Death at the Door

LETTER FROM HOME

WHAT THE CAT SAW

CRY IN THE NIGHT

Death on Demand Bookstore Mysteries

DEATH COMES SILENTLY

DEAD, WHITE, AND BLUE

DEATH AT THE DOOR

Bailey Ruth Ghost Mysteries

GHOST GONE WILD

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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Copyright © 2014 by Carolyn Hart.

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eBook ISBN 978-1-101-61546-1

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hart, Carolyn G.

Death at the Door / Carolyn Hart.

pages cm—(Death on Demand Bookstore)

ISBN 978-0-425-26617-5 (hardback)

1. Darling, Annie Laurance (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Darling, Max (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Booksellers and bookselling—Fiction. 4. Women detectives—South Carolina—Fiction. 5. South Carolina—Fiction. 6. Mystery fiction. I. Title.

PS3558.A676D444 2014

813'.54—dc23

2013050771

FIRST EDITION:
May 2014

 

Cover design by Jason Gill.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

 

 

To Barbara Peters, a grand champion of the mystery

E
verything was set. She should be dead next week. Only one person threatened success of a carefully planned murder with a ready-made suspect. Something tipped Paul off that night at the open house. Some action forewarned him. A movement? A look? Had there been a flash of unguarded hatred when she unveiled the painting? The relish of knowing that she was enjoying her last week on earth? Fury flickered. Paul knew. There had been knowledge in his gaze, knowledge and a hardening of features. He'd always been smart.

It might turn out he was too smart to live.

•   •   •

J
ane Corley rarely second-guessed any decision. She'd chosen to ignore the odd sensations she'd felt recently. That someone was watching her. That something was wrong. That danger was near. Once again, firmly, she pushed away a ripple of uneasiness and concentrated on the ball. Head down. Smooth swing. Her drive was lovely, straight, and true down the fairway. She waited in the shade of a live oak as Irene swung her club.

Irene's ball scudded and jumped, landed in the rough a few yards from Jane. Irene gave a puff of disappointment. She pointed her club at the rough and the heavy silver bracelets jangled on her wrist. “Not my lucky day. Looks like I landed in the rye and you got a perfect lie. Oh well, I'll only be two strokes down.”

Irene's white-and-green-plaid skirt, the latest from Golftini, emphasized her extraordinary legs. Blond statuesque Irene was always expensively and beautifully dressed. Her face had the aura of a woman with perhaps a few too many life experiences, but she was self-possessed and confident. She moved easily in an affluent society, though she had little to say about her background. She was also an excellent golfer though not quite up to Jane's level.

“I wouldn't count chickens,” Jane murmured. She glanced at Irene's face—a shade too much makeup—but no one could deny she was dramatically attractive. Quite a coup for somewhat boring Kevin Hubbard to snare her. However, Kevin was smoothly handsome, dressed well, and belonged to the country club, a perk from his employment at Corley Enterprises. Irene lived to play golf and shop.

Jane enjoyed playing with Irene, who was ebullient and good enough to make the match interesting. Was there a tense undercurrent today? Had Kevin told her his salary was being cut? Probably not. But Irene had to know he was worried.

Jane's shoulders moved a little under her polo, a disdainful shrug. Too bad. Kevin should have done a better job. Some of the numbers for the marina shops didn't ring true. The tourist trade had picked up this past year, and that increase in shopping should be reflected in the income. Maybe Kevin had been diverting income into a fake account. Maybe she'd call in an independent accountant for an audit.

Jane stood by her bag, estimated the distance to the green. She pulled out a five iron. Tomorrow she'd float the idea of an audit. If he was skimming off the top, he'd be spooked and then she'd know what to do. She assumed her stance, waggled the club, swung through, and felt a spurt of satisfaction as the ball landed about ten feet from the hole.

She waited in the cart for Irene. Her pleasure in the afternoon was again marred by an eerie sense of something wrong. Was she disturbed by Kevin's possible dishonesty? Or the tension she felt in Irene? Or was her uneasiness caused by David's debts? He'd be livid if he knew Madeleine had come to her. Or was she disgusted by Sherry's weak will when it came to that brooding hulk of a husband? Or was Tom's roving eye bothering her? Tom would have to choose. Did that pretty young girl matter more to him than his chance to star in galleries? Did Tom really want to be a starving artist in a seedy motel, give up a studio with the finest supplies and lighting that money—her money—could buy?

Jane was rarely introspective. She despised self-absorbed people. Life was too full of color and action to waste time thinking about those who easily took offense or indulged themselves in agonies of worry. She didn't tolerate fools. She expected those around her to maintain a decent front of good humor. As she'd told more than one person, nobody gives a damn about your feelings. Everyone around her knew that any drama queen—or king—would elicit a brusque
Come off it
.

What excuse did she have? She'd never let anyone run roughshod over her and she never would, so to hell with all of them. Her expressive mouth quirked in exasperation:
Come off it, Jane
.

The wry self-admonition had no effect.

Like a horse scenting a rattlesnake, she sensed that something around her was wrong. Some event in the last few days had jarred her. Had it been the expression on someone's face? The tone of a voice? She'd been uneasy ever since the night of the open house, a preview of the exhibition of Tom's paintings at an Atlanta gallery.

Something was wrong . . .

•   •   •

F
rankie Ford smiled as she completed the sale, murmured thank you, and held the door as Mrs. Wilkins carried out her purchase. Frankie looked after her with a slight smile, marveling at how even the most expensive fall casual wear did nothing for a dumpy figure. But Mrs. Wilkins was good-humored and a very much appreciated customer at Wyler Art Gallery. Very appreciated. Last year Mrs. Wilkins had casually spent more than a quarter million for a Georges Braque painting. Today she'd spent a mere four thousand for six watercolors by up-and-coming Pennsylvania artist Andy Smith.

Someday Tom's paintings would sell just like Andy Smith's. The thought was a little explosion of happiness. Like most explosions, the burst of color and sound quickly faded to nothing.

Tom . . .

Frankie walked slowly toward the back of the shop. She needed to crate a collection of Lowcountry art to ship to a villa near Florence. A nice twist on art traffic. She was always careful and methodical in her work. Paintings she crated would arrive intact. Maybe she could focus her mind, push away thoughts of Tom.

Angrily she reached up and wiped away hot tears. That's all she did these days, think about Tom and try not to cry and wonder how in the world she had ever come to this point. How could love that should be so right be so wrong?

•   •   •

T
om Edmonds's long graceful fingers held the handle of the mallet firmly, struck the point chisel with precisely modulated force. He liked beginning a new sculpture, pitching off portions of marble, working toward the rough image in his mind. He paused, glanced at a watercolor on an easel to his right. One of his best. Sunlight glancing off the water almost drew the eye away from the figure standing on the pier.

But not quite.

Nothing overshadowed Jane's face, not in a painting, not in life. She stood at the end of a pier, one hand resting on a weathered railing, and gazed toward a distant sailboat, a dark-haired woman in summer white. He'd captured her essence, sharp humor, blunt candor, imperious certainty, vivacity that almost translated to beauty despite the strength of a too-square jaw. A transcendent personality was evident in intelligent green eyes, a compelling face.

Jane . . .

His wife.

Tom stared at the block of marble. He knew suddenly that greatness awaited him. This sculpture would be the best he'd ever done. The face—that's what he would carve. Jane's incredibly vibrant, alive, unmistakable presence would inhabit the marble, turn it from stone to a masterpiece. He'd need to have Jane come, stand there—his eyes moved to a sunlit space just past the worktable—and he would feed off her vitality, transform the marble.

His shoulders slumped. He looked around the studio, his beautiful, perfect, magnificent studio. The studio and its contents belonged to Jane. The work was his, but he didn't have the money to pay for the tools or the just-begun sculpture on a block of the finest Italian marble.

Frankie wanted him to leave, walk out, leave everything behind. He didn't have a portrait of Frankie. He wanted to paint her. Her heart-shaped face. Blue eyes deeper in color than sapphires. Chestnut hair bright as burnished copper. He couldn't live without Frankie.

His eyes rested on the marble. He had to create the sculpture of Jane.

•   •   •

D
avid Corley looked up from the deck of his sailboat. He knew before he turned that the quick clip of high heels on the ramp to the dock meant trouble. He watched his wife hurry down the incline. She looked like somebody running from the zombies in a disaster movie and she was carrying that stupid dog. Something was up, that was for sure. In a raspberry linen dress and matching heels she wasn't dressed for a marina. And no hat. Madeleine avoided hot sunlight, always wore summery hats to protect her magnolia white skin. She was bareheaded.

He winced as she came aboard in those stupid heels. Not good for the deck, but the look on her face kept him silent. Was she going to start in on him again about having kids? Maybe someday. Not now. Now was the time to have fun, go places, do things. He'd looked into a safari in Kenya. Maybe that would divert her.

She was breathing fast, face drawn and pale, eyes huge.

When they met, he'd gone after Madeleine with his usual determination, been his most charming. He wanted to possess her, know she was his for the taking, her swirling ebony hair and lovely body his to touch. He felt a quiver of shock as he realized what Madeleine would look like when she was old. The aquiline face that had drawn him like a moth to flame was haggard. Even her elusive grace was absent, her movements stiff and halting. The words came out in bursts, her voice anguished.

As she spoke, his stomach knotted. Yeah, she was upset for sure. He stared at the wriggling, snuffling little dog, Madeleine's fingers clamped in Millie's silky fur. He felt a hot flicker of anger. Madeleine cared more about Millie than she did about him. Didn't she have any idea what could happen if he didn't come up with the money?

•   •   •

S
herry Gillette slipped through the darkened room. A soft splash from the waterfall in the den masked her steps. Her throat was dry. If Jane found out, there would be hell to pay. But she had to see Roger. He'd been furious at the idea of meeting on the beach in the middle of the night, insisted she tell Jane to leave them alone, demanded Sherry come home. She had to make Roger understand. Jane never made idle threats.

She felt a flutter of panic. What could Roger do? Still, she had to warn him. She knew—the little scarlet threat of truth burned inside—that she'd created this mess. Now Jane didn't believe her when she told her the truth. Oh Lord, what was she going to do?

•   •   •

P
aul Martin closed the study door behind him. His withdrawal again from the usual evening spent in the den watching a movie or reading would add to Lucy's concern. She knew he was worried. No surprise. Sisters knew your bare bones. He'd never been able to fool her. Not that he tried. Lucy was a woman in a thousand, recognizing boundaries, never presuming. She wouldn't ask. She'd fix his favorite meals and encourage him to take off time to sail and watch him when she thought he wasn't noticing. Lucy had come to help him when Valerie was so sick, all the chemo and radiation. Lucy loved her sister-in-law and she was a rock for Paul to lean on after Valerie died. Damn, he missed Valerie, missed her laughter, the way she always sang as she did the dishes. He knew Lucy missed her, too, and it was almost like having Valerie there as they talked of her. When he got the situation resolved, he'd take Lucy on a trip to New York, see some plays. They'd spend a sunny day in Central Park, visit the water lily pool in the Conservatory Garden at Central Park.

He sipped his scotch and soda, remembering the placid peace of the pool. A face intruded into the idyllic picture, familiar features twisting for an instant into hatred. Even more chilling was the movement of lips gloating in triumph. The image had lasted for only an instant, but Paul knew what he had seen, knew what it meant. The object of that hatred was doomed. He had looked into the face of Death.

Paul put his drink on the coffee table. If he were a big-city doctor, he wouldn't know his patients as neighbors and friends, people he'd shared time with as he'd grown up, packing away into corners of his mind this fact and that about people and their histories, hidden secrets, alcoholism, abuse, instability. Perhaps what disturbed him the most was the realization that the threat didn't surprise him. He'd looked across the room and reckoned that the seeds of evil had always been there and perhaps he'd always been on alert for a moment such as this.

His partner hadn't grown up on the island. Sam would tell him he needed to take a break, that he was getting to be like an old woman who hunts for the burglar under her bed at night, that things like that didn't happen.

But they did.

Paul retrieved a nine-by-twelve sketch pad of cream-colored paper and returned to the couch. He flipped the cover and held a soft-leaded pencil above the empty page. As a matter of habit, he marked the date in the upper left-hand corner. He wanted to make a plan. He grinned a little. His dad had always asked, “What's the program?” He'd still been asking when he was in hospice in his nineties. So, what was the program?

He stared down at the sheet and the pencil began to move. He loved creating an image on paper, making something out of nothing. His dad had thought Paul might be an artist. Dad always encouraged him. Paul had known he was good, but not good enough. Instead, sketching offered comfort when pain and caring weighed on him. The pencil moved with no particular aim, his thoughts racing, his mind willing the pencil without conscious direction. When he looked at what he'd drawn, he felt a chill. Interesting. His thought was clinical. Definitely his subconscious was at work. Not a bad likeness. Except for the lips drawn back over the teeth. His pencil had turned a symbol of grace and welcome into a harbinger of danger.