by Carolyn Hart
Annie hesitated only for a moment, then followed. When she reached the doorway, she watched the EMTs follow Claudette up an interior flight of stairs. Stepping into the foyer, she felt disoriented by a rapid sweep of impressions, much like the dizzying quick cuts of a television commercial. She looked in amazement at metal conjunctions that created glass-walled rooms that seemed to float within the boundaries of the house. Splashes of orange, vermillion, and jade from paintings and ceramics emphasized the bone white of the furnishings. A frightened face peered out from a shiny chrome-and-white kitchen. Yet the fairy-tale house was overshadowed by the dominating sweep of ocean, visible from every vantage point.
Annie blinked, fastened her gaze on Claudette. Her plump face dazed, the secretary stood near the open doorway to the only room in the house where bamboo shades hung straight and still, shutting out the morning sun. One hand clung to the lapel of her dressing gown. “I found her….” Her voice trailed away. She glanced down at her robe. “I hadn’t dressed yet.”
Annie climbed the broad metal steps. She reached the next floor and looked past Claudette into a huge area, a bedroom and beyond it a sitting room. The furnishings and appointments were dazzling white here too, the chest, the wardrobe, the nightstand, even the love seat, white as brilliant as a seashell in the sunlight, spellbinding and dramatic. The bed, too, was white except for the crimson of Meg Heath’s nightgown. In death Meg Heath was quite lovely, her face smooth, untroubled, youthful, her dark hair flared against the silk pillowcase.
The broad-shouldered tech bending near the bed slowly straightened. She turned. Her face impassive, she gazed at Claudette. “She’s been dead for some time. You just found her?”
“Yes.” The secretary’s voice was faint.
The tech pulled a small notebook from her pocket, flipped it open, wrote. She glanced at her watch, wrote again, looked toward Claudette. “Name?” She jerked her head toward the bed.
“Meg. That is”—a quick glance toward the bed, then away—“Margaret Heath. I’m Claudette Taylor.”
“Next of kin?” The question was swift.
Claudette clasped her hands together. “No. I was her secretary. She has a son and daughter. I’ll have to call them.”
The tech pointed the pencil toward the bed. “Has she”—a glance at the notebook—“has Ms. Heath been sick?”
“Yes. But we didn’t expect—” Claudette broke off, took a deep breath. “Heart trouble. She’s been failing for almost a year. But I never thought anything was wrong this morning. She often doesn’t—didn’t come down for breakfast. I thought”—the secretary pushed back a strand of ginger hair—“she might still be resting. She was up late last night. We all were.” She gestured at her robe. “I overslept. But she seemed to be fine when we said goodnight. I can’t believe she’s gone.” A deep, steadying breath. “Shall I call the doctor?”
The self-possessed tech was firm. “We’ll contact the doctor. We can’t move the body without the doctor’s permission. Who was her physician?”
Claudette seemed relieved to have a specific task. “Dr. Morris. Kay Morris. I can get the number.”
Annie played tennis with Kay Morris, who moved quickly, on court and off. She always hit the ball where her opponents weren’t—hard. She talked fast, was impatient and imperious.
“I got that number.” The tech whipped out a cell phone, punched numbers.
Claudette folded her arms tightly across her robe. Her eyes moved from the tech back to the bed. Her face was blank with shock, but her gaze was somber, almost cold.
Annie wondered at that measuring look. It certainly didn’t indicate sorrow. There was a hardness, an implacability in that level stare. And perhaps a hint of dislike?
Claudette held to the tie of her robe, pleated it in nervous fingers. “I must call Jenna and Jason.” Her voice was brusque. “I’ll get a phone.” She turned, saw Annie. “Annie?” She was startled.
Annie stepped forward. “I came to take Pamela’s place. I knew Meg was expecting her. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Pamela died this morning.” Annie heard the thinness in her voice. It was hard to say the words, would be hard for a long time. “She never regained consciousness after her fall.”
In the background, the tech spoke loudly. “I need to talk to the doctor in person. We got a dead patient of hers and we got to know what to do.”
Claudette Taylor’s lips parted. “Pamela’s dead? Oh, that’s dreadful. Meg will—” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Meg’s gone. And Pamela, too. I can’t believe it.”
Annie reached out, took cold, trembling hands in a tight grasp. “I’m so sorry. What can I do to help?”
Claudette’s look was grateful. “It would be a wonderful help if you’d stay here while I try to find Jenna and Jason. I don’t think we should leave Meg.”
Annie squeezed Claudette’s hands, gently released them, took a step nearer the bedroom. “I’ll be glad to stay. I’ll do whatever I can.”
The tech’s deep voice was matter-of-fact. “…looks like natural causes…”
Annie didn’t believe it for a minute. Not on the heels of Pamela’s murder.
Claudette swung away, muttering to herself. “Jenna…and Jason…Father Patton.” Her shoes clattered on the metal stair treads.
Annie stepped into Meg’s room. She took her time, surveying the long room, a combination of bedroom, study, and living area. Nothing seemed out of order, the body in repose so similar to sleep. There was nothing to suggest that Meg Heath’s death was anything other than natural. The big young tech stood with his arms folded, face incurious, the unopened case on the floor beside him. The other tech tucked the phone between cheek and shoulder, made notes on her pad. “Yes, ma’am. Congestive heart failure? Yes, ma’am. If you will sign the death certificate, we’ll transport the body to the mortuary.”
Annie lifted a hand in protest. The mortuary. That meant the funeral home. She took two quick steps, stopped in front of the startled EMT. “Wait.” If the body went to the funeral home, was embalmed, any trace of crime might be forever lost.
The tech frowned.
Annie held out her hand for the phone. “I need to speak with Dr. Morris.” Annie’s thoughts raced. There had to be an autopsy. But if she spoke out, she was destroying Emma’s plan of Annie working quietly in the background, merging into Pamela’s world of service. Claudette Taylor hadn’t questioned Annie’s arrival. She would be glad of help this morning and most likely in the days to come. When death comes, there are so many calls to make, so much to be done, the funeral to arrange, friends to notify, food to order. The ordered ritual of mourning gives peace to the living and matters not at all to the dead. No one knew that Annie had come this morning in hopes that Meg Heath would help solve the mystery of Pamela’s murder.
The tech held tight to the phone. “What’s the deal? Who’re you?”
Annie glanced down at Meg’s quite beautiful face, lovely but distant, robbed of the ineffable essence of life. Annie made up her mind. “I have information about the deceased that the doctor needs to know.” Annie stood no more than a foot from the bed and its peaceful burden.
The tech frowned, cleared her throat, shrugged. “Dr. Morris? Sorry. Some lady wants to talk to you.” She relinquished the phone to Annie.
Annie took a deep breath, striving for calm. “Kay, Annie Darling here.”
“Yes?” Kay was always crisp. “I’ve released the body. The family can make its arrangements.” She didn’t ask why or how Annie was on the line. In Kay’s world there were those who served and those who ordered and there was no confusion in her mind about her own role.
Annie knew that Kay’s mind was already disengaging from Meg Heath. Meg was over and done with and there were patients to see, hospital rounds to make.
“Kay, there has to be an autopsy.” The minute the words were out, Annie felt startled resistance laced with anger on the other end of the line.
“Excuse me.” Kay’s
tone was icy. “When did you start practicing medicine? Meg is a longtime patient. She suffered from congestive—”
Annie interrupted. “I know that. An autopsy has nothing to do with you or with her illness. Please hear me out. I will be contacting Dr. Burford”—Kay Morris knew full well that Dr. Burford was the medical examiner for the island—“to request an autopsy because there is a possibility that Meg was killed by the same person who murdered Pamela Potts. I don’t know if you are aware that Pamela was pushed overboard from the Island Packet last night. Pamela died this morning.” Annie knew Pamela’s death was being treated as an accident. Billy Cameron would not be pleased when he learned of this conversation. “I’m asking you to talk to Dr. Burford.” Emma said Dr. Burford agreed that Pamela had been pushed. Dr. Burford knew Pamela would never cross over the railing, stand on the outside portion of the deck high above the water.
“Is there evidence of trauma?” Kay demanded, her voice sharp.
Annie looked at the beautiful woman who might simply have been asleep she looked so natural. “There are no wounds. I’d think a narcotic or poison of some sort.”
“Is that what you’d think?” The sarcasm was evident. “So you’ve shown up and without any basis for inserting yourself in this affair, you are pronouncing Meg’s death to be murder. Nonsense.”
“Pamela was pushed overboard last night. Meg Heath was on the cruise. Meg died in her sleep.” Annie was stubborn and beginning to get angry. “All I’m asking you to do is talk to Dr. Burford. He knows the circumstances and he—”
“I have no intention of talking to him. You initiated this situation. You talk to him. And”—each word dropped like a stone—“you talk to the family.” The connection ended.
Annie held on to the cell phone. Damn Kay. But there were ways of dealing with lack of cooperation. “Thank you, Kay.” She spoke quite pleasantly into silence. “Very well. I’m glad you agree. I will instruct the ambulance crew to deliver the body to the hospital, attention Dr. Burford.” She clicked off the cell phone, returned it to the waiting tech.
The tech slipped the phone into her pocket along with the notebook. “To the hospital. Attention Dr. Burford?”
Annie nodded. “Attention Dr. Burford.”
As the techs moved toward the bed, Annie walked out of the bedroom. She stood on the landing by the steps. Her hands were sweaty as she punched the number of Confidential Commissions.
“Hi, Annie.” Max sounded genial. “You at Pamela’s?”
Pamela Potts’s tidy house with the sweet-voiced parrot and wet-nosed Whistler seemed eons ago. By now Emma had probably been by and picked up the pets.
“I’m at Meg Heath’s house. That’s where Pamela’s been coming the last few weeks. Max”—a deep breath, but her voice was steady—“Meg’s dead, too. Here’s what I’ve done….”
He listened without interrupting. It gave her strength and courage to picture him in his office. Only Max with his savoir faire would be at ease behind the dramatic Renaissance desk that had once served as a refectory table in a monastery. His lean, muscular body ensconced in a supercomfortable red leather chair, blond hair gleaming in the light from his desk lamp, tanned hand making swift, cogent notes, he was Tommy Beresford to her Tuppence, imperturbable, debonair, and beloved.
As she finished, he said briskly, “Here are Dr. Burford’s numbers, home, office, hospital, cell. I’ll get busy on the rest. Let’s meet at Parotti’s for lunch. Twelve-thirty.”
As the connection ended, the techs eased the gurney with its shrouded burden past her. Annie followed them, stopping at the top of the stairs. She looked past the crew. Claudette waited in the hallway. She turned, opened the front door.
Annie was startled by the secretary’s transformation. In that brief time, Claudette had dressed. Her hair was drawn into a chignon. A single-strand pearl necklace graced her black linen dress. She looked somber but well in control of herself.
Tires squealed in the front drive.
Annie wondered who was arriving. Had Claudette been able to reach the son and daughter? In a moment, the ambulance would depart for the hospital. She felt as if she stood beneath a boulder poised to drop. She’d better find Dr. Burford before she did anything else. She decided to try his cell phone first.
The call was answered on the second ring. “Burford.” He was always brusque. White-haired, bulldog-faced, stocky, he wore stained suits with frayed cuffs. He’d spent a lifetime fighting illness. His patients knew he was with them from the start to the end. He hated death. He especially hated wrongful death.
Annie talked fast. “Dr. Burford, Meg Heath is dead. Pamela Potts was coming to see her every morning, reading the paper to her. First Pamela is killed. Then Meg Heath dies in her sleep. What if she was murdered, too? I talked to her doctor—”
“I already got an earful.” His voice was heavy. “I told Kay—”
Annie was startled. Kay had changed her mind, gotten in touch with Dr. Burford. Was Kay trying to forestall an autopsy?
“—it’s better to be safe than sorry. She wasn’t pleased. But when I pressed her, she admitted Meg’s death was unexpected, though it was quite possible she died of heart failure. I got a list of Meg’s medications. I’ll see what I can find out. There are some quick tests. If that doesn’t turn up anything, we’ll send the body to Charleston for a full-scale autopsy. That would take time to get results.”
The connection ended.
Annie didn’t care. The first hurdle was past. But now she had to face the family of the dead woman. Certainly Kay Morris would make no secret of the fact that it was Annie who had demanded an autopsy.
At the front door, Claudette reached out to take the hands of slender, dark-haired Jenna Carmody, Meg’s daughter. Jenna and Claudette drew back as the EMTs reached the foyer. Jenna clung to Claudette, watched the passage of the gurney with a shudder, her face pale, her eyes huge and dark. Jenna looked as if she’d thrown on whatever clothes were at hand, a fuchsia sweater stained with paint, black slacks with a snagged knee.
Claudette was somber. “Jenna, I’m dreadfully sorry. Come inside.” She gently tugged, pulling Jenna inside, and shut the door but not before Annie saw the techs start the awkward descent down the twisting staircase.
Jenna stood with one hand pressed against the marble top of a hall table. She waited, face sharp and still, until the rumble of a motor signaled the departure of the ambulance. She shivered, looked at Claudette. “Mother…” She shook her head. “She was all right last night. What happened to her?”
Claudette was slow in answering. “She didn’t wake up. It must have been her heart. We knew it was coming.”
“I guess so.” Jenna’s voice was faint. “But”—she lifted her hands—“what do we do now?”
Claudette was abruptly the efficient secretary. “I’ll call the funeral home, but I expect you and Jason will want to choose the casket and make the arrangements.”
“Arrangements…” Jenna’s voice was dull. “Yes. We’ll have to do that. And talk to Father Patton.”
“I left Jason a message.” Claudette looked troubled.
“I didn’t tell him Meg was gone. I told him we had an emergency and he should come at once.”
“Jason.” His sister’s voice was disapproving. “He never gets up this early. He probably has the ringer turned off. I’ll go over there, get him up. He damn well can help.” There was no hint of sisterly love. Or support. Or, for that matter, any hint of grief. Jenna’s eyes were dry. She was pale. There was shock, but not the bone-deep grief that grapples with loss of love. She lifted a thin hand, massaged one temple. “Casket. What a hideous word. I can’t imagine Meg…” She shuddered.
Annie scolded herself. People show grief differently. Jenna was coping in her own way. Annie came quietly down the steps.
“It’s her own fault.” Jenna hunched her shoulders and her face twisted in a scowl. “She got too excited. She was such a romantic fool.”
Annie stopped midway do
wn the stairs.
“That doesn’t matter now.” Claudette’s tone was sharp. “Don’t think about it.” The secretary looked up. Her expression was abruptly guarded. “Annie, please join us. Do you know Jenna?”
“Yes, we’ve met.” Annie hurried down the steps. “I’m sorry about your mother.” Annie reached the foyer. She would have given a kingdom to be elsewhere. She’d set in motion actions that would affect the lives of everyone connected to Meg Heath. She looked at Meg’s secretary and her daughter. They’d borne a great shock and now they must bear another. It was time and past to tell what she’d done. “I spoke to the island’s medical examiner….”
Max Darling looked across his mahogany desk at Annie’s photograph. He loved the picture, Annie with her flyaway blond hair and steady gray eyes and laughing face. “I don’t know, babe,” he murmured. This time Annie might have kicked a stone that would generate a landslide. If the autopsy showed death by natural causes, Annie was in big trouble.
Max knew his Annie. She would never agree that Pamela’s death was anything other than murder, no matter what the result of the autopsy on Meg Heath. Even if Meg’s death resulted from heart failure, Annie believed that Pamela had been murdered and that her murder was linked to her visits with Meg. He lounged in the sensuous comfort of the leather chair, but his eyes never left the photograph. Annie was always impetuous, sometimes reckless, often bullheaded. But, his eyes narrowed, she was intuitive.
And he agreed that it was double damn strange for the parishioner most recently visited by Pamela to die before anyone could ask what transpired the last time she and Pamela were together. Sure, it could be coincidence. Everything that had happened was capable of an innocent explanation. But taken all together, the circumstances suggested sinister possibilities.
Max sat up straight, yanked the legal pad close, began to write:
Sequence of Events
Pamela Potts visited Meg Heath every weekday and very likely read the previous day’s newspaper to her.
Pamela’s calendar indicated she was at the Heath residence Friday morning.
