Death Comes Silently (31 page)

“Laurel, I need your help. I want to find out what happened at Everett Hathaway’s office the day he died. You’re my ticket inside Hathaway Advertising. Here’s what we can do…”

A
s the taillights of Annie’s Thunderbird, faint red beacons, diminished in the fog, an old but scrupulously maintained yellow motor scooter rolled from behind a weeping willow and set out in pursuit.

A
clump of bamboo screened Annie from Hathaway Advertising.

Laurel carried a huge bouquet of sunflowers, big double flowers that looked like chrysanthemums. She was gorgeous, white gold hair in a chignon, patrician features assured, stylish navy silk suit a perfect fit. On the porch of the Victorian house, she waggled her left hand in a signal of reassurance, opened the oak door, and disappeared inside.

Five minutes later, Annie opened the door and stepped into the elegant hall.

Quick steps clicked on the parquet flooring. Dolores Wright stepped into the hallway. She looked surprised and dismayed.

Annie understood. Trey Hathaway had very likely announced in grim terms that Annie Darling was to be turned away.

“Annie, I’m sorry, but Trey has a client. I think he’s going to be engaged for quite a while.”

Annie had no doubt that Trey Hathaway would be fully and completely engaged and, unknown to him, firmly in place in his office for at least another twenty minutes. He would certainly recognize Laurel from her island activities and know quite well that she had the money to spend freely on her enthusiasms. He would be very interested as she elaborated on her plan to launch a campaign to have the sunflower named the official blossom of Broward’s Rock and how a full-scale advertising campaign in print, radio, television, Twitter, and Facebook might achieve that goal.

“If you want to leave a message, I’ll be sure that he gets it.”

“I’m not here to see him.” Annie was pleasant but definite. “I want to talk to you.”

Dolores’s eyes widened. “Me?”

Annie didn’t respond directly. Instead, she spoke gravely. “Have you read yesterday afternoon’s
Gazette
?”

Dolores nodded, her eyes wide.

“So you know there’s excellent reason to believe Everett Hathaway was murdered.”

Dolores’s face drew down in a worried frown. “Trey says it’s all nonsense.”

Annie held her gaze. “If Everett was murdered, the wrong man is in jail. Even worse, a killer is loose on the island. What happened here that Friday morning could help solve three murders. And”—her smile was reassuring—“my questions are easy to answer and they don’t have anything to do with anyone in the office”—Annie didn’t consider Leslie Griffin a true member of the agency staff—“and there is no reason Trey would object to your answering them.”

The tension drained from Dolores’s kindly face. “In that case, I’ll be glad to help.”

“Were you here when Everett arrived?”

“Oh, yes. He usually came in around nine thirty. Trey was already here. He was in a conference call with a client in Columbia.”

“How did Everett appear?”

The receptionist looked surprised. “Natty. He had on one of his favorite jackets.” Her smile was confiding. “You can always tell when someone loves what they’re wearing, can’t you? A blue-checked tweed with blue leather buttons. I know how he felt. I have a white wool jacket with this little fleur-de-lis design and I feel like I have springs in my shoes every time I put it on.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Just good morning and that sort of thing and then in a little while I took in his coffee, double cream and two spoonfuls of sugar. He looked on top of the world.”

Annie felt as triumphant as Secretariat draped with a garland of flowers. Everett was happy that morning. He had not yet received the note accusing his wife of adultery.

A faint frown drew Dolores’s eyebrows down. “Something upset him later. I think it had to do with the letter that someone put through the slot.” She looked beyond Annie, pointing at the rectangular bronze opening in the center of the old door.

Annie half turned, saw the slot.

Dolores was amused. “We don’t have our mailed delivered like that, of course. We have a post office box. I pick up the mail about two every afternoon. But that day someone pushed through an envelope. I heard the clank of the back plate. It’s funny. I knew what it was. It’s a distinctive sound. I finished an e-mail and came out into the hall. An envelope lying on the throw rug. I picked it up and I didn’t know what to think. Everett’s name was printed in all capitals and right underneath, underlined three times, it said,
Personal and Confidential
. It didn’t have a stamp on it, but it was sealed and addressed to Everett.”

“What time did the letter come?”

“About a quarter to twelve. It was getting close to lunch time. I heard steps in the living room.” She pointed at the opposite archway. “Brad Milton came to the archway, then looked back and gave a thumbs-up. Everett’s office is in the old library behind the living room.” Annie knew the living room now served as a waiting room. “I realized Brad’s meeting with Everett was done. Brad said good-bye and hurried outside.”

Annie sorted out the timing in her mind. The clank of the mail slot back plate, Dolores picking up the letter, Brad heading into the hall.

And outside someone moving quickly away.

“Did Brad go directly outside?”

Dolores looked surprised. “He saw me and smiled and walked out.”

Brad just might have been in time to see someone—Leslie?—hurrying away from the house. High school students had the option of eating out. Leslie could easily have been downtown around noon. She could have parked several blocks away. If she wore a hoodie and jeans, there would be nothing noticeable in her appearance.

“Did you take the letter to Everett?”

Dolores nodded. “He asked me how the letter came and I told him. He was opening it as I left the library. I didn’t see him again until after lunch and that’s when I knew he was upset. He looked like he’d had bad news. He told me he wasn’t taking any calls, that he had to work on a special project and not to interrupt him. He left about three. He walked out without a word. That’s the last time I saw him.”

Annie carried two thoughts out into the fog: The letter came through the mail slot and Brad Milton may have seen Everett’s murderer.

O
nce again the driver of the scooter, unseen in the fog, followed the faint red blobs of Annie’s taillights.

A
nnie gripped the wheel of her Thunderbird, strained to see. The car crept forward. On her map, the graveled road snaked perhaps a half mile to the isolated location of Brad’s construction company. Fog altered her perception of reality. She couldn’t see the woods. She knew trees and shrubs and vines were there, pressing up to the road, affording no shoulder. She had the suffocating feel of being submerged in silt-laden water. Her first intimation that she had reached the clearing was a glimpse of diffused light and, looming directly, stacked used bricks.

Annie jammed on the brakes. Brad Milton wouldn’t have been pleased if she’d crashed into the bricks. She switched off her motor. A harrowing drive. She stepped out of her car, skirted the stacked bricks, and walked toward the lighted window.

No sound penetrated the fog. Silence lay like a heavy weight over the clearing. There was no activity. He’d probably dismissed his crews for the day.

Annie hurried to the steps. The door opened with a slight squeak. She stepped inside and welcomed the warmth from an electric heater.

Brad Milton sat behind a large gray metal desk, a calculator in hand. He looked up in surprise, placed the calculator next to an open folder, and slowly came to his feet.

Annie realized he was a bigger man than she remembered, probably six foot three or four, tall and angular with long arms and legs.

“Hi, Annie.” His craggy face held a mixture of surprise and wariness. He looked past her, possibly seeking Max.

Annie plunged ahead, hoping against hope. “Brad, you may have the answer to who killed Everett and Gretchen and Maggie.”

His big face was abruptly still. “Yeah?”

“Everything depends upon what happened at Everett’s office that Friday. I need to know what you saw when you walked outside.”

“Outside?” He sounded puzzled. Then he waved toward a shabby brown sofa. He waited until she was seated before he lowered himself into his chair. His deep-set eyes gazed at her intently.

Annie sat on the edge of a lumpy cushion. “You were at Hathaway Advertising the Friday Everett died.”

“Right. We’d worked out a business matter. Why are you asking?” He folded his arms.

She leaned forward. “Please think back to when you left. It was a few minutes before noon.”

“Yeah. That’s about right.” He nodded. “I went over to Parotti’s. I had a bowl of chili.”

“When you stepped out on the porch, what did you see?” Annie watched him, scarcely daring to hope.

His heavy brows crinkled. “I don’t think understand. I mean, what is there to see on Harbor Street? Some old houses. A couple of vacant yards. I don’t think it’s changed much in twenty years, maybe fifty years.”

“On the sidewalk.” Her lips felt stiff. “Did you see anyone at all walking away from the house?”

He looked bemused. “To tell you the truth, I was thinking about lunch. I don’t know. There may have been somebody. I wasn’t paying any attention.”

Annie sighed and pushed up from the sofa. “If you remember anything, a car, a glimpse of someone, please call me. It’s important.”

Brad stood, came around the desk. “I saw the
Gazette
story. I figured you and Max were stoking the fire, all this stuff about somebody drowning Everett. I don’t think there’s anything to it, but if you two want to bait the mayor, I’m all in favor.” He came up beside her and reached for the door handle. “He’s a crooked snake. A couple of times I definitely submitted the low bid, but the jobs always go to somebody who’s helped his campaign.”

Annie stepped out onto the porch. The fog was even worse.

Brad remained on the threshold, the door open.

Annie welcomed the light but felt daunted by the heavy quiet. Not a sound filtered through the thick mist. She came down the steps and felt as though she was in an alien place, remote, isolated, far removed. What was the poem? The fog coming in on little cat feet… Silent as death. Death had come silently…

She was absorbed in her thoughts and realized just in time that she was about to stumble into Brad’s minicar. She reached out, touched damp metal. Electric cars could be a hazard to pedestrians, arriving without a sound…

Annie jolted to a stop. Her hand gripped the stanchion that supported the top. She held to the moist cold bar, thoughts tumbling… Silence… Electric cars made no sound… The minicar could easily be hidden behind shrubbery or a willow or a stand of cane… A bike could be slipped into the back… He’d often been at the house when Eddie was alive… The bike shed was close to the driveway… He’d used the bike to go from the beached boat to the mini car… He was at the house talking with Trey when Gretchen Burkholt called… He took the message from the hall table, drove the minicar to Better Tomorrow… Tuesday night the minicar slipped into the shadows
behind Maggie’s house and then between the pilings that supported Henny’s cabin… Of course Brad was at Hathaway Advertising when the letter came… Clever… He’d left Everett, gone out on the porch, pushed the prepared envelope through the slot, then hurried back inside to pretend—if anyone ever asked—that he had been coming out of Everett’s office when the note came and could not possibly have delivered it… but Everett connected the arrival of the letter with Brad’s departure… He must have written Brad’s name followed by a question mark at the bottom of the index card…

Almost as if pulled by an irresistible force, she slowly turned to look up at the tall man standing on the porch, a big man with long arms and legs, looming huge against the light behind him.

Annie ran.

“Hey.” Brad’s shout was harsh.

She plunged around the minicar. Her car was about ten feet farther, but even if she reached the Thunderbird and locked herself inside, she would have to fumble for her keys in her purse, start the car. He would move fast, as desperate as he had been the day he saw the message on the hall table at the Hathaway house. He would break through a window, reach for her, and then she would die.