Authors: Carolyn Hart
The skin of his face was smooth and perfect. He watched her approach with appraising brown eyes. His full lips curved in an impudent half smile.
Annie stopped a foot or so away. “I’m Annie Darling, a friend of Elaine Jamison’s. You were working there Tuesday when I came by.”
He wiped sweat from his face. “I remember. The day the old guy got killed.”
Annie had a quick memory of thick-lipped Marlon Brando in his debut movie, which was a favorite on the old-movie channel during Academy Awards week. The young man who watched her with sleepy eyes had the same unlined face and animal magnetism.
“I’m hoping you can help Miss Jamison.”
Darwyn gave her a puzzled glance. “She got a problem?”
“The police have named her as a person of interest in her brother’s death. That means—”
“Yeah. I know what that means.” He was disdainful. “What’s that got to do with me?” He didn’t move physically, but it was as though he had stepped back. He was wary.
Annie gestured toward a rose garden. “You were working in the Jamison garden Tuesday morning.”
He folded his arms. “Yeah. So?” His tone was combative.
Annie felt the moment was moving from inquiry to confrontation. She made her tone admiring. “You can be very important.”
“Look, like I told the cops, I was working. I wasn’t looking out for people. I saw the yellow car go like a bat out of hell. It went tearing down the drive, kind of like X Sports. Man, I thought she was going to flip over when she went around the curve.”
“Did you see her throw something in the marsh?”
For a minute he looked puzzled. “You mean before the car roared out? No. I guess I was in the pines. Anyway, I saw you and then the car.”
“How about Laura Jamison? Did you see her?”
“In the garden? Not that I noticed.” He looked bored. “She was up on the verandah. Sitting there cool as you please while I sweated. But that’s how it always is.”
“How long was she there?”
He folded his arms, gave her a look of disgust. “I was working. I was in and around the pines and up and down the garden. I don’t have time to watch people who don’t do anything. And”—his sacrasm was heavy—“speaking of work”—his glance was dismissive—“I got to get back to mowing.”
“Darwyn, wait, tell me about the leaf blower.” More than likely, he would not have been likely to notice much while handling the bulky loud machine.
“The leaf blower.” Something moved in his dark eyes. “What’s such a big deal about the blower?” His voice was soft, his gaze intent.
“What time were you using it?”
He looked blank.
She took a step nearer. “I’m trying to get a picture of where you were in the garden. When did you use the blower?”
“Oh. I get you. I probably had my back to the house when I was blowing leaves. I started about nine-fifteen, finished up a little after ten.”
Annie looked into his brown eyes that held a glint of disdain. “Have you told the police about the leaf blower?”
His expression was cool. “Lady, they know I was using a blower.”
“Did you tell them the time?”
“I guess.”
Annie felt a flicker of irritation. Darwyn obviously didn’t care what the police knew, if anything.
“Did you work near the house?”
He gave her a hard stare. “You asking if I looked that way?” He thought about the question. Finally, his full lips parted in a slight smile, a very slight smile. “Maybe.”
Annie felt an intimation of danger. She spoke sharply. “If you saw anything that could help the police, it’s your duty to tell them.”
Now his amusement was clear. “I don’t like cops. Let them figure out stuff. If I saw something, it would be bad news for somebody, wouldn’t it?”
“Darwyn—”
He cut her off with a laugh. “No problem. Like I told the cops, I didn’t see anybody.” He turned away and walked to the mower, swung up into the seat, and the motor roared.
B
illy Cameron ignored swirling insects, including a yellow jacket that hung between him and the small area of crushed grasses. “Don’t let the cloth get snagged on a bramble.”
Billy’s wife, Mavis, was a crime-scene tech as well as a police-station dispatcher. She knelt on a piece of cardboard. The bloodhound lay on the path a few feet behind her, big head resting on his paws, dark eyes watchful.
Max and Lou stood a few feet to the other side of Billy. Max held back a frond of a palmetto shrub for a better view.
In repose, Mavis often appeared remote and wary. Despite her happiness after she met Billy, she carried the baggage of an earlier marriage to an abusive husband. Her face always lighted when she looked at Billy and her gentle mouth eased into a soft smile. Now she was intent, focused on her job, well aware that evidence must be gathered properly. Each gloved hand held a handle as she nudged the flat-jawed pincers gently between bent stalks of underbrush and clamped the tool head to a piece of blue cloth. She tugged slowly, steadily. Suddenly she stopped. “I’m afraid the cloth is caught on something.”
Lou turned toward a cane thicket. Using strength honed by years of baseball and weight lifting, he snapped off a five-foot piece of cane. “Here, Chief.”
Billy grabbed the cane and poked behind the cloth. “There’s a patch of stickers.” He tossed the cane back to Lou, pulled some plastic gloves from a pocket, and knelt beside Mavis. He reached carefully below the wad of cloth and tugged. The cloth quivered. “Try now.”
Mavis pulled. As she stood, the wadded-up cloth fell free.
Billy joined her in the middle of the path. He studied her trophy and gave a satisfied smile. He used his camcorder. “Man’s blue polo shirt found hidden”—he glanced at his watch—“on Thursday, June twenty-fourth, at—” He glanced at Lou.
“Three twenty-seven P.M.”
“—three twenty-seven P.M. by search dog Durante and handler Officer Lou Pirelli a quarter mile into the Kittredge Forest Preserve, approximately three feet to the east of the path.” Billy turned back the collar. “Tommy Hilfiger. Men’s size large. Sky-blue color. The shirt had been rolled into a ball and secreted among a cane stand. On the front of the shirt is a reddish smear approximately six inches in length. The heavier concentration is on the upper end of the smear. The brownish stain may be blood. Laboratory tests will be run. The shirt was taken into evidence at”—he glanced at his watch—“four-seventeen P.M. by Crime Tech Mavis Cameron.” He clicked off the camcorder.
A
nnie poked her head into Max’s office, Confidential Commissions.
Barb beamed. “How about a slice of banana cream pie?” Max’s ebullient secretary’s hair, piled in its usual beehive, looked closer to strawberry than blond this afternoon. Barb said a woman’s hair was her own to fashion and always made a statement. Gold, she was a diva; red, she was a siren; strawberry, and she was betwixt and between.
Annie was tempted, but she’d left Ingrid on her own at Death on Demand for far too long. “Have you heard from Max?”
“He texted a while ago. He’s following a dog and probably won’t be back in the office this afternoon. He told me to close up shop when the pie came out. I just took it out of the oven. Hey, let me cut you a piece to take with you.”
Annie walked next door to Death on Demand. Dog? Whatever. Max was obviously caught up in something interesting. She’d give him a ring after she checked on the store. She smiled as she stepped inside. Actually she carried two pieces of pie, each in a Styrofoam container. Barb was always prepared. One container held a slice for Ingrid.
Ingrid was dealing with a long line at the front counter. Annie quickly slid in beside her. She tucked the small boxes and her purse onto a shelf, smiled brightly at a young woman whose nose rivaled Rudolph’s. “May I help you?”
The customer pushed forward a stack of paperbacks, three by Laura Childs, two by Elizabeth George, and four by Harlan Coben.
Annie eyed her with interest. She either had wide-ranging tastes or was a work in progress.
Ingrid slid five hardcovers into a bag for her customer.
Annie automatically noted the titles:
Shutter Island
by Dennis Lehane,
Dead in the Family
by Charlaine Harris,
Look Again
by Lisa Scottoline,
In Big Trouble
by Laura Lippman,
The Chocolate Cupid Killings
by JoAnna Carl.
Ingrid turned a thumb toward the back of the store, murmured, “Elaine Jamison’s waiting for you at the coffee bar. She’s upset. Uh-oh, here she comes.”
Annie glanced down the central aisle.
Elaine Jamison’s narrow, aristocratic face was strained. She was moving fast, coming toward the cash desk like a woman in a very big hurry. She stared at Annie, her eyes hard and cold.
Uh-oh, indeed.
“I have to talk to you.” Elaine’s voice was thin.
Annie made a gesture toward the long line. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Elaine came even with the main counter. “I’ll wait outside.” She slammed out the front door.
Annie dreaded talking with her. She was grateful for the customers and a moment’s reprieve. As always, she noted the authors as she rang up the titles: Ed Gorman, Parnell Hall, Bill Crider, Robert Crais, then a spate of women authors—Donna Andrews, Rhys Bowen, Julie Hyzy, Laura Joh Rowland, Joanne Fluke, Lisa See. The last of her customers plopped a dozen M. C. Beaton titles on the counter. “I can’t get enough of Agatha Raisin.”
Annie managed a smile. “You’re in good company. She’s one of our bestselling authors.”
As the front door sighed shut behind the Agatha Raisin fan, Annie bent to retrieve the Styrofoam containers. She handed them to Ingrid. “Barb’s banana cream pie. One for you and please put mine in the fridge.”
Annie stepped out into late-afternoon warmth, but she felt as cold as a calving iceberg when she stopped beside Elaine. They stood at the railing by the marina. A horn sounded as an excursion boat neared its slip.
Elaine’s eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale. She looked wan and insubstantial in a pale blue linen dress and latticed white leather sandals. “You talked to everyone in the family. You had no right to do that. They think you’re helping me. I don’t want your help.” Her voice shook. “You mean well, but you are making things harder for me.” She broke off, clasped her hands tightly. “Nothing you can do will make a difference.” Her voice was scarcely audible. She sounded like a woman nearing the limit of her endurance. “Leave me alone, leave the family alone.”
“Elaine.” Annie spoke loudly, hoping to break through Elaine’s shell of fear. “You need to help yourself. You can’t go on ignoring the police.”
“I don’t have anything to say to them. I’ve told you and told you.”
“They’re going to arrest you.” Annie stared into anguished eyes. “I don’t think you shot him, but that’s what they believe.”
“I didn’t.” It was a cry of heartbreak.
“Then help the police find the murderer. I discovered a great many facts today.” Annie ticked them off, one by one. “Kirk Brewster is two and a half million dollars richer since your brother died this week while Kirk is still a partner.” She described the key man insurance.
Elaine’s eyes widened in shock.
“Kit insists Richard is interested in Cleo. Laura was on the back upper verandah Tuesday morning. She claims she didn’t see anyone. I think she’s lying.”
Elaine stood frozen, staring at Annie.
“Maybe Laura saw Kirk Brewster. And that’s not all. Darwyn Jack may have seen something in the garden, too. He was in the best position to have spotted someone near the French window to your brother’s study. Darwyn said he told the police that he didn’t see anyone, but he was taunting me with the idea that maybe he did see someone after all. The police can check out all of these things. Max is looking around, too. You need to tell the police what you know.”
Elaine flung out a hand in despair. “You don’t understand. It’s too late. Stop hounding me. Leave me alone.” She turned to go, looked back, her face twisted in misery. “Stay away from us.” She ran then, her shoes slapping on the boardwalk.
Annie watched until Elaine disappeared around a pittosporum hedge. She had hoped the woman might listen to reason. That hope was gone. Her suggestion that Laura or Darwyn or perhaps both of them might have seen someone in the garden had clearly upset Elaine even more. Elaine had no intention of telling Billy what she knew and it was becoming ever clearer that she knew something, some fact that she was determined to hide.
Annie pressed her lips together. Elaine had made her choice. She didn’t want Annie’s help. But Annie knew she had discovered facts that Billy should have. The more he knew, the more likely that some piece of information ultimately would reveal the truth. She pulled her cell from her pocket and rang the police station. Instead of Mavis, Annie recognized Hyla Harrison’s cool, reserved voice. “Hyla, Annie Darling. May I speak with Billy?”
Hyla gave no indication she had any acquaintance with Annie.
Annie didn’t take Hyla’s formality as an affront. The police officer had very definite ideas about the proper behavior of a public servant.