Death Comes Silently

by Carolyn G. Hart

  She stood here on a bleak misty morning because of Gretchen and Henny and Jeremiah, and now with a pang of regret, for Everett, who had come here to die.

  Annie carefully surveyed the small bay, similar to many that marked the lee side of the island, winter brown cordgrass intersected by channels to the open Sound. Four structures were visible, three on the north bank, one on the south. On the north bank, her eyes moved from a cabin on stilts, similar to Henny’s, to a modest but well-kept white frame to a rambling one-story brick house with framing up for a room addition on one side. The house on the south side was palatial, a two-story tiled-roof Mediterranean stucco with a stone terrace. Outdoor umbrellas on white wrought-iron tables were lashed for winter. A large boathouse looked cavernous and empty.

  Herring Gull Road, unpaved and rutted, served both sides of the bay. Wooden piers extended from each backyard. What drew Everett to this bay? One of the houses? The boat ramp? Was he meeting someone or looking for someone?

  Many areas on the island were suitable for people to meet clandestinely late on a December Friday night, the parking lot of any church, in the pavilion at the park that overlooked the main harbor, at the lumberyard. Yet Hathaway had taken out a kayak and come to this particular bay.

  If he intended to visit a house, why hadn’t he driven? Was he afraid the motor would be heard? In addition, although the road that served these houses was unpaved, driveways likely were covered by oyster shells. It would be difficult to arrive surreptitiously. Parking on the road would be immediately noticeable to anyone arriving at or departing from one of the houses.

  Annie pulled a note pad from her pocket. The big house to the south, 148 Herring Gull Road, belonged to Jefferson and Renee Carstairs. On the north bank, the rambling brick with bunches of pansies was 146 Herring Gull Road, home of Don Thornwall, who found the body. The small white frame house at 144 Herring Gull Road was the residence of Sheila Porter. The shabby cabin at 142 Herring Gull Road hadn’t been listed in the crisscross directory.

  Max Darling stared moodily at his wife’s photograph. Annie was hiding something from him. He addressed her smiling picture. “I may not be the most subtle guy in the world, but you might as well have hoisted hurricane warning flags.” A sudden gust of wind rattled a warped front window. The wind was picking up from the northeast. They might be in for a good blow in a day or so. “This morning you were lower than a pig’s belly, sure that you could have saved Gretchen if you’d hustled to Better Tomorrow and kept her company. That was based on Jeremiah’s guilt. By lunch time you were happier than Agatha with a cornered mouse. In between you learned something that convinced you of Jeremiah’s innocence. But, honey”—he was skeptical—“jumping to the conclusion that Everett Hathaway was murdered is a supersized leap.” He shook his head. “Okay, okay,” as if in answer to an indignant rebuttal.

  His face softened. Annie’s mantra had always been that it never hurt to ask. Sure, the answer can be no, but sometimes the answer is yes. If you don’t try, you’ll never know which.

  Max leaned back in his chair. If Everett Hathaway had been murdered, the crime had been cleverly devised, which indicated forethought and planning. The time, the weather, and the location precluded an accidental encounter and sudden quarrel. Premeditated murder indicated a strong motive and perhaps urgency. What had Everett done or threatened to do that resulted in his death?

  Max remembered Everett as something of a poseur, certainly not a figure of strength or power. The sooner he found out everything possible about Everett Hathaway and the people around him, the sooner he would know if Annie’s judgment was right.

  If Annie was right, they were tugging at the cover of a wily and dangerous murderer.

  6

  The Hathaway home was oriented to the prevailing south-westerly breezes, a Beaufort-style house with a two-story verandah and double entrance stairs. Stuccoed arches supported the verandah. Ionic capitals decorated the first level of columns, Corinthian the second. Made of tabby, the exterior was a calming sage green in summer, but dull and somber beneath today’s gray skies. The house had been built in 1803 by a rice planter and was on the register of historic homes. To one side at the end of a long drive sat a later-built triple garage with an upstairs apartment. At one time the apartment had been used by the family chauffeur. Those days were long gone.

  Henny well remembered Eddie Hathaway’s hospitality and generosity. In recent years he had made the garage apartment available at a low rent to military personnel or dependents. His father had been a marine and a lifelong supporter of the services. Eddie’s wife had been a founding member of Better Tomorrow. Everett’s wife, Nicole, wasn’t active in island charities, but she belonged to Ladies of the Leaf, the island’s most prestigious women’s book club. The invitation had been made because a Hathaway had always been a member. Henny had chatted with her several times. Nicole never expressed an opinion about a book. Instead she gazed wide-eyed and parroted the reviewer’s comments. Henny privately thought she was about as interested in literature as in quantum physics. In fact, Nicole once artlessly said, “Everett loves for me to come to book group. He thinks books are wonderful.” She hadn’t attended the luncheons the last few months.

  Henny hurried up the steps, pushed the brass lion’s head doorbell. Through the side window panels, the entry hall was dim. She waited for a full count of twenty, pushed again.

  The door opened in midpeal. A tall, angular woman with a straight brown hair and a dour face gazed at her without expression. Her black turtleneck was frayed at the cuffs and her long gray wool skirt had an uneven hem. Sturdy black oxfords hadn’t been polished in a long time. She carried a dust cloth in one hand. “May I help you?” There was no warmth in her voice.

  Henny was brisk. “I’m here to see Nicole.”

  Oyster shells crunched behind Henny in the drive. Brakes squealed.

  “Mrs. Hathaway hasn’t been down.” There was a flicker of interest in the housekeeper’s brown eyes. “If you want to leave your name, I’ll tell her you came by.”

  Not down… Henny didn’t need to check her watch to know that it was almost two o’clock. Not down?

  A car door slammed.

  Henny opened the screen door, ignoring the surprise in the housekeeper’s face. “She will see me.” Henny spoke with authority. “Tell her that Henny Brawley is here from Better Tomorrow and I have information that is of great importance to her.” She gave a regal nod. “I’ll wait in the drawing room.” She moved past the housekeeper, turned to her left into the huge and gracious room with old French furniture, a Chippendale mirror above a satinwood side table, an ornately stuccoed mantelpiece, and a faded Aubusson rug.

  Quick steps rattled across the verandah. The screen door opened.

  The housekeeper moved to the doorway of the drawing room. “She told me not to disturb her.”

  “Who doesn’t want to be disturbed?” The voice was young. The teenage girl in the entryway swung free from a backpack, dropped it to the floor, and used one suede boot to shove it to the corner. “You can take it up later, Mag.”

  The housekeeper’s face tightened, but she turned and bent to pick up the backpack. She spoke to the girl. “Mrs. Hathaway hasn’t come down today. She said she was resting and didn’t want to be bothered.”

  The girl shrugged out of a sunburst orange, high-collared fleece coat and scanned Henny with cool impudence. She tossed the coat onto a sideboard and stood with hands on her hips in a pose made provocative by a sleek sweater and tight jeans. “You don’t look like a bother.” She tilted her head to survey Henny. “Actually, you look like a schoolteacher. And, hey, I get out of school early because I have a job. Jay-oh-bee. I work part time at the family sweat shop. So I get to skip fifth hour. Anyway, what’s up with you and Nicole?”

  Henny was quite sure the girl didn’t care. She was simply using the moment for a splash of attention. Henny tabbed her as a brat, but sometimes brats could be useful. The flippant teenager had offered Henny a
perfect stage for a public announcement sure to be repeated within the family and guaranteed to destroy the complacency of a killer who felt free from discovery. “I’m here to see Nicole with information concerning the murder of her husband.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. Her rosebud mouth formed an O of shock. “Murder? What are you talking about? Everett drowned.” She stared at Henny, her body rigid.

  Henny was firm. “A murderer flipped him out of the kayak and left him to drown. I intend to inform Nicole.”

  “Wait a minute. Who said so? This is nuts. Who would kill Unc?” The girl stopped and clapped her hands together. “Oh, scratch that. I guess I know some candidates. Like his merry widow or his pissed-off nephew. And me.” Her tone was bright. “He was such a bore. But the last I heard, nobody ever got killed for being a bore.” She shook her head. “Somebody killing Everett is kind of like a bad joke.”

  Henny edged her voice with steel. “Murder isn’t a joke.”

  “Okay, lady. I get it. You’re serious. But who are you and how come you claim to know something nobody else knows?” Her tone was combative.

  “Henny Brawley. From Better Tomorrow. And you?”

  “Leslie Griffin.” A carefully penciled brow shot up. “Wait a minute. Somebody got killed at that place, right?”

  “The victim, Gretchen Burkholt, found an index card in the pocket of your uncle’s jacket that proved your uncle’s death wasn’t an accident. She called here yesterday and left a message that the card could be picked up. Someone came and killed her and the card is gone.”

  “Someone came… What the hell are you saying?” The girl scowled.

  Henny was unperturbed. “Gretchen left a message here, and within an hour she was dead and the card was taken.”

  “Are you claiming someone from here killed a woman?” The teenager’s voice wobbled.

  The housekeeper’s gaze slowly moved to a mahogany side table in the entryway. A white notepad lay next to a telephone.

  “That appears to be the case.” Henny let the silence expand and then said smoothly, “I’m sure the family will want to discover the truth. Now, I must see Nicole. Since I am connected with Better Tomorrow and learned the facts, I wanted to prepare her.”

  “Are the cops coming?” Leslie’s eyes were huge.

  “They have the information.” Henny spoke carefully. “I don’t know how they handle their investigations.”

  “Murder…” The girl shook her head. “That’s a bummer. I guess you better go up. Her room is on the second floor. Turn right. Third door on your left.”

  As Henny started up the steps, Leslie scooted ahead of her. At the top of the stairs, Leslie turned to face Henny. She pushed back a strand of blond hair. “If I had a minute, I’d go with you.” Her attitude was once again flip. “Not that I’m a big fan of Nicole’s, but this is better than CSI. Non-grieving widow gets jolt; husband murdered; who’s the guilty bastard? But I have to change. Cousin Trey insists on a skirt. If I didn’t find Hathaway Advertising a tad less boring than fifth hour, I’d chuck my jay-oh-bee in a heartbeat. Plus I get credit for an internship.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m running late. I can’t wait to tell Cousin Trey the reason why.” She whirled and hurried up the hall.

  Henny watched thoughtfully as a bedroom door closed. Definitely she wanted to talk to Leslie again and learn more about the non-grieving widow and the pissed-off nephew. She wondered if the comments were as artless as they appeared, simply another indication of teenage callousness, or whether Leslie intended to embarrass Nicole and her cousin. In any event, Henny felt pleased. She’d thrown a rock into a stagnant pool and the ripples had begun.

  Henny turned right, stopped at the third door on the left. The white panel was firmly shut. She knocked twice, eased the door open.

  A querulous voice wavered. “Go away.” Nicole slumped on a chaise longue in a rumpled pink silk robe with a coverlet drawn over her.

  “Nicole, Henny Brawley.”

  Nicole’s head twisted. She struggled to a sitting position. Her dark hair was tangled, her face pale, her blue eyes red-rimmed. She wore no makeup.

  Henny stepped inside the room. “I have to talk to you.” Henny felt a twist of uncertainty. Leslie didn’t think Nicole was grieving, but Nicole’s appearance reflected deep unhappiness. Henny knew that if she was intruding upon a widow’s grief, she would soon make the pain even more scalding.

  She had no choice.

  Drawn velvet drapes masked the massive windows at the front of the Mediterranean-style mansion. Annie walked up broad shallow steps. Lights glowed in several upper windows. The porch had been recently swept and was free of drifted leaves. A house such as this should have a staff, yet there was nothing but heavy silence.

  Annie pushed the front bell, faintly heard deep bongs. She waited, but she was not surprised when no one came. She walked down the steps, followed a bricked walkway around the side of the house to a broad terrace. As she crossed the stones, the click of her shoes sounded inordinately loud. She looked through French doors at furniture shrouded from dust.

  Not only was no one home this January afternoon, she felt certain the owners were far away on a sunny shore, possibly riding turquoise swells in the yacht that would have been kept in the massive empty boathouse she’d glimpsed earlier.

  She gazed at the bay. If this house had been Everett’s destination, he would have been able to meet someone very secretly indeed.

  Maybe Max had found out if Everett had a reason for a secret meeting.

  Or maybe she would find the answer in one of the houses across the bay.

  Max spread out several color prints of photographs of Everett Hathaway that he’d found online as well as some taken from the agency’s Facebook site. Overlong reddish brown hair framed a long face with a thin nose, high cheekbones, and sharp chin. He favored Tommy Bahama shirts and khakis in summer, a blue Oxford cloth shirt, tweed jacket, and worsted slacks. Max had gathered some telling observations from friends and acquaintances.

  His barber: “Everett only liked words most people never used. Like remiss and nubilous and lares and penates and hedonics. When you looked stupid, he was glad to explain them. He was always quoting somebody. Mostly it was dumb stuff, but recently he had one I thought was pretty good. According to Everett, somebody named Hill once said in a sermon, ‘Why should the Devil have all the good tunes?’”

  A fellow adjunct at Chastain College: “I always thought he was a stuffed shirt and then he surprised everybody by marrying a babe. She was in one of his classes. Nicole probably got confused when she enrolled, thought she was taking a class on antiques and landed in his eighteenth-century lit course.”

  A golfer at the country club: “Let’s just say he took life seriously. Very seriously.” A pause. “The man couldn’t go more than a couple of sentences without a quote. Once he was in a foursome and a player damn near had a seventeen-foot putt, but the ball hung on the lip and stayed there. Everett looked smug and came up to him, and for God’s sake, quoted Henry Fielding. ‘Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach to good.’ The guy looked like he wanted to wrap his putter around his neck. Everett didn’t spout a quote a day, it was a couple of quotes an hour. So maybe I shouldn’t put too much stock in it. But we had a few drinks the week before he died. He was at the bar in the country club late one night. I wondered what was what. I mean, my wife was out of town and I hate the house when she’s gone. Just me and the hoot of a screech owl. Anyway, I ended up talking to Everett. He’d had a little too much Scotch. Just before I left, and he wasn’t speaking too distinctly then, he said, ‘Ted, old buddy, Colley Cibber”—Max had later figured out the poet’s name by googling the quote—“‘summed it up.’ Everett’s eyes were big and owlish. He was just this side of seriously drunk. Anyway, he cleared his throat and said real precisely, ‘Oh, how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring!’ Man, I knew it was time to go home. But after he died—and that’s weird as hell because he wasn
’t any kind of boat jock—I kind of wondered if he planned an accident.”

  Max shook his head. Everett didn’t set out to die that night. The card in his tweed jacket clearly indicated, according to Gretchen, that there was a reason for the trip. The jaunt in the kayak had a definite purpose. But the golfer’s comments prompted him to add two questions to the list.

  9. Was Everett’s marriage in trouble?

  10. Did his widow inherit from a life-insurance policy?

  After a moment’s thought, he wrote:

  11. What was Everett’s financial situation and how does his death affect his survivors?

  Max circled the last question. In much of life, the dictum to follow the money made very good sense.