Dead By Midnight

Chapter Nine

Max used a short stroke and the ball rolled up and over a slight ridge to curl beautifully into the hole of the indoor putting green. “Way to go.” A successful putt was always a thing of beauty to him. Would Annie consider him derelict in his duty if he went over to the driving range? It was a perfect day to hit a bucket of balls and he wanted to practice his wood shots.

Max slid the putter into the bag. The phone rang. Annie. He smiled and punched his speakerphone. Maybe she’d join him. “Hey, Annie, let’s go to the club and have lunch and—”

“I grabbed a sandwich after I went to see Elaine.” Annie’s voice was discouraged. “I told her I was sure she was innocent, but I felt like I was talking to a wall. She’s like a cornered animal.”

Max picked up a pen, drew a legal pad near, doodled an ostrich with its head in a hole. “She has good reason to be scared. I told Billy about Elaine and Burl in Savannah. As far as he’s concerned, Elaine’s whereabouts that night aren’t relevant.”

Her voice rose in protest. “He can’t ignore what happened to Pat.”

“Unfortunately”—Max spoke gently—“he can. Elaine is a suspect because of her own actions. She threw something in the marsh. If she got rid of the Colt, Billy believes she is either guilty or protecting someone. As he put it, an accessory after the fact.”

Annie was subdued. “I want to help her. She won’t cooperate.”

Max drew a porcupine, quills flared. “She’s an adult. She’s made choices. Billy’s a good cop. Let it go, Annie.”

She was silent for so long he added five more porcupines to his row. “It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s play golf.”

Annie’s voice wobbled. “If I don’t try to help her, I’ll feel like I’ve turned my back on somebody in big trouble.”

Max wrote in all caps: BIG TROUBLE. “She put herself in a deep hole. You didn’t dig it, Annie.”

“I can throw her a line, find a ladder, do something. If I thought she was guilty, I’d be glad to stay at the store and be happy and not talk to people who are upset and frightened. I would leave everything to Billy, if I thought he was really looking. But he’s made up his mind. So I’ve got to see what I can find out. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Elaine poisoned Pat and shot Glen. But maybe she didn’t. She doesn’t want me to interfere, but she doesn’t have anyone on her side.”

Max sketched a slender figure standing by a hole with a lariat. Annie rarely met a lost cause she wouldn’t champion. “I understand.”

“All right.” Annie was abruptly vigorous, encouraged by her decision. “I’ll talk to the rest of the family.”

Max was sure Billy Cameron had already interviewed them, but perhaps one of them would say more to Annie than to a police officer. Max drew a little halo above a small cat with its fur on end, scrappy and determined. “Count me in. I’ll nose around. We can’t do any harm and maybe we can find out something else helpful to Elaine.”

“Right. Here’s what you can do . . .”

He jotted notes on the pad. “No stone unturned, that’s my motto.” He clicked off the call and looked at the list. It wasn’t the way he’d planned to spend his afternoon. He took a moment to fix a peanut-butter sandwich in Barb’s storeroom-cum-kitchen and carried it to his desk with a glass of milk. He glanced at Annie’s picture with a whimsical smile. “So you’ve found an underdog you’re determined to rescue.” His tone was conversational. “Even if she doesn’t want to be saved. Hey, that’s why I love you.” His smile dimmed. “But sometimes rescuers get bitten.”

Annie punched the front doorbell of the Jamison house. She was surprised that Cleo Jamison opened the door. Cleo’s beauty remained intact but it was muted, diminished by pallid skin, deep-sunken eyes, cheekbones made prominent by tightly compressed lips. The change in her appearance shocked Annie. The elegance was there, a crisp white cotton blouse, turquoise necklace against a tanned throat, beautifully tailored navy linen slacks, basket-weave navy leather loafers, but there was no trace of the confidence and, frankly, arrogance that Annie associated with Glen’s young wife, now widow.

Cleo glanced at Annie’s hands, then, with a flicker of puzzlement, said, “Yes?”

Annie realized Cleo had looked for a dish, the usual response from friends and well-wishers following a death. “Cleo, I’m Annie Darling.” They had met casually several times at the country club. “I’m a friend of Elaine’s and I’d appreciate it if I could visit with you for a few minutes.”

“Is Elaine all right?” There was a ripple of apprehension in Cleo’s husky voice.

Annie was encouraged by her concern. “I’m afraid not. She may be arrested. I’m trying to help her.”

“Elaine arrested?” Cleo looked incredulous. “That’s absurd. I’ll have to call the police. That can’t be true.” She held open the door. “Please come in.”

As Annie stepped into the hall, a young woman in a swim wrapper came down the stairs. A battered straw sun hat was perched atop glossy dark hair. She carried a beach bag and wore cherry-red flip-flops. Oversize sunglasses masked her eyes.

Cleo stiffened, her face bleak. “Surely you aren’t going to the beach today.”

“Surely I am.” The reply was caustic.

“Laura, your father—”

“My father’s dead. He’s not even decently in a mortuary. Where do they take bodies of people who’ve been shot? Have you picked out a casket yet? Maybe Kit and Tommy and I should have something to say, but you’re handling all the arrangements. The merry widow.” She ignored Annie and yanked open the front door. “You kept telling Dad I needed to work harder. Well”—her voice shook—“I’m going to work this afternoon. I’d rather be a lifeguard watching out for sharks than be here. At least I’ll be on the beach. Dad took us to the beach all the time when we were kids. I can remember him there. Without you.” She bolted through the door and onto the porch.

Cleo’s haggard face set in hard lines. She turned to Annie, spoke as if the ugly scene had never occurred. “I’ll be glad to talk to you.” She led the way down the broad central hall. Flower arrangements, large and small, lined either side of the hall and in some places were three deep. The scent of flowers was overpowering, cloying. The kitchen door at the end of the hall was ajar. There was a murmur of voices.

“We can go in here.” Cleo opened the door to a small room at the end of the main hall. As they stepped inside, she murmured vaguely, “I’m trying to contact some of Glen’s friends who live out of town.” A game table was strewn with papers. A cell phone lay next to a mug of coffee. Cleo gestured at a wooden straight chair. “This is a catchall room, but I needed somewhere quiet.”

When they were seated, Annie in a rickety Empire chair that likely was a castoff from an old dining-room table set, Cleo dropped onto a worn love seat with faded brocade upholstery. She gave Annie a searching glance. “Why would the police arrest Elaine?”

“It will be in this afternoon’s Gazette. Elaine’s been named a person of interest in the investigation.” Annie knew her voice sounded grim, but her tidings were grim.

Quick comprehension flashed in Cleo’s eyes. Cleo was a lawyer. Though she was in civil practice, she certainly grasped the import of Elaine being officially revealed as a person of interest in the investigation. Her response was immediate and emphatic. “Elaine wouldn’t hurt Glen. That’s impossible.” She brushed back a tangle of dark hair. “Oh, I know they think she threw the missing gun in the lagoon. The police asked me if she knew how to shoot it. How would I know? Anyway, they haven’t found anything. I don’t believe Elaine shot Glen.”

“I understand she was angry with Glen because of the children.”

Cleo pressed her lips together. She folded her hands, stared down at them, seemed to draw upon some inner reserve. “I’ve always been lucky.” She looked up at Annie with dumb misery in her gaze. “Ask anyone. That’s what they’ll tell you. The lucky lady. That’s me. Beautiful, smart, quick, capable.” It was as if she were describing a stranger from a remote distance. “And lucky.” Her voice shook. “I made my own luck. That’s what I wanted Glen to do. I wanted him to stand up and not let people take advantage of him. I thought they should take responsibility for their own lives. That’s what I did. I worked. I supported myself. I earned scholarships. Nobody ever gave me anything. Glen’s kids were leeches. Laura’s twenty-four. She loses her job and whines because she can’t find another cushy deal that pays her fifty thousand a year. The best she can do is wait tables or lifeguard. Whatever she earns, she should be living on it. Instead, she comes home and lives here for free and bleeds her dad for money. I tried to get Glen to see that Laura needed to stand on her own two feet. As for Kirk Brewster, Glen didn’t owe him a place in the firm when times are tough. Glen said we had to cut back. That’s why he wanted to drop Kirk. He didn’t know Laura was going to go nuts when he gave notice to Kirk. That was a mess. As for Kit, I told Glen he put her through college and graduate school and here she was asking for more so she could go to Africa. Tommy was rude to me, day in and day out. He had his choice, be polite or go away to school. This morning . . . He was hateful. I told him to get out of the house, not come back until he could be civil. He slammed out the back door, barefoot, shirtless. I don’t know where he’s gone. I almost called Elaine but she hasn’t been up to the house since—” Cleo broke off. “At least she’s always treated me decently. Maybe she liked having the cottage. Anyway, it was better for her to have her own place. After all, I was Glen’s wife. The house didn’t need her still trying to run everything.”

Cleo pushed up from the sofa, paced two strides one way, two strides back, making the room seem even smaller. Abruptly, she stopped and stared down at Annie. “I knew they’d be upset, but I never thought . . .”

Her words trailed away.

Annie asked quietly, “Never thought what?”

“That someone”—her voice was a whisper—“would kill Glen. If one of them shot Glen, it’s my fault. My fault.” A sob shook her voice. She stared at Annie, her face stricken with anguish. “The police said he was shot with a forty-five and his gun is missing. I don’t see how a stranger could have the gun. Do you?”

Her eyes sought Annie, pleaded for an explanation.

“The gun may have been hidden in your gazebo.” Annie described Pat Merridew’s late-night jaunts and the photograph in her BlackBerry and Pat’s death. “ . . . one of the crystal mugs had no fingerprints.”

Cleo sank onto the love seat. She leaned back, her expression skeptical. “You think Pat was killed because she saw someone hide Glen’s gun? I don’t believe that’s possible. Why, she died four days before Glen was shot.” Cleo’s eyes narrowed. “When was the photograph taken?”

“At twelve-oh-nine A.M., June thirteenth.”

Cleo rose, moved to the game table, picked up an iPhone, brushed the screen. She stared. “June twelfth was Saturday. It was on Friday that Glen couldn’t find the key to the gun safe.” She gazed at Annie, her eyes fearful with knowledge. “The key was missing Friday. You say something was hidden in the gazebo early Sunday morning.” Her face looked haunted. She knew that the person who took the key had to be someone with access to the house, Glen’s children, his sister, his cousin.

“If someone in the house took the gun, it would have to be hidden somewhere.” Cleo spoke in a wondering tone. “Or if someone didn’t live in the house, the gun had to be placed where it would be available.” She returned to the love seat, sank onto it, obviously shaken. “I didn’t actually think one of them could be guilty even though they’re the only ones who gain by his death. Now everything Glen had will be theirs—the house, his estate.”

Annie frowned. “You’re his widow.”

Cleo waved a dismissive hand. “I was his second wife. He had a family. We had a prenuptial agreement. Everything goes to them except for a hundred thousand to me and a portion of whatever he’d made since we married. The firm was in trouble and Glen’s investments were down, but the estate still totals almost a million. And there’s the house. It goes to them, but that’s fine. I didn’t marry him for his money. I don’t need anyone’s money. I’m a good lawyer.”

“Did they know this?” Annie saw the faces in her mind. Laura Jamison was defensive about her stymied career and upset that Kirk Brewster was losing his partnership. Kit Jamison’s sole focus was on her research and the grand opportunity that awaited her in Africa. Tommy Jamison’s rudeness to his stepmother had resulted in Glen’s decision to send him away to school. Tommy faced losing his senior year at the island high school and a starring role on the football team. Elaine Jamison wanted her nieces and nephew to be happy. All of them now would be able to do what they wished.

“They knew.” Cleo was somber.

“Is there anyone else who profits from his death?” The Jamison siblings would inherit enough money to be able to do whatever they wished. Tommy would certainly be able to stay on the island for his senior year in high school. “What about Glen’s cousin?”

Cleo looked startled. “Richard? No. He wouldn’t have wanted anything to happen to Glen. Richard was about to persuade Glen to help him get loans to build resort condos in Costa Rica. He sure won’t get any help from the kids. No, Laura and Kit and Tommy are the ones who—” She broke off. “Oh.” She looked thoughtful, considering. “One other may ultimately profit. I guess will certainly profit. I hadn’t thought about profiting.” The words came slowly. “I haven’t been able to think about anything besides Glen. Glen . . .” She took a shaky breath. “They didn’t let me see the study. I didn’t want to see it. They found someone to clean it.” There was horror in her voice. “Did you know there are people who clean up terrible things like that? The study’s clean now, so they say. I’ve gone up to the door and touched the knob, and each time I turn away. Maybe if I went inside, I’d be able to get rid of the terrible picture in my mind. Sometimes it’s worse if you imagine something instead of seeing it as it really is. In my mind, blood is everywhere and I want to scream, but I can’t. I’ve kept busy with letters and calls and arrangements during the day and I take pills at night, but the picture won’t go away. I guess that’s why I didn’t think about money. I should have told the police. And he would know about Glen’s gun.” She stopped, her face stricken. “I hate thinking this way, suspecting people I know. Still, it’s odd that Glen should die now. If he had lived two more weeks, Kirk would have been out of the firm.”

“Kirk Brewster?” Annie was puzzled. “Is the fact that he’s still a partner affected by Glen’s death?”

“Is Kirk affected?” Cleo’s voice was thin. “Oh yes. He certainly is. To the tune of about two and a half million dollars.”

Annie felt an instant of amazement. “That’s a lot of money. How can that be?”

Cleo ran a hand through her shining dark hair. “Key man insurance. For Glen. I was against it from the first. I told Glen that the economy would get better but he worried about the firm’s future if something happened to him. The firm was started by his great-grandfather. I thought the monthly payments were a waste. We would have been better off hiring a PR firm.”

Annie wasn’t deflected by Cleo’s criticism of Glen’s decision. What mattered was the timing. “What will happen since Kirk is still a member of the firm?”

“He and I are the two surviving partners. We are the beneficiaries.”

“How much will the firm—you and Kirk—receive?”

“Five million dollars.” She picked up the iPhone. “I’d better call the police.” She paused before she dialed. “If you don’t mind, you can show yourself out.”

A man’s voice droned beyond the partially open door. Max tapped on the lintel. “Miss Graham?” The legal secretary was listening intently to a cassette, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

She looked up in surprise. “Mr. Darling.” She clicked off the cassette.

“I hope you can spare a moment. I’m here for Glen’s sister.”

“Please come in.” She gestured toward a wooden chair to one side of her desk and reached for a pad. “What does Miss Jamison want me to do?”

Max wondered what would happen when Elaine Jamison discovered that he and Annie were prying into the personal lives of the Jamison family. He couldn’t claim to have her approval. He owed Edna Graham the truth. “Elaine didn’t send me. I’m here because the police have named her a person of interest in the investigation.”

Edna’s eyes widened in shock. Her face flushed with indignation. “Nonsense.”

Max nodded energetically. “My wife and I agree. We’re looking for information that would point the police in a different direction.”

Edna clasped her hands. “If I can help, I certainly will.”

“You may make a huge difference. No one had better insight into Mr. Jamison’s day-to-day life. Was he involved in any legal matters that might have led to the murder?”

Edna Graham’s strong-boned face was heavy and somber. “Mr. Jamison’s practice did not include criminal matters.” Her tone was a reproof.

Max hastened to reassure her. “Certainly not. But sometimes civil lawsuits cause hard feelings.”

She shook her head decisively. “As I told the police, Mr. Jamison was always a gentleman. Even opposing counsel admired him.” In a more everyday voice, she added, “Actually, he hadn’t been very busy for the last few months. He’d done several wills and trusts and some bankruptcies, but nothing that had caused any controversy.”

Max looked at her soberly. “I suppose the atmosphere was strained between him and Kirk Brewster.” Would it have been kinder to have forced Kirk to clear out his desk and leave when the decision to drop him had been made? Max thought it must have been stomach-lurching ugly for the lawyer to return each day, informing clients, tidying up his cases and his desk, sending out résumés, knowing he soon had to leave the island and his chronically ill sister.

Edna stared down at her desktop. “Mr. Brewster kept out of Mr. Jamison’s way. He will be leaving soon.”

Max nodded. “Were you aware of some of the tensions between Mr. Jamison and members of his family?”

Edna’s eyes shifted away from Max, but not before he saw a flash of something, possibly uneasiness, possibly uncertainty. “The police officer asked if Mr. Jamison had quarreled with anyone. I didn’t know if it would be called a quarrel. Last week Mr. Jamison’s cousin came here to see him. He left the door ajar when he went into the office and I couldn’t help overhearing. Mr. Jamison told his cousin that he was sorry but he wasn’t in a financial position to help him. They talked for a while. It all sounded pleasant enough, but when his cousin came out, his face wasn’t . . . nice.” She added quickly, “Maybe he didn’t feel good. Everything sounded very pleasant.”

Max’s smile was reassuring. “That’s probably exactly the case.”

She looked sad. “I can’t believe Mr. Jamison won’t be coming into the office in a little while.” Tears welled in her eyes. She reached for a Kleenex. “I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. “You are very kind to try and help Miss Jamison.”

Max rose. “All of us need to help the police if we can.”

As he left, she turned to her computer, but she sat motionless, head lowered.

Max left the door ajar as he had found it. He glanced up and down the hallway. He turned to his left. Next to an open door was a wooden plaque with Kirk Brewster’s name, gilt letters against redwood. The door was wide open.

Max lifted his hand to knock, then paused. He had an odd sense of déjà vu. Tuesday morning in the living room of the Jamison house he’d watched as Tommy Jamison swung toward the hallway and blundered away. Now he looked into Kirk Brewster’s office and gazed at a young man staring out the office window. There was the same suggestion of youth and strength, the same bush of curly blond hair, the same muscular shoulders, the same powerful legs. Tommy had worn a too-tight polo and khaki shorts. The man at the window wore a close-fitting mesh polo and cutoff jeans.

Abruptly, the stocky figure turned. A man in his late twenties stared at Max with an unsmiling, guarded face. “Who are you?”

“Max Darling.” Max took a step inside the office. “Kirk Brewster?”

The young lawyer’s eyes were light blue. His hair was sandy like Tommy Jamison’s, but his face was older, the features stronger, a beaked nose and thin lips. No one would mistake him for Tommy Jamison from a front view. “You got a warrant?” His light eyes were defiant, but there was an air of desperation about him as he rocked back on his heels.

“I’m not a policeman.” Max saw a flicker of relief.

Kirk shoved a hand through the thick tangle of blond hair. “You don’t have an appointment. I’m not seeing people anyway. I’m not lawyering now. I’m packing up my stuff.” He gestured at the cardboard boxes lined up in the center of the office. Framed prints and plaques leaned against a wall. “Whoever you are, whatever you want, I’m not interested.” He turned away, walked back to the window.

Max again recalled Tommy Jamison as he strode out of the living room Tuesday morning. The casual clothing and stocky build accounted for the similarities even though the teenager and the man seen face-to-face could never be confused in person. Tommy Jamison had been upset, frightened, grieving. Kirk Brewster was upset, frightened, and a very worried man, of that Max felt certain. “Even though you had good reason to be unhappy with Glen Jamison, I’m sure you want his murderer found.”

Kirk jerked around. “I don’t know anything about his murder.”

“How angry were you when he fired you?”

Kirk’s face twisted in a scowl. “You ever been told to take your stuff and hit the road? Yeah. When I got fired, I got mad. Why shouldn’t I?” He was defiant. “Glen was a patsy for that overbearing bitch he married. I hated her more than him. But I never thought about shooting him. Or anybody else. Not even her.”

“Were you here Tuesday morning between a quarter to nine and ten-fifteen?”

“Talk about hitting the road, it’s your turn. You aren’t a cop. Get out.” He turned and moved back to the window. His rigid stance shouted anxiety.

Max left him standing at the window in the office with its bare walls and half-filled boxes. He walked down the hallway. What was Kirk looking for or waiting for? Whatever the lawyer imagined or feared, he was waiting for something to happen.

Max opened the outside door. The pretty young receptionist’s cheerful admonition to have a good day added a surreal element. She was untroubled, in sharp contrast to Edna Graham’s mournful face and Kirk Brewster’s apprehension.

Max was halfway down the front steps when a police cruiser pulled to the curb.

Max reached the sidewalk and waited.

Billy Cameron and Officer Benson moved swiftly. Billy looked big, capable, and serious. Coley Benson’s eyes gleamed with excitement, but he was clearly making an effort to appear matter-of-fact.

Billy stopped at the foot of the steps, his big, square face grim. He jerked a thumb toward the front door of the well-kept brick building. “Did Annie sic you on Kirk Brewster?”

Max understood now. Kirk Brewster was waiting for the police. Max held up his right hand as if taking an oath. “Not guilty.” That was true. He’d come to the law office to check with Edna Graham. “I haven’t talked to Annie about Kirk.” Billy didn’t need to know the gist of his conversation with Annie and the next task on Max’s list. “Why?”

Irritation flickered in Billy’s blue eyes. “I got a call from her. She’d talked to Cleo Jamison. She’s probably quizzing the rest of the family now. Whatever. I’ve already interviewed them. She can’t do any harm. But now I find you here and I haven’t talked to Kirk Brewster. So far as I know”—his voice was sharp—“nobody’s asked either one of you to interfere in a criminal investigation.”

Max dropped his hand. “Definitely we don’t intend to interfere. We’re just talking to people informally. Speaking of”—he tried a winning smile—“you might want to ask Glen’s secretary about Richard Jamison’s visit here with Glen last week. And, yeah, since I was here, I went down the hall and tried to talk to Kirk Brewster. He wasn’t up for a chat. I’d say he’s a worried man.”

Billy’s expression was grim. “Did you ask him anything substantive?”

Max knew Billy wasn’t fooling around. It was time for him to be precise. “I asked Kirk if he was mad when Glen fired him and I asked him where he was Tuesday morning. I got a yes on the first, no answer on the second.”

Billy looked relieved. “That’s all right. And”—he cleared his throat—“we appreciate the efforts of good citizens. But”—he started up the steps, paused beside Max—“don’t screw up any evidence.”

Annie pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. A tall, slender woman with a kerchief over graying hair worked at the sink, up to her elbows in suds. Tommy Jamison stood on a kitchen ladder, reaching for china plates high on a shelf. Freshly washed plates glistened in a plastic drainer on the counter to the left of the sink.

Cleo said Tommy had stormed out of the house earlier, barefoot and shirtless. He was still barefoot, but he wore a baggy, wrinkled green polo as well as brown cotton Bermuda shorts.

Kit Jamison was on the telephone. “ . . . appreciate your call. We will welcome everyone here after the memorial service. Yes, it will be Monday. Dad would have been pleased to know you can come.” She hung up the landline. Her ascetic face drooped in sadness. She brushed back a thin strand of blond hair and pressed trembling lips tightly together.

Tommy thudded to the floor, holding a stack of saucers. He carried them to the sink, giving Annie a sharp glare in passing.

The woman murmured, “Thanks, Tommy.” She lifted a yellow-rubber-gloved hand to slip the stack into her dishpan.

Annie looked toward Kit, then up at Tommy. “I need to talk to you both. Will you step out on the porch with me?”

Kit hesitated, then shrugged. “Come on, Tommy.”

The brawny teenager followed his sister onto the porch, leaned against a pillar, big, muscular, and sullen. Kit folded bony arms and faced Annie, her face questioning. Her gaze was cold. “What do you want?”

“I want to help Elaine.”

Kit gave an angry half laugh. “I’d say you’re a little late. You didn’t do her any favors Tuesday morning.”

“I happened to be in the backyard Tuesday morning about ten. Your dad was shot at some time between eight forty-five and ten-fifteen.” Annie’s voice was sharp. “I had to tell the police what I saw.”

“Why were you spying on Elaine?” Kit’s narrow face jutted in disapproval.

“Yeah.” Tommy took a step nearer. His face was heavier, but equally hostile.

Annie watched the brother and sister carefully as she told her story of Pat Merridew, the photograph in the BlackBerry, and the crystal mug with no fingerprints.

“Wow.” Tommy, for the moment, looked neither sullen nor angry. He shoved back a thick tangle of blond curls, stared at Annie. “Hey, that’s weird. Who’d put Dad’s gun in the gazebo? If it was his gun.”

Kit, too, appeared astonished. A sudden eagerness lit her face. “That means somebody from outside shot Dad.”

Tommy swung toward his sister. “Well, duh. Did you think one of us did it?”

“Tommy, don’t be a fool.” Kit glared at him.

“Anyway, that’s why I was here Tuesday morning.” Before Kit could frown again, Annie rushed ahead. “Elaine wasn’t on the island the night Pat took that picture. I told the police that, too.” Of course, Billy had an easy answer for why Elaine’s absence that night meant nothing. “But Elaine still won’t describe what she did Tuesday morning. Please try to persuade her to talk to the police. Otherwise, I’m afraid they’ll arrest her.”

“Arrest Elaine?” Tommy looked shocked. His big hands hung loose at his sides. “That’s crazy.”

“I agree. But she won’t tell the police how she got the gun, if she did. If not, what did she throw in the marsh and why won’t she tell them? And where did she go? Please persuade her to cooperate. Or she may go to jail.”

“Oh God.” Tommy turned and thudded down the steps and hit the uneven ground, running fast down the central path.

Kit looked out into the garden at the glimpse of cottage beyond a sweep of azaleas. “Elaine said for us not to come down. But maybe she needs to know what’s going on. I’ll talk to her, too. I don’t care what the police think, Elaine would never, never hurt anyone.” She frowned with a swift, bitter intensity. “Look, on the road that runs by the cottage. There’s another car. People are awful. Driving by, coming up Elaine’s road like we were animals in a zoo. They’re the animals.”

Annie recognized Max’s dark green Jeep. It made a U-turn and was soon out of sight, dust rising behind the back bumper. He wasn’t a curiosity seeker. Max was setting out on the search she had asked him to make. “Kit, I’m sure there are things the police don’t know.” She spoke calmly, hoping to encourage Kit. “Can you tell me about Tuesday morning? Did you see your father at breakfast?”

Kit’s thin shoulders hunched. “Just for a minute. I wasn’t very hungry. I ate a bowl of cornflakes.”

“Was he just as usual?”

Her mouth twisted. “I guess so. This summer he acted like we were all strangers. He never wanted to talk about things. She had him jumping through hoops. She didn’t want Dad to have anything to do with us.”

Annie had no doubt that she was referring to Cleo. “I understand he was worried about money.”

“Because of her.” Kit’s voice bristled with anger. “She resented us. Dad always encouraged us. Or he used to. Tuesday morning, I tried to talk to him again about my trip. I came downstairs and he was sitting at his desk and he looked really tired. But I was running out of time. I have to get my tickets by next week. He told me he wasn’t in a position to help. I told him—” She broke off, choked back a sob. “I told him I hated him and now he’s dead.”

Annie spoke gently. “That doesn’t matter now. People who have died understand who loved them. What’s important is that you did love him.”

“I went up to my room and I was pacing back and forth.”

“Did you have your door open?”

Kit nodded. “And the windows.”

“Did you hear any noise?”

“That leaf blower. It was driving me crazy. I shut the windows because the leaf blower made so much noise. I was trying to work on my laptop.”

“When you shut the windows, did you see anyone in the garden?”

“No.”

“What other rooms overlook the garden?”

“Our rooms are right in a row, Tommy, Laura, and me.”

“Had your father quarreled with anyone recently?”

Her narrow face was instantly wary. Was she thinking of her older sister or perhaps her brother or even Pat Merridew? She spoke in careful, measured words. “Nothing big. That I knew about.” Suddenly her gaze narrowed. She stared out into the garden.

Annie looked, too. Richard Jamison came around the stand of cane. He walked with his head down, hands in the pockets of khaki shorts. His dark brown hair was cut short. He walked like a man deep in thought, head bent, steps slow.

Kit’s voice shook. “I told the police about him.” She pointed toward Richard, her face accusatory. “That big officer, the captain, he listened like it didn’t amount to anything. But I know it was wrong. I saw him looking at her just a few days ago. He wanted her. She looked at him and it was like I was in a bedroom with them. Then she turned away. But I know what I saw. That evening after dinner, he went out on the terrace. I went after him. I asked him if Dad knew he had the hots for Cleo. He laughed and said he always admired good-looking chicks but he didn’t make it a practice to seduce married women. He started to move away and I said it looked like she was hot for him, too. He stopped and shook his head, said that wasn’t true. He said I didn’t need to worry, he was going to leave next week.”

Richard reached the path to the house. He looked up, saw Kit and Annie, came to a stop.

Kit drew in a sharp breath. “I thought he was wonderful. He’s been everywhere around the world, the kind of life I’d like to have. Dad called him ‘little buddy.’ Dad said Richard had always been his favorite cousin. How could he care about her?” The harsh pronoun exuded venom. “She’s awful. She always has been.”

Kit whirled away, slammed into the house.

Annie walked down the steps toward Richard.

Max pulled up to a four-way stop sign. A larger road intersected the dirt road that led to Elaine’s cottage. A gray shanty, lopsided from storms and years of weathering, was on his right. Sitting on the sloping porch, resting in a red rocker, was a tiny little woman in a voluminous purplish dress. To his left, a neat and tidy oyster-shell parking lot welcomed shoppers to a two-pump gas station and small cinder-block convenience store.

Max pulled up to a pump. On the mainland, payment was required in advance. On the island, you could pump first and pay later. He removed the gas cap, filled up with regular.

A bell jangled as he opened the door. At the counter, he looked out through the plate-glass window as he handed a twenty to a middle-aged woman with a thin mouth. “Guess you can see everyone coming and going.”

She glanced outside without interest. “Yeah. If I cared.” Her tone indicated she found little of interest in her view, in her job, and likely in her life. She handed him a dollar and seventeen cents in change.

“Were you working Tuesday morning?”

Her gaze sharpened. “Why do you care?”

“Just a bet with a friend.” His tone was easy. “A yellow Corolla came past about ten o’clock. I think it turned right, but my friend’s sure the car turned left. Do you happen to remember?”

She picked up a pack of spearmint gum, ripped the top, pulled out a stick. “I didn’t pay no never mind.”

Outside, Max glanced across the road at the small frame house. In a moment, he turned the car into a rutted driveway. He swung out of the Jeep and walked toward the porch.

The old woman looked up from the Bible in her lap. Raisin-dark eyes in a wrinkled brown face studied him. “ ‘Good people bring good things out of their hearts, but evil people bring evil things out of their hearts.’ ” Her voice was as deep and calm as water in a sheltered lagoon.

Max knew Scripture when he heard it. “Yes, ma’am.”

She tilted her head to one side, those bright eyes never leaving his face. “Are you in search of truth?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m trying to help a woman who has been unjustly accused.” In Max’s view, designation as a person of interest qualified Elaine Jamison as falsely accused.

The deep voice intoned: “ ‘But let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.’ ”

Max smiled. “Justice might get a big boost if you were rocking on your porch Tuesday morning.”

“Sit, boy.”

He didn’t take umbrage at the designation. He would guess she was ninety, perhaps older. He settled on the rocker beside her. “I’m Max Darling.”

“Lula Harmon.” She rocked and the runners squeaked on the wood flooring. “I been sitting here most days. My boy don’t let me work anymore. He says, ‘Mama, you rest and read your Bible, that’s the best work you can do for me and for God.’ So if I can serve the Lord from my rocking chair, I will. ‘Learn to do good: seek justice, reprove the ruthless; defend the orphan, plead for the widow.’ ”

A bumblebee, striking in its black-and-yellow stripes, hovered near honeysuckle on a trellis at the end of the porch. The summer afternoon murmured with the chirp of birds, the hum of insects, the rustle of live-oak leaves. Max looked into intelligent eyes, bright and sharp, despite age. He had a sense of wonder. Had Lula been sitting on this porch on this sunny day waiting for his question? He shook away the thought as fanciful, yet he could not keep the eager hope from his voice. “On Tuesday morning about ten o’clock a yellow car came this way and stopped at the intersection. Which way did that car turn?”

Annie contrasted Richard Jamison’s vigor with her memory of his older, thinner cousin. But Richard’s hair was brown and his skin tanned. He looked ruddy, outdoorsy, masculine, and attractive. Light green eyes looked at her curiously. “Hello.”

He listened politely as she spoke, then shook his head. “I see no reason why I should talk about Tuesday morning with you.”

Annie felt a flicker of anger. “Don’t you care what happens to Elaine?”

His eyes narrowed. “If Elaine needs help, she can hire a lawyer. And now I’ve got things to do.”

As he started to brush past her, Annie said sharply, “Cleo’s a widow now. Are you still leaving the island?”

He stared at her, his eyes glinting with anger. “I guess Kit’s been spinning stories. I don’t owe you any explanation. But if it makes you feel better, lady, I never for a minute forgot that Cleo was Glen’s wife.” The muscles in his jaw bunched. “Believe it or not, I cared about Glen. I don’t know who shot him. Or why. I hope the cops figure it out. Fast.”

At the stop sign, Max turned left. A right turn led eventually to the island’s small downtown and the ferry landing. Side roads offered other possible routes. But turning left, the road—Sea Oats Lane—plunged into untamed brush. Foliage crowded to the very edge of the dirt road. Trees and ferns encroached on the sandy soil. Branches interlocked as the lane narrowed. He drove the Jeep deeper and deeper into a dim and shadowy tunnel of greenery. The lane ended in a turnaround. Faded red letters on a worn wooden sign announced: KITTREDGE FOREST PRESERVE.

A quick thought made Max jam the brakes. He stopped about five yards from the widened area that was mostly clear except for broken palmetto fronds and a portion of a broken live oak split by lightning.

He turned off the motor. A faint path near the side curved into woods and was lost from sight. Ferns, vines, and creepers flourished. In an instant, no-see-’ums swirled through the open window. Birds chittered and insects hummed, a symphony of summer sound. Max stared at the trail. This was the Lowcountry unhomogenized, unfiltered, as raw and wild as it had been when hardy rice growers cleared the land. Death was common then, from fevers, malaria, smallpox.

Max opened the door, studied the ground before he stepped onto a broken palmetto frond. He waved at the cloud of insects. There was nothing he could do about the wheel marks of his Jeep, which likely had obliterated previous tracks. But he had stopped well short of the turnaround. It would take a careful piece of maneuvering to turn the Jeep for his return, but he would manage somehow. He was determined to leave the turnaround as he had found it.

He gazed slowly, carefully, back and forth across the semicircular patch of ground. He spotted tire tracks, fresh and deep in the sandy soil. He would have bet a bundle that the tracks matched the tires on Elaine Jamison’s Corolla.

He lifted his eyes to the narrow entry to the woods. Whatever Elaine had done when she reached journey’s end here on Tuesday morning, she had not come this way to commune with nature. She had been visibly distraught when she had hurried out of her cottage. Apparently, she had thrown something into the marsh, turned away clutching a blue cloth. Then she’d driven away. Mrs. Harmon had seen her car turn onto the nature preserve road at shortly after ten, so this must have been her destination.

Max stared at the inhospitable woods, thick and dark and deep, home to rattlesnakes and water moccasins, wild boars, cougars, and alligators. The preserve encompassed acres of wild country.

Billy Cameron suspected that Elaine had thrown the murder weapon into the marsh. Annie saw Elaine lowering her arm. In her other hand, she held a cloth. She’d turned away from the marsh, carrying the cloth, and in only moments, her car had come careening from behind the cottage. She had driven here. If her objective had been to discard the cloth, she’d chosen a wild area where hundreds of searchers could look and look again and never find anything hidden beneath a log or thrust into a hollow of a tree or shoved deep into a thick tangle of underbrush.

Elaine’s actions might further convince Billy of her guilt. But Max had discovered too much to stop now.

Swatting at the insects, evading a buzzing yellow jacket, he climbed into the Jeep, shut the windows to avoid the assault of the insects, and turned on the motor. In the stifling air, sweat slid down his face. As he punched his cell, the air-conditioning began to cool the car’s interior. “Hey, Billy, I may have found something of interest to you. You remember how Annie saw Elaine Jamison leave in her car on Tuesday morning? I followed the same road. At the first four-way stop, I asked a few questions. I think I’ve found where she went.”