Death of the Party (19 page)

Jay's brows drew down. “Why did she hide the scrap in the baseboard?” He stared down at the sundial. “The only reason to hide it would be if it was something she didn't want anyone to know about, something she didn't want Dad to see. That's it. Maybe she kept a journal and put things in it she was afraid for him to read.”

Once again, Dana and Britt's glances held, locked, broke.

“I hated the way he treated her.” His voice was feverish. “Dumped her out, like kicking an old dog out on a freeway. She had to go back to work and then she was hurt and he wouldn't do a thing for her, not a thing.” He leaned down over the sundial, muttering, “…when the shadow is cast…” He followed an imaginary line to noon, walked ahead to the second flagstone, turned left, knelt by the third stone. Strong fingers grappled with the stone, tugged, pulled, lifted. “There's something here.” He reached down, gripped an oilcloth-wrapped packet.

Dana watched, her face frozen. She looked helpless and hopeless, as if awaiting a dreadful moment she could do nothing to forestall.

Jay opened the packet. “Letters. A bunch of them. They're letters to Mother. They all say ‘Lorraine' on the envelopes. I don't know the handwriting.” Once again he looked toward Dana.

“Don't open them, Jay.” Dana's voice was stern. “Whatever they are, whomever they're from, they belong to your mother, not to us. Leave them be.”

“She hid them.” Jay slowly rose. There was mud and pine straw on his trousers. “‘My heart's treasure…'” He hesitated, then opened the first letter, pulled out a sheet. “‘My darling Lorraine…'” He broke off. He slipped the sheet into the envelope, carefully replaced the letter in the packet. He thrust the packet at Dana, but he didn't look at her, didn't see the love and sadness and regret in her face. He blindly turned and blundered toward the path. Breaking into a run, he careened into the forest.

“Jay!” Dana's cry was high and frightened. She started after him. Max heard her gasping for breath as she ran past.

In the clearing, Britt walked slowly to the uplifted flagstone. She sighed and bent down to replace it over the shallow hole.

Max walked up to join her. “Love letters?”

She looked up, startled. “You overheard?”

Max nodded. “I saw you come this way. I wanted to show you”—he held up his folder—“what little I have about Harry and see if you've checked your records. When I got here, I overheard enough to know I didn't want to interrupt.”

“I wish you had. I feel dreadful about Jay. He and Craig never knew about Lorraine's artist. Lucinda told me all about it. Lucinda didn't approve but she was sympathetic. She saw Lorraine as a fool for love.” The flush she'd had when Max first reached the clearing had faded, leaving her pale. “He's—oh, damn, a grown man should be tougher. I guess his sweetness is what Dana adores and what his mother appreciated. And Jeremiah loathed. Now Jay's going to have to see his
mother as a woman and not as his mother.” Her thin face was pensive.

Max looked at her curiously. “You didn't have to tell him about that scrap of paper.” The choice had been Britt's and she surely must have guessed why a married woman would resort to a secret hiding place.

She was obdurate. “I had to do it. Do you think Jay would have come to Golden Silk to honor his father?” Her laugh was derisive. “Do you know my number one suspect?”

Max remembered Annie's quick whisper before breakfast that Britt had a suspicion who might be guilty.

“Jay.” Britt's voice was grim. “I thought it was Jay. I felt sad about that. Because he's a decent guy. He really is. And not tough enough. I knew he'd never have had the guts to face his father, but he might set a trap. He would consider it justified, a strike on behalf of his mother. Jay adores Lorraine and now he has to see her as an adulteress and he'll know his anger at his father wasn't justified. That will be terrible for him, but worst of all”—her voice was so faint Max scarcely heard—“what if he killed Jeremiah? What if he committed murder for the wrong reason? Oh God, I hope that's not what happened. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Harry did it after all.” There was no conviction in her voice.

Max handed her his folder. “Harry doesn't exist.”

Britt flipped it open, scanned. “I sent in social security contributions. There was never any reason to ask him anything personal. Come to think of it, Harry never mentioned a family, never said anything about
growing up around here or anywhere. He talked about fishing and tides and weather and horses. He liked horse racing. And skeet shooting. That's how he met Jeremiah. I guess Harry was pretty good at keeping conversation directed away from himself. Well”—she slapped the folder shut, poked it into her carryall—“it's not our problem. The sheriff can handle it. And now”—she glanced at her watch—“I have to find Lucinda, help her service the cabins. Then we need to get lunch ready.”

Max fell into step with Britt. He saw no point in telling her he was sure the interviews with the sheriff's office were going to be difficult. A murder reported more than a year late was going to trigger a grim response. “The sheriff's going to want all the help he can get. You've been all over the island this morning. Did you see anything—like digging or some kind of change—that might indicate Harry was getting something when you saw that light last night?”

She looked startled, then thoughtful. “I just made the round of the cabins. I didn't see anything different, but we can be on the lookout. We'll ask Lucinda, too.”

“Annie's helping Lucinda.” He smiled. “Let's find them and pitch in.”

As they moved beneath the shadow of the interlocking tree branches, Max felt the damp January chill. A reader of Gothic thrillers might have attributed his sudden shiver to drama yet to unfold, like a storm heralded by faraway thunder and a darkening sky. Max was not a reader of Gothic novels. He walked faster and wished he had his jacket.

A
NNIE SPRINKLED CLEANSER IN
the shower. As she scoured, she sneezed twice and thought thankfully of the cleaning service that came weekly to the Darling household. She was grateful to be spared the daily task, though housework afforded great job satisfaction. A clean bathroom, a tidy bedroom, and a sparkling kitchen put a bright, shiny face on a home. She whistled as she scrubbed, pausing only long enough for an occasional sneeze. She wished it was as easy to wash sorrow and pain out of people's lives, but the stains of anger and distrust and despair often can't be eradicated. Had Isabel reached Craig's cabin yet? Annie had drawn a map for her and watched as Isabel, powder smoothed on her tear-streaked face, started out on her personal journey of hope.

Annie stood, turned on the shower, and watched the suds and bubbles swirl down the drain. Would Max forgive her if she'd suspected him of murder? Something deep inside recoiled. How could she possibly ever think Max capable of hurting anyone? A bleak question rose in her mind: What if someone threatened his mother? Or her? Max joked about Laurel's propensity for nonsense, her inability ever to be direct, her penchant for unexpected enthusiasms. But Max adored his mother. And though Max might fight like a tiger to
protect Laurel or Annie or any creature in danger, he would never, ever slip through the night to rig a snare. Annie understood full well Isabel's certainty now of Craig's innocence.

Annie paused in the bathroom doorway, made one last check. Everything sparkled. She moved into the bedroom, broom and cleaning supplies in hand. As she worked, questions and assumptions and uncertainties swirled in her mind. It was easy to dismiss any possibility that she, Annie, could ever make Isabel's mistake. But perhaps Isabel shouldn't be faulted. She knew her husband better than anyone and she realized the depth of his fury with his father. She'd known how much Craig loved his mother, how angry he was and how anger can flare into violence. A struggle at the top of the stairs, a shove, a dreadful result—yes, she could love Craig and know his goodness and still envision such a moment. But she had immediately disclaimed any possibility of Craig setting a trap. Surely Craig would listen—

A rousing knock sounded at the door. “Lucinda?” Britt's call was brisk.

Annie scooted to the living room. She looked past Britt in the doorway and saw Max. A smile wreathed her face.

Max's lips curved in quick response. His eyes locked with hers.

Always when she saw him, whether in the deep of night or on a crisp winter day or from a moving car, coming or going, wherever, whenever, her heart lifted like a bird taking flight.
Oh, Max,
and she knew her
eyes were telling him:
I love you, I love you, I love you.

Britt glanced around the cabin. “Where's Isabel?” A frown. “I hoped she'd be working on her report, though when I saw her she was awfully upset.”

Annie's face was grave. “Did you talk to her?”

Britt shook her head. “She got up, dashed into the bedroom. I could tell she'd been crying. I called out and said I'd leave the legal pad.” She glanced at the coffee table and the legal pad lying there. “She hasn't even touched it.” Britt glanced toward the bedroom. “Is she resting?”

Annie hesitated. She hated to reveal what she'd learned from Isabel, but there could be no quarter given in the search for a murderer. But there was one clear gain from Annie's encounter with Isabel: Annie was positive Isabel couldn't be guilty.

“She isn't here. She's gone to find Craig.” Annie felt reluctant to speak. But truth couldn't hurt the innocent. “She wants to tell him she was wrong.” Annie sighed. “She was afraid he and Jeremiah had quarreled and there might have been a struggle and Jeremiah could have fallen down the stairs. That's why she left Craig. The minute she knew about the wire, she was sure Craig was innocent. Now she's terrified he won't forgive her for suspecting him.”

Max winced. “I wouldn't think he'd be pleased. On the other hand, there's something appealing about a wife seeing her husband as a hothead but not as a plotter. A struggle is one thing. An ambush is another. An ambush spells out a cold, determined assassin. When
the murderer knelt on those stairs and stretched the wire, that was an exercise in arrogance.”

Britt raised an eyebrow. Her gaze was sharp. “‘Arrogant' is a word easily applied to Craig.”

Annie was surprised to find herself rushing to Craig's defense. “He takes charge.” Her eyes smiled at Max. He took charge of his world, also. “I'll admit all I know about Craig is what I've seen this weekend, but he doesn't seem like a man who would put himself and what he wanted above everyone.” That was what Max meant by arrogance, the overweening ego that placed itself and its desires above the life of another person. Yes, Annie could imagine Craig in an angry struggle, but she could not picture him crouched on the stairs in Heron House, stringing a deadly trap for his father. “Surely Craig will forgive Isabel.”

Britt's voice was cool. “We'll hope so.” Clearly Annie and Max's appraisal hadn't convinced her of Craig's innocence. Or perhaps of Isabel's either. “I guess we'll know when we see them at lunch.” Another quick frown. “Are you here by yourself?” She looked at Annie. “Where's Lucinda?”

“We split up. She's starting with Cabin 7.” Annie's nose wrinkled. She managed to squelch another sneeze. “I'm making the bed.”

Britt flung out a hand. “Annie, you're wonderful to pitch in, but you've done enough. I'll find Lucinda and she and I can take care of everything now. You and Max can relax for a while, take a walk on the beach.”

“No problem, Britt. Confidential Commissions' special sideline is dusting on demand.” Max pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. “The three of us can
straighten up this place in nothing flat. Then Annie and I will organize what we know for the sheriff.” He strode toward the bedroom.

Britt yielded with a graceful smile. She grabbed the vacuum cleaner and bent to plug it in.

Annie caught up with Max. “We'll do the bedroom together.”

They worked fast, smoothing the fitted sheet, pulling up the top sheet, tucking in. The vacuum cleaner roared in the living area. True to Max's prediction, the cabin was finished in less than fifteen minutes. Max insisted on carrying out the cleaning supplies and broom. Annie grabbed her windbreaker where she'd dropped it in the living room. Britt plopped the laundry bag in the back of the golf cart and slid behind the wheel. Warmed up by the housework, Annie tossed her jacket in back. Her cotton pullover was enough to keep her warm. She settled into the passenger seat.

Max clung to one side. “Who's next?” He was as casual as if subbing for a maid was as customary to him on a Saturday morning as teeing up to play golf.

Annie would have scrabbled for her map, but Britt answered quickly, “The McRaes are in Cabin 2.”

Annie began to cool down as the cart trundled along the path. In the shadows beneath the canopy of trees, the air was damp and chill. Ferns brushed against Max. Annie was glad to turn over both the cart and the responsibility for cabin service to Britt. She didn't mind helping but she was sure that the next stop might have its challenges. Were Millicent and Nick writing their
reports? Or was Nick asking Millicent pointed questions about Boca Raton?

“Oh dear.” Britt sounded startled. The cart eased to a stop, its nose barely poked into the clearing around Cabin 2. She held up a hand for quiet. The outer path approached the side of the cabin. The living room windows looked out to the front and to each side. Millicent and Nick McRae were as clearly visible and distinct as if on a stage. Instead of a lifted curtain, the rattan shades were up. The window glass was the only barrier between the silent observers and the McRaes.

Nick appeared thin and defeated despite his expensive-looking clothes—a cashmere sweater the color of molten gold and faultlessly tailored tan wool slacks. There was no trace of his usual supercilious demeanor. Instead of dismissive arrogance, he exuded pain. He was a man stripped of every defense, his gaze naked with accusation and entreaty, despair and anguish.

Millicent's elegant sky blue sweater, so perfect for a January day, was in pathetic contrast to her haggard face. Her outstretched hands trembled. Her mouth was wide, an evident plea.

Annie reached out, gripped Max's wrist.

“Yeah.” The single word contained pity and his understanding of Annie's reluctance to see an encounter that should be privy only to Millicent and Nick. “Come on, Britt. Let's—” He broke off as Nick turned away, strode to the front door, banged it open and thudded down the steps.

Millicent ran out onto the porch. “Nick, come back. Nick, he's lying. I swear he's lying….”

Head down, Nick walked fast, taking the front path into the woods.

Millicent pressed her hands against her cheeks. There was the sound of her quick breaths, broken by sobs, and the diminishing crackle of underfoot twigs as Nick stormed away.

Annie wished she believed Millicent. Annie didn't claim to be a Lie-O-Meter, but in her heart she knew Millicent was lying. And so, she feared, did Nick.

Millicent took a step forward as if she would follow her husband, then, sobbing, shoulders shaking, she swung around and stepped into the cabin. The door closed.

“Let's go.” Max was brusque.

The cart hummed to motion. Without a word, Britt steered behind the cabin, out of sight of the front windows. The cart reached the entrance to the outer ring path and they plunged back into the woods. A few yards deeper into the gloom, Britt looked at Annie and Max. “What was that all about?”

“That's Everett's dirty work.” Annie's voice was laden with disgust.

Max and Britt looked at her blankly.

Annie realized abruptly that Britt hadn't heard the innuendos by Everett at breakfast and neither Max nor Britt was aware of the paper she'd filched from Everett's cabin the night before. Quickly, she described the situation at breakfast and relayed the contents of the paper she'd taken from the cabin, excepting, of course, his revelations about Britt's gambling debts.

Max looked amazed. And amused. “This morning
I swore up and down and sideways I hadn't taken the paper. And all the while you had scarpered with the goods.”

Annie noted Max's use of the verb indigenous to long-ago British mysteries. At any other moment, she would have smiled. But she was too near the dreadful scene with the McRaes. “If only there were some way to shut Everett up. I feel sorry for Millicent.” Unlikable, arrogant, stricken, sad Millicent.

“And Nick.” Max's tone was sober. “If he's on his way to have it out with Everett, we'd better get there as soon as we can.”

Annie was reaching for her map when Britt stopped the cart. “Everett's in the next cabin. We'll be there in just a minute. But first…I gather Everett rounded up something slimy about all of us.”

Annie nodded. “Everett specializes in innuendo and scandal.”

Britt's gaze was steely. “What did he say about me?”

Annie's mouth opened, closed.

Britt was determined. “Come on, Annie. Open up. I want to hear it.”

Annie was uncomfortable. “All of the reports were accusatory and negative. He said that Cissy helped pay off some debts for you and that Jeremiah ordered her to stop.”

Britt's burst of laughter was genuine. “You're the soul of tact, aren't you? Did he say they were gambling debts?”

Annie nodded, her cheeks pink.

“He got it right. I like to gamble. So”—and the
sparkle left her face—“I suppose if he got it right about me, he was right about Millicent McRae. But I don't understand”—her face squeezed in thought—“what precipitated that encounter at the cabin between Millicent and Nick. There wasn't anything direct said at breakfast, was there?”

Annie shook her head. “Not exactly. Everett smirked and dropped Bobby's name. Millicent was terrified Everett was going to say more. I tried to distract everybody.”

“Something more must have happened.” Britt tugged at a dark curl, looked thoughtful. “Breakfast was a long time ago. Why were Millicent and Nick fighting now? I wonder if Nick talked to Everett. What if Everett gave him all the facts, who the guy is and what happened and when?” She answered herself. “That's what must have happened.” Abruptly she started the cart and it jolted forward. “Everett's caused enough trouble. Damn Harry for taking the boat. If
The Yellow Kid
were here, I guarantee you Everett Crenshaw would be off the island pronto. At the very least, I intend to give him a piece of—”

A sharp crack sounded.

“Get down,” Max yelled. He crouched, blocking Annie and Britt from view.

“That was a gun.” Britt's voice wavered. “Oh God, what now?”

Annie's throat felt tight. She bent forward to stare past Max. The forest was thick with undergrowth. No branches snapped underfoot. There was no sound of movement. If anyone wished to shoot at them, they were vulnerable. The live oaks rustled in the gentle breeze. The
only sound was the whistle of their breaths and the ripple of leaves and the mournful coo of a dove.

“We're almost at Everett's cabin.” Britt's voice was still shaky. “The clearing is just around that palmetto.”

Max swung off the cart. “Stay here. I'll see.” He was already moving up the trail, fast. He disappeared around the curve.

Annie jumped from the cart, hurried after him. The shot must have been very near, because woods have a muffling effect. She caught up with him, snagged a hand in the waistband of his trousers, held firm.

Max jerked to a stop, looked back at her. “Annie, dammit, that was a gun.” He was impatient. “Stay with Britt. Let me look around.”

“You,” she hissed, “are not bulletproof. Anyway, I don't think anybody was trying to shoot us or we'd be shot. Why are we sneaking around? Let's make it clear we're coming. If somebody's taking target practice, they'll stop.”