by Carolyn Hart
Jean looked shaken. “I’m scared. Booth and Darren shot and Click dead, too. Something terrible is going on. Everything seems to be connected to me. I haven’t done anything. I shouldn’t have called the police.”
Max shook his head. “That was the safest thing to do.”
Jean stared at Lou, standing with a hand on his holster. “Was it? I don’t think it’s going to be safe for me.” She whirled and ran to the porch and up the steps.
Annie stood, arms folded. “Whatever Lou found, it must be big or he wouldn’t have called Billy.”
Jean came out on the porch to check.
Max shook his head. “Not yet.”
“I’ll wait inside. If you want to come in…”
“We’re fine. Billy won’t be long. He lives very near.” Annie tried to sound reassuring, but she saw fear in Jean’s eyes.
Jean stepped back inside.
It wasn’t long until headlights flashed and a police cruiser pulled into the drive, followed by the forensic van. Billy Cameron slammed out of the cruiser and walked to meet Lou at the opening beneath the house. Billy knelt and bent to look. In a moment, he stood, spoke in a low voice with Lou, then turned and walked toward them. The van door opened and Mavis stepped out, carrying an aluminum case. She wore latex gloves.
Billy glanced over the porch. “Where is Ms. Hughes?”
“She’s seeing about her sister.”
At Billy’s nod, Lou walked to the back door, knocked.
They waited in taut silence until Jean came out on the porch. She came down the steps, stared at Billy. “I have a right to know.” Her voice shook. “Someone put something under the house. What did you find?”
Billy’s gaze was sharp, his blue eyes studying her. “We have careful procedures with evidence retrieval so complete information isn’t available. However, the investigating officer observed a pistol, which he believes to be a forty-five, and a cell phone. Ms. Hughes, please describe the incident that prompted you to call 911.”
Jean shuddered. “A gun? That’s awful.”
Billy pulled out a notebook, held a pen. “You say you heard a sound.”
Annie thought his tone sardonic: You say…He could have begun by asking Jean what she had heard. Instead, his question implied that her complaint was false.
“I heard a screech. The hinges on the lattice are rusted. I’ve been meaning to oil them. That startled me. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t a night sound. I sat really still and listened. I heard a thump.”
Billy glanced at the cottage. “Where were you?”
She gestured. “In the living room.”
“The time?”
“When I called, it was twenty-six minutes after two. I guess that was a couple of minutes after I heard the noises. I was scared. I jumped up and hurried to the window and looked out. Someone ran into the woods. Then I ran to the phone.”
Billy gauged the distance from the now well-lit opening under the cottage to the woods. “About thirty yards. You can’t say whether it was a man or woman?”
“It was a shadow. That’s all I know.”
“Big? Little?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice trembled. “It was just a glimpse. I saw a dark shape and then it was gone.”
He looked toward the open trellis. “Move the screen back and forth, Lou.”
Lou obliged. The screech was scarcely audible above the sounds of the night.
Billy’s questioning gaze returned to Jean. “It’s interesting that you heard the noise.”
Jean was suddenly angry. “I was in the living room. Right there.” She pointed at a window directly above the pulled-out lattice. “I heard a screech and a thump. Why do you act like I’m making everything up?”
Billy’s expression was stolid.
Annie reached out, gripped Max’s hand. Billy didn’t believe Jean. Jean obviously realized the police chief was suspicious, but Annie knew Billy very well. He was going through the motions with his questions. Billy thought the gun and phone had been thrown there by Jean and the 911 call made to create a straw man.
Max started to speak, stopped, his lips compressed.
Billy gave him a quick glance, looked back at Jean. “Can your sister corroborate your story?”
“Corroborate? It isn’t a story. It’s the truth.” Her voice was hard and angry.
Billy was imperturbable. “Your sister is here. Can I speak with her?”
“She’s asleep.” Jean clasped her hands tightly together. “She was having a bad night. She’s in so much pain. I gave her a painkiller at midnight. She fell asleep shortly afterward.”
“Was the painkiller strong enough to sedate her until morning?”
Jean stared at him. “She hurts so much. She needed the pill.”
“You say she fell asleep soon after you,” his emphasis was slight but unmistakable, “gave her a pill that would knock her out for several hours. Then what happened?”
Jean looked puzzled. “I sat down in the living room.”
“Why didn’t you go to bed?”
“I couldn’t relax. So much had happened. I kept thinking about Booth and Click and Darren. Nothing makes sense. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep.”
“Where is your cell phone, Ms. Hughes?”
She frowned. “It’s lost. I’ve looked everywhere for it.”
“When did you lose the phone?” His gaze was intent. His tone put the verb within invisible quotation marks.
“Yesterday.” Her voice rose. “I couldn’t find my cell after you searched my office.” She swung toward the opening beneath the cottage. “If that’s my cell phone, somebody put it there. I don’t know why.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “You should be finding these things out. Why don’t you look for the person who did this?”
“We’ll look.” Billy’s voice was grim. “It’s hard to find a shadow, Ms. Hughes.”
MAX WAITED ON the ferry dock. The brassy rumble of the Miss Jolene’s horn rose above the squall of sea gulls and slap of water against the sea wall. The early-morning breeze, cool off the water, tugged at his polo. The sharp scent of seawater and fresh air gave him a needed spurt of energy. His fractured sleep had been made even less restful as images and sounds tumbled in his mind, the dark blue metal of a pistol, a black cell phone, Billy’s skeptical questions, Jean’s frightened face, the amplified sound of his own voice, hollow through a megaphone, the wail of a siren. He’d awakened feeling tired and dull. Breakfast and several cups of coffee helped.
The Miss Jolene, expertly steered into her berth, thumped against the tires lashed to the harbor wall. Handler Jones was the first person down the gangplank. The breeze stirred his chestnut hair, highlighted by streaks of silver. He was a courtroom warrior, boyishly handsome with confident, bright blue eyes. He moved like a man ready and eager for combat.
Max strode to greet him, hand outstretched. As no one knew better than he, Handler was a premier criminal lawyer, smart, bright, clever. He was as quick with a verbal punch as a prize fighter with a physical blow. He’d fought like a tiger for Max during those hot August days last summer when Max was accused of murder.
Handler wasted no time. “Thanks for sending the information.” He tapped his briefcase. “I’ve got some ideas. If we can alibi her for either of the crimes, that may keep her out of jail.”
“We need every idea you can muster.” Max led the way across the boardwalk to the parking lot. “Last night they found a gun and a cell phone—hers is missing—underneath the cottage.”
ANNIE BURROWED UP out of sleep and reached for the phone. Dimly, she realized it had rung and rung. She blinked at the empty side of the bed. Maybe Max was in the shower. She fumbled with the receiver but by the time she clicked the phone on, the call had ended. The clock radio registered eleven minutes after ten.
“Max?”
When no answer came, she felt the house’s emptiness. She checked Caller ID. No name and not a number she recognized. The house was empty because Max had left
early to pick up Handler Jones, who was coming in on the eight o’clock ferry. She amended her thought. Handler had arrived at eight. Max would have driven him to Jean’s cottage, where Handler could speak with her before the nine o’clock meeting at the police station.
Annie swung out of bed, slipped her feet into thongs. She didn’t bother with a robe, but hurried downstairs in her shorty nightgown. As she’d expected, there was a note on the breakfast table. Max had set her place—plate, silverware, juice and water glasses. She picked up the note:
Good morning, Mrs. Darling,
A delicious green chili omelet in the fridge is ready for brief—very brief—warming in the microwave. Homemade salsa, as well. Also, pan dulce.
I alerted Ingrid that you were sleeping in. I’m off to pick up Handler. I’ll call when I know anything.
Amor to my favorite Texan—Max
P.S. Don’t do anything rash.
P.P.S. No forays to quiz suspects in remote sites. Comprendes?
Annie heated her breakfast, propped the note against the Worcestershire sauce. She was torn between amusement and irritation. He’d fixed her favorite breakfast. He had left her asleep since they’d been up so late. She loved his thoughtfulness. But did the man think she was an idiot? She had no intention of wandering in Gothic-heroine fashion onto the equivalent of a desolate moor. For an instant she had fun picturing a moor with Spanish moss and an alligator. Smiling, she shook her head. Bless Max. He wanted her to be safe. That was always the prayer for those we love. Be safe. Be safe.
She finished her wonderful breakfast, tidied the kitchen, and was hurrying upstairs to shower when the phone rang. She noted the number. The earlier caller had tried again. “Hello.”
“He didn’t come home. The police won’t help.” Neva Wagner’s hoarse voice was dull with exhaustion.
“He’ll come home by evening.” Annie tried to sound as confident as Max. “My husband thinks Tim is waiting to be sure the police aren’t hunting for him. When there aren’t any official search parties out, he’ll realize it’s okay to come home. He took his backpack and his sleeping bag. That shows he was intending to hide out.”
“What about those boys who were killed?” The words were sharp and jagged.
“Tim scarcely knew them.” Annie was willing to rely on Rachel.
“He knew one of them. The one who fixed computers. That’s the one who took care of our computers.”
“I’ll bet Tim wasn’t even home the times that Click came to your house.” Annie hoped she was right.
“I guess that’s so. Tim never spent much time here. He liked to be out. I always thought that was a good thing. I didn’t know about his shooting the twenty-two.”
Annie had a quick memory of Friday night, of dusk falling and the milling crowd. Tim had climbed a magnolia with his rifle. His mother had ducked into an arbor near the woods. Forgetting Max’s oft-repeated urging to think before she spoke, Annie blurted, “You went into that arbor by the woods Friday night.”
“The arbor?” She sounded startled. “I wanted to get away for a moment. I don’t like crowds.”
“Van Shelton followed you. Did you talk to him?”
There was an appreciable pause. “Just for a moment.”
“Was he with you when you heard the shot?”
“The shot?”
Annie waited. There had been one shot, and it had killed her husband. Neva had to know exactly where she was at that moment.
Finally, Neva spoke, the words rushing together. “The lights went out.” There was remembered shock in her voice. “It seemed terribly dark. There was a pop. It sounded far away.”
Annie’s eyes narrowed. “So you were alone?”
“Oh no. Van and I were together. We heard the shot together.”
Annie raised a skeptical eyebrow. Neva was lying. Was she protecting Van Shelton? Or was she protecting herself? “When did you see Tim?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember much after that. It was dreadful, Booth on the ground and blood. Tim came and told me he was going home. I tried to stop him, but he ran away.”
Running seemed to be a specialty of Tim’s.
“I have to find him.” Neva sounded even more distraught. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Stay there.” Annie was firm. “He’ll come home.” Feeling her response was inadequate, she offered, “I’ll try to find him. Where are some of the places he spends time when he’s outside?”
“I don’t know. He takes long walks. He likes to look for artifacts. There’s an Indian Shell Ring not far from here.”
Annie knew the site. Long ago Indian tribes tossed oyster, clam, and mussel shells, as well as the bones of deer, raccoons, bear, and fish, in a refuse heap. The ring was approximately 150 feet in diameter and several feet deep.
“Tim loves to go there. He says it’s around four thousand years old, like the pyramids in Egypt. He’s always digging around, hunting for a spear. Not at the Shell Ring. He knows it’s protected. He digs close to streams and ponds. He was really excited when they brought up an old cannon from the harbor.”
Annie nodded. These sites were on the north end of the island, where Max and the others had used megaphones to encourage Tim to come home. “I’ll take a look around.”
HANDLER JONES SHOOK hands with Billy Cameron. “If you have no objection,” he nodded toward Jean, “Ms. Hughes would like for Max to be present for our discussion.” Handler’s tone was good-humored, his Southern drawl as thick as good grits. “I’ve often hired Confidential Commissions for investigative work and this will keep Max informed.”
The chief’s expression was pleasant but wary. “I have no objection. If you’ll come this way.” He led them down a hallway and opened the third door to the left, standing aside for them to enter. The interrogation room contained a narrow metal table with one chair on one side, two on the other. Billy gestured at a chair against a wall as he closed the door. “You can pull that one to the table, Max.”
The room immediately seemed smaller. There were no windows. The overhead light threw the metal table and white walls into stark relief, emphasized the silver streaks in Handler’s thick chestnut hair, the dark circles beneath Billy’s eyes, the heavy makeup that did not hide the puffiness of Jean’s swollen face.
Max placed the third chair a little behind and to the left of Handler’s seat.
Billy settled heavily in his chair, flicked on a tape recorder. “Chief Billy Cameron.” He glanced at the round, schoolroom-style clock on the wall. “9:06 A.M., Monday, July 13. Present are Ms. Jean Hughes, her counsel, Handler Jones, and Mr. Jones’s investigator, Maxwell Darling. The interrogation concerns the murder of Booth Wagner, Friday, July 10; the shooting of Darren Dubois, Sunday, July 12; and the suspicious death of Hubert ‘Click’ Silvester, Thursday, July 9. Ms. Hughes has been named a person of interest in this investigation.” Billy cleared his throat and recited the Miranda warning, the words clear, distinct, and ominous. “Ms. Hughes, do you clearly understand what I have said to you?”
Her eyes enormous in her pale face, Jean nodded.
“Please answer aloud, Ms. Hughes.”
“Yes. I understand.”
Handler gave her an encouraging nod. His face reflected easy confidence.
Max wasn’t into women’s fashions. Women’s shapes, yes. But what colors were popular and whether skirts were long or short mattered to him not at all, though short skirts got his attention every time. Yet he sensed, and the understanding made him sad, that Jean had tried hard this morning to look her best, her formal best, in a navy linen dress with a lustrous pink pearl necklace and matching bracelet.
Billy began with questions establishing her identity.
Jean relaxed a little, answering quickly, as if eager to put the inquiry behind her.
“When did you meet Booth Wagner?”
“A year ago last March.”
“Describe your friendship.”
“He came to the club—”
“What club was that?”
“Boogie’s Blues. In Atlanta. On Highland Street. I was a singer. I am a singer.” She spoke almost defiantly.
Billy’s expression didn’t change.
“One night he bought me a drink. We started to be friendly.”
“Did you know he was married?”
“He said he was separated from his wife.”
“You believed him?”
She looked forlorn and vulnerable. She stared at the blank white wall. “I shouldn’t have. I did.”
“He became your lover?”
Her hands twined together tightly. “Yes.” The answer was almost inaudible.
“Please speak loudly enough for the recorder, Ms. Hughes.”
Her face flushed a deep red. “Yes.” Her voice was loud and harsh, echoing with anger and hurt. “I thought…oh, it doesn’t matter now what I thought. I was stupid. He didn’t care about me.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “He was making fun of me, just like he made fun of everyone. I—”
Handler moved forward in his chair, interrupting, his voice mellifluous. “Let’s help the chief with his investigation and confine our answers to his questions.” His smile was kind, but his gaze commanding.
The questions continued, one after another, inexorable and penetrating. Finally, Billy brought her to this past week. “When did you learn that Wagner wanted you fired from the Haven?”
“Wednesday afternoon.”
“How did you find out?”
Jean gripped the huge rounded fake pearls of her bracelet and edged the circlet around and around her wrist. “I was supposed to check with the board members, ask if they had any new business to submit for the agenda. Larry Gilbert acted real strange, like he was uncomfortable. Finally, he asked, like he was puzzled, ‘Are you still doing the agenda?’ I asked what he meant. He stammered around and said he thought Booth was taking care of everything since I was—Then he stopped and said maybe I ought to call Booth. I told him if he knew anything I should know, he should tell me. He said maybe it was all a mistake, but Booth had told him my contract wouldn’t be renewed. I told him I’d call Booth. After Larry left, I called and called and he never answered the phone. I guess he knew it was me. Finally, I got a text from him.”