“Hello.” Her husky voice was, she well knew, seductive. She beamed. “What a relief you are.”
He was smiling in return and his gaze was equally admiring. “So how come I’m a relief?”
“You’re young!” Her delight was evident. “The other houses had nothing to offer. I’m doing a survey for Island Hospitality.” She spoke as if the nonexistent group would, of course, be familiar to him. “The hope is to discover what island residents do for pleasure on an ordinary week night. The playhouse? Eating out? Card games? Hot tubs? Movies? Of course, with Netflix, who ever goes to a movie now? In fact, I’ll bet you and your girlfriend watch movies from Netflix all the time. But, I won’t take too much of your time and I must make many more stops.” She pulled a small notebook from her pocket, lifted a pen. “Please, if you don’t mind, what were you”—her tone made the pronoun warm and intimate—“doing last night between”—she glanced at the pad—“nine and eleven P.M.?”
“Last night?” An odd look flickered across his face.
The fleeting expression came and went so quickly Laurel couldn’t decipher its meaning.
“Last night.” She spoke with cheer.
“Yeah. Well, I guess I was here and there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “TV sucks most of the time, and I don’t watch movies by myself. I guess I was restless. Anyway, I drove around, got home about eleven.”
Laurel waggled her pencil. “The survey is especially interested in purchases. Pizza? Beer? The Gas ’N’ Go?” How would he respond if she asked if he’d used a dead woman’s credit card to order a sweater?
“Nah. I didn’t spend anything. Sorry.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go see a girlfriend.” She kept her tone playful.
His gaze was suddenly brooding. “That wasn’t in the cards.” A muscle ridged in his jaw.
The door closed.
Emma Clyde looked out at the bay, though fog limited visibility. The mystery writer sat in her maroon Rolls Royce, blunt fingers firm on the steering wheel, the motor of the luxury vehicle scarcely audible. It was her first glimpse of the choppy water where Everett Hathaway had drowned.
The view was indistinguishable from many other marshes and bays bordering the Sound, remarkable only because a man had been done to death as he sought to prove—or disprove—his wife’s faithfulness.
Emma found damp air bracing. The front windows were down, though moisture was beginning to bead the fine leather interior. However, her chauffeur would hasten to dry the interior as soon as she returned home. For now, she took a deep breath. A fine afternoon for adventure. Marigold was especially fond of fog, rather like a Patricia Wentworth heroine in a London pea-souper. Faintly Emma heard the whack of hammers on wood. Brad Milton had not been in his office. Hopefully, he was at the Thornwall addition or the foreman could direct her to him.
She was in no hurry. Her head swiveled toward the Mediterranean mansion, which looked ghostly in the fog. No lights shone. Annie’s confrontation yesterday with Nicole Hathaway had been fruitful. Nicole apparently feared that her lover had killed Everett. Or perhaps she was playing the innocent. Perhaps she was guilty and feared that Doug might suspect her. Perhaps she thought her best defense was to accuse him, thereby underling her innocence.
As a writer, Emma played variations on that theme: Nicole killed Everett, Doug killed Everett, Nicole and Doug planned the crime together. The scene might have been a rehearsal to practice an apparent estrangement. A clever camouflage. She poked a hole in the reasoning. Conspirators when alone would not be likely to maintain a false position. More likely was the guilt of one or the other acting alone.
Emma turned the wheel and the majestic car glided, the superior suspension overcoming the ruts. She stopped at one side of the Thornwall home, noted the small yellow open-air electric car tucked between two palmettos. The Rolls dwarfed the little vehicle. As she walked toward the construction crew, she easily picked out Brad Milton, tall and angular in a well-worn leather jacket, jeans tucked into brown leather work boots. Obviously in charge, he gestured to a man with a wheelbarrow.
Emma strode up to him. “Mr. Milton.”
He turned, his Jack Palance face alert. His eyes scanned her, flicked to the Rolls. “Ma’am?” His voice was deep, his expression abruptly genial though his slate blue eyes were cold.
Emma summed him up, about as huggable as a grizzly but voraciously hungry for work. She thrust out a strong, stubby hand, saw him note the luster of her huge ruby ring and her ornate antique garnet gold bracelet, a trifle she’d picked up on her last visit to Harrods. “Emma Clyde. I live on Bayberry.” She had his attention. Bayberry was one of the most exclusive and expensive roads on the island, home only to mansions. “I write mysteries.”
His expression was blank.
She maintained a pleasant attitude. Clod. However, she wasn’t selling books, though as a hangover from her early unknown days, she never passed up an opportunity to promote her titles. She added automatically, “The bestselling Marigold Rembrandt series. In fact, I’m here because of my current book. I have a few questions about contracting and I’ve tracked you down.” Her smile was arch. “A good detective always gets her man.” She was satisfied to see his broad mouth curl down in disdain. Being catalogued as a fool gave her an advantage. He would not see her as a threat. “And I am looking for a general contractor both for the book and for a project I have in mind. I overheard some ladies at bridge the other day, and they spoke very positively about you. Let me see, was it Ellen?” Her tone was vague. “Or could it have been Joan? Possibly Muriel. No matter. I’m hopeless with names. They go right in my head and out again. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the new pool house. Could you come by around four o’clock a week from tomorrow? Three Bayberry. I chose the address when my house was built. It’s three thousand square feet. I might have you add a mosaic surround to the pool—”
His eyes were alive with calculating the profit on a pool house mosaic paving.
“—with threes in red against an azure background. Three,” she confided, “is considered a lucky number by the Chinese. The word sounds similar to alive. Don’t you think that’s cunning?”
His expression was stolid. “Thursday a week. I’ll be there.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a card. “It’s got my office number as well as my cell.”
Emma took the card, holding the edges between thumb and forefinger. “Now, while I have you here I’ll steal just a moment more of your time. In my new book, I have a character who runs a construction company. I need to have a sense of what the owner does in an ordinary day. For example, please describe yesterday.”
He rocked back on his heels. “I met a couple of crews at the office, got my foremen to take them out. I worked on two bids, attended a Rotary lunch. In the afternoon, I went to the lumber yard, picked up some shingles. Later, I checked on the work sites, got back to the office about six.”
“And last night, were you home with your family, a well-earned rest?”
“No family.” His voice was cold.
“Then the pleasures of a brew with convivial friends, perhaps?”
His bony face was unreadable. “I picked up a burger at Parotti’s, took it to the office. I had some stuff to do. I got home about eleven.”
“My”—her tone was admiring—“you work long hours.” She widened her blue eyes. “What do you enjoy most in your job?”
He looked sardonic. “Stamping ‘Paid in Full’ on a bill.”
The live oak trees appeared festooned with cobwebs as the fog thickened, suitable for a Charles Addams drawing. Annie stopped and parked a block from the Hathaway house. Stepping out of the snug car, she pulled her jacket close. When she reached the Hathaway drive, she paused and slipped behind a cluster of palmettos. Light seeped from around the edges of drawn drapes in the living room. She slipped in the shadows of pines until she reached the double garage. With a swift look to be sure she wasn’t observed, she crossed to a roofed open-air shed.
Four bicycles were slotted into the steel stand, one eight-speed, the rest the usual upright bikes without cross bars common on island paths. She looked at each in turn, a scarlet eight-speed and three standard bikes, one green, one red, one yellow. The green and red bikes had baskets. The eight-speed was unadorned. The red bike had a flat front tire. The yellow bike’s chain was loose. She felt foolish. She was hardly going to find a sign reading: Last ridden by a murderer. She was turning away when she noticed a clump of mud caked on the right pedal of the green bike. She knelt, delicately touched the mud on the pedal of the green bike. Still damp. Perhaps there wasn’t a printed sign, but fresh mud indicated the green bike had been used within the last day or so. She squeezed the tires and found both of them firm.
If only Billy Cameron were chief. She could call and Billy could send a crime tech, check for matching tire indentations near the Knight house and at Henny’s cabin.
Annie yanked her cell from her purse. It wasn’t much, might not be useful at all, but she took a half dozen pictures of the green bike and one of the pedal. The cell would register the time the photos were taken.
She was thoughtful as she walked swiftly to the porch. Maybe that bike could be tied to one of the murder sites. At least it was only fog now, not rain, but if any tire prints existed at Better Tomorrow or Maggie’s or Henny’s, rain would wash them out sooner rather than later. Maybe tomorrow Handler Jones could send someone from the mainland with the equipment to make a search for tread prints.
On the porch, she took a deep breath. No more thoughts of bikes or tire prints. She pulled a notepad from her jacket, held a pen, and pushed the bell.
Light spilled onto the porch as Nicole Hathaway opened the door, her heart-shaped face sagging. She looked haggard, eyes bleary, skin blotched. A red cashmere sweater fit too snugly, emphasizing her full breasts. Matching red wool slacks appeared uncomfortably tight. Tiny silver bells decorated high-heeled black patent pumps. She lifted a hand to her throat when she saw Annie. With a look of panic, she started to close the door.
Quickly, Annie flashed a warm smile. “Nicole, I know you’ll help out. I’m doing a survey for the League for Women’s Protection. You remember how everyone was talking about it at the last Ladies of the Leaf meeting.”
Nicole’s face registered surprise, relief, and, to Annie’s discomfiture, pathetic gratitude.
Annie maintained her bright smile. Nicole assumed that Annie was blandly ignoring their encounter on the Carstairs terrace. “The survey will only take a few minutes and it will be such a help to the league’s planning.” Without waiting for an invitation, Annie opened the screen door.
Nicole stepped back, gestured toward the living room.
Hurried steps sounded on the stairway. Leslie Griffin in a tan blouse, long brown and black plaid skirt, and ankle-high boots rushed into the hallway. “All hail the agency.” She sounded aggrieved. “Got to hurry. Trey expects me to work. What a crock. I think I’ll see if I can switch to a study hall.”
“Annie, this is Leslie, Everett’s niece.”
Annie stood between Leslie and the door. “I’m Annie Darling. For the Women’s Protection League. I’m glad I caught both you and Nicole. That will give me two women in one house for our survey.” She sounded triumphant. “The objective is to ascertain whether women feel safe after dark on the island and one measure is their activities. We are focusing our research on last night. When we finish, we’ll know exactly how most women on the island spent Tuesday evening and you can see”—her tone was portentous—“how important this will be. Leslie, since you are leaving, let’s do you first.” Annie flipped open her notebook. “Please describe your activities last night between the hours of nine and eleven P.M.” Annie looked at her expectantly, pen poised to write.
“Last night?” After an instant’s hesitation, Leslie laughed. “This’ll show how statistics don’t mean a thing. I once had a math class, the only one that ever made any sense to me, and I learned that statistics prove anything you want to prove. Believe me, I’m not afraid to go out at night, but I just so happened to be home last night. I was watching a soccer match in Brazil. Men in shorts. Doesn’t get any better than that. Now I got to go.” And she darted around Annie and out the door.
Annie turned toward Nicole, who looked after Leslie with a puzzled stare.
Another bright smile. “And you, Nicole?”
The widow turned her attention to Annie, though she glanced toward the door as the muted roar of the Mini Cooper sounded. “Actually, I was here last night. I don’t have any plans now.” There was a forlorn quality to her voice. “I was reading some magazines.”
Annie was hearty. “I suppose it was nice to have Leslie’s company.”
“Leslie’s company?” Nicole sounded blank. Then her lips twisted. “Oh, Leslie has her own suite. She never has anything to do with the rest of us.”
Annie ostentatiously made several notes. She was profuse in her thanks. Her last glimpse of Nicole was of a woman deep in thought.
13
Max placed a golf ball on the indoor putting green. He assumed a putting stance, waggled the club head. He tapped and the ball rolled over undulations to the hole. His eyes widened in surprise. He’d scarcely been aware of the putt. His thoughts were running like a gerbil on a wheel, trying to find some avenue to help Jeremiah.
He hated to face the truth. He and Annie and Henny had pointed the way, but what was needed now was police authority to question and probe and discover. No matter how much more they might discover, Jeremiah’s fate ultimately hinged on the Broward’s Rock Police Department.
Maybe it was time to try a different tack.
Max left the ball in the cup, tossed the putter in his bag, and settled at his desk. After a moment’s thought, he turned on the speaker phone and punched the number. “Hey, Charles, Max Darling here. I wondered when the next town council meeting is scheduled.” He pictured Charles Farnsworth home from an afternoon of cards at the club, likely in his library with a book on birds. Charles was tall and loose-jointed and reminded Max of a blue heron.
Charles’s precise voice was pleasant. “The second week in February.”
Max frowned. “Is there a way to call a meeting to consider an emergency matter?”
“Billy Cameron?” Charles, of course, certainly was aware of Billy’s suspension. “I told the mayor I felt his action was hasty. Unfortunately, we need a quorum to meet and three of our members are out of town. I’m afraid nothing can be done now, Max. Certainly the story in this afternoon’s Gazette raises a number of questions.”
Laurel shifted the armload of cinnamon-colored sunflowers with chocolate centers in their loose wrapping of pink tissue. The blooms were gorgeous, but the stalks were scratchy. She retrieved a key to the bookstore from her purse. Though she wasn’t an employee, she was always willing to help out at Death on Demand if needed. She was sure Annie and Emma would be along soon. It would be interesting to know if any of the suspects had alibis for last night. Steve Raymond had readily admitted that he was out in his car. Was that an indication of innocence? Laurel rather hoped so. He was an appealing young man.
She turned on the lights and gazed happily about the bookstore. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of books overlain with the delectable scent of coffee and a hint of wood smoke. She had never realized how much she would come to love both her charming, though rather earnest daughter-in-law, and the books that delighted her.
Tissue crinkled.
Laurel looked down as Agatha snaked a paw at the bunched paper. “Agatha, as always”—Laurel’s throaty voice was warm—“you exhibit exquisite taste. But for a cat of your stature, that is only proper.” Laurel bent, smoothed sleek fur. “The sunflower is a symbol of adoration and it is very appropriate that you should lay claim because everyone adores you.”
Agatha rubbed her cheek against the tips of Laurel’s fingers.
“Come now, we’ll make a beautiful bouquet and wait for Annie and Emma.�
�
The cat followed her down the aisle.
Laurel rested the half dozen sunflowers atop the coffee bar and darted into the storeroom. She returned with two vases, one a lovely cobalt pottery, the other an art deco square column in aluminum. She hummed as pondered which vase to choose. Possibly the blue put the cinnamon color of the leaves to better advantage. She lifted the stalks and the phone rang. She noted caller ID as she answered. “Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore north of Delray Beach.”
“Is Annie Darling there?” The man’s tenor voice was hardedged.
Laurel raised an eyebrow. Obviously the caller knew Annie’s voice. Once a young man had compared Laurel’s voice to velvet at midnight. Her daughter-in-law always sounded so wholesome. Laurel heartily approved of wholesomeness—for Annie. “Annie’s out just now. She is expected soon. May I take a message?”
Death Comes Silently Page 21
