CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

Iexhaled noisily, as if pushing out air would push out the dread that felt like a hard, cold stone in my stomach. Unfortunately, I had more than a passing knowledge of murder investigations. One thing seemed highly doubtful: that we would be having a wedding the next day.

"We shouldn't have moved him," Pete said.

"We thought it was an allergic reaction." Tom was unapologetic. "Besides," he looked at the dark windows, the wind-driven rain thrumming against them, "the medical examiner will be glad we got him out of the storm." He looked at Jamie and Pete. "I'll defend it if I have to."

"We have to tell Zoey," Jamie said. "She needs to know."

"What?" I was startled into the present moment, my mind ticking. "Don't we need to tell everyone here that he was murdered?" I waved my hands in the air, gesturing toward all the rooms, nooks, and crannies in Windsholme. "We may be locked in this house with a killer."

"Or," Jamie's expression was grim, "we just sent a murderer back to Busman's Harbor with everyone in the world we care about and no way to warn anybody."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my arms broke out in gooseflesh. I was about to protest, but then looked at Tom. He would know what to do.

Tom's dark brows wrinkled together over his nose, a sure sign he was thinking things through, weighing pros and cons, and figuring out what should happen from here on. "We have two choices," he said. "I can sit here guarding the corpse all night, and we can wait until the Major Crimes Unit gets here in the morning." He paused while we absorbed this. "Or, since we have a Major Crimes detective here and two very capable local officers," he looked at me, "and one very capable amateur, we can try to get a jump on understanding what happened while people's memories are fresh." His tone left little question as to which route he preferred.

"How do we do that?" I asked.

Tom looked toward the windows that lined the outside wall. The wind obligingly howled, pushing rain against the glass, reminding us of what was going on outside. "We won't be able to search the scene," Tom said, unnecessarily. "If there's anything left of it. What time is it?"

I pulled out my otherwise useless phone. "A few minutes after ten."

"Most folks will still be up," Tom said, weighing his words. "Especially those on West Coast time. Let's find out as much about the victim as we can. We don't want to give people more information than we have to. We're the only ones who know it was murder, aside from the killer. It's one of our few advantages in this situation. We'll tell people we're trying to figure out the man's identity."

"We know his identity," I protested.

"No one knows we know that," Tom answered.

"But won't we be endangering people," I asked, "if we don't tell them that they're in the house with a murderer?"

"May be in the house with a murderer," Tom responded. "We aren't sure this was murder, and we don't know if the person who did it is still here. We're only looking for information. Besides, this would appear to be a targeted attack. Whatever killed him had to be brought onto the island, along with the syringe. I doubt very much the perpetrator is a danger to others unless he or she feels threatened or surprised."

"Great," I restrained myself from rolling my eyes.

"We'll tell everyone to lock their doors," Tom said.

We all smiled at that, even Jamie. "That won't make them suspicious at all," he said. "What about Zoey?"

"We won't tell her we suspect murder." Tom's tone was tight and professional. He knew what he was asking of Jamie.

"Unacceptable," Jamie said immediately.

Tom didn't respond right away, his detective self warring with his friend self. I was enormously relieved when he gave in.

"Okay," Tom said. "Jamie and Julia, you talk to Zoey. Jamie's right. She should know, and you're the ones who should tell her. Pete and I will stay here to guard the body." He looked at Jamie and me, face serious. "Stay together." It was a command. "I don't want any of us wandering around alone."

* * *

I didn't like it. I didn't want to do any of it. I dreaded telling Zoey, whose carefully planned, deeply desired picture-book wedding was already under threat from the storm and Mr. Clarkson's death. A murder would make the island a crime scene, one containing witnesses and suspects. I couldn't see how we'd be having a wedding tomorrow.

Jamie and I climbed the stairs and walked down the long second-floor hall toward my apartment. Neither of us talked, and I could tell his mind was churning, as mine was, headed to the same inevitable conclusion. The hallway had rooms on either side, and with the third floor above, I could barely hear the storm. The loudest sound was the creak of our footsteps on the old oak floor.

The power was still on, thank goodness. Our electricity came over in a conduit that ran under the sea from Westclaw Point. As long as the mainland had power—by no means a sure thing, considering the nearest piece of the mainland was at the end of a peninsula—we would have power. In the renovation, we'd installed a generator, which would keep the big restaurant refrigerator and freezer and a few select lights going if we did lose power. That would keep the food for the wedding feast fresh—in the unlikely event that there was still a wedding tomorrow.

We'd reached my apartment door. Jamie tapped lightly. Zoey called softly, "Come in."

She'd moved from the couch to the window seat, where she sat in her pink rehearsal dress with a gray comforter Vee Snugg had knitted for me across her knees. There was an open box of tissues next to her and dozens of used ones wadded up and strewn over the window seat and floor.

Constance Marshall was in the room. She rose from the couch as Jamie and I entered. She'd changed into a pale blue terry bathrobe, zippered down the front, and had unfastened her long gray hair. It swung as she moved. She walked over to Zoey and squeezed her forearm. "I'm going to my room. Call if you need me."

I opened my mouth to say there was no cell service and therefore we couldn't call, but decided against it. I'd put Constance in the room next to my apartment. It would be a simple matter to walk down the hall and knock on the door if Jamie and I thought Zoey shouldn't be alone when we had to leave her.

Jamie went to Zoey and gathered her into his arms on the window seat. I grabbed a kitchen chair and pulled it next to them.

"What?" Our serious faces were scaring her, but she had to be told.

"Honey," Jamie started, "the man at dinner, the one who we thought died of an allergic reaction . . . now we think he may have been murdered."

"Murdered!" Zoey shouted, radically altering the mood in the room.

I couldn't blame her. I would've shouted too, if I hadn't found out when I was surrounded by cops. I glanced over my shoulder at the door to the hallway, which Constance had closed behind her. I didn't think anyone could have heard Zoey unless they happened to be lingering directly outside the apartment door.

Jamie reached for the box and handed Zoey another tissue. She wasn't crying at the moment, but he must have anticipated it would be needed.

Zoey, however, didn't collapse. "How?" she asked. Her voice still wavered, but she was very much in control.

"We don't know, exactly," Jamie answered. "But we suspect poison. Administered by injection."

Zoey made a mewling sound. I leaned forward in the chair and took her hand. "Did you know him?" I asked.

A tear formed on her lower eyelid and ran down next to her nose. "No. I told you before." She stared at me. Annoyed at the repetition of the question? Defensive?

"Honey," Jamie shifted on the seat and hugged her closer, "his name is Kendall Clarkson. He's from Los Angeles." He didn't ask a direct question, and Zoey didn't respond, so he continued. "I looked at that invitation list dozens of times and the seating chart just as many. I don't remember that name. Do you?"

Zoey shook her head, which caused a tear to fly off her nose. "No."

"It's just," Jamie tried one more time, "the Los Angeles connection. I thought he might be one of yours. Someone from home you invited at the last minute."

Zoey's wet eyes flashed angrily at Jamie. "You have guests from LA, too. Your Uncle Dick and his whole family. Your groomsman nephew, Dan, for goodness' sake."

"I understand." Jamie stroked her hair. "But I don't know the dead man."

Zoey was definite. "Neither do I."

I stood up, not sure what else to do. Jamie looked up, then hugged Zoey tighter. "I'm going to walk Julia downstairs to Tom. Then I'm coming right back. Lock the door behind us."

Zoey looked momentarily puzzled. "We weren't going to be together the night before the wedding," she said to Jamie. "We agreed—" Her face rearranged itself two or three times as the truth dawned on her. There probably wasn't going to be a wedding tomorrow. The event she had longed for, planned for, counted on, wasn't going to happen. The obvious conclusion hit her like a frying pan to the face. After a moment of stunned, open-mouthed silence, she burst into noisy sobs.

"I can go by myself," I said to Jamie. "You watch me to the end of the hallway from here. Then I'll call to Tom. He'll be able to hear me from the stairs." I wasn't certain that was true. The billiards room was three huge rooms away from the stairway, and both doors to it were closed. But I didn't want Zoey to be left alone.

Neither did Jamie. He let go of Zoey and came toward the doorway. "Go ahead," he whispered.