Dead By Midnight

by Carolyn Hart

  “Elaine.” Annie spoke loudly, hoping to break through Elaine’s shell of fear. “You need to help yourself. You can’t go on ignoring the police.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to them. I’ve told you and told you.”

  “They’re going to arrest you.” Annie stared into anguished eyes. “I don’t think you shot him, but that’s what they believe.”

  “I didn’t.” It was a cry of heartbreak.

  “Then help the police find the murderer. I discovered a great many facts today.” Annie ticked them off, one by one. “Kirk Brewster is two and a half million dollars richer since your brother died this week while Kirk is still a partner.” She described the key man insurance.

  Elaine’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Kit insists Richard is interested in Cleo. Laura was on the back upper verandah Tuesday morning. She claims she didn’t see anyone. I think she’s lying.”

  Elaine stood frozen, staring at Annie.

  “Maybe Laura saw Kirk Brewster. And that’s not all. Darwyn Jack may have seen something in the garden, too. He was in the best position to have spotted someone near the French window to your brother’s study. Darwyn said he told the police that he didn’t see anyone, but he was taunting me with the idea that maybe he did see someone after all. The police can check out all of these things. Max is looking around, too. You need to tell the police what you know.”

  Elaine flung out a hand in despair. “You don’t understand. It’s too late. Stop hounding me. Leave me alone.” She turned to go, looked back, her face twisted in misery. “Stay away from us.” She ran then, her shoes slapping on the boardwalk.

  Annie watched until Elaine disappeared around a pittosporum hedge. She had hoped the woman might listen to reason. That hope was gone. Her suggestion that Laura or Darwyn or perhaps both of them might have seen someone in the garden had clearly upset Elaine even more. Elaine had no intention of telling Billy what she knew and it was becoming ever clearer that she knew something, some fact that she was determined to hide.

  Annie pressed her lips together. Elaine had made her choice. She didn’t want Annie’s help. But Annie knew she had discovered facts that Billy should have. The more he knew, the more likely that some piece of information ultimately would reveal the truth. She pulled her cell from her pocket and rang the police station. Instead of Mavis, Annie recognized Hyla Harrison’s cool, reserved voice. “Hyla, Annie Darling. May I speak with Billy?”

  Hyla gave no indication she had any acquaintance with Annie.

  Annie didn’t take Hyla’s formality as an affront. The police officer had very definite ideas about the proper behavior of a public servant.

  “Chief Cameron is not available. May I connect you with his voice mail?”

  Several clicks later, Annie spoke. “Billy, Annie.” She made her report crisp and brief. “Tuesday morning Laura Jamison was sitting on the upper verandah. I think she saw someone in the garden, possibly Kirk Brewster. Darwyn Jack hinted that he saw someone, then backtracked, insisted he hadn’t seen anyone. Kit Jamison’s convinced Richard was hot for Cleo and vice versa. Richard denies it.” Her face wrinkled. “He sounded sincere.” She hoped this last didn’t brand her as naive. Certainly anyone who committed murder would present themselves in the best possible light. “Anyway, maybe some of this will be helpful. You’ll be glad to know I am returning to full-time bookselling. I’m sure Elaine Jamison is innocent, but she’s made it absolutely clear she doesn’t want any help.”

  Annie dropped the cell in her pocket. It was time to make good on her pledge to be a full-time bookseller. She shivered as she stepped back inside Death on Demand. The chill did not come from the air-conditioning, usually so welcome after the sun-drenched boardwalk. She carried with her Elaine’s despair and unhappiness and unequivocal rejection.

  Ingrid lifted a book from the romantic suspense shelves as she spoke to a middle-aged man with sandy hair. “That’s tough that she stepped on a horseshoe crab. She’ll feel better soon. Some Mary Stewart books will definitely please her. Here’s one of my favorites, Madam, Will You Talk?”

  Annie slipped past Ingrid and the kindly husband. The bookstore was fairly quiet as early evening approached. She would check her e-mails and go home. As ever, her heart gave a happy leap. Home meant Max. They would share what they’d discovered today, make sure Billy knew everything. Maybe they’d helped. Maybe not. In any event, Elaine’s opposition seemed insurmountable. They had done all they could—or should—do.

  Annie was almost to her office when she glimpsed a Cat Truth poster: a cinnamon-apricot Oriental Shorthair, a striking Siamese with no pointing, green eyes huge in a big-eared triangular face, back arched in a crouch, poised to spring, mouth agape in a hiss: I’m warning you, back off.

  Annie cut generous wedges of key lime pie. She carried dessert plates to the kitchen table.

  Dorothy L, their fluffy white cat who adored Max, lay on the counter by the phone, watching them with hope in her green eyes.

  Annie put down the plates, reached out to stroke the cat.

  Max lifted the silver carafe. “More coffee?”

  “Lots more.” She slid into her place. “And”—her tone was considering—“I think I’ll add some cinnamon and cream and a dash of chocolate syrup.” She popped up and retrieved a jar of clotted cream and the Hershey’s syrup from the refrigerator.

  Max evinced shock. “Are you really going to pair the best pie a man can make with coffee that would stagger a horse-size sweet tooth? You definitely have eclectic taste.”

  She bent as she passed to kiss the back of his neck, then settled at the table with a smile. “What a nice way to say you deplore my dessert creativity.” She plopped a tablespoon of the yellowish cream into her coffee cup, added a spurt of syrup, looked thoughtfully at the cup, repeated the procedures. She stirred, sipped. “Heavenly.”

  Max looked at her for a moment, murmured, “Be right back.” He returned from the living room carrying a Cat Truth poster. A curly-whiskered American Wirehair, dark tabby markings accented by white, turned its broad face, the tip of the tongue protruding, to study a lifted paw: That’s a taste for the ages. Where have I been?

  “Tiptoeing through mashed squirrel, no doubt,” Annie said equably. “Don’t knock it till you—”

  The phone rang.

  Dorothy L bolted from the countertop with a look of outrage.

  Annie hurried to answer. She checked the caller ID. “It’s Billy.” She punched the speakerphone.

  Max was beside her. He held up his hand, mouthed, “Let me talk to him.”

  Annie shrugged. Max had a point. Possibly Billy was more than a little weary of her helpful calls.

  “Hey, Billy. Thanks for calling.” Max reached down for Dorothy L, restored her to the counter. “Any news on the shirt?”

  “Blood type matches Glen Jamison’s. We don’t know yet who the shirt belongs to.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, Max, that was good work to call us from the preserve so we could make the search. The chain of evidence wasn’t compromised. And you can tell Annie I’ll check out her suggestions.”

  Annie spoke up brightly. “I’m here, Billy.”

  “Hey, Annie. Thanks for the tip about Laura. What happened in the backyard is critical. The telephone lineman had a clear view of the Jamison front porch from eight o’clock until the cruisers arrived around ten-nineteen. He didn’t see anyone go inside. Or come out.”

  Annie understood the import of Billy’s calm pronouncement. If no one entered the Jamison house from the front, the murderer either came from inside or across the backyard. “And Darwyn?”

  “He sang a different tune when Lou talked to him.” Billy sounded wry. “He claims he didn’t see anybody, anywhere, no way.”

  “Darwyn said he didn’t like the police.” She paused, tried to bring back the uneasiness she felt when speaking with the Jamisons’ yardman. “It was like he was laughing at me, at the police. But there was something about the look on his face t
hat scared me. I think he saw something that he thinks might be connected to the murder.”

  “He’s a smart-ass. That doesn’t mean he knows anything. He’d get a kick out of stringing us along. I’ll try again tomorrow, but I doubt I’ll get anything from him. I’ll warn him, make it clear he doesn’t want to kick sand in a killer’s face.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Agatha’s swift black paw clipped a small, hollow plastic bounce ball that contained a bell. A tiny jingle sounded as the pink ball caromed down the center aisle. Agatha bounded after her prey.

  From behind the cash desk, Ingrid observed drily, “Such a dear little instinct to kill. Happily, this morning Agatha’s whopping a plastic ball and not your ankle.”

  Annie’s glance was reproachful. “Agatha never means to hurt me.”

  A muffled thump sounded and Annie’s head swung toward the coffee bar.

  Ingrid grinned. “The good news is that it’s nothing breakable. The bad news is—depending upon your perspective—Agatha’s probably dumped Laurel’s latest offerings.” At Annie’s anguished look, she said reasonably, “It isn’t in my job description to tell my boss’s mother-in-law to take her posters and”—Ingrid paused for effect—“carry them elsewhere on a sunny summer morning.”

  Annie was already on her way down the central aisle. She skidded to a stop by the coffee bar. Posters slewed out of a portfolio onto the heart-pine floor.

  Agatha stood on the counter, staring down with an interested expression.

  Annie couldn’t help but laugh. A photograph of her elegant, silky-furred black cat with her attitude of inquiry would have served as a great Cat Truth poster: See what I did! Am I great or what?

  Annie looked around the coffee bar. Several blank spots on the walls indicated posters that had been sold, but there wasn’t room for all of the new batch. However, she would hang them somewhere. As she gathered them up, she scanned each poster, admiring the subjects, then paused to look at a silvery Chartreux in an attitude of attack, ears flattened, golden eyes glittering. Behind her, only the tip of a tail exposed, another Chartreux huddled beneath a shawl: Don’t even think you can get him, he’s my brother.

  Annie stacked the posters, slipped them into the portfolio, and faced another truth: Elaine Jamison was protecting herself or someone she loved. Accessory after the fact. Accessory to whom?

  Annie leaned the portfolio against the wall by the fireplace. Elaine would want to keep safe her nieces and nephew, but she surely would not protect her brother’s murderer. No, the greater likelihood was that some piece of evidence in the study pointed toward one of the family and Elaine was trying to shield an innocent person from the police. Perhaps one of the children had come to her with the Colt, upset and panicked, but claimed to be innocent. Elaine might very well decide the best solution would be to get rid of the gun. Surely that was the case. But no matter if Elaine was hiding information for what she felt to be a good reason, she was, in fact, hiding information, and that made her an accessory after the fact.

  Elaine would protect Laura, Kit, and Tommy Jamison.

  Annie’s information about Pat Merridew and the photo in the gazebo must have been a great shock to Elaine. If Annie was right and the towel held the gun, Glen’s murder had been planned well in advance. That would explain Elaine’s reluctance to believe the towel photographed by Pat had any connection to Glen’s murder.

  In any event, Annie had done all she could do. She needed to order some petits fours for Kathryn Wall’s signing next week. Lemonade would be tasty, too.

  The front doorbell sang.

  Annie continued on her way to the storeroom. Ingrid didn’t need help at the cash desk. The day was warm and sunny. Customers would drop in after a day at the beach or on the water. As she reached for the knob to the storeroom door, loud and purposeful steps thudded in the central aisle. Annie didn’t believe in portents, but there was something ominous in the sound. She turned.

  Officer Harrison strode toward Annie. The officer’s somber face and her crisp, almost military progress, shouted that this was an official visit.

  A half-dozen police cars and two unmarked Ford sedans lined the Jamison driveway. Officer Harrison parked expertly. “Here we are.”

  Annie climbed out of the car, looked inquiringly at the angular, serious-faced officer.

  “The chief wants everybody to wait on the terrace.” Officer Harrison gestured toward the group standing on the flagstones behind the Jamison house.

  Annie followed her across the uneven ground, but stumbled to a stop when she saw Darwyn Jack’s body sprawled facedown at the foot of the gazebo steps. She folded her arms tight across her chest.

  Uniformed officers moved unhurriedly, each with a specific task. Investigation at a crime scene followed protocol. First the M.E. must arrive and certify that the presumed victim was dead. Only then could the body be touched and identified and the investigation begun. Who was the victim? When did the crime occur? Were there witnesses? What was the manner of death? Was there a weapon? What physical evidence was available at the scene? The body would remain unmoved until the surroundings had been carefully screened and evidence, if found, cataloged.

  Hyla looked back, made an impatient gesture.

  Numbly Annie moved forward, still gazing at that scene of desolate finality. Yesterday Darwyn Jack had been superbly alive with the animal magnetism of a young athlete. Now a flaccid shell remained.

  Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered from stakes driven in a rectangle that included the gazebo. A man in a Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office uniform spoke into a camcorder as he walked the perimeter of the marked-off area. Officer Coley Benson stood near the steps to the gazebo. His eyes surveyed the ground, then dropped to a pad as he made notes. Annie noticed several other unfamiliar faces and knew Billy had called for assistance from the mainland.

  Billy Cameron, former chief Frank Saulter, and the medical examiner stood near the crime-scene van. The side doors were open. Mavis Cameron was bent over an open carrying case. Billy’s gaze was intent as he listened to the M.E. Sunlight glinting on his shaggy gray hair, Doc Burford made a chopping motion with his right hand. Frank turned one hand at an oblique angle. Billy Cameron nodded.

  Marian Kenyon stood next to the fluttering yellow tape. She looked intent and determined, pad in one hand, pen in the other. The reporter craned to hear the low voices of the investigating officers.

  Hyla Harrison said, kindly enough, to Annie, “It’s better on the terrace.”

  The body would not be visible behind the row of palmetto palms.

  Hyla led Annie to a group standing beneath the spreading limbs of a century-old live oak. Silvery-gray tangles of Spanish moss moved in a gentle breeze. In the marsh, yellow-green cordgrass gleamed in the sunlight.

  Officer Harrison was polite. She spoke to Annie and the group at large. “Chief Cameron will be with you shortly.” She stepped back a few feet.

  Gathered were the members of the Jamison family. If Elaine Jamison had appeared pale and shaken before, today her face was waxy. Kit Jamison watched the movement of the police, her eyes huge and staring. She looked bony and ill at ease in a shapeless cotton shift. Every so often she pushed wire-rim glasses higher on her nose. She wore no makeup and her face was extraordinarily pale. Laura’s eyes were again hidden behind sunglasses. She had apparently dressed hurriedly, her glossy black hair scarcely combed, a yellow tee a mismatch with pink shorts. Blond hair tousled, Tommy was shirtless and barefoot, hands jammed into the pockets of khaki shorts. A few feet away, their backs to the siblings, Cleo waited with Richard. The bones in Cleo’s face jutted. She was crisp in a blue blouse and beige linen slacks. Richard’s short brown hair and T-shirt were damp with sweat, as were his Nike running shorts. He gazed toward the gazebo, his face drawn in a tight, worried frown.

  “The cop’s coming.” Tommy Jamison’s young voice was shaky. His blue eyes skittered toward Elaine.

  Oyster shells crunched as Billy Cameron and former chie
f Frank Saulter strode toward them. Frank’s cold brown eyes were alert and questioning. Frank looked tough and impervious. He held a notebook and pen.

  Billy scanned the waiting faces. “Does anyone have information pertaining to the murder of Darwyn Jack?”

  A crow cawed. Magnolia leaves crackled in the breeze. A distant tick tick tick announced the presence of a clapper rail slipping unseen through marsh grasses.

  No one spoke.

  “From the progression of rigor mortis, death is estimated to have occurred between ten P.M. and two A.M. with the likelihood that he was dead by midnight.” Billy’s words were as grim as the tolling of a funeral bell. “Did anyone here speak with Darwyn Jack last night?”

  His question was also met by silence.

  Billy swung toward Elaine, his gaze probing. “You called 911 at a quarter to ten this morning.”

  Elaine braced herself against the bench railing with both hands. “I was going to work in the flower bed behind my cottage, but I couldn’t find my gardening gloves. I thought I might have left them in the greenhouse.” She gestured to a small structure between the cottage and the marsh. “That’s why I came out my front door. As I went down the steps, I glanced toward the gazebo and saw someone lying on the ground. It didn’t look right. The person was so still. I dropped my trowel and basket and ran as fast as I could. As soon as I got near, I knew he was dead. The back of his head . . .” She wavered on her feet.

  Cleo eyed Elaine speculatively, then spoke to Billy. “How was he killed?”

  “The cause of death was blunt trauma to the back of the skull. From the way he fell, it appears he may have been seated on the top step when a weapon with a sharply planed surface struck him with enormous force.”

  Tommy moved uneasily on his bare feet. “Somebody hit him?”

  “Somebody hit him.” Billy’s voice was heavy. “Did anyone hear a disturbance last night?” He waited. He looked at Cleo. “Mrs. Jamison?”