way down a short hall, opened the first door to her left, stood aside for Annie to enter.
“I put the things on his desk.” She gestured toward a light pinewood desk against the opposite wall.
Annie noted the single bed against one wall with a dark green spread. Two rock posters hung above the bed. A boom box sat against one wall, next to a rotating gun rack that held two rifles and a shotgun. Mounted antlers on one wall made the room look small.
Bella Mae stayed in the doorway. “I laid everything out.”
Annie stepped past her. At the back of the desktop sat a wine bottle with a candle stub in the neck, a canteen, a duck whistle, a pair of field binoculars, several boxes of ammunition, a soft canvas camouflage hat, a hat-clip light, a pinewood rack with three pistols, a Braves baseball cap, a deck of well-thumbed playing cards, a set of red- feathered darts.
She had no difficulty discerning the contents of Darwyn’s pockets on the night he died. The items were ranged in an orderly row: car keys, brown leather wallet, assorted coins, pocketknife, crumpled receipt from a Gas ’N Go, pack of condoms, small plastic container of mints, one metal key to Cabin Nine of Jasmine Gardens, laminated card with the Braves baseball schedule, a half-dozen lottery tickets, cell phone.
Max pulled up in front of the Gypsy Caravan, a seedy motel next door to an equally unprepossessing beer joint with a tin roof and red barn siding. He glanced at his list. Nine names were now scratched through and they were the better motels on the island. Broward’s Rock had fishing cabins, apartment houses, and rental condos, but fewer than a dozen old-fashioned motels. He’d spoken to managers and yard workers and a few occupants. No one had recognized a photo of Richard Jamison or Cleo Jamison. He squinted against the bright sun. This was not a milieu for Cleo Jamison. On the other hand, she could be confident that no one she knew would likely be found here. Max sighed and opened the car door. Annie admired thoroughness, tenacity, and unswerving commitment. He would finish what he had set out to do, but unless he was mightily surprised, Richard Jamison had not arranged any on-island liaisons with his cousin’s wife. Now, as for off-island . . .
Max strolled toward a ratty office with smeared windows and a sagging screen door. As Annie had pointed out, Richard appeared to have taken up squatter’s rights at the Jamison house, but Cleo practiced law and, until last Tuesday, had a husband who would be aware of her whereabouts, especially at night. That made off-island meetings unlikely. In the afternoons, there were too many people in and out of the house for a rendezvous there.
Max opened the door, wrinkled his nose at the musty smell. He stepped inside to dim light. A beefy-faced clerk looked up from a computer.
Annie worked hard, slicing open boxes, carefully easing out new titles, frowning at an occasional wrinkled edge to a book jacket. She soon had a stack of twenty Linda Fairsteins and thirty-five Randy Wayne Whites. Occasionally she checked the time. Was Billy talking to Elaine or to Tommy? Was Handler Jones representing Elaine or her nephew? If the spotlight was now on Tommy, Elaine had probably asked Jones to represent him. With every minute that passed, the time came nearer when Tommy Jamison would be taken into custody and charged with murder. Obviously, Max hadn’t hit pay dirt or he would have called.
As if on cue, her cell phone rang.
She answered, hoping. “Max?”
“Nada, honey.” He was philosophical. “I can affirm, attest, and swear that if Richard was screwing Cleo they were either invisible or off-island.”
Annie felt as wilted as a day-old corsage. “I didn’t have any luck either.”
There was a silence. Then he said gently, “I’m sorry.”
“You tried. We tried.” She looked at the clock. Eleven. Had Tommy been arrested yet?
“Hey, Annie. Let’s take
Annie was tempted.
As she walked back toward the storeroom, she noted a Cat Truth poster at the end of the Romantic Suspense section. An elegant Havana Brown, its mahogany-colored coat thick and short, lifted its irregular muzzle to stare with large oval green eyes:
“Gorgeous,” she murmured. She swerved toward the coffee bar. Only a few customers sat at the tables. A sunny Saturday morning was time to play golf or tennis, ride bikes, stroll on the beach, plunge into the ocean with a cautionary eye for jellyfish, feel the rush of the wind as a speedboat spanked across the bay.
Annie stepped behind the coffee bar. She poured Colombian Supremo into a mug emblazoned with
Annie drank deeply, but the wonderfully black and strong coffee didn’t provide its usual boost. Her eyes narrowed in thought. Laura had waffled about her presence on the porch. Annie reached for the portable phone. She called Max’s secretary and in a moment she had Laura’s cell-phone number.
“Laura, Annie Dar—”
“You have a lot of nerve to call me.” Laura’s voice vibrated with anger. “Tommy’s in big trouble and it’s your fault. That policeman’s talking to him. Elaine and that lawyer are with him.”
Annie pictured the hard wooden bench in the anteroom of the police station. “Are you at the police station?”
“Where else would we be, thanks to you. Why didn’t you let us alone?”
Annie was stung. “I was trying to help Elaine. I knew you saw someone. I thought you were protecting Kirk. When we found out he was wearing a madras shirt, I talked to Buddy Crawford. That’s when I realized you must
