Engaged to Die (12 page)

Max jammed his hands in his trousers. “A thick branch.” His tone was thoughtful. “There are plenty of them left over from the last storm. Lots of them a foot or a foot and a half in length. Like staves. Perfectly good weapons right here at hand. But hey”—his voice was eager—“grabbing up a branch and striking out means the murder wasn't planned.”

Frank swung the beam of light back to the body. “So we have to find out what the guy could have said or done that made somebody grab a branch and smash him in the back of the head.”

Footsteps scuffed pine needles, clattered down the steps to the deck. Billy reached them, notebook in hand. “Okay, Max, fill me in on this girl Annie saw. A friend of Annie's?”

 

In the library, Annie found the telephone directory. Chloe was staying with her aunt and uncle. Smith? Smithers? Smitt? No, Schmidt. Annie flipped to the
S
s. There it was: Harold and Frances Schmidt. Annie glanced at the Dresden clock on a side table near the sofa. Almost eleven. Was it too late to call? Perhaps so, if it were an ordinary evening. This was not an ordinary evening. She reached for the receiver, paused. Slowly, her hand dropped. She couldn't pretend ignorance. Billy Cameron may not have deputized her as he had Max, but Annie knew police procedure. Billy would want to talk to Chloe without warning. It was important for him to do so.

Annie traced a finger across the top of the telephone receiver. She couldn't call Chloe. If Chloe was innocent, as Annie felt certain she was, it would be better that she learn of O'Neill's murder from the police. In fact, if Chloe was forewarned, her reaction as an innocent person would be lost. But Annie hated thinking of the terrible shock that awaited Chloe. It was dreadful to know that she would soon receive devastating news and not to be able to help her.

Billy Cameron or perhaps Lou Pirelli might be on the way right this minute to speak to Chloe. There wasn't anything Annie could do about that. Okay.
Morning would come. She'd call Chloe first thing, let her know that Annie was her champion.

Annie cast a final regretful look at the telephone, then turned away and opened the door into the hall. Her footsteps seemed inordinately loud on the heart pine floor of the foyer, but no one gave her any notice when she stepped into the drawing room.

She picked up her sheet of paper from the end table near Virginia. She stared at the paper, then wrote quickly. She'd barely finished when Max came in. As always, Annie thought him the most attractive man in the room, even though his hair was mussed by the ocean breeze and his tuxedo trousers damp and mud-smeared. He carried a plastic bag in his hand and scanned the room until he found Rusty Brandt. He hesitated, then veered toward Annie.

Max glanced around, spoke softly. “What are they doing?”

“Statements. Where they were, what they saw, any information about O'Neill.” Annie spoke with quiet pride.

“That's a good idea.” His tone was admiring. “When they finish, gather them up for Billy. He's going to be up here pretty soon. He's in a hurry to track down Chloe. Do you have a number for her?” He listened as she gave him the name of the aunt and uncle and repeated them to be certain. “Okay. I'll tell him.” He looked around again. “I'd stay and take up the statements, but you can handle this.”

Annie pressed her lips together. Why yes, she thought she could, even though she wasn't a deputy, thank you very much.

Max wasn't through. “I've got a little job to take care of, then I have to get back to the crime van.” He patted her on the shoulder.

In her heart Annie knew Max didn't intend to be condescending, but to Annie's sensibility his comment had a definite aura of the old-timer commending the neophyte. As he turned away, Annie drew the rear end of a donkey on her sheet of paper. Above it, she neatly printed in all caps: OFFICIOUS.

Max walked across the room to Rusty Brandt.

Brandt looked up. Abruptly, his face went rigid, his hand folded in a fist around his pen.

Max looked at him somberly. “As part of the investigation into the death of Jake O'Neill, Chief Cameron is requesting your jacket so that it may undergo forensic tests.”

Brandt stumbled to his feet. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your tuxedo jacket.” Max's face was hard and un-yielding. “I'll give you a receipt for it.” Max held up the plastic bag. “The coat goes in here. I seal the bag.” He pulled a roll of tape from his pocket. “I tag it and deliver it to the crime lab.”

“Rusty…” His wife was at his side. She clutched at his arm, then jerked her hand away.

“Dammit, Susan, I spilled champagne on it.” His voice was deep and husky. “That's all. Champagne.”

“Then it won't be a problem, will it?” Max spread open the bag.

Dragging footsteps sounded. Virginia stopped beside Susan. “I don't understand. Why do they want Rusty's jacket?”

Susan wrapped her arms tightly across the front of her crimson dress. “I don't know.” Her voice was thin.

“Or you can come with me, Brandt.” Max was brisk.

“I am authorized to take you into custody as a material witness. Once you're in jail, Chief Cameron can con
tact the judge for a search warrant and the jacket can be impounded.”

Slowly, his face grim, Rusty shrugged out of the tuxedo coat. He pulled a slender wallet from an interior pocket before handing the jacket to Max. He frowned at the billfold, stuffed it in a back pocket of his trousers.

Max folded the jacket and slid it into the plastic bag. He filled out a label, slipped it inside, sealed the bag, and taped it shut. He handed a receipt to Brandt, who crumpled it in his hand.

“As you can see”—Max addressed the room at large—“the investigation into the murder of Jake O'Neill is progressing. The chief has requested that there be no public discussion of the evening's events. Please complete your statements as to your whereabouts this evening and your contact with the victim as well as any information about O'Neill's friends or enemies or any known quarrels or disagreements and turn them in to my wife. Chief Cameron will be here shortly to receive the statements and speak with you. Thank you.”

On his way out, Max hesitated, then whispered to Annie, “The statements are a great idea, Annie. I'll tell Billy you're responsible.” Max looked at her searchingly. “I'm sure you realize the statements will be part of the official investigation.” It wasn't quite a question.

Annie resisted the impulse to reply that she'd had no idea such was the case and had believed them to be destined for recitation on the local news station. She made an indeterminate sound. It might have been a breathy oh yes. It might have been a more earthy expletive.

He held her gaze. “Annie, promise me you won't read them.”

“Who, me?” Definitely breathy.

“Annie.” His blue eyes were stern.

She held up her right hand. “I do solemnly promise that I shall gather them up—and I shall not read them…”

He grinned. “Good girl.”

As he turned away, she added in her mind a qualifying phrase, “…right now.”

 

Billy reached out for the plastic bag containing the tuxedo jacket. “Good work, Max.” He swung around. “Mavis?”

His wife poked her head from the back of the crime van. “Yo.”

Billy took the bag to her. “Mark this jacket to be tested for bloodstains and cross-checked with the victim's blood.” He kneaded the side of his face with his knuckles. “That wraps up the physical evidence.” He glanced at the techs easing the body onto a gurney. “Frank, anything else you can think of?”

The former chief carefully surveyed the scene. “Nope. You've done everything you can until tomorrow. I'll come out and get some daytime photos, free you up to question witnesses.”

“Good.” Billy looked toward his wife. “Mavis, you and Lou can leave now. Take the van back to the station.” He frowned. “I know it's late, but you better take the exhibits inside, lock 'em up.”

Max knew he was remembering an episode when the island's crime van was torched.

“I'll take care of everything, Billy.” Lou clapped shut his notebook. “Mavis can go on home.”

Mavis touched her husband's arm. “Are you coming?”

Billy shook his head. “Not for a while. Got to check out that girl. Chloe Martin.”

 

Edith, of course, finished first. She looked up, flapped her sheet of paper at Annie.

Annie sped across the drawing room. “Thanks, Edith.” Annie spoke loudly, hoping to prod the others. It reminded Annie of finals and the proctor eager to grab up the blue books. Sure enough, as soon as she took Edith's statement, the others began to finish. In a moment, she had a full stack except for Virginia Neville, who huddled in a wing chair, staring blindly at the sheet of paper.

Annie spoke gently. “Mrs. Neville, the chief will especially appreciate your help. If you could try…”

Virginia opened her hands, palms up. “I can't. I'm sorry. I can't think. All I can do is remember….” She shuddered.

Carl rubbed his fingers over his bristly mustache. “Listen, Annie, Virginia shouldn't have to be here, waiting to talk to the police.” He began with a mumble, then his voice strengthened. “Look at her. She's devastated. She needs to be in bed. I'm going to call our doctor, get her a sedative. After all, what more can be done tonight? The police can talk to her tomorrow.”

Henny Brawley rose, picked up her book bag. “Carl's right. I for one am going home. I'll talk to Billy tomorrow. You can explain, Annie. Everyone's too tired to do any more tonight. Billy will understand. And obviously, no one here”—she glanced briefly at Rusty Brandt—“knows anything critical.”

There was a flurry of movement toward the door.

Annie didn't try to stop them. It was after eleven. And she had their statements. But she angled across
the room to intercept Henny. Annie whispered, “May I have the book bag. You can carry the books.”

Henny gave her a sharp, inquiring glance. “Sure.” She slipped the books free, handed the bag to Annie, but held on to it for an instant. “Providing you tell me why tomorrow. I'll give you a ring.”

As soon as the front door slammed and there was quiet, except for the heavy steps of the caterer as he strode toward the back of the gallery, Annie whirled about, the book bag in one hand and the statements in the other. She darted across the hall and into the library. It took only a moment to feed the sheets into the fax machine. The fax paper, soft and limp and silent, oozed out. Annie took the copies, slipped them into the book bag.

“Annie? Where are you? Where is everybody?” Max's voice boomed in the hallway.

Annie tossed the book bag onto a Louis XIV chair. Moving fast, she reached the desk just as the door opened. She held up the statements. “I was looking for a folder to put them in. When they were done, everyone wanted to go home. I hope that's okay with Billy. But he'll have these.” She waggled the sheets. “He'll be prepared when he sees everyone tomorrow. Oh, Max, I feel so sorry for Virginia Neville. She looked like a wax doll that had been left out in the sun. Carl took her home. Anyway, I don't know where they keep things.” She opened a cupboard behind the desk. “Here they are.” She picked up a bright orange folder from a stack and slid the sheets inside. “All present and accounted for. Except for Virginia. She wasn't up to it.” Annie held out the folder to Max. “Unread, as promised.”

Max took the folder, slid it under his arm. “Annie, I
knew we could count on you.” He pulled his car keys out of his pocket, handed them to her. “I'm going with Billy to talk to Chloe Martin. See you later.”

 

Dorothy L., green eyes bright, paced along the back of the sofa.

Annie reached out for the fluffy white cat, but Dorothy L. eluded her grasp, flowing to the floor. She landed with a thump and moved toward the hallway. She stopped, sat, stared.

“Your hero isn't here.” Annie tried not to sound peevish. After all, just because it was Annie who had rescued Dorothy L. when she was abandoned as a helpless kitten in the alleyway behind Death on Demand and Annie who brought her home to be queen of the Darling household (and free from the unrelenting hostility of Agatha, the sleek black cat who had no doubt as to the true ownership of the bookstore) was no reason for Annie to have her feelings hurt because Dorothy L. adored Max. “Your hero,” Annie's voice was cool, “is an officious ass.”

Dorothy L. flicked her tail.

“Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Dorothy L. I know you think he's quite perfect.” Annie felt her lips curve in a smile. “I have to admit he means well. He's just trying to help Billy, but he's taking himself very seriously. Oh, I know,” she said to the cat, as if hearing an unspoken rebuke, “I'm always exhorting him to be serious, and now when he's serious, I'm critical. Sure, I'm in the wrong.” Annie pulled the afghan over her legs. Despite her toasty candy-cane-pattern flannel pajamas and the crackling fire, she felt cold. Usually she and Max ended their winter evenings together on the sofa with thick, sweet, dark hot chocolate and half-
finished sentences and gurgles of laughter, then arm in arm, still laughing, climbed the stairs to bed and the love poets dream about. Annie enjoyed the study, the beauty of the golden tan cypress panels, the bright jackets of books, the comfort of the downy blue sofa. But tonight the study was cheerless and the cocoa tasteless. She set the mug on a side table. She wanted to pop up and hurry into the kitchen. She'd dropped the book bag on a counter near the garage door, handy for her to pick up on her way to Death on Demand in the morning. She knew she'd better wait until tomorrow to read the copies of the statements. Tonight she could honestly meet Max's questioning gaze. Of course she hadn't read the statements. How could he even think it?