by Carolyn Hart
Annie was impatient. “But you would see anyone coming from the cottage to the house once you were past the willow.”
“Yes.” Laura sounded reluctant. This line of questioning was clearly making her nervous and wary.
“When did Elaine come up to the house?” Annie had seen Elaine leave her cottage and hurry toward the marsh around ten. It would help narrow the time frame for Glen’s murder if Laura knew when Elaine had walked to the house.
Laura looked relieved. “I didn’t see Elaine.”
Annie was puzzled. “Yesterday you said you were on the verandah the whole time. You should have seen her.”
Laura shifted uneasily in the high seat. “Oh. I guess I wasn’t there the whole time. I went inside for a few minutes. That must have been when Elaine came.”
Annie had the clear sense that Laura was scrambling for an explanation. She glanced at the imprints in the sand. Darwyn had been in the pines or in the flower beds near the terrace. Definitely Laura should have seen Elaine either coming or going unless she had been absent from the porch for longer than just a few minutes. Was Laura protecting herself? It was possible that she had slipped downstairs to the study and that was why she hadn’t seen Elaine. There was no reason for her not to admit having seen Elaine. Yet Annie sensed a lie somewhere in Laura’s choppy responses.
She tried to work out the times. “How about Richard?”
Laura looked relieved. “I saw him. He was sweating. He’d been jogging. He came up to the terrace and went inside and then in only a few minutes the police came.”
Annie imagined herself on the upper verandah. If Laura glimpsed someone leaving the house after having shot Glen, she would have seen that person walking—or running—toward the cottage and the lane that ran behind it. “Between the time you went out to the porch and before Richard arrived, did you see anyone heading toward the cottage?”
“I didn’t see anyone.” Her voice was strident.
Yesterday Annie had suspected that Laura was lying. Today she had no doubt that the girl was hiding something. Was she hiding the reason for her absence from the verandah or the identity of someone walking away from the house?
“Did you see Kirk Brewster?”
Laura’s fingers curled on the strap of the binoculars in her lap. She drew a swift breath. “No.”
Annie looked up and knew her face was grim. “You saw someone. I think it was Kirk. If you don’t speak out, your aunt is going to be arrested.”
Edna Graham hesitated. When she spoke, her voice was thoughtful but firm. “Mr. Darling, I’m positive Mr. Brewster didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Jamison’s death. But I’ve heard,” and now she sounded worried, “that the police have arrested Elaine.”
“That isn’t correct.” Max tried to sound reassuring. “The police simply wish to question her. Along that line, that’s why I want to visit with Mr. Brewster.” He kept his voice pleasant and hoped she concluded that he posed no threat to the young lawyer. “We’re trying to collect as much information as possible to assist the police. I know Kirk has already been questioned and I’m sure he was helpful. I’m hoping he might offer some insights into the family dynamics.”
“Oh. Well, of course. He’s off-island this afternoon. He took his sister into Savannah to go to the doctor but”—as a good secretary, she had every partner’s location at her fingertips—“you might find him at the youth center in a little while. He didn’t intend to come back into the office. His nephew Sam has a baseball game at four o’clock.”
Annie sat at the coffee bar. She sipped a cappuccino with a double dash of caramel. “Thanks, Henny. You’re a sweetheart to pitch in while I’m running around the island not accomplishing very much.” She felt discouraged and knew she sounded discouraged.
Henny’s voice was firm. “You’re doing your best. If it weren’t for you, the police wouldn’t know that Pat Merridew was murdered.”
Annie felt even more discouraged. “We may know that someone poisoned Pat because she saw Glen’s gun hidden in the gazebo, but Billy doesn’t think there will ever be any way to prove that her death was deliberate.”
“She won’t be labeled a suicide.” Henny’s eyes flashed. “That matters to me and that matters to her sister. I finished packing up everything in Pat’s house. Those travel brochures for the Alaska cruise never did show up.” Henny Brawley poured herself a fragrant tropical tea. She came around to look over Annie’s shoulder at a sketch pad of the Jamison front and back yards with arrows and Xs. “Your drawing looks like one of those old John Dickson Carr books. Maybe we should read The Three Coffins and see if we get some inspiration.”
Annie was emphatic. “There’s always an answer to a locked-room puzzle if you know where to look. But this time, I don’t see any way out of a box.” She pointed at the sketch. “There’s the telephone lineman. He had a clear view of the front door to the Jamison house. According to Billy Cameron, the lineman said nobody came in or out until the police cars arrived, sirens blaring. So we can’t have an unknown who popped in the front door, went down the hall, and shot Glen. Then . . .” Her index finger tapped the squiggle that represented the terrace and the backyard. “There’s Laura on the upper verandah. She claims the only person she saw was Darwyn. She said she didn’t see Elaine. Now she says she wasn’t on the verandah the entire time. That wasn’t what she said yesterday when she claimed she sat there the entire time from breakfast until Richard knocked on her bedroom door. If she was on the verandah and if she’s telling the truth, then the only people who could have shot Glen are Kit or Laura from inside the house or Richard and Elaine from the backyard. I think Laura saw someone. Just like Darwyn did. Who would she protect? Kirk Brewster. Who has a gold-plated motive? Kirk Brewster. Did she see Kirk?”
Henny studied the drawing. “The possibilities come down to Kit and Laura, who were in the house; Richard, who claimed he found Glen dead; Elaine; or maybe Kirk. It looks bad for Elaine. She’s the one who threw away the murder weapon and hid a bloodstained shirt.”
Annie slipped down from the seat, wandered restlessly toward the fireplace. More Cat Truth posters were now mounted on the wall on either side of the fireplace and at the ends of bookshelves. No doubt Laurel had dropped by simply to lend a hand and, of course, improve the bookstore’s decor in passing.
Whatever.
Annie’s gaze slid across the photographs. Which was the most gorgeous? She admired new posters with the wide-open gold, almond-shaped eyes of a fawn-coated Somali (Always say yes to adventure), and an elegantly marked European Brown Tabby pressing a paw on the remnants of a mouse (Don’t knock it till you try it). Among the original posters, she admired again the cinnamon-apricot Siamese with no pointing, green eyes huge in a big-eared, triangular face, back arched in a crouch, poised to spring, mouth agape in a hiss: I’m warning you, back off.
Just like Laura.
Annie shook her head in puzzlement. Why hadn’t Laura admitted seeing Elaine? Elaine claimed she’d grabbed up the gun in a panic, gotten blood on her hand, dashed through the house, and grabbed Tommy’s shirt from the laundry basket.
Tommy’s shirt. The bloodhound smelled the shirt and came straight to Tommy.
Annie remembered Tommy in the living room after arriving home from his friend’s house the morning of his father’s murder. A too-tight, green-and-orange-striped polo had emphasized Tommy’s stocky build. Was it possible . . . Slowly she reached for the phone, punched a familiar number.
“Yo, Annie.”
“Marian”—Annie clung to a hope that the indefatigable reporter could help her—“can you give me a good physical description of Kirk Brewster?”
“Sure. What’s in it for me?”
“If I find out anything big, you’ll be the first to know.” Annie’s fingers were crossed. She would share with Marian at some point, but right now what mattered was discovering the truth.
“Blood oath?” Before Annie could erupt, Marian relented. “Okay, okay. I’ll trust you. Oka
y. He’s about five nine . . .”
Annie clicked off the phone and stared at another poster. A Highland Fold with an aura of age appeared comfortably settled on a red cushion. Perhaps it was clever photography, but there was a hint of a satisfied smile on the aging cat’s large, rounded face: All cats are gray in the dark.
Ben Franklin’s famous comment on the pleasures of older women after the candles were snuffed was far afield from crime, but Annie repeated the legend aloud. “All cats are gray in the dark.” A picture formed in her mind. She yanked her cell phone from her pocket, punched a familiar number.
“Strike two . . .” The tall, skinny home-plate umpire balled his right hand into a fist and punched.
The wooden bleachers held about fifteen admiring onlookers. Kids played in the shade beneath the seat. An American flag fluttered from a staff at the top of the modest grandstand.
A wiry pitcher wound up and threw a high fastball.
The towheaded batter connected, and the ball dribbled into the outfield.
“Run, Sam. Way to go.” Kirk Brewster yelled and whistled.
Dust flew as the little boy slid into first. The first baseman swiped with the ball, lost his grip, and the ball bounced into the outfield to be retrieved by the shortstop.
Max clapped loudly.
The lawyer gave Max a sour look. “You don’t have to join Sam’s cheering squad.”
“He’s a good hitter. I like baseball.” Max’s tone was mild. Without a change in tone, he asked, “Were you in the Jamison backyard Tuesday morning?”
Kirk gave a strangled hoot of laughter, but he didn’t look amused. “Greased that question in, didn’t you? Ever cross-examine a witness?”
“Not since practice court.” Max was proud of his law degree and had been admitted to the bar in New York, but he was always quick to make it clear that he didn’t practice law.
Kirk shoved a hand through his thick, tawny hair. “Let’s get this straight. I wasn’t there. I don’t know anything about Glen’s murder. I understand the cops are looking at me fish-eyed because of the insurance. I didn’t kill Glen for the money.”
“Although”—Max was still conversational—“it’s convenient for you that he died before you wouldn’t have been eligible for the payout.”
“Yeah.” Kirk sounded troubled.
“I assume you will accept the portion due you?”
Kirk’s face hardened. “You’re damn right I will, if for no other reason than to keep the bitch from walking away with five million.” He glanced toward Max. “I was pretty upset that I was being pushed out, but I didn’t blame Glen. Cleo yanked his string and he danced. It was as simple as that.”
“So there’s no reason why Laura Jamison might think she saw you in the backyard Tuesday morning?”
Kirk looked disturbed. “Is that what Laura said? But I didn’t come.”
Max tried not to look excited. “I guess she got it wrong.”
Kirk shook his head, his expression bemused. “Man, I finally had a piece of luck. Laura kept begging me to talk to her dad one more time. I knew Cleo was going into Savannah for a dep, so I promised Laura I’d drop by Tuesday morning. At the last minute I chickened out. I drove halfway there, then turned around and came back downtown. I went to the pier and walked up and down. Finally I decided to go to the office. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to talk to Glen. He wasn’t going to cross Cleo. That’s why I didn’t show up. Man, was that lucky. I’d be in the dock if I’d been on the spot when somebody shot Glen.” He frowned. “Laura’s called me a couple of times. I haven’t answered. She doesn’t know about the insurance. I didn’t want to tell her. I feel kind of bad taking it, but I’d feel worse to leave it all to Cleo. I need to talk to Laura.” Suddenly he gave a whoop as Sam darted from first, stole second.
As Max joined in the cheers, his cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, answered. “Hey, Annie.” He listened, then gazed at Kirk. “Yeah. I saw him from the back the other day. Yeah. You sure could make that mistake . . . Sure, hold on.” He looked at Kirk. “What were you wearing Tuesday morning?”
Kirk looked blank. “Wearing?”
“Your shirt.”
Kirk looked puzzled, but answered readily. “A short-sleeve madras plaid.” His expression was touched with sadness. “I didn’t want to look like a bum at Glen’s house. I wish how I dressed was all that mattered on Tuesday.”
The Crawford house on Heron Point was a ranch style, probably built in the late fifties. Annie always shook her head at homes that rested flush on the ground. A force-three hurricane would put all but a small portion of the island’s center under four feet of water from the storm surge.
A scrawny teenager, maybe five feet six and weighing a hundred and ten, dribbled a basketball up the drive, dodged an imaginary opponent, turned, and threw. The basketball bounced on the rim, teetered, plopped to the drive. He caught it on the bounce.
Annie shut the car door and walked swiftly across the yard. “Buddy?”
The boy turned and looked at her politely. “Ma’am?” He appeared helpful and well mannered, apparently accepting without thought or question that a woman he didn’t know knew him.
“Did Tommy Jamison bring your shirt back?”
Buddy looked shocked and uncertain. The direct question implied knowledge. Buddy’s thumb rubbed hard against the seam on the basketball. “Tommy’s shirt?”
“The one he borrowed Tuesday morning after he came back.”
Buddy looked bewildered. “How’d you know?”
Annie’s gaze was pleasant. “He was seen in the backyard at his house and now we are simply getting the times straight. When did Tommy leave your house?”
Buddy shuffled his feet.
Annie was firm. “We know what happened and it will be better for Tommy if you can confirm what time he left here and when he returned. He was wearing a blue shirt when he left, but when he came back to your house, he didn’t have on a shirt.” She saw indecision and, finally, resignation. She watched him grope through his thoughts. He’d promised Tommy he’d keep quiet, but somehow Tommy had been found out.
“Yeah. Well. Tommy didn’t want me to tell anyone. See, his shirt—”
Annie interrupted. “The blue polo.”
Buddy nodded. “Yeah. He got blood on his shirt.” Buddy looked at her in entreaty, big brown eyes filled with concern.
Annie knew she was taking advantage of a teenager’s credulity. She’d set out to prove Elaine Jamison innocent of murder. Everything about Elaine—her gentleness, her obvious devotion to her brother, her desperate unhappiness since his murder—had combined to convince Annie that she needed help. But perhaps Annie was beginning to understand Elaine’s plea to be left alone to do what she felt she must do. Elaine loved her brother but she loved Tommy, too. It took an effort for Annie to speak. She knew her voice was thin. “It’s better to straighten things out.” She wasn’t at all sure that clarifying the truth about his shirt was better for Tommy Jamison.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t mind loaning him a shirt. He came back and he was all upset. Poor guy. He was shaking and crying. He found his dad dead and somebody had shot him. Tommy accidentally kicked the gun and then he picked it up.”
Annie heard the echo of Elaine’s explanation.
Buddy looked earnest. “He wasn’t thinking. He was scared. He was afraid to call the police because he and his dad, well, they’d had a fight, and that morning Tommy had gone home to have it out with him about school and everything. He said if his dad didn’t come around, he was going to run away and then his family could wonder what had happened to him. He got up to the study door and it was open and he pushed inside, ready to yell at his dad. He said that’s maybe why he was moving so fast he didn’t see the gun, but when he kicked it, he stopped and picked it up. Then he got really freaked. He had blood on his hand and he wiped it on his shirt. He ran out of the house and pulled the shirt off. He ran down to the cottage and his aunt took the gu
n and his shirt. She told him to go back to my house. Anyway, he got on his bike and came back here. He didn’t know what to do. I told him maybe it would be better when he got home to act like he didn’t know anything. I gave him one of my shirts to wear.”
Annie looked sympathetic. “I guess he was really scared to call the police since he’d told you he was going to go home and have it out with his dad once and for all.”
Buddy turned the basketball in his hands. “Well, he wouldn’t have sounded so mad at his dad if he’d known somebody was going to shoot him.”
Mavis Cameron smiled at Annie. “Billy said to come on in.” She clicked to open the locked door to the interior of the police station.
Annie stepped into the corridor. She forced herself forward, stopped at the door with Billy’s name on frosted glass. When she revealed what she knew, Tommy Jamison might become the prime suspect. If she didn’t tell Billy, Elaine Jamison would be arrested. She took a deep breath, turned the knob.
Billy looked up from his desk. Lines of fatigue pulled at his sturdy, broad face. He managed a faint smile as he stood and gestured toward a straight chair in front of his desk.
She moved forward and sank onto the chair.
Billy eyed her sharply. “You look about as grim as I feel.”
Annie took a deep breath and began without preamble. “Tommy Jamison . . .”
Billy listened intently, making notes. When she finished, he looked thoughtful. “I get the picture. His aunt lied to protect Tommy. That doesn’t surprise me. She never seemed right for a killer. For one thing, so far as we’ve been able to find out, she’s never shot a gun in her life. To hit her brother twice in the throat was more than blind dumb luck. And why the throat? To watch blood spew? The instinct is to go for the chest or, if you’re a really good shot, the head.”
He leaned back in his chair, stared out the window toward the harbor. “I’ll talk to the kid. He’ll probably open up when he finds out his friend let it all hang out. But even if he spills his guts, if it’s the same talk about kicking the gun and getting blood on his shirt, that won’t clear Elaine.”