Death of the Party by Carolyn Hart

ship parts for minor repairs. Anything major we go into a marina in Savannah.”
    â€œYou been a sailor for long?” Max picked up a stick, pitched it toward the water.
    â€œOff and on.” Harry folded his arms.
    The stick splashed. Max picked up another, hefted it. “You from these parts?”
    â€œUpstate.” Harry’s voice was laconic. “You?”
    Max brushed pine straw from his fingers. “Broward’s Rock. It’s pretty quiet this time of year. No tourists. But not”—he glanced toward the pines—“as quiet as here. Is that what attracted you to the job?”
    The question amused Harry. “Hell, no. I get paid big bucks. Mr. Addison paid me five times what I could get shoreside. Ms. Barlow does the same. Three weeks on, one week off. First week of the month, everybody leaves. Lucinda’s got a sister in Aiken. I keep an apartment in Savannah. Britt puts the maids up at a seaside motel. Everybody does their own thing. Then we come back, work for three weeks. Best of all, I do my work on my own schedule. Nobody butts me around.” His thin lips rippled in a satisfied smile. The smile wasn’t reflected in his cold gaze. “Now, in your job, I bet you run into some funny setups. Though I don’t know what Ms. Barlow would want you to do on Golden Silk. Everything here’s pretty much aboveboard.”
    Max was bland. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But sometimes it’s a good idea to check things out. Thanks for showing me around.” Max turned toward the pines. “I’ll be back in touch.”
    Max didn’t look back. But he knew Harry watched him all the way to the woods.
    Â 
    The face was familiar to millions. At home Annie would have clicked off the TV. Now she twiddled with the focus, and Everett Crenshaw’s bleached mound of hair; pale eyes; long, thin nose; arrogant, patronizing smirk; and receding chin seemed close enough to touch and much too close for comfort. Why was it that media moguls often elevated to stardom talking heads with all the charm of rabid rats? Perhaps because political commentators now gloried in aggression and bloodlust, not qualities common to cultivated correspondents. Crenshaw wore his trademark floppy red shirt with a purple cravat, skintight black trousers, and desert boots.
    Everett Crenshaw—excited—with a feline quickness—always out for number one—unscrupulous—a gambler—ready to fight but only on his terms—
    â€œBritt, you look marvelous.” He drew out the three syllables in a high mocking tone. “I’m looking forward to a most intriguing weekend.” His carrying voice professed admiration while his magnified features exuded malice.
    Britt Barlow appeared unfazed. She hooked an arm through Crenshaw’s, turned him toward the gardens, bent her head and spoke rapidly.
    His snickering whoop of laughter faded as they walked toward the fountain.
    Annie wrote rapidly. She put the binoculars on the wicker table and hurried into the room with the legal pad. The warmth of the fire didn’t ease the chill she carried with her. Soon she and Max would meet Britt’s guests in the lovely drawing room of Heron House.
    Along with Jeremiah’s ghost, of course.

Four
    M AX LEANED AGAINST THE OPEN DOORWAY of the bathroom, legal pad in hand. He finished reading, looked up. “Good stuff.” He almost told Annie it was awesome how in tune her observations were with his mother’s visionary thought processes. He opened his mouth, closed it. Least said…
    â€œYes?” Annie’s gray eyes were alert even though her skin was shell pink from the warmth of the bath.
    â€œJust thinking about my talk with Harry.” Which was true in a sense. Mmm, very pink skin. What skin he could see. Which wasn’t enough. Her arms and shoulders rose enticingly from a huge mound of billowy bubbles. Tendrils of blond curls