He stepped back, shaking his head violently.
She moved toward him, a hand held out in supplication.
After a moment, he gripped her arm and they moved onto the terrace around a corner and out of Annie’s view.
They walked purposefully, which suggested they were familiar with the house. Were they guests? Perhaps they might have been at the house the night Everett drowned. Annie hurried to the T-Bird, yanked open the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel.
The bell played a musical stanza as Max stepped outside. “Come on-a My House” was a nice selection for a Realtor. Doug Walker was a scratch golfer, never-met-a-stranger, curly-haired blond who’d been a linebacker with the Clemson Tigers and parlayed an easy smile into a real estate career. Despite hard financial times, he’d apparently been able to sell enough homes to—as Doug liked to put it—land on the black. He had a nice family. Annie played tennis with Janet, who was a partner in an island accounting firm.
Max hadn’t been surprised to find Doug out of the office, but when he asked if Doug had gone home, his plump, cheerful secretary shook her head. “Somebody wanted to see a listing. He told me to tell Janet—she calls the office and not his cell, just in case he’s out with a prospect—that he would be home in about an hour.”
Max hurried down the steps of the antebellum home that housed Doug Walker Realty. When he reached his car and opened the door, he gave an admiring whistle at the jade green bloom of the sunflower propped against the passenger seat. Green? It sure was. He slid behind the wheel, smiling as he picked up a sheet of orange-colored paper with a crest of—what else?—a lime green sunflower. He read his mother’s note: Seek serenity. Today affords no sunshine, but this bloom is a reminder of the color of the sea on a sunny day. “Ma”—he spoke aloud as he noted her signature with a sunflower bloom extending from the right vertical bar of an extravagantly rendered M—“sunflowers be with you, too. Thanks for a pick-me-up on a dark and dreary day.”
Max checked his cell as the Maserati purred into motion. No messages from Annie or Henny. But it was cheerful to know that both were only a cell phone away. He thought for a moment, texted: Dinner at our house. Two more stops then home. Chili and cornbread. Thanks to the microwave, any meal was possible in a hurry. While he reheated chili, the cornbread would be baking. Max was a purist. No sugar in his cornbread and not a trace of flour, either. Sometimes he gave a nod to Annie’s Texas roots and dropped in green chilies and corn.
He drove two blocks and pulled into the parking lot of a small, two-story stucco house with a red-tiled roof. Built in the thirties, the house had a Florida flavor with plenty of arched windows affording splashes of sun in good weather. Esteban Martinez had transformed the interior into an elegant gallery, which featured paintings of the Lowcountry. Max had his eye on a watercolor of a diving night hawk silhouetted against a fiery spring dawn.
Lights shone from the uncurtained front windows. A discreet Open sign hung in a side window by the entry. Max stepped inside, enjoying the warmth. A fire crackled in a massive stone fireplace to his left.
A door at the end of the hall opened. Esteban smiled a welcome. He was tall and slender with a precisely trimmed black mustache and Vandyke beard that enhanced his resemblance to a Velazquez nobleman. He gestured to a dark leather sofa a comfortable distance from the fire. “Can I offer you a hot buttered rum on such a damp evening?”
“Not this time. But thanks. I’m here because you were one of Everett Hathaway’s pallbearers. I’m hoping you can tell me a bit about him.”
Esteban’s narrow ascetic face lost its proprietor’s bonhomie, folded into suitable graveness. “Ah, a reminder that we must treasure our days. What can I tell you about Everett?” He led the way to the sofa, settled at one end.
Max stood with his back to the fire, put his hands behind him. “Nice to be warm. I need to explain…” As he spoke, Esteban’s hooded eyes narrowed.
“Murder.” Esteban stroked his beard. “I wish I could be helpful. However, I didn’t know him well. I can describe with acuity his taste in paintings. He was a good customer. On a personal basis, I would describe him as precise, serious, perhaps a little self-important. I was actually a friend of Eddie’s. When Trey called and asked me to serve as a pallbearer, of course I agreed. However …” He shrugged.
Max was disappointed. “So you don’t know if anyone was angry with him or if he had quarreled with anyone.”
Esteban pulled at a long ear lobe, his face thoughtful. “Everett was punctilious about appointments. He was supposed to come by here at one o’clock that Friday to pick up a painting. When he had not come by two, I called. He answered and spoke almost roughly. He said he would come by next week, something had come up. He sounded distraught. I immediately asked if I could be of help. There was a pause and he made a kind of noise and then he said, ‘You’re a lucky man. You never married.’ Then he hung up.” Esteban looked regretful. “I can’t speak to whether his comment mattered or not.”
Max nodded. “It helps to have a picture of his last day. Thanks, Esteban.”
The gallery owner walked to the door with Max.
Max plunged back into the darkness, the mist damp against his face, and hurried to his car. Whether important or not, Everett’s words definitely required explanation. It would be interesting to see what Henny might have learned at the Hathaway house. Max continued to the edge of downtown, turned east on Marsh Tackie Road. It was a half mile to Brad Milton’s construction company. He pressed the accelerator, delighted in the quick response. He loved speed. As the pines encroached nearer the road, he slowed, watching for deer. Not much farther now…
He came around a curve. Light spilled from the windows of the frame structure that housed Milton Construction. A bright yellow mini electric car was parked near the steps. Brad was one of the islanders who had taken advantage of the tax rebates under TARP to essentially buy the car for free. He’d sold his old Ford and instead drove the jaunty little car with a roof, windshield, seats, and not much else. He called it his gov buggy. Looming behind the office was a galvanized steel building for equipment. Two pickups were parked nearby.
The Maserati eased to a stop next to the mini car. Max parked and moved quickly across the uneven terrain, skirting a six-foot-long stack of used bricks that likely had been salvaged from a tear down. He knocked on the door and stepped inside. The two-room office was untidy. Cardboard files occupied the seat of a worn sofa near one window. Three gray metal filing cabinets and a drafting table occupied one wall. Brad Milton sat behind an old metal desk. He was Lincoln tall and ungainly. Even seated, he had a disjointed appearance, hatchet-sharp features with a down-turned mouth, one shoulder higher than the other, huge hands splayed on the desktop amid a welter of papers. He seemed to come back from a long way as he looked at his visitor.
Max knew Brad from Rotary meetings and the chamber of commerce. Brad was in his forties, older than Max and Annie. They saw him at chili cook-offs and oyster fries and charitable functions. He was recently divorced. This afternoon he looked as gray and morose as the lowering skies outside.
“Max.” Brad lifted a big hand, gestured toward a straight chair that faced the desk. His demeanor brightened, a touch of animation in his deep voice. “What can I do for you? You and Annie planning on a little remodeling?” His voice lifted with hope.
Max shook his head. “I’ve been asked to investigate Everett Hathaway’s death.”
Brad looked surprised. “What’s there to know? He drowned. Poor bastard.” He gave a slight shudder. “They say hypothermia’s a good way to go. Doesn’t sound good to me. It sounds cold.”
Max watched him carefully. “Someone capsized his kayak and left him to drown.”
Brad’s angular face looked incredulous. “You think he was dumped out of that kayak? On purpose?” He gave a slight head shake.
Max spoke slowly. “We have reason to believe he was lured out onto the bay and someone in a motorboat intercepted him and knocked h
im out of the kayak.”
Brad placed his big hands on his desktop. “That sounds crazy to me. Are the cops checking this out?”
Max didn’t answer directly. “There hasn’t been a public announcement yet.”
“Oh. Well, I guess you know what you’re talking about, but I can’t believe anybody killed Everett.” His craggy face folded in a frown. “Why come to me?”
Max’s gaze was intent. “You owed him money. He wanted payment.”
Brad’s eyes glinted. “I don’t think I like the implication.” His voice was cold. “I owe a lot of people money and they are all alive and kicking. Besides that, you’re way off on your facts. Everett and I had come to an agreement.”
Max took a chance. Brad and Everett’s confrontation in the parking lot had been angry. “You argued with him.”
“Old news.” Brad leaned back in his chair, his body relaxed. “We had a talk. Everything was okay.”
“Since when?”
“Since I persuaded him to be reasonable.” Brad’s rough-hewn face looked irritated. “Look, my finances are none of your business, but I borrowed some money from the agency—Eddie was a good guy—to cover some cash-flow problems. The damn banks are sitting on capital like it’s glued to their butts. Eddie would have given me an extension without any hassle. Everett had trouble seeing the forest for the trees, but I finally”—he sounded long-suffering—“got it through his thick skull that giving me more time made it a lot likelier the agency would get paid in full. If I had to go into bankruptcy, there were a bunch of creditors before the agency. Anyway, it’s all been worked out. After Everett died, I explained everything to Trey, and he agreed the new plan made sense.”
“So you’ve already talked to Trey about the loan?”
Brad’s angular face looked pleased. “Trey’s reasonable. I can keep the business going. I’m about to turn the corner. I’ve got some jobs lined up.”
“When did you last see Everett?”
Brad’s eyes widened. “It makes me feel kind of spooky. I talked to him the morning of the day he died. I dropped by the agency about eleven thirty. That’s when we got everything worked out.”
Max was sure that Brad would never have answered except he knew that his visit at the office likely would be remembered by the receptionist.
“Where were you the night Everett died?”
“Right here.” Brad was brusque. “Not out drowning somebody. You can take that to the bank. Look, I don’t know that much about Everett. Eddie and I were friends. I used to spend a lot of time over there, drank a lot of good whisky. Everett wasn’t my kind of guy. He drank white wine. But he seems an unlikely candidate for murder. Anyway, I’m not the man to talk to and, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a pile of work to do. For which, believe me, I’m grateful.”
Max rose. “You going to compete in the bass tournament at Lake Keowee?” Brad had an island reputation as a bass angler.
Brad shook his head. “Not this year. I sold my boat in August. I got to earn back a bunch of money before I fish again. Except from a pier. Why?”
Max shrugged. “I know you like to fish.”
Brad looked at Max in disbelief. “Wait a minute, are you thinking I took out a boat and dumped Everett out of that kayak?”
Max met his gaze. “Somebody dumped him out.”
Brad folded his arms. “I’ll believe that when somebody proves it.”
“There’s proof.”
“Good. Then the cops can handle it. I’ll read about it in the Gazette.”
Henny waited until the taillights of the tan Corolla were no longer visible, signaling Maggie’s departure, then slipped from her car in the shadow of pines a half block from the Hathaway house. She turned up the fur-lined collar of her jacket and walked briskly, leaning a bit into the wind. She would hear any cars arriving at the house and, in the gathering dusk, could easily avoid being seen.
She passed the main house and the double garage to the winter-bare rose garden that sloped down to the marsh, her goal the wooden pier and boathouse. On the planks of the pier, her steps echoed, as lonesome a sound in the growing darkness as the cry of a mourning dove. She shivered from the onslaught of the breeze and the icy dampness of the chill mist. Cold as a witch’s heart. How must Jeremiah feel, marooned on that small hump of wooded land? She must do more, faster, try to break through the seemingly impregnable fortress of a murderer’s success.
She peered into a boat house at a cruiser, heard the slap of water against the hull. Here it was. A ticket to the next bay available to anyone from the house. Dimly she heard a car door slam. Quickly she turned and hurried from the pier. In the garden, she paused near a thicket of cane.
A little boy about five in a fleece jacket ran toward the steep wooden steps to the garage apartment. A woman juggled two bags of groceries, her purse, and a parcel of laundry.
“Can I have some Kool-Aid, Mama?” He raced up halfway.
“On a night like this?”
“Please, please.” His high voice wheedled. He stopped on the landing and looked back at her pleadingly.
“I’ll fix us something special for dessert. I’ll make brownies.” She reached the landing and put down her sacks to use her key. When the door closed behind them and lights flashed on, Henny waited long enough to let the groceries be put away, then hurried up the steps. She used a pocket flash for a quick glimpse of the nameplate on the post box: Hudgins.
At her knock, the door opened to reveal a woman in her thirties with honey-colored hair that needed a trim. A faded blue cotton turtleneck hung loose on her lanky frame and black jersey slacks bagged at the knees. She glanced out and said swiftly, “Ma’am, I’m sorry but I can’t contribute, whatever it is. Ricky’s allotment and my job just barely get us to the end of the month. I wish I could.” Her smile was shy and shamefaced.
As the door started to close, Henny spoke swiftly. “I’m not collecting donations, Mrs. Hudgins. I’m seeking information about the night Mr. Hathaway’s kayak capsized.
“I’m trying to determine more exactly the time of death. It will be a help to the family. And the thought was that you might be able assist.” Henny smiled. “So, if you don’t mind, were you here that evening?”
She looked rueful. “That night and every night.”
“Then I have just a few questions. I won’t take much of your time.”
The young woman nodded. The TV blared behind her. She half turned. “Make it softer, Richard.” But her voice was gentle. She hesitated, then pushed the door open. “Please come in. We can talk while I fix Richard’s supper.”
In the small kitchen, she moved swiftly, pulling a frozen pizza and mixed vegetables from the freezer. “Richard loves pizza, but he has to eat his veggies, too. Now what about that night?”
“Did you hear the motorboat leave?” Henny gestured toward the marsh.
The young mother lifted a box of brownie mix from a cupboard and looked at her in surprise. “I haven’t heard the boat in a month or more. The boat certainly didn’t go out that night.”
Henny felt a shock of disappointment. She’d been so confident. “Were you here all evening?”
The woman’s smile was lopsided. “I’m home at nights. My husband, Ricky, is on his second tour in Afghanistan. I can’t afford a sitter, but my mom lives in Bluffton. Sometimes Richard and I go over and see her for the weekends. No, ma’am, that boat didn’t go out. I remember that Friday in particular. It was the night before they found Mr. Hathaway.” She looked solemn. “I think I heard him leave. I was out on the balcony, maybe it was about a quarter to ten.” Her eyes dropped. “I promised Ricky I’d stop smoking, but it’s hard. I worry about him. But I never smoke inside. It wouldn’t be good for Richard. Anyway, Richard was asleep and I slipped out on the porch. It was so cold. I heard footsteps on the pier and I saw somebody moving. I think maybe he was getting the kayak. I didn’t tell anybody about it later because all I saw was this dark figure walking out there. It did seem kind of funny
that someone was on the pier on such a cold night. Then I went back inside. But I’m sure nobody went out in the motorboat. The engine makes a lot of noise.” She emptied the mix in a bowl. “I guess you came to ask me since nobody was home that night.”
“No one?”
Francie nodded. “They all left, one, two, three just before I stepped out on the porch. The girl’s car squeals. She gets out fast. Mr. Hathaway’s nephew slams his car door like he’s in a big hurry. Mrs. Hathaway’s car is the quietest but it makes little beeps when she unlocks it.”
When a kayak slipped soundlessly across water, no one was at home at the Hathaway house.
8
Annie moved slowly across the stone terrace behind the Mediterranean home. Red bamboo shades masked the arched windows that faced the marsh. However, light gleamed between slats, marked the edges of the windows. Earlier the house had been totally dark. Annie walked through the gloom toward an oversized oak door.
Death Comes Silently Page 13