Engaged to Die (20 page)

She slipped across the floor to the double sinks and the broad window. She placed her hands on the stainless-steel rim, leaned forward—

“Hello?” The speaker's voice combined surprise, uncertainty, and a query.

Annie turned to face Carl Neville.

Carl's blue-and-gray plaid cashmere sport coat hung from his thin shoulders. He held a sheaf of papers in one hand. He pushed thin wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “Oh, Annie.” A faint flush rose in his cheeks. “I thought I heard someone….”

“I'm sorry, Carl. I knocked.” She waved toward the back door. “No one answered, and when I touched the handle, I realized the door wasn't locked. I hope you don't mind.” She managed a social smile, hoping his innate instincts of southern hospitality would kick in.

“You see”—and she tried to sound both confident and confiding—“there was a question about the view out of the window over the sink.”

“Oh.” He rocked back on his heels. There was a noticeable thaw. “I know the police have to do a lot of investigating. And you were helping last night.” He shoved a hand through his thinning hair. “This has knocked me for a loop. I've been boxing up the stuff in Jake's office. Mostly odds and ends except for his paintings. I expect Virginia will want to show them. I'll check with his family about that. We want to do the right thing. I talked to his mother this morning. Damn.” He took a deep breath. “The funeral's not been set. Sometime next week. Damn.”

Carl Neville was sorry about Jake and sorry for his mother. The gallery director's reaction, from a bewildered weariness to a natural dislike of contact with grief, seemed utterly natural. There was no hint of fear or uneasiness.

Annie relaxed. Carl had no ulterior motives, and he
wouldn't suspect them of her. “I'm sorry, Carl. If there's anything I can do to help…”

“Yeah, well, I guess that's what you're doing now.” He gave her a shy smile. “You and Max are helping out the police.”

Annie wondered how angry Billy might be if she, in effect, impersonated an officer. She said carefully, “Max is serving as a deputy, and I do what I can.”

“Right.” Carl waved a hand. “You say there's some question about the window?” He gave it a puzzled glance. “Well, I don't want to slow you down.” He backed toward the hall. “Let me know if you need anything. I'm in my office.”

As the swinging door closed, Annie scrabbled a hand through her thick blond hair, knew it probably was standing on end, and didn't care. In a stride, she was back at the sink, looking out the window.

The view encompassed part of the back porch and the steps, a broad sweep of grass crisscrossed by oyster-shell paths, curving swaths of azaleas, which in springtime created a world of color unrivaled on the island. One path, the important path, curved in an arc to the south and was almost immediately out of view behind a stand of loblolly pines. Annie's eyes narrowed. Last night Elaine's view would have been even more limited by the fog and by night. Yes, the fog thinned and thickened in patches, growing denser near the water, but definitely there was fog near the house, enough that visibility was down to fifteen or twenty feet.

Annie felt a quiver of excitement. Elaine looked out the window, and instead of the sweep of garden she saw a portion of the back porch and the path. She could not, for example, have seen the path that led through
the middle of the gardens, the most direct route for anyone going to the point from the tent in the north lot. Moreover, she could not have seen the segment of path that came from the kitchen parking lot to intersect the back door path to the point. That meant—Annie's fingers tightened on the cold metal of the sink—everyone seen by Elaine came out of the gallery.

Would it be possible to determine who was in the gallery between a quarter to nine and nine-fifteen? Annie slowly shook her head. Not likely. Many of the guests began walking to the tent shortly before nine. Wait a minute. She flipped open her purse, found her notebook. There it was:

At some time after Chloe ran through the kitchen parking lot and before Hasty found the body, Rusty Brandt must have been at the point, witness his jacket. So mark Rusty as one person seen by Elaine. Annie made a mental note to ask Max about that jacket, but she was certain it must have bloodstains. There was only one way the jacket could have been stained. Either Rusty Brandt struck down Jake or he touched the body.

Annie frowned. She plucked her cell phone from her purse, thought for a moment, then called the store.

“Death on Demand—”

Annie interrupted. “Henny, I need to talk to Doc Burford. Would you get his cell phone number from my Rolodex?” As she waited, Annie crossed her fin
gers. The peripatetic physician was a hard man to catch.

In a moment, Henny was on the line. “Got it.” She rattled off the number, then added for good measure his home, office, and hospital numbers. “Oh, and a piece of advice: ‘All detective work is sneaking. That's why only gentlemen and cads can do it.'”

Annie sniffed. “How about ladies?”

“You aren't playing the game.” Henny chortled. “
The Rising of the Moon
. Gladys Mitchell.” The phone clicked off.

Annie opted for the medical examiner's cell number and scored on the first try.

“Burford.” He was always brusque, but his patients knew he'd fight for them for a day, a month, a year, a lifetime.

“Doc. Annie Darling.” She knew better than to waste his time. “Jake O'Neill was struck from behind. Did the killer get blood spatters?”

There was a considering silence.

Annie held tight to the phone and thought about Chloe's stole and her missing dress and Rusty Brandt's jacket and the bareness of women's arms in formal gowns.

Burford cleared his throat. “Not likely. The back of his head was crushed but no gashes. Like I told Billy, somebody probably grabbed up a stout stick and whacked him. There were traces of bark in the wound. But the blows didn't break the skin. The blood that pooled on the ground came from his nose and mouth, ran mostly onto that green thingamabob. There were some smears on his face and jacket. Somebody moved the body before I got there. Anything else?”

The stains on Rusty Brandt's jacket might even
prove his innocence. But if Rusty was there, he must be persuaded to tell what he'd seen. There might be something pointing away from Chloe.

Annie tried again. “Is there any indication from the position of the wound about the height of the murderer?” Rusty Brandt was almost six feet tall. Chloe was about Annie's height, around five foot five.

A snort. “Who knows? Depends how high the murderer swung his arm—or her arm—before cracking his skull. Or whether it was a sidearm swipe. Or whether the stick was long or short. I don't know. Nobody'll ever know unless you catch the killer. Well, I've got to go.”

He was running out of patience. And Chloe was boxed in. There was so little time for someone else to have been there, quarreled with Jake, attacked him. Or maybe there was no argument. Maybe the killer was there and heard Jake and Chloe's angry exchange and saw her run and moved swiftly to kill, knowing Chloe would be the first suspect. The first suspect? Right now she was the only suspect.

Annie rushed to speak before Doc Burford dismissed her. “Just one more thing. How long did it take?” There was so little time. Not more than ten minutes.

“How long did what take?” Burford demanded. “To kill him? Two minutes. Maybe three. It's easy to kill.” His voice was heavy with anger. “He should have had another fifty years. Goddamn, I hate killers.” A weary sigh. “Tell Billy I've released the body for burial. Autopsy didn't have any surprises.” He hung up.

Annie clicked off the phone. Two minutes, maybe three…

 

Fingers of sunlight poked through the clouds, turning patches of gray water to green. A brisk wind kicked up whitecaps. At the dock,
The Miss Jolene
rocked a little in a heavy swell. Despite the occasional burst of sunlight, the wind off the water was cold. Max stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his brown suede jacket. Out on a dock, Ben Parotti lifted a hand in greeting and headed toward Max. As he waited, Max admired a formation of brown pelicans—he counted eight—as the big birds skimmed the wave tops, ready to dive-bomb for menhaden and mullet. Menhaden are too oily for human taste, but Max had a fondness for mullet roe. Annie always wrinkled her nose and declined a portion even though he pointed out that the eggs were considered a delicacy in Japan, sometimes selling for more than fifty dollars a pound. The third pelican to the left swerved and plunged. Max wished he could lean against a piling and watch the ocean and the birds. There was a black skimmer, scooting just above the water line, its lower jaw cutting through the surface. A glossy black double-breasted cormorant, Max's favorite bird, stood regally on a piling. If Max had the afternoon, at some point he would see an aquatic show, the cormorant rising a hundred feet to curve and power downward for its prey or, even better, using strong wings to propel itself through the water, outswimming most fish. But Max didn't have a January afternoon to while away. Instead, he listened to the sound of Ben's brisk steps and wondered what Annie was doing and whether Billy would agree to pick up Elaine Hasty. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to two. Mavis expected Billy to be back at the station within a half hour. Max had lots to report, might have more after he talked to Ben.

Ben's currant-dark eyes gleamed. “I checked with everybody. Ain't nobody had a call from that girl, so she's not on a boat leaving here. And I checked from the mast to the bilge on
The Miss Jolene
. She didn't slip on board for the morning run. She won't get on this afternoon.” He clapped his hands together. “Tell Billy she's smack dab on this island and I got a hundred pair of eyes on the lookout for her.” His eyes squinted against a burst of sunlight out of the clouds. “Oh, and that dress she said she threw off the dock. Nobody found it. Doesn't mean she didn't do it. It's a big ocean.”

Max had known finding the dress was a long shot. He was surprised at his sharp stab of disappointment. He'd wanted that dress found. He'd wanted it for Annie, who believed in her friend. Chloe claimed the dress wasn't bloodstained. If that was so, God knew it would be better if it were found. If it weren't found…well, a jury would draw its own conclusions.

Max shook Ben's hand. “Thanks. I'll tell Billy.”

It was a short two-block drive to the police station. As he parked, a lowering black bull of a cloud slid across the sun. The day lost all sheen, turning dull and dirty as old pewter. The bleak sky matched Max's mood as he walked into the station. Mavis looked up from her desk, her face wan and drawn, an accurate barometer of Billy's unhappiness with this case.

Max headed for the door to the offices. In the small waiting area, a young man scrambled to his feet, almost overturning the metal chair, ruffling the fern that drooped from a stand. Tall enough so that doorways would always be a challenge, he peered down at Max through wire-rimmed glasses. Thick dark hair hung almost to the frames. His thin face twisted in a frown. He
almost spoke, then gave a frustrated shrug and folded down onto the chair.

Max knew that anyone waiting at a police station had a story, most likely not a happy one. Not, fortunately, Max's problem this gray afternoon. Max stepped into the corridor, closed the door behind him, strode to Billy's office. He knocked.

“Yo.” Gruff as a hungry bear and possibly as dangerous.

Max stepped inside and was greeted by a burnished steel gaze and a jutting chin.

 

Annie allowed for walking into fog and darkness with nothing more to show the way than the tiny glow from strings of Christmas lights in the live oaks. She pretended she was Jake O'Neill hurrying from the gallery to the point. She didn't try to recreate his feelings. Who knew? There he was, his engagement to be announced within the hour, and he'd come face-to-face with a girl he'd met and loved in the night. Had he cared at all for Chloe or was she nothing more than a pretty girl who came to him too willingly? It didn't matter now. Maybe his decision to draw her far from the gallery was its own answer. He didn't want Virginia Neville to know, so he whispered to Chloe, asked her to come out into the fog and darkness to meet him, and he walked to his death.

The pine trees soughed as the wind picked up off the water, cool and damp with the smell of seawater and rotting clumps of seaweed draped over ocean-scoured boulders. Once past the pines, Annie was out of sight of the gallery. Perhaps a quarter mile ahead rose the green hump, all that remained of the earthworks that had made up Fort Loomis. Live oaks and pines and a thicket of cane obscured part of the mound.

When she reached the site, it was easy to take it all in with a glance: the oval brickwork, the steps leading down to a platform built above the crumbled rocks below the bluff, the steps on the far side of the oval leading up to the lookout point above the ruins. Wind fluttered the yellow police tape strung about the bricked pavement. Drifting pine straw had already partially covered the yellow outline that marked the location of the body.

Annie looked at her watch. It had taken her two minutes and twenty seconds to reach the point. Even if Jake or Chloe walked more slowly, it couldn't have taken more than three minutes to come from the gallery to this hidden spot. Say three minutes. They talked. Annie had glimpsed a running Chloe perhaps a moment or two before nine o'clock. Jake's body was discovered at approximately fourteen minutes after nine.