Dead By Midnight

Chapter Eleven

Agatha’s swift black paw clipped a small, hollow plastic bounce ball that contained a bell. A tiny jingle sounded as the pink ball caromed down the center aisle. Agatha bounded after her prey.

From behind the cash desk, Ingrid observed drily, “Such a dear little instinct to kill. Happily, this morning Agatha’s whopping a plastic ball and not your ankle.”

Annie’s glance was reproachful. “Agatha never means to hurt me.”

A muffled thump sounded and Annie’s head swung toward the coffee bar.

Ingrid grinned. “The good news is that it’s nothing breakable. The bad news is—depending upon your perspective—Agatha’s probably dumped Laurel’s latest offerings.” At Annie’s anguished look, she said reasonably, “It isn’t in my job description to tell my boss’s mother-in-law to take her posters and”—Ingrid paused for effect—“carry them elsewhere on a sunny summer morning.”

Annie was already on her way down the central aisle. She skidded to a stop by the coffee bar. Posters slewed out of a portfolio onto the heart-pine floor.

Agatha stood on the counter, staring down with an interested expression.

Annie couldn’t help but laugh. A photograph of her elegant, silky-furred black cat with her attitude of inquiry would have served as a great Cat Truth poster: See what I did! Am I great or what?

Annie looked around the coffee bar. Several blank spots on the walls indicated posters that had been sold, but there wasn’t room for all of the new batch. However, she would hang them somewhere. As she gathered them up, she scanned each poster, admiring the subjects, then paused to look at a silvery Chartreux in an attitude of attack, ears flattened, golden eyes glittering. Behind her, only the tip of a tail exposed, another Chartreux huddled beneath a shawl: Don’t even think you can get him, he’s my brother.

Annie stacked the posters, slipped them into the portfolio, and faced another truth: Elaine Jamison was protecting herself or someone she loved. Accessory after the fact. Accessory to whom?

Annie leaned the portfolio against the wall by the fireplace. Elaine would want to keep safe her nieces and nephew, but she surely would not protect her brother’s murderer. No, the greater likelihood was that some piece of evidence in the study pointed toward one of the family and Elaine was trying to shield an innocent person from the police. Perhaps one of the children had come to her with the Colt, upset and panicked, but claimed to be innocent. Elaine might very well decide the best solution would be to get rid of the gun. Surely that was the case. But no matter if Elaine was hiding information for what she felt to be a good reason, she was, in fact, hiding information, and that made her an accessory after the fact.

Elaine would protect Laura, Kit, and Tommy Jamison.

Annie’s information about Pat Merridew and the photo in the gazebo must have been a great shock to Elaine. If Annie was right and the towel held the gun, Glen’s murder had been planned well in advance. That would explain Elaine’s reluctance to believe the towel photographed by Pat had any connection to Glen’s murder.

In any event, Annie had done all she could do. She needed to order some petits fours for Kathryn Wall’s signing next week. Lemonade would be tasty, too.

The front doorbell sang.

Annie continued on her way to the storeroom. Ingrid didn’t need help at the cash desk. The day was warm and sunny. Customers would drop in after a day at the beach or on the water. As she reached for the knob to the storeroom door, loud and purposeful steps thudded in the central aisle. Annie didn’t believe in portents, but there was something ominous in the sound. She turned.

Officer Harrison strode toward Annie. The officer’s somber face and her crisp, almost military progress, shouted that this was an official visit.

A half-dozen police cars and two unmarked Ford sedans lined the Jamison driveway. Officer Harrison parked expertly. “Here we are.”

Annie climbed out of the car, looked inquiringly at the angular, serious-faced officer.

“The chief wants everybody to wait on the terrace.” Officer Harrison gestured toward the group standing on the flagstones behind the Jamison house.

Annie followed her across the uneven ground, but stumbled to a stop when she saw Darwyn Jack’s body sprawled facedown at the foot of the gazebo steps. She folded her arms tight across her chest.

Uniformed officers moved unhurriedly, each with a specific task. Investigation at a crime scene followed protocol. First the M.E. must arrive and certify that the presumed victim was dead. Only then could the body be touched and identified and the investigation begun. Who was the victim? When did the crime occur? Were there witnesses? What was the manner of death? Was there a weapon? What physical evidence was available at the scene? The body would remain unmoved until the surroundings had been carefully screened and evidence, if found, cataloged.

Hyla looked back, made an impatient gesture.

Numbly Annie moved forward, still gazing at that scene of desolate finality. Yesterday Darwyn Jack had been superbly alive with the animal magnetism of a young athlete. Now a flaccid shell remained.

Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered from stakes driven in a rectangle that included the gazebo. A man in a Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office uniform spoke into a camcorder as he walked the perimeter of the marked-off area. Officer Coley Benson stood near the steps to the gazebo. His eyes surveyed the ground, then dropped to a pad as he made notes. Annie noticed several other unfamiliar faces and knew Billy had called for assistance from the mainland.

Billy Cameron, former chief Frank Saulter, and the medical examiner stood near the crime-scene van. The side doors were open. Mavis Cameron was bent over an open carrying case. Billy’s gaze was intent as he listened to the M.E. Sunlight glinting on his shaggy gray hair, Doc Burford made a chopping motion with his right hand. Frank turned one hand at an oblique angle. Billy Cameron nodded.

Marian Kenyon stood next to the fluttering yellow tape. She looked intent and determined, pad in one hand, pen in the other. The reporter craned to hear the low voices of the investigating officers.

Hyla Harrison said, kindly enough, to Annie, “It’s better on the terrace.”

The body would not be visible behind the row of palmetto palms.

Hyla led Annie to a group standing beneath the spreading limbs of a century-old live oak. Silvery-gray tangles of Spanish moss moved in a gentle breeze. In the marsh, yellow-green cordgrass gleamed in the sunlight.

Officer Harrison was polite. She spoke to Annie and the group at large. “Chief Cameron will be with you shortly.” She stepped back a few feet.

Gathered were the members of the Jamison family. If Elaine Jamison had appeared pale and shaken before, today her face was waxy. Kit Jamison watched the movement of the police, her eyes huge and staring. She looked bony and ill at ease in a shapeless cotton shift. Every so often she pushed wire-rim glasses higher on her nose. She wore no makeup and her face was extraordinarily pale. Laura’s eyes were again hidden behind sunglasses. She had apparently dressed hurriedly, her glossy black hair scarcely combed, a yellow tee a mismatch with pink shorts. Blond hair tousled, Tommy was shirtless and barefoot, hands jammed into the pockets of khaki shorts. A few feet away, their backs to the siblings, Cleo waited with Richard. The bones in Cleo’s face jutted. She was crisp in a blue blouse and beige linen slacks. Richard’s short brown hair and T-shirt were damp with sweat, as were his Nike running shorts. He gazed toward the gazebo, his face drawn in a tight, worried frown.

“The cop’s coming.” Tommy Jamison’s young voice was shaky. His blue eyes skittered toward Elaine.

Oyster shells crunched as Billy Cameron and former chief Frank Saulter strode toward them. Frank’s cold brown eyes were alert and questioning. Frank looked tough and impervious. He held a notebook and pen.

Billy scanned the waiting faces. “Does anyone have information pertaining to the murder of Darwyn Jack?”

A crow cawed. Magnolia leaves crackled in the breeze. A distant tick tick tick announced the presence of a clapper rail slipping unseen through marsh grasses.

No one spoke.

“From the progression of rigor mortis, death is estimated to have occurred between ten P.M. and two A.M. with the likelihood that he was dead by midnight.” Billy’s words were as grim as the tolling of a funeral bell. “Did anyone here speak with Darwyn Jack last night?”

His question was also met by silence.

Billy swung toward Elaine, his gaze probing. “You called 911 at a quarter to ten this morning.”

Elaine braced herself against the bench railing with both hands. “I was going to work in the flower bed behind my cottage, but I couldn’t find my gardening gloves. I thought I might have left them in the greenhouse.” She gestured to a small structure between the cottage and the marsh. “That’s why I came out my front door. As I went down the steps, I glanced toward the gazebo and saw someone lying on the ground. It didn’t look right. The person was so still. I dropped my trowel and basket and ran as fast as I could. As soon as I got near, I knew he was dead. The back of his head . . .” She wavered on her feet.

Cleo eyed Elaine speculatively, then spoke to Billy. “How was he killed?”

“The cause of death was blunt trauma to the back of the skull. From the way he fell, it appears he may have been seated on the top step when a weapon with a sharply planed surface struck him with enormous force.”

Tommy moved uneasily on his bare feet. “Somebody hit him?”

“Somebody hit him.” Billy’s voice was heavy. “Did anyone hear a disturbance last night?” He waited. He looked at Cleo. “Mrs. Jamison?”

Cleo brushed back a strand of dark hair, looked wearily at Billy. “Obviously”—her voice was crisp, a ripple of irritation evident—“if anyone—other than a murderer—knew something about the attack on Darwyn, they’d speak up. I want to know what you are doing in this investigation. Glen was killed Tuesday, and so far as we’ve been informed”—her gesture included all of the family—“you haven’t made any progress in solving the crime. Now Darwyn’s dead. He worked in the yard. He was here Tuesday morning. Did he know something about Glen’s death? Did you talk to him?”

Billy’s response was measured. “We interviewed everyone in proximity of your husband’s death. Mr. Jack told us he neither saw nor heard anything.”

“He must have lied.” Cleo’s tone was sharp. The breeze stirred her dark hair. Her face was pale. She, too, wore no makeup. There was a grim hardness in her gaze.

“That is a reasonable assumption. Now”—Billy was crisp—“I want to know if any of you spoke with Mr. Jack between Tuesday morning and last night. I’ll start with you, Mrs. Jamison.”

Cleo massaged one temple. “I think it was yesterday. I believe it was. I called and told him I wanted the front yard raked and cleaned this morning. The memorial service will be Monday. People will come to the house afterward.” She pressed one hand against her eyes for a brief instant. “That was all. He said he’d take care of it. That was the last time I ever spoke to him.”

Billy went from person to person.

None of the Jamison children acknowledged contact with Darwyn.

Elaine shook her head. “I don’t know anything about him except he did the yard work. He was new this summer. I didn’t hire him. Cleo did.”

Billy turned back to Cleo.

“Someone told me about him.” Her tone was offhand. “I don’t remember who it was.” She looked toward Elaine. “Yesterday I stepped out to pick some roses. It was about noon. I was surprised to see Darwyn’s truck.” She glanced at Billy. “He worked here Tuesday mornings. I guess that’s why I stood there and watched. I thought he’d left some tools behind or perhaps he wanted to check out the ladders for trimming.” Cleo turned back toward Elaine. “He got out of the truck but he didn’t come this way. He knocked on the front door of the cottage.” Her tone was tentative.

Elaine lifted a hand to her throat. “I answered the door. I don’t know what he wanted. He acted very odd. His manner was threatening.”

Billy walked closer, looked down, his heavy face challenging. “You didn’t mention this earlier.”

Elaine’s lips trembled. “I asked what he wanted. He looked at me with a kind of smirk. I can’t really describe it, but he didn’t act normally. I didn’t like his attitude. I asked him again, very sharply, what he wanted. He said that he wondered if I’d be interested in knowing what he saw Tuesday morning. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about and again he gave this half smile. Then he said”—it was as if she was trying to recall each and every word precisely—“ ‘I was working in the yard.’ I told him I knew that. I wondered if he was trying to say he knew something about the person who shot Glen. I said if he knew anything that would help the police, he should tell them immediately. He rocked back on his heels and laughed. It was not a nice laugh. He said, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ and he turned away. That was exactly what happened.”

In the silence that followed, Annie looked from face to face. Richard’s frown was dark. Cleo looked cold and thoughtful. Kit’s face creased in a worried frown. Laura’s lips quivered. Tommy stared at Elaine, his expression beseeching.

Elaine’s head jerked toward Billy. “It isn’t what you think. I don’t know why he came to me.”

Billy scarcely gave her time to finish the sentence. “Did you meet Darwyn Jack in the gazebo last night?”

“Absolutely not.” She seemed relieved to be questioned directly. “I did not meet him. I did not kill him. I don’t know who did.”

Billy glanced toward the portion of the gazebo that was visible beyond the azaleas. “Darwyn Jack met someone last night in the gazebo. His truck”—he jerked a thumb toward the dusty road that ran behind the cottage—“is parked out of sight around a curve. It seems reasonable to assume that Darwyn Jack observed someone enter or leave the study window during the time period in which the murder occurred. He very likely made a demand for money to keep his mouth shut.”

Annie wondered if Darwyn’s death would bolster her argument that Pat Merridew had been a murder victim. That Glen Jamison’s murderer would not succumb to blackmail was evident—to Annie—from Pat’s death. In fact, would Darwyn be alive today if Glen and Pat’s murders had been publicly linked? That was a possibility, but Darwyn Jack had likely been too young, too sure of himself, too alive to envision danger.

Billy turned back toward Elaine, his expression stolid, his eyes scouring her face.

She lifted her hands as if in self-defense. “No.” Her voice was high. “He did not ask me for money. I did not meet him in the gazebo. I had nothing to do with his death. I swear it. I didn’t shoot Glen. I loved Glen.” Her voice broke.

Billy turned to Annie. “Tell me exactly what Darwyn said to you.”

Annie tried to give an accurate picture. “He may have been making things up. That’s the impression I had. He acted as if he might have seen something or someone and then he said, ‘I don’t like cops. Let them figure out stuff. If I saw something it would be bad news for somebody, wouldn’t it?’ He laughed and said he didn’t see anything. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he went around to everybody and pretended he knew something.”

Billy asked each family member in turn, “Did Darwyn Jack approach you and suggest he saw someone in the garden Tuesday morning?”

Cleo’s head shake was definite. “Absolutely not.”

Richard looked grim. “I’d have knocked him flat.”

Laura looked nervous. “I never talked to him. I didn’t like him. We went to school together. People said he was mean. I didn’t like the way he looked at girls in the hall.”

Kit twined a strand of light hair around a finger. “He never spoke to me.” She glanced toward her sister. “I know what she means about the way he looked at women.”

Tommy shrugged. “That dude never came near me.”

Elaine’s voice was shrill. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know what he knew or didn’t know. I told him to go to the police.”

“That was good advice. He might be alive if he’d followed it.” Billy turned to Cleo Jamison. “Mrs. Jamison, I wonder if you can help me with another matter. You are Glen Jamison’s widow. Are the house and grounds, including the cottage and outbuildings, now your property?”

Cleo briefly closed her eyes. Her lips moved. “ . . . widow . . .” She pressed her lips together, stared at the ground for an instant, then lifted her face, spoke wearily. “The house and grounds . . . Actually, I’ve not seen Glen’s will. I had no reason to see it. We signed a prenuptial agreement. I have no claim on anything prior to our marriage. The house very likely now belongs to Kit and Laura and Tommy. I’m sure he made some provision for Elaine. Whatever Glen earned since then, I share with his children.” Her face twisted. “I received a settlement at the time of our marriage. What is the point of your question?”

“I would like the permission of the home owner to conduct a search of the house and grounds, including the cottage and its garage, without a warrant. I can easily obtain a warrant, but if I can have signed approval from all of you, we can proceed now. Does anyone object?”

Cleo shrugged. “I’ll be happy to sign, but I am quite certain the house has been left to Glen’s children.”

Billy’s eyes moved to Glen’s children.

Kit turned her hands over. “Sure. Why not?”

Laura nodded, then shivered. “I want this to end. Look anywhere you want to look.”

Tommy’s shoulders hunched. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Billy’s blue eyes reached Elaine.

“Of course you should search.” Her voice was thin but steady.

Frank Saulter swiftly wrote a statement. He held it out to Billy. “This provides that the Broward’s Rock Police Department had the permission of the presumptive heirs of Glen Jamison to undertake a search of the property in regard to the murder of Darwyn Jack.”

Billy gave the sheet first to Cleo. She signed.

The sheet was passed to each of the Jamisons except for Richard. When everyone had duly signed, Elaine handed the sheet to Billy.

Billy nodded in satisfaction. He turned and walked away from the terrace.

There was silence.

Cleo glanced at Officer Harrison. “Are we required to remain on the terrace?”

Hyla looked bland. “If you have no objection, Chief Cameron would appreciate each of you remaining until the search is completed.”

Cleo shrugged. She looked at Elaine. “There’s no reason for us to stand.” She gestured at several wrought-iron tables and accompanying chairs. “We might as well be comfortable. I’ll make some coffee.” She turned to Richard. “If you’d lend a hand?”

He nodded and followed her into the house.

Kit, Laura, Tommy, and Elaine sat together. Kit watched Cleo and Richard walk into the house. Her face was hard and suspicious.

Annie walked to a path that curved among the azaleas. She had a clear view of the gazebo. Billy Cameron spoke to a cluster of law officers, some on his staff, some from the mainland. He gestured toward the gazebo, up at several trees, and at the cottage, greenhouse, and garages.

Annie stood with her arms folded. She supposed the search was window dressing. The marsh glittered in the morning sunlight, the broad expanse of water an open invitation to a murderer seeking to discard a weapon. Tuesday Elaine Jamison had successfully thrown something into the marsh. A continuing search had yielded nothing of interest. It seemed very likely that Glen Jamison’s Colt was even now submerged in the murky water and was likely to remain there undisturbed.

Annie watched EMSA techs ease Darwyn Jack’s body into a black crime-scene, envelope-style body bag. The techs stood on each side, gripped the vinyl handles, lifted the bag to a gurney, and wheeled toward a waiting ambulance.

Two uniformed officers strode past the cottage and lifted the door to a white frame garage.

Steps sounded on the flagstones behind Annie. She turned.

Lack of makeup accentuated the sharpness of Cleo Jamison’s features. She looked exhausted. “Would you care to join Richard and me for coffee?”

“Thank you.” Annie appreciated Cleo’s invitation. She followed to a table at the far end of the terrace. Annie wondered if the space between Cleo’s table and that of Glen’s family was a deliberate effort to avoid contact.

Annie added two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of cream.

Cleo stirred sugar into her cup, then looked at Annie. “I know you’ve tried to help Elaine.” She paused, glanced at Richard. “Elaine seems determined to put herself in as deep a hole as possible. It’s awkward. I can’t believe she would shoot Glen or”—she shot a bewildered look into the garden—“kill a yardman, but I have to assume she’s declining to talk to the police because she is afraid whatever she says would incriminate her. That’s very . . . troubling.”

Richard shoved a hand through his thick brown hair. “She should be doing everything possible to help find out who killed Glen.” His voice was angry.

“I think she’s protecting someone.” Annie took a sip of the sweet, creamy drink and found it comforting.

Cleo’s gaze moved to the table at the far end of the terrace where the others sat. “I don’t have any sympathy for her, if that’s the case.” Her voice was cold. “Glen’s dead. And now—” She gestured toward the gazebo. “You talked to Darwyn yesterday afternoon. He was killed last night.” She eyed Annie with a demanding gaze. “What did he know?”

Annie looked toward the gazebo. “I think he saw someone. I think he knew that he had important information and decided to see what he could get out of it.”

Cleo’s eyes narrowed. “Did he say what part of the yard he was in? If we knew where he was working, it would give us an idea of what he could have seen.”

“He was using the leaf blower near the flower beds. He probably had his back—” Annie sat bolt upright. The leaf blower . . .

Suddenly the dark moments of Tuesday morning seemed crystal clear. She came to her feet. “I need to talk to Chief Cameron.”

Richard paused with his coffee cup midway to his mouth. “Why?”

“I think Glen was shot while Darwyn was using the blower. Darwyn said he ran the blower from a quarter after nine to a few minutes after ten o’clock. That’s why no one heard the shots. The noise was covered by the leaf blower. Otherwise someone would have heard the shots and possibly raised an alarm before the killer could get away. Excuse me. I need to tell Billy about the time.” Narrowing the time when the murder had occurred might not matter. But it might be important.

Annie started for the path.

Officer Harrison barred the way. “The search is in progress. Please return to the terrace.”

“Hyla.” Annie saw the quick stiffening. “Officer Harrison, I have information that may be helpful. I’ll go carefully. I won’t get in the way.” She looked toward the cottage. “I’ll stay on the drive.”

Hyla unhooked her cell, clicked. “Chief, Annie Darling wants to speak with you.” She nodded. “Yes, sir.” She gave Annie a quick nod.

Annie walked briskly, glad to leave behind the strained group on the terrace, the family so clearly divided, Glen’s children and sister at one table, his widow and cousin at another.

Billy Cameron stood outside the open door to the garage. He stood with his head jutted forward, his concentration evident. He held a video cam and spoke into it. “ . . . white leather golf bag found three feet inside garage door next to west wall. Deputy Keith McKay removes clubs one at a time.”

In the garage, Mavis Cameron watched intently as a sheriff’s deputy lifted a golf club from the worn leather bag propped against a side wall. The tall, angular detective wore plastic gloves. He bent over, revealing a bald spot on the top of his head, and placed the club, a six iron, on the oil-stained floor of the garage next to a row of clubs. He came upright and turned back to the bag.

Annie stopped beside Billy. He looked serious, imposing, and expectant.

A few feet away, Marian Kenyon gave her a brief once-over, then focused again on the deputy as he reached into the golf bag.

Billy noted Annie in his peripheral vision. “Yes?” His gaze never wavered from the garage.

“Yesterday I asked Darwyn about the leaf blower.”

Billy nodded, indicating he was listening even though he continued to watch the deputy.

“Darwyn said the blower ran from about nine-fifteen to a few minutes after ten.” She spoke to Billy, but she, too, turned her eyes toward the search. “I think Glen was shot on Tuesday because Darwyn worked at the Jamison house on Tuesdays. The killer wanted the leaf blower to hide the sound of the shots.”

“That’s what I’d figured. It seems likely the killer picked Tuesday because Darwyn was there. Thanks for narrowing the time. He was vague about the leaf blower when I talked to him. But otherwise, the shots—”

The deputy abruptly straightened. He held a five iron aloft, firmly grasped between plastic-gloved thumb and index finger. “Hey, it looks like there’s blood and tissue on the club face.”

Billy strode forward. He held the video cam to photograph the club as he described the scene.

Marian Kenyon gave a soft whoop. “In at the kill.” She tucked the pad under one arm, poked the pencil behind her right ear, grabbed the Leica that hung around her neck, and began to shoot, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, turn a little this way. Oh, good, that’s a great shot. I can see the heads: ‘Murder Weapon Found’ or maybe ‘Deadly Chip Shot,’ or better yet ‘Final Swing.’ ”

Mavis Cameron stepped nearer and grasped the iron in pincers.

Billy finished recording and spoke to the deputy, his words inaudible. He nodded. They turned together and started up the drive toward the house. They passed Annie and Marian, walking fast. The tall thin deputy made Billy appear even heavier and stronger than he usually looked.

As soon as they were past, Marian headed for the house, too. Annie took a deep breath and followed. Her mind pulsed with thoughts: Darwyn struck from behind, Frank Saulter’s oblique chop with his hand, a five iron, a white golf bag in the garage of the cottage.

At the terrace, Billy walked directly to the table where Elaine sat with her nieces and nephew. “Are you a golfer, Ms. Jamison?”

Elaine looked past Billy as the deputy approached with the five iron. Elaine’s face looked frozen. She lifted a hand. Blue stones in a bracelet glittered in the sunshine. “Where did you get that club?”

Tommy’s face squeezed in puzzlement. Kit watched her aunt with an uncertain expression. Laura bent for a better view of Mavis.

“Are you a golfer, Ms. Jamison?” His tone was steely.

Her hand dropped. “I play golf.” Her voice was thin. “That looks like my five iron.” Her voice shook. “Why do you have that club?” She came to her feet.

Billy jerked his head and the deputy came nearer. He was near enough to the terrace that the smear of dark matter on the club face was readily visible, but not so near that anyone could reach the five iron.

Billy’s eyes never left Elaine’s face. “The club was found in the white leather golf bag in the garage adjoining the cottage. Does that golf bag belong to you?”

Elaine slowly nodded.

Billy took a step nearer. “When did you last see the club?”

“I played golf last week. I haven’t touched the club since then.” Her voice had an edge of horror.

“Can you explain the discoloration on the face of the club?”

She stared, her eyes wide and strained. “No.”

Billy watched her carefully. “The club will be submitted to the forensics laboratory for testing.”

Marian Kenyon piped up. “Does the stuff on the club face appear to be human tissue and blood?”

Elaine cried out, “I haven’t seen my five iron since last week.”

Cleo pushed back her chair. She crossed the width of the terrace, stopped a few feet from Elaine. “I am not your attorney, but you might find it wiser to choose to remain silent.”

Elaine looked at her in despair. “Cleo, I swear to you. I don’t know anything about what happened to Glen or to Darwyn. If that club killed Darwyn, someone took it from my bag and used it.”

There was silence on the terrace.

Billy was matter-of-fact. “Is your garage kept locked, Ms. Jamison?”

“No. I never lock it.”

Cleo almost spoke, shrugged.

Elaine said jerkily, “I’m innocent. I shouldn’t have to be quiet.”

Billy eyed her curiously. “You have had very little to say about your actions on Tuesday morning. What did you throw in the marsh?”

Elaine seemed to shrink. Her eyes dropped. She folded her arms across her front.

“Speaking of Tuesday morning, Ms. Jamison, there is another matter you might wish to explain.” He unclipped his cell, lifted it, punched. “It’s time, Officer.”

Clearly, his crisp order was setting into motion a previously designed plan of action. Billy walked to the edge of the terrace, looked toward the line of official cars parked along the Jamison drive.

Behind him, chairs scraped on the flagstones. One by one, the Jamisons stood. Kit, Laura, and Tommy moved close to Elaine. Cleo and Richard remained a few feet away.

Lou Pirelli stepped out of a parked police car. His coal-black hair gleamed in the sunlight. A black-and-tan bloodhound clambered out to join him. They walked toward the crime-lab van, Lou holding the leash. The hatchback door was open. Beyond the van, detectives continued to investigate the crime scene near the gazebo, but everyone on the terrace watched the uniformed officer and the dog in his leather harness. Man and dog stopped at the rear of the open van.

Mavis Cameron held a large, clear plastic container. She hopped lightly to the ground. She lifted the hinged lid. A plastic-gloved hand lifted out blue cloth. She dangled the cloth before the bloodhound.

Lou spoke loudly. “Track.”

Mavis returned the cloth to its container.

The dog snuffled, then turned and meandered back and forth. He stopped near a volleyball net, smelled intently, then headed for the terrace, Lou moving fast to keep up. The dog went straight to Tommy Jamison, lifted his head, and bayed.

Tommy backed away. “What’s wrong with him?” He pointed at the bloodhound.

The dog kept pace.

Lou pulled on the harness. “Stay.”

The bloodhound stopped, his dark eyes staring at Tommy.

“What’s the dog for?” The teenager’s voice was high. “What’s going on?”

Billy lifted his voice. “Crime tech.”

At the crime van, Mavis Cameron nodded. She strode swiftly toward her husband. At the edge of the terrace, she placed the container on the ground, used both gloved hands to hold up a man’s blue polo shirt. In the soft sunlight, the brownish smear across the front was distinct.

Billy walked back toward Elaine. “Tuesday morning you were observed walking toward the marsh carrying a bunched-up cloth.” He looked toward Annie. “What color was the cloth?”

Annie stared at the stained shirt. “Blue.”

“Did the shade of blue you saw Tuesday morning match the shade of this polo shirt?”

“Yes.” Annie looked toward Elaine, wished that she had not. Elaine’s face reflected a welter of emotions: fear, despair, frantic thought, disbelief, panic.

Billy folded his arms. His voice was uninflected and perhaps even more menacing for its very lack of drama. “Ms. Jamison, we know what you did with this shirt. You drove away Tuesday morning in a great hurry. You turned left on Sea Oats Lane.”

Elaine stared at him, her eyes widening in shock.

“On Sea Oats Lane”—the police chief sounded authoritative, a man with facts at his fingertips—“you proceeded to Kittredge Forest Preserve. You parked in the turnaround. Tire tracks there match the tread on your 2009 Corolla.”

Elaine clasped her hands tightly together.

“You proceeded on foot into the preserve. You walked precisely eight-tenths of a mile. You left the trail to secrete the exhibit”—he pointed at the blue polo shirt held by Mavis—“beneath a resurrection fern. The shirt was photographed in situ, removed by an officer, and submitted to the crime lab for testing.” Billy pointed at the stain. “Ms. Jamison, why did you hurry away from the site of your brother’s murder and hide a bloodstained shirt in the forest preserve?”

Elaine looked sick and frightened.

“Surely you remember what you did that morning and why. Perhaps I can assist you in recalling.” He was matter-of-fact. “The shirt is stained with the blood of your dead brother. Is that why you disposed of it?”

“Stop it.” Tommy’s cry was hoarse and desperate. “Dad’s blood . . .” Tears filled his eyes.

Billy swung toward Tommy. “It’s your shirt, isn’t it, son?”

“Yeah.” He was struggling to breathe. “My shirt . . .”

Cleo Jamison stalked toward the teenager. “Did you shoot Glen? Oh God, did you kill him?”

Tommy took a step back. “I didn’t. I didn’t. I—”

“Leave him alone.” Elaine plunged to Tommy’s side, grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I just grabbed anything. I didn’t know it was your shirt. I didn’t know what it was, I was so upset. God, I’m sorry.” She clung tightly to her nephew’s arm as she faced Billy. “Listen to me, I can explain. I came up to the house to talk to Glen. I went to the door of the study that opens off the terrace. I pulled the handle and stepped inside. I wasn’t looking around the room. I was thinking about what I was going to say. I wanted Glen—oh well, it doesn’t matter now. But that’s why I didn’t realize what had happened. I went in and my foot hit something. I looked down. I saw Glen’s gun. I’d kicked it. I couldn’t imagine what it was doing on the floor. I thought it was odd but I knew the key to the gun safe had been lost. I took a few steps and bent down and picked up the gun. It wasn’t until I straightened up that I saw shoes. Glen’s shoes. And his legs. I walked around the desk. He was lying on the floor and there was blood. So much blood, blood everywhere. I dropped down and touched his arm. I guess that’s when I got blood on my hand. I got up and I was going to call for help and then I looked down and I saw the blood on my hand and I had the gun in my other hand. I was afraid. I wanted to call the police, but I thought they’d think . . . I was terrified. I ran into the hall and through the kitchen and that’s when I grabbed Tommy’s shirt from the dirty clothes basket in the laundry room. I wiped my hand off and rolled up the gun in the shirt and went outside.”

The teenager, his eyes huge and frightened, stared at his aunt. “Elaine—”

She tightened her grip on her nephew’s arm. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t know the shirt belonged to you. But now everything’s all right.” She looked defiantly at Billy. “I know it was stupid. I should have owned up. But that’s what happened.” She pushed back a strand of blond hair, stared with a pinched and desperate face. “I didn’t shoot Glen. I didn’t see anyone on my way to the house or on my return. But I didn’t know what to do. I went in the cottage. I ran to the phone. But I was afraid.”

“You didn’t call.” The police chief’s tone was considering.

Her thin face rigid, she answered in a small voice. “I knew I’d messed up any fingerprints on the gun. In fact, I wiped it off with the shirt and then I wrapped it up and carried it to the marsh and threw it away.”

“Ms. Jamison, I am taking you to the police station for further questioning. You have the right to speak to an attorney. Anything you say may . . .”