Death Walked In

by Carolyn Hart

  Death Walked in

  A Death on Demand Mystery

  Carolyn Hart

  To the Rev. Dale A. Petley, revered priest, cherished friend

  Contents

  Prologue

  The single-unit air conditioner wheezed in its never-ending battle against…

  Chapter 1

  Ben Travis-Grant wished he’d brought his ski jacket. He hated…

  Chapter 2

  Agatha, the elegant black cat who owned Annie Laurance Darling,…

  Chapter 3

  Annie’s voice was high and shaky. “Barb, somebody shot the…

  Chapter 4

  On the back porch, Annie watched as Porter strode to…

  Chapter 5

  Gwen Jamison’s drive was empty. No police cars. No ambulance.

  Chapter 6

  Max parked in front of Matilda Phillips’s house. Likely she…

  Chapter 7

  The ferry office was dark, the Miss Jolene at her…

  Chapter 8

  A dark form emerged from blacker shadow.

  Chapter 9

  Annie crawled on hands and knees to retrieve the faxed…

  Chapter 10

  In the marble hallway, Max gestured toward a frosted door…

  Chapter 11

  Annie picked up Agatha, nuzzled her face against warm, sweet-smelling…

  Chapter 12

  Max walked through the garden to the parking area east…

  Chapter 13

  The sunroom was a haven of warmth from its southern…

  Chapter 14

  The unfurnished drawing room glowed with fresh paint and repaired…

  Chapter 15

  Sunlight speared through the overhead canopy. Cardinals trilled. Crows cawed.

  Chapter 16

  Annie opened the microwave, lifted out a paper plate with…

  Chapter 17

  Max pumped another quarter in the parking meter. He resumed…

  Chapter 18

  Annie pulled Saran Wrap from a tray of Max’s finest…

  Epilogue

  Sculptures shimmered as raindrops slanted in a thin line. Despite…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Carolyn Hart

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The single-unit air conditioner wheezed in its never-ending battle against the Singapore humidity. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The store was in an unremarkable two-story white stucco building on a narrow street off Lor Liput in Holland Village. In the corner of the plate-glass window, small gilt letters spelled CURIOS. At the rear of the cluttered room, a man of indeterminate age sat behind a teak desk. He was possibly forty, possibly sixty, with a thin, impassive face, hooded dark eyes, and pencil mustache. One of his passports—this one UK—was in the name of Felix Fogg. It wasn’t his real name. He would carry this passport when he flew to Atlanta for a rendezvous at the High Museum. He always transacted business in public places. He and his client would meet on the sculpture terrace outside the Wieland Pavilion. He would exchange a hollowed-out book with a sheaf of thousand-dollar bills in the sealed center for a small package. Of course, he would first make a careful check of the goods. He knew his field. He would then travel to Fort Worth to meet a collector who cared only for the beauty of the pieces in his collection and was indifferent if their unknown history included theft, deception, or murder.

  Chapter 1

  Ben Travis-Grant wished he’d brought his ski jacket. He hated cold weather. Too bad Geoff’s birthday was in February. It was more fun to come home to the island in July than in winter. He grinned as he thought of women on the beach in bikinis. However, despite Broward’s Rock’s chilly breezes, not one of them would miss Geoff’s annual weeklong birthday bash. The entire family rallied round for cake and ice cream and champagne toasts to Geoff’s longevity. Still, February was the pits. A damp chill oozed through a crack in the top of his classic ’74 MGB convertible.

  The house would be warm and cheerful, and Geoff’s parties were always fun. Without exception, they all wished him a long life. When Geoff knocked at the pearly gates, the good times would grind to a halt. Geoff had unveiled his testamentary intentions several years ago. Everything went to Chastain College. The college had already repaid the expected boon with a position on the board of trustees and a distinguished-graduate award. Fortunately Geoff wasn’t really old, though almost fifty seemed ancient compared to Ben’s exuberant twenty-five. Ben brightened. Geoff had married Rhoda a couple of years ago. Sex was good for people. He’d seen a story the other day that even old folks enjoyed sex. He grinned. Why not?

  None of them had any right to grouse. Geoff had been generous to one and all, adopting the offspring of his first two wives, giving them his name and helping them through college. He also had a real instinct for what mattered to kids. He’d insisted each kid add his birth dad’s name to Grant. It bothered Geoff that Ben hadn’t graduated, but Ben was in no hurry. As for the party, Geoff could always be counted on for a thousand bucks at his birthday gathering and a cool five thousand every Christmas.

  Ben raised an imaginary glass. “Long live Geoff!”

  Slowly his hand fell and his face furrowed. Could he touch Geoff for an extra ten thou this week? He thought of Joey in the hospital in Bangkok. He wanted to help Joey if he could—no money and sick as a dog.

  He moved restlessly, almost opened the door to plunge out on the deck of the ferry and pace. He hated being confined, but he also hated the cold wind on the open deck. Earlier, he’d scanned the half-dozen cars waiting to come aboard and hadn’t spotted any of the family. He’d hoped to see Kerry, but likely she was already at the house, seated on an ottoman near the fire, watching and listening, dark hair swirling to her shoulders, grave eyes attentive, sweet lips ready to curve into a smile.

  Kerry. Kerry. Kerry. Lovely as a dream, elusive as a wisp of cloud, beyond his reach. Of all the women for him to want…It made no sense. He’d always rocketed along having fun, but deep inside he couldn’t deny his hunger for Kerry. Yet, even if he somehow captured her heart, Geoff would make good his threat. Geoff had always been protective of Kerry. But who wasn’t? She was goodness wrapped in beauty. Geoff was tough about some things. He wanted everyone in the family to set a good example to the world. That’s what he’d told Ben on a grim day six years ago.

  There was one way to forestall Geoff’s revelations to Kerry.

  Ben’s hands clenched on the steering wheel. If he told the truth, he’d be safe. But he couldn’t do that. What else could he do?

  Rhoda Grant hurried through the statuary garden. She’d felt choked in the overly warm house. The misty February day was chilly, the temperature in the forties. She welcomed the brisk air, the sense of escape.

  She stopped at the far end on the lowest terrace, hidden from view behind a reproduction of a nude Aphrodite kneeling. The white marble statue was a favorite of Geoff’s. Her eyes flashed, but she pushed away the clamor of angry thoughts that threatened to envelop her. She had only a moment. Rhoda lifted her cell phone, punched a number. It rang without answer. She left no message, clicked off. If he’d answered, what would she have said? She had to make up her mind.

  It was all Geoff’s fault. If he hadn’t sold the plane, she would have been happy. She loved to fly, going up into blueness, far from the earth, exhilarated and free. Would she ever be free again?

  Hyla Harrison worked at a table in her room. She welcomed the warmth from the fireplace. She gave the .40-caliber semiautomatic Glock pistol a final swipe with the cloth. The steel-polymer gun gleamed, dark as midnight. She balanced it in her hand. Without warning, the nightmare vision returned, blotting out t
he dancing flames in the fireplace, wrapping her in shaking horror:

  George called in. “Two-adam-seven.” Dispatch responded, “Two-adam-seven, go ahead.” “We’ll be out of the unit checking a suspicious light in apartment construction at Market and Halliday.” “Ten-four, two-adam-seven.” George touched the screen, pinpointing their location. They grabbed their nightsticks and, flashlights shining, approached the entrance on opposite sides to avoid being silhouetted. After that, the details were hazy. Shots. George spun around, blood splotching his khaki uniform shirt. She called in. “Two-adam-seven, officer down! Officer down! Market and Halliday.” Dispatch: “Confirm Market and Halliday?” “Affirm.” As the sound of running steps dwindled in the distance, she knelt beside George. “Jessie…” His wife’s name ended in a bubble of blood.

  A black-clad figure in thick-soled running shoes slipped down the broad shallow steps of the main stairway. No one else stirred in the silent house. The grandfather clock in the main entryway tolled the hour, once, twice, marking the depth of night when sleep is heaviest, consciousness lost in the labyrinth of dreams and imaginings.

  Once in the hallway, cautious steps led to the heavy oak door of the library. The recently oiled—think ahead, avoid trouble—hinges made no sound as the panel swung in. With the red velvet curtains drawn against the night, the room was black as pooled oil. The hall door closed behind the silent figure. A pencil-thin shaft of light danced around the room, touching a basket of potpourri, a dingy suit of armor, settling on the glass display case.

  Heart thudding, the figure reached the case. If this were successful, the future would be bright. The plan was foolproof, the contact made with the dealer, a huge sum of money the prize.

  Eight quick steps reached the French window to the terrace. A pull and the heavy drapes parted. The pale rays of the February moon fell in a faint path across the room, turning the furniture ghostly. A click and the door opened. The figure stepped outside, eyes nervously scanning crushed-oyster-shell paths, moon-touched sculptures, a trellis covered by winter-browned vines, a dark row of cedars.

  The garden should be empty at two o’clock in the morning. There was no movement, only the rustle of magnolia leaves fluttering in a sharp breeze.

  The gloved hand reached inside, closed the drapes. It was important that faint splinters of glass be found embedded in the velvet. A thick cloth pad was pressed against the pane nearest the handle. Three sharp blows of a small hammer and the glass cracked, showering inward. The gloved hand yanked the drape out of the way, hurried back to the case. Several more blows, muffled by the pad, and the plate glass shattered.

  The gray fox paused at the clearing. Head lifted, the vixen sniffed into the cool February breeze. She caught a hot, moist, rich scent. She waited, wary for movement or danger, but no sound broke the night calm and her sensitive nostrils detected no trace of dogs.

  Satisfied, the fox veered left, padded noiselessly, nostrils quivering. The succulent scent grew stronger, more enticing. The chicken coop lay silent at the back of the modest yard.

  The fox’s sharp eyes studied the gray wooden structure in a pale wash of moonlight. She circled, nose close to the earth. At the rear of the coop, she found a broken slat and hooked it with a paw. The wood was old and rotten. The slat crackled as it split. The hens began to murmur and stir. The board ripped free. The fox nosed inside.

  Frantic squawks clamored against the night silence.

  A slight breeze stirred the curtains. Gwen Jamison slept with her windows raised, welcoming cool fresh air. She moved restlessly in her bed, her sleep fitful. A mother’s heart grieves, going back over years and time, wondering what she could have done to make things better. She’d tried, but he wouldn’t listen. Robert had been such a beautiful baby—

  The shrill cries of the hens woke her. That loose board at the back of the henhouse! She’d asked Charlie to put in a new two-by-four. He’d promised but he hadn’t been by yet. He was working so hard to fix up a nursery for the baby. Dear Charlie, such a good son.

  She slipped into her house shoes, but didn’t take time to get a jacket. As she ran through the kitchen, she grabbed a broom. No fox was going to get her hens. She could count on Buster, the cock, to fight with beak and spurs. Dust and feathers and straw would be whirling about the roost as the terrified hens sought escape.

  She plunged out the back door and ran down the path. By the time she reached the henhouse, the hens were quieting. She saw a gray shadow running fast toward the woods. Buster likely had bloody spurs. She doubted the fox would return, but she tugged and pulled an empty rain barrel against the broken slat.

  Gwen rested for a moment, breathing heavily. Her back ached. She shivered in her nightgown. She felt cold as frost on a windowpane. She’d fix herself a cup of hot chamomile tea, let her pounding heart slow. As she turned to go back to the house, she heard the squeak of the iron gate at the small, private cemetery nestled among the willows.

  Gwen strained to see through the night. Willows screened the cemetery, but she glimpsed a flash of light. Someone with a flashlight had entered the old family cemetery. The burial ground dated back to plantation days in the late seventeen hundreds. Her mama and daddy’s people were buried there. Nobody but her people had any business in that cemetery.

  Kids up to no good, that’s what it had to be. She’d make short work of them. She walked swiftly toward the willows. When she reached the gate, she stopped and stared.

  A figure knelt by Grandpa Wilson’s grave. The faint glow from a flashlight illuminated a face she knew. She watched as a hole was swiftly dug, a small packet thrust into it, the dirt replaced.

  Gwen stepped deep into the shadows of a willow, held her breath as the figure moved past her and the gate squeaked shut. She stood until there was no trace of the flashlight, no sound, and she was alone with a mournful hooting owl amid old headstones silvered by moonlight.

  Gwen didn’t need a flashlight to move unerringly in the cemetery. She weeded around the stones, wiped rain-spattered streaks from markers, always knelt by her mama and daddy’s graves, remembering laughter and love and long-ago sunny days. She skirted Cousin Amelia’s grave and Aunt Thomasina’s to Grandpa Wilson’s marker. She bent down and moved the bricks that had been placed above soft earth. She scraped away softened earth until her fingers touched the slick surface of a small package securely wrapped in a waterproof trash bag.

  Annie Darling rolled over, still in that delicious floating world midway between slumber and wakefulness, eyes closed, one hand reaching for Max. The sheet felt cool to her fingers. She opened one eye. Max was already up. Her smile was sleepy, but content. He was always in a rush these days with so many plans for the remodeling of the old Franklin house. Something special was arriving on the ferry today. She didn’t remember what shipment was scheduled to arrive, but Max was excited. Construction and remodeling on a sea island had challenges, not least of which was arranging for delivery of materials. However, she loved their remoteness. To her, Broward’s Rock was the loveliest of the South Carolina sea islands, even if it wasn’t a hub of commerce and the nearest Home Depot was across the sound in Chastain.

  Both eyes opened even though she didn’t hurry to wake up. February might not be the island’s loveliest month, but the slow, hassle-free pace was welcome after the hubbub of Christmas. She had to handle the store by herself since Ingrid, her stalwart assistant, was out of town for two weeks. She and Duane were visiting her sister in Florida. Going solo wasn’t a problem. Tourists were rare in February and she felt comfortable slapping up her BACK SOON sign whenever she needed to run an errand. Fellow islanders understood about February.

  She sniffed. Mmm. Max was obviously fixing something special for breakfast. She popped up and shivered in her mid-thigh-length cotton sleepshirt from Victoria’s Secret. Max always approved of lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. She slipped into a soft fleece robe and pink fluff flip-flops, gave her tangled curls a quick brush, and ran lightly down the stairs and into t
he kitchen, the wonderful aromas enticing as an embrace.

  Max was lifting a casserole from the oven. He turned, blond hair tousled. She loved his slightly disheveled morning appearance, the stubble of beard on his cheeks.

  He grinned. “Why am I not surprised that you arrive at the same time breakfast is ready and the coffee brewing?”

  Annie laughed. “Timing is everything.”

  Max slid the casserole onto the tile table, reached out to pull her close. “Good morning, Mrs. Darling.”

  Their morning ritual never varied, a smile, a hug, a cheerful beginning to the day. Ever since August, when Max had been jailed for a murder he didn’t commit, they held each other extra tight.

  Annie pulled out her chair, dropped into it, and looked at him expectantly.

  “Just a trifle I put together early this morning. Baked apples stuffed with sausage and cranberries.” Max delighted in cooking. All the finest chefs were men, he often exclaimed.

  Annie would have pointed out the sexist-pig tenor of the comment, but she wasn’t going to discourage creativity. Max’s cooking was to die for. She lifted a succulent rose-red apple with its mound of stuffing onto her red Fiesta plate, caught a faint scent of thyme along with the rich aroma of browned sausage.

  Max poured coffee. Their newest enthusiasm was Tanzanian Peaberry, strong, brisk, and delicious.

  Annie heaped apple and stuffing on her fork. She took a bite. Her eyes widened. “Max! This is the best yet.”

  Max smiled modestly and served himself.