Death at the Door (15 page)

Henny settled back comfortably in a wicker chair in the sunroom overlooking a lagoon. Pale lemon walls, thin rectangular windows, and a profusion of cut flowers looked like a design right out of
Southern Living
. The tiled table between them held iced teas and a plate of cookies.

“I knew I could count on you, Irene. Since you and Jane spent so much time together, I'm hoping you might know if she was worried about anything.”

Irene gripped her glass. “Worried?”

Henny maintained a look of hopeful inquiry, but she felt as eager as a pointer hearing a rustle in the woods. Irene was stalling for time. Irene did not want to pursue what might have been causing Jane to worry.

“I don't like to gossip.” Irene pressed her lips together. “But Jane's dead. We all have to be honest, don't we? I know she was concerned about some family matters. Tom was fooling around on her. I think everyone in town knew about Tom and Frankie. Including Jane. That's why I wasn't surprised when he was arrested. I always liked Tom.” It was as if she consigned him forever to the past tense.

Henny's smile was brilliant. “You'll be happy to know Tom's not a suspect now. I don't know when he will be released”—if ever—“but the arson of Paul Martin's house proves Tom is innocent.”

“That's good news.” Irene's tone was metallic, her eyes wary.

“Now we have to pool what we know, see if there is anything helpful we can give to the police.” Henny continued as if the question weren't loaded with danger. “Did you see Jane that day?”

“That day?”

“The day she died.”

Irene's face tightened. “Of course not.” Her voice was sharp.

Henny gestured. “You were here, I suppose?”

A pause. “I played a round of golf on my own that afternoon.”

Alone. Henny looked into steel blue eyes. “Were there many others out on the course that day?”

Irene added a teaspoon of sugar to her tea. The clink of the spoon was sharp against the glass. She shrugged. “I never pay any attention. I concentrate on my game.”

Henny looked around the expensively decorated sunroom. What she had seen of the lower floors indicated the expenditure of a great deal of money. “Your home is quite lovely and decorated in such good taste. I know Kevin must be quite proud of your choices.” Now Henny looked bland. “Very different from the home he had with his first wife.” That home had been a modest ranch style, which likely reflected a modest income. Upon his remarriage, there had apparently been enough money to buy a home in one of the island's expensive subdivisions. “Kevin might be the best placed to know if anything was troubling Jane.”

Irene gave a dry laugh. “Kevin's a man. You know how they are. You have to whack them over the head with a two-by-four to get their attention. He just dealt with Jane over business. He'd be hopeless when it comes to what women are thinking.”

“Someone saw Jane going into Kevin's office a few days before she was killed and she didn't look happy. Was Jane giving Kevin a hard time?”

Irene's face was stony. “That's nonsense. Kevin and Jane got along great.”

“So if Jane was upset recently, it had nothing to do with Kevin.”

“That's right.” Irene took a sip from her tea, carefully placed the glass on the tiled tabletop. She opened her eyes wide. “Of course, David was a trial to her, but other than family, I don't think she was worried about a thing.”

And, Henny thought, you have a gorgeous seaside lot just outside Vegas that I should buy. Irene wasn't willing to offer anything helpful. But there was one more possibility. “You were at David's birthday party. Paul Martin spoke to someone that night and the conversation must have been brief but intense.”

“I wasn't paying any particular attention to Paul.”

Henny gazed at her thoughtfully. “Did you talk to him?”

There was a tight silence. “Not that I remember.”

Henny persisted. “Did you see him talking to anyone?”

Irene shrugged. “Paul visited with that girl who's involved with Tom. But he had his back to me. Frankie kept looking past him. She was watching Jane. It looked to me like she was trying to stay as far away from Jane as possible.” A bark of laughter. “Probably a smart move. At one point Paul and David were having some kind of heavy conversation. Kevin says Paul always tried to help the family handle David, and David was sure drinking too much that night. It looked to me like David was trying to reassure him. He kept turning his hands up, like, hey, everything's cool. Later, Madeleine was hanging on to Paul Martin's arm. I felt sorry for him. I think she's neurotic. She looked like a woman ready to fall apart.” Her tone was disdainful. “I'll bet doctors get tired of high-strung women who act like they're about to flip out.” She smoothed one carefully mascaraed eyebrow. “I read that stuff in the
Gazette
. Nobody looked threatening. I think the stuff about Paul's death is a bunch of hooey. He shot himself. People do. Jane probably tackled Tom about Frankie and Tom lost his temper and took his little hammer to Jane. It's kind of like golf. No point in getting too fancy. Keep it simple. Hit the damn ball. Jane got killed because her husband had the hots for another woman.”

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.”

•   •   •

E
mma 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?”

•   •   •

S
herry 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 from 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.”