A Willing Murder Read online

  Sara was smiling. “And the mother?”

  Kate glanced at the other tables. “Between you and me, I think there are more important things in a woman’s life than what she does with her genitalia.”

  Sara laughed so loud the other customers turned to look at her. “Oh, Kate,” she said, “you and I are going to get along fine. The only question left is how much we should tell Jack of what the sheriff said.”

  “Every word of it,” Kate said. “Only, let me tell him. You’ll be so sad that Jack might go after the sheriff with his crutches.” She started to get up but Sara took her arm.

  “Someone murdered them and was cold enough to plant a tree over the top of them. Are you sure you want to look into that?”

  “The person who planted that damn tree interests me less than clearing the names of the innocent. Cheryl wasn’t a pedophile; Verna wasn’t pimping her daughter; Jack didn’t drive drunk. I want everyone to know the truth about them. That is my goal. What about you?”

  “I agree,” Sara said. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a truly remarkable human being?”

  “Other than my mother, no one.” Kate got up and started toward the car.

  “And you’re as fearless as my lying, thieving skunk of a brother,” Sara muttered as she followed Kate. “If I had any sense, I’d lock you up now.”

  NINE

  Sara and Kate returned to find the guards had been sent away and the house was a zone of controlled chaos. The big dining table seemed to be the command center, with people seated with laptops. The curtains were closed against the sunlight. The kitchen counter had half a dozen plastic-wrapped casseroles and three coffeepots going. There were a dozen people wandering around, most of them talking on their cell phones.

  “Do you know these people?” Kate asked.

  “Only one of them.” Sara was grimacing.

  “Here you are!” A tall, slim, pretty woman stopped in front of them, her eyes on Kate. Sara might as well have been invisible.

  “This is Jack’s mother, Heather.” Sara slipped through the people to flee into her bedroom.

  Heather stood beside Kate. “I bet she hates this many people in her home. Sorry, but I couldn’t help it. I put in a call to one person and...” She shrugged. “They all showed up. They’re searching out people who knew the Morris ladies.”

  “Plus, there’s the pull of getting to see Sara’s house.”

  “Very true,” Heather said.

  Kate looked at her. “We heard some really nasty gossip from the sheriff.”

  “I know,” Heather said. “Jack’s been told. He—”

  “Where is he?”

  “Hiding somewhere. Drawing into himself. Escaping. I don’t know what to—”

  “Excuse me,” Kate said. “Too much tea.” She made her way past the people into her suite, closing the doors behind her. She hurried into her bedroom and out through the doors to the little courtyard with the dancing-girl fountain. As she thought, Jack was there, sitting in silence. She took a chair beside him. “So who told you?”

  “The deputy at the desk, Pete, is a friend of mine. He likes to eavesdrop. What took you so long to get back?”

  “Aunt Sara and I stopped at a restaurant. She asked me if I wanted to run back home to Mommy.”

  “Sounds like a sensible idea. When do you leave?”

  “As soon as she tells me everything I want to know about my father.”

  “Looks like you’re staying here for this century.”

  “Guess so. How are we going to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  She glared at him.

  He smiled. “I guess people will send us stories.”

  “‘I liked Cheryl Morris so much that I killed her.’ That kind of story?”

  Jack gave a one-sided smile and scratched at his leg. “You have any better ideas?”

  “I might. Can you really build things? Like with saws and hammers?”

  He looked at her in amusement. “When Sara bought this house, it hadn’t been touched in twenty-one years. This courtyard? The pavers had crumbled. There was a hole in the roof of your bedroom. Termites had eaten half of your living room. Sara’s bedroom was—”

  “Okay. I get it. Strong Man Jack. Anyway, when we left the restaurant, I saw an ATM machine set back in a wall. Those things are opened from the inside so money can be put in them. And they have cameras that take photos of everyone who makes a transaction.”

  “What does that have to do with a murder?”

  “I thought of secrecy. What if people were to put their stories in a kind of ATM and were told that the papers will go directly into the coffins? Maybe people would reveal more if they believed their stories were to be kept secret.”

  Jack stared at her. “But a camera would record who put what in the box. And, of course, the stories would be opened and read.”

  “Of course. I don’t expect anyone to admit to murder, but Cheryl and her mother were unusual people. Surely someone didn’t like them.”

  “A few wives, maybe?”

  “And all the boys Cheryl said no to,” Kate said. “Could you build something like that? Somewhere for the papers to go?”

  “Easily, but I’d have to go to the shop to do it.”

  “And miss all the fun here? Poor you.” There was the sound of laughter coming from the dining room. When Kate turned, she saw that the sliding glass doors had extraordinarily heavy accordion shades drawn across them. “What are those?”

  “Hurricane shutters,” Jack said with a grin.

  Kate laughed. “Closed against a hurricane coming from the inside.”

  “You have your cell?”

  She handed it to him and he put his number into it.

  “Hate to leave this place, but I think I’ll go to the quiet of power tools.” He heaved himself up with his crutches.

  “Why don’t you take Aunt Sara with you?”

  He started walking away from the doors. “I thought I would. I just need to find her. She’s good at hiding. Anything else you want to know about me?”

  She thought of asking about what actually happened the night Evan was killed, but she didn’t. “How much of your father’s personality did you inherit?”

  “Much more than I’d like to have. Call me when the house is clear.”

  She watched him disappear behind plants, then went into her suite.

  At the door, she took a few moments to gather her courage. With her shoulders back, she left her cozy apartment and went into the house. She called the people together and told them a whitewashed version of the plan. This was to be a memorial service, not some kind of undercover investigation. “The sheriff’s department is looking into the deaths of these women, and they’re handling it well. We just need to gather the people who share memories of them.” She knew her words would be reported to Sheriff Flynn and it was better to keep him off their backs.

  She explained about the stories they would encourage guests to write and how they were to be put in the box by the door. The messages would then be deposited, unopened, into the coffins with Cheryl and Verna. After that, refreshments would be served. It would be a simple, thoughtful memorial, and that was the message they should be sharing with the people they were contacting. Did they have any questions?

  Hands shot up. Would there be wine? What about beer? Domestic or imported? What kind of food? Gluten-free? What about people with nut allergies? How about caviar? Maybe a bartender should be hired. Somebody’s son-in-law was a bartender in a Miami nightclub. Could he have the job?

  When Heather saw that Kate was about to drown in questions, she took over—and made the decisions. Wine, yes, no to beer and hard liquor. No caviar, but lots of hors d’oeuvres.

  After lunch—ordered from the local pizzeria—a young woman showed up and Kate knew she was Jack’s s