Murder Walks the Plank (12 page)

Jenna hurried through the open bedroom door, then stopped, her eyes on the rumpled bed.

Claudette came past Annie, slipped her arm around Jenna's shoulders. “She looked like she was asleep.” Her voice was soft.

Her face a mask of misery, Jenna clutched at her throat.

Annie's gaze once again swept the long room. This end was a bedchamber with a delicately feminine white
bedstead. A low line of bookcases, the book jackets bright swaths, separated the bedroom from a magnificent living room. All the furniture in the living area was white with crimson and navy cushions. A woven white carpet covered the floor. Artwork included a huge brass gong, vivid Chinese ceramics, and glass sculptures of shells and crescents and spokes. Plump-cushioned sofas formed a semicircle facing the sea.

The sea was everywhere visible through floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass that served as walls. Blinds controlled by a switch were embedded between the panes. The blinds facing the sea were open. Two archways decorated with Moorish tiles led to balconies. Beyond glass doors were screen doors so the room could be open in fall and spring to prevailing breezes. The room bespoke luxury, taste, and a passion for freedom.

“Meg loved this room and the balconies.” Claudette absently brushed a piece of lint from the back of a sofa. “It didn't matter that she was ill. Here she could see forever. Ships and birds, storms with the waves crashing. If she couldn't sleep, she watched the moonlight on the sea and opened the doors to the balcony to hear the surf.”

Annie walked across the white woven rug, her steps making no sound. She stopped at the first arch, opened the door. The screen wasn't latched. Annie looked back across the room. “This door isn't locked. Or the screen either.”

Claudette looked surprised. “Why lock them? It's the second story.”

Annie pulled open the screen and stepped onto the balcony, bright with terra cotta planters of begonias and white wicker furniture with yellow cushions. At one end of the balcony there was an opening in the
railing for a small elevator. Annie looked at it in surprise, then realized it had probably been added to the house after Meg became ill and was no longer able to climb the stairs to the house.

Annie walked to the railing, looked down. Metal fretwork, painted the signature white of the house, decorated the columns all the way to the ground.

Any fairly agile person could climb a column to the balcony.

One chair was close to the railing. A shawl lay across a footstool. A wineglass with a small residue sat atop a glass table next to the chair.

Annie stepped back into the long room, closed the door behind her, stood in front of it. “There's a wineglass on the table outside.”

“Meg always drank a glass of sherry at bedtime. We were out late, of course, but I saw her light on after I went to bed. I'm sure she went out on the balcony to drink her sherry.” Claudette's voice was bleak. “I'll get the glass—”

“No.” Annie held up a hand. “Don't touch anything.” Her eyes scanned the living area, stopped at a sideboard. A crystal decanter held richly russet wine.

“Can we lock this room, keep everyone out?”

“We could.” Claudette looked at the gleaming crystal and its dark contents.

Jenna, too, stared at the sherry. “That's dreadful.” She spoke in a bare whisper. “You think someone poisoned Mother.” She shuddered. “I've got to go to Jason. Tell him.” She whirled, hurried from the room.

Annie looked once more toward the balcony and the single glass resting on the small wrought-iron table. “I'm going to call the police.”

“A
NNIE
”—M
AVIS
C
AMERON
was hurried but definite—“Billy said to tell you he's busy.”

Annie's hand tightened on the cell phone. Although Mavis was an old friend, her job at the police station made her the guard at the gate. Of course, Billy probably thought Annie was calling to voice her opposition to a verdict of accidental death at the inquest.

“I'm not calling about Pamela.” To herself she amended silently, not exactly. Annie kept her voice level, though she knew she was about to toss the equivalent of a stick of dynamite. “I'm calling about Meg Heath. She died last night and Dr. Burford has authorized an autopsy. I'm at her house. She drank a glass of wine before she went to bed and I think the contents of the decanter and the glass should be analyzed.”

“Hold on.” Mavis's voice was steady but excited.

There was silence on the line. Annie held and braced for a confrontation.

A click. “Stay there. Billy's on his way.”

 

The transatlantic connection crackled, but the sense of time and space was bridged by the vigor of the acidulous voice. “My dear boy, it's like asking me to
capsulize the sinking of the
Titanic.
Let me see.” A musing tone. “The greatest ship ever launched met an iceberg and went down while the band played on. There you go. In a sentence. To sum up Meg Heath: beauty, elegance, fascination. Every man who ever met her was enchanted. Meg”—his sigh was regretful—“was the one woman I never forgot. I actually asked her to marry me.” Remembered surprise lifted his voice. “And marriage was never my aim with women. No, dear boy, if an old man can give you a bit of advice: Love them. Leave them. Promise the world and have a ticket to Singapore in your pocket.” His chuckle was rich and unaffected.

Max tilted back his chair, crossed his feet, and prepared to enjoy his visit with Rodney St. Clair, roué, world traveler, and long-ago friend (the word can encompass many meanings) of the late Meg Heath. “She turned you down?”

“Scruples.” He tossed up the word like a juggler spotting an exotic interloper among his dancing objects. “And it was such a small matter. A lady wrote me some indiscreet letters. I was quite willing to return them, and I saw nothing wrong with accepting a bit of a gift from her. Actually it was a substantial sum, enough for Meg and me to enjoy a lengthy stay in Monte Carlo. We could have had such fun. As for the lady, she was exceedingly grateful that her husband was spared reading the missives. I thought Meg's response was rather unkind. Certainly it wasn't a matter of blackmail. Simply a quid pro quo. The fellow was most disgustingly rich, so nobody suffered. That's what I told Meg. In fact, I was rather proud of how I brought it off. But Meg said, ‘Rodney, you are great fun but you have on blinders when it comes to right
and wrong.' She made me give the money back. Funny. I wouldn't have done that for anyone but Meg.” His pause was thoughtful. “Now you say someone may have eased Meg out the door. You know, you might look about to see if Meg pointed out the error of his ways to the wrong chap.”

 

For the second time that morning Annie stood in the sun—hotter now, the moist air steamy—at the base of the corkscrew stairs and listened to an approaching siren. She wondered if Billy was coming hell-for-leather to arrest her. She hadn't even had a chance to explain. Her eyes widened. Not one siren, two.

Billy slammed out of his patrol car. The forensic van pulled up behind him, Lou Pirelli driving, Frank Saulter his passenger. Lou was stocky with curly dark hair and a pleasant face. He looked like a nice girl's big brother, which, in fact, he was. Lou was Billy's sole staff since the call-up of the reserve unit had taken not only the chief, Pete Garrett, but the force's second patrolman. Lou's passenger, Frank Saulter, was the retired chief with whom Billy had worked for many years before Pete's arrival. Frank was always willing to help out on a volunteer basis. Frank's face beneath an iron-gray crew cut was furrowed in tight lines, he struggled with dyspepsia, and he had a short fuse. He was one of Annie's oldest and best friends on the island.

“I don't understand.” Claudette peered toward the car and van. “Why have so many come?”

Annie didn't understand either. It wouldn't take every lawman on the island, past and present, for Billy to tell Annie she was out of line.

Billy didn't have his pugnacious look. Annie
breathed a little easier. In fact, he looked serious, intent, and purposeful. He strode toward them, stopped a scant foot away, looked from Annie to Claudette. Lou and Frank came up on either side of him.

Annie made the introductions. “…Claudette was Meg's secretary. She found Meg this morning.”

“And you came—” Billy gave her a sharp look.

“We'll get into that later. How did you know she didn't die of natural causes?”

“She didn't?” Abruptly everything clicked into place, Billy's arrival, the forensic van. “You've talked to Dr. Burford.” Billy wasn't here because of Annie's call. He was here because the results of the toxicology tests had caused Dr. Burford to contact the police.

“What killed her, Billy?”

“A bunch of tranquilizers. Valium. Too many to be an accident.” He looked toward the secretary. “What's her mood been lately?”

Claudette was slow in answering. “Meg was ill. She'd been ill for a long time. She had”—a cautious pause—“overdone this weekend. But her mood was quite good last night. Are you suggesting Meg might have taken something deliberately? Committed suicide? That”—again a thoughtful pause—“would not be likely.”

Annie watched Claudette. She had a sense of struggle within. The secretary struck her as a precise, careful woman with a strong core of honesty. She wouldn't take the easy route of blaming Meg's death on suicide.

Billy hooked his thumbs into his belt. “No signs of depression, anything like that?”

Claudette lightly touched her pearl necklace. Her face was composed, her eyes shadowed. She chose her words carefully. “She had a serious heart condition.
She was often quite weak and tired, but she lived every day to the fullest.” The tone was almost, but not quite, admiring. “She insisted on going on the mystery cruise and she had a wonderful time. Of course, she was terribly tired when we got home. You say it couldn't have been an accidental overdose. But she might have made a mistake….”

Billy shook his head. “The doc said at least twenty tablets.” Billy looked up the winding steps, noted the glass walls of the house standing on the metal pillars. Annie suspected that he made it a point never to be impressed by the mansions on the island. Billy was a cop who would do his best for the owner of a ramshackle cabin as well as the possessor of a show home. But he did take a long moment to survey the magnificent glass structure from one end to the other.

“All right, ma'am.” He nodded at Claudette. “If you'll show me where Mrs. Heath's body was found…”

Claudette turned to go up the steps, her shoulders bowed. She moved as if every step took an effort.

Annie turned, too, though she wasn't surprised when Billy cleared his throat and moved in front of her. Now his face had its bulldog look. “How come you showed up here this morning?”

She didn't mind answering. “To take Pamela's place. She came every morning to read the
Gazette
to Mrs. Heath. I thought maybe someone killed Pamela to keep her from reading the Sunday paper to Mrs. Heath. But I guess that's out. Maybe there was something in the
Gazette
that would mean something to both of them….” Her voice trailed off.

Billy looked skeptical, but he didn't immediately reject her suggestion.

Annie felt a crack in his resistance. She said smoothly, “Think about it, Billy. Pamela Potts was here on Friday, and she and Meg Heath are both dead now. There has to be a connection.”

Billy's expression was neutral. “We'll find out. Now, were you here when Mrs. Heath's body was discovered?”

Annie felt cold despite the sun. “No. I'd just arrived when the ambulance came.”

“Fine. You don't need to stay, Annie. I'll keep in mind the fact that Pamela Potts was coming here. But for now, I need to get upstairs.” He jerked his head toward Claudette. “All right, Ms. Taylor, let's go.”

Claudette started up the steps. Billy was right behind her, his burly shoulders throwing a blocky shadow onto the dusty ground. Lou and Frank followed, murmuring hello to Annie as they passed by.

Annie watched as the front door closed and knew she was on the outside looking in as far as the investigation into Meg's death was concerned. But at least Billy had listened, and now he knew that Pamela had been here on Friday. He was fair-minded and thoughtful. For the first time since Pamela's injury, Annie felt a glimmer of hope that the truth might be found.

Sunlight reflected from the many windows. Talk about living in a fishbowl…She watched the progress of the men as they followed Claudette to Meg's room. They stepped inside and were lost to her view since the blinds on the interior side of the room were still closed. Though she couldn't see them now, she knew a careful and thorough investigation would ensue. The glass from which Meg had drunk her sherry would be taken as evidence and the crystal decanter as
well. Billy would do it right, and with Frank Saulter there to help, they wouldn't miss anything.

From her vantage point, Annie saw the entrance to the kitchen. A stocky woman with blond hair edged out into the hallway to peer toward the closed door to Meg's room.

Annie almost reached for her car keys. She had accomplished her purpose. Meg Heath's death was being investigated.

But what about Pamela? Would Billy focus on her death? Maybe. Maybe not. After all, Annie was on the spot. What harm would it do to ask a few questions? She brushed away any thought of Billy's reaction if he knew. She made up her mind and moved fast, her sandals clicking on the mosaic that added color and gaiety to the shadowy expanse beneath the elevated base of the house. On the beach side of the house, between the patio and the dunes, was a tiled pool shaped like a dolphin. Blue water sparkled in the sun. Bright umbrellas were furled above glass tables. Red cushions added color to white wooden patio furniture. Sea oats on the dunes rippled in the breeze. It was a lovely August day, crows cawing, gulls swooping, the surf booming.

Annie reached broad steps leading up to a balcony behind the kitchen. Hoping mightily that Billy was fully occupied in Meg's suite, she hurried up the steps and across the porch and rapped loudly on the back door.

The woman on the far side of the beautifully appointed kitchen turned and stared across its wide expanse. In keeping with the rest of the house, everything—walls, cabinets, counters, tiled floor—was a brilliant white. She looked at Annie through the
glass. Slowly, her broad face wary and uncertain, the stocky woman moved toward the door.

 

Max checked the clock. A quarter after ten. He placed the legal pad with page after page of notes to the right of the keyboard. It was time to organize the material he'd gleaned from phone calls and the Web. He opened a new file and began to type:

Meg Heath

The phone rang. Max looked at Caller ID, flicked on the speakerphone. “Hi, Ma.”

“I've always made it a point not to gamble.” Laurel's tone was pleasant but firm.

Since Max was well aware of his mother's dislike for gambling of any sort, he didn't feel a particular response was necessary. He murmured, “Mmm,” and continued to type.

“But you know how I enjoy social occasions.” The words glistened bright as quartz in sunlight.