Death of the Party (10 page)

Britt was locked into conversation with Nick McRae, but her glance moved around the table. The way the light fell from the chandelier, her face was partially in shadow. Perhaps it was this obscurity that made her look somber and fatigued. Millicent's husband gestured with one perfectly manicured hand. “…seems essential to me that we continue to replenish the beaches. Tourism is…”

Millicent was all charm with Craig, smiling attentively. “Of course, we can agree that deregulation is the wave of the future. But in your opinion does this mean…”

Annie finished her portion of tamale pie. This wasn't the kind of evening to return to the buffet table. Oh well. She brightened. Harry had just entered with a trolley of desserts. Sherried fried bananas, lime sorbet, almond cake. She debated whether it would be piggy
to take a serving of both the fried bananas and the almond cake.

Harry began to clear the plates. He was deft and quick. Annie noted his powerful hands.

Britt's voice rose above the clink of dishes. “After dessert, we'll have coffee and drinks in the drawing room. I thought we might work out times tomorrow when Max and Annie can visit with each of you. And I hope everyone will enjoy walking on the beach and reading and relaxing. I want this to be a lovely Golden Silk holiday as well as an opportunity to remember Jeremiah.”

“Remember Jeremiah.” Everett drawled the words. His voice was ever so slightly but definitely slurred. His hand firmly gripped a tumbler once again filled with whisky. “Oh, come on, Britt. Stop the charade.” He pushed back his chair, rose unsteadily to his feet, still holding the glass. “Tell everybody the truth. This is one hell of a party that's under way. Put everything on the table. Fill them in on the reason for their tête-à-têtes with our Darling duo tomorrow.”

“Everett, come with me.” Britt jumped up, hurried around the table, one hand outstretched. “I need to speak with you.”

He backed away from her. “No, no, no.” It was a tipsy parody of good-humored teasing. “You see, I've been thinking. My esteemed colleague”—he raised his glass to Kim—“or she'll be a colleague if she ever gets back to the big league. Maybe another media titan will be enchanted with her”—a lascivious smile—“abilities. In any event, my former colleague made a very good point. Nobody will give a damn
about what anybody here remembers about Jeremiah. But everybody loves a juicy murder.”

“Murder?” Millicent's cry was choked. She looked wildly about. “What does he mean?”

Craig pushed back his chair, stood, faced his employee. “Crenshaw, you'd better explain yourself.” Craig's face was grim.

“Am I Everett Crenshaw, investigative journalist extraordinaire? Yes. Do I get the facts? Always.” The slur in his speech became more pronounced. He wavered a little on his feet. “Come this way, ladies and gentlemen.” He turned, walked with careful dignity toward the hall. In the doorway, he stopped, gestured impatiently. “Don't miss out. Come one, come all.”

Britt was right behind him, her voice low and urgent. Crenshaw ignored her.

Max hesitated, then stood and moved toward the hallway. Annie popped up. As if on cue, chairs were pushed back and the other guests hesitantly followed.

Crenshaw smiled in drunken approval. “Showing is telling. That's my mantra. Show. Don't tell. Now let's visit the scene of the crime.” He walked purposefully if a little unsteadily toward the staircase. He stopped, faced the straggling group, clamped his free hand on the newel post, raised his glass in salute. “Gather round, children, and you shall hear”—his voice dropped to a sepulchral tone—“a story all should fear.”

Max came up beside him, took him firmly by the elbow, spoke quietly.

Annie close behind, heard, “How about a nightcap in your cabin? I'll walk there with you.”

Crenshaw shook free. Whisky sloshed from his
glass. “Now look what you made me do.” Petulant, he squinted at the amber liquid, raised the tumbler to his lips, finished the drink. “Bug off, Darling. I won't shut up, go away, disappear, take a hike. I'm on a mission.” He climbed two steps and turned to preen before his audience.

Harry Lyle strode down the hall, stopped beside Britt. The jerk of his head toward Crenshaw was a clear offer to remove him. Max, too, looked toward Britt. In the doorway to the kitchen, Lucinda was a somber figure, her smudged pink apron an odd domestic contrast to her watchful face.

Britt had lost her decisive look. She ran a hand through her dark hair and the resulting tangle made her appear young and stricken. “No. I don't want a struggle. If he wants to tell them, I can't stop him.” Her voice faded to a defeated sigh.

Craig Addison stood like a bull, head jutting forward. His wife hung back, one hand braced against the dining room doorpost. A muscle fluttered in Isabel's throat. Kim Kennedy placed her hands on her hips. Her round face intent, she watched Crenshaw with narrowed eyes. Jay slipped a protective arm around Dana's shoulders. Gerald Gamble cleared his throat, took a step forward.

Millicent pointed at Crenshaw and said in a shrill voice, “You're drunk. All this talk about murder. That's absurd. I don't intend to spend a minute more in such an unpleasant situation.” She turned to go, but her husband gripped her arm, brought her to a stop.

Crenshaw's reply was as quick as an adder's tongue. “Murder. Oh, yes, it was murder. Jeremiah didn't fall,
dear ones. Jeremiah crashed to his death over a strand of wire strung across the top of the staircase.” Crenshaw clapped his hands over the babble of questions. His smile was full of malice. “Our dear hostess knows all about it.” He made a formal bow toward Britt. “She found the great man and the wire that killed him and she removed every trace of the crime.”

The silence was abrupt.

Annie looked into Everett Crenshaw's eyes. She expected to see the bleary softness of a drunk. Instead, his gaze was cold and calculating and pleased. When he realized Annie's appraisal, his eyes moved away. He blinked and gave a foolish smile.

Britt took a step back, came up against the wall. She looked lost and terribly alone.

Craig's feet were heavy on the heart-pine floor. He stopped a scant foot away from Britt. “What's he talking about?”

Britt clasped her hands together, tried to still their trembling. “Craig, please forgive me.” She looked toward a stone-faced Jay. “You and Jay. I did the wrong thing but Cissy was so horribly sick.”

Craig jerked his head toward Everett. “Is he telling the truth?”

Britt was a long time responding. Finally, she nodded. “Yes.” Her answer was as faint as the sough of pines in a winter wind. “I heard a sound that morning…” Once begun, she didn't falter, the frightful words filling the stricken quiet of the hallway. “And when I looked down, I saw the wire. For an instant, it didn't make any sense and then I understood. Someone knew he was always first down to go jog and they
came up the stairs in the night and fixed the wire to trip him.”

“Dad murdered…” Craig stared at the stairway as if seeing a crumpled figure. His face hardened. “You found him and what then?” His voice was rough.

She met his gaze with a trace of defiance. “Cissy was dying. She adored him. I didn't want the police and questions”—she didn't look toward Kim, but there was something in the sudden movement of her shoulders that jerked Annie's eyes toward the young blond woman—“and all the nastiness that was sure to come out. I didn't want Cissy to be hurt. I thought—if nobody knew—if everyone thought he had fallen, it would be all right. I took the wire and got rid of it.”

“Goddamn.” Kim's cry was harsh. “Somebody—oh, if I ever figure it out, somebody's going to pay.”

“So that was all a lie, about a tribute to Dad, and these people”—Jay flapped a big hand toward Max and Annie—“aren't here to find out about him?”

“Duh,” Crenshaw drawled. “No wonder Papa made you sit in the corner with a dunce cap.”

Jay's face flushed. He took a step toward his tormentor. Dana grabbed his arm, held tight.

Craig wasn't distracted. His eyes never left Britt. “You aided and abetted a murderer. What's your game now?”

“No game.” Her voice was uneven. “I got a letter from Everett. He told me he'd been at the house early that morning. He'd wanted to have a private talk with Jeremiah. He came in the back door. When he walked into the hall, he saw Jeremiah and then he saw me at the top of the stairs. I was on my knees…” Again she
brushed a hand through her hair, her face bemused. “I was shocked by his letter. It never occurred to me anyone would think I was responsible. I knew then that I had to find out the truth.”

Craig swung toward the stairs. His scowl was ferocious. “Do I get the picture, you sorry piece of shit, that you kept quiet and then decided to try your hand at blackmail?”

For an instant, Crenshaw's composure wavered. He finally managed a cocky smile. “Not me. But I kept remembering how Jeremiah looked. Like a broken puppet. Hell, I dreamed about him. I decided I should call the cops. I wrote Britt to let her know what had happened and how I was having second thoughts. That seemed the only fair thing to do.”

Kim hooted. “If you believe that, ladies and gentlemen, have I got a deal for you on a beachfront house in Arizona.”

Everett ignored her though his ears burned a dull red. “Anyway, Britt wrote right back and explained what had happened but said it was time to clear everything up. And she was going to hire a detective.” He glanced toward Max.

Gerald Gamble's long face was unamused. “Are we to understand that the Darlings”—he gestured toward Max and Annie—“are detectives?” He might have said “maggots” with the same intonation.

Max was pleasant but firm. “My wife and I specialize in obtaining information. With the cooperation of everyone here, we will be able to present authorities
with a summary of the events leading up to Jeremiah Addison's death.”

Annie felt like cheering. No one could handle the turmoil and hostility among the guests better than Max. He was now the focus of every eye, dominating the hallway with easy confidence, his pleasant voice devoid of bombast and arrogance, his gaze inquiring yet respectful.

“That is our objective.” Max looked at each in turn. “Of course, I advised Ms. Barlow to contact the police.”

Britt moved swiftly to Max's side. “Please, I want everyone to understand. Max urged me to notify the police. But everyone was scattered…I didn't see how that could work. I know the police have to be involved, but I thought it would be better if I gathered everyone here. I definitely intend to see this through to an answer. Everett's letter only made me do what I know I should have done long before. It wasn't right to hide murder.” She shivered. “Murder. I still find it hard to believe. That someone here—”

Again there was silence in the hallway, but this quiet was dark and ominous, heavy as a purple sky before the storm breaks.

“—but I know it's true. All right.” There was an echo of her usual briskness. “Now you know the situation. I felt it would be easier for Max and Annie to talk about that weekend if the murderer wasn't on guard. But maybe this way is best. Now everyone knows how important it is to remember everything as accurately as possible. And the great thing about it”—her voice
lightened—“only one person should be reluctant to cooperate. Only one person is guilty. Everyone else is innocent and should be glad to help trap a murderer. I feel sure I can count on all of you—except one—doing your best for Jeremiah. In the morning, Max and Annie will find an opportunity to speak to each of you. Tonight everyone can try to remember details that may help.” She gave a huge sigh of relief. “I didn't know how wonderful it would be to have this out in the open. I feel better than I have in a long time. Confession really is good for the soul.” Her look was diffident toward Craig and Jay. “I understand if you are angry, but I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. Now, let's go into the drawing room for coffee. Harry can bring the desserts—”

“Everybody can be
sooo
charming.” Crenshaw gave a drunken laugh. He stood in the archway to the drawing room, holding up a tumbler. The glass was full again.

Annie wondered if he'd filled it from one of the decanters in the drawing room. Surely Harry hadn't served him another drink. No, there was Harry, still a foot or so from Britt, his face thoughtful, his stance pugnacious.

Crenshaw held up the tumbler. “Here's my dessert. It's been a great party, but I like to leave on a high note. I'm sure all of you will enjoy an opportunity to explain how you weren't the one who strung the wire. And tonight, just like Britt suggested, you can plumb your memories, get primed for a heart-to-heart with the sleuths tomorrow. In fact, you'd better be clear about that weekend, where you were, what you did, what you
and Jeremiah said to each other. Because”—he gave a little hiccup—“I've been doing some more thinking. And damned if I didn't remember some other intriguing facts, like who Jeremiah was pissed at. It won't do”—he wagged an admonitory finger—“to pretend you were great pals with him if you weren't. I've got a deal with Britt. I get first crack at what the Darlings discover and
I
get to write the first story. So don't fudge even a teensy bit or old Uncle Everett will know you're a liar. And if I tell Britt, why, the game will be up, won't it?”

It was a dramatic exit line.

When the front door closed behind him, Kim Kennedy wrinkled her nose in distaste. “There goes nothing.” She strolled toward Britt. “We'd better get one thing straight. He doesn't get an exclusive. I've got my own ideas and I intend to nose around. I'd think the more people looking, the better. We'll see who gets a scoop. And, thanks for the candlesticks.” She had them cradled in her arms. “Good night, all.”