Dead By Midnight

what happened.” She pushed back a strand of blond hair, stared with a pinched and desperate face. “I didn’t shoot Glen. I didn’t see anyone on my way to the house or on my return. But I didn’t know what to do. I went in the cottage. I ran to the phone. But I was afraid.”

“You didn’t call.” The police chief’s tone was considering.

Her thin face rigid, she answered in a small voice. “I knew I’d messed up any fingerprints on the gun. In fact, I wiped it off with the shirt and then I wrapped it up and carried it to the marsh and threw it away.”

“Ms. Jamison, I am taking you to the police station for further questioning. You have the right to speak to an attorney. Anything you say may . . .”

Chapter Twelve

As the police car carrying Elaine Jamison disappeared around a curve, Cleo gripped Richard’s arm. “I can’t believe Elaine would hurt Glen.” She looked upset, verging on tears.

Richard’s face was taut. “No family ever expects murder. But it seems pretty clear that Glen was shot by someone he knew.”

Her plain face outraged, Kit Jamison glared at him. “Not by Elaine.” Without another word, she turned and ran for the house. She slammed inside.

Laura looked bewildered and scared. Tommy appeared utterly miserable. He turned toward Laura, then stopped and shook his head.

In a moment, Kit was back on the verandah, a purse clutched in one hand, car keys in the other. She called to her sister and brother, “Come on, we’re going to the police station.”

The sisters and brother moved toward the driveway.

Annie hurried after them. As Kit opened the door to a faded VW Beetle, Annie said quickly, “Elaine needs a top lawyer. Call Handler Jones in Savannah.”

“Handler Jones.” Kit repeated the name as she turned the ignition. Laura slid in the front passenger seat. Tommy climbed into the backseat, looking big and burly in the confines of the small car.

By the time Annie turned to look toward the terrace, the back door was closing. Cleo and Richard had returned to the house.

She pulled out her cell phone as she walked to her car. “Max . . .”

Dishes clattered and voices rumbled, almost drowning out “That Old Black Magic.” As always in the summer, Parotti’s was booming with business. The hubbub made conversation private.

Annie poked a succulent, hot french fry into ketchup she’d laced with fresh black pepper. “ . . . but, Max”—her voice was forlorn, the french fry cooling in her grasp—“I think Elaine made it up as she went along, about the polo shirt and what she did.”

Max squeezed lemon on grilled flounder. “Why?”

“She talked too fast. It was like she was thinking as she went, trying to come up with a rationale for the shirt and the gun.”

Max forked a piece of flounder. “Are you saying she shot Glen?”

Annie welcomed the cool freshness of iced tea. She looked thoughtful and possibly a bit uncertain. “That’s what it looks like, but I don’t think so.”

Max was skeptical. “If she didn’t shoot him and if she didn’t go to the house, how did she get the gun? Or the shirt?”

Annie ate the french fry, absently noting that it was lukewarm. “I don’t know. I wish I could help her. I’ve never seen anyone look more alone when Billy took her to the squad car.”

Max’s face softened. “You helped her. As soon as you called, I got in touch with Handler Jones. The kids had already talked to him. He’ll be over tomorrow.” The Savannah criminal lawyer with boyish good looks and Southern charm was well known for his courtroom successes.

Annie’s face squeezed in unhappiness. “Do you suppose they’ll keep her in jail?”

“Handler didn’t think so.” Max’s smile was wry. “Another advantage of living on a sea island. Billy knows she can’t get away without taking the ferry and he’ll have alerted Ben.”

Annie looked across the restaurant. Ben Parotti owned the island’s only ferry as well as its most successful eating establishment and various other properties. He was smart, energetic, and a very good friend. He saw Annie’s glance and in a moment was at the booth, carrying an iced-tea pitcher. He refilled their glasses, peered at Annie. “Heard you were rounded up by Hyla this morning, taken to the Jamisons’.” He rocked back on his heels. “Kind of strange, Glen Jamison shot on Tuesday, Darwyn Jack murdered in Glen’s backyard last night.”

Annie wasn’t surprised at Ben’s knowledge. He knew everyone, heard everything.

Ben gave the pitcher a shake and ice rattled against the plastic interior. “Got an order from the Gazette.” It was an answer to her unasked question. “Talked to Ferroll.” His leprechaun face folded in a frown. “I told him anybody who thinks grits tastes like paste don’t have the good sense God gave an inchworm. Anyway, Ferroll said all hell was bustin’ out and it sure looked like Elaine Jamison was up a creek without a boat, much less a paddle.” His frown grew darker. “Ms. Jamison is a real nice lady.” In Ben’s world there were real nice ladies and all other women. “A nice lady wouldn’t have no truck with someone like Darwyn. He worked here for a while. I told him to take a hike. I was sorry because his grandma is a real nice lady, but Darwyn, he had a mean streak. I caught him out in the alley on a break, treatin’ one of the girls like she was no ’count. That was that as far as I was concerned.”

Annie wasn’t surprised. She’d felt uneasy when she talked to Darwyn.

Max cut a piece of flounder. “The best guess is that he saw Glen’s killer Tuesday morning and asked for