Death of the Party

by Carolyn Hart

  Britt tugged at the collar of her turtleneck. “I never thought Harry took Jeremiah’s gun. He wouldn’t make that kind of mess breaking into the desk. But no one knew the gun was there except for me and Annie.”

  Annie remembered watching Britt place the gun in the drawer last night and lock the drawer. She spoke quickly, urgently. “Someone saw you put the gun away.”

  Britt looked at her strangely. “You were the only person there.”

  “Through the windows.” Annie remembered clearly. “Last night you saw a light in the garden and went out to see. When you came back, we walked into the library. The blinds weren’t shut. Somebody followed you up to the house and looked inside and saw us. And the gun.” Annie shivered, imagining a watchful figure observing their every move.

  “I was so careful.” Britt’s tone was brittle. “I locked the damn thing up but if I hadn’t taken it out with me, he”—she jerked her head toward the body—“might still be alive.”

  Max was quick to offer solace. “Don’t beat yourself up, Britt. Sure, the murderer saw the gun, decided to get it. But there are knives and rocks and ropes. Once the murderer decided Everett was a threat, his death was inevitable. One way or another.”

  “I guess so.” Britt shuddered. “This is all my fault. You warned me when I came to see you. You told me it was dangerous to confront a killer. All I thought about was saving myself. That’s dreadful, isn’t it? Me. The great me. That’s all I thought about…” She buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook.

  Annie moved close, slipped her arm around those quivering shoulders. “You had nothing to do with Everett’s decision to bait the murderer. Maybe he was after money. Maybe”—she tried to be charitable—“he thought he could flush out the killer, break a big story. None of that is your fault.”

  Britt’s hands fell away from her tear-streaked face. She made no answer, shook her head.

  Annie knew Britt was grappling with horrendous guilt, refusing to shift any blame to Everett.

  “Come on, Britt.” Max’s tone was peremptory. “There will be time enough to second-guess everything we’ve done. And,” he said wearily, “there’s plenty of blame to go around. But now we have to deal with what’s happened. Our first job is to secure the crime scene.” Max’s face creased in thought. “When did we hear that shot?”

  “Five minutes ago? Ten?” Annie was uncertain. It seemed a long time ago that they’d heard that chilling crack.

  “Almost ten, I’d say. That puts Everett’s death at”—he glanced at his watch—“about ten-thirty. All right, let’s get started. We have to make a record for the police.”

  Britt spoke jerkily. “Make a record…How can you talk like that? He’s lying there in his blood.” She clasped shaking hands together, held them tightly but could not stop the trembling. “Do you realize there’s no way we can call anybody, get help? We’re stuck on this island until the charters show up at five tomorrow.”

  “I know.” Max was calm. “It’s up to us to handle everything.” He stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the dead man. “Do you have a camera?”

  “A camera?” Her voice rose. “What good is that?”

  “I’ll take a series of pictures of the crime scene.” He was brisk. “Since the police can’t get here until late tomorrow, that will ensure they know precisely how everything appeared today.”

  Annie nodded approval at Max. He was trying to divert Britt from her distress and doing a good job of it. He was absolutely right about the importance of making a record. Photos and sketches and diagrams were the only means of assuring an accurate representation of the cabin at this moment.

  “This is important, Britt.” He gestured toward the door. “If you’ll get a camera and bring down another tablet and a tape measure and some gallon-size plastic bags, Annie and I will get started.”

  Britt’s rapid breathing slowed. She still looked upset, but she was trying to be calm. “All right. If you think that’s what we should do, I’ll get what you need.” She turned toward the door, moving fast, clearly eager to leave behind the cabin and its lifeless occupant.

  Max called out, “Don’t tell anyone what’s happened. Let’s keep this to ourselves until we finish here.”

  Britt looked back, her face creasing in a troubled frown. “Shouldn’t everyone know so they can be on guard?”

  Annie was puzzled. “Why would anyone else be in danger?”

  Britt jammed fingers through tangled black curls. “I don’t know. I never thought Everett was in danger. It seems to me as long as a murderer is roaming around with a gun, we should warn everyone.”

  Max looked swiftly around the room.

  Annie looked, too. Britt had been more observant than they despite her distress. There was no trace of a weapon in the living room. It seemed unlikely the murderer would have left the weapon in either the kitchen or bedroom, though they would check. Possibly the murderer had dropped the gun outside, perhaps flung it deep into the woods. They would search. If not…

  Max moved close to the body. He knelt, looked beneath a nearby chair. When he got up, he looked worried. “You’re right, the gun isn’t here.” He massaged one cheek. “If the murderer still has the gun and intends to use it, we can’t round up everyone in time to prevent another shooting.”

  Britt looked stricken. “That’s horrible.”

  “But true.” Max was grim. “The best thing we can do is get a good record ready for the sheriff. That won’t take long. By then everyone will have had time to finish their reports. I’d like to get those before anyone knows about Everett. Let’s keep his murder quiet until then.”

  “All right.” She was clearly reluctant. “I guess that’s the right thing to do. I won’t say a word to anyone. I’ll get the things and be back as quickly as I can.” She turned and hurried down the stairs. The cart rumbled into motion, headed into the forest.

  Max paced slowly around the perimeter of the room, scanning the floor.

  Annie understood his need to get started. The sooner they finished their investigation, the sooner everyone could be called together, informed about Everett and alerted to the possibility of danger. But they were losing any opportunity to observe the suspects before they were informed about this new crime. What was everyone doing now? In her heart, Annie believed a murderer alone surely must show in face or actions some trace of the violent deed. If someone could slip unobserved close to each cabin, look for signs of stress. Or triumph. Or cruelty. If someone…

  Britt was on her way to get materials from the house. Max was gathering information. She took a step toward him. “You don’t need me here. I’ll make a circuit of the cabins, see what everyone’s doing.” She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to eleven. If she hurried, she’d catch everyone before they started up to the house for lunch.

  She was turning toward the door when he strode across the room, caught her hand. “No.” He held her hand in a tight, warm, determined grasp.

  She looked into blue eyes dark with fear. For her.

  “Hey, I’ll be okay.” She felt cold inside, but she didn’t want him to know. None of them were safe until the murderer was caught. “I don’t threaten anyone.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” His tone was grudging. “But you’re so damn transparent. Right this minute, you look like the ship’s going down and you don’t have a life preserver. Anybody can look at you and figure out something’s up.”

  Annie gave his hand a squeeze, pulled free. She lifted her hands to her face, closed her eyes, concentrated. When her hands dropped, she was on stage. She gave him a saucy look. “Excuse me. Who was an off-Broadway actress?” It was a relief to remember happy days when her only concern had been whether that handsome blond guy named Max would call her for a date.

  He didn’t answer. There was the shadow of a smile in his eyes, but his face was still worried.

  She qualified her claim. “Okay, off-off-Broadway. If anyone sees me, I’ll have on a happy face. I’ll be
a cheerful bird on the wing, hunting for Britt. Nobody will have any idea of”—she spread her hands—“this.”

  Finally, slowly, he nodded. “Okay. But first, go up to the house. Get my gun out of the gym bag. Somebody’s killed twice. Be damn sure you look cheerful. Whatever you do, don’t take any chances. Come back here as soon as you finish.”

  The house had the feel of emptiness. Annie closed the front door behind her, listened for a moment. She almost called out for Britt in case she was still here, then quickly clamped her lips shut. She had a distinct feeling she’d better not tell Britt she was getting Max’s gun. Annie thought it quite likely she’d try to commandeer the gun. Britt liked to be in charge. And Britt should be safe enough. She was likely on her way back to the cabin now with the camera. Then she’d be with Max.

  As Annie crossed the central hallway, the clock chimed the hour. Annie was suddenly sure she was alone in the house. She started up the stairs, paused midway. The thought of night on the island, marooned with an armed murderer, made her stomach lurch. At least they’d be armed, too. Maybe they’d find out enough today—somehow, someway—to trap the murderer.

  She made no effort to be quiet, hurrying down the hallway to their room. The door was open. She frowned. She’d certainly shut it behind her when she’d raced up to grab her windbreaker before setting out on her cleaning mission. She stopped in the doorway, stared.

  Their suitcases were upended, clothes flung every which way. The sheets had been pulled from the bed, dumped into a heap.

  Annie ran across the room, seeking their stack of folders and the legal pad upon which she’d made notes, and the scrap of paper she’d taken from Everett’s green leather folder.

  The tabletop was bare.

  She whirled, heart pounding. Could Max have rearranged their papers, moved them? It took only a frantic moment to cross the room, open drawers, lift up the scattered clothes, stoop to look under the bed. The papers were gone and with them the information they’d amassed about Jeremiah and his guests that last weekend. Annie hesitated, then began to straighten. There was no point in worrying about fingerprints. This thief certainly wouldn’t have left any identifying mark. She scarcely noted what she was doing as she picked up their clothes, returned them to the drawers. Instead, she felt a flicker of satisfaction. The ransacker, unwittingly, had left the most important marker possible. The theft was proof, if any had been needed, that Everett had died because he possessed some special knowledge about Jeremiah’s murder. Everett’s report of the weekend had been taken from his cabin. The linkage was clear.

  She restored the linens to the bed. As she turned, she noted Max’s gym bag upside down in a corner near the fireplace. She frowned, hurried to it. Max wanted her to carry the gun when she went to the cabins. She’d left her windbreaker in the cleaning cart so there was no place to tuck a gun, hide it from view. She’d have to figure out a way to carry the gun. Maybe she’d take the gym bag with her. She didn’t like guns. She didn’t like the greasy feel of their metal or their rock-heavy weight. Most of all, she didn’t like the knowledge that she had the means to kill. To hold a gun steady, aim it at a living creature, press the trigger—

  She reached for the bag. The moment she lifted it, she knew. The bag was much too light. She turned it over. It was unzipped. She plunged a hand inside, felt clothes, but no metal. She pulled out Max’s clothes and his shaving kit.

  Max’s gun was gone.

  Max frowned at the legal pad that lay askew on the coffee table. Would it be better to leave it lying there until the sheriff’s men arrived? Maybe not. In fact, he couldn’t trust anyone except Annie and Britt. Everyone else had to be suspect until and unless one of them could prove an alibi for the moment the shot sounded. The only way to secure this cabin would be to set himself or Annie or Britt as a sentinel. Sure, they could trade off guard times, but he had no intention of leaving any one of them at risk alone here. If he tried to protect the crime scene by himself, exhaustion inevitably would suck him down into drowsiness. That would leave Annie to fend for herself.

  His mouth quirked. Annie, of course, would not see that as a problem. Her capability was exceeded only by her confidence. The smile slipped away. Yes, she was capable and confident and brave and he’d be damned if he’d risk her safety.

  His original impulse was right. He’d capture all the elements of the crime scene, sketch them, photograph them, describe them in infinite detail. Moreover, he would take custody of any evidence that could be filched. He’d need a plastic bag for the legal pad—

  “Put your hands up.” The voice from the doorway behind him was deep, harsh, and strained. “I’ve got you covered.”

  Max felt as though his back was a bull’s-eye, concentric red and blue circles with a white spot at the center. Slowly, stiffly, he raised his arms. The only sound from the open doorway was the scrape of a shoe.

  Max started to turn. He wanted to see his captor.

  “Don’t move.” The words grated like steel pulled on concrete.

  Max stopped. His shoulders ached. He tried to relax his muscles but his body had tightened against the possibility of a gunshot.

  Shoes thudded against the matting. A hand roughly knocked against Max’s sides and back, then the steps receded. “Where’s the gun? What did you do with it?”

  “What gun?” Max felt a flicker of hope as the words danced in his mind.

  “Don’t take me for a damn fool.” The voice rose in anger. “You shot Everett. If you’d stabbed him, you’d have blood all over you. So come on, where’s the gun?”

  Max’s shoulders stopped aching. He took a deep breath. “Let’s start over. I didn’t shoot Everett and I can prove it. The gun was gone when we got here. Now I’m going to turn around and we’ll straighten this out.” Max eased around slowly, still feeling that his vulnerable back was a target the size of a billboard.

  Gerald Gamble was backing away, his angular face pasty, sweat beading his upper lip despite the cool day. One hand was shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, a bulge protruding toward Max. “How do I know you didn’t kill him? I don’t know a damn thing about you. You claim to be a private detective—”

  Max almost interrupted but it wasn’t a moment to explain the fine points of Confidential Commissions. And the more Gerald talked, the less frightened he would be.

  “—but you could be anybody. Here you are, and there’s Everett”—Gerald jerked his head toward the still form—“dead as hell.”

  Max stood at ease, hands loose. He kept his voice pleasant, reassuring. “In a few minutes Britt will be back with a camera so I can take photographs for the sheriff. Then I’m going to sketch the crime scene. Someone shot Everett around ten-thirty. I was with my wife and Britt when we heard the shot. By the time we got to the cabin, no one was here. And, as you see”—Max waved his hand—“there’s no gun visible.”

  Gerald took a deep breath. He pulled his hand out of the jacket pocket. It was empty.

  Max watched him with narrowed eyes. Gerald had been bluffing. But was the gun the only bluff? If he was Everett’s murderer, returning to search the cabin, what better way to profess innocence than to accuse Max of the crime?

  Max took a step toward him. “What did you want from Everett?”

  Annie paused at the head of the stairs. The house lay still and empty below her, quiet as a graveyard. Annie wished Britt were there. Obviously she’d already retrieved the camera and a fresh legal pad and was on her way back to the cabin. There were so many paths, they easily could have missed each other. Annie felt a hunger for human companionship. She didn’t like the stillness of this house or its dark, brooding quality. Her eyes slid sideways, sought the wall, and the telltale prick that spoke of murder. She took a breath and plunged down the hard steps.

  A door banged.

  Annie jolted to a stop, peered down into the gloom. She almost called out for Britt. The impulse withered in the chilly quiet. She eased down the steps, every sense alert. Had someone ente
red the house or left it? The sound had come from the back of the house.

  In the central hallway she hesitated, then moved toward the door to the kitchen. Slowly she opened it. The light was off. There was a smell of baking. Lucinda must have put something—a cake?—into the oven before she left to clean the cabins. Annie crossed the tiled floor, grateful she wore sneakers that made no sound. Even so, the calico cat on the windowsill turned her head to watch Annie with wary amber eyes.

  Annie reached the back door. She opened it and saw Kim Kennedy striding into the garden, disappearing behind a bank of azaleas. A leather shoulder bag slapped against her side.

  Annie started down the steps, stopped, whirled, returned to the kitchen. She pounded across the floor to the counter where a butcher’s block held an assortment of knives. Annie chose a knife with a seven-inch blade. She held it uncertainly, her eyes scanning the room. Ah. She darted to the stove, picked up a pink pot holder. She wrapped it around the blade. She thought for a moment, then slid the knife into a baggy side pocket of her sweater. Part of the pot holder protruded but she wasn’t worried about fashion at this moment. Once outside, she walked purposefully but cautiously toward the garden.

  Gerald didn’t respond to Max’s question. He hunched his shoulders and stared at the floor, his vulture-sharp face bloodless and grim. “You said he was shot around ten-thirty?”

  “That’s right. Where were you?” Max had the sense that Gerald was scrambling to think, trying to make a decision.

  Gerald’s tone was vague. “I don’t know. I’d gone for a walk.” His hooded eyes avoided Max’s gaze.

  Max walked toward him. “Where?”

  Gerald frowned. “This is a goddam mess, isn’t it?”

  Max’s tone was wry. “I guess you could call murder a mess. That puts it as well as anything.”

  Gerald dropped his hand, flexed his fingers. “I thought the whole thing about Jeremiah being murdered was a hoax. I didn’t believe a word Britt said. Or Everett.” His glance at the corpse was dismissive. “The man was a snake. Unscrupulous. Untrustworthy. I thought he and Britt had planned the whole weekend, maybe as a way to scam money out of the family. I wouldn’t put any scheme past either of them. But now he’s dead. That has to mean Jeremiah was murdered and Everett knew something that led to the killer. The damn fool must have tried blackmail. So it’s dangerous to keep quiet, isn’t it?”