Death Comes Silently (10 page)

The second story was brief.

ISLANDER HATHAWAY DROWNING VICTIM

by Marian Kenyon

The obituary was in the next day’s
Gazette
.

EVERETT MORGAN HATHAWAY

Annie reread the printouts and jotted notes on a small pad. She clicked off the computer and stood. She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes to noon. She put the folded sheets and notebook in her purse, pulled on her lilac-colored L. L. Bean windbreaker.

She felt justified in her decision to keep Henny’s secret. Moreover, she would craft a way to assist Henny without revealing that she knew about Jeremiah. As she did, she would not lie to Max, but she would tell the truth without compromising Henny. Telling the truth did not always entail telling everything you knew.

Now for a talk she didn’t want to have.

M
ax Darling lined up the putt. Knees slightly bent. Relaxed stance. Watch the ball.

The head of the putter connected, the ball rolled merrily over the nylon mat of the indoor putting green that absorbed a good portion of his spacious office. He’d inserted a contour pad under the green to create a break about a foot from the lip of the cup. The ball curled over the raised portion and ran true to the cup.

Instead of a fist pump, he felt a wave of ennui. There had been a raft of cold and misty days since a last burst of warmth right before Christmas. He’d now played this little patch of phony grass until he could probably sink a putt from between his legs. Suiting the idea to the moment, he dropped another ball, stood with his back to the cup, bent forward, and whacked one-handed between his spread-apart feet.

The ball seemed to be drawn to the hole by a magnet.

Max grinned. He knew when it was time to quit. He gathered up the balls, returned the putter to his shiny red leather golf bag in one corner, and strolled to his desk. He settled in his comfortable leather chair. The mahogany desk that had once served as a refectory table in a monastery was innocent of any evidence of work. January was a slow month at Confidential Commissions. So slow that he’d exhausted the possibilities of the indoor putting green. His Della Street–wise secretary, Barb, was tarpon fishing down in the gulf. Max looked up at the mission statement his mother had created in elegant calligraphy on yellowed parchment:

He had mixed feelings about the ornate presentation, but hanging the statement was the least a man could do with a Christmas gift obviously created with such… He frowned. Such insight? Such whimsy? Such originality?

His mother was definitely insightful, whimsical, and sometimes eerily prescient. In fact, there were those who had been known to describe Laurel Darling Roethke as just this side of certifiable. He grinned and looked at the photograph of the foremost proponent of his mother as an endearing loon. At least Annie admitted that Laurel was endearing. Exasperating? Sometimes. Entertaining? Often. Endearing? Always.

Max never tired of admiring his wife’s photograph, flyaway sandy curls that spoke of sea and sand and sun, steady gray eyes that were
honest and kind and eager, an open and genuine face with kissable, very kissable, lips. A winter day, a crackling fire, and Annie… Who needed lunch? He’d call and suggest the very best kind of rendezvous, just the two of them, the world forgotten…

The outer door opened and a refrain of marimba music sounded, Annie’s Christmas gift to lift spirits that might sag in January. Marimba music was fine, but he would get rid of this visitor in short order. He had in mind a surefire cure for January doldrums.

“Max?” Annie’s voice was tentative.

Hey, was he thinking right or what? Maybe Annie had the same cheerful plan?

She stood in his doorway.

One look and he knew afternoon delight definitely was not the reason for her visit. Her gray eyes had a telltale wideness that revealed discomfort, and her shoulders were stiff beneath her lilac windbreaker.

She took a deep breath, walked toward his desk, a beseeching look in her eyes.

“Max.”

He rose, came around the desk, and pulled her into his arms. “What’s wrong, honey?” She leaned against him and he knew whatever distressed her, it was not a problem between them. He cupped her chin in his hand, raised her head. “Gretchen?”

“Max.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sure Jeremiah is innocent.”

He felt a start of surprise. This was the last statement he would have expected. This morning she’d been withdrawn and depressed, carrying a burden of guilt despite his insistence that she was not responsible for Gretchen’s death. There was a striking change in her demeanor. Now she was excited, although hesitant, and her gaze slid away from his.

“I’ve been thinking and I’ve figured out some things.”

He watched. She was talking very fast, the words too glib.

She picked up steam. “I am absolutely certain”—there was no mistaking the conviction in her voice—“that Gretchen’s talking about Jeremiah didn’t matter. She was just being Gretchen. Oh, I suppose she’d scared herself, but that was only a little part of her calls. Mostly she was talking about the index card she found in Everett Hathaway’s jacket. Max, here’s what I think happened…”

As she sketched her dark vision of the December night when Everett Hathaway slipped from his home and paddled a kayak to his death, he listened with a growing sense of unreality.

She finished, looked at him hopefully.

He could almost be drawn into Annie’s premise. Certainly Everett’s death was odd, almost inexplicable. But what had prompted Annie to conclude definitively that Jeremiah was innocent? “Why are you suddenly positive the murderer can’t be Jeremiah?”

Annie didn’t answer. She simply looked at him.

He saw turmoil in her eyes and face, knowledge, vulnerability, reluctance, determination, and, most of all, paramount, unmistakable, a plea.
Don’t ask me. Let it go. I can’t tell you.

“I suppose”—he turned away and picked up a small jade shamrock, her gift to him one St. Pat’s Day—“you thought through the facts of the day.” He spoke in a reasoned tone to reassure her, a clear declaration that he was not pressing, would not press. Inside, he felt the drumbeat of worry. What did she know? She’d found out something she didn’t feel free to share. “I guess Gretchen’s conversations made you decide that the important fact was the index card in Everett’s jacket.”

“Yes.” Relief buoyed her voice. “That’s exactly what happened.
I told Billy”—she drew a deep breath—“that someone from the Hathaway house came to Better Tomorrow to get that card and he—or she—killed Gretchen.”

He leaned against his desk, carefully placed the shamrock next to the silver frame of her photograph. Luck for his Annie. Dammit, what did she know? “Well, Billy can check everything out.” His gaze settled again on her face.

“Billy still thinks Jeremiah is guilty.”

Max waited. He understood Billy’s response.

“So”—she spoke brightly but with underlying firmness—“since I know what I know—”

He kept his expression attentive, but his mind was alive with questions. What did she know? And how could he find out?

“—I have to do something about it. I can’t let a man be hunted for murder when he’s innocent. I’ve called Henny—”

“Why Henny?”

A hint of alarm quivered in her eyes. “She hired Jeremiah.”

The answer made sense, but Annie was too wary. He hurried to smooth the moment. “Oh, two minds better than one? Hey, you have a built-in partner right here, remember?”

Her smile was quick and genuine. “I was hoping you’d agree to help. I left a message for Henny to meet me at Parotti’s for lunch. We’ll decide what to do. You’ll come?”

“You couldn’t keep me away. I’ll be like a hound on your heels.” His tone was light, but he meant his answer on every level.

I
n summer, Parotti’s Bar and Grill would have a line at noon, vacationers vying with residents for the best food on the island, hot, crisp hush puppies, succulent flounder, local shrimp. The outlanders were enchanted by the adjoining bait shop with its coolers and barrels. Regulars took the sawdust-covered floor and assortment of rods and reels for granted. When Ben Parotti had married Miss Jolene, who owned a tea shop on the mainland, and brought her to reign over his bar and grill, he’d been willing to add quiche to the menu, small vases with flowers on red-and-white-checked cloths on the tables, but he drew a line in the sawdust over the bait shop. Fishermen still carried out coolers with chunks of black bass, grouper, squid, and chicken necks. An occasional fastidious diner’s nose wrinkled at the heady scent of bait mingled with the aroma of hot grease from the kitchen.

There was no line and plenty of available tables the third week
in January. Usually Annie walked to their favorite wooden booth where Max, as a regular, had been free to carve a heart with their initials on the table. Today she chose instead a corner table with a good view of the front door.

When Ben arrived with menus, Annie smiled at him. “Henny’s joining us.” Surely she would come.

The front door opened, cool air swirled inside. Henny had changed from her informal outfit of the morning, appropriate for clambering into a boat and heading out into the Sound. Now she wore a one-button navy wool flannel blazer and cream wool slacks and low navy suede heels. She walked toward them, her expressive face pale and drawn.

Max rose to pull out a chair. “Annie asked me to join in the sleuthing.” His smile was easy.

Henny slipped into the chair. She managed a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Ben Parotti approached, his gnomelike face folded in lines of commiseration. “Sure sorry about the trouble at Better Tomorrow. I heard they’re huntin’ Jeremiah with dogs.” Ben was not only one of the island’s most successful businessmen, owner of the restaurant, a Gas ’N’ Go, the ferry, and assorted real estate, he knew everyone and was always a first source for background when the
Gazette
’s Marian Kenyon sought information about anyone on matters both public and private.