“—as I drove on the road. There’s no room to park on the road. The woods come right up on both sides. When I turned into my drive”—she paused, seeking remembrance of the split instant when her headlights illuminated the open space around her house and near her garage and dock—“I would have seen a car. There’s simply no place to hide one. It’s dark enough under the house, but there’s not room for a car between the pilings.”
Henny’s face furrowed. “It was the same at Better Tomorrow. Jeremiah didn’t hear a car, yet someone came and killed Gretchen.”
Annie recalled her sobering talk with Billy in the quiet hospital waiting room. “Last night Billy said no car was heard at Maggie’s house, either.”
Emma declaimed. “A bicycle. That’s the only answer.”
“We can find out who had access to a bicycle.” Then Annie shrugged. “Who wouldn’t be able to get a bike? Most people we know have bikes. That’s not a good lead.”
Emma was gruff. “Dismiss wild goose chases. Bikes are everywhere. Focus the mind.” A pause clearly heralded a pronouncement. “Where were they”—emphasis—“last night?” Emma gave the sentence the flavor of a radio melodrama.
Three sets of eyes turned to Emma.
Always pleased to take center stage, Emma looked superlatively confident. “As Marigold Rembrandt always instructs Inspector Houlihan, pinpoint the suspects during the critical period.”
If Annie had been Emma’s hapless fictional inspector, she would long ago have dropped Marigold down the nearest black hole.
Emma was on a roll. “This morning Henny shared the information that she compiled with Annie and Max.” The author’s spiky hair, a bright mixture of white tipped by violet, nodded approvingly. “I knew at once it was time to heed Marigold’s sage advice. Here is what we need to discover. When Maggie was killed and Henny ambushed, where were Everett’s widow, Nicole Hathaway, and her lover, Doug Walker, nephew, Trey Hathaway, niece, Leslie Griffin, and her boyfriend, Steve Raymond, and Brad Milton?”
Laurel beamed at the author. “So cogent. So telling. So utterly essential. However”—Laurel touched a sunflower stalk as if for luck—“the difficulty”—her husky voice was thoughtful—“is that those with a motive to kill Everett Hathaway can in no way be compelled to speak to any of us.”
“I’d make them talk if I wasn’t trapped in this bed.” Henny was forceful.
Annie understood Henny’s frustration, but even if Henny were able to confront those in the Hathaway house, she would be doomed to failure. As Laurel rightly pointed out, none of them had official standing. No one had to talk to them, but perhaps guile might succeed. Slowly Annie began to smile. “There’s more than one way for the fox to get into the hen house.” Quickly she described a plan. “So we can—”
There was a knock. The door opened and Billy Cameron walked in.
12
Cosgrove’s an idiot, Billy.” Emma’s deep voice throbbed with condemnation.
Laurel’s smile was encouraging. “We will do everything possible to help you. We’ll hold a rally when the town council meets. Everyone will come.”
Henny looked forlorn. “I feel responsible. If I hadn’t taken Jeremiah out to the hammock—”
“If you hadn’t taken Jeremiah to the hammock”—the suspended police chief’s face was somber—“you wouldn’t be alive now. That’s why I’m here.”
Annie was struck by the weariness evident in his broad face. He was Billy, big, brawny, and muscular, but Billy without his customary equanimity. Tight lines marked the corners of his eyes, bracketed his generous mouth. Instead of a jacket and slacks or a suit, his usual dress for work, he wore a navy pullover and jeans. His blue eyes had a lost look. “I know you support me, but that isn’t what matters at this point. There’s a dangerous killer out there who will remove anyone seen as a threat. Right now Henny is safe. Jeremiah’s arrest will reassure the killer that she doesn’t know enough to be a danger. As for the rest of you”—he looked at Annie, Emma, and Laurel in turn—“don’t even think of trying to investigate.”
Annie felt a deep twist of disappointment. “Jeremiah’s innocent!”
“I believe that’s true. Right now he’s in a tough spot, but there are too many holes in the case for it to get far. This morning I was out early. I got some interesting stuff before I got the call from the mayor. Everything I learned is in the file. If the case goes to trial, I’ll testify. I can demolish Cosgrove’s theory. He’s persuaded the circuit solicitor that Jeremiah killed Mrs. Burkholt because she caught him stealing her purse and that the Knight murder was a homicide committed during a robbery and that the attack on Henny was part of a break-in at her cottage, a fugitive stealing purses for access to cash and credit cards.” Billy’s expression matched a tomcat viewing a canary. “Sometimes ordinary police work turns up a fact that can’t be ignored. Last night about half an hour after shots were fired at Henny, Gretchen Burkholt’s Visa was used over the payphone at the Gas ’N’ Go to order a sweater from L. L. Bean to be shipped to Jeremiah’s address. Now, all the circuit solicitor has to do is prove how Jeremiah used that card when he was at that exact moment sitting in the front seat of a police cruiser.”
“That won’t stop Brice Posey.” Annie’s tone was bitter. “The mayor’s already saying maybe someone picked Jeremiah up off the hammock in time for him to shoot Maggie. He’ll say Jeremiah paid him off with a credit card.”
“Somewhere along the line”—Billy was decided—“the prosecution has to bring up facts, not theories. Why would Jeremiah give the Burkholt credit card to anyone else if he committed murder to get it? He would have paid off somebody with cash taken from the purses. Moreover, who is this mythical somebody? Why would a conspirator order a sweater for Jeremiah? The killer was just a tad too clever. The prosecution can throw out theories all day. Where are the facts? There are plenty of facts, and they all prove Jeremiah’s innocence. I’ll testify that I was talking to Jeremiah and I heard shots. He wasn’t holding a gun out to one side and firing. I know the difference between gunfire at four feet and gunfire at a hundred yards. The testimony will clear Jeremiah.”
Emma’s face corrugated in a tight frown. “Maybe. Maybe not. Conviction of the innocent isn’t a rarity. Besides, how cold will the trail be if we have to wait weeks or months to see an investigation of Everett’s drowning? What happens if the mayor succeeds in putting in a crony as police chief?”
Billy suddenly looked older, grimmer. “I don’t know. But”—and his deep voice was steely—“you three”—and he looked again at Annie and Laurel and Emma—“keep out of it. No investigating.”
There was a silence.
Annie saw Emma’s sapphire blue eyes narrow.
Before Emma could attack, Annie spoke loudly. “Billy, just before you came, we all agreed that we have no official standing. There is no way we can question people about Everett’s death.”
After an instant’s thought, Laurel’s eyes widened. Her quick glance at her daughter-in-law was approving. She joined in, her smooth, husky voice tinged with sadness. “Annie puts everything so well. We have no way to question those connected to Everett about motives for his murder.”
Emma spoke judiciously. “It is chastening to admit that we are barred from pursuing facts regarding the deliberate capsizing of his kayak.” A heavy sigh. “We shall work toward your restitution as chief of police. That is the ultimate solution.”
Billy had the appearance of a man who had expected to battle hard for his position and instead finds himself victorious without a struggle. “Yeah.” He sounded wary. “Do I have your sworn promise to back off?”
Annie sighed heavily. “Billy, we know when we’re licked. None of us will approach anyone about Everett’s murder.”
He gave her a hard stare. “How about the Knight homicide and the attack on Henny?”
Annie spread her hands, palms up, assumed an air of reluctant acquiescence. “I think we all agree that both Maggie’s death and the shots at Henn
y resulted from our questions yesterday about Everett’s death. In fact, I think we found out as much as we could, and further investigation will require official inquiries.”
Billy looked satisfied. “I’m glad you agree. I’ll feel a lot better knowing that none of you will be at risk.” He turned to the bed. “Don’t worry about Jeremiah. I understand Max has hired Handler Jones. Even if the case comes to trial, Jones will get him off.”
“If only I could walk.” Henny sounded despairing. “I can’t do anything to help him.”
Annie wondered if Billy was whistling “Dixie” in an effort to derail them from finding out what they could. He knew better than anyone that judges had their own biases and juries could be swayed. They could not take the chance that Jeremiah be tried. They had to do what they could, but they would be wily, mask their intentions, be careful not to alert the murderer that information was being gathered. Every word each of them had said to Billy was true… as far as it went. Annie maintained her appearance of forlorn resignation, a woman accepting the reality that she was precluded from actively investigating the circumstances of Everett’s death.
Emma sat with her head lowered, redoubtable face creased in morose lines.
Laurel, her smooth golden hair perfectly coiffed, her aristocratic features sorrowful, reached for a sunflower from the vase, sped lightly across the floor. “Dear Billy, take a bit of sunshine with you to remind you that we are always loyal friends and true.”
He looked down at her, his face softening. “Thanks, Laurel. You guys—” He broke off, pressed his lips together.
Annie knew that he wasn’t confident of the future for Jeremiah or for himself. But he wanted them to be safe.
“Well, thanks for the flower. Kind of big, isn’t it? Anyway, things will come right.” But his tone was hollow. He turned away, pulled the door to step into the hall.
The door closed behind him.
Laurel said gently, “What a dear, sweet lamb. So trusting.”
Jeremiah was pale and unshaven, his dingy brown hair lank. He sat on the other side of the wired screen, hunched in a too-big orange jumpsuit. His voice was scarcely audible. “I don’t have no money, Mr. Jones.”
Max spoke up quickly. “Don’t worry about money, Jeremiah. I’ve retained Handler to defend you.”
Jeremiah lifted his gaze, his face uncertain. “You don’t hardly know me.”
“Henny Brawley is as near an aunt as either my wife or I will ever have. You saved Henny’s life.” Max spoke quietly, but there was no mistaking the emotion behind his words.
Jeremiah jammed his fingers together. “She helped me. I had to help her. Mister”—he turned toward the lawyer—“they’re gonna ask for the death sentence, aren’t they?” His eyes were huge and sick and scared. “I should of walked into that water when I heard the sirens. I wouldn’t be here now. They couldn’t hurt me any more.”
Max’s face was grim. “Nobody’s going to hurt you here. We’ll make sure of that. We’ll let them know we’ll be on them like a wild boar on a deer.”
Handler Jones spoke quietly. “Don’t be scared. We’re with you, Jeremiah, all the way.” The lawyer had an invincible aura, thick chestnut hair, chiseled features, a piercing gaze. He exuded power even when seated, immaculate in a dark gray Oxford suit, pale cream Hamilton dress shirt, navy tie dotted with yellow palmetto palms. His smooth tenor voice was confident. “This is a detention facility, not a prison. You are safe. Right now, you are being held as a person of interest. That gives me time before the arraignment to marshal the facts.” He tapped a green folder. “Mrs. Brawley and Mr. and Mrs. Darling collected an impressive amount of information. Now let’s talk about everything that’s happened.” He was encouraging, calm, reassuring.
Max listened and tried to remain impassive. He knew much of what Jeremiah recounted, but he realized for the first time the enormous fear that had gripped Jeremiah when he was alone on the hammock, isolated, marooned, and waiting. “…so bad now to think how glad I was when I heard Mrs. Brawley’s car. It made me feel better to know she was coming home, and then the shots come. I almost couldn’t breathe I was so scared, but I yelled and yelled.”
Handler looked up from his notes on a legal pad. “You didn’t hear a car before Mrs. Brawley arrived?”
Jeremiah shook his head. “Like I told Mr. Darling, I saw somebody on her steps, but there never was a car. I would of heard the motor.”
“You shouted, called nine-one-one.” Handler looked thoughtful. “There were two shots, then about three more. When did you think the shooter was gone?”
Jeremiah’s face squeezed in thought. “I don’t know. Just, there was shots and I made a lot of noise and then more shots and then pretty soon it was quiet. It took the police about ten minutes to come.”
Handler reached into the folder, pulled out a map of the island. He spread it open. There were several Xs. He pointed at each in turn. “X number one—the Hathaway house; X number two—the bay where Everett drowned, which is around a headland from his home; X number three—the Carstairs house where the lovers met; X number four—the cabin where Steve Raymond lives; X number five—the home of Maggie Knight; X number six—Henny Brawley’s cabin on the marsh. Now”—the lawyer leaned back in his chair, clearly the master of his facts—“the Knight house on Barred Owl Road is inland a half mile from the Hathaway house, the Brawley cabin is on a narrow dirt road that dead ends at the marsh. A bike path connects Maggie Knight’s street to Henny’s road. About a mile and a half distance between the two.”
Jeremiah listened, his eyes wide.
Handler looked satisfied. “The murderer could easily have traveled on a bike. That almost has to be the case since Jeremiah didn’t hear a car. Max, find out who among the suspects had access to a bike.”
Max replied quickly, “According to Henny, there’s a shed with several bikes on the Hathaway property.”
“Ah, yes, the Hathaway family.” Handler looked toward Max. “In the report compiled by you and your wife and Mrs. Brawley, several facts stand out. All members of the Hathaway household departed in cars the evening Everett drowned. The Hathaway boat was not heard by the renter in the garage apartment. Brad Milton claims to have sold his boat. Steve Raymond doesn’t have a boat.” He looked at Max. “Does Nicole’s lover have a boat?”
Max squinted in thought, then pulled out his cell. In a moment, “Hey, Doug, Max Darling. I’m looking for some help in a fishing tournament at the Haven next month. Do you have a boat?… Oh, sure. Makes sense this time of year. Yeah. Well, thanks.” He clicked off. “His boat’s down in Florida at his brother’s house.”
Just for an instant, Handler’s face creased in a frown. “That’s critical. We have to find out where the murderer obtained a boat. Max, see what you can come up with. On a positive note, an excellent source informed me—before the police chief was relieved of his command—that vital information was obtained this morning concerning the whereabouts of family members the night Everett drowned.”
Max had no doubt that Billy Cameron was Handler Jones’s source.
Handler continued, “Mrs. Hathaway claims she was at home, but we know she was at the Carstairs house waiting for Mr. Walker, who never arrived. Leslie Griffin says she followed Mrs. Hathaway and was watching the Carstairs house in hopes of getting photographs of Everett’s wife and her lover. Leslie confirms that Mr. Walker didn’t come. Trey Hathaway insists he was at his office, trying to straighten out a campaign that Everett had botched. We already knew from the inquiries you and Annie and Henny made yesterday that Doug Walker says he was home, Steve Raymond was at the cabin, and Brad Milton was at his office. No one has an alibi unless we think Leslie Griffin corroborates Nicole’s claim. However, Leslie knew about the affair and could easily say she was watching the Carstairs place and instead have been en route to kill her uncle.” Handler smiled at Jeremiah. “We’ve found out a great deal. We will find out more.” Handler stood.
In a moment, Handler and Max walked
down the corridor outside the visiting area. His face grave, Handler looked at Max. “We’ll do what we can. Judge Brown is a tough old bird. Doesn’t like ex-cons. Jeremiah’ll be arraigned on first-degree murder unless we work a miracle.”
Laurel added the tiniest dollop of Notorious behind each ear, smoothed her white cashmere sweater, gave a last check in the car visor mirror at perfectly shaped brows, Nordic blue eyes, gardenia-smooth skin with no recourse to cosmetic surgery, thank you. She added a touch of pale rose lip gloss, nodded approval, and slipped from the driver’s seat.
Fog wreathed the live oaks, swirled above the gray water of the bay, obscured the tops of the pines behind her. She noted the disarray in the cabin yard, the splintery wood on the second step, a discolored foam cooler lying on its side on the porch. Through the thin walls, rock music blasted. Laurel pressed the bell, held it.
The door opened.
Her eyes widened in genuine appreciation. Mucho hombre. She was reminded fleetingly of a matador she’d once known well, the same languid grace and heavy-lidded gaze and full sensuous lips. Of course, she was merely admiring his muscular physique, apparent in a pullover sweater and tight jeans.
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