by Carolyn Hart
Annie wished she could turn and walk away. In her heart, she didn’t believe Elaine Jamison had any connection to her brother’s death. Edna Graham said Glen had been shot several times, that he had been murdered. Of course, that was not official. Possibly Edna had misunderstood. With sudden death from a gunshot, there was always the possibility of suicide. Suicide. That had been the initial judgment after Pat Merridew died from an overdose. Pat dead . . . Glen dead . . .
“Please move on. Crime scene.” Officer Harrison’s voice was sharp. “No loitering.”
Crime scene . . . Harrison’s blunt comment indicated that Edna had not been mistaken. Glen Jamison was a murder victim, which made Elaine’s demeanor in the garden disturbing.
Max spoke firmly. “Annie may have information Chief Cameron will want to receive.”
Officer Harrison gave Annie a searching glance. “This way.” Her tone was brusque.
Chapter Seven
“We’ll go in the main entrance.” Officer Harrison gestured for them to follow. She strode swiftly along the drive to the front yard and shepherded them up the steps to the verandah of the Jamison house. She opened the door and held it wide.
In the hallway, Officer Coley Benson, lean and trim in his khaki uniform, greeted Annie and Max with a friendly hello, then assumed a stoic professional manner. His magnificent tenor voice was known across the island from his church choir and high school musicals. After college, he had returned to the island to become the youngest member of the Broward’s Rock police force. “Everyone who may be able to help in the investigation is waiting in there.” He gestured toward the open doors to the living room.
Annie gripped Max’s hand as they stepped into a spacious room that contained period furniture. The silence was broken only by the resonant tick of an elaborate blue-and-gold Louis XV–style French clock that sat on the mantel between two blue Delft jars with iron lions on the lids. The soft cream of an American Chippendale sofa was echoed in the worn Tabriz carpet. Cypress paneling original to the house gleamed a soft russet.
Three people stared at Annie and Max without a flicker of recognition or understanding.
Annie knew them from the photographs in Max’s Jamison file. A wan and trembling Kit Jamison huddled in a flower-patterned small Queen Anne wing chair on one side of the fireplace. Her dark-haired sister, Laura, stood, one hand gripping the mantel. Glen Jamison’s cousin Richard was sprawled on a sofa. His sunburned face could have been hewn from a block of wood. Sitting a little distant from the family, Edna Graham nodded to Max. She looked doleful and shaken.
Their blank stares told Annie they were unwelcome intruders in a room heavy with grief and fear. She and Max were outsiders and had no place among those who were distraught over Glen Jamison’s death.
“Who are you?” The emphasis was on the personal pronoun. Kit’s voice was sharp with an undertone of hysteria. Her thin face was pale and drawn, her pale blue eyes strained.
Max was bland. “Max Darling. This is my wife, Annie. We were told to wait here to see Chief Cameron.”
“Why do you want to talk to him? Do you know something about my dad?” Kit’s voice was shrill.
“Miss, please.” Officer Benson stepped into the drawing room. “Everyone is requested to remain silent until Chief Cameron speaks with you.”
Kit came to her feet, stared at Annie and Max with her face working, her long, thin fingers clenching. “Do you know what happened to Dad? No one tells us anything. I want to see him.”
Officer Benson moved toward her. “Police procedure forbids communication among witnesses.”
Kit whirled toward Richard. “You have to tell us. You said Dad’s dead and you called the police and locked the study door. You have to tell us what happened.”
Coley Benson’s face stiffened. “Miss, please be quiet.”
Richard pushed up from the sofa and walked across the room to stand in front of Officer Benson. “Ask the police chief to come.” He was polite, but his tone was firm. “The family needs information.” He gestured at Kit and the tears sliding down her pale face. “Her dad’s dead. She has a right.”
“So do I.” Laura was too thin in a soft tee and a denim skirt. She glared at Richard. “You pounded on my door to tell me Dad was dead, that he’d been killed.” She turned angrily toward the officer. “Now you won’t let us know anything. We have a right to know what’s happened.”
Edna Graham nodded in agreement, her strong face grim.
Benson yanked his cell from his belt, punched. “Chief, the family’s upset and wanting to know details.”
“Now.” Kit’s voice rose in a wail. “I want to know now.”
Laura clasped her hands tightly. “We have every right to know what happened.”
The officer clicked off his phone. “Chief Cameron will be here shortly.”
Kit took two quick strides to face Richard. “You found Dad. What did you see?”
Richard’s face was suddenly haunted. “You don’t want to know, Kit. Remember your dad alive.”
Billy Cameron strode into the drawing room. The burly police chief brought with him a sense of solidity, order, and calm. A step behind him was Frank Saulter, the former police chief who often volunteered assistance when a major crime occurred. Saulter’s bony face was more lined than when he and Annie had first met, his dark hair now peppered with gray. He still moved with authority. He looked gravely around the room.
Kit jerked away from Richard. She lunged toward Billy. “What happened to my dad? Why are you keeping us here? Where is Dad? Where’s my aunt?” She jabbed a finger toward Officer Benson. “He won’t let me use my cell. I need to find my aunt and my little brother.”
Annie felt a quiver of apprehension. She’d seen Elaine’s car leave. That must have been shortly before ten. But Elaine wasn’t the only missing family member. Where was Tommy?
Billy spoke quietly. “I understand that you are upset, Miss Jamison. We are still trying to determine what occurred this morning. Mr. Jamison”—Billy nodded toward Richard—“placed a 911 call at ten-fifteen. We arrived on the scene to find the deceased in the study. The victim was identified as Glen Jamison by Mr. Richard Jamison. The medical examiner has now determined that death resulted from multiple gunshot wounds.”
Kit lifted her hands to her face. Tears streamed down her ashen cheeks. “Somebody shot Daddy?”
Laura hurried to her sister and they clung to each other. Her face empty and sick, Laura looked at Billy. “Have you found anybody? Why would somebody shoot Dad?”
“Our investigation has just begun. We have very little knowledge—”
A door slammed and running feet sounded in the hallway. Tommy Jamison thudded into the living room. His sandy hair was tousled. A blondish stubble marked his face. He was breathing hard. He looked at his sister. “What’s going on? Why are the police cars here?” His blue eyes were wide and staring. A too-tight green-and-orange-striped polo stretched across his husky shoulders and exposed his abdomen. Ragged khaki shorts sagged low on his hips. He wore worn leather sandals.
Kit moved toward him. “Tommy, Daddy’s dead. Someone shot him.”
The teenager stepped back as if he had been struck. He looked at Billy Cameron in his khaki uniform. “Dad?”
Billy’s voice was gentle. “I’m sorry, son. Your father was found dead in his study shortly before ten-fifteen this morning. You are Tommy Jamison?”
“Yes, sir.” The burly teenager struggled to answer, his voice shaking.
Billy gestured toward the sofa. “We’ve asked family members for their cooperation as we attempt to find out the circumstances. Were you at home this morning?” Billy spoke quietly, but his gaze at Tommy was searching.
Kit stood by her brother, faced Billy. “He spent the night with a friend.”
Billy looked at the teenager. “Where were you?”
“At Buddy Crawford’s house. He lives over on Heron Point.”
“When did you leave the Crawford house?”
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br /> “I don’t know exactly.” Tommy’s eyes shifted away. “A while ago. I went by the beach.” He looked around the room. “Where’s Elaine?”
Kit massaged one temple. “She isn’t here. She doesn’t know yet.”
Tommy’s face suddenly screwed up into misery. “Dad . . .” He turned and bolted toward the door. The pounding of his feet on the staircase was loud and sad.
Kit started for the hall.
Billy lifted a big hand. “Miss Jamison, we need for everyone to remain here until we can speak with you.”
She stopped, glaring. “His father’s dead. He’s just a kid. I’m going up to him. You can come and see us upstairs when you want to.” She moved swiftly into the hall.
Laura ran after them.
Billy’s face folded in a frown.
Richard spoke quietly. “Chief, we all want to help. I’ll get Kit and Laura and Tommy when you are ready for them.”
Billy acquiesced. “We’ll be as quick and brief as possible. Former police chief Frank Saulter”—he gestured toward the older man who looked authoritative despite his informal dress, a cream polo and khaki slacks—“has agreed to help us. He will take individual statements and share what information we have at this point. When the statements are done, I would appreciate all of you remaining in the house in case we need to speak with you further. However, once you have given your statement, you are free to go. The room where the crime occurred may not be entered until we have completed our preliminary investigation.” Billy looked from face to face. His gaze stopped when it reached Annie. He glanced at Max, then back to Annie. “What,” and his voice had all the warmth of cracked ice, “are you two doing here?”
Max gave her an encouraging nod.
Annie took a deep breath. “I was in the garden here this morning.”
Billy waited for Annie and Max to precede him, then closed the swinging door.
The old-fashioned kitchen was an odd backdrop for a conference with Billy. The avocado-green electric range, white refrigerator, and green-tiled counters evoked the mid-twentieth century and under different circumstances might have seemed homey and comforting. Annie couldn’t picture Cleo in that kitchen. Elaine, yes; Cleo, no.
Dishes were stacked in the sink. The scent of bacon and coffee hung in the air. On the white wooden kitchen table, a sports section of yesterday afternoon’s Gazette lay next to a box of cornflakes. Soggy cereal remained in a bowl half filled with milk.
Billy frowned at Annie. “Why were you in the Jamison garden?”
Annie was defiant. “You wouldn’t come and see about the picture in Pat’s BlackBerry. That’s why I drove straight here after I saw you. I found where Pat took that photograph—the gazebo. The color of the wood there matches the picture. A pattern on the left side of the picture turned out to be part of a lattice.”
“I don’t care about Pat Merridew and her BlackBerry right now.” Billy was dismissive. “That photograph and Pat Merridew have no connection to Glen Jamison being shot to death. We will never be able to prove how Pat Merridew died, whether it was suicide, accident, or murder, but we know for sure she didn’t die from a gunshot. Give her death a rest, Annie. Right now I’m dealing with a homicide. Tell me what you saw this morning.”
Annie wished she hadn’t hurried to the gazebo this morning. She wished she didn’t have to speak now. But she had come to the Jamison yard and she had seen what she had seen. “I was in the gazebo. When I realized Pat took that odd photo there, I decided to ask Elaine if she happened to hear or see anything the night the picture was taken. Before I could reach the gazebo steps, Elaine came out of her cottage.”
Billy looked intent. “The time?”
“A few minutes before ten.”
Annie saw intense interest in his eyes. The 911 call had been made at ten-fifteen.
Billy pulled a notebook from his pocket, held a pen ready. “You arrived at the gazebo a few minutes before ten?”
“Yes.” Her excitement at discovering the background for Pat’s BlackBerry photo seemed several lifetimes ago.
“Did you look toward the house?”
“Yes, but the terrace was screened by palmettos.” Annie felt a tightening in her throat. “When was he shot?”
Billy looked impatient. “Please answer my questions. What did you see when you arrived?”
“I wasn’t thinking about the house. I went straight to the gazebo and found the place where the picture had been taken. Then I looked toward the house, but I couldn’t see it. I saw a yardman. He was near a flower bed with a leaf blower. I turned toward Elaine Jamison’s cottage. That’s when she came outside.”
“Did you talk to her?”
Annie’s hands clenched. She didn’t like the picture she had in her mind, Elaine with her face pale and strained, darting a hunted look around the garden, whirling to run to the path. “I didn’t have a chance to call out to her. She rushed down the steps and took a path toward the marsh.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed. “What was her demeanor?”
Of all the questions he might have asked, this was the most deadly for Elaine, but Annie would not mislead Billy. He had been their friend, their champion, Max’s rescuer when Max had been enmeshed in an ugly crime fashioned to incriminate him. “Elaine was upset.”
Billy pounced. “How did you know she was upset?”
Annie spoke quietly, all the while feeling as if she personally were dropping a noose around Elaine’s neck. “Her face was flattened, stiff. She was breathing fast. She looked around the yard, then hurried to the path to the marsh. She was carrying a lumpy blue cloth pressed against her chest. She went around a hedge, and I lost sight of her. I hesitated to follow her. I had no business being there and I didn’t think she would want to see me. Still, I hated to go away without making sure she was all right. I cut across the yard and pulled apart some cane stalks. She was standing on the bank of the marsh.” Annie’s voice dropped. “I think she had thrown something into the marsh. Her upraised right arm was coming down. She held a blue cloth in her left hand. She turned and ran behind her cottage and in a moment her car left.”
Annie stood to one side of the stand of cane. The late-morning sun felt warm on her face. On the bank of the marsh, a blue heron perched on one elegant leg, neck craned, ready to pounce on an unwary frog or lizard. From the swath of greenish waving grass, a clapper rail cackled. The sulfurish scent of the marsh was comforting and familiar in contrast to the scene on the bank.
Annie called out. “A little more to your left.”
Officer Harrison obediently edged to her left.
“Stop there.”
The slender policewoman stood still.
Annie nodded approval. “Turn toward that big hummock.” A raccoon stood on a hump of greenery about forty feet out in the marsh. “The one with the raccoon.”
Officer Harrison faced the marsh. She was very near the spot where Elaine Jamison had stood earlier that morning.
“That’s it.”
Billy lifted his voice. “Stay where you are, Officer.” He nodded at Annie. “You didn’t see what she threw?”
“I didn’t see her throw anything.” Annie emphasized the verb. “When I looked around the cane, her arm was coming down.” Annie raised her arm above her head, began a downward sweep. “Her arm was here.” Her elbow slightly bent, she lowered her arm until it was level with her shoulder. “As I watched, her arm came down to her side.”
Billy’s cell phone rang. He lifted it, spoke fast. “Right. Yellow Corolla. Check the ferry. Send Officer Portman to make sure the car doesn’t leave the island. As soon as she’s found, inform her that the police would like to speak with her.” He clipped the phone to his belt, nodded at Annie. “Thank you for your assistance.” Billy started to turn away.
Annie blurted, “Whoever killed Glen Jamison killed Pat Merridew.”
The police chief stopped, looked toward her, his impatience scarcely concealed. “This investigation has just begun, but I might point out,
even assuming the Merridew death was homicide, that there is no apparent connection between the two deaths, including the fact that the manner of death is different. However, I will keep your suggestion in mind.” This time he moved purposefully away.
Clearly, she and Max had been dismissed. “Billy,” she called after him. She asked what she knew must be asked: “Did you find a gun in the study?”
He paused, looked over his shoulder. “No weapon has been discovered. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He strode swiftly toward the marsh.
Max touched Annie’s arm. “Billy’s finished with us.”
Annie pointed toward the lagoon. “Let’s see what they find.” She knew what they were seeking, a missing murder weapon.
Billy reached the bank and spoke with Officer Harrison. Lou Pirelli, a stocky, baseball-loving police officer, swung down from the crime van and strode toward the marsh. He carried a pair of waders in one hand and a chunk of brick in the other. A cane fishing pole rode in the crook of one arm and a plastic-handled landing net dangled from a wrist strap. Dark-haired, handsome Lou was always good-humored. He helped coach baseball at the island youth center, where Max taught tennis and golf. Lou handed the chunk of brick to Hyla Harrison, then stepped a few feet away to pull on the black rubber hip waders.
Annie and Max joined Marian Kenyon behind crime-scene tape strung across the path between a live oak and a palmetto.
The classical round lens hood of the reporter’s M8 Leica gleamed in the sunlight. Marian held a pen poised above a notepad. She practically quivered with excitement. “Fill me in. Why’s Hyla standing on the bank after you choreographed her?”
Annie looked at the dark-haired reporter. Marian was as persistent as a Lowcountry mosquito and just as hard to evade. “Let’s watch and find out.”
Marian scowled. She spoke to Annie, though she didn’t take her gaze away from police clustered on the bank of the lagoon. Lou pulled on plastic gloves. Marian’s tone was cool. “Why the brush-off ?”
