Max understood now. Kirk Brewster was waiting for the police. Max held up his right hand as if taking an oath. “Not guilty.” That was true. He’d come to the law office to check with Edna Graham. “I haven’t talked to Annie about Kirk.” Billy didn’t need to know the gist of his conversation with Annie and the next task on Max’s list. “Why?”
Irritation flickered in Billy’s blue eyes. “I got a call from her. She’d talked to Cleo Jamison. She’s probably quizzing the rest of the family now. Whatever. I’ve already interviewed them. She can’t do any harm. But now I find you here and I haven’t talked to Kirk Brewster. So far as I know”—his voice was sharp—“nobody’s asked either one of you to interfere in a criminal investigation.”
Max dropped his hand. “Definitely we don’t intend to interfere. We’re just talking to people informally. Speaking of”—he tried a winning smile—“you might want to ask Glen’s secretary about Richard Jamison’s visit here with Glen last week. And, yeah, since I was here, I went down the hall and tried to talk to Kirk Brewster. He wasn’t up for a chat. I’d say he’s a worried man.”
Billy’s expression was grim. “Did you ask him anything substantive?”
Max knew Billy wasn’t fooling around. It was time for him to be precise. “I asked Kirk if he was mad when Glen fired him and I asked him where he was Tuesday morning. I got a yes on the first, no answer on the second.”
Billy looked relieved. “That’s all right. And”—he cleared his throat—“we appreciate the efforts of good citizens. But”—he started up the steps, paused beside Max—“don’t screw up any evidence.”
Annie pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. A tall, slender woman with a kerchief over graying hair worked at the sink, up to her elbows in suds. Tommy Jamison stood on a kitchen ladder, reaching for china plates high on a shelf. Freshly washed plates glistened in a plastic drainer on the counter to the left of the sink.
Cleo said Tommy had stormed out of the house earlier, barefoot and shirtless. He was still barefoot, but he wore a baggy, wrinkled green polo as well as brown cotton Bermuda shorts.
Kit Jamison was on the telephone. “ . . . appreciate your call. We will welcome everyone here after the memorial service. Yes, it will be Monday. Dad would have been pleased to know you can come.” She hung up the landline. Her ascetic face drooped in sadness. She brushed back a thin strand of blond hair and pressed trembling lips tightly together.
Tommy thudded to the floor, holding a stack of saucers. He carried them to the sink, giving Annie a sharp glare in passing.
The woman murmured, “Thanks, Tommy.” She lifted a yellow-rubber-gloved hand to slip the stack into her dishpan.
Annie looked toward Kit, then up at Tommy. “I need to talk to you both. Will you step out on the porch with me?”
Kit hesitated, then shrugged. “Come on, Tommy.”
The brawny teenager followed his sister onto the porch, leaned against a pillar, big, muscular, and sullen. Kit folded bony arms and faced Annie, her face questioning. Her gaze was cold. “What do you want?”
“I want to help Elaine.”
Kit gave an angry half laugh. “I’d say you’re a little late. You didn’t do her any favors Tuesday morning.”
“I happened to be in the backyard Tuesday morning about ten. Your dad was shot at some time between eight forty-five and ten-fifteen.” Annie’s voice was sharp. “I had to tell the police what I saw.”
“Why were you spying on Elaine?” Kit’s narrow face jutted in disapproval.
“Yeah.” Tommy took a step nearer. His face was heavier, but equally hostile.
Annie watched the brother and sister carefully as she told her story of Pat Merridew, the photograph in the BlackBerry, and the crystal mug with no fingerprints.
“Wow.” Tommy, for the moment, looked neither sullen nor angry. He shoved back a thick tangle of blond curls, stared at Annie. “Hey, that’s weird. Who’d put Dad’s gun in the gazebo? If it was his gun.”
Kit, too, appeared astonished. A sudden eagerness lit her face. “That means somebody from outside shot Dad.”
Tommy swung toward his sister. “Well, duh. Did you think one of us did it?”
“Tommy, don’t be a fool.” Kit glared at him.
“Anyway, that’s why I was here Tuesday morning.” Before Kit could frown again, Annie rushed ahead. “Elaine wasn’t on the island the night Pat took that picture. I told the police that, too.” Of course, Billy had an easy answer for why Elaine’s absence that night meant nothing. “But Elaine still won’t describe what she did Tuesday morning. Please try to persuade her to talk to the police. Otherwise, I’m afraid they’ll arrest her.”
“Arrest Elaine?” Tommy looked shocked. His big hands hung loose at his sides. “That’s crazy.”
“I agree. But she won’t tell the police how she got the gun, if she did. If not, what did she throw in the marsh and why won’t she tell them? And where did she go? Please persuade her to cooperate. Or she may go to jail.”
“Oh God.” Tommy turned and thudded down the steps and hit the uneven ground, running fast down the central path.
Kit looked out into the garden at the glimpse of cottage beyond a sweep of azaleas. “Elaine said for us not to come down. But maybe she needs to know what’s going on. I’ll talk to her, too. I don’t care what the police think, Elaine would never, never hurt anyone.” She frowned with a swift, bitter intensity. “Look, on the road that runs by the cottage. There’s another car. People are awful. Driving by, coming up Elaine’s road like we were animals in a zoo. They’re the animals.”
Annie recognized Max’s dark green Jeep. It made a U-turn and was soon out of sight, dust rising behind the back bumper. He wasn’t a curiosity seeker. Max was setting out on the search she had asked him to make. “Kit, I’m sure there are things the police don’t know.” She spoke calmly, hoping to encourage Kit. “Can you tell me about Tuesday morning? Did you see your father at breakfast?”
