Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  There was the sound of a slap.

  Annie pressed against the intervening wall. She hadn’t seen Marian, small, desperate, at-bay Marian, lift a hand and strike Alex Griffith, but she knew what she had heard.

  “Not the way to win friends, Marian.”

  “You have no friends. You will never have friends. Everyone knows who you are, what you are.” Marian’s husky voice was cold, scathing. “You’ll poke and prod and stab until we all bleed and then you can write another book, be richer and richer. When you were a kid, did you tear the wings off butterflies to see what they’d do, how they’d writhe and struggle until they died?” Her voice grated like a car fender scraping a wall.

  “I like watching people.” There was no stress in his voice, merely amusement.

  “Sure you do. More fun than a Saturday-night dogfight. Lots of blood and death at the end.” The words came out in spurts as Marian struggled to breathe. “Here’s something to watch.” There was a crash and the sound of splintering glass. Running steps sounded and Marian burst from behind the patio wall.

  She skidded to a stop inches from Annie and stared at her, eyes glazed. Marian’s chest heaved. Her face twisted in fury. Bright patches of red stained chalk white cheeks. She hurled out the words, “I wish I’d killed him.” She ducked around Annie and flew down the oyster shell path.

  Annie stood rooted for an instant, then bolted forward and came around the patio wall.

  Alex Griffith stood with his hands on his hips, gazing down at the wreckage, a twisted hurricane lamp and a cracked glass patio door.

  “You’re all right.” Annie’s voice was shaky. She was shaky.

  He looked at her with a rueful expression. One cheek was still reddened from Marian’s slap. “Never better. Can’t say the same for the patio door. I’ll tell the inn to send the bill to Marian.” His gaze focused on Annie. There was a flicker of approval and interest. “This seems to be my morning for women to arrive unannounced on my small terrace. I hope you don’t throw things.” His tone was whimsical. He pointed at the shards of red-and-green glass scattered on the patio tiles.

  “You were horrid to Marian.”

  He raised a sandy eyebrow. “Ah, you don’t throw hurricane lamps but you have no objections to insults. Didn’t your mama tell you it isn’t nice to eavesdrop?” But there was no rancor, simply mild inquiry. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Alex Griffith.”

  He spoke with assurance, a man who was accustomed to instant recognition by Four Seasons Hotel clerks—Mr. Griffith, we have your favorite suite ready . . . Mr. Griffith, the Krug 1990 is cooled and awaiting you . . . Mr. Griffith, we know you prefer fresh papaya with your cereal. A man who led a charmed life, sucking like a vampire on everyone around him.

  He smoothed back a tangle of reddish-brown hair, his handsome features relaxed. Shirtless and barefoot, he wore gray gym shorts. He was a little over six feet tall, well built and muscular, the kind of man any woman on a beach would note with interest.

  Annie was aware of his appeal. If she hadn’t overheard him and Marian—casual disdain and cruelty on his part, desperation and despair on Marian’s part—she might have responded to his amused confidence, his undeniable good looks.

  Not now. Not ever.

  “I’m Annie Darling.” She knew her voice was thin and strained. “Your wife came to my store and asked me to arrange everything for your talk tonight. I didn’t know what you intended. I hadn’t read the Gazette. I’ve read the article now. I don’t like bullies. So forget it. I won’t be here tonight. Nor will there be any copies of your book.” With that she turned and moved toward the path.

  She turned at the end of the wing, realized her face was flaming. She felt a whipping anger. What a complete and total jerk. She was still fuming when she reached the lobby. She turned and charged up the stairs to the second floor. She burst into the catering office.

  A plump woman with dark hair looked up with a smile that stopped midway in its formation. “Annie, what’s wrong?” Rita White was a mainstay in Friends of the Library. She handled volatile personalities on the board with the same aplomb she’d gained from years of arranging events at the Seaside Inn.

  Annie took a deep breath. Rita was going to think she was unhinged. There was no good way to announce that the store was no longer involved and that any and all questions about the reception should be directed to Rae Griffith. It was important that Annie not say anything about why she was distraught. That would be the last thing Marian would want.

  Annie stood at the door with one hand gripping the knob.

  “What’s wrong?” Rita pushed up from her chair, came around the side of her desk.

  Annie managed to sound crisp. “I’m no longer involved in the event planned for tonight.” It seemed an eon ago that she and Rita had worked out the number of chairs, the positioning of the lectern, the location of the cash bars. “Death on Demand isn’t participating.”

  Rita looked shocked. “Has the staff—”

  “It has nothing to do with the hotel. I have withdrawn as a sponsor of anything connected with Alex Griffith. Whatever the Griffiths do has nothing to do with me or Death on Demand.”

  “Why?”

  Why, indeed. “Let’s just say I decided it wasn’t an appropriate event for Death on Demand.”

  “But, Annie—”

  Annie held up a hand. “Alex Griffith has a program in mind that wouldn’t be helpful to the bookstore. I don’t want to get into details. Let’s leave it at that. Now, if you’ll call a bellman, I’ll retrieve the boxes of books that Duane brought over.”

  Rita turned to her desk, lifted a phone. “Ask the bellman to bring the boxes of books stored for tonight’s event to the front desk . . . Thank you.” She looked at Annie. “The boxes will be there for you.” Her face creased in concern. “Will his talk go on as planned?”

  “I suggest,” Annie said carefully, “that you speak to the Griffiths.”

  • • •

  Annie handed the bellman a twenty-dollar tip after he slid the last box of books into the Thunderbird’s trunk. She would be happiest if she could take Griffith’s damnable books and toss them from Fish Haul Pier, watch the boxes sink into green water. The next best thing was to return them to the wholesaler. Her lips pressed together as she slid behind the wheel. Alex Griffith was going to cost her money—the shipping costs for special quick delivery, the returns—but she didn’t care. She drove straight to the FedEx office, smiled at the freckle-faced teenager who carried the boxes inside for her, filled out address labels. Good riddance.

  • • •

  Annie carried the last copies of Don’t Go Home from the South Carolina authors table to the storeroom. She filled out forms for their return and boxed the books. When they were gone—she could drop them at FedEx—there would be no trace of Alex Griffith or his books at Death on Demand.

  • • •

  Annie felt like she was swimming through heated molasses as she walked from her car up the back steps of the house. The sunlight now slanted through the pines but beginning shadows offered no respite from the humid air. She stepped into the kitchen, welcomed the cool blast of air-conditioning.

  Dorothy L, their gorgeous white cat, Max’s special gal, gave a plaintive mew.

  Annie understood. Max wasn’t here and he should be, so far as Dorothy L was concerned. He was often immersed in creating dinner when Annie arrived home. This evening there were no delicious smells, no pans on the range.

  “Sorry, sweetie. Just you and me.” She bent and stroked Dorothy L’s thick, long fur, only a little thinned from summer shedding.

  Dorothy L gazed up at her with China blue eyes, then, almost as if shrugging in sadness, turned and padded slowly away.

  Annie fixed a tall glass of ice water. She felt at loose ends. Ingrid had already lined up Duane to help at the store tonight so she insist
ed Annie leave. “Take a break. Go down to the beach. There’s a new fish shack that deep-fries breaded jumbo shrimp. Without the food gendarme along, you can indulge.”

  Annie smiled as she imagined Max’s response when she told him he was now officially known as the food gendarme. Served him right for his raised eyebrow when she ordered her usual fried oyster sandwich or chose fried flounder instead of grilled. But tonight she had little appetite. She fixed cold smoked salmon with cream cheese on a bagel with onions and capers, added potato chips and coleslaw, and carried a paper plate onto the screened-in porch. As she ate, the sun sank behind tall pines and shadows stretched across the backyard.

  She tried to think of other things—the drought that threatened the Southwest, the fetching video on YouTube of a sleeping Great Dane with a bright-eyed kitten jumping back and forth over its recumbent form, a reprise of the famous tennis match between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs—but remembered voices sounded over and over in her mind, one amused and taunting, the other despairing. Marian had been her friend and Max’s for years, cocky, funny, bright, quick, always lively, never bitter or angry or despairing.

  Annie pulled her cell from her pocket. Marian was in her Favorites list. She swiped the name and listened as the phone rang and rang. When voice mail came on, she hesitated, then said uncertainly, “Marian, you know if I can help, I will.”

  She put the cell back in her pocket. Had Marian seen caller ID and chosen not to answer? Was Marian on her way to the Seaside Inn?

  Annie looked out at the thickening shadows. Was there anything she could do? Would it help or hurt if she asked Alex for the sake of decency to leave people in peace? Annie jumped to her feet. She couldn’t sit here, listening to the cicadas and the frogs, and do nothing to help Marian. At least, whatever happened, Annie could be there for Marian.

  3

  The parking lot on the west side of the inn was almost full. Annie found an empty space at the end of the third row. She could easily have walked over to the inn. Their house was only a half mile distant on a path that wound through a thick forest of live oaks, slash pine, bayberry, ferns, and saw palmettos. The night forest was cheerful, crickets and cicadas serenading, greenery rustling in a slight breeze, birds chattering in the treetops, but the night also hosted foxes, raccoons, cotton rats, possibly even a wild boar. Most fearsome to Annie was the possibility of stumbling over an alligator. A lagoon, home to several of the huge creatures, lay midway between their house and the inn. Alligators might look like logs with legs but they could outrun humans, and mama alligators didn’t take kindly to any perceived threat to their babies.

  Annie crossed the parking lot in deepening shadows as the sun continued to slip behind majestic pines. At the back of the inn, she made a slow circuit of the terrace, looking for Marian. She spotted her in the shadows of the gazebo. Even dimly seen, the stiffness of her posture was evident; it said, Don’t come near, leave me alone.

  A great majority of seats were taken but people still streamed toward the rows of white folding chairs. There was a festive air. Free entertainment was always a hit. That afternoon’s Gazette had carried a half-page ad apparently placed by Rae. Either it had been too late for Rae to cancel the ad or she didn’t mind leaving Death on Demand on the hook as a sponsor. There was nothing Annie could do about that.

  DEATH ON DEMAND

  Presents

  ALEX GRIFFITH

  Famous Southern Author

  GRIFFITH’S Promise:

  You Won’t Be Bored

  True Facts Behind Double-Dealing,

  Freewheeling, Scandalous Lives

  8 P.M. Wednesday, Free Admission,

  Seaside Inn Gazebo

  Annie stopped and scanned the crowd. She knew many of those attending. She watched as guests found seats, turned to talk to friends. Convivial groups clustered near two cash bars. Laughter rose on the night air amid the light high sound of women talking and the deeper rumble of men’s voices.

  She looked for particular faces, found them. Her careful rereading of Don’t Go Home, now that she knew Alex’s connection to Joan Turner, opened doors these islanders had surely thought closed to the world at large. Those in the family and connected to Alex were well aware what a careful reading revealed. They dared not stay away. What if Alex told everyone? That possibility brought them. They knew at terrible personal cost the truth behind Alex Griffith’s characters. She saw that knowledge as she studied them, one by one. Each made an effort to appear as usual, but perhaps no one can face disgrace, embarrassment, perhaps criminal accusations, and maintain a bright and comfortable facade. Deep inside she felt a sickening realization that they would also associate this night with her and Death on Demand. Tomorrow she’d put an ad in the Gazette, disclaim all responsibility.

  Annie felt enormous sympathy as well as a disturbing frisson of threat and darkness as she looked from face to face.

  The provocative sentences in Ginger Harris’s lead floated in her mind.

  Has Martin felt remorse?

  A fatal car wreck in the novel, not a sailing accident, a woman who died, not a man. In the book, Martin ran through the money that his wife, Regina, inherited, then pressured her until she took out an insurance policy. Her death was accidental but perhaps there was a sense that Regina welcomed death, that she drove fast and recklessly, angry with her husband. The kernel of the story was true here, an accidental death and the payoff of a huge insurance policy, a spouse saved from financial ruin, a speculator saved from disgrace. Martin and Regina in the novel represented Lynn Griffith and her late husband, Heyward. Lynn was Heyward’s well-heeled widow after his sailboat was found drifting. Heyward’s body floated to shore three days later.

  Tonight Lynn was a vision of elegance in a pale green silk jacket with oversized shimmering abalone-shell buttons. Lynn stared at the empty gazebo. There was no social smile this evening.

  Will Buck keep Louanne’s secret?

  Alex Griffith wasn’t onstage yet. Would he appear in a white planter’s suit, shades of Tom Wolfe? Had Rae arranged for a spot to illuminate him? A TV camera crew moved a little restively near one side of the gazebo. The comely reporter, swirling black hair, smoothly made-up face, checked her watch, tapped an impatient foot.

  When Alex appeared, he would be handsome, virile, exuding charm just as the rumpled ad exec Buck did in Alex’s book. Alex’s self-portrait was admiring. Buck was the eye through which everyone in the novel was viewed, including Louanne, who was unhappily married to a feckless alcoholic. An impetuous affair. An unexpected pregnancy. A cuckolded husband who never knew. Annie thought about Marian’s freckle-faced son, not dark like Marian and her ex-husband, but fair like Alex Griffith, a sunny kid with golden brown hair.

  Marian still lurked in the shadows on the far side of the gazebo, close to a path that led to the rooms in the east wing. She would see Alex as soon as he reached the terrace.

  Will Mary Alice ever tell Charles the truth?

  Joan Turner, Alex’s sister, rested a sharply pointed chin on the back of a fist. She was undoubtedly attractive, the pale blue linen dress perfect for her coal black hair, but her rigid posture betrayed her. She sat stiff and still, her thin face expressionless in the fading light. The passage in the novel detailing a sister’s affair had been explicit. Now Joan’s husband, Leland, looked toward the gazebo, but he radiated awareness of his wife beside him. Abruptly, Joan came to her feet. She bent, murmured something, then moved out into the aisle. She walked swiftly toward the back of the inn. Leland Turner twisted in his seat and watched as she disappeared inside the inn.

  As he swings a golf club, enjoying power and pleasure, does Kenny think of a wasted form lying on a bed?

  Annie recalled the narrative and the evocation of a powerful alpha male. The fact that Eddie Olson was here revealed him as Kenny in the book. This gathering wasn’t loud, brash Eddie Olson’s milieu. In her occasional chats with him at
parties or charity golf tournaments, he never mentioned books or reading, which usually came up since she was a bookseller. He never evinced any interest in Death on Demand. He could describe play by play the Citadel football games for the last twenty years. He talked about football, his latest golf score, football, the odds on the Kentucky Derby, football . . . He stood near a cash bar, gripping a drink. His heavy face was impassive. Burly and muscular, he stood with his feet apart, like a boxer balancing. Abruptly, he lifted the glass, drank the contents down, turned back toward the bar.

  Does Frances remember choking in the water . . .

  Another gender change, but Frances in the book was clearly a feminized George Griffith, fairly unkempt dark hair in loose curls, a little too much lipstick. George’s shaggy hair was dark and curly. He might have been a handsome teenager, but too many drinks over too many years had coarsened his features. Oddly he didn’t hold a glass in his hand tonight. Annie thought it might be the first time in a social situation with alcohol available that she had not seen a glass in his plump hand. He stood to one side of the path, his expression brooding. In the book Frances had been the lushly beautiful teenage girl, drunk, unsteady, clothes sopping, crying, “It wasn’t my fault. The mist. The bicycle came out of nowhere . . .”

  All of them were here to find out what Alex Griffith was going to say in his well-modulated, expressive voice. Would he read passages from the book, toy with those who were afraid, or did he intend to talk about himself? Annie suspected that in Alex’s world it was always all about him: how he saw everything, how nothing escaped him, how delicately and perfectly he could wring laughter or tears.

  A smug voice at her shoulder oozed pleasure. “I always wished I’d lived in first-century Rome. What could be more thrilling than watching lions devour those tiresome Christians? This is the next-best thing. Love Lynn’s face. Pure Ibsen. Not quite as supercilious as she was at the last Friends meeting.” Two little sniffs followed. The sniffs were habitual, an annoying accompaniment that always concluded breathy observations.