After a moment’s thought, he called a retired lawyer on the town council. Charles Farnsworth played bridge for serious stakes, lived for gossip, and prided himself on knowing everything about everybody. Max easily opened the floodgates by observing a second dictum: Flattery will get you everywhere. “Hey, Charles, I’m depending on you to set me straight. You always know the ins and outs about island families”—murmurs of a modest disclaimer—“and I need some background on the Hathaways. You’re always discreet”—he piously hoped this total falsehood wouldn’t end up in St. Peter’s ledger of transgressions—“and you know mum’s the word with me. There’s a question of some bills and I wondered about Everett’s estate and whether there was life insurance.”
Charles cleared his throat. “Substantial holdings in the family. Of course, Everett’s death changes everything. As I recall, his widow will receive a nice settlement, which was determined in a prenuptial agreement, so she shouldn’t have any financial concerns. No life insurance for her. There was a policy with the benefits to be used to establish a chair in his name in the English department at Chastain. The greatest changes”—a vexed noise—“and I regret that I am not certain about the details, but I believe from what I heard—one of my friends drafted the instruments—that his nephew, Trey, will now assume control of his inheritance and he will oversee the inheritance of Everett’s niece, Leslie, until she reaches twenty-one. Otherwise, Trey would not have controlled his income until he was twenty-five. Trey and Leslie aren’t brother and sister, you understand. Cousins. Trey is the son of Everett’s late brother, Edward Hathaway II, and Leslie the daughter of his late sister, Kathryn Hathaway Griffin. Until Everett’s death, the nephew and niece were to be subject to Everett’s direction of their trusts until they reached the age of twenty-five. Is that what you needed?”
“That clears everything up.” Max was hearty. “Thanks, Charles. I’ll buy you a drink in the Men’s Grill next week.” As he clicked off the phone, his mind raced. Everett’s death indeed transformed the financial circumstances of Nicole, Trey, and Leslie.
Max turned to his computer. One of the teenagers at the Haven, the island youth center where Max volunteered, had taught Max some useful skills to obtain information from sources that thought they were protected. He clicked to several sites, found photos, made notes.
Nicole looked young, eager, and awestruck in a picture taken during a student trip to Europe. Max noted the rocks, pegged the beach as Nice. She was slender then, though her full figure hinted at a more voluptuous future. Sleek black hair framed a heart-shaped face with blue eyes, a faintly upturned nose, a rounded chin. Her expression was adoring. Everett, his auburn hair stirred by the breeze, had a sunburned nose and shoulders. In a wedding picture, she looked proud and happy. A photo from an island dance last summer revealed lines of dissatisfaction and a seeking look in her gaze.
Nicole Nelson Hathaway, thirty-one, daughter of Roger and Adele Nelson of Bluffton. Roger Nelson is a bricklayer, wife an employee of elementary school cafeteria. Nicole, a B student in high school, played volleyball, interested in ceramics and woodworking. Worked in a craft store and attended Chastain College as a part-time student. Saved her money and took a college trip to Europe. Everett Hathaway, an adjunct professor, was one of the faculty sponsors. They married that fall and made their home in Chastain until Everett’s brother, Edward, died two years ago. At that time, they moved to Broward’s Rock, where Everett took over direction of his brother’s advertising agency. Since moving to the island, she has not been employed. No children. She recently participated in a local craft show. Her entries included three wood carvings of island birds.
Information was even easier to obtain about Trey, both from the website of Hathaway Advertising and Facebook. In the agency personnel photo, he looked intelligent, intense, and impatient, a young man in a hurry. Medium-length sandy hair, the distinctive thin freckled Hathaway face with a high-bridged nose, sharp cheekbones, brown eyes, and pointed chin. On Facebook he looked equally intense on a golf green as he bent to putt. At the helm of a sailboat, the intensity remained but his smile was pure delight.
Edward Marlow Hathaway III, twenty-three. Island native. Local schools. Excelled in track and field, won state in sprints and pole vault. Majored in advertising at University of South Carolina, BA degree. Returned to the island to work at Hathaway Advertising. Single. Has a racing catamaran. Adept at rock climbing. Postings by fraternity brothers in college: Knows how to party. Can knock out a paper in a couple of hours. Don’t try to push him around or the volcano vents. A sucker for blondes.
Some of the photos of Leslie Griffin were mildly provocative—very revealing bikini shots—but that was not unusual on the web in today’s flaunt-it society. In a fashion show, she was appealing in a short silk dress that emphasized the blueness of her eyes. One shot pictured her dancing cheek to cheek in the moonlight with a lean partner. They were laughing. In another shot, she held a pool cue, looked up from the table with a sexy smile.
Leslie Hathaway Griffin, seventeen. Daughter of Kathryn Hathaway Griffin, deceased, and Robert Estes Griffin, reported to be living in Majorca. Born in Atlanta. In and out of schools in LA as her mother looked for acting jobs and her father tried to sell scripts. The marriage ended when she was six. Her mother struggled with addiction and died in a car wreck when Leslie was fourteen. She came to the island to live with Eddie Hathaway and his son, Trey. Trey’s mother had died with cancer some years earlier. Eddie Hathaway succumbed to cancer as well two years ago.
Max looked thoughtful. An ill-starred family. There had to be all kinds of divisions and resentments and grievances among those tangled lives.
Nicole pushed a pillow behind her, brushed back a strand of ebony hair. She looked at Henny with glazed eyes. “Maggie shouldn’t have sent you up. I’m not feeling well.” She didn’t look well, the muscles of her face slack, her color poor.
Henny said swiftly, “I spoke with Leslie and she told me to come up.”
“Oh. I suppose she’s home.” Nicole sounded sour. “She doesn’t spend a lot of time here, which suits me fine. She’s always unpleasant.”
“I’m sorry you don’t feel well.” Henny took a step forward. “Is there anything I can do?”
Nicole made an effort to fluff her hair. “A glass of water might help.”
Henny crossed to the bathroom, found a glass, brought it three-quarters full, and placed it on the table next to the chaise longue. She pulled a cane-bottomed chair near the chaise longue and sat down.
Nicole picked the glass up, took a delicate sip, then a second. “It’s nice of you to come.”
“I’m here on an unpleasant task.” Henny steeled herself to continue. Only the memory of Jeremiah’s anguish forced the words. “I have bad news.”
Nicole’s eyes flared. Her fingers tightened on the glass. She looked stricken. “What’s happened?”
“Everett’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“Everett?” She spoke his name woodenly and sagged against the backrest, her pent-up breath a sigh of relief. “I was afraid…” Her voice trailed away.
Henny watched in confusion. Whatever bad news Nicole feared, it had nothing to do with Everett. Or his death. There was no anguish, no agony of grief in her tone when she spoke her late husband’s name.
Henny had known loss, the death in a bombing raid of her young husband whose face was always clear in her memory, and, a lifetime later, the death of a lover who sacrificed himself to protect a wife corroded by bitterness.
Whatever sorrow had brought misery to Nicole’s face, it was not grief for a man she loved. Now Henny had no qualms about her mission. “Everett was murdered.”
Nicole’s eyes widened. Her face registered alarm, not horror. “That’s not right. Everett drowned.”
Henny leaned forward, gazing deep into Nicole’s reddened eyes. “An anonymous note lured Everett to the bay that night.”
“I don’t understand.” Nicole shook her head, her dar
k hair rippling. “Why would anyone do that?”
Henny threw out the words, hard as stones. “To intercept him, dump over the kayak, and watch him drown.”
Nicole drew in a sharp breath. She picked up a silk pillow, clutched it so hard her fingers blanched. “Oh, no. That can’t be true.”
“It is true.” Henny was emphatic. “Yesterday Gretchen Burkholt found an index card in the tweed jacket he wore the day he died. Gretchen called here and left a message about the card.”
Nicole spoke in a whisper. “Is that why the police called me? They asked about a message.” Her eyes were now enormous in her pale face. “Nobody knew anything about it.”
“Gretchen spoke to the housekeeper.”
A reluctant nod. “Maggie said she wrote everything down on the pad in the main hall.”
“Anyone in the house could have seen the pad.”
Nicole watched Henny as a rabbit might view a snake.
Henny continued, her words clipped. “Gretchen left word that the card from Everett’s jacket was available at Better Tomorrow. Yesterday afternoon someone came and took the card and killed Gretchen.”
Nicole stared at Henny in horror. “Are you saying someone from here killed that woman?”
“And your husband.” Henny’s voice was grim. “The card lured him to the bay in a kayak. The card named names. Gretchen said it was a scandal.”
Nicole’s face faded from pale to waxen as she listened. She licked her lips, asked in a shaky whisper, “A scandal?” Her fingers tightened like claws on the silk pillow. There was sheer panic in her eyes.
“What would take him to that bay, Nicole?”
“I don’t know why he went out that night.” Her voice rose. “Maybe the currents took him there.” The terror in Nicole’s eyes suggested she had a very good idea of what had drawn Everett to the bay where he died.
Henny spoke softly. “Perhaps we can make some guesses about the information on the card.”
Nicole lifted a hand to clutch at her throat.
“You can help.” Henny was encouraging.
Everett’s widow stiffened.
“What was he wearing when he was found?”
Nicole hesitated, perhaps inspecting the question for danger. Finally, slowly, she said, “A black turtleneck sweater, jeans, boat shoes, a leather jacket, the life vest.”
Henny saw the response as utterly revealing. A woman torn by grief would have difficulty discussing the clothing worn the night a loved one died. There was no pain in Nicole’s reply, merely a reluctant listing.
“That confirms my thoughts. I believe the note instructed him to wear dark clothing and to come in a kayak. He didn’t normally kayak this time of year, did he?”
Nicole slowly shook her head.
“But that particular night he was in a kayak.” Henny made a guess. “I imagine the card told him to arrive at a specific time. Let’s say ten o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock?” Nicole repeated the time, her face putty colored.
“So.” Henny sounded satisfied. “We’ve established that the card contained information that drew Everett to the bay in a stealthy manner. At this point, we have no way of knowing whether Everett thought he was going to meet someone at one of the piers”—she watched Nicole intently and saw another flash of panic in her pale blue eyes—“or whether he was going to observe some activity there.”
“Observe?” It was an anguished whisper.
“However, Gretchen’s murder proves that the card had a different objective. Whatever bait was used, Everett arrived in the bay at a specific time on a windy misty night. He was intercepted, possibly by someone in a motorboat—”
If possible, Nicole’s face turned even paler.
“—the kayak capsized and he was left to drown. Once he was in the water, he was doomed. He was too far from shore to swim to the bank, and the kayak was pulled out of his reach.” Henny leaned forward. “Who wanted Everett to die?”
Nicole began to tremble. “How should I know?”
Henny’s stare was grim. “You know why he went to the bay.”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was shrill. “I don’t know anything. Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.”
Henny rose. “I thought you would be the first to want to find out what happened to Everett. Call me if you feel that you can help.”
Henny walked to the bedroom door. She opened it, stepped into the hall, closed the panel softly behind her. She looked up and down the hallway, then carefully, cautiously turned the knob until the tongue was disengaged. Her shoulders tensing, she eased the door open far enough to reveal a portion of the chaise longue. The pink coverlet was thrown back. The small silk cushion had slipped to the floor.
A frantic whisper was just audible. “I have to see you.” Silence. “If you don’t come, I’ll call your wife. I have to talk to you about the night Everett died.” Silence. “The usual place.” Rapid steps sounded followed by the squeak of opened drawers.
Henny turned and moved swiftly down the hall.
Annie pushed the doorbell on the front porch of the ranch-style home that belonged to Don Thornwall. Open lime green drapes revealed a living room with comfortable chintz-covered easy chairs and a batik sofa, magazines on a coffee table, bright heart pine flooring. No expense had been spared, though if Annie had hired the architect, she would have insisted on at least a two-foot foundation in case of a storm surge. There was a reason why the older homes sat on high arches or pilings. The half-done construction on the west side was also at ground level.
The door opened and a smiling white-haired woman with warm brown eyes and a cheerful smile looked at her with gentle inquiry.
“I’m here for the Hathaway family and I’d appreciate it if I could speak to Mr. Thornwall.”
“The Hathaway family?” She looked blank.
“Mr. Thornwall found his body in the bay.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” Her response was quick and genuine. “I didn’t remember the name. We just retired here this fall. We’ve lived all around the world. Navy. We grew up in Bluffton and now we’re finally back in the Lowcountry. We don’t know many people here yet. When we talk about what happened, we think of him as that poor man in the kayak.” Her brown eyes filled with compassion. “I know it was foolish of him to be out in a kayak without a wet suit, but sometimes people don’t think. Finding him was such a shock to Don. I know he’d be glad to help, but he’s out in his sailboat now.”
“Could I possibly speak with you? Are you Mrs. Thornwall?”
The woman nodded, but her gaze was questioning.
“I’m Annie Darling. I have a shop in the marina.”
“I’m Joyce Thornwall. Did you say you are here for the Hathaway family?”
Annie gambled. “It’s a little complicated. I’m trying to help find out”—this time she carefully did not say she was asking on behalf of the Hathaways—“more about the time Mr. Hathaway’s kayak capsized.”
“Oh, Don can’t help you there. We didn’t know a thing about it until the next morning. Don was going out for a row and that’s when he saw the body.”
“Were you home that Friday night? Mr. Hathaway took the kayak out sometime after dinner. It probably took him twenty minutes to paddle around the headland. Did you hear any sounds out in the bay?” Could a motorboat have entered the bay without someone having heard the motor?
Joyce Thornwall shook her head with a smile. “Friday nights in December mean basketball, and Don makes enough noise to drown out any boat.” Her smile slipped away. “That’s sad to think he may have called for help. But we didn’t hear a thing. There could have been a fleet of boats without our knowing.”
Max flipped through several sheets, found the obituary with the list of pallbearers: Richard Martin, Craig Kennedy, Douglas Walker, Esteban Martinez, Bradley Milton, and John Charles Larrimore.
Pallbearers were chosen because of intimacy with a family.
Max knew all of the m
en except Richard Martin and John Charles Larrimore. Craig Kennedy ran a combination antique store and used bookshop. Doug Walker sold real estate. Esteban Martinez was the owner of the island’s most prestigious art gallery. Bradley Milton was a local contractor. Max turned to his computer and Googled Richard Martin. He lived in Chastain and was a tenured professor of English at Chastain College. Larrimore was also a faculty member.
With a bit of digging, Max rounded up cell phone numbers.
“Professor Martin?” Max introduced himself and explained he was putting together a tribute to Everett for a local club and hoped the professor would provide a picture of Everett as an academic.
Martin spoke for several minutes in a dry precise fashion until his tone turned waspish. “…and regrettably Everett mulishly insisted that Addison authored The Play House and I vehemently disagree.” The adjective bristled.
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