Dead By Midnight

by Hart, Carolyn

  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.”

  Max swiftly entered a bio for Tommy, then leaned back in his chair. He glanced without enthusiasm at the last page of notes and the admittedly intriguing facts he’d gleaned about Glen Jamison’s cousin Richard, who’d come for a visit and seemed settled in for the summer. Max punched his intercom. “Hey, Barb, anything tasty in your kitchen?” Since he often had little work to occupy Barb’s energies, she spent free time whipping up delectable desserts. He deserved a break.

  Annie shut the front door of the police station carefully behind her. If she’d allowed herself to relieve her feelings, she would have slammed the door with a bang. She stalked down the steps and walked fast to her car. She’d left the windows down, but the seat was hot. She started the car and stared through the windshield.

  The prospect should have been pleasing. The police station sat on a slight rise. Beyond the one-story white building, the harbor glittered in the June sunlight. A red-sailed catamaran skimmed along the water. The ferry slip was empty, the Miss Jolene on a regular run to the mainland. A bright yellow hydroplane race boat skimmed the whitecaps. Pelicans dove for fish. Seagulls squalled.

  And Billy Cameron wasn’t stirring from his office with windows that overlooked the sound. Annie felt the tightness in her face. Okay, she was irritated. As she had now told Billy several times, they needed to look for something unusual that had occurred in the days before Pat died. Annie felt like she’d found information that fit that criteria: Pat’s late-night meanderings and, thanks to Officer Harrison, the midnight photo on her BlackBerry.

  Annie’s insistence that the BlackBerry photo was important hadn’t spurred Billy to action. Her suggestion that he survey the Jamison property and try for a match to the BlackBerry photo had brought a weary head shake. His reply had been succinct: What would that prove?

  “Well”—she spoke aloud—“it would prove something peculiar was going on late at night near the Jamison house.”

  She brushed aside an inner voice saying calmly, Pat Merridew sneaking around someone else’s backyard and taking a photo of a bunched-up towel was darn sure odd.

  Annie’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Wait a minute. Back up. Think. Pat had no reason to take the picture unless circumstances that night led her to believe something strange had occurred.

  Think, Annie, think, she prompted herself. Was the towel itself important? Or had Pat seen someone act suspiciously? She wouldn’t risk taking a picture of a person. A flash or click might reveal her presence and certainly she had no right to be on the Jamison grounds.

  Or maybe the person’s identity became important only after Pat discovered the contents of the towel, if indeed she did. But why take a picture unless something made the towel seem important to her? Whatever the contents, Pat had decided to make a record of what she’d seen.

  Annie was convinced that the photo was linked to Pat’s death and that her death had to be murder because ground-up OxyContin in Irish coffee could not be accidental, and a woman planning a grand cruise to Alaska didn’t commit suicide.

  Annie realized the trail was nebulous. No fingerprints on a crystal mug was a great deal less satisfactory than clearly observed prints of a suspect. A photo in a BlackBerry, even though it clearly was an anomaly, didn’t qualify as a smoking gun. Missing travel brochures were suggestive, but not conclusive.

  She turned the key, made a U-turn, and drove swiftly north of town to the dusty road where Pat Merridew’s house sat silent and untenanted. She parked in the drive, skirted Pat’s house, plunged into the woods. She stepped carefully over the web of an industrious spider, spinning silky strands between the fronds of a fern. She looked thoroughly on either side of the path. She reached the gap in the woods at the base of the Jamison garden. She could honestly report (if Billy cared) that there was nothing between Pat’s house and the Jamison garden that could have served as the backdrop of the photograph.

  The scream of a leaf blower blotted out birdcalls and the rustle of tree limbs in a light breeze. Glossy magnolia leaves quivered but the only sound came from the blower. Annie heard the noise, but the screech registered only peripherally. She stared through the strands of a weeping willow at a m
ahogany gazebo, gleaming bright in the morning sunlight.

  The reddish wood matched the color of the wood in the BlackBerry photo.

  She glanced around the garden, noting a young man with the blower at work about twenty feet away near a flower bed. He carried himself with the grace of an athlete. He gave her an unhurried glance and moved the nozzle to avoid scudding dust in her direction. She nodded her thanks. In five quick strides, she reached the steps and climbed up.

  Annie gave a soft whoop of triumph when she saw the interior bench. She had found the site of the photograph. In the photograph, the rich color of the wood had been clearly revealed in the glow of a pencil flash.

  Her quick elation subsided. Pat had taken a photograph of what appeared to be a rolled-up towel lying on a seat within the gazebo. Billy would say, “So?” So, Annie thought grimly, Pat had died five days later and the photo could now be absolutely linked to the Jamison property. The photo had been taken shortly after midnight. She looked out into the garden, but the house was screened by a row of palmetto palms. Turning back, she saw Elaine’s cottage.

  If Elaine had been up late that night, perhaps she might have seen or heard something.

  The front door of the cottage opened.

  Annie took a step, started to call out, then stopped.

  Elaine Jamison stood on her front steps. Every line of her body was taut, strained. Even at a distance, the expression on her face was shocking, eyes wide, jaw clenched. Elaine was upset, distraught, obviously holding herself in check with a supreme effort of will. She clutched what appeared to be balled-up blue cloth tight against her chest, her left arm bent at the elbow, her fist hard against her collarbone.

  Elaine’s gaze swept the garden, her face tense and fearful. Her thin features were rigid.

  Annie was hidden from sight behind a column of the gazebo.

  Elaine darted down the cottage steps, ran on the path toward the marsh. She rounded a pittosporum hedge and disappeared from Annie’s view.

  Annie hesitated. Elaine had surveyed the yard to be sure no one was about. If that were so, she wouldn’t welcome Annie’s presence. Yet it seemed wrong to turn and walk away. Uncertain of what she should do, she crossed the yard, ending up behind a thicket of cane. She bent stalks apart.

  On the bank, Elaine faced murky water and golden green cordgrass rippling in the breeze. She lowered her right arm and whirled away from the marsh. Breathing jerkily, her gaze fell to the blue cloth bunched in her left hand. She shuddered, broke into a run. She followed the path, then veered out of sight around the side of the cottage.

  Annie remained behind the cane, uncomfortable in her role of unseen observer. Elaine’s actions were odd, strange, disquieting. Apparently, she had thrown something into the marsh, though she still held a bundle of blue cloth. Why had she run away?

  The roar of a car motor drowned out the whine of the leaf blower. Elaine’s yellow Corolla burst from behind the cottage and disappeared in a whirl of gray dust.

  Annie absently took a bite of Barb’s chocolate pudding pie, the base dark and rich, the pudding layer crunchy with pecans. But she scarcely took notice of one of her favorite desserts. “Elaine looked awful. I wish I had called out, tried to talk to her. But”—the words came slowly—“I don’t think she would have wanted me to see her like that. I keep wondering if this has any connection to Pat.”

  Max’s face was carefully bland.

  Annie rushed ahead. “You think I’m trying to connect everything that happens at the Jamison house to Pat.”

  He was silent, but his blue eyes were understanding.

  “Maybe I am.” She felt forlorn. “But I know something was seriously wrong with Elaine this morning. And”—she was emphatic though she knew the link was obscure—“that midnight photo was definitely taken in the Jamison gazebo.”

  Max was patient. “I agree that Billy needs to look harder when you tell him about the gazebo. As for Elaine, maybe she quarreled with Glen. You said she was upset the other day because her nieces and nephew were angry with their dad. For all we know, Elaine and Glen had a real battle this morning. Anyway, speaking of personal information.” He picked up the printout of the Jamison file. “Here’s what I’ve rounded up. You can look it over while l finish up on Glen’s cousin.” He handed her several sheets and turned to his computer.

  Annie read, her expression thoughtful.

  Max finished typing and punched print. He handed another sheet to Annie.

  She turned over the last of the bios about the immediate family and looked at Max’s report on Glen’s cousin:

  RICHARD JAMISON

  Island born, grew up in Columbia. Son of Percy Jamison, who had middling success as an artist, and Amanda Riley Jamison, a potter. Thirty-three. Single. Attended University of South Carolina for two years. Dropped out to work as a deckhand on a private yacht, Pretty Girl, out of Fort Lauderdale. Since college he’s worked as a sailor, travel agent, gambler, and bartender in between several failed businesses. Recently he was on the cusp of success with a condominium project in Costa Rica, but financing disappeared in the stalled economy. He returned to the island six weeks ago and is staying at his cousin’s home.

  Richard’s photograph was from a news story published in the Bahamas and showed him on the deck of a sloop, longish brown hair riffled by a breeze, angular face sunburned, muscular in a tee and baggy shorts. Annie studied the picture. She had no doubt that Richard was a party boy, a good-time Charlie, footloose and ready for fun. She scanned the comments made by people Max had contacted:

  “Good hand. Be glad to sail with him anywhere.” “Always thinks he’s onto the next big thing.” “Man, I wish I could attract chicks the way he does.” “You’ve never partied till you party with Richard.” “I can’t imagine he’d hang long on Broward’s Rock. He couldn’t wait to shake the dust. It’s either money or sex.”

  Annie finished reading and placed the sheets on his desk. “Nothing about Pat.” It was not a complaint. It was an acceptance of fact.

  Max pushed back his chair and came around the desk to place his hand gently beneath her chin. “We’ve done everything anyone could do.”

  She looked up into dark blue eyes that told her he was sorry, that he admired her for keeping on, that it was time to admit defeat.

  His hand rose, touched her cheek. “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” His tone was warm. He glanced at the clock. “It’s twenty to eleven. I have to be here at twelve-thirty. Edna Graham’s bringing some watercolors over on her lunch hour. I’ll buy one because that was my excuse for contacting her. But you and I have time to go home”—his eyes gleamed—“and—”

  The phone rang.

  Max turned to his desk, glanced at the caller ID. “Edna Graham. What are the odds she’s canceling? I knew my good efforts would be rewarded.” He grabbed the phone. “Max Darling.” Abruptly his easy expression faded. His brows drew down. His face was grim. He held the receiver away from his ear.

  Annie heard the sound of an agitated voice. She popped up and leaned across Max’s desk to punch the speakerphone button.

  “ . . . so terrible.” Edna Graham’s voice wobbled. “I was able to contact Mrs. Jamison. She’s in Savannah. She was taking a deposition. It was horrible to tell her that kind of news over the phone. They said Glen was murdered, that he was shot several times. I promised her I’d go out to the house and talk to the police, do what I can to help. Apparently he was killed sometime this morning. She’s started home, but it’s an hour’s drive and then she has to catch the ferry. I’m on my way and I remembered I’d promised to come by your office. I can’t come now.”

  The connection ended.

  Max replaced the receiver. He turned to Annie. “Glen Jamison’s been shot. His body was found by his cousin Richard.”

  Annie sank down on the chair by Max’s desk. She felt as if the floor were rocking beneath her feet. “When was he killed?” It was an effort to squeeze the words from a throat tight with shock.

  �
�I don’t know.” Max pushed up from his chair. “Come on, Annie.”

  Slowly she came to her feet.

  Max moved around the desk, slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You have to tell Billy what you saw this morning.”

  She wanted to object, insist that Elaine Jamison’s stricken face and desperate dart to the marsh had nothing to do with her brother’s murder.

  Max spoke quietly, but firmly. “If Elaine is innocent, she has nothing to fear.”

  Three police cars, the forensic van, an ambulance, and Billy Cameron’s faded green Pontiac filled the Jamison drive. Marian Kenyon’s battered old tan Beetle was parked out of the way beneath a magnolia. Across the street, the lane was blocked by a bucket truck. A telephone lineman peered down, watching the arrivals.

  Annie pulled in at the curb, stopping short of the drive. An old sedan drew up behind her and Doc Burford, the island medical examiner, slammed out of the car, carrying a black bag. His square, blunt face was dark with a scowl. Doc Burford hated death and most of all he hated untimely death. He moved like a charging bull, heavy shoulders hunched.

  Once out of the car, Annie clutched Max’s arm. Glen’s death hadn’t seemed real. Now that she saw Doc Burford, the reality made her feel sick. She stared at the house. It didn’t seem appropriate to go to the front door and ring the bell.

  Max gestured toward the backyard as Doc Burford swung around the corner of the house, out of sight. “We’ll find Billy if we follow Doc.”

  At the end of the walk, they turned the corner and came face-to-face with Hyla Harrison.

  Officer Harrison, her thin face set and intent, held up a hand. “Crime scene. No admittance.”

  Annie looked beyond her at the police, who were gathered in a semicircle on the verandah, and Doc Burford stepping inside an open French window. A few feet from the terrace, Marian Kenyon, Leica hanging from a neck strap, wrote furiously, then craned to see inside the open door.