Death of the Party (12 page)

Everett's Dirty Digs

Everett's sources may not be impeccable but he has no qualms about imputing unsavory appetites and/or aims to our hostess and her guests.

Britt Barlow—Sometimes a lucky lady, sometimes not. Twice a year she goes to Vegas, ten-hour stretches playing roulette. The lady loves Red 7. A couple of years ago she'd racked up big gambling debts at a private club in Manhattan. She couldn't pay
the rent on her apartment on the Upper East Side and came to Golden Silk. Cissy slipped her money on the side to pay off what she owed. Jeremiah ordered Cissy to cut off the funds. Cissy was dying of cancer but she inherited a bundle from Jeremiah. Now the money and the island belong to Britt.

 

Annie raised an eyebrow. Britt obviously hadn't told Max everything that might be pertinent. She had admitted to disliking her brother-in-law but she hadn't explained that gambling debts had anything to do with her arrival on Golden Silk. The revelation didn't surprise Annie. Britt approached life with a devil-may-care attitude. Otherwise she would never have set up a murder hunt.

 

Craig Addison—Craig and Papa had engaged in a shouting match that Friday in Jeremiah's office. The intercom was on and a secretary heard the whole thing. A double whammy for Craig. Not only did Jeremiah kill the story on smuggling of illegal immigrants, he vetoed Craig's plan for charity 10Ks to raise money for cancer research in Addison Media cities. Craig slammed out of the office.

 

Annie placed the legal pad on the side table. Whew. Just writing the facts made her feel the anger and turmoil. What had been Jeremiah's problem? Had he begun to feel old, sense his own mortality, been jealous of his son's youth and vigor? There had to have been a dark coil of reasons behind his deci
sions. What kind of history was there between this father and son?

Annie opened the small refrigerator, found a bottle of chocolate milk. A cloth-covered platter atop the refrigerator held a half-dozen oatmeal cookies. Annie picked one. Her hand hovered. She selected a second and returned to the sofa with her snack. The chocolate milk was dark velvet, the cookies divine, studded with tart nuggets of cranberry. Refreshed, she bent again to her task.

 

Gerald Gamble—After Craig's angry departure, Gerald had urged Jeremiah not to cancel the charity event, warning it would be a PR nightmare. Jeremiah refused to budge. Gerald told him the cancellation would embarrass Craig, undermine his authority in the company. Jeremiah replied that
he
was the company and no one could authorize major events except him. Gerald lost his temper and told Jeremiah he didn't deserve a son like Craig, and in today's TV climate he'd better be ready for some nasty attacks: Big boss refuses to support cancer drive even though wife dying of the disease. Jeremiah exploded. He told Gerald he'd better remember he worked for Jeremiah, not Craig. And why was he spending so much time with Craig? Was it Craig's boyish charm that attracted him? Gerald hadn't uttered another word. He came out of the office, closed the door behind him, and muttered, “One of these days, somebody's going to kill you.”

 

Somebody had. Annie wondered about Gerald's sexual persuasion. Was Jeremiah's perception correct? Or was he seeing affection and admiration as something more? She rustled through the bios in Max's folder. Hmm. No mention of a wife or family for Gerald. How much did Jeremiah's cruelty to Craig matter to Gerald?

 

Isabel Addison—Happy as a lark in her marriage until Jeremiah was murdered. She split with Craig immediately after the funeral. What does she know? She's lost weight this year, avoided old friends. There's not another man or the word would be getting around.

 

Not even the rich chocolate milk lifted Annie's spirits as she recalled Isabel's haunted face when she'd looked toward Heron House upon her arrival. There was a depth of despair in Isabel's gaze that could only result from an anguished heart. Or a guilty heart. If Isabel had rigged the wire, would the enormity of having killed the father of her husband have driven her away from Craig's embraces? Annie shivered. Either prospect was possible.

 

Jay Addison—Was desperately short of money until his father died. Turned down for a loan. Hadn't seen his father for several months. He and Dana came to Golden Silk without an invitation. Jay resented Cissy, was rude to Britt. When they arrived, he told Britt he had to talk to his father. Britt said they quarreled that last night.

Dana Addison—Will do anything to protect Jay. Bitter at having had to return to work. On a day-care excursion, son Teddy wandered away in a park. After a two-hour search, he was found a half-mile distant. He was safe and uninjured though sobbing. Dana was hysterical, said if anything had happened to him it would have been Jeremiah's fault.

 

Annie pushed away the last of her cookie. She couldn't push away an image of a terrified toddler's tear-streaked face. If she felt stricken reading of Teddy's hours of fear, how had Dana felt? Angry enough to make certain there would be money enough for her to stay home? Because that's what she had done. As soon as Jeremiah died, Dana quit her job.

 

Millicent McRae—There have been rumors about her secretaries, all handsome young men. Jeremiah had some pix of Millicent and Bobby Baker, her current secretary, that wouldn't have looked good in the family scrapbook. Rumor has it that M.M. was supporting a bill in the House that Jeremiah wanted to see defeated (trucking regulations onerous to major transport lines).

Nick McRae—Some people think he knows all about his wife's pastimes. But his knowing and public disclosure are entirely different kettles of smut. A proud man. He would be furious at a news story revealing that his wife was cheating on him.

 

Annie recalled Nick McRae's arrogance. He had a patina of social superiority. That didn't mean that
he was immune to feelings of anger and sorrow and despair. Did he love Millicent? If so, knowledge of an affair would devastate him. Even if he no longer cared for her or had never cared for her and was well aware of her proclivities, public disclosure would be humiliating. He was not a man accustomed to humiliation. As for Millicent, she depended upon her husband for her social eminence and the ability to mix with wealthy business leaders and industrialists. A nasty scandal would likely have dried up campaign contributions. Scandal was averted because Jeremiah died.

Speaking of scandal—Annie tapped her pen on the pad. Everett's notes about Kim Kennedy were as revealing about him as about her. Apparently, he'd made it a point to keep close tabs that weekend on Kim and Jeremiah. Did he have the temerity to try to blackmail the big boss? It seemed foolhardy but why else had he skulked along behind them trying to eavesdrop? She shook her head, began to write.

 

Kim Kennedy—Everett was lurking behind a crape myrtle in the garden when Kim rushed up to find Jeremiah. The conversation, according to Everett:

Kim: “Jeremiah, I couldn't find you anywhere. I thought we were going out on the yacht.”

Jeremiah: “I understand you've been telling people I'm going to marry you. I suggest you clear up any misunderstandings before you leave.”

Kim: “Leave?”

Jeremiah: “The boat will take you back to Savannah at eight in the morning.”

According to Everett, Jeremiah turned and walked
away, left her standing in the garden. Her face wasn't pretty.

 

Annie doubted Kim Kennedy had been willing to accept dismissal. Had she hoped to charm Jeremiah out of his ill humor? Or did she know him well enough to recognize defeat? Had he lived, she likely would have lost her job as well as her hopes for marriage to a rich and powerful man. What had been her reaction? Had she felt confident her charms would prevail? Had she decided to cut her losses? Or was her ego such that she would see him dead rather than be discarded? As it turned out, she had lost her job. But no one—except Everett and now Annie—knew that her last encounter with Jeremiah had ended in rejection.

Annie put down the legal pad, pushed up from the sofa. She carried her milk bottle and cookie plate to the dressing room, rinsed them in the sink. She felt jumpy and restless. She wished Max were with her. Everett's cabin might as well be on the moon. It seemed very last century to be totally out of touch. This was the world of cell phones, but not on a remote island. Was Max asleep? And, please God, safe? Surely he and Everett had slid the bolt shut, securing the door, and perhaps wedged a chair beneath the handle. How far was the couch from a window? Would an intruder try the windows on the porch? Probably. That would make noise, enough noise to awaken Max. He could roll out onto the floor, use the couch for cover, wait for a dark form to slip over the sill, then flick on the light.

Annie found herself at the door to the verandah,
looking out at darkness. She pulled on the knob, stepped out into the moist chill of the night. It was hard to estimate the distance from the house to Everett's cabin. The path into the woods behind the fountain curved and turned and switched. Likely it wasn't far in a direct line, but it seemed a long way on foot. Would she hear gunshots? She'd leave the door open when she went to bed. Just in case. She walked slowly up and down the verandah. She needed to get to sleep. She was turning to go inside when she saw a flicker of light deep in the garden.

 

Max bunched a pillow behind his head, twisted uncomfortably. The lumpy sofa cushions were unyielding. An extra blanket from the bedroom closet offered plenty of warmth. Gradually he relaxed, though thoughts tumbled in his mind. There was much to do tomorrow. He would try again to get Everett to share whatever he knew. There were the other guests to interview. He'd start with Gerald Gamble, the likeliest to know why each person had been invited that particular weekend.

As Max slid into a light sleep, attuned to the night sounds and the windows that opened on the porch, the flashlight and gun on the coffee table within easy reach, he tried to remember what it was that wriggled deep within his mind, something he needed to know, something he must ask about, something he'd missed…

 

Annie leaned over the verandah railing. She strained to see. The sky was overcast, hiding the stars. The garden was a series of black shadows, except for an occasional flash of light. Just like connecting dots, Annie
followed the progress of the light—and someone who held it—toward the house. Whoever moved in the garden was making every effort not to be seen, only using the flashlight often enough to keep to the path.

Annie whirled, dashed across the verandah. She hurried through the bedroom, opened the door to the hallway. Heron House was never locked…never locked…never locked…That openness no doubt usually charmed visitors, who might revel in the sense of security afforded by a remote island. But not now, not when everyone knew a murderer was a fellow guest. The flash of light in the garden marked a covert progress. What was the reason for stealth? Annie wanted to know who slipped through the night, but she definitely wasn't disposed to enter the gardens by herself. It took only a moment to run lightly down the hall to Britt's room.

Annie knocked, called out, “Britt, it's Annie. Someone's in the garden.” Her words fell into silence. Annie knocked again, then turned the knob, pushed open the door. “Britt?”

Darkness. Silence.

Annie took a deep breath, turned on the light. The room was empty. The bed wasn't turned down. Britt's lovely blue dress was tossed across a chaise longue. There was no sign of disarray.

Annie turned, moving fast. She stopped at the stairway, flipped on the upstairs hall light, and checked the top step. She didn't expect to find a wire stretched in place, but nonetheless she didn't intend to be careless as long as she was on Golden Silk. Reassured, she clattered down the hard steps. The rose-shaded lamp
on the hall table cast a soft glow, though the hall and rooms beyond were in inky darkness. Annie found the panel of switches and switched on all the lights, welcomed the flood of brightness. She was standing in the entry hall, the chandeliers blazing, when the massive front door opened.

Britt stopped in the doorway, lifted a hand to shield her eyes. In a black turtleneck and jeans, she looked athletic and purposeful. And startled. “Annie?”

Annie gestured at the flashlight in Britt's left hand. “Was that you in the garden just now? Turning your light off and on?”

“Yes.” Britt placed the flashlight on the side table, brushed back a lock of curly dark hair. Her chiseled features were somber. “I think someone was out in the garden.” She sounded puzzled. “I came down to get a book from the library and I happened to look out the window. The drapes hadn't been drawn. I thought I saw a light near the fountain.” She pressed fingers against her temple. “There's no reason for anyone to be out this late. I thought it was odd.”

Annie's voice was sharp. “You went down there by yourself?”

Britt's was equally sharp. “I had to go. I've brought everyone to the island. I can't ignore anything that seems out of the way. Actually, I went upstairs to see if you and Max were back, but you weren't. So”—she lifted her chin—“I went out to see.”

Annie understood. Britt felt responsible for the safety of her guests. But to go out alone in the darkness, knowing there was a murderer on the island, ranked between foolhardy and extremely courageous.

“I got a flashlight from the kitchen. I know the paths so well, I only used the flashlight a little bit.” She looked uneasy. “It may have been my imagination, but I felt as if”—the words came slowly, as if dredged from deep inside—“there was something wrong. Something bad. It was incredibly dark, like trying to walk blindfolded. I kept stopping and listening, but the owls make so much noise, I couldn't hear if anyone was moving around. I had this feeling…” She shook her head, her dark hair flying. “Anyway, I crept around on tiptoe.” A sudden smile lighted her face, made her look younger. “I suppose I looked like an idiot.” The smile seeped away, and once again she was weary and somber. “I almost called out. Then I didn't. I was scared. I started to go around the fountain and somehow I couldn't make myself do it. That's when I came back to the house. I slipped from shadow to shadow.”