Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  Mavis’s voice was uninflected, but he knew she was stressed. “The mayor called again. Demands that you return his call. Now.”

  “Thanks.” He clicked off, glanced at the clock. A quarter to five. His smile was humorless. What if he told the mayor it was quitting time and he had the weekend off and he’d get back to him on Monday? Sometimes he thought it would be nice to have a workday that started at nine, ended at five. He’d had an offer last year from an island boat builder to join his crew. For a millisecond he imagined the smell of sawdust, cutting a plank of Douglas fir to the right specifications, ending up with a hull that was seaworthy and fine. He picked up the phone, called.

  There was no salutation. “You missed the press conference. I spoke with reporters an hour ago. They’re here from all over. One TV crew helicoptered in from Atlanta. It would have been helpful if you’d been here. Triple Murderer Confesses. I told them you were busy wrapping up the case. I guess you were, though what you have to do escapes me since Farley’s confessed. None of that matters now. We’ll make the five o’clock news big. Very big. The message will be loud and clear. The murders were the work of one possibly deranged individual, and Broward’s Rock, the loveliest sea island off the coast of South Carolina, is safe. Absolutely safe. Revelers welcome. Old ladies. Kids. Honeymooners. The arrest didn’t happen a minute too soon. The PGA tournament is here next month, and for sure we don’t want nationwide coverage of Murder Island. That would kill the tourist trade. You should have called and filled me in. My secretary saw the feed about Farley on TV and ran in to tell me. I’m sure you intended to keep me informed. I had to wing it from what I picked up on TV.” Mayor Cosgrove’s voice wasn’t the mellifluous tenor known to island residents. It was clipped and sharp edged.

  In the privacy of his office, Billy’s face was hard, but he kept his tone pleasant. “This is a complex investigation—”

  The mayor interrupted. “What investigation? The man confessed.”

  “People confess. Sometimes they’re lying—”

  The mayor broke in again, and now his voice was rough. “Don’t screw this up, Cameron. The murders are solved. Period. I’ve already talked to the circuit solicitor. I told him you’d be in Beaufort for the arraignment Monday. Ten A.M. Be there.” The phone was slammed in the cradle.

  Murder Island. A reporter or newscaster must have used the phrase, and it rankled Mayor Cosgrove. His main focus was bringing visitors to the island. The more tourists, the more money in local coffers, and Cosgrove liked spending money. Billy was all for art, but he thought the town could have found a better use for money paid a local artist—young, sexy, and voluptuous—for a series of red-and-purple rectangles that now graced the harbor front and, according to the artist, represented eons past, present, and future. There had been rumors that the married mayor and the artist had a “close” relationship.

  Billy yanked his mind back to business. To be fair, the mayor had a point. Bob Farley had confessed. Presto. Case solved. Island’s resort reputation shiny again. The majestic reach of the law reassuringly restored.

  Billy knew what the mayor expected. Wrap up the case. Get the evidence to the circuit solicitor. There was enough evidence for a charge, likely enough for conviction. Brice Willard Posey, the overbearing ham-faced posturing circuit solicitor, would love leading the charge. Lots of newspaper attention. Maybe even make the cable news. Farley might be guilty, but his car with the hitch for a wheelchair was distinctive, and careful inquiry found no witness who saw that car or a man with a cane near Adam Nash’s office late Tuesday afternoon. Still, it was a gray February day, not many out and about. By Monday he needed to bring a murder charge or free Bob.

  Billy leaned back in his chair. He had to find out the truth about Bob Farley.

  • • •

  Annie heard the ping of her cell phone, picked it up. A message to her, Max, Henny, and Laurel from Emma.

  Emma: TV running a feed on Bob: Triple Murderer Confesses. Crime spree ended. Arraignment scheduled Monday.

  Laurel: Katherine’s arranged for Handler Jones to come to the island tomorrow.

  Henny: Fred’s killer needed the strength to heave his body off the pier. Bob?

  Annie didn’t chime in. What was left to say? Instead, she looked again at Laurel’s text. Kind Laurel had obviously gone to the Farley house or studio, found Katherine, offered support, and was glad to learn Katherine had hired wonderful Handler Jones. Annie pushed away the memory of the night she’d entered the jail, using the code for the entry pad courtesy of Billy, and whispered in darkness to Max in his cell. Dark days. The dead days of summer. She had come so near to losing Max, because appearances can deceive and lies can endanger the innocent.

  Bob Farley confessed.

  Katherine claimed innocence.

  Who was telling the truth?

  13

  Max added a new log. The fire crackled, sparks flying. Annie glanced at the flames, then at Max as he settled back on the leather sofa. He felt her glance, looked her way, smiled, then picked up his book, a new Brad Meltzer novel. Dorothy L curled beside him. He stroked her soft white fur. A contented purr rumbled loud enough for Annie to hear.

  Annie had a sudden chill vision of Katherine Farley’s studio. Likely it was dark now. Annie looked at the clock. A little after eight. Velvet night pressed against the windows. They hadn’t drawn the curtains because they had no near neighbors. In a moment, she’d get up, put her book aside, an Alafair Tucker title by Donis Casey, and pull the cords, make the serene room even more cozy.

  A distant rattle, a knock at the back door, brought Max’s head up. “I’ll go see.” Friends often came to the back door instead of the front. He pushed up from the sofa. Dorothy L jumped down and padded after him.

  “Hey, good cat.”

  Annie recognized Billy Cameron’s voice, came to her feet.

  Billy walked to the fireplace, turned, stood with his back to the warmth. “Sorry to bother you tonight.” He looked weary. His posture was straight as always, but lines grooved in his face.

  Annie hurried to speak. “You are never a bother.” Her voice was firm and her gaze said more. You are our friend. We will always owe you. You know you can call on me or Max. Anytime. Anywhere.

  He understood, nodded gravely. He walked to the sofa, sat beside Max. He spoke quietly. “I find Bob Farley’s confession suspicious. I may be wrong. Maybe he killed the three of them. But I’ve never dealt with a confessed murderer who didn’t talk and talk and talk. Bob says he killed them, but that’s all he’ll say. No details. What time did he meet Fred on the pier? Did he hit him with his cane, stun him? How did he get him over the railing? Or did he pull the body to the opening for the ladder down to the side dock. If so, how did he have the strength to shove him past the platform? Where is Ves’s body? How did she die? What time did he go to Adam’s office? Why kill Adam? Why shoot at Jane Wilson? How did he miss? I checked: Bob’s a sharpshooter. We estimate the bullets traveled about thirty yards before they slammed into the house. Bob Farley shouldn’t miss at thirty yards. What does Bob say? Monotone: ‘I killed Fred Butler, Ves Roundtree, and Adam Nash.’ Period.”

  Max looked at him steadily. “You think he’s lying.”

  “I do. I’ve done everything I can to encourage him to talk. I have one last hope.” He turned to Annie. “Will you help me?”

  • • •

  Annie’s breath caught when she reached the back steps of the station. She’d been this way only once before, the night Billy gave her the entry pad code so that she could talk to Max, alone in a cell, accused of the murder of a beautiful young woman he’d never known. As she tapped the numbers, she was grateful for the chill breeze from the harbor. It would be too much to bear if the air had been hot and heavy and sultry as it had been on the August night her life crumbled around her.

  She pulled open the door, stepped into the quiet corridor of the cel
l block. The ceiling inset lights were muted. She stepped inside. The door closed behind her. She walked forward.

  A dimly seen figure came up to the bars of the third cell. Most visible was the blob that was Bob’s white face.

  Annie came even with the cell, uncertain how to begin, what to say. The words came slowly. “Katherine wants you to know she’s innocent.”

  “How did you get in?” His head turned as he peered up and down the cement corridor.

  “I know a way.” If she told him Billy had given her the code, he would say nothing. Yet she was speaking truth, even if not all the truth. “When Max was arrested, a friend gave me the code to the entry pad at the back door.” Billy was her friend. “I’m here because Katherine knows you are innocent.”

  Thin hands gripped the bars, but his face was a pale blob in the shadowy cell. “She knows I’m innocent.” There was no joy in his response. Instead, there was grimness.

  Annie hurried to offset the implicit assumption that Katherine’s knowledge was based on her guilt. “Katherine is innocent, too. She went to Ves’s house that Thursday but Ves wasn’t there. Katherine went in the house and found no one there. She suddenly felt afraid and she rushed outside. She didn’t know about Ves’s fall until the following Wednesday.”

  His fingers locked tighter around the steel rods. “She told me she was making a delivery. She lied.”

  “She didn’t tell you where she was going because you would have wanted to know why she planned to see Ves. She didn’t want to tell you that she was going to ask for money. She thought Ves would help, that Ves was kind.”

  “Katherine wanted money for me, didn’t she? Katherine never cared about money. She wanted to make things better for me. Take the cripple here and there, pretty things to see.” His tone was bitter.

  Annie didn’t think he was bitter with Katherine. He was bitter with the fact of his injuries, his incapacity.

  “Katherine loves you.” Annie spoke with all her heart.

  “Yes.” The single word was bleak.

  “She knows you’re innocent. She swears she’s innocent. You don’t need to lie to protect her.”

  He spoke at a rapid clip. “The police know—or they’ll find out—she was in her studio the night Fred was killed and the afternoon Adam was shot. She was alone. She was in the studio when shots were fired at Jane.”

  “There are others who don’t have alibis.” Annie was sure this was a fact.

  “The gun is gone.” There was a note of finality in his voice.

  “She threw the gun in the ocean after you went to Gurney Point.”

  Silence.

  Annie put her heart into her voice. “Tell Billy you made a mistake.”

  Bob’s voice was harsh. “He’ll arrest Katherine.”

  Annie was startled. Perhaps Bob was right. Perhaps Billy believed Katherine committed the murders. Billy had a passion for justice. Would he use Annie to save Bob and then charge Katherine? Billy was tough.

  “That’s how it is.” Bob’s voice was grim. “Tell Katherine—” His hands dropped from the bars. He was tall and thin, too thin, a shadowy figure. “—I love her.” He turned away, limped to the cot.

  • • •

  Billy always drove the speed limit. The headlights did little to pierce the pall of darkness that swathed the island at night.

  Annie described the conversation. Her voice broke as she quoted Bob’s final words: “Tell Katherine I love her.”

  Billy loomed big and solid in the driver’s seat. He slowed for a deer bounding across the road, picked up speed. “Bob knows Katherine. Until my dying day I’ll carry with me the certainty that he’s lying to save her. I don’t like for perps to walk. But if she’s guilty, she’s built her own hell. The only thing that matters to her in life is Bob. She would live and die for him. I think she killed for him. I know murderers. They come in all stripes. People kill because of pride, fear, anger, greed, passion. Most of all, greed or passion. Some people want money or power enough to destroy any obstacle in the way. Katherine’s driven by passion. She will do whatever she has to do to make Bob’s life better. Now he’ll go to prison. Or be executed.”

  • • •

  Billy sat cross-legged on the floor, his little blond daughter next to him. She moved her piece and gave a shrill whoop. He threw up his hands in surrender. “You did it!” She hopped up, ran toward the kitchen. “Mommy, I won, I won!”

  He folded the Chutes and Ladders board and reached for the box. He was still smiling as his cell phone rang. He glanced at caller ID, stiffened. What the hell? He swiped. “Billy Cameron.”

  • • •

  The jacket of Billy’s Windbreaker sagged from the weight of his gun. He rarely carried a gun. There shouldn’t be danger. Not if the hurried words were true. Anger was hot deep inside. Billy knew the back of his neck was reddening. He drove at his usual pace, the headlight beams no match for the pool of darkness beneath overhanging tree limbs. Why Gurney Point? But the remote far north end of the island at half past nine should be inhabited only by owls, foxes, deer, raccoons. He came around the last twist in the road, glimpsed wind-bent pines but no car in the turnaround space at the end of the road. He cut the lights, glided to a stop, another twenty feet. No reason to make himself an easy target. The windows were rolled down. He listened intently, heard the soughing of tree limbs in a stiff breeze, the whoo of an owl, and, distantly, the rush of water at the base of the bluff.

  He was ready to ease out through the window when he heard his name called.

  “Billy, I’m over here.” A flashlight flickered on, was turned up, revealing a face he knew, then the beam swept over his car.

  Billy opened the door, moving fast, his hand firm on the butt of his gun.

  • • •

  Annie thought Billy Cameron looked tired as he held the door of his office open. Of course, he didn’t usually work on Saturdays, though the police station was always in operation. This morning his shirt was crisp, his brown slacks creased, his loafers well shined, but his face was weary. Bluish shadows marked the hollows below his eyes, and there was a small spot of tape on his chin where he’d likely nicked himself shaving.

  Annie moved ahead of Max, took the chair nearest the window that overlooked the bay. She glanced outside at puffy white clouds in a robin’s-egg blue sky, lacy whitecaps on pea green water, and outriggers with the nets lowered on a passing shrimp trawler. Max sat in the chair next to her.

  Billy closed the door, moved behind his desk.

  Max was curious. “It looks like you’re stuck with Bob. Will the arraignment be Monday?”

  Billy settled behind his desk. “There have been some further developments. There may be an arraignment Monday. I would like to arrange a meeting at Ves Roundtree’s house under your auspices, Max.”

  Max looked surprised. “My auspices?”

  Billy spoke matter-of-factly, but his dark blue eyes stared intently at Max. “Ves contacted you, asked you to assist her the evening she invited the Farleys, Curt and Gretchen Roundtree, Jane Wilson and Tim Holt, Adam Nash, and Fred Butler to her house to inform them of her fall and to warn one of them that she had a gun and didn’t intend to die.”

  Max nodded. “Ves wanted me there as a witness, although I wasn’t the only one who helped her. She first talked to Annie. Annie drew me in and then my mom and Henny Brawley and Emma Clyde. We were all involved.”

  “But as far as the guests are concerned, you were there as Ves’s agent.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That gives you the status”—Billy sounded pleased—“to contact those with an interest in the investigation on behalf of Ves Roundtree.”

  Max looked bewildered, but he heard his cue. “I will be glad to do anything I can on behalf of Ves.”

  Billy gazed at them without expression, spoke as if thinking aloud. “Obviously, this w
on’t be your usual Saturday evening. But I certainly understand that you feel an obligation to Ves and have decided to contact everyone involved and invite them to come to Ves’s home at seven o’clock tonight. Since Ves sought your help before she disappeared, you know she would want everyone informed about the arrest and scheduled arraignment. The police are glad to cooperate and relinquished the house key to you as Ves’s agent. You spoke with the chief and he agreed to come and present the facts.”

  Annie blurted, “What about Bob Farley?”

  “He’ll be there.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “The department is always eager to work with the community.”

  Annie had a pen-and-ink sketch of a champion seal point Siamese. She thought Billy’s face was similarly inscrutable. Apparently he’d told them as much as he intended to reveal.

  As they rose, he said casually, as if in afterthought, “It might be as well to invite Emma, Henny, and Laurel since they assisted you earlier. Ask them to be there at seven and tell them they should direct their complete attention to the person with whom they spoke. Let me see”—a pause as if recalling names—“Emma spoke to Katherine Farley, Henny to Bob Farley, Laurel to Tim Holt, Max to Curt Roundtree, and Annie to Gretchen Roundtree.” His face was bland. “At a quarter after seven, I want each one of you to watch that particular individual.” On that pronouncement, he moved to the door, held it open for them to step in the hall, closed it firmly.

  • • •

  As the Lamborghini picked up speed, Annie twisted to look back at the station. “Billy’s up to something. Did you notice when he talked about watching people he left out Jane Wilson?”

  “I noticed. Maybe Billy feels she’s innocent because someone shot at her. But that doesn’t give us any idea why he wants anyone watched. He said the arraignment is on for Monday. What’s the point of getting everyone together tonight?” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s up to us to persuade people who don’t want to have anything to do with the police to show up. I’ll call them. You can text the Incredible Trio and invite them over for shrimp creole at six. That gives us plenty of time to explain. Not that we can explain much. Henny will have a dozen questions about our assignment to watch a particular person. Emma will probably quote from either Marigold or Inspector Houlihan. And Ma, who knows”—a quick smile—“what she will think. Or say. Anyway, we’ll follow Billy’s script, pretend the gathering is my idea.”