Death of the Party

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie decided it was better not to speak.

  “Oh.” Max bent close, peered into her face. “I thought maybe you’d like to read some of the files.”

  “Looking at the horizon.” She pushed out her answer, a syllable at a time. Although the horizon was hard to discern because of the lowering black clouds that turned the sky murky as a silted lagoon.

  “Sit up straight. Breathe deeply.” His voice was robust. “That’s okay. I’ll read the dossiers to you. Barb and I got lots of info. Personal stuff. It’s amazing how people will answer questions over the phone when you spin the right story. My favorite ploy is the one where we say we’re doing a company dinner that includes a ‘This Is Your Life’ tribute to the honoree. People can’t wait to unload on a former friend or classmate or employee or renter. Anyway, you can concentrate on listening. Pretend you’re at the store. You and Agatha at the coffee bar…”

  Annie stared at the horizon—dammit, where was it?—and tried to imagine herself settled at one of the tables in the lovely heart-pine enclave at the back of Death on Demand, the cappuccino…No, she wouldn’t think about the coffee bar. That brought up images of food and drink, images her queasy stomach abhorred. No. She was sitting at a table, a marvelously stationary table, with a book, maybe Tony Hillerman’s latest, reading about bone-dry desert.

  Beside her, relaxed, ebullient, and obviously pleased with the fact-studded dossiers, Max began to read:

  “Britt Barlow. Grew up in Birmingham. One younger sister, Cecilia. Mother Agnes, a single mom, worked two jobs to put them in a decent private school, pay for music and tap and tennis lessons. No contact with their father. Cecilia was a beauty, long blond hair, green eyes, sweet-natured, domestic, loved to cook and sew. Britt was a ranked tennis player in high school, straight As, ambitious, impatient. But the sisters got along famously. One old friend said, ‘Britt adored Cissy. When Cissy got sick, I was afraid it would kill Britt, too.’ Cissy dropped out of college to become a model. She was modeling at a charity benefit when she met Jeremiah Addison, who had recently separated from his first wife. Britt majored in English. After college, she went to New York. She held several jobs in advertising agencies but was laid off when the economy crashed. By this time Cissy was married to Jeremiah. They’d only been married three years when Cissy was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Britt came to Golden Silk to be with Cissy during the treatments. Britt despised Jeremiah, thought he was an arrogant jerk, but she managed to be on pleasant terms with him because Cissy thought he was wonderful.” Max lifted a sheaf of papers out from a pocket in the file. “Here are some pix of Britt and Cissy. Got a great one of them together. Barb found it in one of those house magazines. The article gave all the details of Jeremiah’s renovations on Golden Silk.” Max whistled. “He spent a fortune.”

  The launch veered out of the open ocean into the Sound, running with an island to starboard. In the more protected waters, the boat settled into a swift spank across the whitecaps. Annie’s stomach slowly righted. She looked at the printout of photos, an ethereal Cissy in white satin, an aggressive Britt lunging for a forehand, the sisters arm-in-arm walking along a curving beach, a study in contrasts, blond Cissy in a softly swirling white cotton dress with a red sash, dark Britt in a vivid green jumper. Cissy looked sweet and appealing, her face turned with an inquiring, uncertain look. Britt’s expression was forceful, determined. Annie had the same sense of sadness an old picture album evoked. The sisters together caught at her heart. Was there anything more poignant than photographs of careless happiness before storm clouds turned sunny days dark? Yes, she could imagine that Britt Barlow adored her younger and somehow, even in a photo, vulnerable sister.

  Annie pushed back a strand of hair dampened by the spray. “What’s the scoop on that intern?”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “Annie, be fair. ‘Intern’ isn’t synonymous with ‘slut.’”

  Annie waggled her hand. “Come on, come on. Six months’ experience and she goes on air? She’s on the magnate’s private island? Some big news story breaking? I don’t think so. What have you got on her?”

  Max thumbed through the sheets. “Okay. Let’s see, Kim Kennedy—” He handed her a photo.

  Kim also wore all white—a crisp linen suit, and heels—but there was nothing bridal in her appearance. She held a microphone, leaned forward, blond hair smoothly coiffed, penetrating sapphire eyes, a rounded face with bright lips curved in a smile. She looked beautiful and predatory.

  “—a junior in journalism at Georgia Tech. Hey, you may have to eat crow.” A quick glance at Annie. “Sorry. I’ll rephrase that—”

  Annie pulled in a deep, moisture-laden breath, welcomed the fine beads of sea water against her face. “Not to worry. I’m okay. I think.”

  “—you may have to make a mental apology. Outstanding student. Excellent reporter. Oh.” He read, frowned. “You’ve got a point. She isn’t a fluff but apparently she was on the make. She and Jeremiah were a definite twosome in Atlanta after Cissy got sick, and gossip had it that he planned to marry her.”

  Annie was pleased that two and two continued to make four, which was English for cherchez la femme, regretful that a woman ill with cancer was confronted with the living proof of her husband’s unfaithfulness. “Had he asked Cissy for a divorce?”

  “Britt didn’t mention that.” Max rubbed his cheek. “You’d think she would have if that’s true.”

  Annie patted his knee.

  He looked at her in surprise.

  “You’re nice.” Her voice was kind and a shade patronizing.

  “I am not.” His rejoinder was swift and a shade offended. “Nobody’s ever accused me of being nice.” Then he grinned. “Except for Laurel and she’s prejudiced. Anyway, why would Britt keep quiet about a divorce if it was in the works?”

  Annie felt sad. She always felt sad when she knew a marriage was hollow, and nothing made a marriage more of a sham than an unfaithful partner. “Max, talk about a motive for murder…”

  Max looked startled. “Cissy’s dead.”

  Annie shook her head impatiently. “She wasn’t dead when somebody strung wire at the top of the staircase. Sure, she was sick. But could she get up, move around? A cheating husband often comes to a bad end. Maybe Britt should look close to home for the murderer.”

  Max whistled. “She won’t want to hear that. I’d say it’s never occurred to her.” He slipped the printout into the folder. “If Cissy killed him, we won’t be able to prove it.”

  “We might.” She took another deep breath. The moist cold air was a tonic. “We’ll find out about Cissy. The housekeeper can probably tell us whether she was able to get around. Add Cissy to the suspect list.” Annie was firm. “We aren’t going to leave anyone out. Who’s next?”

  “Jay Addison, Jeremiah’s younger son. Here’s a picture—”

  Annie looked at a tall weedy young man with shaggy brown hair, a handlebar mustache, and a shy expression. He cradled a silver loving cup in one arm. His untucked polo shirt was wrinkled and his cotton slacks baggy. A sweet-faced woman gazed at him with pride.

  “—when he was named Teacher of the Year. Graduate of Clemson. Master’s from University of Georgia. American history, specialty Franklin Roosevelt. Did a thesis on the public perceptions of Roosevelt and the successful efforts to minimize awareness of his paralysis. Scholarly. Diffident. He and his wife, Dana, have two children. Teddy is six and Alice three. Jay and his father had a strained relationship. Jeremiah divorced his first wife, Lorraine, the mother of Jay and Craig, to marry Cissy Barlow. Jay resented the divorce. The financial details of the divorce were never disclosed, but clearly Lorraine did not receive any money from Jeremiah. She went back to work as a nurse. A couple of years later, she was seriously injured in the crash of a medevac plane. She’s in a nursing home and remains in a coma. Her sons were paying for her care, which caused a financial strain for Jay and forced his wife, Dana, back to work. She was an elementary school teacher. After Jeremiah’s deat
h, Jay’s inheritance made it possible for her to quit and stay home with the children. Dana grew up in St. Petersburg, majored in education at the University of Georgia, where she met Jay. They married right after her graduation.”

  Annie glowered. “What kind of jerk was Jeremiah? I mean, he had millions, right?”

  Max didn’t need to check his files. “Right.”

  “So he couldn’t pick up the nursing home tab for the mother of his children?” Her disdain distracted her from the bumpy ride. “If this was his typical behavior, no wonder somebody strung wire at the top of the stairs.”

  “Now, now.” His tone was chiding. “We don’t care if he was a double for Simon Legree, murder’s not an option. And we don’t know what his side to the story might have been.”

  Annie gave him a startled look. “Money out the kazoo and he refuses to pay for his ex-wife’s care, puts the burden on his sons?”

  “We don’t know why.” Max’s look was stubborn though his voice was mild.

  Annie knew Max was right. There were always at least two sides to every story. Jeremiah’s reason might not be defensible, but they needed to understand why he had acted as he had. There was a haunting comment in The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins: “The best men are not consistent in good—why should the worst men be consistent in evil?” She made a mental vow to find out everything she could about Jeremiah Addison.

  “We can take it for granted that Jeremiah irked the hell out of people.” Max rattled the folder. “We’ll know a lot more when we finish these. But our job is to focus on the people who hated him and do it damn fast.” He bent forward, straining to see across the water. His impatience to get to the island rode with them, an impatience pushed by a dark current of uneasiness.

  “It will be all right.” She reached out, clutched his arm, wanting to reassure him, wanting to ease the pressure he felt.

  His face was grim. “I’m worried, Annie. I’m afraid of what may happen.” He almost managed a smile. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I sound like one of your Gothic heroines.” There was a flash of a quick lopsided grin that was gone in an instant, replaced by ridged jaws. “But it’s the devil of a setup, an island with a very select group of guests—and one of them is a murderer.”

  Annie felt a soul-deep chill that had nothing to do with January wind or salty spray. The open boat was cold but not as cold as her foreboding. Right this minute she was en route to meet a murderer. She was going to walk into a room with the certain knowledge that a face she saw, a hand she shook, belonged to a person who had coldly, carefully, and cleverly arranged the death of a man.

  Max made it clear. “One of the guests is very different from the rest. A murderer never accepts limits. Ordinary people think, ‘That’s wrong. I can’t do that.’ A murderer thinks, ‘I will prevail. At any cost.’” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. We’ve got to hurry.” He checked the files. “Let’s see who’s left. Okay. Craig Addison.” He paused and handed Annie another printout. “Prep school in Atlanta. Yale undergraduate, Columbia graduate. Golden boy. Excellent grades. Outstanding leadership qualities. Always did his best to please his father. Shot right up the ladder at Addison Media, but not just because he was the boss’s son. Admired for his evenhanded treatment of news, though he ran afoul of his father because of his liberal politics. Craig did a series on hospital policies with residents, specifically the efforts of some hospitals to ignore changed federal regulations limiting hours on duty. Won a Pulitzer. Scuttlebutt at a Texas border newspaper in the chain said Jeremiah killed Craig’s plans to do a story about a big-time Houston trucking company smuggling illegal immigrants. Latest word is the investigative series will run next month and it’s expected to trigger a federal indictment. He married—”

  Annie flipped the photographs of a handsome, well-built man in his thirties with a bush of tight blond curls, bright blue eyes, and an exuberant expression: A beaming Craig cut the groom’s cake, Craig and his new wife embraced on the dance floor at their reception, Craig strode across a platform in an academic robe with a bright hood, Craig tossed a red rubber ball to a running black Lab, Craig stood beside a yawning grave. Annie frowned, held the sheet nearer. She glanced back at the picture of the bride, a vivid young woman with flashing eyes and dark hair and finely boned face, high forehead, pointed cheekbones and chin. Yes. The woman in black at the grave site, standing stiffly a few feet from Craig, was his wife. There might as well have been a canyon between them, she stood so pointedly more than an arm’s length away. Her face was strained, cheeks sunken, lips pursed. She clasped her hands tightly together. Craig looked numb, his face blank, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from grief.

  “—four years ago. Isabel Hernandez grew up in Miami. Journalism graduate from University of Florida. Started out in an upstate small-market television station. Excelled. Went to larger stations, ended up in Atlanta. Met Craig when they were both covering the trial of the guy who mailed live rattlesnakes to abortion clinics. They got married three weeks later. She moved out last year, quit her job on one of the Addison TV stations, got a job in public relations.”

  “Wonder why they split.” Isabel had accompanied him to his father’s funeral. “How long after the funeral did she leave him?”

  Max found Jeremiah’s obituary, riffled through notes, raised an eyebrow. “The next week.” He made another note, gave Annie an admiring glance. “What made you wonder?”

  She handed him the picture at the cemetery. “You can tell they’re poles apart.”

  Max studied the photograph. “Yeah.” His tone was thoughtful. “She was obviously on the outs with Craig. But it might not have anything to do with his father’s death.”

  “Timing is everything.” Annie knew her pronouncement wasn’t on a par with Charlie Chan’s observations in the novels by Earl Derr Biggers. Her two favorites were “The deer should not play with the tiger,” from Charlie Chan Carries On, and “The man who is about to cross a stream should not revile the crocodile’s mother,” from The Black Camel. But she felt a glimmer of excitement. Timing…Maybe her subconscious was clicking merrily ahead while she and Max were looking for trees in the forest. Or not seeing the forest for the trees. Whatever…“Timing!” she exclaimed. “Why did Jeremiah die that particular weekend?”

  Once again Max favored her with a respectful glance. “That’s a damn good point. Was it because someone had a chance to kill him who normally would not? Like the politician? Maybe we should focus on the people who usually weren’t on the island. We can check that out with Britt as soon as we get there.” Once again he leaned on the railing, staring toward the northeast.

  Annie hated to rain on her own parade. “Timing is everything” deserved acclaim. But honesty compelled her to admit, “Of course, it could be that the murder occurred then because there were other people on the island. Or maybe the timing depended upon what one of them intended—or didn’t intend—to do.”

  Max reached beneath the slicker, pulled out a small notebook. He opened it, began to write.

  She bent close to read his neat printing:

  Discover precise reason each person was on the island that weekend.

  Were any guests unlikely to return anytime soon?

  Annie counted with her fingers. “Okay, we’ve accounted for everyone in the family, right? Jeremiah, Cissy, Britt, Jay and Dana, Craig and Isabel. Also Kim Kennedy. Who were the other outsiders?”

  Max pulled out several files, looked at the first. “Gerald Gamble. But he was certainly close to the family. He’d worked for Jeremiah for more than thirty years. Started off as a stringer for one of the small papers. Quick. Smart. Ruthless.” He handed Annie a printout. “Gamble has a reputation as a—”

  Annie knew she shouldn’t judge a man simply from photos. But she already knew she didn’t like Gerald Gamble—he was tall, thin with a cadaverous face and little squinty eyes. His dark suit hung from rounded shoulders. He stood with a closed face, arms folded.

&nbs
p; “—hard-nosed guy, Jeremiah’s hatchet man. Kept an eye on all aspects of the business. Jeremiah trusted him absolutely. Now he works for Craig.” Max took the printout from Annie, replaced it in the file. “Absolute trust. That gives a lot of room for maneuvering. It certainly wasn’t unusual for him to be on the island. That isn’t true for the last three.” He held up two files. “Millicent and Nick McRae and Everett Crenshaw. This was the first visit to the island by all three of them.”

  Annie looked at a photo of Millicent McRae at a posh campaign dinner. Her elderly husband was a step behind her. Millicent was a perfectly coiffed, fiftyish blonde with a big smile and cold eyes. Annie admired her lavishly embroidered silk shantung dress in a pale champagne color. Gorgeous. The dress, not Millicent. Millicent greeting donors was reminiscent of an alligator spotting a succulent duck. Nick McRae’s bland expression and self-effacing posture were at odds with his sardonic, penetrating gaze.

  “Millicent was a trial lawyer in Atlanta, married the widowed senior partner. They have a huge house in Buckhead. He has children from his first marriage, none with Millicent. She ran for Congress about ten years ago, riding the conservative wave, won easily. Of course, it helped that the Addison papers supported her.” Max returned their file to his folder. He opened the last file. “Everett Crenshaw.” Max’s expression was a mingling of disgust and disdain.

  She took the proffered printout, immediately recognized the unstylish pompadour, glassy smooth face, and thin lips curled in a supercilious lift. “I always turn him off.”

  “Lots of viewers don’t.” Max shrugged. “Numbers are all that count today. Millions tune in to see Crenshaw rip into his guests. You have to wonder at the mentality of people who agree to be on his show. I guess they think any attention is better than none.”

  She didn’t state the obvious. Despite the best efforts of Miss Manners, civility wasn’t fashionable. Of course, in a world where prime-time entertainment includes strangers dumped on an island and encouraged to seek sex, shouted exchanges masquerading as political commentary weren’t remarkable. Plato would have been puzzled.