Annie spoke slowly. “I think he was murdered because there are too many peculiar aspects to his death. Why was he out in a kayak on a cold windy December night? That was always odd. He wasn’t a seasoned kayaker. He hadn’t taken the boat out in months. Why that night? And why at night? Where was he going? What did he plan to do? Did he take the kayak because it made no noise, could slip up unseen and unheard? Until somebody can explain what he was doing and where he was going, the fact that he died—presumably in an accident—stinks! Especially since Gretchen found a card linked to that night.” For emphasis, she jabbed a sweet potato fry into a side of Thousand Island. Ben knew what she liked.
Henny frowned. “Where was he found?”
Annie reached for her purse, pulled out several folded sheets of paper. She opened one, scanned the sheet, then handed it to Henny. As Henny read the news story about the discovery of Hathaway’s body, Annie checked the island directory on her iPhone. “He was found by Don Thornwall, who lives at one forty-six Herring Gull Road. And that’s”—Annie placed her finger on Henny’s rough map—“in a cove that’s around a headland from the Hathaway place.”
Max gazed at the map, his expression unimpressed. “Okay, he took the kayak and went around the headland. So?”
“Why?” Annie’s tone was sweet.
Max turned up his hands. “Who’s to say? Maybe he has a girlfriend and he snuck out of the house. Maybe he had a headache and thought the cold night air would help. Maybe he’d eaten too much over the holidays and decided to start an exercise program. Maybe he got a call on his cell and his bookie wanted to meet him on the sly.”
“And,” Annie asked sweetly, “how likely are any of those possibilities?”
“How likely is murder?” Max countered.
“He’s dead. And so is Gretchen.” Annie’s tone indicated she felt she’d trumped Max.
“Don’t squabble.” Henny’s tone was impatient. “The point is that Gretchen’s messages to Annie prove that there is a connection between Gretchen and the Hathaway house shortly before she was murdered. She indicated the card gave a reason for Everett taking the kayak. Annie, you have to be right. Everett Hathaway was murdered. Otherwise the card wouldn’t have mattered. Now all we have to do is find out who killed him and Jeremiah will be safe.”
Henny and Annie exchanged confident glances.
Max scraped crust from the side of the small baking dish. “I don’t mean to quibble, but the card is gone—”
Annie broke in. “That’s the point. That proves everything I’ve been saying.”
Max ignored the interruption. “—which may mean nothing. Billy Cameron thinks Gretchen put the note in her purse and Jeremiah took her purse.”
Henny spoke hotly. “The purse was gone when—” She broke off abruptly.
Max was swift. “When Jeremiah found her?”
Annie agonized for Henny. Only fatigue would make Henny gaffe-prone. Swiftly, Annie plunged in. “I suppose Jeremiah called you last night, told you he was innocent and how he found Gretchen with his axe right there. When he saw that her purse was gone—I suppose she must have had it in the sorting room while she was working back there and he saw it there earlier—and he was afraid he’d be accused.” She was aware that Max was watching with one thick blond brow raised. “I’m sure he didn’t tell you where he was, so even if you’d called the police, there wasn’t anything to give a hint to his location.”
Henny said carefully. “I couldn’t report his location.”
Annie could fill in the rest of the sentence… because I know he’s innocent.
Henny’s face held sadness and fear. “He was terribly upset. He swore to me on his mother’s grave that he was innocent, that he’d been working in the back shed. He finished gluing a broken leg on a coffee table about twenty to three. He went into the house and the first thing he saw was blood in the hall outside the sorting room. He thought Gretchen must be hurt and he hurried to the doorway and saw her lying there, but most of all, he saw the axe next to her. He recognized the axe. He’d put a notch on the handle about an inch from the top. He looked around the room and that’s when he realized her purse was gone. He said he knew they’d suspect him. And he said the awful thing was, he hadn’t heard a car or truck or anything. He said he turned and ran and got on his bike and rode away as fast as he could.” She brushed back a length of silvered dark hair. “He told me they’d hurt him when he was in prison and he’d kill himself before he’d go back, that he’d rather die than be in jail.” She looked at them gravely. “He meant what he said. If I told the police, he would kill himself. I promised him I’d do my best to find out what happened. He promised me he would hide and stay quiet. He said he would die if he saw the police coming for him. He had— He told me he had a knife.” She reached out, gripped Annie’s arm. “I didn’t see any way forward until you called. Now I do.”
Max studied Henny. “You believe Jeremiah.”
“I believe him.” She spoke quietly but with conviction.
“If he’s innocent, someone else came to Better Tomorrow between two fifteen and Annie’s arrival, killed Gretchen, and took the index card.” Max picked up Henny’s map. “Damned if there isn’t a crazy kind of logic about it.”
Annie was triumphant. “Of course there is.”
Max looked from one to the other. “Finding this elusive, invisible murderer isn’t going to be easy.” He picked up his beer, drank it with an air of abstraction.
Annie hoped he was considering ways to investigate, not analyzing Henny’s carefully chosen words. She spoke quickly. “I have a suspect list. The murderer had to have seen the message Gretchen left with the housekeeper, so we know the murderer came from the Hathaway house.”
Max raised a cautionary hand. “Or someone saw the message and told someone else.”
Annie nodded. “One way or another, there’s a connection to the people in the house that day.”
Henny’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Let’s think about what Gretchen found in Everett’s pocket. Gretchen’s comments suggest the card explained why Everett went out in the kayak. It’s reasonable to assume that the card held instructions telling him to take a kayak at a specific time after dark to the bay where he was found. Why a kayak?” She looked inquiringly at Annie and Max.
Max frowned. “No one would hear him coming.”
Henny nodded approval. “He was on his way somewhere that he didn’t want to be seen.”
Annie concentrated. “The card was bait. Maybe the message was true or maybe not, but the whole point was to get him out in that bay after dark in a kayak. The person who wrote the card planned to intercept him, capsize the kayak, keep it out of his reach.”
“So”—Henny was decisive—“we have to find out who wrote on the card.”
“The place to start is at the Hathaway house.” Annie picked up a printout of the obituary. “Of the home are Everett’s widow, Nicole, his nephew, Edward M. Hathaway III, and his niece, Leslie Griffin.”
Henny looked thoughtful. “We need to find out who Everett saw the day he died. He could have been given the card at his office as well as at home.”
Annie had a nebulous sense of uneasiness. They were missing something. Yes, the card lured Everett out in a kayak. Yet why was there a card at all? Abruptly, she understood. “He didn’t know!”
Max frowned. “Who didn’t know what?”
Henny, too, appeared bewildered.
“Everett.” Annie was impatient. Didn’t they see what was obvious? “Everett received information that prompted him to take out the kayak. But why was the information written on an index card?”
Again she looked at two uncomprehending faces.
“The murderer wanted Everett out on the water at a particular time of night in a kayak. How could that be achieved?” Annie was impatient as they continued to look blank. “The murderer knew some fact, had some information that was guaranteed to lure Everett out into the night. Gretchen said it was a ‘scandal.’ S
omebody put the slip in his bedroom or left it on his desk or placed it in the front seat of his car. But the message was anonymous. Otherwise Everett would have immediately collared the writer, asked for an explanation. He didn’t know!”
“Oh. He didn’t know… You mean Everett didn’t know who wrote the note.” Henny smiled in delight. “Mrs. North.”
Annie recognized the reference. As befitted Death on Demand’s most omnivorous reader, Henny was well acquainted with mystery classics. Frances and Richard Lockridge’s charming heroine Pamela North nattered inconsequentially as she jumped to conclusions that befuddled her listeners.
“There is a logical progression,” Annie said stiffly.
Max was quick to make peace. Sort of. “It may be another turret on a sand castle, but once you swallow the basic premise, it figures that the card in his pocket was anonymous.”
Annie flipped over the obituary printout, wrote:
1. What kind of “scandal” could involve Everett? Was he engaged in a love affair? A dishonest business deal?
Max took the sheet of paper and added:
2. Who had access to Everett’s bedroom Thursday night or to his car Friday morning or to his desk at the office?
Annie took the sheet back, wrote fast:
3. Who were Everett’s friends? Start with pallbearers.
4. Obtain bios of family members.
5. Survey the cove where his body was found. Why there?
6. Find out if the Hathaways have a motorboat. Did anyone hear a motorboat the night he died?
Henny reached for the paper, added in her distinctive backward-slanting penmanship.
7. Who was in the Hathaway house Monday after Gretchen left the message? Include daily help and visitors.
8. Who wanted Everett dead?
Max’s tone was mild. “If he turns out to have been a paragon, beloved of all, the sand castle may collapse.”
Annie remembered the excitement—a hint of salaciousness?—in Gretchen’s voice. Definitely something disreputable had been described on that missing card.
Max might question the reasoning behind Annie’s belief that Everett had been murdered, but she was certain the pieces fit together. Moreover, someone had killed Gretchen, and if Jeremiah was innocent, the only alternative appeared to be someone linked to Everett Hathaway.
She couldn’t share with Max the clincher. So far as she was concerned, Henny’s presence at Parotti’s was absolute proof of Jeremiah’s innocence. This morning he could easily have overpowered Henny, taken her old boat, reached the mainland. He had not. Henny trusted him. He trusted Henny. “He was murdered and we’ll find out who wanted him dead and why.” Annie gave a decisive nod. “Max, will you put together bios for us?” She pushed the papers to him, the printout of Gazette stories and the obituary, and the list of questions.
“Sure.” He was agreeable. “I’ve been at loose ends. Confidential Commissions has been a little slow.”
Annie maintained a bland expression. Confidential Commissions, to her knowledge, hadn’t had a client seek help in almost six weeks.
He finished his glass of Bud Light. “A project will be a nice change.”
Annie knew he wasn’t taking her theories seriously, but she also knew that when he made a promise, the promise was kept. Max was a whiz at ferreting personal information from the web and adding details by talking to people.
He looked energized. “I can keep an investigation under the radar by asking people to contribute to a tribute to Everett.”
Henny’s intelligent face was abruptly combative. “I want to break everything wide open. We are dealing with a murderer who feels absolutely secure. There’s no hint of public suspicion that Everett was murdered, right?”
Annie spoke quickly. “Billy knows what I think. Obviously he won’t tell anyone. Besides, he doesn’t agree.”
“So the murderer is flying high.” Henny looked grim.
Max frowned. “Isn’t that better for us? We can nose around and ask questions without alerting a killer.”
Henny shook her head. “If we had lots of time, maybe we could pick up little pieces of information that might come together to give us a pointer. We don’t have time. Jeremiah doesn’t have time. The weather is cold. There’s always a possibility of a big nor’easter. He’s being hunted. I want to shock the murderer. I want people to know we’re hunting for a killer.”
Max ran fingers through a thick shock of blond hair. “Billy Cameron will come down on us like a hound cornering a fox.”
Henny folded her arms. “It’s a free country. We have a right to our opinions. We have a right to ask people questions if they’ll talk to us. If they don’t talk to us, maybe that will tell us a lot right there.”
Max’s face furrowed. “As you say, there’s no law against believing whatever we want to believe and talking to people. But we have to be careful not to imply that there is an official investigation underway.”
Henny’s eyes gleamed. “We won’t say there is an official investigation. However, we can certainly say that the police are aware of the suspicion. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Annie gave Henny a thumbs-up. “Honest. Fair. And”—her smile was approving—“a brilliant ploy.”
Henny pushed away the half-eaten chicken pie. “Now that we’re in agreement, let’s get started. Let’s rattle some cages. I know Nicole. I’ll drop by to see her.”
Max looked concerned. “Maybe we should find out more before you talk to her. Let me round up some information.”
Henny was decisive. “I know what I need to do.”
Annie felt a dart of worry. “There’s a killer connected to that house. Maybe you and I should go together.”
Henny was brisk. “We don’t want to duplicate our efforts. I’ll take care of Nicole and the house. Max can get the bios. Annie, see what you can find out about the cove where Everett died.” She spoke with urgency. “We need to work as fast as we can.” On that she rose and turned away, hurrying toward the door.
Annie pictured the isolated wooded hammock, bathed now in a chilly mist. She jumped up. “Henny’s right. Jeremiah’s terribly frightened and alone. We have to find the killer in time to save him.” She wasn’t speaking of saving him solely from the law. Jeremiah had no intention of being taken into custody.
She saw Max’s worried frown. He wasn’t convinced they were right about Everett’s death, but he well knew that if they were, a killer would soon take notice of their questions. “We’ll be careful.” She turned and hurried toward the door. She knew Max would work doubly hard now to try to keep her and Henny out of danger.
Henny Brawley slid behind the wheel of her Dodge. Anxiously she scanned the leaden sky and whitecaps tossing in the Sound. The barometer had been falling when she left the house. Low pressure off Bermuda might signal a possible storm. The hammock was only a couple of feet above sea level. A storm tide could sweep over low-lying land in a flash. She had to hurry, make things happen quickly. For now, Jeremiah had plenty of food and warm woolen blankets and a tent. Did he have hope?
She pulled her cell from her purse. Did she dare call him? She had his cell number. She’d given him her cell number. Just in case. Of course the police had Jeremiah’s number as well. She didn’t dare take a chance. She dropped the cell into her purse, gripped the wheel, eyes narrowed in thought. Cordgrass wavered in the wind. But a storm wasn’t the only danger for Jeremiah. Much more deadly was the fear that made him determined never to go to prison again.
They had to hurry. She felt a surge of confidence. She was eager to go into the lion’s den and shock a murderer.
Annie shivered, wished she’d worn her heavy wool peacoat. The wind scudded waves in the Sound, tugged at her hair, knifed through her cotton jacket. She stood on a public concrete boat ramp, her Thunderbird parked behind her on a rutted dirt road. The water beneath lowering clouds looked gray and rough as beaten pewter.
A lonely place to die. Especially at night in killingly cold water, stru
ggling, awkward in a life vest, splashing after a kayak that remained just beyond a weakening reach, an idling motorboat spelling death, not rescue.
The next morning Everett Hathaway’s lifeless body bobbed in the water, his red orange PFD a bright spot against the gray.
Annie remembered reading the story in the Gazette, talking across the breakfast table with Max. They had known him as they knew many people on the island, a well-known family, a successful family business, occasional gossip. “Wife much younger… A fussy man, kind of self-important… Pseudo-Brit…” She wished they’d been more charitable. He’d loved poetry and history, taken pleasure from elegant phrases. She remembered the quote in the obituary from Joseph Addison’s A Letter from Italy. She recalled Everett’s precise, slightly high voice. Maybe that kind of quote seemed pompous in today’s heritage-dismissive world, but he recognized beauty and surely he’d had friends who enjoyed him, smiled when he walked into a room.
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