by Carolyn Hart
Annie broke in. “Where’s Pete gone now?”
Mavis was abruptly quiet.
“I have to talk to him, Mavis. We’ve learned something important about Meredith Muir.”
“Well”—her voice dropped—“there was something else on the tape. I guess you know the Crawford house isn’t far from where Kay Nevis lived. Pete’s got a lead. He’s gone out to the high school. You can catch him there.”
A cheer erupted as the center fielder made an over-the-shoulder catch on the warning track. The wooden stands near the baseball diamond reverberated as a group of boys stomped and shouted. About fifteen cars were clustered in the high school parking lot at the point nearest the ball field. A police cruiser sat at the other end of the lot, a short walk from the pier that jutted into the water. Annie parked next to the cruiser.
As they started up the dusty path, Annie shaded her eyes. “The door to the boathouse is open. What do you suppose they’re doing in there?” She shot Max a startled look. “Mavis said something about the Crawford place not being far from the Nevis house. Laurel must have got a shot of that motorboat Wednesday night. Oh, Max, maybe everything’s going to be okay for Diane, after all. You know, they can enhance tapes. Maybe they even know who was in the boat.” They reached the pier and their shoes clattered on the wooden planks.
Billy Cameron poked his head out of the boathouse. He called over his shoulder, “Chief, the Darlings are here.”
In a moment, a slump-shouldered Pete Garrett stepped out into the sunlight. He blinked bloodshot eyes. In one hand, he held an oversized flashlight. He clicked it off.
Annie stopped in front of him. She craned to look past him and saw a motorboat in the shadowy interior.
Garrett jerked his head at Billy. “Lock the boathouse and put up no-entry tape.” He yawned hugely. “Folks, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home for a while.”
“Pete, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. We know who killed Kay Nevis and Meredith Muir.” Annie ignored Max’s waving hands.
The police chief blinked. He managed a dour smile. “You got a confession from somebody? Annie, I haven’t had any sleep since Wednesday. Whatever you’ve got will keep.”
Annie clapped her hands on her hips. “Did you know Meredith Muir was having an affair with a teacher? Well, anyway…” She couldn’t ignore Max’s strangled “Annie!” She avoided meeting his glare. “Chief, we’re almost sure about that. Kay Nevis was worried about a student and she was upset with one of the teachers at her lunch table. We’ve found out why. Ben Bradford, he used to date—”
Garrett yawned again, began to walk toward the shore. “I know. He was the girl’s old boyfriend.”
Annie was impressed. Garrett was apparently on top of the murder investigations. Somehow, between the stakeout for Jud Hamilton and the drug bust, Garrett had kept apprised of the details in the murder investigations. She relaxed a little, but she wished Garrett would stop and listen. She kept pace with him. “That’s right. But get this! Meredith dropped Ben”—Annie paused—“for an older man.”
They reached the end of the pier. Garrett rubbed his face. “So that’s the boy’s story, huh? Maybe. Maybe not. Look, Annie, we have a lot more investigating to do, but so far there’s no trace of the Muir girl being involved with anybody. That’s the first thing we look for in a murder investigation”—his tone was faintly patronizing—“the sex angle. Sure, Ben Bradford wants there to be another guy. Otherwise, he’s hanging out there by himself because she got tired of him. Maybe he was one big bore. Anyway, it’s pretty obvious what happened. The girl knew something about the teacher’s murder. Either she looked across the inlet Wednesday night—”
“Chief”—they were at the black-and-white cruiser now—“that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Look at it another way. What if Kay Nevis looked across the inlet one night recently and saw someone she knew at the Muir cabana? What if she saw a man and he was coming or going late at night? What if she recognized him?”
Garrett rubbed his blotchy face. “So is Nevis going to keep quiet about it if one of the teacher’s scr—fooling around with a student? Get real, Annie.” He pulled open the passenger door, slumped wearily on the seat.
Annie clenched her hands. “That’s the point! Kay Nevis warned him. Maybe she insisted he resign, quit teaching. Maybe she said she’d tell Dr. Allensworth and that would mean he’d never ever get another job in a school. Don’t you see?”
Garrett slammed the door.
Annie opened it, leaned into the car. “What was he going to do? Quit his job? And what was he going to tell his wife? Both of the men—the ones who sat at her lunch table, Jack Quinn and George Wilson—are married. So Quinn or Wilson, one of them, decided Kay had to die. The murderer was clever as hell. He saw one of my WHODUNIT flyers and realized he could come up with accusations that had some basis in fact and would be sure to upset the people mentioned. And look what happened—the whole island started talking about old crimes. But it was just a smoke screen, like Emma said.”
If he hadn’t been tired to the bone, Garrett might not have responded. He pushed his fists against his eyes, then glared at her. “That red Jeep’s no smoke screen, Annie. And Diane Littlefield was at the Muir house Wednesday night, and she and Meredith quarreled at the assembly.”
Annie flung her arm toward the boathouse. “You came here to check out that boat, didn’t you? Diane Littlefield has a motorboat. Why would she use that one? And surely you got some kind of picture of who was driving it? Was it a man or a woman?”
Garrett looked toward the boathouse, frowned. “We got enough of the registration number to trace the boat here. But who knows? Nothing’s ever a complete fit in any case. Diane goes to school here. Maybe she didn’t want to use her own boat. Maybe this boat had nothing to do with anything. There’s no way to tell who was driving it. Dark clothes, hunched over the wheel. Could have been anybody. But we know where we found those damn flyers. They were in the Nevis house. Henny Brawley’s on my case, says her friend wouldn’t do anything like that. Well, Nevis taught here, she knew the background on Jud Hamilton, and she lived across from the Muir girl. Maybe she saw that Jeep the morning Bob Tower was killed and didn’t put it all together until later. I’ll tell you something else, Annie: You can come up with all the fancy theories you want, but we got to have proof. Can you prove one of those men ever saw Muir outside of class? Can you prove one of them was ever in that cabana? Oh, I’ll check ’em out, but there’s not a shred of evidence that either one of them was involved with Meredith Muir.”
Eighteen
MAX GLANCED toward the clock. Almost three. Confidential Commissions was, of course, closed on a Saturday afternoon, but he’d been able to round up quite a bit of information about Jack Quinn and George Wilson. Would it do any good? Annie was convinced that she was on the right track, but Max had a hollow feeling that Garrett’s insistence was correct. Theories were fine, but proof was essential.
Max picked up a sheaf of papers. There were, for sure, some suggestive points.
JOHN EDWARD (JACK) QUINN
The most successful track coach in the history of Broward’s Rock High School. Under his leadership, the boys’ track and field team has captured either first or second in at least four events over the past ten years at the state championships. His girls’ team has done even better, taking five firsts four years in a row. One of his graduates, Samantha Jenkins, is considered a top prospect for the next Olympics.
Quinn is a native of Bluffton and a graduate of the University of South Carolina. He was a varsity runner, excelling in the mile. He is married to a Bluffton native, Louise Compton, who practices law in the Broward’s Rock firm of Hoolaby, Harris and Grant. They have two children, John Jr., 6, and Janice, 4. Land transactions four years ago recorded the purchase of a house on the perimeter of the golf course for $440,000, deed in the name of Louise Compton Quinn. In April of this year, Louise Compton Quinn filed for divorce. The petition was later dropped. A feat
ure story in The Island Gazette sports section two years ago included this comment:
Quinn and his wife, marine law expert Louise Compton, typify today’s modern marriages, with both spouses involved in demanding careers and sharing equally the pleasures and burdens of home and family. You are as likely to find Quinn in the kitchen as his wife. In fact, he is the main provider of meals for the children, as Ms. Compton is often off island on business….
Quinn received the Outstanding Teacher of the Year Award last year. A story in the school newspaper quoted a senior girl, who declined to be identified: “Mr. Quinn is a hotty! All the girls think he’s simply the coolest.”
“In your dreams,” Max muttered. He flipped to the next sheet, which contained a confidential assessment by Mrs. Riley, provided only after many promises of utter discretion on Max’s part.
“…girls simply hang around him. But that’s natural. I mean, you know, sex is very natural, and handsome teachers are always fascinating to the girls. Jack reminds me so much of Alan Alda when he was on M*A*S*H, not now when he’s old and he emcees those TV programs. Jack is so appealing, that black hair and bony face. But Jack’s kind of different. There’s something a little dark about him. I don’t know what it is, a kind of dissatisfied look sometimes, and he usually comes to faculty parties by himself. I mean, she’s gone so much. To tell the truth, she seems a little disdainful of us. Of course, teachers don’t make the kind of money lawyers do, but if that mattered to her, why didn’t she marry another lawyer? And Jack loves what he does. He’s so good with the kids.”
But maybe not so good at maintaining his marriage. Max put those sheets aside. And then there was…
GEORGE HENRY WILSON
Senior counselor at Broward’s Rock High School. A native of Kansas, B.A. in psychology, University of Kansas; M.A., University of Oklahoma; Ph.D., University of California at Los Angeles. Counselor in private practice in Los Angeles for three years, joined faculty on Broward’s Rock ten years ago. Specializes in gifted and talented students. Also a winner of Outstanding Teacher of the Year Award.
Married to the former Elena Richardson, a pharmaceutical rep. No children. Wife travels…
Max picked up a highlighter, turned the words bright orange.
…on the West Coast, owns a condo in La Jolla. The Wilsons maintain a long-distance marriage. He travels twice a month on weekends to California; she flies to Atlanta twice a month on weekends.
Wilson enjoys backpacking, scuba diving, and kayaking. He is an amateur historian and collects Early Greek coins. He presents numismatic shows describing a day in the life of the ancient Greeks, using the coins to illustrate likely financial activities.
Max returned to Mrs. Riley’s comments:
Mrs. Riley, shaking her head but laughing: “That George! He’s more fun than a comedy club. But always quite clean, you know. Not disgusting like so many of them. I always think of the Our Gang movies and that little guy with the tight curly hair and freckles. That must be what George looked like as a little boy. He keeps everybody laughing. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good counselor. Not that he can’t be serious. I remember when the Murray boy died. Leukemia, you know. Such a heartbreak for all of us. The nicest boy. The kids took it so hard. George really helped them. Attractive to the girls?…There was one girl but she had so many problems. She came after George and he finally had to insist she talk with Mrs. Heaston. Of course, that didn’t satisfy her. The girl just didn’t come to the counselors’ office then. She dropped out of school not long after that.”
Max stacked the sheets, slipped them into a folder. His face was thoughtful as he clicked off the desk light. On his way out of the office, he stopped to look once again at the photographs spread on the worktable. They were printed through his computer, primarily from newspaper archives.
Five photos in the top row:
Jack Quinn, angular face solemn, looking down at his radiant bride.
Jack Quinn lifting high a huge silver trophy, eyes gleaming, lips spread in a triumphant grin.
Jack Quinn, unsmiling, dark brows drawn in a tight frown, gesturing emphatically as he leaned toward a bench filled with boys in running tops and shorts.
Jack Quinn laughing as the platform on which he stood plunked into a tank as a student hit the bull’s-eye at the school carnival.
Jack Quinn grinning as he handed the Sportsman of the Year Award to a graduating senior boy.
Five photos in the bottom row:
George Wilson, red hair gleaming, nose peeling on his sunburned face, balanced on the side of a boat, ready to dive.
George Wilson, his round face ebullient, heaving his mortarboard into the air as he received his doctorate.
George Wilson beaming as he shakes hands with the president of the senior class.
George Wilson, muscular and stocky, pounding toward the finish line of the annual Broward’s Rock Marathon.
George Wilson shouting as he pounded a big drum at a fall football game.
Max hesitated, then swept the pictures into a pile, added them to his folder. He’d show them to Annie. Would she see the face of a murderer?
Annie edged along the pittosporum hedge. The sweet bananalike fragrance attracted bumblebees. Annie ducked, hoped she wouldn’t be stung. Damn, she didn’t like the huge, awkward, dramatically striped bees, but if she kept close to the hedge she was out of sight of the Muir house.
Her heart thudded. So okay, she wasn’t cut out to be a cat burglar. It sounded so damn glamorous. Maybe if she could handle stress better, like they do in the movies. Cary Grant and Pierce Brosnan were always cool.
A bumblebee zoomed within inches of her face. Annie bolted away from the hedge, thudded up the steps onto the veranda and lunged toward the door. She stopped, looked toward the Muir house. There were some cars, but the blinds were drawn at the windows. Quickly, she checked the Nevis house. Still lots of cars but no one was on the porch that overlooked both the inlet and the entrance to the cabana where Annie stood, trying to look a part of the weathered gray wood.
Okay, okay. She reached for the doorknob, froze. Fingerprints. Annie took a deep breath, pulled out her blouse, used it to clutch the knob. The door opened. Was it usually kept locked, or had Meredith walked out of the cabana Thursday night, leaving it open?
Annie slipped inside the shadowy room. She glanced toward the windows. The shutters were closed. She turned on the light, using her elbow to nudge up the switch. The cabana was long and narrow. A wooden plaque inscribed GUYS hung on the bright blue door opposite her. GALS adorned a plaque on the pink door to the right. A curved sofa faced the near end of the room and a giant-screen TV. Small sofas sat on either side of a big low coffee table in the middle of the room opposite a wet bar. A half-dozen small vials of fingernail polish were scattered atop the coffee table. Annie came closer, noted various shades of pink. There was a mound of used cotton balls. A bottle of polish remover was open. Annie wrinkled her nose at the cloying scent. A copy of Cosmopolitan lay atop a stack of magazines. At the end of the room, next to a closed door, was a CD player on a stand. Brightly colored CDs were carelessly flung next to the player. Annie didn’t even recognize the names of most of the groups.
She looked at the closed door. The GUYS and GALS doors at the other end of the room likely indicated bathrooms with space to change and shower. This door wouldn’t open to a kitchen. All of those appliances—a microwave, small refrigerator, sink—were in the wet bar.
Annie hurried to the door, gripped the knob through the fabric of her blouse, pushed. She looked at an un-made bed, the spread flung carelessly to the floor, the pillows rumpled. Annie studied the bedroom. If she was right about Meredith and a man, this would be where they had met. Not in her house, not even when her parents were absent. The cabana was Meredith’s preserve. How recently had that bed been slept in? Last week, perhaps? Was that when Kay Nevis looked across the inlet and recognized a visitor who should never have been there? But how could Annie—or the police—ever li
nk that shadowy figure to this room, to Meredith?
There might be a way.
Max shoved his hand through thick blond curls. “Annie, that smacks of entrapment.” He glanced down at his array of photos spread atop the Death on Demand coffee bar: the confident track coach, the laugh-a-minute counselor. Two men…Which one?
“We…” Her hand hesitated above the sugar bowl. Was a splash of brown sugar sheer indulgence atop the whipped cream on the caffe latte? The lid clinked as she removed it, scooped a huge golden heap of sugar and deposited it on the mound of cream. “…are not the police. Look at it, Max, if my plan works we can at the very least get a picture of the murderer. At the best, Pete captures the killer.”
She poked her tongue into the whipped cream with the dissolving crystals of sugar. “Hmm.”
“You have a whipped-cream mustache.” Max raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s what the national milk council had in mind.”
“The more fools they.” Annie picked out two of the pictures, Quinn on the platform above the tank of water, Wilson diving from the side of the boat. “Good-looking men.” Her tone was admiring.
Max leaned against the coffee bar, his expression skeptical. “Do you think so?”
Annie grinned. “Not, of course, to me personally.” The smile slipped away. “But to a teenage girl? She’d be impressed, Max.” Annie shuffled the pictures into a pile, turned them facedown, her mouth in a tight line. “Damn him. Whichever one it is. Listen, we have to give it a try. It can’t do any harm. We know Pete pays attention to tips about crimes. For all he knows, this tip will come from the person who took the videos of the cocaine arriving at the Crawford house. He won’t dare ignore a message.” She reached for the phone.