by Carolyn Hart
Max sat as comfortably as possible in a Hepplewhite armchair that seemed uncommonly hard. Perhaps his discomfort arose from that steady gaze, icy and challenging. Even seated, Jason Brown’s height and burly physique were evident. He emanated power. Now an iron gray eyebrow was raised. “You aren’t anybody. Not a cop. Not a lawyer.”
Max could have pointed out the error. He indeed had a law degree, but he didn’t practice law, so there was no reason to quibble. He maintained a pleasant expression.
Brown folded his muscular arms. “You got in here by sending in a card.” He picked up a card with the Confidential Commissions logo on one side, read Max’s message on the other: “‘How hard were you pushing David Corley to pay up?’” Brown’s smile didn’t reach his dark eyes. “Who the hell says I was pushing Corley?”
“One of your men”—Max’s tone made the inoffensive noun a substitute for thug—“escorted David in here for a little heart-to-heart.” Max glanced at the underling. “Word has it David lost big at roulette and David’s like a lot of rich guys on a stipend, lots of splash, not much cash.”
“I don’t talk about guests.”
Max’s smile was sunny. “I don’t need to know anything more about the Palmetto Players. I know enough to be sure David Corley was asked to pay up. All I want to know is when—or if—David convinced you he was good for the bill.”
Brown absently ran a thumb alongside a small scar at the base of his jaw. Seconds passed. Finally, he grunted, opened the center drawer of the desk, picked up a small leather-bound notebook, flipped past several tabs. He glanced down, then lifted those cold brown eyes. “Wednesday, October 9.”
“Did he say where he was going to get the money?”
Brown glanced at his minion.
The man came around the desk, stared down at Max. “Out.”
• • •
Laurel Roethke parked her jade green convertible in the Fish Haul Pier lot. She left the top down. Few cars were ever stolen on the island. A car would be missed almost immediately and unless the thief had big-scale water wings, the only way off the island was by ferry. She strolled to the boardwalk and out onto the pier. As always, fishermen sat on camp chairs with bait coolers at their feet and rods held over the water that slapped softly against the columns of the pier.
Laurel was pleased as admiring glances followed her. Men did love pretty dresses, especially when soft material flowed in the breeze. Really this dress was a favorite, so feminine and the most graceful design, violets against pale cream. She loved hearing the water swirl around the pilings and hearing the cries of the gulls as they circled, hoping for a tossed-away fish. A catamaran skimmed past the pier, tilting up for a daredevil ride. She heard the laughter of a long-limbed girl and her muscular and attractive shirtless captain.
Laurel smiled, sent a silent wish across the water: Enjoy being young, my dears. Each day comes but once.
Running steps sounded behind her. She turned.
Frankie Ford slid to a stop in front of Laurel, spared one quick glance over her shoulder. “I can’t stay long.” Her voice was low, breathless. “Mr. Wyler thinks I’m running some checks to the bank.” Frankie’s pale face reflected dread. Her eyes looked haunted, her cheeks hollow. “Why don’t they let Tom go?” Her voice broke. “Somebody set fire to Dr. Martin’s house. Why would that happen unless somebody didn’t want anyone looking again at the place where he died?”
Laurel hated to add to her burden, but she should be prepared. “There’s some thought that the fire was set by someone who wants Tom to appear to be innocent.”
“Nobody but me would care—” She broke off, if possible looked even more upset. “Oh my God. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. That’s awful.”
“The only thing that will help Tom is if all the truth comes out.” She gazed at Frankie kindly. “You went to his studio that afternoon.” She spoke with assurance and knew she was right when Frankie’s gaze dropped. “I don’t think Tom was at the studio. Later, when he claimed he’d never left his studio until he went to the pool and then across the terrace and found Jane, you were afraid he’d killed her.” Laurel felt confident in her declarations, based on Annie’s conclusion that Frankie was evasive about her whereabouts when Jane was killed and that Frankie had been terrified of his guilt until she heard about the drawing Lucy Ransome found.
Frankie came alive, face turning pink, hand upheld in dismay. “I never really thought he was guilty. But it was scary that he said he was in his studio all afternoon. I know what must have happened. He found Jane dead and panicked. I’ll bet he ran back to the studio and stayed there, trying to think what to do. And then, oh I know how his mind works, he decided the easiest thing was to stay there until it was time for him to finish like he always did. When I came about a quarter after three to the studio, he was gone. He must have been up at the house. I couldn’t wait. Toby gets impatient if I take too long over errands.”
“Why did you go to the studio?”
Frankie brushed back a strand of reddish-brown hair. Her expression was odd, as if she looked back over a chasm that memory could scarcely bridge. “I was going to tell him I was going to look for a job in Atlanta.” The words came haltingly and Frankie’s eyes held anguish.
Laurel reached out, patted her arm. “What did you expect him to do?”
Frankie looked away. “I don’t know.” Her voice was dull. “I couldn’t stay on the island. I couldn’t keep on the way it was. I can’t live my life being . . .” She trailed off.
Laurel understood. Frankie was young, desperately in love, unwilling to be a mistress.
Frankie lifted that rounded chin, but her face didn’t look young. There was an empty, sad expression. “I don’t think he would have come. Only painting really matters to him. That’s why he didn’t kill Jane.” Now her voice was hot. “He wouldn’t do anything that could ruin his life as a painter.”
Laurel suspected she was right on all counts. Now the question had to be whether Frankie would commit murder rather than lose Tom. “Where did you park?”
Frankie looked utterly bewildered.
“You drove your car. You came to the studio. Where did you park? I assume you didn’t want Jane to know you were there.”
Again Frankie seemed to be looking back at a long-ago moment, one that had little reality to her now. She spoke as if the information didn’t matter. “Instead of turning in at the main entrance, I went about half a block and parked. There’s a bike trail through the woods there. I took that. At one point, the trail crosses the path to the studio.”
“Did you see anyone?”
She shook her head.
“Did you hear anything?”
She looked weary. “I didn’t hear a car or see anyone on the path, only a dog yipping in the distance.”
• • •
Emma was brusque. “Fine painter. If he gets the chair for murdering his wife, prices will double.” She turned a thumb toward a haunting painting of a marsh scene.
Toby Wyler’s dark eyes appraised her. She didn’t miss the gleam of avarice in his gaze, reflecting a gallery owner’s pleasure when a well-heeled buyer was uncanny enough to reveal intense interest.
Emma had already noted that the cards beneath the paintings did not contain a purchase price. Whatever she bought was going to cost several thousands more than before her revealing comment. She wasn’t concerned. They were fine paintings and, thanks to Marigold Rembrandt, she could afford to indulge herself. However, Mr. Wyler was going to provide a great deal of information before she signed a check.
She turned bright primrose blue eyes toward him, considered his white suit that emphasized the coal black of his hair and mustache, found the effect theatrical. “It’s fascinating to learn more about a woman’s actions when she has only a few days to live. What time did you see Jane that day?”
His eyes narrowed. “What day?”<
br />
“The day she died.”
He moved a little on the balls of his feet, like a boxer on guard. “I didn’t see her on Monday.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. “I must have misunderstood. But”—she brightened—“you were at the party.”
“Party?” The pleasant tone was belied by the center of coldness in his eyes.
“David’s birthday party. You were there.”
“Yes.”
Emma wandered to the wall, looked up at a large painting. He could likely price it at twenty thousand. “I rather like this. But part of the attraction would be the backstory. Painted by a man accused of murder. I was thinking of a dinner party and showing it to my guests. But”—a little sigh—“it would only be special if I could share something none of them knows. A little bit of history. How Jane looked that night, something she said.” Emma shook her head, walked to the counter, and picked up her purse. “I’ll think about it.”
She was at the door when he spoke. “It’s a real fine painting. I can let you have it for thirty thousand. And I don’t see any harm in talking a bit about Jane.”
Emma turned, careful to maintain an eager expression.
“The problem”—his voice was doleful—“was that Jane was a good friend. It’s hard to look back and remember the last time I saw her. But she wanted the best for Tom’s paintings. And so do I. Can I offer you a glass of sherry and I’ll see what I can recall of the birthday party?” He gestured toward an art deco sofa with an excellent view of the painting chosen by Emma.
Emma smiled and graciously settled on the soft cushions. In a moment, he returned with two glasses of sherry. Emma sipped and listened.
“. . . not my kind of party . . . not that I don’t enjoy a few drinks, but David and his friends were drunk . . . sorry to say Jane was not in a good mood. Every time I saw her, she was crossways with somebody. She took David aside, gave him hell, but he blew that off. And”—he gave a deprecating shrug—“I came in for my share. She was unhappy about the slow sales at the open house. I told her some of my best customers were in Hawaii and I was sure I could place the three big landscapes when they got back. I was right. They came in yesterday and bought them. Too late for Jane. And she had sharp words for Madeleine. Probably told her to do something about David but short of tossing the rum in the swimming pool, I don’t know what she could have done. Then”—his glance was sly—“Irene Hubbard came up to Jane. I couldn’t see Jane’s face, but I thought Irene looked pretty desperate.” He fingered his bristly black mustache. “Just before the party ended”—for the first time his tone was unstudied, without malice—“Jane looked around the room with a strange expression, like something was wrong.”
• • •
Henny Brawley admired chintz-covered furniture and bookcases with bright jackets that had the appearance of use, not simply there as decor, and felt an instinctive sadness that Jane Corley met an unexpected and painful death surrounded by familiar possessions in a warm and charming room. She must have known happiness here. The care and taste evidenced by the furnishings reflected a woman who valued beauty without ostentation. The reddish-gold of the walls recalled late afternoons in Florence. Tom’s paintings were hung to best display the vibrant splashes of color, the vigor of his brushstrokes. Henny glanced in passing at the pool table and noted an occasional rug had been skewed at one end, likely to hide the blotch left on the heart-pine floor after blood was cleaned away.
Kate gestured toward a sofa with plump cushions. She sat opposite Henny in a rattan chair, brushed back a lock of white gray hair. Her gaze was stern. “You know I’d do anything necessary to avenge Jane. But the police seem to think they have the right man. Maybe Lucy’s wrong about Paul and the meaning of that drawing.”
Henny met that fierce stare directly. “The fire at Lucy’s house was deliberately set.”
Kate’s face furrowed. “I know. I suppose you could be right that Paul was murdered and the fire set to destroy some evidence. Though”—and her tone was impatient—“Lucy said the police went over his study from top to bottom, so what was there to find?” She shook her head. “I’m afraid it confirms what I’ve thought all along.” Her lips set in a hard line.
Henny looked at her inquiringly.
“That woman. She chased after Tom. Oh, I don’t think it would have come to much. He knew what Jane could do for his career.” A shrug. “I’ll admit I can’t see him using his precious mallet on Jane. He thought too much of his tools. I’d heard him talk about that mallet, how the handle was worn just right for his hands. The man is obsessed with his hands.”
Henny was a little surprised by Kate’s disdain.
Kate’s tone was wry. “Do you think I’m intemperate? I’ll admit I don’t admire cheaters. But I don’t think he’d have the gumption to plan a crime. I don’t put it past him to connive with Frankie, let her do the dirty work. For my take, that’s what happened. She killed Jane. And maybe Paul, too. She’ll do anything for Tom. Including arson.” She leaned back in the chair, thin face forlorn, brown eyes grieving, body sagging. “Damn, it’s hard, talking about Jane like this.” She was dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks, which emphasized the paleness of her face.
“When someone dies unexpectedly”—Henny’s voice was gentle—“we’re left with so many things we wish we hadn’t said, moments we’d change if we could. I know it’s intrusive, but everything we learn about Jane’s last days may be helpful. About a week before she died, I understand you came out of her office apparently quite angry.”
For an instant, Kate’s face was stiff. Then, voice clipped, she said, “Everyone who lives here knows me. I’m loud. I say what’s on my mind. I was really exasperated. Jane was being stubborn. As it turns out, she came around, agreed to pay off some debts of David’s. But in the meantime Madeleine was having fits. David owed money to some people who weren’t above making threats. I told Madeleine it was all nonsense, but she didn’t believe me. She left in tears. Clutching the damn dog, of course.”
“Nonsense?”
Kate waved a dismissive hand. “The threat was right out of a B-grade movie, a hoarse voice on the phone promising unspeakable tortures to woof woof unless David paid up. But Madeleine was so upset I had it out with Jane.” She sighed. “Of course we got everything straightened out between us before she died. Thank God. But still, I hate to remember how we butted heads that day.”
• • •
Annie pushed the bell, then half turned to look at the sun glancing off the water of Wherry Creek. The black shutters and gray planks of the porch had been recently painted. A late-afternoon breeze stirred the fronds of Whitmani ferns in large pottery vases. A swing at one end of the porch looked inviting and would offer a glorious view of the creek.
The door opened. A grumpy-looking girl, probably eighteen or nineteen, held a feather duster in one hand, a cloth in the other. She squinted watery blue eyes at Annie. “Yes?”
Annie tabbed her as temporary help not enamored of her job.
“Is Mrs. Corley at home?”
The maid glanced behind her, then looked at Annie. She leaned forward, spoke in a light whisper. “She just got home and ran upstairs. She said she doesn’t feel very good and not to disturb her.” There was a speculative look in those watery eyes.
“It’s really important that I speak to her. About the afternoon of the day Jane died.”
The girl stared at her avidly, but she shook her head. “She said she didn’t want to see anybody. She didn’t want any phone calls or anything.”
Annie took a chance. She opened her purse, slipped a twenty from her billfold. “Do you know where she’d been?” For all Annie knew, Madeleine had been on an errand and been struck with a migraine. But anything unusual was worth checking out.
The girl stared at the twenty, then, with another glance over her shoulder, eased the screen open and stepped out on
the porch. She reached for the twenty, folded it, and quickly stuffed the bill into low-hanging jeans. “I don’t have a GPS, lady. But something funny’s going on. When she ran in the house, she wasn’t wearing any shoes.”
No shoes. How odd. “Was she carrying them?”
The girl shook her head. “I would’ve seen them. I can tell you, this is a weird place. I’m here for my cousin Gloria but I told my cousin—she’s been home for almost a month with a sick baby, he’s having a hard time and they can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong, so I’ll stay till he’s okay—you couldn’t pay me enough to work here permanent. Mrs. Corley has this wild look in her eyes. For the first couple of weeks, she wouldn’t go anywhere without that mutt and I’d find her holding him out in the garden and crying. I asked her if he was sick or something and she snapped my head off. Like I told Gloria, she’s some kind of saint if she sticks it out here. But, she needs the money. Single mom.” She opened the screen, started to step inside.
“Jesse, come up here.” The voice was hoarse.
“Oh man”—a quick whisper—“I better go up. Want me to tell her you came by?”
Annie almost left her name, then shook her head. It wouldn’t do any harm for Madeleine to wonder who had come in search of her.
As Annie slowly pulled away from the curb, she glanced in the rearview mirror. She saw a flash of blue on the upper verandah. Someone stepping inside? Had Madeleine hurried out to glimpse her visitor, then quickly withdrawn? There was something odd going on in that stately old home, Madeleine arriving home and rushing inside without shoes. Where were her shoes?
Annie drove slowly. Could Madeleine possibly be aware that Laurel had talked to the gardener and that he told Laurel Madeleine took the path to Jane’s house the afternoon of the murder? That wasn’t likely. There was no reason for Madeleine to connect Laurel’s talk with the gardener to Annie’s arrival. Besides, Madeleine arrived home upset and barefoot before Annie came.
