Death Comes Silently (25 page)

Annie felt grim. Brice Posey was as pompous as the mayor and equally gifted at seizing on a muddled interpretation of facts. Moreover, he had clashed before with Billy Cameron and would enjoy seeing Billy fired.

The mayor lifted his round chin. “Here are the facts. Monday afternoon Gretchen Burkholt said she was afraid of Jeremiah Young, an ex-convict. Shortly thereafter, another volunteer found her bludgeoned to death by an axe, which bore Young’s fingerprints. Her purse was missing and Young had fled. As experienced investigators understand, criminals follow a pattern. Tuesday evening Maggie Knight was shot to death at her home and her purse”—great emphasis—“was taken. Further, shots were apparently fired at the home of island resident Henny Brawley. Jeremiah Young was found at the scene of the last attack. In an effort to appear innocent, Mr. Young claimed that he had been marooned on a hammock and that his shouts and a call to nine-one-one drove away Mrs. Brawley’s attacker. Chief Cameron believed the felon’s story. However, my investigation reached the reasonable conclusion that Young’s story was fabricated, that he shot Mrs. Knight in the course of a robbery at her home and then ambushed the second victim, but”—he spaced the words triumphantly—“when she eluded him and disappeared into the woods, he instead concocted a story to explain away his presence.”

Marian said sharply, “The police rescued Young from a hammock a hundred yards out in the marsh.”

The mayor was condescending. “Young appeared to be marooned. That was essential to the success of his claims.” Cosgrove waved a soft, pink hand. “Earlier in the evening, some miscreant may have brought him ashore, likely in return for payment. That person, of course, will not come forward as there would be prosecution for aiding a fugitive.”

“How did Young summon a ‘miscreant’? Smoke signals?” Marian’s tone was scathing. “His cell phone was monitored.”

“The pickup may have been arranged before he arrived on the hammock. In fact,” the mayor waxed ever more confident, “it may develop that he was able to go to and from the hammock in a rubber raft. He committed the crimes, then decided after the second victim’s escape to portray himself as a hero. He returned to the hammock, called nine-one-one, and set the raft adrift. The tide carried it out. Since he clearly planned ahead, he may have punctured the craft. By the time it reached the Sound, the raft took on water and sank, never to be found.”

Annie’s mouth opened, then closed. The mayor’s thesis could be as punctured as his mythical raft, but attacking him would achieve nothing. Handler Jones as Jeremiah’s lawyer would have many facts at his disposal, including Henny’s testimony that she took Jeremiah to the hammock Tuesday morning and left him without any means of reaching shore. Of course, Cosgrove would then dwell on his equally mythical “miscreant,” but for now, Jeremiah’s arrest was likely to stand until and unless the murderer was revealed.

Annie felt a wave of panic. With the mayor in charge, no one would seek a murderer who moved silently in the night, leaving no trace.

Marian’s gamin face scrunched in apparent innocent inquiry. “Mayor, please explain the connection between the Burkholt and Knight murders and the presumed accidental drowning of Everett Hathaway on”—she pretended to look at her notes—“December thirtieth.”

The mayor’s heavy features folded into a frown that gave him the look of an irritable bulldog. “There is no connection. Mr. Hathaway drowned in an unfortunate accident. There has been an effort to create a link between his death and completely unrelated crimes.”

Marian’s tone was innocent. “Mrs. Knight was the housekeeper at the Hathaway house.”

“Mrs. Knight’s employment is immaterial. Her house was searched, obviously for valuables, and her purse taken.”

Marian continued pleasantly. “Monday at Better Tomorrow Mrs. Burkholt discovered an index card in the pocket of Everett Hathaway’s donated jacket. According to Mrs. Burkholt, the card revealed that Hathaway was lured to his death in the bay. Mrs. Burkholt left word about the card with Mrs. Knight. Mrs. Burkholt was killed shortly thereafter. Mrs. Knight appeared to have knowledge of the person who took the message she had written down. Evidence therefore links the Burkholt and Knight homicides to Everett Hathaway’s drowning.”

Both of the mayor’s plump pink hands fluttered as if shooing away a dragonfly. “There has been quite a bit of loose talk, but I can assure our citizenry”—he looked at the TV cameras—“that there is no foundation in fact for these conjectures. There is no proof that a card found in Mr. Hathaway’s jacket posed a threat to anyone. Further, Mrs. Knight’s connection is tenuous and again unproven, merely the imaginings of misguided individuals attempting to divert attention from Mr. Young. We deal in real evidence. Moreover, it is necessary only to charge Mr. Young with Mrs. Burkholt’s murder where there
is substantial physical evidence of his guilt. The circuit solicitor is drawing up charges. I am pleased to report that Mr. Young is now in custody and being held in Beaufort. I intend to make sure that the Broward’s Rock Police Department properly functions, and with that end in view, I am appointing as temporary chief an island resident with a long involvement in civic affairs, Mr. Lewis Farrell. Mr. Farrell will monitor the investigation of the homicide cases, reporting directly to me. Now, if members of the press have questions…”

T
he mood in Henny’s hospital room was in stark contrast to Annie’s earlier visit. Anger and despair had replaced confidence and hope. Henny pushed aside a lunch tray, the meal untouched. “Jeremiah was on the hammock and there was no rubber raft.” She gestured at the TV screen, silent but with the continuing Alert scroll at the bottom of the screen, now reading: Island mayor suspends police chief. Ex-convict arrested in island murders.

Annie felt entangled in a web of untruths that should be easy to refute, but weren’t. “We can’t prove he didn’t have a raft. How do you prove a negative?”

Emma’s square face ridged in outrage. “The police rescued him.”

Annie shook her head. “The mayor has an answer for everything.”

“We heard the news conference.” Henny moved restlessly. “I’m stuck here and we need to get busy.”

Annie remembered the happy beginning to her day when she was certain that Billy Cameron understood what had happened and would find out the truth of Everett’s last night. Instead, Jeremiah was in jail and there would be no investigation into Everett’s death. She turned toward the bed. “Henny, I know it’s hard, but try to remember everything about last night. The murderer was there, waiting for you.
Did you see anything to give us a hint of who may have come? And how?”

Henny’s dark eyes narrowed in thought. “Everything was just as always. It was very dark—”

Annie nodded. There were no lights on the narrow road that led to Henny’s solitary house.

“—as I drove on the road. There’s no room to park on the road. The woods come right up on both sides. When I turned into my drive”—she paused, seeking remembrance of the split instant when her headlights illuminated the open space around her house and near her garage and dock—“I would have seen a car. There’s simply no place to hide one. It’s dark enough under the house, but there’s not room for a car between the pilings.”

Henny’s face furrowed. “It was the same at Better Tomorrow. Jeremiah didn’t hear a car, yet someone came and killed Gretchen.”

Annie recalled her sobering talk with Billy in the quiet hospital waiting room. “Last night Billy said no car was heard at Maggie’s house, either.”

Emma declaimed. “A bicycle. That’s the only answer.”

“We can find out who had access to a bicycle.” Then Annie shrugged. “Who wouldn’t be able to get a bike? Most people we know have bikes. That’s not a good lead.”

Emma was gruff. “Dismiss wild goose chases. Bikes are everywhere. Focus the mind.” A pause clearly heralded a pronouncement. “Where were they”—emphasis—“last night?” Emma gave the sentence the flavor of a radio melodrama.

Three sets of eyes turned to Emma.

Always pleased to take center stage, Emma looked superlatively confident. “As Marigold Rembrandt always instructs Inspector Houlihan, pinpoint the suspects during the critical period.”

If Annie had been Emma’s hapless fictional inspector, she would long ago have dropped Marigold down the nearest black hole.

Emma was on a roll. “This morning Henny shared the information that she compiled with Annie and Max.” The author’s spiky hair, a bright mixture of white tipped by violet, nodded approvingly. “I knew at once it was time to heed Marigold’s sage advice. Here is what we need to discover. When Maggie was killed and Henny ambushed, where were Everett’s widow, Nicole Hathaway, and her lover, Doug Walker, nephew, Trey Hathaway, niece, Leslie Griffin, and her boyfriend, Steve Raymond, and Brad Milton?”

Laurel beamed at the author. “So cogent. So telling. So utterly essential. However”—Laurel touched a sunflower stalk as if for luck—“the difficulty”—her husky voice was thoughtful—“is that those with a motive to kill Everett Hathaway can in no way be compelled to speak to any of us.”

“I’d make them talk if I wasn’t trapped in this bed.” Henny was forceful.

Annie understood Henny’s frustration, but even if Henny were able to confront those in the Hathaway house, she would be doomed to failure. As Laurel rightly pointed out, none of them had official standing. No one had to talk to them, but perhaps guile might succeed. Slowly Annie began to smile. “There’s more than one way for the fox to get into the hen house.” Quickly she described a plan. “So we can—”

There was a knock. The door opened and Billy Cameron walked in.

C
osgrove’s an idiot, Billy.” Emma’s deep voice throbbed with condemnation.

Laurel’s smile was encouraging. “We will do everything possible to help you. We’ll hold a rally when the town council meets. Everyone will come.”

Henny looked forlorn. “I feel responsible. If I hadn’t taken Jeremiah out to the hammock—”

“If you hadn’t taken Jeremiah to the hammock”—the suspended police chief’s face was somber—“you wouldn’t be alive now. That’s why I’m here.”

Annie was struck by the weariness evident in his broad face. He was Billy, big, brawny, and muscular, but Billy without his customary equanimity. Tight lines marked the corners of his eyes, bracketed his generous mouth. Instead of a jacket and slacks or a suit, his usual
dress for work, he wore a navy pullover and jeans. His blue eyes had a lost look. “I know you support me, but that isn’t what matters at this point. There’s a dangerous killer out there who will remove anyone seen as a threat. Right now Henny is safe. Jeremiah’s arrest will reassure the killer that she doesn’t know enough to be a danger. As for the rest of you”—he looked at Annie, Emma, and Laurel in turn—“don’t even think of trying to investigate.”

Annie felt a deep twist of disappointment. “Jeremiah’s innocent!”

“I believe that’s true. Right now he’s in a tough spot, but there are too many holes in the case for it to get far. This morning I was out early. I got some interesting stuff before I got the call from the mayor. Everything I learned is in the file. If the case goes to trial, I’ll testify. I can demolish Cosgrove’s theory. He’s persuaded the circuit solicitor that Jeremiah killed Mrs. Burkholt because she caught him stealing her purse and that the Knight murder was a homicide committed during a robbery and that the attack on Henny was part of a break-in at her cottage, a fugitive stealing purses for access to cash and credit cards.” Billy’s expression matched a tomcat viewing a canary. “Sometimes ordinary police work turns up a fact that can’t be ignored. Last night about half an hour after shots were fired at Henny, Gretchen Burkholt’s Visa was used over the payphone at the Gas ’N’ Go to order a sweater from L. L. Bean to be shipped to Jeremiah’s address. Now, all the circuit solicitor has to do is prove how Jeremiah used that card when he was at that exact moment sitting in the front seat of a police cruiser.”

“That won’t stop Brice Posey.” Annie’s tone was bitter. “The mayor’s already saying maybe someone picked Jeremiah up off the hammock in time for him to shoot Maggie. He’ll say Jeremiah paid him off with a credit card.”

“Somewhere along the line”—Billy was decided—“the prosecution
has to bring up facts, not theories. Why would Jeremiah give the Burkholt credit card to anyone else if he committed murder to get it? He would have paid off somebody with cash taken from the purses. Moreover, who is this mythical somebody? Why would a conspirator order a sweater for Jeremiah? The killer was just a tad too clever. The prosecution can throw out theories all day. Where are the facts? There are plenty of facts, and they all prove Jeremiah’s innocence. I’ll testify that I was talking to Jeremiah and I heard shots. He wasn’t holding a gun out to one side and firing. I know the difference between gunfire at four feet and gunfire at a hundred yards. The testimony will clear Jeremiah.”

Emma’s face corrugated in a tight frown. “Maybe. Maybe not. Conviction of the innocent isn’t a rarity. Besides, how cold will the trail be if we have to wait weeks or months to see an investigation of Everett’s drowning? What happens if the mayor succeeds in putting in a crony as police chief?”

Billy suddenly looked older, grimmer. “I don’t know. But”—and his deep voice was steely—“you three”—and he looked again at Annie and Laurel and Emma—“keep out of it. No investigating.”