by Carolyn Hart
Next door a leaf blower began its high scream. For an instant, her step checked. What bitter irony. A leaf blower would once again mask the sound of shots unless Annie and Laura managed to outwit a ruthless adversary.
Annie stepped inside.
Laura Jamison sagged, her tear-streaked face blanched, on the small sofa.
Cleo Jamison stood with her back to the bedroom door.
Annie turned her left hand slightly to afford the video cam a view of Cleo.
She held a black pistol in one hand. Her eyes burned as she stared at Annie. “What tipped you off?”
Annie felt cold and empty, knew that Death waited only a few feet away. “The gun in the gazebo. The police figured Elaine had taken the Colt and hidden it in the gazebo since she didn’t live in the house. Instead, you put the gun out there for Darwyn.”
“Darwyn?” Laura turned a shocked face toward Annie.
Annie glanced around the elegantly appointed living room, the beach-style furniture new and shining, the watercolors on the walls depicting a sailboat against a blazing sunset, pelicans flying in a V above gentle waves, a little girl digging in the sand.
Her eyes moved back to Cleo, who was no longer beautiful, despite her glossy dark hair and chiseled features. Her cheekbones jutted, full lips with bright red lipstick were drawn back in a grimace. She was a figure of fury, scarcely contained.
Annie picked her words carefully. “I suppose you started the affair with Darwyn for sheer pleasure. Your husband was old. Darwyn was young and sexy.”
Behind Cleo, the bedroom door eased open perhaps a half inch.
Annie felt her eyes flare wide. She immediately tried to contain her expression, keep her face unchanging. She spoke more loudly. “You met Darwyn here. I imagine you planned trysts for the afternoons. You could slip away from the office, ostensibly to run an errand, and no one would be the wiser. How long had you been sleeping with him? A few months? Long enough, I suppose, to pick up on the coldness inside him. But Glen might still be alive if Richard Jamison hadn’t come.”
Behind Cleo the door continued to move, slowly, slowly.
Laura sat frozen on the sofa. She, too, watched, but her gaze appeared to be focused on Cleo.
Annie kept her eyes locked with Cleo’s. “You wanted Richard, but Richard wasn’t willing to have an affair with his cousin’s wife. I’m sure you pretended to be stricken with nobility as well. But when Richard told you he was leaving the island, you made your plans. I don’t know what you promised Darwyn, but he agreed and so the process began. You placed the gun in the gazebo. Pat Merridew had no liking for any of you by that time. She’d been fired. She must have enjoyed finding out something she could hold over your head. She saw you hide the towel and then checked and discovered the contents. She invited you for coffee to have a visit, but you went to her house earlier in the day, took her leftover pain pills.”
Cleo’s eyes burned. “She was a fool. Her back door was unlocked. I found the pills in a kitchen cabinet. She’d told us over and over about the pain in her wrist.”
Annie spoke quietly. “You got the pills and ground them up and had them in a plastic bag in your purse. That evening at her house, did you ask for more honey for your Irish coffee? Something like that happened, I’m sure. When she went to the kitchen, you dropped the ground-up pills in her cup. When she began to get drowsy, you picked up the travel brochures, washed your own crystal mug, replaced it without fingerprints in the cabinet, discarded the prescription bottle in the trash, and left her to die. Now everything was on track for Glen’s murder.”
Annie was careful not to look beyond Cleo at the figure standing in the bedroom doorway.
“Glen had to die this week. You knew the information about the key man insurance would come out. That’s why you arranged to be in Savannah for a deposition. No suspicion would attach to you. You weren’t on the island. Moreover, Kirk was still a partner and he made a nice suspect for the police. And Glen had to die on Tuesday when Darwyn came to the house to work. Darwyn propped the leaf blower near the terrace. He left it running. He wore gardening gloves and he had the Colt. He opened the French door to the study and stepped inside.
“Glen must have stood up and walked toward him. Darwyn was a good shot. He had to be a good shot. Most shooters aim for the chest. There’s less chance of missing. But arrogant, confident Darwyn shot Glen twice in the throat. I imagine he liked blood. Glen fell to the floor. Darwyn dropped the gun, slipped back outside, picked up the leaf blower, went back to work. Who did Darwyn see? Only Tommy. When I talked to Darwyn, he hinted at what he might have seen. He knew Elaine was a suspect and he made that threatening visit to her cottage. I don’t know that he intended to ask for money. I think he was a bully and wanted to make her uncomfortable. Maybe he intended simply to widen the possibilities for the police, but it worked out very well for you. Everyone assumed Darwyn was killed because of what he had seen in the backyard. You asked him to meet you in the gazebo. You had already taken Elaine’s five iron and hidden the club there.”
A pulse throbbed in Cleo’s throat. She lifted the gun.
Annie flung herself to one side as the man in the bedroom doorway plunged forward, strong and determined. He grabbed Cleo’s wrist, twisted her arm.
The gun went off. The sound was huge in the small room.
Cleo sagged to her left. The gun clattered from her hand onto the floor.
Richard Jamison kicked the gun away.
Cleo moaned and rolled to one side, clutching at a welling flood of blood pumping from her upper leg. “Richard . . .” Her face worked. “Richard, I did it all for you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Emma Clyde, the island’s famous septuagenarian mystery author, lifted a coffee mug. Its inscription read: Desperate Measures by Dennis Wheatley. Emma’s deep voice was admiring. “To Annie, brave and clever.”
Max’s blue eyes held remembered fear. “How about ‘To Annie, reckless and demen—’ ” He paused. His face softened. “To Annie, champion of the lost and vulnerable. But”—his voice was imploring—“please don’t ever do anything like that again. We were on the ferry and you didn’t come.”
“Not a good feeling.” Billy Cameron shook his head. Comfortable in a polo and Levi’s, his bulky frame made the rattan chair in Death on Demand’s coffee area appear small.
Henny Brawley topped a cappuccino with a maraschino cherry. “Annie, why didn’t you do something to alert everyone?”
Annie felt cold. “You didn’t hear Laura’s voice. I had to stay on the phone or Cleo would have shot her. Cleo knew how little time it took to drive to Jasmine Gardens. It took one hand to drive and one to talk on the phone. I had to keep talking. If I’d honked the horn or been late . . .”
She touched the red letters on her mug: The Fatal Kiss Mystery. “I kept thinking there would be two of us in the cabin, that I could do something . . .”
Billy shook his head. “Cleo was smart and ruthless. Fortunately for you and Laura, Richard Jamison was smart, too. He didn’t want to believe Cleo was involved, but he saw her slip out into the garden Thursday night. He told me there was a look on her face that kept him from following her. He thought she was grieving for Glen. The next day Darwyn’s body was found. She didn’t say a word about having been in the backyard. That worried him. He tried to keep an eye on her after that. Saturday afternoon, he saw her come out of her room. He said, ‘She had that look again.’ He slipped down after her. She went into the study. She came out in a minute. Laura was sitting on the lower verandah. Cleo said something to her and in a minute they left in Laura’s car. Richard was worried. He said, ‘Cleo was dangerous. I knew it. I didn’t know what she’d said to Laura, but I thought I’d better follow. I didn’t think I should use my car. She would recognize it.’ He ran across the street, tossed his billfold to a guy working in the yard, yelled he’d bring the truck back in a few minutes, and jumped into the pickup. He followed Laura’s car and said he could see Laura and he knew somet
hing awful was happening, Laura was crying into a cell phone. He thought about crashing into the back of the car, but he decided to keep following, find out what was going on. That’s when he called us, but he didn’t know where they were going. He kept after Laura’s car into Jasmine Gardens and pulled into the drive at the next cabin. He was smart. He took a leaf blower, turned it on right behind Cabin Nine, and used the sound to mask the noise he made breaking in one of the bedroom windows.”
Billy shook his head. “He did what was right, but now he blames himself for Cleo’s death. I told him that she was the one with the gun in her hand, she was the one who fired, and it was her bad luck that she blew away a femoral artery.”
“Bad luck? People make their own luck.” Emma’s crusty voice was didactic. “She took the wrong path. She married a man she didn’t love, indulged her passion with a younger man, was drawn to yet another man, intended to profit from her husband’s death, and killed sans merci.”
There was a respectful silence. Emma nodded in self-approval at her sage pronouncement. She cleared her throat. “It’s a shame I was so engaged in writing my new book.” She stared grandly about. “The title is Sans Merci. Otherwise, I would likely have pinpointed the truth at once—a younger wife, the sexy gardener, and a great deal of money.”
Laurel, elegant in a sky-blue chambray blouse and white skirt, smiled kindly at Emma, though her dark blue eyes danced with amusement. She said gently, “I’m proud of Annie that she”—there was the faintest emphasis on the pronoun—“saw the truth. No one but Annie realized that it didn’t matter what the gardener saw.” Laurel smoothed back a golden curl and lifted her mug in a salute. The inscription read: Pattern of Murder by Mignon Eberhart.
Annie came around the counter and slipped an arm around her mother-in-law’s shoulders. “I owe the answer to you.” She gave Laurel a swift hug, then crossed the floor and picked up the Cat Truth poster with the Bombay Tom: Don’t look at me. I was at the vet’s. “No one looked at Cleo because she was in Savannah. The murderer came from the backyard. I knew that had to be true because of Laura on the upper verandah and the lineman across the street. If Glen wasn’t shot by Tommy, the only other person in the backyard was Darwyn. Sexy, dangerous, wild Darwyn, who was meeting a woman in an exclusive cabin, the better to keep her identity hidden. Then I knew. But it was the poster that made everything clear. So, from now on, Cat Truth posters will be sold at Death on Demand.”
Laurel was overcome with delight. “Oh my dear, how gracious of you. I have more posters in my car. I’ll see about them right now.” She popped down from a stool at the coffee bar, but paused to look up at the paintings. “Everything does seem to come out so well for me. And I am pleased”—she darted quick glances at Emma and Henny, spoke rapidly to forestall them—“to reveal the titles of this month’s mystery paintings.” She pointed at them in order: “Murder at Madingley Grange by Caroline Graham, Miss Julia Renews Her Vows by Ann Ross, A Romantic Way to Die by Bill Crider, Dead Air by Mary Kennedy, Elvis and the Dearly Departed by Peggy Webb.”
Annie clapped in admiration and was joined, though reluctantly, by Henny and Emma. The two mystery experts bore a startling resemblance, in Annie’s view, to yet another Cat Truth poster. A Colorpoint Persian with a short, cobby body and fluffy black legs and tail stood next to a fine-boned, long-haired Brown-Spotted Tabby-and-White Siberian. The two cats stared in reproof at a delicate, elegant Seal Tortie Tabby Point with one paw firmly planted on a mouse: Don’t think you’re on our level. Obviously, it’s beginner’s luck.
Was it Annie’s imagination or did the Seal Point have a decidedly pleased expression?
Laurel certainly did.
About the Author
An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of twenty previous Death on Demand novels. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. She is also the creator of the Henrie O series, featuring a retired reporter, and the Bailey Ruth series, starring an impetuous, redheaded ghost. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City.
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Also by Carolyn Hart
Death on Demand
Death on Demand
Design for Murder
Something Wicked
Honeymoon with Murder
A Little Class on Murder
Deadly Valentine
The Christie Caper
Southern Ghost
Mint Julep Murder
Yankee Doodle Dead
White Elephant Dead
Sugarplum Dead
April Fool Dead
Engaged to Die
Murder Walks the Plank
Death of the Party
Dead Days of Summer
Death Walked In
Dare to Die
Laughed ’Til He Died
Henrie O
Dead Man’s Island
Scandal in Fair Haven
Death in Lovers’ Lane
Death in Paradise
Death on the River Walk
Resort to Murder
Set Sail for Murder
Bailey Ruth
Ghost at Work
Merry, Merry Ghost
Ghost in Trouble
Credits
Jacket design by James Iacobelli
Jacket photographs © by Anthony Quinn
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEAD BY MIDNIGHT. Copyright © 2011 by Carolyn Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition April 2011 ISBN: 9780062078742
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