Death of the Party (13 page)

Annie had watched those pinpricks of light, recognized stealth. Now she knew why. “You shouldn't have gone out by yourself. You should have waited. We got back a little while ago, then Max left.” Quickly she explained Max's decision to stay at Everett's cabin. And why. “Max has a gun. If you'd waited—”

Britt's gesture was impatient, imperious. “If I'd waited, there would have been no chance to find out what was going on. And here I am, safe and sound. Nothing happened to me. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. I'm at the point where I see danger in every shadow.”

Annie never dismissed intuition. “A policeman once told me to run like hell if I ever felt in danger. If you
had that sense, the murderer may have only been a few feet from you. Don't go out alone again.”

Britt suddenly looked amused. “I'm not a complete fool.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a blue-black handgun, held it loosely on her palm. “It belonged to Jeremiah. I suppose I should have sent it to Craig or Jay. I didn't even think about it when I boxed up Jeremiah's papers. It's kept in the desk in the library. Now I'm going to put it back and get a drink. Why don't you join me?” She turned, headed down the hall, still talking. “You know, I'm not sure I really saw a light. The moonlight comes and goes. Maybe—”

Annie followed. Britt wanted to be reassured that everything was all right. Or as all right as it could be under the circumstances.

Britt turned on the lights in the library. ”—that's all it was. Anyway, come on in.” Britt moved behind the desk, bent to her right and reached for a drawer. The bottom drawer rolled out smoothly. Britt placed the handgun inside, pushed the drawer shut, then took a key from her pocket and twisted it in the lock. She stuck the key back in her jeans, made a moue of relief. “There's something hideous about a gun.” She swung toward Annie. “Don't you feel that way?”

“Yes.” They looked at each other with complete understanding.

Disposing of the gun seemed to lift the cloud of worry from Britt. Her entire demeanor changed. She gave Annie a wistful smile. “I wish you and Max could be here for fun. The island's so beautiful. Maybe, once everything's cleared up, you'll come and stay and
tramp on the beach at low tide and look for shells. Let me show you what I found recently. Come see.”

Britt moved eagerly to a side table. Annie followed. Three decanters sat on a lacquered tray. Shelving behind the table held an assortment of glasses. Britt pulled out a central drawer. Shells rested on green velvet. She reached down and handed a kitten's paw to Annie. “I found it just last week. Isn't it glorious?” The shell was about an inch and a half long with six wavy ribs on the outside. The red-brown markings on the ridges were in soft contrast to the white shell. “And here's a perfect auger shell.” Britt held up the long, narrow shell.

Annie replaced the kitten's paw, admired the whorls on the auger shell. Yes, it would be fun to come to Golden Silk and hunt for shells and knobbed whelks and sand dollars. But there was a small matter of murder.

Britt fingered the ridges of the auger. She gently returned it to the velvet, ran her fingers lightly over a calico scallop, a Scotch bonnet, and a banded tulip. She stared at the collection for a moment, then closed the drawer. Her pleased look faded. She picked up a decanter, her face once again drawn in tired lines. “Sherry? Brandy?”

“Sherry, please.” Annie strolled to a Brittany sofa, admiring the bright splash of a peony pattern on the yellow fabric. She settled onto a cloud-soft cushion.

Britt half filled a sherry glass. She poured herself a generous amount of brandy. She brought the sherry to Annie. She didn't sit down. Her movements impatient, she paced toward the fireplace, turned to face Annie.
She stared into the golden liquor, took a sip, and gave Annie a curiously intent look. “I thought we might relax for a little while, visit and have a drink and talk about the island. But it's no good, is it?”

The shadow of murder leached ease from the comfortable room, made Britt's eyes pools of fear, drew Annie's gaze to the dark windowpanes. Britt followed her glance. She placed the snifter on the mantel, and hurried across the room to draw the drapes. “I can shut out the night.” Her lips trembled. “I can't shut out the fear. I don't think anybody's out there. But, there could be. Dammit”—her voice was ragged—“I hate being afraid. Maybe it will be over soon. It has to be over.”

Annie hated to take advantage of Britt's distress. But the more Max knew, the more likely he could find a solution, free Britt from the burden of Jeremiah's death, restore the island to serenity. “Britt, you know these people.” Annie flung out her hand toward the garden and the forest and the secluded cabins. “You must have some idea who killed Jeremiah.” How much did Britt know about her guests? Enough certainly to have an estimate of character. Did she know as much about them as Everett did?

Britt was once again at the fireplace. She stood stiffly, her face thoughtful. She drank down half the glass of brandy.

Annie sipped the sherry. Mmm, cream sherry, sweet as nectar. Usually, she adored a glass of excellent sherry. Tonight her pleasure was diminished by the atmosphere of gloom. Britt's tension permeated the room.

Britt placed the glass on the mantel, clasped her
slender hands tightly together. “I don't
know
.” She emphasized the verb.

Annie's eyes widened. Britt might not know, she might have no proof, but she suspected someone. She had in mind a particular person, and that possibility upset her.

Britt ran fingers through her hair, disarranging her dark curls. The turmoil in her mind was reflected in the wildness of her eyes, in her tousled hair, in the jerkiness of her movements as she turned, paced, turned again. She spoke fast, the words tumbling over each other, breathless, stricken. “In a perfect world, it would be Gerald. No one likes him. I don't think Jeremiah liked him. Gerald is useful. He can always be counted on to do the dirty work. I guess that's why Craig keeps him on.” Her eyes swept unseeingly over Annie. “I'd think Craig would be sick of that adoring look. Gerald's like a dog.”

Annie scarcely breathed, she sat so still. She didn't want Britt to notice her. She especially didn't want Britt to realize how much her disjointed, emotional speech revealed.

Britt's tone curdled with disdain. “The master and his dog. But if it can't be Gerald, I'd pick Kim. I wish it could be Kim. I hated Jeremiah for bringing her here. Cissy was too weak to get up and she couldn't eat and that blond bitch paraded around the island like it belonged to her, talking about changes she'd make when she lived here. Or Everett. He's slimy enough. If only it were Everett. It would be just like Everett to have done it himself, then try to blackmail me.” Britt drew a quick breath. The flush in her cheeks subsided. Gradually her
breathing slowed. “I'm sorry. I'm not fit company. If you don't mind, let's go up. Though I don't know how well any of us will sleep. Please take your sherry with you, if you like.” Her hand darted out, clutched the snifter. She downed the rest of the brandy in a single gulp. “Tomorrow everything will be better.” A broken laugh. “Okay. Maybe not better. But we'll get things organized. You'll help, won't you?”

“Of course I will. I'll do everything I can.” Annie rose, leaving the glass of sherry on the end table.

Britt was already moving toward the door, reaching toward the light switch. As Annie came even with her, Britt hesitated, then swung toward the desk. She darted behind it, bent, rattled the bottom drawer. When she joined Annie in the doorway, she looked embarrassed. “Just making sure.”

Annie followed her silently down the broad hall and up the stairs. She wished the front and back doors were as securely locked as the desk drawer holding the gun.

On the landing, Britt glanced down the hall toward Annie's room and said abruptly, “Jam a chair under your doorknob.”

“H
EY, BUDDY
.” A
FOOT THUDDED
into the back of the couch. “Nobody messes with my papers and rips me off. Where the hell did you put it?”

Max flailed awake. He landed on his feet in a crouch, hands bunched. Weak sunlight filtered through partially open wooden blinds, casting striped shadows on the wooden floor. Birds chittered morning warbles. The smell of strong coffee mingled with the minty scent of aftershave.

Everett Crenshaw, his freshly shaven face twisted in a scowl, stood behind the couch in a floppy sweatshirt and glen plaid boxer shorts. He held Max's opened sports bag in one hand. Abruptly he flipped it over and the contents tumbled out—shaving kit, T-shirt, shorts. Everett held the bag up, rattled it.

“Put it down.” Eyes steely, Max took a step forward, fists high.

Everett backed up one pace, two, abruptly tossed the bag to the floor. “Hold up, Darling. I've got every right. You got into my folder.” He jerked his head toward the breakfast bar and the green leather envelope. “You stole a private paper.”

“No.” Max's face creased in a frown. He came out of his combative crouch and glanced toward the folder. “Something missing?”

“Damn sure is. I want it back. Pronto.” Everett kicked the vinyl bag out of his way, strode to the counter. He thrust his hand into the folder, pulled out a letter and a notebook, held the folder wide open. “Empty as a bum's wallet and there should be another couple of sheets from a legal pad.”

“Whatever it is, I didn't take it.” Truth gave weight to Max's words.

Everett's glare changed to a puzzled frown.

Max stepped behind the couch, picked up his belongings and dropped them into the bag. He placed it on the coffee table by the gun and flashlight. “You're sure the paper was there last night?”

“Positive.” Everett slapped the folder on the counter. “I looked it over right before I went up to the house for dinner.”

Max strolled into the kitchen. Everett had apparently loaded the coffeemaker, then reached for his folder. The last drops of coffee cascaded into the glass pot. Max poured the fresh brew into two mugs, pushed one toward Everett. “Somebody must have come into the cabin before Annie and I got here. You were gone. The door was unlocked.”

Everett ripped open a packet of sugar, dumped it into his mug. “Yeah. I guess that's what happened.” He glanced toward Max's sports bag. “You don't have it. It's gone. That means somebody else got it.” He drank from the mug, his eyes thoughtful.

“What's missing?” Max drank the hot, strong coffee, welcomed the swift rush from caffeine.

“Oh, this and that.” Everett's tone was vague. “Maybe that's why nobody fell into our trap last night. If it was the murderer who got the sheet, well, any fool—and I don't think we're dealing with a fool—would realize that if I dug up this stuff, other people could too. So, there was no reason to come after me.” His relief was apparent. “Looks like we can go up for breakfast without expecting an ambush. And”—he glanced at the clock—“it's almost seven. The feast will be spread. I tell you, Darling, a Heron House breakfast is to die for. I'm damn near there.” He headed for the bedroom.

Max carried his shaving kit into the bathroom. In the bedroom, Everett pulled on sweatpants and stepped barefoot into worn loafers. “I'll leave you a sausage.” He paused long enough to brush his pompadour to perfection, then banged out the front door.

Max was midway through shaving when he stopped and stared into the mirror. A missing paper that contained unpalatable facts about other guests might not assuage the murderer's unease over Everett's farewell taunt last night. If Everett knew facts the murderer wanted hidden, Everett might still be in danger. The fact that no one had tried to attack Everett last night was no guarantee he was safe today.

 

Annie spread her hand across the sheet, felt nothing but clammy coolness. Max…Her eyes opened. The room was grayish but there was enough light to make out the furniture. She stared at the straight chair she'd
wedged beneath the doorknob, as per Britt's instruction. She pushed upright, came to her feet. She had a sense of urgency, an unsettling feeling that she was late, that she must hurry to prevent something dreadful. She was in the bathroom and out, hair quickly combed, face damp, pulling on a sweater and slacks and loafers, and on her way downstairs in less than five minutes. Midway down the stairs, she heard voices below, including—oh happy moment, relief exquisite, exuberant joy—Max's clear tenor. “…not down yet? I'll run up and get her. And hey, Everett”—as he came out of the dining room, his words were louder—“stick close to Britt. We'll talk in a minute.”

“Max!” Annie flew down the steps and into his arms, his wonderful, welcoming, strong arms. The bleak morning suddenly pulsed with cheer. “I missed you.”

He held her tight, pressed his face into her curls. “Me too, honey. Tonight we'll stay together if I have to hog-tie Everett to get him up here.”

Abruptly, she pulled away, looked up. “Everett's okay? What happened?”

Max's shoulders rose and fell. “Nothing. Slept like babies.” He remembered twisting and turning. Something he'd tried to remember…“Well, sort of. Anyway, nobody came near the cabin.”

“Somebody was out and about.” She told him of Britt's adventure.

Max's frown was quick. “She went out alone?”

Annie slipped her arm through his, spoke softly as they crossed the hall. “She took a gun with her. And,
Max”—this was a whisper—“I think she has an idea who killed Jeremiah. I'll tell you later.”

In the dining room, the table was set with bright yellow pottery and woven cherry place mats. The centerpiece of herons had been moved to the Louis XV commode. In its place was a tall translucent blue vase. Stalks of yaupon with bright red berries added winter cheer. The chandeliers dissipated the early morning gloom. Britt adjusted the Bunsen flame beneath a serving dish. Everett stood at the end of the buffet, his plate piled high. “Apple egg casserole. Poached eggs on potato pancakes. Cheese biscuits. Salmon and cheese.” His sigh of satisfaction brought a smile to Britt's face.

She stepped toward Annie and Max. “Lucinda's outdone herself. Come and see.” She might have been any hostess greeting guests except for the paleness of her face and the shadows beneath her eyes.

Annie caught Max's hand, tugged. The buffet was a magnet. She was ravenous. Apple egg casserole was one of Max's specialities. He used sharp cheddar cheese and a full pound of sweet Tennessee bacon slow-cooked to perfection and then crumbled.

Everett walked toward the table, filled plate in one hand and a goblet of foaming orange juice in the other. “How amazing no one else is here.” He glanced toward the china clock on the mantel. “A quarter after seven and our captain of industry has yet to arrive and his major minion apparently still slumbers. I suppose the Honorable Millicent has decided there aren't any pockets to be picked. So here I am, the early bird. We all know what that means. I can pick my spot.

First come, first served.” He cut his eyes toward Britt. “What say I get Jeremiah's throne?” He nodded toward the massive mahogany chair at the far end of the table, the only one with arms, clearly the seat for the host.

Britt's gaze was measuring. “You don't believe in ghosts?”

“As in, such a blasphemous desecration might evoke Jeremiah's petulant spirit?” Everett laughed aloud, plunked his plate on the cherry mat at the head of the table. The yellow plate was brilliant against the vivid red cloth. “I'm willing to take that chance.” Seated, he raised the goblet of orange juice. “How about a toast. Here's to crime.”

Britt's eyes flared. “Everett, that's tasteless even for you. Remember, you're talking about Jay and Craig's father.”

He scooped a forkful of casserole, poked it in his mouth, chewed. His reply was indistinct. “Yeah. Yeah. And Cissy's philandering spouse and Kim's boyfriend and the Honorable Millicent's nemesis—”

“I beg your pardon.” The icy voice would have reduced most people to shamed silence. In a periwinkle blue cotton cardigan with ottoman stitching and white wool slacks, Millicent was immaculately groomed and haughty. Her stare equated Everett with something nasty pulled into the drawing room by an ill-bred dog.

Unfazed, Everett scooted back the big chair, half rose, bowed to Millicent and her husband. “Good eats, folks.” His blue eyes glinted. “Maybe not quite on a par with a certain hotel in Boca Raton. Quite a favorite of a young fellow named Bobby. You and I can visit
about that another time, Representative McRae. I don't want to keep you and hubby from the victuals.”

“Boca Raton?” Nick was disdainful. “I doubt you've spent much time there.” He touched Millicent's elbow. “I believe the buffet is ready.”

His wife moved ahead of him. Her face was suddenly pinched, the flesh tight against sharp bones. She looked old and stricken. She moved past Annie and Max with a mumbled “Good morning.” The hand that reached for a plate trembled.

“You never know who you're going to see at fancy resorts.” Everett's loud voice followed the McRaes. “Or be seen by.” Everett's smile was malicious. “Bobby's been there several times. Looked like he was having fun.”

Annie was suddenly angry. She hadn't liked Millicent McRae, but Everett's feline cruelty appalled her. Had Nick heard rumors about his wife and Bobby? If not, Millicent would obviously be terrified at what might be revealed. If Nick was aware, the moment's ugliness would be excruciating for both Millicent and her husband. Annie said loudly, “Boca Raton. The last time we were there—”

Max looked puzzled. They'd never stayed in Boca Raton. They had visited charming Stuart on the East Coast and shell-rich Sanibel on the West. “Annie—”

She gave his arm a tiny pinch “—all it did was rain. You know, it was that summer Florida had buckets of rain. Mmm, the casserole looks perfect. Millicent, did you see the potato pancakes? Let me hold the lid for you.”

Suddenly the dining room seemed warm and hospi
table. Britt picked up a silver coffee carafe, followed them to the table.

Millicent and Nick took seats as far as possible from Everett. He wiped away a dollop of marmalade and grinned. “Hey, there's plenty of room down this way.”

Britt held up the carafe. “More coffee?”

Annie headed straight for the chair next to Nick. A short nod to Max indicated he should join Everett. “Have you read the new biography of Franklin?” she asked Nick. Thankfully, there was always a new biography of Franklin.

“Franklin remains an enigma.” Nick's tone was judicious. “He was a fascinating man. Was he a patriot or a clever dissembler…”

Max glanced from Millicent's set face to the dull patches of red in Nick's thin cheeks to Everett's sly smile. Max slid into the chair nearest Everett. “I've been thinking about last night—”

A door near the buffet opened. Lucinda, her face red and cross, stepped into the dining room. Her yellow calico apron was smudged with flour. “Britt”—she jerked her head—“you got a minute?”

Britt looked surprised. Still carrying the carafe, she walked swiftly to Lucinda and followed her through the door.

“—and the kind of information you had collected—”

Everett's sly eyes darted down the table.

“—and I think the safest thing for you to do is sketch out that material and give it to me.”

There was a curious flicker in Everett's bright green eyes. “And be cut out of the loop? No way, Darling.”

Everett spread butter atop the poached egg on the potato pancake. “Nope, here's the deal. I get first look at everybody's report. If anybody's left out something important, you'll be the first to know.”

Max folded smoked salmon over cream cheese. “I wouldn't take that gamble if I were you.”

“I didn't get where I am without taking chances. I'm not going to miss out on this story.” His pale eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Besides, no bogeyman came after me last night.”

Max looked grim. “I'd advise you to be on guard. Nothing happened last night, but that doesn't mean you are safe.”

The door from the kitchen opened. Britt poked her head out. She looked irritated, flustered, and puzzled. “Max. Will you come, please?” She withdrew and the door closed.

Max put his plate on the table. “Excuse me.”

Annie pushed back her chair. She sailed a vague smile toward Millicent, who was talking steadily to her husband. “…believe I will accept that invitation…” Clearly Millicent intended to ignore Everett and confine conversation with her husband to mundane topics. Everett paused in eating, his curious eyes following Max. From the central hallway came the sound of voices and footsteps. More guests were arriving for breakfast.

Annie followed Max into the kitchen. The long, bright, sparkling-clean room was gloriously homey with the mingled fragrances of baking and frying, the stove laden with pots and pans, starched red-checked curtains at the windows, old-fashioned white wooden
cabinets and woodwork, and a calico cat slumbering on the hearth. The cheerful surroundings were marred only by Lucinda's evident displeasure and Britt's harried expression.

Lucinda clanged a lid on a pot. “It's bad enough we don't have any girls right now. I said I could manage this weekend if Harry helped. But I can't do all the cooking and cleaning and serving and clean the cabins as well. I don't care if he was up and flitting around in the middle of the night and getting no sleep and making himself tired, that's his lookout. It wouldn't be the first time, but he's always made it up to the house in time to serve. What that man finds to do when Christian folk should be asleep is a puzzle to me. I saw his lights on till all hours and heard him slamming in and out to boot. Kept me awake and I need my rest. He's picked the wrong morning to sleep in, what with a dozen to feed and care for.” Cheeks flaming, she grabbed a pot holder and yanked open the oven. “Got to get the cheese grits out.”