Dead By Midnight

those with whom he spoke about Cleo.

“A pleasure to work with her on a project. You knew you had an A+ in the can.” “Smart, ruthless, but she can turn on the charm.” “She’s a law bitch if there ever was one.” “Never turn your back on Cleo. She’ll smile and always cheat just a little bit.” “Nobody works harder or smarter. She’s lucky but she makes her own luck.” “She picked guys from upper-crust families, then loved ’em and left ’em. I wasn’t surprised she married a geezer from an old South Carolina family. If you aren’t an aristocrat, the next best thing is to marry one.”

Cleo’s photo was striking, a brunette with reddish highlights, confident brown eyes, magnolia-creamy skin, a winner-take-all expression. Coral lips curved in a smile with a hint of triumph. Cleo was a good-looking woman well aware of her attractiveness. She was smart, hardworking, willing to wield power, definitely not passive like her husband. If Annie was right and a Jamison killed Pat, Cleo was a possibility. She was clearly strong-willed and not overburdened with scruples. It seemed likely Cleo had arranged Pat’s dismissal, but that didn’t seem a lead-in to murder.

From Cleo Jamison to her sister-in-law, Elaine, was a study in contrasts. Max scanned an article that had appeared in the church newspaper about Elaine Jamison and extracted several facts:

ELAINE JAMISON

Graduate of Clemson, degree in marketing. Worked in fashion design in Atlanta until she came back to the island after her sister-in-law’s death. She ran the household and took care of her nieces and nephew. She was active at their schools, took them to sports practices, planned parties, hosted sleepovers. She taught Sunday school and was a past president of the Episcopal Church Women. Member of the Friends of the Library. Volunteer at the island charity store. After Laura and Kit left for college, Elaine started working part-time at an island dress shop. Graceful, charming, responsive, devoted to her family.

Max felt a dim tingle of memory. Hadn’t Elaine been in the news for something? Not a story he’d followed, but something . . . He reached for the phone.

“Coffee?” Billy Cameron looked at Annie.

Annie shook her head, dropped into a chair in the snack room that opened off the main hall at the police station. Wanted posters filled one bulletin board. Island maps were mounted on another wall. Three windows overlooked the picnic area that fronted on the harbor.

Billy settled on one side of the table with a chipped ceramic mug.

Annie carefully kept herself from shuddering as he stirred nondairy creamer into his coffee.

The BlackBerry lay on the table, the late-night photo on the screen.

Annie pointed at the picture. “Pat Merridew started going out late at night in the week or so before she was murdered—”

“Before she died.”

Her stare met his.

Billy’s didn’t yield.

Annie took a deep breath. “She started going out late at night—”

“After she was fired,” Billy interjected.

“—and then she died from an overdose of an opiate. That photograph was taken late at night. Maybe this is what Pat saw that caused her death.”

She didn’t say murder, so this time Billy let her statement ride.

She leaned forward. “We need to find out where this picture was taken.”

Billy looked again at the photograph. “A bunched-up towel on a wooden bench doesn’t give us much to go on.” He lifted his mug, drank coffee. “I’ll add the BlackBerry to the file.”

“Yo, Max. You got an antidote for boredom?” The Island Gazette’s chief (and almost only) reporter, Marian Kenyon, was always brusque.

Max pictured her with the receiver cradled between ear and shoulder, eyes skipping in discontent around the newsroom.

She caroled, “You know what the big story is today? An alligator that ticks. Honest to God. They think he swallowed an alarm clock. I want to meet the fool that got close enough to hear the tick. Where do you suppose the creature found an old-fashioned, windup clock in a swamp? Hey, maybe it’s a bomb?” She sounded brighter. “Maybe something will pop today.”

Max grinned. “That’s more exciting than my day.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s only a quarter after nine.” He preferred amorous late nights and sleepy slow mornings, but his significant other embraced vigor and early rising. Vigor, properly directed, was fine. Early rising . . . “There’s plenty of time for you to get a good story. While you’re resting your creative juices, will you fill me in on Elaine Jamison? Annie wants to host a b-day fling for Elaine.” He had discovered Elaine’s birthday was next week and he had no doubt Annie would welcome the idea of a party. “Annie thinks I can always get the goods on everybody. She’s put me in charge of rounding up tidbits for a toast. Can you help out?”

“Steel sheathed in charm, that’s my take.” Marian was admiring. “Did you keep up with the blow-by-blow in the school-board election a couple of years ago?”

Neurons clicked. Max remembered a series of stories about packed meetings when the chairman of the board proposed barring several award-winning books from the middle school library.

Marian’s tone was admiring. “She ran for a seat, won, and no books were banned. She was a Southern lady to the hilt, but the iron will was on display. The campaign got pretty nasty. She never stopped smiling and never raised her voice. Now, Max, level with me. What’s behind your innocent curiosity about Elaine Jamison?”

“You wrong me, Marian,” he said lightly. “I’m just giving Annie a hand.”

“Oh, sure.” Her disbelief was patent. “Tell you what, when you decide to come clean, maybe I’ll share an interesting tidbit about Elaine.” The connection ended.