thoroughly on either side of the path. She reached the gap in the woods at the base of the Jamison garden. She could honestly report (if Billy cared) that there was nothing between Pat’s house and the Jamison garden that could have served as the backdrop of the photograph.
The scream of a leaf blower blotted out birdcalls and the rustle of tree limbs in a light breeze. Glossy magnolia leaves quivered but the only sound came from the blower. Annie heard the noise, but the screech registered only peripherally. She stared through the strands of a weeping willow at a mahogany gazebo, gleaming bright in the morning sunlight.
The reddish wood matched the color of the wood in the BlackBerry photo.
She glanced around the garden, noting a young man with the blower at work about twenty feet away near a flower bed. He carried himself with the grace of an athlete. He gave her an unhurried glance and moved the nozzle to avoid scudding dust in her direction. She nodded her thanks. In five quick strides, she reached the steps and climbed up.
Annie gave a soft whoop of triumph when she saw the interior bench. She had found the site of the photograph. In the photograph, the rich color of the wood had been clearly revealed in the glow of a pencil flash.
Her quick elation subsided. Pat had taken a photograph of what appeared to be a rolled-up towel lying on a seat within the gazebo. Billy would say, “So?” So, Annie thought grimly, Pat had died five days later and the photo could now be absolutely linked to the Jamison property. The photo had been taken shortly after midnight. She looked out into the garden, but the house was screened by a row of palmetto palms. Turning back, she saw Elaine’s cottage.
If Elaine had been up late that night, perhaps she might have seen or heard something.
The front door of the cottage opened.
Annie took a step, started to call out, then stopped.
Elaine Jamison stood on her front steps. Every line of her body was taut, strained. Even at a distance, the expression on her face was shocking, eyes wide, jaw clenched. Elaine was upset, distraught, obviously holding herself in check with a supreme effort of will. She clutched what appeared to be balled-up blue cloth tight against her chest, her left arm bent at the elbow, her fist hard against her collarbone.
Elaine’s gaze swept the garden, her face tense and fearful. Her thin features were rigid.
Annie was hidden from sight behind a column of the gazebo.
Elaine darted down the cottage steps, ran on the path toward the marsh. She rounded a pittosporum hedge and disappeared from Annie’s view.
Annie hesitated. Elaine had surveyed the yard to be sure no one was about. If that were so, she wouldn’t welcome Annie’s presence. Yet it seemed wrong to turn and walk away. Uncertain of what she should do, she crossed the yard, ending up behind a thicket of cane. She bent stalks apart.
On the bank, Elaine faced murky water and golden green cordgrass rippling in the breeze. She lowered her right arm and whirled away from the marsh. Breathing jerkily, her gaze fell to the blue cloth bunched in her left hand. She shuddered, broke into a run. She followed the path, then veered out of sight around the side of the cottage.
Annie remained behind the cane, uncomfortable in her role of unseen observer. Elaine’s actions were odd, strange, disquieting. Apparently, she had thrown something into the marsh, though she still held a bundle of blue cloth. Why had she run away?
The roar of a car motor drowned out the whine of the leaf blower. Elaine’s yellow Corolla burst from behind the cottage and disappeared in a whirl of gray dust.
Annie absently took a bite of Barb’s chocolate pudding pie, the base dark and rich, the pudding layer crunchy with pecans. But she scarcely took notice of one of her favorite desserts. “Elaine looked awful. I wish I had called out, tried to talk to her. But”—the words came slowly—“I don’t think she would have wanted me to see her like that. I keep wondering if this has any connection to Pat.”
Max’s face was carefully bland.
Annie rushed ahead. “You think I’m trying to connect everything that happens at the Jamison house to Pat.”
He was silent, but his blue eyes were understanding.
“Maybe I am.” She felt forlorn. “But I know something was seriously wrong with Elaine this morning. And”—she was emphatic though she knew the link was obscure—“that midnight photo was definitely taken in the Jamison gazebo.”
Max was patient. “I agree that Billy needs to look harder when you tell him about the gazebo. As for Elaine, maybe she quarreled with Glen. You said she was upset the other day because her nieces and nephew were angry with their dad. For all we know, Elaine and Glen had a real battle this morning. Anyway, speaking of personal information.” He picked up the printout of the Jamison file. “Here’s what I’ve rounded up. You can look it over while l finish up on Glen’s cousin.” He handed her several sheets and turned to his computer.
Annie read, her expression thoughtful.
Max finished typing and punched print. He handed another sheet to Annie.
She turned over the last of the bios about the immediate family and looked at Max’s report on Glen’s cousin:
RICHARD JAMISON
Island born, grew up in Columbia. Son of Percy Jamison, who had middling success as an artist, and Amanda Riley Jamison, a potter. Thirty-three. Single. Attended University of South Carolina for two years. Dropped out to work as a deckhand on a private yacht,
Richard’s photograph was from a news story published in the Bahamas and showed him on the deck of a sloop, longish brown hair riffled by a breeze, angular face sunburned, muscular in a tee and baggy shorts. Annie studied the picture. She had no doubt that Richard was a party boy, a good-time Charlie, footloose and ready for fun. She scanned the comments made by people Max had contacted:
