Free Death of the Party by Carolyn Hart

from simulated falls and spouted from a stone porpoise. Dense pine woods loomed behind the fountain. Britt nodded to her left. “That path leads to a gazebo near a lagoon. I love it there. The lagoon is rimmed by huge cypress. We stay on this path to reach the cabins.” They curved around the fountain and into the woods. The path meanderedthrough the pines. They followed it for about twenty yards to a turnaround. Britt waved her hand. “Pretend this is the hub of a wheel. The spokes are paths leading to the cabins. This path continues on through the pines to the beach. Cabin 1 is this way.” Britt turned to her left. Although the undergrowth was trimmed back, there was a feeling of being in wilderness. Dollops of rain splattered onto their umbrellas from the canopy of branches. They reached a clearing and a gray wood cabin on posts. Steps led up to a screened-in porch. The cabin might have been a thousand miles from habitation. Rain pattered in a gentle song on the wood shingles.
    Max looked at Britt. “Are all the cabins this remote?”
    Her face was in shadow beneath the umbrella. “Oh, yes.”
    Max crooked the handle of his umbrella under his arm along with his folder. He flipped open a small notebook, rapidly sketched. When he finished, he held it out for Britt to see. “Is this how the cabins are arranged?”
    Annie stepped nearer, studied Max’s map. A rectangle represented the fountain. From it, Max had drawn a meandering line to a beach. Midway he’d marked the turnaround. Eight trails radiated from that circle. At the end of each intersecting trail, he’d placed an X.
    â€œYes. You can also draw an outer circle. The cabins are linked that way, too. But each cabin is totally private, a preserve of its own. ‘Come to Golden Silk and leave the world behind.’ That’s what I’m going to put on the new brochures—if I can get all of this behind me.” There was a bitter twist to her voice.
    Max looked at her thoughtfully. He flipped shut the notepad. “It’s time we talked about what you have in mind this weekend. I advised you to contact the sheriff. You wouldn’t agree. Instead, you insisted on calling together everyone who was on the island when Jeremiah died. I agreed to come only because I felt a responsibility for your safety—”
    Britt lifted a hand as if to ward off his words. “I’m not a fool. Contrary to what you may think. I can assure you I don’t intend to take any risks.”
    Max was obdurate. “You have taken a terrible risk in bringing a murderer here.” His face was grim, his voice stern.
    Annie knew that voice. She’d only heard it once or twice in their years together. Easygoing, affable, charming Max had his limits and he’d reached them.
    Britt stood still as a statue. There was only the sound of raindrops splatting gently against the cabin and the rustle of the pines, the top branches swaying. She met Max’s gaze, her own equally unyielding.
    â€œI came and brought my wife”—he nodded toward Annie—“because you may be in danger. You are determined to find out who killed Jeremiah Addison. You never told me how you intended to proceed. I’m warning you: Don’t challenge a murderer.”
    Britt’s lips trembled. For an instant, she swayed as if fighting a hard wind.
    Annie wanted to step forward, slip an arm around the woman’s thin shoulders. Britt had the troubled, uncertain look of an abandoned—yet angry and defiant—child. But Annie knew Max was right. They had to know what Britt had planned.
    Max was decisive. “Here’s what I suggest. Tell them you intend to turn Golden Silk into a memorial to Jeremiah. That’s what you said in some of the letters you sent, isn’t it? Introduce Annie and me as oral historians. You’ve hired us to interview each of them about Jeremiah. That gives us a reason to talk to them.