Death of the Party (8 page)

The room was serene, the walls pale blue, the woodwork ivory. Ornate gilt patterns decorated the French Empire furniture. Peacock blue upholstery looked bright and new on the sofa and chairs. A fire crackled in the grate. A chaise longue faced the fireplace. Annie was enchanted.

Lucinda moved past them, took the tray to a round table overlooking the verandah. It was set with bright yellow pottery. “Crab salad. Corn fritters. Ambrosia. Iced tea. Anything else you want, come down and tell me. I'll leave the tray and you can clear up and set it in the hall. Harry will attend to it later.” She
lumbered toward the door. “Enjoy your lunch,” and she was gone.

Annie was first to the table. “Mmm, everything looks wonderful.”

Max joined her. He propped open his small notebook next to his plate.

Annie ate a fritter first. “They're as good as Ben's!” Annie could give no higher praise. Her heart belonged to Parotti's, the down-home combination café and bait shop on Broward's Rock. “Don't you agree?”

Max speared a fritter, took a bite. “Yeah. Really good.” He didn't look up from his study of the map he'd drawn of the cabins.

Annie found the salad delectable and the iced tea refreshing. Only in the South was iced tea a year-round beverage. She felt comfortable and cosseted. She admired the freshness of the blue walls and wondered if they had been painted recently. Or had Britt fixed the room this way for her ailing sister, trying to create cool and comforting surroundings? A door was open to a small adjoining room. That must be where Britt had slept.

Max flipped to a fresh page. As he ate, he made several sketches. He paused, thought, wrote rapidly.

“Scene of the crime?” Annie looked at him inquiringly. She finished the salad, was unable to resist a second fritter.

He turned the notebook, pushed it toward her.

Annie looked at a sketch of the house, the bedrooms labeled with the names of occupants. He'd also sketched the staircase, the wire at the top, a stick figure lying near the base. “The more I think about it, the
more reckless it seems. There's absolutely no guarantee Jeremiah would be the victim.” He held up a hand when Annie started to interrupt. “I know. Britt says he was always first downstairs. But how could that have been common knowledge?”

“That's easy.” Annie sipped her tea. “I'll bet jogging came up at dinner the night before and he told everyone that's how he started the day. When we talk to people, we can find out.”

Max looked skeptical. “Okay, let's say everyone knew he jogged early. That aside, consider the distance from the cabins to the house. How could anyone hope to get to the main trail, reach the garden, cross all those terraces, get into the house, creep up the stairs, set the trap, and get all the way back to a cabin without being seen by someone?”

“Who's up in the middle of the night? I don't think it was such a gamble. If I were going to do it, I'd slip out about two in the morning. And if the murderer had run into anyone, he'd have changed his plans. But he didn't.” Annie considered a third fritter, reluctantly refrained. A wonderful lunch. But they hadn't come to Golden Silk for pleasure. She had a sense of time rushing ahead and danger coming.

Max looked hopeful. “For all we know, the murderer may have been seen. But the next morning there was no reason for that information to come out. Everyone was talking abut Jeremiah's ‘accident.' We'll find out. Somebody may have been up, had insomnia, taken a walk. Though”—he was grave as he tapped the notebook—“these cabins are definitely isolated. Anyone can take a path, move without being seen.”

Annie finished a sip of tea. Suddenly the pale blue room didn't seem as inviting, despite the fire and the succulent meal. She pictured the island after nightfall, populated with phantoms moving through shadows toward Heron House, where no door was ever locked.

 

Annie pulled on a windbreaker and stepped out onto the verandah. She leaned over the railing and watched as Max came down the front steps. He paused at the bottom, looked up, waved, then veered in the opposite direction of their earlier walk. Annie watched until he was out of sight. She sighed. The verandah was gloomy even though the gentle rain had ended. Wet branches glistened in pale sunlight. Annie paced impatiently, wished she'd gone with him. She looked down at the binoculars on the wicker table. Max's instructions had been clear. “You can get the first look at these people. They won't know anyone's watching. Pick up on their interaction with Britt. Get a sense of who they are.” Annie knew she'd looked nonplussed. He'd paused at the door and grinned. “Come on, Annie. You can do it. Pretend you are Laurel.” And he was gone.

She repeated the injunction aloud, though perhaps not in quite as encouraging a tone. “Pretend you are Laurel.” A smile tugged at her lips. What a frightening thought. Max's mother…Well, truth to tell, Max's mother was delightful, delirious, unpredictable, madcap, and amazing. She was also empathetic. How often she'd known exactly how Annie felt and spoken the perfect words of encouragement or comfort.

Pretend she was Laurel…

Footsteps sounded on the front steps. Annie grabbed the binoculars and moved to a corner of the verandah to stand behind a tall potted fern. She had a clear view of the front drive and Britt striding toward the dock.

Pretend
…

Annie knew that right this moment, hundreds of miles distant, Laurel's Nordic blue eyes widened with pleasure, her patrician beauty graced the day, her throaty laughter lifted everyone near. Laurel encouraged creativity, likening moods to the swirl of colored ribbons, divining auras as easily as an ornithologist identifying birds. If Laurel were here, she would form an instant opinion of those she viewed, and more often than not, her judgments would be sound.

An odd sensation suffused Annie's mind. She felt mellow as summer sunshine, liberated as a soaring eagle, joyous as an embrace. She lifted the binoculars. Three magnified faces moved into her eyes and mind, dramatic as visages on a theater screen, emotions easily discerned.

Britt Barlow—rather a hard face, but she was staking her future on what happened this weekend—no hint of fear—an impervious look—though that smile was forced—definitely a strong personality—welcoming gestures—quick jerky movements—hustling them toward the house—the lady was all business—an iron core—

Jay Addison—in a fog—a fog of sadness—his father?—doesn't care about Britt—oh, speaking nicely enough but he's looking toward the house—eyes like a hurt animal—pain down deep—likely always been
on the outside looking in—not tough enough—mood swings—avoids confrontations—

Dana Addison—right at his elbow—defensive—worried—scared—pretty as a Persian cat, a soft round face, but there are claws even if they're sheathed at the moment—if anyone threatens Jay, she'll scratch their eyes out—buttons and bows, ruffles and calico, velveteen bunnies and teddy bears—

Annie watched Britt and her guests until they were out of sight, taking the path into the woods, then she dashed into the room, found Max's legal pad. She returned to the verandah and settled at the wicker table even though it was chilly. She didn't intend to miss a single arrival.

Now, to record her impressions. She chewed on the tip of the pen, then reminded herself she was simply pretending to be Laurel. The words spilled out on the page….

 

Max stopped at the line of pines, looked back. It was a good view of the three-story house, the avenue of live oaks to the Sound, the long pier, the terraced gardens and, far distant, the rectangular rock pool against the backdrop of the maritime forest. Hidden in the forest were the eight cabins. He nodded, clear now on the geography.

He walked into the pines, following a wide and well-defined path, growth cut back, crushed shells underfoot. He'd gone about twenty yards when he stopped in surprise. Two metal stanchions on either side of the path supported a chain. From the chain hung a sign. Red letters proclaimed:

 

PRIVATE

EMPLOYEES ONLY

CLOSED TO PUBLIC

DANGER

 

Well, he was an employee. He stepped over the chain. The path was narrower here but still well covered with oyster shells. Wet ferns brushed him, occasional drops of water splatted down as the wind rustled the pines.

The path split. Max hesitated, then veered to his left. The forest looked almost impenetrable to either side, hospitable to foxes, raccoons, cougars, perhaps even wild boars. He'd gone another twenty yards before he reached a clearing. Three modest cabins rose on pilings. He strode to the nearest, gave a swift look around, and thudded up the steps. He knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he turned the knob, stepped inside.

His eyes widened. The chairs, sofa, walls, and lampshades were pink. Dolls of every age, type, and description filled two bookcases. Plump, skinny, large and small dolls sat, lay, and stood. Rag dolls, porcelain dolls, Barbies. Max stepped to a desk in one corner. He pulled out a drawer, found a checkbook. Lucinda Phillips. He poked his head into the bedroom. Pink ruffles on the bed. A pink satin chair. More dolls.

Max regained the clearing with a feeling of relief. The second cabin was empty. Each bedroom contained a single bed, nightstand, vanity, and small armchair. The living room decor was as impersonal and unadorned as a hotel room—a sofa, two chairs. There
was no trace of occupancy, although one bedroom held a faint violet scent. Max's nose wriggled. His mother had always been fond of violet bath powder.

He paused at the front door for a final survey. At a guess, this cabin served as quarters for the maids, who, according to Britt, came and went. Apparently Golden Silk was presently without domestic staff.

In the living room of the third cabin, Max's nose wriggled again. Pipe smoke. A pipe rack, humidor, and heavy pottery ashtray in the shape of the state of Texas were the only items on top of a massive wooden desk. The furnishings were Spartan and clearly masculine, a brown leather sofa, a worn recliner, a rifle case, a boot-scarred pine coffee table. Hunting and fishing magazines were stacked atop a metal trunk beneath a front window.

Max's examination of the bedroom and its closet was cursory—work clothes, flannel shirts, a down jacket, a hunting vest, boots, boat shoes. Not a single suit. The chest held underclothing, sweaters, socks of all sorts.

Max was almost to the front door when he veered toward the desk. It had been easy enough to find the checkbook with Lucinda Phillips's name. He would do the same for Harry Lyle, though this was surely his cabin. Max pulled at the center drawer. The drawer didn't budge. The drawer was locked. He yanked at the side drawers. Locked, all three of them.

Max stared at the desk. Was Harry Lyle simply a very private man? Or did he have something in that desk that he couldn't afford for anyone to see?

Max looked again at the simple, spare furnishings of the living room. No photographs. No books. Nothing
to tell about the man who lived here. Was Harry Lyle a man who made little impression on his surroundings or was he avoiding any revelations about his past? Max's gaze paused at the rifle case. He walked to it. Locked, of course, as it should be. The rifle case was near the metal trunk. The back of the trunk faced the room. In two strides, Max reached the trunk, bent to see. A closed padlock hung from the hasps. It took only an instant to remove the magazines, attempt to lift one end. The trunk wasn't merely serving as a window seat. The trunk—the locked trunk—was chock-full of something heavy. Max replaced the magazines.

Max frowned in thought when he regained the main path. Harry Lyle's penchant for locking up his belongings might have no relevance to the death of Jeremiah Addison. On the other hand, it might be of critical importance. It would be interesting to see what kind of information Barb had dredged up about Harry Lyle. What was it Annie had said? First she'd suggested they look hardest at the guests who were not ordinarily invited to the island. But she had made the point that if the murderer usually was on the island, it made sense to fix the trap when others were present.

Max followed the path perhaps a quarter mile to another clearing. There were three wooden structures—a good-sized generator with a deep, steady hum, a storage shed, and a garbage compactor. He circled the buildings, more out of thoroughness than expectation. On the far side of the generator station, he saw a faint opening into the pines. Another trail. He hesitated, shrugged, plunged into the woods. This path was much fainter and obviously less traveled.

A crackling noise sounded ahead of him. Max stopped to listen.

 

Annie held the binoculars steady. Here came money and power, sleek blond hair, a tan cashmere coat, alligator handbag and pumps. The man a step behind her wore a blue-and-gray checked cashmere sport coat, gray worsted wool trousers, black tasseled loafers. Head high, regal as a queen, the woman held out her hand to Britt Barlow. The cluster of diamonds in her wedding ring glittered even in the weak sunlight.

Pretend
…

Millicent McRae—ambitious as Cleopatra—lusty as Mae West—enigmatic as Marlene Dietrich—impervious as Margaret Thatcher—a nimble intelligence—humorless—clever—oozing charm to Britt—why?

Nick McRae—possessive—arrogant—proud of his wife—one of his possessions—disdainful of social inferiors—expects subservience—reluctant to be here—

Britt shepherded her guests through the garden. They rounded the fountain and were out of sight.

Annie returned to the legal pad, began to write though she fought a growing fatigue. In the future she must make more allowances for Laurel. Empathy was heavy work.

 

Brush crackled again, twigs crushed underfoot, a rustle of vegetation.

Max called out, “Hello?”