Authors: Carolyn Hart
“Kirk Brewster?” Annie was puzzled. “Is the fact that he’s still a partner affected by Glen’s death?”
“Is Kirk affected?” Cleo’s voice was thin. “Oh yes. He certainly is. To the tune of about two and a half million dollars.”
Annie felt an instant of amazement. “That’s a lot of money. How can that be?”
Cleo ran a hand through her shining dark hair. “Key man insurance. For Glen. I was against it from the first. I told Glen that the economy would get better but he worried about the firm’s future if something happened to him. The firm was started by his great-grandfather. I thought the monthly payments were a waste. We would have been better off hiring a PR firm.”
Annie wasn’t deflected by Cleo’s criticism of Glen’s decision. What mattered was the timing. “What will happen since Kirk is still a member of the firm?”
“He and I are the two surviving partners. We are the beneficiaries.”
“How much will the firm—you and Kirk—receive?”
“Five million dollars.” She picked up the iPhone. “I’d better call the police.” She paused before she dialed. “If you don’t mind, you can show yourself out.”
A
man’s voice droned beyond the partially open door. Max tapped on the lintel. “Miss Graham?” The legal secretary was listening intently to a cassette, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
She looked up in surprise. “Mr. Darling.” She clicked off the cassette.
“I hope you can spare a moment. I’m here for Glen’s sister.”
“Please come in.” She gestured toward a wooden chair to one side of her desk and reached for a pad. “What does Miss Jamison want me to do?”
Max wondered what would happen when Elaine Jamison discovered that he and Annie were prying into the personal lives of the Jamison family. He couldn’t claim to have her approval. He owed Edna Graham the truth. “Elaine didn’t send me. I’m here because the police have named her a person of interest in the investigation.”
Edna’s eyes widened in shock. Her face flushed with indignation. “Nonsense.”
Max nodded energetically. “My wife and I agree. We’re looking for information that would point the police in a different direction.”
Edna clasped her hands. “If I can help, I certainly will.”
“You may make a huge difference. No one had better insight into Mr. Jamison’s day-to-day life. Was he involved in any legal matters that might have led to the murder?”
Edna Graham’s strong-boned face was heavy and somber. “Mr. Jamison’s practice did not include criminal matters.” Her tone was a reproof.
Max hastened to reassure her. “Certainly not. But sometimes civil lawsuits cause hard feelings.”
She shook her head decisively. “As I told the police, Mr. Jamison was always a gentleman. Even opposing counsel admired him.” In a more everyday voice, she added, “Actually, he hadn’t been very busy for the last few months. He’d done several wills and trusts and some bankruptcies, but nothing that had caused any controversy.”
Max looked at her soberly. “I suppose the atmosphere was strained between him and Kirk Brewster.” Would it have been kinder to have forced Kirk to clear out his desk and leave when the decision to drop him had been made? Max thought it must have been stomach-lurching ugly for the lawyer to return each day, informing clients, tidying up his cases and his desk, sending out résumés, knowing he soon had to leave the island and his chronically ill sister.
Edna stared down at her desktop. “Mr. Brewster kept out of Mr. Jamison’s way. He will be leaving soon.”
Max nodded. “Were you aware of some of the tensions between Mr. Jamison and members of his family?”
Edna’s eyes shifted away from Max, but not before he saw a flash of something, possibly uneasiness, possibly uncertainty. “The police officer asked if Mr. Jamison had quarreled with anyone. I didn’t know if it would be called a quarrel. Last week Mr. Jamison’s cousin came here to see him. He left the door ajar when he went into the office and I couldn’t help overhearing. Mr. Jamison told his cousin that he was sorry but he wasn’t in a financial position to help him. They talked for a while. It all sounded pleasant enough, but when his cousin came out, his face wasn’t . . . nice.” She added quickly, “Maybe he didn’t feel good. Everything sounded very pleasant.”
Max’s smile was reassuring. “That’s probably exactly the case.”
She looked sad. “I can’t believe Mr. Jamison won’t be coming into the office in a little while.” Tears welled in her eyes. She reached for a Kleenex. “I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. “You are very kind to try and help Miss Jamison.”
Max rose. “All of us need to help the police if we can.”
As he left, she turned to her computer, but she sat motionless, head lowered.
Max left the door ajar as he had found it. He glanced up and down the hallway. He turned to his left. Next to an open door was a wooden plaque with Kirk Brewster’s name, gilt letters against redwood. The door was wide open.
Max lifted his hand to knock, then paused. He had an odd sense of déjà vu. Tuesday morning in the living room of the Jamison house he’d watched as Tommy Jamison swung toward the hallway and blundered away. Now he looked into Kirk Brewster’s office and gazed at a young man staring out the office window. There was the same suggestion of youth and strength, the same bush of curly blond hair, the same muscular shoulders, the same powerful legs. Tommy had worn a too-tight polo and khaki shorts. The man at the window wore a close-fitting mesh polo and cutoff jeans.
Abruptly, the stocky figure turned. A man in his late twenties stared at Max with an unsmiling, guarded face. “Who are you?”
“Max Darling.” Max took a step inside the office. “Kirk Brewster?”
The young lawyer’s eyes were light blue. His hair was sandy like Tommy Jamison’s, but his face was older, the features stronger, a beaked nose and thin lips. No one would mistake him for Tommy Jamison from a front view. “You got a warrant?” His light eyes were defiant, but there was an air of desperation about him as he rocked back on his heels.
“I’m not a policeman.” Max saw a flicker of relief.
Kirk shoved a hand through the thick tangle of blond hair. “You don’t have an appointment. I’m not seeing people anyway. I’m not lawyering now. I’m packing up my stuff.” He gestured at the cardboard boxes lined up in the center of the office. Framed prints and plaques leaned against a wall. “Whoever you are, whatever you want, I’m not interested.” He turned away, walked back to the window.
Max again recalled Tommy Jamison as he strode out of the living room Tuesday morning. The casual clothing and stocky build accounted for the similarities even though the teenager and the man seen face-to-face could never be confused in person. Tommy Jamison had been upset, frightened, grieving. Kirk Brewster was upset, frightened, and a very worried man, of that Max felt certain. “Even though you had good reason to be unhappy with Glen Jamison, I’m sure you want his murderer found.”
Kirk jerked around. “I don’t know anything about his murder.”
“How angry were you when he fired you?”
Kirk’s face twisted in a scowl. “You ever been told to take your stuff and hit the road? Yeah. When I got fired, I got mad. Why shouldn’t I?” He was defiant. “Glen was a patsy for that overbearing bitch he married. I hated her more than him. But I never thought about shooting him. Or anybody else. Not even her.”
“Were you here Tuesday morning between a quarter to nine and ten-fifteen?”
“Talk about hitting the road, it’s your turn. You aren’t a cop. Get out.” He turned and moved back to the window. His rigid stance shouted anxiety.
Max left him standing at the window in the office with its bare walls and half-filled boxes. He walked down the hallway. What was Kirk looking for or waiting for? Whatever the lawyer imagined or feared, he was waiting for something to happen.
Max opened the outside door. The pretty young receptionist’s cheerful admonition to have a good day added a surreal element. She was untroubled, in sharp contrast to Edna Graham’s mournful face and Kirk Brewster’s apprehension.
Max was halfway down the front steps when a police cruiser pulled to the curb.
Max reached the sidewalk and waited.
Billy Cameron and Officer Benson moved swiftly. Billy looked big, capable, and serious. Coley Benson’s eyes gleamed with excitement, but he was clearly making an effort to appear matter-of-fact.
Billy stopped at the foot of the steps, his big, square face grim. He jerked a thumb toward the front door of the well-kept brick building. “Did Annie sic you on Kirk Brewster?”
Max understood now. Kirk Brewster was waiting for the police. Max held up his right hand as if taking an oath. “Not guilty.” That was true. He’d come to the law office to check with Edna Graham. “I haven’t talked to Annie about Kirk.” Billy didn’t need to know the gist of his conversation with Annie and the next task on Max’s list. “Why?”
Irritation flickered in Billy’s blue eyes. “I got a call from her. She’d talked to Cleo Jamison. She’s probably quizzing the rest of the family now. Whatever. I’ve already interviewed them. She can’t do any harm. But now I find you here and I haven’t talked to Kirk Brewster. So far as I know”—his voice was sharp—“nobody’s asked either one of you to interfere in a criminal investigation.”
Max dropped his hand. “Definitely we don’t intend to interfere. We’re just talking to people informally. Speaking of”—he tried a winning smile—“you might want to ask Glen’s secretary about Richard Jamison’s visit here with Glen last week. And, yeah, since I was here, I went down the hall and tried to talk to Kirk Brewster. He wasn’t up for a chat. I’d say he’s a worried man.”
Billy’s expression was grim. “Did you ask him anything substantive?”
Max knew Billy wasn’t fooling around. It was time for him to be precise. “I asked Kirk if he was mad when Glen fired him and I asked him where he was Tuesday morning. I got a yes on the first, no answer on the second.”
Billy looked relieved. “That’s all right. And”—he cleared his throat—“we appreciate the efforts of good citizens. But”—he started up the steps, paused beside Max—“don’t screw up any evidence.”
A
nnie pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. A tall, slender woman with a kerchief over graying hair worked at the sink, up to her elbows in suds. Tommy Jamison stood on a kitchen ladder, reaching for china plates high on a shelf. Freshly washed plates glistened in a plastic drainer on the counter to the left of the sink.
Cleo said Tommy had stormed out of the house earlier, barefoot and shirtless. He was still barefoot, but he wore a baggy, wrinkled green polo as well as brown cotton Bermuda shorts.
Kit Jamison was on the telephone. “ . . . appreciate your call. We will welcome everyone here after the memorial service. Yes, it will be Monday. Dad would have been pleased to know you can come.” She hung up the landline. Her ascetic face drooped in sadness. She brushed back a thin strand of blond hair and pressed trembling lips tightly together.
Tommy thudded to the floor, holding a stack of saucers. He carried them to the sink, giving Annie a sharp glare in passing.
The woman murmured, “Thanks, Tommy.” She lifted a yellow-rubber-gloved hand to slip the stack into her dishpan.
Annie looked toward Kit, then up at Tommy. “I need to talk to you both. Will you step out on the porch with me?”
Kit hesitated, then shrugged. “Come on, Tommy.”
The brawny teenager followed his sister onto the porch, leaned against a pillar, big, muscular, and sullen. Kit folded bony arms and faced Annie, her face questioning. Her gaze was cold. “What do you want?”
“I want to help Elaine.”
Kit gave an angry half laugh. “I’d say you’re a little late. You didn’t do her any favors Tuesday morning.”
“I happened to be in the backyard Tuesday morning about ten. Your dad was shot at some time between eight forty-five and ten-fifteen.” Annie’s voice was sharp. “I had to tell the police what I saw.”
“Why were you spying on Elaine?” Kit’s narrow face jutted in disapproval.
“Yeah.” Tommy took a step nearer. His face was heavier, but equally hostile.
Annie watched the brother and sister carefully as she told her story of Pat Merridew, the photograph in the BlackBerry, and the crystal mug with no fingerprints.
“Wow.” Tommy, for the moment, looked neither sullen nor angry. He shoved back a thick tangle of blond curls, stared at Annie. “Hey, that’s weird. Who’d put Dad’s gun in the gazebo? If it was his gun.”
Kit, too, appeared astonished. A sudden eagerness lit her face. “That means somebody from outside shot Dad.”
Tommy swung toward his sister. “Well, duh. Did you think one of us did it?”
“Tommy, don’t be a fool.” Kit glared at him.
“Anyway, that’s why I was here Tuesday morning.” Before Kit could frown again, Annie rushed ahead. “Elaine wasn’t on the island the night Pat took that picture. I told the police that, too.” Of course, Billy had an easy answer for why Elaine’s absence that night meant nothing. “But Elaine still won’t describe what she did Tuesday morning. Please try to persuade her to talk to the police. Otherwise, I’m afraid they’ll arrest her.”
“Arrest Elaine?” Tommy looked shocked. His big hands hung loose at his sides. “That’s crazy.”