Death Walked In

by Carolyn Hart

Max looked puzzled. “When we saw the partial print, we left it exactly as it was.”

  Harrison held out the Maglite, jerked her head toward the hedge.

  Max took the light and moved to the opening.

  Annie saw the sudden tension in his shoulders. When he faced Harrison, he looked grim. “Not a trace.”

  Annie heard Harrison speak, but the sound was lost in a rush of feeling. She stared at the nearby woods. Last night they’d been watched when they thought the trespasser was long gone. A dangerous, cool-headed gunman had calmly observed them and waited until it was safe to smooth away any trace behind the hedge.

  The police cruiser pulled away.

  Max stood with his hands on his hips, frowning. “I don’t blame Harrison for being irritated. We busted it.”

  Annie’s objection was swift. “How could we know the murderer was still out there?”

  “It should have occurred to us.” He was dour. “Now we’ve lost our best chance to get some kind of lead, something specific. It’s like fighting smoke. We reach out to grab and nothing’s there.”

  Annie’s eyes were drawn to the trees. Despite the cheerful sunlight, the woods now looked sinister.

  Max was abrupt. “Anyway, you’re out of here. You stay at the house tonight. Our old house.”

  Annie glared. “While you and macho man hold the fort? If you’re here, I’m here.”

  Max suddenly grinned. “You have that edge to your voice. I know when I’m licked. But”—he was firm—“we won’t provide a target tonight. It’s pretty obvious we’re safe as long as we don’t spot our trespasser. We need to stay because as long as we’re here, nobody can get in to hunt for the coins. I’m afraid they may stay hidden until the next century. I’m going to go at it another way.” He reached for his cell phone, rang. “The number for Denise Cramer, please.” In a moment, he punched the buttons, then gave Annie a thumbs-up. “Mrs. Cramer, this is Max Darling.” He grinned. “Sure, I’d love to come up and see you sometime. In fact, how about right now?” Abruptly, he was serious. “Someone shot at my wife and me last night here at the Franklin house. It’s important to know who you saw Wednesday…. Nobody?…You’re sure?…All right, but I want to talk to you…. You can’t make it sooner?…All right. I’ll be over at ten.”

  He hung up and frowned at the phone. “Why do women always procrastinate?”

  Annie cleared her throat.

  He smiled. “Okay, I know. Not all women do. In fact, you are the least procrastinating woman I’ve ever known. You act first and think later.”

  Annie didn’t smile. “Excuse me?”

  He laughed aloud. “I’m not excelling in tact this morning. Anyway, Denise is taking a bubble bath, and she’ll smell lovely for my arrival. She sounded much too cheerful to be harboring any dark secrets. In fact, she made it clear, ‘I didn’t see anyone. It’s crazy to think one of us would hurt anyone. Ever. But if you want to ask me questions, I’m your gal. My dance card’s full this morning. The lady policewoman’s coming at eleven. Maybe you and I can talk about something more interesting than Geoff’s garden.’ She gave this giddy laugh and hung up.”

  Agatha’s meow was sharp. Her green eyes glittered. She advanced toward Annie with a hunter’s stealth.

  “I know. You’ve contacted the Cat CLU.” Annie was conciliatory and she walked fast, grateful for her ankle-high brown boots. “I wouldn’t have been late”—Annie sidestepped and broke into a trot—“but I had to go by the house and feed Dorothy L.” Possibly this wasn’t tactful.

  She yanked open the cupboard behind the coffee bar, lifted out a can of gourmet cat food, flipped the lid, and spooned it into Agatha’s bowl. Before she could place it on the mat, Agatha poked her head into the bowl and ate in gulps while firmly planted on the coffee bar counter.

  “The health department would not be pleased.” Annie tried to pull the bowl away.

  Agatha gave a deep-throated growl.

  Annie yielded and left the bowl on the counter. She hadn’t bothered to flip the sign on the door to OPEN. She didn’t intend to stay long. She definitely intended to accompany Max to see Denise Cramer. Denise might just be having fun. She obviously liked to have fun. But fun with Max included fun with Annie. Period.

  Annie put the mail on the counter. A slim cardboard envelope, marked URGENT, didn’t carry Uncle Sam’s postage. Annie opened it. The label held a note in Henny’s handwriting:

  A dear friend was flying to the States and promised to drop in on the island and leave this for you. Most of the footage reflects our glorious trip, but we inserted personal messages at the beginning. We’re on our way. See you soon.

  Annie slid out a DVD. In a moment, she’d inserted it in the player:

  Emma’s deep orchid caftan glittered with silver spangles. Her spiky hair was silver with purple streaks. Holding a laptop, she sat in her usual regal posture in a mahogany chair with silver cushions.

  Annie blinked at the arresting colors.

  Emma’s square face looked satisfied. “I wish Marigold and I had time to help you.” Her tone indicated her conviction that Annie would certainly be in need of help. “However, the Muse calls.” She cleared her throat. “I’m on page nine.”

  Annie folded her arms. “You are the most self-centered creature I have ever met.” Talking back to a DVD might be strange, but it was very satisfying. “When I tell you we almost got shot last night, I hope it doesn’t disturb the Muse.” If “Muse” sounded like a snarl, it was no accident.

  The scene moved to Henny standing on deck. A breeze ruffled her dark hair. In the background was the lush vegetation of a Caribbean island. “I hope you will take time to talk to Denise. She can be silly, but she is loving and generous. If you gain her confidence, she may have better insights than almost anyone in the family. The others are much more self-absorbed. Perhaps that’s what makes it so difficult to know who might be guilty.”

  Annie glanced at her watch. She and Max would talk with Denise in less than an hour.

  Laurel relaxed on a chintz sofa. She was lovely but her face had a haunted quality. “Dearest Ones, I have a terrible premonition. You know that I am sensitive to impending events. There is great danger. Do not under any circumstances attempt action on your own. Stay together. Beware the false face.”

  Annie shook away a momentary shiver. Maybe there was such a thing as ESP and Laurel had become aware of their peril last night. As the DVD moved into a scene of their departure from Broward’s Rock several weeks ago, Annie hit stop.

  She gave no more thought to the DVD as she hurried toward her car. What could they learn from Denise? Max was convinced she’d evaded talking to him because she had seen someone in the garden Wednesday morning. Annie didn’t think Denise would keep quiet if she believed she’d seen the murderer. But Annie wanted Denise’s help. Maybe she would agree to talk to Ben and find out where he’d been Monday night when Justin saw him.

  Chapter 15

  Sunlight speared through the overhead canopy. Cardinals trilled. Crows cawed. A white-tailed deer bounded across the overgrown path, followed by a spindly legged fawn. Annie felt ebullient. Sunlight did that for her. She hurried to keep up with Max. “We should be up front with Denise, tell her that Justin claims Ben was out of his room late Monday night, and Ben won’t explain. That ought to get her attention.”

  Max looked skeptical. “I don’t think a doting aunt is going to assume he was burying coins in Gwen Jamison’s family cemetery.”

  “I don’t see why not. If there’s an innocent explanation, why doesn’t he give it?”

  Max laughed. “Because he’s Ben, and he won’t be bullied.”

  Annie accepted Max’s judgment. “Okay. No bullying. Maybe Denise can cajole.”

  They left the woods behind and reached the well-kept path to the Grant house. The Grant garden was lovely in the sunshine though no one was taking advantage of the weather for a stroll or to sit on the back piazza. The wail of a buzz saw shattered the morning peace. The shrill soun
d came from the other side of the house and was enough to keep everyone inside.

  Max knocked on the cottage door. Annie looked through the open curtains. She smiled. Yesterday she’d noted that Denise was a casual housekeeper, books stacked on end tables, magazines in a lopsided pile on the coffee table, a sweater tossed carelessly over a chair, a tray with a mound of mail. Today there was even more clutter, car keys tossed carelessly on the coffee table next to a green leather purse.

  Max banged again, louder. After another try, he was irritated. “I guess she’s pretty irresponsible. But she’s going to have to answer some questions sooner or later.”

  They walked back toward the main house. Annie stopped, frowning. She pointed at the bright red recently polished Cadillac parked near the cottage back door. “I guess that’s Denise’s car. Her purse and car keys are on the coffee table in the living room.”

  They both looked toward the white screen door. The door into the kitchen was open.

  Max moved fast, his expression determined. “If she’s home, she’s going to talk to us.”

  But once he reached the steps, he stopped and turned toward Annie. “Wait here.”

  She looked past him, saw a brownish-red smear on the lintel.

  He pushed open the kitchen door.

  She waited by a cheerful yellow bench, her eyes fixed on the screen door. It seemed a long time though it was only a moment before he returned. He stepped outside, his face grim.

  “She’s dead. I need your cell.” He took the phone, punched 911. “Max Darling calling from Denise Cramer’s cottage. She’s been murdered. I found her body in the passageway between the kitchen and living room. Somebody beat her to death. There’s a baseball bat covered with blood.” He looked sickened. “And a bloodstained coat on the floor.”

  Red light swirling, siren blasting, the police cruiser jolted to a stop behind the shiny red Cadillac. Harrison banged out of the car. Thorpe scanned the surroundings, alert and wary. As they strode toward Annie and Max, Harrison spoke briefly to Thorpe. Thorpe nodded and veered toward the Grant house.

  The front door of the Grant house opened. Geoff Grant came out on the porch, a newspaper in one hand. He stared at the whirling police light and the police officers. He hurried down the broad front steps. “What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

  Thorpe held up a hand and Geoff stopped. He looked toward the cottage. “What’s happened?”

  Thorpe’s low voice didn’t carry.

  Geoff looked as if he’d been struck. Once again he started for the cottage. Thorpe barred the way, spoke briefly. Reluctantly, Geoff turned and walked back to the house, Thorpe beside him. They disappeared inside.

  At the cottage, Harrison gave Annie and Max a quick, cool glance. “Stay here.” She pulled on plastic gloves, eased open the screen door, stepped inside.

  A rattle and wheeze announced the arrival of Dr. Burford’s old sedan. He didn’t hurry. He knew there was no need for hurry. He nodded at Annie and Max as he passed. His seamed face looked angry. He loved bringing babies into the world. He hated death, especially death come too soon.

  The crime van pulled up alongside Burford’s car. Frank Saulter swung down. He carried a video camera and satchel. As he passed, he looked at Annie. Warmth touched his light brown eyes for an instant. Then his face re-formed, taut, impersonal, controlled, a police professional at a murder scene.

  Annie turned her back on the cottage, though turning away did nothing to erase an image in her mind of a plump, cheerful, affectionate woman lying in a pool of blood.

  Max gripped her arm. “Sit down.” He led her to the brightly painted bench.

  Annie sank onto the hard wooden seat. “Was she killed because we were coming?” It hurt to speak.

  Max grabbed her hand. “Not because of us. Harrison was scheduled to see her at eleven. The murderer’s running true to form. Gwen Jamison promised to keep quiet, and it didn’t save her. I don’t think Denise intended to reveal what she knew.”

  “Why not? Why protect a killer?”

  Max looked toward the Grant house. “Because”—and his voice was sad—“she loved someone and didn’t believe that person could be guilty.”

  Annie stared at the house. Denise’s generous foolish heart had cost her dearly.

  Chief Saulter stood in front of the fireplace in the Grant library. Ashes were clumped in the grate from yesterday’s blaze. A sherry glass with sticky residue was tucked behind the celadon vase. Everyday household tasks hadn’t received their usual attention. The chief’s hair was grayer, his face more lined, but his air of authority was undiminished. Annie always thought of him as chief even though he’d long been retired.

  The hall door opened again. Officer Thorpe held it wide for Margaret Brown.

  She entered, looking haughty, her champagne-bright hair perfectly coiffed. “I resent being treated like a criminal.” A rose silk blouse emphasized the deeper rose of tweed slacks. She walked regally across the room to sit on a leather sofa next to Justin.

  Thorpe ignored her, spoke to Saulter. “This is the last one. She took her time getting ready.”

  Family members had been ushered to the library singly or in pairs by Thorpe to join Geoff, Max and Annie, and, later, Hal Porter. Geoff, Justin, Margaret, Kerry, Ben, and Barb were present. Everyone in the family was there except Rhoda.

  Annie and Max sat a little apart from the family with Hal Porter. He looked out of place among the Chippendale and Sheraton chairs in his plaid work shirt, stained Levi’s, and worn brown cowboy boots. He sat on a wooden bench, massive hands on his thighs, expression remote and wary. Occasionally, he gazed at one or another of the Grants, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny.

  Yesterday the gathering in the library had been contentious with an undercurrent of defiance. Now the mood was fearful and grief-laden.

  Geoff’s face was the color of old snow. He slumped in a wing chair, head sunk on his chest, eyes staring at nothing.

  Barb scrubbed at tearstained cheeks. Her golden-brown hair was straggly. Her red cotton blouse was only half tucked into faded jeans. She huddled on a love seat next to her brother. Ben was unshaven. His white T-shirt hung loose over khaki slacks. He patted his sister’s back, occasionally spoke softly to her. He had lost his swagger.

  Kerry had pulled an ottoman close to Barb and Ben. Every so often she murmured to one or the other. Occasionally she bent forward, rested her head against Ben’s shoulder, her soft black hair screening her face.

  Justin bent close to Margaret, listening as she murmured to him. He frowned and turned his hands over in helpless resignation. She glared at him. Finally, reluctantly, he turned toward Saulter. “Look, we know this is horrible and we want everything possible done to find out who hurt Denise, but what’s the sense of penning us up?”

  Saulter glanced from Justin to Margaret and back again.

  A bright flush touched Justin’s face.

  “Sorry to inconvenience you.” Saulter’s voice was measured. “A basic investigative technique is to gather possible witnesses in one place and prevent private conversations. When Officer Harrison completes her investigation of the crime scene, she will conduct an interrogation. The process has been slowed because the department is shorthanded. I am former Chief of Police Frank Saulter. I am assisting Officer Harrison. In this instance, everyone in the vicinity of Mrs. Cramer’s cottage this morning has to be considered a suspect in her death.”

  Margaret came to her feet, outraged. “That is absurd. I scarcely knew the woman.”

  Saulter’s expression didn’t change though his eyes had a sardonic gleam. “Then I suppose you will have to consider your proximity to murder an unfortunate introduction to the reality of police work, Miss Brown.”

  Hal Porter smothered a bark of laughter.

  Geoff cleared his throat. “Margaret, please sit down. We have to cooperate with the authorities.”

  Justin tugged at Margaret’s sleeve.

  She tossed her head. “Rhoda isn’t h
ere. What makes her special?”

  Geoff looked miserable. “Rhoda went to the mainland this morning on the first ferry, so she doesn’t know what’s happened. It’s going to be awful for her.” He looked at the china clock on the mantel. “She’ll be back in a few minutes. She’ll drive up to the house and see the police cars and ambulance and that crime-scene tape.” He reached out a pleading hand. “Let me call and warn her, at least tell her there’s been an accident.”

  Saulter was firm. “Witnesses awaiting interrogation may not make telephone calls.”

  The room sank into a watchful brooding silence. Occasionally Barb muffled a fresh sob. Kerry held one of Ben’s hands in both of hers. Margaret stared stone-faced at Saulter. Justin tugged at his shirt collar as if it choked him. Geoff moved restlessly in his chair. When the clock chimed the quarter hour, he stood and walked to the French windows and peered to look out.

  Annie wondered if he was watching for Rhoda’s car or if he was surveying the cottage.

  There was a distant sound of a car motor.

  Geoff turned back to the room, started for the door.

  A door slammed. Running steps crossed the hall. Rhoda burst into the library. She was trembling, her eyes wild, her mouth working. “What’s happened? There’s crime-scene tape around the cottage and the ambulance has its door open and they’re bringing out a stretcher that’s all covered over.”

  Barb gave a keening cry. “Somebody killed Denise. She’s dead, Rhoda. Mama’s dead and now Denise is dead.”

  Ben wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t cry, baby.” Several voices rose at once.

  Saulter strode to the center of the room. “Quiet, please. Mrs. Grant, Denise Cramer was killed this morning between nine and ten a.m. Officer Harrison will be here soon to inquire into the whereabouts of everyone concerned. Please take a seat and refrain from discussing the circumstances.”

  Rhoda wavered on her feet. She looked from face to face as if hoping that someone would say none of this was true. “Denise?” She lifted her hands, pressed them to her cheeks. “She can’t be dead.” Abruptly, Rhoda began to cry, great gulping sobs.