Annie finished reading and placed the sheets on his desk. “Nothing about Pat.” It was not a complaint. It was an acceptance of fact.
Max pushed back his chair and came around the desk to place his hand gently beneath her chin. “We’ve done everything anyone could do.”
She looked up into dark blue eyes that told her he was sorry, that he admired her for keeping on, that it was time to admit defeat.
His hand rose, touched her cheek. “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” His tone was warm. He glanced at the clock. “It’s twenty to eleven. I have to be here at twelve-thirty. Edna Graham’s bringing some watercolors over on her lunch hour. I’ll buy one because that was my excuse for contacting her. But you and I have time to go home”—his eyes gleamed—“and—”
The phone rang.
Max turned to his desk, glanced at the caller ID. “Edna Graham. What are the odds she’s canceling? I knew my good efforts would be rewarded.” He grabbed the phone. “Max Darling.” Abruptly his easy expression faded. His brows drew down. His face was grim. He held the receiver away from his ear.
Annie heard the sound of an agitated voice. She popped up and leaned across Max’s desk to punch the speakerphone button.
“ . . . so terrible.” Edna Graham’s voice wobbled. “I was able to contact Mrs. Jamison. She’s in Savannah. She was taking a deposition. It was horrible to tell her that kind of news over the phone. They said Glen was murdered, that he was shot several times. I promised her I’d go out to the house and talk to the police, do what I can to help. Apparently he was killed sometime this morning. She’s started home, but it’s an hour’s drive and then she has to catch the ferry. I’m on my way and I remembered I’d promised to come by your office. I can’t come now.”
The connection ended.
Max replaced the receiver. He turned to Annie. “Glen Jamison’s been shot. His body was found by his cousin Richard.”
Annie sank down on the chair by Max’s desk. She felt as if the floor were rocking beneath her feet. “When was he killed?” It was an effort to squeeze the words from a throat tight with shock.
“I don’t know.” Max pushed up from his chair. “Come on, Annie.”
Slowly she came to her feet.
Max moved around the desk, slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You have to tell Billy what you saw this morning.”
She wanted to object, insist that Elaine Jamison’s stricken face and desperate dart to the marsh had nothing to do with her brother’s murder.
Max spoke quietly, but firmly. “If Elaine is innocent, she has nothing to fear.”
Three police cars, the forensic van, an ambulance, and Billy Cameron’s faded green Pontiac filled the Jamison drive. Marian Kenyon’s battered old tan Beetle was parked out of the way beneath a magnolia. Across the street, the lane was blocked by a bucket truck. A telephone lineman peered down, watching the arrivals.
Annie pulled in at the curb, stopping short of the drive. An old sedan drew up behind her and Doc Burford, the island medical examiner, slammed out of the car, carrying a black bag. His square, blunt face was dark with a scowl. Doc Burford hated death and most of all he hated untimely death. He moved like a charging bull, heavy shoulders hunched.
Once out of the car, Annie clutched Max’s arm. Glen’s death hadn’t seemed real. Now that she saw Doc Burford, the reality made her feel sick. She stared at the house. It didn’t seem appropriate to go to the front door and ring the bell.
Max gestured toward the backyard as Doc Burford swung around the corner of the house, out of sight. “We’ll find Billy if we follow Doc.”
At the end of the walk, they turned the corner and came face-to-face with Hyla Harrison.
Officer Harrison, her thin face set and intent, held up a hand. “Crime scene. No admittance.”
Annie looked beyond her at the police, who were gathered in a semicircle on the verandah, and Doc Burford stepping inside an open French window. A few feet from the terrace, Marian Kenyon, Leica hanging from a neck strap, wrote furiously, then craned to see inside the open door.
Annie wished she could turn and walk away. In her heart, she didn’t believe Elaine Jamison had any connection to her brother’s death. Edna Graham said Glen had been shot several times, that he had been murdered. Of course, that was not official. Possibly Edna had misunderstood. With sudden death from a gunshot, there was always the possibility of suicide. Suicide. That had been the initial judgment after Pat Merridew died from an overdose. Pat dead . . . Glen dead . . .
“Please move on. Crime scene.” Officer Harrison’s voice was sharp. “No loitering.”
Max spoke firmly. “Annie may have information Chief Cameron will want to receive.”
Officer Harrison gave Annie a searching glance. “This way.” Her tone was brusque.
Chapter Seven
