Death of the Party (25 page)

This trail was scarcely more than a faint path that curved and curled among huge pines. Saw palmettos poked out stiff fronds. Ferns scalloped the base of trees. Undergrowth was thick enough to provide sanctuary for foxes and cotton rats and even wild boars. Max wondered if a tawny yellow Carolina cougar lay on a limb, golden eyes watching him pass.

Max heard the ocean before he saw it. The roar was thunderous as the trees thinned. He stopped in the shadow of a pine, eyes widening at the dramatic seascape. Rust-colored bluffs jutted fifteen feet above roiled water. Waves crashed against the headland. Currents swirled from the incoming tide to run in great swaths around the base of the bluffs, picking up silt to mound the tidal pools with foam.
Driftwood poked from churning surf. Occasionally a huge log boomed against an old seawall. On the far bluff sagged remnants of a once proud house, only a few columns of brick remaining. The cloud-darkened day was turning into the deep gray of a late winter afternoon.

Craig was a darker shadow in the dim light. He moved swiftly toward the top of a near bluff, disappeared around a bent pine that hung near oblivion, victim of stormy surf and the ever encroaching sea.

Max broke into a run, careful of his footing when he neared the edge of the bluffs. Waves crashed against the rust-red headland.

 

“A few more feet to your left.” Kim gestured with one hand. She held her camera in the other.

“Maybe she should be paddling the damn thing.” Gerald's voice was as sour as his face. But he lifted the sleek paddle and swiped with dexterity, maneuvering the small yellow inflatable raft past a floating mass of lily pads and nearer the center of the pond. A half dozen Florida gallinules, distinctive with their red shield faces and yellow bills, clucked in alarm and flapped skyward.

Annie was poised at the raft's front end, Britt at the back. Annie balanced two rakes on the rim and looked down into water murky as a mud puddle, trying not to imagine the tangle of aquatic weeds.

Kim studied the display screen in her camera. “That big pine was just behind her. Come this way…another few feet…there.”

Gerald was sweating despite the dank chill that lay
over the lagoon and the waft of icy coolness rising from the water. He steadied the oars, keeping the rocking craft as near immobile as possible. “I don't see any point to this. We should leave it for the sheriff. So what if we find a gun?”

Annie cautiously slid one rake down into the water.

“Then we know what we have to do.” Britt's tone was bleak.

Gerald twisted to look at her but the raft dipped. He grunted and eased his weight nearer the middle of the seat. “Okay. We find a gun and do what? Save it for the cops?”

Britt shivered. “If Dana threw a gun into the lagoon, where did she get it? How did she get it? She has to tell us. She can't keep running away. If she won't answer, that tells us anyway. She's protecting Jay. If we bring up the gun, we'll know Jay shot Everett, and if they find him, we can protect ourselves.”

The words hung in Annie's mind, clear as letters spewed from a skywriting plane, but they soon lost their substance, became wavy and indistinct. Britt was assuming too much. Even if a gun was retrieved, only a ballistics test could prove it to be the murder weapon. There was also the question of Max's gun. Of course, Max would know his own gun…. Annie leaned forward.

The raft sagged down. Water slapped over the front, sousing her elbows and knees. She felt the shock of the frigid water. Cold…Damn, she was cold….

“Ooops. I'll lean!” Britt moved quickly, counterbalancing Annie. The raft rose.

Annie eased upright, but the rake dangled straight down. “Thanks, Britt.” She emphatically didn't want to pitch into this mucky water. “Okay, watch me. When I go forward, you go back….”

It was a stressful ballet, Annie bending over the side, the rake pointed toward the bottom, Britt watching Annie's every move and adjusting her position. Gerald poked the paddles into the water, using short swift strokes to keep the raft almost stationary. Kim kibitzed. “…take your time…don't jerk…be fluid, smooth…”

The rake tangled in the roots of lily pads. Carefully, Annie tugged it free, moved a few inches, again started the descent. This time the rake was almost at its full length, her fingers within an inch of the water, when she felt a jolt. “I've hit bottom.” She pulled the rake toward her, then pushed out. A thunk. Now it was time for the second rake. Her arms ached, her back twisted in a strain, but finally she had both tools on either side of the hard object. “I've got something.”

“The gun?” Kim squealed in delight. She raised the camera.

Sweat slid down Annie's back. Her hands were moist. She certainly didn't need her jacket now. The rakes cradled her find. She slipped her fingers down the handles, a few inches at a time. The water bubbled and tumbled as the prongs came clear.

Annie blew out a spurt of exasperation. She grabbed the remnant of plantation brick in one hand and flung it across the water. The raft wobbled.

“Steady,” Gerald warned.

Three more times she pulled the prongs of one rake
back and forth along the mucky bottom. Once she yanked up part of a broken picnic hamper. Another time it took patient jiggling to free the rake from some large obstruction, likely a sunken log. Moving a few inches to her left, she again began the laborious movement of the rake. She had pulled it almost to the boat, ready to admit defeat and relieve the strain on her shoulders and back, when she felt the prongs thud against something that moved. Something not too big and not too small…Grimly, her muscles hot with misery, she swung the second rake down. She was getting better. This time, the two rakes came together smoothly, their prongs interlocking.

“I'll get this up.” Annie knew this was her last effort. If anyone else wanted to dangle over the edge of the raft, they could be her guest. Maybe Kim would let go of that damn camera for a minute and see how it felt…

The pressed-together prongs broke above the surface. A riffle of water fell away. Annie willed her hands not to shake. If she dropped a rake, tilted them…The harsh blue black of the gun was dark as spilled ink. Max's gun was silver and shiny as a nickel. Dimly she heard Kim's shout, felt the jerk of the boat as Gerald craned to see.

“Oh my God.” Britt's voice was thin and strained. “Jeremiah's gun.”

Annie didn't need Britt to make the identification. Annie remembered only too well seeing this gun in the drawer of the library desk.

Annie edged the rakes and gun into the raft, eased them to the floor, felt the cold splash of dripping
water on her legs and feet. She'd been so hot. Now the trickles of sweat were cold against her back. She was chilled to the bone, her wet slacks icy against her skin. She nudged the gun with the toe of her shoe. It would take forensic comparisons to prove this was the murder weapon. Annie didn't doubt that it was. The timing sorted itself in her mind. This gun was stolen last night. Max's gun wasn't taken until this morning, very likely after Everett already lay dead in his cabin. No, the gun Britt had carried last night was the gun that killed Everett.

Gerald pointed. “That's Jeremiah's gun. It was stolen. How could Dana have had it?”

That was the question Dana must now answer.

 

Spume misted over Max from the waves crashing against the bluff. He held to a drooping pine bough as he skirted the edge of the bluff. He concentrated on the path. Past the tree, the point jutted into the water. The path stopped. He felt a moment's uncertainty. Where was Craig? There was no more path, only the crumbling bluff and tilted boulders and beleaguered pines soon to fall. He looked out at the water. His eyes widened. The boy's heart that had thrilled to tales of Blackbeard and Long John Silver admired the rusting hulk of a cargo ship that had foundered in a storm. Years of pounding waves had torn much of the ship away, but the remains of the stern, including a tilted funnel, were wedged among boulders. A swaying catwalk, somewhat frayed but still serviceable, was anchored to iron rods driven down into the mudflat. The rods must have gone deep enough to strike rock
or they would long ago have washed away. The project surely had been costly, but the result must have thrilled two little boys. The derelict ship certainly wasn't a safe place to play but when a man owns an island, he can set the rules. Perhaps Jeremiah wanted his sons to taste danger and understand that adventure comes at a price.

The bluff had worn away enough in recent years that it would take a good two-foot jump to reach the catwalk. Max balanced and sprang. The wooden planks were slick from the spray. He skidded and caught at one of the rods, held until the bridge stopped swaying. The water beneath him roiled in a frenzy of currents. Max moved quickly though he kept a hand on the rod. He reached the wreck and dropped lightly onto the slick deck, skidding to a stop. He walked swiftly toward the funnel. There was no need for stealth. The hiss and roar of the water masked his approach. At the funnel, he began to skirt it, stopped when he heard Craig's voice.

“It doesn't change who Mother was.” Craig spoke quietly.

Max pressed against the rusting funnel. He slid forward until he could see the brothers. Craig faced Jay. Craig's burly body looked solid, immovable, determined. Jay sat on the deck, slumped against the remnants of the wheelhouse. His shaggy brown hair was damp, lay limp on his shoulders. Even his mustache drooped. The muscles in his face were slack, his eyes pools of misery. Every so often a long shudder rippled through his lanky frame.

Craig moved closer, knelt, and put a gentle hand on Jay's shoulder. “Think about you and Judy.”

Jay's head jerked up. Abruptly he gripped his brother's arm, his hand vise tight. “What the hell does she have to do with this?”

“Nothing. Everything.” Craig didn't falter. “Love makes people do crazy things. You. Even though you'd never leave Dana. Mom. Yet no matter what you do, you're Jay and Mom is Mom. Dana forgave you. Maybe ‘forgiveness' isn't the right word for Mom. Don't be angry with her. People do the best they can.”

“And Dad…” Jay's voice wavered. “I hated him for the way he treated Mom after she was hurt. He wouldn't do a thing and he knew we didn't have the money to take care of her. Every time I thought about him and all his money and Dana having to go back to work, I got madder and madder. You know how he was. He never let us have an extra cent. Yeah, he had all the money in the world but none of it for Mom. Or for us. Especially not for me. At least you pleased him by working in the business. He didn't want me there.” Years of bitterness curdled his voice. “But I couldn't understand how he could treat Mom that way after she was hurt and helpless. Those bills about ruined me. Dana and I were damn broke. Now I guess I see what happened. He was mad at Mom. Even so, he shouldn't have thrown her out. But if she was cheating on him…Oh God, I don't know what's right, but now it's too late. I'm stuck with the way it ended. Do you
know I was glad when he died? I thought you…but now I know better.”

Craig rocked back on his heels, stared at Jay. “What do you mean by that?”

Jay clawed at his mustache. “I was out early that morning. I was going to try and catch him when he jogged. That's the only thing I ever did that he admired. I could outrun him. He hated that. I was going to—oh, it was stupid—I know he wouldn't have changed anything, but I was going to jog and meet up with him and tell him how bad everything was and how if he'd just pay the nursing-home bill—but he didn't come. I saw you heading toward the house. I guess it's kind of crazy, but I thought you'd gone to see him and maybe he'd swiped at you and you hit back and he'd gone down the stairs. I knew damn well he never fell down a flight of stairs. Not Dad. Then when Isabel walked out on you, I thought that proved it.”

Craig looked stunned. “You think that's why Isabel left?” He came to his feet, paced back and forth.

“Oh, sure.” Jay was confident. “I ran into her occasionally and she looked like a ghost. I thought she couldn't bring herself to go to the cops but she wasn't going to stay around and soak up the luxury.”

Craig's face was an odd mixture of astonishment, anger, and relief. “Oh my God…” He stopped and gave a bark of choked laughter. “How about that? My wife and my brother think I'm a murderer.”

“Not now.” Jay's expression was earnest. “The minute Everett spilled it about Britt untying that wire, I knew it
wasn't you. You might have got mad and punched him. You wouldn't sneak around and rig a trap.”

Max nodded. That was what Isabel had said to Annie: Craig wouldn't set a trap.

Jay hurried on. “Last night I was watching Isabel when Everett described the stairs. She looked like she'd just broken the bank at Monte Carlo.”

“I might have shoved Dad but I wouldn't have tripped him!” Craig's tone was wondering. “I ought to be glad neither of you tabs me as a premeditated murderer, but it kind of knocks me back that my wife and my brother suspected me and never said a word.”

Jay tugged on his mustache. He looked shamefaced. “I guess we were both nuts.”

Craig shoved a hand through his thick curls. His lips twisted in a wry grin. “Hell, Jay. I can't be mad. See, I thought you'd pushed Dad.”

“Me?” Jay's amazement lifted his voice.

At that moment, if he'd been asked to report to the sheriff, Max would have wagered Confidential Commissions that neither brother had killed Jeremiah and surely that absolved them of Everett's death as well.

Jay came to his feet, moving stiffly. He took two quick steps and gave his brother a bear hug, let him go, and managed an unsteady laugh. “I feel better than I have ever since Dad died. It's like I've been carrying the damn world on my back and now the weight's gone. The cops'll find Harry. He's got to be the one. You know how Dad would have felt about Golden Silk being used as a way station for drugs.”