Dead By Midnight

Chapter Twelve

As the police car carrying Elaine Jamison disappeared around a curve, Cleo gripped Richard’s arm. “I can’t believe Elaine would hurt Glen.” She looked upset, verging on tears.

Richard’s face was taut. “No family ever expects murder. But it seems pretty clear that Glen was shot by someone he knew.”

Her plain face outraged, Kit Jamison glared at him. “Not by Elaine.” Without another word, she turned and ran for the house. She slammed inside.

Laura looked bewildered and scared. Tommy appeared utterly miserable. He turned toward Laura, then stopped and shook his head.

In a moment, Kit was back on the verandah, a purse clutched in one hand, car keys in the other. She called to her sister and brother, “Come on, we’re going to the police station.”

The sisters and brother moved toward the driveway.

Annie hurried after them. As Kit opened the door to a faded VW Beetle, Annie said quickly, “Elaine needs a top lawyer. Call Handler Jones in Savannah.”

“Handler Jones.” Kit repeated the name as she turned the ignition. Laura slid in the front passenger seat. Tommy climbed into the backseat, looking big and burly in the confines of the small car.

By the time Annie turned to look toward the terrace, the back door was closing. Cleo and Richard had returned to the house.

She pulled out her cell phone as she walked to her car. “Max . . .”

Dishes clattered and voices rumbled, almost drowning out “That Old Black Magic.” As always in the summer, Parotti’s was booming with business. The hubbub made conversation private.

Annie poked a succulent, hot french fry into ketchup she’d laced with fresh black pepper. “ . . . but, Max”—her voice was forlorn, the french fry cooling in her grasp—“I think Elaine made it up as she went along, about the polo shirt and what she did.”

Max squeezed lemon on grilled flounder. “Why?”

“She talked too fast. It was like she was thinking as she went, trying to come up with a rationale for the shirt and the gun.”

Max forked a piece of flounder. “Are you saying she shot Glen?”

Annie welcomed the cool freshness of iced tea. She looked thoughtful and possibly a bit uncertain. “That’s what it looks like, but I don’t think so.”

Max was skeptical. “If she didn’t shoot him and if she didn’t go to the house, how did she get the gun? Or the shirt?”

Annie ate the french fry, absently noting that it was lukewarm. “I don’t know. I wish I could help her. I’ve never seen anyone look more alone when Billy took her to the squad car.”

Max’s face softened. “You helped her. As soon as you called, I got in touch with Handler Jones. The kids had already talked to him. He’ll be over tomorrow.” The Savannah criminal lawyer with boyish good looks and Southern charm was well known for his courtroom successes.

Annie’s face squeezed in unhappiness. “Do you suppose they’ll keep her in jail?”

“Handler didn’t think so.” Max’s smile was wry. “Another advantage of living on a sea island. Billy knows she can’t get away without taking the ferry and he’ll have alerted Ben.”

Annie looked across the restaurant. Ben Parotti owned the island’s only ferry as well as its most successful eating establishment and various other properties. He was smart, energetic, and a very good friend. He saw Annie’s glance and in a moment was at the booth, carrying an iced-tea pitcher. He refilled their glasses, peered at Annie. “Heard you were rounded up by Hyla this morning, taken to the Jamisons’.” He rocked back on his heels. “Kind of strange, Glen Jamison shot on Tuesday, Darwyn Jack murdered in Glen’s backyard last night.”

Annie wasn’t surprised at Ben’s knowledge. He knew everyone, heard everything.

Ben gave the pitcher a shake and ice rattled against the plastic interior. “Got an order from the Gazette.” It was an answer to her unasked question. “Talked to Ferroll.” His leprechaun face folded in a frown. “I told him anybody who thinks grits tastes like paste don’t have the good sense God gave an inchworm. Anyway, Ferroll said all hell was bustin’ out and it sure looked like Elaine Jamison was up a creek without a boat, much less a paddle.” His frown grew darker. “Ms. Jamison is a real nice lady.” In Ben’s world there were real nice ladies and all other women. “A nice lady wouldn’t have no truck with someone like Darwyn. He worked here for a while. I told him to take a hike. I was sorry because his grandma is a real nice lady, but Darwyn, he had a mean streak. I caught him out in the alley on a break, treatin’ one of the girls like she was no ’count. That was that as far as I was concerned.”

Annie wasn’t surprised. She’d felt uneasy when she talked to Darwyn.

Max cut a piece of flounder. “The best guess is that he saw Glen’s killer Tuesday morning and asked for money.”

“Maybe.” Ben’s tone was ruminative. “But maybe he was mixed up in something. You know I own Jasmine Gardens.”

Annie hadn’t known, but Ben’s real-estate holdings on the island were extensive. Jasmine Gardens offered cabins with a marsh view that could be rented by the week, month, or year.

“I keep an eye on things. I was over there a week ago, talked to my manager, Marva Kay Murphy. As I pulled in to park, a beat-up pickup came out too fast. I saw the driver. Darwyn Jack. I asked Marva Kay about him. She didn’t have anybody by the name of Jack as a renter. I described him and she said oh, sure, that was a guy named David Harley, Cabin Nine. He paid by the month. Cash. I didn’t like that for nothing. Marva Kay said she didn’t usually take cash, but rentals have been down the last couple of years and she thought it wouldn’t do any harm. Maybe not if she’d rented to a guy really named David Harley, but I knew Darwyn Jack and I wouldn’t trust him around the corner. I told Marva Kay when he came to rent for the next month to tell him the cabin was no longer available.”

Max looked puzzled. “I don’t see how anything Darwyn saw Tuesday morning could have a connection to his renting a cabin. Maybe he had a girlfriend.”

Ben raised a grizzled eyebrow. “I don’t mean to sound snooty but I don’t see where Darwyn could afford my cabins. Anyway, I called and told the cops, but that Hyla Harrison didn’t sound interested either.” He sounded faintly aggrieved, a leprechaun with mud splashed on his green frock coat.

Annie retrieved another french fry. “Ben, you’re great to want to help. We’ll see what we can find out. I’ll tell you what—why don’t you ask Marva Kay to keep that cabin locked. I’ll drop by and take a look.”

Ben looked at her in approval. “I’m thinking you’ll find something there. It don’t make sense that Darwyn rented the cabin. I’ll tell Marva Kay to let you in.” He started to turn, then stopped and added obscurely, “Ms. Jamison was a peach to help Miss Jolene when she had the flu last winter.”

As he walked away, Max grinned. “Is this your Be-Kind-to-Ben ploy?”

Annie pensively ate another french fry, then picked up her sandwich, crisply fried flounder with Thousand Island dressing. “Okay, so it’s a long shot. But if someone wanted to get rid of Darwyn, how clever would it be to set up a meeting at the Jamison gazebo? Everybody on the island knew Glen Jamison had been murdered. Who would ever believe a second murder there wouldn’t be connected to the first?” She took a bite, mumbled indistinctly: “Right, right. There’s the golf club to account for. Maybe the murderer brought a weapon but nosed around for something linked to the scene.” She took another bite. “Is our garage locked?”

Max put down his fork, folded his arms on the table. “That, Mrs. Darling, is unworthy of you.”

Annie laughed. “Nobody locks up on an island. Anyway, I know it’s unlikely but,” and now she was serious, “Darwyn at Jasmine Gardens is out of the ordinary. That makes it worth exploring.”

Max took a bite of the house salad. Today’s version was homegrown tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, and a sprinkling of pepitas. “So you want to keep on looking even though you think Elaine lied this morning?”

Annie slowly nodded. “Billy’s investigation is over, isn’t it?”

Max met her gaze. “He has motive, opportunity, and physical evidence.”

Annie sighed. “All Elaine has is us.”

Max reached across the table, touched her cheek. “Everybody thinks Jude is the saint of desperate causes. They don’t know about you.”

“Maybe Saint Jude will help us help Elaine.” She took a last bite of flounder. “So, where do we start?”

Max snagged a paper napkin from the dispenser in the middle of the table. “What don’t we know?”

Annie scrambled in her purse for a pen, handed it to him.

“Okay.” She tried to sound like a woman with a plan. “Here’s what we do know. One—”

Max marked a numeral, waited.

“—Darwyn probably saw someone either going into Glen’s study or coming out. Two—a telephone lineman was working across the street from the house and would have seen anyone entering the house from the front. Three—Darwyn used the leaf blower from nine-fifteen to a few minutes after ten. Four—Laura was on the upper verandah and saw something that she is desperate not to reveal. To me, that spells Kirk Brewster.”

Max used another napkin, sketched the Jamison house and the garden. He placed an X in the front yard with an arrow to a telephone pole. “The telephone lineman’s bird’s-eye view makes it simple. If nobody came in the front door, then the murderer was either someone in the house, Kit, Laura, or possibly Richard, if he lied about his jog. But Darwyn’s murder suggests the killer came through the backyard. Otherwise, how would Darwyn have known anything dangerous to the killer?”

Annie spoke slowly. “If the murderer came from the backyard, that clears Kit and Laura. Neither had any reason to go outside.”

Max looked thoughtful. “If the murderer came from the backyard, the possibilities are Richard and Elaine and maybe Kirk Brewster or whoever Laura saw.”

Annie had no doubt Billy had already reached this conclusion. “Richard found the body. He could easily have shot Glen, then raised the alarm. But he was trying to get money from Glen. He needed Glen alive.”

Max shook his head. “According to Edna Graham, Glen turned Richard down. She said when Richard came out of Glen’s office, his face wasn’t”—Max’s tone put the word in quote marks—“ ‘nice.’ ”

Annie’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe we’re getting close. Richard wanted money. Glen said no. Maybe Richard wanted both Glen’s money and his wife. Kit thought Richard was attracted to Cleo. I wonder”—her tone was thoughtful—“if Richard knew about the key man insurance.”

He raised an eyebrow. “He’ll never admit he knew, if he did. But the important point is that Kirk Brewster absolutely knew about the insurance. Two and a half million is a pretty nice incentive for a man who was going to be broke and looking for a job and unwilling to leave the island because of his sister’s health. I’m sure Billy has checked out Kirk’s whereabouts Tuesday morning, but I’ll see what I can find out.”

Annie was stubborn. “Maybe Richard Jamison had good reason to believe he could cash in if Cleo came in for her share.”

Max leaned back against the booth. “Do I pick up on a little hostility toward Richard? Or are you willing to toss him under the bus to save Elaine?”

Annie’s tone was scathing. “What kind of man comes to his cousin’s house and hangs around like a squatter trying to get money out of him?”

Max laughed. “Not a fine specimen of the Puritan ethic, according to the Annie Laurance Darling Doctrine?”

It was a long-standing divide between them. Max grew up rich, enjoyed dabbling, and never felt he had to prove anything by hewing to a career. He would have been happy traveling and collecting art, supporting good causes, and eschewing personal achievement. Annie grew up counting pennies, always worked hard, and did her best at whatever task she attempted. They achieved peace by making accommodations: Max dutifully created Confidential Commissions and found he enjoyed solving problems for people; Annie discovered devotion to work could be balanced with impromptu walks on a winter beach, late-morning breakfasts, and, of course, some afternoon delight.

Annie was stern. “If a man lacks character in one respect—”

Max held up both hands in negation. “It doesn’t mean he’d shoot his cousin.”

She placed her elbows on the table. “He came looking for money. And”—her tone was portentous—“maybe when he got here, he wanted more than money. Maybe he wanted Cleo.”

Max was impatient. “We’re making everything up here. We don’t have any reason to believe Cleo was cheating on her husband.”

“But maybe she was.”

“Maybe. A love affair between Cleo and Richard would give him a motive in addition to money. I’ll do some checking on the two of them. But we know for sure that Kirk Brewster had only a couple more weeks before he lost any chance to profit from the key man insurance. I’ll see what I can find out about Kirk, too. And you?”

Annie looked across the room at Ben Parotti. “I like Ben’s instinct. I’ll drop by Jasmine Gardens.”

Max gave a wistful glance at his indoor putting green but went directly to his computer. He settled behind his massive mahogany desk and turned on his computer. He opened his file on the Jamison family and reread the biographical material on Richard Jamison. After a little digging, he had three names. Thanks to the ubiquity of cell phones and modern humans’ apparent inability to be out of touch, he soon spoke to the skipper of Pretty Girl. “Captain, I’m putting together a movie in Beaufort County”—the county had been home to the filming of several feature films—“and I’m looking for a recommendation for Richard Jamison. I believe he sailed with you for a couple of years.”

The crusty voice rumbled, “Good hand. Got a quick head in emergencies. Kept his nose clean. Broke up a cocaine ring once. Don’t want that kind of crap on my ship. Hire him anytime.”

“Did he tip you to the smuggling?”

“Damn right. Helped me set it up with the feds. Caught ’em. Almost a half-million dollars’ worth of cocaine.”

“He sounds like a good hire. Now, I have kind of a funny question”—Max made his voice easy, amused, sharing a joke—“but we have an actress who likes good-looking men. Do you suppose he’d be willing to be nice to the lady?”

A roar of earthy laughter. “Richard’s your man. Hardly ever met a woman that didn’t have the hots for him. He likes the ladies, so long as he can love ’em and leave ’em.”

“No problem there.” Max was equally hearty.

As he replaced the receiver, he studied a smiling picture of Richard from his Facebook page, tanned and fit, muscular in a pale green guayabera shirt and khaki shorts and docksiders. He stood at the stern of a cabin cruiser, a breeze stirring sun-streaked brown hair. His lopsided smile was exuberant. He was a man who liked sun and sex, and he was always looking for the route to easy street. But he’d drawn the line at drugs. Max wrote on his legal pad, underlined drugs three times.

He made two more calls.

The first was to Sam Whistler, who was still bartending at the Ship Ahoy in Boca Raton. “Sam, I understand Richard Jamison worked there last year. I’m looking for a manager for the Fast Catch here on the island. What can you tell me about Richard?”

“ . . . good joe . . . easy to talk to . . . handles crowds . . . careful about money. You can trust him . . . Women? I don’t know what his secret is. They love the man. But he makes sure they understand the rules before he plays. He’s one smart dude.”

The final call was to a childhood friend now teaching Spanish at Clemson. “Richard? So he’s back on the island. I doubt that lasts long. He’s a wanderer. He never met an open road he didn’t want to take or a beautiful woman he didn’t want to make love to.” A faint sigh. “Richard’s not a nine-to-five guy.”

Max ended the call, pulled the legal pad nearer. He drew a road, a pair of sexy female legs, a condo marked by a huge X, and a rectangular package that would hold a kilo of cocaine.

It was time to talk to Richard Jamison.

Palmetto palms stood like Southern sentries on either side of a short oyster-shell road. The Jasmine Gardens cabins weren’t visible from the main road. A small white sign hung from a steel stanchion near an office-cum-cabin. The inscription read:

JASMINE GARDENS

MANAGER

INQUIRE WITHIN

Annie parked. She smelled the banana sweetness of pittosporum. Five steps led to a small front porch. The cabin was built about five feet above the ground, always a wise precaution on a sea island. Annie admired its blue shutters and white siding. The style reminded her a little of Bermuda. Ben Parotti had evidently been feeling romantic when he approved the design.

A skinny redhead, her hair pulled back beneath a yellow do-rag, gave Annie a bright smile. “We have a vacancy,” as if Annie were a lucky winner of a sweepstakes. “Each of our cabins is built behind a private screen of bamboo and bayberry. Each cabin has its own parking space on one side. The cabins are fully furnished, once-weekly maid service—”

“Maid service.” Annie felt a surge of panic. “Has Cabin Nine been cleaned?”

“Oh.” The manager sighed. “You must be Annie Darling. I thought you looked kind of familiar. I took my mom to your bookstore once. I’m Marva Kay. Ben called and said you’d be by to see that cabin. He said not to touch it. I told Linda Lee to skip nine this week.” She turned and reached inside the door. “Here’s the key.”

“How long had Darwyn been renting the cabin?”

She squinted at Annie. “He signed the register David Harley. He paid cash, plus a two-hundred-dollar deposit, so I didn’t ask for an ID.” She frowned. “I wonder who’ll get the deposit back.”

“I’d hold on to it. What’s most important, please don’t have the cabin cleaned until Ben gives the go-ahead.”

“Sure enough.” Marva Kay looked rueful. “I got plenty of others to rent.”

“Did you see much of Darwyn?”

She gave a little laugh. “I don’t see much of anybody. See, every cabin is completely private. It’s like they’re supposed to be love nests. Or something like that. We used to get a lot of couples from Savannah but not so many now.”

“Did you ever see anyone with Darwyn?”

She looked wise. “His girlfriend? Nope. But one afternoon I got a call from the lady in ten and she was panicked. Seems like a raccoon was trying to get in the back door. I told her just to leave him alone and he’d go away but she insisted I come and do something. I got Buster, my hound. I knew that raccoon would scoot faster than a floozy who sees a patrol car. We took the path, and like I said, it’s plenty private behind the bamboo, but I heard, well, you can take it from me, they weren’t playing tiddledywinks in nine. I walked a little faster. No business of mine. Then I heard the sliding door shut and I figured that was good. I like the heavy breathing to be inside. Some kids might be wandering around. So, I never saw anybody but him. For sure, he didn’t rent the cabin to work on his abs. Not that they needed any work.”

Back in the car, Annie drove cautiously on the narrow, twisting lane. As Marva Kay had said, each cabin was its own world. She pulled into the parking slot next to nine. She walked to the front steps. The old-fashioned metal key was distinctive, a shiny silver color with a heart-shaped bow.

The door swung in. Dust motes danced in the splash of sunlight. The air was still and hot. The air-conditioning was off. The living room’s island decor was cheerful, wicker chairs with red-and-yellow cushions, a ceiling fan, a rattan sofa, tiled floor. One wall featured a mural with a great blue heron standing in a marsh.

There was no evidence of recent occupation. No newspapers. No magazines. No glasses. Annie glanced into the small kitchen. It, too, appeared unused. She didn’t touch the refrigerator or cabinets.

In the single bedroom, she felt as though she were chasing phantoms. The double bed was made, the spread tightly tucked beneath the pillows. The bolsters common to hotel rooms were absent. Unless she was very much mistaken, the room had been cleaned since it last served as a rendezvous for lovers. There was no hint as to the identity of the woman who had met Darwyn here, nothing in the closet or in the drawers of a wicker chest, no scrap of papers in the wastebaskets, nothing that had rolled beneath the bed or the sofa.

She locked the cabin behind her, returned the key, and walked to her car. She’d had great hopes of finding some clue about Darwyn’s girlfriend. Of course, there was no guarantee she knew anything at all about what he had seen in the Jamison backyard Tuesday morning.

Still, it would be nice to have the opportunity to ask her.

Barb poked her head into Max’s office. “Richard Jamison is here.” Her expressive face registered a warning.

Max rose from behind the refectory table that served as his desk and walked toward the door.

Richard Jamison stopped a few feet inside, folded his arms. His gaze was cold. “You called me out of the blue, started asking questions. I don’t know you. I don’t have to talk to you.” He was island casual in a loose orange polo and baggy shorts and huaraches, but his face was brooding and unpleasant.

Max looked at him coolly. “But you came.”

Richard’s face hardened. “Because of Cleo. I’m warning you. If you spread rumors about Cleo and me, I’ll sue you for defamation of character.”

Max was forceful, though he kept his voice even. “I don’t spread rumors. I’m asking about you and your cousin’s widow because his daughter Kit told my wife that she thought you were having an affair with her stepmother.”

“No.” Richard’s answer was violent. “There’s no truth to that. You want the truth? I’ll tell you the truth even though you don’t have any right to ask me a damn thing. I loved my cousin. I looked up to him. Glen was great to me when I was a little kid. And yeah, Cleo’s an amazing woman. Sure, I’m attracted to her. But I don’t screw a man’s wife when I’m living in his house. I’d decided to leave. I was going next week and then somebody shot Glen. It wasn’t me. I’ll talk to Kit.” He turned to go.

Max’s tone was sharp. “Are you still leaving town?”

Slowly Richard faced him. “I’m staying for a while.”

“I suppose you’ll help Cleo sort out her financial future.”

“Her finances are none of my business.”

“She’ll be able to help you swing the loans for those condos in Costa Rica.”

Some of the tension eased out of Richard’s body. “You got that wrong, just like you got it wrong about me and Cleo. All Cleo gets is prenup money and that wouldn’t make a dent in what I need.”

“What about the proceeds from the key man insurance?”

Richard looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Max spoke softly. “Somehow I thought you might know. The firm took out insurance payable on Glen’s death. Cleo might be able to find what you need out of the two and a half million she’ll receive.”

Richard appeared stunned. “Two and a half million?”

Max saw Annie’s theory—Richard deciding to kill Glen both for his wife and the money she would receive—dissolve like a sand castle with the tide running in.

Richard swung around and left without another word.

Max wondered: Was Richard a shocked and bewildered man, or was he a very fine actor?