Death of the Party (23 page)

Gamble turned toward Max and stepped out onto the porch. “Aggressive.” His tone was musing. “Everett always thought he could batter anybody down. I guess he met his match.”

Max was thoughtful. “Do you believe he tried blackmail?”

“I think it was his specialty.” Gerald's voice was bitter.

Max watched him closely. “Do you know of an instance when Everett used knowledge to get money?”

Gerald was derisive. “Figure it out for yourself. That's obviously why he sent the letter to Britt. I expect it surprised the hell out of him when she invited all of us back to the island. He must have gone into high gear, scraping around to find out who was on Jeremiah's blacklist. He was good at finding out secrets.” There was grudging respect in his voice. “Who knows
what kind of information he dredged up? My guess is he tried a ploy—maybe more than one—but he riled the wrong snake.” He glanced down at the camera. “Now he's a still life for the sheriff.” A sour twist of his mouth was the only indication of his pun. “His mother was right to worry.” Gerald thrust the camera at Max. “I guess you're in charge.”

He guessed he was. He hoped he'd thought of everything. “All right. We're done here.” He reached out, closed the door. He wished he could as easily close away the indelible memory of the body sprawled on the floor. “Let's go up to the house.” He looked soberly at Gerald. “You've been a big help. I hope you'll keep on helping. Don't tell anyone”—he meant Craig and knew Gerald understood that full well—“what's happened until we've got everyone together.”

Gerald's stare was bleak. Abruptly, he shrugged. “I'll play along. I didn't kill him. Or Jeremiah. I know Craig's innocent. Handle it however you want to.”

Max led the way down the steps. It was time to share the grim news of murder.

 

Clouds bunched overhead, blotting out the pale January sun. Annie shivered though it wasn't cold, merely cool and damp. If she were walking vigorously toward the beach on Broward's Rock, looking forward to building a blazing fire from driftwood, picnic hamper in hand, Max at her side, she wouldn't feel the chill at all or, if she did, she'd welcome the changing season. Here on Golden Silk, knowing that the next face she saw might be that of a murderer, she found the gray sky and darkening woods and isolation forbidding.

She was, in fact, scared. She hesitated before leaving the clearing around Kim's cabin, reluctant to plunge into the forest. She steadied her breaths, drew air deep into her lungs. As always, her solution to fear or worry or sadness was action. Everything was better when she was busy. Resolutely, she pulled the crumpled sheet from her pocket. It seemed a long time ago that a bustling Lucinda drew this map of the cabins.

This morning her first stop had been Cabin 1, where she'd found the distraught Isabel. After Max and Britt joined her, they'd walked to Cabin 2, where they'd watched the unsettling domestic drama between Millicent and Nick McRae. On their way to Everett's cabin, number 3, they had heard the shot.

Annie studied Lucinda's map, visualizing the cabins on a clock face:

If she stayed on the perimeter path, depending upon her direction, she would reach either Cabin 4 or Cabin 6. With a quick nod, she headed for Jay and Dana's cabin. She couldn't find it in her heart to be afraid of Dana. The path curved into the dimness. A tangle of
Spanish moss brushed against one cheek, the touch as cool and light on her skin as the skitter of a spider. She forced herself to walk faster. The sooner she got to the cabin, the sooner she would know if Dana had returned from her visit to the lagoon. If she was there…Annie doubted there was a tactful way of asking whether Dana had tossed a gun into the water.

A branch snapped behind her. There was a crackle of movement.

Annie froze. She whirled, hand at her pocket, ready to clutch the knife. A knife was no defense against a gun…why would anyone shoot her…why hadn't she stayed with Kim…or gone back to the house…maybe if she yelled…no one was near…she'd never felt so alone and vulnerable…

At almost the same instant she recognized the hum of a golf cart. The maneuverable vehicle zoomed around a live oak and quivered to a stop a scant foot away.

“Annie!” Britt's voice lifted in relief.

“Britt. Oh golly, I'm glad to see you.” Annie was embarrassed because she was having trouble breathing calmly.

“Me too.” Britt's eyes were wide and strained. “I heard someone walking and all of a sudden I had this terrible feeling that I was going to come around the curve and something horrible would be there.” Britt too was struggling with her breath. “I'm sorry to be such a fool but I can't find a soul anywhere. Nobody. It's like a magic wand was waved and poof! I can't find anyone. The idea of being on the island all by myself terrified me.”

Annie certainly understood.

A gusty breeze rattled palmetto fronds. Britt's eyes darted around as if looking for danger. “Max asked me to pick up the reports. Gerald was with Max so I got Gerald's report, then I went to the McRaes'. Nobody was there. I went on to Isabel's cabin. Empty. It got darker and darker in the woods….” She took a deep breath. “I wanted to go back to the house and go up to my room and stay there until tomorrow. I told myself it wouldn't take long to check the rest of the cabins. Then Craig wasn't in his cabin.” Her voice wavered.

Annie imagined the untenanted cabins, silent and sinister in the cloudy gloom, and Britt's growing sense of isolation.

Britt shivered. “The only thing that kept me from running away was Lucinda. She was coming out of Gerald's cabin.” Britt gave an unconvincing laugh. “She said I was as white as a mausoleum.” With a little of her old verve, Britt said lightly, “I told her it was my Garbo look, the latest fashion among those marooned on an island. I asked Lucinda to go up to the house and start lunch. She can do the rest of the cabins this afternoon.” Britt was once again somber and strained. “I watched her cart chug away and it took all my control not to hurry right after her, but I'd promised to get the reports. Not,” she said wryly, “that I was having much luck to that point. Kim was in her cabin. I've never liked her, and she must have thought I was a nut I was so excited to see her. She's still working on her report. Anyway”—Britt patted the seat beside her—“jump in. We'll check on Dana and Jay, then we'd better get up to the house and help Lucinda.” Her glance at Annie
was uncertain. “That is, if you don't mind pitching in again.”

“I'd love to.” Annie would have peeled a bucket of onions to gain the cheerful companionship of the kitchen.

No longer alone, Annie found the cart's rustling progress cheerful as it brushed against ferns, crackled over small branches. She was relaxed until they reached the clearing for Cabin 4. The front door was ajar, eerily reminiscent of Everett's cabin. She frowned as the cart stopped at the base of the stairs.

“Oh my God, it doesn't look like anybody's here either. Where is everybody?” Britt's voice was thin. “It's just like Everett. Look!” A wavering finger pointed at the partially open front door. The blinds were closed, blocking any view of the interior. The silence was made even more somber by the occasional
chut-chut
of scampering squirrels, a raucous cry from a blue jay, the imperious caw of two unseen crows.

Britt made no move to get out of the cart.

“I guess…” Annie struggled for composure. “…we should check inside.”

They shared a long look.

“Okay.” Britt swung out of the cart.

Annie took a deep breath. She felt better once she had her feet on the ground. She started up the wooden steps, grateful to hear Britt behind her. She stopped on the porch. “Jay? Dana?”

Britt moved past her, poked her head inside. “Anybody home?” She stepped inside. Light flooded out onto the porch. Annie quickly followed. Her eyes darted first to the living room. Two unused legal pads
lay on the coffee table. Annie wondered if she would ever again see a legal pad without thinking of Everett.

It took only a moment for them to be sure the cabin was empty, Britt checking the bedroom, Annie hurrying into the small kitchen.

Annie's relief almost made her light-headed. “Maybe Dana's still at the lagoon.”

Britt stared at her. “That was right after breakfast. And she didn't stay. She ran after Jay.”

“I meant later. About twenty minutes ago.” Quickly, Annie explained how Kim had followed Dana. “…and Dana threw something into the lagoon. Something heavy. It made a big splash. A gun would make a big splash. There wasn't a gun in Everett's cabin. Do you suppose Dana got the gun and threw it away?” But who had Max's gun?

“Dana?” Disbelief lifted Britt's voice.

Annie understood her reaction. It was hard to imagine mild-mannered, gentle Dana touching a gun, much less firing it. But she was sure Kim had told the truth about what she'd seen and heard. “Kim said Dana threw something heavy enough to cause a splash. She took a picture.”

Britt's face furrowed. “Annie, this could be important.” She glanced at her watch. “Max should be at the house by now. We need to tell him. Maybe that's where everybody is. Come on. Let's hurry.”

 

Max looked around the drawing room. The guests were getting restive. Despite the gleaming twin chandeliers, the room was cheerless, the crimson drapes a dark reminder of blood, the mantel oddly bare after the re
moval of the statuesque silver candlesticks by Kim, the cool gray walls an echo of the bleak sky, where thick clouds bunched to hide the sun. His plan had seemed excellent: Preserve the evidence, collect the assorted essays, gather the survivors, announce Everett's murder. He'd taken it for granted that everyone would do as Craig had requested, write about the last weekend with Jeremiah and bring the reports to the house at lunchtime. Instead, he had only three responses. Gerald had turned over his sheets at Everett's cabin. Craig had, after a thoughtful moment, relinquished his legal pad when he arrived at the house. The final offering came from Kim, whose buoyant step and unbridled energy underscored her confidence that the stars were aligned in her favor. No one else had responded. Worse than that, Jay and Dana Addison hadn't shown up. Where were they and what could they be doing? The clock had already chimed the noon hour. Max glanced toward the front Palladian window. Annie stood there, looking outside. She'd taken up her post, saying worriedly, “Surely they'll come soon.” But Jay and Dana hadn't arrived. Was one of them—or both—prowling the island with a gun? Annie's discovery that his gun had been taken, combined with the absence of a weapon at Everett's cabin, meant they were marooned with an armed murderer. If Kim's story was true, one gun might be at the bottom of the gazebo lagoon. Or it might not….

Gerald cleared his throat. His hooded eyes swept the room. “Jay and Dana should be here.” His dour gaze challenged Max. “Considering what's happened, we'd
better find them.” One hand picked at the golden tassel on a cushion.

Craig was staring at Gerald, his eyes questioning. He looked like a man sensing imminent danger.

Britt sped an anxious look at Max. Dark smudges beneath her eyes stood out against a waxen pallor. She sat hunched in a corner chair as if surrounded by frightful specters.

Max stood with his face furrowed into a tight frown. Gerald was right. It was time to speak. Past time. Max had no illusion that he was in control of events. Everything at this point seemed to be careening into chaos—Everett dead, Jay and Dana missing, a gun or guns on the loose, nothing to hint at the identity of the murderer. He surveyed the sullen, somber group.

Lucinda Phillips waited in the doorway, restive, clearly impatient to return to her kitchen. Today the kerchief banding her dark hair was bright yellow. Matching buttercups spangled a dainty apron that emphasized her bulk. She frowned, her blue eyes darting from face to face, as if seeking reassurance and finding none.

Millicent was as withdrawn and forlorn as a troubled figure in a Goya painting, the luster of her blond hair and sleek richness of her cashmere sweater a wrenching counterpoint to the dullness of her gaze and the raddled splotchiness of her face.

Nick stood on the opposite side of the room from Millicent. He might have been a thousand miles distant, with his lined face empty, blank eyes staring at the floor. He looked old and shrunken, arrogance shed like a too large coat.

Kim had the air of a cat at a mouse hole—patient, alert, expectant. Hungry.

Isabel watched Craig like a child uncertain of acceptance, hope and fear warring in her lovely face. Yet her entire demeanor was different. There was an easiness in her posture that spoke of a heavy burden lifted.

Max took a step forward. “I had hoped for everyone to be present. But I can't delay any longer. I am sorry to have to tell you that Everett Crenshaw was shot and killed this morning.” Max quickly looked at every face in turn, swift as a blackjack dealer gathering cards.

Gerald, too, was scanning the room, seeking, as Max sought, some telltale sign.

Craig's face twisted in a sudden scowl. He looked like a man tabulating figures and the sums didn't add up.

Lucinda's mouth gaped. She pressed her fingers against her round cheeks, breathed harshly.

Millicent gave a shrill cry. She pushed up from her chair, moved unsteadily toward her husband, her hands outstretched.