by Carolyn Hart
Her hand dropped. “I play golf.” Her voice was thin. “That looks like my five iron.” Her voice shook. “Why do you have that club?” She came to her feet.
Billy jerked his head and the deputy came nearer. He was near enough to the terrace that the smear of dark matter on the club face was readily visible, but not so near that anyone could reach the five iron.
Billy’s eyes never left Elaine’s face. “The club was found in the white leather golf bag in the garage adjoining the cottage. Does that golf bag belong to you?”
Elaine slowly nodded.
Billy took a step nearer. “When did you last see the club?”
“I played golf last week. I haven’t touched the club since then.” Her voice had an edge of horror.
“Can you explain the discoloration on the face of the club?”
She stared, her eyes wide and strained. “No.”
Billy watched her carefully. “The club will be submitted to the forensics laboratory for testing.”
Marian Kenyon piped up. “Does the stuff on the club face appear to be human tissue and blood?”
Elaine cried out, “I haven’t seen my five iron since last week.”
Cleo pushed back her chair. She crossed the width of the terrace, stopped a few feet from Elaine. “I am not your attorney, but you might find it wiser to choose to remain silent.”
Elaine looked at her in despair. “Cleo, I swear to you. I don’t know anything about what happened to Glen or to Darwyn. If that club killed Darwyn, someone took it from my bag and used it.”
There was silence on the terrace.
Billy was matter-of-fact. “Is your garage kept locked, Ms. Jamison?”
“No. I never lock it.”
Cleo almost spoke, shrugged.
Elaine said jerkily, “I’m innocent. I shouldn’t have to be quiet.”
Billy eyed her curiously. “You have had very little to say about your actions on Tuesday morning. What did you throw in the marsh?”
Elaine seemed to shrink. Her eyes dropped. She folded her arms across her front.
“Speaking of Tuesday morning, Ms. Jamison, there is another matter you might wish to explain.” He unclipped his cell, lifted it, punched. “It’s time, Officer.”
Clearly, his crisp order was setting into motion a previously designed plan of action. Billy walked to the edge of the terrace, looked toward the line of official cars parked along the Jamison drive.
Behind him, chairs scraped on the flagstones. One by one, the Jamisons stood. Kit, Laura, and Tommy moved close to Elaine. Cleo and Richard remained a few feet away.
Lou Pirelli stepped out of a parked police car. His coal-black hair gleamed in the sunlight. A black-and-tan bloodhound clambered out to join him. They walked toward the crime-lab van, Lou holding the leash. The hatchback door was open. Beyond the van, detectives continued to investigate the crime scene near the gazebo, but everyone on the terrace watched the uniformed officer and the dog in his leather harness. Man and dog stopped at the rear of the open van.
Mavis Cameron held a large, clear plastic container. She hopped lightly to the ground. She lifted the hinged lid. A plastic-gloved hand lifted out blue cloth. She dangled the cloth before the bloodhound.
Lou spoke loudly. “Track.”
Mavis returned the cloth to its container.
The dog snuffled, then turned and meandered back and forth. He stopped near a volleyball net, smelled intently, then headed for the terrace, Lou moving fast to keep up. The dog went straight to Tommy Jamison, lifted his head, and bayed.
Tommy backed away. “What’s wrong with him?” He pointed at the bloodhound.
The dog kept pace.
Lou pulled on the harness. “Stay.”
The bloodhound stopped, his dark eyes staring at Tommy.
“What’s the dog for?” The teenager’s voice was high. “What’s going on?”
Billy lifted his voice. “Crime tech.”
At the crime van, Mavis Cameron nodded. She strode swiftly toward her husband. At the edge of the terrace, she placed the container on the ground, used both gloved hands to hold up a man’s blue polo shirt. In the soft sunlight, the brownish smear across the front was distinct.
Billy walked back toward Elaine. “Tuesday morning you were observed walking toward the marsh carrying a bunched-up cloth.” He looked toward Annie. “What color was the cloth?”
Annie stared at the stained shirt. “Blue.”
“Did the shade of blue you saw Tuesday morning match the shade of this polo shirt?”
“Yes.” Annie looked toward Elaine, wished that she had not. Elaine’s face reflected a welter of emotions: fear, despair, frantic thought, disbelief, panic.
Billy folded his arms. His voice was uninflected and perhaps even more menacing for its very lack of drama. “Ms. Jamison, we know what you did with this shirt. You drove away Tuesday morning in a great hurry. You turned left on Sea Oats Lane.”
Elaine stared at him, her eyes widening in shock.
“On Sea Oats Lane”—the police chief sounded authoritative, a man with facts at his fingertips—“you proceeded to Kittredge Forest Preserve. You parked in the turnaround. Tire tracks there match the tread on your 2009 Corolla.”
Elaine clasped her hands tightly together.
“You proceeded on foot into the preserve. You walked precisely eight-tenths of a mile. You left the trail to secrete the exhibit”—he pointed at the blue polo shirt held by Mavis—“beneath a resurrection fern. The shirt was photographed in situ, removed by an officer, and submitted to the crime lab for testing.” Billy pointed at the stain. “Ms. Jamison, why did you hurry away from the site of your brother’s murder and hide a bloodstained shirt in the forest preserve?”
Elaine looked sick and frightened.
“Surely you remember what you did that morning and why. Perhaps I can assist you in recalling.” He was matter-of-fact. “The shirt is stained with the blood of your dead brother. Is that why you disposed of it?”
“Stop it.” Tommy’s cry was hoarse and desperate. “Dad’s blood . . .” Tears filled his eyes.
Billy swung toward Tommy. “It’s your shirt, isn’t it, son?”
“Yeah.” He was struggling to breathe. “My shirt . . .”
Cleo Jamison stalked toward the teenager. “Did you shoot Glen? Oh God, did you kill him?”
Tommy took a step back. “I didn’t. I didn’t. I—”
“Leave him alone.” Elaine plunged to Tommy’s side, grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I just grabbed anything. I didn’t know it was your shirt. I didn’t know what it was, I was so upset. God, I’m sorry.” She clung tightly to her nephew’s arm as she faced Billy. “Listen to me, I can explain. I came up to the house to talk to Glen. I went to the door of the study that opens off the terrace. I pulled the handle and stepped inside. I wasn’t looking around the room. I was thinking about what I was going to say. I wanted Glen—oh well, it doesn’t matter now. But that’s why I didn’t realize what had happened. I went in and my foot hit something. I looked down. I saw Glen’s gun. I’d kicked it. I couldn’t imagine what it was doing on the floor. I thought it was odd but I knew the key to the gun safe had been lost. I took a few steps and bent down and picked up the gun. It wasn’t until I straightened up that I saw shoes. Glen’s shoes. And his legs. I walked around the desk. He was lying on the floor and there was blood. So much blood, blood everywhere. I dropped down and touched his arm. I guess that’s when I got blood on my hand. I got up and I was going to call for help and then I looked down and I saw the blood on my hand and I had the gun in my other hand. I was afraid. I wanted to call the police, but I thought they’d think . . . I was terrified. I ran into the hall and through the kitchen and that’s when I grabbed Tommy’s shirt from the dirty clothes basket in the laundry room. I wiped my hand off and rolled up the gun in the shirt and went outside.”
The teenager, his eyes huge and frightened, stared at his aunt. “Elaine—”
She t
ightened her grip on her nephew’s arm. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t know the shirt belonged to you. But now everything’s all right.” She looked defiantly at Billy. “I know it was stupid. I should have owned up. But that’s what happened.” She pushed back a strand of blond hair, stared with a pinched and desperate face. “I didn’t shoot Glen. I didn’t see anyone on my way to the house or on my return. But I didn’t know what to do. I went in the cottage. I ran to the phone. But I was afraid.”
“You didn’t call.” The police chief’s tone was considering.
Her thin face rigid, she answered in a small voice. “I knew I’d messed up any fingerprints on the gun. In fact, I wiped it off with the shirt and then I wrapped it up and carried it to the marsh and threw it away.”
“Ms. Jamison, I am taking you to the police station for further questioning. You have the right to speak to an attorney. Anything you say may . . .”
Chapter Twelve
As the police car carrying Elaine Jamison disappeared around a curve, Cleo gripped Richard’s arm. “I can’t believe Elaine would hurt Glen.” She looked upset, verging on tears.
Richard’s face was taut. “No family ever expects murder. But it seems pretty clear that Glen was shot by someone he knew.”
Her plain face outraged, Kit Jamison glared at him. “Not by Elaine.” Without another word, she turned and ran for the house. She slammed inside.
Laura looked bewildered and scared. Tommy appeared utterly miserable. He turned toward Laura, then stopped and shook his head.
In a moment, Kit was back on the verandah, a purse clutched in one hand, car keys in the other. She called to her sister and brother, “Come on, we’re going to the police station.”
The sisters and brother moved toward the driveway.
Annie hurried after them. As Kit opened the door to a faded VW Beetle, Annie said quickly, “Elaine needs a top lawyer. Call Handler Jones in Savannah.”
“Handler Jones.” Kit repeated the name as she turned the ignition. Laura slid in the front passenger seat. Tommy climbed into the backseat, looking big and burly in the confines of the small car.
By the time Annie turned to look toward the terrace, the back door was closing. Cleo and Richard had returned to the house.
She pulled out her cell phone as she walked to her car. “Max . . .”
Dishes clattered and voices rumbled, almost drowning out “That Old Black Magic.” As always in the summer, Parotti’s was booming with business. The hubbub made conversation private.
Annie poked a succulent, hot french fry into ketchup she’d laced with fresh black pepper. “ . . . but, Max”—her voice was forlorn, the french fry cooling in her grasp—“I think Elaine made it up as she went along, about the polo shirt and what she did.”
Max squeezed lemon on grilled flounder. “Why?”
“She talked too fast. It was like she was thinking as she went, trying to come up with a rationale for the shirt and the gun.”
Max forked a piece of flounder. “Are you saying she shot Glen?”
Annie welcomed the cool freshness of iced tea. She looked thoughtful and possibly a bit uncertain. “That’s what it looks like, but I don’t think so.”
Max was skeptical. “If she didn’t shoot him and if she didn’t go to the house, how did she get the gun? Or the shirt?”
Annie ate the french fry, absently noting that it was lukewarm. “I don’t know. I wish I could help her. I’ve never seen anyone look more alone when Billy took her to the squad car.”
Max’s face softened. “You helped her. As soon as you called, I got in touch with Handler Jones. The kids had already talked to him. He’ll be over tomorrow.” The Savannah criminal lawyer with boyish good looks and Southern charm was well known for his courtroom successes.
Annie’s face squeezed in unhappiness. “Do you suppose they’ll keep her in jail?”
“Handler didn’t think so.” Max’s smile was wry. “Another advantage of living on a sea island. Billy knows she can’t get away without taking the ferry and he’ll have alerted Ben.”
Annie looked across the restaurant. Ben Parotti owned the island’s only ferry as well as its most successful eating establishment and various other properties. He was smart, energetic, and a very good friend. He saw Annie’s glance and in a moment was at the booth, carrying an iced-tea pitcher. He refilled their glasses, peered at Annie. “Heard you were rounded up by Hyla this morning, taken to the Jamisons’.” He rocked back on his heels. “Kind of strange, Glen Jamison shot on Tuesday, Darwyn Jack murdered in Glen’s backyard last night.”
Annie wasn’t surprised at Ben’s knowledge. He knew everyone, heard everything.
Ben gave the pitcher a shake and ice rattled against the plastic interior. “Got an order from the Gazette.” It was an answer to her unasked question. “Talked to Ferroll.” His leprechaun face folded in a frown. “I told him anybody who thinks grits tastes like paste don’t have the good sense God gave an inchworm. Anyway, Ferroll said all hell was bustin’ out and it sure looked like Elaine Jamison was up a creek without a boat, much less a paddle.” His frown grew darker. “Ms. Jamison is a real nice lady.” In Ben’s world there were real nice ladies and all other women. “A nice lady wouldn’t have no truck with someone like Darwyn. He worked here for a while. I told him to take a hike. I was sorry because his grandma is a real nice lady, but Darwyn, he had a mean streak. I caught him out in the alley on a break, treatin’ one of the girls like she was no ’count. That was that as far as I was concerned.”
Annie wasn’t surprised. She’d felt uneasy when she talked to Darwyn.
Max cut a piece of flounder. “The best guess is that he saw Glen’s killer Tuesday morning and asked for money.”
“Maybe.” Ben’s tone was ruminative. “But maybe he was mixed up in something. You know I own Jasmine Gardens.”
Annie hadn’t known, but Ben’s real-estate holdings on the island were extensive. Jasmine Gardens offered cabins with a marsh view that could be rented by the week, month, or year.
“I keep an eye on things. I was over there a week ago, talked to my manager, Marva Kay Murphy. As I pulled in to park, a beat-up pickup came out too fast. I saw the driver. Darwyn Jack. I asked Marva Kay about him. She didn’t have anybody by the name of Jack as a renter. I described him and she said oh, sure, that was a guy named David Harley, Cabin Nine. He paid by the month. Cash. I didn’t like that for nothing. Marva Kay said she didn’t usually take cash, but rentals have been down the last couple of years and she thought it wouldn’t do any harm. Maybe not if she’d rented to a guy really named David Harley, but I knew Darwyn Jack and I wouldn’t trust him around the corner. I told Marva Kay when he came to rent for the next month to tell him the cabin was no longer available.”
Max looked puzzled. “I don’t see how anything Darwyn saw Tuesday morning could have a connection to his renting a cabin. Maybe he had a girlfriend.”
Ben raised a grizzled eyebrow. “I don’t mean to sound snooty but I don’t see where Darwyn could afford my cabins. Anyway, I called and told the cops, but that Hyla Harrison didn’t sound interested either.” He sounded faintly aggrieved, a leprechaun with mud splashed on his green frock coat.
Annie retrieved another french fry. “Ben, you’re great to want to help. We’ll see what we can find out. I’ll tell you what—why don’t you ask Marva Kay to keep that cabin locked. I’ll drop by and take a look.”
Ben looked at her in approval. “I’m thinking you’ll find something there. It don’t make sense that Darwyn rented the cabin. I’ll tell Marva Kay to let you in.” He started to turn, then stopped and added obscurely, “Ms. Jamison was a peach to help Miss Jolene when she had the flu last winter.”
As he walked away, Max grinned. “Is this your Be-Kind-to-Ben ploy?”
Annie pensively ate another french fry, then picked up her sandwich, crisply fried flounder with Thousand Island dressing. “Okay, so it’s a long shot. But if someone wanted to get rid of Darwyn, how clever w
ould it be to set up a meeting at the Jamison gazebo? Everybody on the island knew Glen Jamison had been murdered. Who would ever believe a second murder there wouldn’t be connected to the first?” She took a bite, mumbled indistinctly: “Right, right. There’s the golf club to account for. Maybe the murderer brought a weapon but nosed around for something linked to the scene.” She took another bite. “Is our garage locked?”
Max put down his fork, folded his arms on the table. “That, Mrs. Darling, is unworthy of you.”
Annie laughed. “Nobody locks up on an island. Anyway, I know it’s unlikely but,” and now she was serious, “Darwyn at Jasmine Gardens is out of the ordinary. That makes it worth exploring.”
Max took a bite of the house salad. Today’s version was homegrown tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, and a sprinkling of pepitas. “So you want to keep on looking even though you think Elaine lied this morning?”
Annie slowly nodded. “Billy’s investigation is over, isn’t it?”
Max met her gaze. “He has motive, opportunity, and physical evidence.”
Annie sighed. “All Elaine has is us.”
Max reached across the table, touched her cheek. “Everybody thinks Jude is the saint of desperate causes. They don’t know about you.”
“Maybe Saint Jude will help us help Elaine.” She took a last bite of flounder. “So, where do we start?”
Max snagged a paper napkin from the dispenser in the middle of the table. “What don’t we know?”
Annie scrambled in her purse for a pen, handed it to him.
“Okay.” She tried to sound like a woman with a plan. “Here’s what we do know. One—”
Max marked a numeral, waited.
“—Darwyn probably saw someone either going into Glen’s study or coming out. Two—a telephone lineman was working across the street from the house and would have seen anyone entering the house from the front. Three—Darwyn used the leaf blower from nine-fifteen to a few minutes after ten. Four—Laura was on the upper verandah and saw something that she is desperate not to reveal. To me, that spells Kirk Brewster.”
