by Carolyn Hart
Cleo brushed back a strand of dark hair, looked wearily at Billy. “Obviously”—her voice was crisp, a ripple of irritation evident—“if anyone—other than a murderer—knew something about the attack on Darwyn, they’d speak up. I want to know what you are doing in this investigation. Glen was killed Tuesday, and so far as we’ve been informed”—her gesture included all of the family—“you haven’t made any progress in solving the crime. Now Darwyn’s dead. He worked in the yard. He was here Tuesday morning. Did he know something about Glen’s death? Did you talk to him?”
Billy’s response was measured. “We interviewed everyone in proximity of your husband’s death. Mr. Jack told us he neither saw nor heard anything.”
“He must have lied.” Cleo’s tone was sharp. The breeze stirred her dark hair. Her face was pale. She, too, wore no makeup. There was a grim hardness in her gaze.
“That is a reasonable assumption. Now”—Billy was crisp—“I want to know if any of you spoke with Mr. Jack between Tuesday morning and last night. I’ll start with you, Mrs. Jamison.”
Cleo massaged one temple. “I think it was yesterday. I believe it was. I called and told him I wanted the front yard raked and cleaned this morning. The memorial service will be Monday. People will come to the house afterward.” She pressed one hand against her eyes for a brief instant. “That was all. He said he’d take care of it. That was the last time I ever spoke to him.”
Billy went from person to person.
None of the Jamison children acknowledged contact with Darwyn.
Elaine shook her head. “I don’t know anything about him except he did the yard work. He was new this summer. I didn’t hire him. Cleo did.”
Billy turned back to Cleo.
“Someone told me about him.” Her tone was offhand. “I don’t remember who it was.” She looked toward Elaine. “Yesterday I stepped out to pick some roses. It was about noon. I was surprised to see Darwyn’s truck.” She glanced at Billy. “He worked here Tuesday mornings. I guess that’s why I stood there and watched. I thought he’d left some tools behind or perhaps he wanted to check out the ladders for trimming.” Cleo turned back toward Elaine. “He got out of the truck but he didn’t come this way. He knocked on the front door of the cottage.” Her tone was tentative.
Elaine lifted a hand to her throat. “I answered the door. I don’t know what he wanted. He acted very odd. His manner was threatening.”
Billy walked closer, looked down, his heavy face challenging. “You didn’t mention this earlier.”
Elaine’s lips trembled. “I asked what he wanted. He looked at me with a kind of smirk. I can’t really describe it, but he didn’t act normally. I didn’t like his attitude. I asked him again, very sharply, what he wanted. He said that he wondered if I’d be interested in knowing what he saw Tuesday morning. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about and again he gave this half smile. Then he said”—it was as if she was trying to recall each and every word precisely—“ ‘I was working in the yard.’ I told him I knew that. I wondered if he was trying to say he knew something about the person who shot Glen. I said if he knew anything that would help the police, he should tell them immediately. He rocked back on his heels and laughed. It was not a nice laugh. He said, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ and he turned away. That was exactly what happened.”
In the silence that followed, Annie looked from face to face. Richard’s frown was dark. Cleo looked cold and thoughtful. Kit’s face creased in a worried frown. Laura’s lips quivered. Tommy stared at Elaine, his expression beseeching.
Elaine’s head jerked toward Billy. “It isn’t what you think. I don’t know why he came to me.”
Billy scarcely gave her time to finish the sentence. “Did you meet Darwyn Jack in the gazebo last night?”
“Absolutely not.” She seemed relieved to be questioned directly. “I did not meet him. I did not kill him. I don’t know who did.”
Billy glanced toward the portion of the gazebo that was visible beyond the azaleas. “Darwyn Jack met someone last night in the gazebo. His truck”—he jerked a thumb toward the dusty road that ran behind the cottage—“is parked out of sight around a curve. It seems reasonable to assume that Darwyn Jack observed someone enter or leave the study window during the time period in which the murder occurred. He very likely made a demand for money to keep his mouth shut.”
Annie wondered if Darwyn’s death would bolster her argument that Pat Merridew had been a murder victim. That Glen Jamison’s murderer would not succumb to blackmail was evident—to Annie—from Pat’s death. In fact, would Darwyn be alive today if Glen and Pat’s murders had been publicly linked? That was a possibility, but Darwyn Jack had likely been too young, too sure of himself, too alive to envision danger.
Billy turned back toward Elaine, his expression stolid, his eyes scouring her face.
She lifted her hands as if in self-defense. “No.” Her voice was high. “He did not ask me for money. I did not meet him in the gazebo. I had nothing to do with his death. I swear it. I didn’t shoot Glen. I loved Glen.” Her voice broke.
Billy turned to Annie. “Tell me exactly what Darwyn said to you.”
Annie tried to give an accurate picture. “He may have been making things up. That’s the impression I had. He acted as if he might have seen something or someone and then he said, ‘I don’t like cops. Let them figure out stuff. If I saw something it would be bad news for somebody, wouldn’t it?’ He laughed and said he didn’t see anything. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he went around to everybody and pretended he knew something.”
Billy asked each family member in turn, “Did Darwyn Jack approach you and suggest he saw someone in the garden Tuesday morning?”
Cleo’s head shake was definite. “Absolutely not.”
Richard looked grim. “I’d have knocked him flat.”
Laura looked nervous. “I never talked to him. I didn’t like him. We went to school together. People said he was mean. I didn’t like the way he looked at girls in the hall.”
Kit twined a strand of light hair around a finger. “He never spoke to me.” She glanced toward her sister. “I know what she means about the way he looked at women.”
Tommy shrugged. “That dude never came near me.”
Elaine’s voice was shrill. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know what he knew or didn’t know. I told him to go to the police.”
“That was good advice. He might be alive if he’d followed it.” Billy turned to Cleo Jamison. “Mrs. Jamison, I wonder if you can help me with another matter. You are Glen Jamison’s widow. Are the house and grounds, including the cottage and outbuildings, now your property?”
Cleo briefly closed her eyes. Her lips moved. “ . . . widow . . .” She pressed her lips together, stared at the ground for an instant, then lifted her face, spoke wearily. “The house and grounds . . . Actually, I’ve not seen Glen’s will. I had no reason to see it. We signed a prenuptial agreement. I have no claim on anything prior to our marriage. The house very likely now belongs to Kit and Laura and Tommy. I’m sure he made some provision for Elaine. Whatever Glen earned since then, I share with his children.” Her face twisted. “I received a settlement at the time of our marriage. What is the point of your question?”
“I would like the permission of the home owner to conduct a search of the house and grounds, including the cottage and its garage, without a warrant. I can easily obtain a warrant, but if I can have signed approval from all of you, we can proceed now. Does anyone object?”
Cleo shrugged. “I’ll be happy to sign, but I am quite certain the house has been left to Glen’s children.”
Billy’s eyes moved to Glen’s children.
Kit turned her hands over. “Sure. Why not?”
Laura nodded, then shivered. “I want this to end. Look anywhere you want to look.”
Tommy’s shoulders hunched. “Yeah. Whatever.”
Billy’s blue eyes reached Elaine.
“Of course you should se
arch.” Her voice was thin but steady.
Frank Saulter swiftly wrote a statement. He held it out to Billy. “This provides that the Broward’s Rock Police Department had the permission of the presumptive heirs of Glen Jamison to undertake a search of the property in regard to the murder of Darwyn Jack.”
Billy gave the sheet first to Cleo. She signed.
The sheet was passed to each of the Jamisons except for Richard. When everyone had duly signed, Elaine handed the sheet to Billy.
Billy nodded in satisfaction. He turned and walked away from the terrace.
There was silence.
Cleo glanced at Officer Harrison. “Are we required to remain on the terrace?”
Hyla looked bland. “If you have no objection, Chief Cameron would appreciate each of you remaining until the search is completed.”
Cleo shrugged. She looked at Elaine. “There’s no reason for us to stand.” She gestured at several wrought-iron tables and accompanying chairs. “We might as well be comfortable. I’ll make some coffee.” She turned to Richard. “If you’d lend a hand?”
He nodded and followed her into the house.
Kit, Laura, Tommy, and Elaine sat together. Kit watched Cleo and Richard walk into the house. Her face was hard and suspicious.
Annie walked to a path that curved among the azaleas. She had a clear view of the gazebo. Billy Cameron spoke to a cluster of law officers, some on his staff, some from the mainland. He gestured toward the gazebo, up at several trees, and at the cottage, greenhouse, and garages.
Annie stood with her arms folded. She supposed the search was window dressing. The marsh glittered in the morning sunlight, the broad expanse of water an open invitation to a murderer seeking to discard a weapon. Tuesday Elaine Jamison had successfully thrown something into the marsh. A continuing search had yielded nothing of interest. It seemed very likely that Glen Jamison’s Colt was even now submerged in the murky water and was likely to remain there undisturbed.
Annie watched EMSA techs ease Darwyn Jack’s body into a black crime-scene, envelope-style body bag. The techs stood on each side, gripped the vinyl handles, lifted the bag to a gurney, and wheeled toward a waiting ambulance.
Two uniformed officers strode past the cottage and lifted the door to a white frame garage.
Steps sounded on the flagstones behind Annie. She turned.
Lack of makeup accentuated the sharpness of Cleo Jamison’s features. She looked exhausted. “Would you care to join Richard and me for coffee?”
“Thank you.” Annie appreciated Cleo’s invitation. She followed to a table at the far end of the terrace. Annie wondered if the space between Cleo’s table and that of Glen’s family was a deliberate effort to avoid contact.
Annie added two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of cream.
Cleo stirred sugar into her cup, then looked at Annie. “I know you’ve tried to help Elaine.” She paused, glanced at Richard. “Elaine seems determined to put herself in as deep a hole as possible. It’s awkward. I can’t believe she would shoot Glen or”—she shot a bewildered look into the garden—“kill a yardman, but I have to assume she’s declining to talk to the police because she is afraid whatever she says would incriminate her. That’s very . . . troubling.”
Richard shoved a hand through his thick brown hair. “She should be doing everything possible to help find out who killed Glen.” His voice was angry.
“I think she’s protecting someone.” Annie took a sip of the sweet, creamy drink and found it comforting.
Cleo’s gaze moved to the table at the far end of the terrace where the others sat. “I don’t have any sympathy for her, if that’s the case.” Her voice was cold. “Glen’s dead. And now—” She gestured toward the gazebo. “You talked to Darwyn yesterday afternoon. He was killed last night.” She eyed Annie with a demanding gaze. “What did he know?”
Annie looked toward the gazebo. “I think he saw someone. I think he knew that he had important information and decided to see what he could get out of it.”
Cleo’s eyes narrowed. “Did he say what part of the yard he was in? If we knew where he was working, it would give us an idea of what he could have seen.”
“He was using the leaf blower near the flower beds. He probably had his back—” Annie sat bolt upright. The leaf blower . . .
Suddenly the dark moments of Tuesday morning seemed crystal clear. She came to her feet. “I need to talk to Chief Cameron.”
Richard paused with his coffee cup midway to his mouth. “Why?”
“I think Glen was shot while Darwyn was using the blower. Darwyn said he ran the blower from a quarter after nine to a few minutes after ten o’clock. That’s why no one heard the shots. The noise was covered by the leaf blower. Otherwise someone would have heard the shots and possibly raised an alarm before the killer could get away. Excuse me. I need to tell Billy about the time.” Narrowing the time when the murder had occurred might not matter. But it might be important.
Annie started for the path.
Officer Harrison barred the way. “The search is in progress. Please return to the terrace.”
“Hyla.” Annie saw the quick stiffening. “Officer Harrison, I have information that may be helpful. I’ll go carefully. I won’t get in the way.” She looked toward the cottage. “I’ll stay on the drive.”
Hyla unhooked her cell, clicked. “Chief, Annie Darling wants to speak with you.” She nodded. “Yes, sir.” She gave Annie a quick nod.
Annie walked briskly, glad to leave behind the strained group on the terrace, the family so clearly divided, Glen’s children and sister at one table, his widow and cousin at another.
Billy Cameron stood outside the open door to the garage. He stood with his head jutted forward, his concentration evident. He held a video cam and spoke into it. “ . . . white leather golf bag found three feet inside garage door next to west wall. Deputy Keith McKay removes clubs one at a time.”
In the garage, Mavis Cameron watched intently as a sheriff’s deputy lifted a golf club from the worn leather bag propped against a side wall. The tall, angular detective wore plastic gloves. He bent over, revealing a bald spot on the top of his head, and placed the club, a six iron, on the oil-stained floor of the garage next to a row of clubs. He came upright and turned back to the bag.
Annie stopped beside Billy. He looked serious, imposing, and expectant.
A few feet away, Marian Kenyon gave her a brief once-over, then focused again on the deputy as he reached into the golf bag.
Billy noted Annie in his peripheral vision. “Yes?” His gaze never wavered from the garage.
“Yesterday I asked Darwyn about the leaf blower.”
Billy nodded, indicating he was listening even though he continued to watch the deputy.
“Darwyn said the blower ran from about nine-fifteen to a few minutes after ten.” She spoke to Billy, but she, too, turned her eyes toward the search. “I think Glen was shot on Tuesday because Darwyn worked at the Jamison house on Tuesdays. The killer wanted the leaf blower to hide the sound of the shots.”
“That’s what I’d figured. It seems likely the killer picked Tuesday because Darwyn was there. Thanks for narrowing the time. He was vague about the leaf blower when I talked to him. But otherwise, the shots—”
The deputy abruptly straightened. He held a five iron aloft, firmly grasped between plastic-gloved thumb and index finger. “Hey, it looks like there’s blood and tissue on the club face.”
Billy strode forward. He held the video cam to photograph the club as he described the scene.
Marian Kenyon gave a soft whoop. “In at the kill.” She tucked the pad under one arm, poked the pencil behind her right ear, grabbed the Leica that hung around her neck, and began to shoot, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, turn a little this way. Oh, good, that’s a great shot. I can see the heads: ‘Murder Weapon Found’ or maybe ‘Deadly Chip Shot,’ or better yet ‘Final Swing.’ ”
Mavis Cameron stepped nearer and grasped the iron in
pincers.
Billy finished recording and spoke to the deputy, his words inaudible. He nodded. They turned together and started up the drive toward the house. They passed Annie and Marian, walking fast. The tall thin deputy made Billy appear even heavier and stronger than he usually looked.
As soon as they were past, Marian headed for the house, too. Annie took a deep breath and followed. Her mind pulsed with thoughts: Darwyn struck from behind, Frank Saulter’s oblique chop with his hand, a five iron, a white golf bag in the garage of the cottage.
At the terrace, Billy walked directly to the table where Elaine sat with her nieces and nephew. “Are you a golfer, Ms. Jamison?”
Elaine looked past Billy as the deputy approached with the five iron. Elaine’s face looked frozen. She lifted a hand. Blue stones in a bracelet glittered in the sunshine. “Where did you get that club?”
Tommy’s face squeezed in puzzlement. Kit watched her aunt with an uncertain expression. Laura bent for a better view of Mavis.
“Are you a golfer, Ms. Jamison?” His tone was steely.
Her hand dropped. “I play golf.” Her voice was thin. “That looks like my five iron.” Her voice shook. “Why do you have that club?” She came to her feet.
Billy jerked his head and the deputy came nearer. He was near enough to the terrace that the smear of dark matter on the club face was readily visible, but not so near that anyone could reach the five iron.
Billy’s eyes never left Elaine’s face. “The club was found in the white leather golf bag in the garage adjoining the cottage. Does that golf bag belong to you?”
Elaine slowly nodded.
Billy took a step nearer. “When did you last see the club?”
“I played golf last week. I haven’t touched the club since then.” Her voice had an edge of horror.
“Can you explain the discoloration on the face of the club?”
She stared, her eyes wide and strained. “No.”
Billy watched her carefully. “The club will be submitted to the forensics laboratory for testing.”
