Death of the Party Read online

  But she did not become the next Mrs. Addison. And she’d been fired two weeks after Jeremiah’s death. It was that producer. He didn’t care that she’d done a good job. He was still furious he’d had to hire her because of Jeremiah. Now the best she could get was a podunk job on a podunk station downstate. Everybody knew you had to know somebody to get anywhere even if you had looks and brains. Maybe she should go back to school, get her degree. And pile up student loans like a mountain of boulders?

  It was too bad she’d spent most of the money Jeremiah had given her. For a little while, she’d had plenty of money. For the first time in her life, she’d been able to buy anything she wanted—an Ecclissi watch, a Fendi purse, a Ruth Norman gown. The watch cost a thousand dollars and that damn pawnbroker only gave her seventy-five.

  Now the money was almost gone. It had seemed a fortune at the time. Twenty thousand dollars. There’d been no reason to save. She had been confident he would marry her. She would have gotten round him, she was positive.

  She glanced toward the coffee table, piled high with unpaid bills and fashion magazines. The letter from Britt Barlow inviting her to Golden Silk was lying atop a copy of Elle. Kim’s lips closed into a thin tight line. The island should belong to her. She’d been certain he would marry her. If he had, she would be rich, rich, rich. Instead, Britt Barlow got the island when Cissy died. That would certainly have pissed Jeremiah. Now Britt was parceling out Jeremiah’s things. She’d treated Kim like dirt that last week. Why now would she offer Kim anything?

  Kim’s eyes narrowed. The offer was there in black and white. Kim could come and pick whatever she chose from the drawing room as a remembrance of Jeremiah.

  The letter didn’t ring true.

  She got up, began to walk up and down the shabby room. There was, certainly, no love lost between her and Britt Barlow. From what she recalled of Jeremiah’s sister-in-law, Britt was one tough cookie. Not a lady to go all soft and fuzzy. Not someone to give a bloody damn about Kim Kennedy, now or ever.

  Why did she want Kim to come to that godforsaken place?

  Kim’s eyes glowed. There had to be a reason. Britt wanted something, that was for sure. Kim twined a golden curl around one finger. Going back to Golden Silk had all the appeal of a bus ride to a pig farm. But sometimes one thing led to another. Britt was probably in contact with the Addison family. Maybe she could set it up for Kim to get a job on one of the California TV stations. And she’d damn sure hold Britt to the offer in the letter. Those silver candlesticks on the drawing room mantel had to be worth a minimum of ten thou.

  Kim laughed aloud. Something big was going to happen. She felt it in her bones.

  Everett Crenshaw marked off the January weekend on his calendar. His thin lips curled in a sardonic yet admiring smile. Since he was alone in his study—God, what a lovely, upper-class appellation and one he’d earned the damn hard way, not being brought up to riches—he could indulge himself. Ever since a long-ago editor had told him, “Everett, that cat-in-the-cream grin of yours is a tip-off even to a patsy that you’re a swine,” he’d learned to hide triumph. The better, he knew, to blindside a quarry. He’d charmed and cajoled and, when the time was ripe, cudgeled the information he needed to become a feared investigative reporter. But sometimes the stories lent themselves to discretion, which resulted in a hefty infusion into Everett’s bank account. He always enjoyed making out his income tax. Those substantial sums were easily attributed to poker wins. He had no intention of getting crossways with the Feds.

  The smile slid away as he remembered his last encounter with Jeremiah Addison. How the hell had Jeremiah learned about the Venture Inc. story? Or what should have been the Venture Inc. story, an exposé of the CFO of a shipping company who’d disguised contraband shipments to Liberia. Jeremiah had been supercilious and dismissive and, most galling, sanctimonious when everyone knew the man had the instincts and morals of a pirate. For an instant, Everett’s narrow face had a look of animal cunning, a fox with head lifted, staring at a lamb. Jeremiah had made it clear that Everett was through at Addison Media. That was Friday night. On Saturday morning no one knew about that conversation but Everett and Jeremiah, and Jeremiah was dead.

  “‘Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…’” Everett quoted softly.

  Everett laughed aloud, finished marking the calendar. He was looking forward to the weekend at Heron House. Britt Barlow had class. She definitely had class. Her letter had certainly surprised him. And amused him. Britt as Jeremiah’s avenger was ironic indeed. Deliciously ironic. Whatever happened, he was sure to win and win big. Either a carload of cash or a big story. Sure, he’d show up. Hell, why not? He had nothing to lose.

  “She just walked past again.” Barb’s hiss was right on a par with that of a perturbed cobra.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Max Darling’s good-natured tone, somewhat muffled by the magazine draped over his face, robbed the retort of offense. Max pictured his secretary lurking—perhaps it wasn’t a good thing for Barb to read the reissued Mary Stewart suspense novels—in his office doorway, her vivid imagination imbuing some apparently confused passerby on the boardwalk with who knew what romantic troubles.

  Max wasn’t tempted to lift the Sports Weekly from his face. Not that he was napping. Of course not. He was simply pondering fate. That’s what he would tell Annie should she find him supine upon his lowered office chair. Annie was the world’s best—and sexiest—wife, but she was all for encouraging work. Distracted, he envisioned the love of his life—flyaway blond hair, merry gray eyes, kissable lips. Very kissable lips. Oh yes, work. Annie believed in work. She insisted work was fun. She considered herself, as owner of the Death on Demand mystery bookstore on the idyllic sea island of Broward’s Rock, South Carolina, to be the world’s most fortunate entrepreneur. She encouraged Max to follow her example. Would she consider pondering fate to be work? He could ponder fate with the best of them. It was his duty, wasn’t it? Especially since his mother was at the moment far afield. It was clearly his responsibility to uphold the family tradition of creative—how did Laurel put it?—imaging. But no matter how creative he felt, he doubted he could—with a straight face—envision a Mary Stewart–type heroine flinging herself into his office seeking help. Although he was sure that Confidential Commissions, his very original and unusual business, would surely have appealed to such a heroine had she the good fortune to come across the ad that appeared daily in the Island Gazette:

  CONFIDENTIAL COMMISSIONS

  17 Harbor Walk

  Curious, troubled, problems?

  Ask Max.

  Call Today—321-HELP

  Excitement lifted Barb’s voice. “She’s sidling up to the window again. She’s cupped her hands to look inside. Black hair. Reminds me of an old Leslie Caron movie. Maybe thirty. Snazzy outfit. Ohmigod—” Barb went from a hiss to a yelp.

  Max lifted the tabloid high enough to see his secretary plaster herself against the wall, crane to peer out into the anteroom. Barb was an unlikely figure for melodrama—blond bouffant hair, dangling turquoise earrings, pink wool sweater encrusted with fake pearls, too-tight black slacks, four-inch stiletto heels. Red stiletto heels. Annie always said Barb would have been a natural for one of Craig Rice’s John J. Malone novels and likely would have distracted the portly detective from his bottle of rye. Max felt a stirring of concern. Obviously Barb was in need of a respite from Confidential Commissions. Maybe he should send her up the boardwalk to the bookstore. Annie could use some help unpacking boxes of new books. Barb, in fact, was losing it. Was this the natural consequence of nothing to do in the office compounded by reading thrillers? The woman at the window was probably looking inside to see if there were island maps. Clearly, she had lost her way. The likelihood that she was coming to see Max—

  “Ohmigod. She’s coming in. And you ought to see her face. She’s scared to death!” There was a rat-a-tat of heels as Barb pelted into the anteroom toward her desk.

  By the time Barb greeted their gues
t, Max was in place behind his desk, a massive Renaissance refectory table, studiously perusing a file. That the folder held only the Sports Weekly was neither here nor there. Max forgot about the upcoming Super Bowl as he stared in admiration at the woman following Barb into his office. Mmm and mmm and mmm. He was a happily married man but he wasn’t dead, and he took a moment to enjoy an intriguing face beneath a mop of wind-stirred dark curls and a lithe and extremely attractive figure. Here came a woman guaranteed to catch the eye of any man under eighty. Make that ninety.

  Max slapped shut the file, rose. It was easy to smile. He remembered Annie’s injunction to pay attention to details as did all good detectives. A stylish mass of black curls, damp from the January mist. Clear green eyes with a look of uncertainty. Fear? Yes, it could be. A high forehead, thin nose, sharp cheekbones, dark red mouth, an intelligent, arresting, unusual face. A trim five foot seven. Her pale blue cardigan, matched pearls, and swirling gray wool skirt were attractive, new, and expensive. But she carried with her into the room a tenseness that drove the smile from his face.

  Barb made the introductions. “Ms. Barlow to see you.” Barb backed toward the door, absorbing every aspect of the visitor. Barb left the door ajar just a trifle. Max knew she stood on the other side with one ear pressed to the opening, hoping, of course, for a Real Case, stolen jewels or a missing lover or menacing calls in the still of the night. He made a mental note to bring Barb the new Jan Karon book. It was time to redirect Barb’s thoughts. Father Tim was a perfect antidote for too many thrillers.

  Max came around the desk. “Hello, Ms. Barlow. I’m Max Darling.”

  “I know. I looked you up on the Net. Your Web page says you’ll find the answer to any question.” Her eyes—worried, uncertain eyes—skimmed his face, glanced swiftly about the office. The ornately carved refectory table held the single file on its shining expanse along with a studio portrait of a smiling Annie, a green-shaded brass lamp, a silver letter opener, and a crystal bowl with a mound of foil-wrapped chocolate kisses. A red leather recliner, now upright, sat behind the desk. Two petit point chairs faced the desk. A collection of putters poked out of an oversized green pottery stand. The indoor putting green—a birthday gift from Annie—was innocent of balls. There were a half dozen in the silver chest atop the bookcase against the far wall.

  His visitor’s gaze settled on him with a gravely inquiring look.

  Max folded his arms, raised an eyebrow. “Do I pass muster?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was crisp, but her gaze was forlorn. “Oh, heavens. I’m terribly confused. I’m in trouble, but I don’t know if you can help. I don’t know if anyone can help. It’s too late to change my plans. They’re all coming back to the island. I’ll have to tell you”—there was a wry pride in her voice—“how I tricked them. They’re all coming, every last one of them. They arrive Friday. But I couldn’t sleep last night. I woke up in a panic.” Her gaze was wide and staring. “How would you feel if you knew you’d invited a murderer to your home?” There was a tremor in her voice.

  For an instant, Max wondered if he’d entered an alternate universe. Or if this attractive woman was mentally disturbed. One look into steady green eyes and he knew he was dealing with intelligence, acuity, and scarcely controlled fear. “I’d be worried. What makes you think a prospective guest is a murderer?” He heard the reserve in his voice.

  She gave a short, desperate laugh. “I’m not mad. It isn’t a matter of supposition. I know one of them’s a murderer. Please, will you let me tell you?”

  Max gestured toward the nearer chair. “Of course.” He could imagine Barb’s intense excitement as she clung to the other side of the door. However, he wasn’t in the habit of believing six impossible things before breakfast. Or after. But maybe he could be of some service….

  His visitor sat, face ridged with strain, back ramrod straight, and placed her handbag in her lap, fingers tight around the strap.

  Max took the other chair, turned it to face her. They were so near, he could see the fine pencil line artfully used to enhance her truly remarkable eyes and the tiny hint of a mole at the corner of her carmine lips.

  She took a deep breath. “Mr. Darling, I’m afraid I’ve been a fool. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You have guests coming. You believe one of them is a murderer?” The words sounded absurd and unreal, but he knew this woman believed it.

  “I know one of them is a murderer.” The words were measured, implacable.

  Max reached over to his desk, picked up a legal pad and pen. “Who was killed?”

  Those shadowed eyes met his gaze. “Jeremiah Addison.” She looked at him, waited. “On Golden Silk.”

  Max felt a quiver of shock. He knew Addison’s name. Addison had died more than a year ago. Wasn’t it an accident of some sort? Some names are part of popular culture and that was true of Jeremiah Addison. His amazing wealth in newspapers, television stations, and magazines put him on a par with Ted Turner or Rupert Murdoch. And, of course, everyone along the coast was aware of Golden Silk, the private sea island owned by Addison. The interest was prompted as much by his selection of the name as the island itself. Private islands, many of them tiny and uninhabited, were not unusual. In fact, there was no firm accounting of the number of small islands along the coast of South Carolina, and a study was under way to list them all. Addison had named his island after the Golden Silk, an orb-weaving spider with a gold body and legs, which creates such a sturdy web in the woods that small birds can be trapped. Addison’s remote island with its restored plantation house and newly built cabins, each in its own cluster of pines, had been featured in a glossy architectural magazine. A diesel-powered generator provided electricity. The article’s title had been “Welcome to My Web, Said…”

  “Golden Silk now belongs to me. I’ve turned it into a resort. The house is a B&B. There are eight cabins, each one quite separate and private. I’m getting established. Lots of people want to come somewhere and be cut off from the world. We’re only forty-five minutes from the mainland, but once you arrive on the island, it’s a world unto itself. Cell phones don’t work. No fax. No contact with the outside. There’s a boat that brings everyone over on a Friday and it doesn’t come back until the following Friday. People love it.” There was a flash of pride and enthusiasm.

  “You inherited Golden Silk from Jeremiah Addison?” Max was bland, keeping disappointment out of his voice. She didn’t look like the kind of woman to be a rich man’s mistress, but there were plenty of stories like that about Addison. And she’d given her name as Ms. Barlow. Not Mrs. Addison.

  Her laughter was ragged. And unamused. “Not likely. He’d rather have seen me in hell, actually. Jeremiah and I—well, let’s say we didn’t care for each other. No, my sister Cissy was his wife. His second wife. Cissy…” There was an instant when her head bent and her lips were tight together. She took a breath, then looked at Max. “Cissy died last January. Six months after Jeremiah. The island and everything on it and a third of his entire estate came to her. And now, to me. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because Jeremiah fell down the main stairs that Saturday morning. I was up early. I heard a thump. I went out in the hall and listened. It was absolutely quiet. But I knew something was wrong. I went down the hall and that’s when I saw him at the foot of the stairs. I could see from the way he was lying that his neck was broken. It was ugly. His head was battered from the fall…. I stood there and stared. I thought about going down to be certain he was dead. But I was sure. Then I saw why he’d fallen. There was a wire across the second step. Ankle high. It ran from a baluster to a nail in the wall.” Her head lifted. Her gaze was determined. “Jeremiah had been murdered.” She folded her arms across her chest, spoke dispassionately as if describing the actions of a stranger. “I got a cloth from the nearest bath, used it to loosen the wire. I put the wire and the nail in my pocket.”

  Max wrote quickly, all the while thinking that every word had a ring of truth. Th
is was what she’d seen. This was what she’d done. His skepticism melted like snow in a hot sun. There was no disbelieving this grim recital of actions, culpable actions.

  He looked at her hard face. “Why?” She was still an attractive woman, but he saw the coldness in her eyes, the set of her jaw.

  “Cissy was sick. Terribly sick. Cancer. Treatments. She could barely cope. And now Jeremiah was dead. She adored him. His death was going to be a horrible shock. She couldn’t handle anything more. Murder?” She shook her head with finality. “You know what?” Her tone was fierce. “I’m glad I did it. Cissy grieved but she didn’t have to look at the people who were there—and she was fond of some of them—and wonder which face hid murder.”

  Max sketched a face with staring eyes. “You broke the law.”

  “Yes.” She was decisive. “That’s why I’ve come here.”

  Max’s eyebrows rose. “I can’t help you there, Ms. Barlow—”

  “Please. Call me Britt. Everyone does.” Her grave look was an appeal.

  “Britt.” He liked the sound of her name: crisp, fresh, different. “I suggest you contact an attorney.”

  “I’m not worried about that. Oh, I know.” She shrugged. “I suppose I’ll be in trouble. Maybe a lot of trouble. I guess”—her tone was thoughtful—“they could put me in jail. That doesn’t matter. What matters is finding out who killed Jeremiah. I’ve thought and thought. I could go to the police, tell them what I’ve told you. Maybe they’d listen. Maybe they wouldn’t. But what could they do?”

  Max drew a massive question mark, decorated it with handcuffs. “If your report was taken seriously, a detective would interview everyone who was on the island at the time.” But there was no physical evidence available now. Unless someone had seen something that would be meaningful once murder was suspected, the trail was cold. Still…“I recommend contacting the sheriff’s department.”