by Carolyn Hart
Annie frowned, picked up her cell, tapped a Favorite.
Max’s voice was warm. “I was thinking about you.” A pause, quickly: “You’re at the store?”
“Of course. Where else would I be?”
“Anywhere,” he answered simply. “Out in a forest hunting for Ves. Nosing somewhere you shouldn’t be. Talking to one of her possible murderers.”
“That’s why I called.”
“You’re talking to a possible murderer?” His voice rose.
“I’m thinking.”
A whoosh of relief. “Think away. That’s never a problem.”
Annie wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, just as she sometimes wasn’t sure how a remark from Laurel should be understood. Mother and son often had an uncanny similarity in the innocence shining in dark blue eyes after speaking to her. She rather felt this was one of those times, but this wasn’t the moment to delve deeper. “I mean I’m really thinking.” She plunged right in. “Is it true that the trust can’t be divided unless there’s proof of Ves’s death?”
“It depends upon how the instrument is written—”
“You sound like a lawyer. I want the bottom line.”
He laughed. “If you ask a lawyer, even a nonpracticing one like me, a legal question, you are likely to get a legal answer. In short, no divvying until Ves is declared legally dead. If no body is found, a court can adjudge her legally dead in seven years.”
“That’s what I thought. So why would the murderer, if it is one of the surviving—what do you call them?”
“Contingent remaindermen beneficiaries.”
“Okay. CRBs. A CRB wants a body, right?”
“Presumably.”
“Why kill Ves and hide the body?” She pictured a pot of gold at the end of a dark rainbow.
“I see your point. For a con—”
“CRB.”
“CRB to inherit, there has to be proof she’s dead.”
“I thought the whole idea was somebody needed money right now. Seven years is a long time.”
Max’s tone was thoughtful. “Whether money would be shared before her death was proved is probably up to the trustee. If Ves isn’t found and if it seems obvious she’s dead, he could choose to make advances to the CRBs and not wait seven years.”
“If one of them is counting on that happening, they would have to be pretty savvy. But maybe not. Ves gave money early to Jane to help with her mom. I would guess that portion was subtracted from what Jane will get eventually. The others have asked for money so they knew Ves could make money available and probably think the trustee could do the same if she’s still missing in a month or so. But still, why get rid of the body?”
“If there was a struggle”—Max spoke slowly—“the murderer might worry about traces of DNA. Honey, we can’t know what happened at her house Monday night. You’ve done all you can do for Ves. Work on the chapbooks.”
• • •
Annie nodded approvingly. Laurel’s effervescence was on full display in her chapbook. Annie tried to decide which maxim was her favorite. Maybe Of course there are unicorns. Or A seashell is like a memory. The life is gone. The beauty remains. She had a gold link necklace with an unblemished smooth shiny tan-gray olive shell as the pendant. Max gave her the necklace to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. They found the shell while walking on the beach. The necklace afforded her both a shell and a memory.
Her cell rang. Marian. She answered with a lilt in her voice, still thinking about Max and the shell. “Hey, Marian.”
“No word about Ves, but we got a body.” The words came fast. “A client arrived for an appointment, found Adam Nash dead in his office, called 911 at four minutes after eleven this morning. On my way there.”
10
“Can’t you go faster?”
Max was temperate. “Whether we show up in five minutes or ten won’t make a difference to Adam Nash and certainly not to Billy. We don’t have any information to add. Crime scenes go on for a long time. I don’t see any point in our going there.” He did push a little harder on the accelerator, but was ready to brake if a deer bounded across the road.
Annie stared straight ahead. Max was right. But to receive such a call and do nothing seemed an affront to Adam and Ves and Fred. Maybe it was foolish to go to Adam’s office, but there had to be a connection between his death and Ves’s disappearance. She turned to look at Max. “Maybe Adam killed Ves and then killed himself.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe there will be something in his office that will help find Ves.”
Max turned onto Main Street. Three police cars, red lights flashing, were stopped in front of a small frame building in the middle of the block. The lane was closed. He took a look behind, began to back up. “I’ll park by the pier.”
“Hold on a minute. I’ll get out here.” When the car stopped, she opened the door, popped out, headed for the sidewalk.
Adam’s office building, unlike some of its more prosperous neighbors, was unprepossessing. The wood was weathered, the roof lacked some shingles that had blown away in a recent storm, a ground-floor window had a jagged crack.
As she hurried up the sidewalk, she wondered how prosperous Adam Nash had been. If she were looking for a financial adviser, the building wouldn’t inspire confidence. An art gallery occupied the cottage next door. Everything was bandbox perfect, from a small brick fountain in front to red shutters to a pale yellow door that looked freshly painted. Laurel had told her, dark blue eyes dreamy, that light yellow was an earth color and one of the best feng shui colors for a west-facing door. On the other side of the building now bracketed by yellow police tape was the cosmetics shop where Gretchen worked. Across the street were several one-story storefront shops, including the secondhand store managed by Jane Wilson, a quilting store closed for winter, and, behind a white picket fence, perhaps half of the pickets newly painted, stood an old house inhabited by two reclusive sisters. A crowd clustered on the sidewalk, watching the activity. A muscular figure holding a paintbrush stood with his back to the fence, also staring. Annie recognized Tim Holt. The front door of the old house opened and a reedy voice called, “You get back to work or I’ll dock you for wasting time.” Tim slowly turned to the fence, dipped his brush in a bucket of paint.
Marian Kenyon, the harbor breeze stirring her dark curls, stood as near the entrance to Adam’s building as possible, a scant inch away from the taut police tape. She was crisp this morning in a plum blouse and black skirt.
Annie hurried to join her. “What’s happening?”
Marian jerked a thumb toward Officer Harrison, trim and alert. “Hyla said the ME’s there and the chief and the tech crew. Nobody’s allowed in or out until— Oh, hey.” She leaned forward as a burly gray-haired man with a big face, now creased in a frown, came through the front door. He carried a small black leather satchel. “Hey, Doc, what can you give me?”
Doc Burford stopped a few feet away. “Victim is Adam Nash. Bullet wound to the chest. Likely fatal on impact. Estimated time of death yesterday between three and ten P.M.” He started for the sidewalk.
Marian moved along the tape, keeping pace. “Homicide, accident, or suicide?”
“Homicide. No powder residue on his hands. No gun at the scene.”
• • •
Billy Cameron liked to hold sheets of paper in his hand, easy to make notations, easy to flip back and forth from one fact to another. This afternoon Doc Burford e-mailed a prelim autopsy report, confirmed death by gunshot. Billy knew what a slug could do to a heart. This slug—he glanced at another sheet, a .45 caliber bullet, so plenty of force—had torn through muscle, shattered bone, exploded the right ventricle. Adam Nash as a living creature no longer existed. He checked other facts.
White male. Age 46. 6'2" tall. Weight 210 pounds. Good physical condition. No trauma other than the gunshot wound
. Time of death estimated to be between 3 and 10 P.M. Tuesday, February 23. Body discovered at 11:04 A.M. Wednesday, February 24.
He picked up another sheet.
Officer Hyla Harrison: Body discovered shortly after 11 A.M. Wednesday, February 24, by Roger Clark. Clark told officers hall door ajar when he arrived. The light was on in the anteroom. The door to Nash’s office was open. That light was also on. Clark called out. He stepped into lobby, called out again, walked to open office door. Clark saw Nash slumped forward on the desk, blood pooled in front of his head. Clark hurried across the room. He touched Nash’s arm, found it rigid, immediately left the office. He did not touch anything. He went into the hall and used his cell phone to call 911.
Billy leaned back in his chair. Ves Roundtree told Annie Darling she wanted to figure out who Fred Butler looked at the night he died. Ves agreed to meet at the police station Tuesday morning. She didn’t come. Could she have disappeared on purpose? That was possible, but no one on the island admitted seeing her after Monday night. Ben Parotti insisted she’d not taken the ferry Tuesday. She had no money, no car. Billy thumbed through the papers. Yeah. Here it was. Officer Abbott called every rental unit on the island. No check-ins Monday night. Was she abducted and killed? That seemed likely now. Adam Nash was shot Tuesday afternoon. Was he shot because he knew something about the deaths of either Fred Butler or Ves Roundtree or was he shot to increase the portion of those who would ultimately profit from Rufus Roundtree’s estate? There was as yet no known link between any of Ves’s guests last week to Fish Haul Pier, her house with the smears of blood, or Adam’s office with the overhead light bright on a pool of congealed blood. He remembered one hot summer day and a trail through a nature preserve. No-see-ums, mosquitoes, and midges swirled around him obscuring the path. Now conjectures and uncertainties deviled him.
His gaze moved back to the autopsy report. There was one solid fact in the welter of information. Adam Nash was killed by a bullet from a .45. Billy straightened, turned to his computer. He tapped the keyboard. In a few minutes he had the information he sought about Ves Roundtree, Bob and Katherine Farley, Jane Wilson, Tim Holt, Fred Butler, Adam Nash, Gretchen Roundtree, Curt Roundtree. Ves Roundtree and Bob Farley were registered gun owners. Each owned a .45 pistol. No gun was found at Ves’s home after her disappearance. He wouldn’t know what happened to Ves’s gun until her disappearance was solved. Where was the gun owned by Bob Farley? Those not legally registered as gun owners could well possess a gun. Guns were easily come by, legally or not. He picked up another folder. Hyla Harrison had been commended for alerting Katherine Farley about her husband’s visit to Gurney Point. The attempt on Ves’s life was made the next day. He pushed back his chair.
• • •
Emma brandished a rolled-up copy of the Gazette as she barreled into Death on Demand. Today’s caftan was an eye-popping orange that matched spiky orange hair.
Annie was enjoying the novel pleasure of ringing up a sale to a lean, elderly man who had been excited to find a moderately priced copy of Jack Higgins’s first Harry Patterson novel, Sad Wind from the Sea. The customer bustled past Emma, cradling his treasure, calling back disjointedly, “Here to visit my sister. I’ll be back. You have some fine books.”
As the door closed, Emma unrolled the Wednesday issue, slapped it on the counter. “Hot from the print run. Have you seen Marian’s story?” She jabbed at the headline.
Before Annie could reply, Emma began to read in her deep voice:
ADAM NASH SHOT TO DEATH
Island financial adviser Adam Nash, 46, was found dead of a gunshot wound this morning at his office, an apparent homicide victim according to police.
Police said Roger Clark, a client, arrived at Nash’s office at approximately 11 A.M. today and found Nash’s body. The medical examiner estimated that Nash was killed sometime Tuesday between 3 and 10 P.M.
Police interviewed building occupants but no one reported hearing a gunshot. A ground-floor occupant worked late and did not leave the building until shortly after 9 P.M. Anyone in the vicinity of the building at 203 W. Main who heard a gunshot Tuesday between those hours is asked to contact police.
Emma paused in her recital. “Either the gun had a silencer or he was shot at five-oh-five. Surely that’s occurred to somebody in the little brick building.” The little brick building was Emma’s designation for the police department.
“Five-oh-five?” Annie repeated blankly.
Emma shot Annie a pitying glance. “The ferry.” The tone of her voice made it sound like The ferry, stupid.
Annie understood. The Miss Jolene departed on her last run to the mainland at 5:05, horn blaring. A half dozen shots could safely be shot before the ferry cleared the harbor.
“I’ll text Billy.” Emma was brisk. Her gaze returned to the front page. “Here’s the rest of Marian’s story.”
Police said there was no sign of a break-in at Nash’s office nor any disturbance that might indicate a search or robbery. Police said it appears that Nash likely knew his assailant, as Nash was seated in his office chair. Police will interview friends and clients in hopes of discovering a possible motive. Anyone with information about any matter that might have led to his death is asked to contact authorities.
Police declined to speculate whether there is a link between Nash’s murder and the disappearance of island shopkeeper Vesta Roundtree. Roundtree did not show up for a scheduled meeting Tuesday morning. Police said a tipped-over chair and two smears of blood in her house suggested a struggle. Roundtree has not been seen or heard from since Monday evening. Her purse, car keys, and van were found at the house. An island-wide search Tuesday yielded no information about her fate. Bloodhounds brought from the mainland had no success in tracing her today.
Police also declined to discuss the drowning death last week of Fred Butler. Butler’s body was found near Fish Haul Pier.
Police have not released information about the activities this past week of Butler, Roundtree, or Nash but the Gazette has learned from an unofficial source that Butler and Nash attended a gathering at Roundtree’s home last Wednesday. Butler’s body was found Friday morning. Time of death is estimated to have occurred between 9 P.M. Wednesday and 8 A.M. Thursday. Also in attendance Wednesday evening at the Roundtree house were Katherine and Bob Farley, Jane Wilson, Tim Holt, Gretchen Roundtree, and Curt Roundtree.
Police have asked anyone with information concerning the death of Nash or the whereabouts of Roundtree to contact authorities.
Emma made an exasperated whuff. “Nothing”—now her voice was a bark—“not a single word about why those people were at Ves’s house or Rufus Roundtree’s estate or the heirs.”
Annie said quickly, “Not heirs. Contingent remaindermen beneficiaries.”
“They are suspects. Why doesn’t Billy say so?” Her face was red with outrage.
Annie imagined Emma as a scaly orange dragon, fire shooting from her square face. “Billy has to be careful. There are libel laws.”
Emma brushed away libel laws with a stubby hand. “There are many ways to say things. Anyway, this”—she tapped the front page with a stubby forefinger—“is police malpractice. There’s not a word about Ves figuring out that Fred was digging in her yard on Thursday afternoons and saw the person who waxed the stair tread. Not a word about the fact that Fred was happy as a clam until he got to her house and realized he’d seen a murderer at work. Not a word about Ves trying to remember who Fred looked at that night and next thing you know she’s nowhere to be found. As for Adam, I think the killer decided it would be nice to make the pie slice bigger by eliminating another heir. Those people need to be alerted. When you can pinpoint murder to a select circle, don’t keep it a secret.” She flipped up one stubby finger after another. “Bob Farley. Katherine Farley. Jane Wilson. Tim Holt. Gretchen Roundtree. Curt Roundtree. They need to know. It’s up to you and Max.”
“Up to us?”
Annie was bewildered.
Emma had the grace to look slightly, but only slightly, uncomfortable. “Ves chose Max to be at her house the night she confronted them, so he represents her. These people need to know how all this ties together. I called and told them to come to your house at eight.”
“Our house at eight?” Annie knew her voice was high.
Emma tossed her head, and the orange sprigs danced. “Max can report on the status of the investigation. But you know the real reason.”
Annie felt like a dazed parrot as she repeated, “The real reason?”
“To warn the damn fools that someone is picking them off, one by one.”
• • •
Bob Farley looked surprised when he opened the door. “Hi, Billy.” Then his face tightened. He looked toward the two-story studio. “Katherine?”
Billy understood. Though he and Bob were friendly, had sailed together before Bob’s accident, he knew Billy’s job and sometimes that job was delivering bad news, awful news. He spoke quickly, “Katherine’s fine. I saw lights in the studio when I drove past.”
Bob looked embarrassed. “Sorry. But things have been weird. Fred drowned and Ves missing and Adam shot. I guess that’s why you’re here.” He held the door wide, swung his wheelchair to give Billy space. He continued talking as he gestured for Billy to take a big wing chair, perfect for his solid frame, and turned his chair to face him. “I’m afraid Katherine and I don’t know anything that will help. I thought Ves was being hysterical, claiming someone was trying to kill her. The shoes that woman wears would trip anybody. Maybe she was right, but I can’t believe someone pushed Fred off the pier and somehow did away with Ves and shot Adam.”
Billy kept his voice pleasant, but his eyes never left Bob’s face. “You are the registered owner of a JFX5F25 PX4 Storm Type F Beretta handgun. May I see it?”
Bob’s eyes widened and then he laughed, a robust laugh that reminded Billy of the old Bob with the spray on his face as he moved a tiller. He couldn’t help but smile in return.
