Death of the Party (21 page)

Their suitcases were upended, clothes flung every which way. The sheets had been pulled from the bed, dumped into a heap.

Annie ran across the room, seeking their stack of folders and the legal pad upon which she'd made notes, and the scrap of paper she'd taken from Everett's green leather folder.

The tabletop was bare.

She whirled, heart pounding. Could Max have rearranged their papers, moved them? It took only a frantic moment to cross the room, open drawers, lift up the scattered clothes, stoop to look under the bed. The papers were gone and with them the information they'd amassed about Jeremiah and his guests that last weekend. Annie hesitated, then began to straighten. There was no point in worrying about fingerprints. This thief certainly wouldn't have left any identifying mark. She scarcely noted what she was doing as she picked up their clothes, returned them to the drawers. Instead, she felt a flicker of satisfaction. The ransacker, unwittingly, had left the most important marker possible. The theft was proof, if any had been needed, that Everett had died because he possessed some special knowledge about Jeremiah's murder. Everett's report of the weekend had been taken from his cabin. The linkage was clear.

She restored the linens to the bed. As she turned, she noted Max's gym bag upside down in a corner near the fireplace. She frowned, hurried to it. Max wanted her to carry the gun when she went to the cabins. She'd left her windbreaker in the cleaning cart so there was no place to tuck a gun, hide it from view. She'd have to figure out a way to carry the gun. Maybe she'd take the gym bag with her. She didn't like guns. She didn't like the greasy feel of their metal or their rock-heavy weight. Most of all, she didn't
like the knowledge that she had the means to kill. To hold a gun steady, aim it at a living creature, press the trigger—

She reached for the bag. The moment she lifted it, she knew. The bag was much too light. She turned it over. It was unzipped. She plunged a hand inside, felt clothes, but no metal. She pulled out Max's clothes and his shaving kit.

Max's gun was gone.

 

Max frowned at the legal pad that lay askew on the coffee table. Would it be better to leave it lying there until the sheriff's men arrived? Maybe not. In fact, he couldn't trust anyone except Annie and Britt. Everyone else had to be suspect until and unless one of them could prove an alibi for the moment the shot sounded. The only way to secure this cabin would be to set himself or Annie or Britt as a sentinel. Sure, they could trade off guard times, but he had no intention of leaving any one of them at risk alone here. If he tried to protect the crime scene by himself, exhaustion inevitably would suck him down into drowsiness. That would leave Annie to fend for herself.

His mouth quirked. Annie, of course, would not see that as a problem. Her capability was exceeded only by her confidence. The smile slipped away. Yes, she was capable and confident and brave and he'd be damned if he'd risk her safety.

His original impulse was right. He'd capture all the elements of the crime scene, sketch them, photograph them, describe them in infinite detail. Moreover, he
would take custody of any evidence that could be filched. He'd need a plastic bag for the legal pad—

“Put your hands up.” The voice from the doorway behind him was deep, harsh, and strained. “I've got you covered.”

Max felt as though his back was a bull's-eye, concentric red and blue circles with a white spot at the center. Slowly, stiffly, he raised his arms. The only sound from the open doorway was the scrape of a shoe.

Max started to turn. He wanted to see his captor.

“Don't move.” The words grated like steel pulled on concrete.

Max stopped. His shoulders ached. He tried to relax his muscles but his body had tightened against the possibility of a gunshot.

Shoes thudded against the matting. A hand roughly knocked against Max's sides and back, then the steps receded. “Where's the gun? What did you do with it?”

“What gun?” Max felt a flicker of hope as the words danced in his mind.

“Don't take me for a damn fool.” The voice rose in anger. “You shot Everett. If you'd stabbed him, you'd have blood all over you. So come on, where's the gun?”

Max's shoulders stopped aching. He took a deep breath. “Let's start over. I didn't shoot Everett and I can prove it. The gun was gone when we got here. Now I'm going to turn around and we'll straighten this out.” Max eased around slowly, still feeling that his vulnerable back was a target the size of a billboard.

Gerald Gamble was backing away, his angular face
pasty, sweat beading his upper lip despite the cool day. One hand was shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, a bulge protruding toward Max. “How do I know you didn't kill him? I don't know a damn thing about you. You claim to be a private detective—”

Max almost interrupted but it wasn't a moment to explain the fine points of Confidential Commissions. And the more Gerald talked, the less frightened he would be.

“—but you could be anybody. Here you are, and there's Everett”—Gerald jerked his head toward the still form—“dead as hell.”

Max stood at ease, hands loose. He kept his voice pleasant, reassuring. “In a few minutes Britt will be back with a camera so I can take photographs for the sheriff. Then I'm going to sketch the crime scene. Someone shot Everett around ten-thirty. I was with my wife and Britt when we heard the shot. By the time we got to the cabin, no one was here. And, as you see”—Max waved his hand—“there's no gun visible.”

Gerald took a deep breath. He pulled his hand out of the jacket pocket. It was empty.

Max watched him with narrowed eyes. Gerald had been bluffing. But was the gun the only bluff? If he was Everett's murderer, returning to search the cabin, what better way to profess innocence than to accuse Max of the crime?

Max took a step toward him. “What did you want from Everett?”

 

Annie paused at the head of the stairs. The house lay still and empty below her, quiet as a graveyard. Annie
wished Britt were there. Obviously she'd already retrieved the camera and a fresh legal pad and was on her way back to the cabin. There were so many paths, they easily could have missed each other. Annie felt a hunger for human companionship. She didn't like the stillness of this house or its dark, brooding quality. Her eyes slid sideways, sought the wall, and the telltale prick that spoke of murder. She took a breath and plunged down the hard steps.

A door banged.

Annie jolted to a stop, peered down into the gloom. She almost called out for Britt. The impulse withered in the chilly quiet. She eased down the steps, every sense alert. Had someone entered the house or left it? The sound had come from the back of the house.

In the central hallway she hesitated, then moved toward the door to the kitchen. Slowly she opened it. The light was off. There was a smell of baking. Lucinda must have put something—a cake?—into the oven before she left to clean the cabins. Annie crossed the tiled floor, grateful she wore sneakers that made no sound. Even so, the calico cat on the windowsill turned her head to watch Annie with wary amber eyes.

Annie reached the back door. She opened it and saw Kim Kennedy striding into the garden, disappearing behind a bank of azaleas. A leather shoulder bag slapped against her side.

Annie started down the steps, stopped, whirled, returned to the kitchen. She pounded across the floor to the counter where a butcher's block held an assortment of knives. Annie chose a knife with a seven-inch blade. She held it uncertainly, her eyes scanning the
room. Ah. She darted to the stove, picked up a pink pot holder. She wrapped it around the blade. She thought for a moment, then slid the knife into a baggy side pocket of her sweater. Part of the pot holder protruded but she wasn't worried about fashion at this moment. Once outside, she walked purposefully but cautiously toward the garden.

 

Gerald didn't respond to Max's question. He hunched his shoulders and stared at the floor, his vulture-sharp face bloodless and grim. “You said he was shot around ten-thirty?”

“That's right. Where were you?” Max had the sense that Gerald was scrambling to think, trying to make a decision.

Gerald's tone was vague. “I don't know. I'd gone for a walk.” His hooded eyes avoided Max's gaze.

Max walked toward him. “Where?”

Gerald frowned. “This is a goddam mess, isn't it?”

Max's tone was wry. “I guess you could call murder a mess. That puts it as well as anything.”

Gerald dropped his hand, flexed his fingers. “I thought the whole thing about Jeremiah being murdered was a hoax. I didn't believe a word Britt said. Or Everett.” His glance at the corpse was dismissive. “The man was a snake. Unscrupulous. Untrustworthy. I thought he and Britt had planned the whole weekend, maybe as a way to scam money out of the family. I wouldn't put any scheme past either of them. But now he's dead. That has to mean Jeremiah was murdered and Everett knew something that led to the killer. The
damn fool must have tried blackmail. So it's dangerous to keep quiet, isn't it?”

“Deadly dangerous.” Max looked at him curiously.

A tic jerked at Gerald's thin mouth. His eyes were wide and staring. Abruptly, he looked over his shoulder. Turning, he took two strides, closed the front door, and once again faced Max. “That last afternoon, Millicent threatened Jeremiah. I heard her. She said, ‘I'll see you dead first.' Jeremiah laughed. He was ruthless, you know. And he hated women who cheated on their husbands. He told her he was going to run a full-page editorial the week before the election, tell the world about her young lover, then quote her pious blathers about home and family. She tried to bluster, told him he was wrong, that the story wasn't true. He cited dates and hotel room numbers. He pulled out a folder and said he had pictures of her with her lover. I was in the hallway by the library. I heard every word. I saw her face when she came out. If she'd had a gun with her, Jeremiah would have died then. He died the next morning. She set the trap. She killed him.”

 

Annie paused at the fountain, puzzled. If Kim were en route to her cabin, she should have curved around the fountain and taken the path into the forest. Instead, there were ferns quivering only a few feet away, ferns that lapped over a path that led—if Annie remembered correctly—to a lagoon and gazebo. Why would Kim go in that direction? Annie hesitated, unable to decide. Of course, she'd taken a moment in the kitchen to find a knife and her progress through the garden had been slow and cautious. Finally, with a shrug, she took
the main path into the woods and headed for Kim's cabin.

Annie wished she had the skill of James Fenimore Cooper's forest-savvy Hawkeye. Instead of moving with grace and stealth, her every step snapped another twig. She reached the edge of the clearing around Kim's cabin, heart beating, alert for any signs of ambush. If Kim had stolen the gun from Max's bag, pursuit might be foolish. Or fatal.

Annie took a deep breath, crossed the clearing. She climbed the steps, knocked on the door. “Kim?”

There was no answer and no movement inside.

Annie hesitated, then opened the door, poked her head inside. The cabin was clearly empty. So much for following Kim and finding out what she'd been doing in the house.

Annie closed the door, hurried down the steps. She was ready to take the outer path, her goal Everett's cabin, when she heard the crackling sound of someone approaching. Annie stepped behind a pine and waited.

Kim strode into the clearing from the diagonal path. She looked pleased with herself, a slight smile touching her round face. She didn't look right or left, marching straight to the steps, one hand clamped on the strap to her shoulder bag.

Annie stared at the bag, intent as a cormorant spotting menhaden. If Kim was the thief, the gun was in her purse. There was no bulge in her black zippered sweater, and her black slacks fit sleekly. Her steps rattled on the stairs.

Annie knew this was the moment to catch Kim. She would have no opportunity to hide the gun. Annie
frowned. Kim might possibly have hidden the gun in the forest or near the lagoon.

Kim was at the door, reaching out to turn the knob.

Annie took a deep breath. So her roles had been off-Broadway. She'd been good. Not good enough to pursue an acting career, but good. She plunged into the clearing. “Kim—hey, Kim!” Voice bright. Big smile.

 

“Maybe.” Max looked thoughtfully at the longtime Addison Media employee. His accusation could be true. Millicent McRae's anguish at her husband's knowledge of her unfaithfulness was a memory Max would be long in forgetting. This morning he and Annie and Britt had seen more of Millicent's heart and soul than strangers should. For now, he had to remember that searing moment. Of them all, Millicent might have the most compelling motive. Max didn't doubt she would do anything to protect her marriage. She had committed adultery. Whatever her motive, lust or loneliness or infatuation, clearly she loved Nick. But Millicent surely had not been the only person over-wrought by Jeremiah's threats. Max recalled Everett's totting up of motives on the sheet of paper Annie took from the cabin.

“You overheard Millicent and Jeremiah.” Max's tone was pleasant. “Then you went in to see him. Right? He was pretty nasty about you and Craig.” It wasn't a question.

Angry splotches flared in Gerald's cheeks. He doubled his fists, took a step forward.

Max waited, his own hands curling tight. He was
twenty pounds heavier, twenty-five years younger. But if Gamble wanted a fight, he could have one.

Gerald whirled, stalked to the door, his steps pounding.

Max hurried after him. “Hold up, man. Keep quiet about Everett. Don't tell anyone…”

Gerald was halfway across the clearing. He didn't look back.

“Damn.” Max jammed his fingers in his hair. He'd lost control of the encounter, though obviously there was no way he could have made Gerald remain at the cabin. The likelihood was good that he was on his way to find Craig. As Gerald strode into the forest, he heard Britt call out, “Gerald. Where are you doing here?” She sounded surprised. And wary.