Death Walked In

by Carolyn Hart

  Max stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Thanks, Mr. Porter. I appreciate your looking out for us.”

  A huge hand enveloped Max’s, gave a firm shake. “Call me Hal.”

  Annie yanked open the door, slid out to stand near Max. “I’m Annie Darling.”

  He nodded toward her, his gaze admiring.

  Annie wondered if Hal Porter was the man who’d corralled a ten-foot alligator last summer that had followed the smell of teriyaki sauce on a backyard grill, meandered onto the front porch, and flopped against the front door, looking for all the world like a dinner guest intent on ringing the bell.

  Porter’s gaze swung back to Max. “The dispatcher said there was trouble here. What happened?”

  “I chased an intruder out of the house and got a couple of shots in return. That’s what you heard. It was too foggy for me to see, but I heard noise in the garden. I searched but didn’t have any luck, then I had to leave. I appreciate your coming over to see about the shots. That took time away from your job.”

  Hal shook his head. “No problem. It’s the off season. Gators are hunkered down for winter. Snakes, too. I’m doing some handyman stuff for the Grants, but there’s no hurry.”

  Max studied Porter, gave an abrupt nod. “If you’ve got some free time, I’d like to hire you to watch the Franklin house. We haven’t moved in yet, but we think something hidden inside may be linked to a murder.”

  “Murder?” Porter’s eyes narrowed.

  “Gwen Jamison was shot and killed this morning.” Annie found it hard to say. “She lived on Calliope Lane.”

  Porter rubbed a thumb against the shotgun barrel. “So she was shot a little ways from here and somebody”—he glanced at Max—“shot at you. What’s the connection?”

  Annie pointed at the house. “Mrs. Jamison hid something here Tuesday.”

  Porter’s eyes narrowed. “Drugs?”

  Max shrugged. “We don’t have any idea what she hid.”

  Annie grabbed his arm. “Max, it’s got to be the coins.” She turned toward Hal Porter. “You said you’re working for the Grants. Geoff Grant?”

  Porter nodded. Sudden understanding gleamed in his eyes. “You think those stolen Double Eagles were hidden in your place.” He shot a puzzled look at the Franklin house. “Funny place to stash stuff, but I’ll be glad to stand guard for you. Fifty bucks a day, if that works for you.” He slid his hand along the shiny barrel of the shotgun. “I’m working just up the path. I’ll mosey over every little while, though I expect your trespasser won’t come back in the daytime anymore. Too much going on here. Tonight I’ll bring my camping gear and set up by the back porch. I sleep light. Nobody’ll get past me.”

  Chapter 4

  On the back porch, Annie watched as Porter strode to the end of the garden and was lost to view in the pines. “I’m glad he’ll stand guard for us.”

  “Let’s hope there’s still something here to guard.” Max held the back door for her. “Maybe the thief came back. If Mrs.

  Jamison hid the coins, they may be long gone.”

  Annie was thoughtful. “Nobody tried to get into the Franklin house until Mrs. Jamison used it for a hiding place. I think the murderer shot her and came over here on foot.”

  Max rattled off sharp questions. “Why did she hide something here? Assuming she had the coins, did she steal them? How did she have a key? How did the murderer know she hid something here? Why was he on foot? Where did he go?”

  “Old locks open to almost any skeleton key. It’s the new ones that kept her out today.” Annie turned toward the back door. “Anyway, we know she came here early Tuesday and got in without any trouble. The new locks were installed later in the day. When she came back this morning, she couldn’t get in so she called you. I think the murderer heard her talking on the phone to Barb. Mrs. Jamison told Barb she’d hidden something here, then suddenly she said she had to go and hung up. That’s when the murderer walked in. I’ll bet anything the killer came in the back way—most people don’t lock their doors in the daytime—and heard her talking.”

  Max looked grim. “Why shoot her?”

  “Whatever she hid, the murderer couldn’t afford for anyone to know about it. Maybe it was the coins or maybe a confession of some sort.” Annie had a quick memory of the telephone box in The Confession by Mary Roberts Rinehart. “Or proof of a crime. As for walking to her house”—Annie looked excited—“we need to find out who lives nearby.”

  “Isn’t that guilt by association?” Max’s tone was wry. “I don’t think that narrows the suspect list much. Downtown’s a mile that way.” He gestured to the northeast. “Sea Side Inn’s a half mile east of us.”

  “I don’t care.” Annie was stubborn. “If somebody walked to her house then walked over here, he—or she—walked away from here and I’ll bet the destination wasn’t far away.”

  “Whoever shot at me ran toward the pond.” Max gestured at the garden. “Once through the stand of pines, there’s a path. It heads north. Another path to the left winds past that old cemetery to her house. I’ll bet the murderer hid a car on Calliope Lane.”

  Annie remembered Calliope Lane. “We can check it out. It was too foggy for me to be sure, but I think the woods come right up to the lane. Besides, by the time someone shot at you, I must have been at Mrs. Jamison’s house. I didn’t hear a car go past.” In her mind, a shadowy figure disappeared into their foggy garden. On foot. Annie pointed outside. “Let’s check out the lane, see what we find.”

  Max held up a hand. “A map would be easier. We’ll find out who lives where and whether any of them had a connection to Mrs. Jamison. Right now, we need to see if we can find what she hid or some trace of a hiding place.”

  In the kitchen, Max looked up at the ceiling. “I heard a creak directly above me, then thumps.”

  Annie was ready for action. “I’ll go up and walk around and knock on the walls. See if that sounds like what you heard.” Her footsteps echoed on the heart-pine flooring of the hall. She gazed about, seeking anything odd, anything different, but the empty hallway and rooms were just as she’d last seen them, lovely with the application of fresh paint and new wallpaper.

  Annie carried with her the memory of Mrs. Jamison lying on her living room floor, hand seeking help, life draining away. Mrs. Jamison had slipped into the Franklin house yesterday, leaving a package behind.

  At the stairs, Annie brushed the wing of the ornate carving atop the newel post, a habit she’d begun on her first visit inside the Franklin house. As she climbed, she looked for any hint of Mrs. Jamison’s presence. She gave another pat to an ornate carving on the second-floor newel post and crossed the landing to the study. There was no sign of a search, nothing out of place.

  The study was exactly as she’d last seen it, the freshly stuccoed walls a pale lime, cheerful white curtains at the windows, a cozy room with just enough space for their favorite sumptuously comfortable love seat opposite a wall-mounted TV set. Max liked love seats.

  “Annie?”

  Max’s faint call brought her back from her decorating daydream to the uncomfortable memory of a woman dead too soon. Annie set to work. She thumped along a head-high line around the perimeter of the room, circled again thumping waist-high.

  The hall stairs creaked. Max burst into the study, face eager. “That sounded like what I heard. That’s encouraging.”

  Annie’s face crinkled in a puzzled frown. Had she missed something here? Why should Max be encouraged?

  Max claimed to be able to read her like a book, not a pronouncement she found especially flattering. He immediately looked smug. “It’s obvious, my dear Watson.”

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. Sherlock Holmes had never been her detective of choice. “What’s obvious?”

  “The guy who broke in was pounding on the walls. That means he was looking for a hiding place, and if he was looking for it, he doesn’t have any idea where it is. I interrupted his search and he got away. So, whatever Mrs. Jamison hid must sti
ll be here. Come on, Annie.”

  They started in the basement. Everything was fresh, the stucco walls painted gleaming white, extensive pine shelving installed and empty of contents, new heating system mounted on a cement block.

  Max made a circuit of the basement, knocking on the walls. The resounding thump never varied in pitch. “Nothing hollow.” He glanced at the heating system, shook his head. “Can’t be anything there. It’s all new.”

  They checked the rooms on the first floor, thumping as they went. The heart-pine floors were solid, the freshly painted woodwork unmarred. By the time they reached the library, Max was discouraged. “Either the walls are solid or hidden compartments don’t sound hollow.”

  The library was the only room still needing repair. At some point, its cypress paneling had been removed and replaced with red bamboo. At the moment, the room was down to its original tabby walls. At the end of a fifteen-minute survey, Max shook his head. He tried moving the panels on either side of the fireplace. They didn’t budge.

  They checked every room on the second floor. Max once again poked and prodded near the fireplace. Finally they reached the attic. Max stood on tiptoe to grab a ring that pulled down a suspended stairway. He climbed up the steps.

  Annie didn’t follow. If Mrs. Jamison indeed had hidden something in the Franklin house as she claimed, they hadn’t found it. Maybe they could discover something in the last few days or hours of Mrs. Jamison’s life that would explain her decision to put something in a house that didn’t belong to her.

  Max dropped the last few feet from the suspended stairway that led to the attic. “No cobwebs. No boxes. I opened the windows and hung out to be sure nothing was taped to a gutter. I ran my hand along the rafters as high as I could reach. I didn’t find a thing.”

  Annie studied the suspended stairway. To pull down the steps required grabbing a recessed ring and tugging hard. Max had stood on tiptoe to reach it. Annie remembered the slight form lying on the floor. “Mrs. Jamison wasn’t tall enough to reach the pull cord handle.”

  “So she couldn’t have climbed up to the attic.” Max shoved the hanging steps up and the opening to the attic closed. “We’ve checked every room. We scoured the cellar. We knocked on walls looking for hidden recesses or fake panels. As far as I can tell, the Franklin house is as solid as a rock. Where could she have put it?”

  Stepping into Parotti’s Bar and Grill and bait house usually made Annie, true to her Amarillo upbringing, happy as a Texan with a mess of lamb fries and cold beer. The unpretentious restaurant across from the ferry landing was owned by Ben Parotti, who also ran the ferry and was the canny landlord of most of the small downtown merchants. When Annie had first come to the island, Parotti’s had been dimly lighted and down-at-heel with a rank smell of bait in open barrels and old hot grease. A few years ago, overall-wearing, beard-stubbled, diminutive Ben met the refined, ladylike owner of a tea shop on the mainland. Each saw more than appearance and romance blossomed. Now Miss Jolene, as Ben reverently addressed his wife, held sway over the kitchen at Parotti’s. A clean-shaven, smiling Ben, snazzy in a white polo, blue blazer, and chinos, welcomed diners when he wasn’t piloting the ferry (renamed the Miss Jolene) between the island and the mainland. The café had new lighting and blue-and-white-checkered cloths on the tables. The menu offered salads and quiche in addition to fried oysters, pulled-pork sandwiches, fried catfish, hush puppies, and beer on tap, but Ben had drawn a line in the sawdust on the bait-shop floor and the old familiar fishy smells wafted from bait barrels teeming with live eels, fish, and squid.

  Since it was February and fishing limited to channel bass, croaker, grouper, sheepshead, red snapper, and spotted sea trout, there were few fishermen and no charter parties, so the café held only a few diners.

  Annie took a deep breath of the heady scent of bait, sawdust, and beer and automatically headed for their favorite table near the nineteen-forties jukebox, but without her usual sense of delight and happiness.

  Barb waggled rolled-up blueprints as they approached. “Annie, I ordered you a fried-oyster sandwich heavy on tartar sauce with fries. Max, I got the special for you, poached grouper with clams. Sides of cole slaw and hush puppies.” Barb always ordered a cheeseburger with sweet potato fries. “I’ve got a slew of stuff for you and Annie and here are the blueprints for the Franklin house.”

  As they sat down, Ben neared with a serving tray, his gnome-like face filled with welcome. “Miss Jolene’s got fresh Key lime pie today.”

  Annie wished it were an ordinary, everyday lunch at Parotti’s. Usually she’d hold up two fingers, ordering for herself and Max. Max would grumble that she had a sweet tooth the size of a Tyrannosaurus rex molar and Annie would assure him she was simply doing her part to applaud the island’s finest chef. It would be a crime to hurt Miss Jolene’s feelings, and if Max didn’t feel up to doing his part, she’d eat both pieces, thank you very much.

  Today she looked down at the tablecloth and didn’t say a word.

  “Key limes all around the table, Ben.” Max’s voice was firm.

  She looked up into Max’s grave blue eyes and blinked back tears.

  When Ben turned away, Max reached across the table, grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry you were there. It’s my fault.”

  “There’s no fault.” Her tone was hot. He must not ever feel she blamed him. He had reason enough to be suspicious of callers who claimed to be scared.

  Barb whopped the blueprints on the tabletop. “Cut it out. Both of you. Sure, she called and asked for help, but you have to remember she got herself in a pickle. She’s the one who used your place for a hidey-hole. If she’d been able to slip back into the Franklin house and get her stash, you’d never have known about any of this and Annie wouldn’t have found her dying. Now”—she spread open the blueprint—“I didn’t find anything that looks like a secret compartment….”

  Ben served their meals with a flourish. “You got a line on who killed Gwen Jamison and shot at Max?”

  Annie didn’t feel the slightest quiver of surprise. Ben saw all, heard all, knew all.

  Max grinned. “We’re counting on you helping us. You didn’t think we came for the food, did you?”

  Ben’s eye glinted. “Want to cancel the order?”

  Their chorus of nos satisfied him. He rocked back on his heels, face squeezed in thought. “Looks like all of a sudden there’s trouble in the neighborhood. The Grant coins stolen Monday night, Gwen Jamison shot this morning, then a shooting at the Franklin house a little while later. Everything happened close together.” Ben leaned forward, arranged the salt and pepper shakers and slender hot pepper bottle in an isosceles triangle tipped to one side. “The salt shaker at the tip of the triangle is Gwen’s house.” He tapped the pepper shaker, which sat down and to the right. “The Franklin house.” Ben’s gnarled finger moved straight up to touch the hot pepper bottle. “Grant place.”

  He left the triangle in place, said mildly, “Kind of interesting, especially since Gwen was housekeeper for the Grants.” Ben’s nose wriggled. “I hear the cops are looking for her son Robert. Lana Edwards called a while ago to order in a mess of food. They’re working so hard nobody had time for lunch and she said they think Robert stole the Grant coins and somehow Gwen found out and hid ’em at the Franklin house.” He tipped his head toward Max. “That’s how I knew you’d had a spot of trouble there this morning. They think Robert shot his mama when she wouldn’t give them back. Guess that’s what city cops might think. Some pretty mean kids in big cities. Me, I’d be surprised if Robert knew a double eagle from that squinty foulmouthed parrot that lives in Lessie Bassett’s antique shop. Besides, Robert may have got himself in trouble here and there, but he wouldn’t hurt his mama.” Ben turned and walked away, shoulders squared.

  Annie knew they’d heard the judgment of the island. When both Doc Burford and Ben Parotti spoke, they should listen.

  As the kitchen door swung shut behind him, Annie put down her fried-oyster sandwich. �
�That makes it pretty certain the coins are hidden in the Franklin house. She was the housekeeper at the Grant place.”

  Max pushed capers atop a piece of grouper. “Did Mrs. Jamison get the coins from her son? Or did she steal them?”

  Annie shook her head. “If she was a thief, she wouldn’t have called to apologize for hiding something in the house and said she was sorry.” Annie turned to Barb. “Didn’t you get the idea she was hoping Max would let her in to retrieve whatever it was?”

  Barb’s face crinkled in thought. “I think so. She didn’t have time to finish. I think she’d promised someone she’d get it back.”

  Max looked sardonic. “Okay, let’s say she wasn’t a thief. Why was she going to cooperate with a thief? That’s called conspiracy. Why didn’t she call the cops? I keep going back to that.”

  Annie finished her oyster sandwich. “It looks to me like she had to be innocent of any crime since she was shot.”

  Max shrugged. “Crooks fall out. Or maybe the police are on the right track. Her son stole the coins. Somehow she found out and hid them to keep them out of his reach and he shot her when she wouldn’t hand them over.”

  Annie believed in community judgment. “Doc Burford said he wouldn’t. So did Ben.”

  “She was strict with her sons. I’ve got that here.” Barb shifted several folders, opened one. A glossy sheet slipped out. Barb caught it before it fell from the table. “Here’s a picture taken last Easter. It ran in the Gazette and I got a color print off the Web site.”

  Annie took the eight-by-ten sheet. Sunlight had fallen across Gwen Jamison as she turned in the doorway of a small white wooden church. Her eyes seemed to glow with delight. She was smiling, her light tan face elegant with deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a rounded chin. She wore a softly swirling violet silk dress. Her hat was a gossamer thing of beauty, delicate white straw with curved brims that looked like butterfly wings in flight.

  Barb ran a finger down a printed sheet. “She’s been active in Shady Lane Baptist Church all her life, sung in the choir, taught Sunday school, worked in the thrift store. She was forty-seven.” Barb cleared her throat, read aloud: “‘She was born on the island. Her parents were Mattie and David Kingston. Mattie was a homemaker. David was a tile layer. Three children in addition to Gwen. Only Gwen still lives on the island. Gwen married Prentice Jamison when she was nineteen. He was a bricklayer. He died in a car wreck five years ago. Two children, Charlie, twenty-three, and Robert, eighteen. Charlie is assistant manager of the Stop ’N Go. His wife, Judith, is a schoolteacher. They’re expecting their first baby. Robert dropped out of school last year. He was working for a landscape design company, but was laid off at the end of summer. He’s done odd jobs here and there. Gwen always made the boys toe the line. Charlie never gave her any trouble. Robert moved out when he quit school. She told him he could come home when he was ready to do right. Sometimes he lives with friends. He got a job over Christmas at the video store, worked long enough to get the money to rent a cheap apartment.