Death of the Party (20 page)

The cart trundled up behind them. “Have you found anyone?” Britt leaned to one side to look past them. “I don't understand this. There shouldn't be any guns on the island. You said Harry took his rifles. There was an automatic on the bridge of
The Yellow Kid,
but the boat's gone. Jeremiah's gun in the library was taken.” Her face sharpened. “We thought Harry got it. What if we're wrong? What if someone else stole it?” She drew in a deep breath, looked up the path. “Why one shot? To scare us?”

Max nodded. “Maybe. But Annie's right. There's no reason for us to be quiet. If anybody wanted to shoot
us, they've had every opportunity. Hello!” Max gave a stentorian bellow.

They waited, the three of them bent forward listening. The pine trees soughed. A crow cawed. A squirrel chut-chutted. No voice called out in response.

“Everett's cabin is just around the curve. If this is his idea of a joke”—Britt was grim—“he's going to regret ever having come to Golden Silk. Come on, let's see what he has to say.” Annie took her seat. Max hung on to the side.

When the cart bounced into the clearing, Annie glanced swiftly around. It looked as it had yesterday, the looming pines choked with undergrowth, including lacy ferns and spiky saw palmettos, the live oaks graced with filigrees of Spanish moss, lovely and effervescent as a happy memory. Sunlight dappled the cabin this morning. The bamboo shades were down, blocking any view of the interior. The front door was ajar.

Britt parked the cart at the foot of the stairs. “Everett?” Her shout was brusque and her tone clear warning there was stormy weather ahead for Everett.

Max swung off the cart, started up the steps, his footsteps loud in the quiet. “Hey, Everett?”

Annie hurriedly slid out and followed Max. Britt was right behind her, muttering, “He's through treating people like dirt while he's on Golden Silk….”

At the open door, Max lifted a fist to knock on the frame. He froze and stared into the living room. After an instant, he moved forward, swinging his hand behind him, once again signaling Annie to stop, but she was already in the doorway.

Everett lay on his back, arms outflung. Blood had welled from his chest, seeped onto the coconut matting. His face was slack and grayish, the famous pompadour incongruently sleek and arched, unblemished by death.

“Oh God.” Britt's moan wavered in the stillness. “That's what we heard. Oh my God, Everett's hurt. We've got to help him.” She tried to push past Max.

He grabbed her arm. “Steady. We can't touch anything.”

Britt tried to pull away. “Maybe we can stop the bleeding.”

“He's dead, Britt.” Max's voice was harsh. “The damn fool.”

Annie knew Max's anger was directed at himself as well as at Everett. He had opposed Britt's initial plan. He'd feared what might happen if a murderer was provoked. Everett's body was proof that Max was right. Proof, too, that Harry Lyle might be guilty of all manner of crimes, including theft and smuggling, but he was not guilty of Jeremiah's murder or Everett's. Harry had fled because he couldn't afford to be part of a police investigation. Max was probably right in figuring that Harry was a drug runner. It was likely there had been a shipment in that trunk.

Max was stricken. “I should have stuck to Everett like a burr. But he convinced me he was just fooling this morning. I should have known Everett was playing his own game. After Craig told everyone to write a report, Everett taunted the murderer. Everett's report—” Max broke off, walked across the room, skirting Everett's body.

Max stopped beside the coffee table. He bent down though he made no effort to touch the legal pad lying askew on the blue ceramic tile. “Britt, were the legal pads new, never used before?”

“Yes. For God's sake, what difference does that make?” She was trembling.

“Some pages are gone. Torn out.” Max straightened, turned. His gaze moved from the sofa to Everett's body. “It looks like Everett was sitting here writing and someone arrived. When Everett got up and walked toward the door, he was shot. After he fell, the murderer ran over here and ripped off the sheets.”

Annie looked out into the clearing. “We must have just missed seeing the murderer.” They had been so near when the gun was fired.

Max jammed his hands in his pockets. “We should have known there was danger when that gun was stolen. Dammit, I should have known.”

Britt tugged at the collar of her turtleneck. “I never thought Harry took Jeremiah's gun. He wouldn't make that kind of mess breaking into the desk. But no one knew the gun was there except for me and Annie.”

Annie remembered watching Britt place the gun in the drawer last night and lock the drawer. She spoke quickly, urgently. “Someone saw you put the gun away.”

Britt looked at her strangely. “You were the only person there.”

“Through the windows.” Annie remembered clearly. “Last night you saw a light in the garden and went out to see. When you came back, we walked into the li
brary. The blinds weren't shut. Somebody followed you up to the house and looked inside and saw us. And the gun.” Annie shivered, imagining a watchful figure observing their every move.

“I was so careful.” Britt's tone was brittle. “I locked the damn thing up but if I hadn't taken it out with me, he”—she jerked her head toward the body—“might still be alive.”

Max was quick to offer solace. “Don't beat yourself up, Britt. Sure, the murderer saw the gun, decided to get it. But there are knives and rocks and ropes. Once the murderer decided Everett was a threat, his death was inevitable. One way or another.”

“I guess so.” Britt shuddered. “This is all my fault. You warned me when I came to see you. You told me it was dangerous to confront a killer. All I thought about was saving myself. That's dreadful, isn't it? Me. The great me. That's all I thought about…” She buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook.

Annie moved close, slipped her arm around those quivering shoulders. “You had nothing to do with Everett's decision to bait the murderer. Maybe he was after money. Maybe”—she tried to be charitable—“he thought he could flush out the killer, break a big story. None of that is your fault.”

Britt's hands fell away from her tear-streaked face. She made no answer, shook her head.

Annie knew Britt was grappling with horrendous guilt, refusing to shift any blame to Everett.

“Come on, Britt.” Max's tone was peremptory. “There will be time enough to second-guess everything we've done. And,” he said wearily, “there's
plenty of blame to go around. But now we have to deal with what's happened. Our first job is to secure the crime scene.” Max's face creased in thought. “When did we hear that shot?”

“Five minutes ago? Ten?” Annie was uncertain. It seemed a long time ago that they'd heard that chilling crack.

“Almost ten, I'd say. That puts Everett's death at”—he glanced at his watch—“about ten-thirty. All right, let's get started. We have to make a record for the police.”

Britt spoke jerkily. “Make a record…How can you talk like that? He's lying there in his blood.” She clasped shaking hands together, held them tightly but could not stop the trembling. “Do you realize there's no way we can call anybody, get help? We're stuck on this island until the charters show up at five tomorrow.”

“I know.” Max was calm. “It's up to us to handle everything.” He stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the dead man. “Do you have a camera?”

“A camera?” Her voice rose. “What good is that?”

“I'll take a series of pictures of the crime scene.” He was brisk. “Since the police can't get here until late tomorrow, that will ensure they know precisely how everything appeared today.”

Annie nodded approval at Max. He was trying to divert Britt from her distress and doing a good job of it. He was absolutely right about the importance of making a record. Photos and sketches and diagrams were the only means of assuring an accurate representation of the cabin at this moment.

“This is important, Britt.” He gestured toward the
door. “If you'll get a camera and bring down another tablet and a tape measure and some gallon-size plastic bags, Annie and I will get started.”

Britt's rapid breathing slowed. She still looked upset, but she was trying to be calm. “All right. If you think that's what we should do, I'll get what you need.” She turned toward the door, moving fast, clearly eager to leave behind the cabin and its lifeless occupant.

Max called out, “Don't tell anyone what's happened. Let's keep this to ourselves until we finish here.”

Britt looked back, her face creasing in a troubled frown. “Shouldn't everyone know so they can be on guard?”

Annie was puzzled. “Why would anyone else be in danger?”

Britt jammed fingers through tangled black curls. “I don't know. I never thought Everett was in danger. It seems to me as long as a murderer is roaming around with a gun, we should warn everyone.”

Max looked swiftly around the room.

Annie looked, too. Britt had been more observant than they despite her distress. There was no trace of a weapon in the living room. It seemed unlikely the murderer would have left the weapon in either the kitchen or bedroom, though they would check. Possibly the murderer had dropped the gun outside, perhaps flung it deep into the woods. They would search. If not…

Max moved close to the body. He knelt, looked beneath a nearby chair. When he got up, he looked worried. “You're right, the gun isn't here.” He mas
saged one cheek. “If the murderer still has the gun and intends to use it, we can't round up everyone in time to prevent another shooting.”

Britt looked stricken. “That's horrible.”

“But true.” Max was grim. “The best thing we can do is get a good record ready for the sheriff. That won't take long. By then everyone will have had time to finish their reports. I'd like to get those before anyone knows about Everett. Let's keep his murder quiet until then.”

“All right.” She was clearly reluctant. “I guess that's the right thing to do. I won't say a word to anyone. I'll get the things and be back as quickly as I can.” She turned and hurried down the stairs. The cart rumbled into motion, headed into the forest.

Max paced slowly around the perimeter of the room, scanning the floor.

Annie understood his need to get started. The sooner they finished their investigation, the sooner everyone could be called together, informed about Everett and alerted to the possibility of danger. But they were losing any opportunity to observe the suspects before they were informed about this new crime. What was everyone doing now? In her heart, Annie believed a murderer alone surely must show in face or actions some trace of the violent deed. If someone could slip unobserved close to each cabin, look for signs of stress. Or triumph. Or cruelty. If someone…

Britt was on her way to get materials from the house. Max was gathering information. She took a step toward him. “You don't need me here. I'll make a
circuit of the cabins, see what everyone's doing.” She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to eleven. If she hurried, she'd catch everyone before they started up to the house for lunch.

She was turning toward the door when he strode across the room, caught her hand. “No.” He held her hand in a tight, warm, determined grasp.

She looked into blue eyes dark with fear. For her.

“Hey, I'll be okay.” She felt cold inside, but she didn't want him to know. None of them were safe until the murderer was caught. “I don't threaten anyone.”

“I suppose that's true.” His tone was grudging. “But you're so damn transparent. Right this minute, you look like the ship's going down and you don't have a life preserver. Anybody can look at you and figure out something's up.”

Annie gave his hand a squeeze, pulled free. She lifted her hands to her face, closed her eyes, concentrated. When her hands dropped, she was on stage. She gave him a saucy look. “Excuse me. Who was an off-Broadway actress?” It was a relief to remember happy days when her only concern had been whether that handsome blond guy named Max would call her for a date.

He didn't answer. There was the shadow of a smile in his eyes, but his face was still worried.

She qualified her claim. “Okay, off-off-Broadway. If anyone sees me, I'll have on a happy face. I'll be a cheerful bird on the wing, hunting for Britt. Nobody will have any idea of”—she spread her hands—“this.”

Finally, slowly, he nodded. “Okay. But first, go up
to the house. Get my gun out of the gym bag. Somebody's killed twice. Be damn sure you look cheerful. Whatever you do, don't take any chances. Come back here as soon as you finish.”

 

The house had the feel of emptiness. Annie closed the front door behind her, listened for a moment. She almost called out for Britt in case she was still here, then quickly clamped her lips shut. She had a distinct feeling she'd better not tell Britt she was getting Max's gun. Annie thought it quite likely she'd try to commandeer the gun. Britt liked to be in charge. And Britt should be safe enough. She was likely on her way back to the cabin now with the camera. Then she'd be with Max.

As Annie crossed the central hallway, the clock chimed the hour. Annie was suddenly sure she was alone in the house. She started up the stairs, paused midway. The thought of night on the island, marooned with an armed murderer, made her stomach lurch. At least they'd be armed, too. Maybe they'd find out enough today—somehow, someway—to trap the murderer.

She made no effort to be quiet, hurrying down the hallway to their room. The door was open. She frowned. She'd certainly shut it behind her when she'd raced up to grab her windbreaker before setting out on her cleaning mission. She stopped in the doorway, stared.