Death Comes Silently (18 page)

She stared at him, her face crumpling. “I hate you. But”—now she was sobbing—“I don’t. Doug, he’s dead. I’m free.”

“Great.” He was sarcastic. “Good for you. Glad you’re happy.”

“Don’t you care?” Her voice shook.

He took an exasperated breath. “You don’t make a lot of sense. First you accuse me of murder and then you want to know if I love you. Listen, we had a good time.” He softened his tone. “Don’t ruin the memories we—”

“I don’t want memories.” Her voice was petulant. “I want you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Get this and get it now.” His handsome face was cold and hard. “We had a fling. That’s all it was. One of those crazy-days-in-May things. It didn’t mean anything. Let’s leave it at that. You go your way and I’ll go mine.”

“I’ll tell your wife.”

“No.” He spoke quietly but a muscle ridged in his jaw.

“You can’t stop me.”

He walked toward her, looked down, his round face implacable. “I don’t advise that. You can’t prove a thing. I’ll say you’ve stalked me, that you’re disturbed. No one has ever seen us together. I made damn sure of that. I’ll make you out to be a fool and a tramp. You might also remember about the prenup you signed. We laughed about it, how if you committed adultery while married, you would inherit a grand total of one dollar from his estate. Get a grip. Trey might be very interested in your indiscretions.” With that, he turned and bulled toward the terrace, his face dangerously flushed.

Annie pulled the panel shut, hoped he was too distraught to see the movement. She couldn’t reach the end of the terrace before he
came outside. She moved fast as far as she dared, then whirled and started toward the door.

The massive door swung in. As he yanked the key from the lock, he was silhouetted against the light.

Annie felt a moment of fear. He was big and strong and very angry. She paused. “Hello.” It wasn’t a brilliant beginning.

He stopped and stared, his face wary.

She came nearer. “Doug? Annie Darling. I thought I recognized your car. We have some friends who are looking for just this kind of house and I thought perhaps it might be on the market so I’d just stop and ask.” As if she might be out on a jaunty drive on a road that served only four homes.

Doug Walker struggled for composure. “Hello, Annie. It’s not for sale. I’m keeping an eye on the place for the Carstairs. Jeff asked me to drop by and check some measurements. He and Renee are thinking about some remodeling.”

The door moved again and Nicole stepped outside, struggling to pull on her peach coat. Her face looked pasty and her hands shook. She saw Annie and stumbled to a stop.

Doug’s shoulders hunched. He gave Nicole a hard, intense warning look. “Renee wanted some input on colors for some new drapes. Nicole’s an old friend and Renee thought she would have some good ideas.” He patted his pocket. “I’ve got it written down. Light blue with some cream, I think that’s what you said. Anyway, thanks for your help.” His tone was formal. “I’d better lock up.” He moved back to the door, reached inside. Abruptly, the golden spill of light across the flagstones was gone and they stood in the early dusk of January. He yanked the door shut and used the key. “I’m running late. Say hi to Max.” With that, he strode across the terrace, his shoes loud on the stones.

Annie wished she could see Nicole’s face, but now there was nothing more than a pale oval and a shadowy figure. “I’m sorry Doug is in such a hurry.”

The Porsche engine roared and the headlights flicked on. The sports car jolted out of the drive.

“I’d better go.” Nicole took a step forward.

“Let’s talk for a minute. I haven’t seen you since Everett died.” In ordinary circumstances, she would have offered condolences. She did not. Instead, she appraised Nicole. She wasn’t a big woman, surely not big enough to overpower Annie, especially since Annie was prepared to take flight. Annie knew she might be taking a risk, but she was willing to gamble after Doug’s departure. “I’ve heard that someone tipped over Everett’s kayak.”

Nicole’s head jerked up. “It can’t be true.” But her whisper was almost inaudible.

“The police think Everett was coming here that night”—Annie gestured in the darkness toward the blacker mass of the bay—“because of you and Doug.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Nicole’s voice shook. “I’m just here today to help Doug with the drapes.”

Annie wished she had a flashlight, wished she could shine a beam unexpectedly on Nicole’s face. Was there the panic of adultery revealed and the fear of a lover’s complicity in murder? Or was there a quick intelligence at work, spinning out a false face of innocence? If she knew her husband suspected her of an affair, she might have decided to be rid of him before he could file for divorce. Perhaps she reasoned that if she were a widow, maybe Doug would change his mind.

“You claim you weren’t here that night?”

“Of course not.” She licked her lips. “I was at home.” Her voice was thin, reedy, frightened. Abruptly, Nicole veered away from Annie
and broke into an uneven run. She darted around the end of the house.

Annie followed slowly. The Lincoln was out of sight by the time Annie reached her car. Nicole’s involvement with Doug at the Carstairs house shifted the picture of Everett’s last night. Now it seemed reasonable to assume that Everett came to the bay, quietly, silently, intending to land at the Carstairs pier in response to an anonymous note informing him that his wife and a friend were lovers. Doug seemed convinced no one knew of their affair, which suggested their clandestine meetings had occurred in the Carstairs’s empty home.

But someone had written the note that Gretchen found in the pocket of Everett’s jacket. So far, Annie knew of only two people who were aware of their trysts, the participants themselves.

As she neared her car, she looked across the bay. She had seen Doug Walker and Nicole Hathaway at the Carstairs house when she looked out from Sheila Porter’s home. Sheila or the retired navy captain and his wife or the work crew on the unfinished addition or the unknown resident of the cabin on pilings might well have noticed the Porsche or the Lincoln coming in the afternoon to the Carstairs home. Gossip spreads easily, especially in a small community. It could be that simple, a retired naval officer might have an interest in cars and would note the Porsche, and if he mentioned the car to a longtime island resident, the recognition would be immediate. There was only one Porsche on the island. The contractor building the addition to the Thornwall house certainly had a clear view of the Carstairs home. Annie hadn’t noticed if there was a construction company sign posted, but it would take only a moment to find out. Or Sheila might be a bird-watcher with a handy set of binoculars. Max could check to see if there was any connection between Everett Hathaway and the residents on the north side of the bay. Doug Walker might think that the
affair was hidden, but someone knew enough to write the note to Everett.

As she watched, lights came on in the cabin she had yet to visit.

M
ax was disappointed when he found the driveway empty at their restored antebellum home. He and Annie always left lights burning in Franklin House. The golden glow in the living room and kitchen windows made coming home in winter more cheerful. They didn’t bother to draw the drapes because pines screened the old house from neighbors.

He entered from the back verandah. Dorothy L, their plump, affectionate, all-white cat with piercing blue eyes, rose on her back paws and he swept her up to his shoulder. It was a nightly ritual. Although ostensibly she was a family pet, her heart belonged to Max. “Good girl.” He butted her cheek with his chin. “Good girl.” She responded with a throaty purr, then wriggled free, dropped to the floor, and padded to her bowl. Max refilled the water bowl and spooned a fresh serving of cat salmon.

That duty done, he glanced at the clock. Almost six. It wouldn’t take long to pop the chili in the microwave. He’d stir up the cornbread, but first he intended to seek an expert. He picked up his cell. Annie’s young stepsister’s number was on autodial. Rachel lived with Annie’s dad, Pudge Laurance, and his wife, Sylvia, and her son, Cole. Rachel and Cole were enjoying their senior year in high school.

“Hey, Max. How’s everything?” Rachel’s voice was happy. Max smiled. Rachel had endured tough times, losing her mom in a dreadful way. Annie had made a huge difference in Rachel’s life. Rachel burbled, “I sent Annie an e-mail. I got an A on my ancient history report. I was supposed to write about someone who made a big
difference in the world, and it blew the teacher’s mind that I picked St. Augustine. I ended up with a quote from him:
Love is the beauty of the soul
. Is that cool or what? Pudge knew all about St. Augustine.”

“Way cool. Hey, Rachel, can you help me out about somebody at school?”

“Probably. Shoot.”

“Do you know Leslie Griffin?”

“Oh, yeah.” There was no fondness in her tone.

Max reached for a notepad. “What’s she like?”

“Snotty. She runs with a special clique, only girls with money and looks welcome. Nobody I know cares.” Rachel sounded bored. “What’s she done? Caused somebody trouble, I’ll bet.”

Max wrote fast. He was glad Rachel’s voice held genuine disdain, instead of sour envy. “It’s a family matter. Have you ever heard how she got along with her uncle?”

“I don’t know her that well. She just came here a couple of years ago. A bunch of us tried to be friends with her, but she blew us off pretty quick. I don’t know much about her family except I think she’s an orphan. I don’t know what happened to her dad. Somebody told me her mother was a mess and OD’d on painkillers. But maybe she was real sick or something. Maybe that’s why Leslie acts so superior, though”—and Rachel spoke in a rush—“to tell the truth, she doesn’t act like she’s unhappy. She acts like everything’s great and she’s the greatest.”

“Who’s her bad-ass boyfriend?”

Rachel giggled. “That’s a hot topic at school. Everybody knows about him. He’s a couple of years older. I’ve seen him and he is to die for, I mean, ooooh, one sexy dude. His name’s Steve something or other. He works part time at the Gas ’N’ Go, hangs out the rest of the time, from what I hear. They say”—her voice dropped—“that
she’s spent the night with him a bunch. I’ll ask around for his name if you want me to.”

“No need. Ben Parotti can tell me. In fact, keep everything mum. Don’t let anyone know I asked about Leslie.” Just in case… Someone had come swiftly from the Hathaway house to make certain Gretchen Burkholt never told the contents of the card.

H
enny Brawley cut a peach pie in half. She lifted out one half, double wrapped the piece in heavy-duty foil. She put a cover over the remainder. That would be a nice finale to chili and cornbread at Max and Annie’s. She glanced at the clock as she poured freshly brewed coffee into a small thermos. Just past six. It wouldn’t take long to go out and reassure Jeremiah. Trapped on the little hammock, the hours must pass with deadening slowness.

At the coat tree, she hesitated, chose a heavy jacket of dark gray wool and a black stocking cap. The telephone rang. Henny checked caller ID. Unknown caller. Not this evening. She heard the continuing peals as she hurried through the door and out into the night.

The warmth of wool was welcome protection from the mist-laden wind from the bay. She walked swiftly onto the pier. It took a moment to peel back the mooring cover, but she was glad she’d taken time earlier to put it in place. Otherwise the cockpit would be slick and damp. She was careful as she climbed aboard, the boat moving up and down in the choppy water. She stowed the small basket with the thermos and foil-wrapped dessert.

Familiar with the water and the currents, she handled the boat easily. The lights revealed the channel she sought. She wished she could have called Jeremiah on his cell, alerted him that she was coming. But Billy Cameron would have set up a watch for calls to and
from his number. She hoped, for Jeremiah’s peace of mind, that he recognized the rumble of the motor. There was always a little sputter after she accelerated. To her, each boat had a distinctive sound. But he had been alone all day and now into the night, isolated with only fear and worry and anxiety for companions.

About fifteen feet from the hammock, she lifted her voice, loud enough to be heard over the motor. “It’s me, Jeremiah. I’m bringing you some coffee.” As she rounded the small hump of land, came up on the Sound side, she saw him standing tensely, knee-deep in wet grasses. “It’s okay, Jeremiah. I wanted to tell you what’s happening.” She nosed the boat close, kept it steady, and handed him the small basket.

“Miz Brawley”—there was a catch in his voice—“you shouldn’t ought to come out here at night. I don’t think it’s safe.”

“I’m fine.” She was touched by his concern. “And you’re going to be fine. I’ve learned a huge amount today. Gretchen Burkholt took Annie Darling’s place Monday.” Quickly, she described Annie’s talks with Gretchen and the grisly discovery at Better Tomorrow. “Annie called me. She’s sure you are innocent, and she and Max are looking for information, too. We believe Mrs. Burkholt was killed because of a card she found in a box of clothes.”

He spoke up and his voice was eager. “I heard her talking on the phone about something she found. She was holding a white card. I got a look at the card when I carried some stuff inside.”