Death of the Party Read Online Free

Barb’s thoughts. Father Tim was a perfect antidote for too many thrillers.
    Max came around the desk. “Hello, Ms. Barlow. I’m Max Darling.”
    â€œI know. I looked you up on the Net. Your Web page says you’ll find the answer to any question.” Her eyes—worried, uncertain eyes—skimmed his face, glanced swiftly about the office. The ornately carved refectory table held the single file on its shining expanse along with a studio portrait of a smiling Annie, a green-shaded brass lamp, a silver letter opener, and a crystal bowl with a mound of foil-wrapped chocolate kisses. A red leather recliner, now upright, sat behind the desk. Two petit point chairs faced the desk. A collection of putters poked out of an oversized green pottery stand. The indoor putting green—a birthday gift from Annie—was innocent of balls. There were a half dozen in the silver chest atop the bookcase against the far wall.
    His visitor’s gaze settled on him with a gravely inquiring look.
    Max folded his arms, raised an eyebrow. “Do I pass muster?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Her voice was crisp, but her gaze was forlorn. “Oh, heavens. I’m terribly confused. I’m in trouble, but I don’t know if you can help. I don’t know if anyone can help. It’s too late to change my plans. They’re all coming back to the island. I’ll have to tell you”—there was a wry pride in her voice—“how I tricked them. They’re all coming, every last one of them. They arrive Friday. But I couldn’t sleep last night. I woke up in a panic.” Her gaze was wide and staring. “How would you feel if you knew you’d invited a murderer to your home?” There was a tremor in her voice.
    For an instant, Max wondered if he’d entered analternate universe. Or if this attractive woman was mentally disturbed. One look into steady green eyes and he knew he was dealing with intelligence, acuity, and scarcely controlled fear. “I’d be worried. What makes you think a prospective guest is a murderer?” He heard the reserve in his voice.
    She gave a short, desperate laugh. “I’m not mad. It isn’t a matter of supposition. I know one of them’s a murderer. Please, will you let me tell you?”
    Max gestured toward the nearer chair. “Of course.” He could imagine Barb’s intense excitement as she clung to the other side of the door. However, he wasn’t in the habit of believing six impossible things before breakfast. Or after. But maybe he could be of some service….
    His visitor sat, face ridged with strain, back ramrod straight, and placed her handbag in her lap, fingers tight around the strap.
    Max took the other chair, turned it to face her. They were so near, he could see the fine pencil line artfully used to enhance her truly remarkable eyes and the tiny hint of a mole at the corner of her carmine lips.
    She took a deep breath. “Mr. Darling, I’m afraid I’ve been a fool. But I didn’t know what else to do.”
    â€œYou have guests coming. You believe one of them is a murderer?” The words sounded absurd and unreal, but he knew this woman believed it.
    â€œI know one of them is a murderer.” The words were measured, implacable.
    Max reached over to his desk, picked up a legal pad and pen. “Who was killed?”
    Those shadowed eyes met his gaze. “Jeremiah Addison.” She looked at him, waited. “On Golden Silk.”
    Max felt a quiver of shock. He knew Addison’s name. Addison had died more than a year ago. Wasn’t it an accident of some sort? Some names are part of popular culture and that was true of Jeremiah Addison. His amazing wealth in newspapers, television stations, and magazines put him on a par with Ted Turner or Rupert Murdoch. And, of course, everyone along the coast was aware of Golden Silk, the private sea island owned by Addison. The