Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  Gretchen Roundtree. There had to be a reason she’d returned to the island, taken a job at a cosmetics store. If the story Marian picked up from a newspaper friend was right, Gretchen certainly was pressed for money. She liked to live high. If she was also a clandestine thief, she had a penchant for danger, was quick, almost nerveless, and might right now be under enormous pressure to come up with money to hide a secret that could put her in jail.

  Curt Roundtree. He chose not to stay at his mother’s house when he was on the island. Was that because he wanted to be able to go and come without anyone’s notice? He had a reputation for sponging off rich friends. If he’d worn out his welcome at too many places, if his mother no longer sent him regular checks, his cushy lifestyle might be threatened. He had the appealing look of so many reddish-haired men, a freckled face, a genial expression. Had he used his charm to convince Ves he was innocent? He enjoyed hang gliding, which was thrilling and dangerous. The same could be said of murder.

  Bob Farley. His struggle to get around made him an unlikely attacker. But he might exaggerate some of his difficulties. He was not the man he’d once been, a successful, admired artist with a six-figure income. If he and Katherine were short on money, and that seemed to be the word around the island, maybe he was willing to kill to make it possible to travel to exotic places on trips that would require huge sums. His physical disability could have served him well, made him seem unlikely to be a danger. Perhaps Fred wouldn’t worry about meeting Bob Farley at the end of Fish Haul Pier.

  Katherine Farley. Katherine learned the night before Ves’s accident that Bob had tried to commit suicide. She would do anything, everything to keep him safe. Did she think he needed travel, something to live for, a reason to keep going? Did Katherine’s fear for Bob drive her to set a trap for Ves? Once the trap was set, the rest followed. Fred’s knowledge meant he had to be silenced. Adam? Did he know something or was he killed purely for money? Katherine was smart, controlled, implacably devoted to her husband.

  If she had to rank them . . .

  But any one of them could be guilty. It was up to Billy to discover the truth.

  11

  Billy Cameron liked the smell of fresh paint. He noted that Tim Holt was doing a careful job for the Misses Quinton on their picket fence, smooth strokes, no paint spattered on the grass. Tim wasn’t in painter’s white coveralls. As an odd jobber, he chose to work in a red polo and jeans with one worn knee. He listened as Billy pointed out how he had an excellent view of the frame office building where Adam Nash died if Tim looked toward the harbor. Billy intended to visit the secondhand shop next, then cross the street to the cosmetics store. Of those who had gathered in Ves Roundtree’s living room, only Tim Holt, Jane Wilson, and Gretchen Roundtree were in close proximity to Adam’s office. “Did you see anyone enter the building?”

  Tim looked puzzled. “What time? I mean, I’m only here after lunch. I paint in the afternoons except when it’s rainy.”

  Billy studied Tim’s face. He was a personable guy. Nice-looking with a clear bright gaze. If he was the perp, this was a smart answer. The innocent would have no idea what time a murderer arrived. “Anytime that afternoon.”

  Tim nodded sagely. “So he was killed in the afternoon. I didn’t hear anything that sounded like a shot but maybe I wouldn’t. I’m working on this side of the fence now so my back is to the street. I took a break around three”—he gestured to his left—“dropped into the shop to see Jane, had a Coke with her. I came back and painted until a little before five. I was getting my stuff together and not paying much attention to anything. I picked everything up and walked over there.” He pointed at a black pickup parked in a dusty lot at the end of the street. I kind of noticed somebody going inside the building”—he pointed at Adam’s office building—“but not enough to know who it was.”

  “Man? Woman?”

  Tim’s face creased in tight lines. “Oh hell, I’m sorry. I just got a glimpse. I thought I saw a swish of gray, like maybe a raincoat or something. That’s all I remember. A swish of gray.” He hesitated. “I kind of thought maybe it was a woman.”

  Billy watched him closely. “Why?”

  Tim’s grin was lopsided, engaging. “A guy doesn’t walk like a dame. You know what I mean. But that was just a feeling. I sure can’t swear to it.”

  “If anything comes to you, get in touch with me.”

  “Sure.”

  Billy knew Tim watched him as he walked toward the door of Jane’s shop. He wondered if Tim would follow, and then he heard a high voice calling out, “Young man, we don’t pay you to stand and stare.”

  He didn’t envy Tim dealing with the Misses Quinton. Or to be precise, Miss Priscilla Quinton. The other sister—Imogene—never spoke to strangers. Miss Priscilla frequently called the station. There was a cat in her yard. The light at the corner of the street had burned out. The sound of the jukebox at Parotti’s Bar and Grill was too loud.

  A bell chimed as Billy stepped into You Want It, We Have It.

  Hurried steps from the back slowed when Jane Wilson saw him. He admired her sweater. It was—what did Mavis call it?—yeah, a cardigan, white with colored figures of skaters. A turtleneck blouse was in the same shade of apricot as the skaters, and her slacks were white. A mighty pretty outfit.

  Jane’s eyes widened. “Is it true that someone killed Fred and Ves and Mr. Nash? That’s what Max Darling told us last night. He said we all needed to be careful.”

  Billy gave her an encouraging look as she described the gathering at the Darling house. No harm done. Possibly, it was helpful to encourage them to be wary. As he tried to calm her, he appraised her wide eyes and rounded face. A picture of innocence. Perhaps. Perhaps not. “Investigations are continuing into Fred Butler’s and Adam Nash’s deaths and we continue to search for Ms. Roundtree. Were you here in your shop Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Yes.” A slender hand touched her throat.

  “Did you leave the shop between one and five?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you hear a shot?”

  “No.” The word was scarcely a breath.

  “Do you have any idea who might have shot Adam Nash?”

  She took her time in answering. “I don’t know. Max thinks it was one of us.”

  “Us?”

  “One of the people at Ves’s house the night Fred died.”

  “What do you think?”

  She shook her head again, didn’t speak.

  “What color dress did you wear on Tuesday?”

  Her eyes were huge, frightened. “A jersey floral dress, big red flowers on a black background.”

  He nodded. “We’ll be in touch.” He left her standing in the center aisle. As he crossed the street, he frowned. He had trouble believing Jane Wilson slipped into Adam’s office, steadied a .45 with two hands, shot Adam Nash dead. But there were killers with sweet young faces.

  Billy’s nose wrinkled slightly as he stepped into the cosmetics store. Funny how women liked all these smells. He was glad Mavis didn’t scatter perfumes and powders across the dresser, and nobody looked nicer than she did. Her complexion was soft and smooth. He liked the pale pink lipstick she wore and her powder had a nice homey gardenia scent.

  A curtain parted at the back. Gretchen Roundtree’s welcoming smile froze for an instant before she moved forward with a pleasant expression. “Chief Cameron.” Even in a blue smock over white slacks, she exuded an aura of wealth and privilege. He bet she’d cost Rufus a pretty penny. Her blond hair seemed to glisten, her black brows were perfectly arched, her face smooth and unwrinkled. She stopped in front of him. It would be easy to dismiss her as just another rich woman, dabbling in a little shop. But he had a different picture of Gretchen Roundtree after he talked to Detective Morales in the burglary unit in Scottsdale. She hadn’t, as Marian had been told, actually been present as a guest in all the ho
mes that were robbed. But she had visited the houses recently, was known to the victims. He looked into alert blue eyes and judged she was capable of planning a daring theft, capable of executing a carefully timed crime, capable of selling stones to a well-connected fence, capable of hiding monies that she wouldn’t be reporting to the IRS. Detective Morales was curious about Gretchen’s return to the island. “Working at a cosmetics shop?” He’d given a low whistle. “Sounds like somebody has the goods on her.” A pause. “She was at a weekend blowout at a mansion just before she left town. No robbery. The wife is about thirty years younger than her rich hubby. She loves jewels. She has a ruby necklace supposedly worth four hundred grand. She still has the necklace. Maybe Roundtree tried a grab, got caught. This new wife has a mean mouth. Maybe blackmail is a thrill. Something for her bucket list.”

  Behind Gretchen’s slightly condescending expression was a wary, calculating intelligence. Billy had no doubt she would do whatever she needed to do to save herself. He gave her his most stolid cop look. “Were you here Tuesday afternoon?”

  Now there was a slight tilt of amusement to her lips. “I work here. Every day. Yes. If it matters.”

  “It might matter. Did you hear a shot?”

  The tilt of amusement fled. For an instant she looked older. Frightened. “No. When was Adam killed?”

  He ignored the question. “Did you leave the shop anytime in the afternoon?”

  “I closed over lunch. Went home. Came back at one. I closed up and left around five.” She looked at him steadily.

  If she was in the shop at five, she was in the clear. When pressed, Doc Burford said, with qualifications, that death likely occurred between four and six. Downtown, while not big-city busy, had plenty of occupants between four and six. Billy was sure Adam was shot as the ferry departed the harbor at five. “Around five? A few minutes before? Or after?”

  She appeared to concentrate. “I believe it was a few minutes before five.” Then she nodded. “Yes. It must have been. I heard the ferry whistle as I walked to my car.”

  Was she innocent or enjoying inner pleasure as she used the sound of the ferry horn as an alibi?

  • • •

  Chef Max proudly presented the catch of the day, red snapper baked in white wine with onion, green pepper, and succulent mushroom pieces. Cheese grits and steamed asparagus completed the menu. Max was sympathetic when Annie told him about Jane’s visit and her determination not to be pressured into a wedding. As Annie washed the dishes, he opined from a comfortable perch on a stool at the central island. “Tim sounds like he’s serious.”

  “About Jane? Or somebody trying to kill her?”

  “About Jane.” Max popped a small square of toffee in his mouth.

  Annie wasn’t one to act as a food gendarme, but toffee seemed a bit of overkill after a spectacular dessert, pineapple cookies crunchy with shredded coconut and homemade vanilla ice cream.

  “The man wants her. He’s crying wolf to hustle her into marriage. A man will do what a man has to do.” There was tacit approval in his tone. “I suppose he may really be scared for her, but I don’t see someone stalking the surviving contingent—”

  “Heirs,” Annie said firmly.

  “Oh, ye of little legal knowledge. Anyway, you get my point. Fred had to go because he knew about the step. Then the killer decided to dispatch Ves, and somehow Adam got in the mix. Jane’s safe. You want a prediction?”

  Annie put the last dish in the dishwasher, poured in detergent, closed the door, and pushed Start. She unloosed the tie to her apron, hung it from a peg at the end of the counter. “Love predictions.”

  “And this one’s about love. I’m surprised you haven’t picked up on it.” Max grinned. “I admit a mere man cannot be expected to plumb—scratch that—divine the workings of female minds. Greater men than I have tried and failed. But this one’s billboard plain. Jane isn’t in love with Tim. She won’t marry him.”

  Annie looked at him in surprise. “She cared enough to try and inveigle money out of Ves.”

  Max shrugged. “They probably have a good time together and she wants to have a boyfriend. She won’t marry him.”

  Annie wasn’t so sure. “She’s young. She doesn’t want to be pressured.”

  Max looked complacent. “You knew we’d get married.”

  As they walked into the hall, headed for the den, she looked up at him, thick blond hair, blue eyes, Joe Hardy all grown up and sexy as hell. She remembered the first time she’d seen him. She’d known, perhaps not that she would marry him, but she’d known nothing would ever be the same, he was going to matter to her, her life was going to be different.

  He watched her face. His smile was smug. “That’s what I thought. Jane doesn’t feel that way.”

  • • •

  They settled on the couch. Max reached for his iPad, Annie for Charles Todd’s new book, then stopped. “I’m in a Topper mood.” She was happy and she wanted a little frosting on that cake.

  Max bypassed the iPad, picked up the remote. “Your favorite ghosts, sophisticated and fun. Coming right up.”

  Annie loved the beginning, the ebullient married couple racing along in George’s car, a crash into a tree. Was there ever a cooler couple than Cary Grant as George Kerby and Constance Bennett as Marion Kerby? She knew the dialogue after the crash by heart:

  Marion: “Oh, George, you’re getting transparent. You’re fading.”

  George: “Say, that’s funny. I can see through you, too. Say, who’s that?”

  Their bodies are lying by the wrecked car.

  Marion: “It’s us. You know something, George? I think we’re dead.”

  George: “I think you’re right. Funny, I don’t feel—”

  The ringtone “Happy Days Are Here Again” announced a call from Marian. Annie had changed the ringtone after Marian and Craig remarried. But Marian wasn’t likely to be calling with happy news, not with everything that had happened the past few days.

  Annie tapped Speaker. “Marian?”

  “Just got it on the scanner. Shots fired. 225 Bluefish Road. On my way there. Jane Wilson’s house. Right around the corner from you.”

  • • •

  Sirens squealed behind them. Annie twisted to look. “Police cars. Maybe three.”

  The Lamborghini squealed around the corner onto Bluefish. Lights blazed from a house midway up the block. Lighted windows marked several houses on the even-numbered side of the street. On the odd-numbered side, two houses were dark. Only the house in the middle had a small light shining from a front window. In the glare of Maglites, Annie saw the gilt numbers, 225, Jane’s house.

  “We’re here first.” Annie’s voice rose. “Marian got the report at the same time as the call to the police and she was on her way when she called me.” The police station was a good six blocks north and east of their house and even farther from 225 Bluefish.

  Sirens blared. Flashing red lights whirled. Max pulled to the curb. Police cars raced past, screeched to a stop in front of the house with a dim light shining through a living room window. Police spilled out, took cover behind their vehicles. Shouts. “Police. Hands up. Throw down your weapons. Police.”

  Max rolled down the driver’s window.

  Annie felt sick inside. Jane was upset when she came to the store this morning, but she was alive, alive and thinking about the wedding that someday she hoped to have, a June wedding and an ivory dress with lace at the throat. Annie strained to see, yet she looked with dread. Her gaze traveled across the front lawn. Nothing. Which meant she didn’t see a body lying on the grass. The steps . . . Nothing there, but to the left of the steps, a huge fern looked askew, its fronds bent and tangled.

  Maglites illuminated the yard. The house was well kept, a one-story yellow cottage with a magnolia tree to one side of the gravel drive. A green Honda was in the drive.

  Anni
e scarcely breathed as she stared at a huge royal fern to the left of the front steps. Portions of the fern looked crushed. It was a still night and the flower bed was sheltered from wind. Some of the lower fronds of the fern moved.

  A uniformed figure darted forward. Annie recognized Lou Pirelli’s stocky, muscular build. He moved fast, gun in hand, weaving to avoid providing an easy target. He thudded across the drive, hunkered behind the magnolia tree. “Police. Hands up. Out from behind that fern. Now.”

  Hyla Harrison, gun in hand, covered Lou. She held the gun with both hands, the barrel aimed at the quivering fronds. A swarm of officers fanned out to form a backup perimeter. Billy Cameron’s old sedan pulled up behind the police cars. Billy swung out of the car, strode forward, big, strong, imposing.

  Marian’s VW nosed past the Lamborghini, jolted to a stop. The driver’s door was flung open. Marian popped out, lean in a navy turtleneck sweater and black jeans.

  One of the officers—he was young with short brown hair and an unlined face—yelled, “Take cover. Active shooter at large.”

  Marian ran to the far side of her car, knelt, but she had the Leica in her hands, ready to take a series of photographs.

  Annie reached for the door handle.

  Max grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

  “I don’t see Jane anywhere.” Annie’s voice shook.

  “Maybe she’s in the house. Maybe she’s all right.” Max gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.

  Lou Pirelli’s voice was deep, harsh. “We have you covered. Come out from behind that fern, hands up.” He left his cover, eased toward the flower bed, alert, ready to fire.

  The fern fronds quivered again, parted. Jane Wilson was on her hands and knees, crawling forward. In the glare of Maglites, she was pale, hair tousled, a purplish bruise on the left side her face, her velveteen jacket snagged. She pushed herself up, stood, looked small in the glare of the lights. “Don’t shoot. Please.” Her voice was high and shaky. She held out empty hands half raised, eyes blinking against the glare of the flashlights. “Someone shot at me.”