by Carolyn Hart
Her husband tugged nervously at a thick tangle of untidy hair. “I don’t know. I don’t like it.”
Craig shot his brother an irritated glance. “Shut up and let’s find out what’s happened.”
Jay’s face flushed. He glared at Craig. “I’ll talk to my wife if and when I want to. If there was any way to get her off this damned island, I’d take her out of here right now.”
From the hallway, Britt cried out, her voice sharp and tense, “What’s going on here?”
The onlookers in the doorway made way for her. Britt looked as harried as she had earlier in the kitchen, her eyes shadowed, her slender face drawn into a tight frown. She moved swiftly into the library, looking from face to face.
Annie gestured toward the desk. “The gun’s gone. Somebody broke into the drawer. Everett found the desk this way just a few minutes ago.”
Britt reached Annie, looked past her at the smashed drawer. “Oh my God…”
Annie was crisp and to the point. “I told them you locked the gun in there last night. The gun’s been stolen.”
Craig strode toward Britt. “What gun? Why did you have a gun out last night?” His tone was demanding, his stare imperious. He may have been head of a media empire for only a year, but clearly he was a man now accustomed to deference and obedience.
A nerve pulsed in Britt’s throat. She reached up, touched it with a shaking hand. “I was downstairs late. I saw a light in the garden. I took the gun with me when I went out to see.” Her stare at him was defiant. “After everything that’s happened, I was frightened. But I didn’t find anything out of the way. When I came back, I put the gun away. Annie was here. And now ”—she looked in disbelief at the shattered desk—“it’s gone.” Britt’s murmur was low and shaken. “I thought it was perfectly safe there.” She looked around the library, a peaceful room with the deep rich walls of cypress, bookshelves filled with many old leather-bound volumes, heart-pine floor, an ornate Chippendale clock hanging above the Adam mantel, a faded Aubusson rug. The room’s elegance and grace were in sharp contrast to its uneasy occupants. “I suppose it’s all part and parcel—”
Everett was strident. He might have been confronting a guest on his news show. “Part and parcel of what? What the hell is going on here? First you summon the supersleuths to the kitchen. Anybody would figure something’s happened. They were gone at least twenty minutes. When they got back, Darling”—he jerked his head at Max—“said you’d explain everything on your return. Where did you go? Now it looks like somebody’s busted into your desk, filched a gun. Why?”
Kim chimed in. “Something’s upset you, Britt. Usually you’re cool and collected. Tell us what’s happened.” Her tone was encouraging, almost kindly.
Annie had a feeling Kim ached to have a microphone in her hand. She saw Craig’s quick glance at the ex–TV reporter. There was a flicker of admiration in his eyes.
Britt swiped the back of one hand across her eyes. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m upset. I’ve discovered that Harry Lyle has disappeared. First, I want to explain that I wasn’t frank yesterday. I told you there was no way to leave the island until the charter arrives tomorrow at five. Actually, Golden Silk has a yacht—”
“Dad’s yacht. The Yellow Kid.” Jay looked excited. “Sure, we should have thought of that. It was part of Cissy’s inheritance. I assumed you’d sold it. Oh, hey”—his sigh of relief was huge—“that’s great. We can leave now.”
“I wish that were so.” Britt’s words were clipped as though she was trying to maintain her composure. “The boat’s gone. Harry Lyle took the yacht and the motorboat as well. This morning when he didn’t show up, I asked Max and Annie to go get him.” She described their discoveries. “He took all his possessions.”
Max nodded in confirmation. “That includes a locked trunk I saw in his place yesterday. Lucinda told us he was up and around late last night. Now we know he was clearing out his belongings. Apparently he often was up and around late at night. Here’s my take on it…” Max sketched out his theory that Harry was a conduit for drugs coming from Latin America. “There had to be something illegal in that trunk. Why else would he run?”
Kim clapped her hands together. “Drugs! That explains everything. Jeremiah must have figured out Harry was involved in smuggling, so Harry rigged that wire. Last night Harry heard Britt promise to report everything to the police. That meant a thorough investigation of everyone who was on the island when Jeremiah died. If there was a shipment of cocaine in that trunk, Harry had to get away.”
Gerald, his expression judicious, cleared his throat. “Or there might be some reason we don’t know about that will come to light when the police investigate. Since there’s no doubt the yacht was taken by Harry Lyle, it follows that he must have broken into the desk, absconded with Jeremiah’s pistol.”
Britt fingered the collar of her blouse, a blue silk with white banding. She looked doubtfully at the splintered wood. “I suppose so.”
Dana was puzzled. “Don’t you think that’s what happened?”
“Yes.” There was an uncertain note in Britt’s voice. “But I would have thought he’d have a key. Or use some tool and open it more neatly. It seems so messy for Harry. He was—oh, it sounds silly—but he was always so neat and careful. There’s something savage about the way that drawer was pried out.”
Annie looked at the battered desk. There was a reckless viciousness in the gashed and nicked wood. The fact that she and Britt had slept through the assault demonstrated the thickness of the walls and floors of the old house.
“But it’s wonderful.” Dana’s light voice was a peal of thanksgiving. “Don’t you see? Now we know that everyone here is innocent. Innocent.” She sang the word like a declaration of joy.
There were murmurs and movement. The ease of tension was as palpable as the ripple of grass in the salt marsh from a gusty sea breeze.
Max cut through the flurry of comments. “What’s the upshot, Britt? Did you contact the sheriff? Is a search under way? Have you arranged for a boat to come and pick us up?”
“A boat coming!” Millicent turned the ceramic bracelet on her wrist. “When will it get here?”
“No boat.” Britt’s face was grim. “No sheriff. No search. Harry was thorough. He took The Yellow Kid and the motorboat and the ham radio. We’re stranded and there’s no way to call for help.”
Seven
“A HAM RADIO? YOU SAID there was no contact with the mainland. You lied to us.” Craig’s tone was scathing.
Anger blazed in Britt’s green eyes, spotted her cheeks fiery red. “It wasn’t anybody’s business.” She was defiant. “I had a ham radio and a computer in case there was an emergency and we needed help immediately. The Coast Guard has helicopters for evacuation purposes.”
Millicent stalked across the floor. “I hold you personally responsible for this fiasco.” Much the taller woman, she stopped, folded her arms, stared down at Britt.
Antagonism bubbled between them.
Millicent’s voice quivered. “Everything you told me was a falsehood from start to finish. I came expecting to meet with supporters. Instead, I have been subjected to verbal abuse, accused of criminal conduct, and placed in jeopardy. Now the hired man absconds with our only means of escape from this hellish place. It is your duty to your guests to employ trustworthy people. Who was this man? What did you know about him?”
Craig jangled coins in his pocket. “Ease up, Millicent. You’re going after the wrong person.” His tone was conciliatory. “Dad met Harry at a skeet shoot in Savannah. They had a few drinks, hit it off. Harry told Dad he was between jobs. Dad hired him on the spot. I don’t know if Dad ever got references. Now it looks as though that may have been a mistake that cost him his life. We can’t fault Britt. For Harry.” His look at Britt was cold. “But there is no excuse for covering up Dad’s murder.”
Britt pressed her hands against her flushed cheeks.
Craig was unrelenting. He took a step toward her, his v
oice rough. “You claim you were trying to make amends by getting us all here, doing an undercover investigation. But maybe this was just your way of blunting an effort at blackmail.” His gaze moved from her to Everett.
“Of course I wrote to Britt.” Everett spoke too loudly. “It was only fair to let her know I felt I had to contact the authorities.”
Kim gave a hoot of laughter. “That doesn’t cut it, Everett. You wait more than a year and suddenly you have to alert the cops? More likely you were waiting for the estate to be settled. Besides, you aren’t famous for tipping off people when you plan to gut them. How many guests have you sucker punched on your show, bringing up some unsavory piece of the past without warning?”
“Nobody puts a gun to their heads to come on my show.” Everett smoothed his pompadour. “I’ve got the best numbers of anybody except for O’Reilly, and I’m gaining on him. Eat my dust, Kim.”
“I hate those programs.” Dana’s round face flushed and her voice was shaky, but she kept on, looking defiantly at her brother-in-law. “Grown people yelling at each other and talking right over each other. It’s disgusting. And stupid. It teaches children the wrong things, that it’s good to be a bully and being rude is cool.”
Everett raised an eyebrow. “What exquisite principles you have, my dear. Now, let me see, how do you express them? Did you and Jay turn down the money you inherited from Jeremiah, which, sweetie, flowed right out of the ratings from shows like mine into Addison Media?”
Dana drew a sharp breath. Jay took a step toward Everett, hands doubled into fists. Lucinda edged away from Jay.
Craig reached out, grabbed his brother’s arm. “We aren’t here to debate the merits of television mores. Or,” he said wryly, “the honorable—or dishonorable—intent of Everett’s letter to Britt. Instead, although we didn’t know it at the time, we are here to solve a murder.”
“Clearly,” Nick McRae said, “the hired man is guilty. Why else run away?”
Britt was no longer flushed. Instead, she looked pale and uneasy. “I know that’s how it looks. But”—she shook her head abruptly—“it doesn’t make sense. If Harry wanted to kill Jeremiah, he could have easily made his death look like an accident. They spent a lot of time out on the yacht. He could have pushed Jeremiah overboard and said he fell and no one could have proved otherwise. I can’t see Harry setting up a trap. If I hadn’t removed the wire, everyone would have known immediately that Jeremiah was murdered. Harry would have been right in the middle of a homicide investigation.” She looked toward Max. “You think Harry skipped out because he was mixed up in drug running. Well, if he couldn’t afford to be noticed by the police now, he couldn’t afford it then.”
Everyone looked toward her. Where there had been the beginning of relaxation, there was now a sense of uncertainty.
Gerald Gamble tugged at an earlobe. “Perhaps”—his voice was thoughtful, considering—“something arose that weekend which necessitated Jeremiah’s death immediately. Perhaps Harry didn’t have the luxury of waiting until Jeremiah was out on the yacht.”
Craig frowned. “We don’t know what happened that weekend. Certainly Harry’s theft of the yacht puts him in a bad light. However, Britt’s right to make her point. We don’t know”—his emphasis on the verb was unmistakable—“that Harry Lyle is guilty.”
“If it wasn’t him,” Millicent said sharply, “it must be someone here.” She looked around the library.
Annie glanced at each in turn. Britt stared at the gashed and broken drawer. His face unreadable, Craig folded his arms. Isabel pressed fingertips against one temple. Jay pulled his wife to his side, curving a protective arm around her shoulders. Dana’s lips trembled. Millicent suddenly appeared shrunken, no longer imperious. Nick looked wary. Kim Kennedy was alert, still as an animal scenting danger. Gerald Gamble stroked his chin. Lucinda cradled the casserole in her arms, her ruddy cheeks paling.
Everett Crenshaw was unabashed. “God, if we just had a camera crew. Right here we’ve got the reality show of the century: Trapped on an island with a murderer. Who’s the killer? Who”—his voice wavered in a ghostly wail—“will die next?”
“Shut up, Crenshaw.” Craig’s glare stopped Everett as effectively as a body block.
But Everett’s words once spoken could not be erased from the consciousness of his listeners. Eyes flickered. Glances slid and darted.
Annie felt cold and knew the iciness that enveloped her welled up from the ill-assorted and now fearful group in the library.
Craig still stood with arms folded, the man in command. “Tomorrow when the charter boats arrive, we’ll be able to contact the police. But we have more than twenty-four hours before we can expect to leave the island. Under the circumstances—”
Annie wondered if he meant the fact of Harry’s departure or the possibility that the murderer was in the library at this moment, near enough to touch.
“—I want everyone to write a detailed description of that last weekend of my father’s life.” It was a demand, not a request. “Describe every encounter with my father, when it occurred, what was said. Whether Harry is guilty or not, this information will help the investigation.” He looked at each person in turn, waiting until he received a nod in assent or a muttered agreement.
Annie understood that Craig expected acquiescence. Family members would not defy him. Gerald and Everett were Craig’s employees. Kim was looking for a job. Millicent and her husband curried media support. Britt was the instigator of the entire investigation. Lucinda worked for Britt.
Everett was his usual combative self. “Okay, no cameras, so it’s back to the written word. But it’s still reality time. Come on, everybody, remember to tell all. That’s what I intend to do. About each and every one of you. Isn’t that right, Britt? The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” His malicious glance skated around the room. “You can bet Craig will read them before he turns them over to the cops. He can read mine first, then he’ll know what to look for in the others.”
Britt was crisp. “I don’t think anyone needs pointers from you, Everett.” She nodded toward Craig. “I’ll be glad to take legal pads and pens to each cabin. There’s time before lunch for everyone to write their recollections.”
It was as if her words opened the front door. There was an immediate flurry of departure.
As everyone moved away, Craig called out, his voice loud and forceful. “For God’s sake, if anyone saw anything that points to the murderer, now’s the time to speak up.”
Everett slouched past Annie. Only she heard his sardonic farewell, “Or forever hold your peace.”
Max caught up with Everett at the foot of the stairs. “Got something to show you.” He gestured to the side of the house.
When they were around the corner of the house, out of sight from the path through the garden and the other guests, Max confronted him. “You heard your boss?”
“Oh, yeah.” Everett was sardonic. “The man wants a report. The man signs my checks. Don’t worry. I’ll—”
“I’m not talking about the reports.” Max was brusque. “Craig asked anyone who knows the identity of the murderer to speak up—”
Everett’s burst of laughter cut Max off. “How stupid do you think I am, Darling? Hell, I’m just having fun. Odds are Harry’s guilty as hell. I just like to tease the animals. I figure the reports now will hew a lot closer to reality. Craig should give me a bonus. Maybe a gold star. The truth is nobody here”—the flick of his hand was dismissive—“has the guts. So you can peel yourself away. Take a break. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“After they’re rinsed, the bottles go in one box, the cans in another.” Lucinda pushed back a black curl that had escaped from the red bandana looped over the top of her head and knotted at the back. “Course it was Harry’s job to carry them out at the end of the day. Maybe your husband can see to that. The rest of it”—she pointed at a built-in trash compactor—“goes in there. I tell you, living on a island isn’t easy. I sur
e appreciate your pitching in.” She nodded at Annie. “I can’t do all this by myself.” Her face was still flushed and she darted about the kitchen in a controlled frenzy. “As for writing down what happened when Mr. Addison died”—she flicked a dismissive glance at the legal pad and pen lying on the counter near the blue ceramic flour canister—“that will have to wait until all these folks are gone and I’ve got a minute to myself.”
Annie tossed a Styrofoam carton into the compactor. “If you’d like, I can write it down for you.”
Lucinda splashed liquid soap into a huge skillet, turned on the water, and began to scrub. She shrugged plump shoulders. “I don’t know anything everybody else doesn’t know. I only saw Mr. Addison a couple of times that weekend. He was at it hammer and tongs with almost everybody. I felt sorry for that man. I remember him when he and Lorraine were happy. He looked gruff but he had a big booming laugh and he was always kind to everyone who worked for him. I hated the way he got twisted and bitter toward the end. That last weekend was awful, everybody sour and hateful. Britt treated him like a bad dog. She despised him for bringing that blond floozy here. His sons were mad because he divorced their mom. And Kim being here made them furious even though they didn’t like Cissy either. But everything isn’t always the way it looks on the surface. You see, he never got over losing Lorraine.”
Annie looked at her in surprise. Hadn’t Jeremiah divorced Lorraine to marry Cissy?
Lucinda glanced down at her left hand, wet and sudsy and ringless. “Seems like people never are smart enough to love the ones as loves them. I know all about that. I was married once.” Steam rose from the sink. Lucinda paused to swipe her face with the back of her hand. “And I would have walked over coals from here to Jericho for that man and he went and fell in love with this skinny little woman who flounced around and giggled at everything he said. He left me flat. I’d turned down Joe, who thought I was a princess. By then, Joe was married and I don’t hold with breaking up marriages. See, there was lots of love but none of it connected, so everybody ended up unhappy. That’s how it was with Mr. Addison. When he found out—” She broke off, looking flustered. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t say anything about it. But that’s what I mean when I say nothing’s the way it seems to be.”
