Murder Walks the Plank

by Carolyn Hart

  Billy shook his head. “The doc said at least twenty tablets.” Billy looked up the winding steps, noted the glass walls of the house standing on the metal pillars. Annie suspected that he made it a point never to be impressed by the mansions on the island. Billy was a cop who would do his best for the owner of a ramshackle cabin as well as the possessor of a show home. But he did take a long moment to survey the magnificent glass structure from one end to the other.

  “All right, ma’am.” He nodded at Claudette. “If you’ll show me where Mrs. Heath’s body was found…”

  Claudette turned to go up the steps, her shoulders bowed. She moved as if every step took an effort.

  Annie turned, too, though she wasn’t surprised when Billy cleared his throat and moved in front of her. Now his face had its bulldog look. “How come you showed up here this morning?”

  She didn’t mind answering. “To take Pamela’s place. She came every morning to read the Gazette to Mrs. Heath. I thought maybe someone killed Pamela to keep her from reading the Sunday paper to Mrs. Heath. But I guess that’s out. Maybe there was something in the Gazette that would mean something to both of them….” Her voice trailed off.

  Billy looked skeptical, but he didn’t immediately reject her suggestion.

  Annie felt a crack in his resistance. She said smoothly, “Think about it, Billy. Pamela Potts was here on Friday, and she and Meg Heath are both dead now. There has to be a connection.”

  Billy’s expression was neutral. “We’ll find out. Now, were you here when Mrs. Heath’s body was discovered?”

  Annie felt cold despite the sun. “No. I’d just arrived when the ambulance came.”

  “Fine. You don’t need to stay, Annie. I’ll keep in mind the fact that Pamela Potts was coming here. But for now, I need to get upstairs.” He jerked his head toward Claudette. “All right, Ms. Taylor, let’s go.”

  Claudette started up the steps. Billy was right behind her, his burly shoulders throwing a blocky shadow onto the dusty ground. Lou and Frank followed, murmuring hello to Annie as they passed by.

  Annie watched as the front door closed and knew she was on the outside looking in as far as the investigation into Meg’s death was concerned. But at least Billy had listened, and now he knew that Pamela had been here on Friday. He was fair-minded and thoughtful. For the first time since Pamela’s injury, Annie felt a glimmer of hope that the truth might be found.

  Sunlight reflected from the many windows. Talk about living in a fishbowl…She watched the progress of the men as they followed Claudette to Meg’s room. They stepped inside and were lost to her view since the blinds on the interior side of the room were still closed. Though she couldn’t see them now, she knew a careful and thorough investigation would ensue. The glass from which Meg had drunk her sherry would be taken as evidence and the crystal decanter as well. Billy would do it right, and with Frank Saulter there to help, they wouldn’t miss anything.

  From her vantage point, Annie saw the entrance to the kitchen. A stocky woman with blond hair edged out into the hallway to peer toward the closed door to Meg’s room.

  Annie almost reached for her car keys. She had accomplished her purpose. Meg Heath’s death was being investigated.

  But what about Pamela? Would Billy focus on her death? Maybe. Maybe not. After all, Annie was on the spot. What harm would it do to ask a few questions? She brushed away any thought of Billy’s reaction if he knew. She made up her mind and moved fast, her sandals clicking on the mosaic that added color and gaiety to the shadowy expanse beneath the elevated base of the house. On the beach side of the house, between the patio and the dunes, was a tiled pool shaped like a dolphin. Blue water sparkled in the sun. Bright umbrellas were furled above glass tables. Red cushions added color to white wooden patio furniture. Sea oats on the dunes rippled in the breeze. It was a lovely August day, crows cawing, gulls swooping, the surf booming.

  Annie reached broad steps leading up to a balcony behind the kitchen. Hoping mightily that Billy was fully occupied in Meg’s suite, she hurried up the steps and across the porch and rapped loudly on the back door.

  The woman on the far side of the beautifully appointed kitchen turned and stared across its wide expanse. In keeping with the rest of the house, everything—walls, cabinets, counters, tiled floor—was a brilliant white. She looked at Annie through the glass. Slowly, her broad face wary and uncertain, the stocky woman moved toward the door.

  Max checked the clock. A quarter after ten. He placed the legal pad with page after page of notes to the right of the keyboard. It was time to organize the material he’d gleaned from phone calls and the Web. He opened a new file and began to type:

  Possible Homicide Victim: Meg Heath

  Family members: Jenna Brown Carmody, daughter Jason Brown, son

  Staff: Claudette Taylor, secretary Imogene Riley, housekeeper

  Meg Heath

  Meg Heath was born Margaret (Meg) Crane, April 11, 1944, in Charleston, South Carolina. Her father, George, was an ensign killed in the Pacific. Her mother, Adele Harris Crane, taught drama in a private school in Charleston. Meg finished high school there. She received a drama scholarship to the University of Southern California, but dropped out of school to become a model. Her grace and beauty led to modeling assignments for top ad agencies. She was one of the most photographed models of the late sixties. She married Carey Brown, a pro golfer, in 1968. Brown was more successful at partying than at putting and he lost his place on the tour in 1972. Meg spent a great deal of time in Europe, especially after the Vietnam war escalated. She was opposed to the war and offered sanctuary to men fleeing the draft. This caused a rift with Carey and they divorced in 1973. Their children were Jenna, born in 1971, and Jason, born in 1972. The children lived with their grandmother but visited their father in the summers until his death in a car wreck in 1980. Meg was then briefly married to Tony Sherman. He had left the United States to escape the draft and stayed at her home in Majorca. They married August 12, 1974. He was lost at sea in a small yacht that sank in a storm off the coast of Italy in September 1976. Meg’s antiwar views led to the cancellation of several jobs. During this period she flitted from house party to house party in England and on the Riviera. It was at a party in Monte Carlo that she met Duff Heath, a wealthy widower. His first wife, June, had died of cancer the previous spring. They had one son, Peter. Peter and his father were estranged. Duff and Meg married June 23, 1978. They had homes in Paris, Chicago, and Palm Springs. Meg’s mother began to fail in the early 1990s and the Heaths built a home on Broward’s Rock in 1992 to be near Adele. Adele Crane died January 6, 1993. Duff Heath died March 22, 1998. The estate passed to Meg. Meg remained on the island with—

  The phone rang. Max looked at Caller ID, flicked on the speakerphone. “Hi, Ma.”

  “I’ve always made it a point not to gamble.” Laurel’s tone was pleasant but firm.

  Since Max was well aware of his mother’s dislike for gambling of any sort, he didn’t feel a particular response was necessary. He murmured, “Mmm,” and continued to type.

  —her secretary. She was diagnosed with congestive heart failure last winter and her condition had slowly—

  “But you know how I enjoy social occasions.” The words glistened bright as quartz in sunlight.

  Indeed he did. Marriages, funerals, baptisms, cocktail parties, political rallies, theater openings, art receptions, charitable dinners, tailgate feasts, dances, balls, and barbecues—Laurel attended them all with delight.

  “So you will understand that it is the social milieu, not the search for El Dorado, that prompts my attendance at the Ladies Investment Club.” A contented sigh. “I do not, of course, purchase stocks.”

  Max shot a rueful look at the speakerphone. He and thousands of other bear-bitten investors surely would have been better off had they followed the example of his eccentric parent. But hindsight…

  “I rather think no one else in the club followed that course. In particular”—and now her v
oice was sober—

  “it might be of interest to note that Claudette Taylor was in the unfortunate position of being heavily into Enron. I believe, in fact, that her portfolio was seriously diminished. As Alexandre Dumas the Younger once explained: ‘Business? It’s quite simple. It’s other people’s money.’” Laurel gave him a moment to appreciate Alexandre Dumas the Younger. “I remember her distress at the club luncheon last month. I remember how Meg scandalized everyone when she told Claudette never to cry over lost money, it was as silly as crying over a man, and neither men nor money were worth a single tear. Meg tossed that mane of dark hair and gave a whoop of laughter. She said, ‘Besides, you and the children will be rich when I keel over, and that’s going to be sooner rather than later. Enron won’t matter at all.’”

  The connection ended.

  Max finished the sentence:

  —worsened and she was not expected to live more than six months.

  Max looked at the last line. Six months. Surely Claudette—and Meg’s daughter and son as well—could wait that long to get rich. Unless one of them had a desperate need for money right now, this moment, this Monday, surely Meg was not killed by an heir.

  Max flipped to the second page of his pad, found the third question listed under Facts to Discover. After the query Who inherits? he scrawled: NA.

  The phone rang. He checked Caller ID, raised an eyebrow, punched on the speaker, lifted the receiver.

  “I’m here from the church. To see if I can help.” Annie hoped her smile was ingratiating and that her guardian angel was not hovering in a cloud of disapproval. After all, her intentions were honorable if not her methods. “I’m Annie Darling.”

  “Imogene Riley.” She spoke with the innate confidence of a woman who was good at her job and knew it. “I don’t know what will be needed yet. I’m waiting to talk to Claudette.” She glanced toward the hall. “But now the police have come….” She looked soberly at Annie. “Do you know why they’re here?”

  Annie doubted that Billy Cameron would approve of the public announcement of a murder investigation. In fact, Billy had not yet agreed that a murder had occurred. He was here because Meg had died from an overdose of Valium. Such an overdose could, in theory, have occurred by accident or on purpose. If on purpose, the determination would have to be made between suicide and murder. Annie had no doubt which had occurred. But now was not the time to explain this to the cook. Housekeeper? Whichever, she might hold knowledge Annie wanted. And she might be much more willing to divulge information if she were uninformed as to the cause of her employer’s death.

  Annie purposefully avoided a direct answer. “There are lots of formalities when someone dies without a doctor in attendance.”

  “Oh.” Once again there was a sidelong glance toward the hallway.

  Was there also an easing of tension in Imogene’s broad shoulders? Annie maintained a pleasant, vacuous expression. “I wondered what I can do to be helpful. The police asked Claudette to go with them to Mrs. Heath’s room.”

  “Please come in.” Imogene held the door open.

  Annie stepped into the immaculate kitchen. Gladiolas in a tall vase added a cheerful note. “I know this is a shock, though I suppose Mrs. Heath wasn’t feeling well this weekend.”

  The reply was quick and definite. “Oh no, ma’am. She was chipper as could be Friday.” The calm voice held an echo of remembered liveliness. “Oh, I know she was worn out from her heart, but you’d never have thought it to see her, her eyes shiny as a new penny. And she was so excited about tonight. I was getting things ready for the table when I heard the siren. The first siren.” She pointed at a stack of china on the counter.

  “Tonight?” Annie looked at the counter, saw silver in orderly rows, crystal, and damask napkins.

  Imogene’s face was sad. “Mrs. Heath said it was going to be the start of the rest of her life. Course, she talked like that. Everything was always the most or the best. But this dinner”—her voice was assured—“meant a lot to her. She said to use the Cartier china. Her very favorite.” She moved heavily across the tile floor, held up a dinner plate with a stylized big cat, black with yellow spots. The inside of the plate was circled with red and the outer rim had a gold band. Imogene ran a finger around the outer rim, slowly put down the plate. “Nobody had prettier tables than Mrs. Heath. But now…” She sighed. “People will start coming with food pretty soon. I’d better get out the big coffeepot.” She walked to a closet, opened it, and stepped inside. She came out with a huge coffeemaker, holding it with both hands.

  Annie hurried to help. Together they set the coffeemaker on the counter. “Did you talk to Mrs. Heath about the dinner?”

  Imogene poured water into the pot. “Claudette told me the plans Friday afternoon, but I talked to Mrs. Heath Friday evening when I took supper up to her. Claudette had already given me the menu—”

  Annie kept a pleasant, inquiring look on her face, but a dozen questions whirled in her mind. Claudette hadn’t said a word about a special dinner party. Was that the reason she and Jenna had exchanged a long, wary look when Annie asked if anything special had happened this weekend?

  “—and the wine list and told me which china. We always use a damask cloth with that china and crystal. But Mrs. Heath changed her mind about the dessert. She wanted me to fix Black Bottom Parfait instead of Bananas Foster.”

  Annie watched as Imogene measured precisely for twenty-four cups. “Is that when she said it was to be a special dinner?”

  Imogene fastened the strainer into the pot, put the lid in place. Plugging in the coffeemaker, she switched it on. “She was as thrilled as a kid at Christmas.”

  Annie wished for the old-fashioned days of place cards. It would be very helpful to know whom Meg had invited to this very special dinner. “Was it going to be a large dinner party?”

  “Claudette said to set the table for six.” The cook frowned, glanced toward a cabinet. “I wonder if I should get out pottery cups or Styrofoam?”

  Annie was decisive. “Styrofoam.” Six guests had been expected tonight. Now the dinner party would never occur, the dinner party that Claudette hadn’t mentioned, the party that had Meg as excited as a child.

  “I guess I’ll put the china up.” Imogene moved toward the stack of plates.

  Annie looked toward the huge refrigerator. Was it full of delicacies? “What were you planning to serve tonight?”

  “Oh, it would have been a fine meal.” It was a lament. “Even with grits on the table.”

  Annie loved grits. Grits plain, grits with butter, grits with sugar, grits with syrup, grits with cheese and garlic. But grits at a dinner party? “Grits?”

  “Grits.” Imogene planted her hands on her hips. “It wouldn’t have come up except she was having grits for her supper Friday. I’d fixed her grit cakes with shrimp sauce and a spinach salad. That woman loved grits any way they could be fixed. She told me a long time ago how she’d hungered for grits when she was in England and she couldn’t have them because nobody’d ever heard of grits. She clapped her hands together and said grits was honest food. She kept talking about grits being real and honest and then she laughed and said she wanted a big bowl of grits for the dinner Monday night. With lots of fresh butter. I told her grits had no place on that fancy table—” She saw Annie’s look of surprise. “I always told Mrs. Heath what I thought. She liked for me to speak up. But when I said grits would stick out like a sore thumb—we were to have Shrimp Chinois and apple-apricot-rice soufflé and asparagus with mustard-butter sauce—she shook her head and said grits would be perfect. Well, she had her mind made up, and that woman never took no for an answer. Then she said the oddest thing.” Imogene’s brow furrowed. “She wasn’t looking at me. She was on her chaise longue and her face was kind of white and tired but her eyes were bright as stars. You know”—Imogene’s tone was confiding—“she always reminded me of someone grand like a duchess or a movie star. Her face was long and thin and the bones kind of sharp but she looked re
al special, the way I always thought Anastasia must have looked—”

  Annie felt a flicker of surprise, then scolded herself. Why should she assume Imogene would never have heard of Anastasia?

  “—even though people say she wasn’t really one of the Russian princesses. If a woman has that air, people pay attention. They always paid attention to Mrs. Heath. She had that look on Friday, like she ought to be wearing pearls and coming down a golden staircase in a red dress even though she was just lying there in her dressing gown. She was pleased. She looked out toward the ocean and said, real low and soft, ‘I’ve always been a romantic fool. But I’d like for it to end that way, the two of us together.’ She threw back her head and gave that laugh of hers.” Imogene looked at Annie. “Did you ever hear her laugh?”

  Annie, too, heard laughter in her memory, rich and throaty, effervescent as bubbles in champagne. She smiled at the cook. “Yes.”

  “She was real happy.” Imogene snapped the lid on the coffee cannister. “That’s the way I’ll always remember her.”

  “Hi, Emma.” Max’s tone was genial but wary. He would never admit to being intimidated by the island mystery author, but any man would approach a wild boar with caution and with deep respect for the damage that can be inflicted by razor-sharp tusks. He sketched a grizzle-faced boar in a caftan, black hooves poised above a computer keyboard.

  “Caller ID is hell for detective fiction.” The author’s raspy voice was dour. “To make an anonymous phone call you have to find a damn pay phone. And cell phones are an absolute bitch. Everybody’s got one. Used to be, the heroine could go to the cemetery at midnight—you know, she gets a note from her lover but of course it is really from the wicked uncle—and the reader’s palms are sweaty as the villain creeps toward her, and when she sees him and hides beneath an overturned wheel-barrow, the reader knows her doom is sealed, but now all she has to do is switch on her cell phone and punch nine-one-one.” A huff of outrage. “Makes it almost impossible to put a character in jeopardy.”