Death Comes Silently

by Carolyn G. Hart

  An island native, Hathaway was the son of the late Edward M. and Celeste Morgan Hathaway.

  At present, services are pending.

  The obituary was in the next day’s Gazette.

  EVERETT MORGAN HATHAWAY

  Everett Morgan Hathaway died unexpectedly Friday night. Everett was born October 13, 1970, to Edward M. and Celeste Morgan Hathaway. Everett grew up on the island. He was a graduate of the University of South Carolina with a degree in English. Following graduation, he embarked on several years of travel and study, spending two years at Warwick University near Coventry in England.

  Everett treasured English literature and always aspired to the life of a gentleman and scholar. Among his favorite quotes from Joseph Addison: “For whereso’er I turn my ravished eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, Poetic fields encompass me around, And still I seem to tread on classic ground.”

  Everett met his wife, Nicole Nelson, when he was teaching as an adjunct at Chastain College on the mainland. They married in 2002.

  Everett was predeceased by his parents, his older brother, Edward M. Hathaway II, and sister-in-law, Mary Kay Roberts Hathaway, and his younger sister, Kathryn Hathaway Griffin. Survivors include his wife, Nicole, nephew, Edward M. Hathaway III, and niece, Leslie Griffin.

  In lieu of flowers the family suggests a memorial gift to Chastain College or to the charity of your choice. A memorial service will be held at ten A.M. Thursday at St. Mary’s Episcopal Church. Officiating will be the Reverend James Cooley. Honorary pallbearers are Richard Martin, Craig Kennedy, Douglas Walker, Esteban Martinez, Bradley Milton, and John Charles Larrimore.

  Annie reread the printouts and jotted notes on a small pad. She clicked off the computer and stood. She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes to noon. She put the folded sheets and notebook in her purse, pulled on her lilac-colored L. L. Bean windbreaker.

  She felt justified in her decision to keep Henny’s secret. Moreover, she would craft a way to assist Henny without revealing that she knew about Jeremiah. As she did, she would not lie to Max, but she would tell the truth without compromising Henny. Telling the truth did not always entail telling everything you knew.

  Now for a talk she didn’t want to have.

  Max Darling lined up the putt. Knees slightly bent. Relaxed stance. Watch the ball.

  The head of the putter connected, the ball rolled merrily over the nylon mat of the indoor putting green that absorbed a good portion of his spacious office. He’d inserted a contour pad under the green to create a break about a foot from the lip of the cup. The ball curled over the raised portion and ran true to the cup.

  Instead of a fist pump, he felt a wave of ennui. There had been a raft of cold and misty days since a last burst of warmth right before Christmas. He’d now played this little patch of phony grass until he could probably sink a putt from between his legs. Suiting the idea to the moment, he dropped another ball, stood with his back to the cup, bent forward, and whacked one-handed between his spread-apart feet.

  The ball seemed to be drawn to the hole by a magnet.

  Max grinned. He knew when it was time to quit. He gathered up the balls, returned the putter to his shiny red leather golf bag in one corner, and strolled to his desk. He settled in his comfortable leather chair. The mahogany desk that had once served as a refectory table in a monastery was innocent of any evidence of work. January was a slow month at Confidential Commissions. So slow that he’d exhausted the possibilities of the indoor putting green. His Della Street–wise secretary, Barb, was tarpon fishing down in the gulf. Max looked up at the mission statement his mother had created in elegant calligraphy on yellowed parchment:

  Confidential Commissions

  Offers counsel and encouragement to those buffeted by fate.

  Obtains facts to clarify obscure situations.

  Promises confidentiality, impartiality, and resolution.

  Reasonable fees.

  He had mixed feelings about the ornate presentation, but hanging the statement was the least a man could do with a Christmas gift obviously created with such… He frowned. Such insight? Such whimsy? Such originality?

  His mother was definitely insightful, whimsical, and sometimes eerily prescient. In fact, there were those who had been known to describe Laurel Darling Roethke as just this side of certifiable. He grinned and looked at the photograph of the foremost proponent of his mother as an endearing loon. At least Annie admitted that Laurel was endearing. Exasperating? Sometimes. Entertaining? Often. Endearing? Always.

  Max never tired of admiring his wife’s photograph, flyaway sandy curls that spoke of sea and sand and sun, steady gray eyes that were honest and kind and eager, an open and genuine face with kissable, very kissable, lips. A winter day, a crackling fire, and Annie… Who needed lunch? He’d call and suggest the very best kind of rendezvous, just the two of them, the world forgotten…

  The outer door opened and a refrain of marimba music sounded, Annie’s Christmas gift to lift spirits that might sag in January. Marimba music was fine, but he would get rid of this visitor in short order. He had in mind a surefire cure for January doldrums.

  “Max?” Annie’s voice was tentative.

  Hey, was he thinking right or what? Maybe Annie had the same cheerful plan?

  She stood in his doorway.

  One look and he knew afternoon delight definitely was not the reason for her visit. Her gray eyes had a telltale wideness that revealed discomfort, and her shoulders were stiff beneath her lilac windbreaker.

  She took a deep breath, walked toward his desk, a beseeching look in her eyes.

  “Max.”

  He rose, came around the desk, and pulled her into his arms. “What’s wrong, honey?” She leaned against him and he knew whatever distressed her, it was not a problem between them. He cupped her chin in his hand, raised her head. “Gretchen?”

  “Max.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sure Jeremiah is innocent.”

  He felt a start of surprise. This was the last statement he would have expected. This morning she’d been withdrawn and depressed, carrying a burden of guilt despite his insistence that she was not responsible for Gretchen’s death. There was a striking change in her demeanor. Now she was excited, although hesitant, and her gaze slid away from his.

  “I’ve been thinking and I’ve figured out some things.”

  He watched. She was talking very fast, the words too glib.

  She picked up steam. “I am absolutely certain”—there was no mistaking the conviction in her voice—“that Gretchen’s talking about Jeremiah didn’t matter. She was just being Gretchen. Oh, I suppose she’d scared herself, but that was only a little part of her calls. Mostly she was talking about the index card she found in Everett Hathaway’s jacket. Max, here’s what I think happened…”

  As she sketched her dark vision of the December night when Everett Hathaway slipped from his home and paddled a kayak to his death, he listened with a growing sense of unreality.

  She finished, looked at him hopefully.

  He could almost be drawn into Annie’s premise. Certainly Everett’s death was odd, almost inexplicable. But what had prompted Annie to conclude definitively that Jeremiah was innocent? “Why are you suddenly positive the murderer can’t be Jeremiah?”

  Annie didn’t answer. She simply looked at him.

  He saw turmoil in her eyes and face, knowledge, vulnerability, reluctance, determination, and, most of all, paramount, unmistakable, a plea. Don’t ask me. Let it go. I can’t tell you.

  “I suppose”—he turned away and picked up a small jade shamrock, her gift to him one St. Pat’s Day—“you thought through the facts of the day.” He spoke in a reasoned tone to reassure her, a clear declaration that he was not pressing, would not press. Inside, he felt the drumbeat of worry. What did she know? She’d found out something she didn’t feel free to share. “I guess Gretchen’s conversations made you decide that the important fact was the index card in Everett’s jacket.”


  “Yes.” Relief buoyed her voice. “That’s exactly what happened. I told Billy”—she drew a deep breath—“that someone from the Hathaway house came to Better Tomorrow to get that card and he—or she—killed Gretchen.”

  He leaned against his desk, carefully placed the shamrock next to the silver frame of her photograph. Luck for his Annie. Dammit, what did she know? “Well, Billy can check everything out.” His gaze settled again on her face.

  “Billy still thinks Jeremiah is guilty.”

  Max waited. He understood Billy’s response.

  “So”—she spoke brightly but with underlying firmness—“since I know what I know—”

  He kept his expression attentive, but his mind was alive with questions. What did she know? And how could he find out?

  “—I have to do something about it. I can’t let a man be hunted for murder when he’s innocent. I’ve called Henny—”

  “Why Henny?”

  A hint of alarm quivered in her eyes. “She hired Jeremiah.”

  The answer made sense, but Annie was too wary. He hurried to smooth the moment. “Oh, two minds better than one? Hey, you have a built-in partner right here, remember?”

  Her smile was quick and genuine. “I was hoping you’d agree to help. I left a message for Henny to meet me at Parotti’s for lunch. We’ll decide what to do. You’ll come?”

  “You couldn’t keep me away. I’ll be like a hound on your heels.” His tone was light, but he meant his answer on every level.

  5

  In summer, Parotti’s Bar and Grill would have a line at noon, vacationers vying with residents for the best food on the island, hot, crisp hush puppies, succulent flounder, local shrimp. The outlanders were enchanted by the adjoining bait shop with its coolers and barrels. Regulars took the sawdust-covered floor and assortment of rods and reels for granted. When Ben Parotti had married Miss Jolene, who owned a tea shop on the mainland, and brought her to reign over his bar and grill, he’d been willing to add quiche to the menu, small vases with flowers on red-and-white-checked cloths on the tables, but he drew a line in the sawdust over the bait shop. Fishermen still carried out coolers with chunks of black bass, grouper, squid, and chicken necks. An occasional fastidious diner’s nose wrinkled at the heady scent of bait mingled with the aroma of hot grease from the kitchen.

  There was no line and plenty of available tables the third week in January. Usually Annie walked to their favorite wooden booth where Max, as a regular, had been free to carve a heart with their initials on the table. Today she chose instead a corner table with a good view of the front door.

  When Ben arrived with menus, Annie smiled at him. “Henny’s joining us.” Surely she would come.

  The front door opened, cool air swirled inside. Henny had changed from her informal outfit of the morning, appropriate for clambering into a boat and heading out into the Sound. Now she wore a one-button navy wool flannel blazer and cream wool slacks and low navy suede heels. She walked toward them, her expressive face pale and drawn.

  Max rose to pull out a chair. “Annie asked me to join in the sleuthing.” His smile was easy.

  Henny slipped into the chair. She managed a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  Ben Parotti approached, his gnomelike face folded in lines of commiseration. “Sure sorry about the trouble at Better Tomorrow. I heard they’re huntin’ Jeremiah with dogs.” Ben was not only one of the island’s most successful businessmen, owner of the restaurant, a Gas ’N’ Go, the ferry, and assorted real estate, he knew everyone and was always a first source for background when the Gazette’s Marian Kenyon sought information about anyone on matters both public and private.

  “Jeremiah’s innocent.” Henny was crisp and declarative.

  Annie saw Max’s eyes narrow in speculation.

  “Glad to hear that. Brought the usual.” Ben knew his customers. He plunked down ice waters, plus iced teas for Annie and Henny, a Bud Light for Max. “I hear he ran away. That boy never had a whole lot of sense, but there’s not a mean bone in his body. I told the lady cop.” That was his term for Sgt. Hyla Harrison. “And I told her you”—he looked at Henny—“knew folks, good and bad, and you’d never picked a loser yet. I said if you hired him, he was all right. I have to say she listened to me real nice, said she’d tell Billy.”

  Henny’s face softened. “Thank you, Ben. You’re a good friend.”

  Ben cleared his throat, always quick to maintain his gruff exterior, which, as they all knew, covered a kind and generous heart. “Miss Jolene’s made chicken potpie today.”

  Henny and Max ordered the special, but Annie’s heart belonged to the fried oyster sandwich. “And sweet potato fries.”

  Max looked reproachful.

  Annie defended her choice. “Someday they’ll find out cholesterol is good for you. Besides, everything’s genetic. Anyway, chicken potpie isn’t exactly dietary.”

  “Annie.” Henny’s voice was strained. “You said you had reason to think someone else came to Better Tomorrow.”

  Annie described the calls from Gretchen. As she described the index card in the pocket of Everett Hathaway’s tweed jacket and how Gretchen linked its contents to his fatal trip in a kayak, Henny’s shoulders straightened. There was heartfelt relief evident in her expression and in her posture. She’d listened to Jeremiah, taken him on faith. Now she had concrete reason to see that he might be, could be innocent.

  “Don’t you see?” Annie was emphatic. “The card should have been lying with the pocket change and the knife.”

  Max held up a hand. “Not so fast. We can worry about what happened to that card in a minute. Let’s clarify what you are claiming. First, that Everett Hathaway was murdered.” He ticked off the points. “Second, the card posed a threat to his murderer. Third, the card was found in a tweed jacket Hathaway wore the day he died, according to what Gretchen told Annie. Fourth, the message Gretchen left at the Hathaway house was read by the murderer. Fifth, the murderer came to Better Tomorrow, took the card, decided Gretchen would never be discreet, and used Jeremiah’s axe to kill her.”

  “Exactly.” Annie met him stare for stare.

  “Where”—his tone was mild—“was Jeremiah while all of this took place?”

  “He’d gone—” Henny broke off.

  Annie and Max looked at her.

  Henny said smoothly, “I was thinking out loud. I imagine he’d gone to the back shed. That’s where he did furniture repairs. Of course, I can’t speak for his actions Monday, but often if he’d spent the morning chopping or lifting boxes of cans, he’d do repairs in the afternoon.”

  Annie visualized the shed. The small sheet metal structure stood behind some pines to the north of the house rather than in the rear. Better Tomorrow faced east. The oyster shell parking lot was between the house and the shed. “Cars make a pretty big racket on the shells. If Jeremiah heard a car sometime between two fifteen and three that would be interesting.”

  “If there wasn’t a car”—Henny spoke carefully—“it doesn’t mean no one came.”

  Annie wondered if Jeremiah had told Henny in a choking voice of despair that no one had come, he hadn’t heard a car, there had been only him and no one would believe him, not with his axe used as the weapon.

  Henny’s entire demeanor was transformed, charged with hope. “What you’ve told me changes everything. The Hathaways live fairly close. There’s a path through the woods and a bike trail.” She reached for her purse, retrieved a pen and a pad, quickly sketched, pushed the pad to the middle of the table, visible to both Annie and Max. “Better Tomorrow’s on the northwest side of the island. So is the Hathaway house. I was working at Better Tomorrow when the call came for us to pick up the boxes of Everett’s clothing. I looked up the address for Jeremiah.”

  Ben brought their plates and a bucket of hot biscuits.

  Annie took a bite of her fried oyster sandwich, the onion bun heavy with Thousand Island dressing. Mmmm, succulent. She studied Henny’s rough
map of the lee side of the island. The main harbor with the ferry dock and downtown was toward the northwest end of the island. A big X marked a spot several inlets north of the harbor. Not far inland she’d drawn a square box that was labeled BT.

  Annie touched the X.

  “That’s the Hathaway house.” Henny sounded satisfied. She held a steaming spoonful of chicken potpie. “You can see how close it is to Better Tomorrow. It’s not more than a mile at the most, and a bike would only take minutes. Oh, Annie, this should be enough to show Billy that Jeremiah could be innocent.”

  Annie turned her hands palms up. “I told him, but he thinks the evidence against Jeremiah is overwhelming.”

  Max looked bemused, his dark blue eyes skeptical. “Ladies, I hesitate to offer a discouraging word, but this entire wobbly structure is based on the assumption that Everett Hathaway was murdered. Give me one good reason why that should be true.” He made an appreciative sound as he took a bite of chicken pie.