Death of the Party by Carolyn Hart Page B

Britt—oh, speaking nicely enough but he’s looking toward the house—eyes like a hurt animal—pain down deep—likely always beenon the outside looking in—not tough enough—mood swings—avoids confrontations—
    Dana Addison—right at his elbow—defensive—worried—scared—pretty as a Persian cat, a soft round face, but there are claws even if they’re sheathed at the moment—if anyone threatens Jay, she’ll scratch their eyes out—buttons and bows, ruffles and calico, velveteen bunnies and teddy bears—
    Annie watched Britt and her guests until they were out of sight, taking the path into the woods, then she dashed into the room, found Max’s legal pad. She returned to the verandah and settled at the wicker table even though it was chilly. She didn’t intend to miss a single arrival.
    Now, to record her impressions. She chewed on the tip of the pen, then reminded herself she was simply pretending to be Laurel. The words spilled out on the page….
    Â 
    Max stopped at the line of pines, looked back. It was a good view of the three-story house, the avenue of live oaks to the Sound, the long pier, the terraced gardens and, far distant, the rectangular rock pool against the backdrop of the maritime forest. Hidden in the forest were the eight cabins. He nodded, clear now on the geography.
    He walked into the pines, following a wide and well-defined path, growth cut back, crushed shells underfoot. He’d gone about twenty yards when he stopped in surprise. Two metal stanchions on either side of the path supported a chain. From the chain hung a sign. Red letters proclaimed:
    Â 
    PRIVATE
    EMPLOYEES ONLY
    CLOSED TO PUBLIC
    DANGER
    Â 
    Well, he was an employee. He stepped over the chain. The path was narrower here but still well covered with oyster shells. Wet ferns brushed him, occasional drops of water splatted down as the wind rustled the pines.
    The path split. Max hesitated, then veered to his left. The forest looked almost impenetrable to either side, hospitable to foxes, raccoons, cougars, perhaps even wild boars. He’d gone another twenty yards before he reached a clearing. Three modest cabins rose on pilings. He strode to the nearest, gave a swift look around, and thudded up the steps. He knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he turned the knob, stepped inside.
    His eyes widened. The chairs, sofa, walls, and lampshades were pink. Dolls of every age, type, and description filled two bookcases. Plump, skinny, large and small dolls sat, lay, and stood. Rag dolls, porcelain dolls, Barbies. Max stepped to a desk in one corner. He pulled out a drawer, found a checkbook. Lucinda Phillips. He poked his head into the bedroom. Pink ruffles on the bed. A pink satin chair. More dolls.
    Max regained the clearing with a feeling of relief. The second cabin was empty. Each bedroom contained a single bed, nightstand, vanity, and small armchair. The living room decor was as impersonal and unadorned as a hotel room—a sofa, two chairs. Therewas no trace of occupancy, although one bedroom held a faint violet scent. Max’s nose wriggled. His mother had always been fond of violet bath powder.
    He paused at the front door for a final survey. At a guess, this cabin served as quarters for the maids, who, according to Britt, came and went. Apparently Golden Silk was presently without domestic staff.
    In the living room of the third cabin, Max’s nose wriggled again. Pipe smoke. A pipe rack, humidor, and heavy pottery ashtray in the shape of the state of Texas were the only items on top of a massive wooden desk. The furnishings were Spartan and clearly masculine, a brown leather sofa, a worn recliner, a rifle case, a boot-scarred pine coffee table. Hunting and fishing magazines were stacked atop a metal trunk beneath a front window.
    Max’s examination of the bedroom and its closet was cursory—work clothes, flannel shirts, a