Dead By Midnight

Chapter Four

Annie stepped inside Parotti’s Bar and Grill, the island’s oldest and most successful café and bait shop. She welcomed the air-conditioning, augmented by ceiling fans. In winter, she ordered a fried oyster sandwich. In summer, she opted for fried flounder. Despite Ben’s transformation from grizzled leprechaun to snazzy proprietor after his marriage to tea-shop–genteel Miss Jolene, Parotti’s maintained its rakish atmosphere, sawdust on the floor in the adjoining bait shop, battered old Burma Shave signs as decor, and a 1940s jukebox that worked. Maybe she’d play Frankie Carle’s “Rumors Are Flying.” Of course, Miss Jolene’s influence was unmistakable, quiche on the menu and red-and-white-checked cloths on the tables.

Annie slid into her favorite booth. In a moment, Ben brought iced tea for her and lemonade for Max, left menus and a breadbasket. She sipped the tea and absently scanned the Burma Shave signs. Her favorite sequence read: Don’t stick / Your elbow / Out so far / It might go home / In another car.

She looked across the room as the heavy oak door opened.

Max swerved around a group of sunburned tourists, moved purposefully toward her. As always when she saw his blue eyes looking for her and his generous mouth widening in a smile for her, she felt a familiar thrill. Tall and blond, he was the handsomest man there. Or, as far as she was concerned, the handsomest man anywhere.

He slid into the booth, reached out to touch her hand. His touch was warm and she felt, as always, a surge of happiness.

Ben was there to take their orders, fried flounder for Annie, grilled for Max, fries for her, coleslaw for him.

As Ben turned away, Max buttered a slice of jalapeño corn bread. “You sounded grim.”

“I feel grim. Pat was murdered.” She described her visit to the police station, her trip to Pat’s house, Henny finding the six-cup percolator, Billy agreeing to check the crystal mugs for fingerprints. “ . . . so it seems obvious. Someone washed that mug and dried it without leaving any trace.”

Max added sugar to his lemonade. “I get your reasoning, but it’s hard to prove anything just because there aren’t fingerprints. Besides, why would anyone kill Pat Merridew? You said Billy checked and Pat didn’t have enemies and nobody here profited from her death.”

“There has to be a reason.” Annie added another huge splash of tartar sauce to her sandwich.

Max professed deep concern. “Careful with that tartar sauce. You might choke.”

Annie finished the bite, smiled sweetly. “The better to slide down my throat.” She recalled one of Laurel’s Cat Truth posters, a European Brown Tabby with elegant markings delicately chewing blades of grass: Don’t knock it till you try it.

Max reached across the table, used his thumb to brush between Annie’s eyebrows. “Ease up, Annie. You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders. Billy will investigate.”

She looked at him soberly. “Of course he will. He’ll check with neighbors, see whether anyone was seen going into Pat’s house that night. I don’t think a clever murderer would take a chance of being seen. Besides, sometimes people don’t want to talk to police.”

Max started to speak, stopped, then said mildly, “Honey, if Billy can’t find anything, I don’t think anyone else will either.”

She understood. Gently, kindly, he meant that if Billy couldn’t find a lead, neither could she. “Maybe not. But I can try.”

His gaze was curious and a little puzzled. “Why?”

Annie almost felt as if she were having a Madame Arcati moment. Everything seemed crystal clear. “When Billy called, he said the investigation would continue and then he asked Henny and me to let him know if we found out anything. Don’t you see? He knows that whatever led to Pat’s death is hidden in pieces of her life that a police investigation will never uncover. I’m sure he wants us to help. He was saying the truth won’t come out unless we find out what Pat had done that made someone want her dead.”

Max scooped coleslaw. “There aren’t that many reasons for murder. Anger. Jealousy. Fear. Greed. Revenge.”

Annie glanced at the bowl containing tartar sauce, decided to honor Max’s sensibilities. Instead, she added a dollop of cocktail sauce. “Her estate goes to a sister in California. That knocks out greed. You don’t invite someone for coffee if you are furious with each other. As for jealousy, why would anyone be jealous of Pat? She wasn’t young, beautiful, or, so far as we know, involved in an affair. Revenge implies some kind of estrangement, so again an invitation for coffee is out. That leaves fear.”

Max forked a piece of flounder. “If she wouldn’t invite someone for coffee because she was angry with them, she certainly wouldn’t invite someone she feared.”

Annie put down her fork. “Max, that’s brilliant.”

“Really?” A blond eyebrow quirked.

“Don’t you see; Pat wasn’t afraid. She invited someone over for coffee. She wouldn’t ask someone if she felt she was in any danger.” Annie’s voice was hushed. “The other person was afraid.”

Max didn’t appear overwhelmed with her sagacity. “Why did someone fear Pat?”

“She must have posed a threat.” Annie frowned, thinking out loud. “Maybe she knew something someone was determined to keep secret. Maybe Pat knew about something illegal or embarrassing or compromising in some way. Maybe Pat called the person, suggested they visit over a cup of coffee, maybe she dropped enough of a hint that it was clear what she was talking about.”

Max forked coleslaw. “What was her point?”

Annie recalled another mystery discussion with Pat and her admiration for Christie’s Virginia Revel, who looked for new experiences. “Maybe she wanted to see how the person would react. Or maybe Pat thought she could profit if she kept silent.”

Max lifted his tea glass. “In less polite circles, that’s called blackmail.” He looked more interested. “She could have picked up some damaging information at the law firm. Maybe that’s why she was fired.”

Annie pressed fingertips against her temples. Possibly channeling Madame Arcati was habit-forming. “That doesn’t work. If she threatened someone at the law firm, she wouldn’t have been fired.”

Max objected. “Wait a minute. What’s the best way to get fired? Pose a threat to someone you work with.”

Annie was thoughtful. “She lost her job a couple of weeks ago. Henny says she was furious. If she’d known anything, she would already have caused trouble. I think something happened after she lost her job. We have to find out everything we can about the last two weeks. What Pat did, who she saw, where she went.”

Max took a moment in his stroll toward his desk to select a putter from a green ceramic vase shaped like an elephant’s huge foot and a ball from a soft purple velvet bag hanging from a bronze hook next to the vase. An indoor putting green of synthetic bent grass graced one corner of the room. Today the hole was placed in a far corner beyond a challenging contour.

Max placed the ball at the edge of the green, assumed a putting stance. He drew the club back, making sure the putter face was square to the line. He stroked, smooth as butter. The ball rolled true, quivered for an instant, plopped into the cup. Max hoisted the club in triumph, then returned it to the vase.

He was smiling as he settled in the red leather chair behind the gleaming Renaissance refectory table that served as a desk. The surface was bare except for a matching red leather desk pad and the ornate silver frame that held his favorite photograph of Annie. He stared into her steady gray eyes. Flyaway sandy hair framed her open eager face. “Okay, babe. You want info on people around Pat Merridew. Maybe losing her job at the law firm doesn’t have anything to do with her murder, if it was murder, but that’s the place to start. For sure, they knew her well.”

He turned to his computer, went online, Googled Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster + Broward’s Rock. The Web page came up, reading: Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster, LLC. Max pulled a legal pad close, made notes. When he concluded, he printed bios for Glen Jamison, Cleo Jamison, and Kirk Brewster. His brow furrowed. There was no indication on the Web site that Kirk was leaving the firm. Maybe they were waiting to update after his departure.

Max read the bios, then looked again at the Web site, which listed office personnel. His eyes settled on a familiar name. He reached for the phone. When he was connected, he spoke quickly, “ . . . I don’t want to interrupt your workday. I saw one of your watercolors at the library and I wondered if you would be interested in doing a painting for my office.” The law-firm building was a half block from the island’s newest business, a frozen yogurt shop. “Could I buy you a yogurt on your break?” He smiled. “See you there.”

Annie had scarcely noticed the neighborhood when she came to Pat Merridew’s house with Billy. Now she studied her surroundings. Pat’s house was on the wooded side of the road with no neighbors on either side. However, across the unpaved street several houses backed up to a lagoon. Two houses faced Pat’s cottage.

Annie pulled into Pat’s driveway, parked next to the blue Chevy. She glanced at the printout she’d made with the addresses and names of Pat’s near neighbors.

Annie slipped out of the car, shaded her eyes to look directly across the street. The one-story, pale lemon stucco house belonged to Mrs. Charlene Croft. About a hundred yards away was a gray stone ranch house. She glanced at her sheet. The owner was Mark McGrath. Pat’s drive and front porch were visible on an oblique line from the McGrath home.

She walked across the dusty unpaved road to the Croft home. Squirrels chittered and blue jays scolded as she knocked on the screen door. It popped open and a tiny, rail-thin woman with a mass of white curls and curious brown eyes peered at her.

Annie smiled. “Mrs. Croft?”

“You aren’t the nurse’s aide.” There was a quick frown. “Well, I’m not buying anything.”

As the door started to close, Annie said quickly, “I’m here because of Pat Merridew.”

The door was pushed wide. “Oh.” Her soft voice was quavery. “Such a shame. She was the nicest neighbor. When I broke my hip, she brought me casseroles and stayed to visit. She kept up with everyone in the neighborhood. The McGraths”—Mrs. Croft gestured to her left—“go to Minnesota every summer and Pat kept an eye on everything for them.”

“Are they gone now?”

Mrs. Croft nodded. “They left two weeks ago.” She cocked her head like an eager bird. “Are you family?”

“No, ma’am. I’m Annie Darling. I own the bookstore on the marina and Pat had just started to work for me.”

She nodded, the white curls quivering. “Pat told me she had a new job.” The wrinkled face drooped. “She was so excited. And now she’s gone. Are you taking up a memorial? I’ll get my purse.”

“Oh, no. I’m hoping to find out who visited her the night she died. You know, it would be helpful to the family to know if she had begun to feel ill.”

“Why, that’s the oddest thing. A police lady came by just a few minutes ago and asked me the same thing. I think it’s very nice of everyone to want to know what happened. But no one came to see her that night.”

Annie felt an instant of shock. “We were sure someone came.”

Mrs. Croft’s head shake was decided. “I sat on my front porch from supper time on in my swing. I was reading Ann Ross’s new book and I tell you I laughed until I almost cried and I didn’t move until it was almost ten, and the police lady said that a friend talked to Pat and she was sitting down to eat at six o’clock and I know that’s right because that’s when she always ate, and the police lady said that meant she died sometime between eight and nine o’clock.”

Annie understood. Time of death had been estimated on the basis of the state of digestion of her final meal.

Mrs. Croft looked regretful. “I should have known something was wrong when I looked out about two-thirty in the morning—I got up to rub some liniment on my hip—and her lights were still on. But I didn’t go check again because her lights had been on late ever since she lost her job at the law firm.”

Annie almost ended the conversation there. She was ready to speak when one word registered. “You ‘didn’t go check again’?”

Mrs. Croft nodded energetically. “Pat used to go to bed at ten every night after the evening news. You must think I am the world’s nosiest neighbor”—her smile was quick—“but I have bursitis and some nights I can’t sleep because of the pain. I get up and walk around and I was used to seeing Pat’s lights go off. Well, more than a week ago, the lights were on and it was past midnight. I was worried that maybe she was sick, so I put on my robe and shoes and went across and knocked on the door. And you know what?”

Annie shook her head.

“She didn’t answer the door.” Mrs. Croft’s tone was portentous.

Annie tried not to reveal her disappointment.

“That worried me, so I tried the door. Pat never bothered to lock up until right before she went to bed. I stepped inside and called out. No answer. I started looking around. Gertrude came up to me in a minute, though I could tell she’d been asleep. Pat wasn’t anywhere, not in the living room or the bedroom or little den or kitchen or bathroom. I was puzzled because her car was outside. Gertrude followed me all around. I went right through the house and out into the backyard thinking maybe she’d fallen and”—Mrs. Croft clapped her hands together—“here she came up the boardwalk. I told her I was so glad she was all right, that I’d come to check because her lights were on so late. She gave me a hug and said she had trouble sleeping and she’d gone for a walk.” Mrs. Croft’s animation fled. “After that I noticed her lights were on late every night. I didn’t worry about her Friday night. I thought she’d gone for another late walk.”

Max took a half spoon of raspberry and a half spoon of chocolate. “ . . . love to have a watercolor of the pier, a summer scene with people fishing.” His expression was enthusiastic.

Edna Graham smiled, easing the severity of an angular face with heavy dark eyebrows and strong nose and square chin. “I have several new watercolors of the pier.” Her eyes shone with eagerness. “I could bring some to your office tomorrow over my lunch hour.”

“That would be great.” His tone was hearty. Edna was reputed to be a superb legal secretary. He’d seen several of her paintings at the local artists’ community show at the library and they were pale and subdued for his taste. But a man in search of information did what a man had to do. “It’s outstanding that you have a successful career and find time to paint as well. Do you find painting a relief from the stress of your job?”

Max found Edna’s expression uncannily similar to one of his mother’s Cat Truth posters: a thick-furred, brown rosette-tabby Pixie-Bob, its wide rounded head held in a pose of supreme satisfaction: Tell me again how fine I am.

“Oh”—her sigh was heartfelt—“you can’t imagine how stressful work can be. Everything has to be right when you are a legal secretary. No mistakes.” Her chin jutted. “I don’t make mistakes.”

“I suppose it’s been even harder since Pat Merridew left the firm.”

Edna looked offended. “Pat wasn’t a legal secretary. Believe me, no one would have trusted her with substantive work. She was a receptionist. She didn’t have anything to do with legal matters.” Her tone indicated disdain. Then her angular face softened. “Poor Pat. Such a shock about her death. Everyone’s awfully sorry. I can’t imagine anyone dying at her age.” There was a flicker in her eyes, the recognition of mortality sparked by unexpected death.

Max gave it one last try. “So Pat wasn’t privy to confidential information that would burden her.”

“No.” Edna’s reply was unconcerned. She glanced at her watch. “I must get back. I have a contract to finish. I’ll come to your office at noon tomorrow.”

Annie stopped at her car, tossed her purse in the trunk, then hurried around the side of Pat’s cottage. The backyard was shallow. Spanish moss and resurrection ferns dotted the live oaks. A slight breeze stirred dangling willow fronds. Patches of grass spread in irregular clumps on the dusty gray ground. A boardwalk led from the back steps of the cottage to an opening in the pine woods. Annie recalled the geography. She thought much of the wooded area behind Pat’s house was part of a nature preserve.

Lights gleaming late at night had drawn Mrs. Croft across the street. She had found Pat’s house empty and found Pat in the backyard coming up the boardwalk.

Annie looked at the woods. She had a healthy respect for island woods after dark when a fox might nose cautiously through undergrowth or a bobcat wait in ambush for an unwary deer. Yet Pat Merridew had been returning from the woods when Mrs. Croft came to check. Moreover, Mrs. Croft became accustomed to lights on late at night in Pat’s house, which suggested her foray into the woods might have been repeated. Maybe the deep darkness with the rustle of night creatures had soothed Pat.

Annie almost turned away, then stopped, staring at the dim entrance into the woods. Something had occurred recently in Pat’s life that had led to murder. Certainly late-night walks in the forest qualified as unusual. Annie walked swiftly across the yard.

In the woods, she studied a narrow path. With a shrug, she turned right. She followed a twisting, vine-shrouded path that grew ever fainter. The path finally ended at a murky lagoon with water as black as pitch. She’d not glimpsed a single house or offshoot trail. Hot and bug-nipped, she retraced her steps and paused at the opening into Pat’s backyard. She spoke aloud. “She was some kind of nut if she went that way.” With a sigh, Annie continued in the other direction. The path curved generally north and west. She waved away swarms of flies and no-see-’ums. Yaupon holly and ferns choked the ground beneath the canopy of live oaks, slash pine, and magnolias. A recent heavy summer rain had left puddles. She squished along the muddy trail, probably staining her cream leather loafers for all time. She was leaving a distinct set of tracks. A bicycle could have come this way, but she saw no tire prints.

Children’s voices rose in chatter and shouts.

Finally, a sign of life.

Annie carefully eased apart saw-palmetto fronds to reveal an asphalt parking lot behind a playground. She stepped warily, after a careful survey of the ground. She was well aware that rattlesnakes and alligators inhabited the woods. She let out a small breath of relief as she reached the parking lot unscathed. A chain-link fence bounded the playground. Toddlers scooped sand into buckets. Four- and five-year-olds swung, clambered up and down ladders to a wooden fort, slid down slides, or maneuvered on a small plastic climbing wall.

Annie walked past the small gray structure. In the street, she saw the entrance and a sign hanging from an iron post: HAPPY DAYS CHILD CARE. She noted the hours. The day care closed at seven P.M. Owner or staff might have been there on Friday evening, but the path would only be visible to someone standing in the parking lot and pulling aside greenery.

Annie reentered the woods, snagging her blouse on a saw-palmetto frond. A hundred yards farther on, she heard the yipping of dogs. Again she pulled aside fronds and recognized the back parking area of the island’s veterinary clinic. This time she didn’t bother to struggle through the undergrowth. Obviously, the path wasn’t usually accessed from either business site.

She almost retraced her steps, then, lips folded stubbornly, continued forward. The pines thinned to her left. Through the trees, she saw a gazebo, a garden with banks of azaleas, several plots filled with rosebushes, and the back of a three-story tabby home. The path at that point turned due east but a red-and-white barrier prohibited entry.

POSTED

RICE FIELD RECLAMATION

KEEP OUT

Very likely, the path beyond the barrier might be all but impassable. In the dark, Pat surely hadn’t continued.

Annie felt discouraged. Mrs. Croft saw Pat emerge from the woods, so clearly she’d taken the path. She hadn’t turned to the right unless she wanted to commune with a black lagoon. Clearly she’d traveled this way. But why? Moreover, she may have likely trekked into the woods not once, but several times. Mrs. Croft reported she’d continued to see lights late at night. Whatever Pat had done, wherever she had gone on the night Mrs. Croft came to check on her, she likely had gone again and again.

Where and why?

Annie stepped cautiously on slick pine straw. When she reached the base of the garden, a charming one-story gray wood cottage was in full view. Annie stared. She hadn’t recognized the house from the backyard, but she immediately knew the cottage. Annie had been there last week for a committee meeting for the League of Women Voters. Elaine Jamison was the committee chair. Annie liked working with Elaine, who was crisp, kind, clever, and insightful. But much more important to Annie was the fact that the softly green tabby house was the home of Glen and Cleo Jamison.

Annie turned toward the cottage. Elaine’s car was not in the drive. Annie walked back into the woods, thinking hard. She returned on the path to Pat Merridew’s backyard. As soon as she reached her car, she retrieved her purse from the trunk and lifted out her cell phone. She called the police station, recognized the voice of the dispatcher—Billy’s wife, Mavis. “Mavis, this is Annie Darling. May I speak to Billy?”

In a moment, Billy answered.

Annie plunged into her recital, stopping only when Billy interrupted. Finally, she concluded, “ . . . and I think Pat went late at night to the Jamison house.”

Billy was sharp. “Wait a minute. You don’t have any basis for that conclusion.”

Annie was fervent. “Why else would she go on that path?”

“There’s no proof she turned left. Maybe she went toward the lagoon.”

“Pat told Mrs. Croft she couldn’t sleep after she lost her job. She was furious with Glen Jamison. I think she went on that path to the Jamison house.”

“Why?” Billy sounded bewildered. “What possible reason would she have to go there late at night after everyone was asleep?”

“Because she was upset.” It seemed eminently reasonable to Annie.

Billy drew a deep breath. “There’s no point to it.”

She had a quick memory of a Cat Truth poster: a small Brown Tabby, clearly a female, stalked a mesmerized rabbit while a Golden Shaded Persian male lolled back against a cushion, one leg raised for grooming. She takes care of business. Maybe if the rabbit kicked him . . .

Annie wasn’t sure she could breach the divide between Venus and Mars. “Women take things personally.”

“You got that right.” Billy’s agreement was fervent and obviously the product of experience.

Encouraged, she continued. “Pat was upset. I think she wanted to go and look at the house and think how much she hated them. Like sticking pins in a voodoo doll. Anyway, she went somewhere on that path late at night and not just once but several times. She wouldn’t go to the child care or the vet’s. They’re closed in the middle of the night. The lagoon was a dead end. The only other place is the Jamison house. I don’t believe in coincidence, and since it was the Jamison house, that had to be why she went.” Annie realized her reasoning sounded a trifle inchoate, but she was sure of her conclusion. “I mean, think about it.” Was she starting to sound like an eighties Valley Girl?

Billy was patient. “I see what you’re getting at. Let’s say you’re right.” He sounded dubious. “Let’s say Pat Merridew went sneaking up that path to go think evil thoughts about the Jamisons. Annie, she’s the one who’s dead, not Glen or Cleo Jamison.”

“That’s the point. Pat’s dead. She went up that path and she saw or heard something at the Jamison house that led her to try blackmail.”

“Come on, Annie.” He was clearly incredulous. “That’s a leap too far.”

Annie strove to be calm and reasonable. “Mrs. Croft didn’t see anyone visit Pat’s house Friday night. But someone came and washed up that crystal mug and didn’t leave any fingerprints. Where did the murderer come from? Why not the path from the Jamison house? If the murderer came from the Jamison house, that proves Pat’s death is linked to the Jamisons.”

“A leap way, way, way too far.” His tone was cautionary. “If we’re going to create scenarios out of nothing, including the idea of murder, how about some enemy knew Mrs. Croft watched the neighborhood, so this person parked at either the vet’s or the child care and took the path. Or maybe Mrs. Croft went in her house Friday night for a few minutes and that’s when the visitor came. Or maybe Mrs. Croft and Pat were crossways and that’s who came to visit. But, we have no proof”—he emphasized the noun—“that a visitor came or that the mug without fingerprints has anything to do with the night Merridew died. Or that she was murdered.”

Annie thought that battle had been won. She spoke sharply, “Nothing else makes any sense.”

“I’m talking about proof. As for linking the people in the Jamison house to the Merridew death, that’s what I call imaginative reconstruction, like they do in political books these days. Of course, those writers claim to have deep background, they just don’t ever cite a source. You don’t have a source, deep or not.” He took a deep breath. “But thanks, Annie, I’ll add this information to the file.”

Henny Brawley traced the red letters on her coffee mug: Murderer’s Mistake by E.C.R. Lorac. Her fine dark eyes were troubled. “After we caught the mug without fingerprints, thanks to you”—she gave a nod to Annie—“I thought we’d easily discover a motive. I haven’t had any luck. I’ve checked with everyone who knew Pat well. All of them tell the same story. She was upset about losing her job, mad as a hornet at Glen and Cleo, happy she’d found a job here”—Henny spread her hand to include the coffee area of Death on Demand—“but no one could suggest any reason anyone would want Pat dead. Not money”—she ticked off possibilities one by one—“not love, not hate, not revenge, not jealousy, not despair.”

“Fear.” Annie was emphatic. “Pat knew something or threatened to do something that endangered the murderer. The murderer came to Pat’s house prepared to kill. That means a threat was made in advance.”

“So”—Henny’s smile was wry—“maybe the motive is money, after all. I had lunch with Pat after she was fired and she was worried about having enough income to keep going. She didn’t want to touch her savings. She said that would be the last resort. That’s why I helped her get in touch with you. So I know she was concerned about money. Yet I discovered she was planning a cruise to Alaska. Kathy Kilgore—”

Annie knew the travel agent. Travel More with Kilgore had planned several trips for Annie and Max.

“—said Pat came in on Friday—”

Annie’s eyes widened. Pat went to the travel agency the day she died.

“—and picked up a bunch of brochures. If Billy’s still thinking Pat committed suicide, Kathy can certainly say that Pat was excited about planning her trip.”

“Let’s call Billy and tell him,” Annie suggested. She swiveled to retrieve the portable phone. She clicked speaker and handed the receiver to Henny. “You do the honors. You talked to Kathy, plus he may be a little tired of hearing from me.”

Henny called and Mavis Cameron answered. Henny asked for the chief.

“Just a moment.”

“Chief Cameron.” His deep voice was pleasant.

“Henny Brawley. Billy, I have more evidence that Pat Merridew wasn’t suicidal.”

He listened as Henny reported Pat’s interest in an Alaska cruise. “Yeah. It could indicate she was upbeat, looking forward to travel. It could also suggest she was trying to find something to dispel depression. We’ll never know.”

Henny was emphatic. “Pat didn’t have the money to make that kind of trip. The fact that she planned the trip means money was available from some source. She told Kathy she’d be in this week to make the reservations. Where did she plan to get the money? If she was murdered, as I firmly believe, there had to be a compelling motive. We haven’t found anyone here who profited from her death. We haven’t found any apparent enemies. What does that leave? Maybe Pat made a big mistake. Maybe she knew something that threatened someone and she attempted blackmail.”

Billy said calmly, “Maybe she was dreaming. People can plan trips and know they’ll never take them. Maybe picking up those brochures and knowing she couldn’t afford to go tipped her over to suicide. That seems more likely than the idea she blackmailed somebody. We have to have proof. We haven’t found anything to support the idea that Pat Merridew was murdered.” He was matter-of-fact, not defensive.

Annie leaned toward the speakerphone. “Did you find the Alaska brochures in her house?”

“Hey, Annie.” Papers rustled. “No reason for the brochures to have been noted. I’ll have Officer Harrison check. But if we find them, what does that prove?”

“If you don’t find them, that will be odd, won’t it?” Annie looked across the coffee area at a Cat Truth poster. A muscular Louisiana Creole Cat with a thick long coat, gold shading to brown on the face and back, white shoulders and paws, stood upright on his back feet, front paws pressed against a windowpane, and stared with unblinking intensity at a bullfinch: Keep your eye on the prey.

“As in?”

“If we’re right about the crystal mug, Pat served Irish coffee to a guest. Let’s say she’d already made it clear she knew something. She handed the brochures to her guest and said how nice it would be to go on the trip. Maybe there was talk of how much it might cost for the cruise package. Maybe the guest asked for another dash of whiskey for the coffee, and while Pat was in the kitchen, ground-up OxyContin pills were dropped in her cup and stirred to dissolve. When Pat came back, she drank the coffee and pretty soon she slipped into unconsciousness. The murderer had to take the brochures away because they held fingerprints. Maybe—”

“Maybe,” Billy interrupted, “you can explain how this visitor got hold of leftover pills Pat Merridew probably kept in her medicine cabinet.”

Annie blinked, but she didn’t see the acquisition of the pills as a big problem. “People who knew Pat—like the Jamisons—were aware she broke her wrist. OxyContin’s a commonly prescribed pain pill. Pat could have mentioned what she was taking. Or maybe the visitor had an old leftover prescription at home. Anyway, I think this murderer is smart enough to know about the drug and get into Pat’s house when she wasn’t at home and take the pills. I’ll bet Pat left her back door unlocked. Lots of people do. Or maybe—”

“Maybe,” Billy interrupted again, “you have a future writing one of those tell-all books that don’t cite any sources.”

Annie felt hot. “It could have happened that way.”

“Could have.” He was pleasant. “But I’d like a source, even a deep one. Anyway, we’ll check out the brochures.” The call ended.

Henny handed the receiver to Annie. “If those brochures are missing, I think you hit the bull’s-eye. She tried to blackmail the wrong person.” Her animation ebbed. “But who and why?”

Annie well knew that scarcely anything of interest, much less scandal or confrontation, escaped the attention of island residents. The grapevine flourished. Moreover, no one had greater access to that kind of information than Henny, who was plugged into the social scene, charitable endeavors, and the church milieu. Whatever knowledge or act had led to Pat’s death, it had escaped public notice.

Annie tapped her mug: Night Encounter by Anthony Gilbert. “Everything hinges on Pat’s night walks. Billy may disagree, but I don’t have any doubt that Pat took that path”—she dropped the words like a mallet striking a gong with measured force—“to the Jamison house. I want to find out everything about everyone in that house.”