From behind the cash desk, Ingrid observed drily, “Such a dear little instinct to kill. Happily, this morning Agatha’s whopping a plastic ball and not your ankle.”
Annie’s glance was reproachful. “Agatha never means to hurt me.”
A muffled thump sounded and Annie’s head swung toward the coffee bar.
Ingrid grinned. “The good news is that it’s nothing breakable. The bad news is—depending upon your perspective—Agatha’s probably dumped Laurel’s latest offerings.” At Annie’s anguished look, she said reasonably, “It isn’t in my job description to tell my boss’s mother-in-law to take her posters and”—Ingrid paused for effect —“carry them elsewhere on a sunny summer morning.”
Annie was already on her way down the central aisle. She skidded to a stop by the coffee bar. Posters slewed out of a portfolio onto the heart-pine floor.
Agatha stood on the counter, staring down with an interested expression.
Annie couldn’t help but laugh. A photograph of her elegant, silky-furred black cat with her attitude of inquiry would have served as a great Cat Truth poster:
Annie looked around the coffee bar. Several blank spots on the walls indicated posters that had been sold, but there wasn’t room for all of the new batch. However, she would hang them somewhere. As she gathered them up, she scanned each poster, admiring the subjects, then paused to look at a silvery Chartreux in an attitude of attack, ears flattened, golden eyes glittering. Behind her, only the tip of a tail exposed, another Chartreux huddled beneath a shawl:
Annie stacked the posters, slipped them into the portfolio, and faced another truth: Elaine Jamison was protecting herself or someone she loved. Accessory after the fact. Accessory to whom?
Annie leaned the portfolio against the wall by the fireplace. Elaine would want to keep safe her nieces and nephew, but she surely would not protect her brother’s murderer. No, the greater likelihood was that some piece of evidence in the study pointed toward one of the family and Elaine was trying to shield an innocent person from the police. Perhaps one of the children had come to her with the Colt, upset and panicked, but claimed to be innocent. Elaine might very well decide the best solution would be to get rid of the gun. Surely that was the case. But no matter if Elaine was hiding information for what she felt to be a good reason, she was, in fact, hiding information, and that made her an accessory after the fact.
Elaine would protect Laura, Kit, and Tommy Jamison.
Annie’s information about Pat Merridew and the photo in the gazebo must have been a great shock to Elaine. If Annie was right and the towel held the gun, Glen’s murder had been planned well in advance. That would explain Elaine’s reluctance to believe the towel photographed by Pat had any connection to Glen’s murder.
In any event, Annie had done all she could do. She needed to order some petits fours for Kathryn Wall’s signing next week. Lemonade would be tasty, too.
The front doorbell sang.
Annie continued on her way to the storeroom. Ingrid didn’t need help at the cash desk. The day was warm and sunny. Customers would drop in after a day at the beach or on the water. As she reached for the knob to the storeroom door, loud and purposeful steps thudded in the central aisle. Annie didn’t believe in portents, but there was something ominous in the sound. She turned.
Officer Harrison strode toward Annie. The officer’s somber face and her crisp, almost military progress, shouted that this was an official visit.
A half-dozen police cars and two unmarked Ford sedans lined the Jamison driveway. Officer Harrison parked expertly. “Here we are.”
Annie climbed out of the car, looked inquiringly at the angular, serious-faced officer.
“The chief wants everybody to wait on the terrace.” Officer Harrison gestured toward the group standing on the flagstones behind the Jamison house.
Annie followed her across the uneven ground, but stumbled to a stop when she saw Darwyn Jack’s body sprawled facedown at the foot of the gazebo steps. She folded her arms tight across her chest.
Uniformed officers moved unhurriedly, each with a specific task. Investigation at a crime scene followed protocol. First the M.E. must arrive and certify that the presumed victim was dead. Only then could the body be touched and identified and the investigation begun. Who was the victim? When did the crime occur? Were there witnesses? What was the manner of death? Was there a weapon? What physical evidence was available at the scene? The body would remain unmoved until the surroundings had been carefully screened and evidence, if found, cataloged.
Hyla looked back, made an impatient gesture.
Numbly Annie moved forward, still gazing at that scene of desolate finality. Yesterday Darwyn Jack had been superbly alive with the animal magnetism of a young athlete. Now a flaccid shell remained.
Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered from stakes driven in a rectangle that included the gazebo. A man in a Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office uniform spoke into a camcorder as he walked the perimeter of the marked-off area. Officer Coley Benson stood near the steps to the gazebo. His eyes surveyed the ground, then dropped to a pad as he made notes. Annie noticed several other unfamiliar faces and knew Billy had called for assistance from the mainland.
Billy Cameron, former chief Frank Saulter, and the medical examiner stood near the crime-scene van. The side doors were open. Mavis Cameron was bent over an open carrying case. Billy’s gaze was intent as he listened to the M.E. Sunlight glinting on his shaggy gray hair, Doc Burford made a chopping motion with his right hand. Frank turned one hand at an oblique angle. Billy Cameron nodded.
Marian Kenyon stood next to the fluttering yellow tape. She looked intent and determined, pad in one hand, pen in the other. The reporter craned to hear the low voices of the investigating officers.
Hyla Harrison said, kindly enough, to Annie, “It’s better on the terrace.”
The body would not be visible behind the row of palmetto palms.
Hyla led Annie to a group standing beneath the spreading limbs of a century-old live oak. Silvery-gray tangles of
