“Oh, Edmunds,” Evie whispered, placing her open hand on his chest. He immediately covered it with his own. “How awful. Thomas was dying of cancer and never said a word. I wish I’d been able to comfort him. And then someone tried to kill him, and he carried that burden by himself, too? After all he did for me, I feel like I should have known somehow, like I let him down in the end…”
Edmunds’s eyes darted around the room as though he were searching for words he’d never used before. “Please don’t blame yourself, Evangeline. He said nothing to me, either, nor gave any indication. I—I am at a loss as well, my dear.”
Max watched the interaction between Evie and the butler with growing displeasure. Okay, sure, she’d known the guy for half her life and didn’t know Max at all, and what she did know, she didn’t like. So why did it bother him so much she’d turned to Edmunds and not to him for solace?
Dammit. He needed to get a girlfriend. A woman whose only interest was getting into his bed, screwing him blind, and then moving on down the highway. That was his kind of woman. He didn’t need to stand here and wish a woman like Evie Randall with her soft eyes and tender heart would turn to him for comfort. Didn’t need it, didn’t want it.
Reaching into the packet, Evie pulled out three identical envelopes and read the labels. She handed one to Edmunds, another to Lorna, and kept the third.
Barlow rose from his chair and began gathering up his things. “As the treasure hunt has now begun, I’ll be heading on back to the mainland.”
“Not planning on leaving town, are you, Barlow?” Max said.
“And wouldn’t that be a stupid move,” he answered with a congenial grin. “Guilty or innocent, a mad dash for the Canadian border to buy imported Irish lace in a Victoria shop would be ill advised, I should imagine. Call my office if you need anything, Detective. And remember, if the seventh clue is not found by midnight in two weeks’ time, there will be no winner. Neither the will nor the codicil provides for the dilatory nature of a police investigation, inclement weather, acts of God, or simple bad luck. Good night.”
When the lawyer had gone, Evie turned to Max and said, “Thomas accused one of us of killing him. If we don’t find the seventh clue, we may not get the evidence the police needs to nail his murderer. I don’t care if I get a penny of the estate,” she said, her eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched. “I want his killer found and brought to justice.”
“As do I,” urged Edmunds. “If Mr. Heyworth believed one of us to be his murderer, he must have had enough evidence to convict. Even despising the police as he did, he was aware of how the system works.”
“It isn’t simply about pointing the police in the right direction,” Max growled, still pissed at his response to seeing Evie and Edmunds having their moment. “Unless hard evidence is found, the D.A. can’t prosecute. Hell, Heyworth could name the killer outright, but without evidence, it’s virtually meaningless. Can you see the D.A. going to court based on a dead man’s Murder Hunt game and Clue Number Seven?”
Evie shrugged. “What if Clue Number Seven is a signed affidavit stating that—”
“And what if it is? Heyworth would have written and signed it based on conjecture. The murder hadn’t taken place yet. Whoever he thought might want him dead, might not actually have killed him. What if it was someone else? The D.A. could never convince a jury with that kind of evidence unless it was written in blood on a photograph of the killer pulling the trigger. And even then. Remember the Rodney King tapes? Remember O.J.? A slick lawyer can spin a jury right into an acquittal.”
Max looked at the envelope Evie held in her hand, then let his gaze drift to her face. Her eyes were incredibly blue, her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed. Again, he was struck by how attracted he was to her, and again, he shoved his feelings around the corner of his heart and out of sight.
Around him the others had assembled, expectant, nervous, staring at their envelopes. Hell, the last clue might very well name Heyworth’s killer, and if it did, it was more than McKennitt had at the moment.
“Okay,” he said to Evie. “Open it. Let’s see just what the son of a bitch had in mind.”
Chapter 7
Dear Diary:
Today Kevin Ingers and Tommy Jenkins got really mad at each other and got into a big fight! Kevin hit Tommy in the eye and Tommy slugged Kevin in the stomach. The playground moniter pulled them apart and then sent them to the office to see the principal. I couldn’t believe how mad they were at each other, but when I saw them after school, they were smiling and telling jokes and poking each other like nothing had happened, and like they were best friends or something, Boys are s000000 weird.
Evangeline—age 10
Evie glanced at the envelope marked EVIE AND DETECTIVE SMARTASS, then raised a brow and sent Max a wry look.
The corners of his eyes creased in a very attractive way as he grinned and gave her a mock bow. “I am many things to many people.”
I’ll just bet you are, she thought as her gaze lingered a little too long on his incredible eyes. She felt her cheeks flush. Sometimes it was as though she were hooked up to faulty wiring that zinged her nervous system whenever he looked at her in that intense way he had. He was an enormously masculine man, and even a quick glance from him was enough to make her brain stutter.
Turning her attention to the envelope in her hand, she carefully opened it and slid out the folded sheet of paper.
I seen him come in, swaggering, the way cops do when they think they're impressing the hell out of some poor sap. But how else could he walk since his brains was in his pants? I watched as he leaned against the bar and let his beady eyes run over every dame in the joint. Cops. They was all alike.
T. E. Heyworth, 1952
The Case of the Cocky Dick
Evie’s fingertips flew to her mouth just in time to stop a laugh. “Oh, my God,” she said. “It’s a passage from one of his books.” She searched Max’s eyes. “I wonder if all the clues are lines from his books.”
Max turned to Dabney James, standing with Lorna a few feet away, concentrating on their clue. “Does he name anybody?” he asked.
The poet pushed his glasses up on his nose. “No. Seems to be a couple of lines from one of his books.”
“Same here, sir,” said Edmunds, huddled with Madame Grovda under a mammoth fern. The psychic seemed more concerned with adjusting her scarves than deciphering their clue.
As Max took their own clue from Evie’s hand, their fingers touched, and sparked. She jerked her hand away as though he’d smacked her, but he seemed not to notice.
He read it, then read it again, then frowned. “I wish the goddamned son of a bitch hadn’t—”
“Stop that,” Evie snapped, feeling her anger rise. She didn’t care how hot Max Galloway was or what kind of relationship he’d had or not had with Thomas. She wasn’t going to allow him to continue making snide remarks any longer. “You’ve called poor Thomas bad names ever since you got here. I loved him, and I miss him, and I’m not going to stand by while you curse him.”
Max squared his shoulders and frowned. “Well, I didn’t love him, and I don’t miss him,” he growled, “but I’ll keep my comments to myself, if that will make you happy.” By the tone of his voice, her happiness wasn’t something he particularly cared about, but at least he had agreed.
“Thank you,” she said. Thomas hadn’t been gone that long—two months. She thought she had begun to come to terms with her grief, yet now, suddenly, her anguish felt fresh and new and sharp. Her heart seemed hollow, and she sought out Edmunds with her gaze.
Perhaps he sensed she was in stress, because he looked up, narrowed his eyes in concern, then smiled at her.
Much relieved, she smiled back, thanking the powers that be that dear Edmunds at least was still in her life.
She took a moment to compose herself, then returned her attention to Max, who suddenly seemed furious about something, if the hard glint in his eye was any sign.
“Look, I kno
w you and Thomas had problems,” she said, “but he was good to me. I don’t know what would have happened to me if not for him. If you feel you must hate Thomas, at least do it in silence.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he snapped. “Anything else?”
She scowled at him. “What’s gotten into you? I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.”
“No, ma’am,” he growled, glaring at her.
Well, this pretty much proved it, didn’t it? Thomas had been right. Max Galloway was showing his true colors. He could be an arrogant unreasonable jerk when he didn’t get his way, and she’d be wise to keep that in mind.
Max fought down his envy. He was a complete idiot. The look Evie had given Edmunds spoke volumes about the kind of relationship they had, and it had been hard for him to watch. He’d never had that kind of connection with another person, not even with his sister, Frankie.
Christ. His mother had been right—he’d turned out just like his old man. The thought scalded his brain.
Taking a body-cleansing breath, he pushed past his emotions. Time to concentrate on the clue. There was work to be done, and to hell with his frigging jealousy.
Rubbing his jaw with his knuckles, he said, “I’m going to apprise Detective McKennitt of what’s happened. See what he wants to do, if anything. As a member of the treasure hunt, and apparently a suspect in Heyworth’s murder…” He sent Evie a sardonic leer because he didn’t call the son of a bitch a son of a bitch. “…I can act in no official capacity.”
“Hey, you get my vote,” James said as he and Lorna wandered up. “I say you did it. You have that sort of evil, hidden agenda look about you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets; looking pretty damn smug, Max thought.
“I’m sorry,” Max drawled. “Did you say something, James? It wasn’t in the form of some sucky poem, so I must have missed it.”
The man huffed. “Jealousy,” he said. “I’ve seen it before. You’re just one of thousands of brain-dead public servants, while I’m a touted, albeit reclusive, modern-day Homer who touches people’s hearts with my words.”
“If you’re not careful, I’ll tout your Homer with my knee, pal.”
James straightened. “Is that a threat, Detective?”
“Nope. Simply poetic justice.”
James scowled and started to say something, but Max cut him off with, “What does your clue say?”
The man smirked, patted his shirt pocket and said, “I’m not telling you.”
“Police business,” Max growled. “What does your clue say?”
James cleared his throat. Not a good sign. “This clue is mine,” he announced, “though I’m not a hoarder. If you want to see it, pal, get a court order.” Until then, Evie had been quiet, but with James’s last comment, she snorted a laugh and lowered her head, ruthlessly studying the toes of her shoes.
Lorna, on the other hand, widened her eyes in obvious appreciation. “Did you just now make that up?” she all but gushed.
James’s cheeks pinked a bit as he looked down at her. “Why, yes. I did. Did you like it?”
“You forgot the part about passion and pain,” Max accused. “Or hasty red wine.”
James flattened his mouth and looked over at Max. “That’s tasty red wine, and just what in the hell do you know about poetry?”
“I know good poetry when I hear it.”
“Well, this may come as a shock to you, Detective Lollygag, but good poetry does not begin with ‘There once was a man from Nantucket—’ ”
“Madame and I will keep our clue private,” Edmunds interrupted, “until such time as the law requires we reveal it.”
Glancing between the butler and the so-called poet, Max said, “Aren’t you two a pair? Fine. Here’s the deal. It’s getting late. I’ll call McKennitt first thing in the morning. I have no authority to confiscate your clues, or I would. So tonight we all just hang tight until we know how the clues might affect the murder investigation.”
“But the treasure,” Madame Grovda protested. “Are we not in the mad race to find it? What if you are sneaking out and finding the money while we are all sleeping? It is not fair!”
“Madame,” Evie said, “do you know what your clue means?”
She shook her head so hard one of her gigantic earrings nearly smacked her nose. “Nyet. I am not understanding at all.”
“Does anyone else understand their clue?”
James looked loath to admit it, but he said, “No,” while Lorna shrugged and Edmunds pursed his lips.
“Well, until you understand what your clue means,” Evie said, “you can’t go anywhere anyway. This will give all of us a chance to rest up and analyze the situation, then, when we get the go-ahead, we can make a mad race of it in the morning.”
Max watched Evie as she spoke to the group. It was obvious she was used to dealing with many different personality types in her students. With her air of gentle command, she captured everyone’s attention and helped them see reason.
As the guests agreed to wait until morning, she smiled up at him, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. As much as he knew he should look away, he kept his gaze locked with hers until he saw her cheeks flush.
To the group, she said, “There’s no way off the island except by yacht, or the runabout. Edmunds can lock the keys in the safe until morning. Then, if the police let us continue, we can pick up where we left off. Agreed?”
“I guess I thought all the clues would be in the house somewhere,” Lorna said. “What makes you think we’ll have to leave the island?”
Evie shrugged. “Just a hunch. Knowing Thomas, I think he’d want to give us a run for his money.”
“So to speak,” Max added.
“So to speak,” she said, sending him a flirty smile.
There was a general mumbling and milling around, but since this was just the first clue and nobody was certain what theirs meant, there was no use fighting the inevitable. They were all stuck at Mayhem Manor for the night.
Edmunds cleared his throat. “If anyone would care for coffee or tea, please assemble in the dining room in ten minutes.”
“You got anything stronger than tea?” James growled. “I could use something with a little more personality right now.”
“As you wish, sir,” Edmunds replied, turning toward the atrium’s exit. Madame Grovda joined him, and the two of them meandered away. James offered his arm to Lorna, and as she took it, she smiled shyly up at him.
When everyone had gone, Max turned his full attention to Evie.
“About this clue,” he said, gesturing to the paper in her hand. “Heyworth wrote forty books, but I’ve only read a couple, and that was years ago. Do you know what the quote means?”
She cocked her head and purred, “Fortunately, Detective Smartass, I have read every one of Thomas’s books. Twice. Some, three times.”
“Who was holding the gun to your head?”
“Now, now,” she warned. “When you live on an island, and it rains a lot so you’re indoors a lot, you find you tend to read… a lot.”
Her blue eyes became wary as he stepped closer to her. She lifted her chin. It was as though they were lovers saying good night at her door. All he had to do was bend his head and their lips would touch. He felt his heart start to pound in his chest like exotic jungle drums.
“So,” he whispered, “do you know what it means?”
Evie raised her hand, straightened her index finger, and poked him squarely in the chest.
“As a matter of fact, partner,” she said. “I know exactly what it means.”
Max checked his watch. Nearly twelve. The July night was unusually warm, making the wind blowing off the sea damp and salty. Behind him the llamas in the pen were quiet and attentive to his presence, but apparently not alarmed.
He heard a noise. Footfalls, coming quickly down the path that led from the mansion to the barn. The same path over which he’d carried Evie that first night.
That first night. Ever since then he’d tried coun
tless times to eradicate the memory of her softness against his body, her warmth in his arms, her breath against his neck, and he’d failed. He was disturbingly attracted to her, a fact that would have thoroughly disgusted his father.
The footsteps slowed, stopped. A man stood a few feet away in the clearing. His blond hair was disheveled from the wind and he needed a shave. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was dressed in jeans and a suede jacket. Max knew, under the jacket, the man held a .38 strapped close to his body.
Silently, Max stepped out from his hiding place. “What kept you, Darling?”
Detective Nathan Darling rested his hands on his hips, turned toward Max, pushed his glasses up on his nose and swore.
Hell, it wasn’t Max’s fault the guy had such a ridiculous last name. At six-two and two hundred pounds, the former Marine had undoubtedly used his fists all his life defending himself and his family name, yet whenever Max addressed him, the guy nearly went ballistic.
“Give it a rest,” Max said. “I’ve tried every intonation I can think of in saying your name. What in the hell am I doing wrong… Darling?”
“There you go,” Nate accused. “It’s not what you say, it’s the way you say it. Don’t think I can’t hear the sarcasm buried in your voice, Galloway. Cut it out.”
“Oh, come on. Must be great for your sex life. You can be a total loser in bed and the women will still call you darling.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about being a loser in bed, Galloway.”
“You want notarized testimonials?”
“Look,” Nate snapped, “I don’t like this any more than you do. This should have been my case, with me calling the shots.”
Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie Page 7
