Death Comes Silently (6 page)

Max leaned forward to look with her at the autopsy report for Everett Morgan Hathaway. It didn’t take long to find the pertinent information: Death resulted from drowning, which ensued as a result of hypothermia… No evidence of trauma except for abrasions on both hands…

Max looked up. “Abrasions on his hands?”

Billy nodded. “Scrapes and scratches. Probably he tried to right the kayak, climb back in.” He pulled the laptop back, clicked.

Annie looked hopeful. “Gretchen put the index card on the table in the sorting room. What was written on the card?”

Billy shook his head. “We haven’t catalogued everything in the room. We spotted the pocketknife and change that she mentioned but we didn’t find an index card. There are a couple of possibilities. We’ll check with the Hathaways. There are only four calls on Gretchen’s cell. Three to you and one to the Hathaway house. Someone from the family may have come by and picked up the card but left the knife and
the coins. If so, she was alive at that point. It would be helpful to find out when Gretchen was last seen. She left the second message on your cell at two fifteen. Your nine-one-one call came in at three nineteen.”

Annie remembered the comfortable sense of relaxation at Death on Demand, the coffee she’d shared with Henny and Ingrid while at Better Tomorrow death moved ever nearer Gretchen, who loved to star in her own little dramas, spinning out visions of a dangerous handyman and scandal in the pocket of a dead man’s jacket.

“What’s the other possibility?”

Billy’s face was grim. “We haven’t found her purse. Maybe she put the index card in it for safekeeping. The purse is missing. So is Jeremiah Young.” Again that flicker of sadness. When had a Scout turned into a thief?

Annie was stricken. “Do you think he killed her to steal her purse?”

Billy looked weary. “Maybe she came in the room and found him in her purse. Maybe he wanted to take a couple of dollars, thought she wouldn’t miss them. If she caught him and called the police, he would be back in jail ASAP.” His cell rang. Billy unhooked the phone, lifted it, listened. “Right. Good work.” He rose, gave Annie and Max a brief nod. “The axe killed her. Trauma to the back of the head. She was struck by the blunt end, not the blade.” He pressed his lips together for an instant before he spoke. “Fingerprints on the shaft match Jeremiah Young’s.”

I
appreciate your coming by.” Billy Cameron was a police officer. He was also a Southern gentleman always aware of how to treat a lady. He pulled out a chair at the central table for Henny Brawley.

Henny took her seat. “Of course I came. I’ll do everything I can
to help. I’m terribly sorry for poor Gretchen. I understand you are looking for Jeremiah? Oh, Billy, are you sure? I can’t believe he would hurt anyone.”

Billy was somber. “I know. I would have bet that he was going to get straightened out after he came home, but he was at Better Tomorrow when Gretchen left her last voice mail on Annie Darling’s cell. She said she was afraid of him. His fingerprints are on the weapon that killed her. He wasn’t there when we arrived and his bike is gone. There is no evidence to suggest anyone else visited Better Tomorrow this afternoon. Gretchen made three calls to Annie Darling, and in each one she expressed fear of Jeremiah. She also told Annie that she had called the Everett Hathaway residence to report that she’d found a card and some change and a pocketknife in the pocket of the jacket Hathaway wore the day he died that she thought the family would want like to have. We checked with Mrs. Hathaway. She said there wasn’t a message from Gretchen on the pad by the main phone but possibly someone may have seen and discarded it, deciding it wasn’t important. In any event, so far as Mrs. Hathaway knows, no one from the family came by Better Tomorrow. We’ll keep checking to make sure. If one of them dropped by, they might know something useful.”

“If someone from the family came, Gretchen should have noted a visitor in a log at the front desk. The volunteer on duty is asked to record the number of visitors every hour.” Henny’s tone was rueful. “That’s what volunteers are supposed to do. A lot of them don’t bother or just make a guess at the end of the day.”

“Do they get the names?” Billy looked eager.

Henny shook her head. “Not names. Numbers. We end up with a tally of people coming on a given day and the most popular hours. Nothing fancy. Just the usual four lines then a cross bar to make five. Say we averaged nine people on a Wednesday afternoon, thirty-two
on a Friday afternoon. It helped me know how many volunteers to schedule. Monday is always slow, so each shift is taken by a single person.”

“We still have a crew gathering evidence there.” Billy picked up his cell, tapped. “Mavis, look for a notebook on the front desk in the reception area.” He raised an eyebrow at Henny.

“A bound spiral notebook on the right back corner of the desk. It should be open to Monday, January sixteen.”

Billy described the notebook and the tally system. “What have you got?” He listened, nodded. “Thanks. Take the notebook into evidence.” He flicked off the call, looked soberly at Henny. “According to the log, no visitors after one o’clock. She died between two fifteen and three nineteen.”

Henny spoke quickly. “It’s possible there were visitors and she intended to make the notations before she left.” Careless, unmethodical, dramatic Gretchen.

“Possibly.” His tone was noncommittal. “We know Jeremiah was there.”

Henny understood Billy’s focus. Yet she couldn’t believe the hangdog young man whose eyes had teared when she offered him the job would commit murder. And why? She didn’t believe he’d taken Gretchen’s purse. He’d learned his lesson about stealing when he went to prison. Why else commit murder? Gretchen might have treated him unkindly, but murder—violent and ugly—surely required much more reason.

Billy slid his papers together. “I’d like to have a copy of his personnel file.”

Henny doubted the file held much that Billy didn’t already know, but she nodded. “Tell Mavis she’ll find the personnel folders in the middle drawer of the metal file cabinet.”

“Thanks.” He reached for his cell. “We plan to keep the house closed for a couple of days as a crime scene. You can arrange for a cleanup of the murder room on Thursday. If you think of any other information that might be helpful, give us a call.”

H
enny was accustomed to the utter darkness that enveloped her home on the marsh, especially on a cloudy winter night. She had no near neighbors. Her one-room weathered gray house on stilts was utterly private. She took great pleasure in her quiet home. She often started and ended her days on the porch that overlooked the ever changing marsh, the cordgrass chartreuse in summer, golden in spring and fall, drab brown in winter. Ducks and cormorants bobbed in the swells of the Sound. Migrating terns often stopped over for weeks. Yesterday she’d spotted a flock of fork-tailed Forster’s Terns with their distinctive black eye bars, dusky bills, and yellow feet. Owls hooted deep into the night. She waged a continuing war with an especially wily raccoon who defied her every effort to make the garbage pail lids resistant to his agile fingers.

The house loomed straight ahead. She’d left on the living room light because the front porch light was out. As she turned her old but reliable Dodge into a sandy patch of ground by two palmettos, the headlights swept the fenced area to the right of the steps that contained the garbage pails.

Drat. The gate was ajar. Foiled again, though why Wiley, as she thought of the raccoon, hadn’t simply swarmed over the fence was only another puzzle in their relationship. She turned off the car and slammed the door. Sometimes a sharp sound was enough to prompt Wiley’s departure. Not tonight.

Shrugging into her winter jacket, she walked toward the enclosure.
Clever creature. The wooden bar that latched the gate was upright and the panel ajar. She pushed it wide, stepped into the enclosure, clapping her hands. One foot struck a plastic garbage can lid.

She scarcely had time to realize there was no raccoon crouched atop the pails when she was covered by a thick material, struggling for breath, heart pounding, as strong arms held her in a tight grip.

A
nnie stared into darkness. Their bedroom held a faint radiance from a security light on the end of the second-story verandah. She didn’t look toward the digital clock. It had been nearing three when she’d last checked. Tomorrow she would be tired, headachey. She desperately needed to sleep. Sleep would not come. Despite Max’s insistence that she could not have prevented Gretchen’s death, Annie felt a grim certainty that if she hadn’t ignored Gretchen’s complaints about Jeremiah, Gretchen’s body would not now lie in a mortuary. What if she’d gone to Better Tomorrow as soon as she received Gretchen’s first call? Certainly she had been alive then.

All the
what ifs
in the world would not change the fact that Gretchen Burkholt was dead.

Max’s strong arm, his warm living arm, pulled her close. “We all do our best.” His voice was soft, understanding.

She lay in the comforting circle of his arms, her head on his
shoulder. “She was afraid of Jeremiah and I thought she was silly.” Annie’s voice shook.

His breath was warm against her face. “Why did you think she was silly?”

The words came haltingly. “Jeremiah… wasn’t mean… He was nice to people who came for help.”

“You made an honest decision. That’s all anyone can do.”

An honest decision… yes… but Gretchen was dead…

T
he gray morning matched Annie’s bleak mood. The police station sat on a slight rise near the harbor. Whitecaps rippled across the water. Annie was grateful for her warm wool jacket. A TV camera crew hunkered against the wind a few feet from the front steps. A slender reporter, makeup perfect on a heart-shaped face, blond hair lacquered into submission, stepped toward Annie, held up a mic. “How is this usually bucolic island responding to such a brutal crime?”

Annie’s eyes narrowed. How did you answer that kind of question? “As well as can be expected. Excuse me.” She tried to brush past.

The reporter kept pace, mic thrust toward Annie. “Did you know the victim? How about the alleged killer?”

Annie pushed past the reporter, pulled open the door, and stepped inside. A chest-high counter separated several desks and filing cabinets from a small waiting area.

Mavis Cameron looked up from the nearest desk, pushed back her chair. Mavis was Billy’s wife and the station dispatcher when not doubling as a crime tech. “Thanks for coming in, Annie. Here’s your statement. Please look it over and sign and date.” She pushed several sheets across the counter, along with a pen.

The door to the station’s interior hall opened.

Mavis swung to look, worry evident in her angular face. Mavis had survived an abusive marriage to find happiness in her second marriage to Billy, but her eyes always held a remembrance of bad times.

Mayor Cosgrove bustled through, bleating excitedly, “I’ll do the talking.”

Billy followed, his square face folded in a frown. “We held a press briefing a half hour ago.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m on my way to Better Tomorrow.”

The mayor slapped through the wooden gate into the anteroom. “You can spare a few minutes. I told the TV people to wait.” He was puffed with importance. “I haven’t made my statement. I expect you to be with me, but I’ll handle the questions.”

Billy looked grim as he held the front door and, after an instant’s hesitation, followed the mayor outside.

As the door closed, Annie glanced over the sheets, signed, pushed the papers toward Mavis. She jerked a thumb toward outside. “Why’s the mayor here?”

Mavis was laconic. “TV.”

Annie nodded and turned away. Mayor Cosgrove was drawn to media like a shark to blood. But it might be interesting to hear what he was going to say. She opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

The mayor stood in the center of the sidewalk. Billy remained a pace behind him. Billy’s stance was stiff. Obviously, he wasn’t enjoying the mayor’s television appearance.

Annie slipped down the steps and to one side, determined to remain out of the camera’s range.

Cosgrove stood with his shoulders back, the better to minimize his rotund physique, but he still had the shape of a well-dressed
penguin. “…wish to reassure island residents that I am personally overseeing the investigation into the brutal murder of a volunteer at a fine local charity. Unfortunately, the suspect—one Jeremiah Young, age twenty-one—remains at large as I speak. Listeners should continue to be suspicious of strangers and to call nine-one-one immediately if in doubt. Unfortunately, the murderer has yet”—the mayor emphasized the adverb, his tone acidic—“to be arrested despite”—more emphasis—“the efforts of the police.” There was a clear inference that those efforts must, perforce, have been performed inadequately. “I”—a clarion call—“have insisted upon a large-scale search. If the murderer is not apprehended within the day, I intend to request assistance from county authorities who are perhaps more adept at solving crimes of this nature.”

The blond reporter poked the mic forward. “Has the town council lost confidence in Police Chief Cameron?”