Engaged to Die (11 page)

“It's more serious than that.” Max looked at each in turn. Irene was impatient, irritated, ready to turn nasty. Carl, his faded eyes puzzled, his straw-colored hair ruffled, hunched forward like a startled heron. Susan Brandt's thin face sharpened. She touched the gold necklace at her throat. Rusty Brandt, always loud and profane on the golf course, didn't say a word. He stood with his head down, hands jammed in his trouser pockets. Louise Neville's wrinkled face was bleak, her dark eyes stern.

Louise stepped forward. She was small and old, but she was in charge. “What's happened?”

“A body has been discovered down at the point near the ruins.” Max waved his hand toward the garden.

Irene looked surprised, then excited. Carl held out
his hands as if to ward away the words. Susan, eyes wide, pressed her fingers against her cheeks. Rusty Brandt's face was unchanged. Louise drew her breath in sharply.

Irene took a step toward Max. “A body? Is it Virginia?” There was a grisly eagerness in her tone. “I haven't seen her since lover boy was a no-show. Did she slit her wrists?”

“Irene.” Carl's voice was choked. He reached out, grabbed his wife's arm.

She shook him off. “Well, who else would it be? And where is she?” She waved her hand. “All of us are here. Everyone but Virginia.” Irene looked at Max, spoke fast. “A woman about forty-five. Wearing a silver dress that made her look like a refugee from a graveyard. Is that the one?”

Max kept his expression unchanged, but he felt cold inside. What a bitch. “The victim is male and has been identified as Jake O'Neill.”

Max looked swiftly from face to face. All looked blank with shock. Except Rusty. His face was carefully, determinedly expressionless.

“Jake? I don't believe it. He was fine this evening.” Susan Brandt's voice shook. “What happened to him?”

“Jake. Dead?” Irene's eyebrows rose. Just for an instant there was the merest suggestion of a smile.

“Murder.” His voice was uninflected, but the stark word was shocking.

Susan's hands dropped to her throat as if breath were hard to find.

Rusty, his face still expressionless, folded his arms across his chest.

Irene's mobile features reflected shock and curiosity.

Carl winced, shook his head. “That's impossible.”

Louise Neville's old face hardened into an unreadable mask. “What happened?”

“Someone struck him from behind. The blow killed him.” Max gestured toward the foggy garden. “The police are there. They are investigating. I don't have any information as to the weapon used or suspects who are being sought. The identification was made by Virginia Neville.”

“Oh, God.” Carl's gentle face squeezed in horror.

“God, that's awful. That must be why he didn't show up for the program. Who's taking care of Virginia?” He looked around as if seeking help.

Max said quickly, “My wife is with her. They're at the gallery now. The police want to interview everyone who spoke to him this evening. They also need to know who attended the reception tonight.” Max looked at Carl. “Do you have a list of the guests?”

“Not really.” Carl looked bewildered. “We sent out a lot of invitations. But you know how it is. Most people never RSVP. We always estimate we'll get around a hundred. I'm sure we had that many tonight. But there's no accurate list of those who came.”

Louise cleared her throat. “There's an easy way to identify most of the guests. The drawing.” She gestured toward the tent. “Carl, go get that bowl. I think it's tucked on the ground behind the platform.”

“The drawing?” Carl repeated.

Max understood. “Sure. Almost everyone here tonight probably dropped a slip into the bowl. Here's what we'll do….”

 

“We were going to have an April wedding. April is the most beautiful month on the island….” Virginia's voice trailed away. She placed the untasted glass on a
Hepplewhite side table, pushed away the bolster, sat up straight and stiff. “What are the police doing?”

Annie knew police procedure, how a crime scene is secured, the careful survey, the drawings and photographs and filming of the site, the medical examiner's preliminary findings, the removal of the body, the collection of evidence. She had a brief, vivid, sickening recollection of the crumpled green taffeta stole stained with the dead man's blood. After the wrap was photographed, gloved hands would carefully slip it into a labeled plastic bag. “The police are looking for information, anything that will lead them to the murderer. They'll ask everyone when they last saw Jake, what he was doing.”

Virginia's face was piteous, her eyes brimming again with tears. “He was here. We were having fun. Oh, it was so lovely, everyone happy and everything going so well. The night was such a success. Then I sent him away.”

Annie looked at her sharply. Had there been a quarrel?

Virginia clasped her hands together, held them against one cheek. “Oh, if only I'd kept him near. But I wanted him to take his place as he will—as he would when he was my husband. I wanted him to greet people and talk to our guests.”

There was a knock at the door. The door swung in. Max stepped inside. There was a muted sound of voices and movement in the hallway behind him. “Here you are.” His voice was warm. His eyes lingered for an instant on Annie, making sure she was all right. “Everything's under control. Carl made an announcement. He's set up a table by the front entrance to the tent. He's getting the names of those who didn't enter the drawing. Anyone with information about Jake has
been asked to come here. I'll go down and report to Billy. He asked me to round up anyone who might be able to help. He'll come up and interview them pretty soon. Will you take charge until he comes?”

So Max was returning to the crime scene and she was stuck up here, completely out of the loop. But the witnesses—everyone who had any contact with the victim—were going to gather at the gallery. Maybe there was more to be learned here than there. Annie nodded. “I'll take care of everything.”

“Good.” Max turned away.

Annie called out, “Max!”

He paused in the doorway.

“You might point out to Billy that the tide is coming in. Maybe you'd better take a look over the edge of the bluff for the weapon.” That kind of search would take time. Annie intended to utilize every possible moment.

“Okay. I'll tell Billy.” He stepped into the hall.

As soon as the door closed, Annie pointed at the desk. “Mrs. Neville, could you find some notepads or sheets of paper and some pens?”

Virginia pushed back a strand of hair, stared at the desk as if it and everything in the room were foreign. She gave a little shake of her head. “Paper…” She moved to the desk, pulled out a drawer, began to fumble inside, then blinked at Annie. “Why do you want paper?”

“To gather information for the police.” Annie was brisk and confident and hopeful that the crime scene investigation would keep Billy away from the gallery for a good long while. “This is one way for you to help the investigation. We can take paper and pens out to the drawing room and ask everyone to write down what they know about tonight. Who Jake talked to. Where
he was from the time he came into the gallery until he left to go down to the fort. We'll ask them to try to remember what time it was when they spoke to him or saw him. Why, we may find out exactly what the police need to know.”

Annie felt virtuous. She was simply aiding the investigation, even though she wasn't included on the official team, and possibly, just possibly, there might be information that pointed at someone other than a running girl in a green dress.

T
HE STROBES SET UP
at the corners of the crime scene blazed with penetrating brilliance, creating a stark rectangle to frame the body slumped in death. A heavy-duty orange extension cord snaked over uneven ground to the crime van. The rumble of the van motor melded with the slosh and slap of the incoming tide. Lou Pirelli, his curly dark hair damp with mist, his round face intent, moved carefully around the perimeter of the bricked oval, snapping one picture after another, noting the number and location in a notebook. Dr. Burford brushed pine needles from his knees. “Damn things are everywhere. Look, there's where the murderer skidded.” He pointed at a streak in the carpet of pine needles. “See where it goes?” Three loblolly pines towered over a thicket of cane. The natural growth edged up the side of the grassy irregular mound that marked the remnants of the fort. “Probably came out from behind the cane.”

Max studied the streak in the pine needles. If Dr. Burford was right—and he usually was—the killer had plunged across the needle-strewn pavement, coming up behind O'Neill. Max's face squeezed in thought. “You mean somebody was hidden back there?” He waved at the cane, the tips rustling in the nighttime offshore breeze.

Burford rubbed his florid face, scowled. “Looks like it to me. Anyway, it seems pretty clear somebody skidded across the needles fast to have made that trail. Why the hurry?”

Billy Cameron spread out his hands as if measuring the distance between the cane and the body. “If O'Neill and the killer were talking face-to-face”—Billy's face wrinkled in thought—“there wouldn't have been any need to hurry. Whoever killed him could have raised up the weapon and slammed him when he turned away. But if the killer”—Billy looked at the thicket—“was way over there and wanted to catch him, they'd have to rush. Hey, Frank”—Billy turned to the former police chief—“what do you think?”

“I think Doc's a damn smart man.” Frank Saulter was leaner and stringier than when Annie and Max first met him, his dark hair speckled with gray, his saturnine face ridged with lines, but he still looked tough as a spiny lobster. “I'd bet the killer came out from behind the cane. But maybe O'Neill did, too.”

Max squinted at the thicket. “Why would anybody go behind the cane?”

“Didn't want to be seen.” Saulter's reply was laconic.

Max grinned. “Out of the mouths of old cops…”

Saulter's lips quirked. “Usually it's plain as the nose on your face, Max. You know I love to buy the good old books—Hammett and Chandler—from Annie, but most crimes don't take much figuring. The way I see it”—his eyes narrowed—“the dead guy came down here with somebody. The only reason to leave the party and come down here was to talk to somebody without being seen. It's not the kind of night to take a stroll to enjoy the weather.” Saulter rubbed his arms. “Should
have brought a jacket. Anyway, behind those canes is about as private as you could get. So maybe O'Neill's back there with someone, they quarrel, he leaves, the other person comes after him. Maybe the killer didn't start after him for a minute, then had to hurry.”

Lou Pirelli lowered the camera, looked toward them. “Maybe O'Neill came here with somebody and they went”—his head swiveled around—“down those steps.” He pointed to the edge of the bluff. “There are some benches on that platform, and it's darn private. Maybe somebody followed them and hid behind the cane.”

“How many people would come down here on a night like this?” Billy's question was clearly rhetorical.

“Nope, I think Frank's on the right track.” Billy pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “O'Neill and the killer came down here for a talk. They went behind the cane. They quarreled. O'Neill left, and the murderer came after him.” Billy glanced toward Max. “Maybe that girl the caterer told us about, the first one. What's her name, Max?”

Max had a vision of Annie's expressive face, dismay mingling with concern. But he had agreed to assist Billy. Chloe should have no fear of the law if she was innocent. Max kept his voice casual. “Chloe Martin. She's a college girl, and she's been working at the store over the holidays. Annie thinks a lot of her.”

“If she was wearing a green dress…” Billy muttered, looking toward the bloodstained taffeta bunched beneath the dead man's chest.

Frank Saulter's brows bunched in a tight frown. “If so, she's got some explaining to do.”

Max waved his hand in the direction of the gallery. “There are a bunch of people waiting up there, family
members and others who believe they can be helpful. Maybe somebody can tell us what time O'Neill left the party.” Clearly O'Neill didn't come to this isolated spot by himself. And it seemed obvious Chloe Martin must have been with him.

“Time.” Billy glanced at the body. “Yeah. Doc, you got any idea how long he's been dead?”

Dr. Burford shot Billy a look of disgust. “I don't have a crystal ball. Nobody can pin down the time of death any closer unless they saw it happen. He's been dead anywhere from a half hour to a couple of hours. I can do better on cause of death. I don't need an autopsy to figure this one. Blunt trauma to the head. Massive hemorrhaging. The weapon”—he squinted—“probably a tree limb. I think I spotted bits of bark in the wound. I can tell better when we get him to the morgue. But”—he spread his hand at the storm debris—“it would be easy enough to grab up a big stick, something pretty stout, and whack away. Have you found anything like that?”

Billy shook his head. “Nothing yet. We can take a better look tomorrow when it's light.”

Dr. Burford glanced toward the bluffs. “If the murderer had any brains, he probably tossed it in the water. Even if you find a likely limb, there probably won't be any traces of hair or flesh left.”

Max remembered Annie's advice. He glanced toward the darkness of the water. “The tide's coming in, Billy. Do you want Frank and me to take a look?”

 

Virginia Neville stepped into the drawing room. Every face turned toward her. The beautiful chiffon dress seemed incongruous with the look of misery on her thin face. However, Annie was certain the elegant
room with its pale cream walls, bois-de-rose silk hangings, and old, well-worn furniture—Chippendale, Hepplewhite, and Sheraton—was no stranger to sorrow. In the long history of the house that now served as an art gallery, there had been gatherings of all kinds, merry wedding guests, bereft families, joyful christenings, hard-eyed political conspirators, weary war refugees. In its two centuries of existence, the house had known days of riches when cotton was king and years of deprivation when carpetbaggers swarmed the broken South. But Annie doubted there had been many moments more dramatic than this.

The family members ranged in a semicircle near the fireplace. Carl Neville rubbed his temple. Irene Neville's lovely face was expressionless, but her golden eyes watched avidly. Susan Brandt, pale and grim, clutched at her throat. Rusty Brandt, reddish face strained, tugged at his collar, pulling his bow tie askew. Louise Neville, her black shawl trailing over one arm onto the floor, was as still and stiff as the Sèvres figurine of a soldier of Napoleon's army on the white marble mantel.

Tony Hasty, his caterer's apron sagging, leaned against a wing chair. An unlit cigar stuck from the side of his mouth. It wobbled as he worked it with his teeth. Edith Cummings, her gamin face squeezed in commiseration, hunched forward on a settee. She looked solemnly toward Virginia, but she waggled her fingers in a clandestine greeting to Annie. Serious, intense, hardworking Pamela Potts sat primly in a Sheraton chair. Her blue brocade evening dress was high-necked, long, and generally shapeless. Pamela was active in almost every charitable endeavor on the island and quite often recruited Annie as a volunteer. Pamela
made little bleating sounds and her huge blue eyes filled with tears. Henny Brawley, still carrying the book bag with the new titles, was as attentive as a raccoon and, Annie knew, just as inquisitive. Annie wondered cynically whether Henny, who claimed to read a mystery a day, actually knew anything that might be helpful to the police or whether she had been unable to resist the temptation to be in on a murder investigation.

Carl stepped forward, his manner diffident, his gentle face pained. “Virginia, I'm terribly sorry. We're shocked, all of us. If there's anything we can do—anything I can do…” His voice trailed away.

Virginia brushed back a drooping strand of hair. “No one knows what happened.” Her voice was dull. The blush on her cheeks stood out against her paleness. “Someone”—she looked vaguely toward Tony Hasty—“said some girl came running up from the ruins.” She pressed trembling fingers against her lips, struggled, managed to speak. “The police want us to help them.” She glanced at Annie. “If you will tell them…” She turned away, walked blindly to a chair near the fireplace, sank onto a hand-crocheted throw.

Annie held up a clutch of pens in one hand and white sheets of printer paper in the other. “The police have requested that everyone describe their evening, what they did, who they talked to, and especially any contact with Jake O'Neill. Try to estimate the time when you saw or spoke to him. If there is any other information that might aid the investigation—any personal knowledge of Jake O'Neill—please include it in the statement.”

Pamela Potts raised her hand, her eyes wide.

Annie was not surprised that Pamela had a question. “Yes?”

“Annie, I wish it to be clear that I am not aware of anything that pertains directly to Mr. O'Neill's activities this evening. Oh, he was really so nice.” Pamela's voice was soft. “He did a portrait of my dog, Whistler, and you can see that Whistler is smiling.”

Annie moved from person to person, handing out pen and paper. Annie's memory of Pamela's dog was of a yapping terrier who seemed to be all eyes and teeth and had about as much charm as a piranha.

Pamela gave a mournful sigh. “To see the end of so much talent…” She wiped away a tear. “But Max asked that anyone with information that might suggest something of Mr. O'Neill's involvements with—”

“Write it down, Pamela,” Annie said gently.

Irene's eyes narrowed. She glanced at the grandfather clock near the wide doorway to the hall. “Jake got here a few minutes after seven. I saw him with Virginia. Then, like a good boy”—her tone was sardonic—“he started schmoozing the guests. I expect Virginia had given him his orders.”

Virginia's face twisted in anguish. “I asked him to assume his proper role. After all, as my husband…” She lifted a handkerchief to her lips. “If only I'd kept him near me. But he loved talking with people. That's the last I saw of him. He was smiling and laughing. Everyone liked Jake.”

“Whatever anyone saw of him will be helpful,” Annie said quickly. “Or if anyone knows why he went down to the point…” She looked inquiringly from face to face. When no one spoke, she said firmly,

“Let's get started. The police should be up soon.”

There was the scratching of pens on paper, an occasional cough or rustle. Annie stared at her sheet. Ultimately she would have to tell Billy Cameron about
Chloe and Jake. But there was so much more to Chloe than her romantic interlude with a stranger on the pier. How could Annie make Billy see the vibrant girl who loved to laugh, who held children spellbound when she read aloud at the Saturday morning children's mystery program? Annie was certain that the Chloe she knew, the Chloe with whom she'd laughed and talked and worked, would no more strike down a living person than would Annie herself. Annie sighed. There was not space enough on the sheet of paper or time enough to tell Billy what she knew about Chloe. She was tempted to write down how Chloe helped at the Christmas party at The Haven, the island's recreation center for children and teenagers. When a little girl came late and hesitated in the hall, not wanting to come in because she didn't have a present to put under the tree, Chloe had slipped off a turquoise bracelet and insisted the girl take it and wrap it in Chloe's scarf and come in to the party. But if she told about that Chloe, wasn't she duty bound to tell about the Chloe who had fallen in love with a stranger in the fog?

Annie decided to stick to a brief description of what she had seen tonight. That wasn't much, a briefly glimpsed running figure that may have come from the point. Annie's hand tightened on the pen. Why had Chloe run? If only she knew the answer. To run implies urgency or fear or—undeniably—an effort to escape. Chloe. Where was she? Annie took a deep breath, laid down her paper and pen. She quietly stepped toward Virginia Neville, bent down and whispered, “I'll be right back.”

 

On shore, Frank Saulter played the beam from his heavy-duty flashlight over the edge of the bluff, illu
minating the big chunks of reddish rock that littered the coast.

Max shielded his eyes from the light and balanced atop a wide concrete barrier, now crusted with oyster shells. The barrier had been put in place in hopes of preventing further erosion, but the cliffs continued to crumble, a foot or so every year. Seawater lapped near the top of the barrier, surged around boulders, splashed against the base of the fifteen-foot bluff. Max yelled over the sound of the incoming tide, “If somebody threw the weapon down here, we'll have a hell of a time finding it.”

Above him, Frank picked up a chunky stick. He lifted his arm, threw. A geyser of foam lifted as the branch struck the dark water and disappeared.

Max looked, didn't even see a ripple marking the spot where the stick had disappeared. He walked back along the barrier, reached up, and climbed back onto the observation platform to join Frank. Max glanced toward the body. Lou was slow and careful. He hadn't found anything that appeared to have been used as a weapon. A search of the gardens in daylight might turn up something, but Dr. Burford had probably made a good guess. After striking O'Neill, the killer could easily have tossed the weapon into the water. With the tide coming in, the stick would be washed clean.