Death Comes Silently

by Carolyn G. Hart

  17. Appraisal of possible suspects:

  –Nicole Hathaway—emotionally vulnerable, depressed by her lover’s rejection, no evidence of grief for her dead husband.

  –Doug Walker—appears focused solely on himself and his family. Beneath a Realtor’s surface charm, abrasive and aggressive.

  –Leslie Griffin—immature, self-absorbed, callous.

  –Trey Hathaway—mercurial temperament, quick to anger.

  –Steve Raymond—enjoys a bad-boy image, but Ben Parotti thought he was a decent kid.

  –Brad Milton—big, tough, Eddie’s friend, not Everett’s.

  “Number two. That’s what matters.” Annie was emphatic.

  Paper rustled as Max and Henny checked.

  “There was a boat in the bay the night Everett died!” Annie popped to her feet. At the fireplace, she grabbed a poker and thumped a log. “No one in the bay owns a motorboat.” She thumped again. Embers swirled. “It was a cold and miserable winter night. Obviously no one took a boat out on a pleasure jaunt.” Another thump. “When we find who drove that boat, we’ll have the murderer.”

  Henny didn’t look hopeful. “The Hathaway boat wasn’t taken out that night.”

  Annie didn’t ask if Henny was sure. Henny would be very certain before she made that statement. “Then we’ll have to see if the people involved had access to another boat.”

  Max spoke quickly. “Brad Milton doesn’t have a boat now.”

  Annie refused to be discouraged. “There was a boat.” Her tone was stubborn. “As far as I’m concerned, a boat in the bay that night proves Everett was murdered.”

  “Post hoc, ergo propter hoc,” Max murmured.

  Annie rehung the poker with a clang. “Logic is as logic does.”

  Henny laughed aloud. “Ah, Pam.” Before Annie could object, Henny said quickly, “We may not have a lead to the boat, but I think Maggie knows who took that message from the hall table.” She frowned. “I warned her that it could be dangerous. She said she wasn’t fool enough to go out in a kayak. That’s the first thing I want to tell Billy tomorrow. He needs to talk to Maggie. Let’s meet at the station at nine in the morning.”

  The right wiper clacked and stuck, leaving that portion of the windshield obscured by the mist. Henny drove carefully but confidently, her headlights piercing the pitch dark of the sodden January night. Tomorrow she’d get new wipers. Maybe she’d drop by the Gas ’N’ Go, see if Steve Raymond was working. Over the past few years, she’d regularly substituted at the high school, and she remembered Steve Raymond. Most women from seven to seventy would remember Steve. That observation would please him. She wasn’t surprised that Leslie was infatuated or that Everett had objected. Steve moved with easy grace, athletic and masculine. There was insolence in the smooth contours of his face and a taunt in his golden eyes.

  Henny curved around a pothole and turned into her drive, glad to see lights shining through her uncurtained windows. Tomorrow she’d replace the bulb on the front porch, but there was enough light to get her up the steps safely. She parked and felt a flood of contentment. A day which had begun so terribly—leaving Jeremiah marooned on that small hammock, hoping against hope that she could somehow find proof of his innocence—was ending with a sense of confidence.

  She opened the door. She stepped out, then made a vexed noise. She wanted to take the folder inside. She turned and bent to reach for the folder.

  A sharp crack sounded. The window in the driver’s door exploded. Another crack.

  Henny’s ear burned. She felt a trickle of blood down her cheek, but she was moving automatically, crouching, running behind the car, away from the lighted house, plunging into darkness.

  Another shot rang out.

  “Miz Brawley, I’m coming.” The distant shout carried over the water but sounded far away, too far to save her. “I’ll be there. I’m coming, Miz Brawley, I’m coming.”

  Another shot. A sharp ping sounded, and Henny knew a bullet had struck the car. She was out of sight from the radiance of the porch light now. She kept running and scrambled into the pines, gasping for breath. Her ears thrummed. Was there a sound nearby? Had her attacker followed her into the woods? She couldn’t be sure. She had to keep going. Where could she go? There was no road, no path… She stumbled, dead vines tangling her feet.

  “Miz Brawley, I’m almost there.” Henny heard the valiant call, knew he was trying to help but knew as well that Jeremiah could not save her. Oh, Jeremiah, you can’t help me. It’s too far and too cold to swim and would take too long even if you could manage. I’m alone. Someone wants to kill me. Her heart thudded. Her chest ached. She brushed through a tangle of ferns and crashed into a log and tumbled forward. As she fell, she heard Jeremiah’s desperate call, deep and anguished.

  “Miz Brawley, I’m coming…”

  Annie set the dishes in the cabinet, closed the door.

  Max came up behind her, slipped his arms around her. “How about a little time for us?”

  Annie smiled and started to turn in his embrace. Her cell phone rang.

  Max’s breath was warm against her cheek, his hand slipped from her shoulder, drew the phone from the pocket of her cardigan. “New Year’s resolution, never answer any phone after ten o’clock.”

  Annie plucked the phone from his hand. “I’d better check since it’s my cell…” She looked down and stiffened. “Marian. She wouldn’t call unless it was something important.” She answered. “Marian?”

  “Scanner.” Marian’s voice was high and excited, the connection scratchy. “On my way to Henny’s house. Ten sixty-seven. Call for help. Code three. Lights and sirens.” In the background was the wail of sirens. “Jeez. Three cruisers passed me like I’m standing still. Four. Something bad.”

  10

  A police cruiser parked sideways on the rutted dirt road barred the way. Its rooftop beacons rotated. Whirling red lights from several cars flashed, ominous warning signals in the velvety darkness. Lights glowed at Henny’s house and at least a half dozen harsh Maglites beamed, dotting the expanse of ground between the house and woods.

  Annie braked, punched the window button.

  Hyla Harrison, her face stern and set beneath her cap, strode forward, gesturing with one gloved hand. The other held a Maglite. “Clear the road. Emergency vehicles coming.”

  “Oh, Hyla.” Ordinarily Annie was careful to address Hyla Harrison as sergeant when she was on duty. Serious and intense, Hyla was a stickler for the proprieties. Off duty, they were tentatively friendly, or as friendly as Hyla ever managed outside official police circles. Initially disdainful of mysteries, Hyla had become a faithful reader of police procedurals, especially those by Ed McBain, Dell Shannon, and Kate Ellis. “Is Henny all right?”

  Hyla’s pale face looked bleak. “She’s missing. Everybody’s looking. Nine-one-one reported gunshots, but nobody was here when we came. Stay out of the way. If you park over there”—the strong beam swerved toward her right, sweeping a patch of beaten ground near Henny’s garage—“you can go as far forward as that reporter’s car. She thinks she owns the world.” Marian Kenyon was not a favorite of Hyla’s. Hyla viewed the press as a life form slightly more elevated than bacteria.

  “Max and I can help search.” Annie tried to keep her voice even. Inside, she felt wave after wave of panic. Where was Henny? “We’ll park and ask Billy.”

  Hyla nodded, stepped back.

  Annie swung the car around the cruiser, drove to a spot beside Marian Kenyon’s battered VW, jolted to a stop. Lights bobbed along the bank of the marsh and among the trees in dark woods on either side of Henny’s road.

  As she and Max slammed out of the car, Billy’s voice boomed, metallic and amplified, “Flash a light. You will not be harmed. Mrs. Brawley is missing. We need your help to find her.”

  Annie reached out and grabbed Max’s arm. The shouted words were unexpected, adding to the unreality of a disordered night.

  Headlights from parked police cruisers illuminated
Billy. He faced the marsh, burly, solid, and muscular, as he spoke into a megaphone. Annie also recognized Lou Pirelli, Billy’s second-in-command. Henny’s old Dodge was clearly visible. The driver’s door was wide open, the window shattered. Bits of glass sparkled on the dusty ground. A bullet hole marred the left rear fender.

  Marian Kenyon, Leica held steady, clicked photos in a frenzy.

  Annie tugged on Max’s arm. “Let’s ask Marian.” When they reached the reporter, Annie called out, “Marian—”

  “Not now.” She never lowered the camera. “Got to get these.” Her dark hair was pulled back in a scraggly ponytail. She wore no coat. An oversized flannel shirt hung to the knees of her jeans. She’d not bothered with shoes, instead wore once fluffy house slippers.

  Far out in the bay, a light flashed, once, twice, three times, then remained on, dimly visible. A distant shout warned, “Miz Brawley may be hurt.” The young male voice was anguished. “There was shots. You got to find her.”

  Two police officers climbed into a boat at the far end of Henny’s pier and chugged in the direction of the tiny spot of light.

  Annie watched the boat’s running lights. It seemed to take forever until the boat reached the hammock. An officer’s voice was magnified by a megaphone. “Here we are. Steady. Come aboard.” In the boat’s lights, the hammock was a dark uneven hump on the black water. “We’ll get you ashore.” The officer stood in the back of the boat with the megaphone. “Chief, there’s a bunch of stuff out here—”

  Billy’s megaphone boomed. “Not now. Bring him in.” Billy handed the megaphone to another uniformed figure and he and Lou strode toward the pier. The police boat pulled alongside and tied up. In the bright beam of a Maglite, an officer climbed the ladder, turned to hold the boat steady as a young man in a brown corduroy jacket clambered onto the pier.

  Marian swung toward Annie. “Who the hell’s that?”

  “Jeremiah Young.” To Annie, it seemed as if her voice came from a long distance.

  Max’s head turned toward her. His eyes narrowed.

  Annie looked straight ahead. There would be time for explanations, both to Max and to Billy. Henny had taken a gamble in helping Jeremiah hide. Her faith in his innocence now seemed justified, but her efforts to find out the truth behind Gretchen’s murder may have come at a terrible cost. Something she’d done, something she’d said, something she’d seen today had brought a murderer here tonight.

  “OmiGod. He was out there?” Marian flung an arm toward the marsh. “Okay, ladies and gents, we got a story here. He didn’t get there with water wings. He doesn’t have a boat. I checked on that when he went missing. First thought is always that a fugitive will boat over to the mainland. Plus, he doesn’t have a car. Last mode of transport a bike. Maybe it’s hidden in the woods around here.” Marian practically bounced in excitement. “He didn’t bike out to that hammock. Henny has a boat. My crystal ball tells me she ferried him out to the hammock, then spent the day trying to find out who killed Burkholt. But tonight how did the cops know he was out there? Last I heard there was an APB, but take a look at his welcoming committee.” She gestured toward the end of the pier where Jeremiah was in deep conversation with Billy and Lou. Lou was always Billy’s right-hand man in any investigation. Lou was athletic, fast-moving, and, off duty babied a nineteen eighty Chevy and loved the Braves. “Nobody’s arresting Young. Looks more like he was rescued and he’s part of the team.”

  Annie watched as directed. Marian was right. The body language of Billy Cameron and Jeremiah Young was of an older man and a younger, intent, cooperating, talking fast. Lou bent close, listening hard. On the same team, as Marian said.

  Billy turned to the officer standing by the ladder, apparently gave instructions. The policeman, a bulky figure in a duffel coat, clambered down the ladder and stepped into the boat. The boat chugged back out into the channel as Billy, Lou, and Jeremiah walked fast to the shore, men in a hurry.

  On the bank, Billy gestured toward Henny’s car. He and Lou and Jeremiah stopped a little way from the car, about twenty feet from where Annie and Max stood with Marian. Billy pointed at the broken driver’s window. “One of the shots knocked out her window.”

  Annie clung to Max’s hand. What happened after Henny was ambushed?

  In the glare of police cruiser headlights, Jeremiah looked even scruffier than usual, do-rag askew, broad face pale and unshaven, corduroy jacket streaked with dirt. “There was shots. Lots of them. I yelled after the first shot. I yelled and yelled. I called nine-one-one. I tried to sound like I was coming. I took a log and beat on the ground like somebody running. There was like five or six shots. I would of come, but I can’t swim. You got to find her.”

  “We’re looking. Did you see her at all?”

  A siren sounded and an ambulance curved around the cruise car across the road and drew up near one of the parked cruise cars.

  Jeremiah swung toward the road. “Has somebody found her?”

  Billy shook his head. “Just in case.”

  Annie took a step forward, called out. “Can we help search?”

  Lights in the woods winked like fireflies as searchers struggled through undergrowth.

  Billy’s face was sympathetic. “We got people working on a grid. Better stay where you are.” Then he frowned. “How come you two are here?”

  Marian lifted her sharp chin. “You can tag me for the Darlings.” Her tone was combative. “I gave them a heads-up. Henny called me about seven. She wanted the phone number of Maggie Knight, the housekeeper at the Hathaway house. She and the Darlings are hunting the person who lured Everett Hathaway out in a kayak and killed him. I thought you better talk to them”—she jerked a thumb at Annie and Max—“and find out who might have come after Henny.”

  Billy swung toward Annie, his heavy face in a tight frown.

  Annie remembered Henny’s plan. The first thing the next morning, she intended to ask Billy to talk to Maggie Knight. “Henny thinks Maggie Knight saw someone take Gretchen’s message. Henny called Maggie tonight. There was no answer. She asked Maggie to call back. Henny was going to ask you to talk to Maggie, see what you could find out.” Annie sounded stressed. “I don’t know where Maggie lives.”

  Marian checked her notebook, rattled off Maggie’s address.

  Billy unhooked his cell phone, pressed a number. “Harrison, take a run over to two eighteen Barred Owl Road. Bring Maggie Knight to the station. Explain she’s needed in a missing person case. Take her into custody as a material witness if she resists.” He turned back to Jeremiah. “How far out is that hammock?”

  Jeremiah shrugged. “I don’t know. A long way.”

  Billy folded his arms. “What were you doing out there?”

  Jeremiah stared down at the ground. “Hiding. I was scared.” His voice was tired, hopeless. “Listen, Chief”—now his voice was anguished—“I didn’t hurt Miz Burkholt.”

  “How’d you know she was hurt?” Billy’s voice was sharp.

  “I had a bunch of stuff to take into the storeroom and I came in the hall and I saw blood. I looked inside the room. She was lying there and my axe was next to her. I knew everybody’d think I’d done it and I didn’t.” It was a cry from his heart. “I never did.”

  Billy stared at him, his face grim. “How’d you get to the hammock?”

  Jeremiah shifted from one foot to another, looked at the ground. “Somebody brought me.”

  “When?”

  Jeremiah’s face creased in thought. Finally, he said reluctantly, “This morning.”

  Lou spoke quietly. “Mrs. Brawley took you out.”

  Jeremiah hunched his shoulders, locked his big hands together.

  Billy nodded. “Had to be her.”

  Jeremiah looked at him pleadingly. “I don’t want to get Miz Brawley in trouble.”

  “We can prove it when they bring all the stuff back. Her fingerprints will be on a bunch of it. Why did she take you there?”

  “Last night I come here. I did
n’t know where to go and I was hungry. I was looking in Miz Brawley’s garbage cans and she got home. She must have heard me or something and she came into that place with the garbage pails.” He hunched his shoulders. “I took my coat and wrapped it around her. I was sorry to scare her. I told her I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Miz Burkholt, but she’d been hit and my axe was there beside her. I knew everybody’d blame me. I told her I’d rather die than go back to prison. She let me come inside and she fixed some bacon and eggs and we talked and she knew I didn’t hurt anybody. She let me sleep on the couch and this morning she said I would be safe on the hammock and she’d find out what happened. Somehow.”