Death of the Party

by Carolyn Hart

  Max looked hopeful. “For all we know, the murderer may have been seen. But the next morning there was no reason for that information to come out. Everyone was talking abut Jeremiah’s ‘accident.’ We’ll find out. Somebody may have been up, had insomnia, taken a walk. Though”—he was grave as he tapped the notebook—“these cabins are definitely isolated. Anyone can take a path, move without being seen.”

  Annie finished a sip of tea. Suddenly the pale blue room didn’t seem as inviting, despite the fire and the succulent meal. She pictured the island after nightfall, populated with phantoms moving through shadows toward Heron House, where no door was ever locked.

  Annie pulled on a windbreaker and stepped out onto the verandah. She leaned over the railing and watched as Max came down the front steps. He paused at the bottom, looked up, waved, then veered in the opposite direction of their earlier walk. Annie watched until he was out of sight. She sighed. The verandah was gloomy even though the gentle rain had ended. Wet branches glistened in pale sunlight. Annie paced impatiently, wished she’d gone with him. She looked down at the binoculars on the wicker table. Max’s instructions had been clear. “You can get the first look at these people. They won’t know anyone’s watching. Pick up on their interaction with Britt. Get a sense of who they are.” Annie knew she’d looked nonplussed. He’d paused at the door and grinned. “Come on, Annie. You can do it. Pretend you are Laurel.” And he was gone.

  She repeated the injunction aloud, though perhaps not in quite as encouraging a tone. “Pretend you are Laurel.” A smile tugged at her lips. What a frightening thought. Max’s mother…Well, truth to tell, Max’s mother was delightful, delirious, unpredictable, madcap, and amazing. She was also empathetic. How often she’d known exactly how Annie felt and spoken the perfect words of encouragement or comfort.

  Pretend she was Laurel…

  Footsteps sounded on the front steps. Annie grabbed the binoculars and moved to a corner of the verandah to stand behind a tall potted fern. She had a clear view of the front drive and Britt striding toward the dock.

  Pretend…

  Annie knew that right this moment, hundreds of miles distant, Laurel’s Nordic blue eyes widened with pleasure, her patrician beauty graced the day, her throaty laughter lifted everyone near. Laurel encouraged creativity, likening moods to the swirl of colored ribbons, divining auras as easily as an ornithologist identifying birds. If Laurel were here, she would form an instant opinion of those she viewed, and more often than not, her judgments would be sound.

  An odd sensation suffused Annie’s mind. She felt mellow as summer sunshine, liberated as a soaring eagle, joyous as an embrace. She lifted the binoculars. Three magnified faces moved into her eyes and mind, dramatic as visages on a theater screen, emotions easily discerned.

  Britt Barlow—rather a hard face, but she was staking her future on what happened this weekend—no hint of fear—an impervious look—though that smile was forced—definitely a strong personality—welcoming gestures—quick jerky movements—hustling them toward the house—the lady was all business—an iron core—

  Jay Addison—in a fog—a fog of sadness—his father?—doesn’t care about Britt—oh, speaking nicely enough but he’s looking toward the house—eyes like a hurt animal—pain down deep—likely always been on the outside looking in—not tough enough—mood swings—avoids confrontations—

  Dana Addison—right at his elbow—defensive—worried—scared—pretty as a Persian cat, a soft round face, but there are claws even if they’re sheathed at the moment—if anyone threatens Jay, she’ll scratch their eyes out—buttons and bows, ruffles and calico, velveteen bunnies and teddy bears—

  Annie watched Britt and her guests until they were out of sight, taking the path into the woods, then she dashed into the room, found Max’s legal pad. She returned to the verandah and settled at the wicker table even though it was chilly. She didn’t intend to miss a single arrival.

  Now, to record her impressions. She chewed on the tip of the pen, then reminded herself she was simply pretending to be Laurel. The words spilled out on the page….

  Max stopped at the line of pines, looked back. It was a good view of the three-story house, the avenue of live oaks to the Sound, the long pier, the terraced gardens and, far distant, the rectangular rock pool against the backdrop of the maritime forest. Hidden in the forest were the eight cabins. He nodded, clear now on the geography.

  He walked into the pines, following a wide and well-defined path, growth cut back, crushed shells underfoot. He’d gone about twenty yards when he stopped in surprise. Two metal stanchions on either side of the path supported a chain. From the chain hung a sign. Red letters proclaimed:

  PRIVATE

  EMPLOYEES ONLY

  CLOSED TO PUBLIC

  DANGER

  Well, he was an employee. He stepped over the chain. The path was narrower here but still well covered with oyster shells. Wet ferns brushed him, occasional drops of water splatted down as the wind rustled the pines.

  The path split. Max hesitated, then veered to his left. The forest looked almost impenetrable to either side, hospitable to foxes, raccoons, cougars, perhaps even wild boars. He’d gone another twenty yards before he reached a clearing. Three modest cabins rose on pilings. He strode to the nearest, gave a swift look around, and thudded up the steps. He knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he turned the knob, stepped inside.

  His eyes widened. The chairs, sofa, walls, and lampshades were pink. Dolls of every age, type, and description filled two bookcases. Plump, skinny, large and small dolls sat, lay, and stood. Rag dolls, porcelain dolls, Barbies. Max stepped to a desk in one corner. He pulled out a drawer, found a checkbook. Lucinda Phillips. He poked his head into the bedroom. Pink ruffles on the bed. A pink satin chair. More dolls.

  Max regained the clearing with a feeling of relief. The second cabin was empty. Each bedroom contained a single bed, nightstand, vanity, and small armchair. The living room decor was as impersonal and unadorned as a hotel room—a sofa, two chairs. There was no trace of occupancy, although one bedroom held a faint violet scent. Max’s nose wriggled. His mother had always been fond of violet bath powder.

  He paused at the front door for a final survey. At a guess, this cabin served as quarters for the maids, who, according to Britt, came and went. Apparently Golden Silk was presently without domestic staff.

  In the living room of the third cabin, Max’s nose wriggled again. Pipe smoke. A pipe rack, humidor, and heavy pottery ashtray in the shape of the state of Texas were the only items on top of a massive wooden desk. The furnishings were Spartan and clearly masculine, a brown leather sofa, a worn recliner, a rifle case, a boot-scarred pine coffee table. Hunting and fishing magazines were stacked atop a metal trunk beneath a front window.

  Max’s examination of the bedroom and its closet was cursory—work clothes, flannel shirts, a down jacket, a hunting vest, boots, boat shoes. Not a single suit. The chest held underclothing, sweaters, socks of all sorts.

  Max was almost to the front door when he veered toward the desk. It had been easy enough to find the checkbook with Lucinda Phillips’s name. He would do the same for Harry Lyle, though this was surely his cabin. Max pulled at the center drawer. The drawer didn’t budge. The drawer was locked. He yanked at the side drawers. Locked, all three of them.

  Max stared at the desk. Was Harry Lyle simply a very private man? Or did he have something in that desk that he couldn’t afford for anyone to see?

  Max looked again at the simple, spare furnishings of the living room. No photographs. No books. Nothing to tell about the man who lived here. Was Harry Lyle a man who made little impression on his surroundings or was he avoiding any revelations about his past? Max’s gaze paused at the rifle case. He walked to it. Locked, of course, as it should be. The rifle case was near the metal trunk. The back of the trunk faced the room. In two strides, Max reached the trunk, bent to see. A closed padlock hung from the hasps. It took only an instant to rem
ove the magazines, attempt to lift one end. The trunk wasn’t merely serving as a window seat. The trunk—the locked trunk—was chock-full of something heavy. Max replaced the magazines.

  Max frowned in thought when he regained the main path. Harry Lyle’s penchant for locking up his belongings might have no relevance to the death of Jeremiah Addison. On the other hand, it might be of critical importance. It would be interesting to see what kind of information Barb had dredged up about Harry Lyle. What was it Annie had said? First she’d suggested they look hardest at the guests who were not ordinarily invited to the island. But she had made the point that if the murderer usually was on the island, it made sense to fix the trap when others were present.

  Max followed the path perhaps a quarter mile to another clearing. There were three wooden structures—a good-sized generator with a deep, steady hum, a storage shed, and a garbage compactor. He circled the buildings, more out of thoroughness than expectation. On the far side of the generator station, he saw a faint opening into the pines. Another trail. He hesitated, shrugged, plunged into the woods. This path was much fainter and obviously less traveled.

  A crackling noise sounded ahead of him. Max stopped to listen.

  Annie held the binoculars steady. Here came money and power, sleek blond hair, a tan cashmere coat, alligator handbag and pumps. The man a step behind her wore a blue-and-gray checked cashmere sport coat, gray worsted wool trousers, black tasseled loafers. Head high, regal as a queen, the woman held out her hand to Britt Barlow. The cluster of diamonds in her wedding ring glittered even in the weak sunlight.

  Pretend…

  Millicent McRae—ambitious as Cleopatra—lusty as Mae West—enigmatic as Marlene Dietrich—impervious as Margaret Thatcher—a nimble intelligence—humorless—clever—oozing charm to Britt—why?

  Nick McRae—possessive—arrogant—proud of his wife—one of his possessions—disdainful of social inferiors—expects subservience—reluctant to be here—

  Britt shepherded her guests through the garden. They rounded the fountain and were out of sight.

  Annie returned to the legal pad, began to write though she fought a growing fatigue. In the future she must make more allowances for Laurel. Empathy was heavy work.

  Brush crackled again, twigs crushed underfoot, a rustle of vegetation.

  Max called out, “Hello?”

  There was a silence, then a man answered. “Yo. Hold up there.” The command was brusque, the voice a deep growl.

  Max waited. It was cool and dim in the pine forest. A cardinal flashed in a nearby tree.

  A stocky man in a plaid flannel shirt, worn jeans, and brown leather boots laced to the knee plodded around a fern, stopped, folded his arms. A fringe of gray hair circled a round bald head. His sun-darkened face was as gnarled and tough as an alligator’s back. Dark eyes peered from beneath grizzled brows. He stood with his legs spread apart. “This here’s a private path, mister. Didn’t you see the sign?” He looked as immovable as a granite boulder.

  Max grinned, stuck out his hand. “Max Darling. I work for Britt. She told me I could go anywhere I wanted, look the place over.” After all, Britt said he and Annie could make themselves at home. As far as Max was concerned, he had carte blanche.

  The bunched shoulders relaxed. “She said that? Well, that’s okay then.” A strong hand gripped Max’s.

  Max was casual. “You’re Harry Lyle.” The man with a fancy for locks. “Britt said you keep everything shipshape.”

  “That’s right. There’s always something needs fixing. I was just stringing up a new aerial for the radio. Had a big wind last week with that storm.” He gestured in the direction from which he’d come. “I’ll show you.” He turned and led the way.

  Annie focused the binoculars on the long, dark, sour face of Gerald Gamble, Jeremiah’s hatchet man, now Craig Addison’s executive secretary. If anyone ever looked the part of a villain, it was Gerald. Heavy-lidded dark eyes flickered from side to side, jutting cheekbones, thin lips, heavy chin.

  Craig Addison smiled as he shook Britt’s hand. There was no suggestion of strain in his greeting. He looked what he was, mid-thirties, handsome, successful, genial. His smile faded as he looked past his hostess toward the house where his father had died.

  Gerald—suspicious—deliberate—intuitive—spooked as a horse hearing a rattlesnake—

  Craig—impatient—an underlying grimness—a hint of uncertainty—a determination to fulfill an obligation—

  Britt seemed animated with these guests, pausing once to point toward the bottom of the garden. Gerald and Craig were both attentive, but there was no pleasure in their faces.

  Max estimated the yacht anchored in the cove to be fifty, maybe fifty-two feet in length. The pleasure boat glistened with care, the rails polished, the paint job fresh. “Good-looking.” His admiration was genuine.

  They stood at the end of a long pier. A motorboat was moored near a ladder. Harry rocked back on the heels of his boots. “I told Ms. Barlow she should use it for charter. I handle it by myself just for her, but I could pick up a crew in Savannah if need be. Lots of folks pay ten thousand a week to charter this kind of boat. But she keeps it for herself. And to herself. She says too many folks might think they want to come to an island and after they got here want to leave if they knew there was boats handy. As far as she’s concerned, you pay for a week, you stay for a week. She tells them right off, once you come, you’re here until the boat comes back to pick you up.”

  Max felt like making a fist and punching the sky. What a relief to know none of them were truly marooned on this island. His relief was immediately laced with a quick anger. His employer had been a little less than forthcoming. Britt Barlow hadn’t said a word about a yacht or a motorboat. This cove explained why their skipper had gone out into open ocean and then swung around the southern tip of the island to the dock. He must have been instructed to avoid the lee side and this obvious harbor. Britt had said no one could depart until Sunday and the island was not in cell phone range of the mainland. What else had she neglected to mention?

  But now he knew about the yacht. That knowledge might turn out to be an ace up his sleeve. And he would be as mum as Britt had been.

  He looked at the handyman. “You were putting up an aerial?”

  Annie adjusted the binoculars, brought the image into sharp focus. She murmured aloud, “What’s an elegant woman like you doing in a place like this?”

  Isabel Addison shaded her eyes, gazed at the house. Her face looked somber, haunted. The women were a study in contrast, Isabel a forlorn, uncertain guest, Britt the image of a woman in charge, crisp and brisk and forceful.

  Isabel Addison—struggling with emotion—fear—despair—profound sadness—a troubled spirit—but brave, very brave—

  Isabel had come to Golden Silk by herself. Craig had arrived with his employee. What had happened between Craig and Isabel? Why had she left her husband the week after his father was murdered? What were her thoughts as she returned to the island? Not pleasant, Annie decided. Definitely not pleasant.

  Annie sighed as she added to her notes. So far, Millicent McRae was the only guest to evince any pleasure upon arrival, and Annie doubted Millicent’s effort at charm was genuine. But lack of charm didn’t equate to murderous impulses.

  Annie tapped the legal pad with the pen. Odd. So far she’d picked up a plethora of emotions among the arriving guests, but not a hint of guilt. Perhaps there were limits to the depth of perception employed so routinely by Laurel. Perhaps Annie lacked her mother-in-law’s skill. Perhaps—and the verandah seemed darker, chillier—the murderer felt no guilt.

  Harry’s boots thumped on the pier as he led the way to shore. A metal storage shed with its door ajar sat near a cabin on stilts. He scrambled up the ladder to the cabin, waited on a narrow porch for Max. He pointed to the roof and a crisscross of wires. “Got the aerial up.” He opened the front door, stood aside for Max to enter.

  The square room contained a workta
ble, several chairs, and, against the far wall, a built-in bench with a ham radio.

  Max crossed the clean wooden floor, stood next to a swivel chair, studied the switches. Dials glowed green and gold. “Quite a setup.”

  “She’s got the latest equipment. I’ll say one thing for Ms. Barlow, she doesn’t stint on upkeep. Or staff.” Harry joined Max. “Now, what kind of work are you in, Mr. Darling?” There was a smile on his face but the eyes that watched Max had a cold, dark core.

  Annie’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle. Here came trouble. If not for her, surely for whoever stood in the path of Kim Kennedy. Britt Barlow looked wary. This might be an invitation she would rue.

  Kim moved toward her hostess with the beauty of an enchantress, the stride of a Valkyrie, and the questing gaze of a smart, tough, ruthless reporter. She looked crisp and commanding in a soft wool jacket, black with a white windowpane pattern, black slacks, and black square-toed penny loafers. Kim greeted Britt with a brilliant smile, a brisk handshake.

  Annie read the carmine lips in the magnified predatory face: How kind of you to think of me. And, Laurel-like, Annie honed in on Kim’s thoughts—No match for me—can’t fool me, not now, not ever—what glorious fun—

  “Oh.” Max’s voice was casual. “I’m a consultant, Harry. People who are curious about things get in touch with me. I find answers for them. You can call me Max.” His smile was sunny as he moved to the door. “Do you use the radio as well?”

  Harry stood still for an instant, his craggy face unreadable, his cold eyes on Max. “Me? Oh, no. Not my job. Ms. Barlow takes care of emergencies, and that’s what it’s for. Like she said, you have to be prepared. About a month ago, a guest got sick. Heart attack. Ms. Barlow called for help and medevac was here in a little over an hour.”