Death of the Party Read online

  She shook her head firmly. “Jeremiah was the intended victim.” She was confident. “I never went downstairs before he did. Cissy was too sick to walk. Her meals were brought up. Sometimes I’d help her into the wheelchair, roll her out onto the verandah. She hadn’t been down the stairs for more than a month.” A long-drawn breath. “She never went down them again. No, the murderer could count on catching Jeremiah. He jogged every morning. Rain or shine. He went downstairs for juice and he was outside as it grew light.”

  Annie knew the overcast day contributed in part to the present dimness in the hall, but the top of the stairway was likely always shadowy. “No wonder he didn’t see the wire.”

  Max too looked down as if gauging the light. “What time was it when you found him?”

  “Very early. Normally, I didn’t get up until seven, but Cissy had awakened and I was getting ready to go downstairs, fix her an omelet. I heard a noise. An odd noise. I went to see. And I found him.” Britt thumped the carved pineapple leaves decisively. “The wire wasn’t meant for me. Or Cissy.”

  Max was stubborn. “If he’d skipped his jog, you might have been the victim.”

  Her smile was grim. “He never skipped a jog. Trust me, you can start with the premise that the right man died.”

  Annie nodded. “That’s why you made the point about the front door never being locked.”

  “Yes.” The single word was emphatic. “Anyone could come into or leave this house at any hour of the day or night. It made Cissy nervous. She always wanted the door to her bedroom locked. Jeremiah said locking doors was absurd. He said we were all on the island together and he didn’t make it a practice to invite thieves or murderers. I asked him to install a lock and he refused. He did have inside bolts installed in the cabins. For privacy. But there are no locks on any outer door on Golden Silk. Anyone on the island couldhave slipped into the house that night and come up the stairs and strung that wire.” She glanced at her watch. “Jay and Dana will be here soon. There’s just enough time to show you the rest of the island….”

  A fine rain slanted across the lawn, turned the pines a dusky green, soft and smudged as a pointillist painting.

  Britt paused at the door, reached into an umbrella stand. She handed umbrellas to Annie and Max. She opened her umbrella, started down the front steps. “The employee cabins and the generator and storage sheds are that way.” She pointed west. “The guest cabins are beyond the garden, secluded in the woods.” She pointed at the sloping terraces of the garden. “The azaleas are on a par with Magnolia Plantation. The gardens aren’t as extensive, of course. But there are several acres of azaleas, camellias, roses, hibiscus, and lilies.”

  Annie imagined the gardens in springtime. The pink and rose and crimson and white and yellow blossoms would be startling in their beauty. The gardens were lovely even in January, misty in the rain with a sweet woody scent, pansies saucy in shades of pink and yellow and purple and even pumpkin orange.

  They walked down the terraced slope to a rectangular rock pool. Water tumbled from simulated falls and spouted from a stone porpoise. Dense pine woods loomed behind the fountain. Britt nodded to her left. “That path leads to a gazebo near a lagoon. I love it there. The lagoon is rimmed by huge cypress. We stay on this path to reach the cabins.” They curved around the fountain and into the woods. The path meandered through the pines. They followed it for about twenty yards to a turnaround. Britt waved her hand. “Pretend this is the hub of a wheel. The spokes are paths leading to the cabins. This path continues on through the pines to the beach. Cabin 1 is this way.” Britt turned to her left. Although the undergrowth was trimmed back, there was a feeling of being in wilderness. Dollops of rain splattered onto their umbrellas from the canopy of branches. They reached a clearing and a gray wood cabin on posts. Steps led up to a screened-in porch. The cabin might have been a thousand miles from habitation. Rain pattered in a gentle song on the wood shingles.

  Max looked at Britt. “Are all the cabins this remote?”

  Her face was in shadow beneath the umbrella. “Oh, yes.”

  Max crooked the handle of his umbrella under his arm along with his folder. He flipped open a small notebook, rapidly sketched. When he finished, he held it out for Britt to see. “Is this how the cabins are arranged?”

  Annie stepped nearer, studied Max’s map. A rectangle represented the fountain. From it, Max had drawn a meandering line to a beach. Midway he’d marked the turnaround. Eight trails radiated from that circle. At the end of each intersecting trail, he’d placed an X.

  “Yes. You can also draw an outer circle. The cabins are linked that way, too. But each cabin is totally private, a preserve of its own. ‘Come to Golden Silk and leave the world behind.’ That’s what I’m going to put on the new brochures—if I can get all of this behind me.” There was a bitter twist to her voice.

  Max looked at her thoughtfully. He flipped shut the notepad. “It’s time we talked about what you have in mind this weekend. I advised you to contact the sheriff. You wouldn’t agree. Instead, you insisted on calling together everyone who was on the island when Jeremiah died. I agreed to come only because I felt a responsibility for your safety—”

  Britt lifted a hand as if to ward off his words. “I’m not a fool. Contrary to what you may think. I can assure you I don’t intend to take any risks.”

  Max was obdurate. “You have taken a terrible risk in bringing a murderer here.” His face was grim, his voice stern.

  Annie knew that voice. She’d only heard it once or twice in their years together. Easygoing, affable, charming Max had his limits and he’d reached them.

  Britt stood still as a statue. There was only the sound of raindrops splatting gently against the cabin and the rustle of the pines, the top branches swaying. She met Max’s gaze, her own equally unyielding.

  “I came and brought my wife”—he nodded toward Annie—“because you may be in danger. You are determined to find out who killed Jeremiah Addison. You never told me how you intended to proceed. I’m warning you: Don’t challenge a murderer.”

  Britt’s lips trembled. For an instant, she swayed as if fighting a hard wind.

  Annie wanted to step forward, slip an arm around the woman’s thin shoulders. Britt had the troubled, uncertain look of an abandoned—yet angry and defiant—child. But Annie knew Max was right. They had to know what Britt had planned.

  Max was decisive. “Here’s what I suggest. Tell them you intend to turn Golden Silk into a memorial to Jeremiah. That’s what you said in some of the letters you sent, isn’t it? Introduce Annie and me as oral historians. You’ve hired us to interview each of them about Jeremiah. That gives us a reason to talk to them. We’ll take it from there.”

  Britt’s face squeezed in thought.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Max said, “that’s the only choice you have.”

  For an instant, Britt’s green eyes glinted. She stared at Max, her face rigid.

  Annie wondered if Britt and Max were going to quarrel. Max was determined to prevail. Britt bristled with anger and determination.

  Finally, Britt brushed a hand through her dark hair, slowly nodded. With obvious effort, she softened her voice. “I suppose you can tell that I like to have my own way. But I hope I’m smart enough to admit when I’m in over my head. The fact is I’ve been scared to death. Every time I thought about standing up and telling them—” A swift head shake. “Now I don’t have to do that.” She stared at him intently. “All right. We’ll do it your way. And it may be an advantage that no one will be on guard.”

  Max looked relieved. His stern look eased.

  Hesitantly, Britt held out her hand. She looked like a waif hoping for a friend.

  Max nodded and reached out to shake her hand. “We’ll find out everything we can. We’ll do it without putting anyone in danger.”

  Annie wondered if this agreement between Max and Britt was more of an armed truce than a joining of forces. There was still a cold glint in Britt’s ey
es.

  Britt gave a short nod. “You’re the boss.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back to the house. I’ll be busy this afternoon, greeting the others. I’ve arranged for Lucinda to bring lunch to your room. I thought you might want to see the guests as they arrive. I put a pair of binoculars on the wicker table on the verandah outside your room. Cocktails are at seven, dinner at seven-thirty.” She brushed past them. At the edge of the clearing, she looked back. “Please, go wherever you wish. Make yourselves at home.”

  Annie hesitated at the top of the stairs, glancing down at the baluster where the wire had been strung. She wondered if Britt Barlow felt a similar quiver of shock every time she came upstairs, reliving her gruesome discovery, or if time had diminished that image.

  Max squeezed her shoulder.

  She reached up, touched his hand. He knew. Always. That made everything better. Always.

  She took another step, grateful to reach the hallway. She was turning to the left when Max caught her arm.

  “No one’s up here. Let’s look around.” He gestured across the hall. “We’ll start with Jeremiah’s room.”

  The end bedroom was huge. An imposing sleigh bed sat against the north wall between bay windows. The burgundy spread matched the deep red of the drapes. Large windows overlooked the east verandah.

  Annie turned on the overhead light but it did little to dispel an air of gloom and disuse. “I guess she hasn’t rented this one lately.”

  Max walked alongside the bookcases that lined the interior wall. “Eclectic taste. Everything from Hawthorne to Kierkegaard. Volumes on Hearst and Bennett and Pulitzer.” He opened the wardrobe, pulled out drawers in a chest. All were empty.

  Annie stepped into the bathroom, admired the huge white claw-foot tub. “I hope our room has a tub like this. It’s big enough for both of us.”

  Max didn’t respond, a clear indication to Annie that his state of mind wasn’t normal. Usually…

  He stood in the middle of the room. “Except for the books, there’s not a scrap to tell us anything about Addison. But we know he slept here”—Max glanced toward the bed—“the night before he died. Let’s try an experiment. Go to the top of the stairs, take off your shoe and pound on the wall. Give it two quick, hard taps.”

  As she stepped into the hall, the bedroom door closed firmly behind her.

  She hurried to the staircase, slipped off a black loafer, gripped the leather toe. She pretended she held a hammer and whacked twice on the wall with the sturdy heel. There was noise but not as much as she’d expected. Besides, if she’d been the murderer, she wouldn’t have opted for a nail. A two-inch screw would work just fine. Bring along a screwdriver, fasten the screw in the wall, and leave a quarter inch exposed. Wind the wire firmly around the head of the screw, string it across the step, wind around the baluster. And presto…

  She stepped into the loafer and crossed the hall. When she opened the door, Max popped up from the bed.

  “I banged.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Not a sound.” He moved toward her. “As for the other main room, we know Cissy was medicated and Britt in her dressing room. So it was easy for the murderer to set the trap.”

  Annie explained her theory about a screw. “That wouldn’t have made very much noise. Probably the murderer waited until the middle of the night to be sure Jeremiah was asleep.”

  Max gave a last look about the room. “We need to ask Britt where she put Jeremiah’s belongings and find out whether he kept a diary or journal.”

  They stepped into the hall. Without hesitating, Max went from door to door, checking out the remaining rooms. None showed evidence of use except for the last, a small corner room with a ceiling that sloped on one side. There was just room for a single bed with a simple white cotton spread, a small chest, and a narrow table that served as a vanity. Pale pink walls, white woodwork. There was a studio portrait in an ebony frame on the table, another in a shell frame. Max crossed the room, looked at the photographs. “Cissy. And a man. His picture is signed ‘Love, Loomis.’”

  “Max, this must be Britt’s room.” Annie spoke in a warning tone, shot a worried glance behind her. “She’ll be furious.” Love, Loomis. Annie turned to catch a glimpse of the face of a man who must matter to their hostess. Dark hair, dark eyes, lips curved in an easy smile. Annie liked his face and was glad for Britt.

  Max shrugged. “She’s already furious. Didn’t you pick up on that?” He moved to a bedside table, pulled out a drawer, looked inside, closed it. It took him only a moment to circle the room, step into the closet and a small bath.

  Annie stood in the doorway. The bedroom was simple, understated, tidy, and obviously not a place where their hostess spent time. No books were stacked by the bed. An afghan was folded and resting on the seat of the rocker, the room’s only chair. “Max, what are you looking for?”

  His brows drew into a tight frown. “I’m not sure. But I want to find out more about Britt Barlow. For all I know, everything she told me is a lie.”

  “About Addison’s fall?” Annie considered the possibility.

  “About everything.” His tone was dour.

  Annie said gently, “Max, ease up. Thing about it is, she’s made you mad. But she’s upset and scared. That’s for sure. And it’s crazy to think she’d admit to being an accomplice after the fact to murder if it weren’t true.”

  Brisk footsteps sounded.

  Annie whirled to look. Someone was coming up the back stairs. “Max.” Her whisper was sharp. She gestured for him to come.

  They were in the hall, Britt’s door shut, and facing the stairs when a heavy middle-aged woman reached the top step, breathing deeply. “Those stairs are too much for a mountain goat.” She gave a quick cackle of laughter. “And nobody’d confuse me with a billy goat.” She weighed well over two hundred pounds. Her round face was cheerful, the plump cheeks reddened by exertion. A red kerchief covered thick dark curls. “Hello, hello.” She stared at them with unabashed curiosity out of inquiring blue eyes. She bustled toward them, carrying a tray.

  “Lunch for two. You’re the Darlings, right? Britt said you were in the Meadowlark Room. You’ve come too far. Here, I’ll show you. A quick left at the top of the main stairs and that’ll see you there. I’m Lucinda Phillips, cook and housekeeper.” She didn’t wait for them to reply, but plodded toward the front of the house, chattering all the while. “You’ll find a small refrigerator in the dressing area. It was put there when Mrs. Addison was sick. I’ve stocked it with water, colas, cheese. You’ll find a coffeemaker. Anytime you want a snack, you’re welcome in the kitchen. Got hot oatmeal raisin cookies with cranberries today. Everybody gets treated like family. There’s an assortment of snacks in the cabins. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, dinner at seven-thirty in the dining room, buffet style. Cocktails at seven in the drawing room.” She propped the tray on her hip as she opened the door to the Meadowlark Room, held it for them to enter.

  The room was serene, the walls pale blue, the woodwork ivory. Ornate gilt patterns decorated the French Empire furniture. Peacock blue upholstery looked bright and new on the sofa and chairs. A fire crackled in the grate. A chaise longue faced the fireplace. Annie was enchanted.

  Lucinda moved past them, took the tray to a round table overlooking the verandah. It was set with bright yellow pottery. “Crab salad. Corn fritters. Ambrosia. Iced tea. Anything else you want, come down and tell me. I’ll leave the tray and you can clear up and set it in the hall. Harry will attend to it later.” She lumbered toward the door. “Enjoy your lunch,” and she was gone.

  Annie was first to the table. “Mmm, everything looks wonderful.”

  Max joined her. He propped open his small notebook next to his plate.

  Annie ate a fritter first. “They’re as good as Ben’s!” Annie could give no higher praise. Her heart belonged to Parotti’s, the down-home combination café and bait shop on Broward’s Rock. “Don’t you agree?”

  Max speared a fritter, to
ok a bite. “Yeah. Really good.” He didn’t look up from his study of the map he’d drawn of the cabins.

  Annie found the salad delectable and the iced tea refreshing. Only in the South was iced tea a year-round beverage. She felt comfortable and cosseted. She admired the freshness of the blue walls and wondered if they had been painted recently. Or had Britt fixed the room this way for her ailing sister, trying to create cool and comforting surroundings? A door was open to a small adjoining room. That must be where Britt had slept.

  Max flipped to a fresh page. As he ate, he made several sketches. He paused, thought, wrote rapidly.

  “Scene of the crime?” Annie looked at him inquiringly. She finished the salad, was unable to resist a second fritter.

  He turned the notebook, pushed it toward her.

  Annie looked at a sketch of the house, the bedrooms labeled with the names of occupants. He’d also sketched the staircase, the wire at the top, a stick figure lying near the base. “The more I think about it, the more reckless it seems. There’s absolutely no guarantee Jeremiah would be the victim.” He held up a hand when Annie started to interrupt. “I know. Britt says he was always first downstairs. But how could that have been common knowledge?”

  “That’s easy.” Annie sipped her tea. “I’ll bet jogging came up at dinner the night before and he told everyone that’s how he started the day. When we talk to people, we can find out.”

  Max looked skeptical. “Okay, let’s say everyone knew he jogged early. That aside, consider the distance from the cabins to the house. How could anyone hope to get to the main trail, reach the garden, cross all those terraces, get into the house, creep up the stairs, set the trap, and get all the way back to a cabin without being seen by someone?”

  “Who’s up in the middle of the night? I don’t think it was such a gamble. If I were going to do it, I’d slip out about two in the morning. And if the murderer had run into anyone, he’d have changed his plans. But he didn’t.” Annie considered a third fritter, reluctantly refrained. A wonderful lunch. But they hadn’t come to Golden Silk for pleasure. She had a sense of time rushing ahead and danger coming.