Death Comes Silently

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Annie finished a delectable mouthful. “We’re not looking for information now that Billy’s taken over. We’ll read the Gazette for the latest.” How lovely to be free of pressure to rescue Jeremiah.

  Marian’s dark brows knitted. “Henny promised to fill me in on what you folks did yesterday, but the police guard at the hospital wouldn’t even ask her if I could come in. Come on, guys, ante up.”

  Max looked at Annie. “We can give the stuff to Marian. She won’t quote us. I’ll get a printout.”

  When Max returned with the sheets, Marian just managed not to snatch them. Breakfast forgotten, she scanned the summary. “Wow. You got the goods, all right. Now, here’s my skinny. Sergeant Harrison found the front door open at Maggie Knight’s house. When she didn’t rouse anybody, she stepped inside. Maggie was lying on her living room floor. She was shot approximately five times, including, after she fell, a contact wound to the temple. The killer wasn’t taking any chances. The house is one of four on a quiet side street. One next-door neighbor was having dinner out, didn’t arrive home until after the discovery. On the other side of the house, the neighbor thought she heard a car backfiring about ten minutes after nine. Knight’s house was ransacked, her purse taken. I talked to a couple of neighbors. They said she kept to herself, pleasant enough, not friendly.” Marian poked a fork in the remnants of the pancake. “Her dog died a few months ago. She used to walk the dog morning and night. A neighbor said she was nuts about Bitty Boo, a corgi. Everybody loves somebody.” Her voice was soft.

  Annie pictured a lonely woman and a beloved dog.

  Marian was brisk, once more the reporter with a flip lip and attitude. “Billy’s got a presser set at ten A.M. You can come—”

  Annie held up both hands. “I have a date at a certain bookstore.”

  Max began to clear the plates. “There’s a golf course calling me.”

  Laurel turned from arranging a bouquet of sunflowers. The gold double flowers looked like huge chrysanthemums. “Dear Annie. How lovely for you to come. I was just telling Henny and Emma that I always think of you”—she trilled the pronoun—“when I see a sunflower.”

  Annie closed the hospital door and looked first at Henny, who appeared relaxed and comfortable, silvered dark hair freshly brushed, in a quilted pink jacket.

  Emma Clyde’s sapphire blue eyes glinted as she stared at the flowers. “If you’re going to be besotted with flowers, why not pick gardenias or roses? Sunflowers are tall and scraggly with petals that look like spokes around a fat black button.”

  Laurel, elegant in a crepe de chine blouse with loose sleeves and blue silk slacks, gave one stalk a gentle pet as if to say, Ignore uncouth comments, and beamed at her daughter-in-law. “Dear Annie always seeks brightness just as sunflowers stretch”—she drew out the verb—“to the sun.” Her smile was kindly. “Phototropism,” she murmured.

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the elucidation. Wouldn’t have had a clue otherwise.”

  Annie moved to the bed to give Henny a hug.

  Although still pale, Henny looked well rested and her dark eyes were bright. She glanced up at the TV, the sound muted. She smiled and gestured at the news alert scrolling at the bottom of the screen: Broward’s Rock police announce handyman cleared in murder of volunteer. Investigation reopened.

  Laurel set the vase on the windowsill. “Watch,” she said complacently.

  Annie had no intention of watching flowers presumably seek sunlight. She lifted a book bag, smiled at Henny. “I brought some treasures for you, some new, some old.” She knew Henny had read several of the titles, but some books never lost their charm, especially Sarah Caudwell’s ribald and clever Lincoln’s Inn mysteries. The books were guaranteed to elicit a laugh a page.

  Henny was pulling out the gifts when the cell lying on the bedside table rang. She looked up. “Annie, will you answer, say I’m resting? I’d rather not talk right now. Lots of lovely calls, but I don’t want to go over and over last night.” There was a flash of remembered fear.

  Annie picked up the cell. “Hello… She’s resting right now. This is Annie Darling—” Annie’s face furrowed. “Arrested? But why?… Of course we’ll help. Yes. I understand. I’ll tell Henny.” She clicked off the cell, looked at Henny. “That was Jeremiah’s aunt. Jeremiah’s been arrested.”

  Annie tapped Max’s number. Was he already on the course with his phone turned off? The vibration would alert him. When he saw the call was from her, he would answer.

  Four rings. He spoke in the hushed tones of a man on a green. “Jake’s getting ready to putt.” Only open heart surgery would be treated more reverentially.

  “I’ll talk.” Annie drove with one hand, held the phone to her ear. “I’m on my way to Billy’s press conference.” It was a few minutes before ten. “Jeremiah’s aunt called Henny. Jeremiah’s been arrested. I told her we’d help. They picked him up about half an hour ago.”

  “Arrested? That’s crazy. Find out what you can.” He spoke normally. “I’ll get in touch with Handler Jones.” The Savannah lawyer was magic with juries. He was a youthful mid-forties with piercing blue eyes, chestnut hair lightly threaded with silver, and a matinee idol’s good looks, broad forehead, strong nose, expressive mouth, firm chin.

  Several cars blazoned with the logos of mainland TV stations took all the near parking spots at the police station. Cameramen and perfectly coiffed and accoutered reporters clustered at the foot of the steps.

  Annie parked across the street and hurried to join a growing throng. She recognized a number of faces from town hall as well as several businessmen. She wriggled closer to the front. Marian Kenyon was on the other side of the walk, Leica in hand. She saw Annie, mouthed, “Something’s up. Nobody’s talking.” Annie leaned toward a TV reporter with long blond hair, a sea green silk suit, and pearl choker. “Excuse me. What’s going on?”

  The woman checked out Annie’s pink cashmere sweater set, stylish jeans, and ankle boots, and her gaze became a tad less glacial. “Special announcement to be made regarding the murder of the volunteer—” She broke off as the door opened.

  Mayor Cosgrove strutted out the door, resplendent in a very expensive black pin-stripe suit, which minimized his pouter pigeon shape. He was joined by Lewis Farrell, whose ill-fitting green jacket emphasized his stooped shoulders. Farrell had served as the mayor’s campaign manager in the fall election. Lou Pirelli was last through the door. He stood stiffly, his face folded in tight lines.

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. Farrell’s reddish face flushed with excitement. Why was he with the mayor? He had recently lost a race for the school board, which Annie had considered a triumph of voter intelligence. He ran a local plumbing and heating company and, surprise, was the contractor chosen for several town projects.

  Most disturbing was the glum misery in Lou’s face.

  She craned to see. Where was Billy? Maybe he’d decided to let the mayor soak up the attention while he worked on a triple murder case.

  Mayor Cosgrove cleared his throat, his porcine face pleased and satisfied. “As Mayor of Broward’s Rock, it is my solemn duty to make sure that the laws are upheld and that our citizenry is safe.” He looked proudly toward the cameras. “To achieve this essential goal of public safety, I am personally”—great emphasis—“taking charge of the investigation into the brutal murder of an island volunteer at Better Tomorrow, which offers help and hope for our less fortunate citizens. I have relieved Chief of Police Billy Cameron of his duties. I have suspended him, pending review by the town council, for his refusal to properly administer the department and incarcerate a felon who poses a continuing threat to island residents.”

  Annie pushed past the blonde TV reporter. She glared at Cosgrove. “Chief Cameron discovered that the man sought by the police was innocent.”

  The reporter swung toward Annie, mic outthrust. “For our viewers, you are?”

  “Annie Darling. I know all about this investigation. The mayor—”

  “What�
��s your standing in this matter?”

  “I’m also a volunteer at Better Tomorrow. I talked to the murder victim—”

  The mayor boomed. “This is an official news conference. Interference will require removal by authorities. If necessary, I will summon officers to restore order.”

  Annie almost replied with a blistering attack, but if Cosgrove turned to Lou, ordered him to take her into custody for disturbing the peace, Lou would have no choice. She could create a scene, but it was more important to find out what had happened.

  “Aren’t press conferences open to the public?” Marian Kenyon’s voice was dulcet.

  The mayor’s face flushed. “Upon completion of my statement to the press, I will entertain questions from accredited news correspondents.” The mayor smoothed back a strand of thin hair, assumed a magisterial haughtiness. “If I may recount for you”—he looked at the TV reporters—“the sordid events that occurred Monday afternoon. Gretchen Burkholt, a fine example of the generosity of our community, was on duty at Better Tomorrow. However”—his voice dropped, took on a mournful tone—“in two recorded phone conversations, Gretchen Burkholt expressed fear”—vibrato—“of Jeremiah Young, an ex-convict employed at Better Tomorrow as a handyman. In fact, she went so far as to proclaim that she did not feel ‘safe’ and asked another volunteer to join her. That woman arrived too late to protect Mrs. Burkholt from an attack by Young. Proof exists: The murder weapon—an axe—bore Young’s fingerprints, her purse was taken, and Young fled, hoping to escape arrest.”

  Marian Kenyon stepped forward, lifted her husky voice so that everyone could hear. “Last night Chief Cameron announced that Jeremiah Young was no longer a suspect, that the murder Tuesday evening of Margaret Knight and an attack on Henrietta Brawley, a Better Tomorrow board member, had been linked to the Burkholt crime, and Jeremiah Young had an iron-clad alibi for both the Knight murder and the Brawley attack.”

  “Spurious thinking.” Cosgrove spit the words as angrily as a hissing goose. “Cooler heads have prevailed this morning. I am in charge now. As capable investigators well know, criminals follow a pattern. Since the Gazette’s sole reporter”—disdain dripped from his voice—“has raised the point of other crimes, I shall take this opportunity to outline the case as the facts have been presented to Circuit Solicitor Brice Posey.”

  Annie felt grim. Brice Posey was as pompous as the mayor and equally gifted at seizing on a muddled interpretation of facts. Moreover, he had clashed before with Billy Cameron and would enjoy seeing Billy fired.

  The mayor lifted his round chin. “Here are the facts. Monday afternoon Gretchen Burkholt said she was afraid of Jeremiah Young, an ex-convict. Shortly thereafter, another volunteer found her bludgeoned to death by an axe, which bore Young’s fingerprints. Her purse was missing and Young had fled. As experienced investigators understand, criminals follow a pattern. Tuesday evening Maggie Knight was shot to death at her home and her purse”—great emphasis—“was taken. Further, shots were apparently fired at the home of island resident Henny Brawley. Jeremiah Young was found at the scene of the last attack. In an effort to appear innocent, Mr. Young claimed that he had been marooned on a hammock and that his shouts and a call to nine-one-one drove away Mrs. Brawley’s attacker. Chief Cameron believed the felon’s story. However, my investigation reached the reasonable conclusion that Young’s story was fabricated, that he shot Mrs. Knight in the course of a robbery at her home and then ambushed the second victim, but”—he spaced the words triumphantly—“when she eluded him and disappeared into the woods, he instead concocted a story to explain away his presence.”

  Marian said sharply, “The police rescued Young from a hammock a hundred yards out in the marsh.”

  The mayor was condescending. “Young appeared to be marooned. That was essential to the success of his claims.” Cosgrove waved a soft, pink hand. “Earlier in the evening, some miscreant may have brought him ashore, likely in return for payment. That person, of course, will not come forward as there would be prosecution for aiding a fugitive.”

  “How did Young summon a ‘miscreant’? Smoke signals?” Marian’s tone was scathing. “His cell phone was monitored.”

  “The pickup may have been arranged before he arrived on the hammock. In fact,” the mayor waxed ever more confident, “it may develop that he was able to go to and from the hammock in a rubber raft. He committed the crimes, then decided after the second victim’s escape to portray himself as a hero. He returned to the hammock, called nine-one-one, and set the raft adrift. The tide carried it out. Since he clearly planned ahead, he may have punctured the craft. By the time it reached the Sound, the raft took on water and sank, never to be found.”

  Annie’s mouth opened, then closed. The mayor’s thesis could be as punctured as his mythical raft, but attacking him would achieve nothing. Handler Jones as Jeremiah’s lawyer would have many facts at his disposal, including Henny’s testimony that she took Jeremiah to the hammock Tuesday morning and left him without any means of reaching shore. Of course, Cosgrove would then dwell on his equally mythical “miscreant,” but for now, Jeremiah’s arrest was likely to stand until and unless the murderer was revealed.

  Annie felt a wave of panic. With the mayor in charge, no one would seek a murderer who moved silently in the night, leaving no trace.

  Marian’s gamin face scrunched in apparent innocent inquiry. “Mayor, please explain the connection between the Burkholt and Knight murders and the presumed accidental drowning of Everett Hathaway on”—she pretended to look at her notes—“December thirtieth.”

  The mayor’s heavy features folded into a frown that gave him the look of an irritable bulldog. “There is no connection. Mr. Hathaway drowned in an unfortunate accident. There has been an effort to create a link between his death and completely unrelated crimes.”

  Marian’s tone was innocent. “Mrs. Knight was the housekeeper at the Hathaway house.”

  “Mrs. Knight’s employment is immaterial. Her house was searched, obviously for valuables, and her purse taken.”

  Marian continued pleasantly. “Monday at Better Tomorrow Mrs. Burkholt discovered an index card in the pocket of Everett Hathaway’s donated jacket. According to Mrs. Burkholt, the card revealed that Hathaway was lured to his death in the bay. Mrs. Burkholt left word about the card with Mrs. Knight. Mrs. Burkholt was killed shortly thereafter. Mrs. Knight appeared to have knowledge of the person who took the message she had written down. Evidence therefore links the Burkholt and Knight homicides to Everett Hathaway’s drowning.”

  Both of the mayor’s plump pink hands fluttered as if shooing away a dragonfly. “There has been quite a bit of loose talk, but I can assure our citizenry”—he looked at the TV cameras—“that there is no foundation in fact for these conjectures. There is no proof that a card found in Mr. Hathaway’s jacket posed a threat to anyone. Further, Mrs. Knight’s connection is tenuous and again unproven, merely the imaginings of misguided individuals attempting to divert attention from Mr. Young. We deal in real evidence. Moreover, it is necessary only to charge Mr. Young with Mrs. Burkholt’s murder where there is substantial physical evidence of his guilt. The circuit solicitor is drawing up charges. I am pleased to report that Mr. Young is now in custody and being held in Beaufort. I intend to make sure that the Broward’s Rock Police Department properly functions, and with that end in view, I am appointing as temporary chief an island resident with a long involvement in civic affairs, Mr. Lewis Farrell. Mr. Farrell will monitor the investigation of the homicide cases, reporting directly to me. Now, if members of the press have questions…”

  The mood in Henny’s hospital room was in stark contrast to Annie’s earlier visit. Anger and despair had replaced confidence and hope. Henny pushed aside a lunch tray, the meal untouched. “Jeremiah was on the hammock and there was no rubber raft.” She gestured at the TV screen, silent but with the continuing Alert scroll at the bottom of the screen, now reading: Island mayor suspends police chief. Ex-convict arrest
ed in island murders.

  Annie felt entangled in a web of untruths that should be easy to refute, but weren’t. “We can’t prove he didn’t have a raft. How do you prove a negative?”

  Emma’s square face ridged in outrage. “The police rescued him.”

  Annie shook her head. “The mayor has an answer for everything.”

  “We heard the news conference.” Henny moved restlessly. “I’m stuck here and we need to get busy.”

  Annie remembered the happy beginning to her day when she was certain that Billy Cameron understood what had happened and would find out the truth of Everett’s last night. Instead, Jeremiah was in jail and there would be no investigation into Everett’s death. She turned toward the bed. “Henny, I know it’s hard, but try to remember everything about last night. The murderer was there, waiting for you. Did you see anything to give us a hint of who may have come? And how?”

  Henny’s dark eyes narrowed in thought. “Everything was just as always. It was very dark—”

  Annie nodded. There were no lights on the narrow road that led to Henny’s solitary house.