Death at the Door (19 page)

Max finished his beer. “Maybe Madeleine refuses to answer questions and they don't quite feel like they have enough to arrest her. Maybe they are trying to put pressure on her.”

•   •   •

M
arian Kenyon finished her circle of the Buccaneer Arms. Drat the architect. The balconies overlooked a swath of greenery and the woods that made up part of Pavilion Park. The end of the building adjacent to the parking lot and Dumpster was bare of balconies. Side windows, probably in kitchens and bedrooms, afforded a view of the parking lot. That cut down the likelihood anyone observed the lot Wednesday afternoon. But it was worth checking out.

Nobody home on the first floor. On the second floor a young mother shook her head. “Wednesday afternoon? Colin's been sick with an earache infection. I was at the doctor's office.”

When she reached the third floor, Marian huffed to catch her breath, then moved briskly to Apartment 301, buzzed the bell. She waited, buzzed again. She needed more punch for her story. She glanced at her watch. Still a good hour before her deadline. Maybe she could come up with some color here. It was like prizing open a dungeon door at the cop shop. Mum seemed to be the word. Sure, she had the red shoes and Madeleine as a person of interest but nobody would ante up as to what Madeleine had said, if anything, and nobody answered the phone at either Corley home, ditto their cells. Sure, readers would make the link between Sherry Gillette's blood on shoes belonging to Madeleine and Madeleine's presence at the murder scene, but Marian wanted more. A nice eyewitness to something, dammit.

The door opened.

Marian felt a flicker of disappointment. She couldn't picture the big dude looking out at her spending time gazing out windows. A mane of tousled sun-bleached hair flared around a mashed-in face. That nose had been broken at least once. Boxing? Football? Back-alley dustups? He was a big guy, well over six feet, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds. A Grateful Dead T-shirt stretched over a massive chest. One muscular arm sported a dragon tattoo from biceps to wrist. Worn Levi's hung low from his waist. He was barefooted.

“Did you see the barefoot woman running across the parking lot Wednesday afternoon?”

He glanced down at his own bare feet, gave a booming laugh. “That line'd get you a couple of free drinks at the Pink Parrot. And yeah, I saw her. But you aren't bringing me my deep-dish pepperoni, so it's been good to know you.”

Marian made a couple of quick calculations as she inserted a knee to block the closing door. Big, tough, tattoos, the Pink Parrot. “Do you bartend at the Pink Parrot?”

The door remained half open. “Yeah. What's it to you and who are you?”

“Marian Kenyon. The
Gazette
. I know your boss. If I sweet-talk him into giving you a couple of days off, will you give me an exclusive on the barefoot lady?”

He lifted a meaty hand to brush back a tangle of blond hair. “With pay?”

“I'll do my best.”

His big shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I'm ready for a little blackjack at the Big M. All I lack is time and money. Knock twice if you set it up.”

A big hand gave her a gentle push and the door closed.

Marian made her call. “. . . and Vince will cover the cost.” She listened. “Hey, thanks, Ben.” Ben Parotti, owner of many island businesses and much real estate, understood her frustration with the mayor and would enjoy seeing a splash of inside info in the
Gazette
. She smiled as she clicked off the phone, turned, and knocked twice on the door.

•   •   •

T
he bell jangled at the front door of Confidential Commissions. Max swung around from his computer screen when he heard the door slam against the wall. Before he could call out, David Corley stormed into his office. His eyes had a wild look. Despite his usual polo, chinos, and loafers, he looked unkempt, blond hair tangled, cheeks bristly. He skidded to a stop in front of Max's desk. “You got to help me. You saved Tom. Now the damn fools are after Madeleine.” His voice wavered. “She's terrified. Right now I've got her home in bed. The doctor's there. I got a doctor from Savannah and he's saying the police can't talk to her, she's too emotionally fragile. But that redheaded woman cop's sitting in the hall. They had a search warrant. They've been all over the house and grounds. Of course they didn't find anything. It's crazy. Madeleine never hurt anybody, never in all her life. You got to help me.”

Max rose, came around the desk. He reached out, touched a rigid arm. “If she's innocent—”

“Hell yes, she's innocent. I know she is.”

Max recognized certainty in David's voice. But he was Madeleine's husband. Of course he believed her to be innocent. “I understand”—he tried to pick his words carefully—“that Madeleine wore the bloodstained shoes found in the trash at the Buccaneer Arms.”

David's head hung forward. He lifted his hands, pressed them against his face. “The shoes . . .” His hands dropped. His head jerked up and wide eyes implored Max. “I know what must have happened. She went to see Sherry. Probably Sherry called her just like she came to see me, and Madeleine hurried over there. She'd want to know what Sherry saw. Madeleine loved Jane. She'd want to tell Sherry to go to the police.”

Max wondered if David realized how revealing his words were. He spoke in the conditional tense, what he supposed, guessed, hoped had been Madeleine's reason for going to the apartment.

“Did Madeleine tell you this?”

That imploring gaze jerked away. David hunched his shoulders. “She's too upset to talk about anything. She cries and turns her head away. If the police take her . . . They can't. Don't you see, she's not able to tell us. Why can't they understand?” He grabbed Max's arm, his grip painfully tight. “You'll help, won't you?”

•   •   •

A
gatha jumped on top of the cardboard box.

Startled, Annie pushed down hard on the handle of the box cutter, winced as the blade penetrated cardboard. “Agatha, I'll bet we've ruined a cover.” She pulled the tip free, retracted the blade, placed the tool on the table.

Agatha immediately pounced. The tool skittered across the tabletop, fell to the floor, Agatha in pursuit. To the sound of clicks and clanks, Annie ripped up the cardboard flap, sighed at the gash across the gorgeous cat's face on the cover of a new Lydia Adamson title. Then she smiled. She enjoyed these books. Definitely an omen that this book was meant for her bedside table. As she lifted out the damaged title, the phone rang. Annie ignored it, humming. Ingrid would take care—

A tap and the storeroom door swung open. Ingrid held out the phone. “For you.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Couldn't help but notice caller ID. Frankie Ford. Annie, she's in a panic.”

Annie held the receiver to her ear, listened to Frankie Ford's incoherent plea. “. . . please come to my house. The police are already there. I'm on my way. I called Tom. He's coming. I'm so afraid . . .”

•   •   •

A
nnie jolted to a stop behind two police cruisers, the forensic van, and Marian Kenyon's jaunty yellow VW. Two cars were parked in the graveled drive next to a modest wooden cabin. A sleek silver Mercedes AMG that shouted money, power, and speed sat behind a black Ford Taurus that had seen better days, the beginnings of rust in some scrapes on one fender, a side window with a stripe of tape.

Annie popped from her car, hurried to join Marian, who was rapidly taking photos. “What's happening?”

Without missing a click, Marian jerked one thumb toward a cluster of uniforms in the side yard. “Far as I can tell, somebody—probably Lou, he gets all the dirty jobs—is under the house. I got a tip from a neighbor.”

Annie's shoulders tightened. She didn't even want to think about the creatures nestled in hot, humid, fetid darkness, tarantulas maybe, certainly lizards, though geckos wouldn't hurt anything except unwary crickets or spiders. Brown recluse spiders always sought peaceful darkness.

Marian tilted her head to the west. “The neighbor said the police roared up and pretty soon here came Frankie Ford in her rattly car—she rents the place—and lover boy in his state-of-the-art sports car.” Frankie Ford and Tom Edmonds stood in the shade of a live oak. Frankie's heart-shaped face was pale and strained. Tom bent toward her, his face furrowed in a frown. Officer Townsend was perhaps ten feet away, watching them.

Marian made an impatient jig from one foot to another. “How long does it take to look under a Minnie Mouse–sized house? I got to get back—” She glanced at her watch, gave a yelp. “I got twenty minutes to deadline. Annie, if Lou crawls out with something in his teeth, for God's sake send me a text. But”—she was turning away, muttering to herself—“whatever, I got a lead: Bloody shoes turned up in a first search, now police are off on a new hunt, both apparently connected to a trio of island murders. At press time . . .” She broke into a jog, reached the VW, yanked open the door.

Frankie heard the rumble of the VW and turned. She saw Annie and rushed across the hummocky grass, Tom striding after her. Officer Townsend kept pace.

Frankie reached Annie. “They won't tell me anything. They came to the gallery with a search warrant. By the time I got here, they were already inside and now they're under the house. You helped Tom. Can you help me?”

Annie tried to be reassuring. “Let's see if they discover anything—”

“What are they looking for?” Frankie's voice held an edge of hysteria. “Why me? I didn't even know you could get under the house.”

Tom reached out, gripped Frankie's arm. “Look.”

They all turned toward the house, including Officer Townsend.

Gloved hands carrying two plastic bags emerged from the crawl space beneath the house, followed by Lou Pirelli's head and torso.

Annie craned to see, but a half-dozen figures now surrounded the side of the house, blocking any view of Lou.

Annie started across the lawn, aware that Frankie and Tom, after a moment's hesitation, followed. Officer Townsend jogged past. About ten feet from the group clustered around Lou, Townsend turned, held up a hand. “Crime scene. No access. Stop where you are.”

Frankie trembled. Her mouth worked, but no words came.

Tom's long narrow face looked haunted. “Frankie, it's going to be all right.” But his tone was hollow.

Annie glimpsed Lou's back, smeared with cobwebs and dirt. He stood at the rear of the forensic van, but the open door hid his arm from view. When he turned away, his hands were empty.

Mavis jumped down from the back of the van, swung the panel shut, walked briskly to the driver's door.

“Don't they have to tell me what they found?” Frankie's voice shook. “I know it's something awful.” Then her eyes widened. She took a step back, pressing against Tom's arm.

Annie followed her gaze.

Billy Cameron walked toward them, his heavy face somber, his blue eyes narrowed.

Tom stepped in front of Frankie, squared his shoulders. He was an unlikely Galahad, his face too sensitive, his dark, overlong hair too smoothly brushed, his lanky frame insubstantial in contrast to the police chief's stocky, powerful build.

Billy stopped in front of Tom. “I need to speak with Miss Ford.” His tone was mild.

Tom hunched his shoulders. “Whatever you found, it has nothing to do with her. Does Frankie look like somebody who'd crawl around under a house?”

“Mr. Edmonds, I am investigating three murders and an arson that endangered life. Miss Ford occupies this residence. Evidence connected to arson and murder has been discovered here.”

Frankie darted from behind Tom. “I've never been under that house. Why would I? What did you find?”

Billy looked at her appraisingly. “Perhaps our inquiry can be brief. However, it will be necessary for you to come to the police station now.”

Frankie's eyes were huge. “Why?”

“To answer questions. I will escort you.”

“I'll drive myself.”

He held out his hand. “Officer Townsend will drive your car to the station. It will be searched. You will come with me.”

Frankie's hand shook, but she dropped the keys in Billy's waiting palm.

Billy half turned. “Townsend?”

Townsend's blue eyes gleamed with excitement. “Sir.” He took the keys, again broke into a jog. On the drive, he slid behind the wheel of the Taurus, expertly maneuvered the car around the Mercedes.

The Taurus hiccupped, belched smoke from its exhaust, and clacked loudly down the street.

T
he car windows were down. A breeze from the Sound stirred Annie's sandy hair. Max stood by the Thunderbird and resisted the impulse to smooth back a stray lock. Annie had no idea how appealing she was when she jutted her small chin forward in determination. Her lips, very kissable lips, were slightly parted. He wished . . . But Annie had no intention of leaving this spot with its prime view of the front of the Broward's Rock Police Station even though he could imagine a much more fun way to spend their afternoon. “Heel,” he told himself firmly.

“Max, aren't you listening? It doesn't seem right that they won't let us in the station. At least Billy let Tom go with her. Do you suppose they've called a lawyer?”

“Frankie may not need a lawyer. Look, I'll go inside and ask Mavis to give Frankie or Tom a note when Billy's done. We'll ask them to call you.”

Annie considered his suggestion. “I suppose we could do that.” She sounded doubtful.

“Sitting out here waiting isn't getting us anywhere.” He knew how to appeal to Annie's Protestant-ethic nature. “There's lots to be done.” Now he needed to come up with some productive tasks. He glanced at his watch. “You can talk to Marian, see if she knows what's up.”

•   •   •

M
arian Kenyon held up a hand, dribbled peanuts into her Coke can. She tilted the can and took two mouthfuls, dropped into a wooden chair in the
Gazette
break room.

Annie moved to the small squat old refrigerator in one corner, found a bottle of Nehi orange soda. As she removed the cap using the bottle opener attached to the wall, she dropped a dollar bill into a lidless Maxwell House coffee can on the counter. She settled on the other side of the wooden table from Marian.

Marian slumped in her chair, heaved a huge sigh, then sat up straight, fished around in a baggy pocket of a worn cotton cardigan. “Yeah. Here it is. Pristine prose”—a heavy rumble shook the old building—“being printed as we speak. Newsprint. A beautiful word.” Her tone was mournful. “About to go the way of the dodo. That's what happens when your wings don't work. Poor old dodo bird.” Her voice fell to a mumble. “See how the world likes it when everything is a damn screen. Poor old newspapers . . .”

Annie shut out the flow of words, concentrated on the printout of the
Gazette
's lead story:

Broward's Rock police found bloody shoes in a Dumpster near a crime scene late yesterday, while a second search today retrieved as yet unrevealed evidence from beneath an island home. Both searches appear to be connected to a trio of island murders.

According to police, the searches were conducted as part of a continuing investigation into the deaths of Dr. Paul Martin October 10, Jane Corley October 14, and Sherry Gillette October 23. Dr. Martin was found dead of a gunshot wound to the temple. The death was at first deemed suicide but is now considered homicide. Ms. Corley and Mrs. Gillette both died as the result of blunt head trauma.

Police Chief Billy Cameron announced today that women's size five and one half webbed leather shoes stained with the blood of murder victim Sherry Gillette have been identified as shoes worn on Wednesday by Madeleine Corley, sister-in-law of murder victim Jane Corley and wife of island sailor David Corley. Cameron named Madeleine Corley a person of interest in the investigation.

The
Gazette
has been unable to speak with Mrs. Corley, who is under a doctor's care and, according to her husband, unable at this time to talk with police.

After obtaining a warrant, police investigated the interior of Miss Frankie Ford's rental home at 106 Menhaden Lane and the crawl space beneath the house, then impounded her car. Miss Ford is an employee of Wyler Art Gallery and a friend of Jane Corley's widowed husband, artist Tom Edmonds.

Police apparently removed some objects from beneath Miss Ford's home. At press time, Police Chief Billy Cameron had not responded to the
Gazette
's inquiry in regard to material removed from the site. Miss Ford was taken to the police station. Police Dispatcher Mavis Cameron declined to state whether Miss Ford was being interrogated by police.

In an exclusive to the
Gazette
today, Buccaneer resident Milton Braswell said he observed a slender dark-haired woman, whom he later identified from a photo as Mrs. Madeleine Corley, in the parking lot of the Buccaneer Arms Wednesday at approximately 3
P.M.
Braswell, an employee of the Pink Parrot, glanced out of his third-floor apartment from his bedroom window as he rode an Exercycle. “She caught my attention because she ran across the parking lot. I could tell she was kind of panicked. She got to this sweet little Jag sports car and yanked open the door and then she stopped. Like an old silent movie, every move was exaggerated. Run. Stop. Stare down. Head jerked around. By this time I was pretty fascinated. I keep a little pair of binoculars on my windowsill. I like birds. I grabbed them and homed in on her. Tragic-beauty face, oval, classic features. Think Claire Trevor in
Murder, My Sweet
.”

Annie heard a creak and sensed Marian at her shoulder. Marian reached over, tapped the quote from Braswell. “He's a big bruiser who sounds like a PI hero. Turns out he used to be a college prof, authority on noir crime films. Didn't want to ante why he pours drinks now.”

Annie returned to the story:

Braswell continued, “The dame's staring down at her feet. She sways, then turns. Stops. Takes off her shoes. Runs, looking over her shoulder, a shoe in each hand, to the Dumpster, tosses the shoes.”

Braswell said he caught a glimpse of red as the shoes rose and fell. “She ran barefoot to the car, then the Jag peeled out of the lot.”

Braswell said Mrs. Corley was wearing a long-sleeved red blouse and black trousers. He said Mrs. Corley wasn't carrying anything in her hands when he first sighted her running across the lot toward her car. In a press conference today, Police Chief Cameron announced the weapon used to strike Mrs. Gillette was not found at the scene, in the apartment house, or in the area surrounding the apartments.

The chief further announced that the medical examiner found pieces of wood bark in Mrs. Gillette's head wound and deduced that the weapon was a branch approximately two inches in diameter and between eighteen to twenty inches in length.

When contacted by the
Gazette
, Chief Cameron said the comments by Milton Braswell had not been confirmed.

Annie looked up at Marian. “What does that mean?”

Marian looked offended. “Hey, I got my exclusive. So they didn't catch him at home yesterday evening. That's their problem. I stand by my source.” Her nose wrinkled. “Though I'm afraid the big dude's story gives the mayor another reason not to put an island aristocrat in handcuffs. She was empty-handed except for the shoes. So where was the weapon? Pretty lucky for Madeleine he was on his Exercycle.”

•   •   •

F
rankie Ford's heart-shaped face was wan. She shook her head at Annie's offer of coffee. Tom Edmonds sat beside her, an arm protectively around her shoulders.

Annie filled two mugs with fresh Colombian. Tom grabbed his, downed half in a gulp, never noticed the book title in red script,
Innocent Bystander.
Annie nodded at her mug,
Truth of the Matter
.

“They'll arrest me.” Frankie's whisper was tremulous. “It was awful.” Her eyes looked huge, dark with remembrance. “They brought out a big stick and said it was under the house. The end of it . . . blood . . .” She shuddered.

Tom's jaw ridged. “They like to shock you. Like when they showed me my smock and it had dried blood all over it. Jane's blood.” For an instant, his face looked empty, stricken. “Somebody put on my smock and killed Jane. But it wasn't me. And it wasn't Frankie who took that piece of wood and used it to kill Sherry.”

Annie felt tightness in her chest. So the police had found the branch used to kill Sherry in the crawl space beneath Frankie's house. No wonder she looked terrified.

Tom's face hardened. “I asked why the hell they looked there. That cop”—Tom looked triumphant—“had to admit somebody called and claimed they saw Frankie crawling out from underneath the house. That's crap. Frankie's scared of stuff. She wouldn't go underneath a house for anything. They won't listen.”

Annie understood the edge of panic in his voice. No one knew better than Tom how an innocent man could be arrested and held for a murder he didn't commit. But she understood why the police weren't impressed with his argument that Frankie was too timid to crawl under a house. A murderer getting rid of a bloodied weapon wouldn't worry about spiders or snakes.

Max looked interested. “Who called the police?”

“They don't know.” Tom shoved a hand through his thick dark hair. “It was a call to that number when you think you know something about a crime. Somebody used a pay phone near the ferry building.”

“Man? Woman?”

“A whisper. So why would anybody who's for real sneak around? I asked him that. But he said people don't want to get involved. They're afraid of being sued. I'll sue 'em if I ever find out who called. It's all a lie.”

Annie frowned. “Did the caller specifically say that Frankie was seen? Or was it just—”

“Frankie.” Tom was dour.

Frankie's face was bleak. “They found a tin of gasoline and some rags they said matched the ones used to set Lucy's house on fire. Somebody put those things there, then called the police. But”—tears spilled down her cheeks—“how can I prove I didn't do anything?”

Annie shook her head.

Tom glared at her, pushed to his feet. “Are you like all the rest of them? Do you believe this stupid—”

Annie held up a hand. “I don't believe. Or not believe. But I don't think Frankie can prove she's innocent.”

Frankie lifted a hand to her throat. Tom's hands clenched into fists.

Annie said quickly, “The only way to save Frankie is to find out who's guilty. Do you know what Sherry's murder proved?”

Frankie said in a small voice, “That Tom was innocent because he was in jail?”

“More than that. Sherry's murder proved she saw the murderer on the terrace that day.” She turned toward Frankie. “You went to Tom's studio. He wasn't there. Did you look for him near the house?”

“No.” Frankie's voice was shrill. “I wouldn't do that.”

“Why not?”

Frankie's face flushed. “You know why not. I saw how Jane looked at me at David's party. It was awful. That's why I was going to tell Tom he had to make up his mind. I wasn't going to be anybody's extra. Not then. Not ever.”

Tom's gaze dropped. He stared down at interlocked hands.

Annie hoped Frankie never insisted that Tom tell her what his decision would have been. To Annie, the answer was clear in the way he evaded Frankie's glance, in the tightening of his shoulders, in those hard-gripped hands. Tom might love Frankie. In fact, Annie thought he loved her very much. But he hadn't intended to leave Jane. Was it because of her money or the opportunities as an artist? Whatever, Annie sensed he didn't love Frankie quite enough to have made that break.

Which gave Frankie a bitter reason to kill.

Tom spoke slowly. “I had to stay on the island until I finished the sculpture. I don't know if I can now. Jane—” He shook his head, lifted his eyes. In them there was dumb misery and emptiness. “When Jane walked into a room, everything else faded. Now she's dead.” He was angry, but Annie was afraid his anger was at the loss of the art he could have created.

Annie didn't know which was more painful to see, Tom's anguish and its reason or the somber acceptance on Frankie's face. Yes, Tom would turn to Frankie now, but she would always take second place to whatever he wanted to paint or sculpt.

Annie didn't doubt that Frankie would be in even deeper trouble with the police if they, too, ever understood that Frankie knew she would never have Tom while Jane lived. He might have finished that sculpture and it might have lifted him to a pinnacle of success, but then there would still be the question of who owned his works, the artist or the woman who provided him with the studio.

Add to that the discovery of the branch that killed Sherry and a gasoline tin and rags beneath Frankie's house and the police would be justified in making an arrest.

Annie wondered why Frankie was still free. The mayor would much rather see Billy arrest Frankie than wealthy Madeleine Corley. The pressure would mount on Billy. The mayor didn't like for TV stations to be talking about a rash of murders on Broward's Rock, a botched investigation with an innocent man arrested, and a murder tabbed as suicide.

Frankie swallowed jerkily. “I went a little way up the path, in case Tom was coming back. I didn't have much time. But I stopped about twenty yards along, then turned around and went to my car.”

“Did you hear anything, see anything?” Earlier she'd mentioned a dog yipping.

Frankie looked uncomfortable. “I heard the dog. I thought it was Madeleine out with Millie.”

Tom leaned forward. “I heard the dog, too. Madeleine's got to speak up.”

“You told the police you didn't leave the studio. But you did. Where did you go?”

“I didn't know Frankie had come. When the cops questioned me, I knew they were after me. I thought if I said I'd left the studio I'd be in big trouble. So I told them I hadn't. But it was a bad afternoon. I couldn't work. I kept thinking”—his gaze dropped again—“about stuff. I decided to blow it off, take a walk. I went to the cypress pond. It was a little after three. I don't know exactly, maybe a quarter after. I took a sketch pad. In the afternoons the trees are reflected in the water and those big knobby roots have kind of an amber color.”