by Carolyn Hart
Jay Addison—Was desperately short of money until his father died. Turned down for a loan. Hadn’t seen his father for several months. He and Dana came to Golden Silk without an invitation. Jay resented Cissy, was rude to Britt. When they arrived, he told Britt he had to talk to his father. Britt said they quarreled that last night.
Dana Addison—Will do anything to protect Jay. Bitter at having had to return to work. On a day-care excursion, son Teddy wandered away in a park. After a two-hour search, he was found a half-mile distant. He was safe and uninjured though sobbing. Dana was hysterical, said if anything had happened to him it would have been Jeremiah’s fault.
Annie pushed away the last of her cookie. She couldn’t push away an image of a terrified toddler’s tear-streaked face. If she felt stricken reading of Teddy’s hours of fear, how had Dana felt? Angry enough to make certain there would be money enough for her to stay home? Because that’s what she had done. As soon as Jeremiah died, Dana quit her job.
Millicent McRae—There have been rumors about her secretaries, all handsome young men. Jeremiah had some pix of Millicent and Bobby Baker, her current secretary, that wouldn’t have looked good in the family scrapbook. Rumor has it that M.M. was supporting a bill in the House that Jeremiah wanted to see defeated (trucking regulations onerous to major transport lines).
Nick McRae—Some people think he knows all about his wife’s pastimes. But his knowing and public disclosure are entirely different kettles of smut. A proud man. He would be furious at a news story revealing that his wife was cheating on him.
Annie recalled Nick McRae’s arrogance. He had a patina of social superiority. That didn’t mean that he was immune to feelings of anger and sorrow and despair. Did he love Millicent? If so, knowledge of an affair would devastate him. Even if he no longer cared for her or had never cared for her and was well aware of her proclivities, public disclosure would be humiliating. He was not a man accustomed to humiliation. As for Millicent, she depended upon her husband for her social eminence and the ability to mix with wealthy business leaders and industrialists. A nasty scandal would likely have dried up campaign contributions. Scandal was averted because Jeremiah died.
Speaking of scandal—Annie tapped her pen on the pad. Everett’s notes about Kim Kennedy were as revealing about him as about her. Apparently, he’d made it a point to keep close tabs that weekend on Kim and Jeremiah. Did he have the temerity to try to blackmail the big boss? It seemed foolhardy but why else had he skulked along behind them trying to eavesdrop? She shook her head, began to write.
Kim Kennedy—Everett was lurking behind a crape myrtle in the garden when Kim rushed up to find Jeremiah. The conversation, according to Everett:
Kim: “Jeremiah, I couldn’t find you anywhere. I thought we were going out on the yacht.”
Jeremiah: “I understand you’ve been telling people I’m going to marry you. I suggest you clear up any misunderstandings before you leave.”
Kim: “Leave?”
Jeremiah: “The boat will take you back to Savannah at eight in the morning.”
According to Everett, Jeremiah turned and walked away, left her standing in the garden. Her face wasn’t pretty.
Annie doubted Kim Kennedy had been willing to accept dismissal. Had she hoped to charm Jeremiah out of his ill humor? Or did she know him well enough to recognize defeat? Had he lived, she likely would have lost her job as well as her hopes for marriage to a rich and powerful man. What had been her reaction? Had she felt confident her charms would prevail? Had she decided to cut her losses? Or was her ego such that she would see him dead rather than be discarded? As it turned out, she had lost her job. But no one—except Everett and now Annie—knew that her last encounter with Jeremiah had ended in rejection.
Annie put down the legal pad, pushed up from the sofa. She carried her milk bottle and cookie plate to the dressing room, rinsed them in the sink. She felt jumpy and restless. She wished Max were with her. Everett’s cabin might as well be on the moon. It seemed very last century to be totally out of touch. This was the world of cell phones, but not on a remote island. Was Max asleep? And, please God, safe? Surely he and Everett had slid the bolt shut, securing the door, and perhaps wedged a chair beneath the handle. How far was the couch from a window? Would an intruder try the windows on the porch? Probably. That would make noise, enough noise to awaken Max. He could roll out onto the floor, use the couch for cover, wait for a dark form to slip over the sill, then flick on the light.
Annie found herself at the door to the verandah, looking out at darkness. She pulled on the knob, stepped out into the moist chill of the night. It was hard to estimate the distance from the house to Everett’s cabin. The path into the woods behind the fountain curved and turned and switched. Likely it wasn’t far in a direct line, but it seemed a long way on foot. Would she hear gunshots? She’d leave the door open when she went to bed. Just in case. She walked slowly up and down the verandah. She needed to get to sleep. She was turning to go inside when she saw a flicker of light deep in the garden.
Max bunched a pillow behind his head, twisted uncomfortably. The lumpy sofa cushions were unyielding. An extra blanket from the bedroom closet offered plenty of warmth. Gradually he relaxed, though thoughts tumbled in his mind. There was much to do tomorrow. He would try again to get Everett to share whatever he knew. There were the other guests to interview. He’d start with Gerald Gamble, the likeliest to know why each person had been invited that particular weekend.
As Max slid into a light sleep, attuned to the night sounds and the windows that opened on the porch, the flashlight and gun on the coffee table within easy reach, he tried to remember what it was that wriggled deep within his mind, something he needed to know, something he must ask about, something he’d missed…
Annie leaned over the verandah railing. She strained to see. The sky was overcast, hiding the stars. The garden was a series of black shadows, except for an occasional flash of light. Just like connecting dots, Annie followed the progress of the light—and someone who held it—toward the house. Whoever moved in the garden was making every effort not to be seen, only using the flashlight often enough to keep to the path.
Annie whirled, dashed across the verandah. She hurried through the bedroom, opened the door to the hallway. Heron House was never locked…never locked…never locked…That openness no doubt usually charmed visitors, who might revel in the sense of security afforded by a remote island. But not now, not when everyone knew a murderer was a fellow guest. The flash of light in the garden marked a covert progress. What was the reason for stealth? Annie wanted to know who slipped through the night, but she definitely wasn’t disposed to enter the gardens by herself. It took only a moment to run lightly down the hall to Britt’s room.
Annie knocked, called out, “Britt, it’s Annie. Someone’s in the garden.” Her words fell into silence. Annie knocked again, then turned the knob, pushed open the door. “Britt?”
Darkness. Silence.
Annie took a deep breath, turned on the light. The room was empty. The bed wasn’t turned down. Britt’s lovely blue dress was tossed across a chaise longue. There was no sign of disarray.
Annie turned, moving fast. She stopped at the stairway, flipped on the upstairs hall light, and checked the top step. She didn’t expect to find a wire stretched in place, but nonetheless she didn’t intend to be careless as long as she was on Golden Silk. Reassured, she clattered down the hard steps. The rose-shaded lamp on the hall table cast a soft glow, though the hall and rooms beyond were in inky darkness. Annie found the panel of switches and switched on all the lights, welcomed the flood of brightness. She was standing in the entry hall, the chandeliers blazing, when the massive front door opened.
Britt stopped in the doorway, lifted a hand to shield her eyes. In a black turtleneck and jeans, she looked athletic and purposeful. And startled. “Annie?”
Annie gestured at the flashlight in Britt’s left hand. “Was that you in the garden just now? Turni
ng your light off and on?”
“Yes.” Britt placed the flashlight on the side table, brushed back a lock of curly dark hair. Her chiseled features were somber. “I think someone was out in the garden.” She sounded puzzled. “I came down to get a book from the library and I happened to look out the window. The drapes hadn’t been drawn. I thought I saw a light near the fountain.” She pressed fingers against her temple. “There’s no reason for anyone to be out this late. I thought it was odd.”
Annie’s voice was sharp. “You went down there by yourself?”
Britt’s was equally sharp. “I had to go. I’ve brought everyone to the island. I can’t ignore anything that seems out of the way. Actually, I went upstairs to see if you and Max were back, but you weren’t. So”—she lifted her chin—“I went out to see.”
Annie understood. Britt felt responsible for the safety of her guests. But to go out alone in the darkness, knowing there was a murderer on the island, ranked between foolhardy and extremely courageous.
“I got a flashlight from the kitchen. I know the paths so well, I only used the flashlight a little bit.” She looked uneasy. “It may have been my imagination, but I felt as if”—the words came slowly, as if dredged from deep inside—“there was something wrong. Something bad. It was incredibly dark, like trying to walk blindfolded. I kept stopping and listening, but the owls make so much noise, I couldn’t hear if anyone was moving around. I had this feeling…” She shook her head, her dark hair flying. “Anyway, I crept around on tiptoe.” A sudden smile lighted her face, made her look younger. “I suppose I looked like an idiot.” The smile seeped away, and once again she was weary and somber. “I almost called out. Then I didn’t. I was scared. I started to go around the fountain and somehow I couldn’t make myself do it. That’s when I came back to the house. I slipped from shadow to shadow.”
Annie had watched those pinpricks of light, recognized stealth. Now she knew why. “You shouldn’t have gone out by yourself. You should have waited. We got back a little while ago, then Max left.” Quickly she explained Max’s decision to stay at Everett’s cabin. And why. “Max has a gun. If you’d waited—”
Britt’s gesture was impatient, imperious. “If I’d waited, there would have been no chance to find out what was going on. And here I am, safe and sound. Nothing happened to me. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. I’m at the point where I see danger in every shadow.”
Annie never dismissed intuition. “A policeman once told me to run like hell if I ever felt in danger. If you had that sense, the murderer may have only been a few feet from you. Don’t go out alone again.”
Britt suddenly looked amused. “I’m not a complete fool.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a blue-black handgun, held it loosely on her palm. “It belonged to Jeremiah. I suppose I should have sent it to Craig or Jay. I didn’t even think about it when I boxed up Jeremiah’s papers. It’s kept in the desk in the library. Now I’m going to put it back and get a drink. Why don’t you join me?” She turned, headed down the hall, still talking. “You know, I’m not sure I really saw a light. The moonlight comes and goes. Maybe—”
Annie followed. Britt wanted to be reassured that everything was all right. Or as all right as it could be under the circumstances.
Britt turned on the lights in the library. ”—that’s all it was. Anyway, come on in.” Britt moved behind the desk, bent to her right and reached for a drawer. The bottom drawer rolled out smoothly. Britt placed the handgun inside, pushed the drawer shut, then took a key from her pocket and twisted it in the lock. She stuck the key back in her jeans, made a moue of relief. “There’s something hideous about a gun.” She swung toward Annie. “Don’t you feel that way?”
“Yes.” They looked at each other with complete understanding.
Disposing of the gun seemed to lift the cloud of worry from Britt. Her entire demeanor changed. She gave Annie a wistful smile. “I wish you and Max could be here for fun. The island’s so beautiful. Maybe, once everything’s cleared up, you’ll come and stay and tramp on the beach at low tide and look for shells. Let me show you what I found recently. Come see.”
Britt moved eagerly to a side table. Annie followed. Three decanters sat on a lacquered tray. Shelving behind the table held an assortment of glasses. Britt pulled out a central drawer. Shells rested on green velvet. She reached down and handed a kitten’s paw to Annie. “I found it just last week. Isn’t it glorious?” The shell was about an inch and a half long with six wavy ribs on the outside. The red-brown markings on the ridges were in soft contrast to the white shell. “And here’s a perfect auger shell.” Britt held up the long, narrow shell.
Annie replaced the kitten’s paw, admired the whorls on the auger shell. Yes, it would be fun to come to Golden Silk and hunt for shells and knobbed whelks and sand dollars. But there was a small matter of murder.
Britt fingered the ridges of the auger. She gently returned it to the velvet, ran her fingers lightly over a calico scallop, a Scotch bonnet, and a banded tulip. She stared at the collection for a moment, then closed the drawer. Her pleased look faded. She picked up a decanter, her face once again drawn in tired lines. “Sherry? Brandy?”
“Sherry, please.” Annie strolled to a Brittany sofa, admiring the bright splash of a peony pattern on the yellow fabric. She settled onto a cloud-soft cushion.
Britt half filled a sherry glass. She poured herself a generous amount of brandy. She brought the sherry to Annie. She didn’t sit down. Her movements impatient, she paced toward the fireplace, turned to face Annie. She stared into the golden liquor, took a sip, and gave Annie a curiously intent look. “I thought we might relax for a little while, visit and have a drink and talk about the island. But it’s no good, is it?”
The shadow of murder leached ease from the comfortable room, made Britt’s eyes pools of fear, drew Annie’s gaze to the dark windowpanes. Britt followed her glance. She placed the snifter on the mantel, and hurried across the room to draw the drapes. “I can shut out the night.” Her lips trembled. “I can’t shut out the fear. I don’t think anybody’s out there. But, there could be. Dammit”—her voice was ragged—“I hate being afraid. Maybe it will be over soon. It has to be over.”
Annie hated to take advantage of Britt’s distress. But the more Max knew, the more likely he could find a solution, free Britt from the burden of Jeremiah’s death, restore the island to serenity. “Britt, you know these people.” Annie flung out her hand toward the garden and the forest and the secluded cabins. “You must have some idea who killed Jeremiah.” How much did Britt know about her guests? Enough certainly to have an estimate of character. Did she know as much about them as Everett did?
Britt was once again at the fireplace. She stood stiffly, her face thoughtful. She drank down half the glass of brandy.
Annie sipped the sherry. Mmm, cream sherry, sweet as nectar. Usually, she adored a glass of excellent sherry. Tonight her pleasure was diminished by the atmosphere of gloom. Britt’s tension permeated the room.
Britt placed the glass on the mantel, clasped her slender hands tightly together. “I don’t know.” She emphasized the verb.
Annie’s eyes widened. Britt might not know, she might have no proof, but she suspected someone. She had in mind a particular person, and that possibility upset her.
Britt ran fingers through her hair, disarranging her dark curls. The turmoil in her mind was reflected in the wildness of her eyes, in her tousled hair, in the jerkiness of her movements as she turned, paced, turned again. She spoke fast, the words tumbling over each other, breathless, stricken. “In a perfect world, it would be Gerald. No one likes him. I don’t think Jeremiah liked him. Gerald is useful. He can always be counted on to do the dirty work. I guess that’s why Craig keeps him on.” Her eyes swept unseeingly over Annie. “I’d think Craig would be sick of that adoring look. Gerald’s like a dog.”
Annie scarcely breathed, she sat so still. She didn’t want Britt to notice her. She especially didn’t want Br
itt to realize how much her disjointed, emotional speech revealed.
Britt’s tone curdled with disdain. “The master and his dog. But if it can’t be Gerald, I’d pick Kim. I wish it could be Kim. I hated Jeremiah for bringing her here. Cissy was too weak to get up and she couldn’t eat and that blond bitch paraded around the island like it belonged to her, talking about changes she’d make when she lived here. Or Everett. He’s slimy enough. If only it were Everett. It would be just like Everett to have done it himself, then try to blackmail me.” Britt drew a quick breath. The flush in her cheeks subsided. Gradually her breathing slowed. “I’m sorry. I’m not fit company. If you don’t mind, let’s go up. Though I don’t know how well any of us will sleep. Please take your sherry with you, if you like.” Her hand darted out, clutched the snifter. She downed the rest of the brandy in a single gulp. “Tomorrow everything will be better.” A broken laugh. “Okay. Maybe not better. But we’ll get things organized. You’ll help, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. I’ll do everything I can.” Annie rose, leaving the glass of sherry on the end table.
Britt was already moving toward the door, reaching toward the light switch. As Annie came even with her, Britt hesitated, then swung toward the desk. She darted behind it, bent, rattled the bottom drawer. When she joined Annie in the doorway, she looked embarrassed. “Just making sure.”
Annie followed her silently down the broad hall and up the stairs. She wished the front and back doors were as securely locked as the desk drawer holding the gun.
On the landing, Britt glanced down the hall toward Annie’s room and said abruptly, “Jam a chair under your doorknob.”