by Carolyn Hart
Annie tripped over a branch. She flailed, went down, heard her own thrashing with dismay. Damn. Now Elaine would be alerted. Of course, if she was waiting to pick up a cash-stuffed envelope, she might think the noise signaled the approach of her victim. Max reached down to help her up. “I’m okay.” She knew her slacks were now muddy as well as wet. She started forward, Max close behind. They reached the tall shoots of bamboo, coming ever nearer to the circular pavement of bricks and the dark hump of the ruined fort.
Max eased ahead. Annie kept a hand on his back. Abruptly, Max stiffened, stood still.
Annie bumped into him. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he clicked on the flashlight. The beam poked into the wet night, insubstantial and diffused, but there was light enough to see the body of Elaine Hasty sprawled near the Fort Loomis sign, her open, sightless eyes staring skyward in the unending wash of the rain.
“Oh, Max.” Annie leaned against him.
They stood, shocked and shaken, and there was nothing but the darkness of the night pressing against them and the sound of their quick breaths and the splash of rain and the wash of the waves against the rocks.
Then the silence shattered, broken by the crack, crack, crack of faraway gunshots, dimly heard but unmistakable.
Max grabbed Annie, held her close in a protective embrace. He bent toward the road, peered into the wet darkness.
A man shouted, distance muffling the cry.
Some of the strain eased from Max’s arm. “It’s that way.” He gestured toward the road. “Must be up at the Neville house.” He was brusque, quick. “Get to the car. Call for help. Stay there. Lock yourself in.” He jammed the keys into her hand. “Anything odd, drive like hell. I’ll go see.”
The light from the flashlight wavered as he ran.
“Max, wait!” But he was gone. Annie never hesitated, running as fast as she could after him. As she splashed through puddles, she turned on her cell phone, fumbled to find nine-one-one, pressed. When the connection was made, she shouted, “Murder. At the point near the Neville Gallery. Gunshots at the Neville house. This is Annie Darling. Max and I will be up at the house.” She clicked off the phone.
She was perhaps fifteen yards behind Max when he reached the garden behind the grandiose mansion. The ornate structure was a replica of a stuccoed villa on the Amalfi coast. Two wings extended from a central block. Two circular fountains sat on opposite sides of the tiled courtyard. Security lights glittered high in the live oak trees.
The door in the center of the main block of the house stood open. Rusty Brandt hesitated there, then bolted out into the courtyard, weaving and ducking to reach a tall stone urn. He crouched there, shouted, “Put up your hands. I’ve got you covered.” But he remained huddled behind the protection of the urn.
Max called out, “Hey, Rusty, Max Darling here. I heard shots. What’s going on?”
Rusty cautiously peered around the urn. “Hell if I know.”
In the doorway behind him, Susan cried, “Rusty, keep down. Come back inside. I’ve called the police. Oh, my God, what’s happening?”
Max took the terrace steps two at a time, thudded to a stop by the urn. He gave Rusty a quick glance and saw that he was unarmed.
Rusty reached out a shaking hand, grabbed Max’s arm. “Have you seen anybody?”
Max was impatient. “Not a soul. Where’s the trouble?”
A woman’s voice called from a balcony on the south wing. “What’s happened? I heard shots. Rusty, who’s down there?” Every light in the courtyard came on, flooding the wet expanse with a sharp glare, revealing every statue, every stone bench, every huge pot, every palmetto, and the two fountains with water arching from twin dolphins.
Annie ran up the wide terrace steps. She had a jumbled impression of noises and movement, Susan Brandt edging out into the courtyard, Louise Neville remaining in the doorway, Irene Neville leaning over the balcony’s edge, Rusty Brandt’s shoulders hunched defensively, Carl Neville bursting out from a side door in swim trunks, clutching a thick cream-colored towel. Annie thudded to a stop next to Max.
Rusty’s freckled face was pale, his eyes huge. “Somebody shot out a French door in Nat’s study. See, over there.” He let go of Max and pointed at the north wing and a long row of French doors on the first floor. His hand still shook.
The upper panes in one French door were splintered.
Rusty was short of breath. “How’d you get here so quick? Susan just called.”
“Who shot off a gun? Who, dammit?” Irene’s voice was shrill. “Wait a minute, I’m coming down,” and she banged into the house from the balcony.
Shivering, pulling the towel around his shoulders, Carl slapped barefoot over the tiles toward his brother-in-law, skidding on the slick surface. “What’s going on?”
“Your dad’s study—” Rusty still pointed. The curtains were open and the study was as clear to see as an elegant setting on a stage. Bookcases lined every wall. Easy chairs and sofas were scattered about the large room. One sofa faced the French doors. There was movement on the floor.
“Oh, my God, is that Virginia on the floor?” Susan’s voice was shrill.
Virginia lifted her head, her eyes wild. She got up on her hands and knees, scrabbled toward the French door. Shakily, she pulled herself upright. She flung open the damaged door and plunged into the courtyard, rushing toward Rusty. “Help me.” Her voice was high and frantic. “Help me. Someone’s shooting at me. Oh, God, help me.”
“Virginia!” Carl hurried forward. He moved past her, reached the entrance to the study. He stepped inside, then cried out. He bent down, clutched at his foot.
Virginia looked wildly around. “Who shot at me?”
Max reached out, gripped a thin arm. “Are you hurt?”
She stared at him and began to cry. “Oh, I thought I was going to die.” She strained to see past him. “Who’s out there?”
The rain pelted against them, harder now.
Carl braced himself against the jamb of the door. “There’s glass everywhere.”
Virginia shuddered. “The glass broke.” She sounded bewildered. “There was a terrible noise. I got down on the floor. That’s how I got hurt. There was glass on the floor.” She held tight to her left arm. Blood seeped between her fingers. “I didn’t dare come out until I heard Rusty.”
Susan splashed across the tiles. She took Virginia’s elbow. “Let’s go inside. Come on, Virginia. I’ll take a look at your arm.”
Irene stood on the top step of the terrace. She held up one hand to shield her face from the rain. Her magenta wool sweater and slacks were spotted by the rain. Everyone looked bedraggled. Rusty’s shirt and slacks were drenched. Susan shivered, brushed back wet tendrils of hair. Carl’s skin puckered from cold, and blood dripped from one foot. Max’s suede jacket was drenched, his trousers sodden, and his sneakers waterlogged. Annie turned up the collar of her wind-breaker, felt the stickiness of mud on her slacks. Only Louise, standing in the doorway, her pinched face creased in worry, was dry. She held up a blanket.
“Yeah, let’s get out of the damn rain.” Rusty waved his arms. “Come on, everybody. Let’s take a look.” He stepped toward the open French door.
“Hold up.” Max’s shout brought everyone to a standstill. “Not in there. We need to keep everything as it is for the police.”
Rusty swung around. “Oh, sure. This way, everybody.” He headed across the courtyard and up the shallow steps to the house.
Virginia ducked her head and hurried. She held her arm pressed against her blouse. Susan walked with her. As they came inside, Louise draped the blanket around Virginia’s shoulders.
In the marbled hallway, the brilliant light of a chandelier revealed a motley and uneasy group. Everyone talked at once, their voices uncertain, querulous, frightened. A plump woman in an apron waited near a side door, looking about uneasily.
Outside a siren shrilled.
Annie said quietly to Max, “I calle
d nine-one-one. They know about Elaine.”
Max nodded. “If she was shot…” He gave a considering glance toward the courtyard.
Rusty gestured toward the front door. “It’s the police. Max, will you let them in? I’ll take everybody”—he glanced at Carl’s bloody foot and Virginia’s arm—“to the breakfast room. Susan, can you see about some alcohol, bandages?”
Max bent toward Annie. “Keep an eye on everyone.”
Annie nodded. A blackmailer’s death not more than a hundred yards distant. Shots here. Cause and effect? If so, the reason was obscure. But there had to be a link. She hurried after the family members into the kitchen and breakfast room area. A rib roast sat on a platter. The succulent aroma filled the kitchen. Lids rattled atop pans on the stove. Annie glanced around the room with its bright yellow walls, shiny white table, and rattan chairs. The room’s everyday appearance was marred by the strained, anxious faces and the bloody footprints left on the tile floor by Carl.
Susan bustled about, pulling out chairs for Virginia and Carl. She glanced toward the middle-aged woman with a white apron over her dark dress. “Sylvia, please bring me some alcohol and gauze and tape. Hold out your arm, Virginia.” Susan’s brisk tone evoked no response. Virginia slumped in a chair, the blanket bunched behind her, her arm resting on the table. Her eyes were sunk in her strained face, her lips set. Louise, her lips pressed in a tight line, brought a decanter of whisky, poured a good two inches into a small glass, placed it beside Virginia.
Carl unwound the towel from his foot, wrapped it up again. His hands were trembling. He looked anxiously at Virginia. “What happened? I was in the pool and—” He saw Annie’s look of surprise, smiled briefly. “Indoor pool. I was taking a swim before dinner and I heard shots.”
The housekeeper returned, carrying a plastic bottle of alcohol, a box of gauze, scissors, tape, and a plastic basin. She placed everything on the table, hesitated, then moved toward the stove, lifted lids, adjusted heat, glancing nervously toward the doors that overlooked the courtyard.
Virginia shuddered. “I was in the study. Someone shot at me.” Her voice was deep and harsh.
Susan stood with the bottle of alcohol in one hand, the cap in the other. “At you? Oh, no. That can’t be.”
“I heard the shots.” Irene smoothed back her vivid dark hair. Her lovely face was creased in a frown. “I was putting on my makeup.” She lifted a hand, lightly stroked her cheek.
Louise said nothing, but her dark eyes never moved from Virginia’s face.
Virginia’s eyes, brilliant with anger and fear, moved to each of them in turn. “Last night someone killed Jake. Tonight someone tried to kill me.”
Susan sloshed alcohol over Virginia’s arm. Blood swirled into the basin.
Virginia drew her breath in sharply, briefly closed her eyes.
Rusty’s head jutted forward. “That’s absurd.”
Louise pointed toward the door, still open to the night. “We should have searched out there.”
Susan bent over Virginia’s outstretched arm, frowned. “This may need stitches.”
Virginia, her face a cold mask, glanced without expression at the uneven cut on the side of her forearm. “No. Cut small strips of tape, close it up. It’s clean.”
Annie stepped forward. “We can call Dr. Burford.” He was most likely already on his way. Just like last night, the mechanics of a murder investigation were surely under way, the arrival of the forensic team, the gathering of evidence, the photographs and filming, the painstaking survey of the surroundings.
Rusty stalked across the floor, leaving more wet footprints on the cream-colored tiles. He stood beside his wife, glared down at Virginia. “Don’t make things worse than they are. I don’t know why anybody shot at the house. It’s crazy to say they were shooting at you. Who would know you were in the study?”
Virginia pulled her arm free. She pushed back her chair and stood, the blanket sagging to the floor. She looked at each family member in turn, her lips quivering. “All of you.” Her voice rose hysterically. “That’s where I am every evening. Eating by myself because I’m not welcome to eat with you.” Bitterness laced her voice. “All of you know that—and all of you hate me.” She fingered the bandage on her arm. “There was an awful noise. Loud. The glass cracked. I threw myself to one side. I fell on the floor and crawled to hide behind the couch. I thought whoever it was would break through the door and run across the room and lean over the couch and shoot me. I lay there and waited to die.” Her eyes glazed. “I waited to die.” Her voice broke. “I was afraid to move. I waited and waited…and then I heard people outside, shouting. I crawled to the door—that’s when I cut my arm—and peeked out, and everyone was there so I came out. But one of you…”
The lovely room with its smell of food was utterly quiet. From the front hall came the sound of men’s voices and heavy footsteps. Billy strode into the breakfast room, Max close behind him. Billy’s yellow slicker glistened with raindrops. Beneath the curved bill of his hat, his face was set in a hard mask.
Annie glanced toward Max. He gave an infinitesimal nod. So Billy had been down to the point, seen the sprawled body lying in the rain.
Virginia moved unsteadily toward him. She looked up, her face imploring. “You can keep them from hurting me, can’t you?”
Rusty slammed his hand against a blue cupboard, rattling the dishes. “Billy, she’s off her head.” He glared at Virginia. “For God’s sake, nobody knows who shot into the study. We all ran to see what was happening. Now that you’re here, you can look it over. Whoever did it must be miles from here. Maybe you can figure out something.”
“At least three shots were fired into the study,” Billy announced. “But we haven’t found a weapon.”
Rusty threw up his hands. “Virginia thinks the shots were aimed at her. Well, the curtains weren’t drawn. Whoever came up to the window could see inside. Hell, maybe they were shooting at her. I don’t know. But I, for one, am damn cold and wet. I’m going to take a shower and then”—he looked toward Sylvia, holding a hot pad, her eyes flaring like a startled horse ready to bolt—“you can get our dinner ready.”
“Dinner can wait.” Billy pointed at a chair. “Take a seat, Brandt. Nobody’s leaving this room for now.”
Carl’s head jerked up. “Your tone seems offensive to me.” His mild face was puzzled. “We called the police because there’s been an unfortunate incident. We expect to cooperate in an investigation, but your attitude is unwarranted.” He leaned forward.
Susan snipped a length of gauze. “Hold still, Carl.” She wound the wrapping around his foot. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”
Billy’s voice was heavy. “An unfortunate incident. Yeah. Murder’s always unfortunate.” He moved around the room, staring at legs and feet, ignoring their questions. “Wet. They’re all wet. It could have been any one of them.” His cell phone buzzed. He un-strapped it from his belt, punched to receive, held it to his ear. His blunt face never changed. Finally, he asked, “Doc’s sure?” In a moment, he clicked it off, looked at each face in turn. “Shots here. A body—shot to death—found at the point at a little after six o’clock. Nobody’s leaving this room until we’ve searched the house.”
“Someone else? Where Jake died?” Virginia Neville’s voice was hollow. She reached out toward Billy. “Who? You have to tell us! Who’s been killed?”
“One of the catering staff. She was working at the party last night.” Billy’s voice was grim. “Elaine Hasty.”
“One of the catering staff…” Virginia swung toward Annie. “This afternoon you told me there was someone who might know who had followed Jake. You said you were going to talk to her.” Tears began to edge down her face. “This girl who’s dead, is she the one? Could she have told us who killed Jake?”
Each word hurt Annie. “I tried….” Annie’s voice faded away.
Virginia reached out imploring hands, the bandage stark against her left arm. “You promised.”
&n
bsp; Max’s face was hard, his words quick. “Annie talked to Elaine. I talked to Elaine. She refused to say who she saw last night. She said people who’d never paid her any attention were listening to her now. She asked for money.” His gaze was bleak. “She got murder.”
“Blackmail…” Virginia lifted trembling fingers to her lips.
“Chief?” Frank Saulter, water dripping from his poncho, poked his head into the breakfast room. “Got something.”
Billy jerked his head toward Max. “Keep ’em quiet.” He walked out into the main hall, listening to the low rumble of Frank’s voice. In a moment, a door slammed.
Carl brushed back a lank strand of hair. His face was slack with shock. “Elaine Hasty…God, that’s awful.” He looked down at his hands. They trembled. He clasped them tightly together.
Louise marched to the refrigerator, yanked out a container of orange juice, poured a glass. She brought it to Carl, then looked defiantly at Max. “Everything’s running late. Carl’s diabetic. He needs something to eat.”
Carl lifted the glass with a shaky hand. His face was pale. “Thank you, Louise.”
Annie glanced toward Irene. Carl’s wife looked uninterested, one finger twirled in a thick tangle of lustrous dark hair. It was Louise who stood by Carl’s side, watching him anxiously.
Virginia stared wildly around the room. “That girl murdered—and someone shot at me. I was supposed to die, too.” She folded her arms across her front, rocked back and forth.
Annie felt pummeled by emotion. Virginia teetered on the edge of collapse. Her fear, utter and complete and overwhelming, dominated the room.
Footsteps thudded in the central hall. Billy walked into the breakfast room, Frank Saulter behind him. Billy flung a sodden heap onto the floor. Rivulets of water puddled away from the soggy mound. “We fished these out of the fountain.” He used the toe of his black shoe to edge apart two canvas gardening gloves, puffed with water.
“Gardening gloves.” Susan spoke quietly. “They could belong to anyone, come from anywhere.”