The dog lifted his head, gazed at Lou as he stood.
The officer paused. “The chief said you can come along, but stay behind me and don’t touch anything. If we find anything, I got to make sure the evidence isn’t contaminated.”
Lou spoke firmly. “Track.”
The dense-furred dog swung his head, long ears dangling, and headed for the opening in the woods. Lou picked up a backpack from the ground, shrugged into it, and followed.
Max stayed a few feet behind in the dim tunnel.
The dog broke into a lope.
“Steady,” Lou called.
The bloodhound slowed enough for the sweating men to keep up and jolted to a stop when Lou’s foot caught in a vine and he flailed into the brush. When Lou was back on his feet, wincing from thorn scratches on his right arm, he heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I thought wading around in the marsh was bad enough. I couldn’t wait to hand those waders to Hyla. This is worse.” His glance back at Max was dour. “Thanks, old buddy. Nothing I’d rather do”—he swatted ineffectually at swirls of insects—“than go head to head with mosquitoes big enough to play in the line.”
Durante pulled on the leash, snuffling, making low sounds in his throat.
As the dog set out again, the trail grew less distinct. Vines and tendrils hung from tree limbs, wavered in the dusky gloom. Masses of insects swirled until the air looked speckled. The men walked another quarter mile, then the dog swerved from the path into an area of trampled ferns.
Lou was quick. “Heel.”
The dog stopped, planted his big paws, waited.
“End of the line,” Lou announced. “She came this far, went off the path here.” He studied the crushed grasses. “Looks like she went about five feet.” He peered at the thicket.
Max’s tone was thoughtful. “If we’ve guessed right, she came all this way to get rid of a cloth. For some reason, maybe she was afraid it wouldn’t sink, she didn’t throw the cloth into the marsh. Instead, she came here and went off the path . . .” Max scanned the tangle of shrubbery and ferns and palmettos.
Lou nodded. “Let’s see if Durante can get us a little closer.” He gestured off the path. “Track, boy.”
The dog padded two feet off the path, stopped.
“She wouldn’t take a chance on throwing it. It might snag on a limb.” Lou stepped carefully. He pulled some canvas gloves from a pocket. He knelt beside Durante and began to pull aside leaves and ferns. He worked slowly, methodically. “Oh, hey.” His voice rippled with excitement. “Max, unzip the top of my backpack, get out the Nikon. I’ll hold the stalks apart and you can get some shots.”
Max found the digital camera, leaned over Lou’s shoulder.
Lou’s voice was crisp. “That brown smear looks like blood.”
In the beach parking lot, Annie paused in the shade of a magnolia. She touched a creamy- white blossom for luck and enjoyed the sweet scent. She almost turned to go back to the beach, then shook her head. Laura Jamison had no intention of revealing who or what she had seen from the upper verandah the morning of her father’s murder. Annie had a quick memory of Tuesday morning, the whine of the leaf blower, the distress so evident in Elaine Jamison’s face as she hurried out of the cottage.
Did Laura see Elaine walking toward the house during the critical time period when Glen was shot? Or did Laura see Kirk? Did she hear the shots? Two shots had been fired. No one admitted hearing them. It seemed likely the gun had been fired when the young yardman was at work, blowing needles out of the flower beds.
The yardman . . . Laura had not been the only person with a clear view of the Jamison backyard. Annie hesitated, then punched a number.
“Hey, Marian.”
“You got something?” The reporter’s husky voice quivered with eagerness.
Annie pictured Marian grabbing a notebook and pen, balancing the phone between cheek and shoulder. Marian rarely quidded without a pro quo. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Glen’s law firm had taken out key man insurance. The beneficiaries: Cleo Jamison and Kirk Brewster. We know where Cleo was Tuesday morning. It might be interesting to know where Brewster was.” If Kirk Brewster had nothing to fear, Marian’s inquiries wouldn’t cause harm and might, in fact, be helpful to him.
“Oooooh.”
Annie doubted an alligator sighting a succulent blue-winged teal would have sounded any happier.
“Got it. Tha—”
Before Marian could disconnect, Annie said swiftly, “In return. What’s the name of the yardman at the Jamisons’?” She had no doubt Marian had a concise list of everyone in the vicinity of the crime Tuesday morning.
Marian didn’t hesitate. “Darwyn Jack. He’s quite the boy. Fights off the dames. But not very hard. I’ve seen him at Beau’s Bodacious.”
Annie raised an eyebrow. The beer joint was fairly new on the island, where nightspots had a tendency to open, flourish, fail. Some neighbors complained of noise beyond the three A.M. closing time.
Marian’s laughter was hearty. “Sometimes I’m like that old Garth Brooks song ‘Friends in Low Places.’ I like to sling back a cold one and the barflies at Beau’s keep me up-to-date on island gossip that may come in handy. Some of us go after work on Fridays. I’ve seen Darwyn there.”
“Do you have a phone number?”
“Not personally.” She sounded amused. “He bunks with his grandmother Bella Mae Jack. Good woman. Hold on,
