Dead by Midnight: A Death on Demand Mystery

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie walked across the sand. At the boardwalk, she looked back.

  Laura huddled in the broad wooden chair. Even from this distance, Annie could see how tightly her hands gripped the arms of the lifeguard seat. Did she stare out to sea, watching for swimmers in trouble or was she picturing a summer-drowsy garden on the morning her father died?

  Dark eyes intent, the black-and-tan bloodhound sniffed at the gauze pad. Lou Pirelli waited patiently. He knelt near the dog, holding the pad in a plastic-gloved hand. “Should be a good smell of the Jamison dame. Swabbed the seat of her car. Had her permission. Have to say she doesn’t have a clue what we’re up to. That picked up enough scent for Durante to find which way she went—if she went this way.”

  “Durante?” Max looked at the floppy-eared, long-nosed dog.

  Lou grinned. “My grandma has all of Jimmy Durante’s old radio programs.” He whistled a bar from “Inka Dinka Doo.” “Nobody has a better schnoz than this dog.”

  The dog lifted his head, gazed at Lou as he stood.

  The officer paused. “The chief said you can come along, but stay behind me and don’t touch anything. If we find anything, I got to make sure the evidence isn’t contaminated.”

  Lou spoke firmly. “Track.”

  The dense-furred dog swung his head, long ears dangling, and headed for the opening in the woods. Lou picked up a backpack from the ground, shrugged into it, and followed.

  Max stayed a few feet behind in the dim tunnel.

  The dog broke into a lope.

  “Steady,” Lou called.

  The bloodhound slowed enough for the sweating men to keep up and jolted to a stop when Lou’s foot caught in a vine and he flailed into the brush. When Lou was back on his feet, wincing from thorn scratches on his right arm, he heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I thought wading around in the marsh was bad enough. I couldn’t wait to hand those waders to Hyla. This is worse.” His glance back at Max was dour. “Thanks, old buddy. Nothing I’d rather do”—he swatted ineffectually at swirls of insects—“than go head to head with mosquitoes big enough to play in the line.”

  Durante pulled on the leash, snuffling, making low sounds in his throat.

  As the dog set out again, the trail grew less distinct. Vines and tendrils hung from tree limbs, wavered in the dusky gloom. Masses of insects swirled until the air looked speckled. The men walked another quarter mile, then the dog swerved from the path into an area of trampled ferns.

  Lou was quick. “Heel.”

  The dog stopped, planted his big paws, waited.

  “End of the line,” Lou announced. “She came this far, went off the path here.” He studied the crushed grasses. “Looks like she went about five feet.” He peered at the thicket.

  Max’s tone was thoughtful. “If we’ve guessed right, she came all this way to get rid of a cloth. For some reason, maybe she was afraid it wouldn’t sink, she didn’t throw the cloth into the marsh. Instead, she came here and went off the path . . .” Max scanned the tangle of shrubbery and ferns and palmettos.

  Lou nodded. “Let’s see if Durante can get us a little closer.” He gestured off the path. “Track, boy.”

  The dog padded two feet off the path, stopped.

  “She wouldn’t take a chance on throwing it. It might snag on a limb.” Lou stepped carefully. He pulled some canvas gloves from a pocket. He knelt beside Durante and began to pull aside leaves and ferns. He worked slowly, methodically. “Oh, hey.” His voice rippled with excitement. “Max, unzip the top of my backpack, get out the Nikon. I’ll hold the stalks apart and you can get some shots.”

  Max found the digital camera, leaned over Lou’s shoulder.

  Lou’s voice was crisp. “That brown smear looks like blood.”

  In the beach parking lot, Annie paused in the shade of a magnolia. She touched a creamy-white blossom for luck and enjoyed the sweet scent. She almost turned to go back to the beach, then shook her head. Laura Jamison had no intention of revealing who or what she had seen from the upper verandah the morning of her father’s murder. Annie had a quick memory of Tuesday morning, the whine of the leaf blower, the distress so evident in Elaine Jamison’s face as she hurried out of the cottage.

  Did Laura see Elaine walking toward the house during the critical time period when Glen was shot? Or did Laura see Kirk? Did she hear the shots? Two shots had been fired. No one admitted hearing them. It seemed likely the gun had been fired when the young yardman was at work, blowing needles out of the flower beds.

  The yardman . . . Laura had not been the only person with a clear view of the Jamison backyard. Annie hesitated, then punched a number.

  “Hey, Marian.”

  “You got something?” The reporter’s husky voice quivered with eagerness.

  Annie pictured Marian grabbing a notebook and pen, balancing the phone between cheek and shoulder. Marian rarely quidded without a pro quo. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Glen’s law firm had taken out key man insurance. The beneficiaries: Cleo Jamison and Kirk Brewster. We know where Cleo was Tuesday morning. It might be interesting to know where Brewster was.” If Kirk Brewster had nothing to fear, Marian’s inquiries wouldn’t cause harm and might, in fact, be helpful to him.

  “Oooooh.”

  Annie doubted an alligator sighting a succulent blue-winged teal would have sounded any happier.

  “Got it. Tha—”

  Before Marian could disconnect, Annie said swiftly, “In return. What’s the name of the yardman at the Jamisons’?” She had no doubt Marian had a concise list of everyone in the vicinity of the crime Tuesday morning.

  Marian didn’t hesitate. “Darwyn Jack. He’s quite the boy. Fights off the dames. But not very hard. I’ve seen him at Beau’s Bodacious.”

  Annie raised an eyebrow. The beer joint was fairly new on the island, where nightspots had a tendency to open, flourish, fail. Some neighbors complained of noise beyond the three A.M. closing time.

  Marian’s laughter was hearty. “Sometimes I’m like that old Garth Brooks song ‘Friends in Low Places.’ I like to sling back a cold one and the barflies at Beau’s keep me up-to-date on island gossip that may come in handy. Some of us go after work on Fridays. I’ve seen Darwyn there.”

  “Do you have a phone number?”

  “Not personally.” She sounded amused. “He bunks with his grandmother Bella Mae Jack. Good woman. Hold on, I’ll look up her number. I think they live on Killdeer Lane. Here you go.”

  Annie scratched the number on the back of an envelope from her purse.

  “So why the interest in the handsome Darwyn?”

  “He was in the backyard. I want to know if he saw anyone.”

  “Other than Elaine? I talked to him and that’s all I got. He got there about eight that morning, said he didn’t pay much attention to people going in and out, why should he?”

  Annie wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. Still, she wanted to talk to him. Had he noticed Laura on the porch, or, perhaps, not on the porch?

  “Thanks, Marian.”

  “Give me a yodel if you find out anything.” The connection ended.

  Annie pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She dialed Bella Mae Jack’s number.

  “Is Darwyn there?”

  “Darwyn’s at work. He’ll be home about five-thirty.”

  “This is Annie Darling. We need help with some tree trimming. I was hoping to get it done fairly soon. Can you tell me where he’s working this afternoon? I’ll drop by and talk to him.” And not about trees.

  Annie scratched an address on the envelope. She knew the area, a fairly new development of turreted and gabled homes in the gated plantation. She drove from the public beach and turned left on Sand Dollar Lane. The guard at the entry gate waved her through. He didn’t need to see her decal. She came through every day from the north end of the island and their old refurbished antebellum home en route to the marina and Death on Demand.

  She turned on Laughing Gull Road, turned again on Mo
ckingbird Lane, and pulled up in front of a two-story Tudor with an actual sweep of lawn that must have cost a fortune to create in the sandy ground. Grass flared from beneath a riding mower. The shirtless driver’s back glistened with sweat. His thick hair glowed tawny in the sunlight.

  Annie parked and walked to the drive, awaiting the mower’s approach. She lifted a hand, gestured.

  The mower reached the end of the row and came to a stop. He turned off the motor and swung lightly to the ground. He made no move toward her, standing with his hands loose at his sides.

  Annie hurried toward him. Marian said Darwyn had arrived to work around eight A.M. He would have been visible to Laura on the upper verandah. Had he looked up, noticed her? Perhaps Laura’s uneasiness had another source. Had she been on the verandah as she claimed?

  The skin of his face was smooth and perfect. He watched her approach with appraising brown eyes. His full lips curved in an impudent half smile.

  Annie stopped a foot or so away. “I’m Annie Darling, a friend of Elaine Jamison’s. You were working there Tuesday when I came by.”

  He wiped sweat from his face. “I remember. The day the old guy got killed.”

  Annie had a quick memory of thick-lipped Marlon Brando in his debut movie, which was a favorite on the old-movie channel during Academy Awards week. The young man who watched her with sleepy eyes had the same unlined face and animal magnetism.

  “I’m hoping you can help Miss Jamison.”

  Darwyn gave her a puzzled glance. “She got a problem?”

  “The police have named her as a person of interest in her brother’s death. That means—”

  “Yeah. I know what that means.” He was disdainful. “What’s that got to do with me?” He didn’t move physically, but it was as though he had stepped back. He was wary.

  Annie gestured toward a rose garden. “You were working in the Jamison garden Tuesday morning.”

  He folded his arms. “Yeah. So?” His tone was combative.

  Annie felt the moment was moving from inquiry to confrontation. She made her tone admiring. “You can be very important.”

  “Look, like I told the cops, I was working. I wasn’t looking out for people. I saw the yellow car go like a bat out of hell. It went tearing down the drive, kind of like X Sports. Man, I thought she was going to flip over when she went around the curve.”

  “Did you see her throw something in the marsh?”

  For a minute he looked puzzled. “You mean before the car roared out? No. I guess I was in the pines. Anyway, I saw you and then the car.”

  “How about Laura Jamison? Did you see her?”

  “In the garden? Not that I noticed.” He looked bored. “She was up on the verandah. Sitting there cool as you please while I sweated. But that’s how it always is.”

  “How long was she there?”

  He folded his arms, gave her a look of disgust. “I was working. I was in and around the pines and up and down the garden. I don’t have time to watch people who don’t do anything. And”—his sacrasm was heavy—“speaking of work”—his glance was dismissive—“I got to get back to mowing.”

  “Darwyn, wait, tell me about the leaf blower.” More than likely, he would not have been likely to notice much while handling the bulky loud machine.

  “The leaf blower.” Something moved in his dark eyes. “What’s such a big deal about the blower?” His voice was soft, his gaze intent.

  “What time were you using it?”

  He looked blank.

  She took a step nearer. “I’m trying to get a picture of where you were in the garden. When did you use the blower?”

  “Oh. I get you. I probably had my back to the house when I was blowing leaves. I started about nine-fifteen, finished up a little after ten.”

  Annie looked into his brown eyes that held a glint of disdain. “Have you told the police about the leaf blower?”

  His expression was cool. “Lady, they know I was using a blower.”

  “Did you tell them the time?”

  “I guess.”

  Annie felt a flicker of irritation. Darwyn obviously didn’t care what the police knew, if anything.

  “Did you work near the house?”

  He gave her a hard stare. “You asking if I looked that way?” He thought about the question. Finally, his full lips parted in a slight smile, a very slight smile. “Maybe.”

  Annie felt an intimation of danger. She spoke sharply. “If you saw anything that could help the police, it’s your duty to tell them.”

  Now his amusement was clear. “I don’t like cops. Let them figure out stuff. If I saw something, it would be bad news for somebody, wouldn’t it?”

  “Darwyn—”

  He cut her off with a laugh. “No problem. Like I told the cops, I didn’t see anybody.” He turned away and walked to the mower, swung up into the seat, and the motor roared.

  Billy Cameron ignored swirling insects, including a yellow jacket that hung between him and the small area of crushed grasses. “Don’t let the cloth get snagged on a bramble.”

  Billy’s wife, Mavis, was a crime-scene tech as well as a police-station dispatcher. She knelt on a piece of cardboard. The bloodhound lay on the path a few feet behind her, big head resting on his paws, dark eyes watchful.

  Max and Lou stood a few feet to the other side of Billy. Max held back a frond of a palmetto shrub for a better view.

  In repose, Mavis often appeared remote and wary. Despite her happiness after she met Billy, she carried the baggage of an earlier marriage to an abusive husband. Her face always lighted when she looked at Billy and her gentle mouth eased into a soft smile. Now she was intent, focused on her job, well aware that evidence must be gathered properly. Each gloved hand held a handle as she nudged the flat-jawed pincers gently between bent stalks of underbrush and clamped the tool head to a piece of blue cloth. She tugged slowly, steadily. Suddenly she stopped. “I’m afraid the cloth is caught on something.”

  Lou turned toward a cane thicket. Using strength honed by years of baseball and weight lifting, he snapped off a five-foot piece of cane. “Here, Chief.”

  Billy grabbed the cane and poked behind the cloth. “There’s a patch of stickers.” He tossed the cane back to Lou, pulled some plastic gloves from a pocket, and knelt beside Mavis. He reached carefully below the wad of cloth and tugged. The cloth quivered. “Try now.”

  Mavis pulled. As she stood, the wadded-up cloth fell free.

  Billy joined her in the middle of the path. He studied her trophy and gave a satisfied smile. He used his camcorder. “Man’s blue polo shirt found hidden”—he glanced at his watch—“on Thursday, June twenty-fourth, at—” He glanced at Lou.

  “Three twenty-seven P.M.”

  “—three twenty-seven P.M. by search dog Durante and handler Officer Lou Pirelli a quarter mile into the Kittredge Forest Preserve, approximately three feet to the east of the path.” Billy turned back the collar. “Tommy Hilfiger. Men’s size large. Sky-blue color. The shirt had been rolled into a ball and secreted among a cane stand. On the front of the shirt is a reddish smear approximately six inches in length. The heavier concentration is on the upper end of the smear. The brownish stain may be blood. Laboratory tests will be run. The shirt was taken into evidence at”—he glanced at his watch—“four-seventeen P.M. by Crime Tech Mavis Cameron.” He clicked off the camcorder.

  Annie poked her head into Max’s office, Confidential Commissions.

  Barb beamed. “How about a slice of banana cream pie?” Max’s ebullient secretary’s hair, piled in its usual beehive, looked closer to strawberry than blond this afternoon. Barb said a woman’s hair was her own to fashion and always made a statement. Gold, she was a diva; red, she was a siren; strawberry, and she was betwixt and between.

  Annie was tempted, but she’d left Ingrid on her own at Death on Demand for far too long. “Have you heard from Max?”

  “He texted a while ago. He’s following a dog and probably won’t be back in
the office this afternoon. He told me to close up shop when the pie came out. I just took it out of the oven. Hey, let me cut you a piece to take with you.”

  Annie walked next door to Death on Demand. Dog? Whatever. Max was obviously caught up in something interesting. She’d give him a ring after she checked on the store. She smiled as she stepped inside. Actually she carried two pieces of pie, each in a Styrofoam container. Barb was always prepared. One container held a slice for Ingrid.

  Ingrid was dealing with a long line at the front counter. Annie quickly slid in beside her. She tucked the small boxes and her purse onto a shelf, smiled brightly at a young woman whose nose rivaled Rudolph’s. “May I help you?”

  The customer pushed forward a stack of paperbacks, three by Laura Childs, two by Elizabeth George, and four by Harlan Coben.

  Annie eyed her with interest. She either had wide-ranging tastes or was a work in progress.

  Ingrid slid five hardcovers into a bag for her customer.

  Annie automatically noted the titles: Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane, Dead in the Family by Charlaine Harris, Look Again by Lisa Scottoline, In Big Trouble by Laura Lippman, The Chocolate Cupid Killings by JoAnna Carl.

  Ingrid turned a thumb toward the back of the store, murmured, “Elaine Jamison’s waiting for you at the coffee bar. She’s upset. Uh-oh, here she comes.”

  Annie glanced down the central aisle.

  Elaine Jamison’s narrow, aristocratic face was strained. She was moving fast, coming toward the cash desk like a woman in a very big hurry. She stared at Annie, her eyes hard and cold.

  Uh-oh, indeed.

  “I have to talk to you.” Elaine’s voice was thin.

  Annie made a gesture toward the long line. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Elaine came even with the main counter. “I’ll wait outside.” She slammed out the front door.

  Annie dreaded talking with her. She was grateful for the customers and a moment’s reprieve. As always, she noted the authors as she rang up the titles: Ed Gorman, Parnell Hall, Bill Crider, Robert Crais, then a spate of women authors—Donna Andrews, Rhys Bowen, Julie Hyzy, Laura Joh Rowland, Joanne Fluke, Lisa See. The last of her customers plopped a dozen M. C. Beaton titles on the counter. “I can’t get enough of Agatha Raisin.”