Death Comes Silently

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “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.”

  Henny 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.

  3

  Annie 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…

  The 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?”

  “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 mos
que 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.