Death at the Door (4 page)

Henny was too graceful to crow. Her tone was conciliatory. “Certainly your insights into character are profound, Emma, but I rather had an inkling. I saw Tom's and Frankie's cars parked in the lot for the forest preserve behind the library.”

Annie popped up to retrieve the coffee hottle. Life on an island had its charms but was rather similar to inhabiting a fish tank. It was hard to find a private spot. She had recently visited the gallery and bought some ink drawings of cats for their den. Annie remembered Frankie's sweet face above a white piqué blouse embroidered with daisies. How dreadful if Frankie was caught up in the darkness of murder.

•   •   •

A
s the service for Jane Corley ended, Max shot a questioning look at Annie. She whispered, “I think we should.” They followed the mourners walking toward the parish hall. The order of service program had invited everyone to join the family there.

Annie wasn't surprised at the size of the crowd. Jane Corley was from a well-known island family. Less charitably, Annie imagined some of those present wouldn't pass up a moment to have a word with Tom Edmonds. Annie knew her own motive was mixed. Yes, she'd known Jane Corley, liked her. But she couldn't forget Laurel's concern about Tom Edmonds and Frankie Ford. Perhaps in a way Annie wanted to banish the thought of Tom Edmonds with the sensitive face and gifted hands as a man who might have committed murder.

The receiving line moved slowly. Annie and Max were within sight of the family. Tom Edmonds's long face held a mixture of discomfort and restiveness. Next to him was Jane's sister-in-law, Madeleine, and brother, David. Madeleine's austere beauty was softened by reddened eyes and trembling lips. David looked stiff and uncomfortable in a black suit and crisp white shirt, a definite change from his usual island casual wear. Next to David was Kate Murray, a stern-appearing woman with short white hair. Annie had met her a few times. She was not only some sort of family connection, she served as Jane's personal assistant. Last in the receiving line were a dark-haired young woman, a little too heavy, talking a little too fast, and a tall, heavyset man, likely her husband. His suit was noticeably more shabby and ill fitting than Tom's or David's. Annie's gaze moved back to Tom. She felt a tinge of shame. Was she like all the other vultures, there to pick apart appearances? Did he look shifty? Was he under stress? His head bent toward a gray-haired middle-aged woman who looked at him imploringly, hands twisting together. Tom tugged at his shirt collar, looked uncomfortable. He shot a look at David, turned his hand as if to point the woman toward him.

Annie was struck by the woman's obvious distress. But she didn't have the appearance of grief. Instead, she appeared despairing, desperate. She turned a little and Annie saw her more clearly, a broad, worn face that might once have been pretty but was now drawn and tight. She started to speak, stopped, pressed her lips together, scuttled to David, began again in a rush.

David listened for a moment then, with a frown, said something brusque and turned to the next in line. Kate Murray gave her a dismissive look and turned to speak to the dark-haired young woman, effectively preventing any conversation.

The woman's face drooped. She turned away and Annie had a picture of a closet filled with worn, shabby clothes. She moved out of the line, head down. As she walked toward the hall door, there was defeat in every line of her body.

A few moments more, she and Max reached the family, murmuring condolences.

Tom looked down at her. “Good of you to come.” They'd met before but he gazed at her blankly. She shook his hand and the moment was past.

Annie carried with her a memory of Tom's long face with its deep-set eyes and chiseled features. There was no indication of anguish, but his eyes held a look of shock and disbelief. She agreed with Emma. Tom was not the stuff of which villains were made.

•   •   •

M
ax was already at their favorite booth at Parotti's Bar and Grill. They often lunched at the island's down-home eatery but had a standing date for dinner on Mondays. As Annie often said, the week went better when it began with dinner at Parotti's. Since gnomelike Ben Parotti had married Miss Jolene, the owner of a mainland tea shop, and brought her to his island, he had opted for polos and slacks instead of bib overalls. The café had been tweaked as well, vases with flowers on the wooden tables, quiche and sorbet in addition to the best fried oysters in the world and grits to die for, new menus unspotted by years of grease and sticky fingers. Unchanged was the sawdust-laden floor of the attached bait shop with its coolers of squid, snapper, grouper, black bass, and chicken necks.

Max slid out of the booth and reached out to touch her arm. “What's wrong?”

His words were as reassuring as the warmth of his touch. He always knew when something had disturbed her. She held up the
Gazette
. “Have you seen the paper?”

His grin was small-boy mischievous. “Kind of slow at the office today. I went out to the practice tee.”

Annie was glad that he'd been out in the sun, free to swing a golf club, laugh or sigh at the result. She loved to work. Max was equable about work, but much more interested in enjoying the moment, whatever it was. He was glad to help those who came to his unusual business but happier to focus on her, on a great painting, on an absorbing book, on sitting with their white cat, Dorothy L, on his lap. In her mind, she heard Max's voice, “Gooood cat,” and wished she could focus on happy thoughts like Max and Dorothy L and not on the distressing news she brought.

She slid into the booth. “Marian brought me a copy. Hot off the press. Sad picture of Tom Edmonds.” She pushed the newspaper across the tabletop. “Marian said the circuit solicitor continues to be the world's biggest ass. They've arrested Tom and are holding him on suspicion of murder. He's going to be arraigned tomorrow. The circuit solicitor tipped the
Gazette
they were going to pick him up, so Marian was out in the street with her Leica. Marian said Tom looked about as murderous as the straw man in Oz. She said she'd taken pics of lots of perps and they looked defiant, cool, hostile, smooth, sometimes vacant or nuts or high, but not like the straw man.”

Parotti came up to the booth, spiffy in a Tommy Bahama shirt and tan slacks, and pointed a gnarled finger at the newspaper. “They got him in a cell. Have to say I never thought a stranger wandered in and bashed her, but I don't see an artist as a wife killer.” His gravelly voice was just this side of dismissive. “Course, I hear they only found his fingerprints on the hammer. Mallet, they call it. Fancy name for a tool, seems to me. Claims he doesn't remember the last time he saw the hammer. Said he quit working on the marble a week or so ago. And he never locked his studio. But still, you'd have to know the layout over there to even know there was a studio. Not exactly a thoroughfare.” He leaned forward. “Any truth to the rumor he had a girlfriend?”

Annie pictured fish swarming in a bowl, there for everyone to see. She wasn't sure why she felt sad. She and Max knew Jane Corley as they knew so many on the island. They were friendly, but not close. But they knew her and had welcomed her new husband into the fabric of the island social scene, exchanging greetings at civic events, attending open houses at Wyler Art Gallery, nodding across the dining room at the country club. Was sadness caused by remembering a lighthearted, laughing Frankie Ford at a picnic last summer? Or was it the horror of trying to fit sensitive Tom Edmonds with his long artistic hands into the image of a man bringing down a mallet on his wife's skull?

•   •   •

A
nnie took an extra moment on the boardwalk to look over the marina. It was a perfect October morning. Fluffy white clouds dotted a pale blue sky above placid water. A big yacht from Maine had pulled in last week, stopping over for the owner and guests to play a few rounds of golf before continuing a leisurely cruise to the Bahamas. At least that was the gossip Annie had heard from Ingrid, whose husband, Duane, had gone out deep-sea fishing with a friend whose boat was in the next slip. Annie studied the three-deck, 121-foot yacht,
Come On Along
, with interest, but not envy. She loved imagining how the lives of others played out, a musician in a symphony orchestra, a master carpenter, a wildlife photographer, a translator fluent in Arabic. For each she might have an inkling of their daily lives but she simply couldn't envision the lives of those who wandered the world in incredible splendor. Of course, with the miracle of satellites they could have e-books . . .

She laughed aloud. Life without books to her would be no life at all, but who knew how these travelers whiled away their days. In fact on a yacht that size, there would be room for a paneled library with deep easy chairs. She was still pondering endless days at sea and stacks of books to read when she pushed inside Death on Demand and flicked the switches to turn on the lights. Her silky black feline, Agatha, raced up the aisle, leaped to the counter of the cash desk, and crouched.

Annie knew the drill. She walked to the cash desk, pulled a sheet from a white notepad, skillfully avoiding a swat from one black paw. She crumpled the sheet into a ball and threw the enticing wad down the center aisle.

Agatha launched herself, landed lightly, and raced after the paper. Soon she was knocking the paper ball down the aisle and into the coffee area.

Annie took a deep breath of books and gave a thumbs-up to the molty raven perched atop the entrance to the children's retreat. She was ready to begin the day, placing orders, making calls, unpacking books.

A knock sounded behind her. It was fifteen minutes until opening time, but hey, the lights were on. If a deprived reader needed books, the welcome mat was always out. She opened the door with a smile.

Lucy Ransome looked apologetic. Her curly white hair looked unaccustomedly shaggy, as if she'd only managed a hurried swipe or two with her brush. Her white cotton shirt was misbuttoned. “I know you aren't open yet, but Max said he was sure you wouldn't mind—”

“Come right in.” Annie sensed a burning intensity that Lucy was trying to keep leashed. This was obviously not a casual visit.

Lucy brushed back a tangle of curls. “Thank you. I have to tell someone. And you're always so capable . . .” Her voice trailed away.

Annie hoped she could help. But if it was something to do with Paul's estate, Max would be a better choice. She gave Lucy a quick smile. “I'll do my best. Let's have some coffee.”

Lucy followed her down the center aisle, murmuring, “I don't really know what to do. I didn't even take time for breakfast.”

“I have some great cake doughnuts. Max's secretary, Barb, loves to make them. I'll pop a couple in the microwave to go with coffee.”

They settled at a table near the coffee bar with fresh Colombian and a doughnut apiece. Annie drew in a scent of cinnamon and hot doughnut, took a bite. Barb should be a pastry cook, not a secretary.

Lucy's expression held a note of defiance. “The police won't listen to me. I have to do something.” The last words came in a rush and her face squeezed in determination. Anger tinged her tone.

Annie was startled by the intensity of Lucy's taut words. This was something far different than grief. “What's wrong?”

Lucy's blue eyes held a look of hope. “Maybe you can tell me what I can do. You and Henny saved Jeremiah Young when there was that dreadful crime at Better Tomorrow.” Police had sought Jeremiah, the handyman at the island thrift shop, when a volunteer was murdered. “And now poor Tom Edmonds. The police have arrested him. I know he wasn't there.”

Annie was puzzled. How could Lucy possibly know where Tom Edmonds had been when his wife was murdered?

Lucy brushed a hand through her silvered hair. “You are looking at me just like that police chief did. He thinks I'm unbalanced. I suppose I didn't sound rational to him, talking about Paul's desk and the party and saying I don't believe there was a gun.”

Annie schooled her face, trying to appear receptive though her thoughts whirled. Jane hadn't been shot. What did Paul's desk have to do with Tom Edmonds and a sculptor's mallet? What party?

Lucy lifted her purse from the floor and drew out a folded sheet of thick, cream-colored paper. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. “Early this morning”—she had difficulty forcing the words—“I started clearing out Paul's desk. I needed to find some papers for the kids, but mostly I wanted to start packing away his things. Some of them I can donate. Some I'll send to the children . . . But that doesn't matter. I'd scarcely been in the room since I found him there.”

Lucy stared past Annie, her eyes full of pain. “Everything had been cleaned up, but it was terribly hard. Like I told the police when they asked about the gun, I never had any occasion to look in his desk. I didn't know anything about a gun. Paul never spoke of owning a gun.” Her lips compressed for a moment. “Once he said there were too many guns, that it was sick to have a country where anybody could get a gun if they wanted it. He said people found them stored away in attics, kept them, gave them away, that some gun shows and shops didn't worry about checking anybody. They sold old guns without asking any questions. He was angry. There'd been one of those awful shootings. They seem to happen now more than ever. Now I don't think”—her voice was firm—“he ever had a gun in his desk.”

“But, Lucy, there was a gun.” That's what Lucy had told them, Paul slumped in death on his desk, the gun lying on the floor by his dangling dead hand.

“Oh yes.” Her voice trembled. “There was a gun and that gun killed Paul. But I don't believe there was ever a gun in Paul's desk. There weren't any rags or stuff to clean a gun. My husband had a gun. He kept it in his desk along with an oil spray and some silicone cloths and brushes and picks. I looked in the drawer that was pulled out, where they found the half-empty box of cartridges. I didn't look closely that morning. Then I just saw that the drawer was open and there were cartridges. But today I looked carefully. The police took away the gun and the box with bullets. I asked them this morning and they said that was all they took. So, why wasn't there any cleaning material? And there were other things in the drawer, nothing to do with a gun. There were some folders on the bottom and that's all. Life insurance. Bank slips. I think someone came with a gun and shot him. What if someone came that night and walked around the desk, maybe saying ‘I want to show you something,' and then, real quick, put the gun to his temple? When Paul”—her voice wavered—“fell forward, why couldn't someone have taken his hand and placed the fingers around the stock and on the trigger? That policeman said they did a test and found gunshot residue on Paul's hand. He said Paul's fingerprints, from both hands, were on the cartridge box. I don't care. Maybe the murderer wiped the hand that held the gun on Paul's hand to leave traces of gunsmoke residue. Someone could have picked up his hands and touched all over the box.” Her glare was defiant, her small chin resolute.