Dead By Midnight

Chapter Fourteen

Bella Mae Jack was composed. “If I knew something to help the police, I would have told them.” A frown furrowed her pale face. “I always worried that Darwyn would get himself in trouble. The police think he wanted money to keep quiet about what he saw the morning Mr. Jamison was killed. I wish I could say that Darwyn wouldn’t do such a thing. I was always afraid Darwyn could turn bad.” Her voice was weary, tired with heartache and loss and disappointment. “Darwyn wanted more than he had any right to have and there was a hard spot in his heart. He loved me. I loved him. I wish that had been enough.”

Annie felt the hot burn of tears. Her hand trembled as she lifted the coffee mug. Darwyn’s grandmother had insisted that they sit at the old-fashioned white table in the kitchen and have a piece of sherry cake and a cup of coffee. The old woman, her shoulders stiff beneath her crisp dress, was a gallant figure, accepting that life was full of trouble and woe.

Bella Mae Jack reached across the table and patted Annie’s hand. “You are a good girl. And nice to come for Darwyn.”

Annie put down the coffee mug. “Mrs. Jack, did Darwyn have some close friends I could speak to, maybe a girlfriend? Perhaps he might have told someone what he saw that morning.”

Bella Mae’s long face was somber. “Darwyn kept to himself. He never had anyone over. As for girls”—she averted her gaze—“I’m afraid he didn’t treat girls the way he should. He’d be with one for a while and then another, but he never cared about them. The last one kept calling but he wouldn’t talk to her. I heard she moved to the mainland last May.” She looked faintly surprised. “I don’t know that he was seeing anyone the last month or so. He was home most nights.”

Annie scrambled for some hint, some reflection of Darwyn’s last days. “I don’t suppose”—she hated asking, forced herself—“that there was anything in his pockets”—the police would have cataloged and returned his personal effects to her—“that might lead to someone he saw recently?”

Bella Mae took a breath. “I don’t think so. But you’re welcome to see.” She pushed up from the table, led the way down a short hall, opened the first door to her left, stood aside for Annie to enter.

“I put the things on his desk.” She gestured toward a light pinewood desk against the opposite wall.

Annie noted the single bed against one wall with a dark green spread. Two rock posters hung above the bed. A boom box sat against one wall, next to a rotating gun rack that held two rifles and a shotgun. Mounted antlers on one wall made the room look small.

Bella Mae stayed in the doorway. “I laid everything out.”

Annie stepped past her. At the back of the desktop sat a wine bottle with a candle stub in the neck, a canteen, a duck whistle, a pair of field binoculars, several boxes of ammunition, a soft canvas camouflage hat, a hat-clip light, a pinewood rack with three pistols, a Braves baseball cap, a deck of well-thumbed playing cards, a set of red-feathered darts.

She had no difficulty discerning the contents of Darwyn’s pockets on the night he died. The items were ranged in an orderly row: car keys, brown leather wallet, assorted coins, pocketknife, crumpled receipt from a Gas ’N Go, pack of condoms, small plastic container of mints, one metal key to Cabin Nine of Jasmine Gardens, laminated card with the Braves baseball schedule, a half-dozen lottery tickets, cell phone.

Max pulled up in front of the Gypsy Caravan, a seedy motel next door to an equally unprepossessing beer joint with a tin roof and red barn siding. He glanced at his list. Nine names were now scratched through and they were the better motels on the island. Broward’s Rock had fishing cabins, apartment houses, and rental condos, but fewer than a dozen old-fashioned motels. He’d spoken to managers and yard workers and a few occupants. No one had recognized a photo of Richard Jamison or Cleo Jamison. He squinted against the bright sun. This was not a milieu for Cleo Jamison. On the other hand, she could be confident that no one she knew would likely be found here. Max sighed and opened the car door. Annie admired thoroughness, tenacity, and unswerving commitment. He would finish what he had set out to do, but unless he was mightily surprised, Richard Jamison had not arranged any on-island liaisons with his cousin’s wife. Now, as for off-island . . .

Max strolled toward a ratty office with smeared windows and a sagging screen door. As Annie had pointed out, Richard appeared to have taken up squatter’s rights at the Jamison house, but Cleo practiced law and, until last Tuesday, had a husband who would be aware of her whereabouts, especially at night. That made off-island meetings unlikely. In the afternoons, there were too many people in and out of the house for a rendezvous there.

Max opened the door, wrinkled his nose at the musty smell. He stepped inside to dim light. A beefy-faced clerk looked up from a computer.

Annie worked hard, slicing open boxes, carefully easing out new titles, frowning at an occasional wrinkled edge to a book jacket. She soon had a stack of twenty Linda Fairsteins and thirty-five Randy Wayne Whites. Occasionally she checked the time. Was Billy talking to Elaine or to Tommy? Was Handler Jones representing Elaine or her nephew? If the spotlight was now on Tommy, Elaine had probably asked Jones to represent him. With every minute that passed, the time came nearer when Tommy Jamison would be taken into custody and charged with murder. Obviously, Max hadn’t hit pay dirt or he would have called.

As if on cue, her cell phone rang.

She answered, hoping. “Max?”

“Nada, honey.” He was philosophical. “I can affirm, attest, and swear that if Richard was screwing Cleo they were either invisible or off-island.”

Annie felt as wilted as a day-old corsage. “I didn’t have any luck either.”

There was a silence. Then he said gently, “I’m sorry.”

“You tried. We tried.” She looked at the clock. Eleven. Had Tommy been arrested yet?

“Hey, Annie. Let’s take Lady out.”

Annie was tempted. Island Lady was Max’s new 375 HP twenty-nine-foot speedboat. Max loved fast and faster and could reach a terrifying (to Annie) 70 mph, but when Annie was aboard he promised to keep her under forty. Yet she didn’t feel comfortable seeking pleasure when she knew the grim prospect facing the Jamison family. Besides, it was Saturday and Ingrid deserved to have the owner at work. “Tomorrow. I promise.” She looked toward the worktable. “I’m unpacking boxes. You go ahead.” She dropped the cell phone into her pocket, returned to her task. She carried twelve Randy Wayne White books out of the stockroom. She placed six copies face out in the New Mystery section.

As she walked back toward the storeroom, she noted a Cat Truth poster at the end of the Romantic Suspense section. An elegant Havana Brown, its mahogany-colored coat thick and short, lifted its irregular muzzle to stare with large oval green eyes: Are you paying homage yet?

“Gorgeous,” she murmured. She swerved toward the coffee bar. Only a few customers sat at the tables. A sunny Saturday morning was time to play golf or tennis, ride bikes, stroll on the beach, plunge into the ocean with a cautionary eye for jellyfish, feel the rush of the wind as a speedboat spanked across the bay.

Annie stepped behind the coffee bar. She poured Colombian Supremo into a mug emblazoned with Dead End by John Stephen Strange. That’s where she was. Or caught between a rock and a hard place. The rock was Laura’s view of the backyard. The hard place was Annie’s disbelief in the guilt of the only person who could be guilty, according to what Laura claimed she had seen.

Annie drank deeply, but the wonderfully black and strong coffee didn’t provide its usual boost. Her eyes narrowed in thought. Laura had waffled about her presence on the porch. Annie reached for the portable phone. She called Max’s secretary and in a moment she had Laura’s cell-phone number.

“Laura, Annie Dar—”

“You have a lot of nerve to call me.” Laura’s voice vibrated with anger. “Tommy’s in big trouble and it’s your fault. That policeman’s talking to him. Elaine and that lawyer are with him.”

Annie pictured the hard wooden bench in the anteroom of the police station. “Are you at the police station?”

“Where else would we be, thanks to you. Why didn’t you let us alone?”

Annie was stung. “I was trying to help Elaine. I knew you saw someone. I thought you were protecting Kirk. When we found out he was wearing a madras shirt, I talked to Buddy Crawford. That’s when I realized you must have seen Tommy when he came home to see your dad.”

“They trapped me.” Now Laura was crying. “They told me Kirk was wearing a plaid shirt and then they asked if the shirt I saw was blue. I was so glad it wasn’t Kirk that I said yes. I wasn’t thinking about Tommy. I didn’t know he was wearing a blue shirt Tuesday morning.”

“What did you see that morning?”

“I only caught a glimpse of a guy in blue coming onto the terrace. I thought it was Kirk. Then, in just a few minutes, I heard running feet and somebody raced from the terrace across the backyard. Again, I thought it was Kirk. I couldn’t see Elaine’s front door because of a willow. I’d have known it wasn’t Kirk if I’d seen him go to the cottage. Tommy said he left his bike down by the garage.”

Annie’s voice was sharp. “Were you on the porch the entire morning?”

“I’ve told you and told the police. Yes. I was there.”

“But once you said you’d gone inside for a few minutes.”

“That’s because you were badgering me and I didn’t want to say I’d seen Kirk. I should have known it wasn’t him, but I thought he was coming over to try and talk to Dad.”

It was like hearing a cell door click.

“What difference does it make now?” Laura was querulous.

“If you were there the entire time and you saw only Tommy”—Annie drew a deep breath—“then there’s no one else who could have shot your father.”

The silence pulsed. “You mean . . . Oh, no, no, that can’t be. Not Tommy. No, someone came through the front. That’s what happened.” There was huge relief in her voice.

Annie was brusque. “A telephone lineman was across the street. No one came in the front door until the police arrived.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The murderer came across the backyard.” Annie heard the sadness in her own voice.

“Oh. The guy could be wrong. And if he isn’t”—the words came fast—“then I know the murderer must have come”—she struggled for breath—“when I went inside for a few minutes. I mean, I wasn’t out there the whole time. Somebody could have come and I wouldn’t have seen them. So it doesn’t have to be Tommy. I’ll tell them as soon as they let us talk to them again. Anybody can make a mistake. I wasn’t thinking. I thought it didn’t matter. See, I went inside and I went to the top of the stairs and I was going to go down and talk to Dad and”—a pause—“I heard a door close downstairs and I decided I’d wait and see him later. So there was time for someone else to come. Oh. I’ve got to go now.”

The call ended.

Annie replaced the phone. Laura didn’t lie particularly well. That didn’t matter. Her response told Annie all she needed to know. Laura hadn’t left the porch. She would be glad to claim that she’d left, if it would help Tommy. But Annie knew in her heart that Laura had been on the porch the entire morning. She had seen Darwyn. She had seen Tommy. She had not seen Elaine. She had seen Richard, but by that time Tommy had run to the cottage with the gun and the bloodied shirt, leaving his father dead in the study.

Annie poured the now lukewarm coffee in the sink. Her steps felt leaden as she moved across the coffee area. She and Max and Billy had tried hard to find the truth and now the truth seemed inescapable.

Laura had seen what she had seen.

She’d watched Darwyn, moving no doubt with his swagger and compelling maleness. Darwyn had tangled with the wrong person. He would never again be alive with lust in Jasmine Gardens. Somewhere on the island some woman knew him well. Now it didn’t matter that she’d been impossible to find. There had been no one else in the Jamison backyard on that deadly Tuesday morning but Darwyn at work with the leaf blower and Tommy coming later, angry with his father, and in front of the house a telephone lineman with a clear view of the Jamison front porch.

Annie shook her head in confusion. Billy had emphasized the careful planning he thought he saw in the crimes. Was Tommy able to mount that kind of effort? Pat Merridew’s death had been cunningly contrived. How would Tommy know she had pain pills? Would Pat serve Irish coffee to a teenager? Would a teenage boy think in terms of carefully washing and returning a crystal glass to a breakfront? Even if all of that were possible, would Tommy use his aunt’s golf club for a third murder and hide her gardening gloves in a tree where they were sure to be found? And why would Darwyn calmly sit on the top step of the gazebo and permit someone he suspected of murder to step behind him in the dark?

Fragments of thoughts jostled in her mind. Tuesday morning . . . Laura sitting on the upper verandah . . . the leaf blower . . .

Annie paused in front of the fireplace. To her left, a Cat Truth poster was a little askew. She stepped forward, her hand out to straighten it, but she stopped and stared at the Bombay Tom, black as pitch, looking as satisfied as a gambler with a royal flush, bright yellow eyes gleaming, and on the floor a broken fishbowl: Don’t look at me. I was at the vet’s.

Don’t look at me . . .

Everything shifted in her mind.

Billy had been right to emphasize planning. Now she understood why the gun had been hidden in the gazebo, the necessity for Glen to die on Tuesday morning, the function of the leaf blower, the deliberate use of Elaine’s five iron, passion and lust, Kirk still a partner, Richard’s decision to leave the island . . .

Annie darted into the storeroom, grabbed her purse. She reached for the door handle, then stopped. She turned and walked slowly to her desk, sank into the chair.

There was no proof.

All she had was an elegant theory.

Did her theory account for the quirks and oddities that had occurred since the key to the gun safe disappeared?

She pulled a pad close, began to write. When she finished, she nodded. Her conclusion was true. Everything fit. The design was clever, cruel, remorseless. Fingerprints? Slowly, Annie shook her head. There had been plenty of time to pull on plastic gloves, use a cloth damp with Windex to polish doorknobs, faucet handles, any and every spot likely to have been touched in the cabin at Jasmine Gardens. The execution would have been thorough, careful, patient. This murderer was never careless.

Fingerprints . . .

There might be a way . . . Billy must never know . . . So many things would have to play out the right way . . . Could she do it? Was she brave enough? She thought of Max. He had a lawyer’s view of the law and her plan flouted the law big-time. If she succeeded in setting a trap, if everything broke her way, then she would call Max.

But not until then.

Annie pulled out her cell phone, punched the number. The phone rang six times, seven. Please be home, please, she willed.

“Hello.” There was neither warmth nor rejection in the voice, there was only deep weariness.

Annie spoke briefly, listened, felt a flood of gladness. “Thank you. I’ll come right now.” Eyes narrowed in thought, she scrabbled in a catchall drawer, found a chisel. She slid the tool in a pocket. Frowning, almost stymied, she surveyed the storeroom, a table for packing and unpacking books, her computer, desk, a sink . . . She hurried across the room, picked up the long, narrow box of Saran wrap. She plucked a plastic sandwich bag from another box and dropped it into another pocket.

When she pulled up in front of Bella Mae Jack’s well-kept frame house, Annie knew it wasn’t too late to turn back. It took all of her determination to walk across the yard.

Bella Mae waited on the porch. She rose from the rocking chair, her face weary. “Here it is.” She looked curiously at the key before she handed it to Annie. “Do you know what it’s for?”

Annie didn’t meet her eyes. “Yes.”

There was a silence.

Bella Mae sighed. “I was always afraid . . .” She turned away. Her front door closed. The sharp click might have been the sound of a heart breaking.

Annie stared at the white panel, then whirled, ran down the steps and to the car. As she drove away, she thought about Tommy, scared, puzzled, accused, facing arrest.

Annie drove faster. She pulled into Pat Merridew’s driveway, parked the car out of sight behind the house. She took plastic wrap and wound a thick strip around each hand. She tossed her purse into the trunk, dropped the car keys into her pocket. They clanked against the key given to her by Bella Mae Jack. She hurried to the opening into the woods.

On the trail, she stumbled once, her foot snagged by a vine. She was sweating profusely by the time she reached the end of the trail and the Jamison backyard. A crow cawed and flapped sturdy wings. Insects whirred, surrounding her in a cloud. She waved away no-see-’ums. Two cars were parked in the drive, a faded red Dodge and a black Mercedes. She would guess the Dodge belonged to Laura. The sleek Mercedes very likely was Glen’s car. Kit’s VW wasn’t there or Elaine’s Corolla. Annie felt certain Cleo would have taken her own car to the police station. Had Richard gone with her? But there should be another car if he had left his.

Annie stared at the house. There was no hint of occupancy, but a half-dozen people could be inside and she wouldn’t know. She had to know. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, punched numbers, the effort made awkward by the Saran wrap. This time the call was answered immediately.

“Broward’s Rock Police.”

Annie was relieved that Mavis had answered. Mavis was serious, solid, dependable. Would she step outside her comfort zone?

“Mavis, Annie Darling. Don’t mention my name aloud. Please look as if you are taking an everyday kind of call. I know who killed Glen Jamison. I will tell Billy as soon as I obtain one more piece of information.” This was not true, but if she succeeded in her plan, no one would ever know or care. “However, before I can make progress”—her stomach tightened at what lay ahead—“I have to know about the Jamisons. The last I heard, they were at the station. If they’re sitting on the bench, don’t look toward them. Don’t give any indication that you are aware of them. When I mention a name, if that person is currently at the police station, don’t say anything.”

“All deliveries must be brought to the back door.” Mavis sounded bored. “But I need to know more about the invoice. I need a clear description of the goods.”

Annie smiled. Mavis wanted the lowdown on what Annie knew.

“I’ll get to that.” But not in this call, though this wasn’t the moment to tell Mavis. “First, let me know about the Jamisons. Remember, no answer if the person named is there. Elaine Jamison?” Silence. “Tommy Jamison.” Silence. “Kit Jamison?” Silence. “Laura Jamison?” Silence. “Cleo Jamison?” Silence. “Richard Jamison?”

“No.”

Annie felt a quiver of uneasiness. “Richard Jamison is not at the station?” She’d counted on all the Jamisons being present at the station.

“That’s correct.” Mavis continued to sound as if she might be discussing a shipment.

“All right.” Possibly Annie was stymied before she began. But she would worry about that eventuality if it occurred.

“Please list the contents of the invoice.” Now there was an edge to Mavis’s voice.

“I can’t go into detail right now. Tell Billy I know what happened and I will get back in touch as soon as I’ve set up a chance for an arrest. Until then, it is critically important that both Tommy Jamison and Elaine Jamison be kept at the station and the other Jamisons be told that Billy has just left for the mainland to speak with the circuit solicitor. That’s essential. Do that for me. I’ll call back as soon I can.”

“Wait a min—”

The connection ended. Obviously Mavis wanted more information. She would alert Billy to Annie’s call. Annie could not afford to have her cell phone ring, not for a good long while. She turned off the phone, dropped it into her pocket.

She moved out of the shadow of the woods into the Jamison backyard. She passed Elaine’s cottage and the gazebo. She walked boldly to the back steps and climbed to the verandah. She knocked on the back door. If the door started to open, she would have time to remove the wrap from her hands.

There was no response.

Annie waited a moment, tried again. The door remained shut. The house was apparently empty.

Now she would set her plan in motion. If they ever knew, Billy—and Max—would be appalled. But she had made up her mind. The murderer of Glen Jamison had left no traces. Annie was certain she knew the identity of the shadowy figure behind three murders, but she had no proof. There would never be proof unless she succeeded in her scheme.

Getting into the Jamison house was the first essential step.

Annie opened the screen door, turned the handle of the back door. It was locked. Most island homes did not run to alarm systems and doors were often left unlocked during the day when residents were home. The locked door gave her a sense of reassurance that no one was in the house.

Annie moved down the verandah, trying the French doors. All were locked. Hurrying down the steps, she ran lightly to the end of the porch and came around to the west side of the house. The house was built on arches to avoid flooding by storm surges. She stopped at the first window. She stood on tiptoe and used the chisel to poke a hole about six inches up on the left side of the screen next to the frame. She edged the chisel inside, worked it back and forth to loosen the latch. She pulled the loose side out far enough to unsnap the other latch. Now she was able to unlatch the other side and stand between the loose screen and the sash. She pushed and the window slid up. She dropped the chisel into her pocket.

Annie felt a sweep of relief. If necessary, she would have found something in the garden, a brick, a small pottery decoration, to break a window. She had a fuzzy understanding of breaking and entering and hoped she would never have to understand the finer points. If she succeeded in slipping in and out of the Jamison house without leaving any evidence of her visit, she would be much better off. The small slit in the screen might escape notice, and certainly, if she relocked the screen, there wouldn’t be a suggestion of forced entry.

An incorrigible optimist, Annie felt buoyed by the unlocked window. She pushed aside the interior shutters and scrambled to pull herself up and over the sill. It was only when she stood in the dim room, its silence broken by the tick of a stately grandfather clock, that she realized she was in Glen Jamison’s study. The room was airless and still. The scrubbed patch on the Oriental carpet was a haunting reminder of violent death. Annie turned and pulled the screen shut. She latched it. As she pushed the window down, she felt trapped in a chamber of horrors.

She was breathing fast by the time she skirted the discolored rug and reached the door. She wanted to fling it open and be free of the study, but she carefully turned the knob, barely pulled the door ajar.

Silence.

She waited, listening over the quick rush of her breathing. There was no sound of life or occupancy. She slipped into the hall, again listened hard.

No one home. Thank heaven, no one home.

In a flash Annie was at the cross hall. She unlocked the door to the back verandah for her escape, then turned and hurried to the stairs. She eased up the steps, two at a time. In the shadowy upper hallway, she wanted to hurry, run and grab and be gone, but she forced herself to move stealthily.

She was close.

She tried one door after another. It didn’t take long to find the room she sought. She stepped inside, noted the double bed with a canopy. She turned to her right and walked directly to a vanity in an alcove framed by velvet hangings. She opened a makeup kit, selected a smooth lipstick, a rich bronze. She held it delicately with her plastic-wrapped fingers. She pulled the plastic bag from her pocket, dropped the case inside, and tucked the bag in her pocket.

She hurried across the room, turned the knob, ready to step into the hall.

Distantly, unmistakably, she heard the slam of a door.

Max eased up on the throttle. Oh, man, did he like speed. What a fine and fabulous day. As the boat slowed, he turned the wheel. He was about ten miles offshore and could barely discern a faint hint of land. He glanced at his watch. Almost eleven-thirty. He had cheese and beer in the fridge. Annie, dutiful and dear, would stay at her post until closing time. But he could probably persuade her to take a lunch break. He needed to convince her that Tommy Jamison’s problems were not of her making. Max shook his head. If Tommy shot his dad, surely Pat Merridew’s death had to be classified as suicide. Henny swore that was wrong. But Tommy certainly couldn’t have dropped ground-up pills in Pat’s Irish coffee. Probably Annie right now was muddling about Death on Demand, trying to fit round pegs into square holes. He’d cheer her up. He whistled “Pretty Woman,” but the tune was swept away by the breeze as he pulled on the throttle and headed home.