Death at the Door

by Carolyn Hart

  The car picked up speed. The sooner she got there, the sooner she and Kate could get to Billy.

  • • •

  Max leaned on the golden wood counter between the small foyer and the dispatcher’s desk. “She’s not here yet?” Max had been puzzled when he didn’t see Annie’s car parked in front of the station. Now he had the sudden empty feeling that comes when you miss a step, hit the ground hard. “She has to be here.”

  Mavis looked stressed. She frowned, her long face tense. “She’s not here. Billy’s in with the mayor and I can’t disturb him.”

  Max turned and went to the front door, opened it, and looked up and down the street. No Thunderbird. No Annie. The hollow feeling expanded. He swung around and was at the counter in two long strides. “Mavis, listen to me.”

  Mavis looked up, eyes widening at his taut tone.

  “Something’s wrong. She was on her way. Running. As fast as she could go. She told Ingrid she was on her way here—to see Billy—and she knew who killed Paul Martin.”

  Mavis swallowed. “The mayor—”

  “To hell with the mayor. We’ve got to find Annie.”

  Mavis rubbed one cheekbone. She looked at Max.

  In her eyes, Max saw her thoughts: Annie probably changed her mind . . . could be car trouble . . . but if she said she was coming here . . . mayor can’t stand Max and he’s leaning on Billy . . . under no circumstances interrupt . . .

  Mavis shot him a worried look, then muttered, “Go down the hall. Wait in the break room. I’ll do my best.”

  • • •

  True to her Texas Panhandle upbringing, Annie often felt claustrophobic when live oaks closed overhead, plunging a road into deep shadow. She drove into dimness beneath the thick green canopy on Corley Lane. She didn’t see another car. That was no surprise, since the lane served only the two Corley homes. She welcomed the instant she reached the turn into the Corley estate and the expansive front lawn overseen by the statue of the rearing horse. Still, the emptiness of the drive and the silence when she stepped out of her car seemed oppressive. The Mediterranean mansion loomed over her.

  She hurried up the steps, driven by urgency. She wanted to get past the coming moments. Kate Murray’s grief would be painful to witness.

  The massive door swung in. Kate was waiting, one hand gripping the frame. In the pale yellow light of a wall sconce, her thin face with its high forehead, long nose, and sharp chin was gaunt. She moved jerkily, one hand gesturing down the hall. “I’ve got it in the family room.” She turned and moved heavily on the tiled floor of the wide hallway, her steps echoing.

  Annie hesitated, then followed the shuffling figure with bowed shoulders. She would be glad to be out of this huge home with its old dark tapestries and mullioned windows set high in stone walls. No wonder the family had used these rooms for entertaining, chosen to spend time in the family room with Tom’s vivid paintings hanging on softly golden walls and comfortable chintz-covered furniture and a pool table and wet bar. She pushed away the thought of the homey room with blood spreading near the pool table and Jane lying facedown.

  Kate reached the massive oak door, the barrier between the public and private rooms. She turned the knob, stood aside, waiting for Annie.

  Annie stepped into the family room, welcoming the change from stone walls and tiled floors to bright lights inset in a smooth white ceiling and walls that spoke of sunshine and paintings that pulsed with life.

  Click. The slight sound seemed loud in the silence.

  Annie turned and watched as Kate’s hand fell away from the now firmly closed dead bolt on the door.

  15

  Billy Cameron stepped inside the break room, closed the door. “Mavis said—”

  “Something’s happened to Annie.” Max fought to speak calmly, reasonably. He held up his cell phone. “I keep calling. No answer. Nothing. Billy, she left the store almost fifteen minutes ago on her way here to tell you who killed Paul. Now there’s no answer. I came on the same road. She was only a few minutes ahead of me. She has to be somewhere on this end of the island.”

  Billy stared at Max for a quick, probing instant, then unsheathed his cell. “APB. 2011 red Thunderbird. Driver Annie Darling last seen near downtown. Check all roads north end of island. ASAP.”

  Max had always known that Billy moved on gut instinct. Billy heard the hollow tone of fear in his voice. Billy knew him. He knew Annie. He wasn’t going to waste time demanding proof, being skeptical.

  Max tried to keep his hands steady. He wanted to burst out of the station, run down the street, looking. But police could cover the island faster than he. Still, it took all his will not to storm out and look for her. He had to . . . Annie . . . Dammit, Annie . . . where are you . . . where did you go . . . must be somewhere near. His chest ached. Every minute that passed slammed against him like a pile driver crushing rock. She was coming here . . . He looked at the cell, gave a whoop. “Wait a minute. Maybe . . . I’ve got that app, Find My iPhone. Maybe . . .” He touched the small screen several times. “Jane Corley’s house. At least the phone’s in the car and it’s at that address. Billy, I don’t like it. I don’t like it worth a damn. She ran from the store. She was coming here as fast as she could. Why’s her car there? Where is she?” Again Max slid his finger. “The phone’s ringing.”

  There wasn’t any answer.

  Billy was already in the hall. He shouted for Lou. “Jane Corley home. Stealth approach. No sound. No sirens.”

  The door to Billy’s office swung open. Mayor Cosgrove’s pudgy face was petulant. He started to step into the hall, pulled back as officers pounded past him. “What’s going on?”

  Billy was gruff. “Possible hostage situation. Better stay in my office, Mayor. Safer there.”

  Max’s gut tightened. He figured Billy’s warning was a worst-case scenario designed to keep the mayor out of the way. Surely Annie had run by the Corley house for some reason and everything was all right . . . But she’d said she was on her way to the station and she knew who killed Jane and Paul and Sherry.

  The mayor scooted backward and the door slammed. Billy spoke into his phone again. “Officers, no mention of address. No sirens. No noise.”

  • • •

  Kate Murray’s brown eyes were empty. The gun in her hand didn’t waver. “You can’t go to the police. Damn you. You kept on snooping. Wendell Evans texted David, had a hell of a strange story to share. David called me.” Her face twisted in despair.

  Annie stared at her. What kind of woman would protect a man who had killed in cold blood so he could kill again and then again? “He killed three times.”

  “He didn’t have any choice. That’s what makes everything so awful. David had to do what he did.”

  Annie felt cold deep inside. That was always the answer, wasn’t it? Whatever happened, whatever awful crime, it was the fault of the victims. She felt foolish. “You didn’t find anything in Sherry’s room.”

  Kate’s face hardened. “When you said you were going to the police, we had to stop you.”

  Annie looked at the woman in a pale blue sweater and gray slacks. Her carefully brushed short-cropped white hair was quite perfect. She would look just the same when Annie was dead, a well-to-do woman sure of her place. There was strain in her face but not the heartbreak Annie had imagined. Instead, she was a quick-witted woman willing to do whatever she had to do to secure the safety of a killer she would protect at all cost. We . . . Kate said, “. . . we had to stop you.” The beautiful room was now a place of deadly menace. Annie slowly turned, looked past the gaily patterned sofa.

  David Corley stood to one side of the stone fireplace. His thick blond hair shone golden in the light of one of the overhead spots. His handsome face was empty, the strained look of defense for Madeleine gone, supplanted by deadly threat. No wonder he was so certain of Madeleine’s innocence. Behind him and to the
left was the closed door to Jane Corley’s office, where Jane and Kate had quarreled about Jane’s refusal to cover David’s gambling debts.

  Annie blurted, “Jane never agreed to pay off the Palmetto Players.”

  David’s mouth twisted. “I told Jane—Kate told her—they were going to hurt me. She had to pay up. Damn her, part of the money was mine, should have been mine. It wasn’t any business of hers what I did with my money. But she was all righteous, superior. ‘This will teach you a lesson.’ That’s what she said. I told her what they were going to do to me and she laughed and said they wouldn’t dare, that it was up to me to figure out how to pay them somehow, maybe sell my boat.”

  Annie heard rising anger in his voice. Jane had thought she could force David to take responsibility. She refused to come through with money. Palmetto Players upped the pressure on David, warned of what also might happen to Madeleine’s Yorkie. David made his decision.

  “It was Jane’s fault.” Kate’s voice was hard.

  “I told her I had to have the money.” David sounded querulous.

  Annie felt a curl of revulsion. Everything—all of David’s problems—was someone else’s fault. “Paul Martin knew you were dangerous.”

  “Damn him.” David’s eyes glittered. “He told me nothing better happen to Jane. He told me I had to come to his house, write out a letter that he’d keep.” David’s sudden burst of laughter was ugly, ugly and satisfied. “I fixed him. I had a gun. I used to go out and practice in the woods. I always hit my target. He was stupid.”

  “You set up an alibi. If you hadn’t done that, no one would ever have known.”

  He laughed again, a pleased anticipatory laugh. “No one ever will know.”

  Annie’s gaze dropped to his right hand. He held a poker, moved it back and forth. He was breathing too fast, his boyishly attractive face oddly flattened, his blue eyes burning with intensity.

  Was that what Paul Martin saw at the open house, a stalker intent on prey, a natural killer anticipating death? Had there been incidents as David was growing up that were known to the family doctor, hints of cruelty and anger?

  “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.” David’s voice was unnaturally high. He began to move toward her, one light step after another.

  Annie looked frantically around. David was between her and the French doors to the terrace. Kate was behind her with a gun. If she moved to her left, she would be defenseless with nothing between her and David. The sofas near the fireplace were closer to him than to her. If she moved to her right . . .

  She saw the pool table. The players had been careless after the last game. Balls were skewed here and there, not tidily formed in the rack. Beyond the pool table was a door . . .

  “David.” Kate’s voice was sharp.

  He stopped, jerked his gaze toward her.

  Annie eased a few steps to her right.

  “Not here.” Kate’s words came fast. “There can’t be another body here.”

  Annie felt as if ice cascaded over her. She had ceased to exist for them except as an obstacle that must be removed. Another body . . . her body . . .

  David balanced from one foot to the other, the poker gently swinging in his hand. He looked athletic, strong, fast. His thick blond hair was perfectly brushed. He might have been balancing on the deck of his boat in a polo and khakis and boat shoes. Picture-perfect except for the wildness in his eyes. “All right. Not here. Tom’s gone. He went to be with that little tramp. We’ll take her down to his studio. I’ll put on a smock—”

  • • •

  Max stood next to Billy in the deep shadow of pines near the Corley terrace. As the sun slid lower, the air cooled. Max smelled earth and resin.

  Billy spoke softly into his clip-on transmitter. “I’m going up to the house. Cover me.” He looked at Max. “Stay here.”

  Max started to protest.

  Billy shook his head. “You shouldn’t have gotten this far. Stay here. We’ll handle everything. Everyone’s in place.” He looked deep into Max’s eyes. “We’ll do our best.”

  For a big man, Billy moved lightly, easing silently to the edge of the terrace. Then he bent low and sprinted to the side of the house, stepped again into shadow, this time the dark splotch cast by one of the big vases near the French windows.

  Max knotted his hands. Annie, honey, God, please, be safe, be all right. I’m here. I’ll come. Annie, are you all right?

  • • •

  “. . . and use one of his mallets. It will have Tom’s fingerprints.” David laughed. “Damn, that’s good. They’ll think Tom and Frankie did it together. That’ll get rid of both of them. If they’re arrested, Madeleine will be okay because a cop’s sitting in the hall. God, that’s perfect. Madeleine will have the world’s best alibi and I’ll end up with all the money.”

  Madeleine—now Annie understood why Madeleine had carried Millie with her the afternoon Jane died. Perhaps there had been another call threatening the dog. Of course no one had told Madeleine the debts were taken care of because they weren’t taken care of. Jane had refused to pay. Had Madeleine come up to the terrace, found Jane’s body? That must be what happened. David had left their house in his kayak a half hour before Madeleine. Likely he paddled out of sight, around a bend, stashed the kayak in underbrush, ran to the house. The mallet and smock must have already been taken from Tom’s studio, hidden in the pool room for easy access. Perhaps he told Jane he’d arranged to sell his boat, everything was going to be all right, then maneuvered behind her, grabbing the mallet, covering his front with the smock, striking her down as she walked toward the terrace door.

  Kate slowly nodded. “The police will think she threatened Frankie and he and Frankie killed her.”

  Annie knew the impersonal pronoun referred to her but Kate didn’t look at her. She was watching David and the slow swing of the poker. Was she afraid he’d lose control?

  Annie took a few more steps to the right.

  Kate stared commandingly at David. “Go down to the studio.”

  Annie took another step, another, reached the end of the pool table.

  “I saw Tom’s car leave. We’ll take her down now, get it done.” David was impatient.

  “We can’t take a chance. If no one’s there, call me on your cell.”

  David turned. He was almost to the French door when Kate called out, “Put the poker back.”

  • • •

  Billy Cameron crouched next to a large vase, his head at sill level of a window. He stared into the family room. David Corley crossed his field of vision, carrying a poker. Kate Murray stood not far from a large oak door, a snub-nosed black Glock 23 in her right hand. Annie was moving stealthily as a cat on the far side of the pool table.

  Billy dropped lower, moved on his hands and knees until he was close enough to reach up and pull gently on the handle to the French door. He eased it a breath at a time, cracked the door.

  “. . . I’ll keep her here until you call.” Kate’s head swung toward Annie. “Wait.” Her tone was angry. She lifted the gun. “What are you doing over there?”

  Annie said shakily, “I don’t feel well. I need to lean on the table.”

  “Do you want me to get her?” David’s voice was eager.

  Kate stared at Annie. “The door behind you is locked. Do you think we’re fools?” Then she nodded at David. “I’ll see to her. She isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Oh.” Annie sounded despairing.

  “Go on down to the studio, David. Hurry.”

  Moving like an eel, Billy retreated on the flagstones, came up on the other side of the vase. He spoke quickly into his clip-on radio.

  • • •

  Annie planted her hands on the rim of the pool table, pretended to wobble. “I have to hold on . . .” The odds were better now. She didn’t have much time. David would call soon.
How many minutes were there before he would call? Two? Three? Four? Would she soon have no minutes left? She had to time everything just right. She couldn’t afford to wait too long. When Kate’s cell rang . . .

  Kate aimed the gun at Annie. She held the gun steady, watched with an unmoving gaze.

  The silence was leaden, enveloping, threatening.

  Kate’s gaze jerked toward the clock on the mantel.

  Annie leaned forward ever so slightly, one hand now at a corner of the table.

  Kate drew in an impatient breath. She frowned.

  Annie, too, looked at the clock and realized with an odd quiver in her chest that too much time had passed. David had been gone now for perhaps five minutes. He had left, moving fast. It wouldn’t take long, a couple of minutes, to turn down the path to Tom’s studio.

  Why hadn’t he called?

  Kate’s dark brows drew together. She yanked a cell from her pocket.

  As she glanced down to swipe the name, Annie’s hand dropped into the corner pocket. She felt cold hard roundness, gripped the ball. Not as big as a softball but it would have to do.

  Kate lifted the cell to her ear, listened.

  Annie yanked the ball from the pocket.

  Kate whirled toward her, lifted her hand, pointed the gun.

  Annie threw with all her might.

  The gunshot sounded like a cannon.

  Annie dropped to the floor, scrabbled on hands and knees. Now she’d likely be shot in the back . . . there would be another body in this room of death . . .

  The French door crashed against the wall. Shouts. “Police. Hands up. Drop that weapon. Police.”

  The rattle of gunfire and the stench of gunsmoke.

  • • •

  Annie clung to Max. She pressed against his chest, buried her head on his shoulder. They stood that way, together, alone at the edge of the terrace despite the officers shepherding David Corley and Kate Murray toward the front of the house.