Death Comes Silently (24 page)

Annie came up behind him, slipped her arms around him for a brief hug and a kiss on the back of his neck, but she knew when a man had his mind on other things, and settled on a stool at the kitchen island, after, of course, filling Dorothy L’s blue pottery bowl with chicken-flavored nuggets.

She poured a mug of coffee, wrinkled her nose in appreciation at the chicory flavor, soaked up sun, and rejoiced. Billy Cameron was in charge. She and Max and Henny could leave the investigation to him. They had done good work. They had proved Everett Hathaway’s death was no accident. They had saved Jeremiah Young from mistaken prosecution, which might well have resulted not only in his wrongful conviction but in his death. Maggie Knight’s death resulted from her own actions. Thankfully, Henny had survived the danger in which Maggie had placed her.

Annie drank a blissful sip. There had been no phone calls this morning, so all must be well with Henny or they would have been
informed. She and Max were once again in their sunny world where he could concentrate on…

Annie sipped the hot, strong coffee. Her lips curved in a smile. She had a wide stripe of honesty in her soul that prohibited her from envisioning Max concentrating on work. Okay, not everyone was called to labor unceasingly. Max worked when necessary, but he fervently believed in the pursuit of happiness, an elastic concept that embraced her (literally) and golf and good food and hospitality. In any event, Max could play golf today and she could putter happily around Death on Demand, where murder remained on the shelves and the books celebrated good hearts that believed in a just world. She’d unpack the latest by Lisa Lutz, Dana Stabenow, Hannah Dennison, Kate Carlisle, Ed Gorman, and Steven F. Havill.

Hurried steps sounded on the back verandah, a brisk knock, and the door swung in. Marian Kenyon, wiry black curls tangled, gamin face drooping with fatigue, peered at them. “Knew you two would be up with the earthworms or whoever crawls out at this hideous hour of the morning.” Her nose wrinkled. “Something smells awfully good. Of course some of us worked until the wee hours and took a snooze on the ratty sofa in the
Gazette
break room. Yeah. Break room. Break your heart, break your back, break your—Don’t want to be indelicate.” She drooped against the door frame in an effort to appear pitiful. She did have a woebegone appearance, still wearing last night’s baggy flannel shirt and jeans. At some point she’d traded house slippers for worn leather loafers.

Max reached for another plate. “Breakfast is ready. Take a seat, Marian.”

Annie and Marian settled at the white wooden table and Max brought their plates.

Marian ate a scoop of bacon-potato pancake and hollandaise-topped poached egg. She gave a sigh of contentment. “I was looking for a magic potion and this is the next best thing. Now”—she continued to eat, but her bright, dark eyes looked at them in turn—“I’ll quid if you guys will quo pro.”

Annie finished a delectable mouthful. “We’re not looking for information now that Billy’s taken over. We’ll read the
Gazette
for the latest.” How lovely to be free of pressure to rescue Jeremiah.

Marian’s dark brows knitted. “Henny promised to fill me in on what you folks did yesterday, but the police guard at the hospital wouldn’t even ask her if I could come in. Come on, guys, ante up.”

Max looked at Annie. “We can give the stuff to Marian. She won’t quote us. I’ll get a printout.”

When Max returned with the sheets, Marian just managed not to snatch them. Breakfast forgotten, she scanned the summary. “Wow. You got the goods, all right. Now, here’s my skinny. Sergeant Harrison found the front door open at Maggie Knight’s house. When she didn’t rouse anybody, she stepped inside. Maggie was lying on her living room floor. She was shot approximately five times, including, after she fell, a contact wound to the temple. The killer wasn’t taking any chances. The house is one of four on a quiet side street. One next-door neighbor was having dinner out, didn’t arrive home until after the discovery. On the other side of the house, the neighbor thought she heard a car backfiring about ten minutes after nine. Knight’s house was ransacked, her purse taken. I talked to a couple of neighbors. They said she kept to herself, pleasant enough, not friendly.” Marian poked a fork in the remnants of the pancake. “Her dog died a few months ago. She used to walk the dog morning and night. A neighbor said she was nuts about Bitty Boo, a corgi. Everybody loves somebody.” Her voice was soft.

Annie pictured a lonely woman and a beloved dog.

Marian was brisk, once more the reporter with a flip lip and attitude. “Billy’s got a presser set at ten
A.M
. You can come—”

Annie held up both hands. “I have a date at a certain bookstore.”

Max began to clear the plates. “There’s a golf course calling me.”

L
aurel turned from arranging a bouquet of sunflowers. The gold double flowers looked like huge chrysanthemums. “Dear Annie. How lovely for you to come. I was just telling Henny and Emma that I always think of you”—she trilled the pronoun—“when I see a sunflower.”

Annie closed the hospital door and looked first at Henny, who appeared relaxed and comfortable, silvered dark hair freshly brushed, in a quilted pink jacket.

Emma Clyde’s sapphire blue eyes glinted as she stared at the flowers. “If you’re going to be besotted with flowers, why not pick gardenias or roses? Sunflowers are tall and scraggly with petals that look like spokes around a fat black button.”

Laurel, elegant in a crepe de chine blouse with loose sleeves and blue silk slacks, gave one stalk a gentle pet as if to say,
Ignore uncouth comments,
and beamed at her daughter-in-law. “Dear Annie always seeks brightness just as sunflowers stretch”—she drew out the verb—“to the sun.” Her smile was kindly. “Phototropism,” she murmured.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the elucidation. Wouldn’t have had a clue otherwise.”

Annie moved to the bed to give Henny a hug.

Although still pale, Henny looked well rested and her dark eyes were bright. She glanced up at the TV, the sound muted. She smiled
and gestured at the news alert scrolling at the bottom of the screen: Broward’s Rock police announce handyman cleared in murder of volunteer. Investigation reopened.

Laurel set the vase on the windowsill. “Watch,” she said complacently.

Annie had no intention of watching flowers presumably seek sunlight. She lifted a book bag, smiled at Henny. “I brought some treasures for you, some new, some old.” She knew Henny had read several of the titles, but some books never lost their charm, especially Sarah Caudwell’s ribald and clever Lincoln’s Inn mysteries. The books were guaranteed to elicit a laugh a page.

Henny was pulling out the gifts when the cell lying on the bedside table rang. She looked up. “Annie, will you answer, say I’m resting? I’d rather not talk right now. Lots of lovely calls, but I don’t want to go over and over last night.” There was a flash of remembered fear.

Annie picked up the cell. “Hello… She’s resting right now. This is Annie Darling—” Annie’s face furrowed. “Arrested? But why?… Of course we’ll help. Yes. I understand. I’ll tell Henny.” She clicked off the cell, looked at Henny. “That was Jeremiah’s aunt. Jeremiah’s been arrested.”

A
nnie tapped Max’s number. Was he already on the course with his phone turned off? The vibration would alert him. When he saw the call was from her, he would answer.

Four rings. He spoke in the hushed tones of a man on a green. “Jake’s getting ready to putt.” Only open heart surgery would be treated more reverentially.

“I’ll talk.” Annie drove with one hand, held the phone to her ear. “I’m on my way to Billy’s press conference.” It was a few minutes
before ten. “Jeremiah’s aunt called Henny. Jeremiah’s been arrested. I told her we’d help. They picked him up about half an hour ago.”

“Arrested? That’s crazy. Find out what you can.” He spoke normally. “I’ll get in touch with Handler Jones.” The Savannah lawyer was magic with juries. He was a youthful mid-forties with piercing blue eyes, chestnut hair lightly threaded with silver, and a matinee idol’s good looks, broad forehead, strong nose, expressive mouth, firm chin.

S
everal cars blazoned with the logos of mainland TV stations took all the near parking spots at the police station. Cameramen and perfectly coiffed and accoutered reporters clustered at the foot of the steps.

Annie parked across the street and hurried to join a growing throng. She recognized a number of faces from town hall as well as several businessmen. She wriggled closer to the front. Marian Kenyon was on the other side of the walk, Leica in hand. She saw Annie, mouthed, “Something’s up. Nobody’s talking.” Annie leaned toward a TV reporter with long blond hair, a sea green silk suit, and pearl choker. “Excuse me. What’s going on?”

The woman checked out Annie’s pink cashmere sweater set, stylish jeans, and ankle boots, and her gaze became a tad less glacial. “Special announcement to be made regarding the murder of the volunteer—” She broke off as the door opened.

Mayor Cosgrove strutted out the door, resplendent in a very expensive black pin-stripe suit, which minimized his pouter pigeon shape. He was joined by Lewis Farrell, whose ill-fitting green jacket emphasized his stooped shoulders. Farrell had served as the mayor’s campaign manager in the fall election. Lou Pirelli was last through the door. He stood stiffly, his face folded in tight lines.

Annie’s eyes narrowed. Farrell’s reddish face flushed with excitement. Why was he with the mayor? He had recently lost a race for the school board, which Annie had considered a triumph of voter intelligence. He ran a local plumbing and heating company and, surprise, was the contractor chosen for several town projects.

Most disturbing was the glum misery in Lou’s face.

She craned to see. Where was Billy? Maybe he’d decided to let the mayor soak up the attention while he worked on a triple murder case.

Mayor Cosgrove cleared his throat, his porcine face pleased and satisfied. “As Mayor of Broward’s Rock, it is my solemn duty to make sure that the laws are upheld and that our citizenry is safe.” He looked proudly toward the cameras. “To achieve this essential goal of public safety, I am personally”—great emphasis—“taking charge of the investigation into the brutal murder of an island volunteer at Better Tomorrow, which offers help and hope for our less fortunate citizens. I have relieved Chief of Police Billy Cameron of his duties. I have suspended him, pending review by the town council, for his refusal to properly administer the department and incarcerate a felon who poses a continuing threat to island residents.”

Annie pushed past the blonde TV reporter. She glared at Cosgrove. “Chief Cameron discovered that the man sought by the police was innocent.”

The reporter swung toward Annie, mic outthrust. “For our viewers, you are?”

“Annie Darling. I know all about this investigation. The mayor—”

“What’s your standing in this matter?”

“I’m also a volunteer at Better Tomorrow. I talked to the murder victim—”

The mayor boomed. “This is an official news conference. Interference
will require removal by authorities. If necessary, I will summon officers to restore order.”

Annie almost replied with a blistering attack, but if Cosgrove turned to Lou, ordered him to take her into custody for disturbing the peace, Lou would have no choice. She could create a scene, but it was more important to find out what had happened.

“Aren’t press conferences open to the public?” Marian Kenyon’s voice was dulcet.

The mayor’s face flushed. “Upon completion of my statement to the press, I will entertain questions from accredited news correspondents.” The mayor smoothed back a strand of thin hair, assumed a magisterial haughtiness. “If I may recount for you”—he looked at the TV reporters—“the sordid events that occurred Monday afternoon. Gretchen Burkholt, a fine example of the generosity of our community, was on duty at Better Tomorrow. However”—his voice dropped, took on a mournful tone—“in two recorded phone conversations, Gretchen Burkholt expressed fear”—vibrato—“of Jeremiah Young, an ex-convict employed at Better Tomorrow as a handyman. In fact, she went so far as to proclaim that she did not feel ‘safe’ and asked another volunteer to join her. That woman arrived too late to protect Mrs. Burkholt from an attack by Young. Proof exists: The murder weapon—an axe—bore Young’s fingerprints, her purse was taken, and Young fled, hoping to escape arrest.”

Marian Kenyon stepped forward, lifted her husky voice so that everyone could hear. “Last night Chief Cameron announced that Jeremiah Young was no longer a suspect, that the murder Tuesday evening of Margaret Knight and an attack on Henrietta Brawley, a Better Tomorrow board member, had been linked to the Burkholt crime, and Jeremiah Young had an iron-clad alibi for both the Knight murder and the Brawley attack.”

“Spurious thinking.” Cosgrove spit the words as angrily as a hissing goose. “Cooler heads have prevailed this morning. I am in charge now. As capable investigators well know, criminals follow a pattern. Since the
Gazette
’s sole reporter”—disdain dripped from his voice—“has raised the point of other crimes, I shall take this opportunity to outline the case as the facts have been presented to Circuit Solicitor Brice Posey.”