Death of the Party by Carolyn Hart

the Darlings, right? Britt said you were in the Meadowlark Room. You’ve come too far. Here, I’ll show you. A quick left at the top of the main stairs and that’ll see you there. I’m Lucinda Phillips, cook and housekeeper.” She didn’t wait for them to reply, but plodded toward the front of the house, chattering all the while. “You’ll find a small refrigerator in the dressing area. It was put there when Mrs. Addison was sick. I’ve stocked it with water, colas, cheese. You’ll find a coffeemaker. Anytime you want a snack, you’re welcome in the kitchen. Got hot oatmeal raisin cookies with cranberries today. Everybody gets treated like family. There’s an assortment of snacks in the cabins. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, dinner at seven-thirty in the dining room, buffet style. Cocktails at seven in the drawing room.” She propped the tray on her hip as she opened the door to the Meadowlark Room, held it for them to enter.
    The room was serene, the walls pale blue, the woodwork ivory. Ornate gilt patterns decorated the French Empire furniture. Peacock blue upholstery looked bright and new on the sofa and chairs. A fire crackled in the grate. A chaise longue faced the fireplace. Annie was enchanted.
    Lucinda moved past them, took the tray to a round table overlooking the verandah. It was set with bright yellow pottery. “Crab salad. Corn fritters. Ambrosia. Iced tea. Anything else you want, come down and tell me. I’ll leave the tray and you can clear up and set it in the hall. Harry will attend to it later.” Shelumbered toward the door. “Enjoy your lunch,” and she was gone.
    Annie was first to the table. “Mmm, everything looks wonderful.”
    Max joined her. He propped open his small notebook next to his plate.
    Annie ate a fritter first. “They’re as good as Ben’s!” Annie could give no higher praise. Her heart belonged to Parotti’s, the down-home combination café and bait shop on Broward’s Rock. “Don’t you agree?”
    Max speared a fritter, took a bite. “Yeah. Really good.” He didn’t look up from his study of the map he’d drawn of the cabins.
    Annie found the salad delectable and the iced tea refreshing. Only in the South was iced tea a year-round beverage. She felt comfortable and cosseted. She admired the freshness of the blue walls and wondered if they had been painted recently. Or had Britt fixed the room this way for her ailing sister, trying to create cool and comforting surroundings? A door was open to a small adjoining room. That must be where Britt had slept.
    Max flipped to a fresh page. As he ate, he made several sketches. He paused, thought, wrote rapidly.
    â€œScene of the crime?” Annie looked at him inquiringly. She finished the salad, was unable to resist a second fritter.
    He turned the notebook, pushed it toward her.
    Annie looked at a sketch of the house, the bedrooms labeled with the names of occupants. He’d also sketched the staircase, the wire at the top, a stick figure lying near the base. “The more I think about it, themore reckless it seems. There’s absolutely no guarantee Jeremiah would be the victim.” He held up a hand when Annie started to interrupt. “I know. Britt says he was always first downstairs. But how could that have been common knowledge?”
    â€œThat’s easy.” Annie sipped her tea. “I’ll bet jogging came up at dinner the night before and he told everyone that’s how he started the day. When we talk to people, we can find out.”
    Max looked skeptical. “Okay, let’s say everyone knew he jogged early. That aside, consider the distance from the cabins to the house. How could anyone hope to get to the main trail, reach the garden, cross all those terraces, get into the house, creep up the stairs, set the trap, and get all the way back to a cabin without being seen by