Annie looked at Billy in surprise, then wondered at her lack of insight. Billy knew his island. He was a native. He knew the people from the north end to the south. Of course he knew Jeremiah had served time.
He nodded at Annie. “You can wait in your car. We’ll get to you as soon as possible.” He gestured to Lou Pirelli, and the two men stepped into the living room.
As Annie headed for the Thunderbird, Marian Kenyon’s tan Beetle swerved to park behind a patrol car. Marian burst from the car, notepad in hand, Leica hanging from strap. The Gazette’s crime reporter, dark hair ruffled by the wind, took one look at the porch, recognized a crime scene off limits to interruption, and bounded toward Annie. “Came over the scanner. How come you’re here? What’s up?”
Annie folded her arms, wished her jacket were warmer. Marian had the tenacity of a rat terrier. It was easier to tell what she knew. She spoke in short jerky sentences, but confined her remarks to her arrival and what she’d found. “That’s all I know, Marian. I’m supposed to wait in my car for Billy.”
Marian was already looking past Annie, seeking another source.
Annie was grateful to reach the car. She turned on the motor to warm the car’s interior though she didn’t feel as if she would ever be warm again. Gretchen had subbed for her…
She huddled in the front seat, holding her cell. “Max…” The words spilled out and she took strength when he said he was on his way, would soon be there. Doc Burford’s dusty black car jolted to a stop. He slammed out the driver’s door and walked to the house, face in a glower. Doc loved to deliver babies. He fought death for all his patients and, always, he resented murder.
Max parked behind her.
She tumbled from her car and into his arms, clung to him. “Blood in the hall… Gretchen was lying face down… The back of her head… An axe…”
Max’s arm was tight around her shoulders. He looked across the yard at freshly chopped wood.
Annie’s voice was thin. “There’s no axe. Jeremiah chopped the wood.” She shuddered. “I’ll have to tell Billy.”
Max looked at her with worried eyes, smoothed a tendril of hair. “Try not to remember.”
All around them the machinery of a murder investigation unfolded, officers searching, videocams, written notes, low-voiced colloquies.
Annie shuddered. “When I went inside, the silence was dreadful. I knew something was wrong. I called out for Gretchen and for Jeremiah, and no one came. Jeremiah should have been here.”
The front door banged and Doc Burford lumbered down the steps, his face folded in a tight frown. Now the police could investigate the sorting room, start their painstaking collection of evidence at the murder scene.
They stood in silence, and Annie clung to his hand. Could she have saved Gretchen?
Portable spotlights turned the dusky yard almost as bright as day. Foot by foot, searchers drew ever nearer the house, checking, collecting, filming, sketching. An ambulance came and technicians wheeled a gurney inside.
A few minutes later, the front door slammed. She didn’t look, wouldn’t look, but she heard the thud of steps on the wooden porch and knew techs were maneuvering a gurney burdened by a black body bag.
The break room at the police station was calm and quiet, untenanted except for Annie and Max. Annie appreciated Billy placing them here rather than in a bleak interrogation room. She took a sip of coffee from a foam cup. Beyond the closed door, she was sure the station hummed with intensity, officers at computers, on phones, all off-duty officers on hand as well as former chief Frank Saulter. The Broward’s Rock police had few extra hands, and Frank’s island knowledge and quiet counsel were always welcomed by Billy Cameron.
“Eat.” Max was firm.
Annie wanted to push away the paper plate even though it held her favorite sandwich in all the world, fried oysters on an onion bun with dollops of Thousand Island dressing from Parotti’s Bar and Grill just down the street from the police station. Max had even ordered cheese fries with a side of chili in an effort to tempt her. He was right. She felt the beginning throb of a headache. Food would help. And caffeine. She unwrapped the bun and began to eat.
Max nodded approval.
She managed a smile. Max’s presence gave her strength. Usually they laughed together, his dark blue eyes gleaming, his handsome face crinkling in delight, his eyes telling her she was desirable and his. Now his steady gaze reassured her. He was beside her, solid and real and strong.
Billy Cameron entered the room with a green folder and a laptop. He settled at the table and handed Annie her cell phone. “We’ve transcribed the calls from Gretchen Burkholt. She was a volunteer?”
“Yes. I switched with her today.” Annie felt a twist of misery. “She was supposed to work Thursday but I needed to be at the store. Henny Brawley schedules the volunteers. My shift—the one Gretchen took—was from noon to four.”
“Who worked the first shift?”
Annie picked up her cell, clicked several times. “Verena Rogers.”
Billy noted the phone number. He opened the folder, picked up a sheet of paper. “In her calls, Gretchen Burkholt stated four times that she was afraid of Jeremiah Young. At the end of her call—” His eyes dropped to the sheet and he quoted, “Here he is again. He scares me.”
He didn’t repeat Gretchen’s final words. There was no need. Annie heard them in her mind, would hear them again and again: When the signing’s over, please come and keep me company. Annie put down the unfinished sandwich, looked at Billy with anguished eyes. “Gretchen subbed for me. She was alone and someone killed her. I could have gone the first time she called. I didn’t go”—her voice broke—“and Gretchen is dead.”
Max’s hand shot out, gripped her arm. His voice was stern. “You didn’t know she was in danger. Tell Billy about Gretchen.” He gave her arm a squeeze and settled back in his chair with his arms folded, his gaze commanding.
Billy pulled a pen from his pocket, drew out a notebook. He gave Annie an encouraging nod.
Annie was hesitant. “I hate to say things about her now.”
Billy spoke quietly. “It’s important to know whether she had good judgment.”
Annie slowly shook her head. “She often exaggerated. She made everything a big deal. She thought every raccoon she saw was going to attack her, every siren meant someone she knew had been hurt in an accident. If some women at a church luncheon stood off in a corner, they were talking about her. That’s why I never paid attention when she shivered and whispered that Jeremiah was big and mean-looking. He’s not big and mean-looking. I mean, he’s big.” She looked at her six foot two inch husband and even taller Billy. “Not as big as you and Max, but powerful, like a football player. He’s scruffy. Sometimes he doesn’t shave. But he never looked mean. He looked pathetic, like a dog that’s been kicked.”
“Have you worked with him?” Billy watched her closely.
Annie nodded. “Of course. He carries in boxes and bundles and unloads cases of pop and handles big items like refrigerators and TVs.”
“Were you ever afraid of him?” Billy’s tone was interested.
“Never.” She shot back the answer without hesitation. “Honestly, I can’t believe he’d hurt anyone, especially not like…” She broke off, clutched Max’s hand. “Last week somebody dumped a puppy out in front and Jeremiah found him and he made a place for him out back in the shed and got food. When I went back, he was cuddling the puppy, said he’d been crying for his mom. He found a home for him with a family his aunt knows.”
“Maybe he was kind to animals”—Billy tapped the transcript of the calls—“but Gretchen Burkholt was afraid of him.”
“Gretchen was fine with Jeremiah until she found out he’d been to prison.” Annie’s voice was sharp. “His sentence came up at the first meeting with the volunteers a few weeks after he was hired and everyone knew he’d stolen a car but he never hurt anyone. Henny hired him because she knows his aunt, and the aunt said he wasn’t bad or mean,
he made some bad choices and was very sorry. Henny said she checked with you.”
Billy’s face was somber. “He was part of my Scout troop. He dropped out when he was fourteen. I thought he was a good kid who’d gotten off track, started running with a wild bunch. But so far as I know he was never violent, no fights. Had there been any trouble with him at Better Tomorrow?”
Annie shook her head. “Not so far as I know. I would have heard. He really worked hard. The only person who didn’t like him was Gretchen. She treated him like he was a gangster. I don’t want to be mean, but she would say anything for attention.”
But Gretchen was dead and Jeremiah was missing.
“Billy”—she tried to keep her voice steady—“have you found Jeremiah?”
“No trace so far. He didn’t come home from work. His aunt opened the house to Sergeant Harrison. The aunt’s upset, shocked, claims he’d never ever hurt anyone. Hyla got a description, six foot one inch, light brown hair, light brown eyes, one hundred and eighty-five pounds, last seen wearing red do-rag, Braves sweatshirt, jeans, work boots, a brown corduroy jacket. Hyla checked the backyard, including some sheds. She walked around the neighborhood. Nobody’s seen him. He doesn’t have a car. He rode an old black Schwinn that had been donated to Better Tomorrow. The bike’s not at Better Tomorrow or at his house. We’ve got an APB out. Ben Parotti will make sure he doesn’t take the ferry. He’s bottled up on the island unless he steals a boat. The marinas are alerted. We’ll get him. So far as we know, he isn’t armed, but we’re calling him a person of interest, possibly dangerous. We’ll continue to search. The dogs lost his scent at the dirt road behind Better Tomorrow.”
Annie looked across the table at Max, saw the sudden stillness in his eyes. She knew that Max remembered confusion and uncertainty and the bay of bloodhounds in pursuit. Neither of them would forget the August days when he was accused of killing a beautiful young woman in a remote cabin on the island.
“Dogs.” In her mind she heard their cry.
“Looks like he hopped on his bike and got the hell out.” Billy tried to sound matter-of-fact, but his eyes held sadness as he remembered a teenager in a Scout uniform, fresh-faced with no premonition of a troubled future. “That’s what looks bad for him. An innocent man doesn’t run away.”
Max’s voice was mild. “Unless you’re an ex-con and you find a woman battered to death by the axe you used to chop wood.” He met Billy’s gaze.
Billy leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “Except the victim told Annie she was afraid of him and within an hour or so she’s dead.” His eyes dropped again to the top sheet. “She talked about Jeremiah and about an index card she found in a tweed jacket.”
Hope glimmered in Annie’s mind. If Gretchen died because of a card she found in a donated jacket, Annie was not at fault for ignoring Gretchen’s complaints about Jeremiah. “She said the card was in the jacket Everett Hathaway wore the day he died.”
Billy nodded. “Right. We found eight boxes of clothes tagged from the Hathaway house, only one opened. He died two weeks ago. Apparently the family was clearing out his things.”
Annie stared at Billy. “Gretchen said the police wondered why Everett Hathaway was out in a kayak that night.”
Billy looked mildly surprised. “We asked around. Never discovered much. Strange to take out a kayak on a windy December night, but who’s to know? The wife said he hadn’t been out in a kayak since the weather turned cold, but obviously he went out that night. His wife said she went to bed around ten. She didn’t see him after dinner. They didn’t share a room. She was surprised he’d taken the kayak, but the night was clear. Maybe he wanted to look at the stars.”
Annie remembered the pleasure in Gretchen’s breathy voice. “Gretchen said the note ‘named names.’ Maybe he went out to meet someone.”
“Maybe.” Billy was unruffled.
“Why didn’t that person come forward when the police asked for help?”
Billy looked sardonic. “Maybe he had a girlfriend and she for sure didn’t want to speak up. Maybe he never reached the place where he was going to meet some hypothetical person, and whoever it was kept quiet because it didn’t matter after he died. There could be a dozen reasons. Some innocent. Some not so innocent. We checked around. He wasn’t a skilled kayaker, he was dumb enough to go out by himself on a cold night, water temperature forty-eight degrees, he capsized, couldn’t catch the boat, and was too far from shore to swim to safety before hypothermia got him. As soon as he was unconscious, his face dropped into the water and he drowned. A PFD keeps you afloat. It doesn’t keep your head up. It was an accident, Annie.” He flipped open his laptop, clicked several times, pushed it toward Annie.
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 Hatha
way 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.”
Death Comes Silently Page 4