Dead By Midnight

by Carolyn Hart

  “I can find out, but the amount left in the carafe proves nothing.” His voice was patient. “You’re trying to make the case that she served coffee to someone else, that she wouldn’t have made six cups for herself. We can’t know that for a fact. Maybe she drank one mug of the coffee, then tossed the OxyContin in her second serving.”

  Annie twisted to look back into the living room. What if Henny was right? What if Pat had a guest? Then there would be two crystal mugs.

  Annie felt a rush of excitement. “Billy, you said the mugs were crystal.”

  He nodded. “Pretty pricey stuff. I got four of them for Mavis for her birthday.”

  A Southern woman of Pat’s age would put out her best for company.

  “Let’s find where she kept her crystal ware.”

  Henny gestured toward the hallway. “In a breakfront in the dining room.” She led the way.

  Billy looked through the glass pane. “Yeah. The stuff was in one of those mugs.” He reached out to open the breakfront.

  “Wait.” Annie’s command was quick.

  He looked at her.

  She lifted a hand in supplication. “Billy, please do me one more favor.”

  At the first peal of the phone, Annie glanced at her caller ID. She looked across the coffee bar at Henny. “Billy.” Now they would know. She clicked the speakerphone. “Annie here.”

  There was an instant of silence. The police chief cleared his throat.

  Henny leaned forward, her face intent, her posture tense.

  “A technician—”

  Annie mouthed silently, “Mavis.” Billy’s wife doubled as dispatcher and crime technician. She was careful, methodical, and meticulous.

  “—checked the entire set of crystal mugs for fingerprints as well as the sugar bowl and cream pitcher. One mug yielded no fingerprints.” His voice gave no hint to his thoughts.

  “None?” Henny’s demand was sharp.

  “None.”

  Henny slapped a hand on the counter. “You see what that means, Billy.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Someone washed the mug and replaced it in the breakfront without leaving any fingerprints.” His tone was neutral.

  “A murderer.” Henny was firm.

  “Or someone who was very tidy.”

  “Please.” Henny sounded incredulous.

  Billy spoke with equal firmness. “The evidence is open to interpretation. Conceivably, the last time she washed the mugs, she managed to dry one without leaving any fingerprints, perhaps holding the mug with one cloth, drying it with another. Alternatively, as you suggest, someone else carefully washed and dried a mug to remove fingerprints and placed the mug in the breakfront.”

  Annie asked quickly, “How about the other chair?” Could fingerprints be taken from cloth?

  “The chair arms yielded no prints.”

  Henny was quick. “Not even Pat’s?”

  “No prints.”

  “Murder.” Henny was forceful.

  Billy’s question was quick and sharp. “Who had reason to kill Pat Merridew?”

  Henny’s reply was slow in coming, but honest. “So far as I know, no one.”

  “At this point”—Billy sounded somewhat ponderous—“the file remains open. We will pursue inquiries.” A pause. “You knew her well. If you hear of anything that could assist us, please be in contact.” He ended the call.

  Annie clicked off the phone.

  Henny lifted her coffee mug (Devious Design by D. B. Olsen) in a salute. “You asked Billy to have the mugs fingerprinted.” Her tone was admiring. “If it weren’t for you, a perfect murder would have been committed. Now Pat’s death will be labeled possible homicide instead of suicide.”

  Annie didn’t feel triumphant. “Billy said he would pursue inquiries. Like what? I suppose he’ll check with neighbors, but if no one saw Pat’s visitor, where does he go from there?”

  Henny frowned. “No one will have seen the visitor. I think we can count on that. Anyone smart enough to set up her death to appear as a suicide is too smart to be seen. But”—she was emphatic—“that’s a lead right there.”

  Annie brought her mug around the coffee bar and sat down next to Henny. “How so?”

  Henny lightly touched fingertips to each temple. Eyes narrowed, she stared into the distance.

  Annie wondered if Henny was channeling Madame Arcati, the ebullient psychic in Noël Coward’s Blithe Spirit, a role Henny had recently played with élan in the local little theater.

  “I see a close connection,” she intoned.

  Definitely Madame Arcati.

  Henny swiveled to face Annie. “The OxyContin! That’s the tip-off. Only someone who knew Pat well, someone who spent time around her, would be aware that she had broken her wrist and taken pain pills. All right. Who knew? Certainly the people she worked with—Glen Jamison, Cleo Jamison, Kirk Brewster. In fact, all of the Jamisons. Pat was close to Maddy and later to Glen’s sister, Elaine. Through the years, Pat took the kids to doctor appointments, all that sort of thing.”

  Annie shook her head. “Maybe she talked to her postman about her pain pills. Henny, we don’t have anywhere to start.”

  Henny looked stubborn. “All right. Forget the pain pills for now. Instead, I’ll call mutual friends who knew Pat, see if I can turn up anything odd or unusual in the last week or so.”

  Annie refrained from pointing out that Pat’s final two weeks had been very different, fired from her job of more than twenty years, hired into a retail position for which she had no background. What else was Henny likely to hear about from Pat’s friends? Henny was unlikely to discover why Pat brewed coffee for a killer. “Good idea.” She knew her lack of enthusiasm was evident.

  Henny’s gaze was searching. “Do you have a better idea?”

  Annie turned her hands palms up.

  After the front bell signaled Henny’s departure, Annie walked slowly toward her office. She heard Ingrid suggesting titles to a thriller fan, the latest titles by Michael Connelly, Daniel Silva, Laura Bynum, Kayla Perrin, Judith Cutler, and Steven Hamilton. She needed to unpack boxes of books by Robert Crais, Parnell Hall, Janet Evanovich, Diane Mott Davidson, and Joanne Fluke. Hilton Head mystery writer Kathryn Wall was coming over for a signing next week.

  Annie reached for the box cutter. What would Wall’s sleuth, Bay Tanner, do in these circumstances? Bay would make her choice on the basis of honor and execute any plan with tenacity. Annie understood that inner compulsion to follow where conscience led. She had felt compelled to approach Billy Cameron because of her conversation with Pat about suicide.

  Annie slid the tempered steel blade down the center of the box lid, careful to avoid damage to book jackets. Yeah, yeah, yeah, a small inner voice sneered. You didn’t believe Pat committed suicide. You pointed the way for an investigation. Big deal. But now you know Billy’s best efforts won’t lead anywhere. He’s already found out that no one local profited from her small estate, that she had no known enemies, that she was well regarded in the community.

  Impatiently, Annie lifted out five books and another five. The cover of the Hamilton thriller, The Lock Artist, featured a shiny steel padlock with the shackle unfastened. That lock was open.

  Was there a way to unlock the truth about Pat?

  Maybe, just maybe . . . She reached for her cell phone. “Max, meet me at Parotti’s. I need help.”

  Chapter Four

  Annie stepped inside Parotti’s Bar and Grill, the island’s oldest and most successful café and bait shop. She welcomed the air-conditioning, augmented by ceiling fans. In winter, she ordered a fried oyster sandwich. In summer, she opted for fried flounder. Despite Ben’s transformation from grizzled leprechaun to snazzy proprietor after his marriage to tea-shop–genteel Miss Jolene, Parotti’s maintained its rakish atmosphere, sawdust on the floor in the adjoining bait shop, battered old Burma Shave signs as decor, and a 1940s jukebox that worked. Maybe she’d play Frankie Carle’s “Rumors Are Flying.” Of course, Mi
ss Jolene’s influence was unmistakable, quiche on the menu and red-and-white-checked cloths on the tables.

  Annie slid into her favorite booth. In a moment, Ben brought iced tea for her and lemonade for Max, left menus and a breadbasket. She sipped the tea and absently scanned the Burma Shave signs. Her favorite sequence read: Don’t stick / Your elbow / Out so far / It might go home / In another car.

  She looked across the room as the heavy oak door opened.

  Max swerved around a group of sunburned tourists, moved purposefully toward her. As always when she saw his blue eyes looking for her and his generous mouth widening in a smile for her, she felt a familiar thrill. Tall and blond, he was the handsomest man there. Or, as far as she was concerned, the handsomest man anywhere.

  He slid into the booth, reached out to touch her hand. His touch was warm and she felt, as always, a surge of happiness.

  Ben was there to take their orders, fried flounder for Annie, grilled for Max, fries for her, coleslaw for him.

  As Ben turned away, Max buttered a slice of jalapeño corn bread. “You sounded grim.”

  “I feel grim. Pat was murdered.” She described her visit to the police station, her trip to Pat’s house, Henny finding the six-cup percolator, Billy agreeing to check the crystal mugs for fingerprints. “ . . . so it seems obvious. Someone washed that mug and dried it without leaving any trace.”

  Max added sugar to his lemonade. “I get your reasoning, but it’s hard to prove anything just because there aren’t fingerprints. Besides, why would anyone kill Pat Merridew? You said Billy checked and Pat didn’t have enemies and nobody here profited from her death.”

  “There has to be a reason.” Annie added another huge splash of tartar sauce to her sandwich.

  Max professed deep concern. “Careful with that tartar sauce. You might choke.”

  Annie finished the bite, smiled sweetly. “The better to slide down my throat.” She recalled one of Laurel’s Cat Truth posters, a European Brown Tabby with elegant markings delicately chewing blades of grass: Don’t knock it till you try it.

  Max reached across the table, used his thumb to brush between Annie’s eyebrows. “Ease up, Annie. You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders. Billy will investigate.”

  She looked at him soberly. “Of course he will. He’ll check with neighbors, see whether anyone was seen going into Pat’s house that night. I don’t think a clever murderer would take a chance of being seen. Besides, sometimes people don’t want to talk to police.”

  Max started to speak, stopped, then said mildly, “Honey, if Billy can’t find anything, I don’t think anyone else will either.”

  She understood. Gently, kindly, he meant that if Billy couldn’t find a lead, neither could she. “Maybe not. But I can try.”

  His gaze was curious and a little puzzled. “Why?”

  Annie almost felt as if she were having a Madame Arcati moment. Everything seemed crystal clear. “When Billy called, he said the investigation would continue and then he asked Henny and me to let him know if we found out anything. Don’t you see? He knows that whatever led to Pat’s death is hidden in pieces of her life that a police investigation will never uncover. I’m sure he wants us to help. He was saying the truth won’t come out unless we find out what Pat had done that made someone want her dead.”

  Max scooped coleslaw. “There aren’t that many reasons for murder. Anger. Jealousy. Fear. Greed. Revenge.”

  Annie glanced at the bowl containing tartar sauce, decided to honor Max’s sensibilities. Instead, she added a dollop of cocktail sauce. “Her estate goes to a sister in California. That knocks out greed. You don’t invite someone for coffee if you are furious with each other. As for jealousy, why would anyone be jealous of Pat? She wasn’t young, beautiful, or, so far as we know, involved in an affair. Revenge implies some kind of estrangement, so again an invitation for coffee is out. That leaves fear.”

  Max forked a piece of flounder. “If she wouldn’t invite someone for coffee because she was angry with them, she certainly wouldn’t invite someone she feared.”

  Annie put down her fork. “Max, that’s brilliant.”

  “Really?” A blond eyebrow quirked.

  “Don’t you see; Pat wasn’t afraid. She invited someone over for coffee. She wouldn’t ask someone if she felt she was in any danger.” Annie’s voice was hushed. “The other person was afraid.”

  Max didn’t appear overwhelmed with her sagacity. “Why did someone fear Pat?”

  “She must have posed a threat.” Annie frowned, thinking out loud. “Maybe she knew something someone was determined to keep secret. Maybe Pat knew about something illegal or embarrassing or compromising in some way. Maybe Pat called the person, suggested they visit over a cup of coffee, maybe she dropped enough of a hint that it was clear what she was talking about.”

  Max forked coleslaw. “What was her point?”

  Annie recalled another mystery discussion with Pat and her admiration for Christie’s Virginia Revel, who looked for new experiences. “Maybe she wanted to see how the person would react. Or maybe Pat thought she could profit if she kept silent.”

  Max lifted his tea glass. “In less polite circles, that’s called blackmail.” He looked more interested. “She could have picked up some damaging information at the law firm. Maybe that’s why she was fired.”

  Annie pressed fingertips against her temples. Possibly channeling Madame Arcati was habit-forming. “That doesn’t work. If she threatened someone at the law firm, she wouldn’t have been fired.”

  Max objected. “Wait a minute. What’s the best way to get fired? Pose a threat to someone you work with.”

  Annie was thoughtful. “She lost her job a couple of weeks ago. Henny says she was furious. If she’d known anything, she would already have caused trouble. I think something happened after she lost her job. We have to find out everything we can about the last two weeks. What Pat did, who she saw, where she went.”

  Max took a moment in his stroll toward his desk to select a putter from a green ceramic vase shaped like an elephant’s huge foot and a ball from a soft purple velvet bag hanging from a bronze hook next to the vase. An indoor putting green of synthetic bent grass graced one corner of the room. Today the hole was placed in a far corner beyond a challenging contour.

  Max placed the ball at the edge of the green, assumed a putting stance. He drew the club back, making sure the putter face was square to the line. He stroked, smooth as butter. The ball rolled true, quivered for an instant, plopped into the cup. Max hoisted the club in triumph, then returned it to the vase.

  He was smiling as he settled in the red leather chair behind the gleaming Renaissance refectory table that served as a desk. The surface was bare except for a matching red leather desk pad and the ornate silver frame that held his favorite photograph of Annie. He stared into her steady gray eyes. Flyaway sandy hair framed her open eager face. “Okay, babe. You want info on people around Pat Merridew. Maybe losing her job at the law firm doesn’t have anything to do with her murder, if it was murder, but that’s the place to start. For sure, they knew her well.”

  He turned to his computer, went online, Googled Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster + Broward’s Rock. The Web page came up, reading: Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster, LLC. Max pulled a legal pad close, made notes. When he concluded, he printed bios for Glen Jamison, Cleo Jamison, and Kirk Brewster. His brow furrowed. There was no indication on the Web site that Kirk was leaving the firm. Maybe they were waiting to update after his departure.

  Max read the bios, then looked again at the Web site, which listed office personnel. His eyes settled on a familiar name. He reached for the phone. When he was connected, he spoke quickly, “ . . . I don’t want to interrupt your workday. I saw one of your watercolors at the library and I wondered if you would be interested in doing a painting for my office.” The law-firm building was a half block from the island’s newest business, a frozen yogurt shop. “Could I buy you a yogurt
on your break?” He smiled. “See you there.”

  Annie had scarcely noticed the neighborhood when she came to Pat Merridew’s house with Billy. Now she studied her surroundings. Pat’s house was on the wooded side of the road with no neighbors on either side. However, across the unpaved street several houses backed up to a lagoon. Two houses faced Pat’s cottage.

  Annie pulled into Pat’s driveway, parked next to the blue Chevy. She glanced at the printout she’d made with the addresses and names of Pat’s near neighbors.

  Annie slipped out of the car, shaded her eyes to look directly across the street. The one-story, pale lemon stucco house belonged to Mrs. Charlene Croft. About a hundred yards away was a gray stone ranch house. She glanced at her sheet. The owner was Mark McGrath. Pat’s drive and front porch were visible on an oblique line from the McGrath home.

  She walked across the dusty unpaved road to the Croft home. Squirrels chittered and blue jays scolded as she knocked on the screen door. It popped open and a tiny, rail-thin woman with a mass of white curls and curious brown eyes peered at her.

  Annie smiled. “Mrs. Croft?”

  “You aren’t the nurse’s aide.” There was a quick frown. “Well, I’m not buying anything.”

  As the door started to close, Annie said quickly, “I’m here because of Pat Merridew.”

  The door was pushed wide. “Oh.” Her soft voice was quavery. “Such a shame. She was the nicest neighbor. When I broke my hip, she brought me casseroles and stayed to visit. She kept up with everyone in the neighborhood. The McGraths”—Mrs. Croft gestured to her left—“go to Minnesota every summer and Pat kept an eye on everything for them.”