Death at the Door (10 page)

Max had printed a montage of photos for Kevin and Irene. Annie understood the Kiwanis club president's appreciation of Irene. Perhaps someone had once told her she resembled Hollywood's icon of sex and beauty. There was a definite resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, shining blond hair, an inviting gaze, and full lips parted in a seductive smile. Annie glanced with interest at Kevin Hubbard, who had persuaded this flamboyant beauty—as exotic on the island as a scarlet macaw—to marry him. Slickly handsome, his dark hair was a little thin but he had deep-set brown eyes, a narrow nose, and a chiseled chin.

IRENE DOOLEY ROBERTS HUBBARD—36. Native Saint Louis. Dropped out of University of Missouri. First marriage to a drummer in a rock band ended in divorce. Worked as a clerk in several upscale women's boutiques, on weekends sold jewelry at flea markets. Came to the island with a friend on holiday, saw job listing in the
Gazette
for Estes Jewelry. Married Kevin Hubbard a year after arriving. Turned out to be a good golfer and soon was playing with Jane Corley, whom she met through Kevin.

Women's Golf Association president Charlotte White—“Irene's very good. Her only weakness is a tendency to think she can play even better than she can. She'll try a shot to make it over the water on eight with a three wood instead of laying up. That costs her. Definitely she's fun to play with. She always thinks she's going to win. If you want someone on the stand who projects confidence, she's your gal. And, of course, men on the jury will lust for her.”

Manicurist island salon Tasha Pritchard—“Big tipper. She always has a roll of green and she likes to spread the wealth. She always came in right after Jane Corley. Marked contrast. Jane tipped 15 percent. No more, no less. That's often true of people who have a lot of money. It's obvious Irene didn't grow up rich. But maybe people who come into money late enjoy it more.”

It was hard to look at Irene's photos, a woman supremely sure of her beauty and her sex appeal and imagine her planning a clever murder. But larger-than-life swagger might translate into the willingness to take chances. She wasn't a safe golfer. She'd found a comfortable niche on the island after her marriage to Kevin. Ben Parotti saw Jane Corley stride into the Corley Enterprises office apparently in a grim mood. Ben also thought Kevin was willing to cut corners. Annie thought about money and women with expensive tastes and Kevin at the birthday party, his face reminding Lucy Ransome of a rusted bucket.

Her cell rang, the opening bars to the original Joan Hickson
Miss Marple
TV series. Annie retrieved the phone. “Ingrid?”

The connection was spotty. “. . . fine . . . couple phone calls . . . must be stirring something up . . . kind of a hurried, breathy voice, woman, didn't give a name, conspiratorial like somebody might be listening . . . said you weren't here . . . looked at caller ID . . . listed for Sherry and Roger Gillette . . . does . . . plot thicke . . .” The connection ended.

A hurried call, apparently from Sherry Gillette. Annie pictured a woman with masses of curly dark hair and beseeching green eyes. Interesting. Or maybe not. Was Sherry Gillette calling because she knew something about Jane's murder? Or did she want to plump herself in the middle of an exciting moment? Annie felt a flicker of distaste, dropped the cell into her purse, and looked at the printout.

TOBY WYLER—52. Owner Wyler Art Gallery. Longtime island resident. Single. Known up and down the coast for finding and launching artists with an emphasis on American representational and Lowcountry impressionism. Had been the sole purveyor of Tom Edmonds's paintings until Jane Corley arranged for a show in Atlanta.

Local artist Cissy Moreland—“Toby knows his stuff. But a cross-examination might unleash his inner Katharine Kuh. Kuh was a great curator but she'd blow you away if you didn't measure up. Toby's not a man to mince his words either. He drives a hard bargain. He's launched a lot of artists around here. Tom Edmonds was his poster child until now. Or maybe that romance was already over. I understand Jane Corley ticked him off when she insisted on taking over managing Tom's career and would only let Toby have paintings on consignment, not an exclusive. But he gave Tom a big show just recently.”

Local contractor Carl Colson—“Will he have to testify about his current financials? I'd say there might be a problem there. I'm sure I'll get my money pretty soon, but I've got subcontractors to pay. I'll continue with the addition to the gallery as soon as I get paid.”

Toby Wyler was broad faced with bushy black hair, piercing dark eyes, a bold nose, thick black mustache, and jutting chin. He affected Tom Wolfe–style white suits à la Mark Twain and a wide-brimmed panama hat. He was pictured at the show for Tom Edmonds, bending low over Jane Corley's hand. Jane's expression was curious, a slight smile, an almost imperceptible quirk to her full lips. In another
Gazette
photo he stood behind a lectern, obviously at ease and enjoying himself. The caption read:
Art curator extols local painters
.

Toby Wyler was a man accustomed to the ways of artists. Using a sculptor's mallet as a weapon would be very natural and he was surely familiar with Tom Edmonds's studio.

The darkish line of the horizon had expanded. Only a few more minutes and the ferry would land. She moved on to the last guest at David Corley's party.

FRANKIE FORD—23. Native Little Rock, Ark. Father Charles a Methodist minister, small rural church in Bluffton. Mother Corrine Harrison Ford, dec. Only child. BFA in art history University of South Carolina. Worked on the island summers in college as a waitress, summer after junior year at Wyler's Art Gallery. Full-time after graduation. Particular interest 20th-century American painters.

Church secretary Martha Crawford—“Miss Frankie is as nice a girl as I've ever known. After her mama died, she pitched right in and did her best to help her father and she was always at the church when they needed an extra hand. She's right handy with tools, always helps make the booths for the fall festival and she can paint a backdrop that makes you feel like you're in Gay Paree at the Moulin Rouge or at the inn in Bethlehem.”

Sorority housemother Lucinda Merriweather—“Lovely girl. Went to church every Sunday. Of course, she's a clergyman's daughter, but even so . . . I understand she owes quite a bit on her student loans. She always worked hard. Any jury would think she's a peach. Her friends . . . let me see . . .”

Annie did sense that Frankie was uncomfortable about her connection to Tom. Yet she'd stayed on the island and continued to care more for a married man than she should. A girl from her background surely had strayed a long way from what she had been taught.

Former boyfriend Buddy Howard—“I don't know about a courtroom. She's kind of fragile. Really fun and smart, but she can lose it when things go wrong. I mean, I was just kidding around with this other girl, didn't mean a thing, but when Frankie found out, I think she would have shot me if she'd had a gun.”

Marsh grass wavered in the breeze. The tug headed for the deep water of a bay. Slash pines rose dark and somber on either side of a small clearing. The ferry eased her way to the dock, bumped against the rubber tires lashed to the concrete pilings. Annie took the steps down two at a time and hurried to her car in the center lane. She slid behind the wheel, smelled diesel fuel, car fumes, salt water. As she waited for the ramp to lower, she ignored the photos of Frankie. She knew what Frankie looked like. As her eyes slid past the photos to the entry on Tom Edmonds, she was struck by the stark contrast between Frankie in happier days and Annie's memory of Frankie this morning. She turned on the motor, read fast.

THE MAN WHO WASN'T THERE

TOM EDMONDS—29. Native of Greenville. Only child. Parents divorced. Father Charles a bush pilot in Alaska. Mother Doreen high school history teacher. Graduate BFA University of South Carolina, MFA ditto. Winner art awards in high school and at the university. Oil paintings recognized in recent juried shows. Establishing a reputation as a modern Edward Hopper.

Gazette
feature by Marian Kenyon about Tom as a local artist. “Edmonds's talents range from watercolors to oil painting to sculpture to wood carving to silversmithing. On his desk sits a quote from Edward Hopper carved in mahogany: ‘Maybe I am not very human—what I wanted to do was paint sunlight on the side of a house.'”

Art critic Mario Costello—“I haven't decided whether to classify Edmonds as a figurative realist or a postmodernist. Then he'll do a painting that reminds me of a young Gauguin. Fascinating possibilities. He's a very young man. I can testify as to his stature as an artist, but beyond that . . . I'm sorry to hear he's facing trial. On the several occasions that I spent time with him, I had the impression of a man consumed by art. I rather thought he and his wife had a good relationship. Of course, it's always wise for an impecunious artist to have a sponsor, and she was a very attractive and very wealthy woman.”

Art professor Mark Quilley—“Never knew him to think about anything but his art. Like most artists, bound up in an interior world, the only reality the brush in his hand, the canvas on the easel. Funny to me that a man like Tom can see colors most of us can never imagine but the people around him might as well be stick figures.”

The pickup in front of her belched an oily plume of black smoke from its exhaust. Annie punched the window buttons and tried not to breathe. As the car rolled up the slight incline and onto the concrete pier, she dropped the last sheet onto the passenger seat. Loblolly pines made the road shadowy but perhaps not as shadowy as her thoughts. The Hopper quote ran through mind: “Maybe I am not very human—what I wanted to do was paint sunlight on the side of a house.”

B
illy Cameron's face was set in his stolid cop look, impervious, tough, seen-it-all, spare-me-hokum. “We got facts, Max. Marian spins a sob-sister yarn with the best of them, but nothing changes facts. I will admit that when she was working on the story”—his tone was grudging—“she called, filled me in, shot the question: ‘Does new information concerning the death of Paul Martin reopen the investigation into the murder of Jane Corley?' I told her what I'm telling you, nothing alters the case against the accused.”

Max opened his briefcase, pulled out a folder with another copy of his findings. He placed the folder on Billy's varnished yellow oak desk. “Jane Corley was a wealthy and powerful woman.” His tone was mild. “She controlled the Corley money. Her brother, David, depended on her largesse. David may have been in hock to the Palmetto Players.”

Nothing moved in Billy's steady gaze.

Max knew Billy was familiar with gambling spots on the island, whether in rusted-tin-roof shacks or a stately mansion. “David was seen at PP with a bulky escort walking toward Jason Brown's office.” Max tapped the folder. “Madeleine Corley claimed she was home all afternoon that Monday. She wasn't. Kate Murray professes shock at Jane's death, but the cook says Kate was furious with Jane a week before her murder. Jane and Sherry Gillette quarreled. Jane was interfering in Sherry Gillette's marriage. The week before she died, Jane entered the offices of Corley Enterprises where Kevin Hubbard keeps the books and Jane looked like a woman who wasn't happy.”

Billy folded his arms across his burly chest. “Give it up, Max. I'll share a piece of evidence if you give me your word you won't leak it to Marian.”

Max studied Billy's confident, untroubled face. Billy was smart and careful. If he found evidence, the evidence had been there. Max had an empty feeling in his gut. Maybe Lucy Ransome was wrong, maybe the drawing was irrelevant, maybe Paul referred to some other Jane entirely, maybe Paul had always had a gun in his lower desk drawer, maybe they needed to rethink what they were doing. “I won't leak anything.”

Billy looked sympathetic, then he was brisk. “Officer Harrison executed a search of the outside premises of the Corley mansion.”

Max pictured Hyla Harrison, red hair often drawn back into a severe bun, her somewhat pale face sprinkled by freckles, unsmiling, serious, intent, trim in a crisp uniform.

“She followed protocol, started on the far side of the terrace, worked her way back and forth, checked patio furniture, drains, shrubbery. She hit the jackpot in a big urn outside the door into the family room. There was wadded-up cloth stuffed into a clump of great blue lobelias. She saw a stalk listing to one side, used her gloves, carefully pulled the stalks apart.” He loomed up from his chair, a big man who could move lightly. He stepped to a bank of metal filing cabinets, pulled out a drawer, riffled through files, retrieved one. He came around the desk, opened the folder, and handed it to Max.

Max wasn't surprised by the clarity of the photographs. He doubted there was any technical phase of investigation that Hyla Harrison wouldn't perform with excellence. Color, of course. Five photos. 1. 10/21—Dingy wad of cloth stuffed down near the base of the plant. 2. 10/21—Gloved hands holding the flower stalks apart, cloth visible. 3. 10/21—Cloth contained in oversized clear plastic bag, identifying tag visible: Hidden cloth found in urn next to door on terrace of Corley home. 4. 10/22—Unfolded to full size: Front view XL artist smock, polyester-cotton, chamois color, streaked with oil paints, darker splotches ID'd as human blood. (10/23 test confirmed blood spatters from homicide victim Jane Corley.) 5. 10/22—Back view XL artist smock, polyester-cotton, chamois color, some paint smudges, no blood stains.

Billy took the folder from Max, replaced it in the file cabinet. When he settled back in his chair, he built a steeple with his fingers. “We found matching fibers from both the studio and family room. The smock was one of a half dozen Edmonds kept in an armoire next to the north wall in his studio. Sorry, Max. This time you're backing the wrong horse.”

•   •   •

S
unlight slanted through a series of small windows, accessible only by a ladder. The remote windows emphasized the reality that the only means of entering or exiting the long narrow room was through steel doors. A mesh screen rose five feet from a counter that divided the room. Chairs sat on either side. A uniformed officer with an impassive brown face led Annie to the third chair, then withdrew to stand with her back against a dun-colored wall, arms folded.

The only other visitor was four chairs down from Annie. A rotund guard with a sleepy gaze stood next to the wall behind a forlorn woman hunched forward to stare through the mesh. She murmured in a voice too soft to be overheard. A young man with a soft downy fuzz on his cheeks turned his face away. Annie saw him swallow convulsively.

A big metal door swung open on the prisoner side of the mesh. Tom Edmonds moved slowly. A balding, stocky guard with a thin black mustache jerked an impatient thumb. Tom paused and looked toward Annie. She saw that he had no idea who she was. Perhaps that was not surprising. The only time they'd met was at the open house the Sunday before Paul Martin died. He hesitated, the guard said something.

Tom watched her as he came toward the counter. He dropped into the chair. “They said Frankie sent you.” His brown eyes were wary. “That's nice of her. I guess she feels sorry for me because I don't have any family here.” He spoke formally as if speaking of a distant acquaintance.

Annie dropped her voice, although she didn't think the guard behind her was interested in what prisoners and their visitors said. The guards were there to wait and escort visitors out.

“I'm Annie Darling. Frankie asked my husband and me to help and we have new evidence that proves you are innocent.” Quickly she described Max and Confidential Commissions, the drawing in Paul Martin's desk, Paul's death, and the fact that Tom was absent from the island the night Paul died.

Tom's eyes widened. “You mean they're going to let me out?” He looked around at the guard standing by the door, arms behind his back.

“Right now the police don't believe us. That's why I'm here. I hope you know something that can help us find out what happened.”

He let out a breath, his face abruptly defeated. “They still think it's me.” His voice was dull.

“Yes, but if we can find different evidence, the police will have to listen.” She wished she could grip his thin shoulders, give them a shake. “We've already discovered a lot. We know the murderer was at David's party.”

Tom put his long-fingered hands on the opposite counter. Even through the mesh she could see the flexibility and suppleness in those hands, still stained by paint. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. “Somebody at David's party?”

She could imagine those lean fingers holding a brush, firm on the handle of a mallet. She jerked her eyes away and rattled off the names. “David and Madeleine Corley, Sherry Gillette, Kate Murray, Kevin and Irene Hubbard, Toby Wyler, Frankie Ford. You weren't at the party, but you were at the art gallery open house on Sunday and all of those people were there. Did you see Paul Martin talking to any of them?” Even as she finished, she saw his blankness.

“That night . . . we sold three paintings. Jane was pleased.” For an instant, an expression of incredulity touched his face. “Jane . . . I couldn't believe it when I found her lying on the floor. The sun was coming through the French windows and the parquet flooring had this rich golden color. Except for the blood. The blood was bright, bright, bright red.” His voice quivered. “I don't know if I can finish the sculpture. I needed for Jane to be here. I needed to have her in the studio and look at her face—the planes of the cheek, the strength of her jaw.”

Annie felt a curl of dismay. A woman—his wife—died and he was afraid her death might prevent him from creating a sculpture.

Oblivious, he continued in the same querulous tone. “That sculpture can be the best thing I've ever done.” Now his look was earnest. “Jane was”—his face crinkled in thought—“like the most alive person you ever saw. She walked into a room and everything changed. It was like she had electricity. I can get that. Marble's cold but think about the
Pietà
,
The Kiss
. If you have the right subject, there's magic.” He slumped back in the hard wood chair. “Now, she's gone.”

Annie gazed at him and knew Tom was innocent. If she had ever had any doubts of his innocence, she didn't now. Jane alive meant everything to him as an artist. Yes, he was self-absorbed enough to do whatever he had to do for his work. Yes, he had very likely married Jane to advance his career. Had he ever loved her? Perhaps not, but he had been attracted by her overwhelming vitality. He loved Frankie, but Frankie, too, would take second place to the work in progress or the painting he had to do or the sculpture he envisioned. If Jane had lived, Tom might very well have turned away from Frankie because the sculpture of Jane was—to him—as essential as breath itself.

He felt her gaze, looked up. “I don't think the painting will be enough. Maybe it will. It's one of my best, the way the sunlight touches her face, streaks the water. Maybe it will.”

“Who wanted Jane dead?” The question sounded harsh. Perhaps she wanted it to be. “Who killed her?”

He blinked those large brown eyes, seemed to bring her into focus. “Who?” It was as if this were the first time he had considered the question.

“She was struck from behind with your mallet. Only someone familiar with you and your studio would know about the mallet.”

“My mallet.” Again he looked aggrieved. “It was just the right weight and balance when I worked.”

Coldness enveloped Annie. His work. His tool. Was that all that mattered to him? “How far is your studio from the terrace?”

He brushed back a lock of curling brown hair. “Maybe three hundred yards. The location's perfect. A path at the bottom of the rose garden leads into the pines. It's a nice walk. Peaceful. The building's in a clearing, so light comes through the skylight and the windows. Wonderful light.”

Annie persisted. “Was everyone at David's party familiar with your studio?”

He looked vaguely puzzled. “Yeah, Jane liked to show it off. They'd all been there.”

“Do you lock the studio when you aren't there?”

“Never did.” He suddenly looked worried. “Maybe with everything's that happened, the studio should be locked up. You know how people kind of hang around places where bad things have happened even though the house and grounds are really private. Especially the studio. Will you ask Kate to be sure it's locked? It would be awful if someone got in there and messed things up.”

The totality of his self-absorption was stunning. Did he ever see anything around him except in relationship to himself? She had doubts. Still, if anyone should have had a sense of Jane's ups and downs, surely it was the man who lived with her. She spoke without thinking, trying to understand. “Did you and Jane share a bedroom?”

Those long strong fingers combed through soft brown hair. “Well, yeah. She was my wife.” His eyes slid away from her.

Annie felt a quick certainty that yes, indeed, they shared a room and a bed and that he had been drawn to her vitality as a man and a lover, despite Frankie's growing hold on his affection.

He was awkward suddenly. “You had to know Jane. She was”—he spread those lean hands—“a remarkable woman.”

“Someone who knew her well—and knew your studio—killed her. Who was angry with Jane? Or feared her?”

His broad forehead furrowed in thought. “It was kind of like the sun and planets. Everybody was dim when Jane was around.” He seemed to search for words. “I think she was worried about something, those last few days. She was kind of like . . . different. Kind of like she was looking over her shoulder.”

He was inarticulate, but Annie understood his meaning. Tom had picked up on an aura, Jane sensing danger. “Did she mention anyone in particular?”

Tom gave a
whuff
of suppressed laughter. “Jane mentioned everything and everybody all the time. David was driving her nuts. He always wanted money. She was irritated with Madeleine. I saw them in the garden one afternoon the week before Jane died. I'd never seen Madeleine look like that.” His artist's eye had noticed. “Almost sloppy, the way she was dressed and she had that little terrier in her arms and it kept yipping and Madeleine was talking like she couldn't get words out fast enough and Jane was shaking her head. I ducked out the other way. You don't want to get too near when women are tossing words at each other. Same thing with Sherry. Every time I saw Sherry and Jane, Jane was issuing orders and Sherry was tossing her head—she needs to cut that hair—and clutching her throat. I think she saw too many reruns of the old silent movies.” He threw back his head, clapped his hands on his throat and his expressive face mirrored in turn: Shock. Dismay. Despair. Fury. Tom did them perfectly, a pitch-perfect mimicry.

Annie wondered what had been the subject of Madeleine's encounters with Jane.

Tom shook his head. “Too damn many women in that house. Kate Murray wanted to be the big cheese. She and Jane had it out over a redesign of the rose garden.” He looked doubtful. “Nobody kills somebody because of a bunch of damn plants.”

Annie agreed. Unless the quarrel had been deeper, a struggle for dominance and the disagreement over the garden a final precipitating quarrel. “Who inherits?”

He looked blank.

“Jane's estate.”

“I get some of it, the house and the studio and all my paintings. Kate can have the house. The studio has sleeping quarters, so I'm fine with that.” He flicked a glanced at the mesh and counter. “If I ever get out of here.”