Death Comes Silently (28 page)

She turned on the lights and gazed happily about the bookstore. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of books overlain with the delectable scent of coffee and a hint of wood smoke. She had never realized how much she would come to love both her charming, though rather earnest daughter-in-law, and the books that delighted her.

Tissue crinkled.

Laurel looked down as Agatha snaked a paw at the bunched paper. “Agatha, as always”—Laurel’s throaty voice was warm—“you exhibit exquisite taste. But for a cat of your stature, that is only proper.” Laurel bent, smoothed sleek fur. “The sunflower is a symbol of adoration and it is very appropriate that you should lay claim because everyone adores you.”

Agatha rubbed her cheek against the tips of Laurel’s fingers.

“Come now, we’ll make a beautiful bouquet and wait for Annie and Emma.”

The cat followed her down the aisle.

Laurel rested the half dozen sunflowers atop the coffee bar and darted into the storeroom. She returned with two vases, one a lovely cobalt pottery, the other an art deco square column in aluminum. She hummed as pondered which vase to choose. Possibly the blue put the cinnamon color of the leaves to better advantage. She lifted the stalks and the phone rang. She noted caller ID as she answered. “Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore north of Delray Beach.”

“Is Annie Darling there?” The man’s tenor voice was hardedged.

Laurel raised an eyebrow. Obviously the caller knew Annie’s voice. Once a young man had compared Laurel’s voice to velvet at midnight. Her daughter-in-law always sounded so wholesome. Laurel heartily approved of wholesomeness—for Annie. “Annie’s out just now. She is expected soon. May I take a message?”

But there was only emptiness on the line.

Laurel frowned. She replaced the receiver, picked it up, dialed. Annie didn’t answer her cell. Laurel left a crisp message: “A man called from Walker Morrison Realty, asked for you, left no name. He sounded”—Laurel thought for an instant—“disagreeable.”

T
he Rolls slowed as Emma glided to a stop behind a green Porsche parked near the garages of the Mediterranean mansion. Yesterday from the conversation Annie overheard between Doug Walker and Nicole Hathaway, Doug had made clear his lack of interest in meeting Nicole. So why was he here?

Emma parked and retrieved her cell phone. Her butler answered. “Miguel, I will have the connection open in the event that I need to call for help. Remain on the line. Thank you.” Miguel was a treasure, never evincing surprise at her instructions, which sometimes were unusual. Recently she had sent him to Atlanta to make notes of surveillance cameras at a museum. He had returned with precise measurements as well as the make of the cameras.

Emma held the phone in her left hand as she walked across the terrace. As she approached the French windows, a door swung out. Doug Walker, his round face in a tight frown, stepped onto the tiles. He carried a chamois in a gloved hand.

“Hello, Doug.” He had contacted her last year to be among local sponsors of a golf tournament. She had made a substantial donation.

He looked startled. “Emma.”

Her gaze dropped to the chamois and conclusions clicked tight as lock tumblers. “An interesting choice for a cleaning cloth. Were you removing fingerprints from a particular bedroom?”

He walked toward her, face taut, shoulders bunched.

Emma held up the phone. “I am connected to the police dispatcher. Stop where you are, Doug Walker.”

He jolted to a stop, an odd figure for melodrama with his tight blond curls and smooth-shaven face and expensive cashmere pullover and gray dress slacks. “Turn that damn thing off.”

Her crusty voice was untroubled. “When we finish.”

“We are finished. Look, you can write mysteries, but don’t try to put me in the middle of one. Did Annie Darling send you to spy on me? I know what’s going on. I talked to the mayor. He told me all the lies about Everett are coming from Annie and that jerk she’s married to. That’s where the
Gazette
got all that stuff about Everett Hathaway being murdered. After I read that tripe, I called the bookstore. I’m going to tell her she better not mention my name to anybody if she knows what’s good for her.”

“It isn’t ‘stuff’ in the
Gazette
.” Obviously Marian Kenyon had used the report put together by Henny and Annie and Max for a story in this afternoon’s
Gazette
and Doug Walker was making sure nobody could link him to an upstairs bedroom tryst with Nicole. “Marian’s a careful reporter.” Careful and clever. Emma was sure that Marian would be alert to slander or libel, but using the old reliable
confidential sources
, it would be easy to suggest Everett Hathaway had been lured to his death and to include hints about the note in his jacket pocket.

“Nobody’s proved anything. And Annie Darling better keep her mouth shut.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, held up the phone. “Are you threatening Annie?”

He glared. “With libel. The mayor says there’s no proof a note to Everett ever existed.”

Emma spoke quietly. “The woman who found the note was battered to death.”

“They got the guy who did it. He stole her purse.” Doug’s tone was triumphant. “So there’s no scandal, nothing to any of that.”

“But you came here with a chamois.” Emma was derisive. “And you insist there’s no scandal?”

His face twisted in a smile. He waggled the supple leather. “No
scandal at all, Emma.” His smile was arrogant and satisfied as he moved past her, strode to the elegant car.

H
athaway Advertising occupied a Victorian house two blocks from Main Street. Turreted and gabled, it had recently been painted and the white shone even on a foggy afternoon. The heavy oak door boasted two inset art glass panels, a listening stag on a mountainside and a peacock flaunting a magnificent train of iridescent blue green plumage, as well as a collectible bronze doorknob and an ornate bronze letter drop.

Annie opened the door and stepped into a hallway with a grandfather clock, an elegant ormolu mirror above a teak table, and a collection of silver pitchers in a breakfront. A distant silver bell chimed. Quick footsteps sounded.

A petite middle-aged woman with shingled gray hair and wire-rim glasses smiled in welcome. “Hi, Annie.” Dolores Wright was a volunteer at Better Tomorrow on the weekends. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m here for the Animal Welfare League today. Do you think I could see Trey Hathaway? I’m on the hunt for a missing dog.” Annie didn’t know Trey Hathaway. He hadn’t been back on the island long. She checked her image in the mirror, dusty blond hair, open and frank face, cream silk blouse, pearl necklace, and long gray skirt. Did she look respectable or what? “A cocker spaniel named Betsy. Someone thought they saw him in the area and I wanted to check and see if he might have seen her.”

“Let me check. Everything’s a little hectic since Everett died. Trey’s taking care of a bunch of estate stuff for Nicole.” Dolores’s low heels tapped on the heart pine flooring as she hurried down the hall.

In a moment, she returned. “He’ll see you.” She looked puzzled, almost spoke, then said simply, “The last door on the left.”

The door was ajar. Annie pushed the panel and stepped inside.

Trey Hathaway stood behind his desk, arms folded. He looked like a successful young professional in a blue blazer, sandy hair trimmed short, brown eyes alert. His distinctive Hathaway face—large forehead, high-bridged nose, high cheekbones, and pointed chin—was cold and unsmiling.

The smile on Annie’s face slipped away.

“Missing cocker?” His tone was sardonic.

Annie felt kinship with a boater who hears the roar of falls ahead. But she might as well try. “Last night someone thought they saw you on a block where an elderly dog escaped from her pen. About nine o’clock.”

“What block would that be?

The current was running fast. Disaster loomed. “Barred Owl Road.”

His brown eyes glittered. “Good try. But I wasn’t on Maggie Knight’s street last night.” He came around the desk, strode close to Annie, glared down. “Leslie told me all about the lady who came Tuesday and claimed someone knocked over Everett’s kayak. And a little while ago you showed up there with a survey. You didn’t get much, did you? Leslie and Nicole were home. And now this preposterous”—he jerked his thumb toward the
Gazette
lying spread out on his desk—“stuff about Maggie Knight seeing somebody take a message from our hall table. The story makes it sound like the arrest of the ex-con might be a mistake. I can tell you who’s making a mistake and that’s anyone who says somebody killed Everett.”

Annie looked at him curiously. “It doesn’t bother you that your uncle was murdered?”

For an instant uncertainty flickered in his eyes, then his face stiffened. “It bothers me that people are making stuff up.”

Annie shrugged. “The woman killed at Better Tomorrow wasn’t making up the index card in Everett’s pocket. I know about that. I talked to her just a little while before she was killed. She described that card to me.”

He wasn’t impressed. “So there was a card. Nobody knows what was in it.”

“The card informed Everett that Nicole and Doug were meeting at the Carstairs house. It talked about a ‘scandal’ and ‘naming names.’” Annie knew she was expanding on Gretchen’s words, but she had no doubt that she was correct.

He made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t care about an index card. The cops have arrested the guy who killed that woman.”

Annie lifted her chin. “Since you are certain that Jeremiah Young is guilty of two murders, I’m sure you won’t mind saying where you were last night and the night your uncle died.”

“Why not? Not that it’s any of your business. I work for a living. I was here both nights.”

She turned to leave, then paused, said quickly, “You knew about Nicole and Doug.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t personally see them there.”

Annie was certain that Leslie had delighted in telling him. Trey knew about Nicole and Doug. “You could have written the message on the index card, telling Everett to take a kayak to the bay.”

Abruptly, he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting. You can show yourself out.”

As she stepped into the hall, he added sardonically, “Good luck finding that cocker.”

E
mma looked up at the watercolors over the mantel. “I know that third book, but I can’t quite place it.”

Annie was well aware that if the artist had depicted another main character, both Emmy and Henny would have identified the title at once. When the answers were revealed, she might face bitter complaints. But fair was fair. Henny and Emma were contest hogs. Almost always one of them solved the watercolors before any other readers. Neither had paid for a cup of coffee in a very long time.

With a dreamy look, Laurel sipped her coffee, a concoction possibly unique in the annals of indulgence. “The grated maraschino cherries and chunks of Perugia chocolate make all the difference.”

Annie drew the line at fruit floating in coffee.

Emma stood with her back to the fire, mug firmly grasped. She looked like an analytical bulldog, square face squeezed in thought. “As Marigold brilliantly points out, ‘Murderers reveal themselves by apparently meaningless facts. Finally, when the strands are gathered, the hangman’s noose will dangle from the scaffold.’” Blue eyes steely, she gazed at Annie, then Laurel.