Death Comes Silently (15 page)

“I’m here for the Hathaway family and I’d appreciate it if I could speak to Mr. Thornwall.”

“The Hathaway family?” She looked blank.

“Mr. Thornwall found his body in the bay.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” Her response was quick and genuine. “I didn’t remember the name. We just retired here this fall. We’ve lived all around the world. Navy. We grew up in Bluffton and now we’re finally back in the Lowcountry. We don’t know many people here yet. When we talk about what happened, we think of him as that poor man in the kayak.” Her brown eyes filled with compassion. “I know it was foolish of him to be out in a kayak without a wet suit, but sometimes people don’t think. Finding him was such a shock to Don. I know he’d be glad to help, but he’s out in his sailboat now.”

“Could I possibly speak with you? Are you Mrs. Thornwall?”

The woman nodded, but her gaze was questioning.

“I’m Annie Darling. I have a shop in the marina.”

“I’m Joyce Thornwall. Did you say you are here for the Hathaway family?”

Annie gambled. “It’s a little complicated. I’m trying to help find out”—this time she carefully did not say she was asking on behalf of the Hathaways—“more about the time Mr. Hathaway’s kayak capsized.”

“Oh, Don can’t help you there. We didn’t know a thing about it until the next morning. Don was going out for a row and that’s when he saw the body.”

“Were you home that Friday night? Mr. Hathaway took the kayak out sometime after dinner. It probably took him twenty minutes to paddle around the headland. Did you hear any sounds out in the bay?” Could a motorboat have entered the bay without someone having heard the motor?

Joyce Thornwall shook her head with a smile. “Friday nights in December mean basketball, and Don makes enough noise to drown out any boat.” Her smile slipped away. “That’s sad to think he may have called for help. But we didn’t hear a thing. There could have been a fleet of boats without our knowing.”

M
ax flipped through several sheets, found the obituary with the list of pallbearers: Richard Martin, Craig Kennedy, Douglas Walker, Esteban Martinez, Bradley Milton, and John Charles Larrimore.

Pallbearers were chosen because of intimacy with a family.

Max knew all of the men except Richard Martin and John Charles
Larrimore. Craig Kennedy ran a combination antique store and used bookshop. Doug Walker sold real estate. Esteban Martinez was the owner of the island’s most prestigious art gallery. Bradley Milton was a local contractor. Max turned to his computer and Googled Richard Martin. He lived in Chastain and was a tenured professor of English at Chastain College. Larrimore was also a faculty member.

With a bit of digging, Max rounded up cell phone numbers.

“Professor Martin?” Max introduced himself and explained he was putting together a tribute to Everett for a local club and hoped the professor would provide a picture of Everett as an academic.

Martin spoke for several minutes in a dry precise fashion until his tone turned waspish. “…and regrettably Everett mulishly insisted that Addison authored
The Play House
and I vehemently disagree.” The adjective bristled.

Max knew that academic disputes have a life and force that non-academics rarely appreciate. “Everett was a stubborn man. I’m keeping the tribute cheerful. I won’t mention the troubles he’d had lately. He also managed to get crossways with some in his family. But that’s another story.”

“Ah, families. I’m grateful for the life of a confirmed bachelor. I told him at the time he was making a huge mistake. An affair, yes. Marriage, no. But he was always a stubborn fool. I could have told him she’d lead him a merry chase. I spoke to her after the service. I’d say she was bearing up well.” The acid tone was full of meaning.

Max was thoughtful as he ended the call.

Larrimore cleared his throat upon hearing Max’s request. “I can’t tell you too much. Different disciplines. He was popular with students. Sometimes that just means easy As. I knew him when we lectured on a student trip to Europe. I can’t say he was focusing on his topic then.” A rumbling laugh. “That’s when he met the buxom Nicole. The male
students couldn’t believe she preferred Everett to them. Testosterone-laden lads, of course. Kind of sad, really.”

“Sad?”

“Just between us, she was a vulnerable girl. Seeking Galahad, you know. Everett must have seemed like a sophisticated fellow in a Noel Coward play. Not that she’d have known a Noel Coward play.” The deep voice wasn’t malicious. “Truth of the matter, he liked tweeds and soulful talks. She was a knockout, but I never thought a marriage would last. She was dazzled by his intellectualism. That’s cold comfort on a winter night. I thought she’d wake up one morning and see him with his rounded shoulders and little vanities and have this feeling that she’d missed out and she’d fall for a fellow with some swagger.”

Max wrote on his yellow pad: Swagger?

A
s Henny turned her heavy old car toward the road, Leslie Griffin ran lightly down the steps, high heels clattering. She was vivid in a red jacket and tartan skirt. She slid into a low-slung red Mini Cooper S. The sport car’s motor roared. Leslie shot down the drive, leaving Henny in a cloud of dust. As the car passed, Leslie gave Henny a wary glance.

Henny drove slowly. In the rearview mirror, she saw three cars parked in front of a an old-fashioned double garage, a navy Lincoln Navigator, a small tan Corolla, and a black Lexus sedan. Likely either the Lincoln or the Lexus belonged to Nicole and the Corolla to the housekeeper.

The Hathaway drive was the last at this end of the bay road. If she stayed on the road, it would dead end on the other side of the bay. At the midway point, another road intersected and led to Sand Dollar Road.

Henny drove around a grove of pines to the next home. Nicole had no reason to look for Henny’s car. Henny backed into the drive. She pulled down the driver’s visor though she very much doubted Nicole would be scanning the driveways she passed. Five minutes later the dark blue Lincoln hurtled past, going fast.

Henny followed, keeping behind a cloud of dust. She too lived on the marsh side of the island and she had a good instinct for how long it took to reach Sand Dollar Road. In a moment she picked up speed. She was in time to see the Lincoln turn left. She floated the stop sign and was about twenty yards behind Nicole. There wasn’t much traffic this time of year so she was able to keep the Lincoln in view as the road curved and twisted. A yellow school bus pulled onto the road. The Lincoln’s taillights flared. The bus lumbered forward, then slowed. The driver flapped down the warning sign, signaling drivers to stop.

Instead of braking, the Lincoln pulled into the oncoming lane and roared past.

The school bus horn blared.

Henny coasted to a stop, waited as a half dozen kids climbed down. One darted across the road. Two teenagers followed, slouching slowly, deep in conversation.

With a rumble, the school bus moved forward.

She could go into town, cruise Main and the two smaller streets, looking for the Lincoln. But Nicole could as easily have made a left turn onto another dirt road to a destination on the marsh or in the opposite direction to the ocean or straight north to the more disreputable end of the island.
The usual place
could be anywhere, a house, an apartment, a tavern, a business. Wherever she had gone, she had carried with her anger and fear and determination. There would not be easy conversation upon her arrival. She would surely be engaged for at least twenty minutes, possibly longer.

Henny glanced at her watch. A quarter past three. Leslie had gone to the advertising agency. Possibly she worked until five, although Henny suspected the girl would chisel on the time if possible. However, both she and Nicole should be absent from the house long enough for Henny to find out what she could from Maggie.

S
heila Porter’s black hair molded to her head, stiff and shiny from hair spray. Pale brown eyes looked at Annie curiously. “Who did you say you are?”

Annie introduced herself again and explained that she was trying to be helpful to the Hathaway family. “You can understand that they want to know as much as they can about the night he died.”

Sheila looked mournful. “It’s hard for families. You always wonder and worry if there’s something you could have done that would have made a difference. Like the night my Sam died. He was here by himself. I’d gone to a meeting of the Daughters of the King. He’d said he wasn’t feeling well. Oh, I shouldn’t have gone. Maybe I could have called nine-one-one in time to save him. He had a stroke.” Sorrow and guilt pulled at her face.

Annie spoke quickly. “It must have been very quick or he would have called for help.”

Sheila managed a trembling smile. “I try to think so. And”—her voice grew stronger—“Sam always said to me that God would take him when it was time and for me not to grieve. It’s hard not to grieve. Anyway, let me think. I was out the night Mr. Hathaway drowned.” Her eyes grew wide. “I tell you that was such a shock the next morning when all the police cars came with their sirens on. But Friday night I got home a little before ten. There was one funny thing, but I don’t suppose it matters.”

“Yes?” Annie’s voice was encouraging.

“As I came up my steps, I heard a motorboat. That was odd.”

Annie felt a rush of triumph. Billy Cameron would have to pay attention to this.

“Odd?”

Sheila gestured toward the bay. “No one on the bay has a boat now. I sold Sam’s boat. Next door, Captain Thornwall has a racing shell and a sailboat. He’s retired navy. The cabin”—she inclined her head to the left—“used to have one of those pontoon boats, but that was the previous family. It’s rented now and they don’t have a boat. Across the bay, they have a big cabin cruiser, and they’ve gone to Costa Rica.”

C
raig Kennedy’s round face expressed shock. “Everett murdered? That’s incredible.” Craig was plump, bouncy, and usually smiling. His shop was crammed with an eclectic mixture. A portrait of Commodore Perry stared unseeing at a Korean brass-bound chest. Scattered about were Hepplewhite furniture, Japanese silk brocades, a ship’s eagle from Nantucket, a griffon head harp, tables crammed with ivory statuettes, porcelain French clocks, and old pewter. A half dozen bookshelves held dusty relics of estate sales.

Max felt assailed by the familiar doubts. Annie’s insistence that Everett had been murdered was based on such tenuous, circumstantial evidence. Pursuing Everett’s family and friends was going to cause a great deal of trouble and might well be an exercise in absurdity. Max chose his words carefully. He had no wish to be sued for slander. “I’m speaking to you on a confidential basis. There are some puzzling aspects to his death, which need to be explained. I know you and he were good friends. Just between the two of us, had Everett quarreled with anyone recently?”

Craig’s bulbous blue eyes stared. “What are you suggesting?”

“Perhaps his death was not an accident. I have it on good authority that Everett was decoyed to the bay that night. It seems important, especially to the family, to find out exactly what happened.” If Craig assumed Max was there on behalf of the family, it was his assumption, not Max’s claim.

“Yeah. I can certainly understand that, but I’m afraid I don’t know anything helpful. He might have been irritated with a few folks, but no big deal so far as I know. I saw him the week he died. He was a good customer. He meant well, but you have to remember that Everett was a pretty serious guy.” Craig cleared his throat. “Well, between us, he was kind of a horse’s ass. Everett had about as much sense of humor as that teak elephant.” He pointed at a carving. “Self-righteous. Always sure he was right. He told me he was having a hard time with his niece, said she was mixed up with an undesirable guy, but he was going to put a stop to that. Then he got started on his nephew, said it was time to show him who was boss, that just because he was Eddie’s son didn’t mean he knew how to run the business. Between us, I think he had a grudge against Eddie and he’s playing it out by deviling Trey. Then there’s Brad Milton. He was big buds with Eddie. Eddie loaned him some money through the agency. I think Everett was leaning on Brad about paying up. Right after Christmas, I saw them in the parking lot of the club and it looked ugly. Poor old Brad. He’s in big trouble because of the economy. He even asked me for a loan, said he had to meet a note. I figure he meant that Everett wanted the money. It shows how Everett talked out of both sides of his mouth, acting like a meet-your-obligations businessman with Brad but treating the agency like a hobby. When Trey complained, Everett claimed it was important for a business to have a soul. Whatever that meant. He had kind of a lackadaisical attitude
about business, didn’t want to soil his immortal soul by actually making money. I can tell you”—a quick grin—“that sure wasn’t Eddie’s attitude. Eddie didn’t need money, either, but he had a hell of a lot pride in doing good work and being paid good money. Not Everett. He didn’t care. Most of us damn sure better make money. Now, have I told you I got in an emerald necklace—beautiful stones—in an old-fashioned gold filigree setting? Be just the thing for Annie.” Craig pushed up from his chair. “Won’t take a minute to get it out of the safe…”