Death of the Party (18 page)

Max looked at the old-fashioned wooden file cabinet in one corner. Although surely as serviceable as any modern metal file, the wooden cabinet was unobtrusive in the genteel library setting. Probably Britt kept everything pertaining to Heron House and Golden Silk there. He wondered if there was a person
nel file on Harry Lyle. Surely Britt had some information about her employee.

Max wasn't sure why he felt compelled to search for Harry's history. The police and their banks of computers would find what there was to discover. But he wasn't satisfied. He'd like some confirmation of the theory he'd spun from the presence of a locked trunk and Harry's flight. There could be no doubt of Harry's escape. But there was no proof of anything else. Maybe something would turn up in the reports now being written—concocted?—about that weekend, a pointer to the stealthy figure who had crept to the top of the staircase and set a trap to kill Jeremiah Addison. Max wondered if Craig Addison would permit Max and Annie to read those reports.

Max looked around the library one more time. As he did, he remembered Harry Lyle's well-stocked rifle case. Harry was already armed. Since he was leaving with the yacht and had the motorboat in tow, he didn't have to fear armed pursuit from anyone on the island. Why slip into the house and smash into the desk, taking the chance of rousing Britt and Annie?

Where was Britt? Surely she knew more about Harry. Max felt like a horse with a burr under its saddle. He wasn't going to be comfortable until he'd found out what there was to find.

In the main hallway, he looked toward the kitchen, changed his mind. He'd find Annie when he'd discharged his last duty, wrapped up this last loose end about Harry Lyle.

On the front piazza, the air was cool. The sky was
a bright winter blue though woolly clouds mounded in the west. For now it was a beautiful day. Wisps of fog still wreathed the tops of the live oaks and pines. The painted wood floor was wet underfoot. He smiled, remembering a frost-slick porch on his grandmother's house and running with wild abandon to skid into the railing. What fun to be seven again. Instead, he walked carefully to the side piazza overlooking the garden. The fog was burning off though swirling patches still softened the banks of azaleas and camellias. The central path afforded a view of the fountain. Beyond the first slope, the garden was a patchwork of pines and shrubbery, creating secluded nooks.

He was halfway down the path to the fountain when he saw a flash of red. He'd not paid much attention at breakfast but he was almost sure Britt had worn a long-sleeved red sweater. Max picked up speed.

He reached the fountain. The water slipping over the granite ledges sparkled in the sun. He looked to his left. A trail curved around a clump of weeping willows. If he'd seen Britt, she must have taken this path. He might as well follow. He'd like a description of the light she'd thought she'd seen in the garden last night. As soon as he was done with Britt, he would find Annie, see if he could join in the housekeeping chores. When they finished, perhaps the reports would be done and he could offer to help Craig organize the material for the police.

The narrow dirt path curled around the willows and plunged into a stand of pines. Max's steps made no sound on the brown pine needles. A splash of sunlight
marked the end of the trail. He was almost to the clearing when an angry voice brought him to a stop.

 

Low branches scraped the side of the golf cart. Ferns rippled against the sides. Annie steered cautiously. She stopped at the circle in the forest where individual paths branched off to cabins. She looked at a small map sketched by Lucinda. The paths, like spokes in a wheel, led to Cabins 1 through 8. Lucinda had also made an outer circle, indicating the cabins were linked one to another. So, Annie deduced, once she reached Cabin 1, she didn't need to return to the main path. She could take the path in the outer circle to Cabin 2. But if she were at Cabin 3 and wanted to go to Cabin 8, it would be quicker to return here and take the direct path to Cabin 8. She shook her head, beginning to have the feeling that always overcame her in math class when a problem began: If the boat goes upstream at 6 miles per hour but the current is 9 miles per hour and there are three occupants of the boat…Fortunately, Lucinda didn't expect miracles of her volunteer assistant. The housekeeper had departed the backyard in the other golf cart, also equipped with cleaning supplies and fresh towels and sheets, a few minutes before Annie, her goal Cabin 7, which, she blithely explained, could be reached more quickly by turning right from the main path at the intersection with the outer circle. Annie realized that if she'd not been geographically challenged, she could have shortened her trip to Cabin 1.

She nosed the cart onto the trail. Max's drug-smuggling theory had been corroborated by Lucinda's observation of the smoothly switched duffel bag between
Harry and the dangerous-looking man in the Savannah harbor. Chalk one up for Max. From what Lucinda knew of Harry, it seemed very likely he wouldn't have hesitated to do away with anyone who threatened him. Jeremiah might have enjoyed Harry but he would have been furious if his beloved Golden Silk was used as a transit point for street drugs. Had a quarrel between Harry and Jeremiah culminated that weekend? Or had Harry chosen that weekend for murder because there were guests on the island? And more than a year after Jeremiah's death, what could have prompted the gunshots last week on the supposedly deserted island? Annie understood Lucinda's decision to remain silent. Obviously, she was afraid of Harry.

Lucinda's garrulousness in the kitchen this morning was a measure of her relief. Her revelations about the Addison family clearly indicated the depth of the strain between Jeremiah and his sons. It would be interesting to know how much or how little Craig and Jay revealed in their written summaries of their father's last weekend. Annie hoped they would never have to know about their mother's love affair. No good would come of that knowledge, though they might have a better—and kinder—understanding of their father.

She jammed on the brake. A white-tailed buck pawed the ground in front of her. He snorted, ducked his head to wave his antlers. Beyond him, a doe scrambled into the brush, disappeared. The buck snorted again, then plunged into the forest.

Annie's heart hammered. Although bucks began their search for does in November, obviously this male had not spent all his passion even though it was early
January. She was thankful she had not loomed between the buck and the doe of his desire. Otherwise, she and the cart might have suffered from those flailing hooves. She was grateful to reach the clearing unscathed. Light shone from the front windows. She glanced down at her map.
Isabel
was printed next to the cabin number. Annie felt more cheerful. Isabel seemed very nice. Annie was in no hurry to reach Cabin 2, which housed the McRaes.

She parked the cart by the steps, retrieved the tray with cleaning supplies, hoisted a broom over one shoulder. At the front door, she perched the tray against one hip, placed the broom on the porch, and knocked. When there was no answer, she knocked again and turned the knob, calling out, “Maid service.”

She was halfway into the living room, noting that it was a twin of Everett's, when she saw Isabel, a white-faced figure of misery huddled in a basket chair near the fireplace. There was no blaze in the fireplace, only a few smoldering remnants. Despite the overhead light, the cabin seemed gloomy, weighted by Isabel's distress.

Isabel made no response. She scarcely seemed aware of Annie's presence. She stared blindly at the floor, her shoulders bowed, hands clasped.

“I'm sorry.” Annie's exclamation was quick, unstudied. She started to back out the door, then stopped. She put down the cleaning supplies and hurried across the room to grip two cold and clammy hands in her own. “Isabel, what's wrong?”

Isabel's eyes filled with tears. “How could I have
been so stupid? He'll never forgive me.” It was a cry of utter hopelessness.

Annie knelt by the chair. She didn't know what had put Isabel in such an agony of spirit. But Annie understood making mistakes. Sometimes a mistake, no matter how we wish or pray, cannot be rectified. But sometimes a mistake can be rectified. Or forgiven. “Can you tell him”—Annie was sure Isabel spoke about Craig—“you're sorry?”

Isabel sniffed, pulled free a hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Imploring eyes looked mournfully at Annie. “You don't understand. How can I tell him I thought he was a murderer? How could I have believed such a dreadful thing?”

Annie kept her hands steady though she felt a jolt of surprise, followed quickly by comprehension. No wonder Isabel had fled after Jeremiah's death.

“I suppose you had reason.” Annie's thoughts raced. If Isabel suspected Craig, there had to be something concrete, some occurrence that had given rise to her fear.

“I should have known better.” Isabel wiped her face against her sleeve. “But Craig was furious that morning. He slammed out of the cabin, said he was going to catch his dad before he went out to jog and if he had to beat some sense into him over taking care of his mom, that's what he was going to do. When Jeremiah died, I was sure they'd struggled and Craig had shoved him. Oh, damn Britt, damn her! If I'd known about the wire, I'd have known it wasn't Craig. Craig would never sneak around and set a trap. Now it turns out it was that Harry creature. I never liked him. I always told Craig I was afraid of him. Craig laughed and said
his dad thought the world of Harry. Oh, I wish I were dead! I've thrown away the man I love and I can never get him back.” She turned to press her face against a pillow.

Annie squeezed her hands. “Let me get a washcloth.” That would be a start. She'd try to help Isabel, calm her. She wasn't sure Isabel could make amends. Would Craig forgive his wife? Isabel would never know unless she asked.

 

“We've been waiting for you.” Jay Addison's voice was loud and irritated.

“I'm sorry.” Britt was breathless. “I came as soon as I could. I had to take the legal pads to the cabins. I left one at your cabin.”

Max angled off the path. He brushed past ferns, stopped at the edge of the clearing. A rustic bridge spanned a cypress-rimmed pond. On the far side was a gazebo. A small area in front of the gazebo was paved with flagstones. A sundial was in the center. Screened by a saw palmetto, Max saw an odd tableau.

Britt stood near the sundial. She was flushed. Her breath came rapidly, unevenly. Jay waited near the gazebo, gaze demanding, arms folded. His wife raised a hand as if to restrain him, then let it fall. Dana gazed at her husband with a mixture of sadness and concern.

Jay's long hair curled on his collar. The hairstyle made him look young and vulnerable. His face twisted in anger. “The only reason I came to this stinking island was because you said you'd found something of my mother's. You told us you'd meet us here and you're damn long in coming.”

Dana stepped forward, her expression placating. “Please, Britt, Jay's not himself. He's—”

Jay glared at her. “Shut up, Dana. I don't need anybody to make excuses for me.”

Dana bit her lip. Her eyes glistened with quick tears.

Jay was oblivious to her distress. He turned to Britt. “All right, what have you got?” He gestured at the lagoon. “Why here?”

“You'll see.” Her answer was clipped. She reached into the black canvas carryall that hung from her shoulder. She drew out a short strip of paper folded down to a quarter-inch strip. The paper looked old and yellowed. She handed it to Jay. “I had a baseboard replaced in the Meadowlark Room. The carpenter brought this to me. He'd found it pushed down in a gap behind the baseboard. He was laughing, thought it might have belonged to a kid playing hidden treasure. I understand why he thought so, but I don't think it was part of a game.” She looked uncomfortable. “When I cleared out everything after Cissy died, there were lots of papers that belonged to your father. Some of them went back a long way. I wasn't snooping but I had to look things over to know where to send them.” She glanced at Dana. “You'll remember I sent you several boxes last year.”

“Pictures.” Jay's tone was uneven. “Pictures of Mother with Craig and me.”

Britt tried to sound matter-of-fact. “There were boxes filled helter-skelter with all kinds of pictures and notes and letters. Your dad must have swept up everything of your mother's and tossed it into boxes after she left. Pretty soon I was able to recognize your
mother's handwriting. When I got this slip, I was sure she'd written it.”

Jay stared at the little strip of paper with a puzzled frown. “Why would Mother hide a scrap of paper in her room?”

Dana and Britt exchanged a quick glance, as if the two of them had some knowledge that kept them silent.

Jay looked from one to the other. “What's wrong? I don't understand. Dammit, let me see it.” He held out his hand.

Britt stepped forward. She placed the folded-up sheet in his hand. Her expression was a combination of sadness and pity.

Jay held the fragile strip for an instant, then slowly, using both hands, hands that trembled, unfolded the paper.

Dana's lips parted, but she made no sound.

Max had a sense of inevitability. Dana stared at the paper. He was sure that Dana wanted to grab it away from Jay. Instead, she bowed her head and listened as Jay read aloud, “‘My heart's treasure lies where time flies. The great blue heron watches as the sun's shadow moves. When the shadow is cast and noon is nigh, walk 2 north, 3 west.'” Jay rubbed his knuckles against his cheek. “It's Mother's writing.” His voice was soft. He turned toward Dana. “What does it mean?” He was like a child awaiting direction.

Dana looked toward the sundial. “I expect,” and there was false cheerfulness in her tone, “your mom was just enjoying the lovely lagoon. She spent a lot of
time in the gazebo. That's all it is, Jay. She was writing about a place she loved.”