by Carolyn Hart
He frowned as he headed downstairs. Somewhere the coins were hidden. Would their hiding place ever be found?
Officer Harrison sat stiffly at the round wooden table nearest the coffee bar, a pad, pencil, and green folder in front of her. Her pale blue eyes seemed to dissect Death on Demand as she scanned the bookshelves. She glanced up at the watercolors.
Annie offered a smile. “I run a contest every month. The first person who identifies the book and author pictured in each watercolor wins a prize.”
Harrison gave her a level look. “I saw a display on one of the front tables. A bunch of books—”
Annie pictured the titles with their stylish covers: Dear Miss Demeanor by Joan Hess, Murder Makes Waves by Anne George, I Gave You My Heart but You Sold It Online by Dixie Cash, Night of the Living Deb by Susan McBride, and Hurricane Homicide by Nora Charles.
“—with a sign: LAUGH OUT LOUD. MURDEROUSLY FUNNY.” The policewoman’s angular face folded in a disapproving frown. “Murder’s not funny.”
Annie’s eyes glinted, but she kept her voice pleasant. “Murder is never funny. People are funny.”
Harrison was cold. “If they had my job, they’d find something else to read.”
Annie knew the somber policewoman didn’t read mysteries, so she didn’t understand them. This wasn’t the moment to explain that murder was never the point of a mystery, that mysteries have to do with goodness and justice and the triumph of right over wrong, that decent and moral people read mysteries because they want for a fleeting moment to inhabit a world that celebrates goodness.
Annie remembered the officer’s anguish when she spoke of her partner’s death. Murder was real and personal to Officer Harrison. Annie turned a hand out in appeal. “People who read mysteries admire the police. They want crimes to be solved.”
Officer Harrison’s eyes widened in surprise.
She hoped that Harrison saw respect in hers. Maybe the policewoman lived in a black-and-white world, but she worked every day to make that world a safer place. She did her job, knowing she faced danger every time she stopped a car, approached a door, walked out into the night.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Annie gestured toward the coffee bar. “I have Colombian freshly made.”
Harrison started to shake her head, stopped, slowly nodded. “Thank you.”
Annie filled the mugs, brought them to the table, slipped into the opposite chair.
Harrison lifted a spoonful of sugar crystals, dropped them into the hot black coffee, stirred. “The investigation into the murder of Gwen Jamison continues. Last night you met an informant on Fish Haul pier. Please describe what happened, beginning with the phone call setting up the meeting.”
Annie spoke carefully and clearly. Harrison interrupted a half-dozen times, pressing for information:
“The sound of the voice?” A whisper.
“Length of the conversation?” Ten minutes, fifteen.
“Did she speak with an accent?” She was an islander.
“Was her voice high or low?” She whispered, how could I know?
“Ability to see?” Hidden beneath the pier.
“Informant’s sex?” Female.
“A description?”
Annie held her mug tightly, feeling beleaguered. Every scrap of information gave a clearer picture. How secure would this information be? If she told Harrison that the woman was middling height, bony, thin, middle-aged from her voice, it might sign a death warrant. If the informant called the police as Annie had urged, there would be no need for Annie to describe her. Annie’s lips parted. When she spoke, she listened to her words with a sense of finality. “I can’t describe her. I scarcely caught a glimpse. By the time I reached the end of the pier, the boat was rounding the point.”
Harrison looked at Annie hopefully. Without her customary expression of reserve and wariness, her angular face had a shy appeal. “Robert Jamison set the investigation back more than twenty-four hours when he didn’t reveal his whereabouts Wednesday morning. I talked to the chief this morning, but they’re all sick with a stomach flu and can’t travel for at least a couple of days. The baby’s been real sick. He said you’re a good friend, that you’ll help me.”
Annie felt anguished, torn between instinct and duty. It’s my mess. I have to clean it up. She tried to sound normal. “I’ll do everything I can.” She was willing to do everything she could to be helpful, short of putting Gwen’s friend into even more danger. “Max and I both want to help.”
Harrison looked relieved. “Even if you didn’t get a good look, maybe you’ll see a resemblance in these pictures.” For an instant, her eyes flashed. “We aren’t getting any help from the black community. None. Nobody will talk. To hear them, you wouldn’t think the woman had a best friend. Instead, she had lots and lots of friends. Nobody special. I don’t believe that. A woman always has a best friend. Sometimes it isn’t another woman, but she’s got a best friend. Nobody we’ve talked to knows from nothing about who tried to break into the Franklin house last night. So we got some pictures of people who’ve been in and out of Charlie Jamison’s house. I figure his mother’s best friend showed up.” She opened the folder, pushed it across the table.
Annie leafed through the color photos. They were sharp and clear, likely taken with a telephoto lens, the subjects unaware.
Annie stared down, her shoulders stiff. Three women were plump, one decidedly obese. Five women were of middle height, thin, bony, almost indistinguishable in physical appearance.
Relief almost made her giddy. Her description of that dimly seen figure would provide no help. She was spared making a terrible choice. “I have no idea.” Truth has a genuine sound. “I know she isn’t one of the bigger women, but it could be any one of these.” She tapped the pictures of the slender women. “I’m sorry.”
The policewoman slid the pictures into the folder, closed it. “Thank you for your time. If you hear anything further from her, call us.” She stood.
Annie rose. She took comfort in the fact that she had indeed been helpful. If she hadn’t gone to Fish Haul pier, there likely would be no suspicion of the Grant family. “Please tell Chief Cameron I hope they are well soon.”
A quick grin touched Harrison’s face. “The sooner the better.” Abruptly, she was formal again. “We appreciate your assistance, Mrs. Darling.”
Annie almost asked her, for heaven’s sake, to call her Annie but Harrison, after a short nod, moved quickly up the center aisle. Annie watched her go with a sense of relief. The investigation was now on course. Harrison might lack charm, but she was honest and thorough. Perhaps she would quickly solve the crime and Gwen’s friend would be safe.
Max felt transported into wilderness as he followed the faint, overgrown path through the woods. He pushed aside palmetto fronds and ferns, heard the rustle of twigs and acorns underfoot. The rat-a-tat of an unseen woodpecker and the chit of squirrels were joined by the crack of a hammer as he reached the end of the unchecked growth. He came out on a broad, well-kept path. He walked faster, passing a narrower path that branched to his left. With a clear mental picture of the terrain, he identified the offshoot as the route to Gwen Jamison’s house.
The rattle of the hammer grew louder. Max stopped at the foot of the elaborate Grant garden with its banks of azaleas and replicas of classic statuary: Diana with a bow aimed skyward, Bacchus beaming and garlanded with laurel, the somber dying Gaul. Hal Porter stood on a ladder, intent as he hammered on a birdhouse.
Max walked swiftly toward him, circling a bricked fountain with a centerpiece of Neptune hoisting his trident. Freshly set cement held a shiny new metal pole topped by a redwood house for purple martins. The birdhouse was equidistant between the fountain and a partially constructed wooden bench. Hal paused and swiped a bandanna across his face.
Max’s steps crunched on the oyster-shell walk.
Hal turned to look. He stuffed the bandanna in a pocket and came down the ladder, tucking the hammer in a belt loop. He l
ooked fit and robust, the only evidence of his encounter in the woods a small gauze bandage on his left temple. He walked toward Max, hand outstretched.
“How’re you feeling?”
They shook hands.
“A little sore.” Hal lightly touched the bandage. “Not nearly as sore as those kids are going to be when I catch up with them. I’ve got people asking around. So far nobody’s come up with names. I’m going to check out Robert’s friends.”
“Why not let it go for right now? I’ll give Robert a ring tomorrow when he gets home, ask him if he has any ideas.”
“Home?” Hal looked surprised.
Max felt buoyant. “Robert’s in the clear for yesterday. Rocksolid alibi.” He pointed toward the Grant house. Quickly he recounted Annie’s encounter on Fish Haul pier. “The story starts there and ends there.”
“One of the family?” Hal stared at the house, his gaze appraising.
“Gwen identified the thief as one of the Grants.”
Hal shrugged. “She could have been mistaken. It’s hard to see in the middle of the night. Maybe the lady she told misunderstood. You know what I mean. One person tells another and they tell somebody else and pretty soon the story’s twisted as a licorice stick. I can’t see Mr. or Mrs. Grant faking a robbery, then blowing away somebody. They’re nice people. Not the type.”
“Type?” Max looked at him with interest.
Hal stepped closer, dropped his voice. “Grant’s a nice old boy, but not a tough dude. The other day he was looking over the purple martin house and all of a sudden he started quoting some poem. Something about ‘These are the days when the birds come back…’” Hal’s tone was bemused. “Mrs. Grant’s the kind that won’t step on a palmetto bug. I don’t see either of them as criminals. Now, I don’t know their kids and they’ve got a bunch visiting right now. I’d say if there’s something funny going on it’s got to be one of the young ones.”
“That’s what we have to find out. You may know the answer.”
Hal frowned. “Me?”
“Wednesday morning someone may have walked through the garden to go to Gwen Jamison’s house.” Since Annie had heard no car nor had Max later heard a car, Max thought it likely that the murderer was on foot. Max pointed at the new birdhouse. “You were working here. You have a clear view of the path.”
Hal looked thoughtful. “You’re saying that if one of the Grants walked to the Jamison house, they had to go by here. What time?”
“Around a quarter past ten.” Max shrugged. “It could have been a few minutes earlier or later. Gwen was shot between ten-twenty and ten-forty.”
Hal shook his head. “I wasn’t paying any attention to time. I had a good view though I couldn’t see all the way to the woods because of the fog. I was moving around, back and forth between here and the far side of the house.” He touched the metal pole. “I mixed the concrete there, brought it over here in a wheelbarrow.” He gestured at the fresh patch. “I didn’t want to make a mess here. I wasn’t paying any attention to people. Come to think of it, I saw Gwen Jamison go by. I don’t know what time it was.”
Max thought quickly. Gwen had gone to the Franklin house to retrieve the packet of coins. When she found new locks on the doors, she’d hurried home and called Confidential Commissions. “She probably came by around nine-thirty. Did you see anyone after that?”
Hal slowly shook his head. “Not on the path. A little later Mrs. Grant came out to see how I was getting on. But somebody could easily have gone past when I was on the far side of the house mixing the concrete. I was setting the pole into the cement when I heard the shots from your place.”
Max was disappointed though not surprised.
“You can ask Mrs. Grant. Maybe she saw somebody.” Hal reached for the hammer. “I got to finish the birdhouse. It’s for purple martins. They’ll start arriving pretty soon. They’re great to keep mosquitoes down.”
As he turned away, Max called out. “One more thing. Robert Jamison came here looking for his mother. He probably arrived between eleven and twelve. Did you see him?”
“I guess so.” The handyman was casual. “When I came back from your place, I was loading up my stuff and a black kid came out of the kitchen door and got into a beat-up old car parked next to my truck.”
That was another confirmation of Robert’s movements, not that it mattered now. “Did you see anybody in the family when you were at your truck?”
Hal hesitated. “I didn’t see anybody. About that time, I looked up and I think somebody was watching out the second-floor window. I saw a curtain move. I don’t know that it matters.”
Max pictured a hidden watcher. How easy and how damnably clever it had been for the murderer to slip through the house and place the gun in the trunk of Robert’s old rattletrap while Robert was in the kitchen.
Annie beamed as the front door of Death on Demand closed on the departure of a plump and voluble widow enjoying a winter holiday at the Sea Side Inn. It wasn’t up to Chamber of Commerce standards to admit to astonishment on making a substantial sale in February, but it certainly was true.
Agatha leaped to the cash desk, eyes gleaming.
“One hundred and forty dollars! Cash!” Annie picked up Agatha and swooped into a cautious waltz, cautious because sudden movements were likely to turn Agatha into a razor-clawed vortex. But this sale had to be celebrated. “What fun! And I introduced her to authors she’s going to love, Mary Saums and T. Lynn Ocean and Jimmie Ruth Evans and Charles Benoit.”
The shrill peal of the telephone ended the impromptu dance. Annie grabbed the phone. “Death on Demand, the finest—”
“Apparently you are ambulatory.” Emma Clyde’s raspy voice quivered with ill-suppressed fury. “We had assumed incapacitation accounted for your lack of response.”
Response? Oh, dear. Emma’s crusty message had directed Annie to check e-mails. Obviously, it had been a royal command. Annie stiffened her shoulders. “Emma, I haven’t had a minute. I’ve been dealing with Officer Harrison.” It wasn’t necessary to reveal the policewoman had departed a good half hour ago. “Anyway, I’m glad you called because I have a lot to tell you.” She felt as if she were talking into a cavern, which suggested Emma’s ship-to-shore telephone had speaker-phone capabilities.
“Dearest Annie”—Laurel’s husky voice exuded pleasure—“we can’t wait to be with you.”
“We’re in port.” Henny was brisk. “Now we can do an online video conference. Hurry, dear. We’re delaying our departure until we have our talk.”
Annie found herself at her computer and, with Webcams at work, she was looking at the traveling trio and they at her. Of course, her small cramped storeroom scarcely had the élan of the teak-appointed saloon on Marigold’s Pleasure. Emma’s caftan this afternoon was burnt orange with splashes of silver. Annie was irresistibly reminded of sherbet and slivered almonds. Henny looked professorial with reading glasses low on her nose and silver-streaked dark hair in a bun. As always Laurel was gorgeous, silver-blond hair in a flattering feathered cut, Nordic blue eyes clear and bright, her white shirt and slacks and blue canvas thongs perfect for a rum and Coke at a jungle plantation house.
Annie brought them up to date with the great news of Robert’s imminent release. “Thanks to Max.”
Emma cleared her throat, which sounded like iron scraping on concrete. “Had you checked your e-mails, you would have realized we have important contributions to make to the progress of the investigation. I’ll go first.”
“Of course you will go first.” Laurel’s husky voice sounded like a cross between a psychotherapist and a kindergarten teacher. Her smile was benign.
Henny lifted a hand to her face to hide a quick smile.
Emma’s piercing blue eyes narrowed.
Annie rushed to smooth things over. “Emma, you are wonderful to take your precious time and spend it helping us. I know you had hoped to make progress on a new plot on the cruise and here you are, sharing your insight and experience.”
“Yes?” Emma’s square face looked expectant.
Annie wrinkled her nose. How much obeisance did the old monster need? Obviously more was required. “No one but you has the brilliance and panache”—Annie wondered if she was overdoing it—“to discern what truly matters!”
“Good of you to say so.” Emma was grudgingly mollified. “Certainly I wouldn’t presume to take precedence except for the undeniable fact that Marigold and I are experts in understanding motivation. Motivation is the key here. The moment I read the story about your interlude on Fish Haul pier, I understood everything. I must say I rather liked that bit of business.”
Annie recalled the chill of the night and her sense of isolation and the sadness in the voice of Gwen’s friend.
“Marigold may well enjoy such an adventure her next time out.” Clearly Emma was intrigued. “Moreover, I had an epiphany.”
Annie’s eyes slitted. Much as the mystery writer often annoyed her, it wasn’t usual for Emma to be trite. Annie loathed the casual use of “epiphany” as a synonym for a thought, revelation, or, as in this case, a hunch.
“As Marigold often reminds Inspector Houlihan, ‘Beware the Trojan Horse.’” Emma came to a full stop and beamed.
“Horse?” Annie felt confused.
Emma was patronizing. “My dear Annie, think about it. Why did this woman contact you instead of the police?”
“She was afraid.” Afraid of what she knew, afraid no one would believe her.
“Marigold sees right through that. The woman contacted you to avoid incisive questioning by the authorities that might reveal her to have an ulterior motive. Obviously, she wanted to fasten suspicion on the family. I suspect collusion. The informant knows who committed the crime. Discover her identity and that will lead you to the person she is trying to protect. Or she may simply be someone who holds a grudge against the Grants. Marigold is always suspicious when an apparently peripheral witness purports to offer clinching evidence.”