Dead By Midnight

Chapter Thirteen

Annie pulled in to the curb in front of the Broward’s Rock police station. She scanned the street for Kit’s VW. As she climbed the front steps, she checked the parking lot to the north. No little black car. She opened the front door and stepped into the narrow space in front of the counter.

Mavis Cameron’s angular face looked tired, but she managed a smile. “Billy’s not here, Annie. He went to the mainland.”

Annie didn’t take that calm statement as a good sign for Elaine Jamison. Very likely, Billy had gone to Chastain for a conference with Circuit Solicitor Brice Posey, who was not and never had been a favorite of Max and Annie’s. However, Annie felt certain Mavis would not volunteer any information in regard to the status of Elaine Jamison, either as a suspect or as a prisoner. “Actually, I’m looking for Laura Jamison. She and her sister and brother came here to see about their aunt.”

Mavis pushed back a strand of auburn hair. “They left a little while ago.”

Annie nodded her thanks. As she turned to go, Mavis added, “I’ll tell Billy you dropped by.”

Outside, Annie pulled her cell from her purse and called Elaine’s cottage. No answer. She called the Jamison house. “Is Laura there?” It might be better not to identify herself unless asked to do so. She listened. “No thanks, I won’t leave a message.”

In the car, she made a U-turn. In a way, she wasn’t surprised to learn that Laura had gone to the beach. Was she taking solace from the sweep of the water to the horizon or was she simply trying to escape the worry and fear at home?

Annie found a parking space without a vestige of shade at Blackbeard Beach. She hurried to the boardwalk. She wished she could be there for pleasure, enjoying the scent of coconut oil and sea salt. Waves crested in lines of silver foam atop the green water. Just like yesterday, dolphins arched above the waves, graceful as ballerinas. Annie picked her way around umbrellas and among sun worshippers stretched on towels. At the third lifeguard stand, she again looked up at a thin face masked by sunglasses.

“Laura.”

Laura looked down. “Kit was going to call you. Thanks for helping us. We contacted that lawyer. He’s coming over tomorrow. They let Elaine come home. They’re going to talk to her when Handler Jones is here.”

So Billy had permitted Elaine to leave the station. Annie knew her name popped up on Elaine’s caller ID when Elaine used her cell. If she was in the cottage when Annie called, she’d chosen not to answer. However, Laura had no way of knowing that Elaine didn’t want to talk to Annie, and Laura clearly felt indebted to Annie for the connection to Handler Jones.

Annie strove to appear relaxed, as if in no way she and Laura were at odds. “That’s wonderful news. He will certainly be helpful. As I said when I talked to Elaine”—if Laura assumed this conversation was recent, that was her privilege—“it’s important to come up with the most complete information possible. Now that Elaine has cleared up the confusion about the gun, we’re counting on you for absolutely critical information.”

“Me?” Laura sat rigid.

Annie nodded energetically. “You were on the upper verandah. You saw Darwyn.”

“Oh.” Laura relaxed. “Yeah. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. He was blowing pine straw. Then I lost sight of him. He must have come up close to the terrace.”

With the toe of one shoe, Annie drew a line in the sand. “Okay. That’s the edge of the terrace.” She walked a few feet and dragged her heel to make a line perpendicular to the first. “Here are the pine trees.” Annie turned and walked several feet toward the water. She stamped her feet twice. “Let’s say this is the cottage.” She returned to the first line. “If you looked down, you could see the pine trees and flower beds and Darwyn. If you looked straight, you saw the cottage.”

“Not exactly. There’s a willow in front of the cottage.”

Annie was impatient. “But you would see anyone coming from the cottage to the house once you were past the willow.”

“Yes.” Laura sounded reluctant. This line of questioning was clearly making her nervous and wary.

“When did Elaine come up to the house?” Annie had seen Elaine leave her cottage and hurry toward the marsh around ten. It would help narrow the time frame for Glen’s murder if Laura knew when Elaine had walked to the house.

Laura looked relieved. “I didn’t see Elaine.”

Annie was puzzled. “Yesterday you said you were on the verandah the whole time. You should have seen her.”

Laura shifted uneasily in the high seat. “Oh. I guess I wasn’t there the whole time. I went inside for a few minutes. That must have been when Elaine came.”

Annie had the clear sense that Laura was scrambling for an explanation. She glanced at the imprints in the sand. Darwyn had been in the pines or in the flower beds near the terrace. Definitely Laura should have seen Elaine either coming or going unless she had been absent from the porch for longer than just a few minutes. Was Laura protecting herself? It was possible that she had slipped downstairs to the study and that was why she hadn’t seen Elaine. There was no reason for her not to admit having seen Elaine. Yet Annie sensed a lie somewhere in Laura’s choppy responses.

She tried to work out the times. “How about Richard?”

Laura looked relieved. “I saw him. He was sweating. He’d been jogging. He came up to the terrace and went inside and then in only a few minutes the police came.”

Annie imagined herself on the upper verandah. If Laura glimpsed someone leaving the house after having shot Glen, she would have seen that person walking—or running—toward the cottage and the lane that ran behind it. “Between the time you went out to the porch and before Richard arrived, did you see anyone heading toward the cottage?”

“I didn’t see anyone.” Her voice was strident.

Yesterday Annie had suspected that Laura was lying. Today she had no doubt that the girl was hiding something. Was she hiding the reason for her absence from the verandah or the identity of someone walking away from the house?

“Did you see Kirk Brewster?”

Laura’s fingers curled on the strap of the binoculars in her lap. She drew a swift breath. “No.”

Annie looked up and knew her face was grim. “You saw someone. I think it was Kirk. If you don’t speak out, your aunt is going to be arrested.”

Edna Graham hesitated. When she spoke, her voice was thoughtful but firm. “Mr. Darling, I’m positive Mr. Brewster didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Jamison’s death. But I’ve heard,” and now she sounded worried, “that the police have arrested Elaine.”

“That isn’t correct.” Max tried to sound reassuring. “The police simply wish to question her. Along that line, that’s why I want to visit with Mr. Brewster.” He kept his voice pleasant and hoped she concluded that he posed no threat to the young lawyer. “We’re trying to collect as much information as possible to assist the police. I know Kirk has already been questioned and I’m sure he was helpful. I’m hoping he might offer some insights into the family dynamics.”

“Oh. Well, of course. He’s off-island this afternoon. He took his sister into Savannah to go to the doctor but”—as a good secretary, she had every partner’s location at her fingertips—“you might find him at the youth center in a little while. He didn’t intend to come back into the office. His nephew Sam has a baseball game at four o’clock.”

Annie sat at the coffee bar. She sipped a cappuccino with a double dash of caramel. “Thanks, Henny. You’re a sweetheart to pitch in while I’m running around the island not accomplishing very much.” She felt discouraged and knew she sounded discouraged.

Henny’s voice was firm. “You’re doing your best. If it weren’t for you, the police wouldn’t know that Pat Merridew was murdered.”

Annie felt even more discouraged. “We may know that someone poisoned Pat because she saw Glen’s gun hidden in the gazebo, but Billy doesn’t think there will ever be any way to prove that her death was deliberate.”

“She won’t be labeled a suicide.” Henny’s eyes flashed. “That matters to me and that matters to her sister. I finished packing up everything in Pat’s house. Those travel brochures for the Alaska cruise never did show up.” Henny Brawley poured herself a fragrant tropical tea. She came around to look over Annie’s shoulder at a sketch pad of the Jamison front and back yards with arrows and Xs. “Your drawing looks like one of those old John Dickson Carr books. Maybe we should read The Three Coffins and see if we get some inspiration.”

Annie was emphatic. “There’s always an answer to a locked-room puzzle if you know where to look. But this time, I don’t see any way out of a box.” She pointed at the sketch. “There’s the telephone lineman. He had a clear view of the front door to the Jamison house. According to Billy Cameron, the lineman said nobody came in or out until the police cars arrived, sirens blaring. So we can’t have an unknown who popped in the front door, went down the hall, and shot Glen. Then . . .” Her index finger tapped the squiggle that represented the terrace and the backyard. “There’s Laura on the upper verandah. She claims the only person she saw was Darwyn. She said she didn’t see Elaine. Now she says she wasn’t on the verandah the entire time. That wasn’t what she said yesterday when she claimed she sat there the entire time from breakfast until Richard knocked on her bedroom door. If she was on the verandah and if she’s telling the truth, then the only people who could have shot Glen are Kit or Laura from inside the house or Richard and Elaine from the backyard. I think Laura saw someone. Just like Darwyn did. Who would she protect? Kirk Brewster. Who has a gold-plated motive? Kirk Brewster. Did she see Kirk?”

Henny studied the drawing. “The possibilities come down to Kit and Laura, who were in the house; Richard, who claimed he found Glen dead; Elaine; or maybe Kirk. It looks bad for Elaine. She’s the one who threw away the murder weapon and hid a bloodstained shirt.”

Annie slipped down from the seat, wandered restlessly toward the fireplace. More Cat Truth posters were now mounted on the wall on either side of the fireplace and at the ends of bookshelves. No doubt Laurel had dropped by simply to lend a hand and, of course, improve the bookstore’s decor in passing.

Whatever.

Annie’s gaze slid across the photographs. Which was the most gorgeous? She admired new posters with the wide-open gold, almond-shaped eyes of a fawn-coated Somali (Always say yes to adventure), and an elegantly marked European Brown Tabby pressing a paw on the remnants of a mouse (Don’t knock it till you try it). Among the original posters, she admired again the cinnamon-apricot Siamese with no pointing, green eyes huge in a big-eared, triangular face, back arched in a crouch, poised to spring, mouth agape in a hiss: I’m warning you, back off.

Just like Laura.

Annie shook her head in puzzlement. Why hadn’t Laura admitted seeing Elaine? Elaine claimed she’d grabbed up the gun in a panic, gotten blood on her hand, dashed through the house, and grabbed Tommy’s shirt from the laundry basket.

Tommy’s shirt. The bloodhound smelled the shirt and came straight to Tommy.

Annie remembered Tommy in the living room after arriving home from his friend’s house the morning of his father’s murder. A too-tight, green-and-orange-striped polo had emphasized Tommy’s stocky build. Was it possible . . . Slowly she reached for the phone, punched a familiar number.

“Yo, Annie.”

“Marian”—Annie clung to a hope that the indefatigable reporter could help her—“can you give me a good physical description of Kirk Brewster?”

“Sure. What’s in it for me?”

“If I find out anything big, you’ll be the first to know.” Annie’s fingers were crossed. She would share with Marian at some point, but right now what mattered was discovering the truth.

“Blood oath?” Before Annie could erupt, Marian relented. “Okay, okay. I’ll trust you. Okay. He’s about five nine . . .”

Annie clicked off the phone and stared at another poster. A Highland Fold with an aura of age appeared comfortably settled on a red cushion. Perhaps it was clever photography, but there was a hint of a satisfied smile on the aging cat’s large, rounded face: All cats are gray in the dark.

Ben Franklin’s famous comment on the pleasures of older women after the candles were snuffed was far afield from crime, but Annie repeated the legend aloud. “All cats are gray in the dark.” A picture formed in her mind. She yanked her cell phone from her pocket, punched a familiar number.

“Strike two . . .” The tall, skinny home-plate umpire balled his right hand into a fist and punched.

The wooden bleachers held about fifteen admiring onlookers. Kids played in the shade beneath the seat. An American flag fluttered from a staff at the top of the modest grandstand.

A wiry pitcher wound up and threw a high fastball.

The towheaded batter connected, and the ball dribbled into the outfield.

“Run, Sam. Way to go.” Kirk Brewster yelled and whistled.

Dust flew as the little boy slid into first. The first baseman swiped with the ball, lost his grip, and the ball bounced into the outfield to be retrieved by the shortstop.

Max clapped loudly.

The lawyer gave Max a sour look. “You don’t have to join Sam’s cheering squad.”

“He’s a good hitter. I like baseball.” Max’s tone was mild. Without a change in tone, he asked, “Were you in the Jamison backyard Tuesday morning?”

Kirk gave a strangled hoot of laughter, but he didn’t look amused. “Greased that question in, didn’t you? Ever cross-examine a witness?”

“Not since practice court.” Max was proud of his law degree and had been admitted to the bar in New York, but he was always quick to make it clear that he didn’t practice law.

Kirk shoved a hand through his thick, tawny hair. “Let’s get this straight. I wasn’t there. I don’t know anything about Glen’s murder. I understand the cops are looking at me fish-eyed because of the insurance. I didn’t kill Glen for the money.”

“Although”—Max was still conversational—“it’s convenient for you that he died before you wouldn’t have been eligible for the payout.”

“Yeah.” Kirk sounded troubled.

“I assume you will accept the portion due you?”

Kirk’s face hardened. “You’re damn right I will, if for no other reason than to keep the bitch from walking away with five million.” He glanced toward Max. “I was pretty upset that I was being pushed out, but I didn’t blame Glen. Cleo yanked his string and he danced. It was as simple as that.”

“So there’s no reason why Laura Jamison might think she saw you in the backyard Tuesday morning?”

Kirk looked disturbed. “Is that what Laura said? But I didn’t come.”

Max tried not to look excited. “I guess she got it wrong.”

Kirk shook his head, his expression bemused. “Man, I finally had a piece of luck. Laura kept begging me to talk to her dad one more time. I knew Cleo was going into Savannah for a dep, so I promised Laura I’d drop by Tuesday morning. At the last minute I chickened out. I drove halfway there, then turned around and came back downtown. I went to the pier and walked up and down. Finally I decided to go to the office. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to talk to Glen. He wasn’t going to cross Cleo. That’s why I didn’t show up. Man, was that lucky. I’d be in the dock if I’d been on the spot when somebody shot Glen.” He frowned. “Laura’s called me a couple of times. I haven’t answered. She doesn’t know about the insurance. I didn’t want to tell her. I feel kind of bad taking it, but I’d feel worse to leave it all to Cleo. I need to talk to Laura.” Suddenly he gave a whoop as Sam darted from first, stole second.

As Max joined in the cheers, his cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, answered. “Hey, Annie.” He listened, then gazed at Kirk. “Yeah. I saw him from the back the other day. Yeah. You sure could make that mistake . . . Sure, hold on.” He looked at Kirk. “What were you wearing Tuesday morning?”

Kirk looked blank. “Wearing?”

“Your shirt.”

Kirk looked puzzled, but answered readily. “A short-sleeve madras plaid.” His expression was touched with sadness. “I didn’t want to look like a bum at Glen’s house. I wish how I dressed was all that mattered on Tuesday.”

The Crawford house on Heron Point was a ranch style, probably built in the late fifties. Annie always shook her head at homes that rested flush on the ground. A force-three hurricane would put all but a small portion of the island’s center under four feet of water from the storm surge.

A scrawny teenager, maybe five feet six and weighing a hundred and ten, dribbled a basketball up the drive, dodged an imaginary opponent, turned, and threw. The basketball bounced on the rim, teetered, plopped to the drive. He caught it on the bounce.

Annie shut the car door and walked swiftly across the yard. “Buddy?”

The boy turned and looked at her politely. “Ma’am?” He appeared helpful and well mannered, apparently accepting without thought or question that a woman he didn’t know knew him.

“Did Tommy Jamison bring your shirt back?”

Buddy looked shocked and uncertain. The direct question implied knowledge. Buddy’s thumb rubbed hard against the seam on the basketball. “Tommy’s shirt?”

“The one he borrowed Tuesday morning after he came back.”

Buddy looked bewildered. “How’d you know?”

Annie’s gaze was pleasant. “He was seen in the backyard at his house and now we are simply getting the times straight. When did Tommy leave your house?”

Buddy shuffled his feet.

Annie was firm. “We know what happened and it will be better for Tommy if you can confirm what time he left here and when he returned. He was wearing a blue shirt when he left, but when he came back to your house, he didn’t have on a shirt.” She saw indecision and, finally, resignation. She watched him grope through his thoughts. He’d promised Tommy he’d keep quiet, but somehow Tommy had been found out.

“Yeah. Well. Tommy didn’t want me to tell anyone. See, his shirt—”

Annie interrupted. “The blue polo.”

Buddy nodded. “Yeah. He got blood on his shirt.” Buddy looked at her in entreaty, big brown eyes filled with concern.

Annie knew she was taking advantage of a teenager’s credulity. She’d set out to prove Elaine Jamison innocent of murder. Everything about Elaine—her gentleness, her obvious devotion to her brother, her desperate unhappiness since his murder—had combined to convince Annie that she needed help. But perhaps Annie was beginning to understand Elaine’s plea to be left alone to do what she felt she must do. Elaine loved her brother but she loved Tommy, too. It took an effort for Annie to speak. She knew her voice was thin. “It’s better to straighten things out.” She wasn’t at all sure that clarifying the truth about his shirt was better for Tommy Jamison.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t mind loaning him a shirt. He came back and he was all upset. Poor guy. He was shaking and crying. He found his dad dead and somebody had shot him. Tommy accidentally kicked the gun and then he picked it up.”

Annie heard the echo of Elaine’s explanation.

Buddy looked earnest. “He wasn’t thinking. He was scared. He was afraid to call the police because he and his dad, well, they’d had a fight, and that morning Tommy had gone home to have it out with him about school and everything. He said if his dad didn’t come around, he was going to run away and then his family could wonder what had happened to him. He got up to the study door and it was open and he pushed inside, ready to yell at his dad. He said that’s maybe why he was moving so fast he didn’t see the gun, but when he kicked it, he stopped and picked it up. Then he got really freaked. He had blood on his hand and he wiped it on his shirt. He ran out of the house and pulled the shirt off. He ran down to the cottage and his aunt took the gun and his shirt. She told him to go back to my house. Anyway, he got on his bike and came back here. He didn’t know what to do. I told him maybe it would be better when he got home to act like he didn’t know anything. I gave him one of my shirts to wear.”

Annie looked sympathetic. “I guess he was really scared to call the police since he’d told you he was going to go home and have it out with his dad once and for all.”

Buddy turned the basketball in his hands. “Well, he wouldn’t have sounded so mad at his dad if he’d known somebody was going to shoot him.”

Mavis Cameron smiled at Annie. “Billy said to come on in.” She clicked to open the locked door to the interior of the police station.

Annie stepped into the corridor. She forced herself forward, stopped at the door with Billy’s name on frosted glass. When she revealed what she knew, Tommy Jamison might become the prime suspect. If she didn’t tell Billy, Elaine Jamison would be arrested. She took a deep breath, turned the knob.

Billy looked up from his desk. Lines of fatigue pulled at his sturdy, broad face. He managed a faint smile as he stood and gestured toward a straight chair in front of his desk.

She moved forward and sank onto the chair.

Billy eyed her sharply. “You look about as grim as I feel.”

Annie took a deep breath and began without preamble. “Tommy Jamison . . .”

Billy listened intently, making notes. When she finished, he looked thoughtful. “I get the picture. His aunt lied to protect Tommy. That doesn’t surprise me. She never seemed right for a killer. For one thing, so far as we’ve been able to find out, she’s never shot a gun in her life. To hit her brother twice in the throat was more than blind dumb luck. And why the throat? To watch blood spew? The instinct is to go for the chest or, if you’re a really good shot, the head.”

He leaned back in his chair, stared out the window toward the harbor. “I’ll talk to the kid. He’ll probably open up when he finds out his friend let it all hang out. But even if he spills his guts, if it’s the same talk about kicking the gun and getting blood on his shirt, that won’t clear Elaine.”

Annie edged forward on the hard chair. “When Laura realizes she didn’t see Kirk and that you know Tommy was there, she can tell you exactly what she saw.”

Billy’s expression remained dour. “Here’s what we’ve got. Laura was on the porch. Darwyn Jack was down in the yard. Laura saw somebody and now we know it was Tommy. She didn’t see anyone else until Richard Jamison came in from his jog. He found Glen and immediately raised the alarm. Laura said she didn’t see Elaine. If she’d seen anyone besides Tommy, she would have told us long before now. That leaves us with Kit and Laura in the house and Tommy crossing the backyard. Why would Kit or Laura come outside? No sense to it. And Tommy crossing the yard lets out the cousin, too. Darwyn told us Richard ran through the yard and out the road by the cottage around eight-thirty. Kit saw her father alive after that. By the time Richard came back from his jog, Tommy had already hurried to his aunt’s cottage and given her the gun and the shirt stained with his dad’s blood. You saw Elaine at the marsh before Richard returned.”

Annie tried to sort out the timing in her mind. Kit and Laura in the house. Tommy in the backyard. Her lips felt stiff. “The murderer has to be Tommy.” Blood on the blue polo . . .

Billy slammed a hand on his desk. “I’ve been a cop for a long time.” He looked angry and frustrated. “I never thought Elaine was the killer. Now we have Tommy in her place. But you know what, the murder of Darwyn Jack knocks everything screwy.”

Annie was puzzled. “He must have seen Tommy.”

Billy nodded shortly. “Right. The easy answer is that Tommy killed him because Darwyn tried blackmail, though I don’t know how much money he could get out of a high school kid.” He waved a hand. “I know, Tommy inherits, but I doubt he can get his hands on big money.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Even semibig money. So now, and I’m saying it like the circuit solicitor will see it, the easy answer will be that Darwyn tried to blackmail Tommy and Tommy killed him. The easy answer before that, and the circuit solicitor was hot for me to arrest Elaine, is that she killed Darwyn. But I don’t believe either one of them cracked his skull. Darwyn’s murder was planned down to the last detail and that includes Elaine’s golf club. He was lured to the gazebo—the prosecution will argue he was there for a payoff—and what happened? Darwyn came to the gazebo. He sat on the top step. The killer then moved behind him and picked up Elaine Jamison’s five iron and gave an almighty swing.” Billy leaned forward and his words came in a staccato rush. “That doesn’t play with me. Let’s take Elaine Jamison. Tuesday, when her brother was killed, it’s obvious she threw the murder weapon in the marsh. Smart move, right? We still haven’t found the gun. We can’t drain the marsh. My guess is we’ll never find that Colt. Someday we may have a force-three hurricane and nature can play some tricks and a rusted pistol might be found wedged in a live-oak tree. Stranger things have happened. For now, we don’t have the weapon. Fast-forward to Thursday night. The murderer used Elaine Jamison’s five iron, which we later find in her golf bag. The club face wasn’t even wiped off after it struck him. We had plenty of tissue to test. The lab results are back and her club was the murder weapon.” He looked disgusted. “Does that make sense? She had the smarts to throw the Colt into the marsh and she was under pressure because she knew any minute Glen’s body would be found. So I’m supposed to believe that Thursday night she takes her own five iron with her fingerprints all over the shaft, tucks the club away in the gazebo where it will be handy, meets Darwyn, cracks his skull, then marches back to her garage and puts the dirty club in her bag? Baloney. I didn’t believe it then. I don’t believe it now. Besides that, you know what we found hidden up in a crook of a tree near the gazebo? Her gardening gloves. Now, why would she wear gardening gloves and not wipe off the fingerprints from the club? She had all night to throw that club in the marsh and put the gloves away in her gardening basket. We might have checked her bag and discovered the five iron was missing and been able to prove the wound was consistent with having been made by a five iron, but that doesn’t compare to finding her club and proving it was the murder weapon.”

“None of it makes sense.” Annie thought of murder deep in the night, Darwyn lying facedown at the base of the gazebo steps. Elaine would have been a fool to keep the club. And there was no point in hiding the gloves up in a tree.

Billy was gruff. “You bet it’s screwy. She’s cool and smart and quick Tuesday morning when the pressure’s on, but she panics and shoves the stick in her bag when it’s the middle of the night and no one else is around, plus scrambles up in a tree to tuck her gloves in a crotch. There’s a lot to be said for MO. People act the way they’re going to act. You can’t have smart-as-a-whip and dumb-as-a-post in the same person. That’s what I told Brice.”

Brice Willard Posey, the circuit solicitor, rarely heeded advice.

Billy shook his head. “Brice never met a fact he’d pay attention to. He was hell-bent to arrest Elaine. I staved him off, at least until after tomorrow. She and her lawyer will show up here at nine. Now the solicitor will switch horses and ride Tommy. He’ll say I was right on the button and the club in the bag was a trap for her. He’ll say Tommy Jamison used the club and hid the gardening gloves and left his aunt holding the bag. The solicitor will love it: deranged teenager from old island family guns down father, knocks off a blackmailer, and frames his aunt. Do you know why that scenario stinks?”

“Not the same MO?”

He shook his head. “The MO’s the same. The key to the gun safe disappeared before the murder. That shows planning, just like Darwyn’s murder shows planning. This time it has to do with character. Tommy Jamison’s got a reputation for a bad temper. A couple of fights after football games, sometimes some rough stuff in the locker room. Apparently, he loses his cool, then pretty quick snaps out of his rage and is an all-around good guy. If he’d shot his dad, then had been stricken with remorse, that would be one thing, but Glen’s death was planned down to the last detail. For example, Darwyn only worked there on Tuesday mornings. That’s when the leaf blower would hide the sound of the shots. Lots of planning, so same MO. That doesn’t sound like Tommy Jamison. Besides, when he found his dad dead, if he was dead, who did Tommy run to? His aunt. She came through for him big-time. Unless he’s like Rhoda in The Bad Seed, he’d frame anybody but his aunt. Who tried to save him? Who took his shirt and hid it and lied for him when we found it? His aunt.”

Annie remembered that moment when the bloodhound loped up to Tommy and began to bay and when the shirt was identified as his, how Tommy had begun to speak but Elaine cut him off. His instinct had been to tell the truth and save his aunt.

Billy glanced toward a gray folder that sat by itself near his in-box. He reached out, tapped the cover. “And there’s Pat Merridew. We’ll never prove she was murdered, but too much has happened in the Jamison gazebo to act like that picture in her BlackBerry didn’t mean anything.” He gave Annie a wry glance. “You kept telling me, right?”

Annie felt as if she’d planted a flag atop a mountain.

Billy gave her a thumbs-up. “Counting her as another murder victim makes it clear that the crimes were carefully planned. Admittedly, we have three deaths from different means—poison, shots, and a blunt instrument—but if the deaths are linked, somebody’s thinking on all cylinders. There’s no way Tommy Jamison can figure for the Merridew death. Was Pat Merridew going to invite a teenager over for Irish coffee? I don’t think so. That puts it back on Elaine, but Laura didn’t see her cross the backyard plus Elaine was off-island when the BlackBerry pic was made.”

Billy shoved his hand through his thick short hair. “It’s an almighty mess. I don’t believe the murderer is Elaine or Tommy. Yet somebody close to Glen Jamison shot him. Only someone with access to the house could have obtained the Colt. But when we look, we eliminate suspects one by one. The wife was in Savannah. The cousin left when Glen was alive and came back after”—Billy emphasized the word—“the kid got blood on his shirt. Laura didn’t see Elaine in the backyard during the critical period. That leaves Laura herself, her sister Kit, or Tommy. Kit and Laura had no reason to go outside, so Darwyn didn’t see them. That brings us back to Tommy, but the idea rubs me wrong.” He looked weary. “The circuit solicitor wants somebody’s hide nailed to the wall. The only good thing is Posey won’t harass me tomorrow because he doesn’t work on Saturdays. Monday morning he’ll summon me. He’ll say it’s time I moved, made the arrest, slapped Tommy Jamison in jail. The hell of it is, we’ve got enough evidence. Do you think Posey cares if I know in my gut that somewhere something’s wrong?”

Cricket frogs cheek-cheeked, bull frogs whorummed, barking frogs yapped, and Southern toads shrieked. Cicadas whirred and crickets clicked. Annie stood on her and Max’s back verandah, looking through the dusk toward the darkness of the pond, but she found no peace in the summer serenade. “I was smart, wasn’t I? I figured out about the shirt and now Tommy Jamison’s going to be arrested.”

Max slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Sometimes”—his voice was gentle—“what we see is what is there.”

Annie felt as if her thoughts had raced around and around ever since she talked with Billy. No matter how she figured, there didn’t seem to be any way to save Tommy.

“Kids kill.” Max was somber.

Annie knew he was right and yet Billy thought the equation was wrong. So did she. She turned to Max, lifted her chin. “We can’t give up. Tomorrow, let’s try one more time. Darwyn was one sexy guy. We know he had a girlfriend.” She pictured the cabin at Jasmine Gardens. “He would have talked to her about the morning he was working at a house and a man was killed. I mean, that was too exciting to ignore. Maybe I can find her.”

Max gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I’ll tilt at a windmill, too. Richard Jamison claims he wasn’t having an affair with Cleo. If he was, what are the odds he’d know about the key man insurance? It’s a small island. If they were meeting on the sly, there should be some trace.”

Dimly Annie heard the ring of the telephone in the kitchen. She almost ignored the sound, then turned and hurried inside. She raised an eyebrow at the caller ID, answered in a neutral voice.

“Annie Darling?” Cleo Jamison’s voice was low and hurried, but Annie had no difficulty recognizing the rich contralto.

“Yes.”

“I hope you don’t mind my calling you at home.” Cleo sounded uncertain. “I want to know what’s going on. I have a right to know what’s happening. Glen was my husband.” There was a hint of anger in the pronoun. “The police have been here. The chief wanted to talk to Tommy about his shirt. I advised him to decline to answer questions until he was represented by counsel. I understand he and Elaine will be interviewed tomorrow. Chief Cameron left and now the family’s shut me out. You’d think they would appreciate my effort to help. Maybe I shouldn’t help them. If one of them killed Glen, I want them arrested. But I have trouble believing Elaine or Tommy would shoot Glen. Since Laura was sitting there, I didn’t want to say anything, but it looks to me like Kirk is the one the police should be investigating. Cameron said the information about Tommy’s shirt came from you. What exactly did you tell him?”

Annie hesitated. Obviously, Billy had given only the bare minimum of information. Was it his intent to let the family worry and wonder until the interview tomorrow?

Cleo attacked. “I have a right to know. Glen was my husband.”

Annie pictured Cleo clutching her cell phone, perhaps secreted in the small study, keeping her voice low in a house where she was the outsider.

She did have a right to know.

Annie spoke soberly. “ . . . and so it turned out that Laura saw Tommy.”

“Oh my God.” Cleo’s voice was faint. “Poor Glen. Oh, poor Glen.” There was a long pause. Finally, shakily, she said, “I only wanted Tommy to be nice to me. I’ll never forgive myself if Glen died because I made Tommy mad. But we’ll see what happens tomorrow. I’ll be there. I hope the police chief is wrong.” A long pause. “But he may be right.” The last words were scarcely audible. “If you learn anything else, call me.”