Hyla Harrison strode toward Annie. Instead of her khaki uniform, she wore a plaid flannel shirt, brown corduroy slacks, and brown leather loafers. Her dark red hair was drawn back in a tight bun. Her pale face was intense. Hyla always appeared intense. Hyla dropped into the store once or twice a week, always interested in police procedurals. Annie had a sheaf of critiques written in Hyla’s small, tight handwriting. Often the comments were scathing. Hyla had no tolerance for inaccuracies.
She stopped in front of Annie. “I’m off duty.” It was a grim, purposeful announcement.
Annie knew this wasn’t the moment to mention the new Liam Campbell mystery though Dana Stabenow was one of Hyla’s favorite authors. Instead, she waited with a sense that something big was happening.
There was a pulse of uncertainty and anguish in Hyla’s face, then she said gruffly, “I’ve always done everything by the book.” She gazed at the bookshelves. “Not those kind of books.”
Annie understood that no slight was intended. “I know.”
“That plumber’s shut us down. The case is finished, he said.” Her words were clipped, her eyes hot with anger. “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t study the files. The chief—”
She meant Billy Cameron.
“—had decided Hathaway was a homicide, that somebody intercepted him in a boat, dumped him out of the kayak. The chief was going to wring out the family.” She gave a decided nod. “That’s always the place to start. There’s more money and more murder inside a family than out. The family has a boat, but apparently it didn’t go out that night. But”—she leaned forward—“we got a call Saturday morning, an abandoned boat on Treasure Creek. A bird-watcher found it. Could’ve been there for weeks otherwise.”
Annie waited, scarcely daring to breathe.
“I went out.” Hyla drew a sheet of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Annie. “That creek threads off a marsh around a headland from the bay where Everett drowned. Isolated spot. No houses. Boat belonged to Gordon Sanders. It turned out they always left the keys in it. Somebody took the boat Friday night. They don’t know when. In fact they didn’t know it was gone until I got the registration number and called them. So the boat was stolen. I looked it over pretty carefully. Nothing trashed, no whisky bottles, no food wrappers. That didn’t look like kids out on a joy ride. And who steals a boat on a cold winter night? I had my evidence kit with me. I decided to check the wheel for prints.” Hyla’s pale green eyes glittered. “Clean as a polished mirror. That gave me a funny feeling. How come? It was cold that night. You’d think anybody would have worn gloves. But what if a glove got wet?”
Annie was puzzled. “Wet?”
Hyla’s pale eyes gleamed. “Boat lights pick up the kayaker. Maybe there’s a call. Maybe not. Maybe the boat just slides up to the kayak and the driver leans out with a gaff, pokes. Hathaway flips out. Water splashes up. Hathaway’s churning in the water. More splashes. The gaff’s pulled back, but the glove’s drenched. It’s too cold to keep on a wet glove. Everett tries to reach the kayak. The gaff again. This time the hook pulls the kayak out of his reach. Pretty soon Hathaway’s weakening. Time to get rid of the boat. But the thief takes off that wet glove and that’s how prints got on the wheel and the wheel had to be polished. That’s my take.” Her eyes narrowed. “One other funny thing. After I didn’t find prints on the wheel, I went over that boat real carefully. On the back starboard rail, I found a scrape that looked fresh. Speckles of green paint. I lifted them.” She looked thoughtful. “I figured the thief had something stowed in the back and gashed the rail when hauling it out. There are no lights on Treasure Creek. It would’ve been dark as a cavern. But”—she sounded regretful—“the mark wasn’t real noticeable. I took some pics, just in case. I also found some threads snagged on the railing. I figured somebody left in a hurry and a sweater or jacket got caught on the railing. I took the material into evidence, too. Anyway”—she took a deep breath—“I figure if it comes to it”—she was deliberately obscure—“that lawyer—”
Annie wasn’t surprised that Hyla knew Handler Jones had been hired by Max to defend Jeremiah.
“—might want some testimony about a boat one of these days. I did some follow-up work this morning. The names are all in the file, the people the chief intended to check out, the widow and her lover, the nephew, the niece, her boyfriend, and Brad Milton. I called Mrs. Sanders, told her I needed to run some names by her, that we had some fingerprints from the boat theft and we needed to eliminate people who had been out with them. Turns out that Doug Walker had never been on the boat or, of course, Leslie Hathaway’s boyfriend, Steve Raymond. However, Nicole Hathaway, Trey Hathaway, Leslie Griffin, and Brad Milton were familiar with the boat and could know that the Sanders never took out the keys. Of course, Nicole could have told Doug Walker and Leslie could have told Steve Raymond. So”—the thin taut woman turned her hands palms up—“I didn’t prove anything except”—her jaw jutted—“any one of them might have taken the boat. That’s all I know for now. Since the station’s dead as a belly-up mackerel, I’m taking a few days off. Maybe things will get better.” She swung about and marched toward the door, her shoulders stiff beneath the plaid wool shirt.
As the creak of rusty hinges signaled Hyla’s departure, Annie walked slowly back to the coffee bar. She stepped behind the counter, poured out the cold cappuccino. She felt a flicker of excitement. Everything Hyla had discovered made it likely that the stolen boat had been used the night Everett drowned.
Annie retrieved the island directory from the back office. The Sanders house was within the island’s gated community. There would be so little traffic on a late December night that nonresident cars would be noticeable. Moreover, she pictured the address. She knew that area. Residents put up their cars in three- and four-car garages. There wouldn’t be any place to park that might not be noticed. How did the murderer get to the boat?
Green paint…
Annie’s eyes widened. Maybe, just maybe… She hesitated, should she call Max, tell him? No, it wouldn’t hurt to look first. Then there would be more to go on. Abruptly, Annie whirled, grabbed her jacket and purse, and, at the last minute, the folder with their point-by-point summary of what they knew, and hurried through the store. In the parking lot, she opened the driver’s door. Four sunflowers with fuzzy-appearing leaves fluffed around a pale green center were propped in the passenger seat. As Annie slid behind the wheel, she smiled and reached out to touch the head of the nearest bloom.
Max read the text from town council member Roland Dubois somewhere in the Galapagos: Hm nxt wk—no Skyp avlbl—dmn big trtls—
Max leaned back in his big leather chair. Dubois hadn’t committed to supporting Billy Cameron. Did Dubois have some business dealings with the mayor? Max frowned. Billy Cameron needed Dubois’s vote. Max turned to his computer, clicked a half dozen times, brought up the contributor list for the mayor’s last campaign. Roland Dubois was a heavy hitter, ponying up twenty-five hundred dollars.
Dubois was the swing vote.
Something had to break before the town council meeting. Max pushed up from his chair, headed for the door.
Annie drove slowly in the fog. She passed the Hathaway house. The only car in the drive was the black Lexus, which very likely had belonged to Everett. Apparently no one was at home. Trey should be at work and Leslie at school. Nicole could be anywhere from the grocery to the beauty shop.
Annie parked around a curve, out of sight from the Hathaway house. Though grateful for the patchy fog, she still felt as if a spotlight were trained on her. She now better appreciated the challenge faced by the murderer in attempting to remain invisible. Strange cars in quiet neighborhoods were as noticeable as blinking neon. She walked swiftly around the curve.
The dead man’s Lexus was a powerful reminder of danger. Annie was sure that Everett had no sense that the hours of his life were dwindling down when he parked the car for the last time.
Annie kept to the edge of a pine grove
, at the last minute slipped across the drive to the bike shed. Fog shrouded the house. She moved close to the green bike. She glanced at the ten-speed. It would have been faster but it takes some skill and familiarity to ride a ten-speed. Of the three remaining bikes, only the green bike was in riding shape. Hyla had lifted green paint flakes from the railing of a stolen motorboat. Annie had found a clump of damp mud on a pedal of the green bike. Annie slipped nearer. After a swift glance to be sure she was unobserved, she started at the front of the bike, looking inch by inch at the frame.
She almost missed the shallow scrape on the rear wheel fender. The mark flared like an open fan. The paint chips could be compared. That would prove a connection between the Hathaway house and the stolen boat. She frowned in thought, tried to imagine the murderer’s actions the Friday night that Everett died. A bicycle was useful for traveling unnoticed because bike paths usually cut through woods. But that night Leslie, Trey, and Nicole each had driven away from the house shortly after Everett walked out on the dock.
Did any of the cars have a bike rack? If not, it was easy enough to slip a bike into the back of a Mini Cooper or the trunk of a sedan. Then the murderer’s car could be left where it would not be noticed, perhaps in the parking area that served as a hub for many of the bike trails at this end of the island. Hop on the bike, ride into the gated area on a trail, avoiding the checkpoints, take the motorboat. The bike was swung into the back of the boat. Annie abruptly understood. There was no intention, obviously, of returning the boat, but the craft had to be left somewhere. At that point, the murderer needed a way to get back to a parked car.
Annie visualized lifting the bike over the boat rail. The scrape could have occurred either at the beginning or end of the journey. It was much more likely at the end. The boat had been abandoned in a remote area with no lights. It would be easy to bang the railing with the rear fender.
The bike was ridden to a vehicle, once again carried back to the Hathaway house, returned to the bike rack.
When the shocking call came from Better Tomorrow, how easy to hop on the bike for the short trip through the woods. No cars had been heard at Better Tomorrow or Maggie Knight’s house or Henny’s cabin. A bike was the perfect explanation for the murderer’s silent arrival.
Who rode the bike?
Either Leslie Griffin or Nicole Hathaway had lied about Tuesday night. It was also possible that Trey had not been at his office or Brad Milton at his construction firm or Steve Raymond driving aimlessly around the island or Doug Walker at home.
Annie felt a twist of disappointment. All she had was the bike. She never doubted that paint flecks lifted by Hyla Harrison would match the scrape. Proving the bike had been in the stolen boat bolstered the claim that Everett had been murdered, but it didn’t give a lead to a definite suspect.
A crow cawed. She looked up. A half dozen silky black, hawk-sized birds roosted in a live oak. The raucous caw came again, but she couldn’t discern which crow warned her, just as she had no link to a silent, elusive killer.
She walked away, fog twisting around her. Visibility was decreasing. Soon it would be a challenge to drive. But she knew the roads and would find her way.
Somehow she had to find the road that led to a killer.
The crow’s caw followed her into the mist.
14
Marian Kenyon dribbled peanuts into her Pepsi can. Her eyes shone. She glanced at her steno pad and neat block-letter notes. “Ten thou. That might shake loose some info.”
Max held a mug of coffee. “A reward seems like our only hope now.”
Marian’s dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “If it helps to poke a beehive, yesterday’s story has ’em buzzing. I’ve even had a couple of calls from Brice Posey. He may be as stuffed as a moose head above a fireplace, but even he can see there may be chinks in the case. However, the mayor’s doubling down. He’s scheduling another news conference at four, and my sources tell me it will be an attack on ‘the infamous local scandal sheet and its scurrilous exploitation of tragic events.’ In case you don’t make the connection, that’s the Gazette and I am the equivalent of Axis Sally.” She gazed at Max as she drank Pepsi and chewed peanuts, a Southern skill. “In case ditto, Axis Sally broadcast propaganda over Radio Berlin during World War II. Too bad hizzoner can’t tell the difference between in-depth reporting and propaganda. I was scrupulous to attribute information to confidential sources, which tells any savvy reader that somebody had an axe to grind and the assertions may or may not be true. No damn opinions in my stories. I got a great quote from Handler Jones emphasizing that serious allegations had been made about the course of the investigation and there appeared to be information that should be considered a matter of interest to authorities.” She was complacent as a Persian cat licking cream from its lips. “Which, when sanity returns to our golden isle, will certainly be true.” She glanced up at the clock on the dingy plaster wall of the Gazette break room, finished the Pepsi, grabbed the half-empty Planters bag and notebook. “I better get back to work. A boxed story about a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to an arrest in the murders of Everett Hathaway, Gretchen Burkholt, and Maggie Knight will probably run above the fold. Maybe next to a picture of the mayor.” She gave Max a thumbs-up before she turned away.
Annie sat behind the wheel, stared unseeing at eddying fog. She’d discovered something important, but the bike wasn’t enough to help Jeremiah, even if its presence in the stolen boat was confirmed. Somehow the murderer had to be flushed.
Her lips curved in an ironic smile. Oh, sure. That was easy, wasn’t it? Okay, maybe not easy, but nobody ever won by giving up. She picked up the folder from the passenger seat. Maybe if she looked at what they knew one more time…
Annie read each point thoughtfully, weighing whether there was anything else that could be discovered. With that criteria, her eyes widened as she read, then reread numbers six and eleven: number six—In phone messages to Annie Darling, Gretchen emphasized the card “named names” and exposed a “scandal” and spoke of “tonight.” Number eleven—It isn’t known when Hathaway received the index card. A member of the household could have left the card in his room or car, or he may have received the card at his office Friday morning. He missed an appointment at an art gallery. When the owner called, Hathaway seemed upset.
The note spoke of “tonight.” That implied that the note had been written on Friday, that the decision to lure Everett out into the bay vulnerable in a kayak had been reached that very day.
Had Everett received the index card that morning at the house? If not, it was reasonable to conclude the card reached him at the office.
Annie knew she might be so desperate for a way forward that she was foreseeing a tantalizing possibility that might not exist. Yet, if she could determine where and when the card arrived, if there was a particular moment in time that the card reached Everett, it meant the murderer, unseen, had been present. Of course, the card could have been slipped under his bedroom door or left in the front seat of his car. If that was the case, the delivery could have been unseen by anyone. But if he received the card at his office when others were around, someone might have seen someone nearby. Everything depended upon when and where Everett received the card. He had been upset at the office, forgetting an appointment that mattered to him, so sometime after breakfast and before his appointment, the card had come.
Annie plucked her cell from her purse. As always she knew the quickest route to information. She tapped a familiar number.
“Yo, Annie.” Marian Kenyon’s raspy voice sounded bright and eager. “You just missed your best chum. He’s offering a ten thou reward for information regarding the homicides so he’ll be busy fending off nutcases. But maybe the chaff will hold some wheat. What’s up?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Right now, what’s Nicole Hathaway’s cell number?”
“Hold on.” A rustle. “Here it is.”
Annie wrote down the number. “Thanks, Marian. Got—
”
“Not so fast. Give me a heads-up.”
“—to go. Nothing solid yet. You’ll be the first to know.” As soon as the line cleared, she tapped the number.
“Hello.” Nicole’s voice was cautious.
Annie said quickly, “Nicole, you’ve been a great help in trying to figure everything out. My question is really simple. Did you see Everett that Friday morning before he went to the office?”
“Yes.” Nicole sounded as if she stood at the edge of a yawning pit filled with crocodiles.
“Was he in a good mood?”
“Oh.” Nicole’s relief was palpable. “Actually, he was happy. He was looking forward to picking up a painting from Esteban. That’s what he talked about it. The painter was some California artist. I don’t remember the name. He enjoyed his breakfast and he told Maggie how good the cheese grits were.” A pause. “I’m glad. I like to remember him that way. A long time ago, that’s how he was. He was whistling when he went out to his car. But when he came home that afternoon, he slammed into the house without a word to me. Dinner was awful. He never looked at me, didn’t say a word. He and Leslie quarreled. I’ve never seen anyone as angry as she was.” There was a pause. “But she’s only a teenager.” The last was scarcely audible.
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