Death of the Party (2 page)

 

Isabel Addison impatiently pushed back a strand of silky dark hair. She'd made her bed. She must lie in it. Bed…Why had her mind tossed up those trite words, so trite, so terribly dreadfully true? That was the problem with platitudes. They sprang from a bedrock of reality. Yes, she'd made her bed and it was a cold and lonely place.

Craig. Oh, Craig…

There were no pictures of him in her apartment. She'd been determined to leave that life behind, start over. But she didn't need a picture to remember his short-cropped golden curls, his irrepressible gaiety, his quickness and enduring charm. The handsomest man she'd ever known. The only man she'd ever loved. She still loved him, wanted him, missed him, even though she was afraid that his temper, wild and hot and quick, had got the best of him, made him a murderer. She would have stood by him if he'd owned up. But he'd not said a word and yet he'd looked so terribly grim and shaken.

She'd left after Jeremiah's funeral. In her note she'd said only that she couldn't stay, not after the way he and his father's quarrel ended. She hadn't returned Craig's calls. They'd finally stopped.

Craig was sure to be at Heron House. He wouldn't turn down a ceremony in Jeremiah's honor.

If she went…

 

Kim Kennedy clicked off the television. She held the remote so tight her hand hurt. She wanted to fling it at the dull gray screen. Instead, using every ounce of will she possessed, which was considerable, she gently put down the remote. She picked up a pillow and punched it with her fist, every blow aimed at those bland, cosmetically enhanced faces on the news desk where once she'd been. She pounded until the fury lessened. She forced tight angry lines from her face and realized with another spurt of anger that she was rehearing in her mind the producer's snide comment:
She's just a
pretty face.
She'd proved him wrong. She'd done a good job. A damn good job. At first they'd laughed at her in the newsroom, called her Jerry's babe. Not that they would have dared call Jeremiah Jerry to his face. They'd stopped laughing and started to treat her with care when the word got around that she was slated to be the next Mrs. Jeremiah Addison. You can't say they lack for brains in a newsroom. She'd made sure they got the picture damn quick. She'd had plans for that producer. If everything had worked out, she'd have gotten his ass fired. If everything had worked out the way she had planned…

But she did not become the next Mrs. Addison. And she'd been fired two weeks after Jeremiah's death. It was that producer. He didn't care that she'd done a good job. He was still furious he'd had to hire her because of Jeremiah. Now the best she could get was a podunk job on a podunk station downstate. Everybody knew you had to know somebody to get anywhere even if you had looks and brains. Maybe she should go back to school, get her degree. And pile up student loans like a mountain of boulders?

It was too bad she'd spent most of the money Jeremiah had given her. For a little while, she'd had plenty of money. For the first time in her life, she'd been able to buy anything she wanted—an Ecclissi watch, a Fendi purse, a Ruth Norman gown. The watch cost a thousand dollars and that damn pawnbroker only gave her seventy-five.

Now the money was almost gone. It had seemed a fortune at the time. Twenty thousand dollars. There'd been no reason to save. She had been confident he
would marry her. She would have gotten round him, she was positive.

She glanced toward the coffee table, piled high with unpaid bills and fashion magazines. The letter from Britt Barlow inviting her to Golden Silk was lying atop a copy of
Elle.
Kim's lips closed into a thin tight line. The island should belong to her. She'd been certain he would marry her. If he had, she would be rich, rich, rich. Instead, Britt Barlow got the island when Cissy died. That would certainly have pissed Jeremiah. Now Britt was parceling out Jeremiah's things. She'd treated Kim like dirt that last week. Why now would she offer Kim anything?

Kim's eyes narrowed. The offer was there in black and white. Kim could come and pick whatever she chose from the drawing room as a remembrance of Jeremiah.

The letter didn't ring true.

She got up, began to walk up and down the shabby room. There was, certainly, no love lost between her and Britt Barlow. From what she recalled of Jeremiah's sister-in-law, Britt was one tough cookie. Not a lady to go all soft and fuzzy. Not someone to give a bloody damn about Kim Kennedy, now or ever.

Why did she want Kim to come to that godforsaken place?

Kim's eyes glowed. There had to be a reason. Britt wanted something, that was for sure. Kim twined a golden curl around one finger. Going back to Golden Silk had all the appeal of a bus ride to a pig farm. But sometimes one thing led to another. Britt was probably in contact with the Addison family. Maybe she could
set it up for Kim to get a job on one of the California TV stations. And she'd damn sure hold Britt to the offer in the letter. Those silver candlesticks on the drawing room mantel had to be worth a minimum of ten thou.

Kim laughed aloud. Something big was going to happen. She felt it in her bones.

 

Everett Crenshaw marked off the January weekend on his calendar. His thin lips curled in a sardonic yet admiring smile. Since he was alone in his
study
—God, what a lovely, upper-class appellation and one he'd earned the damn hard way, not being brought up to riches—he could indulge himself. Ever since a long-ago editor had told him, “Everett, that cat-in-the-cream grin of yours is a tip-off even to a patsy that you're a swine,” he'd learned to hide triumph. The better, he knew, to blindside a quarry. He'd charmed and cajoled and, when the time was ripe, cudgeled the information he needed to become a feared investigative reporter. But sometimes the stories lent themselves to discretion, which resulted in a hefty infusion into Everett's bank account. He always enjoyed making out his income tax. Those substantial sums were easily attributed to poker wins. He had no intention of getting crossways with the Feds.

The smile slid away as he remembered his last encounter with Jeremiah Addison. How the hell had Jeremiah learned about the Venture Inc. story? Or what should have been the Venture Inc. story, an exposé of the CFO of a shipping company who'd disguised contraband shipments to Liberia. Jeremiah had been
supercilious and dismissive and, most galling, sanctimonious when everyone knew the man had the instincts and morals of a pirate. For an instant, Everett's narrow face had a look of animal cunning, a fox with head lifted, staring at a lamb. Jeremiah had made it clear that Everett was through at Addison Media. That was Friday night. On Saturday morning no one knew about that conversation but Everett and Jeremiah, and Jeremiah was dead.

“‘Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…'” Everett quoted softly.

Everett laughed aloud, finished marking the calendar. He was looking forward to the weekend at Heron House. Britt Barlow had class. She definitely had class. Her letter had certainly surprised him. And amused him. Britt as Jeremiah's avenger was ironic indeed. Deliciously ironic. Whatever happened, he was sure to win and win big. Either a carload of cash or a big story. Sure, he'd show up. Hell, why not? He had nothing to lose.

 

“She just walked past again.” Barb's hiss was right on a par with that of a perturbed cobra.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Max Darling's good-natured tone, somewhat muffled by the magazine draped over his face, robbed the retort of offense. Max pictured his secretary lurking—perhaps it wasn't a good thing for Barb to read the reissued Mary Stewart suspense novels—in his office doorway, her vivid imagination imbuing some apparently confused passerby on the boardwalk with who knew what romantic troubles.

Max wasn't tempted to lift the
Sports Weekly
from his face. Not that he was napping. Of course not. He was simply pondering fate. That's what he would tell Annie should she find him supine upon his lowered office chair. Annie was the world's best—and sexiest—wife, but she was all for encouraging work. Distracted, he envisioned the love of his life—flyaway blond hair, merry gray eyes, kissable lips. Very kissable lips. Oh yes, work. Annie believed in work. She insisted work was fun. She considered herself, as owner of the Death on Demand mystery bookstore on the idyllic sea island of Broward's Rock, South Carolina, to be the world's most fortunate entrepreneur. She encouraged Max to follow her example. Would she consider pondering fate to be work? He could ponder fate with the best of them. It was his duty, wasn't it? Especially since his mother was at the moment far afield. It was clearly his responsibility to uphold the family tradition of creative—how did Laurel put it?—imaging. But no matter how creative he felt, he doubted he could—with a straight face—envision a Mary Stewart–type heroine flinging herself into his office seeking help. Although he was sure that Confidential Commissions, his very original and unusual business, would surely have appealed to such a heroine had she the good fortune to come across the ad that appeared daily in the
Island Gazette:

 

CONFIDENTIAL COMMISSIONS

17 Harbor Walk

Curious, troubled, problems?

Ask Max.

Call Today—321-HELP

 

Excitement lifted Barb's voice. “She's sidling up to the window again. She's cupped her hands to look inside. Black hair. Reminds me of an old Leslie Caron movie. Maybe thirty. Snazzy outfit. Ohmigod—” Barb went from a hiss to a yelp.

Max lifted the tabloid high enough to see his secretary plaster herself against the wall, crane to peer out into the anteroom. Barb was an unlikely figure for melodrama—blond bouffant hair, dangling turquoise earrings, pink wool sweater encrusted with fake pearls, too-tight black slacks, four-inch stiletto heels. Red stiletto heels. Annie always said Barb would have been a natural for one of Craig Rice's John J. Malone novels and likely would have distracted the portly detective from his bottle of rye. Max felt a stirring of concern. Obviously Barb was in need of a respite from Confidential Commissions. Maybe he should send her up the boardwalk to the bookstore. Annie could use some help unpacking boxes of new books. Barb, in fact, was losing it. Was this the natural consequence of nothing to do in the office compounded by reading thrillers? The woman at the window was probably looking inside to see if there were island maps. Clearly, she had lost her way. The likelihood that she was coming to see Max—

“Ohmigod. She's coming in. And you ought to see her face. She's scared to death!” There was a rat-a-tat of heels as Barb pelted into the anteroom toward her desk.

By the time Barb greeted their guest, Max was in place behind his desk, a massive Renaissance refectory table, studiously perusing a file. That the folder held
only the
Sports Weekly
was neither here nor there. Max forgot about the upcoming Super Bowl as he stared in admiration at the woman following Barb into his office. Mmm and mmm and mmm. He was a happily married man but he wasn't dead, and he took a moment to enjoy an intriguing face beneath a mop of wind-stirred dark curls and a lithe and extremely attractive figure. Here came a woman guaranteed to catch the eye of any man under eighty. Make that ninety.

Max slapped shut the file, rose. It was easy to smile. He remembered Annie's injunction to pay attention to details as did all good detectives. A stylish mass of black curls, damp from the January mist. Clear green eyes with a look of uncertainty. Fear? Yes, it could be. A high forehead, thin nose, sharp cheekbones, dark red mouth, an intelligent, arresting, unusual face. A trim five foot seven. Her pale blue cardigan, matched pearls, and swirling gray wool skirt were attractive, new, and expensive. But she carried with her into the room a tenseness that drove the smile from his face.

Barb made the introductions. “Ms. Barlow to see you.” Barb backed toward the door, absorbing every aspect of the visitor. Barb left the door ajar just a trifle. Max knew she stood on the other side with one ear pressed to the opening, hoping, of course, for a Real Case, stolen jewels or a missing lover or menacing calls in the still of the night. He made a mental note to bring Barb the new Jan Karon book. It was time to redirect Barb's thoughts. Father Tim was a perfect antidote for too many thrillers.

Max came around the desk. “Hello, Ms. Barlow. I'm Max Darling.”

“I know. I looked you up on the Net. Your Web page says you'll find the answer to any question.” Her eyes—worried, uncertain eyes—skimmed his face, glanced swiftly about the office. The ornately carved refectory table held the single file on its shining expanse along with a studio portrait of a smiling Annie, a green-shaded brass lamp, a silver letter opener, and a crystal bowl with a mound of foil-wrapped chocolate kisses. A red leather recliner, now upright, sat behind the desk. Two petit point chairs faced the desk. A collection of putters poked out of an oversized green pottery stand. The indoor putting green—a birthday gift from Annie—was innocent of balls. There were a half dozen in the silver chest atop the bookcase against the far wall.

His visitor's gaze settled on him with a gravely inquiring look.

Max folded his arms, raised an eyebrow. “Do I pass muster?”

“I don't know.” Her voice was crisp, but her gaze was forlorn. “Oh, heavens. I'm terribly confused. I'm in trouble, but I don't know if you can help. I don't know if anyone can help. It's too late to change my plans. They're all coming back to the island. I'll have to tell you”—there was a wry pride in her voice—“how I tricked them. They're all coming, every last one of them. They arrive Friday. But I couldn't sleep last night. I woke up in a panic.” Her gaze was wide and staring. “How would you feel if you knew you'd invited a murderer to your home?” There was a tremor in her voice.