine Corley explained her presence in the dead woman’s apartment? Were her shoes found in the Dumpster?’”

  They were silent, perhaps both of them acknowledging that Marian’s questions had to be answered.

  Max finished his beer. “Maybe Madeleine refuses to answer questions and they don’t quite feel like they have enough to arrest her. Maybe they are trying to put pressure on her.”

  • • •

  Marian Kenyon finished her circle of the Buccaneer Arms. Drat the architect. The balconies overlooked a swath of greenery and the woods that made up part of Pavilion Park. The end of the building adjacent to the parking lot and Dumpster was bare of balconies. Side windows, probably in kitchens and bedrooms, afforded a view of the parking lot. That cut down the likelihood anyone observed the lot Wednesday afternoon. But it was worth checking out.

  Nobody home on the first floor. On the second floor a young mother shook her head. “Wednesday afternoon? Colin’s been sick with an earache infection. I was at the doctor’s office.”

  When she reached the third floor, Marian huffed to catch her breath, then moved briskly to Apartment 301, buzzed the bell. She waited, buzzed again. She needed more punch for her story. She glanced at her watch. Still a good hour before her deadline. Maybe she could come up with some color here. It was like prizing open a dungeon door at the cop shop. Mum seemed to be the word. Sure, she had the red shoes and Madeleine as a person of interest but nobody would ante up as to what Madeleine had said, if anything, and nobody answered the phone at either Corley home, ditto their cells. Sure, readers would make the link between Sherry Gillette’s blood on shoes belonging to Madeleine and Madeleine’s presence at the murder scene, but Marian wanted more. A nice eyewitness to something, dammit.

  The door opened.

  Marian felt a flicker of disappointment. She couldn’t picture the big dude looking out at her spending time gazing out windows. A mane of tousled sun-bleached hair flared around a mashed-in face. That nose had been broken at least once. Boxing? Football? Back-alley dustups? He was a big guy, well over six feet, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds. A Grateful Dead T-shirt stretched over a massive chest. One muscular arm sported a dragon tattoo from biceps to wrist. Worn Levi’s hung low from his waist. He was barefooted.

  “Did you see the barefoot woman running across the parking lot Wednesday afternoon?”

  He glanced down at his own bare feet, gave a booming laugh. “That line’d get you a couple of free drinks at the Pink Parrot. And yeah, I saw her. But you aren’t bringing me my deep-dish pepperoni, so it’s been good to know you.”

  Marian made a couple of quick calculations as she inserted a knee to block the closing door. Big, tough, tattoos, the Pink Parrot. “Do you bartend at the Pink Parrot?”

  The door remained half open. “Yeah. What’s it to you and who are you?”

  “Marian Kenyon. The Gazette. I know your boss. If I sweet-talk him into giving you a couple of days off, will you give me an exclusive on the barefoot lady?”

  He lifted a meaty hand to brush back a tangle of blond hair. “With pay?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  His big shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’m ready for a little blackjack at the Big M. All I lack is time and money. Knock twice if you set it up.”

  A big hand gave her a gentle push and the door closed.

  Marian made her call. “. . . and Vince will cover the cost.” She listened. “Hey, thanks, Ben.” Ben Parotti, owner of many island businesses and much real estate, understood her frustration with the mayor and would enjoy seeing a splash of inside info in the Gazette. She smiled as she clicked off the phone, turned, and knocked twice on the door.

  • • •

  The bell jangled at the front door of Confidential Commissions. Max swung around from his computer screen when he heard the door slam against the wall. Before he could call out, David Corley stormed into his office. His eyes had a wild look. Despite his usual polo, chinos, and loafers, he looked unkempt, blond hair tangled, cheeks bristly. He skidded to a stop in front of Max’s desk. “You got to help me. You saved Tom. Now the damn fools are after Madeleine.” His voice wavered. “She’s terrified. Right now I’ve got her home in bed. The doctor’s there. I got a doctor from Savannah and he’s saying the police can’t talk to her, she’s too emotionally fragile. But that redheaded woman cop’s sitting in the hall. They had a search warrant. They’ve been all over the house and grounds. Of course they didn’t find anything. It’s crazy. Madeleine never hurt anybody, never in all her life. You got to help me.”

  Max rose, came around the desk. He reached out, touched a rigid arm. “If she’s innocent—”

  “Hell yes, she’s innocent. I know she is.”

  Max recognized certainty in David’s voice. But he was Madeleine’s husband. Of course he believed her to be innocent. “I understand”—he tried to pick his words carefully—“that Madeleine wore the bloodstained shoes found in the trash at the Buccaneer Arms.”

  David’s head hung forward. He lifted his hands, pressed them against his face. “The shoes . . .” His hands dropped. His head jerked up and wide eyes implored Max. “I know what must have happened. She went to see Sherry. Probably Sherry called her just like she came to see me, and Madeleine hurried over there. She’d want to know what Sherry saw. Madeleine loved Jane. She’d want to tell Sherry to go to the police.”

  Max wondered if David realized how revealing his words were. He spoke in the conditional tense, what he supposed, guessed, hoped had been Madeleine’s reason for going to the apartment.

  “Did Madeleine tell you this?”

  That imploring gaze jerked away. David hunched his shoulders. “She’s too upset to talk about anything. She cries and turns her head away. If the police take her . . . They can’t. Don’t you see, she’s not able to tell us. Why can’t they understand?” He grabbed Max’s arm, his grip painfully tight. “You’ll help, won�
�t you?”

  • • •

  Agatha jumped on top of the cardboard box.

  Startled, Annie pushed down hard on the handle of the box cutter, winced as the blade penetrated cardboard. “Agatha, I’ll bet we’ve ruined a cover.” She pulled the tip free, retracted the blade, placed the tool on the table.

  Agatha immediately pounced. The tool skittered across the tabletop, fell to the floor, Agatha in pursuit. To the sound of clicks and clanks, Annie ripped up the cardboard flap, sighed at the gash across the gorgeous cat’s face on the cover of a new Lydia Adamson title. Then she smiled. She enjoyed these books. Definitely an omen that this book was meant for her bedside table. As she lifted out the damaged title, the phone rang. Annie ignored it, humming. Ingrid would take care—

  A tap and the storeroom door swung open. Ingrid held out the phone. “For you.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Couldn’t help but notice caller ID. Frankie Ford. Annie, she’s in a panic.”

  Annie held the receiver to her ear, listened to Frankie Ford’s incoherent plea. “. . . please come to my house. The police are already there. I’m on my way. I called Tom. He’s coming. I’m so afraid . . .”

  • • •

  Annie jolted to a stop behind two police cruisers, the forensic van, and Marian Kenyon’s jaunty yellow VW. Two cars were parked in the graveled drive next to a modest wooden cabin. A sleek silver Mercedes AMG that shouted money, power, and speed sat behind a black Ford Taurus that had seen better days, the beginnings of rust in some scrapes on one fender, a side window with a stripe of tape.

  Annie popped from her car, hurried to join Marian, who was rapidly taking photos. “What’s happening?”

  Without missing a click, Marian jerked one thumb toward a cluster of uniforms in the side yard. “Far as I can tell, somebody—probably Lou, he gets all the dirty jobs—is under the house. I got a tip from a neighbor.”

  Annie’s shoulders tightened. She didn’t even want to think about the creatures nestled in hot, humid, fetid darkness, tarantulas maybe, certainly lizards, though geckos wouldn’t hurt anything except unwary crickets or spiders. Brown recluse spiders always sought peaceful darkness.