by Carolyn Hart
He walked a few feet away from the dance floor. Louise Neville sat in a chair, tapping the toe of one shoe in time with the music. She was, as always, in black, but silver beadwork adorned the neckline and cuffs of her silk dress. Max stopped in front of her. “Miss Neville, I’m Max Darling—”
“I know you. Your mother”—there was a sudden smile on her wrinkled face—“thinks the world of you.” There was a dry note of amusement in her slow drawl.
Max smiled. “I can always count on my mother.” It wasn’t appropriate to inform Miss Neville that Max knew he could always count on Laurel to complicate any given situation, often reordering quite ordinary circumstances into a surreal landscape. His laughter faded. “Miss Neville, I’m asking the members of the family to step outside for a moment. There’s been a serious incident. The police are here. I’d appreciate it if you would come with me. I’ve already spoken to Carl.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. She gathered her black cashmere shawl over her shoulders and rose. She studied him for an instant, her brows drawn into a frown, then gave a slight nod and turned toward the exit.
Max moved toward the Brandts. He reached them as the music ended. Leaning forward, he said quietly, “Susan, Rusty, will you come outside? I must speak with you about a serious matter.”
Annie poured Scotch into a tumbler. Not too much. That would be no help. Perhaps a quarter inch. She carried the glass with the shiny amber whisky across the small room. Despite the circumstances—Virginia Neville’s quivering distress, the occasional faraway wail of a siren, the slam of doors—this small room, originally a library and now the office of the Neville Gallery, exuded peace, comfort, and welcome. The cypress-paneled walls were a rich tan, mellow as the glow of a banked fire. Everywhere there was elegance joined with practicality: an eighteenth-century slant-top desk perfect to display an unframed painting, a Sheraton corner stand topped by a fax machine. A mahogany secretary contained books that looked as though they’d been behind the thick greenish glass panes since the piece was new in the early eighteen hundreds. Always the bookseller, the thought darted through Annie’s mind that there might be a first edition of the two volumes of Samuel Johnson’s dictionary. She’d have to check and see. Deep rose damask curtains framed the two windows. Virginia Neville huddled at one end of a long Grecian couch, clutching a lumpy and faded red velvet bolster. The curved maple ends of the sofa reminded Annie of a sleigh.
Annie knelt beside the couch, held out the glass. “Mrs. Neville”—Annie spoke softly as she would at the bedside of a seriously ill person—“I’ve brought you some whisky. If you could drink some…”
Virginia Neville shuddered. She propped the bolster beneath her elbow and reached for the glass. She held it with both hands, but she didn’t drink. She stared at the shimmering liquid, her ravaged face drooping. “I didn’t want to leave Jake down there.” Slowly she lifted her gaze. “It’s so cold. He’s lying there….” Tears seeped unchecked down her ashen cheeks. “Did you know we were going to get married?”
Annie blinked back tears. “Yes, Mrs. Neville, I’m so sorry.”
Irene Neville stared imperiously at Max, her lovely face marred by a scowl. Shivering, she folded her arms, pulling the white lace jacket tight, emphasizing the deep plunge of the V-shaped neckline. Her white satin trousers were dazzling in the glare of the spotlights focused on the entrance to the tent. She was as beautiful as a caged snow leopard and she exuded the same aura of danger. “If you’ve called us out here for a lecture on fire hazards, get it done. It’s damned cold.”
“It’s more serious than that.” Max looked at each in turn. Irene was impatient, irritated, ready to turn nasty. Carl, his faded eyes puzzled, his straw-colored hair ruffled, hunched forward like a startled heron. Susan Brandt’s thin face sharpened. She touched the gold necklace at her throat. Rusty Brandt, always loud and profane on the golf course, didn’t say a word. He stood with his head down, hands jammed in his trouser pockets. Louise Neville’s wrinkled face was bleak, her dark eyes stern.
Louise stepped forward. She was small and old, but she was in charge. “What’s happened?”
“A body has been discovered down at the point near the ruins.” Max waved his hand toward the garden.
Irene looked surprised, then excited. Carl held out his hands as if to ward away the words. Susan, eyes wide, pressed her fingers against her cheeks. Rusty Brandt’s face was unchanged. Louise drew her breath in sharply.
Irene took a step toward Max. “A body? Is it Virginia?” There was a grisly eagerness in her tone. “I haven’t seen her since lover boy was a no-show. Did she slit her wrists?”
“Irene.” Carl’s voice was choked. He reached out, grabbed his wife’s arm.
She shook him off. “Well, who else would it be? And where is she?” She waved her hand. “All of us are here. Everyone but Virginia.” Irene looked at Max, spoke fast. “A woman about forty-five. Wearing a silver dress that made her look like a refugee from a graveyard. Is that the one?”
Max kept his expression unchanged, but he felt cold inside. What a bitch. “The victim is male and has been identified as Jake O’Neill.”
Max looked swiftly from face to face. All looked blank with shock. Except Rusty. His face was carefully, determinedly expressionless.
“Jake? I don’t believe it. He was fine this evening.” Susan Brandt’s voice shook. “What happened to him?”
“Jake. Dead?” Irene’s eyebrows rose. Just for an instant there was the merest suggestion of a smile.
“Murder.” His voice was uninflected, but the stark word was shocking.
Susan’s hands dropped to her throat as if breath were hard to find.
Rusty, his face still expressionless, folded his arms across his chest.
Irene’s mobile features reflected shock and curiosity.
Carl winced, shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
Louise Neville’s old face hardened into an unreadable mask. “What happened?”
“Someone struck him from behind. The blow killed him.” Max gestured toward the foggy garden. “The police are there. They are investigating. I don’t have any information as to the weapon used or suspects who are being sought. The identification was made by Virginia Neville.”
“Oh, God.” Carl’s gentle face squeezed in horror.
“God, that’s awful. That must be why he didn’t show up for the program. Who’s taking care of Virginia?” He looked around as if seeking help.
Max said quickly, “My wife is with her. They’re at the gallery now. The police want to interview everyone who spoke to him this evening. They also need to know who attended the reception tonight.” Max looked at Carl. “Do you have a list of the guests?”
“Not really.” Carl looked bewildered. “We sent out a lot of invitations. But you know how it is. Most people never RSVP. We always estimate we’ll get around a hundred. I’m sure we had that many tonight. But there’s no accurate list of those who came.”
Louise cleared her throat. “There’s an easy way to identify most of the guests. The drawing.” She gestured toward the tent. “Carl, go get that bowl. I think it’s tucked on the ground behind the platform.”
“The drawing?” Carl repeated.
Max understood. “Sure. Almost everyone here tonight probably dropped a slip into the bowl. Here’s what we’ll do….”
“We were going to have an April wedding. April is the most beautiful month on the island….” Virginia’s voice trailed away. She placed the untasted glass on a Hepplewhite side table, pushed away the bolster, sat up straight and stiff. “What are the police doing?”
Annie knew police procedure, how a crime scene is secured, the careful survey, the drawings and photographs and filming of the site, the medical examiner’s preliminary findings, the removal of the body, the collection of evidence. She had a brief, vivid, sickening recollection of the crumpled green taffeta stole stained with the dead man’s blood. After the wrap was photographed, gloved hands w
ould carefully slip it into a labeled plastic bag. “The police are looking for information, anything that will lead them to the murderer. They’ll ask everyone when they last saw Jake, what he was doing.”
Virginia’s face was piteous, her eyes brimming again with tears. “He was here. We were having fun. Oh, it was so lovely, everyone happy and everything going so well. The night was such a success. Then I sent him away.”
Annie looked at her sharply. Had there been a quarrel?
Virginia clasped her hands together, held them against one cheek. “Oh, if only I’d kept him near. But I wanted him to take his place as he will—as he would when he was my husband. I wanted him to greet people and talk to our guests.”
There was a knock at the door. The door swung in. Max stepped inside. There was a muted sound of voices and movement in the hallway behind him. “Here you are.” His voice was warm. His eyes lingered for an instant on Annie, making sure she was all right. “Everything’s under control. Carl made an announcement. He’s set up a table by the front entrance to the tent. He’s getting the names of those who didn’t enter the drawing. Anyone with information about Jake has been asked to come here. I’ll go down and report to Billy. He asked me to round up anyone who might be able to help. He’ll come up and interview them pretty soon. Will you take charge until he comes?”
So Max was returning to the crime scene and she was stuck up here, completely out of the loop. But the witnesses—everyone who had any contact with the victim—were going to gather at the gallery. Maybe there was more to be learned here than there. Annie nodded. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Good.” Max turned away.
Annie called out, “Max!”
He paused in the doorway.
“You might point out to Billy that the tide is coming in. Maybe you’d better take a look over the edge of the bluff for the weapon.” That kind of search would take time. Annie intended to utilize every possible moment.
“Okay. I’ll tell Billy.” He stepped into the hall.
As soon as the door closed, Annie pointed at the desk. “Mrs. Neville, could you find some notepads or sheets of paper and some pens?”
Virginia pushed back a strand of hair, stared at the desk as if it and everything in the room were foreign. She gave a little shake of her head. “Paper…” She moved to the desk, pulled out a drawer, began to fumble inside, then blinked at Annie. “Why do you want paper?”
“To gather information for the police.” Annie was brisk and confident and hopeful that the crime scene investigation would keep Billy away from the gallery for a good long while. “This is one way for you to help the investigation. We can take paper and pens out to the drawing room and ask everyone to write down what they know about tonight. Who Jake talked to. Where he was from the time he came into the gallery until he left to go down to the fort. We’ll ask them to try to remember what time it was when they spoke to him or saw him. Why, we may find out exactly what the police need to know.”
Annie felt virtuous. She was simply aiding the investigation, even though she wasn’t included on the official team, and possibly, just possibly, there might be information that pointed at someone other than a running girl in a green dress.
Five
THE STROBES SET UP at the corners of the crime scene blazed with penetrating brilliance, creating a stark rectangle to frame the body slumped in death. A heavy-duty orange extension cord snaked over uneven ground to the crime van. The rumble of the van motor melded with the slosh and slap of the incoming tide. Lou Pirelli, his curly dark hair damp with mist, his round face intent, moved carefully around the perimeter of the bricked oval, snapping one picture after another, noting the number and location in a notebook. Dr. Burford brushed pine needles from his knees. “Damn things are everywhere. Look, there’s where the murderer skidded.” He pointed at a streak in the carpet of pine needles. “See where it goes?” Three loblolly pines towered over a thicket of cane. The natural growth edged up the side of the grassy irregular mound that marked the remnants of the fort. “Probably came out from behind the cane.”
Max studied the streak in the pine needles. If Dr. Burford was right—and he usually was—the killer had plunged across the needle-strewn pavement, coming up behind O’Neill. Max’s face squeezed in thought. “You mean somebody was hidden back there?” He waved at the cane, the tips rustling in the nighttime offshore breeze.
Burford rubbed his florid face, scowled. “Looks like it to me. Anyway, it seems pretty clear somebody skidded across the needles fast to have made that trail. Why the hurry?”
Billy Cameron spread out his hands as if measuring the distance between the cane and the body. “If O’Neill and the killer were talking face-to-face”—Billy’s face wrinkled in thought—“there wouldn’t have been any need to hurry. Whoever killed him could have raised up the weapon and slammed him when he turned away. But if the killer”—Billy looked at the thicket—“was way over there and wanted to catch him, they’d have to rush. Hey, Frank”—Billy turned to the former police chief—“what do you think?”
“I think Doc’s a damn smart man.” Frank Saulter was leaner and stringier than when Annie and Max first met him, his dark hair speckled with gray, his saturnine face ridged with lines, but he still looked tough as a spiny lobster. “I’d bet the killer came out from behind the cane. But maybe O’Neill did, too.”
Max squinted at the thicket. “Why would anybody go behind the cane?”
“Didn’t want to be seen.” Saulter’s reply was laconic.
Max grinned. “Out of the mouths of old cops…”
Saulter’s lips quirked. “Usually it’s plain as the nose on your face, Max. You know I love to buy the good old books—Hammett and Chandler—from Annie, but most crimes don’t take much figuring. The way I see it”—his eyes narrowed—“the dead guy came down here with somebody. The only reason to leave the party and come down here was to talk to somebody without being seen. It’s not the kind of night to take a stroll to enjoy the weather.” Saulter rubbed his arms. “Should have brought a jacket. Anyway, behind those canes is about as private as you could get. So maybe O’Neill’s back there with someone, they quarrel, he leaves, the other person comes after him. Maybe the killer didn’t start after him for a minute, then had to hurry.”
Lou Pirelli lowered the camera, looked toward them. “Maybe O’Neill came here with somebody and they went”—his head swiveled around—“down those steps.” He pointed to the edge of the bluff. “There are some benches on that platform, and it’s darn private. Maybe somebody followed them and hid behind the cane.”
“How many people would come down here on a night like this?” Billy’s question was clearly rhetorical.
“Nope, I think Frank’s on the right track.” Billy pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “O’Neill and the killer came down here for a talk. They went behind the cane. They quarreled. O’Neill left, and the murderer came after him.” Billy glanced toward Max. “Maybe that girl the caterer told us about, the first one. What’s her name, Max?”
Max had a vision of Annie’s expressive face, dismay mingling with concern. But he had agreed to assist Billy. Chloe should have no fear of the law if she was innocent. Max kept his voice casual. “Chloe Martin. She’s a college girl, and she’s been working at the store over the holidays. Annie thinks a lot of her.”
“If she was wearing a green dress…” Billy muttered, looking toward the bloodstained taffeta bunched beneath the dead man’s chest.
Frank Saulter’s brows bunched in a tight frown. “If so, she’s got some explaining to do.”
Max waved his hand in the direction of the gallery. “There are a bunch of people waiting up there, family members and others who believe they can be helpful. Maybe somebody can tell us what time O’Neill left the party.” Clearly O’Neill didn’t come to this isolated spot by himself. And it seemed obvious Chloe Martin must have been with him.
“Time.” Billy glanced at the body. “Yeah. Doc, you got
any idea how long he’s been dead?”
Dr. Burford shot Billy a look of disgust. “I don’t have a crystal ball. Nobody can pin down the time of death any closer unless they saw it happen. He’s been dead anywhere from a half hour to a couple of hours. I can do better on cause of death. I don’t need an autopsy to figure this one. Blunt trauma to the head. Massive hemorrhaging. The weapon”—he squinted—“probably a tree limb. I think I spotted bits of bark in the wound. I can tell better when we get him to the morgue. But”—he spread his hand at the storm debris—“it would be easy enough to grab up a big stick, something pretty stout, and whack away. Have you found anything like that?”
Billy shook his head. “Nothing yet. We can take a better look tomorrow when it’s light.”
Dr. Burford glanced toward the bluffs. “If the murderer had any brains, he probably tossed it in the water. Even if you find a likely limb, there probably won’t be any traces of hair or flesh left.”
Max remembered Annie’s advice. He glanced toward the darkness of the water. “The tide’s coming in, Billy. Do you want Frank and me to take a look?”
Virginia Neville stepped into the drawing room. Every face turned toward her. The beautiful chiffon dress seemed incongruous with the look of misery on her thin face. However, Annie was certain the elegant room with its pale cream walls, bois-de-rose silk hangings, and old, well-worn furniture—Chippendale, Hepplewhite, and Sheraton—was no stranger to sorrow. In the long history of the house that now served as an art gallery, there had been gatherings of all kinds, merry wedding guests, bereft families, joyful christenings, hard-eyed political conspirators, weary war refugees. In its two centuries of existence, the house had known days of riches when cotton was king and years of deprivation when carpetbaggers swarmed the broken South. But Annie doubted there had been many moments more dramatic than this.