by Carolyn Hart
“I guess that’s how Billy figures it,” Annie admitted. “If Pat Merridew was murdered because she took that photograph, she must have seen someone place that towel in the gazebo. More than that, Pat must have explored the contents of the towel. She knew who hid the gun. She invited that person for coffee to talk about what she had seen. Pat said enough over the phone that her guest came armed with the painkiller. I think the killer knew enough about Pat to slip into her house when she was away and take a handful of the pills.”
“That would mean”—Max’s voice was grim—“that Glen’s murder was already planned. Pat died so that Glen could be shot.”
“It didn’t have to be Elaine.” Annie’s voice held a plea. But she looked away from Max’s somber gaze. Only Elaine lived outside the house. “If it was someone in the house”—she didn’t give up—“he or she probably wouldn’t try to hide it in a bedroom.”
Max was equable. “It’s an argument.”
But not one Annie felt she was likely to win with Billy.
Every path seemed to lead to Elaine.
An early-morning thunderstorm added another layer of humidity, though the rain was easing by the time she reached Death on Demand. Tourists wandered aimlessly around the store, avoiding the rain and enjoying the air-conditioning. Welcome to the Lowcountry in June. Happily, several carried hefty stacks to the counter. A big seller was Kathy Reichs’s latest Temperance Brennan title.
Annie was glad for the influx of customers, but she was almost out of Danishes. Every table was taken.
A teenager, her nose coated with sticky white zinc oxide apparently in preparation for reading on the beach, approached her. The girl held a Cat Truth poster. “How much does this picture cost? I don’t see a price tag. I’d love to have it, but I only have ten dollars with me.”
Annie glanced at the photograph. An Egyptian Mau, round green eyes bright in a wedge-shaped face, fine silver-tan silky coat marked with random black spots, lay on his back, tummy exposed, feet in the air: Lighten up. Serious is so yesterday.
Inspiration struck. “All of the posters are available for exactly ten dollars and the money is contributed to the Animal Rescue Refuge.” In a jiffy, she had placed the bill in a pottery bowl, added a printed card suggesting donations, and a happy teenager, her poster carefully sheathed in plastic wrap, hurried toward the front door.
“Tell everyone,” Annie called after her. She was thrilled. Maybe she could get rid of some of the posters and help the animal refuge as well. “More than one way to skin a cat,” she muttered. She felt out of sorts, but she knew her malaise wasn’t caused by a rainy Thursday morning or the posters. Her malaise came from the growing conviction that Elaine Jamison was Billy Cameron’s primary suspect and there was nothing Annie could do to change his mind.
If she could push away thoughts of Elaine, she would have a happy morning in her bookstore. Her gaze slid toward the Cat Truth posters. To tell the truth, she was becoming fond of the photographs and their captions. However, she didn’t intend to confess her capitulation to Laurel. She might have to ante up ten bucks and hang one particular poster in her office. An American Shorthair Snowshoe with intent blue eyes and the telltale four white feet was perched on a brick wall, oblivious to pelting rain, fur plastered down, drenched to the skin. He peered at a svelte Siberian Forest Cat, elegant and unattainable behind a windowpane: Hey, babe, come on out, the weather’s fine and I’m a heckuva guy.
She smiled and picked up the poster. Guys were guys, whether two-legged or four, and wasn’t that wonderful. She shut the storeroom door, determined to push away all thoughts of Elaine Jamison. She settled at the computer, clicked a HarperCollins order form, entered a list of fall titles . . .
The phone rang.
“Death on—”
Marian Kenyon, her voice gruff, cut her off. “Cop shop just had a press conference on the Jamison kill.”
Bubblegum wrappers littered the floor by Marian’s sandal-shod feet. Her words were slurred by the wad in her left cheek. She looked like a bright, intelligent, industrious squirrel readying for winter. “I’m not a shrink. Maybe Billy’s trying to pressure her. Whatever, Elaine’s got to be the lead”—her fingers flew over the keyboard—“and true to form I got a call to show up for Q and A about twenty minutes ago and my deadline”—she scrunched her face in irritation—“is in nine minutes. Can’t talk now. Read over my shoulder.” She yelled across the room to Ferroll Crump, the city editor. “Gimme sixteen inches.”
Ferret-faced Ferroll, a wizened refugee from the layoff surge that had swept through metropolitan dailies, grunted, “Yo.” Divorced, in debt, fond of the ponies, he’d landed at the Gazette about a year ago. He wrote a weekly column, “A Damn Yankee in Bubbaland,” which islanders vociferously applauded or condemned. Vince Flynn, the Gazette’s editor and publisher, told Annie that Letters to the Editor had upticked by 40 percent since the debut of Ferroll’s column. Last week’s diatribe began, Thought somebody had dumped paste into my oatmeal but it turned out to be something called grits, which rhymes with spits . . .
Five desks jammed the small newsroom. In addition to Ferroll and Marian, Big Bud Hoover manned the sports desk, Sally Sue Simpson handled society, and Tessa White was a summer J-school intern. Hoover glowered at a sports magazine. “No way McGwire goes in the Hall of Fame.” Sally Sue cooed into a phone, “We’d love to feature your garden next week, especially the sedum in the terra-cotta jar . . .” The intern, eyes gleaming with excitement, eased up from her desk, edged near enough to join Annie and Max to watch Marian.
Energy and tension radiated from Marian. Her lead hit Annie like a karate chop:
Broward’s Rock police chief, Billy Cameron, today announced that Elaine Jamison, sister of murder victim Glen Jamison, has been named a person of interest in the investigation into the shooting death that occurred at the Jamison residence Tuesday morning. Jamison, a member of a leading island family and well-known attorney, was fifty-two.
Chief Cameron announced that a Colt .45 registered to Glen Jamison is missing from a gun safe in Jamison’s study. Cameron said Jamison died as a result of gunshot wounds from a .45 pistol. According to Chief Cameron, a few days before his death Jamison announced that the key to the gun safe was missing. When and how the gun was obtained and by whom is unknown at this time, Cameron said. A search for the murder weapon continues in a marsh behind the Jamison house. Miss Jamison’s cottage is about twenty yards from the marsh. Chief Cameron said a witness observed Miss Jamison leaving her cottage shortly before ten A.M. Tuesday.
According to the police report, Glen Jamison was found dead in his study at the Jamison home at 204 Marsh Hawk Road at approximately 10:15 A.M. Tuesday. Chief Cameron said the body was discovered by Richard Jamison, cousin of the victim. Cameron said Glen Jamison was last seen alive by his daughter Kit at approximately 8:45 A.M.
Chief Cameron said Jamison’s daughters, Laura and Kit, were present in the house when his body was discovered. Jamison’s wife, Cleo, an attorney, had left the house to catch the 7:30 A.M. ferry to the mainland and was taking a deposition in Savannah when she was notified of her husband’s death. Cameron said Jamison’s son, Tommy, had spent the night with a friend and had not yet returned. Cameron said a yardman, Darwyn Jack, arrived for work in the backyard at eight A.M. Tuesday. Cameron said Jack did not see any unidentified persons in the backyard between the time he started to work and the arrival of authorities.
Glen Jamison, senior partner of Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster, customarily arrived at his office at nine A.M., firm secretary Edna Graham said. “He missed an appointment at nine-thirty. The client waited half an hour. I called his cell but didn’t get any answer.”
Richard Jamison, who discovered the body, said, “I came back from a jog. I poured a glass of Gatorade and started for the stairs. The study door was ajar. I was surprised to see the light on because Glen always left about nine to go to his office. I pushed open the door to switch off the light. I almost didn’
t see him because his body was partially hidden by his desk.” Jamison declined to describe the appearance of the room.
Chief Cameron said the autopsy revealed that Jamison had been shot twice from a distance of approximately ten feet. One bullet struck the left side of his throat, right below the jaw. The second nicked the sternum and was deflected upward to lodge in his mouth. “Death would have been instantaneous from the wound in his throat,” Cameron said.
Marian paused, chewed, made a face. She pulled the chunk of bubble gum from her cheek, retrieved a wrapper from the floor, and threw the wad into a wastebasket. “My mouth feels like cotton wool,” she groused.
Annie tried not to picture the appearance of Glen Jamison’s study. If the bullet in his throat severed his carotid artery, an explosion of blood would have stained the dead man and the area around him. She concentrated on thinking about cotton wool.
Marian hunkered back over the keyboard.
Jamison’s family has a long history in the Lowcountry. His great-grandfather . . .
Marian typed fast, then her hands hovered above the keyboard as she reread the paragraph about the Jamison family. She made a last check of her notes, scanned the story from the top, then typed “30,” clicked send. She glanced at the clock. “Made it with two minutes to spare. Whew. Got a throat dry as the Sahara. Come on, you two.”
In the shabby Gazette break room, Marian sprawled like a tired surfer on a ratty sofa, its brown upholstery stained with spills and long-ago cigarette burns. She clutched a can of Coke and carefully dribbled into her mouth salted peanuts from a torn-open, one-ounce bag of Planters. She closed her eyes, paused, took a mouthful of Coke, drank and crunched. “Yeah.” It was the heartfelt sigh of a climber safely at the top of the mountain.
Max leaned against the dingy, stippled-plaster wall. “Billy ladled out a lot of information.”
“Mmmm.” Marian took another mouthful. “God designed peanuts for Coke, trust me. Yeah. I’d say the chief’s laying the groundwork for an arrest, making it clear to Elaine Jamison she’d better open up or go down.”
Annie wriggled in an uncomfortable plastic bucket chair. She tried to sound positive, but it was a struggle. “It’s a good story.” She wished she didn’t feel that every word pushed Elaine deeper into a hole.
Marian picked up on the unhappiness in Annie’s tone. Her eyes slitted open. “Don’t kill the messenger.”
Max hastened to sound positive. “You obviously asked excellent questions, Marian.”
Marian pushed to a more upright position on the sofa. “I know you guys like Elaine, but I got to tell you I don’t pick up good vibes about her at the cop shop. If you want some deep background, but don’t remember where you heard it, the skinny is that she’s clammed up, demanded a lawyer, won’t cooperate. That’s not to say the innocent don’t need legal advice, but the innocent who are trying to help cops solve a murder, especially of a nearest and dearest, don’t yell for a lawyer when they haven’t even been Mirandized.” Marian’s monkey-bright face suddenly split in a grin. “Hey, Annie, you got to save one of those cat pictures for me.”
“My pleasure. In fact you can have”—she saw Max’s reproachful glance—“whichever one you would like to have.”
“Like they used to say before it got too trite, it doesn’t get any better than the pix of that Bombay Tom, black as pitch, looking satisfied as a gambler with a royal straight, bright yellow eyes gleaming, and on the floor a broken fishbowl: Don’t look at me. I was at the vet’s. I’ll bet”—Marian sounded callous—“Elaine wishes she had been at the vet’s. Instead, she was johnny on the spot in her cottage. Or”—now her tone was silky—“up at the house.”
Annie was sharp. “There’s no reason to think she went up to the house. I saw her coming out of her cottage. Besides, nobody knows when Glen was shot. In your story, you wrote that he was last seen at eight forty-five by Kit and he wasn’t found until a quarter after ten. Billy needs to find out where every member of the family was during that period.” Her eyes narrowed. “How about Cleo Jamison?” She didn’t know if the question was fair. As far as she knew, no one had suggested any kind of quarrel between Glen and his second wife. But a spouse was always sure to be looked at in the event of murder.
Marian yawned. “I checked that one out myself, not being a downy duck. Ben Parotti said she was on the seven-thirty ferry Tuesday morning. The ferry docked at eight-fifteen and her car rolled off going south. According to a secretary at the firm of Lampkin and Swift, she arrived at their offices at eight-fifty and was in a conference room with an L and S lawyer and his client and a court reporter when Edna Graham called.”
“It would be nice if we knew exactly when Glen was killed.” Max looked thoughtful. “Kit spoke to him at eight forty-five, Richard found his body at ten-fifteen. That’s an hour and a half unaccounted for.”
“Two shots.” Annie looked puzzled. “Why didn’t anyone hear them?”
“We don’t know for sure that no one did.” Max held out his hand and Marian reluctantly poured out a half-dozen peanuts. She jerked her head toward the vending machine. “More where these came from.”
Max flipped the peanuts in his mouth, stepped to the machine, dropped in two quarters, and punched. He retrieved a bag of peanuts from the trough and tossed it to Marian.
She accepted the bounty as her due. “Unless somebody pops up and proves the shots occurred at the precise moment Elaine was entertaining the president of the League of Women Voters or, better yet, two fresh-faced Mormon missionaries, I’d say she’s history.”
Annie pushed up from the chair. “On that cheery note . . .”
They were in the break-room doorway when Max looked back at Marian. “You remember when I asked you about Elaine and you said you had an interesting tidbit about her?”
Marian’s head jerked up. Her bright dark eyes gleamed. Without looking down, she ripped open the cellophane of the peanut bag with the skill of long practice. “Hey, hey, hey. You wanted to know about Elaine before we had a kill. What kind of inside dope do you have?” She pulled a soft-leaded pencil from the pocket of her jeans, along with a couple sheets of folded computer paper.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Annie responded. “Maybe we can make a deal.”
Max held up a warning hand. “Nothing’s been released about—” He broke off, not mentioning Pat Merridew’s name.
Annie had no such qualms. Billy Cameron either dismissed the possibility of murder in Pat’s death or felt there would never be a way to prove murder. But she had every right to voice her own opinion.
Marian made notes as Annie recounted the background: Pat Merridew’s late-night forays, her death from an overdose of an opiate, the fingerprint-free crystal mug, and the photograph in her BlackBerry of a towel wrapped around something. “ . . . and the photo definitely was taken in the Jamison gazebo shortly after midnight on June thirteenth.”
Face folded in disparagement, Marian ran a hand through her spiky, silver-frosted dark hair. “So what does any of that have to do with the price of rice in China?”
Max’s gaze told Annie he felt she’d landed in a sticky patch all by her own effort. He shrugged. “ ‘Trust me not at all or all in all.’ ”
Annie didn’t know whether to admire Max’s erudition or whether he recalled her quoting from some of her cherished Miss Silver novels by Patricia Wentworth. Miss Silver often repeated the maxim from Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Whichever, it was good advice.
Marian’s eyes rounded as Annie described the bundle Elaine held Tuesday morning that probably contained the murder weapon and how Annie had told Billy and that led to the search of the marsh.
Marian stared at Annie. “So rewind to the gazebo and another bundle. Is it your idea that Glen’s gun was in the towel and Pat Merridew saw who put it there, then tried a little genteel blackmail over coffee in crystal mugs, but wound up dead instead of counting ill-gotten gains? Have I got it right?”
Annie nodded.
Marian muttered aloud, “Okay, I think it all follows. The gun-safe key was missing. Probably we should pin down when that was known, see if it correlates with the towel in the gazebo. But it’s kind of an ergo equation working backward. Tuesday morning Elaine had a bundle, which likely held the murder weapon, so the odds are that she’s the one who put a bundle that might have contained a gun in the gazebo.” She blinked at Annie. “At least you’ve got a date. When was the pix taken?”
“At twelve-oh-nine A.M., June thirteenth, that’s just after midnight on Saturday, June twelfth.”
Marian fingered more peanuts. “Sounds like a one-way ticket to jail for Elaine. No wonder she’s a person of interest. I wonder what she was doing the night Pat died?”
“She was home. Alone.” Annie felt discouraged.
Marian looked rueful. “Where’s an alibi when a woman needs one? I guess she didn’t spend that weekend in Savannah with her gentleman friend.”
Annie asked, “Savannah?”
Marian’s face had a waiflike quality. “Yeah. Savannah. That was my tidbit. Elaine Jamison and Burl Field are an item. I’ve seen her and Burl coming back on the early-morning ferry a couple of times. I have a niece who reads poetry at a coffeehouse and sometimes I stay over at her apartment on Saturday nights after her gig. In fact . . .” Her face squeezed in concentration. “Oh, wait a minute.” Marian pulled an iPhone from her pocket. “I stayed with Cindy on, oh yes, I thought so, Saturday night June twelfth. I saw Elaine and Burl, yeah, it was the first ferry Sunday morning, June thirteenth. There’s no ferry to the mainland after ten P.M. Saturday night, so Elaine didn’t tuck a gun wrapped in a towel in the Jamison gazebo. Somebody else did the honors.”
