Death Comes Silently (19 page)

“Can you describe it?”

“It was one of those white cards that have lines on them.”

“An index card?”

“Yeah. She was carrying on about how it was a personal note. But”—he sounded puzzled—“it didn’t look personal. The words were printed in capital letters. I didn’t read it except to see a word or two.
I guess they caught my eye because they were underlined:
tonight
and
kayak.
Then she gave me this dirty look, like I was something smelly that a dog drug in, so I took my time going past. I got a second look at the card and there was something written underneath all those words, a little scrawl at the bottom and some question marks. I kind of think it was a name.”

Henny gripped the wheel. “A name? Jeremiah, think, try to remember. What name?” Gretchen claimed the card revealed a scandal. Everett would have been shocked by the contents and he would have wondered angrily who might have sent him what he hoped was false gossip. Had Everett jotted down the name of the person he suspected of writing a nasty anonymous accusation? That would explain why Gretchen had to die. If Everett had scrawled the murderer’s name beneath the inflammatory note, the murderer had no choice but to act.

There was a long silence. “Oh, ma’am, I don’t know. I saw it but I didn’t care. I thought it was a name.”

Henny kept her voice even and encouraging. “Try to remember. Maybe tonight when you sleep, the name will come to you. Now, you better get in your tent, try to stay dry. I’ll come back in the morning. I won’t give up. Somehow, someway, I’ll find out what happened and you will be safe.”

“Miz Brawley”—there was no mistaking the emotion in his voice—“I never knew anybody’d help me like you are. I swear to God, I didn’t hurt anybody ever. I was so scared when I found her. I ran away because I knew they’d say it was me. Ma’am, the police will never believe somebody from a big house came and killed her. No matter what you do. I know you are helping me, but I don’t see how you can ever prove anything. I can’t go back to jail.” He struggled for breath. “I’ll kill myself first.”

“Jeremiah”—Henny spoke quietly—“promise me you’ll be here
for me. I know you’re scared, but you can trust me. I won’t let you down.”

He was silent, the motor a soft rumble, the water shushing. Finally, his young voice husky, he said, “Miz Brawley, I won’t let you down, either.”

A
nnie slowed as she passed the Thornwall house, searching for the name of the remodeler. There it was, Milton Construction. She picked up speed and curved around a stand of pines to the last house on the bay. A rust-streaked Ford pickup nosed against a stack of old tires. The yard was littered with castoffs, a wheelbarrow missing one handle, a splintered trash barrel, a canoe with a stoved-in hull, the front seat of a car with torn upholstery, a stack of splintery weathered two-by-fours, a roofless dog house.

Annie parked and skirted the truck. The front walk was mostly hard-packed earth with a scattering of oyster shells. Drifted pine needles made the front steps slick. Hard rock music blared from inside. She knocked vigorously.

The door opened and the decibel level increased, the beat of the music an assault on hearing.

A barefoot young man in shirt sleeves and tight Levis looked out.
His tawny hair was thick and curly, his eyes an arresting golden brown like honey in the sun. He was handsome and knew he was handsome. When he saw her, his sloe eyes widened with interest and his sensuous lips half parted.

She was immediately aware that she faced the kind of man who never saw a woman without envisioning her in bed.

He turned an iPhone in his palm, moved a finger, and the music stopped. “Yeah?” His voice was husky, a greeting and an invitation.

“Excuse me. Are you”—and she grasped for a name—“James Brown?”

He shook his head. “No Browns here. I’m Steve Raymond.”

“Mr. Raymond, I’m looking for the owner of the cabin.” She tried to sound businesslike.

“Can’t help you. We rent. Don’t know who the hell it belongs to.” His gaze moved over her.

Despite her windbreaker, Annie felt as exposed as in an airport scanner. She felt a flicker of anger, but she focused on her task and on the plural pronoun. “Is your wife home?”

“No wife, baby. Me and my dad. He’s gone. Like always. On the road. You selling something?” Again the tone said more than the words.

She ignored the question. “Are you familiar with the house across the bay, the big stucco with red roof tiles?”

His grin was sardonic. “Haven’t had an invitation yet. Rich folks. Why?” His tone was easy, but his golden eyes were intent.

“The owners are out of town. Have you noticed a blue Lincoln and a green Porsche coming there in the afternoons?”

His head tilted. “You some kind of detective?” He drawled the words, but his eyes were wary.

“I am seeking information.” If he wanted to assume she was a detective, that was his privilege.

“That’s a hoot, but you’re a couple of weeks too late. What difference does it make now if they screw out on the dock instead of going in the house? Anyway, I got better things to do than watch a middle-aged broad sneak around to meet a middle-aged dude.” He was derisive in his youth and masculinity.

Annie tried to sort out what he meant. Maybe he thought she was trailing Nicole and Doug for divorce evidence and it didn’t matter now that Everett was dead. “If you don’t watch, how do you know how old they are?”

“Cute. Real cute. Anybody ever told you you’re cute? Sometimes cute gets people in trouble. Me, I avoid trouble. I don’t know about those cars or anybody over there, young, old, or in between.” He stepped back and the door slammed shut.

A
s the boat chugged toward the pier, Henny frowned. If the murderer’s name had been at the bottom of the anonymous note to Everett, Gretchen may have given the name to Maggie. Henny felt a sudden breathlessness, then reassured herself. Maggie had merely drawn a conclusion when she said the police would be interested in who took the message from the table in the Hathaway entry hall. But there had been a tone of evaluation in her voice as if she envisioned how much it might matter to someone to remain unknown to the police. She frowned and wished she had asked Maggie for her full name, but Maggie had been in no mood for a chat when they parted.

The boat drew alongside the pier. Henny automatically tied the line. As soon as she climbed the ladder, she pulled her cell from her pocket. She could check the directory, get the Hathaways’ number but it might not be wise for anyone at that house to know she was interested in Maggie. Instead, she punched a familiar number.

“Yo, Henny. It’s a dark and stormy night.” Marian Kenyon’s raspy voice sounded mellow. The island
Gazette
’s chief reporter was known to nurse a scotch and soda and watch reruns of
The Golden Girls
, and she never missed
Dancing with the Stars
. “Have you won the lottery? Eloped with a tennis pro? Sent a dead fish to the mayor?” A throaty chuckle. Henny’s antipathy to Mayor Cosgrove was well known.

“Marian, you’ve got your laptop at home, haven’t you?” Marian was as likely to be separated from her laptop as to be severed from a big toe. “Can you find a name for me?”

“Sure, sweetie.” Mellow, mellow, mellow. “Ask and you shall be answered.”

“Can you find out the name of the housekeeper for the Hathaways? Her first name’s Maggie.”

A short silence. “I got friends at the PD.” Marian’s tone was no longer mellow but had the quiver of a cat sighting a bird. “I understand Gretchen Burkholt left a message at the Hathaway house shortly before she was killed. However, the chief discounted any connection, and the APB is still out for the handyman. You know something different?”

“Maybe. First, help me out.” Henny felt an urgency that unnerved her. “The name?”

“Just a sec. Think I’ve got something here,” Marian muttered. “Yeah. Here it is. I did a story about her a couple of years ago. Maggie Knight. Do you remember when the winning lotto number was big, like, yeah, here it is, eighty-four mil, and the ticket was sold here on the island and everybody went nuts? Well, they never found the winner, but she had a number just one digit off. The head ran:
Still Dreaming
. Kind of a downer, really. A no-luck lady, husband killed in Iraq. She’d had breast cancer and hoped she’d beat it, but no insurance, in debt up to her eyeballs, no family. Said she still hoped her
number would come in someday, and if it did, she wanted to go someplace fancy and sit on a beach and have people bring her drinks. She said she’d quit her job and never look back, that cleaning houses and being bossed around was about as much fun as being boiled in a cannibal’s pot. I didn’t use that quote. I didn’t think it would make her job any cheerier. And here”—triumphantly—“is the phone number.” She rattled off the numbers.

“Thanks, Marian.”

“So what’s got you excited?”

Henny took the plunge, knowing that unleashing Marian might bring Billy down on her like a ton of bricks, but Marian would dig like crazy to find out what she could. “Billy Cameron’s still hunting for Jeremiah, but Annie and Max and I are sure that Gretchen died because she knew why Everett Hathaway went out in a kayak that night. We think somebody dumped him out and left him to drown. There are two murders, not one.” Henny ended the connection. If she knew Marian, the reporter would scoot straight to the
Gazette
office to check out everything about Everett’s death. Now she owed Henny whatever information she rounded up.

Henny hurried toward the house as she called Maggie’s number. The phone rang five times before voice mail kicked in. Henny hesitated, but knew she might as well leave a message. Maggie would know Henny had called from caller ID. “Maggie, Henny Brawley. Please call me.” She left her cell number. “It’s important.”

M
ax set the timer to buzz when the cornbread was done. The table was set, the chili ready to heat. Instead of margaritas, he’d fixed tropical fruit tea. Tonight he and Annie and Henny needed energy, not relaxation. He glanced at the clock. Almost six thirty. He
wouldn’t even think of calling Ben Parotti at this hour in the summer. But there wouldn’t be a rush in the kitchen on a January night.

Max settled at the kitchen island with the phone and his notepad. “Hey, Ben, you got a minute?”

“Hey, Max. Need a carry out? Miss Jolene’s special tonight is baked scallops with Dijon mustard and brandy, hot German potato salad, and steamed Brussels sprouts.”

“Man, you tempt me but I have chili guaranteed to make you think you’re in Texas. Listen, Ben, what can you tell me about a guy named Steve who clerks at your Gas ’N’ Go?”

“Steve Raymond. He’s an okay kid. Not much home life. Mom hit the road a few years back with a drummer in Savannah. Dad’s a long-haul trucker. He’s not on the island much. Steve does a good job for me. I’ve heard girls hang around when he’s at work. I warned him about that a couple of times. Something wrong there?” Ben’s tone was worried.

“Something else entirely, Ben. Apparently he’s been going out with Everett Hathaway’s niece, girl named Leslie Griffin, and Everett was unhappy about that. Can you get Steve’s address for me?”

“Yo. I got everything on my iPad, employee files, recipes, ferry maintenance, you name it. Hold on a minute.”

Max grinned. Ben was a late convert to electronic marvels, but ever since his wife showed him the joy of apps (his favorite: a Lowcountry fishing update app), he’d embraced his iPad with fervor. “Here it is.” Ben sounded as proud as if he’d landed a seven-pound black sea bass. “One forty-two Herring Gull Road.”

“Thanks, Ben.” As he rang off, Max reached for a file folder, flipped it open. Dorothy L jumped to the counter, placed a paw on the top sheet. Max nuzzled under her chin, gently raised her forepaws
long enough to retrieve the sheets. Dorothy L always helped out when he wrote checks or looked through recipes. She was convinced that any stack of papers had been prepared to serve her as a pallet.

Max riffled through the sheets, found the printout of news stories on the discovery of Everett’s body. There it was. Don Thornwall, 146 Herring Gull Road, had spotted the bobbing orange PFD on the winter gray water. So Leslie’s bad-ass boyfriend lived at 142. That was a definite link between Everett and the bay where he died. Could Everett have been on his way to the bay because Steve Raymond lived there?

Dorothy L came to her feet, head lifted. She turned and dropped to the floor and padded toward the kitchen door. Max then heard the familiar purr of Annie’s car.

“She’s home, Dorothy L. But you knew that, didn’t you?” He moved, too.

E
xclamations, interjections, and deductions swirled around the table as they ate chili and cornbread. By the time they finished Henny’s peach pie, there was a general air of triumph.

Henny was often a guest for dinner. Normally, the meal enjoyed, the dishes done, they settled in the library. Annie and Max shared the brown leather sofa. Dorothy L nestled on the crest against his back, her purr a rumble of contentment. Henny always chose the chintz-covered chair to one side of the fireplace. Tonight they were in their customary places, but instead of Brandy Alexanders or Tom Collinses, depending upon season, they had steaming mugs of Kona coffee. Usually conversation drifted from a new exhibit at the High in Atlanta, a jazz singer at the Johnny Mercer Theater in Savannah, or
Laurel’s latest enthusiasm. Not this night. Even the half dozen sunflower stalks with bicolor blooms, orange tipped with gold, in a tall beaten copper vase evoked not a single comment.