a hint that it was clear what she was talking about.”
Max forked coleslaw. “What was her point?”
Annie recalled another mystery discussion with Pat and her admiration for Christie’s Virginia Revel, who looked for new experiences. “Maybe she wanted to see how the person would react. Or maybe Pat thought she could profit if she kept silent.”
Max lifted his tea glass. “In less polite circles, that’s called blackmail.” He looked more interested. “She could have picked up some damaging information at the law firm. Maybe that’s why she was fired.”
Annie pressed fingertips against her temples. Possibly channeling Madame Arcati was habit-forming. “That doesn’t work. If she threatened someone at the law firm, she wouldn’t have been fired.”
Max objected. “Wait a minute. What’s the best way to get fired? Pose a threat to someone you work with.”
Annie was thoughtful. “She lost her job a couple of weeks ago. Henny says she was furious. If she’d known anything, she would already have caused trouble. I think something happened after she lost her job. We have to find out everything we can about the last two weeks. What Pat did, who she saw, where she went.”
M ax took a moment in his stroll toward his desk to select a putter from a green ceramic vase shaped like an elephant’s huge foot and a ball from a soft purple velvet bag hanging from a bronze hook next to the vase. An indoor putting green of synthetic bent grass graced one corner of the room. Today the hole was placed in a far corner beyond a challenging contour.
Max placed the ball at the edge of the green, assumed a putting stance. He drew the club back, making sure the putter face was square to the line. He stroked, smooth as butter. The ball rolled true, quivered for an instant, plopped into the cup. Max hoisted the club in triumph, then returned it to the vase.
He was smiling as he settled in the red leather chair behind the gleaming Renaissance refectory table that served as a desk. The surface was bare except for a matching red leather desk pad and the ornate silver frame that held his favorite photograph of Annie. He stared into her steady gray eyes. Flyaway sandy hair framed her open eager face. “Okay, babe. You want info on people around Pat Merridew. Maybe losing her job at the law firm doesn’t have anything to do with her murder, if it was murder, but that’s the place to start. For sure, they knew her well.”
He turned to his computer, went online, Googled Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster + Broward’s Rock. The Web page came up, reading: Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster, LLC . Max pulled a legal pad close, made notes. When he concluded, he printed bios for Glen Jamison, Cleo Jamison, and Kirk Brewster. His brow furrowed. There was no indication on the Web site that Kirk was leaving the firm. Maybe they were waiting to update after his departure.
Max read the bios, then looked again at the Web site, which listed office personnel. His eyes settled on a familiar name. He reached for the phone. When he was connected, he spoke quickly, “ . . . I don’t want to interrupt your workday. I saw one of your watercolors at the library and I wondered if you would be interested in doing a painting for my office.” The law-firm building was a half block from the island’s newest business, a frozen yogurt shop. “Could I buy you a yogurt on your break?” He smiled. “See you there.”
A nnie had scarcely noticed the neighborhood when she came to Pat Merridew’s house with Billy. Now she studied her surroundings. Pat’s house was on the wooded side of the road with no neighbors on either side. However, across the unpaved street several houses backed up to a lagoon. Two houses faced Pat’s cottage.
Annie pulled into Pat’s driveway, parked next to the blue Chevy. She glanced at the printout she’d made with the addresses and names of Pat’s near neighbors.
Annie slipped out of the car, shaded her eyes to look
Max forked coleslaw. “What was her point?”
Annie recalled another mystery discussion with Pat and her admiration for Christie’s Virginia Revel, who looked for new experiences. “Maybe she wanted to see how the person would react. Or maybe Pat thought she could profit if she kept silent.”
Max lifted his tea glass. “In less polite circles, that’s called blackmail.” He looked more interested. “She could have picked up some damaging information at the law firm. Maybe that’s why she was fired.”
Annie pressed fingertips against her temples. Possibly channeling Madame Arcati was habit-forming. “That doesn’t work. If she threatened someone at the law firm, she wouldn’t have been fired.”
Max objected. “Wait a minute. What’s the best way to get fired? Pose a threat to someone you work with.”
Annie was thoughtful. “She lost her job a couple of weeks ago. Henny says she was furious. If she’d known anything, she would already have caused trouble. I think something happened after she lost her job. We have to find out everything we can about the last two weeks. What Pat did, who she saw, where she went.”
M ax took a moment in his stroll toward his desk to select a putter from a green ceramic vase shaped like an elephant’s huge foot and a ball from a soft purple velvet bag hanging from a bronze hook next to the vase. An indoor putting green of synthetic bent grass graced one corner of the room. Today the hole was placed in a far corner beyond a challenging contour.
Max placed the ball at the edge of the green, assumed a putting stance. He drew the club back, making sure the putter face was square to the line. He stroked, smooth as butter. The ball rolled true, quivered for an instant, plopped into the cup. Max hoisted the club in triumph, then returned it to the vase.
He was smiling as he settled in the red leather chair behind the gleaming Renaissance refectory table that served as a desk. The surface was bare except for a matching red leather desk pad and the ornate silver frame that held his favorite photograph of Annie. He stared into her steady gray eyes. Flyaway sandy hair framed her open eager face. “Okay, babe. You want info on people around Pat Merridew. Maybe losing her job at the law firm doesn’t have anything to do with her murder, if it was murder, but that’s the place to start. For sure, they knew her well.”
He turned to his computer, went online, Googled Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster + Broward’s Rock. The Web page came up, reading: Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster, LLC . Max pulled a legal pad close, made notes. When he concluded, he printed bios for Glen Jamison, Cleo Jamison, and Kirk Brewster. His brow furrowed. There was no indication on the Web site that Kirk was leaving the firm. Maybe they were waiting to update after his departure.
Max read the bios, then looked again at the Web site, which listed office personnel. His eyes settled on a familiar name. He reached for the phone. When he was connected, he spoke quickly, “ . . . I don’t want to interrupt your workday. I saw one of your watercolors at the library and I wondered if you would be interested in doing a painting for my office.” The law-firm building was a half block from the island’s newest business, a frozen yogurt shop. “Could I buy you a yogurt on your break?” He smiled. “See you there.”
A nnie had scarcely noticed the neighborhood when she came to Pat Merridew’s house with Billy. Now she studied her surroundings. Pat’s house was on the wooded side of the road with no neighbors on either side. However, across the unpaved street several houses backed up to a lagoon. Two houses faced Pat’s cottage.
Annie pulled into Pat’s driveway, parked next to the blue Chevy. She glanced at the printout she’d made with the addresses and names of Pat’s near neighbors.
Annie slipped out of the car, shaded her eyes to look
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