up the gun in a panic, gotten blood on her hand, dashed through the house, and grabbed Tommy’s shirt from the laundry basket.
Tommy’s shirt. The bloodhound smelled the shirt and came straight to Tommy.
Annie remembered Tommy in the living room after arriving home from his friend’s house the morning of his father’s murder. A too-tight, green-and-orange-striped polo had emphasized Tommy’s stocky build. Was it possible . . . Slowly she reached for the phone, punched a familiar number.
“Yo, Annie.”
“Marian”—Annie clung to a hope that the indefatigable reporter could help her—“can you give me a good physical description of Kirk Brewster?”
“Sure. What’s in it for me?”
“If I find out anything big, you’ll be the first to know.” Annie’s fingers were crossed. She would share with Marian at some point, but right now what mattered was discovering the truth.
“Blood oath?” Before Annie could erupt, Marian relented. “Okay, okay. I’ll trust you. Okay. He’s about five nine . . .”
Annie clicked off the phone and stared at another poster. A Highland Fold with an aura of age appeared comfortably settled on a red cushion. Perhaps it was clever photography, but there was a hint of a satisfied smile on the aging cat’s large, rounded face:
Ben Franklin’s famous comment on the pleasures of older women after the candles were snuffed was far afield from crime, but Annie repeated the legend aloud. “All cats are gray in the dark.” A picture formed in her mind. She yanked her cell phone from her pocket, punched a familiar number.
“Strike two . . .” The tall, skinny home-plate umpire balled his right hand into a fist and punched.
The wooden bleachers held about fifteen admiring onlookers. Kids played in the shade beneath the seat. An American flag fluttered from a staff at the top of the modest grandstand.
A wiry pitcher wound up and threw a high fastball.
The towheaded batter connected, and the ball dribbled into the outfield.
“Run, Sam. Way to go.” Kirk Brewster yelled and whistled.
Dust flew as the little boy slid into first. The first baseman swiped with the ball, lost his grip, and the ball bounced into the outfield to be retrieved by the shortstop.
Max clapped loudly.
The lawyer gave Max a sour look. “You don’t have to join Sam’s cheering squad.”
“He’s a good hitter. I like baseball.” Max’s tone was mild. Without a change in tone, he asked, “Were you in the Jamison backyard Tuesday morning?”
Kirk gave a strangled hoot of laughter, but he didn’t look amused. “Greased that question in, didn’t you? Ever cross-examine a witness?”
“Not since practice court.” Max was proud of his law degree and had been admitted to the bar in New York, but he was always quick to make it clear that he didn’t practice law.
Kirk shoved a hand through his thick, tawny hair. “Let’s get this straight. I wasn’t there. I don’t know anything about Glen’s murder. I understand the cops are looking at me fish-eyed because of the insurance. I didn’t kill Glen for the money.”
“Although”—Max was still conversational—“it’s convenient for you that he died before you wouldn’t have been eligible for the payout.”
“Yeah.” Kirk sounded troubled.
“I assume you will accept the portion due you?”
Kirk’s face hardened. “You’re damn right I will, if for no other reason than to keep the bitch from walking away with five million.” He glanced toward Max. “I was pretty upset that I was being pushed out, but I didn’t blame Glen. Cleo yanked his string and he danced. It was as simple as that.”
“So there’s no reason why Laura Jamison might think she saw you in the backyard Tuesday morning?”
Kirk looked disturbed. “Is that what Laura said? But I didn’t come.”
Max tried not to look excited. “I guess she got it wrong.”
Kirk shook his head, his expression bemused. “Man, I finally had a piece of luck. Laura kept begging me to talk to her dad one more time. I knew Cleo was going into Savannah for a dep, so I promised Laura I’d drop by Tuesday morning. At the last minute I chickened out. I drove halfway there, then turned around and came back downtown. I went to the pier and walked up and down. Finally I decided to go to the office. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to talk to Glen. He wasn’t going to cross Cleo. That’s why I didn’t show up. Man, was that lucky. I’d be in the dock if I’d been on the spot when somebody shot Glen.” He frowned. “Laura’s called me a couple of times. I haven’t answered. She doesn’t know about the insurance. I didn’t want to tell her. I feel kind of bad taking it, but I’d feel worse to leave it all to Cleo. I need to talk to Laura.” Suddenly he gave a whoop as Sam darted from first, stole second.
As Max joined in the cheers, his cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, answered. “Hey, Annie.” He listened, then gazed at Kirk. “Yeah. I saw him from the back the other day. Yeah. You sure could make that mistake . . . Sure, hold on.” He looked at Kirk. “What were you wearing Tuesday morning?”
Kirk looked blank. “Wearing?”
“Your shirt.”
Kirk looked puzzled, but answered readily. “A short-sleeve madras plaid.” His expression was touched with sadness. “I didn’t want to look like a bum at Glen’s house. I wish how I dressed was all that mattered on
