by Carolyn Hart
Annie took two quick steps, slipped her arm around shaking shoulders. “Let’s go inside.” Annie tried to turn the thin, trembling body toward the house.
Virginia Neville went rigid as a hard, thin strip of steel, then jerked away from Annie. With a sob she yanked the flashlight from the caterer’s hand and began to run, her pace erratic and uneven.
“Ma’am. Ma’am.” Billy, his big flashlight bobbing up and down, caught up with her, blocked her way.
“Please, ma’am. All we have is an unverified report of a death. There’s no need for you to be upset.”
“Unverified, hell.” The caterer’s deep voice was a bellow. “Billy, you know damn well I don’t make things up.” He strode past Billy and Mrs. Neville. “I’ll show you.” He headed toward the pines.
Billy looked overwhelmed. He said urgently to Mrs. Neville, “Please wait in the house, ma’am. I’ll check this out.”
Max bent toward Annie. “I’d better get my flashlight.” He moved swiftly to the Maserati, unlocked it, picked up the light from the seat.
Virginia Neville darted around Billy and ran after the caterer. “I have to see. And I’m”—her voice was shrill—“I’m Virginia Neville. The gallery is mine and all the land, and you can’t make me stay here.”
“Hold up, people.” Billy’s usually pleasant voice was harsh.
Virginia Neville kept going. Hasty stopped and waited, but she was almost out of sight.
Billy came even with the caterer. “Come on, Tony.” He hurried after the gallery owner, caught up with her, passed her. “Ma’am, stay behind me.”
Max bent near Annie. “We’d better follow them. Billy may need help with Mrs. Neville if…” He didn’t finish.
Annie squeezed his hand. She’d never had any intention of remaining behind. Tony Hasty had already lumped the running women—herself included—with the discovery of the body. Annie was almost sure the first running figure had been Chloe Martin. Why had Chloe run? What had she been running from? Billy would ask a lot of questions and he would continue to ask until Annie answered to his satisfaction. There was no way Annie could avoid telling him about Chloe. If Billy got it in his head that Chloe had run from the dead man, Chloe was in trouble. Especially if the dead man turned out to be her mysterious lover on the pier. Surely not. But why was Jake O’Neill’s car in this lot and Jake nowhere to be found?
The lights from the house didn’t pierce the gloom of the foggy garden, but the strands in the live oaks cast a faint radiance on the oyster-shell path. The flashlight beams bounced along the walk, briefly touching the live oak limbs and dangling Spanish moss and dark mounds of shrubbery. Fog eddied and swirled like silver chiffon scarves in a ghostly dance. Their shoes crunching on the oyster shells, they curved around a pond, the water dark as velvet. The hiss and slap of the incoming sea became louder and louder as they neared the bluffs.
“I checked everything out. There’s a gazebo”—the caterer pointed at the white wooden structure, strung with lights like the trees—“but nobody was there. Then I thought about the fort. If there’s anywhere a guy could take a girl and nobody see them, that’s the spot. That’s how come I found him. I’d come along this way, just checking things out. If some bas—If some guy was out here bothering women, I’d give him something to think about. Though any girl with sense ought to know something about a guy if she’s going to come out to a place like this with him. I know all about the ruins. They hump up where the guns used to be. You can go up some steps to an overlook or go down to a platform built out over the rocks. There are a couple of benches there.”
The path changed from crushed oyster shells to hard-packed dirt as they left the Neville property. On the historic site, there were reminders of the recent nor’easter. Cracked and broken limbs from live oaks and magnolias littered the area. Big waves had flung ashore huge logs as well as bricks eroded from old plantations. The beam of Billy’s flashlight swung over the debris and the white wooden sign erected by the Broward’s Rock Historical Society: FORT LOOMIS, SITE OF CONFEDERATE GUN EMPLACEMENT. CAPTURED BY UNION FORCES 1861. Small letters at the bottom warned: REMOVAL OF ARTIFACTS PROHIBITED BY LAW AND PUNISHABLE BY $1,000 FINE.
The path ended in a paved circle near a clump of palmetto palms. Steps led up to a wooden overlook and down to a platform. The body lay on the uneven brick circle, facedown, hands outflung, shocking in the sharp brightness of Billy’s flashlight.
The caterer pointed at the dead man, the outstretched hands shockingly white against the red brick. “You can see the back of his head’s stove in.” The dark head was misshapen, the force of the blow depressing the skull.
Annie stared at bunched green taffeta poking out from beneath the body, Kelly green taffeta stained with blood.
“Jake…” Virginia Neville’s cry was high and piteous, unbelieving, sick with horror. She dropped the caterer’s flashlight as if her hands had no strength. She stood rigid for a moment, then sobbed and tried to get past Billy. “We have to get help. Hurry. Call for help.”
“Don’t move, Mrs. Neville.” There was no defying Billy’s order.
The stricken woman wavered unsteadily, her breath coming in quick harsh gasps.
Annie hurried to her side, gripped her arm. Virginia’s body trembled like high limbs in a gusting wind.
Billy picked his way over the shattered branches and palm fronds, the beam of light held close to the ground. Since the storm, the wind had laid down a carpet of dried pine needles over the bricks. Billy knelt by the body, slipped his fingers around an exposed wrist.
They waited in silence, the slap of the water the only sound.
Slowly Billy stood. He swung his flashlight in a wide arc, the beam sweeping the bricks, the ground beyond, and the thick bank of fog that masked the farther distance.
The caterer stepped toward Annie and Mrs. Neville to retrieve his flashlight. He added his beam to Billy’s.
Annie supposed Billy was looking for a weapon, something that could have caused that brutal wound. There were pieces of wood, some of them hard and strong, and lumps of old brick everywhere the light touched.
Billy turned toward them, careful to retrace his steps, and stood near the trembling woman. “He’s dead, ma’am. We have a homicide here.” He was unbuckling the cell phone from his belt. “Can you identify the body?”
“Jake…” Virginia Neville swayed. “I couldn’t find him. I looked everywhere. I never thought to come down here.”
Annie slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Billy, she’s in shock. Let me take her back to the gallery. His name is Jake O’Neill. He and Mrs. Neville were going to announce their engagement tonight.”
Billy punched a number into the cell phone. “Yeah? But he got killed first. Okay, I’ll check it all out.” He jerked his head at Annie. “You can take the lady up to the gallery.”
Tony Hasty pulled at the dangling earring in a cauliflower ear. “Listen, the girl that was running, the first one, she had on a green dress.” He pointed at the taffeta crushed beneath the body.
“What girl? Who was running? Where?” Virginia’s voice was sharp.
Billy held up a hand. “We’ll get into all of this later. I’ve got a crime scene to secure. You folks go on up to the gallery. Annie, tell everybody there to stay put—” Billy broke off, spoke into the phone. “Mavis, we got a homicide. Get on the horn.” Mavis was Billy’s wife, and she also served as dispatcher for the Broward’s Rock police. “Round up Lou and Doc Burford. Body’s at the Fort Loomis ruins.” Billy’s forehead wrinkled. “Listen, there’s a big party up at the Neville Gallery. I’m gonna need some help. See if Frank can come.” He flicked a glance toward Max. “And maybe I can deputize Max Darling. You bring out the crime van.” He clicked off the cell phone, turned toward Max. “You got any connection with the dead man?”
Annie looked sharply at Billy. For the first time, she considered the fact that the Broward’s Rock Police Department had no female employees unless you counted Billy’s w
ife. Annie didn’t, much as she liked Mavis. The department had been understaffed ever since Pete Garrett and Joe Tyndall’s reserve units were called up. That left Billy as acting chief and Lou Pirelli as his only full-time officer. No wonder Billy was looking for assistance. Frank Saulter, the former chief, would surely be willing to help out. But why had Billy asked Max and not her? Was it because Tony Hasty had lumped her with the other women who’d run through the parking lot? Or did Billy see investigations as the prerogative of men? Maybe she should pick a pack of books for his education, beginning with P. D. James’s An Unsuitable Job for a Woman.
Max looked somberly at the body. “I’ve never met him, Billy.”
Annie held her breath. Surely Max wasn’t going to mention Chloe.
Max hesitated, but only for an instant. “He may have been a friend of the girl who’s been working for Annie over Christmas, but I didn’t know him. I’ll be glad to help.”
“Thanks, Max.” Billy was pleased. “I can sure use a hand.”
Annie frowned at Max.
Max’s steady gaze was unfazed. And determined.
Annie understood. She didn’t agree, but she understood. Max might be a lighthearted, easygoing dabbler, but he took his oath as a lawyer seriously. He was an officer of the court. But dammit, he had never even practiced law. She could imagine his eventual response. He would speak to her with reason and restraint, emphasizing that the truth never injured the innocent. She would point out with equal reason, if not restraint, that Erle Stanley Gardner, famed as the creator of Perry Mason, created the Court of Last Resort to combat miscarriages of justice. Hadn’t Max ever heard of the dangers of circumstantial evidence?
“Miss, miss…” The whisper was ragged.
Annie bent close to Virginia Neville. Her breathing still shallow, Virginia demanded, “What girl are they talking about? Did some girl hurt Jake?”
“Nobody knows what happened.” Annie had no intention of telling Virginia Neville about Chloe Martin. Oh, dear heaven, where was Chloe? Why had she run from the grounds tonight? And there could be no doubt that she’d been down here at the point. The green stole made her presence clear. Somehow Annie must get in touch with her. But Annie didn’t have her cell phone with her. She didn’t carry it in an evening bag. Max, of course, had his, either in the car or in his pocket. Could she call Chloe? Maybe not. Such a call might be considered interfering with a murder investigation. But Chloe was not an official suspect. Not yet.
Max took a step toward Billy. “What do you want me to do?”
Billy cast a worried glance across the gardens. The fog hid the big tent and the party, but they could faintly hear the sounds of Big Band music. “Why don’t you—”
Annie interrupted. “We can both help.” At the very least, Annie could assure Billy that Chloe Martin might be volatile but she wasn’t violent, and she couldn’t have had anything to do with Jake O’Neill’s murder even if her green taffeta stole was crumpled beneath his body. Circumstantial evidence…
Billy gave Annie a perfunctory smile. “You go on up to the house, Annie.”
She felt excluded, diminished. Why was Billy dismissing her? “Billy, listen—”
The rumble of an old car overrode her voice.
Billy turned away. “That’ll be the doc.” Dr. Burford wore many medical hats on the island, including that of medical examiner. He was irascible, impatient, and took wrongful death as a personal affront. Headlights poked through the low limbs of a live oak. A car door slammed. A stocky figure carrying a satchel marched across the uneven ground.
A siren wailed, came nearer, and rose to a shrill squeal as a van bumped off the road, rolling to a stop not five feet away. The door opened, framing a slim figure. “Lou’s on his way, Billy. And Frank, too.” Mavis Cameron jumped to the ground. Her hair was caught back in a bun, her long face bare of makeup. She’d pulled on a navy sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. She hurried to her husband. “I loaded the videocam with night film.”
“Thanks. String the crime scene tape, Mavis. Hey, Doc”—Billy pointed toward the corpse as the doctor stomped into the light—“see what you can tell me.” Billy’s tenor voice was brisk and his gestures decided as he set the investigation into motion. He waved a hand at Annie. “Annie, please take Mrs. Neville and Mr. Hasty up to the gallery.”
Annie wanted to stay there, see what was going to happen. But someone had to help this distraught woman. Virginia Neville stood a few feet away, her head bent, her hands tightly clasped, a figure of mourning and despair.
“And Max, go up to the party. Find whoever’s in charge, and round up the people who knew this guy.”
As Max ducked inside the rear entrance to the tent, a trumpet shrieked the “Beal Street Blues.” Red, gold, and blue spots swept the dancers. Beyond the dance floor, guests milled, drinks in hand, or clumped in boisterous groups. The roar of conversation almost matched the blare of the music. Boston Mackey had shed his jacket. He danced, ponytail swinging, with a girl in a gold top, black silk trousers, and rhinestone-studded boots. Max spotted Carl Neville and his wife standing near the dance floor. Carl’s ascetic face was flushed with pleasure. He was snapping his fingers in time with the music. Irene flung back her shimmering dark hair and laughed as she raised a glass of champagne. Max threaded his way between the band and the dancers, his eyes scanning the crowd. Susan Brandt and her husband were deep in conversation near the front entrance. Max’s stride checked. Susan’s features were sharp and rigid. She bent toward her husband, talking fast. Rusty’s reddish face looked stubborn and sulky. He stared toward the doorway, avoiding his wife’s demanding gaze. Max’s eyes narrowed. He swerved toward the Brandts. Rusty abruptly turned away from his wife, almost bowling over an old lady as he blundered toward the exit. Susan, anger evident in the hunch of her thin shoulders, hurried after him.
Max plunged across the dance floor. Smiling his apologies—“Sorry, sorry. Excuse me”—he wormed his way through the chattering crowd. He was grateful to step out into the cool, misty air. And the quiet. He hadn’t realized the noise level inside the tent until he escaped it. He looked in every direction. Bright spotlights shone on the entrance to the tent, but the path curved into gloom between the tent and the gallery. The fog transformed the landscape and the house, smudging outlines, turning the lights from the old house pale and ghostly, muting the twinkle of the strands draped in the live oaks.
Max began to feel foolish. So the Brandts were having a quarrel. Married people did. He’d heard a few rumors about that marriage. But there had been an intensity about the exchange between them that caught his attention. Anything out of the ordinary might be worthy of exploring on the night of a murder. Max hesitated, uncertain where they’d gone. Most likely they’d taken the dark path to the house. He moved out of the light at the entrance, stepped onto the grass alongside the path to avoid the crushed oyster shells. He came around a curve.
“…don’t lie to me.” Susan Brandt’s cultivated voice was so harsh as to be almost unrecognizable. The Brandts stood near a bench that overlooked a lagoon.
Max eased quietly into the dark shadows of a pine, kept his balance on the slick needles, moved nearer.
“Rusty, for God’s sake, what’s happened? Don’t try to tell me nothing’s wrong. I know you.” There was a catch in her voice. “Oh, God, how well I know you. You were late for the program. When you came in, your face was sweaty. Almost like you were sick. A few minutes ago, you looked down at your jacket and you touched it. A minute later you took your champagne glass and spilled it on your sleeve. You spilled it deliberately. That’s crazy. Why did you do it?”
A siren shrilled.
Rusty grabbed his wife’s arm.
She gasped. “Rusty, you’re hurting me.”
“Susan, shut your mouth. Do you hear me? Shut your mouth.” His voice was rough with desperation. The siren choked off. He took a deep breath. “Listen, everything’s fine. All you have to do is tell everybody I was with you all night. And I
was. I went back to the gallery once to go to the john. That’s all. Now come on, let’s get back to the party.” He pushed her ahead of him.
In the sharp light outside the entrance to the tent, Susan’s face was empty of expression, but her wide, staring eyes were fixed on her husband as they stepped into the tent.
Max followed the Brandts. The siren probably signaled the arrival of Lou Pirelli. Billy would have the crime scene investigation in high gear. It was time for Max to get his job done. Billy wanted Max to corral everyone who knew the murdered man and bring them to the gallery. As soon as Billy finished with the crime scene, he’d come up to the gallery to question them. Billy had added one further request. He wanted Max to take special notice of their reactions to the news of Jake O’Neill’s murder.
Inside the tent, the band was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” The Brandts were dancing. Not cheek to cheek. Max moved past. If ever a man looked like he’d had a shock, it was Rusty Brandt. He was going to get a bigger shock when Billy Cameron asked for the jacket to his tuxedo. That should loosen his tongue. Or his wife’s.
Carl Neville stood next to the dance floor, his party mask gone. In place of the earlier high flush and ebullient smile, he gazed at the dancers with a pensive, almost forlorn, look.
Max followed his gaze. Boston Mackey, moving with grace for so big a man, was dancing with Irene Neville, his big hand heavy on her back, one meaty finger twined in her tar-black hair. Carl’s wife leaned back in his embrace, her face sultry and inviting.
When Max reached Carl, the gallery director pulled his gaze away from the couple, forced a smile. “Hi, Max. Having fun?”
Max was abrupt. “Carl, I need to speak with you privately for a moment. In fact, I need to speak to everyone in the family. I’m authorized by Police Chief Cameron. There’s been a crime. Will you bring your wife outside? I’ll wait for you there.” He swung around, ignoring Carl’s shocked call. Max wanted to see the members of the Neville family in a bright sharp light when they were told of the murder of the young man Virginia Neville had planned to marry.
