Death of the Party (4 page)

“M
AX
!” A
NNIE BEAMED WITH DELIGHT
. Here he came, the man of her dreams, wiry blond hair, eyes blue as a northern sea. Tall and lithe, he strode toward her with easy grace, light tan corduroy sport coat unbuttoned over a navy turtleneck, khaki trousers crisp, cordovan loafers highly polished. She was thrilled to see him. Being by herself was fine. Certainly it was. But on a misty January day how wonderful for Max to come to the bookstore, though, of course, he should be at work. She glanced up at the clock.

Max stopped before her, shook his head. “Watched pots never boil. But, believe it or not, Confidential Commissions has a case.” He didn't sound happy. “I guess I'll do it.” He shoved a hand through his hair. His eyes glinted with irritation. He frowned. “Dammit, why are women so unreasonable?”

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Agatha and I assume that's a rhetorical question, rather on the order of ‘Why can't a man ask for directions?'” She moved behind the coffee bar to the cappuccino machine.

He didn't smile in return. His tone dour, his body
language bristly as a porcupine's, he described Britt Barlow and the death of Jeremiah Addison on his private island—

Annie's eyes widened. She remembered the news stories about Addison's death on Golden Silk. His accidental death.

—and the guests arriving on Friday. “One of them's a murderer, according to Britt Barlow. Her idea is to get them all together, challenge them to help her figure out who killed him. She spun a bunch of stories to entice them back, and they swallowed them hook, line, and sinker. But now that the stage is set, she's had second thoughts, started worrying. I should think so.” His tone was disparaging. “Talk about a half-baked idea—I told her she was nuts.”

The machine hissed and bubbled. Annie picked out a mug for Max,
Unfinished Crime
by Helen McCloy, filled it.

Max's blue eyes were disdainful. “She might as well invite a tiger to the island and throw out raw meat.” He slapped a hand on the countertop. “I told her she was toying with someone who'd already killed once and wouldn't hesitate to kill again and if she strolled too close the tiger would take her head off. I told her to get on the phone, cancel those invitations, call the cops. I couldn't have made it plainer.”

Max settled on the stool, absently sprinkled chocolate flakes on the mound of frothed milk. But he didn't pick up the mug. “I told her I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. We were glaring at each other by that point. She stood up and said she was going through with it, one way or another. She said she should have
called the cops when she found Addison, but she hadn't, and she had to make up for that. If I didn't want to help, fine, she'd do it by herself.”

Annie slipped her arm around his tight shoulders. “She was walking out, wasn't she?” Annie leaned her head against his, smelled the January mist in his hair and a faint hint of aftershave.

“Yeah.” An exasperated sigh. “I went after her. Told her I'd come, do what I could.” His voice was heavy with resentment. And resignation. “Hell, you can't just stand there and watch an express train bear down on some fool who's spread-eagled on the tracks.”

Annie understood. Max knew murder was the province of the proper authorities. He saw the dangers Britt Barlow refused to face. Or perhaps she was determined to face them.

Golden Silk…Annie's eyes shone. It wasn't the foreign shore she'd desired. But it was a shore and foreign to her.

“I'll come too.”

 

The wood fire crackled. It was a domestic scene, Annie in a pink flannel gown and white terrycloth scuffies, Max in navy flannel pajamas and soft brown leather slippers. Dorothy L., the fluffy white cat, curled atop her green tartan cushion in front of the fireplace, a furred mound of contented somnolence. Cheerful yellow ceramic mugs held hot chocolate topped by a toasted marshmallow. As Annie was wont to insist, What is night without a mug of good cheer? Max's version of nightly good cheer varied somewhat.

It might have been any winter evening in the Dar
ling household except for Annie's intense study of a legal pad. She finished reading, looked up. “Is that everyone?”

Max turned away from the fire, joined her on the couch. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, bent close to check the list and nuzzle his chin against the side of her face. After all, a man couldn't work all the time. “Yes. Let's see. One, two…”

Annie skimmed the names. Each was written in Max's bold back-slanting script with a brief statement:

 

Britt Barlow, 28. Owner of Heron House, now a B&B on the private sea island of Golden Silk. Heiress of her late sister, Cecilia Barlow Addison, widow of Jeremiah Addison.

Jay (Jeremiah Thomas) Addison, 32, younger son of the late Jeremiah and his first wife, Lorraine. High school history teacher.

Dana Addison, 29, wife of Jay. Former fourth-grade teacher, now a stay-at-home mom.

Craig Addison, 36. Jeremiah's elder son. President of Addison Media.

Isabel Addison, 34. Wife of Craig. Former news reporter, now working as a temp in a public relations firm. Living separately from Craig.

Gerald Gamble, 53. Longtime Addison Media employee. Former executive assistant to Jeremiah. Now executive assistant to Craig.

Rep. Millicent McRae, 52. Well known in state politics. Currently in Congress. Expected to announce candidacy for governor.

Nicholas McRae, 70. Retired lawyer. Wealthy. Millicent's husband.

Kim Kennedy, 23. When an intern at Addison Media, she charmed Jeremiah. Within six months, she was on the news desk despite the producer's objections. Now employed in a small-market television station downstate, quite a comedown from Atlanta.

Everett Crenshaw, 40. Top investigative reporter for Addison Media. Host of a news feature patterned after The O'Reilly Factor on Fox News.

Lucinda Phillips, 54. Chief housekeeper at Heron House. Employed for 12 years.

Harry Lyle, 49. Caretaker, handyman. Employed for 9 years.

 

“…Twelve. That's the lot.”

Annie pointed at two more names.

 

Serena Gonzalez, I.

Juanita Garcia, I.

 

“What does ‘I' mean?” Annie circled the letter.

“Irrelevant.” He was brisk. “There's no invidious meaning, but the point is that Britt Barlow says the girls were the next thing to transients, didn't speak English, didn't know Jeremiah personally, had nothing to gain from his death, plus they are long gone from the island. She said there have been around nine maids between the time of his death and the present. Apparently she has a real struggle to keep the place staffed. You can imagine. Stuck out there on an island, no place to go, nothing to do. And those girls were definitely not try
ing to escape from the world, simply trying to survive. So, she invited everyone who was there at the time of his death excepting those two maids.”

“Fair enough.” Annie shook her head. “You'd think Britt Barlow could have been a little more forthcoming. She claims one of these people is a murderer, but she doesn't give any flavor of them. Who's bad tempered? Who's jealous? Who's greedy? That's a good question. I'll bet the family divvied up bundles of bucks. Who needed money? Why was there a politico on hand for what looked like a family gathering? And the intern on the make…” Annie ran her finger down the list. “Here she is, Kim Kennedy. She sticks out like a flamingo at an owl party. What's an intern doing there? Want to bet she's a knockout? Come on, Britt needs to tell us what's what. Who are these people and how did they feel about Jeremiah?”

“That's what I asked her. She said”—Max leaned back against the cushion, his face thoughtful—“she didn't want to prejudice me. She said she had pretty strong feelings about several of them, but she wanted me to see them fresh. Tabula rasa. I thought that was decent of her.”

Annie raised an eyebrow. “Decent, maybe. Dumb, certainly. We need all the help we can get. We're going to meet them for the first time. Once they understand they're on a list of suspects, you can bet butter won't melt. And there's not time enough to investigate them.” She glanced at the clock over the mantel. A quarter to eleven. They were scheduled to be picked up by a motor launch at the pier at eight in the morning.

Max stretched out his legs, yawned. “Not to worry.
Never underestimate Confidential Commissions.” A less charitable observer might have described him as smug. “When I left the office, my trusty secretary—Barb murmured something about typing faster than Della Street—was finishing up dossiers of the twelve. We'll pick them up on our way to the harbor in the morning.”

“Max,” Annie said, her voice warm with admiration, “you are simply swell.”

He twined a finger in a golden curl, tugged her face close to his. “Kudos welcome.” His lips sought hers.

Who cared about tomorrow?

 

Sea legs. If they were for sale, she'd buy them even though the words evoked a mental image of a centipede clinging to a log. Logs. Logs—immovable and stationary—are found in the woods. Except, of course, when they bob as driftwood in the ocean. She wouldn't think of that. Instead she pictured a forest and scattered logs, evoking a serene vision of dry land. She thought longingly of dry land, preferably desert, and clung to the railing. In the front seat of the good-sized motorboat, the skipper—he'd introduced himself briefly as Joe and said, “You the folks for Golden Silk?”—hulked over the wheel, a formless mass in a yellow slicker damp from cold sea spray. He'd quickly settled them in the back after outfitting them with slickers.

Annie stared grimly and fixedly at the horizon as the boat plunged up and down over whitecaps and troughs. Keeping your gaze fastened on a stable point was supposed to help a queasy stomach. She ignored the tap on her arm.

“Hey, Annie?” Max lifted his voice above the thrumming of the motor and the rush of the wind.

Annie decided it was better not to speak.

“Oh.” Max bent close, peered into her face. “I thought maybe you'd like to read some of the files.”

“Looking at the horizon.” She pushed out her answer, a syllable at a time. Although the horizon was hard to discern because of the lowering black clouds that turned the sky murky as a silted lagoon.

“Sit up straight. Breathe deeply.” His voice was robust. “That's okay. I'll read the dossiers to you. Barb and I got lots of info. Personal stuff. It's amazing how people will answer questions over the phone when you spin the right story. My favorite ploy is the one where we say we're doing a company dinner that includes a ‘This Is Your Life' tribute to the honoree. People can't wait to unload on a former friend or classmate or employee or renter. Anyway, you can concentrate on listening. Pretend you're at the store. You and Agatha at the coffee bar…”

Annie stared at the horizon—dammit, where was it?—and tried to imagine herself settled at one of the tables in the lovely heart-pine enclave at the back of Death on Demand, the cappuccino…No, she wouldn't think about the coffee bar. That brought up images of food and drink, images her queasy stomach abhorred. No. She was sitting at a table, a marvelously stationary table, with a book, maybe Tony Hillerman's latest, reading about bone-dry desert.

Beside her, relaxed, ebullient, and obviously pleased with the fact-studded dossiers, Max began to read:

“Britt Barlow. Grew up in Birmingham. One younger
sister, Cecilia. Mother Agnes, a single mom, worked two jobs to put them in a decent private school, pay for music and tap and tennis lessons. No contact with their father. Cecilia was a beauty, long blond hair, green eyes, sweet-natured, domestic, loved to cook and sew. Britt was a ranked tennis player in high school, straight As, ambitious, impatient. But the sisters got along famously. One old friend said, ‘Britt adored Cissy. When Cissy got sick, I was afraid it would kill Britt, too.' Cissy dropped out of college to become a model. She was modeling at a charity benefit when she met Jeremiah Addison, who had recently separated from his first wife. Britt majored in English. After college, she went to New York. She held several jobs in advertising agencies but was laid off when the economy crashed. By this time Cissy was married to Jeremiah. They'd only been married three years when Cissy was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Britt came to Golden Silk to be with Cissy during the treatments. Britt despised Jeremiah, thought he was an arrogant jerk, but she managed to be on pleasant terms with him because Cissy thought he was wonderful.” Max lifted a sheaf of papers out from a pocket in the file. “Here are some pix of Britt and Cissy. Got a great one of them together. Barb found it in one of those house magazines. The article gave all the details of Jeremiah's renovations on Golden Silk.” Max whistled. “He spent a fortune.”

The launch veered out of the open ocean into the Sound, running with an island to starboard. In the more protected waters, the boat settled into a swift spank across the whitecaps. Annie's stomach slowly
righted. She looked at the printout of photos, an ethereal Cissy in white satin, an aggressive Britt lunging for a forehand, the sisters arm-in-arm walking along a curving beach, a study in contrasts, blond Cissy in a softly swirling white cotton dress with a red sash, dark Britt in a vivid green jumper. Cissy looked sweet and appealing, her face turned with an inquiring, uncertain look. Britt's expression was forceful, determined. Annie had the same sense of sadness an old picture album evoked. The sisters together caught at her heart. Was there anything more poignant than photographs of careless happiness before storm clouds turned sunny days dark? Yes, she could imagine that Britt Barlow adored her younger and somehow, even in a photo, vulnerable sister.