Death Comes Silently

by Carolyn G. Hart

  But there was only emptiness on the line.

  Laurel frowned. She replaced the receiver, picked it up, dialed. Annie didn’t answer her cell. Laurel left a crisp message: “A man called from Walker Morrison Realty, asked for you, left no name. He sounded”—Laurel thought for an instant—“disagreeable.”

  The Rolls slowed as Emma glided to a stop behind a green Porsche parked near the garages of the Mediterranean mansion. Yesterday from the conversation Annie overheard between Doug Walker and Nicole Hathaway, Doug had made clear his lack of interest in meeting Nicole. So why was he here?

  Emma parked and retrieved her cell phone. Her butler answered. “Miguel, I will have the connection open in the event that I need to call for help. Remain on the line. Thank you.” Miguel was a treasure, never evincing surprise at her instructions, which sometimes were unusual. Recently she had sent him to Atlanta to make notes of surveillance cameras at a museum. He had returned with precise measurements as well as the make of the cameras.

  Emma held the phone in her left hand as she walked across the terrace. As she approached the French windows, a door swung out. Doug Walker, his round face in a tight frown, stepped onto the tiles. He carried a chamois in a gloved hand.

  “Hello, Doug.” He had contacted her last year to be among local sponsors of a golf tournament. She had made a substantial donation.

  He looked startled. “Emma.”

  Her gaze dropped to the chamois and conclusions clicked tight as lock tumblers. “An interesting choice for a cleaning cloth. Were you removing fingerprints from a particular bedroom?”

  He walked toward her, face taut, shoulders bunched.

  Emma held up the phone. “I am connected to the police dispatcher. Stop where you are, Doug Walker.”

  He jolted to a stop, an odd figure for melodrama with his tight blond curls and smooth-shaven face and expensive cashmere pullover and gray dress slacks. “Turn that damn thing off.”

  Her crusty voice was untroubled. “When we finish.”

  “We are finished. Look, you can write mysteries, but don’t try to put me in the middle of one. Did Annie Darling send you to spy on me? I know what’s going on. I talked to the mayor. He told me all the lies about Everett are coming from Annie and that jerk she’s married to. That’s where the Gazette got all that stuff about Everett Hathaway being murdered. After I read that tripe, I called the bookstore. I’m going to tell her she better not mention my name to anybody if she knows what’s good for her.”

  “It isn’t ‘stuff’ in the Gazette.” Obviously Marian Kenyon had used the report put together by Henny and Annie and Max for a story in this afternoon’s Gazette and Doug Walker was making sure nobody could link him to an upstairs bedroom tryst with Nicole. “Marian’s a careful reporter.” Careful and clever. Emma was sure that Marian would be alert to slander or libel, but using the old reliable confidential sources, it would be easy to suggest Everett Hathaway had been lured to his death and to include hints about the note in his jacket pocket.

  “Nobody’s proved anything. And Annie Darling better keep her mouth shut.”

  Emma raised an eyebrow, held up the phone. “Are you threatening Annie?”

  He glared. “With libel. The mayor says there’s no proof a note to Everett ever existed.”

  Emma spoke quietly. “The woman who found the note was battered to death.”

  “They got the guy who did it. He stole her purse.” Doug’s tone was triumphant. “So there’s no scandal, nothing to any of that.”

  “But you came here with a chamois.” Emma was derisive. “And you insist there’s no scandal?”

  His face twisted in a smile. He waggled the supple leather. “No scandal at all, Emma.” His smile was arrogant and satisfied as he moved past her, strode to the elegant car.

  Hathaway Advertising occupied a Victorian house two blocks from Main Street. Turreted and gabled, it had recently been painted and the white shone even on a foggy afternoon. The heavy oak door boasted two inset art glass panels, a listening stag on a mountainside and a peacock flaunting a magnificent train of iridescent blue green plumage, as well as a collectible bronze doorknob and an ornate bronze letter drop.

  Annie opened the door and stepped into a hallway with a grandfather clock, an elegant ormolu mirror above a teak table, and a collection of silver pitchers in a breakfront. A distant silver bell chimed. Quick footsteps sounded.

  A petite middle-aged woman with shingled gray hair and wire-rim glasses smiled in welcome. “Hi, Annie.” Dolores Wright was a volunteer at Better Tomorrow on the weekends. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here for the Animal Welfare League today. Do you think I could see Trey Hathaway? I’m on the hunt for a missing dog.” Annie didn’t know Trey Hathaway. He hadn’t been back on the island long. She checked her image in the mirror, dusty blond hair, open and frank face, cream silk blouse, pearl necklace, and long gray skirt. Did she look respectable or what? “A cocker spaniel named Betsy. Someone thought they saw him in the area and I wanted to check and see if he might have seen her.”

  “Let me check. Everything’s a little hectic since Everett died. Trey’s taking care of a bunch of estate stuff for Nicole.” Dolores’s low heels tapped on the heart pine flooring as she hurried down the hall.

  In a moment, she returned. “He’ll see you.” She looked puzzled, almost spoke, then said simply, “The last door on the left.”

  The door was ajar. Annie pushed the panel and stepped inside.

  Trey Hathaway stood behind his desk, arms folded. He looked like a successful young professional in a blue blazer, sandy hair trimmed short, brown eyes alert. His distinctive Hathaway face—large forehead, high-bridged nose, high cheekbones, and pointed chin—was cold and unsmiling.

  The smile on Annie’s face slipped away.

  “Missing cocker?” His tone was sardonic.

  Annie felt kinship with a boater who hears the roar of falls ahead. But she might as well try. “Last night someone thought they saw you on a block where an elderly dog escaped from her pen. About nine o’clock.”

  “What block would that be?

  The current was running fast. Disaster loomed. “Barred Owl Road.”

  His brown eyes glittered. “Good try. But I wasn’t on Maggie Knight’s street last night.” He came around the desk, strode close to Annie, glared down. “Leslie told me all about the lady who came Tuesday and claimed someone knocked over Everett’s kayak. And a little while ago you showed up there with a survey. You didn’t get much, did you? Leslie and Nicole were home. And now this preposterous”—he jerked his thumb toward the Gazette lying spread out on his desk—“stuff about Maggie Knight seeing somebody take a message from our hall table. The story makes it sound like the arrest of the ex-con might be a mistake. I can tell you who’s making a mistake and that’s anyone who says somebody killed Everett.”

  Annie looked at him curiously. “It doesn’t bother you that your uncle was murdered?”

  For an instant uncertainty flickered in his eyes, then his face stiffened. “It bothers me that people are making stuff up.”

  Annie shrugged. “The woman killed at Better Tomorrow wasn’t making up the index card in Everett’s pocket. I know about that. I talked to her just a little while before she was killed. She described that card to me.”

  He wasn’t impressed. “So there was a card. Nobody knows what was in it.”

  “The card informed Everett that Nicole and Doug were meeting at the Carstairs house. It talked about a ‘scandal’ and ‘naming names.’” Annie knew she was expanding on Gretchen’s words, but she had no doubt that she was correct.

  He made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t care about an index card. The cops have arrested the guy who killed that woman.”

  Annie lifted her chin. “Since you are certain that Jeremiah Young is guilty of two murders, I’m sure you won’t mind saying where you were last night and the night your uncle died.”

  “Why not? Not that it’s any of yo
ur business. I work for a living. I was here both nights.”

  She turned to leave, then paused, said quickly, “You knew about Nicole and Doug.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t personally see them there.”

  Annie was certain that Leslie had delighted in telling him. Trey knew about Nicole and Doug. “You could have written the message on the index card, telling Everett to take a kayak to the bay.”

  Abruptly, he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting. You can show yourself out.”

  As she stepped into the hall, he added sardonically, “Good luck finding that cocker.”

  Emma looked up at the watercolors over the mantel. “I know that third book, but I can’t quite place it.”

  Annie was well aware that if the artist had depicted another main character, both Emmy and Henny would have identified the title at once. When the answers were revealed, she might face bitter complaints. But fair was fair. Henny and Emma were contest hogs. Almost always one of them solved the watercolors before any other readers. Neither had paid for a cup of coffee in a very long time.

  With a dreamy look, Laurel sipped her coffee, a concoction possibly unique in the annals of indulgence. “The grated maraschino cherries and chunks of Perugia chocolate make all the difference.”

  Annie drew the line at fruit floating in coffee.

  Emma stood with her back to the fire, mug firmly grasped. She looked like an analytical bulldog, square face squeezed in thought. “As Marigold brilliantly points out, ‘Murderers reveal themselves by apparently meaningless facts. Finally, when the strands are gathered, the hangman’s noose will dangle from the scaffold.’” Blue eyes steely, she gazed at Annie, then Laurel.

  Annie would have been more impressed, but the quote was verbatim from the finale of Emma’s most recent book, The Case of the Daring Dandelion.

  Confident that she’d mesmerized her audience, Emma proceeded to pontificate. “Of course, we must always, as Marigold—”

  Annie tried hard to maintain an attitude of intense interest even though she found Marigold Rembrandt about as charming as House in the TV series that was her least favorite.

  “—always emphasizes, remember that murderers lie—and so do the innocent!” Her tone was triumphant.

  Her smile angelic, Laurel murmured, “The Case of the Malingering Malamute.”

  Emma’s glance at Laurel was sharp.

  Laurel’s classically beautiful face was unmarred by even a hint of sarcasm. Indeed, her gaze was one of utter admiration.

  Mollified, Emma ticked off, “No alibis Tuesday night for Steve Raymond, Brad Milton, Nicole Hathaway, Leslie Griffin, Doug Walker, or Trey Hathaway.”

  “Right.” Annie felt glum. Emma could put the best face possible on the conclusion, but as a matter of fact, their efforts had put them no nearer a solution to the murder of Maggie Knight and the attack on Henny.

  Laurel clapped her hands together. “However, Annie’s visit to the Hathaway house resulted in a possibly critical piece of information. A chunk of damp mud indicated the green bike had been recently ridden.”

  Annie appreciated Laurel’s effort to find a ray of sunshine in a bleak landscape. But a chunk of mud didn’t name the rider.

  Laurel reached out to pat Annie’s hand, her blue eyes empathetic. “Never despair, my dear. Possibly tomorrow something may occur. Tonight we’ll think sunflower thoughts.”

  Emma reached for the huge mink coat she’d tossed carelessly over a chair. “Laurel has the right idea. Tomorrow one of us may have a brilliant insight.”

  Max added a log to the fire in the library. Flames danced.

  Annie watched with pleasure. As he knelt, lean and muscular in navy flannel pajamas, he was Joe Hardy handsome, blond, blue-eyed, strong featured. And hers. Even though this particular night was filled with worry, his presence made everything better.

  He turned, looked at her, smiled. “We’ll make something happen tomorrow.”

  She smiled in return. “That’s what Laurel said. Sort of.” Annie’s tone was dry. “Although I don’t know that ‘sunflower thoughts’ will be helpful.”

  “Sunflower thoughts,” Max mused. “As in, pluck petals and murmur, ‘He did it, she did it, he—”

  The phone rang.

  Annie reached for the mobile. As always she noted the caller ID: Nicole Hathaway. An eyebrow rose. She pointed at the desk. “Catch the extension.”

  She waited until Max held the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Annie?” Nicole’s voice was soft.

  “Yes.” She made her tone warm and welcoming.

  “This is Nicole.”

  Annie strained to hear.

  “I saw the story in this afternoon’s Gazette.” There was a quiver of shock in the whispered words.

  The newspaper lay on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Most readers would come away from Marian’s story convinced there was an ongoing mystery behind the murders of Gretchen Burkholt and Maggie Knight, and grave suspicion about Everett Hathaway’s death. Annie was sure that His Honor the Mayor was not pleased.

  “Trey said you weren’t really doing a survey. He said you were trying to find out where all of us were when Maggie was shot. Maggie shot… It’s so dreadful. I can’t think about Maggie without feeling sick. And she was shot last night… I thought you should know”—she took a quick breath—“Leslie wasn’t here last night. Wait. I think I hear—”

  Silence.

  Max cupped his hand over the receiver. “Annie, grab your cell. We might need to call nine-one—”

  A relieved sigh came through the night. “It’s okay. Leslie’s gone. I hear her car when it leaves. Last night I never heard her car”—Nicole sounded puzzled—“but about a quarter to nine Leslie’s dog barked. Crystal scratches the door when she wants to go out. If nobody comes, she barks. I heard Crystal and I thought it was funny, because if she was in Leslie’s room, Leslie should let her out. Sometimes Leslie forgets and shuts her in the room and someone else has to go get her. She barked again. I went out into the hall and sure enough Leslie’s door was closed. I knocked and Crystal really barked. I opened the door. Leslie wasn’t there. I went downstairs to let Crystal out. Leslie wasn’t anywhere. It was so odd. Her car was in the drive yet I couldn’t find her in the house. It wasn’t”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“a good night for walking. And she never walks… Oh, I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m so confused. Trey says it’s that handyman. That has to be right. They’ve arrested him.”

  The connection ended.

  There was no trace of the pale winter sun this morning. Instead, fog hung thick in the live oaks, made a dense cloud at the foot of their garden, hiding the pond. Max held her car door open. He spoke as if they hadn’t wrangled at breakfast over what to do. “Catching Leslie in a lie about Tuesday night may be as important as you think. But let’s sit on it for now. The arraignment’s tomorrow afternoon. Let me see if I can round up a quorum of the town council and set up a Skype call. If I can get the votes, Billy will be back on the job. We need him to follow up on Leslie.”

  Annie almost retorted that the chances of seeing Billy reinstated seemed slimmer than Laurel taking vows of—She broke off. Some comparisons were better left not only unvoiced but unthought. Max was remarkably intuitive.

  “That would be great.” She wondered if she sounded as hollow as she felt.

  “Then you’ll be at the store.” He sounded relieved.

  Annie offered a cheery smile. “That’s where I work.”

  “Annie—”

  She spoke quietly. “I am going to the store.” She tapped the folder in her left hand. “I am going to look over everything again. Maybe something will come to me. Maybe I’ll tear petals off of sunflowers.”

  He looked alarmed.

  “I wouldn’t,” she reassured him. The majestic flowers were living creatures to Laurel.

  Annie spooned fresh-minced chicken into Agatha’s bowl and looked at the magnificent bouquet of sunflowers in the bl
ue vase near the fireplace. Laurel had suggested sunflower thoughts. There was nothing sunny about envisioning a brash teenager as a killer. But Leslie was almost-eighteen-going-on-thirty-five. She wasn’t too young to make dreadful decisions. Annie’s thoughts swung back to the green bicycle and the fresh clump of mud on the pedal.

  With Agatha eating and purring, Annie poured a cappuccino. She reached for the folder she’d brought from home.

  The shocking creak of rusted hinges marked the opening of the front door. Annie had loved the Inner Sanctum sound when first installed, but on a foggy January morning, the hollow rasping was a little too scary for pleasure.

  However, it would be lovely if an actual customer had arrived, rare as that was in January. Annie put down her mug and started up the central aisle.