Death Comes Silently (30 page)

M
ax read the text from town council member Roland Dubois somewhere in the Galapagos:
Hm nxt wk—no Skyp avlbl—dmn big trtls—

Max leaned back in his big leather chair. Dubois hadn’t committed to supporting Billy Cameron. Did Dubois have some business dealings with the mayor? Max frowned. Billy Cameron needed Dubois’s vote. Max turned to his computer, clicked a half dozen times,
brought up the contributor list for the mayor’s last campaign. Roland Dubois was a heavy hitter, ponying up twenty-five hundred dollars.

Dubois was the swing vote.

Something had to break before the town council meeting. Max pushed up from his chair, headed for the door.

A
nnie drove slowly in the fog. She passed the Hathaway house. The only car in the drive was the black Lexus, which very likely had belonged to Everett. Apparently no one was at home. Trey should be at work and Leslie at school. Nicole could be anywhere from the grocery to the beauty shop.

Annie parked around a curve, out of sight from the Hathaway house. Though grateful for the patchy fog, she still felt as if a spotlight were trained on her. She now better appreciated the challenge faced by the murderer in attempting to remain invisible. Strange cars in quiet neighborhoods were as noticeable as blinking neon. She walked swiftly around the curve.

The dead man’s Lexus was a powerful reminder of danger. Annie was sure that Everett had no sense that the hours of his life were dwindling down when he parked the car for the last time.

Annie kept to the edge of a pine grove, at the last minute slipped across the drive to the bike shed. Fog shrouded the house. She moved close to the green bike. She glanced at the ten-speed. It would have been faster but it takes some skill and familiarity to ride a ten-speed. Of the three remaining bikes, only the green bike was in riding shape. Hyla had lifted green paint flakes from the railing of a stolen motorboat. Annie had found a clump of damp mud on a pedal of the green bike. Annie slipped nearer. After a swift glance to be sure she was
unobserved, she started at the front of the bike, looking inch by inch at the frame.

She almost missed the shallow scrape on the rear wheel fender. The mark flared like an open fan. The paint chips could be compared. That would prove a connection between the Hathaway house and the stolen boat. She frowned in thought, tried to imagine the murderer’s actions the Friday night that Everett died. A bicycle was useful for traveling unnoticed because bike paths usually cut through woods. But that night Leslie, Trey, and Nicole each had driven away from the house shortly after Everett walked out on the dock.

Did any of the cars have a bike rack? If not, it was easy enough to slip a bike into the back of a Mini Cooper or the trunk of a sedan. Then the murderer’s car could be left where it would not be noticed, perhaps in the parking area that served as a hub for many of the bike trails at this end of the island. Hop on the bike, ride into the gated area on a trail, avoiding the checkpoints, take the motorboat. The bike was swung into the back of the boat. Annie abruptly understood. There was no intention, obviously, of returning the boat, but the craft had to be left somewhere. At that point, the murderer needed a way to get back to a parked car.

Annie visualized lifting the bike over the boat rail. The scrape could have occurred either at the beginning or end of the journey. It was much more likely at the end. The boat had been abandoned in a remote area with no lights. It would be easy to bang the railing with the rear fender.

The bike was ridden to a vehicle, once again carried back to the Hathaway house, returned to the bike rack.

When the shocking call came from Better Tomorrow, how easy to hop on the bike for the short trip through the woods. No cars had
been heard at Better Tomorrow or Maggie Knight’s house or Henny’s cabin. A bike was the perfect explanation for the murderer’s silent arrival.

Who rode the bike?

Either Leslie Griffin or Nicole Hathaway had lied about Tuesday night. It was also possible that Trey had not been at his office or Brad Milton at his construction firm or Steve Raymond driving aimlessly around the island or Doug Walker at home.

Annie felt a twist of disappointment. All she had was the bike. She never doubted that paint flecks lifted by Hyla Harrison would match the scrape. Proving the bike had been in the stolen boat bolstered the claim that Everett had been murdered, but it didn’t give a lead to a definite suspect.

A crow cawed. She looked up. A half dozen silky black, hawk-sized birds roosted in a live oak. The raucous caw came again, but she couldn’t discern which crow warned her, just as she had no link to a silent, elusive killer.

She walked away, fog twisting around her. Visibility was decreasing. Soon it would be a challenge to drive. But she knew the roads and would find her way.

Somehow she had to find the road that led to a killer.

The crow’s caw followed her into the mist.

M
arian Kenyon dribbled peanuts into her Pepsi can. Her eyes shone. She glanced at her steno pad and neat block-letter notes. “Ten thou. That might shake loose some info.”

Max held a mug of coffee. “A reward seems like our only hope now.”

Marian’s dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “If it helps to poke a beehive, yesterday’s story has ’em buzzing. I’ve even had a couple of calls from Brice Posey. He may be as stuffed as a moose head above a fireplace, but even he can see there may be chinks in the case. However, the mayor’s doubling down. He’s scheduling another news conference at four, and my sources tell me it will be an attack on ‘the infamous local scandal sheet and its scurrilous exploitation of tragic events.’ In case you don’t make the connection, that’s the
Gazette
and I am the equivalent of Axis Sally.” She gazed at Max as she drank Pepsi and chewed peanuts, a Southern skill. “In case
ditto, Axis Sally broadcast propaganda over Radio Berlin during World War II. Too bad hizzoner can’t tell the difference between in-depth reporting and propaganda. I was scrupulous to attribute information to confidential sources, which tells any savvy reader that somebody had an axe to grind and the assertions may or may not be true. No damn opinions in my stories. I got a great quote from Handler Jones emphasizing that serious allegations had been made about the course of the investigation and there appeared to be information that should be considered a matter of interest to authorities.” She was complacent as a Persian cat licking cream from its lips. “Which, when sanity returns to our golden isle, will certainly be true.” She glanced up at the clock on the dingy plaster wall of the
Gazette
break room, finished the Pepsi, grabbed the half-empty Planters bag and notebook. “I better get back to work. A boxed story about a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to an arrest in the murders of Everett Hathaway, Gretchen Burkholt, and Maggie Knight will probably run above the fold. Maybe next to a picture of the mayor.” She gave Max a thumbs-up before she turned away.

A
nnie sat behind the wheel, stared unseeing at eddying fog. She’d discovered something important, but the bike wasn’t enough to help Jeremiah, even if its presence in the stolen boat was confirmed. Somehow the murderer had to be flushed.

Her lips curved in an ironic smile. Oh, sure. That was easy, wasn’t it? Okay, maybe not easy, but nobody ever won by giving up. She picked up the folder from the passenger seat. Maybe if she looked at what they knew one more time…

Annie read each point thoughtfully, weighing whether there was anything else that could be discovered. With that criteria, her eyes
widened as she read, then reread numbers six and eleven: number six—In phone messages to Annie Darling, Gretchen emphasized the card “named names” and exposed a “scandal” and spoke of “tonight.” Number eleven—It isn’t known when Hathaway received the index card. A member of the household could have left the card in his room or car, or he may have received the card at his office Friday morning. He missed an appointment at an art gallery. When the owner called, Hathaway seemed upset.

The note spoke of “tonight.” That implied that the note had been written on Friday, that the decision to lure Everett out into the bay vulnerable in a kayak had been reached that very day.

Had Everett received the index card that morning at the house? If not, it was reasonable to conclude the card reached him at the office.

Annie knew she might be so desperate for a way forward that she was foreseeing a tantalizing possibility that might not exist. Yet, if she could determine where and when the card arrived, if there was a particular moment in time that the card reached Everett, it meant the murderer, unseen, had been present. Of course, the card could have been slipped under his bedroom door or left in the front seat of his car. If that was the case, the delivery could have been unseen by anyone. But if he received the card at his office when others were around, someone might have seen someone nearby. Everything depended upon when and where Everett received the card. He had been upset at the office, forgetting an appointment that mattered to him, so sometime after breakfast and before his appointment, the card had come.

Annie plucked her cell from her purse. As always she knew the quickest route to information. She tapped a familiar number.

“Yo, Annie.” Marian Kenyon’s raspy voice sounded bright and eager. “You just missed your best chum. He’s offering a ten thou
reward for information regarding the homicides so he’ll be busy fending off nutcases. But maybe the chaff will hold some wheat. What’s up?”

“I’ll fill you in later. Right now, what’s Nicole Hathaway’s cell number?”

“Hold on.” A rustle. “Here it is.”

Annie wrote down the number. “Thanks, Marian. Got—”

“Not so fast. Give me a heads-up.”

“—to go. Nothing solid yet. You’ll be the first to know.” As soon as the line cleared, she tapped the number.

“Hello.” Nicole’s voice was cautious.

Annie said quickly, “Nicole, you’ve been a great help in trying to figure everything out. My question is really simple. Did you see Everett that Friday morning before he went to the office?”

“Yes.” Nicole sounded as if she stood at the edge of a yawning pit filled with crocodiles.

“Was he in a good mood?”

“Oh.” Nicole’s relief was palpable. “Actually, he was happy. He was looking forward to picking up a painting from Esteban. That’s what he talked about it. The painter was some California artist. I don’t remember the name. He enjoyed his breakfast and he told Maggie how good the cheese grits were.” A pause. “I’m glad. I like to remember him that way. A long time ago, that’s how he was. He was whistling when he went out to his car. But when he came home that afternoon, he slammed into the house without a word to me. Dinner was awful. He never looked at me, didn’t say a word. He and Leslie quarreled. I’ve never seen anyone as angry as she was.” There was a pause. “But she’s only a teenager.” The last was scarcely audible.

It was as if Nicole faced a dreadful thought and pushed it away.

Annie knew that Nicole was thinking of Tuesday night and the barking dog, Leslie’s car in the drive and Maggie dead.

“Oh, I hate what’s happened to us.” The connection ended.

Annie had a sudden vision of a slim young figure, pedaling fast. She shivered. Could someone as young as Leslie commit three murders?

Nicole’s description of her husband at his last breakfast seemed uncontrived, open, even heartfelt. Annie believed Nicole had spoken the truth. Moreover, Annie couldn’t imagine Nicole stealing a boat, intercepting the kayak, and dumping Everett into the water, or riding a bike through the night to shoot and shoot and shoot again. If Nicole was telling the truth about Everett’s last morning, it seemed even likelier she had told the truth about Leslie leaving the house Tuesday night.

If Leslie committed the murders, she sent the index card to Everett about his wife and her lover. When Everett left the house Friday morning, he had not yet received the card that lured him to the bay that night. Sometime between his departure and late morning, the card reached Everett. Annie knew she was one step closer to pinpointing the arrival of the card.

Now she must find out about Everett’s last morning at Hathaway Advertising. Unfortunately, Trey Hathaway refused to believe that his uncle had been murdered. He wouldn’t talk to her. Annie’s thoughts darted. If she could have ten minutes with Dolores, she might find out everything she needed to know. If Trey saw Annie, he’d send her away. She had to talk with Dolores without Trey’s knowledge…

Her eyes settled on the quartet of sunflowers.

Her lips curved in a sudden smile. Lucky flowers, indeed.

She pulled out her cell, touched a familiar number.

“Dearest Annie.” The warmth was genuine.

Annie felt a huge lift. She wasn’t surprised when Laurel answered her cell, because there was scarcely ever a call Laurel didn’t answer.
As her mother-in-law always said, “Of course I answer all my calls. One never knows… Once the most darling young man was in a poetry class I was taking and he called me with a question about dactylic metre. His name was Giuseppe and he danced divinely.”