Death at the Door (7 page)

“Tom might know.” Frankie didn't sound certain.

Annie wondered if Tom was too self-absorbed to know or care about his wife's family or friends. “Did you talk to Tom the day Jane was killed?”

Frankie spoke carefully. “I talked to him on the phone.”

“When?” Why wasn't she more forthcoming?

“Around two o'clock.”

Annie marked two o'clock on her notepad. “What did you talk about?”

Frankie's lips parted, closed. She jammed the fingers of her small hands tightly together. “I was . . . I asked about crating some paintings.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not anything special.”

Annie gazed at her steadily. “I've heard that you and Tom were . . . more than friends.”

If possible, Frankie looked even more forlorn. “Oh God, I knew it was wrong. He's—he was married. I was going to leave the island. It wasn't any good. And it was wrong.” She lifted her eyes. Her lips trembled. “I told him I wasn't going to stay.”

Annie looked at her and saw despair and shame and desperate unhappiness. “When did you tell him?”

Frankie brushed away tears. “Last week.”

Annie was silent.

Frankie's eyes widened. “No.” Her voice was sharp. “He wouldn't hurt Jane. You can't think that.”

Annie knew she would not be alone in that thought. If the police knew Frankie was threatening to leave the island, that would only reinforce their sense that Tom had a huge motive for murder.

She said quietly, “When did you know Jane had been killed?”

“Tom called me that night, said it was awful, that he'd found her . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“Where were you that day?”

“At the gallery.”

Annie persisted. “Were you there all day?”

“Most of the day.”

“Where were you between one and five?”

Frankie's gaze slid away. “I was out and about for a while.” A pause and she swallowed tightly. “That afternoon I went to the bank and stopped at the grocery. It was such a pretty day, I played hooky for a little while. I went to the park across from the harbor and took a walk.”

Annie said quietly, “Did you go to Jane's house?”

A pulse fluttered in Frankie's throat. “I didn't go to the Corley house.”

Annie looked into brilliantly blue eyes holding her own in a steady gaze intended to convey honesty. Instead, that straight look reinforced her suspicion that Frankie Ford was lying. “If everyone tells the truth, we may find out what happened.”

Frankie jumped up. “I don't know what happened.” Her voice wobbled. “But Tom wouldn't hurt Jane.” She turned and rushed toward the door.

•   •   •

M
arian Kenyon poured ink-black coffee into a mug, handed it to Max. She flopped in an opposite chair, ripped open a sack of peanuts, poured some into her Coke, lifted the can, drank, munched. Her short black hair poked in several directions, likely from frenzied hand swipes as she typed. “What's up?” Her tone was easy, but her dark intelligent eyes watched him intently.

Max pulled up a wobbly wooden chair, turned it to face the stained table, straddled the seat. “Who was at the arraignment?”

“Defense lawyer, Dinah Whittle from a criminal defense firm in Beaufort. The prosecutor.” Her lips twisted. “Our own beloved circuit solicitor Willard Posey—”

Max kept his face blank, but Marian, too, remembered the hot August when Willard Posey, self-important and pleased, had trumpeted Max's guilt in a murder case. Posey was always quick to think he had a foolproof case.

“—thundered that Tom Edmonds was a danger to society, a man who crept up behind his defenseless wife, left her dying in their family room, and now had the audacity to deny guilt despite the fact that only his fingerprints were on the murder weapon and the weapon had come from Edmonds's remote studio deep in the grounds of his wife's estate. Moreover . . . But you get the picture, yada yada yada. Tom's held over for trial, no bond permitted. It was short, if not sweet. I took the early ferry over to the mainland, just got back. It didn't take long to write.” Marian screwed up her narrow face in disgust. “I think it's hogwash. I was there yesterday when a couple of deputies picked him up at the jail en route to the mainland. He looked about as much like a murderer as my dog resembles a ballerina.” A wrinkle of her nose. “Stanley's a Chihuahua.” She put down the can, pushed up from her slump in the chair, planted her elbows on the scarred tabletop, looked at him like a mama hawk ready to attack. “So what's up?”

Max tried to look the essence of cherubic innocence. “I thought you wouldn't mind filling me in on everything you noticed Monday afternoon at the crime scene.” He never doubted that Marian picked up the scanner call for police to be dispatched to Corley Lane, possible homicide, and that Marian arrived by the time the police had piled out of a cruiser.

The
Gazette
's star reporter looked like Dorothy L contemplating a dish of sardines. “Who wants to know and why?” Her aura of fatigue was gone. Her dark eyes were bright, interested.

“Confidential. Let's just put it that an interested party has doubts about Tom's guilt.”

“Better and better. So do I. Killers don't slink. They posture, bluff, bully, preen, charm, dismiss. They sure as hell don't slink. Be glad to share what I know—if you'll explain why an upstanding island citizen can't wait to read all about it in the
Gazette
.”

Max looked thoughtful. Lucy Ransome wanted to do something. Maybe he could give her that opportunity. “Okay. You first, then I'll give you a lead to a hell of a story.”

“Sweet it is, honeybunch.” Her grin was impish. “Been watching old Jackie Gleason reruns. I know”—her expression was suddenly poignant—“life's always been a crock, but back then you could go see a movie and never hear the F-word and darned if the movies didn't encourage people to be good guys. Now, hello, serial killer, everybody screws everybody, and that good horse Decent pulls up lame. Anyway, what do you want to know?”

Max's answer was quick. “Everything. What you picked up at the scene. What you got from Billy later.”

A
nnie drove with the windows down to enjoy the mild October morning. She turned off Berryhill onto Corley Lane. The blacktop wound under a canopy of interlocking live oak branches. Live oaks and pines loomed dense and impenetrable on either side of the road. It was like being in a nature preserve with nothing to block out the island sounds, insects whirring, birds twittering, the crackle of a passing deer, perhaps a wild boar.

A sudden break in foliage marked the entrance to the grounds. Annie slowed the car to look up at a huge bronze horse. The image shifted in her mind, the horse's lips drawn back in a snarl, an animal facing danger. Did Paul make that change as a talisman to protect Jane, the horse ready for battle?

Annie's hands tightened on the steering wheel. She hadn't called ahead. Perhaps she should have. But it was easy to rebuff a caller over the telephone, harder in a face-to-face encounter. At the least, she might have perhaps a few seconds longer to make her case in person than if she had called.

Annie turned the car between stone pillars, drove up a broad paved driveway. Sunlight gilded the golden stucco, emphasized the dark red of the tiled roof. The house rose three stories, could have graced an avenue in Miami during its heyday. Utter silence enveloped the house. No cars. No one about. No lights in the tall windows. Annie found the quiet sinister, knew she was reacting to what had happened within the opulent mansion.

She pulled into the wide paved area near a porte cochere. Silence pressed against her as she stepped out of the car. No voices, no motors, no footsteps, only birds chirping, squirrels chittering, magnolia leaves rustling. Annie had a wild sense that the enormous home was deserted, that entering would be like boarding the
Mary Celeste
, no one there, no one ever to be there.

She steeled herself and started up broad, shallow front steps. Surely that sense of emptiness came from her knowledge of violent death here. Within the house, there must be movement, the clatter of steps, the whine of a vacuum. She pushed a doorbell next to a huge carved wooden front door.

As she waited, a lean gray cat jumped up on a brick planter filled with pansies, watched her with cool golden eyes. Annie turned and reached out a friendly hand, snatched it back in time to avoid a bite.

A voice behind her said acidly, “Doesn't like strangers.”

Annie faced the woman standing in the entryway, observing Annie with about as much warmth as the feline. Short-cropped, white hair framed a narrow unsmiling face with a high forehead, cold brown eyes, long thin nose, sharp chin. She was trim in a charcoal-gray-and-white-striped blouse with sleeves rolled up between elbows and wrists, light gray slacks that hung loosely on bony hips, black loafers.

“We've met before, Miss Murray. I'm Annie Darling.”

“If Jane had ordered some books”—her tone was impatient—“we'll honor that. Now if you'll excuse me—”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I'm very busy. Send a letter.” She started to turn away.

Annie's quick temper flared. There was no need for her to be rude. “Don't you want to know who killed Jane?”

Kate Murray swung about. Her face hardened. “That's an outrageous question. You run that mystery bookstore. If you think you can capitalize on Jane's death, you've come to the wrong place.”

Annie felt jolted. “I'm trying to save an innocent man from a murder charge.”

“What's the idea? A guided tour of the murder scene, then a True Crime evening at your store?” Kate's tone was scathing. She started to turn away.

Annie spoke fast. “Two murders and counting, Miss Murray. Paul Martin. Jane Corley. Tom will be victim number three if he's convicted and sentenced to death.”

Kate slowly turned back to face Annie, her dour face taut, still, disbelieving. “Paul?”

“Paul knew someone intended harm to Jane. He warned that person at David's birthday party. Someone followed Paul home, shot him, set up his death to look like suicide. Lucy Ransome believes this happened. I believe Lucy. Lucy sent me.”

Kate yanked a cell from her pocket, tapped. “Lucy, did you send that bookstore woman here? . . . Paul, too? . . . All right.” She ended the call, jerked her head toward the hallway. “You'd better come in.”

•   •   •

M
ax propped a legal pad to one side of the keyboard, glanced at his notes as he typed.

BACKGROUND ON CORLEY HOMICIDE FROM MARIAN KENYON

911 call from Tom Edmonds received by dispatcher 4:49
P.M.
Monday, October 14. Homicide One Corley Lane. Victim identified as Jane Corley by husband Tom Edmonds who claims to have discovered body. First cruiser arrives 5:04
P.M.
, Officers Lou Pirelli and Hyla Harrison. Chief Cameron arrives 5:08
P.M.
, crime van 5:10
P.M.
, two additional cruisers 5:11
P.M.
Officers Treadwell, Collins, Ingram, and Baker secure scene. ME Dr. T. W. Burford 5:14
P.M.
confirms victim dead, prelim cause of death blunt trauma to head. Investigation begins, photos, sketches, measurements. 7
P.M.
Chief Cameron speaks to press. Chief says Tom Edmonds, husband of victim, last saw her after lunch, approx. 1:15
P.M.
, claims he was in his studio until coming into the house and finding her body in the family room at approx. 4:47
P.M
. Edmonds told police Jane intended to spend the afternoon in her office, which adjoined the family room. Present in the house that afternoon were Kate Murray, personal assistant to Jane Corley; Sherry Gillette, family friend; Gertrude Anniston, cook. Kate Murray claims she was in her upstairs office following lunch, did not come downstairs until she heard Tom's shouts. Sherry Gillette spent the afternoon reading in her room. She, too, heard Tom call out and hurried downstairs. Cook cleaned kitchen after lunch, went out side door to drive to the grocery, returned about four, carried in groceries, made coconut cake. According to police, no one heard any unusual noise during the afternoon. Police said the walls of the house are unusually thick. Body facedown midway between pool table and French doors to terrace, head toward terrace. Struck from behind.

Max pictured Jane's body. Was she leading the way for a guest to depart? Or simply leaving someone behind as she walked toward the terrace? Maybe Tom asked her to come to his studio to look at a painting in progress. Maybe Kate Murray suggested a stroll in the gardens. Maybe none of the above. As for the cook, if Jane had spoken with her—but why in the family room?—Jane could have ended the conversation and turned away to go out on the terrace, assuming the cook was returning to the kitchen. He didn't think a cook harbored murderous impulses toward her employer, but she would be vetted as well as anyone known to be present that afternoon.

In actuality, the murderer could be anyone. However, departure by way of the terrace possibly meant the murderer arrived that way. Arrival and departure through the terrace door was another indication someone close to Jane or part of the family was the killer, just as only a member of that close circle attended David's birthday party and possibly spoke with Paul.

Max glanced at the legal pad, continued to type.

French doors unlocked when police arrived. Gardener Ross Peters saw Jane Corley strolling near a pond in the lower garden beneath the terrace at approx. half past one. She waved at him, then turned and walked back toward the house. He did not see her again. However, he spent some time at the garden at David Corley's house. Police invited the public to contact Crime Stoppers if anyone had information about persons in or around the Corley estate that afternoon. Got no response.

Max tapped the space bar, typed a new title.

•   •   •

GUEST LIST DAVID CORLEY PARTY

M
arian's gamine face had registered disdain at his request for the guest list. “Do you think I do society, too, and maybe sweep out after hours? Hop on a bike and deliver papers?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?” Her tone was sharp. “Harsh words, maybe? Somebody challenged to a duel?”

Max had been quick to explain all he needed was the guest list and if she'd hold on, she'd know why. In her usual efficient fashion, Marian pulled up the story that had run in the society editor's column on the Saturday after the birthday party. All Max needed were the names.

David Corley, Madeleine Corley, Jane Corley, Kate Murray, Sherry Gillette, Kevin and Irene Hubbard, Toby Wyler, Frankie Ford, four off-islanders from Atlanta, Steve James, Harris Carson, Ken Daniels, Wendell Evans, and, of course, Paul Martin and Lucy Ransome.

Max liked to have a sense of people. He knew the islanders casually, but he wanted background. First, though, he'd record what Marian described happily as scuttlebutt. He grinned. Marian's dark eyes had gleamed as she unloaded. “BTW. The cop shop zeroed in on Tom from the get-go, but I nosed around a bit, asked here and there who might have it in for the lady. I came up with a little list. As you might expect, check out the nearest and dearest. If anyone wants to know where you picked this up, you can say you walk in the garden every night and little green men murmur in your shell pink ear. Or you looked into Madame SpookaLook's crystal ball in the fortuneteller's tent at the last church rummage sale. Whatever, but nada from
moi
. Right?”

He'd held up his right hand. “Swear to die.” If anyone ever should ask, Marian could rest easy. He kind of liked the little green men in the garden. Who could prove otherwise?

•   •   •

T
heir footsteps echoed hollowly on the tiled floor of the shadowy entrance hall. Arched mullioned windows with stained glass did little to shed light. Tapestries of hunting scenes hung from gray stone walls. Annie was reminded of Errol Flynn movies on TBS except these massive stones were real.

Kate led the way past an enormous reception area framed by Moorish columns on one side and a formal dining hall on the other, again with mullioned windows set high in the walls. Her pace was brisk. At the end of the hallway, a broad stairway led to upper floors. She passed the steps, came to a huge oak door, partially ajar. She paused, took a quick breath, pushed it open.

They stepped into a different world, still Italianate, but with warm glowing Florentine colors, walls hung with Tom's paintings, comfortable furniture. They stood in what was obviously the family room, a fireplace on the north wall, a pool table with a nearby wet bar, chintz-covered sofas and easy chairs, windows overlooking the flagstone terrace and the gardens that sloped beyond.

Annie's gaze stopped at the pool table.

“Just past there. That's where she died. Blood all around her.” Kate's voice was uneven.

Annie looked into dark eyes filled with pain and grief. “I'm sorry.”

“Hell of a place to die. Her favorite room.” Kate hunched thin shoulders. Her stare at Annie was a glower. “Jane was more alive than a hundred people. Smart, quick, clever, never afraid.” She swallowed and her voice was thin. “Now she's gone.” She stalked across the parquet flooring, pointed down at a too-shiny floor. “They scrubbed and scrubbed to get up her blood.” She whirled on Annie. “If you've talked your way in here like a slimy vulture to feast on it, then get the hell out.”

Annie met her penetrating gaze steadily. “I'm here because Lucy found a drawing in Paul's desk . . .” The wariness in Kate's gaze changed to intense concentration as Annie spoke of the open house, followed by Paul's worried demeanor, the apparent lifting of his spirits following David's birthday party, the discovery of the sketch, and the underlined words,
Protect Jane
. “Lucy doesn't believe Paul ever owned a gun.”

Kate's fingers clamped on Annie's arm. “For God's sake, woman, Lucy has to go to the police.”

“Lucy went. I did, too.” Annie wanted to be fair to Billy Cameron, one of the finest police officers she'd ever known. “Chief Cameron listened. He admitted someone could have set everything up to make it look like Paul killed himself. Billy didn't believe there was someone who'd planned that well.”

Kate loosened her grip. “Let's go out on the terrace. I don't think I can stand being in this room much longer.” Again she moved fast, striding the few feet to the French door, yanking it open.

Annie followed her outside, welcoming the sunshine, trying not to remember the too-shiny floor near the pool table.

Kate gestured toward redwood furniture beneath gaily striped umbrellas. When they were settled, Kate was brusque. “Cops look at evidence. Billy's got plenty. But I know Lucy.”

Kate spoke of Billy with familiarity. Annie wasn't surprised. Billy was a native of the island. He knew everybody as only a small-town native can know them, who had been married to whom and when, why two women managed to attend the same church for a lifetime but never speak to each other, which secretary was meeting her boss at a motel on the mainland, where a missing uncle was last seen and why no one instituted a search.

Kate gave her a sharp look. “I know about cops. My husband was a beat cop in Atlanta. Gunned down when he stopped a guy who'd killed his girlfriend. Kent was twenty-four, just getting started. He had dreams. He would have been a good cop, like Billy Cameron. That's when I came home to the island. I didn't do much of anything for a couple of years after Kent was killed, then I did books for some local businesses. I'm good at detail. That was before Jane's mother died. Bolton, Jane's father, hired me to run the place after Sherrybeth died in childbirth and he needed someone to oversee taking care of David. I was a cousin of Bolton's.” She talked, but her expression was distant, a woman thinking, digesting what Annie had told her.

She turned a troubled gaze on Annie. “Jane wasn't herself the last few weeks. The Friday before she died, she came out on the terrace—I was weeding the pansies”—her mouth quirked—“even though Ross, the gardener, doesn't like for me to fool with ‘his' beds. Anyway I was out there, and Jane came out. She didn't look . . . right. She asked me to come to her office. Once inside, she shut the door and said, ‘Something's wrong, Kate. I can feel it.' I asked what had disturbed her. She turned her hands up. ‘I don't know. I've been uneasy the last few days. Very unlike me. But I wondered if you felt uncomfortable, too.' I said maybe the changes in the barometer were bothering her. She looked a little grim. ‘Probably I'm out of sorts because I have to decide what to do about a husband who's acting like a teenager with his first crush. Maybe it's time to yank the lead, remind him who has entrée to the success he'd like to have.' She laughed that robust laugh of hers and seemed to shake off the gloom. She was pretty emphatic. ‘I'll deal with that little romance. And him. And her.' That was all she said about Tom and Frankie. So”—her dark eyes challenged Annie—“if you're right, if someone killed Paul and Tom was on the mainland, you need to look at that girl.”