Death of the Party

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie stood, turned on the shower, and watched the suds and bubbles swirl down the drain. Would Max forgive her if she’d suspected him of murder? Something deep inside recoiled. How could she possibly ever think Max capable of hurting anyone? A bleak question rose in her mind: What if someone threatened his mother? Or her? Max joked about Laurel’s propensity for nonsense, her inability ever to be direct, her penchant for unexpected enthusiasms. But Max adored his mother. And though Max might fight like a tiger to protect Laurel or Annie or any creature in danger, he would never, ever slip through the night to rig a snare. Annie understood full well Isabel’s certainty now of Craig’s innocence.

  Annie paused in the bathroom doorway, made one last check. Everything sparkled. She moved into the bedroom, broom and cleaning supplies in hand. As she worked, questions and assumptions and uncertainties swirled in her mind. It was easy to dismiss any possibility that she, Annie, could ever make Isabel’s mistake. But perhaps Isabel shouldn’t be faulted. She knew her husband better than anyone and she realized the depth of his fury with his father. She’d known how much Craig loved his mother, how angry he was and how anger can flare into violence. A struggle at the top of the stairs, a shove, a dreadful result—yes, she could love Craig and know his goodness and still envision such a moment. But she had immediately disclaimed any possibility of Craig setting a trap. Surely Craig would listen—

  A rousing knock sounded at the door. “Lucinda?” Britt’s call was brisk.

  Annie scooted to the living room. She looked past Britt in the doorway and saw Max. A smile wreathed her face.

  Max’s lips curved in quick response. His eyes locked with hers.

  Always when she saw him, whether in the deep of night or on a crisp winter day or from a moving car, coming or going, wherever, whenever, her heart lifted like a bird taking flight. Oh, Max, and she knew her eyes were telling him: I love you, I love you, I love you.

  Britt glanced around the cabin. “Where’s Isabel?” A frown. “I hoped she’d be working on her report, though when I saw her she was awfully upset.”

  Annie’s face was grave. “Did you talk to her?”

  Britt shook her head. “She got up, dashed into the bedroom. I could tell she’d been crying. I called out and said I’d leave the legal pad.” She glanced at the coffee table and the legal pad lying there. “She hasn’t even touched it.” Britt glanced toward the bedroom. “Is she resting?”

  Annie hesitated. She hated to reveal what she’d learned from Isabel, but there could be no quarter given in the search for a murderer. But there was one clear gain from Annie’s encounter with Isabel: Annie was positive Isabel couldn’t be guilty.

  “She isn’t here. She’s gone to find Craig.” Annie felt reluctant to speak. But truth couldn’t hurt the innocent. “She wants to tell him she was wrong.” Annie sighed. “She was afraid he and Jeremiah had quarreled and there might have been a struggle and Jeremiah could have fallen down the stairs. That’s why she left Craig. The minute she knew about the wire, she was sure Craig was innocent. Now she’s terrified he won’t forgive her for suspecting him.”

  Max winced. “I wouldn’t think he’d be pleased. On the other hand, there’s something appealing about a wife seeing her husband as a hothead but not as a plotter. A struggle is one thing. An ambush is another. An ambush spells out a cold, determined assassin. When the murderer knelt on those stairs and stretched the wire, that was an exercise in arrogance.”

  Britt raised an eyebrow. Her gaze was sharp. “‘Arrogant’ is a word easily applied to Craig.”

  Annie was surprised to find herself rushing to Craig’s defense. “He takes charge.” Her eyes smiled at Max. He took charge of his world, also. “I’ll admit all I know about Craig is what I’ve seen this weekend, but he doesn’t seem like a man who would put himself and what he wanted above everyone.” That was what Max meant by arrogance, the overweening ego that placed itself and its desires above the life of another person. Yes, Annie could imagine Craig in an angry struggle, but she could not picture him crouched on the stairs in Heron House, stringing a deadly trap for his father. “Surely Craig will forgive Isabel.”

  Britt’s voice was cool. “We’ll hope so.” Clearly Annie and Max’s appraisal hadn’t convinced her of Craig’s innocence. Or perhaps of Isabel’s either. “I guess we’ll know when we see them at lunch.” Another quick frown. “Are you here by yourself?” She looked at Annie. “Where’s Lucinda?”

  “We split up. She’s starting with Cabin 7.” Annie’s nose wrinkled. She managed to squelch another sneeze. “I’m making the bed.”

  Britt flung out a hand. “Annie, you’re wonderful to pitch in, but you’ve done enough. I’ll find Lucinda and she and I can take care of everything now. You and Max can relax for a while, take a walk on the beach.”

  “No problem, Britt. Confidential Commissions’ special sideline is dusting on demand.” Max pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. “The three of us can straighten up this place in nothing flat. Then Annie and I will organize what we know for the sheriff.” He strode toward the bedroom.

  Britt yielded with a graceful smile. She grabbed the vacuum cleaner and bent to plug it in.

  Annie caught up with Max. “We’ll do the bedroom together.”

  They worked fast, smoothing the fitted sheet, pulling up the top sheet, tucking in. The vacuum cleaner roared in the living area. True to Max’s prediction, the cabin was finished in less than fifteen minutes. Max insisted on carrying out the cleaning supplies and broom. Annie grabbed her windbreaker where she’d dropped it in the living room. Britt plopped the laundry bag in the back of the golf cart and slid behind the wheel. Warmed up by the housework, Annie tossed her jacket in back. Her cotton pullover was enough to keep her warm. She settled into the passenger seat.

  Max clung to one side. “Who’s next?” He was as casual as if subbing for a maid was as customary to him on a Saturday morning as teeing up to play golf.

  Annie would have scrabbled for her map, but Britt answered quickly, “The McRaes are in Cabin 2.”

  Annie began to cool down as the cart trundled along the path. In the shadows beneath the canopy of trees, the air was damp and chill. Ferns brushed against Max. Annie was glad to turn over both the cart and the responsibility for cabin service to Britt. She didn’t mind helping but she was sure that the next stop might have its challenges. Were Millicent and Nick writing their reports? Or was Nick asking Millicent pointed questions about Boca Raton?

  “Oh dear.” Britt sounded startled. The cart eased to a stop, its nose barely poked into the clearing around Cabin 2. She held up a hand for quiet. The outer path approached the side of the cabin. The living room windows looked out to the front and to each side. Millicent and Nick McRae were as clearly visible and distinct as if on a stage. Instead of a lifted curtain, the rattan shades were up. The window glass was the only barrier between the silent observers and the McRaes.

  Nick appeared thin and defeated despite his expensive-looking clothes—a cashmere sweater the color of molten gold and faultlessly tailored tan wool slacks. There was no trace of his usual supercilious demeanor. Instead of dismissive arrogance, he exuded pain. He was a man stripped of every defense, his gaze naked with accusation and entreaty, despair and anguish.

  Millicent’s elegant sky blue sweater, so perfect for a January day, was in pathetic contrast to her haggard face. Her outstretched hands trembled. Her mouth was wide, an evident plea.

  Annie reached out, gripped Max’s wrist.

  “Yeah.” The single word contained pity and his understanding of Annie’s reluctance to see an encounter that should be privy only to Millicent and Nick. “Come on, Britt. Let’s—” He broke off as Nick turned away, strode to the front door, banged it open and thudded down the steps.

  Millicent ran out onto the porch. “Nick, come back. Nick, he’s lying. I swear he’s lying….”

  Head down, Nick walked fast, taking the front path into the woods.

  Millicent pressed
her hands against her cheeks. There was the sound of her quick breaths, broken by sobs, and the diminishing crackle of underfoot twigs as Nick stormed away.

  Annie wished she believed Millicent. Annie didn’t claim to be a Lie-O-Meter, but in her heart she knew Millicent was lying. And so, she feared, did Nick.

  Millicent took a step forward as if she would follow her husband, then, sobbing, shoulders shaking, she swung around and stepped into the cabin. The door closed.

  “Let’s go.” Max was brusque.

  The cart hummed to motion. Without a word, Britt steered behind the cabin, out of sight of the front windows. The cart reached the entrance to the outer ring path and they plunged back into the woods. A few yards deeper into the gloom, Britt looked at Annie and Max. “What was that all about?”

  “That’s Everett’s dirty work.” Annie’s voice was laden with disgust.

  Max and Britt looked at her blankly.

  Annie realized abruptly that Britt hadn’t heard the innuendos by Everett at breakfast and neither Max nor Britt was aware of the paper she’d filched from Everett’s cabin the night before. Quickly, she described the situation at breakfast and relayed the contents of the paper she’d taken from the cabin, excepting, of course, his revelations about Britt’s gambling debts.

  Max looked amazed. And amused. “This morning I swore up and down and sideways I hadn’t taken the paper. And all the while you had scarpered with the goods.”

  Annie noted Max’s use of the verb indigenous to long-ago British mysteries. At any other moment, she would have smiled. But she was too near the dreadful scene with the McRaes. “If only there were some way to shut Everett up. I feel sorry for Millicent.” Unlikable, arrogant, stricken, sad Millicent.

  “And Nick.” Max’s tone was sober. “If he’s on his way to have it out with Everett, we’d better get there as soon as we can.”

  Annie was reaching for her map when Britt stopped the cart. “Everett’s in the next cabin. We’ll be there in just a minute. But first…I gather Everett rounded up something slimy about all of us.”

  Annie nodded. “Everett specializes in innuendo and scandal.”

  Britt’s gaze was steely. “What did he say about me?”

  Annie’s mouth opened, closed.

  Britt was determined. “Come on, Annie. Open up. I want to hear it.”

  Annie was uncomfortable. “All of the reports were accusatory and negative. He said that Cissy helped pay off some debts for you and that Jeremiah ordered her to stop.”

  Britt’s burst of laughter was genuine. “You’re the soul of tact, aren’t you? Did he say they were gambling debts?”

  Annie nodded, her cheeks pink.

  “He got it right. I like to gamble. So”—and the sparkle left her face—“I suppose if he got it right about me, he was right about Millicent McRae. But I don’t understand”—her face squeezed in thought—“what precipitated that encounter at the cabin between Millicent and Nick. There wasn’t anything direct said at breakfast, was there?”

  Annie shook her head. “Not exactly. Everett smirked and dropped Bobby’s name. Millicent was terrified Everett was going to say more. I tried to distract everybody.”

  “Something more must have happened.” Britt tugged at a dark curl, looked thoughtful. “Breakfast was a long time ago. Why were Millicent and Nick fighting now? I wonder if Nick talked to Everett. What if Everett gave him all the facts, who the guy is and what happened and when?” She answered herself. “That’s what must have happened.” Abruptly she started the cart and it jolted forward. “Everett’s caused enough trouble. Damn Harry for taking the boat. If The Yellow Kid were here, I guarantee you Everett Crenshaw would be off the island pronto. At the very least, I intend to give him a piece of—”

  A sharp crack sounded.

  “Get down,” Max yelled. He crouched, blocking Annie and Britt from view.

  “That was a gun.” Britt’s voice wavered. “Oh God, what now?”

  Annie’s throat felt tight. She bent forward to stare past Max. The forest was thick with undergrowth. No branches snapped underfoot. There was no sound of movement. If anyone wished to shoot at them, they were vulnerable. The live oaks rustled in the gentle breeze. The only sound was the whistle of their breaths and the ripple of leaves and the mournful coo of a dove.

  “We’re almost at Everett’s cabin.” Britt’s voice was still shaky. “The clearing is just around that palmetto.”

  Max swung off the cart. “Stay here. I’ll see.” He was already moving up the trail, fast. He disappeared around the curve.

  Annie jumped from the cart, hurried after him. The shot must have been very near, because woods have a muffling effect. She caught up with him, snagged a hand in the waistband of his trousers, held firm.

  Max jerked to a stop, looked back at her. “Annie, dammit, that was a gun.” He was impatient. “Stay with Britt. Let me look around.”

  “You,” she hissed, “are not bulletproof. Anyway, I don’t think anybody was trying to shoot us or we’d be shot. Why are we sneaking around? Let’s make it clear we’re coming. If somebody’s taking target practice, they’ll stop.”

  The cart trundled up behind them. “Have you found anyone?” Britt leaned to one side to look past them. “I don’t understand this. There shouldn’t be any guns on the island. You said Harry took his rifles. There was an automatic on the bridge of The Yellow Kid, but the boat’s gone. Jeremiah’s gun in the library was taken.” Her face sharpened. “We thought Harry got it. What if we’re wrong? What if someone else stole it?” She drew in a deep breath, looked up the path. “Why one shot? To scare us?”

  Max nodded. “Maybe. But Annie’s right. There’s no reason for us to be quiet. If anybody wanted to shoot us, they’ve had every opportunity. Hello!” Max gave a stentorian bellow.

  They waited, the three of them bent forward listening. The pine trees soughed. A crow cawed. A squirrel chut-chutted. No voice called out in response.

  “Everett’s cabin is just around the curve. If this is his idea of a joke”—Britt was grim—“he’s going to regret ever having come to Golden Silk. Come on, let’s see what he has to say.” Annie took her seat. Max hung on to the side.

  When the cart bounced into the clearing, Annie glanced swiftly around. It looked as it had yesterday, the looming pines choked with undergrowth, including lacy ferns and spiky saw palmettos, the live oaks graced with filigrees of Spanish moss, lovely and effervescent as a happy memory. Sunlight dappled the cabin this morning. The bamboo shades were down, blocking any view of the interior. The front door was ajar.

  Britt parked the cart at the foot of the stairs. “Everett?” Her shout was brusque and her tone clear warning there was stormy weather ahead for Everett.

  Max swung off the cart, started up the steps, his footsteps loud in the quiet. “Hey, Everett?”

  Annie hurriedly slid out and followed Max. Britt was right behind her, muttering, “He’s through treating people like dirt while he’s on Golden Silk….”

  At the open door, Max lifted a fist to knock on the frame. He froze and stared into the living room. After an instant, he moved forward, swinging his hand behind him, once again signaling Annie to stop, but she was already in the doorway.

  Everett lay on his back, arms outflung. Blood had welled from his chest, seeped onto the coconut matting. His face was slack and grayish, the famous pompadour incongruently sleek and arched, unblemished by death.

  “Oh God.” Britt’s moan wavered in the stillness. “That’s what we heard. Oh my God, Everett’s hurt. We’ve got to help him.” She tried to push past Max.

  He grabbed her arm. “Steady. We can’t touch anything.”

  Britt tried to pull away. “Maybe we can stop the bleeding.”

  “He’s dead, Britt.” Max’s voice was harsh. “The damn fool.”

  Annie knew Max’s anger was directed at himself as well as at Everett. He had opposed Britt’s initial plan. He’d feared what might happen if a murderer was provoked.
Everett’s body was proof that Max was right. Proof, too, that Harry Lyle might be guilty of all manner of crimes, including theft and smuggling, but he was not guilty of Jeremiah’s murder or Everett’s. Harry had fled because he couldn’t afford to be part of a police investigation. Max was probably right in figuring that Harry was a drug runner. It was likely there had been a shipment in that trunk.

  Max was stricken. “I should have stuck to Everett like a burr. But he convinced me he was just fooling this morning. I should have known Everett was playing his own game. After Craig told everyone to write a report, Everett taunted the murderer. Everett’s report—” Max broke off, walked across the room, skirting Everett’s body.

  Max stopped beside the coffee table. He bent down though he made no effort to touch the legal pad lying askew on the blue ceramic tile. “Britt, were the legal pads new, never used before?”

  “Yes. For God’s sake, what difference does that make?” She was trembling.

  “Some pages are gone. Torn out.” Max straightened, turned. His gaze moved from the sofa to Everett’s body. “It looks like Everett was sitting here writing and someone arrived. When Everett got up and walked toward the door, he was shot. After he fell, the murderer ran over here and ripped off the sheets.”

  Annie looked out into the clearing. “We must have just missed seeing the murderer.” They had been so near when the gun was fired.

  Max jammed his hands in his pockets. “We should have known there was danger when that gun was stolen. Dammit, I should have known.”