by Carolyn Hart
• • •
Annie perched on the edge of Max’s desk. It was odd to be there on a Saturday morning. Death on Demand, of course, was usually open. She’d hung the Back Soon sign in the window. It would be wonderful to have Ingrid Webb, the world’s best clerk, back from her vacation Monday. Max looked comfortable in his large leather chair, holding a legal pad, making notations. He scanned what he’d written, gave her a thumbs-up, put the pad on his desk. She glanced at the index card in her hand as he punched a number, then speakerphone. She liked lists. This one was short if not sweet—Jane Wilson and Tim Holt, Gretchen Roundtree, Curt Roundtree, Katherine and Bob Farley. Not that she needed a list to remember these names. One of her favorite lines from Casablanca was Captain Renault’s bland directive on the airport tarmac: “Round up the usual suspects.”
“Don’t miss our special on eyeliner today.” Gretchen’s voice as she answered the phone was as smooth as honey. “How may I help you?”
Max was equally smooth. “Gretchen, Max Darling. I’m calling a meeting at seven tonight at Ves Roundtree’s to bring everyone up to date on the investigations into the deaths of Fred Butler, Ves Roundtree, and Adam Nash.”
“Why?” Her tone was flat, almost hostile.
Max was unruffled. “There’s been a lot of loose speculation about the status of the case and some errors in television reports. However, the police have reached a conclusion and Chief Cameron has agreed to share that information.”
“Do you mean we can get this all behind us? Get our lives back?”
Annie thought about three lives lost. Fred, Ves, and Adam wouldn’t get their lives back.
“That’s my understanding. I look forward to seeing you at seven.”
“I’ll be there.” Gretchen’s voice still held a note of anger.
Max clicked off, looked thoughtful. “She sounds innocent. I’d still put my money on her as the killer. Though”—his expression was wry—“if she was going in for homicide as well as jewel thefts, you’d think she’d take out her blackmailer.” He punched a number.
“Sea Side Inn. How may I direct your call?”
“Curt Roundtree, please.”
As the room telephone rang, Max lounged back in his chair. “I doubt we’ll find sonny boy hunkered in his room—”
“Hello.” Curt’s voice was wary.
“Max Darling call—”
“Not int—”
Before he could finish, Max interrupted. “You’ll be interested. The murder case will be closed tonight and the disposition of your father’s estate discussed. Seven o’clock. Ves Roundtree’s house.” Max punched Off. “I don’t much like sonny boy. And”—a huge smile—“since the call came through the switchboard, he can’t call back. I doubt he has any idea about Confidential Commissions. Stew, baby, stew.” Max punched a number.
“You Want It, We Have It.” Jane’s voice was cheerful.
“Hi, Jane. Max Darling.”
“What’s happened?” Now her voice was thin.
Annie understood that visceral response.
“Everything’s fine. I wanted to let you know I’ve called a meeting of everyone who was at Ves’s house that Wednesday.” There was no need to explain which Wednesday. Jane would well remember the last time she saw Fred Butler. “Chief Cameron has agreed to give a final report on the crimes.”
“It’s over, then.” Her voice was odd. “Bob Farley killed them?”
“It’s over.” Max said nothing about Bob.
“Ves’s house? I don’t know if I can bear to be there again. I’ll remember Ves at her shop, those frizzy red curls and the way she had so much energy. I don’t know if I can bear it.”
“Please come. She’d want you to be there. Ask Tim Holt to come with you.”
There was a pause. “Tim? I haven’t seen him for a day or so. I told him I needed some quiet time. You can call him.” She rattled off a number. “Do they know what happened to Ves?”
“I believe the chief will answer all questions.”
“She was kind to my mother. I’ll come.”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Seven o’clock.” Her voice was heavy as she repeated the time.
“We’ll see you then.” Max clicked Off. He gave Annie a quick look. “You have a soft spot for birds who fall out of nests, even for baby alligators. I’m glad Jane’s innocent.” He was already punching the number.
“Tim Holt.” His voice was strong and pleasant.
“Max Darling.” He repeated the by-now-familiar pitch.
“I saw on TV that Bob Farley’s in jail. Why meet?” He sounded puzzled and not particularly interested. Old news was old news.
“There will be some information that hasn’t been released to the press.”
“Yeah? Well, I’d just as soon forget about the whole thing. And Jane’s sick of it.”
“She’s coming.”
“Oh. If she said she’s coming, I’ll bring her.”
“Thanks. We’ll see you then.” He clicked Off.
Annie shook her head. “I don’t think Jane wants to deal with Tim.” Had she told Tim she wanted some space because she was reeling from murders and Ves’s disappearance and gunshots in the night? Annie remembered the sound of her voice when she answered the phone. Full of cheer. Annie had a clear picture of that moment in their kitchen when Lou looked at Jane.
But Max was staring at the phone. “One more call. This one’s tough.”
Annie understood. His bland come-over-to-Ves’s-for-the-latest-on-the-murders spiel was a nonstarter with Katherine Farley.
“Hello.” Katherine’s voice was deep, brusque.
“Max Darling. As you know, I tried to help Ves when she said she was in danger. I’ve arranged for the police to provide the latest information about the crimes. Everyone is coming to Ves’s house at seven, and Billy Cameron will describe the results of the investigation.”
“What investigation? There’s no investigation. Billy’s jailed an innocent man, a man obviously disturbed. But that’s the easy way out, isn’t it? An arrest makes the police look good. Three murders solved. Billy Cameron accepted a confession he knows is fake. He’ll put Bob on trial, kill him.” Her voice shook with rage. “And you want me to be there? Hear all about that dangerous killer, Bob Farley, who can barely walk with a cane, who doesn’t have the strength to lift a bag of groceries. Go to hell.” The connection ended.
Annie was already heading for the door. “I’ll talk to her.”
Max was on his feet. “Billy said for Emma to watch Katherine tonight. She may have killed all of them. I’m coming with you.”
Annie stood in the doorway. “She won’t see you. You’re an enemy now. I’ll go.” She had a sudden sense of certainty. “I’ll be safe.”
• • •
Sometimes men made things too complicated. Annie held tight to that thought as she walked up the steps to Katherine’s studio. She turned the old-fashioned brass doorknob, stepped inside. She wasn’t sure why she chose the studio rather than the Farley house on its stilts with a view of the lagoon. When she was inside in the entry area, now unlit, she looked past easels and tables littered with paints and brushes and jars. Light streamed through the skylight, illuminating a cream leather sofa where Katherine sat, holding a small painting.
Annie’s shoes made a hollow sound as she crossed the old wooden floor.
Katherine turned a pale, hard face. “Leave me alone.”
“Bob will be at Ves’s house tonight.”
For an instant, Katherine sat rigid, the painting clutched in her hands. “Bob will be there?”
Annie came nearer, sat down on the sofa. “Billy doesn’t think Bob is guilty. Last night he let me into the jail and I talked to Bob. I don’t think he’s guilty either.”
Katherine’s burning stare into Annie’s eyes never
wavered. “Billy thinks he’s innocent?” There was a rising note of hope. “Why did he arrest him?”
“He hasn’t actually arrested him yet. He’s holding him for investigation, and he had no choice after Bob said he killed them. I told Bob you were innocent.”
“Did he believe you?”
Annie wasn’t sure. But she would never make that admission. “Yes, but he’s afraid Billy will arrest you because you were at Ves’s house that Thursday and you were out the other times. And the gun is gone.”
Katherine rested the painting on her lap and pressed her hands hard against her cheeks. “Oh God, I wish I hadn’t thrown it away. But I did. I threw it away before Adam was killed or someone shot at Jane. But I can’t prove that’s what I did.”
Annie glanced down at the painting. Bob had often painted vivid splashes of color with the vigor of a carnival or swirling dancers or pulsing rhythm. This painting, an eight by twelve, was muted, the faint violet of sunrise, a hint of the ocean below, the promise of new beginning.
Katherine once again held tight to the frame as if a lifeline. “Bob’s afraid for me. But he knows I’m innocent.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “We have to tell Billy.”
“He knows. It’s Billy who wants everyone to be at Ves’s house tonight. He asked Max to arrange the evening, make it look like Max was in charge. Billy has something planned. I’m sure of it. He believes Bob is innocent.”
“That’s all that matters.” Katherine’s face was still haggard but now there was hope. “Bob will be there. I’ll come.”
Annie hoped deep inside that she hadn’t held out a hand to pull Katherine aboard a tumbrel to her destruction.
• • •
Emma sipped espresso. “Damn good. I’ll have another macaroon. You’re a dandy cook, Max.” Emma’s emerald green caftan and sandals matched the glow of the massive stone in a ring on her right hand.
“Chef,” Laurel corrected. Laurel’s beige cable sweater and chocolate brown slacks emphasized the golden sheen of her hair and the Nordic blue of her eyes. She took a dainty nibble of a raspberry truffle.
“Whatever.” Emma waved a stubby hand, and the emerald flashed.
Henny used a spoon to retrieve the maraschino cherry from the mound of whipped cream on her cappuccino. “We are grateful to Max for a wonderful dinner and to Annie for a great dessert selection. We have dutifully refrained from talk of murder but”—she glanced at the clock—“we leave here soon to go to Ves Roundtree’s house. As I understand our instructions, at precisely a quarter after seven I fasten my eyes on Bob Farley, Emma observes Katherine Farley, Max watches Curt Roundtree, Laurel stares at Tim Holt, and Annie gazes at Gretchen Roundtree. May I ask what we are looking for?”
Max turned his hands over, palms up. “My guess is that Billy will announce something, and he wants a witness who can testify about a particular person’s response.”
Emma nodded sagely. “As Marigold says, Even a clever criminal isn’t always on guard.”
Laurel put down her piece of candy, half eaten. Her dark blue eyes were grave. “I don’t feel comfortable about this evening.” She quoted from her chapbook, “In rattlesnake country, watch where you step.”
Henny looked from one to another. “I share Laurel’s uneasiness.” She rose. “It reminds me of Rebecca. Foreboding, uncertainty, suspicion, a sense that life is a quicksand, insubstantial and treacherous. Perhaps tonight nothing will be what it seems to be.”
14
Annie loved dancing at the country club on Saturday evenings. The music was different each Saturday night. She’d circled this date because Max loved the latest in pop, and the band was sure to play “Happy” and “Walking on a Dream.” Annie wished they were on their way to dance. Instead, Max followed the now familiar route to Sunshine Lane, turned into the drive to Ves Roundtree’s house.
The Lamborghini’s headlights didn’t dispel the gloom of the tree-shrouded drive. He pulled up behind Ves’s van. Annie felt cold. The van was precisely where it had been parked when she and Billy came looking for Ves. The house was dark. Max turned off the headlights. There wasn’t a glimmer of light until he opened the driver’s door. He pulled a small laser flashlight from the pocket of his blazer, turned it on. He held the light until Annie stepped out and came around the car to join him.
She put a hand on his arm. “I don’t like this.”
The little laser beam illuminated the flagstones to the back porch, emphasized the surrounding dark, the unlit looming house. “We’ll light the place up.” His tone was easy.
Annie understood she was reacting to Ves’s disappearance, to a sense that evil lurked. She hurried to keep up with Max. He thudded up the back steps, opened the screen door, tried several keys, found the one that fit. The door opened. More darkness. Max flipped switches, and light, wonderful, warm, glowing light, shone on the porch and in the hallway and living room and dining room. The house smelled stale. Dust dulled the surface of the marble-topped hallway table and the tall mahogany grandfather clock. Max stepped to the thermostat near the clock, tapped. The fan whirred into action.
Annie checked the time. Last spring Ves’s house was included in a tour of old homes. Ves proudly recited the provenance of the antique, a Roxbury tall clock made by Simon Willard in 1795. That lovely day Ves was at her most energetic, talking fast, her reddish curls quivering as she gestured. Now the clock was dusty and it was ten minutes before seven.
• • •
The clock chimed seven o’clock as Jane Wilson and Tim Holt, the first to arrive, came through the front door. They stopped uncertainly in the archway to the living room.
Max gestured to the far side of the room. “Sit anywhere you like.”
Jane touched the scarf at the throat of a white silk blouse. The scarf, a gorgeous floral weave azure paisley, matched the blue of slim-legged wool slacks accented by white leather ankle boots. “I wish I hadn’t come.” Her voice wobbled.
“Hey, Jane.” Tim was hearty. “We’ll see what the cop has to say, then go to Whistler’s for a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink.” Her voice was still tremulous. “I want to go home.”
Annie moved nearer. “Thanks for coming. We know everyone is concerned about what’s happened, and now we can find out what’s true and what isn’t true.”
Tim shrugged. “I thought everything was already definite. That crippled guy confessed. What else is there to say?” His face darkened. “I don’t care if he is a cripple, I’d punch him if I had a chance.” He grabbed Jane’s hand. “Scared the hell out of me that night. I turned into your street and there’s cop cars everywhere and somebody shot at you.” He looked at her with his brows drawn, his face jutting. “But you’re okay, and I won’t ever let anyone hurt you. And now we can plan our wedding.”
Jane gave him a quick glance. “Shh. Not in front of everybody. And you’re hurting my hand.”
He loosed his grip. “I get mad whenever I think about him shooting at you. He’s lucky I won’t be able to get my hands on him. Where is everybody? We”—he took Jane’s arm again—“want to get out of here as soon as we can, do something fun.” He led her to an Empire-style carved mahogany sofa, the bolstered ends upholstered in red satin with a gold medallion pattern. Jane slid close to one end, pressed against the pillows. Tim plopped next to her, bent near to murmur something. She shook her head, made no response. For an instant, his face was hard, then he again began to talk softly. The sound of his voice was warm, entreating. Her posture remained rigid and she never took her eyes away from the opening to the hall.
A rattle as someone knocked. Max pulled the front door open. Katherine stepped inside, hurried to the archway, looking quickly around the room. She whirled toward Max. “Where’s Bob?”
“Billy’s bringing him.”
Annie felt a twist inside. So much was the same, sleek black hair in a chignon, aristocratic features
, but now Katherine’s face was tight and hard and her thin shoulders hunched. She wore unrelieved black—black silk blouse, black wool trousers, black leather ballet flats. No jewelry. Perhaps a dash of makeup. She surveyed the room again, her gaze cold and hostile, acknowledged no one, strode to a small settee with room for two.
Another knock, voices, steps in the hallway. Gretchen Roundtree brought with her a faint exotic scent. Her blond hair glistened and her smooth face looked confident. A pearl necklace glowed softly against a pale rose cashmere sweater. Her cream skirt was short and stylish. Curt was casual in a blue-and-yellow plaid cotton shirt, khaki slacks, and sneakers. He glanced around the room. “Where are the gendarmes?”
Max was pleasant. “Chief Cameron will be here soon.”
Curt looked combative, ready for a quarrel. “I’ll give him five minutes, then I’m out of here. I’m damn tired of the island, this house, and everybody here.” He dropped into a wicker chair, stuck his legs out straight, bored and resentful. Gretchen shot her son an irritated glance, then her face was once again smooth. She sat in a chair near the fireplace. Her gaze moved to Katherine. Gretchen’s smooth face altered for an instant. The lacquer of self-absorption was pierced by Katherine’s despair. She took a tiny breath, was once again self-possessed.
The back door opened. Heavier steps sounded. And the faint tap of a cane.
Katherine came to her feet, eyes wide, lips trembling.
Billy Cameron, big and powerfully built, reached the archway. Bob Farley came up beside him. He looked frail and tired.
Annie wasn’t surprised to see Billy wearing a white shirt and gray trousers and loafers, but Bob wasn’t dressed in the orange jail coveralls. She remembered Marian’s description as Bob came into the police station. Tonight he was wearing the blue blazer, triple-stripe dress shirt without a tie, chinos, and loafers he’d worn Friday when he confessed. Bob’s hands were not manacled.