Dead By Midnight

by Hart, Carolyn

  Max was placating. “Give Annie a break. If she told you, you couldn’t use it. Vince is pretty particular about libel.”

  “Oooh.” Marian made a note on her pad. “Don’t think I’m going to forget.” She took a step nearer the tape and stared at the lagoon. “What’s up now? Why’s Hyla clutching that piece of brick?”

  Billy Cameron’s voice carried well. “Officer, pretend the brick’s a gun. You want to get rid of it pronto. Heave it as hard as you can.”

  “I like that. Very cunning.” Marian made quick notes. “For a little while there, I thought maybe our uniformed best planned to play skip-a-rock for a little R and R.”

  As they watched, Officer Harrison threw. The chunk of brick splashed into the marsh midway between the bank and the big hammock. The raccoon whirled and disappeared into a thicket of greenery.

  Using a cane pole to test the squishy bottom, Lou slogged through marsh water. The tide was running out, exposing the mudflats. Fiddler crabs moved swiftly like small herds of thundering bison. Lou moved on a steady slant toward the big hummock, though his progress through the mushy mud was clearly an effort. Several times he stumbled, possibly hooking the toe of a boot into submerged roots.

  Max shook his head. “Finding anything in that glop is as likely as picking a diamond out of broken glass mired in muck. And that would be if you could see what you’re doing. Lou can’t see a thing in the silt-filled water. The pole will strike either mud, reeds, or roots. If he bangs something hard, it could be a gun or a root. I’d say this is an exercise in futility.”

  “About there,” Hyla shouted.

  Lou poked the pole in delicate jabs, going a few inches at a time as he explored the brown water in front of him. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Two steps forward. Tap, tap . . . Lou raised the pole, returned it toward the same spot with the same angle.

  A car’s motor sounded. Dust boiled up as a yellow Corolla jolted to a stop in the dusty drive near the cottage. The driver’s door was flung open. Elaine Jamison rushed across the uneven ground with its clumps of wire grass amid open patches of sandy soil.

  She came to the bank, stared at the uniformed police. “What’s going on here?”

  Billy eyed her thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can tell us, Miss Jamison.”

  She was abruptly wary, her narrow face intent, questioning. “Who are you?”

  “Police Chief Billy Cameron.”

  “A little more to the left,” Hyla called.

  Elaine looked out at the marsh. She might have been a lovely woman in expensive casual summer wear, a terra-cotta linen blouse, white cropped slacks, rose-red sandals—except for the tautness of her body.

  “Like she’s up close and personal with Dracula,” Marian breathed. She lifted her camera, adjusted the lens, clicked several times. The reporter’s inelegant comment was utterly apt.

  Elaine lifted a hand to the open throat of her blouse. “Chief Cameron, why are you here?”

  “We are investigating a crime.”

  She waited, her eyes fixed on his face.

  Annie felt as if she was watching a large cat toy with a cornered mouse. “Cruel.” The word, scarcely audible, fell between her and Max.

  He slid an arm around her shoulders. “He suspects her. He’s trying to make her come out into the open. That’s fair enough, Annie.”

  “Better than The Shield,” Marian observed.

  “Tell me what’s going on.” Elaine’s voice rose.

  Billy was brusque. “We responded to a 911 call at ten-fifteen this morning. Suspected homicide. The victim has been identified as Glen Jamison.”

  “Glen.” Her voice shook. “Where was he found?”

  “At the house. By Richard Jamison.”

  “They need me. The children . . .” She turned away.

  “Hey, Chief.” Lou’s shout was robust. “I found something.” He lifted the pole out of the water, stuck it in the mud a foot to his left. He gripped the landing net and eased the net down into the water. He made a scooping motion, lifted. Water sprayed from the net. Lou held the net aloft. A broken whiskey bottle dangled above the water. With a shake of his head, Lou used the net like a jai alai player and the bottle splashed twenty feet away. He grabbed the pole and resumed his slow exploration.

  “Miss Jamison.” Billy’s voice was heavy.

  Annie could see Elaine clearly, more clearly than she would have wished.

  Elaine’s face was stiff and pale, her eyes empty.

  Billy took several steps, stood perhaps a foot from her. He stared down, his gaze intent and measuring. “You were observed this morning. What did you throw in the marsh?”

  “I have nothing to say. I am going to the house now.” She spoke wearily, as if she’d run a hard race and all her strength was gone. “I must see about the children. And about Glen.” She took a deep, ragged breath.

  Billy’s voice was hard. “I can take you to the station for questioning.”

  “I don’t know anything that will help you. Let me see about the children.” Her control crumbled. She choked back a sob. “They’ve lost their father. I’ll be there if you want me.”

  Billy watched in silence as she started, head down, for the verandah. He jerked his head toward Officer Harrison. “Stay with her. See what she says.” He shouted to Lou, “Keep looking.” He turned and strode toward the house.

  Marian called out, “Do you have a person of interest?”

  He ignored her call.

  As he climbed the back steps and moved toward an open French window, Marian was sanguine. “I didn’t think he’d commit this early, but it’s pretty clear where he’s going. Lawyer shot to death. Witness sees sister toss something, think firearm, into the muck. One plus one equals two.”

  Annie swung toward Marian. “I didn’t see her throw anything.”

  Marian arched a dark brow. “You don’t like being the finger, but that’s the way killers get caught. Of course, Lou will have to have a shamrock on his shoulder to find anything out there.” She gestured toward the marsh. “Although I’d be the last to pick Elaine Jamison to pull the trigger of anything deadlier than a perfume atomizer. Shows how much I know. Anyway, it’s going to make a big-time story, even if I have to be careful how I play it.” She glanced at her watch. “Speaking of, I got less than twenty minutes before deadline.” She whirled and broke into a steady trot toward the road.

  Max touched Annie’s arm lightly. “Come on, Annie. I don’t think there’s anything we can do here.”

  “I’ve done enough, haven’t I?” Her voice was shaky.

  “You did what you had to do.” He didn’t go on to say that Elaine Jamison was digging her own grave by her lack of cooperation, but his eyes told her.

  Annie swallowed hard. “I was here a few days ago and talked to Elaine. She was so open about Glen and the problems in the family. She would never have told me any of that if she’d intended to shoot him. She made it clear that she loved Glen. She said he wasn’t at fault. She blamed everything on Cleo.”

  Max looked thoughtful. “Maybe it was Cleo’s fault that Glen made his kids mad, but you said Elaine was furious that they were unhappy.”

  Oyster shells crackled beneath their shoes. They came out from beneath the shadow of a live oak and started across the rough lawn toward the car.

  Annie made no answer. She couldn’t disagree. Elaine had been angry with her brother over his treatment of Laura, Kit, and Tommy. Someone shot Glen Jamison in his study, which argued a killer near at hand. Elaine’s distraught appearance this morning was suspicious. Moreover, the movement of her arm as she stood on the bank of the marsh indicated she had thrown something, and no murder weapon had been found in Glen’s study.

  Annie’s steps slowed as they reached the front yard. She stopped and looked toward the steps to the wide verandah. “I have to go inside.”

  She walked swiftly toward the porch. Max didn’t call after her. Thank you, Max, thank you for understanding, thank you for knowing I have to be honest.
Steeling herself, she ran lightly up the steps.

  The front door was unlocked, of course. So many were going in and out as part of the investigation. With a quick breath, Annie opened the screen door and stepped into the central hallway. A soft murmur of voices sounded from the drawing room.

  Officer Harrison stood in the open doorway to the drawing room. She turned at the squeak of the hinges. She looked at Annie, unhooked the cell from her belt, flipped up the cover.

  Annie moved as though she were confident of her reception. She lifted her voice, the better to be heard in the living room. “I have to speak to Elaine Jamison.”

  Hyla punched the cell. “Mrs. Darling wants to talk to Elaine Jamison.”

  Footsteps sounded. Elaine stood in the doorway. “Annie, we have great trouble.”

  “That’s why I’ve come.” Annie walked past the police officer, who listened, then pocketed the cell.

  Apparently, Billy didn’t mind Annie’s presence as long as Hyla heard every word.

  Annie glanced around the room. Obviously, Frank Saulter had finished taking the family members’ statements because now they were all here. Kit Jamison huddled, knees to her chin, in a side chair. Laura and her brother, Tommy, shared a small sofa. Annie’s gaze paused at Tommy. He’d combed his hair and changed into a larger shirt that fit him much better than the earlier tight polo. Richard Jamison stood by the window. His glance at Annie was quizzical.

  Annie took a deep breath. Elaine deserved the truth. “I was in your backyard this morning. I told the police that I saw you come out of your cottage.”

  The silence in the living room was taut and stressed. Every face turned toward the doorway where Elaine and Annie stood.

  Elaine raised a hand as if to ward off Annie’s words.

  Annie continued, her voice thin, her eyes meeting Elaine’s stricken gaze. “You walked on the path toward the marsh. You were carrying a bunched-up blue cloth. I lost sight of you. I crossed the yard and looked around the cane. You were lowering your arm. I assumed that you had thrown something. However, I did not”—she emphasized the negative—“see you throw anything.” If a gun wasn’t found, they would have no physical evidence to link to Elaine. “You still held the cloth. You turned and ran behind your cottage and in a moment you drove out in your car.”

  Annie looked deep into pale blue eyes that held despair, not resentment.

  Laura Jamison’s voice shook. “Did you see anyone else?”

  “The yardman.” Annie continued to look at Elaine. “If Max and I can help you, call us.” She waited for an instant, but Elaine’s face registered nothing. Slowly, Annie turned away.

  Voices rose. “What’s this all about, Elaine?” “What’s she talking about?” “Who is she?”

  Annie walked away.

  Elaine’s voice sounded dull. “Annie Darling. I don’t know why she came. What I did this morning doesn’t matter. I didn’t go up to the house. I didn’t see Glen. I don’t know what happened to him. I saw him last night. He was fine.” Her voice broke, ended in a sob.

  Annie pushed out the front door and hurried across the grass to find solace in Max’s embrace.

  Chapter Eight

  Annie looked over the marina, smelled the salty scent of the water, and heard the clang of a buoy. She had stopped believing in pots of gold under four-leaf clovers by the time she was eight, but on this gorgeous, clear, brilliant morning she felt as if everything was going to come up roses. Even if Elaine Jamison had thrown away a gun yesterday in the marsh, she felt confident that Elaine was not a murderess. On the morning that someone shot her brother, maybe she’d thought a gun was nothing to have in her possession. Annie did not believe, could not believe, would not believe that Elaine lifted a gun, held the grip tight in her hands, squeezed the trigger, and ended the life of the brother she adored.

  Annie plucked her cell from the pocket of her light and swirly georgette skirt with a bright pattern of tiny clamshells against a silvery background. She’d dressed with special care, her blouse a matching silver, a cool outfit for a warm day. She punched a button, held the phone up.

  “Mavis, Annie again. May I please speak to Billy?” A black skimmer passed so near as it dove toward the water that she could see its brilliant black cap and red bill. “Billy? Annie.” She got right to the point. “Did the search of the marsh yield anything?”

  “Some information has been released to the media.” His tone was matter-of-fact. What Annie would soon read in the Gazette, he was willing to share. “A search of the marsh was instituted. To date, investigators haven’t found anything connected to the murder of Glen Jamison. Missing from the Jamison house is a semiautomatic 1911 Colt .45 registered to Glen Jamison. The gun was customarily kept in a gun safe in his study. The key was in the gun safe. The gun safe contained two handguns, a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum and a Ruger Mark III semiautomatic .22 pistol. Neither had been fired recently and both were fully loaded. Glen occasionally went into Savannah to a gun club to shoot. About a week before the crime, he told his wife he had mislaid the key to the gun safe. He didn’t mention the missing key again and she assumed he had found it. When and how the Colt .45 was removed from the gun safe and by whom is unknown. Ballistic tests indicate Jamison was killed by a forty-five-caliber bullet.”

  The brightness of the day dimmed as she clicked off the call. Billy clearly believed Elaine had thrown Glen’s Colt into the marsh. Even if the gun were never found, Annie’s statement would be damning. Annie walked slowly to Death on Demand and unlocked the front door. Agatha waited with her ears slightly flattened and her tail switching. The black cat’s meow was distinctly annoyed.

  “I only stopped at the marina for a minute.” Annie clicked on lights, walked swiftly down the center aisle to the coffee bar.

  Agatha nipped at one ankle.

  “Okay, maybe five minutes.” In a flash, Annie had opened a fresh can of salmon, filled the bowl, and refreshed Agatha’s water.

  Elaine threw away the murder weapon.

  Annie brewed a pot of strong Colombian and wished she could will away the conclusion, but the conclusion seemed obvious and clearly Billy had made the connection. When Elaine’s distraught appearance Tuesday morning was added to the possible disposal of the murder weapon, the likelihood of guilt was overwhelming. All Annie could offer in rebuttal was her memory of a sister’s obvious devotion.

  Annie poured coffee into one of her favorite mugs, O Is for Omen by Lawrence Treat. What she needed now, in addition to a jolt of super coffee, was a good omen for Elaine. She sat at a table and the first thing her eye saw was a Cat Truth poster. A magnificent Golden Shaded Persian with a malignant expression stared haughtily from pale golden eyes: All we know are the facts, ma’am.

  Annie wanted to believe in Elaine’s innocence, but deadly facts were deadly.

  The tide was running out, exposing shallow pools with hard-ridged bottoms. The sun hung low in the west, splashing a burst of orange on low-lying dark clouds banked to the south.

  Annie leaned back in the short-legged beach chair, sipped a limeade, and shaded her eyes from the still-vivid sunlight. “Not a cloud in the sky.” She felt drained. All day at Death on Demand her thoughts had tumbled as she sought some means of helping Elaine. She’d been tempted to call Billy Cameron, but she had nothing to offer except her personal feeling of Elaine’s innocence. After dinner, she’d agreed to go to the beach even though she felt as if she were letting Elaine down. But what could Annie do?

  Max lay on a towel stretched out on the sand. His skin gleamed from coconut-oil sunscreen. Sand had dried to his yellow swim trunks. A soft, pale blue cotton bucket hat shaded his face. “We’ll have some rainy days soon.” This June had been uncommonly dry. “Then you’ll sell a lot of books.” His murmur was drowsy. “Hot today. Like the natives say, why do all these people come here when the sand burns your feet?” He didn’t look, but the wave of his arm encompassed clots of tourists, many of them with peeling noses and sun-angry shoulders. They s
plashed in gentle surf, jogged, rode bikes, lunged for small black balls as they played Kadima, or lounged in beach chairs. “But it’s a beautiful time to be on the beach.”

  “And everything is as it should be on a Wednesday evening in June.” Her voice wobbled. On their beautiful sea island, life went on. Families played, lovers came together, old people lifted their faces to the warmth of the sun to remember when they were young and turned cartwheels on the sand.

  Max tipped up the hat. His eyes sought hers. “You had to report what you saw.”

  “What if Billy arrests Elaine?” It was hard to force out the words. Speaking the threat aloud made Elaine’s situation seem worse.

  Max said quietly, “Billy makes decisions based on evidence. Right now he doesn’t have enough evidence to charge Elaine.”

  Annie’s reply was hot. “He needs to look at all the evidence. He brushed me off about Pat Merridew’s murder and the photograph taken in the Jamison gazebo.”

  Max’s dark blue eyes were thoughtful. He didn’t answer directly. “When Elaine came out of the cottage, she was carrying a cloth wrapped around something, right?”

  Annie saw Elaine’s image clearly, haunted, despairing, driven, one arm pressed tight over the small bundle. “That’s right.”

  His tone was neutral. “In Pat’s photograph, the towel in the gazebo was wrapped around something.”

  “Oh, wait a minute . . .” But the words trailed away.

  Max picked up some sand, let it trickle through his fingers. “You saw Elaine shortly after she had apparently thrown an object into the marsh. Glen’s gun is missing and it was the same-caliber gun that killed him. One plus one, Annie. Elaine carried something wrapped in cloth and tossed something into the water. How hard is it to wonder if her cloth held the gun and if the towel in the photograph was wrapped around Glen’s Colt?”

  Annie wished she could blot out the words, but they buzzed in her mind, persistent as no-see-’ums. She understood Max’s point. The Colt belonged to Glen. Someone took it from his study. What then? The gun had to be hidden until it was needed. Elaine no longer lived in the house. It seemed reasonable to assume that if she stole the gun, she would have hidden it in a convenient spot but not in her cottage. The gazebo was only steps away.