Several clicks later, Annie spoke. “Billy, Annie.” She made her report crisp and brief. “Tuesday morning Laura Jamison was sitting on the upper verandah. I think she saw someone in the garden, possibly Kirk Brewster. Darwyn Jack hinted that he saw someone, then backtracked, insisted he hadn’t seen anyone. Kit Jamison’s convinced Richard was hot for Cleo and vice versa. Richard denies it.” Her face wrinkled. “He sounded sincere.” She hoped this last didn’t brand her as naive. Certainly anyone who committed murder would present themselves in the best possible light. “Anyway, maybe some of this will be helpful. You’ll be glad to know I am returning to full-time bookselling. I’m sure Elaine Jamison is innocent, but she’s made it absolutely clear she doesn’t want any help.”
Annie dropped the cell in her pocket. It was time to make good on her pledge to be a full-time bookseller. She shivered as she stepped back inside Death on Demand. The chill did not come from the air-conditioning, usually so welcome after the sun-drenched boardwalk. She carried with her Elaine’s despair and unhappiness and unequivocal rejection.
Ingrid lifted a book from the romantic suspense shelves as she spoke to a middle-aged man with sandy hair. “That’s tough that she stepped on a horseshoe crab. She’ll feel better soon. Some Mary Stewart books will definitely please her. Here’s one of my favorites,
Annie slipped past Ingrid and the kindly husband. The bookstore was fairly quiet as early evening approached. She would check her e-mails and go home. As ever, her heart gave a happy leap. Home meant Max. They would share what they’d discovered today, make sure Billy knew everything. Maybe they’d helped. Maybe not. In any event, Elaine’s opposition seemed insurmountable. They had done all they could—or should—do.
Annie was almost to her office when she glimpsed a Cat Truth poster: a cinnamon-apricot Oriental Shorthair, a striking Siamese with no pointing, green eyes huge in a big-eared triangular face, back arched in a crouch, poised to spring, mouth agape in a hiss:
Annie cut generous wedges of key lime pie. She carried dessert plates to the kitchen table.
Dorothy L, their fluffy white cat who adored Max, lay on the counter by the phone, watching them with hope in her green eyes.
Annie put down the plates, reached out to stroke the cat.
Max lifted the silver carafe. “More coffee?”
“Lots more.” She slid into her place. “And”—her tone was considering—“I think I’ll add some cinnamon and cream and a dash of chocolate syrup.” She popped up and retrieved a jar of clotted cream and the Hershey’s syrup from the refrigerator.
Max evinced shock. “Are you really going to pair the best pie a man can make with coffee that would stagger a horse-size sweet tooth? You definitely have eclectic taste.”
She bent as she passed to kiss the back of his neck, then settled at the table with a smile. “What a nice way to say you deplore my dessert creativity.” She plopped a tablespoon of the yellowish cream into her coffee cup, added a spurt of syrup, looked thoughtfully at the cup, repeated the procedures. She stirred, sipped. “Heavenly.”
Max looked at her for a moment, murmured, “Be right back.” He returned from the living room carrying a Cat Truth poster. A curly-whiskered American Wirehair, dark tabby markings accented by white, turned its broad face, the tip of the tongue protruding, to study a lifted paw:
“Tiptoeing through mashed squirrel, no doubt,” Annie said equably. “Don’t knock it till you—”
The phone rang.
Dorothy L bolted from the countertop with a look of outrage.
Annie hurried to answer. She checked the caller ID. “It’s Billy.” She punched the speakerphone.
Max was beside her. He held up his hand, mouthed, “Let me talk to him.”
Annie shrugged. Max had a point. Possibly Billy was more than a little weary of her helpful calls.
“Hey, Billy. Thanks for calling.” Max reached down for Dorothy L, restored her to the counter. “Any news on the shirt?”
“Blood type matches Glen Jamison’s. We don’t know yet who the shirt belongs to.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, Max, that was good work to call us from the preserve so we could make the search. The chain of evidence wasn’t compromised. And you can tell Annie I’ll check out her suggestions.”
Annie spoke up brightly. “I’m here, Billy.”
“Hey, Annie. Thanks for the tip about Laura. What happened in the backyard is critical. The telephone lineman had a clear view of the Jamison front porch from eight o’clock until the cruisers arrived around ten-nineteen. He didn’t see anyone go inside. Or come out.”
Annie understood the import of Billy’s calm pronouncement. If no one entered the Jamison house from the front, the murderer either came from inside or across the backyard. “And Darwyn?”
“He sang a different tune when Lou talked to him.” Billy sounded wry. “He claims he didn’t see anybody, anywhere, no way.”
“Darwyn said he didn’t like the police.” She paused, tried to bring back the uneasiness she felt when speaking with the Jamisons’ yardman. “It was like he was laughing at me, at the police. But there was something about the look on his face that scared me. I think he saw something that he thinks might be connected to the murder.”
“He’s a smart-ass. That doesn’t mean he knows anything. He’d get a kick out of stringing us along. I’ll try again tomorrow, but I doubt I’ll get anything from him. I’ll warn him, make it clear he doesn’t want to kick sand in a killer’s face.”
Chapter Eleven
Agatha’s swift black paw clipped a small, hollow plastic bounce ball that contained a bell. A tiny jingle sounded as the pink ball caromed down the center aisle. Agatha bounded after her prey.
