Death at the Door Read online

  Henny eyed her steadily. “Last night someone set fire to the Martin house. Firefighters rescued Lucy in time. She could have died.”

  Irene’s smooth face never changed. “I heard about the fire on TV. If I were the cops, I’d wonder if somebody didn’t read that story and think a fire might be Tom Edmonds’s ticket out of jail.”

  • • •

  Emma Clyde concentrated upon appearing genial and nonthreatening. She was well aware that neither was a natural default for her. She’d chosen a beige caftan with all the pizzazz of a monk’s habit and horn-rim glasses befitting a retired accountant. She arranged her Mount Rushmore features in an expression of bland entreaty. “It’s good of you to see me on short notice. I know you want to do everything possible to help track down the dreadful person who killed Jane.”

  The office was fairly small. Likely Jane Corley hadn’t seen a reason for her property manager to enjoy boardroom opulence. Emma considered Kevin Hubbard as a character in a scene. Kevin might have been an aging matinee idol in an old film, thinning black hair smoothed back, sideburns slightly too long, carefully cut mustache, aristocratic features but a mouth that betrayed weakness. He was attempting to project confidence, but his brown eyes flickered nervously from Emma to his shiny manicured nails to a swirl of dust motes in sunlight spearing through a window that overlooked the marina.

  “Absolutely.” He sounded hollow rather than resolute. “How can I help?”

  “I understand you often dealt with David Corley’s financial problems.”

  There was a slight lessening of tension in the sharp shoulders beneath the obviously expensive houndstooth sports jacket. He leaned back, his expression avuncular. “I tried to keep peace in the family.” He raised a dark eyebrow. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid. David, well, he’s young and he likes to have a good time. Jane wanted him to be steady, but he didn’t even have a job. I’m afraid Jane was a bit put out about him.”

  “Was she unhappy with him recently?” Emma looked inquiringly over the horn-rims.

  Kevin was a beat slow in answering.

  Emma read the competing thoughts that flitted through a not-very-subtle mind: . . . I could dump on David . . . but he’s keeping me in charge . . . better not rock the boat too much . . .

  He fingered his thin black mustache. “He’s a good kid. I know, I know”—a deprecating smile—“not really a kid. But David has youthful enthusiasms and he wasn’t ready to settle down yet. I’m afraid Jane was pretty aggravated about his debts. But Jane’s death has brought him up short. The boy looks like hell. In fact, I just got off the phone with him. He wanted to know if I knew anybody who had it in for Jane. He said he isn’t going to rest until he finds out the truth, whether it was Tom or someone else.”

  “Yes.” Emma’s tone was silky. Kevin was feeling comfortable now, hinting at a motive for David but carefully refraining from any kind of accusation. He obviously hoped she’d hustle out to seek the facts of David’s money problems, which, of course, ended when his sister died. “It certainly appears there’s some question who should be suspected. From the story in the Gazette yesterday, it appears definite that Tom Edmonds was in Atlanta the night Paul Martin was shot.” She shook her head. “It’s dreadful how often money is the motive for murder.”

  “Well”—he laced his fingers together, shook his head dolefully—“it would be a matter of money for Tom as well and there’s no proof the doctor was murdered.”

  Now was the moment. Kevin was at ease, suspicion liberally showered on others. Emma removed the horn-rims. When she chose, her primrose blue eyes could be as icy as an Arctic glacier. She stared at him until he moved uncomfortably in the chair. “When did Jane discover you were cooking the books?”

  • • •

  Sherry Gillette’s purple sateen blouse was unbuttoned to a provocative level. Tight black leggings emphasized too-thick thighs. She flung back her head, possibly envisioning herself as a free spirit on the verge of enlightenment. Scarcely combed dark curls swirled to her shoulders. “If only I’d been downstairs. I almost went down to talk to Jane that afternoon.” A smothered sob. “Jane might be alive now if I’d been there.”

  Sherry pushed up from the ottoman where she had sat cross-legged listening to Annie. “But”—and she flung out a dramatic hand—“I was just so much in myself that day. I hope you understand.”

  Annie gazed at her coolly, concluded that Sherry was a self-absorbed drama queen enjoying her proximity to a sensational crime. Coming here to see her was a waste of time. Annie had hoped Sherry knew something. She was in Jane’s house the afternoon of the murder. But it seemed evident that Sherry simply wanted to be a part of the excitement. “Why did you call me?”

  Sherry pouted at Annie’s brusque tone. “Kate told me you were trying to find out more about that day”—her tone capitalized the last two words—“and I was there.” Again she tossed that untidy hair. She didn’t want to be left out.

  Annie was poised to get up and leave. “Did you talk to Jane?”

  Sherry paced with both hands upturned. “That wasn’t to be. I was too distraught that afternoon to spend time with dear Jane. But now I have to wonder . . . If I had only stepped out on my balcony with my mind uncluttered, who knows what I might have seen.” Her green eyes slid to see if Annie was watching. “But that day”—her voice dropped—“I was struggling with my own heartbreak. My husband . . . but perhaps you, too, have known the trauma of a love gone wrong.” A soulful sigh.

  Annie wasn’t deflected. She pounced on what she saw as a fact, although it might be as hard to grasp as a darting minnow. “You stepped out on the balcony.”

  Sherry pressed red-taloned fingers to her slightly plump cheeks. “I was buffeted by emotion. I couldn’t breathe. I threw open the doors and rushed out. My mind was awhirl. I was looking down at the garden.”

  Annie felt suddenly breathless. Sherry might possibly be playing her like a guileless fish, but there might be a kernel of truth in the rush of words. Sherry’s eyes weren’t bemused or confused. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

  “What did you see?” Four simple words.

  Sherry’s full lips curved in a slight smile. “If I’d seen someone crossing the terrace, that fact might be of interest to the police.” Her tone was arch. “Whoever came out of the woods and across the terrace must have gone inside. Why else come? I can understand not mentioning a visit because who wants to talk to police?” She gave a little shudder. “Anyway, since Tom’s guilty, I don’t suppose it matters if anyone else talked to Jane that afternoon, though it seems to me that every fact should be known.” She was enjoying her nearness to the room where death occurred. She wanted to tantalize, hold attention to the very last moment before revealing what she had seen on the terrace.

  Annie glanced around the room. Several magazines lay atop a pine coffee table, no newspaper. “Did you read yesterday’s Gazette?”

  “Newspapers are boring, don’t you think?” Sherry waved a hand in airy dismissal.

  “Not yesterday. A story made it clear that Tom’s innocent.”

  Sherry’s eyes widened. “Tom’s innocent?”

  “Without doubt.” Except to certain stubborn public officials. “Paul Martin knew Jane was in danger and—” She broke off when she realized Sherry wasn’t paying attention.

  Sherry stared across the room. “Tom’s innocent? That means . . .”

  Annie tried to decipher the fleeting expression that crossed Sherry’s expressive face. Surprise? Wonderment? Excitement? Annie cleared her throat, thinking Earth to Sherry. “If you saw anyone, it could be very helpful.”

  Sherry gave her a coy look. “I will have to think. They say that even in a high emotional state, such as I was in”—a long breath—“the mind sees more than it realizes and perhaps later something will jog a memory to the surface.”

  The slippery fish had squished f
rom her grasp. Sherry might have been willing to reveal what she had seen when she doubted its importance. Not now. Instead, she wanted to mull over her knowledge, decide how and when to speak out in a way of achieving a maximum response.

  Annie gave one last try. “I’d go right downtown. Talk to the police. You will be a star witness.”

  Sherry crossed her arms, gave herself a little hug. “Oh, then I really must take my time, be sure of what I saw. You’ll understand.” She bounded to her feet. “I must have solitude, the better to think.”

  Annie didn’t resist the bum’s rush out into the hall, though she gave the closing door a glare. As she hurried down the apartment stairs, regretting the time she’d wasted, Annie carried with her a memory of a plump face alight with excitement. Annie stopped at the ground floor, pulled out her cell, sent a text. She was pulling out of the apartment parking lot when she heard a ping. She stopped at the exit, glanced. Not the reply she’d hoped for. Instead a summons from Emma. Imperious, of course.

  • • •

  “As Marigold instructs the inspector—” Emma’s sharp blue eyes looked from face to face, expecting rapt attention. Her forceful gaze remained an instant longer on Henny to be sure she was taking notes as Emma had requested.

  Annie reminded herself that forbearance is, if not a heavenly virtue, a decided test of character. She would remain calm, attentive, and agreeable even though she loathed Emma’s insufferable detective. Annie concentrated on delectable fried oysters in a bun so fresh the sesame seeds practically saluted. Parotti’s never disappointed her. She noticed Ben industriously scrubbing the top of the clean table next to theirs. His back was to them, but his ears might as well be flapping.

  “—succinctness is the hallmark of a good mind. Since we have others to see this afternoon, please pluck only the important information from each interview.” Emma switched cool blue eyes to Max.

  Max’s lips quirked in a quickly suppressed smile, then he described his foray to Calhoun Street, Hyla Harrison seeking fingerprints on an unburned portion of the leather chair next to the desk in Paul’s study, and his search for a place a murderer might have felt safe in parking. “. . . a few feet into a lane, I found a patch of bent and twisted and smashed ferns. A car had obviously backed and turned, leaving tread marks between the ruts. Of course, a teenage couple might have used the lane for romance. But tire prints couldn’t have been there long, since we had rain last week. I texted Billy and he sent Lou Pirelli. He made a cast.”

  Emma looked pleased. “That shows Billy’s looking at everything.”

  There were murmurs of approval.

  Max speared a shrimp from his creole. “I have an update on David Corley. He called a little while ago, said he didn’t know if it was worth checking out, but Sherry Gillette tracked him down at the marina and flounced down to his boat and every guy on the dock was watching. He thought maybe she was making a scene just for attention, but she made all kinds of hints that she saw someone on the terrace the afternoon Jane was killed. When he tried to pin her down, she was evasive, told him she didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. He said he got mad and asked if maybe she remembered Jane was dead and she’d better tell the cops if she had anything to tell, and she turned and ran up the pier. He said he called the station and somebody took the information but as far as he could figure out, the police don’t give a damn what he tells them.”

  Annie jabbed a French fry into a mound of peppered ketchup. “Sherry’s the most exasperating woman on the planet. Lots of hints. Dramatic gestures. Phony emotion. But”—she frowned—“I think she actually was on her balcony that afternoon. I texted Billy, told him Sherry may know something. Or it may all be a big bid for attention. No reply from Billy.”

  Laurel’s classic features were composed, though her dark blue eyes were regretful. “I may know who she saw.”

  The silence was absolute as each of them looked at Laurel.

  Laurel beamed at each in turn. “Ross Peters is definitely a strong handsome man of the soil. He’s coming over this weekend to give me some pointers”—a pause and a wicked smile—“on the design of a potting shed.”

  “Ma.” Max’s tone was gently chiding.

  Laurel fluttered pink-tipped fingers at him. “Oh yes, the matter at hand. Ross was working in the garden of the David Corley house the afternoon Jane was murdered. David wandered down into the garden about two thirty. He stopped and chatted for a minute about football. Ross said David seemed to be in a good humor. David ambled down to the dock and took out a kayak. He headed toward the Sound. Madeleine Corley rushed out a little later, chasing her terrier. Ross said when she caught her, Madeleine scooped her up and buried her face in her fur, then snapped a leash on her collar. That was about three. She and Millie left the terrace, heading for the path to Jane’s house. Ross said he turned a corner on the hedge and had his back to the house and dock, so he didn’t see either Madeleine or David again. He didn’t remember if the kayak was on the dock when he headed back to Jane’s house, ready to call it a day. He heard the sirens when he was about halfway there and started running. He arrived about the same time as the police. He said Tom was shaking and seemed to be in shock.” Laurel looked complacent. “Ross could not have been nicer.”

  Annie was not surprised. Of course he was nice.

  Laurel maintained an expression of innocent pleasure in the gardener’s friendliness. “As soon as I reached my car, I informed Billy by text.”

  Emma nodded in satisfaction. “Billy will never be able to complain that we did not keep him informed. Interesting that Madeleine never mentioned leaving the house. That must be explained.”

  Annie remembered the garrulous woman at the beauty shop and her insistence Madeleine wasn’t home that afternoon. Maybe Billy would find out. But he would not make that effort unless he was convinced someone other than Tom killed Jane.

  Definitely, they were keeping him informed, but Billy might possibly feel like an elephant annoyed by a swarm of sand flies.

  Henny regretfully pushed away her plate of grilled bratwurst and Hoppin’ John. “Wonderful. I can’t manage another bite.”

  Annie agreed with Henny about Miss Jolene’s Hoppin’ John. No one, except possibly Max, could make a better version of the black-eyed peas, rice, and ham hock dish. And the bratwurst was a delicious pairing, a variation on the usual red cabbage and German potatoes.

  Henny said dryly, “I should drop a pint for luck over at the Hubbard house.” Hoppin’ John for good luck was a Southern mainstay on New Year’s Day. “Irene’s as nervous as a snake with a hurricane coming. She claims everything was just fine between Kevin and Jane. While I was there, I looked things over. Kevin and Irene have spent lavishly. Their place is a lot fancier than where Kevin used to live and I never heard anything to indicate Irene came from any money.”

  Emma nodded toward Max. “Since David Corley wants to help, ask him what Kevin earned.” She looked at Henny. “I’m not surprised Irene’s jittery. I asked Kevin a simple question.” Her smile would have chilled a Mafia don. “‘When did Jane discover you were cooking the books?’”

  There was a pause as she looked from face to face.

  Annie folded her arms. Darned if she’d beg Emma to divulge what she knew.

  Max glanced at Annie, managed not to smile. “I suspect the answer wasn’t so simple.”

  Emma considered his comment. “Perceptive of you.” Still, she waited.

  Henny’s gaze was admiring, though her dark eyes were amused. “Caught him by surprise, did you?”

  Emma nodded regally, her spiky magenta hair reminding Annie of wavering cordgrass tipped by purple as the sun plunged behind pines.

  Laurel smoothed back a lock of golden hair. “No doubt, of us all, your inquiry was the most pertinent, the most telling, the most”—even Laurel seemed stumped for a moment, then concluded in a rush—“the most brilliant.” Her blue ey
es widened in admiration.

  Satisfied, Emma cleared her throat. “Kevin stumbled and mumbled, swore he hadn’t cooked the books. I administered the coup de grâce.” Now her smile was downright menacing. “I said I’d be glad to recommend my accountant, since I knew it was important to have an impartial audit to clear the air after Jane’s murder and of course he’d be delighted to cooperate, wouldn’t he? I doubt if he’s picked himself up off the floor yet.” Her bark of laughter was triumphant. “Now”—she scooped up a last forkful of spinach quiche—“let’s see what we can find out this afternoon. I suggest a rendezvous at the police station at five P.M. By then, we will have a great deal of information for Billy.” Her tone was utterly confident.

  10

  The elegantly appointed room with ornate molded cornices, sea green drapes framing old-fashioned windows, Chippendale furniture, and a Louis XV desk might have had an Old World charm except for the skull on the corner of the desk and the unstudied toughness of the man watching Max with an expressionless face. The presence of a steel-eyed subordinate standing a pace behind the desk and also watching added to the tension.