Death at the Door (14 page)

Max figured David now had a pretty clear idea that the gentility of the old plantation house didn't include the man with the skull on his desk.

“Sure, I agreed, no more gambling.” His face drooped. “If I hadn't been thinking about my own sorry ass, maybe she would have told me more. If she had, maybe we'd have some idea who . . . hurt her. I want to help anybody who'll find out what happened. You. The cops. Anybody. Damn, if only I'd paid attention to what she said.”

Max understood his anguish, but maybe he knew more than he realized. “What did she tell you?”

David looked uncomfortable. “I can't promise any of this really means anything. She was talking and I wasn't paying a lot of attention. But this morning when I thought back”—he hesitated—“well, I don't want to toss anybody overboard but I remember she said something about Kevin.” He rubbed knuckles against his cheeks. “Something about Kevin and sticky fingers.”

•   •   •

S
un splashed the front steps of the police station. TV cameras from Savannah stations were set up and smooth-faced, blond reporters in stylish suits waited with mics in hand. A crowd of perhaps twenty-five or thirty clustered beyond the cameras, jostling for a good view. The breeze off the harbor stirred Marian Kenyon's short dark curls. The blond TV reporters apparently used enough spray to prevent even a ripple in their coiffures. The blondes teetered on high heels, gripped their mics. Marian kept one hand on the strap of her Leica. She waved her other hand at Annie and the trio.

Annie felt a touch at her elbow. She half turned, smiled up at Max. She felt a quick flicker of happiness as she always did when he was present, followed by an immediate recognition of a dark shadow in his eyes. He knew something that would upset her.

He saw her understanding, started to speak, then the front door of the station opened. He nodded toward the steps. “I'm afraid we won't hear what we'd hoped for.” Mayor Cosgrove stepped outside, followed by Billy Cameron. Annie marveled at the penguin-shaped mayor's ability to win reelection, but he was a good retail politician, never missing a beauty pageant, chili supper, or civic club luncheon. This morning he was attired in a natty silver gray Palm Beach suit, pink oxford-cloth shirt, and gray tie with pink stripes. Annie wished she could toss him a cane and top hat and suggest a riff from “Puttin' on the Ritz.”

In contrast, Billy looked stolid and weary. He was clean-shaven and dressed in crisply starched khaki shirt and trousers. Dark smudges beneath his eyes told of little sleep. He stood a pace behind the mayor, gazed out with an unreadable expression.

Mayor Cosgrove puffed up his chest, carefully keeping his head erect for the best camera view.

The nearest TV blonde shouted, “Did a newspaper story”—she was careful not to mention the competition by name—“unmask a second murder on the island in less than a week and lead to arson that put a victim's sister in the hospital?”

The portly mayor showered her with a condescending smile, white molars gleaming. “Island residents can rest assured that I”—dignified emphasis—“am making sure that proper investigative procedures are followed and sensationalism in the press is ignored.”

The blonde wasn't fazed. “The hospitalized woman spoke out about her brother's murder and—”

The mayor held up a pudgy hand. “Only facts matter. Fact one: Paul Martin's death, sadly”—his face momentarily reflected sadness—“was self-inflicted. The police investigation left no stone unturned. Forensic evidence found gunsmoke residue on the doctor's right hand. His fingerprints—”

Annie looked past the mayor at Billy, but his face was still unreadable. Did he believe the twaddle the mayor was spouting?

“—on the barrel of the gun, a contact wound on his right temple. Fact two: The murder of Jane Corley is a separate investigation. There is no linkage between Dr. Martin's death and Jane Corley's murder.” His tone was long-suffering. “Notwithstanding unfortunate reportage, there is no confirmation of the information provided to the
Gazette
by Mrs. Lucy Ransome.”

Marian stalked close to the steps, confrontation in every line of her skinny frame. “Did Mrs. Ransome show police the sketch drawn by Dr. Martin the night before his death?”

The mayor drew himself up. “Dr. Martin's sketch is irrelevant—”

Marian interrupted. “Did Mrs. Ransome state for the record that Dr. Martin seemed relieved from anxiety after the birthday party at the home of David Corley?”

“We cannot know the inner workings of Dr. Martin's—”

Marian cut him off. “The sketch exists. On that sketch Dr. Martin wrote:
An open house, a hard heart. Evil in a look. I saw it. I'll deal with it at the party.
Moreover, he wrote and underlined twice:
Protect Jane
. Dr. Martin attended an open house arranged by Jane Corley at an island gallery on Sunday. Dr. Martin drew the sketch Tuesday night. Dr. Martin attended a party Wednesday night at the home of David Corley. Jane Corley was in attendance. Dr. Martin was shot later that night. Jane Corley was murdered the following Monday. Now, Mayor Cosgrove, please explain how the sketch has no relevance to the deaths of Paul Martin and Jane Corley and”—her voice rose—“how arson at Dr. Martin's house is unrelated to this sequence of events.”

The mayor's plump cheeks flamed.

Annie knew he would never admit he'd made a wrong decision. Possibly, too, he resented Annie and Max from their previous encounters and Marian because she never gave up on a story once she began.

The mayor's deep-set, small eyes glinted. “Police Chief Cameron's thorough work has resulted in the arrest of the guilty party in the death of Jane Corley. Tom Edmonds, her husband, was involved in an extramarital affair. A hammer that belonged to him and has only his fingerprints was used to kill his wife. There is further material evidence that is linked to him. The
Gazette
's sensational article apparently gave some person interested in freeing Mr. Edmonds the idea of setting Dr. Martin's house on fire to suggest that the murderer was someone other than Mr. Edmonds. Fortunately, I and the Broward's Rock Police Department understand the arson was nothing more than a diversionary tactic.”

•   •   •

T
hey stood at the end of Fish Haul Pier, the nearest spot from the police station for a somewhat private conversation. Max admired the way the breeze molded Annie's soft peasant blouse against her. His mother brushed back a sliver of blond hair and smiled at him. Henny tapped the fingers of one hand on the railing. Her dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration. Emma stood with arms akimbo, her blunt face corrugated in a ferocious frown.

Max had a sudden empathy for the man in white tie and tails in a ring with Bengal tigers. He thought Jane's murderer might prefer the tigers to the unleashed efforts of Annie and the Intrepid Trio. Each talked fast, Emma's deep voice brusque, Laurel's husky pronouncement emphatic, Henny's brisk comments decisive, Annie's clear tenor outraged, all of them furious with the mayor's intransigence.

“We're all agreed.” He hoped to stem the rush of words, all trumpeting fury at the mayor and a determination to find out what they could and prove him wrong.

Four sets of eyes turned on him.

“Definitely we can talk to people. I got Annie's text just before the press conference saying I should check out David Corley and Jason Brown. I've already talked to David. He came by to see me this morning. He'll help us. He said Jane kind of told him she was spooked about something but he was wrought up about his gambling debts and didn't listen. She came through and promised to cover him. He did say that Jane talked about Kevin Hubbard having sticky fingers.”

Emma's smile was cool. “Thanks, Max. I'll remember that when I talk to Kevin.” She looked at each in turn, a general deploying her troops. “Very well. Our mission is understood. Proceed as planned.”

O
verhead, long-necked, black-wing-tipped southward-bound ibis shared the sky with vees of geese. The morning was perfect for a stroll along the boardwalk overlooking the harbor, a pleasure Annie intended to enjoy before perfect October weather gave way to northerly winds and chilly rains. But rain might as well be slanting down for all the pleasure she could take in the day. As she drove, she glanced at the Broward's Rock Police Station at the crest of the slope leading down to the harbor. The view from Billy Cameron's office included the harbor with the
Miss Jolene
now at her berth and, on the horizon, the spread arms of a shrimp boat and a distant plume of smoke above a cruise ship on its way to Florida.

She felt confident Billy was in his office directing a careful and thorough investigation into the arson of the Martin house. Billy hadn't returned calls or texts from Max, nor one from her. Did that mean he accepted the mayor's conclusion that the fire was set in hopes of getting Tom Edmonds released? If so, suspicion was sure to settle on Frankie Ford. She was the only person who cared about Tom's fate. How could Billy believe Frankie set fire to a house occupied by a sleeping woman? The thought was sickening.

But someone splashed gasoline in Paul's study and tossed a burning rag through the garden window into the house with Lucy upstairs.

Annie drove past Fish Haul Pier, turned left into a pine-shaded road that led to the three-story apartment complex on the other side of woods that bordered the Harbor Pavilion. In midmorning there were plenty of empty parking spaces. She slid out of the car and walked fast toward the outer steps of the apartment house. She and Max and the Intrepid Trio might be the only hope for Tom Edmonds. They would do their best.

•   •   •

M
avis Cameron pushed through the door from the corridor into the working space behind the front counter of the police station. Her angular face reflected distress. “Billy expects to be tied up all day.” She didn't look toward Max. Instead her gaze slid away to the window with its view of the sparkling harbor.

Max was equable. “If he has a moment, ask him to give me a ring. He has my cell number.”

She stared at the countertop. “I'll tell him.”

Outside, Max went down the steps quickly. Mavis had obviously felt uncomfortable. Why? There were several possibilities. Billy agreed with the mayor and believed Tom Edmonds to be guilty and the fire a diversion. Or Billy was simply too involved in his duties to deal with Max today. Or Billy had decided to play a lone hand. If he came out in public disagreement with the mayor, the mayor was quite capable of sending Billy on short notice to a faraway conference or, in a worst-case scenario, placing Billy on unpaid leave for insubordination. Whatever, Mavis obviously felt constrained to keep her mouth shut with Max, even though she and Billy were longtime friends of theirs.

Max reached the Maserati. Once behind the wheel, he sat unmoving. As soon as possible, he wanted to talk to Jason Brown, owner of the Palmetto Players. But one sentence in Marian's story had burrowed into his mind, Lucy's hope that someone had seen the car that came up their street the night Paul died. He'd wanted to ask Billy if a hunt was under way for that car, but Billy was incommunicado. So Jason Brown would have to wait. Finding out about the car was more important.

Max reached Calhoun Street and parked behind the police cruiser in front of the Martin house. In fine weather, he usually left his car windows down, but now he pushed the button and the windows slid up. Closing the car would help seal out the rank smell of charred, still-sodden wood. In bright sunlight, the caved-in roof and scorched paint were a stark reminder of leaping flames and struggling firefighters.

A lawn mower hummed a few houses down. Squirrels chittered in the elm trees across the street. His nose wrinkled as he walked along the front hedge and around the corner of the stalks of pampas grass. The stench overpowered the scent from honeysuckle and a pittosporum shrub near the side gate. Yellow tape marked the garden and what remained of the house as off-limits.

He saw the damage clearly from the gate. The study was a mess of charred and twisted wood. Wide planks supported by concrete blocks provided a limited walkway above the caved-in floor. Hyla Harrison knelt on a board near a blackened mound.

Max estimated the distance of the mound from the hulk of the burned desk and figured the shrunken heap she studied was all that remained of the black leather chair near the desk.

Hyla sprayed powder on a portion of the hump that looked like leather, a strip that had in the capriciousness of dancing flames escaped damage. He felt jubilant. No arsonist took time to lounge in a leather chair before setting a blaze. Billy, always thorough, might or might not accept the mayor's conclusions, but he understood that a vagrant print from one of the birthday party guests on that chair would have to be explained.

“Hey, Hyla. You're looking for fingerprints.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Crime scene. Don't get any nearer.” She returned to her careful application of powder.

“Anybody in the neighborhood see anyone over here last night?”

She made no reply.

“Is someone from the department going door-to-door asking about last night or the night Paul Martin was shot?”

No reply.

“How many gas-filled pop bottles were emptied?”

It took a moment, but Hyla replied gruffly, “Estimated at five.”

Max turned away from the gate, walked slowly along the hedge, then paused and looked back, considering what he knew. Say there were five one-liter bottles. They wouldn't be easy to heft or transport. Probably the arsonist carried them in a cardboard box and left the box to be consumed in the blaze. The first challenge was bringing the box to Calhoun Street. That almost certainly required a car.

Lucy Ransome heard a car just past midnight after she said good night to Paul and he entered his study.

A car brought death the night Paul was shot, likely a car brought destruction last night.

Max walked to the end of the hedge of pampas grass. The feathery fronds rippled in a slight breeze. Lucy remembered that a car passed the house. But no one intent upon arson or murder would park near the Martin house. He shaded his eyes, looked up the street. Out of sight of the house . . . That would be important.

In the Maserati, he followed the street beyond the curve. Only one more house on this side of the street, two on the other and then Calhoun ended at a cross street. Turn left and the street ended at the marsh. Turn right and the street led to the main island road. From there a driver could go anywhere.

If he were setting a fire, he would avoid the dead end at the marsh. He turned right and lowered the windows. The Maserati barely idling, the car glided slowly east. Not too far. There was the cardboard box to carry. He had no way of knowing which of the houses were occupied the night of the fire, but all appeared to be inhabited with no sign of the empty look that settles upon untenanted houses. Definitely you don't park in someone's drive if you have arson in mind. Not too far . . . Perhaps thirty yards past the intersection he saw a familiar island sight, narrow ruts that disappeared into the woods beneath low-hanging overhead limbs, one of those lanes that meandered, perhaps leading to a remote house, perhaps dead-ending at a lagoon.

He parked just past the lane. He walked a few feet into the lane, waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He gazed down, his eyes slowly crossing back and forth. The car would have been left out of sight from the street, but not too far. The gray, sandy soil was soft but, he felt a stab of disappointment, the ruts didn't appear to hold any tire marks. The lane was narrow. He took a few more steps, stopped, looked down. Maybe, just maybe . . .

He reached for his cell phone.

•   •   •

T
he hat was a bit summery, but what man who loved flowers would not be enchanted by a wide-brimmed pink straw with a turquoise band? Laurel adjusted the brim. She passed the rearing horse at Jane Corley's gate. She didn't approach the front steps, wending her way instead on a path bordered by bougainvillea. As arranged, Ross Peters awaited her at an arbor twined with Carolina jessamine vines that would flaunt sweet-scented yellow blooms in December. He never questioned her claim on the phone that she was gathering information to help in the investigation of Jane's murder.

He was not much taller than Laurel but powerfully built. He waited with his hands loose at his sides. His face had the ruddy color of a man who spent much time in the sun and his black hair was cut in a crew. A dark blue polo revealed muscular arms and torso.

Laurel smiled at him, her blue eyes gazing deeply into brown eyes. “Thank you so much for taking time to meet me.”

Had Annie been present she would have recognized his response. Men from eight to eighty immediately stood straighter, shoulders back, libidos saluting. Laurel, with her customary modesty, simply enjoyed the wonderful maleness that greeted her. Men were such adorable creatures.

“Ma'am.” His voice was deep.

“I only wish”—her throaty voice exuded regret—“that I could while away the day with you, seeing the glorious flowers and shrubbery.” She looked past him, her eyes widening. “Those tea roses seem to be tipped with gold. Shall we walk in the rose garden and I can explain how you can help us?”

“Yes, ma'am.” His tone was fervent. They strolled to rock steps at the top of the garden. They stopped and he spread his arms and spoke of the varieties of roses: “. . . almost four hundred bushes . . .”

“Simply splendid. I would love to learn more about the roses but”—she was clearly regretful—“I'm afraid I must take us back to that dreadful day when Jane was attacked.”

His eagerness seeped away. He hunched his shoulders, stared at the ground. “Wish to God I'd been here in the afternoon.” He jerked his head toward the beautiful blooms, white, pink, yellow, and every shade of red from burgundy to crimson to vermilion. “I worked here in the morning but I spent the afternoon over at the other place.”

“You take care of all the Corley properties?”

He nodded. “Everything. Planting. Trimming. Thinning out the woods. That afternoon I saw Jane on the terrace about one thirty. She waved at me. I was just leaving to walk over to David's place.”

Laurel's smile was bright. She looked around with interest. “Is there a path to David's house?”

“There are paths everywhere.” He pointed at the base of the garden and an oyster-shell path that snaked around a pittosporum hedge. “That's the way to the studio. That's the place where Tom paints. And that path over there by the cabana—”

Laurel looked beyond the gleaming waters of a lotus-shaped pool.

“—goes down to Wherry Creek.” He turned, gestured at another oyster-shell walk near the arbor that plunged into the pines. “That's the quickest way to David's house.”

Laurel clasped her hands together in admiration. “That looks like such an enchanted walk. Perhaps you might show me the way.”

Peters almost bowed. “I'd be pleased to show you the way.”

Laurel noted that the path near the arbor was only a few feet from the terrace. She glanced back at the French windows. Anyone arriving at the entrance to the family room would be visible for perhaps a space of thirty feet between the woods and the house. She agreed that it was unfortunate Ross Peters had not been near Jane's house after he saw her on the terrace.

Peters slowed his long stride as they passed the arbor, led the way into the pines. The scent of the woods was pleasant. “Jane liked for things to be wild. You can't see more than a foot or so off the path. It's about two hundred yards to David's house.” As they walked he pointed out chain ferns with deep purple stems, resurrection ferns with long slender fronds, and a glimpse of cinnamon ferns near a lagoon.

The path opened out behind the antebellum home.

Laurel gave a little cry of admiration. “How glorious to have a creek so near.”

Ross shaded his eyes. “Water was the best means of transport in early days. That's why we're coming up behind the house. It faces the creek. Course, time changes everything. The road that runs past Jane's house curves around and that's how cars get to David's house. The creek's on one side, the house on the other. There used to be a dock right in front of the house, but that was torn down when the street came in and now”—he gestured—“the dock's over there. The creek curves around.” He gestured. “David keeps a skiff and a kayak there.” The rowboat at the end of a line moved in the wind. A kayak rested on one side of the dock. “I was working over there.” He pointed at a partially trimmed oleander hedge.

Laurel glanced up at the verandah. “Did you see anyone?”

He folded his arms. “Somebody suggesting I wasn't over here? I told the police and they were fine with it. I told them I was sorry I couldn't help them. I wish I'd been at Jane's place. Maybe nobody would have got to her if I'd been there. But I was here, like I said. David can vouch for me. He came out about two thirty and took the kayak out. He headed out toward the Sound. Madeleine came out on the terrace about three, chasing after Millie. That little terrier can scoot like her tail's on fire. I don't think Madeleine saw me. She looked like she had a million things on her mind.”

“Which way did she go?”

•   •   •

I
rene Hubbard's smile was big wattage. Henny decided she was a natural to play the Perle Mesta character in
Call Me Madam
. Henny admired the silvery swirl of sequins on a faintly gray jacket above pearl gray trousers. Irene's ice-blue blouse reflected the blue of her eyes. Definitely stylish. But there might be a hint of uneasiness in her wide-open, ingenuous gaze.

Irene turned one hand and sunlight reflected the ruby red of an ornately set stone. “I'm devastated about Jane. I'm happy to help you in any way I can.” But those blue eyes were cool and wary.