by Carolyn Hart
Billy said calmly, “Maybe she was dreaming. People can plan trips and know they’ll never take them. Maybe picking up those brochures and knowing she couldn’t afford to go tipped her over to suicide. That seems more likely than the idea she blackmailed somebody. We have to have proof. We haven’t found anything to support the idea that Pat Merridew was murdered.” He was matter-of-fact, not defensive.
Annie leaned toward the speakerphone. “Did you find the Alaska brochures in her house?”
“Hey, Annie.” Papers rustled. “No reason for the brochures to have been noted. I’ll have Officer Harrison check. But if we find them, what does that prove?”
“If you don’t find them, that will be odd, won’t it?” Annie looked across the coffee area at a Cat Truth poster. A muscular Louisiana Creole Cat with a thick long coat, gold shading to brown on the face and back, white shoulders and paws, stood upright on his back feet, front paws pressed against a windowpane, and stared with unblinking intensity at a bullfinch: Keep your eye on the prey.
“As in?”
“If we’re right about the crystal mug, Pat served Irish coffee to a guest. Let’s say she’d already made it clear she knew something. She handed the brochures to her guest and said how nice it would be to go on the trip. Maybe there was talk of how much it might cost for the cruise package. Maybe the guest asked for another dash of whiskey for the coffee, and while Pat was in the kitchen, ground-up OxyContin pills were dropped in her cup and stirred to dissolve. When Pat came back, she drank the coffee and pretty soon she slipped into unconsciousness. The murderer had to take the brochures away because they held fingerprints. Maybe—”
“Maybe,” Billy interrupted, “you can explain how this visitor got hold of leftover pills Pat Merridew probably kept in her medicine cabinet.”
Annie blinked, but she didn’t see the acquisition of the pills as a big problem. “People who knew Pat—like the Jamisons—were aware she broke her wrist. OxyContin’s a commonly prescribed pain pill. Pat could have mentioned what she was taking. Or maybe the visitor had an old leftover prescription at home. Anyway, I think this murderer is smart enough to know about the drug and get into Pat’s house when she wasn’t at home and take the pills. I’ll bet Pat left her back door unlocked. Lots of people do. Or maybe—”
“Maybe,” Billy interrupted again, “you have a future writing one of those tell-all books that don’t cite any sources.”
Annie felt hot. “It could have happened that way.”
“Could have.” He was pleasant. “But I’d like a source, even a deep one. Anyway, we’ll check out the brochures.” The call ended.
Henny handed the receiver to Annie. “If those brochures are missing, I think you hit the bull’s-eye. She tried to blackmail the wrong person.” Her animation ebbed. “But who and why?”
Annie well knew that scarcely anything of interest, much less scandal or confrontation, escaped the attention of island residents. The grapevine flourished. Moreover, no one had greater access to that kind of information than Henny, who was plugged into the social scene, charitable endeavors, and the church milieu. Whatever knowledge or act had led to Pat’s death, it had escaped public notice.
Annie tapped her mug: Night Encounter by Anthony Gilbert. “Everything hinges on Pat’s night walks. Billy may disagree, but I don’t have any doubt that Pat took that path”—she dropped the words like a mallet striking a gong with measured force—“to the Jamison house. I want to find out everything about everyone in that house.”
Chapter Five
Max lined up his putt. He bent his knees, steadied the club. The phone rang. He glanced at the clock. A quarter to four. He would not be a happy man if actual work raised its hairy head when he was ready to call the day done, retrieve Annie, and maybe go to the beach.
His secretary poked her head inside his office. Today Barb’s bouffant hairdo was a brilliant red, shades of Reba McEntire. Was it a coincidence that she’d been belting out “I Keep On Lovin’ You” while whipping up a chocolate cherry cake in the small back kitchen that doubled as a storeroom? “Annie on the line.”
Max tapped the ball too quickly and it wobbled off the synthetic green and sped across the wood floor. On the way to his desk, he scooped it up with his putter. He bounced the ball in his hand as he sat on the edge of his desk and picked up the receiver. He’d put off calling Annie because he knew she would be disappointed. He settled behind his desk and listened. He pulled a green folder close, flipped it open. “I have a file on the firm, but, Annie, there’s nothing there. Pat didn’t have access to anything confidential. I talked to Glen’s secretary. I don’t think there’s any link to the law firm.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “Sure, I’ll talk to Glen if you want. I will leave no stone unturned.” He hung up, popped to his feet, sheathed the putter.
On his way out of the office, he turned a thumbs-up to another stanza of “I Keep On Lovin’ You.” “Check it in for the day, Barb. Go to the beach and take a wave for me.” The surf was usually mild on Broward’s Rock unless a storm was coming, but this afternoon the tide would be high, so there might be some decent waves. Maybe he and Annie could take a picnic to the beach. Mmmm, Annie in a gold bikini, smooth soft skin glistening with SPF coconut oil, the best of both worlds, protection married to scent. He walked faster.
Elaine Jamison was fair like her brother with the same deep-set blue eyes and high-bridged nose and pointed chin. She welcomed Annie warmly, though there was sadness in her eyes. “You’re wonderful to set up a memorial for Pat. I should have thought of it but I haven’t been myself.” Her voice trailed away as she led the way into the small living room of the cottage. The room was cheerful with a red upholstered sofa and easy chair and red curtains at the windows. A tall pottery vase on a side table held fresh red hollyhocks.
Elaine gestured at the easy chair. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Would you like iced tea? It’s fresh.”
In a moment, they sat opposite each other, a low stone coffee table between them. Annie squeezed lemon into the tumbler, enjoyed the scent of fresh mint. “I know Pat’s death has been a shock. She hadn’t been working at Death on Demand long but we liked her and I wanted to make a contribution in her name to the Red Cross. I understand she went down to Florida to be a volunteer after that last hurricane.”
“Of course I’ll help.” Elaine rose and went to a small desk in the corner. She quickly wrote a check and brought it back to Annie. “Thank you for remembering me.” She picked up her glass, then set it down without drinking. “I know it’s silly, but I think it’s even harder for me because I talked to her Friday evening. She called to ask if I found my present on my front porch. My birthday’s next week. She had dropped off a Doreen Tovey book. Pat had been after me to get a new cat. Bongo died two months ago and I didn’t think I was ready to get a new cat. But the Tovey books reminded me how much I love Siamese even though they are always impossible. Bongo”—she smiled and gestured at a strip of carpet installed on the wall next to a window—“spent most of his time climbing up to rest on the valance.” Her smile faded. “Pat sounded upbeat, kind of excited. We planned on having lunch the next day. I settled in with the book and laughed and laughed. I had such a happy evening, thanks to Pat. I laughed and Pat was dying.” Tears streamed down her face. “Excuse me.” She jumped up and left the room for a moment, then came back, scrubbing her face. “I’m sorry.”
Annie reached out, touched her arm. “She would be happy to know the book made you laugh.” She looked inquiring. “Pat sounded excited? Do you know why?”
“She was going to take an Alaska cruise. She went on and on about how wonderful the cruise was going to be. I’m glad she was happy that last night.” Elaine’s voice was subdued. She reached for the pitcher. “Would you like more tea?”
“No, thank you.” Annie opened her purse, dropped Elaine’s check in a side pocket. “Pat would appreciate your remembering her. You’d been friends for a long time.”
“She was a rock after
Maddy died. Pat could be prickly, but she was loyal and kind. I think that’s why she was so upset after Glen fired her.” Elaine’s eyes looked stricken. “I don’t know how he could have done it. Oh well.” Her tone was bitter. “I do know. It’s that woman he married. She causes trouble for everyone, but Glen won’t hear a word against her. Now his home is a cold and angry place. He’s at odds with the children. Laura can’t help it that she lost her job. Everybody’s been getting fired. Unemployment’s awful. All kinds of people with college degrees don’t have jobs. Of course, Laura came home. Would Glen want her out on the street? That’s where she’d be if Cleo had her way. Sure, Laura’s unhappy. It’s humiliating to lose your job and not be able to find one. She’s sent out résumés everywhere. It doesn’t help matters that she and Kirk Brewster were getting to be friends. Of course, he’s stopped coming around now. Glen knew about them. That makes booting out Kirk even worse. So Laura’s mad and Kirk is mad and Kit is mad, too. I’m just sick about Kit. Going to Africa means everything to her, but Cleo has poisoned Glen’s mind, said Kit should have to pay her own way. If Kit can’t turn in the money by next week, she’ll lose the chance for the internship. Maybe it’s worst of all about Tommy. He shouldn’t have to go away to school. Everybody knows how boys can be hazed at military academies. He’s on the high school football team and so excited about their chances next fall. Maddy would be heartbroken. When I try to talk to him, Glen looks beaten down. He won’t meet my eyes. It reminds me of when he was little. Our dad was . . . stern. When Glen got in trouble, he’d promise anything to keep Dad from getting mad. Glen”—she looked at Annie with a plea in her eyes—“wants to do the right thing. He really does. But Cleo—” Elaine pressed the tips of long thin fingers against her temples. “Oh, I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Annie. You didn’t come to hear all my troubles. I didn’t mean to get started about the family, but everything’s been difficult lately. And to have Pat die so unexpectedly is awful.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t bear the thought that she killed herself because she lost her job. Glen’s really upset.”
Annie took an instant to answer. Billy hadn’t enjoined her and Henny to silence. If Billy learned that Annie was saying Pat had been murdered, well, so be it. “I understand the question of how she died isn’t settled. There’s reason to think she didn’t commit suicide.”
Elaine clasped her hands together. “I’m relieved to hear that and Glen will be, too. I heard she died from a drug overdose. Was it an accident?”
Annie was firm. “That doesn’t seem likely either.”
Elaine looked puzzled. “What happened?”
Annie picked her words carefully. “Someone may have had coffee with her the night she died and put the drug in Pat’s cup.”
Elaine drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes widened. “On purpose?” Her voice was hushed. “Are you saying that Pat was murdered?”
“Yes.”
Incredulity warred with shock. “That can’t be true. Pat didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Mr. Darling.” The pretty, dark-haired girl gave him a bright smile. “Mr. Jamison can see you now.” She held open the swinging gate to the inner office and started to turn.
“Thanks. I know the way.” Max moved past her and into a corridor. The law firm of Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster was quartered in a one-story building shaped like a T, the reception area in the crossbar, the offices and conference rooms in the vertical bar. He walked up the hall to the third door on the left, tapped, and pushed the door in.
Glen Jamison came around his desk, hand outstretched. His face, always pale, looked weary with bluish shadows beneath his eyes. Max wondered if he had been ill.
They shook hands and Glen waved Max toward a comfortable brown leather chair.
Glen dropped onto a matching couch. “Hell of a thing about Pat. She was always game for everything. I missed having her around. I hear she died from a drug overdose. Somebody told Cleo they thought it was suicide.”
Max shook his head. “It turns out that was a mistake. I’ve heard the investigation is focused on murder.”
Glen’s eyes widened, his lips parted. He looked utterly stunned. “Pat murdered? That’s crazy.” His voice was shocked. “Why would anyone murder Pat?”
Why, indeed? Max thought. “I’m hoping to find out more for the family.” There were, as Max well knew, many ways to tell the truth. Certainly he would be happy to share whatever he learned with Pat’s sister in California. If Glen mistakenly assumed Max was working for the family, the interpretation was Glen’s, not Max’s. “I thought you were the best person to tell me about Pat’s last few weeks.”
Glen’s aristocratic face drooped in unhappy lines. “Yeah. Well, I don’t suppose you knew, but we had to let Pat go a couple of weeks ago.”
Max kept his face interested and uncritical.
Glen’s gaze slid away, fastened on a print of the Acropolis hanging on a sidewall. “Cleo was thinking about redecorating the office, make it more gray and chrome like the big-city firms. I’m afraid Pat wasn’t very tactful. Anyway, Cleo said we should have a young, eager receptionist.” He avoided looking at Max. “So I let her go. I’m afraid she got pretty upset with me. That’s why when we heard she committed suicide, I felt really bad. But Cleo said people make their own choices.”
Max could hear the voice of Glen’s second wife, smooth and satisfied, as he spoke.
“Murder . . .” Glen sagged back against the couch. “God, I’m glad it wasn’t suicide.”
“Do you know anyone who was angry with Pat? Or anyone who feared her?”
Glen looked startled, eyes widening, lips parting. “Not that I ever knew about. It doesn’t seem possible. I guess there’s something we didn’t know about Pat. But”—he looked at Max with a suddenly relieved expression—“I’m sure glad she didn’t kill herself.”
Annie always took pleasure in their back porch. Green wicker chairs with cream-colored cushions offered comfort and a gorgeous view of the garden. She plopped into a chair on one side of the wicker table, bright with daisy-yellow place mats and settings for breakfast. She took a deep breath of the sweet scent of pittosporum blooms. Hydrangeas, butterfly bushes, jessamine lantana, roses, and bougainvillea created a patchwork of colors. In the early-morning quiet, the caw of crows sounded cheerful. Glossy magnolia leaves rattled in a light breeze.
The screen door opened and Max stepped out of the kitchen, carrying a plate. His hair was still damp from the shower. “Hot, moist, and ready to devour.”
Annie grinned. “You or the Danishes?”
Max laughed. Despite the shower, his face was still flushed from their prebreakfast jog. “Both. And the same to you, Mrs. Darling.”
After an early-morning jog and shower, Annie enjoyed cooling down on the back porch. It was a lovely beginning to a lovely day except for her nagging sense of a task left undone. She took a sip of orange juice, frowned, and opened her mouth.
Before she could speak, Max broke off a piece of a raspberry Danish and popped it in her mouth. “You look like the Selkirk Rex.”
The sweet roll was flaky with just the right amount of buttery richness. She reached up to touch her damp tangled hair. Surely she wasn’t that frizzy, though it was flattering to be compared to the elegant long-haired cat with soft, plush, curly ringlets and amber eyes. The Selkirk Rex on Laurel’s Cat Truth poster had its mouth agape: Hey, listen to me.
Annie grabbed her coffee mug. “I wish somebody would listen to me.”
Dorothy L darted after a butterfly, then jumped onto the tabletop. Annie gently removed her. “Not during breakfast.” She took a moment to smooth Dorothy L’s fluffy fur, but she wasn’t distracted from her worry. “Pat walked to the Jamison house. That has to mean something.”
Max settled in the opposite chair, poured coffee into their red pottery mugs. He speared a piece of papaya. “Sometimes what you see is what you get. She walked to the Jamison house. Maybe that’s all there was to it. I’m not saying she c
ommitted suicide. Maybe somebody dropped OxyContin in her coffee, but,” and he flipped up one finger after another for emphasis, “we can’t find any hint anywhere that anyone had any reason to kill her. At the law firm, a competent, hard-nosed legal secretary made it clear Pat knew nothing about the inner workings of the firm, plus Glen Jamison was pitifully glad to hear she didn’t kill herself. Henny Brawley knows everybody on the island, but Henny can’t come up with anything out of the ordinary about Pat. You talked to Elaine Jamison and she said Pat didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
Annie felt as isolated as if she were marooned on a desert island. “She had an enemy. And I think it was someone who lives in the Jamison house.”
Annie enjoyed the quiet at Death on Demand before it opened. She’d left Max murmuring into his newspaper that people who went to work at eight-thirty when they didn’t have to be there until nine were seriously deranged and in need of recreational counseling. She’d kissed the back of his neck, which caught his attention big-time, but she’d not been deflected from her departure. She was still smiling as she unlocked the door. She would catch up with paperwork, and though she hadn’t told Max, she would continue to worry at the problem of Pat Merridew. There would only be a few early shoppers. Readers looking for hammock books would begin to drift in after lunch as the June day heated up.
Instead of heading straight to her office, she wandered aimlessly around the coffee area. Finding out what happened to Pat was like tugging at a ball of snarled yarn. She felt sure if she tugged at the right string, she would find some proof of her conviction that Pat had been murdered and that her murder was linked to the Jamisons.
She glanced at the Cat Truth poster with the gorgeous, wide-mouthed Selkirk Rex. “You tell ’em, honey.” But her smile slipped away. Annie had told everyone, most especially Billy Cameron, and he wasn’t listening. She reached down to straighten a poster hanging crookedly beside the fireplace. A red-brown Abyssinian, tail high, stepped through dew damp grass: Come with me to the Casbah. Shades of Casablanca, one of Laurel’s favorite films. Annie imagined the muscular cat with a Humphrey Bogart face. Bogie never gave up. He was the quintessential American private eye in The Maltese Falcon. Annie didn’t fancy herself as an incarnation of Sam Spade, but she could follow Spade’s mantra: nothing and nobody kept him from finding out the truth.
