Death of the Party (27 page)

Britt jerked forward, bent down to pick up the key that had fallen from her hand. “Sorry.” Her voice broke the brooding silence.

Annie knew that Britt, too, felt the huge strain of being in this room, knowing a predator was within reach. Annie felt overwhelmed by a sense of imminent danger. She found it hard to breathe.

Millicent gave a little scream. “I can't bear it. One of you…but we don't know which one…oh God, Nick, we've got to do something. One of them has a gun. We may all be dead—”

There was a thunderous rapping at the front door.

Everyone in the drawing room jerked to look toward the hallway. Each face reflected astonishment and shock and bewilderment. And fear.

Annie's hand went to her throat. A knock at the door…but there was no one else on the island…no one else…

The knock sounded again, heavy, desperate, demanding.

T
HE HEAVY FRONT DOOR
crashed open.

Everyone looked toward the hall. They stood frozen, waiting. Annie knew each of them had the same sense of bewilderment laced with fear. There was no one else on the island. Not another living soul. Everyone was in the drawing room.

Who or what was coming toward them?

A hoarse voice shouted, “Britt? Britt, where are you?” Running steps thudded on the wooden floor.

Max moved fast toward the hall, face wary and alert, shoulders hunched, ready for battle. Craig, too, was striding across the room, hands curled into fists. Before they reached the arch, a lanky man in a worn suede jacket, age-paled jeans, and deck shoes skidded to a stop just inside the drawing room. He was a little over six feet in height with brown hair, dark eyes, and a resolute, intelligent face. When he saw Britt, a mélange of expressions slipped across his face—acute relief, startled awareness of an audience, embarrassment as he realized everyone was looking toward him in amazement.

“Loomis.” Britt's voice was deep in her throat, almost a whisper. There was a look of disbelief in her eyes, and something more. Distress? She reached
out both hands toward him. Suddenly tears brimmed, slipped down pale cheeks.

He was across the room in an instant, drawing her into his arms. “What's wrong? I knew there was something wrong when I couldn't raise you. I kept trying your call letters all day and there was nothing. It was like you and the island had disappeared into the Sound. Hour after hour, nothing. I had to come.”

Craig strode toward him. “Can you radio to shore?”

Millicent plunged across the room, her voice high and shrill. “Do you have a boat? I insist that my husband and I be taken off this island at once. I am Representative McRae…”

A half dozen voices rose. “…save us from being killed…there's a gun somewhere…got to get help…”

Britt pushed away from Loomis, swiped a hand at wet cheeks. “Quiet, everyone. Let me tell him. Loomis, we're in terrible trouble. Thank God you've come. There's been a murder. Harry stole the yacht. He took the radio, everything. That's why you couldn't contact me. We've been stranded. You can call for help.” She took a deep breath. “Everyone, this is Loomis Mitchell….”

 

Loomis Mitchell led the way down the dock, his head bent as he listened to Britt. Max held Annie's elbow as they walked. The only light was a single 500-watt bulb near the end of the pier. It shed a golden radiance on the cabin cruiser tied there, but the greater portion of the pier was in darkness. The boat, perhaps a twenty-eight-footer, rose and fell in the swells. “Nice.” Max's
tone was admiring. When they reached the ladder, Max gave her elbow a squeeze, then followed Loomis down the steps.

The breeze off the water was cold. None of them had stopped for coats. Once again Annie wished she'd taken time to retrieve her jacket. Everyone was there. Annie wondered if they'd all come because of the sense of safety provided by staying together or because of their hunger to be connected to the mainland, even at a remove. They could hear Max and Loomis on the boat. They clustered near the ladder, Jay and Dana together, Isabel holding tight to Craig's arm, Millicent and Nick on the outskirts, present but aloof, Britt with a hand on a piling, leaning forward to catch every word, Gerald a dark, elusive, listening shadow, Lucinda watching with folded arms, Kim peppering Britt with questions—“What does Mitchell do? Where does he live? Talk about saved by the bell. Do you credit him with ESP?” Britt snapped, “Shh. I can't hear him.”

Annie shivered, but it was worth the chill to listen and know without doubt or question that this dreadful episode was nearing an end. It was almost as good as a bridge to the mainland to hear Loomis Mitchell's clear, precise voice and know he was being heard by the Coast Guard, which would contact the sheriff.

“…Loomis Mitchell contacting you from Golden Silk to report a murder.” Loomis gave the latitude and longitude of the island and the known circumstances of Everett's death. He paused. “No, sir, this was the first time it was possible to make a report. The island was cut off from communication until I arrived. The
radio was stolen as well as a yacht, leaving the group marooned here…. Yes, sir…. So we can expect help this evening. Within two hours at the outside…”

 

The logs crackled cheerfully in the bedroom fireplace. Max pulled the table a little closer to the fire, welcoming the waft of heat. Lucinda must have found time to start the blaze. Surely it was she who had done so and not Britt. The last he'd seen of Britt after a quick and unceremonious buffet dinner, she was walking arm in arm toward the library with Loomis. He wondered how Loomis would react to her admission that she had engineered the gathering on Golden Silk, hoping to solve a murder. Would it change his feelings for Britt to know she'd connived to keep Jeremiah's murder a secret?

That was between the two of them.

The dancing flames were cheerful, though their warmth did nothing to ease Max's weary sense of failure. He'd been hired to catch a murderer and he'd failed. Worse than that failure was the hard truth that Everett Crenshaw was dead.

Max pushed back his chair, walked to the fireplace, stretched a hand to clamp the mantel. He stared into the flames, remembering Everett's quick intelligence, his capacity for digging up unpalatable facts, and, most of all, his taunts. At the time, the jabs had seemed part and parcel of Everett's arrogance and penchant for stirring up trouble. This time he'd triggered a swift and deadly response from Jeremiah's murderer.

“Damn.” Max pushed away from the mantel, moved back to the table. Seated, he picked up a pen. It was
too late now to regret the fact he'd dismissed Everett's gibes as nothing more than a performance. Everett's sardonic voice sounded in his mind:
The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
One of those listening had heard a threat. And dealt with it.

The Meissen clock on the mantel struck seven. In something less than an hour they could expect deliverance. Or, if not immediate departure from the island, certainly they could expect to be protected. There would be armed deputies to station in the house and to patrol the circuit of the cabins. Rest might not be easy this final night on the island, but it should be secure.

Max pulled the legal pad close. The murderer had taken not only Max's gun this morning but also all of the information he'd accrued about the guests. That didn't matter. Even though he couldn't hand over that background information to the authorities, he could present a record of everything that had happened this weekend. First he'd make a cogent summary and then he'd pluck out critical facts for ready reference. He began to write.

 

Lucinda hummed “Do, Lord” with cheer and gusto as she poured boiling water from a steam kettle to scald the sink. Occasionally, she paused to clap damp hands in rhythm and sing a verse in a surprisingly sweet contralto. She placed the empty kettle on the drainboard, lifted a cloth to give a final swipe to the gleaming tiles.

Annie paused in wrapping a platter of ham-and-cheese sandwiches with pink plastic to observe Lucinda in amazement. Ever since the cook had been
assured that the Coast Guard was en route, her entire demeanor had changed. She'd whistled through the preparations for the buffet supper, and when Annie came in to help with cleaning up, Lucinda's conversation was punctuated by praise of the Coast Guard: “My cousin Maude's son is on a ship out of Norfolk. Plenty of good they do and very little attention paid.” “The Coast Guard will put everything right, we can count on that.” “They can use a metal detector and find that missing gun.”

Annie finished tucking the plastic wrap. She doubted either the Coast Guard or the sheriff's office, whichever took charge, would have any luck finding Max's gun. The island was small but the possibilities of concealment were almost endless. But soon—she glanced at the ceramic clock over the sink—the missing gun would no longer matter. Even now, with help on the way, everyone was staying in the house. The murderer wouldn't have any opportunity to retrieve the gun. Likely it had been hidden near a cabin or perhaps near the central fountain, close to a landmark but covered with dirt or leaves. Perhaps a mound of pine cones marked the spot, meaningless to everyone but the murderer. Almost certainly it was hidden far from the house.

Annie took comfort in that thought. She wasn't as ebullient as Lucinda but her spirits were improving rapidly. She carried the sandwich platter to the refrigerator, slid it onto a center shelf. Two other platters were there. Lucinda had insisted that sandwiches be ready to offer to their rescuers for a late supper, and she had just brewed the thirty-cup percolator of coffee.

Annie took a look around the kitchen. Everything was done. She untied her borrowed apron.

Lucinda followed her glance. “Everything's tidy and I appreciate your help. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Annie smiled. “Not now, thanks.” She moved toward the kitchen door. “I'm going upstairs for a while.” She hoped working on a report for the sheriff had helped ease Max's feeling of failure. No, they hadn't solved the crime, but it wasn't fair for him to feel guilty about Everett's death. It was Everett who had decided to keep to himself damning facts. Not Britt. Not Max. Not Annie.

She pushed through the swinging door into the dining room.

Kim looked up from a table near the far window, her round face excited. “Hey, Annie, can I count on you and Max being down at the dock when the cavalry arrives?”

Annie shot her a startled glance. “Yes. I imagine everyone will go down. Why?”

Kim had the grace to appear uncomfortable. She pushed back a strand of blond hair. The faint flicker of embarrassment was superseded by a rush of enthusiasm. “Think about it. ‘Marooned Murder Suspects Greet Rescuers.' God, what a story. I'm going to get the pix of a lifetime. You'll definitely be there?”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.” Annie's tone was dry, but she knew her sarcasm went right over Kim's ambitious blond head.

Kim bent again to her legal pad, the blood-red nails on one hand thrumming against the tabletop.

Annie reached the hallway. Millicent and Nick had pulled chairs from the dining room to the front of the hall, near one of the side windows. Their heads were close together. Millicent's voice was a murmur. Though they were only a half dozen feet away, they were unaware of Annie, immersed in their private world. Millicent's hand was tucked in his. Millicent hadn't quite regained her impermeable confidence, but she no longer looked haunted or frightened. Nick's face was weary but at peace.

Perhaps the clearest reflection of the easing of tensions since Loomis's arrival was the soft and soothing sound of “Clair de Lune,” the notes glorious and perfect as butterflies drifting in summer sunlight. Annie looked through the archway into the drawing room. Gerald's fingers moved with graceful precision over the keyboard of the rosewood piano tucked in a far corner. In profile, his lined and drooping face was serene. He no longer looked villainous to Annie. He was a tired, middle-aged man finding solace in music. Occasionally he glanced toward an alcove where Craig and Isabel sat. Gerald's faint smile was a benediction.

Craig leaned toward Isabel, his expression reassuring. And loving. The piano, though soft, overrode his voice. Isabel's smile was tremulous but joyful. They were absorbed in each other, shutting out their surroundings. There was no hint in his face of the tough, combative employer quick to issue orders and demand compliance. Isabel's misery of the morning was gone.

In the other alcove, Dana rested her head on Jay's shoulder. They sat close together on the love seat. Jay patted her shoulder, the kind of pat offered for reassur
ance, a pat that meant
Don't worry, everything's going to be all right, I'm here.
Occasionally he made a quiet comment. Dana still looked uneasy, but there was no trace of her earlier panic. She lifted her arm, looked at her watch.

Annie too checked her watch. It wouldn't be long now. Their rescuers should arrive in a little over thirty minutes. Oh yes, she was sure that everyone in the house would crowd onto the dock. Only then would they feel safe.

How would the murderer feel? Fearful? Triumphant? Tense? Surely that huge burden, a burden that could never be shed, weighed upon the murderer. There should be some indication of guilt in one of the faces she had just seen. But she'd observed nothing.

The elegant notes of “Clair de Lune” followed her into the hallway and up the stairs. She avoided the step where Jeremiah had fallen. Soon she would be free of Golden Silk. She would not have to go up and down those stairs, feeling each time that she was close to evil. As she hurried toward their room, it was almost as if she were shaking away the sticky, clinging strands of a monstrous web.

She moved quickly, her footsteps muted by the oriental runner. She reached their room, opened the door, paused on the threshold.

Max sat at the writing table, his back to her. He was intent on the pad in front of him, his hand moving in swift, determined strokes.

Annie slipped inside, closed the door softly behind her. Dear Max. She loved the way his thick blond hair swirled to a point on the nape of his neck. She loved
the strong set of his shoulders. If only there were some way she could help him find the truth…

“Max.” There was magic in saying the name of someone you love. There was a special resonance when you felt the name on your tongue and in your heart. She said, “Max,” and it was a remembrance and promise and vow.

He looked around. The tight lines in his face eased. His blue eyes smiled even before his mouth curved. “Almost through.” He gestured toward the opposite chair. “Come see what you think.”

Annie settled in the chair nearest the fire, welcoming the sweep of warmth. Lucinda kept her kitchen cold, probably because she was heavy and moved about so vigorously. It had also been cold in the dining room and the drawing room. The flames dancing in the bedroom fireplace banished the remainder of Annie's chill from their trek onto the pier. She picked up the sheets with Max's bold, slanting script and began to read.