Dead Days of Summer Read online

  Annie felt a surge of hope. Here was confirmation. Billy Cameron would have to listen to this.

  Emma clapped her stubby hands together. “That’s excellent.” Henny smiled as she made notes. Laurel’s admiring beam enveloped the lawyer.

  Jones paused, looked at Max’s mother, elegant and patrician as always, her white-blond hair shining in the shaft of sun, her deep blue eyes aglow with approval. She was slim and appealing in a cornflower blue V-neck blouse and a shimmering shadow-dot blue silk skirt and soft blue lattice slide patent-leather heels.

  Annie smiled too. Yes, Max was in terrible trouble and their world had been turned on its ear, but Laurel was always amazing and delightful. Her attraction the opposite sex never failed, from boys of ten to men of ninety. Handler Jones was no exception.

  The lawyer stood a little straighter, had the age-old look of man in presence of woman. “Ma’am.” He drew out the word like a caress. With a gallant nod toward Laurel, he cleared his throat.

  Emma prompted him, her tone dry. “You printed out the file?”

  “Ah, the file.” His smile was sunny-side up. “It confirms Max’s story absolutely, including the time the file was created. It was deleted at 11:56 P.M., which correlates with Annie’s call to the police at 12:01 A.M. reporting an intruder. Further, the blood test reveals Max ingested GHB, commonly known as Liquid Ecstasy, Goop, Scoop, or Georgia Homeboy. GHB is one of several drugs often found at raves, the all-night dance parties attended by teens and young adults. These are the date-rape drugs. GHB is a white powder. It easily dissolves in water or alcohol. It causes a variety of effects but when combined with alcohol can make the recipient appear drunk. Further, there were traces of Valium in his blood. This combination could easily affect his speech and gait and put him into a deep sleep.”

  Annie leaned forward, eager and relieved. “This proves Max is innocent. They’ll have to let him go, start looking for the real murderer.”

  Handler Jones slowly shook his head. His look at Annie was kindly. “I wish that were so. But the prosecution won’t have any trouble with these facts. They’ll say he came back to his office after killing her and erased the file to hide his contact with her and then took the drug to try and create an alibi. Here’s how the circuit solicitor will make his closing argument if we get to trial.” Jones’s bent forward, eyes steely, jaw jutting. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury”—his voice was quick and hard as a sword thrust—“the defendant was desperate to erase evidence of his link to the dead woman. He claims Vanessa Taylor came to him to launch a search for her missing brother, using the name of Bridget Walker. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the dead woman had no brother. Are we to believe the victim lied? I think not.” A sarcastic drawl. “Clearly the defendant created a file to cover his evening out with a woman other than his wife. He made up a search and a brother. Not only did the victim not have a brother, there were no pictures of a young man in blue swim trunks found in her purse. This story, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, was made up out of whole cloth. The fake name was created by the defendant to provide a cover for his illicit relationship. We won’t assume the defendant had murder in his heart when he planned an evening out with a beautiful young woman who was not his wife. But sometime that night, passions turned ugly and murder occurred. The defendant is in a quandary. How can he hide the fact that he was in the company of the dead woman? He knows he must erase that computer file because he cannot produce a Bridget Walker to support his claim.” Jones’s voice rose, filled the garden room. “The testimony of the defendant’s wife underscores that it was Maxwell Darling who came to his office in the dark of that deadly night. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that office was not broken into.” A pause for emphasis. “That office was entered”—he spaced the words dramatically—“with…a…key. The claim of the defense”—the lawyer’s tone was scoffing, dismissive—“that the defendant’s drugged state was the result of an amazing conspiracy can be dismissed out of hand. We have testimony that he and the victim were by themselves at Dooley’s Mine. No one joined them. No one was seen with them. Are we to believe that the victim drugged the defendant? Ladies and gentleman, would you have the victim conniving her own death? No, the answer is clear. The defendant was in an inebriated state when he and his victim departed Dooley’s Mine. We know that the two of them drove in his red Jaguar”—heavy emphasis on the make of the car—“to a remote cabin. There she died from the blows of the tire tool from the Jaguar”—heavy emphasis—“and then what did the defendant do? Perhaps he was regaining sobriety. He knows he has committed a heinous crime. How can he escape justice? First he hurries to his office, removes the file linking him to the victim. Did he consider surrendering himself? We do not know and the defendant will not say. We do know that he fled to a nearby cabin—”

  “The dogs,” Emma cut in sharply. “They found no trace of Max between the Jaguar and the murder scene.”

  Jones waved a dismissive hand. “The defense has put on testimony that dogs that investigated the scene found no trace of the defendant between his rich man’s Jaguar and the murder cabin. Dogs are not perfect, ladies and gentleman of the jury, but the evidence of blood can be proven without doubt. We know the defendant fled to a nearby cabin and in that cabin we found his shirt—there is no question about the ownership—his shirt massively stained with the blood of the helpless victim. He tried to wash the blood from the shirt. That must have been a difficult moment for him. Perhaps he felt remorse. We do not know his thoughts, but we know he imbibed drugs and alcohol and sank into unconsciousness.”

  Jones broke off, looked around the room.

  “It’s a lie!” Annie’s cry was passionate.

  Emma reached over, patted her arm. Henny murmured, “Charles Laughton in Witness for the Prosecution.” Laurel’s radiant look dimmed.

  The lawyer was once again affable and charming. “We have a tall mountain to climb, ladies. But that’s why I’m here.”

  Annie was never a fan of braggarts. She didn’t like show-offs. Yet there was something enormously appealing and reassuring and comforting in Handler Jones’s confidence. Call it chutzpah, arrogance, or audacity, the result was a current of energy that lifted their spirits. Emma’s corrugated face was set in determination. Henny said, “Good show,” her voice as clipped as Bulldog Drummond. Henny loved role-playing, calling to mind famous mystery sleuths of past and present. Her evocation of H. C. McNeile’s stiff-upper-lip sleuth was clearly inspired by Handler Jones’s optimism. Laurel blew him a kiss.

  Emma’s demand was abrupt. “What can we do?”

  The lawyer’s gaze swept his audience, firm, friendly, energetic. “Our best hope is to discover everything possible about the deceased and see if we can come up with some alternate suspects. With that in mind, I had my team of investigators pull an all-nighter and bring together a dossier on Vanessa Taylor.” He bent to his briefcase, pulled out a folder. “I have a copy for each of you.” He put on his horn-rims. He looked older, abruptly less cheerful. “We tried to get in touch with her surviving sister. No luck there. She’s older than Vanessa, lives in Chicago. Her husband is ill and she takes care of him, works two jobs. The home telephone answering machine has a message saying she declines to speak with any member of the press. I suppose they started pestering her immediately. At her jobs, no one will transfer a call to her. I’ll have an operative in Chicago attempt to make contact, but I don’t think we’ll get any help there. Vanessa’s body will be shipped to Chicago when it is released after the autopsy. A funeral is tentatively scheduled for a week from this Wednesday. However, Vanessa and her sister apparently weren’t particularly close. Vanessa hadn’t been back to Illinois since moving here several years ago. I think it’s more important to focus on her life here on the island. Let’s think for a moment why anyone might have wanted Vanessa Taylor dead.”

  Annie again pictured him before a jury, hair artfully tousled, handsome face expressive, making point after point.

  “The usual
motives for murder”—he might have been a professor explaining the structure of an atom—“are hatred, jealousy, greed, fear, and revenge. Hatred? According to my sources, Vanessa was attractive, lively, charming, a good companion. She did not appear to have a relationship with anyone that was intense enough to cause hatred. Jealousy? There are possibilities here. If she was involved with a man, was she trying to end the affair? Greed? This doesn’t seem likely. She had no money aside from her salary and no one profits from her death. Fear? Did she threaten someone in some way? We don’t know. Revenge seems unlikely. But we do know”—his voice rose with confidence—“that her death was the result of a carefully laid plan created specifically to shield the murderer. And I believe”—he leaned forward—“that her murderer is a man. Max was set up to look like a philandering husband—”

  Annie wanted to flail at the world. This was the picture of Max being flashed on television screens everywhere. It was a lie and cruel and bitter to endure.

  “—taking a woman to a seedy bar. The plan was to incapacitate Max. The murderer had to be strong enough to handle Max when he lost consciousness. That argues Vanessa’s co-conspirator was a man. Moreover, Vanessa was bludgeoned to death. I’m not saying a woman could not have done it, but in my experience that method of murder is unlikely for a woman.”

  Emma was emphatic. “Cherchez l’homme.”

  “We have to find him.” The lawyer gave a quick frown. “But as far as my team was able to discover, Vanessa wasn’t involved publicly with any man. This is a roadblock.” It wasn’t Jones’s nature to admit discouragement, but his usual smile slid away. “Obviously we will continue to search. The long and short of it is that she lived very quietly in the home of her employer. She took her meals with the family. Mrs. Dodd has declined to make a public statement. We traced Vanessa back to her arrival on the island a few years ago. She came here with a college friend, waited tables at Parotti’s Bar and Grill. She answered an ad in the Gazette and got the job as Mrs. Dodd’s secretary a year and a half ago. Her ex-roommate married and now lives in Des Moines. Name’s Judy Denton. One of my operatives contacted her. Judy said she and Vanessa e-mailed and Vanessa’s e-mails revolved around the family. Vanessa didn’t mention any friends from their time of working at Parotti’s or any new friends. Judy was wry about that, said it didn’t surprise her, that Vanessa loved the life of the rich and that waitstaff wouldn’t fit into that background. Judy said Vanessa would probably have dropped her except their contact was through e-mails and it gave Vanessa a chance to brag about drinking fine wine every night at dinner and parties on yachts and trips to Cape Cod. Judy said Vanessa acted like she was a member of the family, not just an employee. Vanessa helped Mrs. Dodd’s daughter shop and was helping her with the wedding plans. Vanessa never mentioned dating. Judy kidded Vanessa about that, asked her if she’d taken a vow of chastity. Vanessa’s answer was cryptic. She said she was biding her time. Judy took that to mean Vanessa had her eye on a man but for some reason wasn’t able to say anything about him and didn’t want to describe him in e-mails. Judy said she frankly couldn’t imagine Vanessa without a man in tow, preferably two. She brought up Gone with the Wind and Scarlett flirting with the Tarleton twins.” He flipped through several sheets, quoted.

  “‘That’s Vanessa. Men buzz around her like flies to a honeypot, just like Scarlett. Vanessa enjoyed sex. There has to be a man in the background somewhere. I don’t know why she didn’t e-mail about him, but I expect there’s a blow-by-blow in her diary.”’

  Emma folded stubby fingers into a fist, punched her right hand high. “A man in the background.” Her crusty tone exuded satisfaction. “That’s how it has to be, of course.”

  Henny looked at the author inquiringly. Laurel’s blue eyes narrowed in thought. The lawyer cocked his head to one side, listening.

  Annie had a glimmer of understanding. A man in the background…

  Emma’s gaze was cool and definite. “Vanessa’s murder was carefully planned so the blame would fall on Max. Why? Either to destroy Max or to protect the murderer. Does Max have an enemy who would go the length of another person’s murder to entrap him?” She looked at Annie.

  Annie was emphatic. “No. I’m not saying everybody loves Max”—she thought of Mayor Cosgrove’s malicious smirk—“but he certainly doesn’t have that kind of enemy.”

  Emma’s spiky iron gray hair quivered as she nodded in agreement. “If the scheme was not a plot against Max, then the circumstances of the murder were arranged to avoid detection of the murderer. Clearly there is an unseen figure at work. Vanessa isn’t a woman who cares much about other women. From everything her friend said, Vanessa was all about men and sex. So, yes, somewhere there is a man in the background. He persuaded Vanessa to approach Max, suggested she hire him to search for an imaginary brother. That was a clever touch.” There was the novelist’s admiring tone in her voice. “It was one more brick of guilt piled on Max. Vanessa had no brother. The pictures she showed Max weren’t found in her purse. The file was erased from Max’s computer. Think what this tells us.” There was a compelling glint in her primrose blue eyes. “Someone programmed all of this. Someone spoke with Vanessa, someone she trusted, someone with whom she was on intimate terms. I suspect very intimate terms. She was persuaded to approach Max—”

  Jones broke in, shaking his head. “That’s tough to understand.” The lawyer was clearly troubled. “That’s the weak link in our argument. What conceivable excuse could the murderer give?”

  Emma’s blue eyes were startled. “Oh, that’s easy. He told Vanessa Max had some kind of incriminating information about him and he had to get Max’s keys and get into his office. Or he claimed Max was blackmailing him and he wanted to set up a situation where he could get pictures of Max in a compromising situation, maybe snuggled next to Vanessa in a shot that didn’t show her face. Or he told Vanessa Max had some kind of plot against the family and if he were under the influence of drugs they could question him, the old truth-serum ploy. Or he—”

  Annie intervened, knowing the novelist’s inventive mind was quite capable of spinning innumerable variations on her theme. “It doesn’t matter how he managed it. We know that’s what happened.”

  “Abominably clever.” Henny’s dark eyes were somber.

  Jones frowned. “That’s too complicated for a jury to understand. Or believe.”

  Annie looked at him sharply. Was there doubt in his voice? But he gave her a quick thumbs-up.

  Emma was decisive. “We’ve got to find the murderer, bring him out of the shadows, get some proof. We have to find out more about Vanessa.”

  Annie looked out of the window at the battered cream Toyota parked in front of the cabin. It was Duane Webb’s fishing car and he’d offered it to Annie to use as long as she stayed at Nightingale Courts. While Ingrid held the fort at Death on Demand, refusing all comment about Annie and Max, and Annie slipped across the island to Emma’s house, Duane had once again borrowed his friend’s laundry truck and returned to the house on the lagoon where he’d picked up Annie yesterday. Then Duane rowed across the lagoon and slipped inside the back door. “Good thing I went in your house the back way,” he told her when he met her back at Nightingale Courts. “I took a look out of the blinds in the living room and there’s still two sound trucks and a bunch of reporters. Thought there would be. But I got you a bunch of clothes.” He’d placed a suitcase near the bedroom door. And he’d plopped down Dorothy L.’s carrier as well and a sack of her food. He’d smiled when Annie gathered up the plump white cat and held her close. “Thought you could use some company. Give us a ring, anything you need,” and he was gone.

  Annie glanced at the TV set. She’d turned it off after seeing innumerable shots of a bedraggled, handcuffed Max in soiled T-shirt and chinos and pans of their home, variously described as “Multimillionaire Suspect’s Home,” “Murder Suspect’s Wife Remains Secluded,” “No One Answers Door at Suspect’s Palatial Residence.”

  And now�
��Annie paced back and forth in the small living room. Dorothy L. looked up, giving a sharp mew. Annie paused to smooth her thick white fur. Dorothy L. was Max’s cat really. She adored Max, followed him from room to room. Annie picked her up, buried her face in sweet-smelling fur. Dorothy L. was patient for a moment, then wriggled free.

  Annie resumed pacing. The arraignment would begin in only a few minutes. It was too late for her to reach the mainland and the county courthouse in time. Emma had insisted Annie remain on the island. Handler Jones had spoken with Max, who had specifically ordered Annie not to come. “It will be a circus. I don’t want you and Laurel there.”

  Annie ached inside. She should be there, dreadful as it would be to see Max in an orange jail jumpsuit, hands and ankles manacled. What would the press make of her absence? Would there be snide innuendos: Members of the murder suspect’s family were not in court today to offer support…. Annie Darling, wife of the accused, has avoided the press and released statements supportive of her husband only through intermediaries…. Repeated calls to the Darling home have gone unanswered…. Although unwilling to speak on the record, an island resident said there were rumors of marital discord involving the Darlings…. Annie knew the press would be able to find someone eager to say something negative. None of that mattered. Freeing Max was the only thing that mattered. Emma had been forceful. “We’ve got to find out everything we can about Vanessa. We don’t have any time to waste. You could spend the rest of the day getting from here to the courthouse and back. You won’t accomplish a thing going to the arraignment. The upshot would be your picture plastered all over the papers and shown on the nightly news. I’ve got a hunch”—her blue eyes had glittered like polished steel—“we need to keep you under wraps. I never ignore a hunch. So you keep out of sight and study the dossier.”

  Annie paced to a wicker chair, forced herself to sit. She reached for the dossier. Maybe this time when she read it, she’d see something she’d missed. Vanessa Taylor had lived for a year and a half at the Whitman house. What did she do for fun? She was a woman who liked men. And they were looking for a man. How could they find out? It was maddening to think that Handler Jones was with Max at this moment, defending him, and she was here, feeling helpless and useless. Emma and Henny were working the telephones, calling every friend and acquaintance in hopes of learning more about the Dodd family. Laurel had murmured vaguely that one of her oldest friends, such a dear man and always so understanding, was just the person to call when wanting to broker something a bit on the unusual side, and with a sweet smile she’d drifted from the room. Annie was glad her mother-in-law felt that someone could help. Of course, a manly presence always bolstered Laurel. Annie wished she had a plan, someplace to go, something to do. Instead she was reduced to rereading the report on Vanessa Taylor.