Death Walked In

by Carolyn Hart

  “There’s another possibility.” Max spoke quietly, hoping to soothe Terry, keep him talking and maybe he’d give Max some names. “Everybody knows now about the coins being hidden in the Franklin house. Maybe some guys decided to take a look. Maybe they were trying to help Robert. If I find them, I’ll listen to what they say.”

  “That won’t help Robert. Nothing’s going to help Robert. Who cares about a black kid?”

  “I care.” Max looked toward the doorway, remembering Barb’s eager face and the phone she had held, a link to a woman with only a few hours left to live.

  Terry’s answer was slow in coming. “You got the lawyer for him.”

  “Handler Jones will do his best for Robert. I’m trying to do my best for him. Look at it, Terry, Robert was in jail last night. He wasn’t breaking into the Franklin house. That could prove Robert’s innocent. But I can really prove he is innocent if I can find out where he was yesterday morning when his mom was shot.”

  “I don’t want to screw everything up for Robert.” Terry drew a deep breath and Max could imagine his troubled face. “But if he doesn’t get out of jail, everything’s ruined anyway. If you go to Shady Grove Baptist Church…”

  Annie yawned and stretched. She opened one eye. Seven forty-three. Her eyes popped wide. They usually got up at seven. She sniffed. No delectable scents beckoned her downstairs and the house was too still. “Max?” She was aware of a tired ache behind her eyes from too little sleep. She rose and slipped into her bathrobe and knew the house held only her. She stepped into flip-flops and hurried downstairs.

  She found a note at the breakfast table.

  Good morning, Mrs. Darling,

  Max wasn’t here to pull her near, but the salutation was almost as warming.

  Thought you needed to sleep. I’m going by CC. I’ll find out everything I can about the Grant family, then I want to round up kids who know Robert and see if I can pick up his trail yesterday morning.

  I’ll fax over what I get. I’ll give Marian Kenyon a ring, let her know what happened at the Franklin house last night. Coffee’s made. Blueberry muffins ready. Fresh cantaloupe. Dorothy L.’s eaten.

  Love—Max

  Annie poured steaming coffee into a mug, wished its warmth could lift away the cloud of fatigue. It took only a moment to microwave a muffin. Annie was liberal with the unsalted butter from an island creamery. She spooned fruit into a bowl, poured a glass of whole milk. She ate quickly, took an even quicker shower, selected a cream turtleneck, russet corduroy slacks, and matching loafers.

  The sunlight was pale but cheerful as she drove. She loved the early-morning somnolence of the winter-quiet island and spared a moment of pity for drivers snarled in gridlock in major cities. She parked behind Death on Demand, her off-season commute down to six and a half minutes.

  As soon as she opened the back door, a piercing meow announced Agatha’s unhappiness. Agatha bounded toward her. As Annie hurried through the storeroom into the coffee area, Agatha nipped at Annie’s ankles, not quite playfully.

  “Stop it, Agatha.” Annie high-stepped across the floor. “These are new socks and I’m only about an hour late. What’s an hour?” She poured dry food into Agatha’s bowl in record time, then retreated to the lavatory to check her ankles. She found only one real welt. She scrubbed the ankle with soap and water and dabbed it with hydrogen peroxide.

  Agatha padded into the lavatory, jumped up to the sink to bat at the running water, splashing until her eyes were golden and her tail plumed.

  Annie laughed, her good humor restored. “After all,” she informed her imperious cat, “you are gorgeous and fun so a touch of temper is acceptable. I feel snarly if breakfast is late, too.” She didn’t resort to nipping the food server’s ankles, but she wasn’t a cat.

  Agatha was in such a good humor, she joined Annie at the computer, insinuating herself onto Annie’s lap. Annie petted cashmere-soft fur as she checked e-mails. As she’d expected, the traveling trio had more opinions to share.

  As Marigold once observed, any sleuth with a sliver of brains knows when a suspect simply isn’t up to the job. Marigold says good people can do bad things, but a gentle heart won’t kill except in defense of a loved one. You can tell that policewoman that she’s wasting her time suspecting Robert. He did some yard work for me last summer, but he took time off at his own expense to help stand watch to protect the nesting area of a loggerhead sea turtle. You know we’ve had poachers the last couple of years who steal the eggs. Robert and some kids from the Shady Grove Baptist Church kept watch around the clock until the hatchlings made it safely into the sea. Murder his mother? I don’t think so.

  Emma

  Annie stroked Agatha’s lifted chin, felt the vibrato of her purr. “We don’t know about Robert’s friends. Neither do Emma or Marigold.”

  Agatha assumed Annie spoke to her. The purr increased.

  “But,” Annie was quick to add, “Robert’s friends aren’t part of the Grant family.” Last night’s episode at the Franklin house might be important or might not. She was still convinced the truth would be found at the Grant house. Her unknown informant at the pier had radiated fear because she possessed knowledge too dangerous to reveal. Annie couldn’t prove this was so, but she had no doubt that Gwen Jamison had told her friend the identity of the thief who had slipped from the Grant house to the old family cemetery, carrying a fortune in coins.

  Annie felt a sudden deep wave of sadness. Robert protected sea turtle eggs. Max had described him as a gangly teenager. Was he still in one of the cells at the island police station or had he been taken to the county detention center? If he was innocent, he was struggling with heartsick grief made worse by fear of what the future held.

  Annie glanced at the clock. The minutes were speeding past. She clicked on Henny’s e-mail.

  I knew Helen Grant, Geoff’s second wife. Nice woman. Too nice maybe. Besotted about her kids, Ben and Barb. That’s not good for kids. They grow up thinking they are special and that spells trouble. Check out Ben. I think he got in some trouble when he was in college. Helen was a shadow of herself for a while with soulful murmurs about men not understanding the artistic temperament and boys always had a wild fling or so, it was part of growing up, and Geoff could be so stern and she’d told him it was a Christian’s duty to forgive. Not to give a dog a bad name, but I’d look Ben over. Little lapses can be signposts. Keep us up to date.

  Henny

  Annie’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. The traveling trio would be fascinated by her surreptitious meeting at the pier and Hal Porter’s encounter in the middle of the night at the Franklin house. Edith would send the holidayers this afternoon’s Gazette with the dramatic tale of Annie’s sojourn on the dark pier and, no doubt, Max’s update about last night. Until then Emma, Henny, and Laurel knew nothing…

  Annie’s hands remained aloft. Was it fair that she immediately thought of Laurel when the words “knew nothing” bobbed in her mind? An imp in the back of her mind high-fived. Annie’s rush of guilt was so intense she immediately clicked on the unopened e-mail from Laurel.

  Emma and adorable Marigold see the criminal as greedy, unscrupulous, and callous. Henny dwells upon weakness of character. I, my dear, with a passing acquaintance of love’s power—

  Passing? The imp sang a husky verse of “Always True to You in My Fashion.” The old song was a favorite of Laurel’s. Did that reflect an amazing self-awareness?

  —urge you and dear Max to seek the heart of the matter. Whatever the outward indications, I am confident that love or its lack will prove to be the cause of the theft and murder. Sad to say, love does not always turn a happy face to its seeker. Who has lost love? Who seeks love? Is love blocked or thwarted? Passion is ever a pointer.

  If ever anyone knew the ins and outs of passion…Annie refrained from completing the thought. After all, Laurel was Max’s mother. Annie welcomed the sudden ping of the fax machine. Good. The dossiers. That’s what mattered. She appreciated Laur
el’s effort, but this time Annie was ready to embrace Emma and (with a grimace) Marigold’s analysis. Greedy, unscrupulous, and callous—that described a thief and murderer.

  Annie pushed away from the computer. E-mails would have to wait. Snugging Agatha over her shoulder, Annie stood and hurried toward the fax.

  Max sketched a barred window. He spoke rapidly into the telephone receiver. “I talked to Hal Porter a few minutes ago. He’s got a headache but insists he’s fine. Workmen are scheduled every day for the rest of the week so that covers the Franklin house during the day. I’m going to set up a cot and stay at night. Hal insists he’ll be on guard, too. He’s mad as hell, wants to make somebody pay for whopping him.”

  Handler Jones spoke in his usual relaxed, honey-thick drawl. “I kind of wonder if the coins are still there.”

  Max drew an inch-tall question mark, underlined it three times. “Maybe not. After the murderer shot at me, Annie and I searched. Hal looked it over yesterday, too. Last night I gave Thorpe permission to search. Obviously he didn’t have any success or I would have heard. I don’t know that finding the coins will make any difference for Robert. Harrison thinks the informant at the pier was a put-up job to divert suspicion from him.”

  “That’s not a bad theory from the police perspective.” Handler was measured. “I expect the police attitude is similar about last night’s excitement at the Franklin house.”

  Max felt stymied. “Maybe another murder would get the cops’ attention.”

  “We’ll hope it won’t come to that.” The lawyer’s tone was dry.

  Max’s pencil flew, creating a caped figure fleeing into pines. “We need something that will persuade the circuit solicitor to hold off filing charges. Mud always sticks. If Robert’s innocent, there will always be someone who whispers, ‘He was arrested for murder once…’” Max’s voice was harsh. There were still sidelong glances, quick appraisals, when he met someone who’d seen the news photos of a wan Max in handcuffs.

  Handler didn’t mince words. “Robert needs an alibi. I’ve talked to a lot of defendants and I can smell it when they’re hiding something. I pick up that signal from Robert. Find out where he was yesterday morning. There’s something going on there.”

  Max hesitated, then took the plunge. “I wasn’t going to say anything because I promised my source I’d keep this quiet. But I may have a lead on where Robert went yesterday morning.”

  “Are you sure of your information?”

  “Certain.” Terry Phillips had been reluctant but definite.

  The lawyer spoke slowly. “I’ve got a pretty good relationship with the solicitor. I’ll ask him for twenty-four hours. That’s the best we can hope for.”

  Chapter 9

  Annie crawled on hands and knees to retrieve the faxed sheets sent flying by Agatha’s skidding leap to the top of the coffee bar. As Annie reached for the last sheet, Agatha pounced, locking her front and back legs around Annie’s arm.

  First immobilize your prey…

  Annie knew cat mores better than she wished. Next would come claws. Annie snatched a sheet with her free hand and waggled it. Agatha’s head whipped toward the crackle. Eyes gleaming, she loosened her grip, and rolled over. Annie scooted backward. Agatha launched herself. At the last moment, Annie yanked the sheet away and popped to her feet.

  Striving to breathe normally, she found a plastic spoon, tapped it on the counter to get Agatha’s attention, then tossed it on the heart-pine floor. Agatha raced after it. Clicks sounded as Agatha knocked the spoon with the skill of a field hockey star. That would entertain her until time for a nap.

  Annie smoothed her tousled hair, brushed dust from her sleeve, and poured a mug of coffee. She carried the mug and the dossiers to the midsection of the store and settled in one of the wicker chairs with a bamboo table to one side.

  Max’s cover note was brief:

  I checked the Gazette ’s online archives for pix. I also made some phone calls and talked to some of Geoff’s old friends. The personal stuff from them is confidential. I’m on my way to the Shady Grove Baptist Church and Buddy’s Pool Hall.

  Annie picked up the first dossier:

  Geoffrey Warren Grant, 53. B. Broward’s Rock. Father William, an inventor. Mother Louisa, homemaker, active in artistic circles. William ran a shoe repair shop to pay the bills. Awarded a patent on an early version of eight-track tapes. The technology is now obsolete. At one time the family enjoyed substantial income. Geoff has bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English literature, writes poetry, and has entered original plays in several area contests though he’s never made the short list. He teaches nineteenth-century American literature as an adjunct at Chastain College. His specialty is Emily Dickinson. He handles the family investments. He married Nancy Blaine Foster, a divorcée, when he was in graduate school and adopted her children, Justin and Kerry. Nancy died in a car wreck. Several years later, Geoff married Helen Howard Travis, a widow, and adopted her twins, Ben and Barb. Helen died from breast cancer. He married Rhoda Wickham three years ago. They have no children. Geoff is genial, friendly, and likable though he can be a little full of himself. He loves to quote Dickinson. One of his favorites is “Because I could not stop for Death.” That can add a melancholy tinge to an evening. His take is that remembering our fate prompts appreciation of the moment.

  Annie much preferred “Two butterflies went out at noon.” She studied the sheet containing a montage of color photographs. Geoff Grant’s face was just round enough to have a disarming quality. The lock of black hair that drooped over his forehead reminded her vaguely of Edgar Allan Poe although Grant was the picture of health with pink cheeks. On a golf green, Grant was elegant in a crimson polo and cream-colored knickers as he waited for his companion to putt. A shirtless Grant was flabby though tanned as he maneuvered the tiller of a sailboat. In a tuxedo, he smiled at a slender, laughing woman, his partner on a dance floor.

  Annie put down the print, selected the next dossier.

  Justin Foster-Grant, 28. Justin was born in Savannah. His mother moved to Broward’s Rock with Justin and his sister Kerry after her divorce from Matthew Foster. She taught third grade. Geoff adopted Justin and Kerry. Justin worked for a local vet in high school. He was an Eagle Scout. He graduates from vet school this spring. Plays bass in an amateur rock group, the Spiny Dogfish. Gazette social notes at Christmas said: “Wedding bells may soon ring for Justin Foster-Grant, whose houseguest this holiday is the lovely Margaret Brown from Mobile.”

  Annie smiled at the picture of a guitar-strumming redhead with a luxuriant handlebar mustache. In another picture, he was clad in a white lab coat, his face creased in concentration as he palpated a Lab’s abdomen. A younger photo, premustache, captured him in full Scout regalia, standing tall and proud as he received an award.

  Annie reached for the next sheet.

  Kerry Foster-Grant, 24. Born in Savannah. Bachelor’s degree in social work from Armstrong State. Employed as a caseworker by a social services agency in Atlanta. In her high school yearbook, she was described as “Kerry who looks past the here and now with an eye to Heaven.” An accomplished pianist.

  Annie studied Kerry’s high school class picture. Lustrous dark hair framed a narrow face with grave blue eyes and a serene expression. A hint of a dimple and a slight smile saved the photograph from severity. No matter the circumstances of the photograph—Kerry with graceful hands above a keyboard or laughing with her brother or hoisting a two-by-four at a Habitat for Humanity construction site—there was a hint of otherworldliness.

  Ben Travis-Grant’s dossier was as different as the crashing chords of Chopin from the ethereal strains of Debussy.

  Ben Travis-Grant, 25. Born on Broward’s Rock. His father was the late Charles Travis, a geologist who died in an offshore drilling-rig accident. Ben and his twin sister Barb were adopted by Geoff Grant after his marriage to their mother Helen. Ben has been in and out of college but is currently enrolled at Armstrong State with a major in Spanish.
He has traveled extensively in South America, Europe, and the Far East, backpacking and living off savings earned as a waiter. He has a blog with stories and pix of his travels. A few months ago he described the immensity and fascination of the night safari at the Singapore zoo. “It’s wonderful and terrible. The animals appear to roam freely in their jungle surroundings, but they aren’t really free. Is there any freedom left anywhere? I won’t be trapped. I’ll never settle for the illusion of freedom.”

  Ben’s photographs from the Singapore zoo included both day and night scenes with zoom close-ups of a baby tapir nuzzling its mother, a prowling Malayan tiger, a lion devouring a chunk of bloody meat, and a sloe-eyed snow leopard. There were several personal photos from his world travels. Wearing crumpled khakis that looked slept in, Ben stood with a booted foot on a fallen tree in a jungle. He was big and burly with a ruddy complexion and thick chestnut curls. Other pictures showed him in front of a Moorish castle, face flushed, a bottle of wine lifted high, and in a kayak, plunging through hissing rapids, drenched but exhilarated.

  Annie eyed the photos thoughtfully. Clearly, Ben was a risk taker and greedy for thrills. How far did his greed extend?

  Barb Travis-Grant, 25. Dropped out of college after her freshman year. Aspiring actress. She’s worked as a barmaid, waitress, nightclub hostess, and riverboat blackjack dealer with stays in Birmingham, Biloxi, Jacksonville, and Savannah. Currently she’s a sales clerk in a high-fashion Savannah boutique. She’s been engaged twice. She’s had small roles in local theaters in Birmingham, Jacksonville, and Savannah. Lousy credit rating, often running up big bills on credit cards.

  Golden-brown hair framed an expressive face with deep-set brown eyes, high cheekbones, and pointed chin. A quick glance at the photographs suggested Barb’s life was as uncharted as the flight of a windblown leaf. The images reflected amusement, rebellion, and sensuality. The most revealing picture was a stagy glamour shot. Barb lounged in a brief crimson negligee against an oversized, white satin pillow in a provocative pose, but her eyes looked uncertain, hopeful, and vulnerable.