Laughed ’Til He Died (18 page)

She finished her wonderful breakfast, tidied the kitchen, and was hurrying upstairs to shower when the phone rang. She noted the number. The earlier caller had tried again. “Hello.”

“He didn’t come home. The police won’t help.” Neva Wagner’s hoarse voice was dull with exhaustion.

“He’ll come home by evening.” Annie tried to sound as confident as Max. “My husband thinks Tim is waiting to be sure the police aren’t hunting for him. When there aren’t any official search parties out, he’ll realize it’s okay to come home. He took his backpack and his sleeping bag. That shows he was intending to hide out.”

“What about those boys who were killed?” The words were sharp and jagged.

“Tim scarcely knew them.” Annie was willing to rely on Rachel.

“He knew one of them. The one who fixed computers. That’s the one who took care of our computers.”

“I’ll bet Tim wasn’t even home the times that Click came to your house.” Annie hoped she was right.

“I guess that’s so. Tim never spent much time here. He liked to be out. I always thought that was a good thing. I didn’t know about his shooting the twenty-two.”

Annie had a quick memory of Friday night, of dusk falling and the milling crowd. Tim had climbed a magnolia with his ri
fle. His mother had ducked into an arbor near the woods. Forgetting Max’s oft-repeated urging to think before she spoke, Annie blurted, “You went into that arbor by the woods Friday night.”

“The arbor?” She sounded startled. “I wanted to get away for a moment. I don’t like crowds.”

“Van Shelton followed you. Did you talk to him?”

There was an appreciable pause. “Just for a moment.”

“Was he with you when you heard the shot?”

“The shot?”

Annie waited. There had been one shot, and it had killed her husband. Neva had to know exactly where she was at that moment.

Finally, Neva spoke, the words rushing together. “The lights went out.” There was remembered shock in her voice. “It seemed terribly dark. There was a pop. It sounded far away.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed. “So you were alone?”

“Oh no. Van and I were together. We heard the shot together.”

Annie raised a skeptical eyebrow. Neva was lying. Was she protecting Van Shelton? Or was she protecting herself? “When did you see Tim?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember much after that. It was dreadful, Booth on the ground and blood. Tim came and told me he was going home. I tried to stop him, but he ran away.”

Running seemed to be a specialty of Tim’s.

“I have to find him.” Neva sounded even more distraught. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Stay there.” Annie was firm. “He’ll come home.” Feeling her response was inadequate, she offered, “I’ll try to find him. Where are some of the places he spends time when he’s outside?”

“I don’t know. He takes long walks. He likes to look for artifacts. There’s an Indian Shell Ring not far from here.”

Annie knew the site. Long ago Indian tribes tossed oyster, clam, and mussel shells, as well as the bones of deer, raccoons, bear, and fish, in a refuse heap. The ring was approximately 150 feet in diameter and several feet deep.

“Tim loves to go there. He says it’s around four thousand years old, like the pyramids in Egypt. He’s always digging around, hunting for a spear. Not at the Shell Ring. He knows it’s protected. He digs close to streams and ponds. He was really excited when they brought up an old cannon from the harbor.”

Annie nodded. These sites were on the north end of the island, where Max and the others had used megaphones to encourage Tim to come home. “I’ll take a look around.”

H
ANDLER
J
ONES SHOOK
hands with Billy Cameron. “If you have no objection,” he nodded toward Jean, “Ms. Hughes would like for Max to be present for our discussion.” Handler’s tone was good-humored, his Southern drawl as thick as good grits. “I’ve often hired Confidential Commissions for investigative work and this will keep Max informed.”

The chief’s expression was pleasant but wary. “I have no objection. If you’ll come this way.” He led them down a hallway and opened the third door to the left, standing aside for them to enter. The interrogation room contained a narrow metal table with one chair on one side, two on the other. Billy gestured at a chair against a wall as he closed the door. “You can pull that one to the table, Max.”

The room immediately seemed smaller. There were no windows. The overhead light threw the metal table and white
walls into stark relief, emphasized the silver streaks in Handler’s thick chestnut hair, the dark circles beneath Billy’s eyes, the heavy makeup that did not hide the puffiness of Jean’s swollen face.

Max placed the third chair a little behind and to the left of Handler’s seat.

Billy settled heavily in his chair, flicked on a tape recorder. “Chief Billy Cameron.” He glanced at the round, schoolroom-style clock on the wall. “9:06
A.M
., Monday, July 13. Present are Ms. Jean Hughes, her counsel, Handler Jones, and Mr. Jones’s investigator, Maxwell Darling. The interrogation concerns the murder of Booth Wagner, Friday, July 10; the shooting of Darren Dubois, Sunday, July 12; and the suspicious death of Hubert ‘Click’ Silvester, Thursday, July 9. Ms. Hughes has been named a person of interest in this investigation.” Billy cleared his throat and recited the Miranda warning, the words clear, distinct, and ominous. “Ms. Hughes, do you clearly understand what I have said to you?”

Her eyes enormous in her pale face, Jean nodded.

“Please answer aloud, Ms. Hughes.”

“Yes. I understand.”

Handler gave her an encouraging nod. His face reflected easy confidence.

Max wasn’t into women’s fashions. Women’s shapes, yes. But what colors were popular and whether skirts were long or short mattered to him not at all, though short skirts got his attention every time. Yet he sensed, and the understanding made him sad, that Jean had tried hard this morning to look her best, her formal best, in a navy linen dress with a lustrous pink pearl necklace and matching bracelet.

Billy began with questions establishing her identity.

Jean relaxed a little, answering quickly, as if eager to put the inquiry behind her.

“When did you meet Booth Wagner?”

“A year ago last March.”

“Describe your friendship.”

“He came to the club—”

“What club was that?”

“Boogie’s Blues. In Atlanta. On Highland Street. I was a singer. I
am
a singer.” She spoke almost defiantly.

Billy’s expression didn’t change.

“One night he bought me a drink. We started to be friendly.”

“Did you know he was married?”

“He said he was separated from his wife.”

“You believed him?”

She looked forlorn and vulnerable. She stared at the blank white wall. “I shouldn’t have. I did.”

“He became your lover?”

Her hands twined together tightly. “Yes.” The answer was almost inaudible.

“Please speak loudly enough for the recorder, Ms. Hughes.”

Her face flushed a deep red. “Yes.” Her voice was loud and harsh, echoing with anger and hurt. “I thought…oh, it doesn’t matter now what I thought. I was stupid. He didn’t care about me.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “He was making fun of me, just like he made fun of everyone. I—”

Handler moved forward in his chair, interrupting, his voice mellifluous. “Let’s help the chief with his investigation and confine our answers to his questions.” His smile was kind, but his gaze commanding.

The questions continued, one after another, inexorable and
penetrating. Finally, Billy brought her to this past week. “When did you learn that Wagner wanted you fired from the Haven?”

“Wednesday afternoon.”

“How did you find out?”

Jean gripped the huge rounded fake pearls of her bracelet and edged the circlet around and around her wrist. “I was supposed to check with the board members, ask if they had any new business to submit for the agenda. Larry Gilbert acted real strange, like he was uncomfortable. Finally, he asked, like he was puzzled, ‘Are you still doing the agenda?’ I asked what he meant. He stammered around and said he thought Booth was taking care of everything since I was—Then he stopped and said maybe I ought to call Booth. I told him if he knew anything I should know, he should tell me. He said maybe it was all a mistake, but Booth had told him my contract wouldn’t be renewed. I told him I’d call Booth. After Larry left, I called and called and he never answered the phone. I guess he knew it was me. Finally, I got a text from him.”

“What was in the text?”

She stared at the wall. “He liked texting. He liked making up abbreviations to see if people would get them.”

Billy pulled off a sheet of paper, pushed it across the table with a pen. “Please re-create the message.”

She hesitated, then, face puckered, picked up the pen and wrote:

BRD WL VT U O BTR LK NX TM LOL

Billy glanced at the sheet. “Please read the message aloud.”

“You can read it.” She was defiant.

Billy’s voice was uninflected. “‘Board will vote you out.
Better luck next time. Laughing out loud.’ Was that your understanding?”

She nodded, her lips trembling, her hands tightened into fists.

“Please speak up.”

“Yes.”

“Did you contact him?”

“I called and called. He never answered that day. I tried again Thursday morning. Finally, he answered.”

Billy leaned forward. “You received the text message Wednesday. You called repeatedly without reaching him. You spoke to him Thursday morning?”

“Yes. After I’d stewed a lot.” Her voice was bitter. “He told me the joke was over. I was history.”

Billy looked quizzical. “Yet you contacted Max Darling Thursday afternoon and asked him for help to keep your job. Why?”

Jean jammed her fingers together in a tight knot. She didn’t look at Billy. Her gaze was distant. “Wednesday night Giselle and I were sitting on the porch, listening to the sounds of the marsh at night. I started to cry. She asked me what was wrong. I didn’t want to tell her I was going to lose my job. I told her I wished I could take her somewhere and help her get well. She reached out and took my hand and her fingers were so thin and cold. She told me not to be silly, that nothing could be done. And then she said she didn’t want to ever be anywhere but here, that the cottage was the nicest place she’d ever lived and that’s where she wanted to die and she wanted to be buried on the island and that I should never cry but whenever I saw an egret or a great blue heron or heard an owl, she wanted me to think of her and know how happy I’d made her by bringing her here.
That’s when I decided to fight him. I didn’t think I’d win. But I had to fight. For Giselle.”

Billy studied her, his gaze intent and considering.

Max knew she had presented him with a clear and urgent reason to kill.

She took a deep breath. Her hands relaxed, fell loose in her lap. “That’s why I decided to ask Max for help.”

“On Thursday?”

“Yes.”

Billy leaned forward. “I understand you were hunting for Click Silvester Thursday morning.”

Jean stared at him in surprise. “That’s right. I looked for him in the computer area. I was having trouble with my e-mail. Oh.” She seemed to come to a realization. “I guess you talked to Rosalind. She told me he’d just left. I think it was around nine o’clock. I hurried out and caught him near the bike stands. He promised to check everything out in the afternoon.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

She looked puzzled. “I didn’t ask him.”

Max wished she had asked that simple question.

“What was Click’s demeanor?”

Her face was suddenly sad. “He was Click, sweet and kind and nice. He had no idea anything awful was going to happen to him.”

“Did he mention the program? Or a secret?”

“No. I don’t see what kind of secret he could have had that was connected to the program. Everything was set for the show.”

Handler said smoothly, “My client is quite willing to provide information about the program and its participants.”

Billy wasn’t distracted. He ponderously questioned Jean con
cerning her whereabouts on Thursday. There were four periods when she was not at the Haven: a morning errand to pick up the programs from the printer, her lunch at home with Giselle, a trip in the afternoon to the lumber yard for two-by-fours, and finally to Confidential Commissions in search of Max.

Max saw Billy’s satisfied look. That afternoon trip had taken Jean very near the entrance to the nature preserve. Although the time of Click’s death couldn’t be pinpointed, Jean was now revealed to have been in the vicinity within the general time frame.

Max wondered if she realized that Billy was spinning a web as large and enveloping and strong as any by the island’s golden silk spiders, whose webs could span twice the length of a car and were stronger than steel. He shot a worried look at Handler.

The lawyer appeared untroubled, but he made several notes on his legal pad.

Occasionally, Billy glanced at the clock.

Max noted the time. Why was Billy so cognizant of the passing minutes? Certainly, he wasn’t concerned about tiring Jean Hughes, though he stopped twice to permit her time to drink water.

The questions continued, one after another, concerning her actions on Friday leading up to the program at the Haven. Billy was painstaking in going over the events of Friday night.

At half past ten, he reached Sunday.

“Where were you at one o’clock Sunday afternoon?”

“At the Haven.”

“Can anyone vouch for your presence there?”

“I was alone. I wanted to get everything in order in case…” The words trailed away.

“Were you in the woods opposite Fish Haul Pier?”

“No.”

The door opened. Lou Pirelli walked toward Billy, a sheet of paper in his hand. He paid no attention to Jean or her lawyer or Max.

Billy looked at him.

Lou answered an unasked question with a quick nod. His expression was one of subdued triumph.

Billy stood. He was always an imposing figure, well over six feet in height, broad-shouldered, muscular. Now his blunt face was stern. “Ms. Hughes, I am placing you under arrest for the shooting of Darren Dubois at three minutes after one o’clock on Sunday, July 12.”