Death at the Door

by Carolyn Hart

  “I didn’t know Frankie had come. When the cops questioned me, I knew they were after me. I thought if I said I’d left the studio I’d be in big trouble. So I told them I hadn’t. But it was a bad afternoon. I couldn’t work. I kept thinking”—his gaze dropped again—“about stuff. I decided to blow it off, take a walk. I went to the cypress pond. It was a little after three. I don’t know exactly, maybe a quarter after. I took a sketch pad. In the afternoons the trees are reflected in the water and those big knobby roots have kind of an amber color.”

  Annie remembered the beautiful pond. “It’s near Tom’s studio.”

  “About forty yards from the studio. On the other side of the trees is the path to David’s house. When I heard a dog, I thought it was Madeleine’s terrier. She’d been carrying the poor dog around for weeks. Squeezed it like a beanbag. I heard the dog yipping and somebody running. I thought maybe she’d been to see Jane and something had set Madeleine off. She’s kind of a bundle of nerves. Wound tighter than a high wire.”

  “If you’d told the police, everything might be different now.” Frankie might not be close to arrest. If he came forward now, no one would believe him—or Frankie. Annie thought they were telling the truth because Frankie had earlier mentioned hearing a dog. Still, neither Frankie nor Tom had seen Madeleine. But the gardener said Madeleine took the path to Jane’s house around three o’clock, so that was some confirmation.

  Tom slumped in his chair. “Yeah. I should have told them. But I was scared.” He took a deep breath. “I went to the pond.” He stopped, swallowed. “Then I decided to go up to the house.” He didn’t look at either Frankie or Annie.

  Annie wondered what his intent had been. Annie had a suspicion that whatever he had planned to say to Jane, it wasn’t what Frankie would have wanted. He hadn’t been able to work. He wanted to finish his sculpture of Jane.

  Tom talked faster, the words running together. “Anyway, I went up to the house. The door to the family room was open. I went inside. Jane was . . . she was lying there. I could tell she was dead. Nobody could be hurt like that and be alive. I thought I was going to be sick. I turned to go for the phone and then I stopped. I was afraid of what Kate would say. I heard Jane talking to her a few days before . . . I don’t know. I turned around and ran out on the terrace and looked around but there wasn’t anyone anywhere. I thought it would be better if I went back to the studio. I got to the studio and waited. I didn’t think it would ever get to four thirty. Finally, I took the path to the terrace. I stopped at the pool and had a drink. God, I needed it. I wanted to have another one but I didn’t. Everything was quiet at the house. I figured I had to go ahead and find Jane. It would look weird if I didn’t come up at my usual time. Look. I can tell the police now. About the dog. See, I went up to the house maybe a quarter hour after I heard the dog and Jane was dead.”

  • • •

  Annie looked pointedly at Dorothy L, who was draped across Annie’s place mat. The thickly furred white cat looked back with bright blue eyes but made no effort to move.

  Max reached out with his free hand to pat the white cat’s head as he placed a plate with a rasher of hickory-smoked bacon on the opposite side of the table. “Cat seal of approval, Annie.”

  Annie raised a questioning eyebrow and remained standing behind her chair. “Excuse me?”

  “Dorothy L’s welcoming you to breakfast.”

  Annie laughed. “For improv, that’s pretty good. You and I both know she hopes I’ll take a hike and she can share the breakfast table with you.”

  Max put another yellow linen place mat at the end of the table. “Here you go. Eggs Benedict coming up.”

  Annie accepted the change. She was still smiling—and noting that Dorothy L had a peculiarly satisfied expression—as Max poured orange juice in their glasses.

  Max paused at the counter to pick up his iPhone. He glanced briefly. “Doesn’t look like anything happened overnight.”

  Annie knew what he meant. Apparently the Broward’s Rock police had yet to make a move. “I’m afraid they’ll arrest Frankie today. Marian’s interview with that guy pretty well proves Madeleine is innocent.”

  Max finished crunching a bite of crisp bacon. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Madeleine wasn’t carrying anything. The guy saw her crossing the lot toward her car. That means she came out the side door. Where was the branch?”

  Max speared a portion of English muffin, egg, and hollandaise sauce. “She could have thrown it from Sherry’s balcony.”

  “Next thing we know she’ll be trying out for a javelin competition.”

  “Adrenaline.”

  Annie held up both hands to indicate space. “It’s at least twenty-five yards from the back of the Buccaneer Arms to the woods. Madeleine’s wispy. Tall but wispy. No way. Besides, if she threw the branch into the woods, how did it end up underneath Frankie’s house?”

  Max frowned. “She came back and got it.” He shrugged. “Okay, maybe that’s a little far-fetched. And I’ll agree that Madeleine killing Sherry with a branch then heaving it that far sounds ludicrous. But we know she was there. We know she stepped in blood—”

  The sound of honking geese lifted Dorothy L’s head. She wasn’t yet accustomed to Max’s new cell phone ring. Max grabbed the phone, glanced. “Speaking of. It’s David.” The honking continued. “I told him I’d do what I could but I haven’t figured out anything to help Madeleine.” He clicked on Speaker, rested the phone on the table. “Hey, David. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you—”

  “Yeah.” David’s tone was strained. “I knew you’d call if you had any news. Thing is, the cops are coming this afternoon, said they had to talk to Madeleine. She’s still all shaken up. I’ve got an idea. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t represent her. I’m not a member of the South Carolina bar. I don’t practice—”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’ll get a lawyer if we need one. But you know about statements and things like that. You’ll know how we can best put everything.”

  Max looked puzzled. “Put what?”

  “A statement from Madeleine. That will hold the cops off for a while. You said you’d help. Come on over. As soon as you can.” The connection ended.

  Max took a deep breath and looked at Annie. “David may think he’s being smart, but this won’t get anywhere with Billy.”

  “Something is better than nothing. Besides, like Charlie Chan said, ‘If you want wild bird to sing, do not put him in cage.’” Annie picked up her plate. “Come on. Let’s get over there before they change their minds.”

  Max cleared his throat. “David called me. I don’t think he had a social visit in mind.”

  Annie rinsed her plate, spoke above the sound of water. “I’ll tell him I’m convinced Madeleine’s innocent and I want to help.” She felt a sweep of sadness. “That’s true. I can’t believe Madeleine ever hurt anyone.” Then she added emphatically, “I can’t believe Frankie did either.”

  • • •

  David was waiting on the front porch. He gripped Max’s hand in a firm thank-you handshake, accepted Annie’s quick murmur of sympathy with a brief smile, like a scared kid who takes courage from a big sister’s hug. “Yeah. She’ll be glad you came. Oh hell, it’s got to get better. We’ve got to make that cop understand. Come on.”

  He led the way through the spacious entry past a Chippendale table beneath a gilt-framed mirror and up old uncarpeted wooden stairs. They hurried to keep up.

  Annie had a blurred sense of beautiful objects gracing the well-cared-for plantation home, Audubon prints on the stairway wall, a white porcelain Meissen vase decorated with a cascade of roses atop a marble-topped French Empire table on the landing, a black-and-red Persian runner in the upper hallway.

  In the no-expense-spared beauty of the home, Officer Hyla Harrison’s presence seemed doubly odd. At the s
ound of their steps, the trim, athletic officer rose from the straight chair adjacent to a closed bedroom door. She waited impassively as they approached.

  David ignored her. He opened the door. “Maddy, hey, we got some friends who are going to help.” As they stepped inside the bedroom, he closed the door firmly behind them.

  Madeleine lay in a four-poster bed in a high-ceilinged room with pale green walls. The curtains were drawn at two windows. She wore a white silk negligee with ruffles at the throat. One hand, which looked shockingly thin, clutched a coverlet, the other was curved round a mop of fur. The dog’s head lifted. Bright, wary brown eyes peered at them. A warning growl sounded. “It’s all right, Millie.” Madeleine’s voice was a soft reassuring coo.

  The lighting from a rose-shaded lamp was dim, but even in semidarkness Annie was shocked at the sharp planes of Madeleine’s face. The bone structure seemed attenuated and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes.

  Madeleine looked at Annie. “You are kind to come.”

  Annie stood by the bed. “I know it’s been very hard.” The words seemed inadequate.

  David gripped a poster at the end of the bed. “Max, I want you and Annie to listen. Madeleine’s weak and it bothers her to talk about it, so don’t interrupt or ask anything. She’ll tell you what happened and I’ll write everything down and then Madeleine can sign and date it and you and Annie can sign and date, too.”

  Max spoke quietly. “We’ll be glad to do that but I don’t think this will satisfy the police.”

  David’s jaw jutted. “That’s too damn bad. This is what they are going to get and when they read it, they’ll see there’s no point in bothering Madeleine anymore.” He came around to the side of the bed, picked up a pad from the bedside table. “Okay, Maddy. Take your time.”

  Madeleine fingered the lacy throat of her gown. She looked at Annie and Max. “I have to do something or the police will come here and I can’t bear to talk to them.” Her shoulders looked stiff. She shot a quick glance at David, jerked her eyes away to stare down at Millie’s head. She cuddled the dog close to her. “Sherry called me, told me she’d seen someone on the terrace the afternoon Jane was killed and she wanted my advice. I told her to go to the police. She said she didn’t think she should because maybe it didn’t mean anything.” Madeleine spoke in a dull monotone. “She said she had to tell someone and would I please come. Then she said, ‘Oh someone’s at the door,’ and hung up. I almost didn’t go. I wish I hadn’t, but then I thought I’d better. Sherry made up so many things, but somehow I thought she was telling the truth. I ran out to my car and drove over there. When I got to the parking lot, I almost didn’t go up but I was already there. I decided I’d go see and make her tell me. I walked fast across the parking lot. I didn’t see anyone. I guess people were at work. I went in that side door and took the stairs. When I got to Sherry’s apartment, I started to ring the bell then I saw the door was open and I thought she’d left it open for me. I called out and said, ‘Sherry, it’s Madeleine.’ I pushed the door.” One hand came to her face, pressed against her lips. Her eyes were wide and staring. “Oh God, it was awful. Sherry was stretched out facedown on the floor. Her feet were near the door and one foot was bent sideways. There was blood all around her. I came close and started to reach down but I knew she was dead. I turned and ran out and pulled the door shut. I hardly remember getting downstairs. I was terrified. All I could see was blood . . . I got to my car and started to get in and when I looked down I saw blood on my shoes.” Her voice rose and she began to cry. “Blood on my shoes. I took them off and ran to the Dumpster and threw them away.” She turned her face into the pillow and sobs racked her shoulders.

  14

  Annie looked through the windows. Billy Cameron had a great view of the harbor. An old sloop, probably built of teak, judging by its color, moved under sail, rising and falling with the swells. Gulls swarmed after a shrimp boat. A majestic osprey hovered high in the air. The Miss Jolene sat at the dock, ready for the midmorning run to the mainland.

  The only sound in Billy’s office was the rustle of paper and a faint clank in the air vents.

  Max broke the silence. “I told David this wouldn’t suffice.”

  Annie looked away from the window.

  Billy laid several handwritten sheets on his desktop, looked at Max. “I just got off the phone with the mayor.” Billy’s voice held an undercurrent of irritation. “David alerted him. The mayor’s ecstatic. To quote His Honor, ‘No reason now not to settle everything. Arrest that Ford woman without delay. Obviously she’s the killer. Poor Madeleine Corley. A shocking experience for her. Good of her to report what she knew. I’ll call a news conference.’” Billy’s big face corrugated in a tight frown. “I’ve stalled him off for a few hours, said I need to button down some forensic evidence. But he won’t wait long before he goes over my head, gets the circuit solicitor involved.” Billy gave a whuff of exasperation. “I can’t say he isn’t right. Frankie Ford has motive, opportunity, and there’s no question that the length of branch found under her house was used to kill Sherry Gillette. So, the murderer put it there. The question is whether Frankie Ford never thought she’d be suspected and tossed in the stick because that’s where she’d hidden the stuff used to burn the Martin house. That would argue that she’s not a very bright murderer. This is a little island surrounded by a big ocean. A little midnight walk to an inlet, a toss, and the tin and rags would be gone. Same for the stick. This doesn’t seem to jibe with the mind that set up Paul Martin’s murder to look like suicide. For that matter, why take the stick from the apartment?”

  He answered his own question. “It could be that Sherry called Frankie—or somebody else—said. ‘I saw you on the terrace’ in a breathless tone, moaned about whether she had to go to the police but maybe, just maybe, if she could be convinced, she’d forget all about that afternoon.

  “In that case the murderer, Frankie or our unknown, hustled to the Buccaneer. Frankie Ford could have left the art gallery, crossed the street, and walked across Pavilion Park and through the woods to the apartment house. On her way she could easily have picked up a sturdy branch to use as a club. She—or the unknown—probably didn’t have gloves. Most people don’t carry gloves around in October, so grab a stick, get there, whack Sherry.

  “The murderer probably worried about fingerprints on the stick and that’s why it was carried away, that or there was already a plan to put it somewhere handy so it could be placed to incriminate someone else. Bark doesn’t hold prints, but it looked like the bark had been rubbed off about where it would have been held.”

  “If Frankie’s a dumb cluck who tossed the stick under the house, why would she have been smart enough to rub around on the bark? That’s a point for Frankie.” Annie was emphatic.

  Billy slowly nodded. “There’s an argument to be made.” His tone was judicial. “On the one hand, Frankie isn’t bright and threw the stuff under her house, or we’re looking for somebody damn elusive and smart.” His tone was ruminative, his gaze considering. “In that case, the murderer deliberately took the stick from the apartment, thinking it might be a dandy item to plant on someone. As for the rags and gas tin, they could have been stashed somewhere they were unlikely to be found that had no connection to the killer. The other possibility is Madeleine Corley of the bloodstained shoes.” Billy tapped the loose sheets. “Every word in her statement could be true. Or she’s spun a total fairy tale. The problem”—he looked morose—“is trying to picture her skulking through the woods clutching a stick, murder in mind. Whoever killed Paul Martin is cool, resourceful, and capable of long-range planning. Which makes me wonder about planting the stuff on Frankie. It was already public that Madeleine was a person of interest, but word gets out. We searched their place yesterday. So it wouldn’t work to put the murder weapon and arson stuff there. Right now it’s a toss-up between Frankie and Madeleine. Except Madeleine wasn’t carrying a stick
when she crossed the Buccaneer parking lot. That weighs the scale against Frankie.”

  Annie felt bleak. “Three people are dead and there’s scarcely any link to the murderer. We know the murderer came to Paul Martin’s house shortly after midnight. Lucy heard a car. But that could have been a random passing car. We know Jane’s murderer crossed the terrace. Otherwise, Sherry would be alive. We know the murderer put the stick and gas tin and rags under Frankie’s house last night. You’d think we’d have some hint—” Annie broke off. Her eyes widened. “Oh wow. Chitty chitty bang bang.”

  Max looked at her in alarm. Billy gazed at her doubtfully.

  Annie yanked her purse from the floor, reached in, pulled out her cell. She swiped a number. “Lucy Ransome’s room, please.”

  Max began, “Annie, what—”

  She held up a hand. “Lucy, Annie Darling. You sound wonderful. How are you feeling . . . Lucy, please think back to the night after David’s party. You opened your window and you heard a car at just past midnight.” Annie took a breath. “What did the car sound like?”

  Max nodded in understanding. Billy continued to frown.

  “Really? You’re sure? . . . Yes, it’s important, very important. Thanks, Lucy.” She swiped End and looked across the desk at Billy. “Okay, you thumped the scale up for Madeleine because she wasn’t carrying a stick in the parking lot. The scales are now even. Lucy heard a car but it was just a faint murmur. When Frankie’s car was driven off to be searched, the engine sputtered and rumbled and clacked. It wasn’t Frankie who drove by Paul’s house that night.”

  • • •

  Annie traced the gilt title on the dry and crackling cover. The Clock Ticks On by Valentine Williams, 1933. It was an affordable collectible. Probably Henny or Emma would like to add the book to their collections. Automatically she looked at the round-faced clock on the wall of the storeroom. Half past two. She gently restored the book to the bottom shelf, rose, and stood at a loss. She had retired to the storeroom after lunch determined to pull and tug at the tangle of three unsolved murders until she had a trail to follow. Again she looked at the clock. She was under no illusion that her unearthing (as far as she was concerned, brilliant unearthing) of the fact that Frankie Ford’s car certainly hadn’t driven past the Martin house the night Paul was killed would save Frankie from arrest. The mayor and circuit solicitor would brush that inconvenient information aside. At the time Annie was convinced she’d evened the odds between Frankie and Madeleine, but in the silence of the storeroom she felt an unsettling certainty that Frankie would be arrested.