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.Have you found anything like that?”Billy shook his head.“Nothing yet.We can take a better look tomorrow when it’s light.”Dr.Burford glanced toward the bluffs.“If the murderer had any brains, he probably tossed it in the water.Even if you find a likely limb, there probably won’t be any traces of hair or flesh left.”Max remembered Annie’s advice.He glanced toward the darkness of the water.“The tide’s coming in, Billy.Do you want Frank and me to take a look?”Virginia Neville stepped into the drawing room.Every face turned toward her.The beautiful chiffon dress seemed incongruous with the look of misery on her thin face.However, Annie was certain the elegant room with its pale cream walls, bois-de-rose silk hangings, and old, well-worn furniture—Chippendale, Hepplewhite, and Sheraton—was no stranger to sorrow.In the long history of the house that now served as an art gallery, there had been gatherings of all kinds, merry wedding guests, bereft families, joyful christenings, hard-eyed political conspirators, weary war refugees.In its two centuries of existence, the house had known days of riches when cotton was king and years of deprivation when carpetbaggers swarmed the broken South.But Annie doubted there had been many moments more dramatic than this.The family members ranged in a semicircle near the fireplace.Carl Neville rubbed his temple.Irene Neville’s lovely face was expressionless, but her golden eyes watched avidly.Susan Brandt, pale and grim, clutched at her throat.Rusty Brandt, reddish face strained, tugged at his collar, pulling his bow tie askew.Louise Neville, her black shawl trailing over one arm onto the floor, was as still and stiff as the Sèvres figurine of a soldier of Napoleon’s army on the white marble mantel.Tony Hasty, his caterer’s apron sagging, leaned against a wing chair.An unlit cigar stuck from the side of his mouth.It wobbled as he worked it with his teeth.Edith Cummings, her gamin face squeezed in commiseration, hunched forward on a settee.She looked solemnly toward Virginia, but she waggled her fingers in a clandestine greeting to Annie.Serious, intense, hardworking Pamela Potts sat primly in a Sheraton chair.Her blue brocade evening dress was high-necked, long, and generally shapeless.Pamela was active in almost every charitable endeavor on the island and quite often recruited Annie as a volunteer.Pamela made little bleating sounds and her huge blue eyes filled with tears.Henny Brawley, still carrying the book bag with the new titles, was as attentive as a raccoon and, Annie knew, just as inquisitive.Annie wondered cynically whether Henny, who claimed to read a mystery a day, actually knew anything that might be helpful to the police or whether she had been unable to resist the temptation to be in on a murder investigation.Carl stepped forward, his manner diffident, his gentle face pained.“Virginia, I’m terribly sorry.We’re shocked, all of us.If there’s anything we can do—anything I can do…” His voice trailed away.Virginia brushed back a drooping strand of hair.“No one knows what happened.” Her voice was dull.The blush on her cheeks stood out against her paleness.“Someone”—she looked vaguely toward Tony Hasty—“said some girl came running up from the ruins.” She pressed trembling fingers against her lips, struggled, managed to speak.“The police want us to help them.” She glanced at Annie.“If you will tell them…” She turned away, walked blindly to a chair near the fireplace, sank onto a hand-crocheted throw.Annie held up a clutch of pens in one hand and white sheets of printer paper in the other.“The police have requested that everyone describe their evening, what they did, who they talked to, and especially any contact with Jake O’Neill.Try to estimate the time when you saw or spoke to him.If there is any other information that might aid the investigation—any personal knowledge of Jake O’Neill—please include it in the statement.”Pamela Potts raised her hand, her eyes wide.Annie was not surprised that Pamela had a question.“Yes?”“Annie, I wish it to be clear that I am not aware of anything that pertains directly to Mr.O’Neill’s activities this evening.Oh, he was really so nice.” Pamela’s voice was soft.“He did a portrait of my dog, Whistler, and you can see that Whistler is smiling.”Annie moved from person to person, handing out pen and paper.Annie’s memory of Pamela’s dog was of a yapping terrier who seemed to be all eyes and teeth and had about as much charm as a piranha.Pamela gave a mournful sigh.“To see the end of so much talent…” She wiped away a tear.“But Max asked that anyone with information that might suggest something of Mr.O’Neill’s involvements with—”“Write it down, Pamela,” Annie said gently.Irene’s eyes narrowed.She glanced at the grandfather clock near the wide doorway to the hall.“Jake got here a few minutes after seven.I saw him with Virginia.Then, like a good boy”—her tone was sardonic—“he started schmoozing the guests.I expect Virginia had given him his orders.”Virginia’s face twisted in anguish.“I asked him to assume his proper role.After all, as my husband…” She lifted a handkerchief to her lips.“If only I’d kept him near me.But he loved talking with people.That’s the last I saw of him.He was smiling and laughing.Everyone liked Jake.”“Whatever anyone saw of him will be helpful,” Annie said quickly.“Or if anyone knows why he went down to the point…” She looked inquiringly from face to face.When no one spoke, she said firmly,“Let’s get started.The police should be up soon.”There was the scratching of pens on paper, an occasional cough or rustle.Annie stared at her sheet.Ultimately she would have to tell Billy Cameron about Chloe and Jake.But there was so much more to Chloe than her romantic interlude with a stranger on the pier [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]