Death at the Door (18 page)

Billy folded his arms. “She went to the marina, talked to David Corley. But”—he seemed to be thinking out loud—“Corley told her to go to the cops and he called us after she left. If he isn't the person she saw, why go see him?”

Max shrugged. “Stringing out the fun, probably. Tease David a little, get him to urge her to contact you. Maybe she went to see him so she could tell the visitor that David wanted her to go to the police. Maybe she figured he'd call the police and she could tell the visitor that she was willing to keep quiet, maybe for a nice gift. David did just as she expected. He called you. He said Lou took down the information.”

“Lou dropped by the apartment house around noon but she wasn't home. He left a message on her phone, asked her to call us.” Billy looked tired. “She had plenty of chances to go in another direction. She didn't.”

Emma's face crunched in thought. “There may be another reason she went to see David. As Marigold always advises, follow the money. Who profits big time from Jane's murder? Her brother, David, and her husband, Tom. Sherry couldn't contact Tom, so she goes to David. Maybe her plan was to tantalize him with the fact that she could expose Jane's murderer and she would do so if properly rewarded?”

Billy looked skeptical. “That's not what David Corley told Lou.”

Emma's tone was kindly. “As Marigold reminds the inspector, no one ever quite tells the police everything.”

“He didn't have to tell us anything. He could have kept quiet.” Billy was brusque and Annie didn't blame him. He didn't need tips from Marigold.

Henny Brawley's dark eyes were thoughtful. “Sherry had a piercing voice. Unless I miss my guess, she was probably loud at the marina, put on a show. People would have noticed her talking to him. Either he is what he seems to be, a grieving brother who wants justice done for his sister, or, if he has something to hide, he figured that Sherry's visit would be noticed and he had no option but to call the police.”

Laurel's face reflected sorrow. “He may well have something to hide. He isn't very steady, but you can't help but see how much he loves his wife.”

Annie blinked and knew the others shared her puzzlement. Had always-spacey Laurel finally lost contact with reality, much as a hot air balloon jolts skyward if untethered? Everyone stared at her with varying degrees of apprehension.

Laurel's gaze was dreamy. “The way he looks at her whenever they are in the same room.” She glanced from face to face. “I'm quite sure of that.”

Annie doubted any of them were willing to contradict Laurel's dicta in matters of the heart.

Max looked puzzled. “I agree. David loves his wife. What does that have to do with Sherry's murder?”

“Oh my dear.” Her voice was sad. “Madeleine started on the path to Jane's house. What if Sherry saw Madeleine and told David she would be willing to keep quiet—for a price?”

Emma's ice blue eyes moved to Annie. “You talked to Madeleine. What did she say?”

Annie shook her head. “I didn't see her.”

Emma frowned. “Madeleine was on your list.”

Annie didn't appreciate the implication she had shirked her duty. “I tried.” She knew her tone was sharp. “The maid said Madeleine had just arrived home and was all upset and didn't want to see anyone. That's when I decided to go to the Buccaneer. I was going to tell Sherry a witness said Madeleine was on the terrace.”

Billy was suddenly alert. “You went directly to the Buccaneer from Madeleine's house?”

Annie nodded.

“Probably took all of six minutes. You found the blood spot, called. If Madeleine arrived home just before you reached the house, that's maybe ten to fifteen minutes after Sherry died. The maid said Madeleine was upset?”

Annie nodded slowly. “She'd just arrived home. She told the maid she didn't want to see anyone and ran upstairs.”

“Any indication why she was upset?”

“I don't know.” Annie frowned. “There was one odd thing. The maid said she ran into the house barefoot.”

“Barefoot?” Emma's blue eyes took on a particular recognizable gleam, an author tantalized by an idea.

Annie was sure that Emma was instantly leagues away in the world she inhabited with Marigold Rembrandt, her thoughts racing:
Why was a grown woman barefoot? Where were her shoes? What happened to her shoes?

Billy sat up straight. “No shoes?” He sat for a moment, broad face folded in thought. Abruptly, he looked toward the windows at dusk turning to darkness. He yanked his cell from his belt. “Hyla, institute a floor-by-floor search for a pair of women's shoes.” He listened, nodded. “Right.” He flicked to another number. “Lou, use flashlights and check the parking lot . . .”

•   •   •

A
nnie loved the boardwalk in early morning, a hint of mist curling up from the marina, the storefronts mostly dark. Death on Demand's plate glass window was an exception. Golden light spilled over the miniature train winding past a station, an inn, a tavern, café, water tower, a flock of sheep on a dirt road, and a straggly row of wooden houses. Seven books curved in a horseshoe in front of the tracks, their covers beckoning armchair travelers:
The Mystery of the Blue Train
by Agatha Christie,
Strangers on a Train
by Patricia Highsmith,
The Insane Train
by Sheldon Russell,
The Blackpool Highflyer
by Andrew Martin,
The Silk Train Murder
by Sharon Rowse,
Murder on the Ballarat Train
by Kerry Greenwood, and
Great Black Kanba
by Constance and Gwenyth Little. Annie sighed happily. The posters with the
Vogue
covers and the other books made the display one of her all-time favorites.

Annie was smiling as she unlocked the front door. She turned on the lights and looked into emerald green eyes.

Agatha chirped. Imperiously. Coiled on the cash desk, her tail flicked.

“I'm not late.” Annie knew she sounded defensive.

Another chirp. A sleek black body flowed to the floor, started down the aisle, paused, looked back, ears flattened.

Annie didn't need an announcement. Agatha was hungry. She wanted food NOW. She didn't care that it was right on the dot eight
A.M.
and her usual breakfast time. Maybe Ingrid had been stingy with the rations last evening. Annie tried to ease past but a paw flicked out and a tiny red welt marked Annie's ankle.

Annie didn't have a remnant of dignity and knew anyone looking inside would think she was demented, but she raced down the center aisle, skidded to a stop behind the coffee bar, yanked up a sack of dry food, filled a blue stone bowl, and placed it atop the coffee bar.

Agatha landed there at the same instant. Annie removed her fingers just in time. She provided a fresh bowl of water, then took a moment to dab an antiseptic wipe on her ankle. She always kept them handy. She turned on the coffeemaker, settled on a stool at the coffee bar.

It wasn't just the food, of course.

“I know, sweetie. I haven't been here.” Cats resent any departure from their routine. That routine included the timely appearance of Staff. Agatha's Staff started with Annie, included Ingrid as necessary. Agatha occasionally deigned to accept attention from Max. She tolerated Henny, loathed Emma, adored Laurel. “You are the world's most gorgeous cat. The most intelligent. There isn't a finer cat in the world.” Agatha ate but her ears indicated she was listening.

The coffeemaker pinged. Annie poured a mug. “Everything's going to be fine, Agatha. I'm back at work.” She glanced toward the storeroom. As always there was much to do, books to order, books to unpack, events to plan. It was nice to be free of worry for Tom Edmonds and to know Lucy Ransome was going to get well and that finally a real investigation had started into the death of her brother. Finding out what happened to Paul Martin, Jane Corley, and Sherry Gillette was Billy Cameron's responsibility, not hers and Max's, not Emma's, Henny's, and Laurel's. Max was already at the men's grill, eating breakfast with his golf foursome before a leisurely nine holes, quitting before it got too hot. Henny and Laurel had taken the early ferry, planning a several-day shopping trip to Atlanta. Emma had sent a terse text at daybreak:
On Marigold's Pleasure. Cruising until plot thickens. Title: Head Over Heels in Murder.

Annie raised an eyebrow. She'd heard Emma speak about writing and knew the author often started with a title, book to come. It seemed an odd approach to Annie.

Annie looked disconsolately around Death on Demand, but the bright book jackets, intriguing watercolors, even the ferns so reminiscent of the sunroom in Mary Roberts Rinehart's Washington, D.C., Massachusetts Avenue house didn't work their usual magic. She felt restless and dissatisfied. Everyone else was content to mark finis to the sad reality of Jane's brutal murder, bookended by Paul Martin's and Sherry Gillette's deaths.

Annie looked at Agatha. “I want to know what's happening.”

Limpid green eyes stared at her.

Annie had a good idea of Agatha's response. She would say, “Why do anything else when you can adore me?”

Annie cautiously slipped a hand behind Agatha's head, smoothed silky fur. “I can't walk away.” Not until and unless she could shed the dreadful feeling that she could have done more, should have done more to wring the truth from Sherry. Sherry might be alive now if she had told Annie what she knew.

T
he
Gazette
's small newsroom was very quiet. Annie hurried past a couple of untenanted desks; smiled a greeting at the matronly white-haired woman who managed the Life section and knew every birth, death, and scandal in between on the island; and headed toward a far corner and an old wooden desk mounded with papers.

The slap of her shoes on the wooden floor seemed loud, out of place.

Marian Kenyon looked around. She swiveled from her screen and waved at a rickety wooden chair.

Annie dropped into the seat, wondering how to begin, but Marian saved her the trouble.

“Billy's keeping his hole card covered.” Marian swiped an ink-smudged hand through tangled short dark curls. “But you can have what I've got. I hung around the Buccaneer yesterday evening, trying to catch people coming home from work. I was about to call it a night when all of a sudden cops were swarming all over the place, going door to door, scouring—love that word—the parking lot, including the Dumpster.” She slapped a hand on the scarred wooden desktop, “Finally cops were bunched around the Dumpster and you would have thought they were guarding a melting reactor. I couldn't get closer than twenty yards and I only glimpsed Mavis as she climbed a stepladder to the Dumpster.” Marian's nose wrinkled.

Since Mavis doubled as a crime tech, somebody obviously had spotted something in the trash that needed tender loving care as it was taken into evidence.

“I had my camera trained but all I got was Mavis's back as she plopped something into an evidence bag.” Marian's frustration was obvious. “Billy's got his lips zipped. But, this morning”—her eyes brightened—“I got a little something. There is a person of interest and there will be a news conference at ten
A.M.
”

•   •   •

I
t was déjà vu all over again on the steps of the police station, soft October sunshine, a pleasant breeze off the harbor, Billy Cameron big and powerful, face impassive, arms folded. Mayor Cosgrove was natty in a blue blazer, pink shirt, and tan trousers. A crowd of perhaps twenty pressed as near as possible. Marian Kenyon was just to the left of the front steps.

The blond TV reporter from Savannah thrust out her mic. “Mayor, can you explain why the Broward's Rock police appear unable to find the guilty party in what appears to be a rash of murders?”

The mayor's fat cheeks puffed. “Proper investigative techniques were employed, though”—he sounded sour—“it now appears that the police”—his look at Billy was cold—“missed the possibility of murder in the death of Paul Martin, and that, of course, would have entirely altered subsequent events. I remember thinking at the time that Paul Martin was not a likely suicide victim.”

Annie wondered if a shout of “liar, liar, pants on fire” would puncture the mayor's composure. Not likely. He had no doubt persuaded himself that he had entertained suspicions and been overridden by a zealous police chief.

Billy stood immobile, not a muscle moving in his face.

The mic swung toward Billy. “Chief, can you account for the botched investigation?”

Billy's tone was patient. “All the evidence in the death of Dr. Martin was consistent with suicide. However, the subsequent arson of his home, apparently in response to a reopened investigation, raised the possibility that his death was linked to the murder of Jane Corley. Police have since learned that Sherry Gillette may have observed someone at Jane Corley's home the afternoon of her death. In light of Mrs. Gillette's murder, Tom Edmonds is no longer considered a suspect in his wife's murder and has been released.”

“Who did Mrs. Gillette see?”

Billy spoke in a neutral tone. “Mrs. Gillette mentioned to several people that she may have seen someone from a balcony of Jane Corley's home that afternoon, but she did not contact police.”

The blonde broke in. “The police report says Mrs. Gillette's body was discovered at shortly after three
P.M.
yesterday. When was she killed? Where? Manner of death?”

“Time of death could have been between a quarter hour before the discovery of the body at three oh-two
P.M.
up to an hour prior. Death occurred at her home. Cause of death was blunt trauma to the head. No weapon has been found.”

“Any idea as to what was used to kill her?”

“The forensic examination revealed traces of bark and dirt in the head wound. The medical examiner believes the murder weapon was a branch approximately two inches in diameter and perhaps eighteen to twenty inches in length. A thorough search of the apartment house and surrounding area failed to uncover a likely weapon.”

The blond TV reporter looked skeptical. “Who picks up a stick to kill somebody? Where'd the stick come from?”

Billy gave her a level look. “Blunt instruments are everywhere. Why the killer used a branch is unknown at this time. All we can say with certainty is that the murder weapon was a length of wood and it was both brought to the apartment and removed from the apartment.”

Marian took a step forward. “Can you describe the position of Mrs. Gillette's body?”

Billy shot her a look of respect.

Annie looked from Billy to Marian, puzzled.

Marian's intelligent dark eyes never left Billy's face.

Billy nodded. “Mrs. Gillette was found facedown. She was apparently attacked as she walked away from the door. This suggests her assailant was someone she knew. The likelihood is that the killer followed her into the apartment and immediately struck her down.”

Annie understood. Sherry Gillette was self-absorbed, but even she might notice and wonder if a guest came in carrying a stout branch. Instead, she had opened the door to someone who must have kept the intended weapon out of sight and struck her before she realized there was possible danger.

The blonde edged in front of Marian. “More particulars on the victim. Age? Next of kin?”

“Twenty-seven. Husband, Roger Gillette.”

“Any marital discord?” The reporter's features sharpened, reminding Annie of a vulture on attack.

“Mr. Gillette's whereabouts during the time when his wife was murdered have been verified and he is absolutely not a person of interest.”

The TV reporter looked disappointed. “Is there a person of interest?”

Mayor Cosgrove intervened. “The investigation has other avenues to follow.” His glance at Billy was combative.

The reporter shot a look from the mayor to Billy. “Chief Cameron, is there a person of interest?”

Billy looked even more stolid than usual. “The investigation continues. Material evidence was recovered from the parking lot at the Buccaneer.”

Cosgrove pressed his lips together, glared at Billy.

Marian looked from the mayor to Billy. “Chief?” Her tone was sharp.

The other reporters and the watching crowd sensed drama. Annie felt her breath catch in her throat.

Billy hesitated only a fraction of an instant, then nodded. “The search of the property around the Buccaneer apartments yielded a pair of women's webbed red leather shoes. The right shoe sole was stained with blood matching that of Mrs. Gillette. An effort had been made to wipe away the blood but it had seeped into the sole and was also found in the crevice between the sole and the upper portion of the shoe. The shoe is a size five and one half medium. The shoe has been identified as the property of Mrs. Madeleine Corley, sister-in-law of the late Jane Corley. An island resident who visited the David Corley home yesterday was told by a housekeeper—”

Annie knew this reference came from her statement to the police late yesterday afternoon.

“—that Mrs. Corley arrived home in an agitated state and not wearing any shoes at approximately ten minutes after three. Mrs. Gillette's body was discovered at two minutes after three
P.M.
Mrs. Corley is at present under a physician's care and has not yet spoken to police. Police have informed Mrs. Corley's husband that she is a person of interest.”

A slender mustachioed reporter for a rival station stepped in front of the blonde, held out his mic. “Is an arrest imminent?”

Mayor Cosgrove broke in. “Absolutely not. The investigation will continue. The press conference is concluded.” He turned and stamped inside the police station.

•   •   •

M
arian Kenyon glared at the phone. She'd called Madeleine Corley's house every five minutes for almost an hour. Ditto her cell. Ditto same for David Corley. Okay, no one would answer the phone. But there was another way . . . She tapped a text to David Corley:
Better to get Madeleine's story out before the aft news cycle. She had to be in death apt to get blood on her shoes. What's the deal?

A few minutes later, she heard the soft blip of in incoming text and was surprised to see a message from David Corley:
Mrs. Corley remains under a doctor's supervision and isn't able at this time to speak with police.

Marian raised a sardonic eyebrow. Not the world's best answer but it was an answer. Marian stared at her desktop. All right. She knew, the cops knew, even the mayor had to admit, Madeleine Corley was inside the Gillette apartment either at the time of the murder or she arrived shortly afterward. The cops would have covered the apartment house like a blanket, trying to pin down the time of her arrival and departure. But maybe they missed a witness.

•   •   •

M
ax looked across the wooden tabletop of their favorite booth. Ben Parotti encouraged tasteful carvings. An
A
with both legs serving as half of an
M
had been Max's contribution. Other designs included an anchor with a lei, several hearts containing initials, what might be the Saint Louis arch, and, Annie's favorite, a simple carving of Kilroy Was Here, bald head and nose and clinging hands draped over a wall. Henny Brawley had explained the WWII graffiti to Annie and Max one winter evening over hot chocolate. During the war years, Kilroy was everywhere, the farthest reaches of desert, on board ships, flying high above jungles, slogging through snow.

Annie always wondered about those who carved Ben's tabletops. Parotti's had been a rather seedy bar and bait shop begun in the 1930s by Ben's grandfather William. Had a serviceman on leave marked Kilroy's appearance on the island? Where had the soldier, perhaps sailor, gone? Shipped to Europe, possibly the Pacific? Had he come safely home? Was the arch carved by a vacationer from Saint Louis or maybe a Cardinals fan? Were couples united in hearts still together?

“Usual?” Ben Parotti's leprechaun face was patient. October wasn't a busy month.

Annie looked up from her reverie, smiled. “In a month with an
R
, how can you ask?”

Ben nodded. “Fried oyster san, onion bun, heavy on the Thousand Island.” He looked at Max.

Max had picked up some sun from his morning on the course. “I had to beat my way out of five sand traps. May have set a course record. I'll take grilled bratwurst, all the fixings, a Bud Light, and a couple of glasses of water.”

Ben gave a hoarse bark of laughter. “Five sand traps? Maybe you better start practicing on the beach.” He was still laughing as he turned away.

Max's look at Annie was droll. “Actually six if you count the fact that I scudded the ball about five feet in the trap on eight, had to take another shot, and then . . .”

Annie munched her oyster sandwich, the succulent oysters hot and crisp in just the right amount of cornmeal as he continued.

“. . . I whacked it and it looped up like an arch—”

She ran a finger over the carving.

“—and ran right to the hole.”

Her eyes widened.

His smile was rueful. “Stopped on the lip of the cup. But I had fun and I only lost forty dollars. How was your morning?”

Annie grinned. “No sand traps. But”—she was a little shamefaced—“I went to the news conference about Sherry Gillette.”

Her looked at her sharply. “You told her to go to the cops. David told her. She didn't.”

Still . . . Annie pushed the thought away. “I know. Billy's got everything in hand. We're relieved from duty.” Nonetheless, she brought Max up to date and saw one eyebrow quirk as she described the discovery of red shoes and Billy's designation of Madeleine as a person of interest. “I guess I shouldn't be shocked that Madeleine Corley is a person of interest.” It was only as she said the words out loud that Annie realized how truly surprised she was. “I don't know what you think, but I think that's crazy. Madeleine . . .” A quick memory of Madeleine at the church garden party flashed in her mind, elegantly dressed in summery white with a parasol, the flowing dress making her glossy dark hair a deeper hue than ever, her magnolia fair skin and thin spare features. Only Madeleine could carry a parasol and appear utterly fashionable. Although Madeleine was likely five foot seven or eight, she was slightly built. “Can you imagine Madeleine hitting someone?”

Max rearranged the sauerkraut on the bratwurst. “I have a little trouble with it.” He looked thoughtful. “How did her shoes get bloody?”

Annie felt a little sick, remembering the smear of blood in the hallway. “The blood was Sherry's. Madeleine must have been there.” Her voice trailed off.

“Why didn't she call the police?” Max's question was simple.

“I guess she was scared.” Maybe Madeleine had very good reason to be frightened. “The mayor cut off the news conference. Obviously he doesn't want Billy ruffling rich feathers. But Marian bayed like a hound. She kept right on their heels when they went back into the station, shouting, ‘Has Madeleine Corley explained her presence in the dead woman's apartment? Were her shoes found in the Dumpster?'”

They were silent, perhaps both of them acknowledging that Marian's questions had to be answered.