desk, Sally Sue Simpson handled society, and Tessa White was a summer J-school intern. Hoover glowered at a sports magazine. “No way McGwire goes in the Hall of Fame.” Sally Sue cooed into a phone, “We’d love to feature your garden next week, especially the sedum in the terra-cotta jar . . .” The intern, eyes gleaming with excitement, eased up from her desk, edged near enough to join Annie and Max to watch Marian.
Energy and tension radiated from Marian. Her lead hit Annie like a karate chop:
Broward’s Rock police chief, Billy Cameron, today announced that Elaine Jamison, sister of murder victim Glen Jamison, has been named a person of interest in the investigation into the shooting death that occurred at the Jamison residence Tuesday morning. Jamison, a member of a leading island family and well-known attorney, was fifty-two.
Chief Cameron announced that a Colt .45 registered to Glen Jamison is missing from a gun safe in Jamison’s study. Cameron said Jamison died as a result of gunshot wounds from a .45 pistol. According to Chief Cameron, a few days before his death Jamison announced that the key to the gun safe was missing. When and how the gun was obtained and by whom is unknown at this time, Cameron said. A search for the murder weapon continues in a marsh behind the Jamison house. Miss Jamison’s cottage is about twenty yards from the marsh. Chief Cameron said a witness observed Miss Jamison leaving her cottage shortly before ten A.M. Tuesday.
According to the police report, Glen Jamison was found dead in his study at the Jamison home at 204 Marsh Hawk Road at approximately 10:15 A.M. Tuesday. Chief Cameron said the body was discovered by Richard Jamison, cousin of the victim. Cameron said Glen Jamison was last seen alive by his daughter Kit at approximately 8:45 A.M.
Chief Cameron said Jamison’s daughters, Laura and Kit, were present in the house when his body was discovered. Jamison’s wife, Cleo, an attorney, had left the house to catch the 7:30 A.M. ferry to the mainland and was taking a deposition in Savannah when she was notified of her husband’s death. Cameron said Jamison’s son, Tommy, had spent the night with a friend and had not yet returned. Cameron said a yardman, Darwyn Jack, arrived for work in the backyard at eight A.M. Tuesday. Cameron said Jack did not see any unidentified persons in the backyard between the time he started to work and the arrival of authorities.
Glen Jamison, senior partner of Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster, customarily arrived at his office at nine A.M., firm secretary Edna Graham said. “He missed an appointment at nine-thirty. The client waited half an hour. I called his cell but didn’t get any answer.”
Richard Jamison, who discovered the body, said, “I came back from a jog. I poured a glass of Gatorade and started for the stairs. The study door was ajar. I was surprised to see the light on because Glen always left about nine to go to his office. I pushed open the door to switch off the light. I almost didn’t see him because his body was partially hidden by his desk.” Jamison declined to describe the appearance of the room.
Chief Cameron said the autopsy revealed that Jamison had been shot twice from a distance of approximately ten feet. One bullet struck the left side of his throat, right below the jaw. The second nicked the sternum and was deflected upward to lodge in his mouth. “Death would have been instantaneous from the wound in his throat,” Cameron said.
Marian paused, chewed, made a face. She pulled the chunk of bubble gum from her cheek, retrieved a wrapper from the floor, and threw the wad into a wastebasket. “My mouth feels like cotton wool,” she groused.
Annie tried not to picture the appearance of Glen Jamison’s study. If the bullet in his throat severed his carotid artery, an explosion of blood would have stained the dead man and the area around him. She concentrated on thinking about cotton wool.
Marian hunkered back over the keyboard.
Jamison’s family has a long history in the Lowcountry. His great-grandfather . . .
Marian typed fast, then her hands hovered above the keyboard as she reread the paragraph about the Jamison family. She made a last check of her notes, scanned the story from the top, then typed “30,” clicked send. She glanced at the clock. “Made it with two minutes to spare. Whew. Got a throat dry as the Sahara. Come on, you two.”
In the shabby
Max leaned against the dingy, stippled-plaster wall. “Billy ladled out a lot of information.”
“Mmmm.” Marian took another mouthful. “God designed peanuts for Coke, trust me. Yeah. I’d say the chief’s laying the groundwork for an arrest, making it clear to Elaine Jamison she’d better open up or go down.”
Annie wriggled in an uncomfortable plastic bucket chair. She tried to sound positive, but it was a struggle. “It’s a good story.” She wished she didn’t feel that every word pushed Elaine deeper into a hole.
Marian picked up on the unhappiness in Annie’s tone. Her eyes slitted open. “Don’t kill the messenger.”
Max hastened to sound positive. “You obviously asked excellent questions, Marian.”
Marian pushed to a more upright position on the sofa. “I know you guys like Elaine, but I got to tell you I don’t pick up good vibes about her at the cop shop. If you want some deep background, but don’t remember where you heard it, the skinny is that she’s clammed up, demanded a lawyer, won’t cooperate. That’s not to say the innocent don’t need legal advice, but the innocent who are trying to help cops solve a murder, especially of a nearest and dearest, don’t yell for a lawyer when they haven’t even been Mirandized.” Marian’s monkey-bright face suddenly split in a grin. “Hey, Annie, you got to save one of those cat pictures for me.”
“My pleasure. In fact you can have”—she saw Max’s reproachful glance—“whichever one you would like to have.”
“Like they used to say before it got too trite, it doesn’t get any better than the pix of that Bombay Tom, black as pitch, looking satisfied as a gambler with a royal straight, bright yellow eyes gleaming, and on the floor a broken fishbowl:
Annie was sharp. “There’s no reason to think she went up to the house. I saw her coming out of her cottage. Besides, nobody knows when Glen was shot. In your story, you wrote that he was last seen at eight forty-five by Kit and he wasn’t found until a quarter after ten. Billy needs to find out where every member of the family was during that period.” Her eyes narrowed. “How about Cleo Jamison?” She didn’t know if the question was fair. As far as she knew, no one had suggested any kind of quarrel between Glen and his second wife. But a spouse was always sure to be looked at in the event of murder.
