Murder Walks the Plank

by Carolyn Hart

  “That would work,” Billy said slowly.

  Max laid it out. “Meg’s kids have keys. Claudette lives there. Anybody could climb up one of those wrought-iron decorated pillars and get to the balcony. The door from Meg’s balcony to her room was unlocked that morning.” He recalled Annie’s words, repeated them. “Easy as pie, Billy.”

  The idiom resonated with Billy. Slowly he nodded. “Yeah.” His voice was flat but thoughtful. “It could have happened.” He yanked a legal pad close, held a pen poised. “Okay. If you can prove the corpse out at Ghost Crab Pond was her second husband—” He broke off, stared. “Presumably deceased?” His eyes raced through the data. “Wait a minute. God, no wonder somebody killed her. And him. If this guy was Tony Sherman, that means her marriage to Duff Heath wasn’t valid. That means none of that money belongs to her. If anybody ever found out, she’d have to return it. My God, talk about a motive for murder….” He trailed off as Max slowly shook his head. “Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

  Max tugged at one ear. “You got it right on one count, Billy. Her marriage to Heath was definitely bigamous. But then it gets murkier. I did a little checking, talked to a wills and probate lawyer in Charleston. Whatever the legality of the marriage initially, she and Heath lived as man and wife for twenty years, so she was definitely his common-law wife, which would assure her a portion of the estate. However, I got a copy of the will that was put up for probate, and Heath left everything to her by name, so it doesn’t matter what her marital status was.”

  Billy slammed down the pen. “So she—or her heirs, because that’s who we’re talking about—don’t have any motive to kill Sherman. Or her. Right?”

  Max had tussled with these facts all the way to Billy’s office. “Not unless they just assumed she had no right to the money. None of them are lawyers.”

  Billy reached for another legal pad, flipped through it, face intent. Finally he stopped. “Let me see what I got….” He skimmed the page. “That’s what I thought.” His tone was satisfied. “Mrs. Heath saw Sherman”—a pause and the careful addendum—“if that’s who he turns out to be—Friday morning. But”—he held up a cautionary finger—“she had dinner with her lawyer Friday night.” Billy clicked on the speakerphone, punched numbers. “Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

  Max frowned. If Wayne Reed and Meg Heath discussed legal matters, that conversation was privileged, but it wouldn’t hurt for Billy to ask.

  “Wayne Reed, Attorney-at-Law.” The receptionist’s voice was pleasant.

  “Chief Cameron. Broward’s Rock Police. Connect me with Mr. Reed.” Billy’s no-nonsense tone demanded a response.

  There was an instant of hesitation before she spoke. “One moment, please.” The call was put on hold.

  Max had played tennis with Wayne Reed the week before. Singles. Max won, 6–4, 7–5. It was a match for the men’s A ladder. Wayne played with good-humored intensity and had seemed surprised to lose to Max. As Max had later told Annie, “Wayne didn’t seem to take me seriously.” She’d grinned. “Perhaps your image is a bit laid-back.” Max didn’t take umbrage. He’d grinned in return. “Being underestimated has its advantages.” Right now, he wasn’t grinning. There had been a couple of questionable line calls made by Wayne. Mischance? Deliberate? Max’s mistake? Whatever, Max knew he’d watch the lines carefully if he ever played Reed again. And listen to whatever he said with close attention.

  Billy was growing restive. He tapped the pen on the desktop.

  Abruptly the speakerphone came to life. “Chief Cameron? What can I do for you?” The deep voice sounded forthcoming with no hint of reservation or concern.

  Billy was somber. “Mr. Reed, I would appreciate some help from you in the investigation into Meg Heath’s death. I understand—”

  Max folded his arms, bent his head to listen to the speakerphone.

  “—you had dinner with Mrs. Heath Friday evening.”

  “Yes.” A single word, weighted by sadness.

  “What was the reason for the dinner?” Billy wrote swiftly on his pad.

  The answer came smoothly. “We are—were—old friends, Chief Cameron.”

  “You were also her lawyer.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Did you discuss her estate?”

  Now the words came more slowly. “Yes. There was some discussion about the disposition of the estate. However, her death moots any points that were raised.”

  Billy slapped out the words like a dealer snapping cards. “Did you discuss the reappearance of her second husband, to whom she was still wed when she married Duff Heath, and its effect upon her inheritance from Mr. Heath?”

  “Oh.” There was silence. And an odd popping sound. Max wondered if the phone lines were picking up static from a storm at sea. He scooted his chair closer. He didn’t want to miss a word. He wished they were in Wayne Reed’s office. Billy would have been better served if he were face-to-face with the lawyer. Of course Max wasn’t a temporary deputy as he’d once been, so he wouldn’t have accompanied Billy. Billy hadn’t noticed that Max had moved his chair. Max breathed lightly, the better to remain unnoticed. At any moment Billy might decide to wave Max out of the office. But Billy was focused on the speakerphone. Reed cleared his throat. “Communication with a client is privileged, Chief.”

  Max nodded. That was the answer he had expected.

  “Mr. Reed.” Billy was all cop, his voice heavy as a truncheon. “I understand about privileged communications, but your client is deceased.”

  “Meg’s death does not abrogate my responsibility to her.” He spoke with quiet determination. “If that privilege were to be waived, it would have to be done by her heirs. However”—Reed’s silence was thoughtful—“I am confident they would grant me permission to reveal some of our discussion. In fact, this will be a service to my clients. You mentioned Meg’s second husband. Meg sought counsel about her status as Duff’s heir. I wish to be clear that her family was well aware of this discussion. Meg spoke with me about her marriage to Duff and whether the fact that her marriage was bigamous invalidated Duff’s will. I reassured her that such was not the case. Duff bequeathed all of his holdings to her by name, so the status of her marriage”—Billy nodded toward Max—“was not determinative.”

  Max returned his nod, wished he were more pleased that his findings were correct. Money, money, who got the money still seemed to be irrelevant.

  Billy loosened the legal pad from the sticky varnish, propped it on one knee. “Did Mrs. Heath discuss anything else with you that might be relevant to her death?”

  “All of our discussion was confined to matters of the estate, Captain. I can assure you of that.” There was no doubting his sincerity. “I know that when we finished dinner, she was quite pleased.” Again there was a silence. “I wish I could be more helpful. I took her home, walked her to the door. She looked radiant. She thanked me for making everything easy for her. That was the last time I saw her.”

  “I appreciate your help, Mr. Reed. This eliminates”—Billy’s expression was relaxed—“a troubling question.”

  Reed sounded weary. “If I can be of any further service…”

  Max was frowning as the speakerphone clicked off. It seemed very quiet in Billy’s office.

  Billy tossed the legal pad onto the desktop. “You had me going there for a minute, Max. And it is helpful to be certain of the dead man’s identity. But I still think we’re dealing with one murder. All that washing out of a decanter is too fancy. What you see is what you get. The lady committed suicide. Maybe she was waiting for him to give her a ring on the phone Sunday night and when he didn’t call, she got upset. Anyway, I’d lay odds that Sherman got killed because he was a stranger and he hooked up with the wrong folks. Sure, the fact that he knew Mrs. Heath is what brought him to the island. That’s not in question. But once she found out she still had the moneybags, there was no reason for anybody to care that he’d come. And if she told her family about Sherman, she probably told them wh
at Reed said to her. I’ll talk to them. But it doesn’t look like her heirs had any reason to worry.”

  Max slapped one hand on his knee. “Billy, listen, I found out Meg and her kids had a fight Saturday afternoon. There was apparently a shouting match. The cook doesn’t work on the weekends, but she went back to get something ready for this special dinner Monday night and overheard them. Annie thinks the dinner was going to be in honor of Sherman.”

  Billy spread out his hands, his face magnanimous. “You just explained it yourself. She told them about Sherman on Saturday. Sure they were upset. Here she was, planning a big celebration for a guy who ran out on her. I expect they were furious. I’ll check it out. But why murder her? Somebody washed out that decanter in the middle of the night, refilled it with sherry? I don’t think so. She dumped the stuff in her glass. As for him, her family had no reason to kill the guy.”

  Max’s face folded into a frown. Billy had the facts on his side, but Max recalled Emma’s dour pronouncement. He, too, didn’t give a rat’s ass about the facts. His instinct—shades of Annie—told him that Meg was murdered because of her long-ago love. But why?

  The cell phone’s ring, which sounded like a creaking door reminiscent of cellars visited by gothic heroines, forced Annie to prop the fruit salad on the fender. She muttered an ouch! as she touched the hot metal, scrabbled for the phone.

  “Hello.” She opened the door, retrieved the salad and slid gingerly behind the wheel. She really needed to spread a beach towel over the leather. Oh, the joys of August.

  “Annie, can you meet me for lunch at Parotti’s?” Max spoke fast. “I’ve got a lot to tell you….”

  Rachel carried her Pepsi and a sack with a hamburger and fries past the table where she always lunched with her friends. “Got a story to do. See you all later.” She was the only one in her crowd who worked on the school newspaper. She walked toward the exit to the main hall as if going to the Blade office. Cole Crandall, carrying a lunch sack, had pushed through the door just a moment before. Once in the hall, she looked left and right. The outside door was just closing. She ran down the deserted hallway—everybody was either in class or at first lunch hour—and eased open the door. This was a side exit, not the harbor exit from the lunchroom to the terrace. The midday heat was overwhelming. She felt as if someone had covered her with steaming wet paper towels. Rivulets of sweat trickled down her face, her back, and her legs. During study hall, the terrace was hot but bearable. By lunchtime, the heat kept everyone inside. The terrace was empty except for one disconsolate figure. Cole Crandall moved slowly, shoulders slumped, steps heavy, toward the harbor.

  Rachel lost sight of him as he walked behind a weeping willow near the harbor wall. Willow fronds shaded two benches with a great view of the Sound. The willows also screened the benches from the main terrace, giving a delicious sense of privacy. It was a favorite haunt of couples when the weather cooled in October. Rachel and her friends, none of whom had steady boyfriends at the moment, considered Those Benches—everyone knew precisely which benches were meant when mentioned in a special voice—quintessentially romantic. To be asked to walk there with a special guy was a thrill beyond measure.

  She frowned. Why was Cole going out there now? There wasn’t a soul around. She moved quietly, glad for her soft-soled shoes, to the end of the building, peered toward the doors into the lunchroom. They were closed, of course. She looked in all directions and saw only the swooping gulls, raucous crows, and diving terns. No one would know Cole was behind the willows.

  Cole was a wimpy nerd, trailing after Stuart Reed like he was some kind of hero. But she couldn’t forget Cole’s face. She knew how it was to feel the way he looked. Scared, desperate, alone, weighted down. That was it, weighted down so that it was an effort to speak, to think, to breathe.

  Almost without volition, Rachel slipped quietly across the terrace, edged up to the dangling green strands that hung in a thick curtain, blocking out the benches and the Sound.

  “Hello.” The word could scarcely be heard, a whisper of sound.

  She stiffened. If he’d seen her, she’d die. How humiliating! How awful if he thought she’d followed him out here to be alone with him. Rachel’s face flamed.

  “Sorry.” His voice was thin and strained. “Hello. I’m calling to see if—”

  Enormous relief swept Rachel. He was on the phone. Of course, he was calling somebody on his cell. She bent forward, head tilted to listen.

  “—I can speak to Mrs. Darling.”

  Rachel’s eyes popped wide. He wanted to talk to Annie!

  “Oh. Uh. Oh, I don’t know.” A pause. “Yeah. Please tell her Cole Crandall needs to talk to her. I was on that boat Sunday night. And she asked me—asked all of us—the guys who were keeping a lookout—”

  Rachel swung around, tears burning her eyes, ran blindly toward the end of the building. Oh yes. Chief Cameron had asked Cole and that creep Stuart and those guys who did nothing but cause trouble to patrol the decks. Pudge probably thought Cole was a big deal and he was just a big nothing.

  She reached the door, slammed inside, stood for a moment in the cool dimness, then resolutely headed for the Blade office. She wanted to be alone. She couldn’t go back to the lunchroom with her face all splotchy. She’d eat lunch, forget about Cole Crandall and his hideous mother and Pudge. After all, Cole was calling Annie. Annie could invite him over to dinner when she talked to him. They could have a wonderful time. But she wouldn’t be there. Not for anything. They probably wouldn’t even miss her. Once again tears welled and she rubbed furiously at her eyes, streaking the back of her hand.

  Annie stared at the container of fruit salad sitting on the table. “Do you think I should ask Ben if he’ll put my fruit salad in the refrigerator?” If she carried it around much longer, it might rival the amazing peregrinations of the Lady Baltimore cake in Phoebe Atwood Taylor’s File for Record.

  Max was checking the catch of the day on the sheet attached to the printed menu. “Mmm, poached grouper with clams.” He looked up. “Fruit salad? It’ll be fine.”

  Ben plunked down a huge glass of freshly brewed, unsweetened, perfect iced tea for Annie, and a Bud Light for Max. “I hear you two claim somebody bumped off Meg Heath. And they say that dude found out by Ghost Crab Pond had been to see her.”

  Broward’s Rock was a small town and Annie never doubted that Ben knew everybody and heard everything.

  “That’s right.” Annie was crisp. Ben would also know that Billy Cameron didn’t agree with their theory.

  “Yeah. Well”—Ben’s eyes gleamed beneath his grizzled brows—“I saw that dude. He had lunch here Saturday.” Even now on a weekday the grill was packed and a line waited in the foyer. The rattle of crockery, the thump of boogie-woogie on the jukebox, and the dull roar of conversation signaled summer as clearly as bumper-to-bumper traffic and scantily covered sunburned bodies daubed with zinc oxide. Parotti’s, however, required shirts and shoes. Shorts were okay. No wet swimsuits. “He told me the bait shop was the best he’d ever seen outside of the Keys.”

  So far as Annie knew, this was the first definite placement of Tony Sherman by anyone other than the maid at the hotel. She clapped her hands together. “What did he look like? What did he say? Was anyone with him?”

  “By himself.” Ben squinted. “Fried shrimp, fries, coleslaw, Dos Equis.”

  Annie gave Max an amazed glance. Ben’s memory was always excellent, but this was phenomenal. “Weren’t you jammed at lunch on Saturday?” The locals knew to come early or late, and sometimes even that didn’t help because of the influx of tourists. Oh the tourists, the tourists, the noisy but necessary tourists.

  “Yep. But he was one dandy guy. Blue-and-white-striped sport coat. I had Jolene take a peek from the kitchen. Told her I’d like one for my birthday.” His face turned a dull red. “Not that I pay much attention to that sort of thing.”

  Annie lifted her glass to hide a smile. Ben was decked out in a sport coat, white trousers, an
d white shoes, the epitome of southern manliness.

  Ben talked fast to hide his embarrassment. “I remembered what he had on when I saw that story in the Gazette. Had to be the same guy. And everybody’s been talking about Pamela—hey”—his face lighted with relief and good humor—“that’s great news that Pamela’s okay. Anyway, everybody says she saw him at Mrs. Heath’s Friday morning and how Billy thinks Pamela fell and Mrs. Heath took an overdose and somebody carjacked the dude. Anyway, when I heard you two was looking around, I thought you might like to know that he was bright as a new penny Saturday. He was grinning, and every so often his face lit up with a million-dollar smile. I noticed as I went past to other tables. He wasn’t looking at anybody else. No, he was sitting there eating and thinking and looked to me like he had a stack of travel brochures, and man, was he happy.”

  Annie liked air-conditioning, but she didn’t like the coldness that washed over her like a gray winter rain. Tony Sherman on Saturday was a happy man who had only a few more hours to live. That happiness mattered. Her eyes met Max’s. Whatever had ensued during Sherman’s visit with Meg Heath, there had been a cheerful outcome. Jason Brown insisted Meg Heath was happy both Saturday and Sunday, although Jason hadn’t mentioned the fact that he and his sister quarreled with Meg.

  “Anyway”—Ben pulled out his order pad—“thought you’d want to know. What’ll you have today?”

  Annie put down her glass. She didn’t need to say a word. Max knew.