Death of the Party by Carolyn Hart Page A

someone?”
    â€œWho’s up in the middle of the night? I don’t think it was such a gamble. If I were going to do it, I’d slip out about two in the morning. And if the murderer had run into anyone, he’d have changed his plans. But he didn’t.” Annie considered a third fritter, reluctantly refrained. A wonderful lunch. But they hadn’t come to Golden Silk for pleasure. She had a sense of time rushing ahead and danger coming.
    Max looked hopeful. “For all we know, the murderer may have been seen. But the next morning there was no reason for that information to come out. Everyone was talking abut Jeremiah’s ‘accident.’ We’ll find out. Somebody may have been up, had insomnia, taken a walk. Though”—he was grave as he tapped the notebook—“these cabins are definitely isolated. Anyone can take a path, move without being seen.”
    Annie finished a sip of tea. Suddenly the pale blue room didn’t seem as inviting, despite the fire and the succulent meal. She pictured the island after nightfall, populated with phantoms moving through shadows toward Heron House, where no door was ever locked.
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    Annie pulled on a windbreaker and stepped out onto the verandah. She leaned over the railing and watched as Max came down the front steps. He paused at the bottom, looked up, waved, then veered in the opposite direction of their earlier walk. Annie watched until he was out of sight. She sighed. The verandah was gloomy even though the gentle rain had ended. Wet branches glistened in pale sunlight. Annie paced impatiently, wished she’d gone with him. She looked down at the binoculars on the wicker table. Max’s instructions had been clear. “You can get the first look at these people. They won’t know anyone’s watching. Pick up on their interaction with Britt. Get a sense of who they are.” Annie knew she’d looked nonplussed. He’d paused at the door and grinned. “Come on, Annie. You can do it. Pretend you are Laurel.” And he was gone.
    She repeated the injunction aloud, though perhaps not in quite as encouraging a tone. “Pretend you are Laurel.” A smile tugged at her lips. What a frightening thought. Max’s mother…Well, truth to tell, Max’s mother was delightful, delirious, unpredictable, madcap, and amazing. She was also empathetic. How often she’d known exactly how Annie felt and spoken the perfect words of encouragement or comfort.
    Pretend she was Laurel…
    Footsteps sounded on the front steps. Annie grabbed the binoculars and moved to a corner of the verandah to stand behind a tall potted fern. She had a clear view of the front drive and Britt striding toward the dock.
    Pretend …
    Annie knew that right this moment, hundreds of miles distant, Laurel’s Nordic blue eyes widened with pleasure, her patrician beauty graced the day, her throaty laughter lifted everyone near. Laurel encouraged creativity, likening moods to the swirl of colored ribbons, divining auras as easily as an ornithologist identifying birds. If Laurel were here, she would form an instant opinion of those she viewed, and more often than not, her judgments would be sound.
    An odd sensation suffused Annie’s mind. She felt mellow as summer sunshine, liberated as a soaring eagle, joyous as an embrace. She lifted the binoculars. Three magnified faces moved into her eyes and mind, dramatic as visages on a theater screen, emotions easily discerned.
    Britt Barlow—rather a hard face, but she was staking her future on what happened this weekend—no hint of fear—an impervious look—though that smile was forced—definitely a strong personality—welcoming gestures—quick jerky movements—hustling them toward the house—the lady was all business—an iron core—
    Jay Addison—in a fog—a fog of sadness—his father?—doesn’t care about