No travel brochures.
Annie was emphatic. “They should be here. She’d have no reason to hide them.”
“We’ll continue to look.” Hyla sounded patient.
At the end of a half hour, they stood again in the small living room. Hyla shook her head.
Annie pointed at the coffee table. “Like I told Billy, I think someone else was here Friday night. Pat used her crystal for a guest, made her favorite specialty coffee drink. Pat handed the brochures to her visitor. Later, when Pat was dying, the murderer took the brochures away because the brochures held fingerprints.”
Hyla Harrison looked at the empty chairs and the coffee table. “I don’t know about that. I know there aren’t any brochures in this house.” Her glance at Annie was commiserating. “I get where you’re coming from. But it’s awfully hard to prove anything with nothing.” She peeled off the gloves and started to turn toward the door then stopped. “I wonder . . .” She pulled the gloves back on and walked to the purse. Again she used the pincer, this time to retrieve the phone. She glanced at it in mild surprise. “I’d have thought the chief would have already retrieved it. Pirelli probably checked it out, didn’t see any unusual calls or messages.” Hyla held it carefully at the edges, opened it, tapped her finger. “No recent text messages.” She moved her finger again. “Got some pix.” She looked at the images. “Nice one of the raven. Guess she wanted to show somebody that the place where she worked had this molty-looking bird on a shelf.”
Annie was touched that Pat had taken a photo at the store.
Abruptly, Hyla frowned. “Odd one here.”
Annie moved to look over her thin shoulder. In a small circle of light bounded by darkness, a lumpy towel lay on wood. “A wooden bench?”
“Maybe.” Hyla looked intent. “Taken at night obviously.” She moved her thumb; the photo was followed by six more in quick succession. Several featured the dachshund. All were straightforward photographs of people or places. “There’s only the one of the towel.” Hyla returned to the photograph. She tapped Properties. “Taken at twelve-oh-nine A.M. June thirteenth. I’d guess Pirelli didn’t know the time might matter.”
Annie was excited. “Pat took the picture late at night in the dark. It was late at night when she walked through the woods to the Jamison house.” Quickly Annie described her conclusions about Pat’s late-night excursions.
“I get you. Of course, Pirelli didn’t know all that when he checked the phone.” Hyla was calm. “However, there’s no proof this picture was taken anywhere near the Jamison house. Or that the pix has anything to do with Merridew dying five days later. But”—she reached for a plastic bag in the tech case, dropped the BlackBerry inside, made a notation—“it sure isn’t your everyday photo.”
Chapter Six
Max fluffed red feathers on the end of the steel-tipped dart, raised his arm, threw. The dart quivered triumphantly in the center of the bull’s-eye. His gaze dropped to his desk and a welter of papers, then swung to Annie’s picture. “Sometimes you have to accept reality.” He spoke conversationally, then his mouth spread in a wide grin. So, hey, Annie was fixated on a death that couldn’t be proved to be murder or suicide or an accident. “Look, honey”—his tone was eminently reasonable—“Billy left the file open. That’s an accomplishment. Pat’s death will never officially be listed as suicide. Maybe you should settle for that.” His eyes dropped to the papers. “Trying to connect the people who live in the Jamison house with Pat’s death is like grabbing at no- see-’ums with your bare hands.”
Max settled in his red leather desk chair. He had assembled the bare bones of lives, easily scoured from the Internet and from strategically placed phone calls. More important, perhaps, was an emerging sense of personalities, the attitudes and enthusiasms of six people who shared a name. He turned to the computer and opened the newly created Jamison file, which contained photos obtained online from the Web, the
GLEN JAMISON
Member of a leading island family. Parents Woodman and Caroline Jamison. One sister, Elaine. Father died after a stroke, mother died of complications of diabetes. Attended island schools. Graduate of The Citadel. Law degree from the University of South Carolina. Middle of his class. Married Madeleine Barrett upon graduation. Three children, Laura G., 24; Katherine L., 23; and Thomas A., 17. Madeleine died six years ago. Last year he married Cleo J. Baker, partner in the firm. Glen is patrician in appearance, narrow aristocratic face, blond hair, blue-eyed. Tall, slender, graceful. Serves on the boards of many island charities. Republican. Good golfer, mediocre tennis player. Temperate in his approach to life, pleasant, undemanding though fairly feudal in expecting deference because he is a Jamison. The Jamisons have always been among the island elite.
Max spared one longing glance toward his indoor golf green, then focused on his task. He had called people who knew Glen on the pretext of gathering information for a profile for a Good Neighbor Award. The award had been handily created by Max for a nonexistent Atlanta-based foundation. He glanced at his notes, added the comments his questions had elicited:
In the photograph, Glen looked distinguished but there was a hint of weakness in his mouth. In fact, he appeared to be what he was, a nice man with a mild, possibly malleable personality, but a man who was generally liked and respected. Max concluded:
CLEO BAKER JAMISON
Grew up in Hardeeville. Only child. Parents died young, mother of cancer, father in trucking accident. Attended Clemson on a scholarship. Majored in political science, minored in French. Phi Beta Kappa. Beauty queen. Class president. Used student loans to attend law school. Graduated third in her class. Came to Broward’s Rock three years ago and joined Glen Jamison’s law firm. Became a partner in one year. Married Glen Jamison last year.
Max used the ploy of writing a feature on success under thirty for an online magazine, promising anonymity to
