Death at the Door Read online

  “If he’s innocent, then the mallet was deliberately used to implicate him. Let’s consider the people who lived in the house or who were in the house that Monday.” Annie held a pen above a pad.

  Frankie brushed back a tangle of chestnut curls. “Sherry Gillette’s been there for several weeks. She left a few days after Jane died. Tom never paid much attention to anything, but he said Jane didn’t like Sherry’s husband. He said Jane wanted Sherry to dump him.”

  “Is Sherry a cousin of some sort?”

  “Tom said she was the daughter of an old friend of Jane’s mother and he didn’t see why Jane cared what Sherry did but Jane always had ideas about everybody’s life.”

  Annie wondered if Tom’s attitude was affected by his own relationship with Jane, though he may have had a good point if Sherry wasn’t even related to Jane. “Where do Sherry and her husband live?”

  Frankie frowned in thought. “Some apartment house not far from Fish Haul Pier. His name’s Roger. He teaches at the high school.”

  Annie knew the big apartment complex on the other side of a wooded area from the park that faced the harbor and Fish Haul Pier. She wrote down: Sherry Gillette, Roger Gillette. Certainly if Sherry was staying at the house, her husband would likely be familiar with the house and grounds.

  “Were Sherry and Jane fond of each other?”

  “I only saw them together a few times when Toby and I were there for dinner. Jane loved to have us as an audience to talk about Tom’s work. I thought Sherry was a big soppy self-centered drip. She usually looked like she was pouting. Jane kept telling her to act like a grown-up. That always sent Sherry off in a huff.” Frankie briefly pressed her lips together. “Jane decided Sherry had to boot her husband. It didn’t matter that Sherry obviously wanted to wiggle out of everything she’d said about him. I think she showed Jane a bruise on her arm or something and said he’d been mean. Maybe it was all made up. But Jane insisted Sherry had to act. And if she didn’t, Jane was going to talk to some people on the school board ‘because that kind of man shouldn’t be around kids.’ Like Tom said, Jane was always right. You know what I mean? I got the idea Sherry showed up thinking she’d get a lot of sympathy and stay for a while in luxurious surroundings, maybe tease her husband a bit. But Jane told Sherry the guy was a jerk, drop him. Tom said Jane was always sure she knew what was best for everybody.”

  Annie wondered if Frankie knew how hostile she sounded. Perhaps she didn’t care. Certainly Jane was demonstrating care for the woman if she was trying to protect her from an abusive husband. Or was Frankie right and Jane was interfering and causing trouble?

  Frankie brushed back a strand of reddish-brown hair. “Kate Murray probably knows everything about Jane. She’s in her sixties and she’s worked for the Corley family forever. I think she’s some kind of cousin. Or maybe not. Some connection to the family, anyway.” Her face crinkled. “I don’t know exactly how to describe her. She oversees the running of the estate, though there’s a maid and cook who come and do everything. She was Jane’s personal assistant. She went most places with her, like art shows, and she was included in family gatherings.”

  Annie underlined Kate’s name. She would know exactly who was at work in the house when Jane died. If there was a gardener or yard service, she could supply that information.

  “Was Kate at the open house at the gallery?”

  “Yes.” There was no warmth in Frankie’s voice.

  Annie darted a quick glance at Frankie’s stiff face. Clearly, Frankie didn’t like Kate Murray.

  “Did Kate seem to be on good terms with Jane?”

  For an instant, humor glinted in Frankie’s blue eyes. “Kate never bothers to be on good terms with anybody. She’s a gruff old broad. She ran that house like a boot camp. Even Jane saluted when Kate came around.”

  “Who else might have been likely to drop by the house on a regular basis?”

  “David and Madeleine, I suppose. They live in the original Corley house. Jane built that big mansion when she married the golfer.”

  “Where is the original house?”

  Frankie concentrated. “David’s house is on Crescent Street. The house faces Wherry Creek. Jane’s house is a half mile away. Toby used to talk about how much money and land Jane owned.”

  Annie realized the gallery owner apparently made it his business to know all about the young painter he sponsored and the money behind him.

  “Toby said it’s all private land, the forest between the houses, pine woods with cypress and magnolias and bayberry. He said Jane built a private road called Corley Lane that connects Crescent and Berryhill. Her house is on Corley Lane about a quarter mile from Berryhill. Toby said the Corleys own all the land between Crescent and Berryhill.”

  Annie turned to her desk, pulled out a drawer for an island map. She didn’t have any trouble finding Crescent and Berryhill. The streets ran parallel from Sand Dollar Road and ended at the salt marsh. A curling loop indicated the creek that wound to the marsh. Corley Lane was a thin squiggle connecting the public streets. She remembered from garden tours that the grounds around Jane’s Mediterranean mansion were extensive. Annie drew a quick map, marked A for Jane’s house, B for Tom’s studio, and C for David and Madeleine’s home. A private road . . . Unless there were deliveries or visitors, there would have been no one to notice anyone turning into Jane’s drive. “Is there anyone other than family who might have been likely to drop in?”

  “Tom might know.” Frankie didn’t sound certain.

  Annie wondered if Tom was too self-absorbed to know or care about his wife’s family or friends. “Did you talk to Tom the day Jane was killed?”

  Frankie spoke carefully. “I talked to him on the phone.”

  “When?” Why wasn’t she more forthcoming?

  “Around two o’clock.”

  Annie marked two o’clock on her notepad. “What did you talk about?”

  Frankie’s lips parted, closed. She jammed the fingers of her small hands tightly together. “I was . . . I asked about crating some paintings.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Not anything special.”

  Annie gazed at her steadily. “I’ve heard that you and Tom were . . . more than friends.”

  If possible, Frankie looked even more forlorn. “Oh God, I knew it was wrong. He’s—he was married. I was going to leave the island. It wasn’t any good. And it was wrong.” She lifted her eyes. Her lips trembled. “I told him I wasn’t going to stay.”

  Annie looked at her and saw despair and shame and desperate unhappiness. “When did you tell him?”

  Frankie brushed away tears. “Last week.”

  Annie was silent.

  Frankie’s eyes widened. “No.” Her voice was sharp. “He wouldn’t hurt Jane. You can’t think that.”

  Annie knew she would not be alone in that thought. If the police knew Frankie was threatening to leave the island, that would only reinforce their sense that Tom had a huge motive for murder.

  She said quietly, “When did you know Jane had been killed?”

  “Tom called me that night, said it was awful, that he’d found her . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  “Where were you that day?”

  “At the gallery.”

  Annie persisted. “Were you there all day?”

  “Most of the day.”

  “Where were you between one and five?”

  Frankie’s gaze slid away. “I was out and about for a while.” A pause and she swallowed tightly. “That afternoon I went to the bank and stopped at the grocery. It was such a pretty day, I played hooky for a little while. I went to the park across from the harbor and took a walk.”

  Annie said quietly, “Did you go to Jane’s house?”

  A pulse fluttered in Frankie’s throat. “I didn’t go to the Corley house.”

  Annie lo
oked into brilliantly blue eyes holding her own in a steady gaze intended to convey honesty. Instead, that straight look reinforced her suspicion that Frankie Ford was lying. “If everyone tells the truth, we may find out what happened.”

  Frankie jumped up. “I don’t know what happened.” Her voice wobbled. “But Tom wouldn’t hurt Jane.” She turned and rushed toward the door.

  • • •

  Marian Kenyon poured ink-black coffee into a mug, handed it to Max. She flopped in an opposite chair, ripped open a sack of peanuts, poured some into her Coke, lifted the can, drank, munched. Her short black hair poked in several directions, likely from frenzied hand swipes as she typed. “What’s up?” Her tone was easy, but her dark intelligent eyes watched him intently.

  Max pulled up a wobbly wooden chair, turned it to face the stained table, straddled the seat. “Who was at the arraignment?”

  “Defense lawyer, Dinah Whittle from a criminal defense firm in Beaufort. The prosecutor.” Her lips twisted. “Our own beloved circuit solicitor Willard Posey—”

  Max kept his face blank, but Marian, too, remembered the hot August when Willard Posey, self-important and pleased, had trumpeted Max’s guilt in a murder case. Posey was always quick to think he had a foolproof case.

  “—thundered that Tom Edmonds was a danger to society, a man who crept up behind his defenseless wife, left her dying in their family room, and now had the audacity to deny guilt despite the fact that only his fingerprints were on the murder weapon and the weapon had come from Edmonds’s remote studio deep in the grounds of his wife’s estate. Moreover . . . But you get the picture, yada yada yada. Tom’s held over for trial, no bond permitted. It was short, if not sweet. I took the early ferry over to the mainland, just got back. It didn’t take long to write.” Marian screwed up her narrow face in disgust. “I think it’s hogwash. I was there yesterday when a couple of deputies picked him up at the jail en route to the mainland. He looked about as much like a murderer as my dog resembles a ballerina.” A wrinkle of her nose. “Stanley’s a Chihuahua.” She put down the can, pushed up from her slump in the chair, planted her elbows on the scarred tabletop, looked at him like a mama hawk ready to attack. “So what’s up?”

  Max tried to look the essence of cherubic innocence. “I thought you wouldn’t mind filling me in on everything you noticed Monday afternoon at the crime scene.” He never doubted that Marian picked up the scanner call for police to be dispatched to Corley Lane, possible homicide, and that Marian arrived by the time the police had piled out of a cruiser.

  The Gazette’s star reporter looked like Dorothy L contemplating a dish of sardines. “Who wants to know and why?” Her aura of fatigue was gone. Her dark eyes were bright, interested.

  “Confidential. Let’s just put it that an interested party has doubts about Tom’s guilt.”

  “Better and better. So do I. Killers don’t slink. They posture, bluff, bully, preen, charm, dismiss. They sure as hell don’t slink. Be glad to share what I know—if you’ll explain why an upstanding island citizen can’t wait to read all about it in the Gazette.”

  Max looked thoughtful. Lucy Ransome wanted to do something. Maybe he could give her that opportunity. “Okay. You first, then I’ll give you a lead to a hell of a story.”

  “Sweet it is, honeybunch.” Her grin was impish. “Been watching old Jackie Gleason reruns. I know”—her expression was suddenly poignant—“life’s always been a crock, but back then you could go see a movie and never hear the F-word and darned if the movies didn’t encourage people to be good guys. Now, hello, serial killer, everybody screws everybody, and that good horse Decent pulls up lame. Anyway, what do you want to know?”

  Max’s answer was quick. “Everything. What you picked up at the scene. What you got from Billy later.”

  4

  Annie drove with the windows down to enjoy the mild October morning. She turned off Berryhill onto Corley Lane. The blacktop wound under a canopy of interlocking live oak branches. Live oaks and pines loomed dense and impenetrable on either side of the road. It was like being in a nature preserve with nothing to block out the island sounds, insects whirring, birds twittering, the crackle of a passing deer, perhaps a wild boar.

  A sudden break in foliage marked the entrance to the grounds. Annie slowed the car to look up at a huge bronze horse. The image shifted in her mind, the horse’s lips drawn back in a snarl, an animal facing danger. Did Paul make that change as a talisman to protect Jane, the horse ready for battle?

  Annie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. She hadn’t called ahead. Perhaps she should have. But it was easy to rebuff a caller over the telephone, harder in a face-to-face encounter. At the least, she might have perhaps a few seconds longer to make her case in person than if she had called.

  Annie turned the car between stone pillars, drove up a broad paved driveway. Sunlight gilded the golden stucco, emphasized the dark red of the tiled roof. The house rose three stories, could have graced an avenue in Miami during its heyday. Utter silence enveloped the house. No cars. No one about. No lights in the tall windows. Annie found the quiet sinister, knew she was reacting to what had happened within the opulent mansion.

  She pulled into the wide paved area near a porte cochere. Silence pressed against her as she stepped out of the car. No voices, no motors, no footsteps, only birds chirping, squirrels chittering, magnolia leaves rustling. Annie had a wild sense that the enormous home was deserted, that entering would be like boarding the Mary Celeste, no one there, no one ever to be there.

  She steeled herself and started up broad, shallow front steps. Surely that sense of emptiness came from her knowledge of violent death here. Within the house, there must be movement, the clatter of steps, the whine of a vacuum. She pushed a doorbell next to a huge carved wooden front door.

  As she waited, a lean gray cat jumped up on a brick planter filled with pansies, watched her with cool golden eyes. Annie turned and reached out a friendly hand, snatched it back in time to avoid a bite.

  A voice behind her said acidly, “Doesn’t like strangers.”

  Annie faced the woman standing in the entryway, observing Annie with about as much warmth as the feline. Short-cropped, white hair framed a narrow unsmiling face with a high forehead, cold brown eyes, long thin nose, sharp chin. She was trim in a charcoal-gray-and-white-striped blouse with sleeves rolled up between elbows and wrists, light gray slacks that hung loosely on bony hips, black loafers.

  “We’ve met before, Miss Murray. I’m Annie Darling.”

  “If Jane had ordered some books”—her tone was impatient—“we’ll honor that. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m very busy. Send a letter.” She started to turn away.

  Annie’s quick temper flared. There was no need for her to be rude. “Don’t you want to know who killed Jane?”

  Kate Murray swung about. Her face hardened. “That’s an outrageous question. You run that mystery bookstore. If you think you can capitalize on Jane’s death, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  Annie felt jolted. “I’m trying to save an innocent man from a murder charge.”

  “What’s the idea? A guided tour of the murder scene, then a True Crime evening at your store?” Kate’s tone was scathing. She started to turn away.

  Annie spoke fast. “Two murders and counting, Miss Murray. Paul Martin. Jane Corley. Tom will be victim number three if he’s convicted and sentenced to death.”

  Kate slowly turned back to face Annie, her dour face taut, still, disbelieving. “Paul?”

  “Paul knew someone intended harm to Jane. He warned that person at David’s birthday party. Someone followed Paul home, shot him, set up his death to look like suicide. Lucy Ransome believes this happened. I believe Lucy. Lucy sent me.”

  Kate yanked a cell from her pocket, tapped. “Lucy, did you send that bookst
ore woman here? . . . Paul, too? . . . All right.” She ended the call, jerked her head toward the hallway. “You’d better come in.”

  • • •

  Max propped a legal pad to one side of the keyboard, glanced at his notes as he typed.

  BACKGROUND ON CORLEY HOMICIDE FROM MARIAN KENYON

  911 call from Tom Edmonds received by dispatcher 4:49 P.M. Monday, October 14. Homicide One Corley Lane. Victim identified as Jane Corley by husband Tom Edmonds who claims to have discovered body. First cruiser arrives 5:04 P.M., Officers Lou Pirelli and Hyla Harrison. Chief Cameron arrives 5:08 P.M., crime van 5:10 P.M., two additional cruisers 5:11 P.M. Officers Treadwell, Collins, Ingram, and Baker secure scene. ME Dr. T. W. Burford 5:14 P.M. confirms victim dead, prelim cause of death blunt trauma to head. Investigation begins, photos, sketches, measurements. 7 P.M. Chief Cameron speaks to press. Chief says Tom Edmonds, husband of victim, last saw her after lunch, approx. 1:15 P.M., claims he was in his studio until coming into the house and finding her body in the family room at approx. 4:47 P.M. Edmonds told police Jane intended to spend the afternoon in her office, which adjoined the family room. Present in the house that afternoon were Kate Murray, personal assistant to Jane Corley; Sherry Gillette, family friend; Gertrude Anniston, cook. Kate Murray claims she was in her upstairs office following lunch, did not come downstairs until she heard Tom’s shouts. Sherry Gillette spent the afternoon reading in her room. She, too, heard Tom call out and hurried downstairs. Cook cleaned kitchen after lunch, went out side door to drive to the grocery, returned about four, carried in groceries, made coconut cake. According to police, no one heard any unusual noise during the afternoon. Police said the walls of the house are unusually thick. Body facedown midway between pool table and French doors to terrace, head toward terrace. Struck from behind.

  Max pictured Jane’s body. Was she leading the way for a guest to depart? Or simply leaving someone behind as she walked toward the terrace? Maybe Tom asked her to come to his studio to look at a painting in progress. Maybe Kate Murray suggested a stroll in the gardens. Maybe none of the above. As for the cook, if Jane had spoken with her—but why in the family room?—Jane could have ended the conversation and turned away to go out on the terrace, assuming the cook was returning to the kitchen. He didn’t think a cook harbored murderous impulses toward her employer, but she would be vetted as well as anyone known to be present that afternoon.