Death Comes Silently (12 page)

“Oh. He didn’t know… You mean Everett didn’t know who wrote the note.” Henny smiled in delight. “Mrs. North.”

Annie recognized the reference. As befitted Death on Demand’s most omnivorous reader, Henny was well acquainted with mystery classics. Frances and Richard Lockridge’s charming heroine Pamela North nattered inconsequentially as she jumped to conclusions that befuddled her listeners.

“There is a logical progression,” Annie said stiffly.

Max was quick to make peace. Sort of. “It may be another turret
on a sand castle, but once you swallow the basic premise, it figures that the card in his pocket was anonymous.”

Annie flipped over the obituary printout, wrote:

Max took the sheet of paper and added:

Annie took the sheet back, wrote fast:

Henny reached for the paper, added in her distinctive backward-slanting penmanship.

Max’s tone was mild. “If he turns out to have been a paragon, beloved of all, the sand castle may collapse.”

Annie remembered the excitement—a hint of salaciousness?—in
Gretchen’s voice. Definitely something disreputable had been described on that missing card.

Max might question the reasoning behind Annie’s belief that Everett had been murdered, but she was certain the pieces fit together. Moreover, someone had killed Gretchen, and if Jeremiah was innocent, the only alternative appeared to be someone linked to Everett Hathaway.

She couldn’t share with Max the clincher. So far as she was concerned, Henny’s presence at Parotti’s was absolute proof of Jeremiah’s innocence. This morning he could easily have overpowered Henny, taken her old boat, reached the mainland. He had not. Henny trusted him. He trusted Henny. “He was murdered and we’ll find out who wanted him dead and why.” Annie gave a decisive nod. “Max, will you put together bios for us?” She pushed the papers to him, the printout of
Gazette
stories and the obituary, and the list of questions.

“Sure.” He was agreeable. “I’ve been at loose ends. Confidential Commissions has been a little slow.”

Annie maintained a bland expression. Confidential Commissions, to her knowledge, hadn’t had a client seek help in almost six weeks.

He finished his glass of Bud Light. “A project will be a nice change.”

Annie knew he wasn’t taking her theories seriously, but she also knew that when he made a promise, the promise was kept. Max was a whiz at ferreting personal information from the web and adding details by talking to people.

He looked energized. “I can keep an investigation under the radar by asking people to contribute to a tribute to Everett.”

Henny’s intelligent face was abruptly combative. “I want to break everything wide open. We are dealing with a murderer who feels
absolutely secure. There’s no hint of public suspicion that Everett was murdered, right?”

Annie spoke quickly. “Billy knows what I think. Obviously he won’t tell anyone. Besides, he doesn’t agree.”

“So the murderer is flying high.” Henny looked grim.

Max frowned. “Isn’t that better for us? We can nose around and ask questions without alerting a killer.”

Henny shook her head. “If we had lots of time, maybe we could pick up little pieces of information that might come together to give us a pointer. We don’t have time. Jeremiah doesn’t have time. The weather is cold. There’s always a possibility of a big nor’easter. He’s being hunted. I want to shock the murderer. I want people to know we’re hunting for a killer.”

Max ran fingers through a thick shock of blond hair. “Billy Cameron will come down on us like a hound cornering a fox.”

Henny folded her arms. “It’s a free country. We have a right to our opinions. We have a right to ask people questions if they’ll talk to us. If they don’t talk to us, maybe that will tell us a lot right there.”

Max’s face furrowed. “As you say, there’s no law against believing whatever we want to believe and talking to people. But we have to be careful not to imply that there is an official investigation underway.”

Henny’s eyes gleamed. “We won’t say there is an official investigation. However, we can certainly say that the police are aware of the suspicion. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

Annie gave Henny a thumbs-up. “Honest. Fair. And”—her smile was approving—“a brilliant ploy.”

Henny pushed away the half-eaten chicken pie. “Now that we’re in agreement, let’s get started. Let’s rattle some cages. I know Nicole. I’ll drop by to see her.”

Max looked concerned. “Maybe we should find out more before you talk to her. Let me round up some information.”

Henny was decisive. “I know what I need to do.”

Annie felt a dart of worry. “There’s a killer connected to that house. Maybe you and I should go together.”

Henny was brisk. “We don’t want to duplicate our efforts. I’ll take care of Nicole and the house. Max can get the bios. Annie, see what you can find out about the cove where Everett died.” She spoke with urgency. “We need to work as fast as we can.” On that she rose and turned away, hurrying toward the door.

Annie pictured the isolated wooded hammock, bathed now in a chilly mist. She jumped up. “Henny’s right. Jeremiah’s terribly frightened and alone. We have to find the killer in time to save him.” She wasn’t speaking of saving him solely from the law. Jeremiah had no intention of being taken into custody.

She saw Max’s worried frown. He wasn’t convinced they were right about Everett’s death, but he well knew that if they were, a killer would soon take notice of their questions. “We’ll be careful.” She turned and hurried toward the door. She knew Max would work doubly hard now to try to keep her and Henny out of danger.

H
enny Brawley slid behind the wheel of her Dodge. Anxiously she scanned the leaden sky and whitecaps tossing in the Sound. The barometer had been falling when she left the house. Low pressure off Bermuda might signal a possible storm. The hammock was only a couple of feet above sea level. A storm tide could sweep over low-lying land in a flash. She had to hurry, make things happen quickly. For now, Jeremiah had plenty of food and warm woolen blankets and a tent. Did he have hope?

She pulled her cell from her purse. Did she dare call him? She had his cell number. She’d given him her cell number. Just in case. Of course the police had Jeremiah’s number as well. She didn’t dare take a chance. She dropped the cell into her purse, gripped the wheel, eyes narrowed in thought. Cordgrass wavered in the wind. But a storm wasn’t the only danger for Jeremiah. Much more deadly was the fear that made him determined never to go to prison again.

They had to hurry. She felt a surge of confidence. She was eager to go into the lion’s den and shock a murderer.

A
nnie shivered, wished she’d worn her heavy wool peacoat. The wind scudded waves in the Sound, tugged at her hair, knifed through her cotton jacket. She stood on a public concrete boat ramp, her Thunderbird parked behind her on a rutted dirt road. The water beneath lowering clouds looked gray and rough as beaten pewter.

A lonely place to die. Especially at night in killingly cold water, struggling, awkward in a life vest, splashing after a kayak that remained just beyond a weakening reach, an idling motorboat spelling death, not rescue.

The next morning Everett Hathaway’s lifeless body bobbed in the water, his red orange PFD a bright spot against the gray.

Annie remembered reading the story in the
Gazette
, talking across the breakfast table with Max. They had known him as they knew many people on the island, a well-known family, a successful family business, occasional gossip. “Wife much younger… A fussy man, kind of self-important… Pseudo-Brit…” She wished they’d been more charitable. He’d loved poetry and history, taken pleasure from elegant phrases. She remembered the quote in the obituary from Joseph Addison’s
A Letter from Italy
. She recalled Everett’s precise,
slightly high voice. Maybe that kind of quote seemed pompous in today’s heritage-dismissive world, but he recognized beauty and surely he’d had friends who enjoyed him, smiled when he walked into a room.

She stood here on a bleak misty morning because of Gretchen and Henny and Jeremiah, and now with a pang of regret, for Everett, who had come here to die.

Annie carefully surveyed the small bay, similar to many that marked the lee side of the island, winter brown cordgrass intersected by channels to the open Sound. Four structures were visible, three on the north bank, one on the south. On the north bank, her eyes moved from a cabin on stilts, similar to Henny’s, to a modest but well-kept white frame to a rambling one-story brick house with framing up for a room addition on one side. The house on the south side was palatial, a two-story tiled-roof Mediterranean stucco with a stone terrace. Outdoor umbrellas on white wrought-iron tables were lashed for winter. A large boathouse looked cavernous and empty.

Herring Gull Road, unpaved and rutted, served both sides of the bay. Wooden piers extended from each backyard. What drew Everett to this bay? One of the houses? The boat ramp? Was he meeting someone or looking for someone?

Many areas on the island were suitable for people to meet clandestinely late on a December Friday night, the parking lot of any church, in the pavilion at the park that overlooked the main harbor, at the lumberyard. Yet Hathaway had taken out a kayak and come to this particular bay.

If he intended to visit a house, why hadn’t he driven? Was he afraid the motor would be heard? In addition, although the road that served these houses was unpaved, driveways likely were covered by oyster shells. It would be difficult to arrive surreptitiously. Parking on
the road would be immediately noticeable to anyone arriving at or departing from one of the houses.

Annie pulled a note pad from her pocket. The big house to the south, 148 Herring Gull Road, belonged to Jefferson and Renee Carstairs. On the north bank, the rambling brick with bunches of pansies was 146 Herring Gull Road, home of Don Thornwall, who found the body. The small white frame house at 144 Herring Gull Road was the residence of Sheila Porter. The shabby cabin at 142 Herring Gull Road hadn’t been listed in the crisscross directory.

M
ax Darling stared moodily at his wife’s photograph. Annie was hiding something from him. He addressed her smiling picture. “I may not be the most subtle guy in the world, but you might as well have hoisted hurricane warning flags.” A sudden gust of wind rattled a warped front window. The wind was picking up from the northeast. They might be in for a good blow in a day or so. “This morning you were lower than a pig’s belly, sure that you could have saved Gretchen if you’d hustled to Better Tomorrow and kept her company. That was based on Jeremiah’s guilt. By lunch time you were happier than Agatha with a cornered mouse. In between you learned something that convinced you of Jeremiah’s innocence. But, honey”—he was skeptical—“jumping to the conclusion that Everett Hathaway was murdered is a supersized leap.” He shook his head. “Okay, okay,” as if in answer to an indignant rebuttal.

His face softened. Annie’s mantra had always been that it never hurt to ask. Sure, the answer can be no, but sometimes the answer is yes. If you don’t try, you’ll never know which.

Max leaned back in his chair. If Everett Hathaway had been murdered, the crime had been cleverly devised, which indicated
forethought and planning. The time, the weather, and the location precluded an accidental encounter and sudden quarrel. Premeditated murder indicated a strong motive and perhaps urgency. What had Everett done or threatened to do that resulted in his death?

Max remembered Everett as something of a poseur, certainly not a figure of strength or power. The sooner he found out everything possible about Everett Hathaway and the people around him, the sooner he would know if Annie’s judgment was right.

If Annie was right, they were tugging at the cover of a wily and dangerous murderer.

T
he Hathaway home was oriented to the prevailing south-westerly breezes, a Beaufort-style house with a two-story verandah and double entrance stairs. Stuccoed arches supported the verandah. Ionic capitals decorated the first level of columns, Corinthian the second. Made of tabby, the exterior was a calming sage green in summer, but dull and somber beneath today’s gray skies. The house had been built in 1803 by a rice planter and was on the register of historic homes. To one side at the end of a long drive sat a later-built triple garage with an upstairs apartment. At one time the apartment had been used by the family chauffeur. Those days were long gone.