Max gave the phone a thoughtful glance. Marian might be pulling his string. But she might not. He added to Elaine’s dossier:
He studied Elaine’s photo. She was fair with the same fine bone structure and elegant appearance as her brother, but the line of the jaw was stronger, the fuller lips determined, the uplifted head imperious.
He clicked several times, arranging the photos of Glen Jamison’s daughters and son in order of age. Laura Jamison didn’t resemble her father. Curly dark hair framed a rounded face with a pug nose. It was a face made for laughter, but she stared into the camera unsmiling. The photo was from a party scene on Facebook. Wearing a flowered blouse and linen slacks, she stood a little apart from a picnic on the beach. She looked discontented and very much alone in a crowd.
Max glanced at his notes, began to keyboard:
LAURA JAMISON
Older daughter of Glen and Madeleine Jamison. Grew up on the island. Excellent sailor. A top junior tennis player. Graduate of Clemson. She began her career in finance in Atlanta, lost her job during the financial downturn, no success in obtaining a new position. Returned to the island six months ago, working as a lifeguard this summer. High school tennis coach said she was a good player, could have been better, but had trouble with her temper, otherwise a good kid.
In the next photo, Glen’s younger daughter, Kit, looked a good deal like her father, fair-haired, fair-skinned, narrow face, but with an intensity of expression foreign to her father. Straight, unsmiling gaze and lips pressed firmly together suggested a humorless intensity.
KIT JAMISON
High school valedictorian. Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Carleton. Master’s degree in biology from University of Pennsylvania, began work on PhD. Last several summers worked as intern on research projects on the effect of climate change on lions. Accepted for fellowship in Kenya, but must fund her own travel. High school principal: “One of the finer intellects I’ve encountered. She is totally focused on scholarship.” Socially? Very independent. Pleasant, but distant. Not especially gregarious with her classmates.
Max reached out and picked up another dart. Bright geek and a social misfit would be his interpretation. Annie had learned that Kit was in danger of losing her chance to go to Africa. He threw the dart. This one struck at a slant and toppled to the floor. “What,” he said aloud, “does Kit Jamison’s angst have to do with Pat Merridew’s death?” He turned dutifully back to the computer. He’d promised Annie he would find out what he could about the Jamisons. He was almost there.
Sandy-haired and blue-eyed Tommy Jamison had on his game face in a football photograph, unsmiling, gaze stern, helmet in hand, down on one knee. Tommy would be a senior in the fall and on the first team. On his Facebook page, he clowned with a bunch of guys, shirttails out, baggy shorts, throwing a Frisbee. He liked sports, girls, sports, girls, sports . . . Max grinned. There was a man with his head on straight. “And about as much connection to Pat Merridew’s house as a late-night comedian.”
Max swiftly entered a bio for Tommy, then leaned back in his chair. He glanced without enthusiasm at the last page of notes and the admittedly intriguing facts he’d gleaned about Glen Jamison’s cousin Richard, who’d come for a visit and seemed settled in for the summer. Max punched his intercom. “Hey, Barb, anything tasty in your kitchen?” Since he often had little work to occupy Barb’s energies, she spent free time whipping up delectable desserts. He deserved a break.
Annie shut the front door of the police station carefully behind her. If she’d allowed herself to relieve her feelings, she would have slammed the door with a bang. She stalked down the steps and walked fast to her car. She’d left the windows down, but the seat was hot. She started the car and stared through the windshield.
The prospect should have been pleasing. The police station sat on a slight rise. Beyond the one-story white building, the harbor glittered in the June sunlight. A red-sailed catamaran skimmed along the water. The ferry slip was empty, the
And Billy Cameron wasn’t stirring from his office with windows that overlooked the sound. Annie felt the tightness in her face. Okay, she was irritated. As she had now told Billy several times, they needed to look for something unusual that had occurred in the days before Pat died. Annie felt like she’d found information that fit that criteria: Pat’s late-night meanderings and, thanks to Officer Harrison, the midnight photo on her BlackBerry.
Annie’s insistence that the BlackBerry photo was important hadn’t spurred Billy to action. Her suggestion that he survey the Jamison property and try for a match to the BlackBerry photo had brought a weary head shake. His reply had been succinct: What would that prove?
“Well”—she spoke aloud—“it would prove something peculiar was going on late at night near the Jamison house.”
She brushed aside an inner voice saying calmly,
Annie’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Wait a minute. Back up. Think. Pat had no reason to take the picture unless circumstances that night led her to believe something strange had occurred.
Think, Annie, think, she prompted herself. Was the towel itself important? Or had Pat seen someone act suspiciously? She wouldn’t risk taking a picture of a person. A flash or click might reveal her presence and certainly she had no right to be on the Jamison grounds.
Or maybe the person’s identity became important only after Pat discovered the contents of the towel, if indeed she did. But why take a picture unless something made the towel seem important to her? Whatever the contents, Pat had decided to make a record of what she’d seen.
Annie was convinced that the photo was linked to Pat’s death and that her death had to be murder because ground-up OxyContin in Irish coffee could not be accidental, and a woman planning a grand cruise to Alaska didn’t commit suicide.
Annie realized the trail was nebulous. No fingerprints on a crystal mug was a great deal less satisfactory than clearly observed prints of a suspect. A photo in a BlackBerry, even though it clearly was an anomaly, didn’t qualify as a smoking gun. Missing travel brochures were suggestive, but not conclusive.
She turned the key, made a U-turn, and drove swiftly north of town to the dusty road where Pat Merridew’s house sat silent and untenanted. She parked in the drive, skirted Pat’s house, plunged into the woods. She stepped carefully over the web of an industrious spider, spinning silky strands between the fronds of a fern. She looked
