Death at the Door (6 page)

Her face turned white. Slowly she pushed up from the chair, walked blindly toward the door.

Annie hurried after her, caught her arm. “Wait, Frankie, please.” Annie turned toward Max. “If we send Frankie away, she doesn't have any hope. Maybe you're right”—Annie heard Frankie's indrawn breath—“maybe Tom's guilty. He's got a reason to want Jane dead.”

She saw certainty in Max's eyes and realized he was basing his opinion on something she didn't know, something he didn't want to mention in front of Frankie. For an instant, she doubted her conviction. But Lucy knew her brother well. She knew he'd been worried. She knew that worry was gone when they came home from David's party. She'd never heard him speak of a gun. More than that, Annie remembered how Paul Martin fought to save a woman who wanted to discard life.

Life mattered to Paul, that of his family, his wife, his patients. Himself. Now in his grave, he bore the burden of having taken his own life. If that was a lie, Paul deserved better.

“Maybe we need to remember that Tom's innocent until proven guilty.” She gazed steadily at Max. “Let's find out the truth. If Tom's guilty, nothing we discover will make a difference for him. If he's innocent, we save his life.”

Max's face softened. His blue eyes told her he loved her, admired her, thought she was stubborn and wrong, but he was on her team. He stood and came around the desk. He looked down at Frankie, his face regretful. “Tom looks guilty to me. But my wife”—a tilt of his head toward Annie—“sometimes sees a reality not apparent to anyone else.” He shot Annie a wry look. “Maybe this is one of those times. We'll do what we can.”

Annie wanted to throw her arms around him and give him a huge hug. He had no faith that Tom was innocent, but he would help look for the truth of Jane's murder. She turned to Frankie. “Come on, we've got work to do.”

•   •   •

M
ax leaned back in his comfortable red leather chair, arms behind his head, feet crossed, and studied the photograph of Annie on the corner of his desk. Flyaway dusty blond hair, serious gray eyes, lips slightly curved in a smile. “Sweetie,” he addressed the picture mildly, “have I ever told you that you have a talent for strays, you are a sucker for sob stories, and you always see sunshine behind a cloud big enough to blot out the sky? There's no happy ending to this one.”

After Frankie and Annie left, he'd texted Annie what he overheard in the men's grill at the country club. David Corley was lunching with a friend who loudly groused about an upcoming family reunion and a cousin who always had something unpleasant to say to everyone. David responded he should count himself lucky, at least he was dealing with a cousin and not a sister who could double as a vampire. Max remembered David's exasperated words, “It's my birthday, for God's sake, and Jane is busy sharpening a stake for the heart of this cute kid who had to be there to show off some of Tom's paintings. Sure, I've heard the gossip. Tom has the hots for her but, still, couldn't Jane have picked a different time?” And, Max pointed out in his text, that conversation occurred after the birthday party and before Jane was murdered. He knew Annie would scan her phone before she and Frankie settled down to talk. Annie should know the word was out on the island that there was more between Frankie and Tom than interest in his art.

He spoke firmly to the smiling picture. “That cute kid with the gorgeous hair had a motive as well as Tom if the rumors David heard are true. I know,” he answered her imagined response, “Tom was in Atlanta the night Paul Martin died.” Max was thoughtful. He agreed that Paul Martin blowing out his brains for his sister to find didn't sound like the man and doctor he'd known. “Okay, Annie. I'll root around like a hungry hog. But I'm checking out everybody, including the lovebirds.”

He turned to his computer. Everything had a beginning. If Lucy Ransome was right, the beginning of the end for Paul Martin started at the October 6 open house at Wyler Art Gallery. He began to type.

RUN-UP TO MURDER

Sunday, October 6—Dr. Paul Martin and sister Lucy Ransome attended an open house in honor of Tom Edmonds at Wyler Art Gallery.

Tuesday, October 8—Paul sketched the horse at the entrance to Jane Corley's estate.
Protect Jane
underlined twice. Also,
An open house, a hard heart. Evil in a look. I saw it. I'll deal with it at the party
.

Wednesday, October 9—Paul and Lucy attended a birthday party for David Corley, Jane's brother, at David and Madeleine's home.

Wednesday, October 9—Lucy said good night to Paul, leaving him in his study.

Thursday, October 10—Lucy found Paul at his desk in his study, dead of a gunshot wound to the head. Circumstances compatible with suicide. Lucy had no knowledge that he possessed a gun.

Monday, October 14—Jane Corley bludgeoned to death at her home during the afternoon. Weapon a sculptor's mallet belonging to her husband. Tom Edmonds discovered her body and called police at approximately a quarter to five.

Monday, October 21—Tom Edmonds taken into custody.

Tuesday, October 22—Lucy Ransome finds sketch.

Max tapped the first paragraph. He and Annie had attended the open house at Wyler Art Gallery. Guests wandered from the wide entry hall where wine and hors d'oeuvres were served into the long gallery to stroll through a display of Tom's paintings. Max methodically re-created his own movements that night, recalling glimpses of particular faces.

Jane Corley dominated the evening. She greeted guests with a flourish of her champagne flute. In an off-shoulder ruby dress, she'd appeared glamorous despite her too-strong features. Her ebullient laughter could be heard in every corner. She'd led the way into the gallery, sweeping guests before her like so many obedient children, and it was she who pulled the cord to unveil the central painting. She'd presented her usual commanding aura that evening.

Another memory slid into his mind. As he'd turned away from the unveiling—Annie was across the room talking to Henny Brawley—he'd noticed Paul Martin a few feet away from the oil painting of Jane standing at the end of a pier. Paul wasn't looking at the painting. He stared into the distance. He stood, a little stooped, holding a glass of wine, but his face was not that of a man enjoying his evening or judging art. The muscles of his face were slightly slack, drooping, a man who'd seen or thought something unexpected, something disturbing.

Max considered the possibilities. Lucy insisted Paul hadn't been the same since the open house. Maybe he indeed saw something that evening that led him to fear for Jane's life. It was equally possible he had a sudden touch of vertigo or his mind dredged up something ominous from a patient's symptoms that hadn't occurred to him or he was plunged into dark despairing thoughts about his own life.

It wasn't helpful to imagine what-ifs. Max knew he needed to focus on verifiable facts. Most important, who among those attending might have had reason to want Jane to cease to live. He knew the best place to start. He glanced at his watch, made a quick call. “You going to be in the newsroom for a while?”

Marian Kenyon was brisk. “Just finishing up the story about Tom Edmonds's arraignment. Nothing else exciting on the news front. You got something for me?”

•   •   •

F
rankie Ford looked hopefully across the worktable in the Death on Demand storeroom-cum-office. Her tone was excited. “What can you do?” Although her face was still splotchy, the tears had stopped.

Annie felt the burden of Frankie's eagerness and hoped that she could do something to help. “Mostly talk to people”—she saw Frankie droop—“who were close to Jane. This crime was planned by someone familiar with the house and with Tom's studio. No stranger dropped by Tom's studio and filched that mallet. The studio is too remote for an outsider to find.”

Frankie's eyes widened. Perhaps for the first time, she focused on who might have killed Jane rather than her fear for Tom. Overwhelmed by the threat to Tom, Frankie apparently hadn't thought about the crime and how it was committed.

“Do you think someone wanted Tom to be blamed?” Frankie's voice was faint.

“If he's innocent, then the mallet was deliberately used to implicate him. Let's consider the people who lived in the house or who were in the house that Monday.” Annie held a pen above a pad.

Frankie brushed back a tangle of chestnut curls. “Sherry Gillette's been there for several weeks. She left a few days after Jane died. Tom never paid much attention to anything, but he said Jane didn't like Sherry's husband. He said Jane wanted Sherry to dump him.”

“Is Sherry a cousin of some sort?”

“Tom said she was the daughter of an old friend of Jane's mother and he didn't see why Jane cared what Sherry did but Jane always had ideas about everybody's life.”

Annie wondered if Tom's attitude was affected by his own relationship with Jane, though he may have had a good point if Sherry wasn't even related to Jane. “Where do Sherry and her husband live?”

Frankie frowned in thought. “Some apartment house not far from Fish Haul Pier. His name's Roger. He teaches at the high school.”

Annie knew the big apartment complex on the other side of a wooded area from the park that faced the harbor and Fish Haul Pier. She wrote down:
Sherry Gillette, Roger Gillette
. Certainly if Sherry was staying at the house, her husband would likely be familiar with the house and grounds.

“Were Sherry and Jane fond of each other?”

“I only saw them together a few times when Toby and I were there for dinner. Jane loved to have us as an audience to talk about Tom's work. I thought Sherry was a big soppy self-centered drip. She usually looked like she was pouting. Jane kept telling her to act like a grown-up. That always sent Sherry off in a huff.” Frankie briefly pressed her lips together. “Jane decided Sherry had to boot her husband. It didn't matter that Sherry obviously wanted to wiggle out of everything she'd said about him. I think she showed Jane a bruise on her arm or something and said he'd been mean. Maybe it was all made up. But Jane insisted Sherry had to act. And if she didn't, Jane was going to talk to some people on the school board ‘because that kind of man shouldn't be around kids.' Like Tom said, Jane was always right. You know what I mean? I got the idea Sherry showed up thinking she'd get a lot of sympathy and stay for a while in luxurious surroundings, maybe tease her husband a bit. But Jane told Sherry the guy was a jerk, drop him. Tom said Jane was always sure she knew what was best for everybody.”

Annie wondered if Frankie knew how hostile she sounded. Perhaps she didn't care. Certainly Jane was demonstrating care for the woman if she was trying to protect her from an abusive husband. Or was Frankie right and Jane was interfering and causing trouble?

Frankie brushed back a strand of reddish-brown hair. “Kate Murray probably knows everything about Jane. She's in her sixties and she's worked for the Corley family forever. I think she's some kind of cousin. Or maybe not. Some connection to the family, anyway.” Her face crinkled. “I don't know exactly how to describe her. She oversees the running of the estate, though there's a maid and cook who come and do everything. She was Jane's personal assistant. She went most places with her, like art shows, and she was included in family gatherings.”

Annie underlined Kate's name. She would know exactly who was at work in the house when Jane died. If there was a gardener or yard service, she could supply that information.

“Was Kate at the open house at the gallery?”

“Yes.” There was no warmth in Frankie's voice.

Annie darted a quick glance at Frankie's stiff face. Clearly, Frankie didn't like Kate Murray.

“Did Kate seem to be on good terms with Jane?”

For an instant, humor glinted in Frankie's blue eyes. “Kate never bothers to be on good terms with anybody. She's a gruff old broad. She ran that house like a boot camp. Even Jane saluted when Kate came around.”

“Who else might have been likely to drop by the house on a regular basis?”

“David and Madeleine, I suppose. They live in the original Corley house. Jane built that big mansion when she married the golfer.”

“Where is the original house?”

Frankie concentrated. “David's house is on Crescent Street. The house faces Wherry Creek. Jane's house is a half mile away. Toby used to talk about how much money and land Jane owned.”

Annie realized the gallery owner apparently made it his business to know all about the young painter he sponsored and the money behind him.

“Toby said it's all private land, the forest between the houses, pine woods with cypress and magnolias and bayberry. He said Jane built a private road called Corley Lane that connects Crescent and Berryhill. Her house is on Corley Lane about a quarter mile from Berryhill. Toby said the Corleys own all the land between Crescent and Berryhill.”

Annie turned to her desk, pulled out a drawer for an island map. She didn't have any trouble finding Crescent and Berryhill. The streets ran parallel from Sand Dollar Road and ended at the salt marsh. A curling loop indicated the creek that wound to the marsh. Corley Lane was a thin squiggle connecting the public streets. She remembered from garden tours that the grounds around Jane's Mediterranean mansion were extensive. Annie drew a quick map, marked
A
for Jane's house,
B
for Tom's studio, and
C
for David and Madeleine's home. A private road . . . Unless there were deliveries or visitors, there would have been no one to notice anyone turning into Jane's drive. “Is there anyone other than family who might have been likely to drop in?”