Death at the Door Read online

  “She was struck from behind with your mallet. Only someone familiar with you and your studio would know about the mallet.”

  “My mallet.” Again he looked aggrieved. “It was just the right weight and balance when I worked.”

  Coldness enveloped Annie. His work. His tool. Was that all that mattered to him? “How far is your studio from the terrace?”

  He brushed back a lock of curling brown hair. “Maybe three hundred yards. The location’s perfect. A path at the bottom of the rose garden leads into the pines. It’s a nice walk. Peaceful. The building’s in a clearing, so light comes through the skylight and the windows. Wonderful light.”

  Annie persisted. “Was everyone at David’s party familiar with your studio?”

  He looked vaguely puzzled. “Yeah, Jane liked to show it off. They’d all been there.”

  “Do you lock the studio when you aren’t there?”

  “Never did.” He suddenly looked worried. “Maybe with everything’s that happened, the studio should be locked up. You know how people kind of hang around places where bad things have happened even though the house and grounds are really private. Especially the studio. Will you ask Kate to be sure it’s locked? It would be awful if someone got in there and messed things up.”

  The totality of his self-absorption was stunning. Did he ever see anything around him except in relationship to himself? She had doubts. Still, if anyone should have had a sense of Jane’s ups and downs, surely it was the man who lived with her. She spoke without thinking, trying to understand. “Did you and Jane share a bedroom?”

  Those long strong fingers combed through soft brown hair. “Well, yeah. She was my wife.” His eyes slid away from her.

  Annie felt a quick certainty that yes, indeed, they shared a room and a bed and that he had been drawn to her vitality as a man and a lover, despite Frankie’s growing hold on his affection.

  He was awkward suddenly. “You had to know Jane. She was”—he spread those lean hands—“a remarkable woman.”

  “Someone who knew her well—and knew your studio—killed her. Who was angry with Jane? Or feared her?”

  His broad forehead furrowed in thought. “It was kind of like the sun and planets. Everybody was dim when Jane was around.” He seemed to search for words. “I think she was worried about something, those last few days. She was kind of like . . . different. Kind of like she was looking over her shoulder.”

  He was inarticulate, but Annie understood his meaning. Tom had picked up on an aura, Jane sensing danger. “Did she mention anyone in particular?”

  Tom gave a whuff of suppressed laughter. “Jane mentioned everything and everybody all the time. David was driving her nuts. He always wanted money. She was irritated with Madeleine. I saw them in the garden one afternoon the week before Jane died. I’d never seen Madeleine look like that.” His artist’s eye had noticed. “Almost sloppy, the way she was dressed and she had that little terrier in her arms and it kept yipping and Madeleine was talking like she couldn’t get words out fast enough and Jane was shaking her head. I ducked out the other way. You don’t want to get too near when women are tossing words at each other. Same thing with Sherry. Every time I saw Sherry and Jane, Jane was issuing orders and Sherry was tossing her head—she needs to cut that hair—and clutching her throat. I think she saw too many reruns of the old silent movies.” He threw back his head, clapped his hands on his throat and his expressive face mirrored in turn: Shock. Dismay. Despair. Fury. Tom did them perfectly, a pitch-perfect mimicry.

  Annie wondered what had been the subject of Madeleine’s encounters with Jane.

  Tom shook his head. “Too damn many women in that house. Kate Murray wanted to be the big cheese. She and Jane had it out over a redesign of the rose garden.” He looked doubtful. “Nobody kills somebody because of a bunch of damn plants.”

  Annie agreed. Unless the quarrel had been deeper, a struggle for dominance and the disagreement over the garden a final precipitating quarrel. “Who inherits?”

  He looked blank.

  “Jane’s estate.”

  “I get some of it, the house and the studio and all my paintings. Kate can have the house. The studio has sleeping quarters, so I’m fine with that.” He flicked a glanced at the mesh and counter. “If I ever get out of here.”

  First things first.

  “How about David?”

  “He gets half the estate. Kate and I split the rest.”

  “How much money is that?”

  He brushed back a tangle of hair. “A lot, I think. Maybe eight or nine million to David and maybe four million for Kate and me.”

  Annie thought it very likely that his knowledge of sums was truly imprecise. He didn’t think about money. But he always thought about his work. Money made all the difference there.

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “Who else did you say was at the party?” He finally seemed to be taking an interest.

  “Kevin and Irene Hubbard.”

  Tom squinted. “Jane liked Irene. They had a lot in common. Big women with big egos. You know, I just remembered . . . at the open house Irene was watching Jane with this kind of speculative look. It seemed odd, but I know Jane was pissed about Kevin. She thought he was all blow and no show and maybe she needed to get somebody else to handle the properties. Properties.” His voice was thoughtful. “I guess that’s what Jane considered me. And my paintings. Toby did a lot for me, but we didn’t have anything in writing. Jane said it was stupid to limit myself to one gallery. Toby thought I owed it to him to stick with him like we’d agreed, but what was I supposed to do? Tell Jane to bug off? The gallery in Atlanta was a big step up.” His expression was forlorn. “I don’t know if they’ll cancel the show. Maybe not but I was supposed to be there. Could you find out for me? It’s the Fernandez Gallery.”

  Annie thought it made a good deal more sense to be worried about trial and conviction, but clearly that wasn’t Tom’s priority. “We’ll check it out. We’ll explain that we’re sure there’s been a mistake and you’ll be released soon.”

  “Yeah. Great. Thanks.” Then he drooped. “But it seems kind of nuts to me, somebody from David’s party killing the doc because he knew Jane was in danger, then getting my mallet and going after Jane. Somebody we knew.”

  “When did you last see the mallet?”

  He turned his big hands over. “I hadn’t worked on the sculpture for a couple of days, so I don’t know whether it was there Monday. I was thinking about stuff. I took a walk. I didn’t go back to my studio until after lunch and then I was making some sketches.”

  “Were you there all afternoon?”

  His eyes slid away. His reply came just a beat late. “Yeah. I didn’t leave the studio in the afternoon until I went up to the house and found Jane.”

  Annie studied him. Downcast eyes. Long fingers twisting together. If all they’d found out was true, he was innocent. Why was he lying about his presence in the studio in the afternoon? She had a quick memory of Frankie Ford and her overwhelming relief when told of Paul Martin’s sketch and the fateful birthday party. Frankie had obviously been afraid Tom might be guilty. And Frankie had conveniently been out and about the island that afternoon.

  “Were you in your studio when Frankie came?”

  He seemed turned to stone. “Frankie didn’t come to the studio.” The words were stiff. He swallowed twice. “I was in the studio all afternoon. I didn’t go up to the house until almost five.” He pushed back his chair, came to his feet. “Tell Frankie . . . tell her I wish I knew something to help. But I don’t.” He turned, shuffled toward the door.

  • • •

  As soon as her Thunderbird purred off the ferry, Annie found a parking place and popped out long enough to drop two quarters in the coin slot of a newspaper rack and snatch out the afternoon’s fresh edition of the Gazette. She would be home in less than five
minutes but she didn’t want to wait. She slid into the car and opened the paper. Her eyes widened. Two big headlines. One ran above the lead story, the other below the fold. This front page would catch every reader’s eye.

  ARTIST ARRAIGNED IN WIFE’S MURDER; JAILED IN BEAUFORT

  by Marian Kenyon

  WAS TOM EDMONDS FRAMED? EARLIER DEATH QUESTIONED EXCLUSIVE TO THE GAZETTE

  by Marian Kenyon

  Annie ignored the lead story. Instead her eyes dropped to a three-column photo of Paul Martin’s office with a view of the desk and a chair to one side and the caption—Sister insists Death sat in a chair by doctor’s desk—and then to Marian’s story.

  The late Paul Martin, a native of the island, is a homicide victim, according to his sister, Mrs. Lucy Ransome, who spoke with Gazette reporter Marian Kenyon today.

  Dr. Paul Martin was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head in his study at the home on October 10. Police evaluated forensic evidence and concluded the death was self-inflicted.

  This morning Mrs. Ransome discovered a sketch in the desk of Dr. Martin’s study that convinced her that Dr. Martin was murdered and did not commit suicide. (Photo of sketch on page 4.) Mrs. Ransome said that Dr. Martin often made a sketch when he was preoccupied about some concern and that he had appeared worried ever since they attended an open house at Wyler Art Gallery the Sunday before his death.

  The open house was in honor of local artist Tom Edmonds, who is now in jail on a charge of murdering his wife, Jane Corley, on October 14. The sketch made by Dr. Martin contained inscriptions in handwriting identified by Mrs. Ransome as her brother’s. The sketch was dated October 8.

  Dr. Martin drew a rearing horse that appears to be the statue of the horse outside Jane Corley’s home. The drawing differs from the statue in that the drawing depicts a horse snarling, possibly in response to danger. Dr. Martin also sketched three witches dancing around a cauldron. The inscription reads: Evil in a look. I saw it. I’ll deal with it at the party. A final sentence written by Dr. Martin was underlined twice: Protect Jane.

  Mrs. Ransome related this sequence of events: Her brother attended the open house at the art gallery Sunday, October 6. Afterward, he was worried and preoccupied. He drew the sketch the following Tuesday evening. He attended a birthday party for David Corley, Jane Corley’s brother, Wednesday night. Thursday morning Dr. Martin was found dead in his study of a gunshot wound to the temple. The following Monday afternoon Jane Corley was bludgeoned to death in the family room at her home by a sculptor’s mallet belonging to her husband, Tom Edmonds.

  Police yesterday charged Mr. Edmonds with first-degree murder. Mr. Edmonds denies the charge.

  Mrs. Ransome said today, “Paul drew the sketch. I believe some event occurred at the open house October 6 that suggested to Paul that Jane Corley was in danger and he decided to speak to someone at David Corley’s birthday party to warn them that nothing must happen to Jane. I believe the person who intended to kill Jane Corley came to our house and shot Paul. Police found a box of cartridges in Paul’s desk that matched the weapon that killed him. I believe Paul was murdered, that the murderer brought a gun and cartridges and staged Paul’s death to appear as a suicide. I had never heard my brother mention owning a gun. I believe the person who shot Paul also attacked and killed Jane Corley the following Monday. Tom Edmonds was not on the island the night Paul was shot, so I am certain that Mr. Edmonds did not kill his wife.”

  The Gazette confirmed that Edmonds was not on the island the night of Dr. Martin’s death. Edmonds was in Atlanta as a guest of Fernandez Gallery and was at the home of Lorenzo Fernandez.

  Police Chief Billy Cameron said Mrs. Ransome had contacted him. Chief Cameron said he had no evidence to suggest that Dr. Martin’s death was anything other than self-inflicted. He declined to comment further.

  Circuit Solicitor Brice Willard Posey said the state will seek the death penalty for Edmonds. “The crime was brutal. Ms. Corley was savagely attacked and battered to death in her own home. The murder weapon was a mallet from her husband’s studio. The only fingerprints found on the mallet belong to Edmonds. Although it is not necessary to establish a motive, the circuit solicitor’s office has information indicating that Edmonds was involved in an extramarital affair. Edmonds’s whereabouts on the night an island physician took his own life has no bearing on the case against Edmonds.”

  Posey commended Chief Cameron for “excellent police work and the compilation of a strong case.”

  Mrs. Ransome vowed to continue her efforts to establish the truth of Dr. Martin’s death and has asked anyone in the vicinity of the Martin house at shortly past midnight October 10 to contact her. She is seeking a description of a car that passed the Martin house at approximately that time. Mrs. Ransome concluded that if police refuse to investigate Dr. Martin’s death, she will consider hiring a crime expert to evaluate her brother’s study as the possible site of a homicide.

  Maxwell Darling, owner of Confidential Commissions, told the Gazette he has been retained to determine the truth of what occurred on October 14 when Ms. Corley was murdered. Confidential Commissions is an island agency that assists individuals seeking information. Darling declined to identify his employer. He has invited anyone with information about Jane Corley’s murder to contact him.

  Annie folded the Gazette, her thoughts veering from Marian’s riveting story to her uneasy feeling at the jail that Tom Edmonds hadn’t told everything he knew, to Max’s dossiers of those at David Corley’s birthday party, to Doc Burford’s blunt conclusion that Jane’s murderer must have been spotted with blood, to Sherry Gillette’s call to Death on Demand.

  She fastened on the oddness of Sherry’s call. Why had she called Annie? They had never met, though Annie likely had seen her in passing at the open house.

  Annie reached to start the car, stopped. She pulled out her cell, noted waiting messages from Laurel, Henny, and Emma, swiped to call Ingrid.

  Ingrid’s tone was grim. “I saw the Gazette story. It made me feel sick, just like everybody who knew him.” A strained breath, then she continued. “Lots of calls for you. All of them came after the Gazette was out. Another whispery one. Pulsating with drama. She wouldn’t leave her name or number. I didn’t have the heart to tell her we have caller ID. I resisted saying, ‘Thanks for your call, Sherry.’”

  “Do you have the number?”

  “Sure.”

  Annie tapped in the name and number. “The other calls?”

  “The Wiley Coyotes are on your trail.” Wiley Coyotes was Ingrid’s dry nomenclature for Laurel, Emma, and Henny. “They saw the story in the Gazette, too. They’re on the warpath.” That accounted for the messages on her iPhone. “I told them you and Max are trying to find out what happened. They want to help. They’re in a bridge tournament tonight but they’ll see you here at nine sharp tomorrow.”

  Annie ended the call. So the Intrepid Trio was reporting for duty. She felt buoyed with optimism. Between them, crusty Emma, resourceful Henny, and perceptive Laurel had a web of intelligence that enveloped the island as thoroughly as the steel-strong thirty-foot strands spun by banana spiders.

  Now . . . She swiped the number Ingrid had given her. If Sherry Gillette never considered the possibility her call might be announced by caller ID, she likely didn’t have the service on her phone.

  “Gillette.” The voice was undeniably male and not at all cordial.

  “Is Sherry there?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  Annie made a swift decision and tapped End. Hopefully she was correct in her assumption that the Gillettes didn’t have caller ID. Or—her smile was wry—if they did, Sherry Gillette might wonder why Annie Darling was calling her. In any event, Sherry had to wait until tomorrow. Annie wanted to talk to her privately. From the unpleasant tone in the male voice, which Annie assumed belonged to Roger Gillette, perhaps Jane Corley’s opinion of him was
well-founded.

  In any event, they were doing everything possible for Tom Edmonds. She frowned. It seemed obvious when she spoke to him at the jail that he was holding something back about the afternoon his wife was murdered. Still, he wasn’t on the island the night Paul Martin died. If Lucy Ransome was right, Marian’s story in the Gazette would come as a devastating shock to a murderer basking in success.

  • • •

  Annie drew her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. The chill of the late-evening air presaged cooler days to come, but part of the coldness that enveloped her was the image she had trouble pushing out of her mind. “Someone else could have taken one of Tom’s smocks.”

  The porch swing creaked as Max gave a push with his foot. In the dusk their garden looked shadowy and secretive. “Tom’s mallet. Tom’s smock.”

  “Why would he be dumb enough to wad the thing up and stuff it in an urn?”

  “Maybe he heard someone coming. Or thought he did. Maybe he heard some noise in the house and was afraid Kate or Sherry was going to find him. Maybe he had to move fast.”

  She twisted to look at him. “Maybe the person who killed Paul Martin took the mallet and the smock from the studio and planned all along to frame Tom.”

  Max was silent. His face was thoughtful. And skeptical.

  • • •

  Max’s breathing was deep and even. All was right in her world. Except she couldn’t sleep. Annie watched the shifting pattern of wind-tossed branches against the ceiling. Images flitted. Tom’s big hands with the spatulate thumbs . . . Lucy Ransome’s blue eyes blazing with determination . . . the leather wingback chair at an angle to Paul’s desk . . .

  Doubt tugged at Annie. Perhaps she and Lucy imagined a horrific scene that never happened. The bloodied artist’s smock stuffed behind a shrub was one more piece of evidence against Tom. Max agreed that they would keep looking, keep talking to people, but she knew he didn’t expect to find evidence to clear Tom. The bloodied smock was one piece of evidence too much for Max to believe another hand held the mallet.