Murder Walks the Plank (10 page)

Annie clung to the cell phone. She had a sense of rapid thought and calculation on Emma's part.

“Annie, my God, we may have found it. Meg has macular degeneration. She can't read. I'll bet anything she depended upon Pamela to read the newspaper, letters, whatever.” Emma's words came as fast as boulders crashing down a hillside, picking up speed and power, battering any obstacle in the way.

“Look at it! Pamela was there Friday. I'll bet you a case of Jose Cuervo, Pamela read the Thursday paper—”

Annie nodded. The
Island Gazette
was an afternoon paper Monday through Friday. The Sunday morning edition went to press Saturday evening.

“—to Meg. Pamela wasn't there Saturday but there's no Saturday edition of the
Gazette
. That means this morning”—Emma's voice was excited—“she would catch up on both the Friday and Sunday issues.”

Annie thought again about straw houses. “Emma, do you honestly think there was something published in the
Gazette
that is so dangerous to someone that they murdered Pamela to keep her from reading it aloud to Meg Heath?”

“Something like that.” Her tone was assured.

Annie wanted to say, “Come
on
.” She didn't.

The parrot emitted a rude sound. Whistler erupted with frantic yelps. Annie flapped a hand at them. She hoped Emma hadn't heard or she might reconsider her generous offer to come by for them.

Emma had. “Tell that bird to get his beak on straight or I won't come and get him. And he's obviously a bad influence on the dog. As for you, Annie, trust me on this one. It's a quarter after eight. Pamela would have arrived at Meg's at nine o'clock. Get over there now.”

 

Annie spoke aloud to her inner adult. “You are a grown woman. If you decide to make a detour on your way to Meg Heath's house, more power to you.” Still, she felt a quiver of unease—why was she such a ninny when it came to dealing with Emma Clyde?—as she swung the wheel of the Volvo and headed up the familiar lonely road that ended at a weathered gray wooden house on stilts with a magnificent view of the marsh and Sound.

For starters, it made sense to talk to Henny. She knew practically everybody on the island, and Annie was sure she'd have an opinion about Meg Heath and her family. There wasn't time to call Max and ask him to scour the Net before Annie waltzed up to Meg's front door, pretending to be something she wasn't. And, okay, she had to be honest with herself. She was in no hurry to reach the Heath house. Annie didn't have a particle of faith in Emma's fanciful linkage of
Pamela, the
Gazette,
and Meg Heath. Talk about a stretch…

Early morning sunlight speared through the live oak branches, dappling the gray road with an intricate mosaic of dark and light. Spanish moss hung still and straight. It was already warm, the sultry, heavy heat of August, the air thick with moisture, an ever-present reminder of coming storms. This was tropical storm season at best, hurricane season at worst.

Annie came around a curve and was relieved to see Henny's old black Dodge. She needed Henny's input. Maybe Henny could help persuade Emma that the Heath house was a dead end. They should focus on the night of the cruise, contact passengers, try to find those who had seen Pamela, perhaps noticed her in conversation. It made sense to start with Cole Crandall. He'd been stationed on the very deck from which Pamela had been pushed.

Annie parked next to the Dodge.

The front door opened. Henny backed out onto the deck, her yellow-and-white striped shoulder purse banging against her side. She was pulling a wheeled black suitcase. A carry-on bag hung from her other shoulder.

Annie hurried up the wooden steps. “Henny, where are you going?”

Henny closed the front door, checked to be sure the lock caught, turned. She looked fresh and summery in a yellow cotton tunic and slacks and white sandals. She brushed back a lock of silvered dark hair. “Oh, Annie, I have to be gone for a few days. I just got off the phone with Emma. It's so awful about Pamela.”

They came together in a swift embrace.

Henny patted Annie's shoulder as they stepped apart.
Her dark eyes were sad. “I wish I could stay and help. I have a friend off island who's just out of the hospital and needs some care. I got the call this morning.”

“I understand.” Annie picked up the black suitcase, carried it down the steps.

“Thanks, Annie.” Henny was right behind her, her car keys jingling. But there was an odd defensive tone in her voice.

Annie tried not to let her disappointment show. Obviously, Henny felt bad to be leaving. Annie managed a quick smile. “I'm glad I caught you before you left.” She waited as Henny unlocked the Dodge trunk, then swung the suitcase inside. “Do you know Meg Heath?”

“Sure. We've worked on a lot of projects together. But she's been sick for about a year.” Henny gave her a sharp look. “Is that where Pamela's been helping out?”

“Yes. I'm on my way there.” Annie wished she didn't have a nervous feeling she should be there right this minute. What difference could a quarter hour make? “Apparently she has macular degeneration—”

Henny was nodding.

“—and Emma has this crazy idea that there's something in the
Gazette
that somebody didn't want Meg to know about.”

Henny's eyes glinted. She patted the side of her carry-on bag. “I've got Sunday's paper with me. I'll look it over carefully. As for Meg Heath, I like her. Wealthy widow. A bit different from most. She's had an adventurous life, lived in England for a long time, had a house in Majorca. She was a model when she was young. She's been married several times. As I heard it, she and one husband had an old yacht they refurbished and sailed around the Mediterranean for a year or so, taking pas
sengers and cargo. But it was her last husband who had all the money. They came here when he retired, built a fabulous home. Right on the ocean. It's an amazing house. Meg was active in a lot of charities until she got sick. She's smart, funny, strong-willed. Last night she was having a grand time even though she looked like death warmed over, white as alabaster.” Henny's dark eyes gleamed. “She loved the mystery play. She had lots of questions for the actors. Good questions.” Henny slid behind the wheel, rolled down the window to look up at Annie. She frowned. “Speaking of questions, what have you got in mind, Annie?”

Annie smoothed hair blown every which way by the on-shore breeze. “I don't have anything in mind. Emma told me to go to the Heath house and worm my way in as a substitute for Pamela. I'll try to find out what she and Meg talked about on Friday and I'll offer to read the
Gazette
and see if anything gets a big reaction from Meg. And I need to find out about her, as Emma termed it,
entourage
.”

“Oh.” Henny's answer was quick. “I saw them. They didn't look like they were having a lot of fun. Her daughter, Jenna, had her usual I'm-too-good-for-all-the-peasants-around-me attitude. Meg finds her boring. Her son, Jason, is a good-looking playboy who doesn't have a clue that men are supposed to work.” Henny's tone was dry. “Meg adores him. And of course, Meg's secretary, Claudette Taylor. She's rather retiring, but I don't think she misses anything. I got to know her on the spring festival committee. I don't know if it will come to it, but if you need to know what's going on in that house, talk to Claudette.”

 

Dust puffed from the oyster shells crunching beneath
the wheels. The old live oaks on either side of the road met overhead to create a dim and ghostly tunnel. Annie braked as a doe and her fawn bolted across the curving road and plunged into the shadowy maritime forest. She eased the car forward, came around a curve. Her eyes widened. The house was like nothing she'd ever seen before, masses of windows in a two-story white steel framework high on metal supports. The sand dunes and sea were clearly visible through the open spaces. The rooms—actually modular bays suspended in space—were open to view, the rattan and white furnishings as indigenous as sea oats, except for one corner where the blinds had yet to be opened to the day and the sun and sea.

The dread Annie had felt in coming vanished, replaced by anticipation. Annie admired Meg Heath, a customer with charm and verve and taste, but she didn't know her well. Any woman who shared sky and sea and sand on an equal plane with gulls and pelicans was worth knowing well. The innovative house was a sure indicator of imagination and insight.

Near the front entrance—a corkscrew stairway to the suspended first floor—a bronze arrow inscribed Parking pointed to a line of palms. Annie turned left, found a parking area large enough for a half dozen cars hidden behind a line of pine trees. A white Mercedes and a black Camry were the only cars there. Annie parked next to the Camry.

She hurried across the oyster shell drive to the stairway. She was reaching for the bell pull when the wail of a siren sounded, coming nearer and nearer, louder and louder.

Siren shrilling, red lights flashing, an ambulance swung into the drive and headed straight for her.

T
HE AMBULANCE ROCKED
to a stop next to the circular staircase. The med techs climbed out, moving fast, a sharp-featured, broad-shouldered woman and a pink-faced giant with a mop of frizzy purple hair drawn back in a puffy ponytail.

The woman strode quickly to Annie. She poked glasses higher on a beaked nose, stared with cold green eyes. “Which way?” The big young man carried a square black case. Silver rings on one ear glinted in the sunlight.

Before Annie could answer, footsteps clattered above them on the metal platform outside the front door. “Up here. Hurry.” The call was sharp and anxious.

Annie lifted her gaze.

Claudette Taylor bent over the railing. Ginger hair streamed onto the shoulders of a blue-and-white-striped seersucker robe. She flapped a hand, urging speed.

The techs brushed past Annie, started up the curving staircase.

Annie hesitated only for a moment, then followed. When she reached the doorway, she watched the EMTs
follow Claudette up an interior flight of stairs. Stepping into the foyer, she felt disoriented by a rapid sweep of impressions, much like the dizzying quick cuts of a television commercial. She looked in amazement at metal conjunctions that created glass-walled rooms that seemed to float within the boundaries of the house. Splashes of orange, vermillion, and jade from paintings and ceramics emphasized the bone white of the furnishings. A frightened face peered out from a shiny chrome-and-white kitchen. Yet the fairy-tale house was overshadowed by the dominating sweep of ocean, visible from every vantage point.

Annie blinked, fastened her gaze on Claudette. Her plump face dazed, the secretary stood near the open doorway to the only room in the house where bamboo shades hung straight and still, shutting out the morning sun. One hand clung to the lapel of her dressing gown. “I found her….” Her voice trailed away. She glanced down at her robe. “I hadn't dressed yet.”

Annie climbed the broad metal steps. She reached the next floor and looked past Claudette into a huge area, a bedroom and beyond it a sitting room. The furnishings and appointments were dazzling white here too, the chest, the wardrobe, the nightstand, even the love seat, white as brilliant as a seashell in the sunlight, spellbinding and dramatic. The bed, too, was white except for the crimson of Meg Heath's nightgown. In death Meg Heath was quite lovely, her face smooth, untroubled, youthful, her dark hair flared against the silk pillowcase.

The broad-shouldered tech bending near the bed slowly straightened. She turned. Her face impassive, she gazed at Claudette. “She's been dead for some time. You just found her?”

“Yes.” The secretary's voice was faint.

The tech pulled a small notebook from her pocket, flipped it open, wrote. She glanced at her watch, wrote again, looked toward Claudette. “Name?” She jerked her head toward the bed.

“Meg. That is”—a quick glance toward the bed, then away—“Margaret Heath. I'm Claudette Taylor.”

“Next of kin?” The question was swift.

Claudette clasped her hands together. “No. I was her secretary. She has a son and daughter. I'll have to call them.”

The tech pointed the pencil toward the bed. “Has she”—a glance at the notebook—“has Ms. Heath been sick?”

“Yes. But we didn't expect—” Claudette broke off, took a deep breath. “Heart trouble. She's been failing for almost a year. But I never thought anything was wrong this morning. She often doesn't—didn't come down for breakfast. I thought”—the secretary pushed back a strand of ginger hair—“she might still be resting. She was up late last night. We all were.” She gestured at her robe. “I overslept. But she seemed to be fine when we said goodnight. I can't believe she's gone.” A deep, steadying breath. “Shall I call the doctor?”

The self-possessed tech was firm. “We'll contact the doctor. We can't move the body without the doctor's permission. Who was her physician?”

Claudette seemed relieved to have a specific task. “Dr. Morris. Kay Morris. I can get the number.”

Annie played tennis with Kay Morris, who moved quickly, on court and off. She always hit the ball where her opponents weren't—hard. She talked fast, was impatient and imperious.

“I got that number.” The tech whipped out a cell
phone, punched numbers.

Claudette folded her arms tightly across her robe. Her eyes moved from the tech back to the bed. Her face was blank with shock, but her gaze was somber, almost cold.

Annie wondered at that measuring look. It certainly didn't indicate sorrow. There was a hardness, an implacability in that level stare. And perhaps a hint of dislike?

Claudette held to the tie of her robe, pleated it in nervous fingers. “I must call Jenna and Jason.” Her voice was brusque. “I'll get a phone.” She turned, saw Annie. “Annie?” She was startled.

Annie stepped forward. “I came to take Pamela's place. I knew Meg was expecting her. I don't know if you've heard, but Pamela died this morning.” Annie heard the thinness in her voice. It was hard to say the words, would be hard for a long time. “She never regained consciousness after her fall.”

In the background, the tech spoke loudly. “I need to talk to the doctor in person. We got a dead patient of hers and we got to know what to do.”

Claudette Taylor's lips parted. “Pamela's dead? Oh, that's dreadful. Meg will—” She swallowed hard. “I don't know what I'm saying. Meg's gone. And Pamela, too. I can't believe it.”

Annie reached out, took cold, trembling hands in a tight grasp. “I'm so sorry. What can I do to help?”

Claudette's look was grateful. “It would be a wonderful help if you'd stay here while I try to find Jenna and Jason. I don't think we should leave Meg.”

Annie squeezed Claudette's hands, gently released them, took a step nearer the bedroom. “I'll be glad to stay. I'll do whatever I can.”

The tech's deep voice was matter-of-fact. “…looks
like natural causes…”

Annie didn't believe it for a minute. Not on the heels of Pamela's murder.

Claudette swung away, muttering to herself. “Jenna…and Jason…Father Patton.” Her shoes clattered on the metal stair treads.

Annie stepped into Meg's room. She took her time, surveying the long room, a combination of bedroom, study, and living area. Nothing seemed out of order, the body in repose so similar to sleep. There was nothing to suggest that Meg Heath's death was anything other than natural. The big young tech stood with his arms folded, face incurious, the unopened case on the floor beside him. The other tech tucked the phone between cheek and shoulder, made notes on her pad. “Yes, ma'am. Congestive heart failure? Yes, ma'am. If you will sign the death certificate, we'll transport the body to the mortuary.”

Annie lifted a hand in protest. The mortuary. That meant the funeral home. She took two quick steps, stopped in front of the startled EMT. “Wait.” If the body went to the funeral home, was embalmed, any trace of crime might be forever lost.

The tech frowned.

Annie held out her hand for the phone. “I need to speak with Dr. Morris.” Annie's thoughts raced. There had to be an autopsy. But if she spoke out, she was destroying Emma's plan of Annie working quietly in the background, merging into Pamela's world of service. Claudette Taylor hadn't questioned Annie's arrival. She would be glad of help this morning and most likely in the days to come. When death comes, there are so many calls to make, so much to be done, the funeral to arrange, friends to notify, food to order. The
ordered ritual of mourning gives peace to the living and matters not at all to the dead. No one knew that Annie had come this morning in hopes that Meg Heath would help solve the mystery of Pamela's murder.

The tech held tight to the phone. “What's the deal? Who're you?”

Annie glanced down at Meg's quite beautiful face, lovely but distant, robbed of the ineffable essence of life. Annie made up her mind. “I have information about the deceased that the doctor needs to know.” Annie stood no more than a foot from the bed and its peaceful burden.

The tech frowned, cleared her throat, shrugged. “Dr. Morris? Sorry. Some lady wants to talk to you.” She relinquished the phone to Annie.

Annie took a deep breath, striving for calm. “Kay, Annie Darling here.”

“Yes?” Kay was always crisp. “I've released the body. The family can make its arrangements.” She didn't ask why or how Annie was on the line. In Kay's world there were those who served and those who ordered and there was no confusion in her mind about her own role.

Annie knew that Kay's mind was already disengaging from Meg Heath. Meg was over and done with and there were patients to see, hospital rounds to make.

“Kay, there has to be an autopsy.” The minute the words were out, Annie felt startled resistance laced with anger on the other end of the line.

“Excuse me.” Kay's tone was icy. “When did you start practicing medicine? Meg is a longtime patient. She suffered from congestive—”

Annie interrupted. “I know that. An autopsy has nothing to do with you or with her illness. Please hear
me out. I will be contacting Dr. Burford”—Kay Morris knew full well that Dr. Burford was the medical examiner for the island—“to request an autopsy because there is a possibility that Meg was killed by the same person who murdered Pamela Potts. I don't know if you are aware that Pamela was pushed overboard from the
Island Packet
last night. Pamela died this morning.” Annie knew Pamela's death was being treated as an accident. Billy Cameron would not be pleased when he learned of this conversation. “I'm asking you to talk to Dr. Burford.” Emma said Dr. Burford agreed that Pamela had been pushed. Dr. Burford knew Pamela would never cross over the railing, stand on the outside portion of the deck high above the water.

“Is there evidence of trauma?” Kay demanded, her voice sharp.

Annie looked at the beautiful woman who might simply have been asleep she looked so natural. “There are no wounds. I'd think a narcotic or poison of some sort.”

“Is that what you'd think?” The sarcasm was evident. “So you've shown up and without any basis for inserting yourself in this affair, you are pronouncing Meg's death to be murder. Nonsense.”

“Pamela was pushed overboard last night. Meg Heath was on the cruise. Meg died in her sleep.” Annie was stubborn and beginning to get angry. “All I'm asking you to do is talk to Dr. Burford. He knows the circumstances and he—”

“I have no intention of talking to him. You initiated this situation. You talk to him. And”—each word dropped like a stone—“you talk to the family.” The connection ended.

Annie held on to the cell phone. Damn Kay. But there were ways of dealing with lack of cooperation.
“Thank you, Kay.” She spoke quite pleasantly into silence. “Very well. I'm glad you agree. I will instruct the ambulance crew to deliver the body to the hospital, attention Dr. Burford.” She clicked off the cell phone, returned it to the waiting tech.

The tech slipped the phone into her pocket along with the notebook. “To the hospital. Attention Dr. Burford?”

Annie nodded. “Attention Dr. Burford.”

As the techs moved toward the bed, Annie walked out of the bedroom. She stood on the landing by the steps. Her hands were sweaty as she punched the number of Confidential Commissions.

“Hi, Annie.” Max sounded genial. “You at Pamela's?”

Pamela Potts's tidy house with the sweet-voiced parrot and wet-nosed Whistler seemed eons ago. By now Emma had probably been by and picked up the pets.

“I'm at Meg Heath's house. That's where Pamela's been coming the last few weeks. Max”—a deep breath, but her voice was steady—“Meg's dead, too. Here's what I've done….”

He listened without interrupting. It gave her strength and courage to picture him in his office. Only Max with his savoir faire would be at ease behind the dramatic Renaissance desk that had once served as a refectory table in a monastery. His lean, muscular body ensconced in a supercomfortable red leather chair, blond hair gleaming in the light from his desk lamp, tanned hand making swift, cogent notes, he was Tommy Beresford to her Tuppence, imperturbable, debonair, and beloved.

As she finished, he said briskly, “Here are Dr. Burford's numbers, home, office, hospital, cell. I'll get busy on the rest. Let's meet at Parotti's for lunch.
Twelve-thirty.”

As the connection ended, the techs eased the gurney with its shrouded burden past her. Annie followed them, stopping at the top of the stairs. She looked past the crew. Claudette waited in the hallway. She turned, opened the front door.

Annie was startled by the secretary's transformation. In that brief time, Claudette had dressed. Her hair was drawn into a chignon. A single-strand pearl necklace graced her black linen dress. She looked somber but well in control of herself.

Tires squealed in the front drive.

Annie wondered who was arriving. Had Claudette been able to reach the son and daughter? In a moment, the ambulance would depart for the hospital. She felt as if she stood beneath a boulder poised to drop. She'd better find Dr. Burford before she did anything else. She decided to try his cell phone first.

The call was answered on the second ring. “Burford.” He was always brusque. White-haired, bulldog-faced, stocky, he wore stained suits with frayed cuffs. He'd spent a lifetime fighting illness. His patients knew he was with them from the start to the end. He hated death. He especially hated wrongful death.

Annie talked fast. “Dr. Burford, Meg Heath is dead. Pamela Potts was coming to see her every morning, reading the paper to her. First Pamela is killed. Then Meg Heath dies in her sleep. What if she was murdered, too? I talked to her doctor—”

“I already got an earful.” His voice was heavy. “I told Kay—”