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.
Annie raised a hand in greeting. “I’m glad I caught you.”
Henny shrugged into a red corduroy car coat as she came down the steps. She held car keys in a gloved hand. “I’m sorry, Annie, I’m on my way to the police station. Billy has some more questions. I don’t want to keep him waiting.” The words came glibly.
Annie felt puzzled. A short time ago Billy had told the mayor he was on his way to Better Tomorrow. She looked into Henny’s face, always intelligent, strong, and vivid. This morning Henny was pale, emphasizing the purplish patches beneath her dark eyes, the deep lines around her mouth, the sag of fatigue in her cheeks.
“I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.” Henny smoothly took Annie’s elbow, gently turning her. They walked away from the house. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” She moved toward her car, stood by the driver’s door.
Annie walked back to her car, slid behind the wheel. She turned on the motor, backed into the dirt road, and drove slowly away. In her rearview mirror, she watched Henny settle in the driver’s seat, heard the rumble as the old car’s motor revved.
Annie drove around the curve. She drove slowly, but she didn’t see Henny’s Dodge in the rearview mirror. She drove a quarter mile. An old logging trail with narrow ruts cut into the woods to the south. Annie passed the gap, slowed, stopped.
No sign of Henny’s car.
There could be many reasons why the Dodge had yet to appear.
Perhaps Henny had received a call on her cell and was waiting to drive after she finished the conversation. Perhaps she was simply sitting there, thinking, possibly dreading a visit to the police station. Perhaps…
Perhaps she wanted Annie to leave, did not want Annie to come into her house.
Annie waited for a slow minute, counting the seconds, one and two and three and…
The road lay quiet behind her.
Annie put the car in reverse, maneuvered until she had backed into the logging trail. She waited with the nose of her car not quite in the road. She would see Henny pass. If Henny looked to her right, she would spot Annie’s car, but surely her thoughts would be focused on Billy and Jeremiah.
Annie waited five minutes, minutes that felt unending, heavy, quiet, ominous minutes.
The Dodge didn’t appear.
Annie had a funny constricted feeling in her chest. She eased the Thunderbird farther back until the road was no longer visible. She turned off the motor. She walked carefully to avoid twisting an ankle in the uneven ruts. She brushed aside tendrils of dead vines that swayed like seaweed in the soggy breeze.
At the road, she stopped to listen. There was no sound of a car motor. She began to feel foolish. Perhaps Henny had spoken imprecisely. Maybe Billy had called from Better Tomorrow and asked Henny to go to the station. Perhaps there was some information an officer would show her, another question would be asked. She heard Henny’s voice, distant and stiff: Billy has some more questions. I don’t want to keep him waiting.
Whatever Henny might be—acidulous, clever, cogent, brisk—she was never imprecise. If she said Billy, she meant Billy.
Had she lied?
Annie moved swiftly, though she stepped lightly, always ready at the sound of a motor to dart into the woods, thick here with undergrowth and rotted tree limbs. At least the day was cold and damp and she wouldn’t be likely to disturb a den of rattlesnakes
if she dashed for cover. Whatever happened, she didn’t want Henny to see her. What Henny chose to do or not to do was certainly her own affair. Yet, Annie felt there had been a touch of desperation in Henny’s determination to send Annie away.
A crow cawed. Live oak leaves rustled in a stiff breeze. A faint mist made the cold air penetrating, unpleasant. Annie hesitated. If Henny saw her, she would have every right to be offended. But the memory of Henny’s face drove her forward. She promised herself she’d take a quick look, be sure Henny was all right, then she would slip away unseen. Henny had every right to order her day any way she pleased, but Annie felt seized by uneasiness that verged on fear.
Why had Henny been determined that Annie not come inside?
Why had she lied about Billy?
Why had she started her car and yet the car never came up the road, the only way it could come?
Annie reached the last curve. She left the road, stepped cautiously beneath the limbs of an old live oak. She stood in the deep shadow of the tree and watched, eyes widening, breaths coming quickly.
Henny stood at the end of her pier. Her boat, an old Sea Ray 160, bobbed in the swells. She bent forward, handing a Coleman stove to Jeremiah Young. He stowed the stove, turned back to grab a folded tent. Next came a cooler, a box, a small hatchet.
Annie’s breath caught in her throat as Jeremiah took the hatchet.
He turned and added the tool to the growing pile stacked behind the seats. After a final transfer of what looked like folded blankets, Jeremiah offered a hand to Henny as she stepped into the boat.
Annie leaned forward. There was no weapon in evidence. The hatchet had joined the other goods behind the seats. Jeremiah’s demeanor wasn’t threatening nor did Henny appear threatened. She moved into the captain’s seat, the motor rumbled. As the boat edged away from the pier, Jeremiah stood with his back to Henny, coiling the mooring line.
Jeremiah was a fugitive. Authorities were looking for him on the island and the mainland. Description: white male, twenty-one, approximately six feet tall, muscular, unkempt shoulder-length light brown hair often beneath a do-rag, rounded face, light brown eyes, occasionally unshaven, no distinguishing marks. Last seen wearing Braves sweatshirt, jeans, work boots, brown corduroy jacket. Wanted on suspicion of murder. Considered dangerous.
Henny expertly steered through channels toward more open water.
The mist was heavier now. Whitecaps indicated rough water in the Sound.
Annie was bewildered. Surely Henny wasn’t taking Jeremiah to the mainland. She would make herself guilty of aiding and abetting a fugitive, an accessory after the fact.
The boat was perhaps thirty yards from shore now. The boat curved around a small hammock and turned south, nosing into a wide channel between thick cordgrass.
The mainland was due west.
The boat headed straight for one of the largest hammocks in the bay, a hump of land densely covered with trees, a wildlife sanctuary, and absolutely inaccessible except by boat. Jeremiah would need the hatchet to hack through tangled vines and limbs of salt myrtle, Southern bayberry, and yaupon holly that thrived beneath a canopy of live oaks.
The boat disappeared on the far side of the hammock.
Annie felt frantic. The boat was out of sight, Henny alone with a man wanted for murder. What was Henny thinking? Jeremiah could easily overpower her.
To call for help, Annie would have to run to her car, retrieve her purse from the trunk.
Henny didn’t want help.
The thought came instantly with the hard glint of unvarnished truth.
If Henny had needed or wanted help, she would have given some indication to Annie when they stood on the porch. If Jeremiah was a threat, she could have whispered quickly, “Leave, get help, Jeremiah in the house.” Henny had stood with her back to the door. Jeremiah could not have seen what she did or heard what she said.
Henny didn’t want help.
The conclusion seemed inescapable, yet Annie felt desperately unsure. She stood, riveted, staring across the marsh, watching, hoping. Minutes crawled past. Her thoughts raced. Should she turn and run, call Billy Cameron?
Not unless she felt Henny was in danger.
At this moment, she wouldn’t even address the idea of right or wrong. At this moment, all that mattered was Henny’s safety.
There had been no hint of coercion. Unless Annie had completely misread the actions of Henny and Jeremiah, they were working together. Henny wasn’t frightened or under duress.
The only possible conclusion was that Henny had decided to help Jeremiah hide. Henny would have made that decision gravely, understanding that her actions were unlawful. To break the law, Henny must have a powerful motive.
Obviously, Henny had decided Jeremiah was innocent.
Innocent.
Annie felt as though a boulder had rolled from her shoulders. If Jeremiah was innocent, Gretchen had not died because Annie had been slow in coming to Better Tomorrow.
The relief that buoyed her was short lived.
Was Jeremiah innocent? Henny couldn’t be sure. She would have taken his word on faith. Perhaps he’d spun a tale, convinced her to help him hide. If that were true, the boat might not return to the island.
Annie stood with her hands clenched, her shoulders hunched. Faintly, she heard the rumble of the motor. She swallowed hard. Would Henny be in the captain’s seat? Or would the boat curve toward the mainland with a killer at the wheel? Dear Henny, her stalwart friend, generous, thoughtful, smart, capable, acerbic, a woman who faced life with grace and courage, one of the famed women in their flying machines, a pilot in the WASPs who flew during World War II. Her husband died in a bombing raid over Berlin. She spent a lifetime as a teacher, retired to the island, found a late love that was lost because of a good man’s honor.
The old boat chugged from the channel, turned east to head toward the bank and the pier.
Annie felt a wave of relief when she saw Henny’s red-and-black plaid jacket. She was alone in the boat.
When the boat slid next to the pier, Henny climbed the ladder, tied the line, walked swiftly on the pier.
Annie almost stepped from the shadow of the live oak, then stopped. If she confronted Henny, told her what she had seen, that she knew Jeremiah was encamped on the hammock free from discovery, both she and Henny would have to face the consequences.
Either Annie would have to join Henny in protecting Jeremiah or she would have to inform Billy Cameron.
Annie felt a rush of understanding. Henny sent her away because she did not want to draw Annie into a criminal conspiracy.
Why take the horrendous chance of hiding a fugitive? If Henny had decided that Jeremiah was innocent, she should have persuaded him to turn himself in, assured him that Billy Cameron would listen and act fairly, offered to contact a first-rate lawyer.
There had to be a compelling reason that Henny had chosen instead to provide sanctuary.
Henny strode swiftly toward her house, her face etched in grim lines.
Annie drew back into deeper shadow. She had no right to be here. If she hadn’t parked and walked up the road, she would have no knowledge of the boat’s departure and return.
Henny clattered up the stairs, was inside the house and out again in scarcely a minute, her purse over her shoulder. She slammed into her car. The old motor roared.
Annie waited until the Dodge was out of sight. As she walked to the logging trail, she knew she, too, had made a fateful choice.
As Annie poured a cappuccino, she looked into the golden eyes of her elegant bookstore cat. “What would you do?”
Agatha lifted a paw, daintily licked, smoothed her fur.
“Whatever made you feel good, right?” Annie knew her cat.
What would it be like to be a cat, self-absorbed yet attuned to environment with a thoughtful gaze, superior hearing, and clear grasp of cause and effect? “You don’t have to make moral judgments.”
Agatha’s ears flattened. Clearly she�
�d heard the sound of remonstrance in Annie’s voice.
Quickly Annie spoke softly, sweetly. “Gorgeous, that’s what you are. Gorgeous and perfect.”
Agatha’s expression became benign.
Annie smiled as she turned away. Anyone who described cats as inscrutable never lived with a cat. Cats made their hopes, desires, intentions, irritations, judgments, and appraisals unmistakably clear.
Death Comes Silently Page 6