Dead By Midnight

by Hart, Carolyn

  Annie spoke slowly. “If the murderer came from the backyard, that clears Kit and Laura. Neither had any reason to go outside.”

  Max looked thoughtful. “If the murderer came from the backyard, the possibilities are Richard and Elaine and maybe Kirk Brewster or whoever Laura saw.”

  Annie had no doubt Billy had already reached this conclusion. “Richard found the body. He could easily have shot Glen, then raised the alarm. But he was trying to get money from Glen. He needed Glen alive.”

  Max shook his head. “According to Edna Graham, Glen turned Richard down. She said when Richard came out of Glen’s office, his face wasn’t”—Max’s tone put the word in quote marks—“ ‘nice.’ ”

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe we’re getting close. Richard wanted money. Glen said no. Maybe Richard wanted both Glen’s money and his wife. Kit thought Richard was attracted to Cleo. I wonder”—her tone was thoughtful—“if Richard knew about the key man insurance.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “He’ll never admit he knew, if he did. But the important point is that Kirk Brewster absolutely knew about the insurance. Two and a half million is a pretty nice incentive for a man who was going to be broke and looking for a job and unwilling to leave the island because of his sister’s health. I’m sure Billy has checked out Kirk’s whereabouts Tuesday morning, but I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Annie was stubborn. “Maybe Richard Jamison had good reason to believe he could cash in if Cleo came in for her share.”

  Max leaned back against the booth. “Do I pick up on a little hostility toward Richard? Or are you willing to toss him under the bus to save Elaine?”

  Annie’s tone was scathing. “What kind of man comes to his cousin’s house and hangs around like a squatter trying to get money out of him?”

  Max laughed. “Not a fine specimen of the Puritan ethic, according to the Annie Laurance Darling Doctrine?”

  It was a long-standing divide between them. Max grew up rich, enjoyed dabbling, and never felt he had to prove anything by hewing to a career. He would have been happy traveling and collecting art, supporting good causes, and eschewing personal achievement. Annie grew up counting pennies, always worked hard, and did her best at whatever task she attempted. They achieved peace by making accommodations: Max dutifully created Confidential Commissions and found he enjoyed solving problems for people; Annie discovered devotion to work could be balanced with impromptu walks on a winter beach, late-morning breakfasts, and, of course, some afternoon delight.

  Annie was stern. “If a man lacks character in one respect—”

  Max held up both hands in negation. “It doesn’t mean he’d shoot his cousin.”

  She placed her elbows on the table. “He came looking for money. And”—her tone was portentous—“maybe when he got here, he wanted more than money. Maybe he wanted Cleo.”

  Max was impatient. “We’re making everything up here. We don’t have any reason to believe Cleo was cheating on her husband.”

  “But maybe she was.”

  “Maybe. A love affair between Cleo and Richard would give him a motive in addition to money. I’ll do some checking on the two of them. But we know for sure that Kirk Brewster had only a couple more weeks before he lost any chance to profit from the key man insurance. I’ll see what I can find out about Kirk, too. And you?”

  Annie looked across the room at Ben Parotti. “I like Ben’s instinct. I’ll drop by Jasmine Gardens.”

  Max gave a wistful glance at his indoor putting green but went directly to his computer. He settled behind his massive mahogany desk and turned on his computer. He opened his file on the Jamison family and reread the biographical material on Richard Jamison. After a little digging, he had three names. Thanks to the ubiquity of cell phones and modern humans’ apparent inability to be out of touch, he soon spoke to the skipper of Pretty Girl. “Captain, I’m putting together a movie in Beaufort County”—the county had been home to the filming of several feature films—“and I’m looking for a recommendation for Richard Jamison. I believe he sailed with you for a couple of years.”

  The crusty voice rumbled, “Good hand. Got a quick head in emergencies. Kept his nose clean. Broke up a cocaine ring once. Don’t want that kind of crap on my ship. Hire him anytime.”

  “Did he tip you to the smuggling?”

  “Damn right. Helped me set it up with the feds. Caught ’em. Almost a half-million dollars’ worth of cocaine.”

  “He sounds like a good hire. Now, I have kind of a funny question”—Max made his voice easy, amused, sharing a joke—“but we have an actress who likes good-looking men. Do you suppose he’d be willing to be nice to the lady?”

  A roar of earthy laughter. “Richard’s your man. Hardly ever met a woman that didn’t have the hots for him. He likes the ladies, so long as he can love ’em and leave ’em.”

  “No problem there.” Max was equally hearty.

  As he replaced the receiver, he studied a smiling picture of Richard from his Facebook page, tanned and fit, muscular in a pale green guayabera shirt and khaki shorts and docksiders. He stood at the stern of a cabin cruiser, a breeze stirring sun-streaked brown hair. His lopsided smile was exuberant. He was a man who liked sun and sex, and he was always looking for the route to easy street. But he’d drawn the line at drugs. Max wrote on his legal pad, underlined drugs three times.

  He made two more calls.

  The first was to Sam Whistler, who was still bartending at the Ship Ahoy in Boca Raton. “Sam, I understand Richard Jamison worked there last year. I’m looking for a manager for the Fast Catch here on the island. What can you tell me about Richard?”

  “ . . . good joe . . . easy to talk to . . . handles crowds . . . careful about money. You can trust him . . . Women? I don’t know what his secret is. They love the man. But he makes sure they understand the rules before he plays. He’s one smart dude.”

  The final call was to a childhood friend now teaching Spanish at Clemson. “Richard? So he’s back on the island. I doubt that lasts long. He’s a wanderer. He never met an open road he didn’t want to take or a beautiful woman he didn’t want to make love to.” A faint sigh. “Richard’s not a nine-to-five guy.”

  Max ended the call, pulled the legal pad nearer. He drew a road, a pair of sexy female legs, a condo marked by a huge X, and a rectangular package that would hold a kilo of cocaine.

  It was time to talk to Richard Jamison.

  Palmetto palms stood like Southern sentries on either side of a short oyster-shell road. The Jasmine Gardens cabins weren’t visible from the main road. A small white sign hung from a steel stanchion near an office-cum-cabin. The inscription read:

  JASMINE GARDENS

  MANAGER

  INQUIRE WITHIN

  Annie parked. She smelled the banana sweetness of pittosporum. Five steps led to a small front porch. The cabin was built about five feet above the ground, always a wise precaution on a sea island. Annie admired its blue shutters and white siding. The style reminded her a little of Bermuda. Ben Parotti had evidently been feeling romantic when he approved the design.

  A skinny redhead, her hair pulled back beneath a yellow do-rag, gave Annie a bright smile. “We have a vacancy,” as if Annie were a lucky winner of a sweepstakes. “Each of our cabins is built behind a private screen of bamboo and bayberry. Each cabin has its own parking space on one side. The cabins are fully furnished, once-weekly maid service—”

  “Maid service.” Annie felt a surge of panic. “Has Cabin Nine been cleaned?”

  “Oh.” The manager sighed. “You must be Annie Darling. I thought you looked kind of familiar. I took my mom to your bookstore once. I’m Marva Kay. Ben called and said you’d be by to see that cabin. He said not to touch it. I told Linda Lee to skip nine this week.” She turned and reached inside the door. “Here’s the key.”

  “How long had Darwyn been renting the cabin?”

  She squinted at Annie. “He signed the register David Harley. He paid cash, pl
us a two-hundred-dollar deposit, so I didn’t ask for an ID.” She frowned. “I wonder who’ll get the deposit back.”

  “I’d hold on to it. What’s most important, please don’t have the cabin cleaned until Ben gives the go-ahead.”

  “Sure enough.” Marva Kay looked rueful. “I got plenty of others to rent.”

  “Did you see much of Darwyn?”

  She gave a little laugh. “I don’t see much of anybody. See, every cabin is completely private. It’s like they’re supposed to be love nests. Or something like that. We used to get a lot of couples from Savannah but not so many now.”

  “Did you ever see anyone with Darwyn?”

  She looked wise. “His girlfriend? Nope. But one afternoon I got a call from the lady in ten and she was panicked. Seems like a raccoon was trying to get in the back door. I told her just to leave him alone and he’d go away but she insisted I come and do something. I got Buster, my hound. I knew that raccoon would scoot faster than a floozy who sees a patrol car. We took the path, and like I said, it’s plenty private behind the bamboo, but I heard, well, you can take it from me, they weren’t playing tiddledywinks in nine. I walked a little faster. No business of mine. Then I heard the sliding door shut and I figured that was good. I like the heavy breathing to be inside. Some kids might be wandering around. So, I never saw anybody but him. For sure, he didn’t rent the cabin to work on his abs. Not that they needed any work.”

  Back in the car, Annie drove cautiously on the narrow, twisting lane. As Marva Kay had said, each cabin was its own world. She pulled into the parking slot next to nine. She walked to the front steps. The old-fashioned metal key was distinctive, a shiny silver color with a heart-shaped bow.

  The door swung in. Dust motes danced in the splash of sunlight. The air was still and hot. The air-conditioning was off. The living room’s island decor was cheerful, wicker chairs with red-and-yellow cushions, a ceiling fan, a rattan sofa, tiled floor. One wall featured a mural with a great blue heron standing in a marsh.

  There was no evidence of recent occupation. No newspapers. No magazines. No glasses. Annie glanced into the small kitchen. It, too, appeared unused. She didn’t touch the refrigerator or cabinets.

  In the single bedroom, she felt as though she were chasing phantoms. The double bed was made, the spread tightly tucked beneath the pillows. The bolsters common to hotel rooms were absent. Unless she was very much mistaken, the room had been cleaned since it last served as a rendezvous for lovers. There was no hint as to the identity of the woman who had met Darwyn here, nothing in the closet or in the drawers of a wicker chest, no scrap of papers in the wastebaskets, nothing that had rolled beneath the bed or the sofa.

  She locked the cabin behind her, returned the key, and walked to her car. She’d had great hopes of finding some clue about Darwyn’s girlfriend. Of course, there was no guarantee she knew anything at all about what he had seen in the Jamison backyard Tuesday morning.

  Still, it would be nice to have the opportunity to ask her.

  Barb poked her head into Max’s office. “Richard Jamison is here.” Her expressive face registered a warning.

  Max rose from behind the refectory table that served as his desk and walked toward the door.

  Richard Jamison stopped a few feet inside, folded his arms. His gaze was cold. “You called me out of the blue, started asking questions. I don’t know you. I don’t have to talk to you.” He was island casual in a loose orange polo and baggy shorts and huaraches, but his face was brooding and unpleasant.

  Max looked at him coolly. “But you came.”

  Richard’s face hardened. “Because of Cleo. I’m warning you. If you spread rumors about Cleo and me, I’ll sue you for defamation of character.”

  Max was forceful, though he kept his voice even. “I don’t spread rumors. I’m asking about you and your cousin’s widow because his daughter Kit told my wife that she thought you were having an affair with her stepmother.”

  “No.” Richard’s answer was violent. “There’s no truth to that. You want the truth? I’ll tell you the truth even though you don’t have any right to ask me a damn thing. I loved my cousin. I looked up to him. Glen was great to me when I was a little kid. And yeah, Cleo’s an amazing woman. Sure, I’m attracted to her. But I don’t screw a man’s wife when I’m living in his house. I’d decided to leave. I was going next week and then somebody shot Glen. It wasn’t me. I’ll talk to Kit.” He turned to go.

  Max’s tone was sharp. “Are you still leaving town?”

  Slowly Richard faced him. “I’m staying for a while.”

  “I suppose you’ll help Cleo sort out her financial future.”

  “Her finances are none of my business.”

  “She’ll be able to help you swing the loans for those condos in Costa Rica.”

  Some of the tension eased out of Richard’s body. “You got that wrong, just like you got it wrong about me and Cleo. All Cleo gets is prenup money and that wouldn’t make a dent in what I need.”

  “What about the proceeds from the key man insurance?”

  Richard looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Max spoke softly. “Somehow I thought you might know. The firm took out insurance payable on Glen’s death. Cleo might be able to find what you need out of the two and a half million she’ll receive.”

  Richard appeared stunned. “Two and a half million?”

  Max saw Annie’s theory—Richard deciding to kill Glen both for his wife and the money she would receive—dissolve like a sand castle with the tide running in.

  Richard swung around and left without another word.

  Max wondered: Was Richard a shocked and bewildered man, or was he a very fine actor?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Annie pulled in to the curb in front of the Broward’s Rock police station. She scanned the street for Kit’s VW. As she climbed the front steps, she checked the parking lot to the north. No little black car. She opened the front door and stepped into the narrow space in front of the counter.

  Mavis Cameron’s angular face looked tired, but she managed a smile. “Billy’s not here, Annie. He went to the mainland.”

  Annie didn’t take that calm statement as a good sign for Elaine Jamison. Very likely, Billy had gone to Chastain for a conference with Circuit Solicitor Brice Posey, who was not and never had been a favorite of Max and Annie’s. However, Annie felt certain Mavis would not volunteer any information in regard to the status of Elaine Jamison, either as a suspect or as a prisoner. “Actually, I’m looking for Laura Jamison. She and her sister and brother came here to see about their aunt.”

  Mavis pushed back a strand of auburn hair. “They left a little while ago.”

  Annie nodded her thanks. As she turned to go, Mavis added, “I’ll tell Billy you dropped by.”

  Outside, Annie pulled her cell from her purse and called Elaine’s cottage. No answer. She called the Jamison house. “Is Laura there?” It might be better not to identify herself unless asked to do so. She listened. “No thanks, I won’t leave a message.”

  In the car, she made a U-turn. In a way, she wasn’t surprised to learn that Laura had gone to the beach. Was she taking solace from the sweep of the water to the horizon or was she simply trying to escape the worry and fear at home?

  Annie found a parking space without a vestige of shade at Blackbeard Beach. She hurried to the boardwalk. She wished she could be there for pleasure, enjoying the scent of coconut oil and sea salt. Waves crested in lines of silver foam atop the green water. Just like yesterday, dolphins arched above the waves, graceful as ballerinas. Annie picked her way around umbrellas and among sun worshippers stretched on towels. At the third lifeguard stand, she again looked up at a thin face masked by sunglasses.

  “Laura.”

  Laura looked down. “Kit was going to call you. Thanks for helping us. We contacted that lawyer. He’s coming over tomorrow. They let Elaine come home. They’re going to talk to her when Handle
r Jones is here.”

  So Billy had permitted Elaine to leave the station. Annie knew her name popped up on Elaine’s caller ID when Elaine used her cell. If she was in the cottage when Annie called, she’d chosen not to answer. However, Laura had no way of knowing that Elaine didn’t want to talk to Annie, and Laura clearly felt indebted to Annie for the connection to Handler Jones.

  Annie strove to appear relaxed, as if in no way she and Laura were at odds. “That’s wonderful news. He will certainly be helpful. As I said when I talked to Elaine”—if Laura assumed this conversation was recent, that was her privilege—“it’s important to come up with the most complete information possible. Now that Elaine has cleared up the confusion about the gun, we’re counting on you for absolutely critical information.”

  “Me?” Laura sat rigid.

  Annie nodded energetically. “You were on the upper verandah. You saw Darwyn.”

  “Oh.” Laura relaxed. “Yeah. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. He was blowing pine straw. Then I lost sight of him. He must have come up close to the terrace.”

  With the toe of one shoe, Annie drew a line in the sand. “Okay. That’s the edge of the terrace.” She walked a few feet and dragged her heel to make a line perpendicular to the first. “Here are the pine trees.” Annie turned and walked several feet toward the water. She stamped her feet twice. “Let’s say this is the cottage.” She returned to the first line. “If you looked down, you could see the pine trees and flower beds and Darwyn. If you looked straight, you saw the cottage.”

  “Not exactly. There’s a willow in front of the cottage.”

  Annie was impatient. “But you would see anyone coming from the cottage to the house once you were past the willow.”