Murder Walks the Plank (16 page)

Her eyes dropped again to the sheet and Max's conclusion:

Annie wriggled against the hot leather car seat. No, money was not going to be the motive for Meg's murder. Unless…

Annie brushed back damp curls. She almost popped out of the car to go up to the second deck and the small snack bar. Ben Parotti, who owned the ferry as well as the
Island Packet
excursion boat and the restaurant and a Gas 'n Go, never overlooked a possibility for profit. Right this minute she was desperate for a tall frosty bottle of water. Her lips were dry and her tongue parched. She looked out across the water and the heat haze shimmering above the pea-green surface. She willed herself to stay put. It was only another half mile to shore, and she wanted to finish the dossiers before she set off to find the pier at the end of Slash Pine Road.

Annie slowly closed the folder. Max's information, gleaned from credit reports and most likely a church friend or neighbor, was in keeping with the cook's stolid demeanor. But the matter-of-fact report gave no hint of a woman familiar with Anastasia. It was a lesson all good detectives should remember: Don't be misled by surface appearances.

Surface appearances…

Pamela Potts spent her days helping others. Could there be more to her bland existence than appeared on the surface?

Meg Heath clearly was a woman who had followed her own desires. By all accounts, devil take the hindmost was the leitmotiv of her life. Who was to have been the sixth guest at her table tonight?

Jenna Brown Carmody wasn't devastated by her mother's death and she resented any suggestion of foul play.

Jason Carmody had the reputation of a ne'er-do-well, but his mother adored him.

Claudette Taylor appeared to be a cheerful servitor to Meg Heath. She had been Meg's husband's personal secretary. Claudette had never married. She'd stayed with Meg after Duff Heath's death. Surely that argued fondness for the widow. Claudette didn't seem to be in debt, but she was among those whose savings went down with Enron. How important to her was an inheritance from Meg?

Imogene Riley was matter-of-fact and calm, showing little emotion about the death of her mistress. Yet in her last meeting with Meg, Imogene remembered her as looking really special, like a grand duchess or a movie star.

Surface appearances…

The hoarse whistle of the
Miss Jolene
signaled the approaching shore. Annie dropped the folder on the passenger seat. The ferry jolted up to the dock. As the ramp lowered, she turned on the motor. She stared grimly ahead as the cars slowly bumped off the ferry. Emma better have something good up the sleeve of her caftan. Slash Pine Road and a password!

T
HE NEWSROOM OF THE
Island Gazette
had an air of spent calm similar to that of a beach after a storm or a deserted stadium after a big game, lots of litter and nobody around. The huge gray wastebasket near the newsroom printer overflowed with crumpled computer paper. Styrofoam cups half filled with cold coffee, discarded candy wrappers, and wadded-up fast-food sacks cluttered newsroom desks. The monitors glowed an inviting green, but the desk chairs were unoccupied. The deadline for tomorrow's
Gazette
had come and gone, and the troops had withdrawn from the front line for R&R.

“Hi, Lisa.” Max waved hello to the receptionist, a svelte blonde with a ready smile and a sharp gaze.

“Marian around?”

Lisa pointed down a hallway near the printer. “Coffee room.” She started to rise. “I'll get her.”

Max opened the swinging gate that led past a counter into the newsroom. “That's okay. I know the way.”

Lisa settled back in her chair. “Do you know an eight-letter word for an Australian eucalyptus tree?”

Max was crossing the newsroom. “Ironbark.”

He heard a muffled whoop as he opened the door to the coffee room.

Star reporter Marian Kenyon sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, back straight, arms folded. Marian's salt-and-pepper black hair stuck out in odd tangles, most likely disarranged by frantic hand swipes as she worked. An empty one-ounce sack of roasted peanuts was crumpled beside the can of Pepsi in front of her. One arm unfolded. The can was seized, lifted to vivid red lips. Marian combined chewing and drinking, returned the can to the floor. “Whatever it is”—she didn't open her eyes—“come back next week.”

Max pulled out a straight chair from the table, turned it around to straddle. He folded his arms on the back, prepared to bargain. “Like they say in literate crime flicks, quid pro quo.”

One dark eye opened, regarded him without warmth. “I haven't seen a literate crime film since
Chinatown
. As for you, it better be good. I'm down to my last quantum of energy. Saturday night we picked up the report of a man found shot to death. I got the bulletin written, then went out to the crime scene. Sunday night I came back on the last ferry from Savannah and got the scoop on Pamela's plunge from the
Island Packet.
I was the early bird at Billy Cameron's office this morning and nobody tells the press nada until my deadline is closer than a guillotine to a French aristocrat's neck. Then from the funeral home we get”—she turned up fingers one by one—“a well-known community do-gooder dying as the result of her fall from the excursion boat and the unexpected death of an island socialite who was once a world-class model. Then it turns out the murder victim in snazzy clothes has no ID. I had to get the facts and write the copy for all three
stories by noon. Do you know how many inches I wrote between eleven twenty-five and noon? Do you care? I care. Seventy-two inches. In thirty-five minutes. It may be my personal best.” She closed the eye, raised the Pepsi, drank, and chewed.

The eyelid fell, but Max noted that her face had lifted and turned toward him. Were the eyelids slitted? Whatever, Marian was alert and listening.

Max dangled his bait. “I might be a Deep Throat”—would the truth behind the elusive source used by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein ever be revealed?—“with some interesting stuff about Pamela and Meg.” Emma Clyde would be appalled at leaking suspicion of murder to the press, but Max figured Annie's accusations would surely be known to the murderer, if murderer there was. If both deaths were accidental, no harm done.

Marian's dark eyes popped wide. “What'cha got?”

“Some questions you might want to ask Chief Cameron.” His smile was pleasant. And innocent. “Guaranteed to raise hackles at the cop shop.”

Marian finished off the Pepsi and peanuts, stiffly rose. She scooted a chair to face Max, perched on the edge, dark eyes bright and penetrating. “And you want what?”

“Everything you know about the unidentified man found shot to death near Ghost Crab Pond.” Max fished a small notebook from his pocket.

“The cop shop questions?” She reached into a wastebasket, retrieved crumpled computer sheets, turned them to the blank side, and pulled a pen from her pocket.

Max wasn't surprised. Marian's fearsome reputation as a reporter who always got her story hadn't re
sulted from being an easy touch. She would judge the worth of his offering before sharing what she knew above and beyond the official statements. “Who gave Pamela Potts a free ticket to the mystery cruise and why? Pamela apparently fell from a ledge on the far side of a chained-off area by a lifeboat. Pamela was deathly afraid of heights, so how—”

Marian wrote fast, her face scrunched in concentration.

“—did she end up on that ledge? Why was a scrap from a garbage bag snagged in the bottom of the lifeboat where she went over? Pamela Potts visited Meg Heath Friday morning.” He let a long pause provide emphasis. “She was scheduled to see Meg this morning.” Another pause. “So”—he made the linkage clear—“this morning Pamela died and Meg Heath was found dead from an overdose of Valium. How was it administered? Why did Meg plan a celebratory dinner for tonight? Who were the guests to be? And finally”—his tone was pleasant—“the
Gazette
might inquire if the police plan to release a plea for anyone with information about Pamela or Meg's final days to contact them.”

Marian's eyes glittered. “Billy Cameron didn't mention Pamela or Meg, and he sure as hell never suggested either was a homicide victim. I get it. Billy's probably opted for accident with Pamela, suicide with Meg.” She shook her head, curls quivering. “Just like a guy. Any woman would know better.” Her glance at Max was piercing. “I'll bet there was a Private or No Trespass or No Admittance sign on the chain by the ledge. Pamela was born to follow the rules. As for Meg Heath, giving up wasn't in her game plan. I'll start
with Doc Burford, go from there.” She wrote with a flourish, wadded the folded sheets into her pocket.

Max flipped open his notebook, waited, pen poised.

Marian's bright dark eyes scoured his face. “You want info on the dead stranger. How come?”

Max didn't point out that his motives weren't part of the bargain. Right this minute Marian held the cards. Besides, he didn't mind revealing Annie's reasoning. Marian knew Annie well enough not to be surprised. “Annie's convinced there has to be a link between Pamela getting shoved off the boat and Meg overdosing. Annie's theory is that maybe the two of them knew something about the dead man.” It sounded weak as he explained. “Or maybe it would mean something special to them if they found out he'd been shot.”

“So somebody kills them to keep them from finding out this guy was shot Saturday night?” Marian stretched her face in disbelief. “Sounds pretty damn drastic. But for what it's worth…” She briefly pressed the tips of her fingers against her temples, took a deep breath. “Got a tip there was a crime scene about eleven o'clock Saturday night. Enough for a bulletin in the Sunday paper. I buzzed out there. The mosquitos and chiggers were big enough to have served in Patton's Tank Corps.” She pointed at a series of red welts on her wrists. “I was smart enough to wear long sleeves, but the damn things bit me right through the cloth. I'll probably get West Nile.

“Anyway”—a weary sigh—“a Boy Scout troop on a campout found the body.” For an instant her gamine face lost its tough patina. “Poor guys. Bad stuff to see when you still think you're invincible.” She scrabbled in the other pocket of her slacks, dragged out a sack of hard candies, popped a red ball in her mouth. She
sucked, gave Max a level look. “Not good even when you know life's like walking across a bog. You can get sucked down without warning. Anyway”—she rolled the candy to a corner of one cheek—“they were almost finished when I got there. Doc Burford had left. Floodlights were set up on the corners, body still in situ. Looked like he'd been shot and the force knocked him down. He was on his back, wedged between a saw palmetto and an old log. One hand clutched at his chest. Congealed blood on his fingers. I'd guess he died pretty quick. Doc Burford can probably tell you. Nifty clothes—-if you ignored the blood. White-and-blue-striped blazer, pink linen shirt, white trousers. Pretty pricey stuff. Even white shoes. He'd been a good-looking guy. Silver hair now, probably blond when he was young. Trim little mustache. Kind of reminded me of an older Jeff Kent.” Her eyes warmed. Marian was a big-time baseball fan. “Slick.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Doesn't sound like the kind of guy to be wandering around a swamp.”

The reporter nodded, her wiry curls bouncing. “You got that one right. Now get the rest of the picture. The body's lying next to this rough track. It's not a road, just a couple of sandy ruts. The track comes off Marsh Tacky Road and dead-ends at Ghost Crab Pond.”

Max knew the area well. Ghost Crab Pond was part of King Snake Park, a pocket of wilderness that abutted the developed area around the golf course. It had been the site of the murder of a mysterious island resident several years ago.

“Okay. The body's on the ground next to the sandy lane.” Marian leaned forward. “You remember that torrential downpour we had last Friday?”

Knowing Marian, Max assumed that the weather
detail was not a non sequitur. “Washed out my golf game.” He'd missed playing, but all had not been lost. He remembered the passionate afternoon with Annie. As he'd later told her, a rainy day has its own charm.

“Buckets of rain. Tropical storm number whatever. Water still standing in the ruts. I took a good look at his shoes. Whiter than Casper in a spotlight.” Her bright eyes locked with Max's.

Max got it. “He didn't walk there. You haven't mentioned a car.”

“No car there. Just the body. But he must have come in a car. If he'd been on a bike or scooter there would have been mud splashes on those white pants.” Marian brushed back a wiry curl, still looked unkempt as a sheepdog. “There are tire tread prints. You can see where a car backed and turned. Interesting thing is that no effort was made to obscure those prints. However”—she paused for emphasis—“there were a couple of places on the track near the body where the ground looked like it had been swept over with the fronds of a palm tree. Now why”—she propped her pointed chin on a fist—“would anybody clean up footprints and not worry about the car treads?”

Max sketched the outline of a car. “Because there is no link between the car and the murderer?”

“That's my take.” Her tone was approving. “Either the car belonged to the victim or maybe it was a rental car.”

“A tourist?” Max frowned. “What's a stranger doing out there?”

Marian punched a fist into a palm. “Following directions.” Her voice was silky. “Let's say our dandy guy is on his way somewhere with a passenger. That passenger knows the island damn well. A stranger
wouldn't have a clue that the road dead-ends at Ghost Crab Pond and is, as a matter of fact, damn remote and a perfect spot for homicide. I see it this way. The victim picks up somebody. We don't know who or why, but the passenger gives directions. Go this way. Turn here. The car fetches up at the dead end. The road runs east-west up to the pond. The body was on the south side of the tracks. That makes me think the victim was driving. He stopped the car, got out. Why? Maybe the passenger got out first, saying he'd check to see if they were going the right way. Maybe instead he—or she—came around the car, pulled a gun, ordered the driver out, shot him. Then the killer picked up a handy frond, dusted out all the footprints, got in the car, drove like hell.”

Max tapped his pen on the pad. “No ID on the victim.”

“According to police, there was no wallet, nothing in his pockets but some change. Of course, that suggests robbery was the motive.” She pursed her lips.

“His clothes were expensive.”

Max looked skeptical. The island had its share of crime, but holdups resulting in murder weren't the norm. “It could have been a drug deal gone wrong”—that kind of crime occurred everywhere along the coast—“but I don't think a holdup is likely.”

“Probably not. Anyway, I'm sure Billy's got his prints, sent them out. But…” Her shrug was eloquent. There might be a military record, perhaps even a police record. Matching up prints would take time and luck. “I'd say for sure he wasn't a local. I don't claim to know everybody on the island, but I know most of the gentry. I'm betting he was a tourist. If he was a tourist, hell, he could have come from anywhere. Billy
sent out a bulletin with the description. Unless somebody turns in a missing persons report, he may always be the mystery man of Ghost Crab Pond.”

Max shut his notebook. A tourist. The island was crammed now with vacationing families. But somebody might have noticed a handsome older man in a striped blazer and white trousers. Max pushed up from the chair. “You say he looked like an older Jeff Kent? That gives me an idea.”

 

Slash Pine Road twisted and curled through the maritime forest, ending at a stand of cane. This was nature in the raw, the woods as early explorers found it, wild and overgrown, huge pines swaying in the breeze, dead trees poking out of ferns and tangled bushes, live oak limbs meeting overhead to create a dim tunnel swarming with flies, gnats, mosquitos, horseflies, and bumblebees. Annie peered through milky green light and spotted a faint break in the cane, possibly a path. Reluctantly she stepped out of the car, flapped her hands to dispel a cloud of no-see-ums. The hot air hummed with the distinctive rasp of cicadas and chirp of crickets. Pine straw blanketed the ground. There could be snakes. In fact, snakes were a certainty, everything from scarlet kings to cottonmouths. She edged slowly forward, watching the ground, stepping slowly and cautiously. It was only fifteen or twenty yards on the path to the edge of the Sound, but she grudged every step. What was Emma up to?