Death Comes Silently (7 page)

“Confidence must be earned.” Cosgrove’s tone was unctuous. “At the moment, judgment hangs in the balance on Broward’s Rock. We shall see what the day brings. Chief Cameron assures me that every possible effort is being made.”

The reporter smelled blood. “Chief, is your job in jeopardy?”

Billy was unperturbed. “Mayor Cosgrove speaks for himself. I can assure islanders that we are seeking Jeremiah Young as a person of interest and encourage him to come forward. There will be a press briefing at four this afternoon. Thank you.” With that he turned and headed down the steps.

“Chief, what special efforts will you make now?” The reporter’s voice rose above the squawk of sea gulls overhead.

Billy strode past the TV reporters without a word.

“Mayor Cosgrove, are you and the police chief on bad terms?” The reporter’s voice was piercing.

Annie walked fast, head down, toward her car. She ignored the mayor. She and Max and the mayor had an unhappy history. The mayor had resented Max’s success in winning town council support for funds for the Haven, the island’s youth recreation center. As Annie well knew, the mayor never forgot an enmity. Cosgrove had taken great delight when Max was a murder suspect. Now the mayor obviously had his knife out for Billy. Cosgrove was contemptible, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous as an opponent. As she slid behind the wheel of the Thunderbird, she pulled out her cell. Max didn’t answer, so she left a message describing the scurrilous news conference. Her mind churned with resentment all the way to Death on Demand.

It was only when she stood in Death on Demand, a terribly quiet and empty place this gray Tuesday morning, that she faced again the unalterable fact that yesterday she’d traded places with Gretchen and Gretchen had died as a result.

She wandered disconsolately down the central corridor. She’d thought she might find solace in routine, but all she could think about was the cheer of yesterday, the store bustling with customers, Emma at her most entertaining, a successful luncheon, many books sold. What did that matter now? She wished mightily for someone to talk to, but in January, Ingrid only came in for special events and toward the end of the week. She had called early this morning and said brightly that there were a few odds and ends she hadn’t finished yesterday and she’d be by. Annie knew Ingrid and her husband, Duane, had planned an outing to an art show in Savannah. Annie had managed to sound equally bright and careless, assuring Ingrid that everything was fine.

Everything wasn’t fine.

Annie usually enjoyed solitary time in the bookstore because she
never really felt alone, not when surrounded by books that she knew and a cat who reveled in having Annie all to herself.

In fact, at this very moment, Agatha padded ahead of Annie down the central corridor toward the coffee bar. The silky black cat looked over her shoulder, golden eyes gleaming. She might as well have said aloud, “What’s keeping you? I’m here. Pet me.”

Agatha jumped onto the coffee bar and waited expectantly.

Annie took a moment to light the logs in the fireplace, then stepped to the coffee bar and stroked sleek fur. “You’re beautiful.”

Agatha stood very still, tail held high.

Annie wanted to gather Agatha in her arms and bury her face in sweet-smelling fur, but she knew very well that Agatha was intent upon continued adulation. The beauty of her cat and the warmth from the fire crackling in the grate gave Annie comfort.

Comfort from searing memories of the hallway in an old frame house… Annie knew she must not obsessively rerun that dreadful moment. She had to turn her thoughts to the present, remember that the world also held goodness that touched the heart and infused the spirit with joy. That was the comfort of mysteries. Bad things happened, but good people tried to make things better. She looked at a tall jade vase at the end of the coffee bar and smiled at the blooms of a half dozen fresh sunflowers. Obviously, Laurel had dropped by, using the key she’d retained ever since she and Henny and Emma once kept the store going.

Annie walked to the coffee bar, noted a small white card propped at the foot of the vase with the inscription: Velvet Queens. She smiled. A perfect name for opulent six-inch copper blooms with chocolate-colored centers. She lifted the dangling card and read in Laurel’s elegant cursive writing: Monarch butterflies enjoy the nectar of sunflowers during their fall migration. Think Monarchs.

Obediently Annie envisioned monarchs, glorious in their tawny colors, flying south.

In a quick tribute to her mother-in-law’s effort to bring cheer, Annie pretended she was playing Laurel’s Sunflower Game. She said, “Monarchs,” and quickly replied, “Santa Cruz,” and remembered a sky filled with glorious monarchs on a beautiful October day, swirling among six-foot-tall sunflowers as she and Max watched, hand in hand.

The phone rang. Annie answered, “Death on—”

Emma Clyde was gruff. “Be glad to drop by. I could”—an almost startled pause—“unpack books.”

Annie was truly touched. The empress dowager of crime fiction was accustomed to others taking care of life’s mundane details. Moreover, Annie knew that Emma was in midbook, a period when her ice blue eyes were often glazed in thought and the world around her a pale shadow of the reality of Marigold Rembrandt. “Emma, that’s very kind, but I know you’re trying to figure out how Inspector Houlihan is going to escape from that attic. Maybe he can use his suspenders as a rope.”

Silence on the line.

Annie pictured Emma yanked back into her book, mind racing. “Suspenders… something heavy… maybe catapult a note…” A chortle. “Marigold will love it. Caught with his pants down. Oh. That’s good. Got to go.”

Annie brewed a cappuccino and sat at the coffee bar, alternately sipping the coffee and petting Agatha. She tried to think about anything but yesterday. Determinedly, she looked at the watercolors hanging above the fireplace. She always took pleasure in admiring the paintings in the monthly mystery contest. Each painting represented a mystery that Annie had enjoyed reading. The first customer to correctly identify the paintings by title and author received a month of free coffee.

In the first painting, a blue spot illuminated a makeshift stage.in an old cemetery. Weathered and canted headstones were dimly visible. A young woman with curly auburn hair watched as a white-haired man staggered through the open curtains onto the stage.

In the second painting, a once beautiful young woman with glossy blond hair lay dead, her neck twisted, on the stone floor of a small, windowless cell accessible only by rope. She wore an elegant white dress. One black heel lay a few feet away. Candlelight provided the only illumination.

In the third painting, sun flooded the bedroom, but the coppery-haired young woman seated on the edge of the bed had an air of great sorrow, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed. A tanned blonde looked at her gravely and pointed at the younger woman’s distinctive wedding band, a circle of mamo feathers carved in gold.

In the fourth painting, a tall, thin woman faced a pink dressing table crowded with lotions and bottles and cosmetics. Costume jewelry dangled from the mirror. She held a small wooden box in one hand. Across the small, dark bedroom, an attractive honey blonde pulled a long white envelope from the third drawer of a battered mahogany dresser. The single bed was unmade. A coverlet was pulled over a pillow to mimic a sleeping form. Clothes were piled on the single chair.

In the fifth painting, the battlements of a mosque rose on one side of a square. A well-built, tanned man stood in the open doorway of a carpet shop as merchants gathered up their wares from the sidewalk. The observer wore a tarboosh with his linen suit and could have passed for a Levantine. He looked at an open car stopped before a huge crowd of young men in black gowns. The stockily built, fair-haired passenger stood in the back, staring out at the milling throng. He possessed an air of authority. A troop of mounted police
approached at a trot. Each man held a long pickaxe handle tied to his right wrist by a leather thong.

Although the contest was open to anyone who visited the store, in reality it was usually a neck-and-neck race between Emma Clyde and Henny Brawley. Annie knew a great deal about mysteries. She could talk knowledgeably about John Buchan’s gallant Richard Hannay (the musical parody offended her), Michael Innes’s contemplative John Appleby, Lucille Kallen’s independent Maggie Rome, John Marquand’s exceedingly polite Mr. Moto, and Mary Roberts Rinehart’s rollicking Tish Carberry, but she was quick to admit that Emma and Henny were the true experts.

Emma loved to toss back a rum and Coke and quote Charlie Chan. Among her favorites:

All foxes come at last to fur store.

Cannot tell where path lead until reach end of road.

Theory like mist on eyeglasses—obscures facts.

As for Henny, she was a connoisseur, treasuring books as elegantly devised as an astrophysicist’s explication:
It’s Different Abroad
by Henry Calvin,
Going Nowhere Fast
by Gar Anthony Haywood,
The Franchise Affair
by Josephine Tey,
The Light of Day
by Eric Ambler,
The Bone Chamber
by Robin Burcell.

Since Emma was immersed in writing, Henny likely would once again claim the prize.

Annie put down her mug, her gaze caught by the paintings. Henny had already identified the third painting. The long-ago book was the third in a wonderful series that had been reprinted by Rue Morgue Press. Henny often dropped by on these winter mornings for a strong Kenya coffee brewed with cloves and cinnamon sticks.

Henny… If there was anyone she might have expected to call her this morning, Henny topped the list. Henny was the volunteer
coordinator at Better Tomorrow. Certainly she would by now be aware of Gretchen Burkholt’s murder there and she would very likely know that Annie had discovered her body. Certainly she knew Gretchen had taken Annie’s place Monday.

Annie stood so quickly that Agatha came to her feet and stared, golden eyes wary. “Agatha, I’m an idiot. All I’ve thought about is myself. If I’m upset, think how Henny feels. She hired Jeremiah. I should have called her first thing this morning. That’s why she hasn’t called me. She’s blaming herself.”

Annie grabbed the phone, pressed familiar numbers.

Henny finally answered on the fourth ring. “Hello.” Her voice sounded stiff and strange.

Annie was apologetic. “I should have called sooner. Henny, don’t blame yourself for hiring Jeremiah. He never acted in a way anyone could have considered dangerous. He didn’t go to prison for a violent crime. You couldn’t have known. Of course, you hired him. Better Tomorrow offers people a second chance.” That was what mattered. Henny must realize and accept that her choices had been reasonable…

Annie felt a tiny jolt of discovery. That was exactly what Max had told her. She plunged ahead into the well of silence between them. “You and I couldn’t possibly have expected what happened. I never felt Jeremiah was dangerous. Never.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Again Henny’s voice sounded distant. “Thanks for calling.”

Annie realized the call was going to be ended, then and there. “Henny, I’ll be right over.”

“No.” The retort was quick, decisive.

Again there was a well of silence between them.

Henny cleared her throat. “I appreciate your thinking of me.
Obviously, we’re all distressed about Gretchen. I understand that you found her. I’m sorry.” A pause. “Did you see anyone?”

“No one was there. Only Gretchen.” Annie knew her voice was thin.

“The police have requested that the house remain closed until Thursday. I agreed, of course.” Henny sounded as if her mind were far away.

“I’ll bring you a clove and cinnamon coffee, and I found of box of really old Patricia Wentworths at a flea market in Savannah, an original
Devil’s Wind
—”

“Not today. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

The connection ended.

Annie stared at the receiver. Abrupt. Distant. Uninterested in a highly collectible Patricia Wentworth title. Annie replaced the receiver, whirled, and headed for the storeroom. She grabbed her jacket and purse, pulled out her car keys, placed the Back Soon sign in the window, and slammed out the front door, head down against a gusting wind. She tossed her purse in the trunk of her car, climbed in, turned the key, and the bright red car jolted out of the marina parking lot.

Annie passed only two cars on Sand Dollar Road before she reached the exit from the island’s gated area. A quarter mile past the gate, she turned left onto a narrow dirt road that meandered eastward to the marsh and the solitary wooden house. She drove a little too fast, trying to reassure herself that Henny was fine, she was simply struggling to cope.

She felt a rush of relief when she saw Henny’s car and lights in the house, shining brightly against January grayness. She parked and walked fast. She wished she’d taken time to brew the special coffee. After all, she’d offered to bring Henny’s favorite coffee.

Henny stepped out onto the porch, closing her front door firmly behind her. Even Henny’s casual clothes always seemed elegant. This morning’s loose red-and-black plaid jacket, gray wool slacks, and suede boots provided warmth as well as style.