Authors: Carolyn Hart
Instead of heading straight to her office, she wandered aimlessly around the coffee area. Finding out what happened to Pat was like tugging at a ball of snarled yarn. She felt sure if she tugged at the right string, she would find some proof of her conviction that Pat had been murdered and that her murder was linked to the Jamisons.
She glanced at the Cat Truth poster with the gorgeous, wide-mouthed Selkirk Rex. “You tell ’em, honey.” But her smile slipped away. Annie had told everyone, most especially Billy Cameron, and he wasn’t listening. She reached down to straighten a poster hanging crookedly beside the fireplace. A red-brown Abyssinian, tail high, stepped through dew damp grass:
Come with me to the Casbah
. Shades of
Casablanca
, one of Laurel’s favorite films. Annie imagined the muscular cat with a Humphrey Bogart face. Bogie never gave up. He was the quintessential American private eye in
The Maltese Falcon
. Annie didn’t fancy herself as an incarnation of Sam Spade, but she could follow Spade’s mantra: nothing and nobody kept him from finding out the truth.
Annie whirled and marched to the coffee bar, plucked the receiver from the phone, punched a number. Max claimed no one had found anything out of the ordinary during Pat’s final days. That wasn’t true. At least one night Pat’s lights were on late and she was seen returning from the forest. Okay, what was in the forest? A path that led to the Jamison house. Billy could claim Annie was reaching too far to insist that Pat saw something at the Jamison house that caused her death. Maybe so. But there was no denying Pat’s lights had continued to shine late at night. That was odd fact one. Odd fact two was Pat’s trip to the travel agency on Friday, the very day she died. She’d taken travel brochures with her. Annie could imagine those brochures lying on the table and a guest picking them up. Or perhaps Pat handed a brochure to her guest, saying something lightly about a trip of a lifetime—if only she had the money.
When Billy Cameron came on the line, Annie plunged right to her point. “Have you found the travel brochures?”
“I’m sending Officer Harrison to the Merridew house to look for them.” He sounded patient. “Since you are convinced the brochures are important, why don’t you meet her there? Maybe you will have some good ideas. Be there in fifteen minutes.”
The phone clicked off.
Annie would have been pleased, but she knew her presence was just another way of saying sayonara.
O
fficer Hyla Harrison had relocated to Broward’s Rock after her patrol partner was gunned down in a Miami alley. She always moved fast, her narrow face often drawn in a frown of concentration. She was serious, responsible, and humorless. She took murder very seriously indeed and initially had found the idea of a mystery bookstore offensive. “There’s nothing funny about murder,” she’d told Annie not long after they first met. When Annie agreed and explained that murder is never funny, people are funny, Hyla reconsidered. Now she was a devoted reader of Tana French and Ed McBain.
Annie watched as the patrol car turned precisely into Pat Merridew’s driveway. Perhaps only Officer Harrison could make the turn of a car appear as skillfully executed as a scalpel marking an incision.
Hyla, as always, looked crisp and fresh in her khaki uniform, her auburn hair drawn back into a sleek bun. She walked swiftly to the front steps, carrying a black case. Unsmiling, she looked up at Annie. “The chief said you were here to observe me.” She jerked her head and marched past Annie to pull open the screen and unlock the door.
Annie hurried to catch up. “Hyla—”
The trim patrol woman turned. “Officer Harrison.”
Annie reached out a hand in appeal. She wasn’t going to lose the trust she’d slowly, very slowly, earned with Hyla if she could help it. “The chief knows I have great respect for you. You are careful and thorough and this is a situation that needs that kind of attention to detail. That’s why he sent you. He knows you won’t miss anything. He gave me permission to be here because I think Pat Merridew was murdered.” Because she believed what she was saying, her tone was genuine.
Hyla’s stiff shoulders relaxed. A slight frown tugged at her brows. “He told me you suggested the check for fingerprints in the china cabinet.” She tilted her head to study Annie. “Why did you think of that?”
Quickly Annie described Pat’s attitude toward the suicide in
Towards Zero
. “. . . so if she didn’t commit suicide and it couldn’t be an accident, that left murder. The drug was found in Pat’s crystal coffee mug. It seemed to me the only answer was someone else sitting across from her and dropping the drug in her coffee. But—”
Hyla swung the door open, held it for Annie.
“—only the one mug was found”—Annie pointed at the coffee table—“so we looked for the other.” She pointed toward the breakfront.
Hyla nodded. “Crystal.”
Annie knew Hyla understood. Sitting alone in the evening for a cup of coffee, Pat would drink from her everyday pottery, not use crystal. Annie’s eyes met Hyla’s and saw a gleam of agreement.
“Okay.” Hyla was crisp. “The victim picked up travel brochures the day she died.”
Annie felt as if she’d climbed a steep cliff and emerged on top. To Hyla, Pat Merridew was now a victim.
Hyla’s eyes narrowed. “So she was excited about the trip she wanted to take. She gets the brochures. She probably put them in her purse. She comes home after work.” Hyla surveyed the small living room. “Let’s check the purse first.”
The slender patrol officer put down the case on the coffee table, flipped up the lid, pulled out two pairs of latex gloves, and handed one set to Annie. She picked up the purse, a nylon summer tote bag with a design of blue sailboats against a cream background. She opened the bag and, using pincers from the case, carefully lifted out the contents: lip gloss, compact, hand sanitizer, aspirin bottle, box of mints, hairbrush, comb, case with sunglasses, BlackBerry, small notebook, three ballpoint pens, crumpled bingo card, small packet of Kleenex, billfold, checkbook, change purse, car keys, package of red licorice. She shook her head and returned the items as carefully as she had removed them.
Annie moved slowly around the perimeter of the living room. Pat had been a tidy housekeeper. There were no papers or magazines tucked in the bookcase. She edged open the TV console. The remote lay atop the previous Sunday’s TV guide.
Hyla jerked a thumb. “Let’s try the kitchen. Maybe she wanted to study them while she ate dinner.”
Once in the kitchen, Annie was struck by the supper dishes now bone-dry, the dog’s empty water bowl. She looked at the kitchen table, empty except for one place mat and a pottery sugar bowl and salt and pepper shakers.
Hyla stepped to the white plastic wastebasket, used the foot press to lift the lid.
Annie moved near. “Billy said they found an empty pill bottle right on top of the trash.”
Hyla spread a black plastic bag on the kitchen floor and painstakingly removed the contents of the wastebasket: an empty egg carton, used tea bags, rinsed-out cans, cellophane wrappers, assorted boxes and bags.
No travel brochures.
Annie was emphatic. “They should be here. She’d have no reason to hide them.”
“We’ll continue to look.” Hyla sounded patient.
At the end of a half hour, they stood again in the small living room. Hyla shook her head.
Annie pointed at the coffee table. “Like I told Billy, I think someone else was here Friday night. Pat used her crystal for a guest, made her favorite specialty coffee drink. Pat handed the brochures to her visitor. Later, when Pat was dying, the murderer took the brochures away because the brochures held fingerprints.”
Hyla Harrison looked at the empty chairs and the coffee table. “I don’t know about that. I know there aren’t any brochures in this house.” Her glance at Annie was commiserating. “I get where you’re coming from. But it’s awfully hard to prove anything with nothing.” She peeled off the gloves and started to turn toward the door then stopped. “I wonder . . .” She pulled the gloves back on and walked to the purse. Again she used the pincer, this time to retrieve the phone. She glanced at it in mild surprise. “I’d have thought the chief would have already retrieved it. Pirelli probably checked it out, didn’t see any unusual calls or messages.” Hyla held it carefully at the edges, opened it, tapped her finger. “No recent text messages.” She moved her finger again. “Got some pix.” She looked at the images. “Nice one of the raven. Guess she wanted to show somebody that the place where she worked had this molty-looking bird on a shelf.”
Annie was touched that Pat had taken a photo at the store.
Abruptly, Hyla frowned. “Odd one here.”
Annie moved to look over her thin shoulder. In a small circle of light bounded by darkness, a lumpy towel lay on wood. “A wooden bench?”
“Maybe.” Hyla looked intent. “Taken at night obviously.” She moved her thumb; the photo was followed by six more in quick succession. Several featured the dachshund. All were straightforward photographs of people or places. “There’s only the one of the towel.” Hyla returned to the photograph. She tapped Properties. “Taken at twelve-oh-nine A.M. June thirteenth. I’d guess Pirelli didn’t know the time might matter.”
Annie was excited. “Pat took the picture late at night in the dark. It was late at night when she walked through the woods to the Jamison house.” Quickly Annie described her conclusions about Pat’s late-night excursions.
“I get you. Of course, Pirelli didn’t know all that when he checked the phone.” Hyla was calm. “However, there’s no proof this picture was taken anywhere near the Jamison house. Or that the pix has anything to do with Merridew dying five days later. But”—she reached for a plastic bag in the tech case, dropped the BlackBerry inside, made a notation—“it sure isn’t your everyday photo.”
M
ax fluffed red feathers on the end of the steel-tipped dart, raised his arm, threw. The dart quivered triumphantly in the center of the bull’s-eye. His gaze dropped to his desk and a welter of papers, then swung to Annie’s picture. “Sometimes you have to accept reality.” He spoke conversationally, then his mouth spread in a wide grin. So, hey, Annie was fixated on a death that couldn’t be proved to be murder or suicide or an accident. “Look, honey”—his tone was eminently reasonable—“Billy left the file open. That’s an accomplishment. Pat’s death will never officially be listed as suicide. Maybe you should settle for that.” His eyes dropped to the papers. “Trying to connect the people who live in the Jamison house with Pat’s death is like grabbing at no-see-’ums with your bare hands.”
Max settled in his red leather desk chair. He had assembled the bare bones of lives, easily scoured from the Internet and from strategically placed phone calls. More important, perhaps, was an emerging sense of personalities, the attitudes and enthusiasms of six people who shared a name. He turned to the computer and opened the newly created Jamison file, which contained photos obtained online from the Web, the
Island Gazette
, or Facebook. His fingers moved fast over the keyboard.
GLEN JAMISON
Member of a leading island family. Parents Woodman and Caroline Jamison. One sister, Elaine. Father died after a stroke, mother died of complications of diabetes. Attended island schools. Graduate of The Citadel. Law degree from the University of South Carolina. Middle of his class. Married Madeleine Barrett upon graduation. Three children, Laura G., 24; Katherine L., 23; and Thomas A., 17. Madeleine died six years ago. Last year he married Cleo J. Baker, partner in the firm. Glen is patrician in appearance, narrow aristocratic face, blond hair, blue-eyed. Tall, slender, graceful. Serves on the boards of many island charities. Republican. Good golfer, mediocre tennis player. Temperate in his approach to life, pleasant, undemanding though fairly feudal in expecting deference because he is a Jamison. The Jamisons have always been among the island elite.
Max spared one longing glance toward his indoor golf green, then focused on his task. He had called people who knew Glen on the pretext of gathering information for a profile for a Good Neighbor Award. The award had been handily created by Max for a nonexistent Atlanta-based foundation. He glanced at his notes, added the comments his questions had elicited:
“Good old Glen.” “Nice guy.” “Not very active in the bar.” “ . . . can’t recall involvement in any leading cases . . .” “ . . . wouldn’t say he has any political clout.” “Family man. Active in his church.” “Not out in front on island issues.” “Doesn’t make waves.” “Never had to hustle, so it doesn’t come naturally.”
The consensus: not a mover and shaker. Imbued with a healthy dose of entitlement. Ineffectual. Nothing discreditable either personally or professionally.
In the photograph, Glen looked distinguished but there was a hint of weakness in his mouth. In fact, he appeared to be what he was, a nice man with a mild, possibly malleable personality, but a man who was generally liked and respected. Max concluded:
This guy definitely can’t be cast as first murderer.
CLEO BAKER JAMISON
Grew up in Hardeeville. Only child. Parents died young, mother of cancer, father in trucking accident. Attended Clemson on a scholarship. Majored in political science, minored in French. Phi Beta Kappa. Beauty queen. Class president. Used student loans to attend law school. Graduated third in her class. Came to Broward’s Rock three years ago and joined Glen Jamison’s law firm. Became a partner in one year. Married Glen Jamison last year.
Max used the ploy of writing a feature on success under thirty for an online magazine, promising anonymity to those with whom he spoke about Cleo.
“A pleasure to work with her on a project. You knew you had an A+ in the can.” “Smart, ruthless, but she can turn on the charm.” “She’s a law bitch if there ever was one.” “Never turn your back on Cleo. She’ll smile and always cheat just a little bit.” “Nobody works harder or smarter. She’s lucky but she makes her own luck.” “She picked guys from upper-crust families, then loved ’em and left ’em. I wasn’t surprised she married a geezer from an old South Carolina family. If you aren’t an aristocrat, the next best thing is to marry one.”
Cleo’s photo was striking, a brunette with reddish highlights, confident brown eyes, magnolia-creamy skin, a winner-take-all expression. Coral lips curved in a smile with a hint of triumph. Cleo was a good-looking woman well aware of her attractiveness. She was smart, hardworking, willing to wield power, definitely not passive like her husband. If Annie was right and a Jamison killed Pat, Cleo was a possibility. She was clearly strong-willed and not overburdened with scruples. It seemed likely Cleo had arranged Pat’s dismissal, but that didn’t seem a lead-in to murder.
From Cleo Jamison to her sister-in-law, Elaine, was a study in contrasts. Max scanned an article that had appeared in the church newspaper about Elaine Jamison and extracted several facts:
ELAINE JAMISON
Graduate of Clemson, degree in marketing. Worked in fashion design in Atlanta until she came back to the island after her sister-in-law’s death. She ran the household and took care of her nieces and nephew. She was active at their schools, took them to sports practices, planned parties, hosted sleepovers. She taught Sunday school and was a past president of the Episcopal Church Women. Member of the Friends of the Library. Volunteer at the island charity store. After Laura and Kit left for college, Elaine started working part-time at an island dress shop. Graceful, charming, responsive, devoted to her family.
Max felt a dim tingle of memory. Hadn’t Elaine been in the news for something? Not a story he’d followed, but something . . . He reached for the phone.
“C
offee?” Billy Cameron looked at Annie.
Annie shook her head, dropped into a chair in the snack room that opened off the main hall at the police station. Wanted posters filled one bulletin board. Island maps were mounted on another wall. Three windows overlooked the picnic area that fronted on the harbor.
Billy settled on one side of the table with a chipped ceramic mug.
Annie carefully kept herself from shuddering as he stirred nondairy creamer into his coffee.
The BlackBerry lay on the table, the late-night photo on the screen.
Annie pointed at the picture. “Pat Merridew started going out late at night in the week or so before she was murdered—”
“Before she died.”
Her stare met his.
Billy’s didn’t yield.
Annie took a deep breath. “She started going out late at night—”
“After she was fired,” Billy interjected.
“—and then she died from an overdose of an opiate. That photograph was taken late at night. Maybe this is what Pat saw that caused her death.”
She didn’t say murder, so this time Billy let her statement ride.
She leaned forward. “We need to find out where this picture was taken.”
Billy looked again at the photograph. “A bunched-up towel on a wooden bench doesn’t give us much to go on.” He lifted his mug, drank coffee. “I’ll add the BlackBerry to the file.”
“Y
o, Max. You got an antidote for boredom?” The
Island Gazette
’s chief (and almost only) reporter, Marian Kenyon, was always brusque.
Max pictured her with the receiver cradled between ear and shoulder, eyes skipping in discontent around the newsroom.
She caroled, “You know what the big story is today? An alligator that ticks. Honest to God. They think he swallowed an alarm clock. I want to meet the fool that got close enough to hear the tick. Where do you suppose the creature found an old-fashioned, windup clock in a swamp? Hey, maybe it’s a bomb?” She sounded brighter. “Maybe something will pop today.”
Max grinned. “That’s more exciting than my day.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s only a quarter after nine.” He preferred amorous late nights and sleepy slow mornings, but his significant other embraced vigor and early rising. Vigor, properly directed, was fine. Early rising . . . “There’s plenty of time for you to get a good story. While you’re resting your creative juices, will you fill me in on Elaine Jamison? Annie wants to host a b-day fling for Elaine.” He had discovered Elaine’s birthday was next week and he had no doubt Annie would welcome the idea of a party. “Annie thinks I can always get the goods on everybody. She’s put me in charge of rounding up tidbits for a toast. Can you help out?”
“Steel sheathed in charm, that’s my take.” Marian was admiring. “Did you keep up with the blow-by-blow in the school-board election a couple of years ago?”
Neurons clicked. Max remembered a series of stories about packed meetings when the chairman of the board proposed barring several award-winning books from the middle school library.
Marian’s tone was admiring. “She ran for a seat, won, and no books were banned. She was a Southern lady to the hilt, but the iron will was on display. The campaign got pretty nasty. She never stopped smiling and never raised her voice. Now, Max, level with me. What’s behind your innocent curiosity about Elaine Jamison?”
“You wrong me, Marian,” he said lightly. “I’m just giving Annie a hand.”
“Oh, sure.” Her disbelief was patent. “Tell you what, when you decide to come clean, maybe I’ll share an interesting tidbit about Elaine.” The connection ended.
Max gave the phone a thoughtful glance. Marian might be pulling his string. But she might not. He added to Elaine’s dossier:
Willing to fight. Unyielding when challenged. Marian knows something interesting?
He studied Elaine’s photo. She was fair with the same fine bone structure and elegant appearance as her brother, but the line of the jaw was stronger, the fuller lips determined, the uplifted head imperious.
He clicked several times, arranging the photos of Glen Jamison’s daughters and son in order of age. Laura Jamison didn’t resemble her father. Curly dark hair framed a rounded face with a pug nose. It was a face made for laughter, but she stared into the camera unsmiling. The photo was from a party scene on Facebook. Wearing a flowered blouse and linen slacks, she stood a little apart from a picnic on the beach. She looked discontented and very much alone in a crowd.
Max glanced at his notes, began to keyboard:
LAURA JAMISON
Older daughter of Glen and Madeleine Jamison. Grew up on the island. Excellent sailor. A top junior tennis player. Graduate of Clemson. She began her career in finance in Atlanta, lost her job during the financial downturn, no success in obtaining a new position. Returned to the island six months ago, working as a lifeguard this summer. High school tennis coach said she was a good player, could have been better, but had trouble with her temper, otherwise a good kid.
In the next photo, Glen’s younger daughter, Kit, looked a good deal like her father, fair-haired, fair-skinned, narrow face, but with an intensity of expression foreign to her father. Straight, unsmiling gaze and lips pressed firmly together suggested a humorless intensity.
KIT JAMISON
High school valedictorian. Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Carleton. Master’s degree in biology from University of Pennsylvania, began work on PhD. Last several summers worked as intern on research projects on the effect of climate change on lions. Accepted for fellowship in Kenya, but must fund her own travel. High school principal: “One of the finer intellects I’ve encountered. She is totally focused on scholarship.” Socially? Very independent. Pleasant, but distant. Not especially gregarious with her classmates.
Max reached out and picked up another dart. Bright geek and a social misfit would be his interpretation. Annie had learned that Kit was in danger of losing her chance to go to Africa. He threw the dart. This one struck at a slant and toppled to the floor. “What,” he said aloud, “does Kit Jamison’s angst have to do with Pat Merridew’s death?” He turned dutifully back to the computer. He’d promised Annie he would find out what he could about the Jamisons. He was almost there.
Sandy-haired and blue-eyed Tommy Jamison had on his game face in a football photograph, unsmiling, gaze stern, helmet in hand, down on one knee. Tommy would be a senior in the fall and on the first team. On his Facebook page, he clowned with a bunch of guys, shirttails out, baggy shorts, throwing a Frisbee. He liked sports, girls, sports, girls, sports . . . Max grinned. There was a man with his head on straight. “And about as much connection to Pat Merridew’s house as a late-night comedian.”