Fertile. If anyone ever knew about… Annie wrenched her mind away from any consideration of her oft-married mother-in-law’s romantic proclivities as well as sunflower trivia. There was much to be done…
The next hour passed in a frantic blur, food served, spilled iced tea mopped up, a controversy as to seating settled, cell phones hopefully turned off, and finally spiky-haired Emma Clyde in a caftan that looked like a cross between a ship’s billowing sail and a flannel nightgown rose majestically to her feet. Stalwart, sturdy, stern-visaged, self-absorbed, and a sponge for attention, Emma looked benignly at her audience. “Marigold Rembrandt and I”—she might have been describing royalty—“have perhaps enjoyed our finest moment—”
Annie watched with a cool gaze. Was Emma grandiose or what?
Emma’s knife-sharp blue eyes paused in their sweep of the room.
Annie promptly rearranged her face in what she devoutly hoped would pass as an entranced expression.
“—in The Case of the Convivial Cat. Marigold once again takes Inspector Houlihan to task as she insightfully, really quite brilliantly—”
Annie maintained her pleasant expression. Implicit was the premise that Marigold was simply a reflection of the incredible sagacity of author Emma Clyde.
“—follows the cunningly inserted clues—”
Annie’s cell phone rang. She’d been thrilled when Duane Webb had downloaded the Inner Sanctum creak to serve as her ringtone, mirroring the sounds when Death on Demand’s front door opened, but the piercing squeal blared in the hushed quiet of the bookstore.
Emma came to a full stop. Her icy blue eyes slitted. She folded her sturdy arms across her chest and gazed at Annie with a stony expression.
Annie fumbled in her pocket. Creeaaak… She’d gone from table to table and pled with charm for all cell phones to be turned off. How could she have forgotten her own?
Phone in hand, she flipped it open, whispered, “I can’t talk now…”
Emma waited, the Empress Dowager contemplating a lower life form.
Some of the ladies turned to stare. A few made disapproving murmurs.
Annie heard a familiar semihysterical voice. “Annie, you have to come… Such a fright always… I don’t think I can stay here with that big hulking brute… and”—her voice puffed with self-importance—“I have to decide what to do about that index card that I found…”
Annie took a deep breath. Gretchen Burkholt lived in a world of extreme stress, a gentle rain heralded a nor’easter, any stray cat was surely rabid, the potato salad at the picnic might harbor salmonella… Annie and Gretchen were among volunteers at Better Tomorrow, the island charity shop, which offered groceries, clothing, job tips, firewood, help with bills, and encouragement to those in a financial bind. Better Tomorrow’s client base had swelled during the recent bad times. Gretchen had switched volunteer slots today so Annie could host the luncheon and book event. Therefore, Annie was in no position to be abrupt.
Emma cleared her throat. Emphatically.
Annie heard snatches of Gretchen’s increasing frenzied patter. “…I always check the clothing, especially when someone’s recently deceased… family members can be too distraught… and everyone was so puzzled that he was out there…”
Annie broke in, hating to be rude, but she had to end the distraction before Emma rose and departed with the grace of an offended rhinoceros. “Gretchen, sorry. Have to go. Call back. Leave me a message. As soon as the signing’s over”—anything to be free—“I’ll do whatever you want.” She ended the call, clicked off the phone, dropped it in her pocket.
“I’m very sorry. Unexpected call. I forgot to turn my phone off.” This last in a mumble. “Now I know Emma will forgive me and share with you the wonderful”—great emphasis—“scene where Marigold Rembrandt”—Annie always did her duty and had read the new book even though she loathed the supercilious redheaded sleuth—“realizes in the nick of time that the inverted coffee cup means that Professor Willingham is not what he seems to be.”
It was touch and go. Finally, almost graciously, Emma resumed her talk. Fortunately, discussing herself or her work always put Emma in a great good humor.
Peace reigned at Death on Demand. Imperious Emma, pleased by adulation and substantial book sales, had departed. A huge sunflower in a vase on the coffee bar was the only evidence of Laurel’s earlier presence. The book club ladies had spilled into the wintry afternoon, clutching filled book bags, ready to cap their island visit by a thorough survey of other marina shops. The tables had been cleared.
Annie lifted a cappuccino in a toast to Henny Brawley, longtime customer and mystery connoisseur. Henny was not only a good friend, she always offered an extra hand at special events. “Thanks, Henny. You were great.”
Ingrid nodded in agreement. “To help with cleanup is above and beyond.” She also raised her cup, a steaming Kona brew with a dash of raspberry sauce.
“You are very welcome.” Henny’s well-modulated voice reflected her accomplishments as a valued actress in local theater productions. “You know it’s my pleasure. Emma was… Emma.” Her tone was amused.
The three women exchanged understanding glances. Emma Clyde was a terror.
Henny’s smile was wicked. “I wish you could have seen your face, Annie, as you tried to disengage from that call.”
Annie sat bolt upright. The phone call… “Gretchen subbed for me this afternoon at Better Tomorrow. I told her to call back and leave a message. There’ve been a couple of calls. I had it on vibrate.” As she spoke, Annie retrieved the messages, lifted the phone to listen.
Ingrid murmured to Henny, “It’s good that Emma didn’t have a dagger!”
Gretchen didn’t bother with a salutation in the second call. “Hope you can come pretty soon… really awkward… Maybe it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie… Oh, there he is again”—the voice dropped to a whisper—“always clumping in and looking mean…” A long silence. “He’s gone back out.” She spoke normally. “I don’t want to be here alone with him any more… I’m going to tell Henny. If she doesn’t schedule somebody with me, I’m not coming back… Anyway, I don’t know what to do about the card… I heard the police or maybe it was the Coast Guard asked anyone with information to contact them… Nobody saw him leave the house…”
Annie concentrated. What on earth was Gretchen talking about?
“…but the card makes it clear… No wonder he took the kayak out without telling anyone… I don’t want to cause trouble, but I think I should let the family know… Of course that’s what I should do…”
The call ended.
Her second message, left twenty-six minutes later, began, “I told the housekeeper.” Gretchen sounded disappointed. “It would have been nicer if I could have spoken to Mrs. Hathaway, but the maid said she was out. Anyway, I hope the maid got everything straight. I mentioned the names in the note, but I didn’t want to say too much. That wouldn’t have been right. I tried to be tactful.” She sounded plaintive. “I explained I was going through Mr. Hathaway’s clothes and found a very personal message in the pocket of a jacket. I told her the card seemed connected to his going out that night in the kayak. Well, obviously it was. There were several names and one of them was in a different handwriting. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what that meant. I mean, the card named names, said what was happening ‘tonight.’” Her tone put the word in quote marks. “No wonder he went out in the kayak. A scandal really…”
Annie now understood Gretchen’s mention of the Coast Guard. Two weeks earlier, well-known island resident Everett Hathaway’s dead body, buoyed by a life vest, had been found floating not far from his overturned kayak. An autopsy listed drowning due to unconsciousness as a result of hypothermia as the cause of death.
“I know the note to Everett is important because I found it in the pocket of the tweed jacket he wore the day he died. I saw him that last day in the jacket, a blue-flecked tweed with blue leather buttons. You know how he dressed. He alw
ays wanted to look like he was a Brit. Anyway, he died that night… The note was in the right pocket. Obviously that wasn’t what he wore in the kayak. Jeans and a warm jacket probably. Anyway”—Gretchen’s tone was bright—“I said the note and some coins and a pocketknife were here and could be picked up anytime. I have them on the table in the sorting room. So, that’s that. Oh.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Here he is again. He scares me. When the signing’s over, please come and keep me company.”
The connection ended.
Annie gave an exasperated sigh. She took a hearty sip of her now lukewarm cappuccino. “Gretchen’s more trouble than she’s worth.” Her smile at Henny was rueful. “I should have asked you to take my turn, but I wanted you here today.” Henny both volunteered and scheduled volunteers at Better Tomorrow. “Gretchen claims she’s scared of Jeremiah. I’ll admit he’s scruffy. That straggly brown hair under a ratty do-rag makes him look like a mean biker, and sometimes he doesn’t shave.”
Henny looked concerned. “Has Jeremiah done anything to frighten Gretchen?”
“He clumps when he walks inside.” Annie’s tone was dry.
“Oh, horror.” Ingrid was disdainful.
“She wants me to come over.” Annie swung down from the coffee bar stool. It would be pleasant to be out in the cool late afternoon. “I don’t mind. She did me a favor.”
2
Better Tomorrow’s location wasn’t ideal. A twisting blacktop road led to an old wooden house framed by pines. Island entrepreneur Ben Parotti provided the structure on the north end of the island at no cost. There were no near neighbors, but several paths and a rutted dirt road helped make the property accessible to that impoverished part of the island. The late afternoon sun sank behind the towering loblolly pines, plunging the road into deep shadow. For an instant the Thunderbird’s headlights framed a doe before she plunged into the woods.
The house came into view and Annie slowed. Thick woods bounded the small area. Neatly corded firewood was stacked on the north side of a small oyster shell parking lot. Tree limbs waiting to be split were piled to one side of a rattletrap pickup that belonged to the charity. There was room for perhaps a half dozen cars. The only other vehicle was Gretchen’s Chevy. Monday was usually a slow day. Clients flooded in toward week’s end for food and help with rent money.
Annie parked her red Thunderbird next to the Chevy. She was relieved that Gretchen hadn’t deserted her post, though Annie suspected her anxiety about Jeremiah had more to do with self-dramatization than actual fear. In fact, Gretchen had likely enjoyed her afternoon thoroughly, from the discovery of an index card she considered scandalous in Everett Hathaway’s jacket to self-induced shivers whenever Jeremiah appeared.
Annie smiled as she crossed the dusty ground toward the front porch. Ben had invested some of his profits from Parotti’s Bar and Grill and his ferry to the mainland in island real estate. Ben kept the house in good repair. The porch steps had recently been replaced and a new sink installed in a back workroom.
She paused on the second step. The front door was wide open. She frowned. The house had no central heating, depending upon electric heaters. In December and January volunteers wore heavy wool sweaters and slacks and joked about those who only serve and freeze. Everyone was careful to shut the door firmly, keeping inside the precious warmth.
She opened the screen. A bell clanged, its purpose to alert a volunteer busy in the back of the house that someone had arrived. Annie paused in the open doorway. The lights were turned off. “Gretchen?” She stepped inside, one hand fumbling for the switch.
Light flooded the one-time living room. Filing cabinets and a long trestle table with two donated computers sat to the right. Clothes racks for men, women, and children filled the left side of the room. A hallway led to former bedrooms. One was now a pantry; the second held toys, small appliances, and electronic castoffs; the third served as a sorting room; the fourth as a storeroom.
“Gretchen?” Her voice sounded loud in the stillness. Instead of Gretchen’s hurried, twittery voice, there was only silence. “Gretchen?” No response. Not a rustle or a squeak. The quiet was broken only by the distant sounds of pines soughing in the breeze, crows cawing.
Annie stepped slowly forward. The old wooden floor creaked. “Gretchen?”
The landline phone pealed.
Annie stared down the hallway. If Gretchen were in the bathroom, surely she would hear and come.
The phone rang, once, twice, a third time…
Annie heard the wobble in her voice as she called out again. “Gretchen? Jeremiah?” Jeremiah should be here, chopping wood, preparing boxes of food, repairing toys.
Annie listened with every fiber of her being. Long ago a policewoman had advised her: Never ignore fear. If you sense danger, get help, run, shout, scream.
Annie felt her body tremble. Something was wrong. The quiet was too intense. She did not sense a human presence. She would know deep inside if someone else were in the silent house. Her hand slipped to her pocket. She pulled out her cell. She could call the police. Mavis Cameron, police chief Billy Cameron’s wife, was the dispatcher. Mavis would send a car pronto. Yet Annie had a rock-deep certainty that no one else was near. She was alone in this silent place.
Annie forced herself forward, cell phone in hand. She stiffened each time the floor creaked. She heard the sound of her quick, shallow breaths, recognizing the whistle of fear. She opened the pantry door. Everything was as it should be, foods arranged on shelves, packed boxes stacked to the left of the door. It took only an instant to check the opposite room with small appliances and electronics arranged on several tables. Straight ahead was the bathroom and another hallway to the right. The bathroom door was open. Annie made a right turn, stopped.
A smear of blood stained the worn wooden floor.
She lifted the cell phone.
“Browar—”
“Mavis. Annie Darling.” She struggled to talk. “I’m at Better Tomorrow. Blood…” The door to the sorting room was ajar. Annie carefully edged past the blood. She never doubted the smudges were blood. The color was too red, too bright to be anything else. In the grip of horror, Annie used her elbow to push the door wide. She had to look. Whatever had happened, Gretchen or someone was hurt. “Send someone.” Her voice was quick and harsh. “There’s blood…” Annie sagged against the doorjamb. There would never be time again for Gretchen Burkholt. “She’s dead…”
Annie clung to the porch railing, used the support to stay upright. Gretchen had subbed for her… Gretchen had subbed for her… Gretchen had subbed for her…
Sirens shrieked. Two patrol cars jolted to a stop in the dirt road, short of the parking lot. The forensic van pulled up behind Billy Cameron’s unmarked black Ford SUV. Doors opened. Chief Cameron strode toward the house, a forty-five in his hand. In the light streaming from the living room, he looked big and tough, ready for any eventuality.
“Gretchen’s dead. The axe…” She stopped, shuddered. “I made sure. No pulse. You can’t have any pulse when your head…” She tried not to remember. She never wanted to remember. She would never forget.
“Any trace of the perp?” His eyes scanned the porch, the woods.
Numbly, Annie shook her head.
Billy turned and gestured to the officers in the yard, several staring hard-faced at the building, ready to serve as backup. Sergeant Harrison, her thin face intent, surveyed the woods, alert and tense, her gun in hand. “Harrison, secure a perimeter, set up spotlights, conduct a ground search. Mavis”—he nodded at his wife, who also headed up the forensic team—“bring Doc inside when he arrives.”
Annie concentrated on thinking about police procedure, the search that would begin at the edges of the property, slowly draw in to the structure. The careful survey Billy would make when he walked through Better Tomorrow. He would see what she had seen, but, once he confirmed that the victim was dead, further investigation would await a formal declaration of death by Dr. Burford, the medical
examiner. The body could not be moved until Doc arrived.
Billy looked at Annie. “Where did you find her?”
“Down the hall. To the right.” Again dreadful images rose. She pressed fingers against her temples, willing the stark pictures away. She focused her mind on Billy, blond hair frosted with white, blunt face etched by good times and bad, observant blue eyes that now, as he worked, looked remote.
“Anyone else here?”
She started to shake her head, stopped. “Jeremiah Young should be here. He’s the handyman. I haven’t seen him. I called for Gretchen and for him. No one came.” Her voice was thin. “He’s the one who chops wood. I don’t know if that’s his axe…” She broke off. No one would ever use that axe again.
Billy cupped his free hand to his mouth. “Harrison, check the property for the handyman. Jeremiah Young. He has a record.” That was a warning. Step carefully. Possible danger.
Death Comes Silently Page 3
