Death Walked In

by Carolyn Hart

  Officer Harrison stopped two feet from the skinny boy. “Robert Jamison.”

  He stared at her with wide eyes. He took a step back.

  “Don’t move.” The command was harsh. “Robert Jamison, I am taking you to the police station for interrogation concerning the murder of your mother.”

  Robert made an inarticulate sound like a puppy’s cry. His face contorted. He choked out words. “Mama? Somebody hurt Mama? No. Please. Mama?” He shook his head back and forth as if denial would make the awful words go away.

  Max felt sick. Harrison’s cold voice had slammed Robert’s heart and gut, ripped him from a world of commonplace to unthinkable emptiness.

  Robert struggled for breath. His words came in irregular hiccuping bursts. “You made a mistake. Mama’s all right. She phoned this morning, left a message for me. I called her back but I didn’t get an answer. My mama’s Gwen Jamison. She works for Mrs. Grant. She be there now. You made a mistake.”

  Officer Harrison’s bony face was stolid. “Gwendolyn Jamison. Fatally shot this morning at 14 Calliope Lane. You can make a statement when we get to the station. You can call a lawyer at any time. Come this way.”

  “Shot?” Robert hunched his shoulders as if he’d been struck.

  Max stepped forward. “Robert”—his voice was kind—“your mother called me this morning—”

  Officer Harrison snapped, “Mr. Darling, I’ll ask you not to interfere with a police investigation.”

  Max fought a surge of anger. Couldn’t she see that this stricken teenager had only now learned of his mother’s death? He ignored her, looked at Robert. “I’ll arrange for a lawyer to come to the station.”

  Robert didn’t seem to hear. He trembled, his face slack and empty.

  The officers came up on either side of him.

  Robert stumbled toward the front yard between them.

  As they reached the drive, Officer Harrison glanced at the pickup and the Gremlin. “Jamison, is one of these cars yours?”

  Robert looked at her dully. “That one.” He pointed at the battered old Gremlin.

  “Do you have any objections if we search it?”

  “No.” His voice was dull. He wrapped his arms across his chest and rocked back and forth, tears streaming down his face.

  Terry came up and hugged his friend, his face tear-streaked, too.

  Harrison nodded to Thorpe. He walked to the police cruiser, opened the trunk, reached inside. A black motorcycle leaned on its kick stand next to the cruiser.

  Max stared at the motorcycle. He’d heard one after Harrison turned off on Main when he was on his way to the high school. She’d sent Thorpe to follow him and he’d led them right to Robert Jamison.

  Thorpe pulled on latex gloves, walked to the Gremlin. He yanked the rope loose, lifted the trunk lid. He stood still as stone for an instant, staring down, then whirled to look at Robert. He walked toward the grieving boy. “Let’s see your gun permit.”

  Thorpe and Harrison had eyes for no one but Robert. Max edged nearer the Gremlin, looked inside the trunk. A .45 pistol lay next to a tire tool.

  “Gun permit?” Robert shook his head. “I don’t have a gun.” There was a touch of hysteria in his voice. He looked from Thorpe to Harrison. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know about a gun or what happened to my mom. Who shot my mom? What happened to her?”

  Thorpe ignored him. He nodded to Harrison. “A forty-five. The doc said the wound was from a big-caliber gun. I’ll bag it. Looks like we got him.”

  Annie grinned as she read Laurel’s salutation: “Dearest Annie.” Had absence made her mother-in-law’s heart grow fonder or was Laurel simply being even more splendidly ebullient than usual?

  Edith Cummings sends us the Gazette by e-mail. The coin theft is amazing!

  Edith, the island’s canny research librarian, was an online whiz. Annie always pictured an octopus slapping at a keyboard, no fact beyond her reach.

  We were shocked to learn of Gwen Jamison’s death. She often volunteered at the hospital on the weekends. She was a kind and caring woman. We’re sorry you suffered the distress of discovering her body. The Gazette story gave no hint as to how that occurred. Are you and Max involved, possibly because of the coins? You must know by now that Gwen worked for the Grants. Emma at once pounced upon that fact. I’m passably acquainted with the romantic saga of Double Eagles. Rupert, a dear friend—

  Annie grinned. For “friend” read “lover.” Laurel of the Grecian features and white-gold hair attracted men from nineteen to ninety. They flocked to her flame with the alacrity of hedonistic moths. She loved and moved on, leaving behind her men forever enchanted.

  —was simply mad about Double Eagles. Of course, he couldn’t spend all his time holding coins and he once told me that I surpassed—Oh well, that was before we parted. I bid Rupert farewell when he spent an entire evening absorbed in an 1868 Proof–66 Double Eagle. I was wearing a Christian Dior and had a garland of tiny rosebuds in my hair. He was such a handsome man. However, I will cut to the chase as Emma is impatient to send her instructions. Dear Emma has—

  Annie wondered if close quarters might possibly be inducing strain among the travelers, madcap Laurel, imperious Emma, and no-nonsense Henny.

  —such decided opinions. In any event, be sure to find out how many coins were in the collection. If coins of much lesser value were left behind, that would suggest a sophisticated thief. To the untrained eye all Double Eagles look very much alike, gloriously golden, but, as I once observed to Rupert, “Full head or flowing robes, does it really matter?” Our relations were never quite the same after that.

  Much love to Max and more anon.

  Your most devoted servant—Laurel

  Annie clicked print. Max would enjoy his mother’s missive. The next e-mail was vintage Emma:

  Was the collection insured? For how much? Who gets the money? Was the collection widely known? Who was in the house when the theft occurred? What is their financial situation? As Marigold always reminds Inspector Houlihan, cherchez the bucks.

  To Annie, Marigold Rembrandt was one of the most supercilious sleuths of all time. Emma spoke of her sleuth as if she were in the next room instructing the hapless inspector. Annie wanted to shout, “Emma, she isn’t real!” but resisted the temptation.

  Annie reread the crisp questions. They were very good questions, indeed. Could insurance fraud be involved? Annie clicked print.

  The final e-mail was from Henny:

  Wish I were in the thick of things. I could be a great help.

  Of course Henny Brawley wished she were involved. She fancied herself a modern-day Miss Marple with the humor of Anne George’s Patricia Anne Hollowell, the observing eye of Elaine Viets’s Helen Hawthorne, and the small-town know-how of Patricia Sprinkle’s MacLaren Yarbrough.

  I had no idea those coins were worth so much. I knew they were $20 gold pieces but even so! Rhoda had a tea last year for the 99ers. She was very active in our group but—

  Henny was a longtime pilot and member of the women’s flying group founded long ago by Amelia Earhart and still thriving today. Henny had served as a pilot in the Women’s Air Force Service during World War II, flying bombers across the country. She was one of the first jet pilots, testing YP59 twin turbine jet fighters at Wright Field in Dayton. She still flew a vintage plane to Confederate air force rallies in the southeast. She insisted that as long as she passed her flight physical, she intended to fly.

  —they sold their plane a few months ago and I haven’t seen much of her lately. She was excited to join the 99ers. I think she met her husband out at the field. It always surprised me to think of him as a pilot. He seems too absentminded to be a good pilot. He paints watercolors and teaches literature and has a dreamy expression. Maybe that’s how he looks when he’s thinking. Maybe I shouldn’t buy into stereotypes. Rhoda’s his third wife. Widowed twice, I think. Anyway, someone asked Rhoda about the display. The coins were arranged in rows against black velvet in a glass
showcase in their library. She said Geoff had an almost complete collection from the first Double Eagle in 1849 to the last in 1933 when Roosevelt called in all gold and ended production of gold coins. But there was nothing said to indicate the collection was so valuable.

  Annie went online and discovered some Double Eagles could be purchased for less than a thousand dollars each with cost dependent upon quality. She jotted down some years. If the Grant collection had contained both rare and less valuable coins and only the valuable Double Eagles were stolen, then the thief had indeed known what to take. That didn’t sound like the work of a high school dropout.

  When you have time, send us the details.

  Stay safe. H.

  It was unlike Henny to urge caution. She was always the first to take a challenge. Fingers flying, Annie sent Henny a succinct summary of what she knew.

  Annie looked at the kitchen table, bright with yellow place mats and Fiesta pottery. They were in cheerful contrast to the February grayness. She always chose a red bowl, gave blue to Max. He should be home soon.

  The phone rang. Annie snatched it up, smiling as she recognized his cell number on the caller ID. She spoke without preamble. “Soup’s on. I’ve got—”

  Max broke in, his words hurried. “Robert Jamison’s being held. They found a forty-five in the trunk of his car, but I swear he didn’t know his mom was dead until Harrison told him. I led the police right to him. Ever since, I’ve been trying to chase down Handler Jones.”

  Annie’s eyes widened. Handler Jones was a famed Low Country criminal lawyer who took on high-profile criminal and civil cases. Last summer he’d defended Max.

  “Handler just called. He’s on his way to catch the last ferry. Go ahead and eat. I grabbed some food for Handler and me from Parotti’s. Listen, Annie, here’s what I want you to do…”

  Annie knew the way now. She nosed the Volvo off the road and snubbed the front bumper up to a palmetto. When there is heartbreak in a house, all the rooms are lighted and cars clog the drive. For the second time that day, she walked up on Charlie Jamison’s porch. When she knocked, a different woman opened the door. Again there was a look of surprise, quickly overlaid with a subdued smile.

  Annie stepped inside. In the small living room, voices were mournful. An elderly woman faced Charlie Jamison. “I don’t care what the police say, Robert never hurt his mama. Have you been able to talk to him?”

  Charlie sounded scared. “Only for a few minutes. Robert said a lawyer was coming to help him. He said the lawyer would call and talk to me tonight. Terry Phillips told me a man he knows at the Haven hired the lawyer. They found a gun in Robert’s car trunk. Robert swears he never saw it before.”

  Annie forced herself forward. Curious faces turned toward her. Slowly the room fell silent. Annie focused on Charlie. Once again she was an unwelcome outsider. This time she had something to offer that might give some comfort. “Charlie, I’m Annie Darling. I was here earlier.” She looked at a circle of closed faces. “My husband, Max, asked me to come and see you. Max was at Terry Phillips’s house when the police found the gun. Now Max is waiting at the police station to meet with the lawyer who will help Robert.”

  Charlie looked at her with suspicion. “This afternoon you said the police thought Mama or Robert stole those coins.”

  “I’m afraid that is what the police believe. I didn’t come about the coins.” She spoke faster, trying to reach this anguished, frightened young man. “I came to tell you Robert is innocent. He didn’t know your mother was dead until the police told him. My husband was there and he swears Robert had no idea. Max wanted you to know.”

  Charlie lifted a trembling hand. Suddenly his face convulsed in tears.

  His wife hurried across the room and put her arms around him.

  The elderly woman moved toward Annie. She folded bony arms, her gaze demanding. “I heard about you. You found Gwen. How come you went to her house?”

  Annie recounted the events of the morning, stressing as she had earlier what she felt had to be true. “…think Gwen found the coins and knew who had taken them. For some reason she tried to persuade the thief to return them. Instead, the thief shot her. We know it wasn’t Robert. Max is positive he’s innocent. All of you”—Annie reached out a seeking hand—“can help. If anyone knows who Gwen saw, please call and tell us.”

  Handler Jones stepped out into the anteroom of the police station, quietly closing the door to the hallway that led to offices and the interrogation room. In his mid-forties, he was still boyishly attractive with crystal-bright blue eyes, chestnut hair streaked with silver, and handsome features. He moved with the grace of an athlete. His gray tweed suit was well cut, his black shoes glossy with polish. He looked intelligent, prosperous, pleasant, and curiously unaffected by the utilitarian surroundings of a police station where many entered or left with grim foreboding.

  Max was sure Jones had perfected a bland expression to avoid ever tipping his hand to the police or to a client. Last summer Max had taken great comfort in the criminal lawyer’s confidence that Max was innocent, but Max wasn’t his client now and Jones would never repeat what Robert had told him in confidence.

  Max understood that. He had a law degree though he’d never practiced. Any exchange between a lawyer and client was privileged and confidential. Max hoped that Handler had learned something that would help prove Robert’s innocence.

  Handler headed for the door. “I’m staying at the inn.”

  Outside, Max welcomed the cool moist night air. The street was deserted. Not many walk for pleasure on a dark February evening when a chill mist haloes streetlamps. The waiting room had seemed oppressive, too warm and weighted with futile what-ifs. What if he had taken Gwen Jamison’s call and asked her to meet him at the Franklin house?

  Oyster shells crunched beneath their feet as they walked toward the parking lot. Max said it aloud. “Maybe I would have saved her life if I’d talked to her, agreed to meet her.”

  Handler’s response was immediate. “Or lost your life, too. She was shot shortly after she spoke with your secretary. What if you’d talked to her and she’d explained that she’d put something in the house? Whoever shot her had to be nearby. If she’d gone to the Franklin house to meet you, she’d have been followed.”

  Max pictured himself and a woman—he remembered the elegance of Gwen Jamison in her Easter finery—walking together into the Franklin house. Once the hidden package was recovered, what then?

  When they reached the parking lot, Handler gestured toward his red Mercedes. “I’ll spend the night at the inn. I’m going back to the mainland on the early ferry. Robert’s under arrest and will be arraigned tomorrow. I’ll see if I can get bail set. They’ve moved fast. They’re keeping a tight lid on what they’ve got, but an arrest has to mean the gun matched.”

  Max had known a match was likely. Why else would the gun be in Robert’s trunk? He understood the arrest: the Grant coins stolen, Gwen Jamison hiding something in the Franklin house, Gwen hunting for her son, the murder weapon found in Robert’s car.

  Handler used his remote to unlock his car. “I’ll see what I can get from the circuit solicitor tomorrow. If the ballistics match, we have to find out how the gun got in the trunk of Robert’s car.” Handler quirked an eyebrow. “Who’s the best private eye on the island?”

  Max looked at him blankly.

  Handler’s voice was smooth. “I often use a private eye to find out facts for me. Are you available?”

  Max’s grin was wide. He’d hired Handler. Handler could hire him. Sure, Max would be paying his own fees, but he would be an official part of the lawyer’s team. Handler couldn’t divulge what his client had told him, but he could tell Max what he needed to know to defend the case and, as any Jeopardy! fan understands, knowing the answers makes the questions explicit.

  “I’m your man. What do you need to know?”

  “Robert’s fuzzy about times this morning.” Handler’s tone expressed neither acceptance nor re
jection. “Harrison kept after him. Robert said he wasn’t doing anything special in the morning. He drove around for a while—”

  Max looked at the lawyer sharply. So where did a teenager drive on a foggy February morning? It wasn’t a beach day or a fishing day. He drove around?

  “—but he stumbled all over himself when she wanted to know where and when. He kept saying he was here and there, wasn’t paying any attention, didn’t know exactly where he’d been. Then he remembered he needed some food and he went to the grocery. When he came back to his apartment, there was a message from his mother on his answering machine. She wanted to see him. He didn’t know why. He called her and when he didn’t get an answer, he dropped by the Grant house. He thought it was around eleven-thirty, but she wasn’t in the kitchen. He hung around for a while out in the garden. When she didn’t come, he went to Buddy’s Pool Hall and had lunch and played snooker for a couple of hours, then he went over to see Terry Phillips. He claimed he didn’t go by her house because she wouldn’t be home on a work day. Trace Robert’s activities today. Figure out times. We need to know where he was from ten o’clock on. We need to know where his car was every minute after the murder and the shots at the Franklin house.”

  Max understood. If Robert was innocent, another hand had placed the gun in the trunk of the Gremlin. Where was Robert’s car after Gwen Jamison was killed and the intruder shot at Max?

  Max put another log on the fire. He eased onto the downy couch, careful not to disturb Dorothy L. The fluffy white cat opened one eye, gave a tiny cat sigh, and sank back into slumber. Max reached over her and took Annie’s hand.

  Annie gave his hand a squeeze. They often ended their evenings here, enjoying the crackle of a fire on cool nights. They’d talk about their day and often he’d lift her hand, hold it to his lips.