Death of the Party (6 page)

She took the proffered printout, immediately recognized the unstylish pompadour, glassy smooth face, and thin lips curled in a supercilious lift. “I always turn him off.”

“Lots of viewers don't.” Max shrugged. “Numbers are all that count today. Millions tune in to see Crenshaw rip into his guests. You have to wonder at the mentality of people who agree to be on his show. I guess they think any attention is better than none.”

She didn't state the obvious. Despite the best efforts of Miss Manners, civility wasn't fashionable. Of course, in a world where prime-time entertainment includes strangers dumped on an island and encouraged to seek sex, shouted exchanges masquerading as
political commentary weren't remarkable. Plato would have been puzzled.

“Whatever the merits of Crenshaw's show”—Max's tone left no doubt to his judgment—“he was then and is now one of the top political commentators in the country and a definite star at Addison Media. However”—he scanned the rest of the dossier—“he wasn't a regular visitor to Golden Silk. There's no suggestion he was on intimate terms with Jeremiah.” He raised an eyebrow. “Crenshaw dropped out of college, got his start on a small daily. Did an exposé of a crooked mayor. Went from there to an Atlanta station. Two big series. One on kickbacks in the nursing-home industry, another on a crooked legislator on the take from a utility company. On to D.C. and, as they say, the rest is history. Smart, brash, with all the charm of a blackjack dealer.” Max slapped the file back into the folder.

Annie clapped her hands together. “I like Everett Crenshaw.”

Max looked startled.

Annie grinned. Sea legs. It was just a matter of time. “I like him as a suspect. He wasn't an intimate of the family. Obviously nobody would ask him on account of his charm. Why was he on the island that weekend?”

“We'll find out.” Max was suddenly ebullient. “Annie, you have good instincts. We'll tackle the Honorable Millicent first and then take on Crenshaw. Now for the help…” He broke off. “That must be the island.” He lifted his hand, pointed.

Annie turned to look just as their skipper called out,
“Golden Silk to starboard.” She felt the sudden grip of Max's hand on hers, knew he too felt a jolt of apprehension, a sense of strangeness. And danger. The dark smudge on the horizon looked forbidding. Fog hung in dull gauzy swaths among the tall pines and live oak trees. As they bounced over the whitecaps, the sound of the motor raucous as the shriek of seagulls, the island suddenly darkened before their eyes.

Annie took a quick breath. “The sun's gone behind a cloud.”

That was all it was, the abrupt shadowing of the land as a lowering cloud obscured the sun. Nothing more to it than that, nothing to cause breath to be hard to find, nothing to account for the racing thud of her heart.

In a moment—or a day—the sun would break through and Golden Silk would sparkle, a luxurious and welcoming retreat, once a rich man's piece of paradise.

But for now, the island lay in dense shade.

They sat in silence, hand in hand, as the boat plunged through the water. Gradually the terrain became more distinct, craggy headland bluffs of darkish red dirt topped by the maritime forest, seventy-foot-tall loblolly pines and live oaks. The boat swung east and ran the length of the island, once again struggling against larger waves in open ocean, before swinging around the southern tip of the island and curving toward shore. A long wooden pier jutted out into the Sound. Cloud-darkened water surged around the pilings, indicating a quick and forceful current.

The nearer the boat drew, the more remote and isolated Annie felt.

A flash of white moved at the far end of the pier
and slowly took shape. A slender woman came forward, walking briskly. She stopped near the ladder and waited, hands in the pockets of her skirt. There was an aura of loneliness about that waiting figure. Annie thought of
Nighthawks,
the Edward Hopper painting of the diner and its occupants in the early morning hours. She felt the same sense of separation and anxiety. And doom?

When the boat bobbed alongside the pier, they shed their slickers. Max held Annie's elbow as she stepped to the bottom rung of the ladder. When she scrambled onto the pier, her eyes met Britt's. Annie held out her hand. “I'm Annie Darling.”

Britt Barlow frowned. Her face, haggard in the morning light, reflected surprise and uncertainty. Her somber expression emphasized the image of a beleaguered sentinel alert for invaders.

Footsteps sounded on the wooden planks behind Annie. Max strode forward, Annie's carryall and a vinyl gym bag in one hand, a duffel slung over his shoulder, the folder tucked beneath his arm. “Britt, this is my wife, Annie. She often assists me on my cases.” His voice was firm.

The ladder squeaked as Joe hefted his bulk up to the pier. “Anything more, Ms. Barlow?”

There was the tiniest of pauses. Annie prepared for battle. If this woman suggested Annie take the launch back to Broward's Rock, Annie intended to make it clear Max was leaving, too. It was all or nothing, the two of them together…No way would she leave Max on this remote island.

Britt turned to Max. “I expected you to come by
yourself.” There was no anger in her voice, simply thoughtfulness. Her eyes narrowed. Abruptly, she gave an impatient head shake, flung out her hands. “What am I thinking? I suppose”—her words were hurried—“I've kept everything secret for so long, it's hard for me to realize that time is past.” She looked directly at Annie. “You're good to come. I will appreciate whatever help you both can give me.” She managed a small smile. “Welcome to Golden Silk.” She lifted a hand toward the waiting boatman. “Thank you, Joe.”

Joe was already moving toward the ladder. “Back on Sunday. Five o'clock.”

Five o'clock Sunday. Annie took comfort. That really wasn't such a long time. But she felt like a cast-away as the roar of the engine lessened with distance, waned, was gone.

Britt Barlow looked toward the shore and a double avenue of live oaks and an antebellum house on the crest of the gentle rise. “We'll start where Jeremiah died….”

T
HE OVERCAST SKY AND INTERLOCKING BRANCHES
of the live oaks created a cool purplish tunnel. Spanish moss hung in silvery swaths, haunting as a dimly remembered dream. Oyster shells crunched underfoot. Cawing crows fluttered skyward at the sound of their steps. At the end of the avenue, the house rose before them. Britt stopped and pointed. “This is my favorite view.” There was pride of ownership in her gaze, a lift to her voice.

The two-story tabby house sat high on curved stucco foundations. Slender Ionic columns supported the double porticos across the front and on each side. The hipped roof with a central pediment and dormers at each end obscured much of—Annie counted—six tall brick chimneys. Smoke curled from two chimneys.

Britt followed her glance. “I love January. I have a fire downstairs in the dining room and in the room where you'll be staying.”

A central stone stairway led to the bottom verandah. On the lower verandah white wicker furniture with bright cushions invited repose. The upper verandah was screened.

Annie could imagine settling into a rocker with a book and a frosted glass of lemonade. She'd brought a book bag, of course. She never traveled without a half dozen mysteries, most new, some from long ago. Her authors of choice for this journey were Charles Todd, Victoria Thompson, David Rosenfelt, Kathryn R. Wall, and two reissues by Eric Ambler.

The avenue ended in a wide paved walk to the front steps.

Avenue…

“No cars.” Annie's voice rose in wonder. “Why, of course, there are no cars.”

Britt smiled. Genuine pleasure softened her angular face. “Wonderful, isn't it? That's the first thing visitors notice and appreciate. No exhaust fumes, just the scent of the sea and wood smoke and”—she gestured toward a magnificent garden—“roses and magnolia blossoms and pittosporum in summer. No roar of engines or squeal of brakes.” A shrug. “We have a big generator but it's around a bend and you don't hear it unless you walk there. Even the golf carts—there's one for each cabin and several for the house—are electric. The only gasoline-powered motor is the riding lawn mower.”

Annie heard the sigh of pine trees, the rustle of magnolia leaves, the
chut chut
of squirrels, the chirp of winter birds. Underlying the mélange of sound was a profound stillness. This was what it must have been like a hundred years ago. Two hundred…

“If you stand very quietly,” Britt's voice was soft, “it's almost as if you can hear laughter drifting from the upstairs ballroom. Sometimes late at night when the lamps flicker, you can see a woman in white. Our
ghost, Caroline Louise. She's always glimpsed at the railing at the far end of the upper verandah.” Her hand moved. “They say she's waiting for her lover to come, watching the sea for his ship. But”—a tone of regret—“he was killed during the siege of Battery Wagner on Morris Island. She grew old here, a recluse, walking and waiting and watching.”

Annie stared at the shadowy upper verandah. The fascinating and touching truth about ghosts and faces glimpsed in yellowed photographs was that once all of them had been as alive as she. Each had felt a heartbeat and the gurgle of laughter and the heat of passion and the sting of tears. Ghosts and snapshots were a reminder that what is present will always and inevitably one day be past and what is past was once as real and vigorous and exciting as the present.

Britt nodded toward the windows to the west. “Your room—the Meadowlark Room—is the last one to the west. You can step out on the verandah where she walks. Perhaps you will see her.” Britt glanced at her watch. “The others will be arriving after lunch. Every fifteen minutes on a staggered schedule.” Her voice was brisk.

Max was impressed. “How'd you arrange that?”

She gave a wry laugh. “Money. I hired separate boats for each person or couple.” There was a sardonic twist to her mouth. “Jeremiah's money, of course. I suppose Jeremiah would approve that expenditure, though he still must be whirling in his grave that I now own Heron House.” She was clearly amused. Then her features toughened. “I'm not taking any chances. Do you think I want them to come face-to-face at the
harbor in Savannah? What a reunion that would be! I can hear it now: ‘Why, the last time we were all together…' It wouldn't take long to compare notes, figure out there was more to this gathering than they realized. No, I've got it figured to the minute—”

Annie was glad she and Max weren't this woman's opponents. Annie had a sense of inexorability. Britt Barlow had left nothing to chance.

Britt made an impatient gesture. “—but we don't have much time. There's so much you need to know. For starters”—she began to walk—“the house is always unlocked. That's important to remember.” She moved quickly up the steps.

Annie wished there were time to savor the old house. The wide planks of the verandah dipped a trifle in front of the semi-elliptical front door with a lovely half-moon fanlight. But Britt was holding the door, impatient for them to enter.

When they stepped into the wide front hall, their guide nodded toward a love seat. “If you'll leave your bags, Harry will take them up later. I want to show you around now.”

Max stowed the duffel near the small sofa, placed Annie's carryall and the gym bag on a cushion. He held on to his folder.

Britt kept moving, her steps clattering on the heart-pine planks of the hallway. “The house was built in 1795 by Robert Preston. He cultivated barley to brew beer, so the drawing room mantelpiece has stucco carvings of the grain. There are some ruins of the brewery on the grounds, a couple of partial chimneys, some vats. There was a fire in 1836. And later a flood
from the hurricane of 1885. The house is a classic plantation home. It faces to the southwest for the prevailing breeze. There is a wide central hallway on the first two floors with rooms to both sides. Of course, the third floor is the ballroom. The stairway is toward the back, the drawing room on the right.”

Annie admired the ornamental plasterwork on the ceiling and twin chandeliers. Two curved bays with magnificent Palladian windows overlooked the garden. Crimson damask curtains—Annie wondered if they were original to the house—offered a striking contrast to cool gray walls. A magnificent ormolu mirror hung above a Louis XV commode. The red of the drapes was echoed in an Aubusson rug. An antique French clock and matching silver candlesticks stood on the fireplace mantel.

“The dining room”—Britt turned toward it—“is all mahogany furniture, so I repainted the walls a faint cream. The rug is a gold-on-cream pattern. The walls had been painted green. A bilious green. I felt like I was trapped in Jonah's stomach. It looks much better now.” She nodded approval. “That's a gilded Chippendale mirror above the Hepplewhite sideboard. I found it in an estate sale in Beaufort. You know, of course, that Heron House was a late acquisition by Jeremiah. It was during his Gentleman Jerry Period, as I call it. He grew up poor but smart”—there was grudging admiration in her voice—“and actually made his money. Gentility came later. He hired an antique dealer to find period pieces for the place. None of these antiques have any personal association with him. All it took to acquire the appurtenances of a landed Southern
gentleman was money.” She touched the shiny top of a Duncan Phyfe table. She gave it a considering look. “And, of course, lots of impoverished aristocrats. I like to think all those former owners—whoever they are, wherever they lived, however they lost their money—would rather see the things owned by someone like me. I love them because they are beautiful, and I'm nothing more or less than an innkeeper. Jeremiah, true to his cunning, had a premarital agreement with Cissy so her portion of his estate was this island and some money. Not enough to make me confuse myself with the gentry.”

Annie thought she understood. If Heron House had been an Addison family home filled with Addison family heirlooms, the implication was clear that Britt would have had none of it. Since that wasn't the case, Britt obviously had no difficulty disassociating any memories of Jeremiah from the lovely old plantation home.

The long table was set for dinner, Blue Canton china, heavy silver, a shining damask cloth. Annie counted twelve places. Two painted china herons made a majestic centerpiece. Annie was enchanted by the bright colors and detail, the black cap, shoulders, and bill, white face and chest, gray tail feathers, pink legs. Again there were twin chandeliers, their crystal drops sparkling and lovely.

“The library is that way”—Britt stopped at the foot of the stairway and nodded down the hall—“and a study. The kitchen area is beyond that door. It's a later addition to the house, a huge kitchen and breakfast room and pantry. I serve a full breakfast.” She spoke
with satisfaction. “Apple and egg casserole, poached eggs on potato-and-bacon pancakes, sour cream crumb buns, ham with redeye gravy, grits.” Abruptly, as if recalling the circumstances, she frowned. “But whatever happens this weekend, I'll offer the best possible meals to everyone. After all, the condemned are always offered a hearty breakfast.” She shivered. “I'm sorry. Not in the best of taste, I suppose. Now, if you'll come this way…” With a deep breath, she gestured toward the stairway.

“Look at it closely.” There was a wry tone in her voice.

Annie admired the glistening white steps, the delicacy of the balusters, the thin elegance of the handrail. Had the stairs been newly painted?

“The stairs are made of marble.” Max stepped forward, touched the handrail. “Marble. Not wood.”

“Right. Not exactly common in the interior of a plantation home. But Jeremiah met termites and he wasn't a man to be vanquished by an insect. The entire stairway was crumbling. You know termites, once there, always there. Or if not always there, likely to return. Jeremiah ordered marble. Marble he got. I call the stairs Jeremiah's Folly.” Her lips twisted in amusement.

Annie gave her a sharp glance. The comment was cold and cruel. The man had worked to prepare a home for living. Instead, he had met death where and when he never expected it.

Britt returned her look with no sign of compunction. Finally, she shrugged. “You got it. I didn't like him alive. I don't like him dead. I'm sorry, but you
might as well have the truth. It will be the oddest twist of fate if I'm the one to avenge him. Come with me…”

Britt clattered up the steps. Annie followed, Max close behind. On the second-floor landing, Britt turned to face them. Her flash of morbid pleasure when she spoke of Jeremiah's Folly might never have been. Her gaze was bleak.

Annie and Max stopped on the steps just below her. Annie felt the nub of his navy wool blazer against her arm. She gazed up at Britt, who looked much older and grimmer.

Britt made an impatient gesture upward. “The third floor doesn't matter. It's a ballroom. There are six bedrooms on this floor. The two largest rooms face the drive. The east room—Osprey Room—was Jeremiah's. Cissy was in the west bedroom, the Meadowlark Room. It had been turned into a sickroom for her. I spent the nights on a small bed in an adjoining dressing room.” Her brows drew down in thought. “I guess that might have made a difference, the fact that I was in the dressing room. It is farthest from the stairs. Even if there had been something to hear—”

Annie pictured a figure kneeling on the stairs in darkness, heart pounding, hands sweaty, perhaps with a pencil-sized flashlight resting on a tread, illuminating a death trap.

“—I was too far away. Anyway, only the three of us were on this floor. Everyone else was in a cabin. I've put them in the same cabins. Except for Craig and Isabel. She's in Cabin 1 as they were that night. He's in Cabin 7. She's been living in Atlanta. I don't know
why they separated. I doubt she would agree to stay with him. In fact, I was a little surprised she agreed to come. She may be upset when she sees him.” Britt's tone was untroubled. A confrontation between Craig and Isabel Addison did not worry her. Her eyes settled on the pale green wall at an ankle-high level. “There's a hole there. I don't know if you can find it.”

Annie bent, ran her fingers lightly across the wall, felt a prick on her skin. She turned to look at the thin marble baluster across the width of the step and wished for a flashlight. There might be a faint scratch remaining from the jerk when Jeremiah was caught by the wire.

“We know how he died.” Max waved a hand, dismiss-ing physical evidence. “You saw the wire, removed it. What matters is whether Jeremiah was actually the intended victim.”

Britt looked startled. Her eyes widened. Her fingers closed on the ridges of the carved pineapple on the newel post.

Annie straightened. Max put his hand on her elbow, urging her up the final step. When they stood beside Britt, he looked up and down the wide hall. “As you said, there were three of you up here. What prevented you or your sister from being the victim?”

She shook her head firmly. “Jeremiah was the intended victim.” She was confident. “I never went downstairs before he did. Cissy was too sick to walk. Her meals were brought up. Sometimes I'd help her into the wheelchair, roll her out onto the verandah. She hadn't been down the stairs for more than a month.” A long-drawn breath. “She never went down them again. No,
the murderer could count on catching Jeremiah. He jogged every morning. Rain or shine. He went downstairs for juice and he was outside as it grew light.”

Annie knew the overcast day contributed in part to the present dimness in the hall, but the top of the stairway was likely always shadowy. “No wonder he didn't see the wire.”

Max too looked down as if gauging the light. “What time was it when you found him?”

“Very early. Normally, I didn't get up until seven, but Cissy had awakened and I was getting ready to go downstairs, fix her an omelet. I heard a noise. An odd noise. I went to see. And I found him.” Britt thumped the carved pineapple leaves decisively. “The wire wasn't meant for me. Or Cissy.”