THE ARCHWAY FROM the terrace room led to the over-furnished formal reception area where she and Max had first met Marguerite Dumaney and her dinner guests on Wednesday night. Annie glanced to her left, where another archway opened into the dining room. Her mind juggled locations. The tropical garden at the north end of the terrace room also bounded the west end of the dining area.
Billy didn’t spare a glance at the medieval tapestries or the plush furniture with its intricately carved scrolls and seashells and acanthus leaves or at the flocked Christmas trees at either end of the dais. He headed straight for the stairway. The double-wide curving staircase was dramatic, with black walnut balusters and railing and stone steps. Fresh pine garlands wound around the railing. The steps curved out of sight, hidden behind a stucco shell emblazoned with painted starfish and seashells and dolphins. Annie and Billy started up the stairs.
A stentorian rumble sounded above. The loud voice, a bulldog growl that had terrorized nurses for a half century, reverberated in the second-floor hallway. “…massive trauma. Autopsy won’t show anything different. Somebody bashed the hell out of her, Pete. Struck, oh, I’d guess ten times, maybe fifteen, with something long and narrow.”
Billy held out an arm to block Annie’s climb. “Better wait a minute,” he muttered.
Annie understood. She recognized that voice, too. Horace Burford wore a lot of medical hats on the island. He was chief of staff at the hospital as well as medical examiner. It was always smart to stay out of Burford’s path when he bellowed. He hated to lose a patient, and he hated a death that shouldn’t have happened.
Burford thudded around the curve, head thrust forward like a charging bull, his big-cheeked face distended in a scowl. His dark blue suit was a little too tight and shiny from wear. He’d loosened his tie, and his shirt was open at the neck.
Pete Garrett was right behind him. “Like what, sir?”
A choleric flush stained Burford’s bulging cheeks. “I’m not a bloody mind reader. Bigger than a crowbar, smaller than a two-by-four.” He jolted to a stop just above Annie. He twisted his head to peer up at Garrett. “You didn’t find a weapon? It’d be damn bloody.” He didn’t give Garrett time to answer. “No weapon. Huh. Okay, look for something on the order of a broom handle. A bloody broom handle.” He took two more steps, stopped again. “Blood. There’d be a hell of a lot. Spurts. Look for somebody pretty well drenched.”
Annie didn’t like the picture in her mind, but she could have hugged Burford. Yes, Pudge had a smear of blood on his slacks but that was all, a single smear. It was the first positive fact she’d learned that might help him. Look for somebody pretty well drenched. But who would it be? No one had shown any evidence of blood. Had there been time for the murderer to bathe, discard stained clothes? Was she wrong in assuming that whoever killed Happy had been a member of the household? Had anyone checked to see whether an intruder could have reached her room? Surely Pete Garrett would consider all of these possibilities.
Burford continued to look up toward Garrett. “You better get a specialist from the state lab to analyze the stains. From what I saw, I’d say she was seated, murderer standing, blows delivered by the right hand. Anyway, if you find the weapon I can give you a better idea.” He jerked around, noticed Annie and Billy, gave a short nod and thudded past them.
Garrett called after him. “Can you estimate—”
Burford shouted over his shoulder. “A guess. Rigor mortis well advanced. Maybe around midnight, maybe earlier. Hell, maybe later.” Burford reached the base of the stairs and plunged toward the front door.
Midnight! Alice Schiller saw Pudge come out of Happy’s room this morning. Happy had been dead for hours. It didn’t mean a thing that Pudge ran through the garden. Except why didn’t he rouse the house? What was he carrying? Why did he run away? But Annie moved up the steps, buoyed by relief. Happy had been dead for hours!
Garrett was waiting at the top of the stairs. He shot an impatient glance at Annie. “What’s this about a sister? What sister?”
“Rachel Van Meer. She’s Happy’s daughter and my father’s stepdaughter. My stepsister.” Annie pointed up the stairs. “She’s locked in her room. Up on the third floor. Pete, she saw her mother’s body.”
Garrett glared at Billy. “Nobody told me there was somebody else in the house besides the ones downstairs and Mrs. Dumaney.”
Annie didn’t try to explain that it should be Miss Dumaney or Mrs. Ladson. The fine points of Hollywood address wouldn’t impress him.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Billy pulled a notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Everybody was milling around when we got here. Nobody mentioned a kid.”
“A kid?” Garrett lost his curt, hurried look. “How old?”
“Fifteen. She’s been by herself ever since they found Happy.” Annie didn’t like thinking about those two hours. Why hadn’t any of the others thought about Rachel?
Garrett’s round face creased in a frown. Obviously he was as unhappy as Annie that Rachel had been unnoticed for two hours. Garrett prided himself on taking charge and he must have felt that this morning’s investigation was far from controlled. “Okay, Annie. You better check. Billy, hang close.”
Annie understood Garrett’s order. This was a murder investigation and he was in charge. Annie didn’t mind Billy coming with her. Billy was a stepdad who loved his wife’s son. Billy and Kevin fished and camped and kicked a soccer ball. Billy would help if he could, and there was no reason to care if Billy overheard what she and Rachel said.
Garrett watched as they walked across the landing to the third-floor stairs. They passed an open door. Annie darted a swift glance, then wished she hadn’t. A miniature Christmas tree had tumbled from the end table next to a sofa that had once added charm to a sitting room. The sofa’s fabric was a butter-yellow fabric accented by full-size red roosters. The red accents were picked up by the red, green and white rag rugs and a red and white quilt on one wall. Happy’s body slumped stiffly at one end of the sofa. The maroon of drying blood splotched her battered head, her dressing gown, the sofa and the floor.
Annie carried the devastating picture with her as she and Billy silently climbed to the third floor.
Max walked the length of the terrace room and studied the tangle of ferns and shrubs and sweet-smelling trees. Joan Ladson stood on tiptoe to clip a dangling frond from a banana tree. She shot an uneasy look at Max.
Max gave her a reassuring smile, then turned to Wayne. Max pointed to a flagstone path that curved into the greenery. “Does that go through to the dining room?”
Wayne nodded. He walked toward Max, smiling. “Yes. It takes most people a half dozen visits to the house to get it straight. It’s quite a house, isn’t?” He spoke with evident pride. “It was Dad’s pride and joy. You know who my dad was?” Wayne didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “Dad made the greatest adventure flicks ever. He loved secret tunnels and caves and surprises. Like the jungle.” He laughed aloud. “You ever been to Clifton’s Cafeteria in L.A.? Rocks and a waterfall and lots of greenery. Dad loved to take us there when we were kids. But he didn’t do it on our account. No way. I’m surprised Dad didn’t have a waterfall built in here. He about drove the architects crazy. They wanted the commission, but they fought his plans all the way. Four architects. When the second one walked out, they say he built a raft and set sail for the Caribbean, decided hammerheads were better company than clients. You know what”—Wayne’s voice was pleased—“I think somewhere Dad’s got the last laugh. It’s a hell of a house. Have you ever seen it from the water when the sun’s coming up? It’s like a huge gaudy ring on a showgirl’s finger. You know it’s vulgar, but you damn sure can’t take your eyes off of it. There’s something to be said for vulgarity, you know. Crude exuberance has it all over staid respectability.” He looked faintly wistful. “That was sure as hell true of my dad. He died the way he lived, flying a small plane into a storm. He shouldn’t have, but he did. The story of Dad’s life. The odd thing is, Marguerite understood that. I wouldn’t have expected it of her. It’s damn hard for Marguerite ever to separate any scene from herself long enough to see if there is anyone else present. But when he built this house, she supported him all the way. That’s when I knew she really was nuts about Dad.”
Max glanced toward the French doors. “How many entrances are there?”
Wayne’s face sobered. “Yeah. That’s a good question now, isn’t it?” He looked sharply at Pudge Laurance.
Pudge still stood near the archway. He watched Max, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
Max said briskly, “The layout of the house may be important to others besides Pudge.”
Wayne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “An unknown intruder? Bushy-haired, no doubt.”
“Bushy-haired?” Joan repeated blankly.
Pirelli cleared his throat. “The captain said no discussion of the murder.”
“Right,” Max called out easily. As long as Max kept the conversation confined to the structure of the house, Pirelli wouldn’t interfere. As for Wayne, Max didn’t believe in bushy-haired intruders, either, but it wouldn’t do any harm to let him and everyone else in the room believe that possibility accounted for Max’s interest in the layout of the house.
Max glanced around the room. “Any scratch paper around here?”
Wayne nodded toward a bridge table. “There should be a score pad there.”
Max strolled to the table, pulled out a side drawer. He picked up a tablet. “Do you mind if I use this?”
Wayne came up beside him. “What are you going to do?”
“I thought it might be useful to sketch the house, where the rooms are and the stairs and the doors. Although”—Max’s smile was rueful—“I’m not too clear on the layout yet. Let’s see, the front entrance leads to the reception area, and that’s just through there.” Max pointed toward the archway where Pirelli stood, still listening but clearly more relaxed.
Across the room, Alice Schiller moved restively in a wicker chair.
Wayne held out his hand. “I can do that.” He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He ripped loose a sheet, and began to draw in a quick, fluid motion, his face absorbed and interested.
Max slipped into the chair to Wayne’s left. Joan sidled near enough to watch. Wayne finished the first drawing and peeled off another page.
Terry ambled over from the bar. “You’ve left out the tower.”
Wayne shook his head. “The entrance is on the second floor.”
Terry pointed at the first-floor plan. “Don’t forget the rope bridge, buddy. I think the rope bridge was the reason Architectural Digest refused to do the house. Marguerite went into a decline for weeks.”
Wayne laughed and added a rope bridge to the first-floor plan. “You got it wrong, Terry. They didn’t cotton to the fake cave on the front lawn. But they probably never liked Dad’s movies, either.”
Terry smothered a sneeze. “Remember his last movie? A jungle, an overgrown temple, a jade statue hidden in a well and a big son of a bitch of a dragon.”
“A dragon in a cave. Dad had a hell of a good time. All he lacked was Harrison Ford as the lead. But that one grossed eighty million.” Wayne grinned and finished the third floor, then got another sheet for the fourth. Last of all he drew the front of the house, including the glass whale and the cave with its resident dragon. He handed the sheaf of drawings to Max.
Max scanned the pages swiftly, appearing to give equal attention to each floor. But the second-floor sketch was the treasure. Yes, Pudge was across the hall from Happy, but Wayne, Donna, Marguerite and Alice were also on that floor. Joan was in a guest room on the third floor across from Rachel’s room. Terry was staying on his cabin cruiser. Before Max tucked the pages in his pocket, he counted aloud, “One, two…Yes, I see. There are four entrances to the house.” He looked at Wayne. “Is that right?”
“At least.” Wayne pointed at the row of French doors. “They all open. Plus there’s a door from the veranda into the terrace room, another veranda entrance to the jungle, and a back door to the kitchen.”
“And the front door,” Joan added.
Terry volunteered. “And more French doors into the informal living room.” He looked at Wayne. “Who locks up at night?”
Alice Schiller pushed up from her chair. She paced toward them. “The doors were locked. I lock them every night. This morning, after Wayne called, I let the police in at the front door and it was still chained.”
“I went down to the garden by that door. It was latched.” Joan pointed at the door at the south end of the terrace room. “As far as I know, the French doors were locked.”
“So, we few, we happy few,” Terry said, his voice silky.
In a suddenly cold and ugly pause, footsteps sounded near the arch.
Annie hadn’t had to guess at Rachel’s room. She was glad because even genial Billy might have wondered if Annie hadn’t known which room belonged to her stepsister. She knocked again while looking into the sensual face of Leonardo di Caprio in the full-length poster on the door. It seemed forever that she had stood there, knocking and calling. “Rachel, please, it’s Annie.” Had it been five minutes? Ten? Once Rachel answered, her voice thick. “Go away. Just go away.”
Billy whispered, “Want me to see if I can get a key somewhere?”
Annie glanced at him, shook her head. She spoke again. “Rachel, my mother died when I was your age. Please, honey, let me in. Rachel, don’t stay by yourself. I know how you feel.” That couldn’t be true in whole, but certainly it was true in part. “Please, Rachel. Rachel, it’s not your fault.” That was the terrible ache that others never understood, the awful sickening feeling that if you had only done something different at some time in some way, death would not have come. “Rachel, your mom loved you more than anybody in the world.”
Abruptly, the door swung open. Rachel’s skinny face was splotched and puffy. Red-rimmed brown eyes stared at Annie in piteous intensity. Her lips quivered. She gave a choked cry and plunged into Annie’s arms.
Annie held her tight, pressed her face against Rachel’s tousled curls, feeling the sting of her own tears as she grieved for Rachel and remembered long-ago grief that still scalded her heart.
Although Marguerite was accompanied only by Pete Garrett, their arrival transformed the terrace room, made it seem small and quivering with energy. Marguerite’s royal blue silk slack suit rustled as she strode past Pirelli and Pudge, ignoring them. Her grief-stricken visage had given way to intense concentration, her bold features taut and severe.
Alice hurried toward her. “Marguerite, I tried to come to you.”
Marguerite embraced her longtime companion. “Our loss,” she murmured. A deep breath, then she stepped past Alice, moving into a pool of sunlight near the French doors. She stood for a moment, head bowed, auburn hair richly red in the sunlight, a strand falling across one cheek. Slowly, she lifted her face. Even though sunlight can be cruel, magnifying lines, emphasizing the ravages of age, Marguerite’s haggard beauty was not diminished.
Max folded his arms and prepared to be entertained. He wondered if Marguerite was aware of the quiet resistance of her audience. Joan observed her former stepmother-in-law as she might note an aphid on a rose. A quiver of skepticism crossed Wayne’s narrow face. Terry rocked back on his heels, his earlier, malicious amusement replaced by uneasiness. Donna’s thin lips tightened. Pudge dismissed Marguerite with a glance. Alice looked wan and weary. The dark-haired domestic quietly chewed gum.
Pete Garrett’s round face hardened. “Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your patience. I have spoken with Mrs. Dumaney—”
Marguerite’s hand touched his arm. “I shall tell them.” She looked at each in turn, a piercing gaze, and waited until all was quiet.
Marguerite clapped her hands. “Dear hearts, we must do our duty. Our duty is simple. We must”—her voice lifted into a clarion tone—“put aside our grief for the moment. I know you all will be reassured that I have had a conference with the authorities. We shall bend every effort of will to apprehend the person who so cruelly wrested life from our dear Happy.”
Garrett moved restively. “Mrs. Dumaney—”
Marguerite took two steps forward. The simple movement relegated Garrett to the background. Once again the focus of all eyes, she lifted her hands, turned them out. “I have given Chief Garrett permission to search the house. Who knows what might be found that will help in this investigation. He has already searched my rooms. I know none of you will object to a search of your own.”