Honeymoon With Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

in surprise.
    Annie gave a tiny jerk of her head, and Max followed her out of earshot.
    She stood on tiptoe and whispered: “Help hunt for Ingrid. I’d better see what I can find out in her cabin. Because you know what will happen when Posey takes over.”
    Instant comprehension registered on his handsome face. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “I hadn’t thought about it. Of course. With Saulter out of the country, the world’s premier ass, Circuit Solicitor Brice Willard Posey, will swoop across the sound. We’ll never find Ingrid, he’ll be so busy posturing. Right.”
    “Come on, come on,” Webb shouted from the shadows near the cabin.
    Max gnawed unhappily at his lip. “Annie, I hate to see you stuck in there with a corpse. But I don’t want you out in the boondocks with a killer loose.”
    “I’m not worried about that. Only a very dumb killer would still be hanging around, after the massive amount of noise and confusion erupting here. I want to give that cabin a once-over, while I have the chance. Posey’s such an idiot he wouldn’t recognize a clue if it ran up and hugged him.”
    “True enough. Okay, honey. Have at it.” He took time to give her a swift kiss on the cheek.
    As he turned to go, she stared out through the darkness toward the inkier splotch that was the marsh. “Max, what’s happened to Ingrid?”
    He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, gave her shoulder a hard squeeze, then pivoted to follow Webb.
    Annie shot a quick glance at Billy, still talking rapidly on his radio, and moved swiftly toward Ingrid’s cabin.
    She wouldn’t have much time.
    She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but she had a deep-down, gut feeling that she’d better be prepared to figure out what had happened in Ingrid’s cabin. Finding Ingrid was priority No. One, but Brice Posey had a genius for getting everything wrong. He was quite capable of deciding Ingrid’s disappearance was immaterial to the murder investigation. She could hear him now, his piglike eyes bulging, his nose flared, “Irrelevant and immaterial, Miss Laurance.”
    Again, that funny little shock of surprise. She wasn’t Miss Laurance any more. Mrs. Darling. Mrs. Maxwell Darling. Annie Darling. Annie Laurance-Darling?
    Annie used the edge of her blue linen jacket to grasp the screen-door knob, trying not to smudge any prints. Of course, Max had touched it already and so had Billy Cameron. She used her shoulder to nudge the door wide enough to slip inside, then took a steadying breath.
    It was time to stop ignoring the body.
    Jesse’s wasn’t a prepossessing corpse. The face was a waxy yellowish color. Deeply grooved lines led from the sharply curved nose to thin lips, stretched now in a mockery of a smile. Locked in an upward glare, the lifeless eyes glittered, as if they’d once delighted in taunts and now enjoyed a final, malevolent triumph. But there was something oddly vulnerable about the pale white of his bare feet. Had he taken off his sneakers and socks? If so, why? Although Annie wasn’t of a housekeeperish turn of mind, she observed that the thick bluish crew socks were once white cotton, tossed into too many washes with Jesse’s perennial navy blue turtlenecks.

    Annie shook her head impatiently. Time was fleeting. Posey might arrive at any moment and toss her out of the cabin. So, she’d better get busy. The first task of any detective was to describe the scene. What would Inspector Luke Thanet do?
    She scrabbled in her purse, found a crumpled paper napkin (Annie & Max), smoothed it out, and drew a quick sketch, which she labeled SCENE OF THE CRIME .
    She found a second napkin, headed it DESCRIPTION OF CRIME SCENE, and rapidly listed the following:
    Murder victim found in living room in the residence of Ingrid Jones, manager of Nightingale Courts
.
    (Oh, Ingrid, dear Ingrid, where are you? Are you frightened? Hurt? Alive?)
    Living room measures approximately
—Annie stepped it off—
twelve by fourteen