by Carolyn Hart
Annie doodled on her pad an iceberg jutting from the ocean. Beneath it she wrote: Irene. She raised an eyebrow. Irene’s attitude would certainly rankle Billy Cameron if he looked beyond Chloe for a suspect. Irene seemed to be accounting for her time—Annie studied her timetable—between eight forty-five and nine fifteen. But in the noise and confusion, she could have finished her session with the bandleader and returned to the house in time to see Jake Neville and follow him to the point. No, Irene couldn’t be considered the possessor of a cast-iron alibi. Irene’s point—that killing Virginia, not Jake, would be the sensible way to assure the return of the family fortune to the Nevilles—was undoubtedly valid. However, she certainly was belaboring the existence of her purported alibi. Thoughtfully, Annie reached for Carl Neville’s statement.
Carl Neville
Jake’s murder can’t be connected in any way to the family or to the gallery. Jake has been a most valued employee even though he’d only been with us for a short time. He came to the island last summer. He was a capable portraitist and very well liked by our clients. I am terribly sorry for Virginia. She simply bloomed when she and Jake fell in love. Tonight was to have been an evening of great happiness. Instead Virginia is overcome with grief. As for this evening—I spoke with Jake about eight o’clock. His manner was normal. He appeared relaxed and in a good humor. In fact, his last words to me were to ask if I had some information about Saint Thomas. He thought it would please Virginia to go there for their honeymoon. I told him I’d get some material to him on Monday. After I left him, I found my wife and asked her to see about the band. Irene is very good at handling that kind of thing. I walked up to the tent with her, and then I was back and forth until the program began at shortly after nine. As I said, I am astounded by Jake’s murder. I don’t know of anything in his personal or professional life that could have led to such a dreadful attack. Perhaps he walked down to the point and interrupted some nefarious undertaking. There have been rumors that drugs are sold there. In any event, I am convinced the police will discover that his death was caused by someone unknown to us. Certainly all of us will cooperate in any way to help bring the killer to justice.
Annie smoothed out the sheet. Carl Neville said all the right things. Maybe that was because he was a right guy. Maybe. He sounded as though he liked Jake. But how could he have been happy about Virginia marrying him? Irene made it clear she opposed the marriage. Hmm. Probably no one else in the family was quite as forthcoming. She picked up Louise Neville’s statement.
Louise Neville
Jake went out the back door of the gallery shortly before nine. He was alone. I did not see him again. I walked up to the tent and was there until summoned by Mr. Darling. Jake was a superficially charming young man with some artistic talent. Older women liked him. I was not surprised when my sister-in-law agreed to marry him. I know nothing of his personal life. I have no idea what might have prompted his murder.
Annie raised an eyebrow. Tart, succinct, and unrevealing. If Louise Neville knew anything, she had no intention of sharing it with the police. She made no claim to an alibi. In actuality, any family member could have followed Jake while claiming they’d been walking between the gallery and the tent.
Annie picked up the final two statements, belonging to Susan and Rusty Brandt. Hmm. What was that business about Max taking Rusty’s dinner jacket into custody? She decided to start with him.
Rusty Brandt
I don’t know anything about what happened to Jake. I decline to make any statement until I have consulted with counsel.
Annie looked at the portable phone. She was tempted to grab it and call Rusty Brandt. But if he stonewalled the police, he certainly wouldn’t talk to her. She wondered if he’d summoned a lawyer this morning. Obviously—unless he was simply fractious—he had something to hide. Refusing to make a statement would attract Billy’s attention faster than strolling naked on the beach. And there was the matter of that jacket. There must be bloodstains on it. She promptly envisioned Max suggesting in a cautionary tone that she hesitate before jumping to conclusions. But hey, when two plus two equals four, caution be damned. Okay. She once again held her pen over the pad, then shook her head. She’d finish the statements before she mapped out a plan. She mentally thumbed her nose at the cautionary image of Max. She wasn’t impulsive. Not at all. She was, in fact, proceeding with all due diligence. She blinked, feeling muddled. Didn’t due diligence have something to do with liability? That was the problem with absorbing years of legalese. After a while, the terms all sounded alike. Anyway, she was not impulsive, and she was quite capable of completing a task, even though she itched to fling herself at the telephone.
Susan Brandt
I saw Jake briefly around seven-thirty in the drawing room. He and Virginia were greeting guests. I was in and out of the kitchen most of the evening, overseeing the catering, until I went to the tent a few minutes before nine. I was surprised that Jake didn’t join us there. I didn’t know what had happened, but assumed there was some kind of problem when Virginia didn’t announce their engagement. I can’t imagine why Jake would have gone down to the point. I have no knowledge about his private affairs. He’d been with the gallery since last summer. His work was satisfactory.
“And,” Annie said aloud to Agatha, “she don’t know nothin’ ’bout nobody. No way. Butter wouldn’t melt. In public. I’d love to have been in the Brandt car when they drove home last night. Especially when she asked Rusty about his jacket.”
Agatha rolled over on her back, stretched.
Annie gingerly smoothed the fur on her tummy, yanked back her hand to avoid a swiping paw. “Okay,” she murmured. “Irene claims she was at the tent by eight-thirty, implies she was there most of the time, left to go find Carl. Could be true. Could be a lie. Louise says she came there a little before nine. Ditto Susan. Carl admits being back and forth. So…” Annie made the additions to her timetable. Sipping her coffee, she flipped to a fresh sheet, printed:
SUSPECTS/MOTIVES
1. Chloe Martin. Jealousy over Jake’s engagement to Virginia Neville.
2. Elaine Hasty. Another jilted lover?
3. Neville family members (Carl, Irene, Susan, Rusty, and Louise). To prevent Virginia from marrying Jake O’Neill and diluting their hoped-for inheritance.
Annie thought for a minute, then wrote quickly:
4. Tony Hasty. Anger over Jake’s treatment of Elaine.
5. Beth Kelly, the second running woman. Near the scene but no known motive.
Annie was pleased at her crisp summary. She reached for the coffeepot to refill her mug, and the phone rang. She scooped up the portable phone, answered “Death on Demand,” and poured the strong hot coffee.
“Hi, Annie.” Henny Brawley was brisk. “So what did you smuggle out of the gallery in the book bag?”
Annie was silent.
“Come on, chum.” The store’s best—and savviest—customer was pleasant but determined. “I haven’t read mysteries from Deborah Adams to Margaret Yorke for nothing. Give.”
“Last night, as you know, I was pleased to assist the minions of the law, our acting captain and his hastily appointed deputy, one Max Darling, in gathering information.” Annie straightened the statements.
“Huzzah,” Henny applauded.
“I was requested not to look at the statements that were produced.” Annie managed to keep her tone pleasant.
“Not for the eyes of the unwashed, I take it. I’m sure you observed that stricture. Let’s see,” Henny mused,
“you took up the statements, delivered them—unread—to Max, but…copy machine?”
“Sometimes you scare me.” Annie wasn’t altogether kidding.
“So this morning, in the comfortable confines of Death on Demand, you are perusing material that is critical to the investigation. Bully for you.” Henny’s tone was admiring. “Not even Miss Zukas could do better.”
Annie was absurdly pleased. Jo Dereske’s librarian sleuth was one of Anni
e’s all-time favorite fictional detectives. “Okay, Henny, you got me. I promised not to read them. I didn’t. Not then.”
“But now…” There was an expectant pause.
“Right. Here’s what I’ve got….” Annie read the statements quickly, then described the crime scene and Chloe’s reaction on the pier. “What do you think?”
There was a thoughtful pause. Finally, Henny sighed. “I’d say Chloe Martin’s in big trouble. I’m sorry, Annie. I know you like her a lot.” There was the sound of sad finality in her voice.
Annie stiffened. Henny had an instinct for crime. But this time, she was wrong. “Chloe didn’t do it.”
Henny’s silence said more than a plethora of words.
Annie gripped the phone. “Lots of people didn’t like him. Everybody in the Neville family was worried about Virginia marrying him. And evidently Elaine Hasty was upset with him. Her dad found the body, but he didn’t say a word about Elaine and Jake.”
“Annie”—and now Henny’s voice was kind—“I understand. Chloe’s your friend—”
Annie remembered the pain in Chloe’s voice last night: “I thought you were my friend.” And the sound of her running footsteps on the hollow wood of the pier and the way they faded to nothingness in the fog.
“—so you don’t want to see what’s right in front of you. But I have to tell you that I’ve known the Neville family for years. Susan’s a good friend. A very good friend.” Henny’s pause spoke volumes. “About as straight a shooter as I’ve ever known. And those statements—everybody’s up-front. Sure they were back and forth between the gallery and the tent, but nobody saw one of them heading for the point. Who walks out to the point? Jake. Who runs back from the point? Chloe. You saw her yourself. Who ran away? Chloe. Who was furious with a two-timing Lothario? Chloe. Whose stole is drenched with blood? Chloe’s.”
“The Nevilles didn’t want him to marry Virginia.” Annie drew thick black lines beneath their names, Carl, Irene, Susan, Rusty, and Louise.
“Granted.” Henny was agreeable. “I’ll admit that Rusty’s jacket needs explaining. I’d say he’s the only hope. But the preponderance of the evidence weighs against Chloe. As Benny Cooperman so wisely observed in Murder Sees the Light, ‘If you find kittens in the doghouse are they puppies?’”
Annie glanced toward the section of humorous mysteries. Henny loved all the books by Howard Engel. “Chloe didn’t do it. You should have heard her last night. Why, for a minute she thought it might be Jake when we came to the pier. He always met her there at midnight.”
Henny made a sound midway between a sniff and a snort. “Uh-huh. Pretty smart on her part. Well, I’ll hope this one turns out to be murder by a person or persons unknown, the old inquest verdict. For your sake and for Chloe’s.”
There was an instant of quiet between them. Annie knew that her old friend was declining to be of help in this investigation. Henny was standing by her friends. Just as Annie intended to stand by Chloe.
Henny cleared her throat. Her tone was determinedly cheerful. “Oh, hey, Annie, I’ve got one for you. Who is the Honorable Richard Rollison?”
Annie reached back to the memory of dog-eared paperbacks belonging to her uncle that she had enjoyed in a hammock during lazy Low Country summers. “The Toff. One of John Creasey’s detectives.”
Henny was too good a sport to admit to disappointment. But she couldn’t quite hide her surprise. “I would have thought before your time. Good going. Take care.” A pause. “Try not to be too upset about Chloe.”
The line buzzed. As Annie clicked off the phone, the clock struck nine. She listened to the chimes. Right now Chloe was arriving at the police station….
The clouds hung so low the sky seemed to sag toward the earth. Gray sky melded into gray water. The persistent drizzle dampened Max’s face. A brisk onshore breeze spun cold droplets of mist. Max was grateful for the warmth of his suede jacket.
Ben Parotti’s yellow slicker glistened. He poked back his cap, peered out at the white-flecked water. “Chances aren’t good.” A gnarled hand jabbed at the murky harbor. “You got some currents there that can pull flotsam all the way out to the Gulf Stream. Yeah, if she tossed that dress from the end of the pier…” He shook his head. “Anyway, I’ll round up some men, do some trawling.” Ben squinted at Max. “Pretty well signed her arrest warrant, didn’t she?” A swarm of laughing gulls cackled overhead. Ben’s derisive chuckle blended right in. “’Course, what choice did she have if there was blood all over the dress.”
Max jammed his hands into his pockets. “Annie says she threw it away because she was mad at him and knew she’d never wear the dress again.”
Ben turned up calloused palms. “Annie may be right. No telling what a pissed-off woman will do. His daddy should have warned him against riling up a female. Anyway, we’ll do our best to find the dress.” Ben lifted a hand in farewell and headed for the boat slips.
Max slowly walked toward his car, his face somber. Would it do any good to call Annie? She was sure to be at the bookstore by now. He glanced at his watch. Ten after nine. He’d promised Billy that he’d come back to the station after arranging the search for Chloe’s missing dress. Billy might very well arrest Chloe this morning unless she came up with information to clear herself. That didn’t seem likely. At the least he might hold her as a material witness while he checked out the members of the Neville family. Max knew an arrest would be a blow to Annie. Would she insist upon Chloe’s innocence despite the evidence against her? Max sighed. If so, the home front was going to be chilly for a while. Annie was hurt that Billy had chosen Max to help and ignored her. In any event, an arrest would most likely mark the end of Max’s service as a deputy. He hoped so because he hated shutting Annie out of anything. They were a team, the two of them together. But not this time. He was slipping behind the wheel of his Maserati when his cell phone rang.
“Hello?” His voice rose hopefully. Maybe it was Annie.
“Max, meet me at the Schmidt house.” Billy was furious, his tone harsh.
Max turned on the motor. “What’s wrong?”
“That girl. She didn’t show up. When I catch her”—the words dropped like boulders of ice cracking off a glacier—“she’s going to be sorry she was born.”
“Who could have killed him?” Annie looked into Agatha’s cool eyes. The cat’s gaze was eloquent of hidden mysteries, of danger, of a world perceived with clarity and icy disdain. “You don’t know and you don’t care. Agatha, it looks bad for Chloe. You’d care if you knew. She was lovely to you.”
Annie picked up the phone, slowly put it down. Okay. It wouldn’t do any good to call Chloe. She was at the police station. Surely she’d taken a lawyer with her. Or maybe she’d asked her aunt and uncle to accompany her. Annie shook her head. Chloe wasn’t close to them. Chloe, in fact, had no champion. Except Annie. But what could Annie do? It was up to the police to check out the statements made last night.
The phone rang. Annie looked at the caller ID. Oh. Oh well. “Hi, Laurel.”
“Annie, dear. You have been much on my mind.” The husky unforgettable voice was sad and kind.
“Your aura—”
Annie raised an eyebrow. Laurel often claimed to pick up otherworldly vibrations, although Annie often felt her mother-in-law simply wrapped her own perceptions in occult trappings, the more easily to voice comments that might otherwise offend.
“—quivers with distress. I pondered your plight, and though I cannot rescue you from concern about young Chloe—”
Annie felt a prickle at the back of her neck.
“—I believe I can be most helpful by sharing with you the sustaining words from a great poet upon the high estate of friendship. As Owen Meredith observed, ‘Ay, there are some good things in life, that fall not away with the rest. And, of all best things upon earth, I hold that a faithful friend is the best.’” A reverent pause, then a murmured, “I am always intrigued by the use of a pen name. I suppose Edward Robert Bulwer Lytt
on did not wish to be confused with his father. Or trade upon his illustrious name. Ah well, his words ring true whatever the attribution. Dear Annie, God-speed in your quest.”
Annie refused to speculate upon the reasons for Lord Lytton’s pen name. Laurel was right. It didn’t matter who said it, the sentiment caught at her heart: “…of all best things upon earth…”
What did friends do for friends? With a fine disregard for mixing metaphors, Annie said sternly to Agatha, “They don’t sit around and twiddle their thumbs while Rome burns. And neither will I.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
The Schmidt house, a one-story bungalow of pinkish stucco, nestled beneath an ancient magnolia. The drive swung around the tree to a separate garage. Parked to one side was a shabby blue Taurus. A discarded Christmas tree, festooned with limp icicles, was propped against a shabby white wooden fence. The house had a closed-in, withdrawn appearance like featureless mannequins in a forgotten store window.
