Death of the Party (11 page)

With her departure, the others streamed toward the door.

Millicent McRae's smile was brittle. “Of course, Nick and I are simply appalled at this turn of events. Jeremiah murdered! Obviously we will do everything we can to help apprehend the perpetrator.” Nick followed her, but with a sharp backward glance at Britt.

Craig Addison was blunt, his glance at Britt icy. “I expect to be kept apprised of everything. You've taken quite a bit on yourself.” He looked around, “Isabel, I'll walk you to your cabin.”

His wife's lips parted, then closed. “Thank you, Craig.”
She darted a glance past him. “Gerald, would you like to come with us?”

Craig frowned, but Gerald was moving past him, his lugubrious face suddenly eager. “Isabel, it's good to see you even in such difficult circumstances. Have you…” And they were outside, their words lost. Craig drew a sharp irritated breath and followed.

The door closed. Britt looked resolutely toward Jay and Dana. From the dining room there was the sound of dishes and cutlery as Harry cleared the table.

Jay still stood near the base of the stairs, looking up toward the landing, face locked in a scowl, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his pockets. “I thought he'd tripped himself, going fast the way he always ran over everybody. Instead…”

Dana tugged at his elbow. “Honey, please.”

He massaged his temple with the heel of his hand. “So he finally pushed someone too far. Who had the guts to do it?” He sounded amazed.

Watching him, Annie was afraid there was also a hint of admiration in his voice.

Dana spoke loudly, overriding his words. “Jay, I'm tired. Let's go now. In the morning everything”—he pulled away from her—“will be clearer…” She broke off, knowing he wasn't listening, knowing she could do nothing to protect him.

He walked directly to Britt. His demeanor changed abruptly. The anger and bitterness were gone. Instead, his voice was eager, hopeful. “Did you really find something Mother wrote?”

“I'll show you in the morning. It's just a scrap. I think it's directions to a spot near the gazebo. It may
not be important. I'll bring it to breakfast.” She gave him a kind look.

“The gazebo.” A smile lighted his face. The transformation was amazing. When he'd glared at the staircase where his father had died, there had been a scarcely leashed and frightening malevolence. Now he looked diffident and gentle. “She loved the gazebo. I can always see her in my mind, an old straw hat shading her face, her gloves all stained with dirt, her favorite trowel. She had wonderful roses there. ‘And all rare blossoms from every clime / Grew in that garden in perfect prime.'” He brushed back a drooping lock of brown hair. “She loved Shelley, too.” His voice was soft. “Whatever you found, I'd like to have it. We'll see you at breakfast.”

Dana slipped her arm through his, clearly determined to maneuver him away. “Yes. We'll see you then.”

As the door closed behind them, Annie turned from a study of the stairway. “Cops look at the responses of suspects in a murder case. For example, hubby claims to be devastated at the news that his wife's been shot in the library, but his color is good, his appetite hearty, and he can't wait to use his cell to call a bimbo named Tootsie. What's wrong with this picture? So who acted inappropriately tonight? Hands down, Jay Addison is off the chart. Everybody's talking about the murder of his father and what does he do? He stands here”—she patted the newel post—“and all but says, ‘Hooray, somebody got him.' When he walks over to Britt, you'd think he'd ream her out for covering up a murder. But no, he goes all dewy-eyed about his mother and roses.”

Britt shrugged. “Everybody knows Jay and Jeremiah were at odds. I'd say he responded exactly as anyone might have expected. Now”—her smile was uneven—“since everyone's left—and I don't suppose I blame them—we can have coffee and work out a plan for tomorrow.”

“That can sort itself out in the morning. First we've got to talk to Crenshaw.” Max took a step toward the door.

Britt shook her head. “Oh, Max, let it go. I should have expected something of the sort. He's incapable of playing a subordinate role. He was just being the life of the party. He has to be the center of attention. I knew he was drinking too much but I don't know what I could have done about it. Anyway”—she spread out her hands—“he may have done us a favor. I hadn't thought about it that way, but everyone will want to find out the truth except the murderer. That will surely make things easier. There's no point in scolding him.”

Max's face was somber. “It's too late to worry about what he's done. But we have to find out what else he knows.”

Britt looked puzzled. “I don't know what you mean. He told everything I did.”

“His farewell zinger. He said he knew who Jeremiah was mad at.” Max's tone was grave.

Annie quoted, “‘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?'”

Britt considered for a long moment, then gave a tired laugh. “That was just Everett being Everett. He'd
lost the spotlight and he wanted it back. We can't take that seriously.”

Max reached for the doorknob. “What if the murderer takes it seriously?”

Z
IPPING HER WINDBREAKER AGAINST
the damp chill of the January night, Annie scrambled to keep up. Max's flashlight beam bounced along the path through the garden. The banks of azaleas were dark mounds on either side. Annie wondered if their hurried progress was under observation, perhaps by an alert gray fox or a bobcat with glistening golden eyes or a curious raccoon. The crunch of oyster shells underfoot overrode the night sounds except for a ghostly
whoooo
of a nearby owl. Though the sky was overcast, there was a hint of moon glow until they skirted the fountain and plunged into the woods. The darkness was as thick and enveloping as pulling up a cover at midnight.

“Everett's not going to tell us anything.” Annie's irritation was evident.

“I know. He's a jerk. And Britt may be right. His whole performance may be nothing more than bravado. Or too much bourbon.” Max paused, flashed the light at a wooden sign. A reflective numeral 5 glowed. An arrow pointed to the right. He turned the light that way. “We can't take a chance. If I were the murderer, I'd be wondering exactly what Everett
knew. I'd look for a chance for a private chat with him. Maybe a final chat.”

Annie scarcely heard the last muttered comment. Max was pounding along the trail in front of her. It was harder going on the narrow, offshoot path. She hooked her fingers to the back of Max's waistband. They came around a curve to a blaze of light spilling from the cabin windows.

Max thudded up the front steps, pounded on the door. Annie followed at a more relaxed pace. She doubted Everett would cooperate. He didn't, to put it nicely, have a cooperative nature. Everett was the kind of person who always caused trouble, one way or another. If he knew anything, he'd refuse to share simply to be contrary. If he didn't know anything, he'd pretend he did with gleeful malice.

There was no response to Max's knock. The cabin lay silent. They waited. Sound surrounded them, the rustle of tree limbs, the cackle, hoot, and chortle of courting barred owls. But the brightly lit cabin was as quiet as a small town at midnight.

Max didn't hesitate. “Stay back.” He grabbed the knob, flung open the door, stepped warily inside. “Everett?” His shout was urgent.

Annie swallowed hard and followed. The living room was impersonal but lovely—rattan furniture, a shell motif, the colors of sea and sand. It was meant for easy island days, a haven for gracious living.

Every light blazed.

“Everett?” Max turned to look beyond the breakfast bar toward the small kitchen.

No answer. No movement.

His face intent, Max circled the room. He walked with his shoulders bunched, hands hanging loosely by his sides. He glanced behind the sofa, headed toward the open door to the bedroom. His voice drifted from the bedroom. “Not here.” Relief was evident in his voice. “Looks like he has one suitcase. It's open on a luggage rack. No sign of any disturbance.”

Annie surveyed the living room. There was a book spread open on an end table. She knew the cover, J. A. Jance's
Exit Wounds
. It was one of Annie's favorites, with appealing characters, charming dogs, and a fascinating puzzle. A green leather folder lay on the breakfast bar. Annie moved swiftly to the counter.

Max's voice was muffled. “Shaving kit's in the bath, strewn all over. Left his shaving can with a wet bottom sitting on the tile. Clothes are wadded up, dropped on the floor beside the bed. Not a hostess's delight. Three hundred and sixty dollars in twenties in his billfold. Alligator billfold. Four credit cards. Frequent-flier cards. Hmm, what looks like a little black book. Women's first names and phone numbers and—” Max broke off, cleared his throat.

Annie looked around the room. Clearly Everett wasn't in the cabin. It would be interesting to check out the folder. She slid the contents onto the blond wood. On top was an envelope addressed to Everett Crenshaw. Her eyes widened. The return address: Britt Barlow, Heron House, Golden Silk Island, South Carolina 29928.

“Hey, Max, here's Britt's letter to Everett.” Annie plucked the enclosure from the envelope.

Max came to the bedroom door. “Her letter? We
know what she said.” Clearly he wasn't interested. “You stay here and I'll scout around for him.”

Annie held up a hand. “Here's what she wrote.” She read aloud: “‘Dear Everett, Your letter came as a surprise. I had no idea I was observed that morning. Clever of you to be so quiet. I confess I did something I should not have done. I removed all traces of the trap which someone set for Jeremiah. That was wrong and I am willing to accept responsibility for tampering with evidence of a crime. However, I want to be clear that I knew nothing about the wire until I found it in place and saw Jeremiah dead at the foot of the stairs. I'm surprised you didn't speak up at the time.'” Annie paused in her recitation. “That's a bland way of implying she's certainly wise to a blackmail attempt.” Annie cleared her throat, continued to read. “‘But your letter encourages me to ask your assistance in discovering the identity of Jeremiah's murderer. I am inviting everyone present on the island that weekend to return. I have hired a detective to investigate. I promise you access to everything we find out. It could be a sensational story for you. Best Regards, Britt.'”

“Okay.” Max's tone was impatient. He waved a hand. “It's nice to have some confirmation of what she told us, but right now we need to focus on finding Everett. The damn fool.” Max strode across the living room.

Annie replaced the letter, picked up a folded sheet torn from a legal pad.

Max was at the front door, hand on the knob. “I'll scout around.”

Annie opened the sheet. Her eyes widened as she scanned the handwritten notes. “Max, wait. You've got to see this. He's—”

Max stopped in the doorway. “Hey, Everett.” Max's shout was loud.

“Yo.” The stairs rattled.

Annie drew in a quick breath. Here he came and here she was, right in the middle of his private papers. She started to replace the sheet in the folder, then shook her head. She folded the paper twice, tucked it in the pocket of her jacket. She shoved everything else into the folder and tried to remember how the folder had appeared on the breakfast bar. It had been a little askew. She gave it a push, then dashed across the room to stand near the sofa.

Everett Crenshaw stopped on the front porch, looked curiously into his cabin. His supercilious face was sharp and hostile. “I don't remember inviting you in, buddy. Oh yeah, I guess I couldn't have. I wasn't even here and yet there you are.” He peered past Max at Annie. “Ah, not one sleuth, but two.” He glared at them. “What are you two doing in my cabin?” He pushed past Max, moved to the center of the living room, and swung around to face them, arms folded. His blue shirt was covered by a gray sweater that hung loose over khaki pants. He was barefoot in leather loafers.

Max struggled to hold his temper in check. “You make it damn hard to care, Crenshaw, but we're here to protect you. Your smart-ass exit from the house sets you up to be as dead as Jeremiah. Didn't it occur to you that the murderer might wonder if you have some incriminating knowledge? What would be easier than
slipping in here late tonight with a steak knife? Or the murderer might hold a pillow over your face. You acted pretty damn drunk up at the house. Funny how sober you look right now.” Max's stare was hard. “The murderer may expect you to be too soused to wake up.”

Everett looked startled. “A knife? For me?” His voice was thoughtful.

“I think you're damn lucky you're standing here alive right this minute. I don't know where you've been—” Max's eyes narrowed.

Everett's face smoothed into blankness.

“—but the fact you made it back is pretty good proof whoever you went to see is innocent.”

Everett's grin was sudden and almost disarming. “A nice lady. She's innocent of everything but lousy taste in men. She's…But I'll let you do your own detecting. You're getting paid for it. Me, I'm holding on to my cards until the pot gets sweetened.”

Max shook his head. He spoke with easy certainty. “Dead men have a hard time spending cash.”

Everett smoothed his thick bush of hair, walked toward the kitchen, but a quick frown pulled at his face.

Annie carefully didn't look toward the green leather folder. She felt as if neon letters glowed above her:
SNEAK THIEF HERE
.

Everett yanked open the refrigerator. “Beer, anybody? Amstel. Dos Equis.”

Annie slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket, curled her fingers around the square of paper.

“So you can sleep better?” Max strolled to the
breakfast bar, leaned against it. “Make an even easier target?”

Everett slammed the refrigerator door. He held the beer bottle in a tight grasp, glared at Max. “Nobody's going to kill me.” But his eyes were uneasy.

“There's one way to be sure.” Max slid onto the barstool. “Tell us what you know, then come to the house with us. Britt can put you up. There's plenty of room. No one will know where you are. Tomorrow at breakfast we'll announce you've made a full report to us. That should protect you.”

Everett wasn't listening. He flipped off the cap of the beer, took a big swallow. Face furrowed, he leaned against the breakfast bar. Abruptly, he slammed a palm against the counter. “Wait a minute. I've got an idea. Let's say you're right.” Bright eyes glistened with satisfaction. “Let's say I've poked a tiger and tonight he'll prowl. Well, ducking into a hidey-hole doesn't get us anywhere. Here's what we'll do. You and”—his glance appraised Annie—“your good-lookin' lady stomp out of here, yell around that I'm a damn fool and you'll be back in the morning and maybe I'll have come to my senses and be ready to spill the beans. I'll act drunk—”

Annie couldn't resist. “Like you did at dinner?”

His glance was sharp. “What the hell. We're on the same side. Yeah, just like I did at dinner and everybody fell for it. I was getting bored and I wasn't about to let Britt get away with that phony tribute to Jeremiah. I decided to have some fun, but”—he flicked away beads of moisture from the beer bottle—“I'm not going to be anybody's sacrificial lamb. So, we'll
put on a little show in case anybody's watching. You two split. I'll bang around like I'm getting ready for bed, turn out the lights. Give it twenty minutes, then you”—he jerked his head at Max—“play Indian scout and get down here in the dark. When you come up the steps, knock like this.” He made a fist, knocked on the counter twice, paused, twice again. “Whisper, ‘Max, the knife,' and I'll open the door. You can bunk on the couch. Maybe we'll get lucky and the evildoer will try to get in. If we catch him, I get the story, you get the glory.”

 

Max paused by the bedroom door. His frown was heavy. “Damned if I like leaving you here by yourself.” He wore a navy sweatshirt and sweatpants and dark jogging shoes. He'd tucked his sports bag under one arm.

Frowning in return, she stood with her hands on her hips. “Damned if I like your serving as cheese in a trap.”

Suddenly they both grinned.

She rushed across the room, flung her arms around him. “I've got an idea. I'll go with you and—”

Max said gently, “That sofa looked like a tight fit for one. You stay here and I'll bring him up to breakfast by the scruff of his neck if necessary.”

Annie almost insisted, but Max was quite capable of taking care of both himself and the unlovely Everett. The sofa had not looked comfortable. She smothered a yawn. The pillow-laden bed with its soft white spread beckoned to her. But she held tight to Max's hand for a moment. “What if the murderer has a gun?”

Max shook his head. “Not likely. Most of the guests flew to Savannah, so they had to clear security. Besides, there's no reason why the murderer should be armed. Only Everett knew there was going to be an investigation. I'll be careful.” He patted the vinyl bag. “A fully loaded forty-five and an oversized flashlight. Actually, we don't need to capture an intruder. My plan, should someone try to break in, is to shine the flashlight, get a good look. If I have to, if the visitor's armed, I'll be prepared to shoot. If not, all we need is an ID. Once we know who it is, then we can worry about proving a case.”

It sounded reasonable until the door closed behind him.

Annie wandered over to the fire. Of course Max was going to be all right. But what if the murderer had a gun? Startled by a flashlight beam, would the murderer shoot toward the light? Okay, she was worried. Funny, she was always exhorting Max to work hard, hew to the course, embrace the Protestant ethic. Now he was working hard and she wished he were back in his office lining up a ball on the putting green. Still, murder had to be reckoned with. No matter what happened, she was confident Max would come out on top. He was capable, savvy, and, if necessary, tough as a Tony Lama boot. She smiled as she put a small log on the grate, carefully closed the fire screen. The warmth was cheering. She'd better get to bed. Whatever happened tonight, tomorrow was going to be challenging. If an attack was made on Everett, they would have a murder suspect. If
not, the questioning of Britt's guests was sure to be difficult.

Abruptly, Annie jammed a hand into the pocket of her windbreaker, pulled out the folded square of yellow paper she'd filched from Everett's leather folder. She opened it, dropped onto the small sofa in front of the fire, and scanned the sheet. Everett had scribbled a series of question marks across the top of the sheet. Those on the island the weekend Jeremiah was murdered were listed in no apparent order. Notes were jotted after each name.

Annie read with growing excitement. Everett might have a lousy pompadour and all the charm of a palmetto bug, but he knew how to find facts. Or, if not facts, he was a whiz at unearthing innuendos and suppositions, leading to tawdry conclusions. What a treasure trove. She popped up, retrieved the legal pad that contained her observations of the guests as they arrived. Humming to herself—wouldn't Max be amazed when she showed him in the morning?—she began to expand Everett's cryptic comments into a narrative entitled: