Death of the Party (17 page)

Annie finished drying the skillet, carried it to the cabinet, taking care to avoid the cat, who had sprawled in the center of the floor. “If he cared for her, why didn't he help with the medical bills when she got hurt?”

Lucinda scraped the sides of a casserole dish. “Mad. Mad as a riled hornet. And sad as could be. That's how it was ever since she left. That last weekend was the worst of all, everybody out of sorts. Craig hardly spoke a word to his wife, and his face was dark as a
thundercloud. I could have told him, marriages don't take that kind of strain. It wasn't his wife's fault he and Mr. Addison were spitting nails at each other. Jay looked like he'd like to kill—” Lucinda gasped. “I didn't mean that. Poor Jay. He's not the sort to fight people—he's a gentle soul—so it was harder for him than for a man used to quarrels. And there was Cissy lying sick in her bed with tears slipping down her face. I'm afraid she was up one night and saw Mr. Addison with that Kim.”

Annie wondered if Britt had been aware of Cissy's knowledge. And, a darker, colder thought: If a heart-broken Cissy had been able to get up and about, could she have strung a wire on the stairs to trip her unfaithful husband? Yet where would she have found a wire? Wire likely was obtainable only from supplies in an outbuilding, and Cissy was surely too weak to make her way down the stairs and outside. Wire seemed another link to someone familiar with the island, someone like Harry Lyle. Of course, a guest might have brought wire, the murder already planned.

For an instant, a nebulous thought flickered in her mind. Setting a trap suggested an attacker who hadn't the courage to face down Jeremiah with a gun or knife. And hadn't there always been the possibility a fall might not be fatal? She pictured the stairway. Death might not have been utterly certain but it was very likely, given the steepness of the marble steps. The murderer could afford to take the chance because it was an anonymous attack. The murderer's luck held.

Annie realized Lucinda was talking fast.

“…and there's no doubt that Kim's a brazen hussy.”
Lucinda gave a disdainful sniff. “I heard her tell Britt how she'd do some redecorating when she lived on Golden Silk. She thought Mr. Addison would divorce Cissy and marry her and she all but said as much to Britt. She strolled away from Britt, arrogant as a peacock, but she forgot it's men as has the fancy feathers. She got her comeuppance.” Lucinda's tone was satisfied. “Harry told me Mr. Addison said Kim was to be taken off the island first thing Saturday morning. But it didn't come to that because Mr. Addison was dead by then. Oh, I don't think Golden Silk had ever seen as many bitter folk. Mr. Addison had had 'em in his study one by one. When they came out, they weren't so high stepping. That haughty Mrs. McRae was limp as a doll with the stuffing seeped out and that fancy-pants Crenshaw's hands were shaking and even Mr. Gamble was white and grim as a man with a rope around his neck.”

Annie murmured, “My goodness,” and stacked a second dry casserole dish on the counter. She would find out in a moment where they went, but she didn't want to interrupt the flow of Lucinda's reminiscences. It was quite possible that Harry Lyle might, as Britt believed, be a criminal yet wholly innocent of murder.

Ever impulsive, Annie exclaimed, “Did Harry have a fight with Jeremiah, too?”

Lucinda filled a teakettle, set it on the stove. “Not so's you'd know it. That night when Harry told me he was supposed to take that woman off the island the next morning, I asked him, I said, “‘Harry, what's got Mr. Addison so crossways with these people?' Harry said, ‘Oh, he's not taking any guff off anybody. He
said as soon as everybody's gone, we'll go out on
The Yellow Kid
and drink some whisky and not shave and catch us the biggest blue marlin in the Atlantic.'”

Harry would scarcely advertise a disagreement with Jeremiah if he intended to arrange his death that very night. Still, if there was not an immediate, urgent reason for Harry to dispose of Jeremiah, he would soon have been out on the open ocean with Jeremiah. Just the two of them. Annie frowned. “When did you talk to Harry?”

“Late. We were cleaning up.” The teakettle whistled. Lucinda bustled to the stove, picked it, carried it to the sink. She splashed boiling water onto the porcelain. “Now, I always thought there was something odd about Harry. I never met such a closemouthed man. I knew him for years and I couldn't tell you diddly-squat about where he came from or where he grew up and I never heard him talk about family or friends. He did his job and I did mine. There were things that bothered me. He roamed around late at night. And I'm pretty sure he was up to no good on shore. Once when we took
The Yellow Kid
in to Savannah and I had my grocery list, I started off, then sat down on a bench on the boardwalk because I was feeling sick that day. It was hot as a steam bath. In the nineties. Anyway, I was down by the dock and I saw Harry come off the boat. He was carrying a big blue duffel over his shoulder. He was a strong man and I could tell it was weighing him down. He didn't see me. He was walking along the boardwalk and there was a fellow waiting there, real dark, swarthy you know, and Harry came even with him and gave him just the littlest nod and then he
was past but the fellow started after Harry. I thought that looked funny. I don't know why but I followed them—”

Annie knew why. Curiosity. But as she listened, she heard the quaver in Lucinda's voice.

“—and the dark man—I won't ever forget what he looked like, greasy black hair and a mean face, thin as a wire and a skull tattoo on one arm—moved past Harry. He went along the harbor and sat down on a bench. He had a newspaper under one arm. He opened it up and acted like he was reading and after a little while Harry strolled up. He leaned the duffel up against the bench and then he walked to the railing and stood looking out at the harbor. In a minute, the dark man got up. He left the paper on the bench. He picked up that bag and moved fast. Harry paid no attention. After a while, he ambled over to the bench and sat down. He picked up the paper. I couldn't quite see but I think there was something in the paper, an envelope maybe. The way Harry moved, I'd swear he slipped something into his jacket. Now, you and I both know something fishy was going on.”

Annie was at the other sink, rinsing out bottles for the recycling box. “You didn't tell anyone?”

Lucinda swiped a cloth across the counter. She folded the cloth, hung it on a rack. “If you'd seen that man—”

Annie heard fear and knew that Lucinda had recognized danger as clearly as if she'd seen the reddish brown hourglass markings of a copperhead.

“—you'd understand. He was walking death. What would I tell anybody? The man was gone. So was
the duffel. No, from that time on, I was real careful around Harry. Anything odd around here, I told myself it was none of my business. Though last week when I heard the gunshots, I don't see how it could have been Harry.”

Startled, Annie swung to face Lucinda. “Gunshots?”

 

Max stepped into their bedroom. He glanced at the flung-back spread and a pillow that had toppled to the floor. He grinned. He envisioned Annie flying off the bed, late for a very important date. It was nice to know she'd hurried down to breakfast because of him. He headed for the table and the folders he'd tossed there upon arriving. Although it was very much on the order of locking the barn door after the horse's escape, he wanted to know more about Harry Lyle. He agreed with Everett. Harry was very likely the man they sought. Exploring Harry's cabin and meeting him, even if only briefly, had given Max a picture of his personality—a loner, a brawler, a fighter. He exuded toughness and that squared with Harry as a drug runner.

Max shuffled through the folders. Barb had printed in red
HARRY LYLE
on the blue folder. Max flipped it open. He stared in surprise. Barb's report was succinct:

“Damn,” Max swore aloud. If only he and Annie had read all the bios on their way to Golden Silk yesterday. He wouldn't go so far as to claim he would have exclaimed “Aha!” and immediately fingered Harry as the murderer. But he certainly would have looked Harry over with a critical eye.

Just to be thorough, he scanned the material on Lucinda Phillips, which was straightforward and held no surprises.

Whether or not Harry proved to be guilty of Jeremiah's murder, he was definitely going to be a person of interest to the police.

Max almost returned the folder to the stack, then shook his head. Britt should have this information—such as it was—to add to the collection intended for the police. He carried it with him. Maybe he'd catch her downstairs.

 

Annie turned off the water. She carried the bottles to the box, placed them inside. “What gunshots?”

Lucinda opened a cupboard, looked toward Annie. She was relaxed and cheerful. “I always have a cup of coffee this time of morning. Then I'll get started on the cabins. Want some coffee?”

Annie never met a coffee break she didn't enjoy, and Lucinda's coffee, a dark French roast, was strong
enough to float a camel and delicious to boot. “I'd love some.” When they settled at the table, Lucinda poured rich, thick cream into her coffee. Annie cradled her mug and asked again, “What gunshots?”

Lucinda turned sideways in her chair and welcomed Muffin into her lap. The cat made two turns and nestled against her. A little tuft of cat food clung to her pointed chin. She licked her lips. Lucinda stroked her as she drank the creamy coffee. “It was last Tuesday. That's the day Harry and I usually make a run to Savannah. Britt had already gone out in the motorboat.
Happy Days,
she calls it. When we don't have any guests, she takes a day off now and then, goes out by herself to fish. She left right after breakfast. Harry and I were set to leave at ten. I changed my mind about going. I had a new recipe I wanted to try and Harry said he'd pick up the grocery order. I'd put together the grocery list the day before and that made it easy for him.” She drank coffee, looked bemused. “That Harry didn't miss a trick, did he? Ham radio gone. Computer gone. No way to raise an alarm till he's halfway to Mexico with a new name painted on
The Yellow Kid
and forged papers. Anyway, last week I was here in the kitchen, reading over my recipe, scallops and mushrooms in a sauce with cream and cognac and port. Perfect for winter. I had the windows open. I like fresh air and it wasn't very cold that day.” She waved a hand at the bank of windows overlooking the clearing behind the house. “I heard a shot. Now, there's no mistaking the sound of a gun. I grew up around guns. My daddy had rifles and a shotgun and a forty-five. He taught all us kids how to shoot.”

Annie stared at her in fascination, picturing the big, comfortable-looking woman as a plump little girl, holding a gun in both hands, squeezing the trigger.

“The minute I heard that crack, I got up and went to the window. I heard it again. I wouldn't say it was a rifle. But bigger than a twenty-two.” Lucinda's shrug was dismissive. “You can't hear a twenty-two any distance at all. But I shouldn't have heard a thing. I was supposed to be the only person on the island. I can tell you I felt spooky. Somebody with a gun and me here all alone.” There was an echo of disquiet in her voice. “I went out on the steps. I almost yelled for Harry. I thought maybe he'd come back and was doing some target practice, though he'd never done a thing like that in all the years on the island. I opened my mouth. Then I stopped. I had a feeling least said soonest mended. I stood there and listened.” She brushed the dry food from the cat's chin. “I never heard another thing. No more shots. Once I thought about going down to see if
The Yellow Kid
was back, but I decided against that. If Harry wanted to shoot off a gun and keep quiet about it, I wasn't going to bring it up. I went into the kitchen and set to work but I was glad when Britt came back in the afternoon.”

Annie leaned forward. “What did Britt think about it?”

Lucinda downed the remainder of her coffee, pushed back her chair. The blue eyes gazing at Annie held remembered fear. “Now, if I'd told her, what would she have done? She'd have asked Harry. He'd have wanted to know what she was talking about and then she'd have told him I heard shots and there I'd be
in the middle of it. I don't know if you ever met Harry, but I can tell you he's a man you wouldn't want to cross. Honey, I didn't say a word to her and I'd never have mentioned it now but he's gone. All I can say is, good riddance.”

 

Max stood in the central hallway. The silence was broken only by the tick of the massive grandfather clock in the alcove beneath the stairway. The drawing room and dining room were unlighted. He turned, moved swiftly toward the library, the sound of his steps loud in the quiet. He opened the library door. The lights were off. He'd hoped Britt might be here, working on her report for Craig. Certainly the facts she'd admitted would be essential to any police investigation. Of course, she'd promised to take writing materials to each cabin and obviously hadn't returned yet. The best course would be to go down to the garden, wait by the fountain. He had no reason to remain in the library, yet he hesitated in the doorway, gazing about the room. The shattered drawer still hung askew from the battered frame. Nothing should be touched until the police fingerprinted it. Would Harry have bothered to wear gloves? Certainly he had no intention of being apprehended. Likely he had left no trace. In Max's estimation, Harry was not a novice at crime.