Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  Maybe someone had a heart attack. Not that she wished illness on anyone, but help would come. That would be a single siren. Didn’t two sirens spell police?

  She knew what she feared in a dark recess of her mind. Was Alex Griffith’s murderer afraid of how much Rae knew? But Joan Turner had invited Rae to come to the Turner home, leave the physical surroundings where Alex died. Even if Rae had declined the offer, surely she had relocated to another room in the inn. Annie had a swift memory of Rae huddled in the webbed chair on the patio just the other side of the cracked glass door and the room where her husband lay twisted in death.

  Rae had huddled alone. All alone. No one to care. No one to help.

  It was far too late at night to call the Turner house, ask if Rae was there. Annie whirled and hurried across the porch, flinging open the door, running with her slippers slapping softly on the wooden floor, taking the stairs two at a time. It took only a couple of minutes to step out of her nightie, put on a cotton top and slacks, tug on running shoes.

  She raced down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she grabbed a flashlight. Outside, she crossed the yard and reached the path. When she plunged into the woods, the canopy of trees closed overhead, blocking out the stars and the glow of the moon. The flashlight beam offered a reassuring tunnel of light in the pitch darkness. Ferns and vines poked into her path. Movement and rustles in dense thickets brought the hair up on the back of her neck. She knew what was out there—raccoons, deer, rats, porcupines, foxes—but surely they would stay out of her way. As she ran, she murmured in almost a conversational tone, “Max, I’m not being stupid. I’m going to be careful. I just don’t want Rae to be alone, if she’s there. She may not be there, so then I can come home and all is well, and I promise I am not getting involved in anything.” She slowed and peered at the farthest reach of the light. Worse than upsetting Max would be coming nose to snout with an alligator lounging on the path. If she saw a long dark blotch across the trail, she would skid to a terrified stop, inch her way back. But the path was the quickest way to the inn. Her heart was thudding by the time she plunged out of the woods into the west parking lot. Immediately she felt better. She’d sent ESP vibes to Max and she hadn’t confronted an alligator. She crossed the terrace, the untenanted swimming pool emphasizing the late hour. She heard voices before she reached the east wing.

  As she came around the corner, she saw beams from Maglites dancing in the forest west of the inn. There were sounds of movement, twigs breaking, men calling to each other.

  Several dark figures clustered near the first patio.

  Rae Griffith stood by an overturned patio chair. Her dark hair was tousled, her pale blue cotton nightgown pulled low on one shoulder. At some point in whatever had occurred, she’d pulled on running shoes and they were an odd contrast to the delicate nightgown.

  Officer Harrison, as crisp as always, was listening, her face intent.

  “. . . never saw him,” Rae was saying. Her voice was strained.

  “Him?” Hyla asked.

  In the grass a few feet from the patio, a college-age girl in a white peasant blouse and blue denim skirt watched anxiously. Her name tag read: Night Clerk Judith Reilly. At a shout from the woods, she looked even more scared, edged closer to Hyla.

  Rae massaged the bare shoulder, grimaced. “It could have been a woman. Everything happened so fast.”

  Running steps sounded. Marian Kenyon skidded to a stop by Annie, notebook in one hand, Leica in the other. “Scanner,” she explained to Annie before turning to Hyla Harrison. “You caught anybody?” Marian was middle-of-the-night frowsy in a too-large orange T-shirt and faded jeans and worn huaraches.

  Hyla jerked a thumb toward the woods. “Search under way,” she answered, but her eyes never moved from Rae’s pale face. “You were in the bedroom”—a slight upward inflection—“here?”

  Rae brushed back tangled hair, looked defiant. “I know what you’re thinking.” Her voice was ragged. “You think I should have moved. Alex’s sister asked me. The hotel offered another room.” Her lips quivered. “His things are here.”

  Annie pressed her nails into her palms. The room was all Rae had now of Alex. His things are here . . . Annie understood. Even with the memory of that twisted body, utterly still and limp in death, Rae wanted to be where she felt nearest to him.

  Hyla continued to watch Rae, her face impassive, then pressed on. “You were in the bedroom.”

  Rae blinked and her face furrowed in concentration. “I’d taken a sleeping pill. If I sound groggy, that’s why.” Her voice was dull, dragging. “I heard noise, something out in the sitting room. I wasn’t thinking. At first I thought Alex was up—and then I remembered. I got up but I was dizzy. I hung on to the headboard for a minute. There were thumps, little noises. I knew something was wrong, somebody out there who shouldn’t be. I wasn’t thinking straight or I would have stayed where I was—the bedroom door was locked—and called the police. But I was mad and upset. I started across the room, kind of stumbling. I got to the door and pulled it open. I saw a shaft of light and all of a sudden the light was in my eyes. I couldn’t see anything. I screamed. But I don’t think I made much noise. Somebody rushed at me and I saw the light swing up and I knew I was going to be hit. I tried to get out of the way and the flashlight slammed down onto my shoulder and I fell. By the time I got up, it was dark in the sitting room. The only light came from the lantern on the patio. I saw that light and the curtain blowing and knew the patio door was open. I turned on all the lights and called 911.”

  The sounds of the search were distant now. There were no warning shouts, no harsh orders to raise hands and remain still. Annie knew no one had been spotted. By now the intruder was likely long gone.

  Hyla was brisk. “Did your assailant’s footsteps sound loud?”

  Rae stared at the slender officer. “Loud?”

  “The level of noise might indicate whether your assailant was a man or woman. Loud steps, a man. Light steps, a woman.”

  Rae shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Marian was at the edge of the patio, leaning forward. In the light from the lantern at the end of the dividing wall, she looked tense. “What do you have that someone wants? Or what did your husband have?”

  Annie noticed that Marian did not call the dead man by his first name.

  Rae looked past Hyla, apparently seeing Marian for the first time. Rae’s face twisted in uncertainty. “I don’t know.”

  Hyla shot Marian a squelching look, said to Rae, “How do you think the intruder gained entry?”

  Rae gestured toward the patio door.

  Instead of industrial tape masking a crack, the pane was now shattered. Shards of glass littered the patio floor. A gaping hole by the handle easily provided enough space for a gloved hand to reach inside, loosen the lock, delve down carefully past jagged edges to toss aside the security bar. The intruder’s entry had been made easier by the previous damage. The thick crisscross of tape muffled the sound of further cracking.

  Rae’s eyes narrowed. She took a step toward Marian. “How come you’re here? Alex said he used to know you.”

  Hyla looked from one to the other, absorbing every nuance, every breath, every flicker of expression.

  Marian returned Rae’s stare. “I heard the alert on the scanner. I cover the news. I don’t know anything about your husband’s activities.”

  Rae took another step forward. “You used to know a lot about him. He said he knew you in the old days, before I met him. What did that mean? Are you the one who threw the hurricane lamp at him?”

  Annie wondered if Rae, in her shocked state, was attuned to fear and desperation. She had somehow connected the violence that morning with Marian.

  Marian managed a strained laugh. “If someone threw a hurricane lamp at him, I’d think there are a lot of people who might have wanted to smash things around him. As fo
r me, I can’t explain why the lamp was thrown.”

  Annie wished she could turn and leave. Marian, her friend Marian, Marian, who was light and funny and clever and eager, was picking words as delicately as a scam artist. Marian said she couldn’t explain why the lamp was thrown. If she explained, she would have to admit she’d thrown the lamp at Alex in a rage.

  “The lamp doesn’t matter.” Marian talked fast. “What matters is why someone came here tonight. Did your husband have something somebody wanted?”

  Rae rubbed knuckles against one cheek, like a tired child. “The policeman asked me if Alex had papers that might be connected to his murder. Alex brought his briefcase when we came to the island. He was carrying it yesterday, but he left it in the car when he got back to the inn. I went out to Alex’s car and got it.”

  Hyla’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s the briefcase now?”

  Rae pointed inside. “I put it on the counter.” She turned, walked wearily into the suite.

  Hyla followed.

  Marian stepped to the open doorway, rose on tiptoe to watch. Annie joined her. The hotel clerk scurried to be near them.

  “What was in the briefcase?” Marian’s voice was taut.

  Rae looked back at her. “Things about people on the island. And a letter, something to do with his brother. He was talking about the letter after he got back today but I didn’t pay much attention. The letter and some old friend.”

  Hyla stood next to the counter by the wet bar. The empty counter.

  Rae stared. “The briefcase is gone. That’s where I put it.”

  Every light burned. A green tarp covered the sofa and a portion of the floor. Had the police covered the sofa to hide the bloodstains when Rae insisted on remaining in the suite? The crime scene survey had been completed or Billy would not have permitted Rae to stay. But traces of the crime would be evident from dark splotches of dried blood on the sofa and floor.

  A stool near the coffee bar had been toppled. A lamp had been knocked to the floor from the table by the bedroom door.

  Rae pointed at the wet bar. “The briefcase was lying on the counter.”

  Hyla moved swiftly. She searched the room, even lifted the tarp to flash her light beneath it.

  Annie averted her gaze, but not before she saw a grisly blackish stain.

  Hyla said briefly to Rae, “Stay here.” She came toward the patio.

  Marian and Annie moved out of the way and the plump girl remained within a foot of Annie.

  Hyla flashed the Maglite over the patio, walked out ten feet toward the woods. Finally, she shook her head and strode back.

  Rae stood in the opening. “They—he—whoever—took the briefcase.”

  Hyla nodded. “Looks like that’s what the intruder wanted. Description?”

  Rae rubbed her eyes. “I got it for him for Christmas. A man’s briefcase. Small. Tan leather. His initials on the front in gold letters.” She sagged a little against the upright metal rod of the patio door. “That man, the big one, he asked me if Alex had brought any papers with him to the island. I looked around and didn’t see his briefcase and so I went out and the policeman went with me and I got the briefcase out of Alex’s car. We brought it in here and he looked through it.”

  Marian stood quite still. “You said there was information about people on the island?”

  Annie saw fear in Marian’s dark eyes.

  Rae massaged her right temple. “We didn’t find anything that looked important.” Her voice was weary. “The police chief and I looked. A woman took pictures of stuff. There wasn’t much.”

  Annie saw Marian swallow.

  There was thrashing in the woods, coming nearer. Lights flickered, became brighter. Lou Pirelli thudded out of the woods, followed by two other officers. He strode to Hyla. “No luck. We went all the way through the woods to the main road. Fifty people could be hiding in there. If the perp knew the terrain, he probably got clear before we arrived.” He looked at the gathering, noted Rae Griffith, and saw, with a slight look of inquiry, Annie standing by the wall and Marian at the edge of the patio. “What have you got?”

  Hyla was precise. “Unauthorized entry into corner suite. Bedroom occupied by Rae Griffith. Intrusion awakened her. She went out into the sitting room. Intruder struck her. She fell. Intruder escaped. No injury beyond bruised shoulder. Intruder apparently removed a briefcase belonging to the dead man. The intruder did not gain access to contents of bedroom. No description.” She turned back to Rae. “Anything of value in the sitting room?”

  Rae looked exhausted. “I’d taken our things out after the policewoman finished. She was nice enough but she warned me not to go into the sitting room, that the site shouldn’t be disturbed. Site.” Rae’s voice was uneven. “Site of murder? That’s what she meant. But I wasn’t going to be driven away. She watched while I took my things into the bedroom. She told me to go in and out through the bedroom door into the hall, not to come into the sitting room. As if I’d want to go in there.”

  Hyla’s gaze flickered toward the broken patio door. “I’m sure the hotel will provide another room—”

  “No.” Rae’s response was sharp. “I’m staying here.”

  Hyla nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll check the sitting room and surroundings for fingerprints. Most perps who come prepared to break in, especially to this kind of scene, wear gloves so it’s unlikely we’ll find anything useful. We’ll look. I suggest you lock the bedroom door. I’ll wait here until you are safely in the bedroom.” She watched as Rae picked her way through the broken glass. Her running shoes looked odd beneath the bare legs and shorty nightgown.

  Lou spoke quietly to Hyla, the words indistinguishable.

  Annie knew Marian strained to hear, just as she herself did, but he spoke with his back to the two women, his voice a murmur, as was Hyla’s reply. Lou gave a nod, turned to leave the patio, gesturing to the officers standing a few feet away. They moved toward the front of the inn.

  Hyla stepped to the threshold of the sitting room, head cocked, apparently charting Rae’s progress to the bedroom.

  Lou passed close to Annie and Marian. He knew them both well, but his gaze was neither friendly nor unfriendly. He was a cop, observing, thinking, wondering.

  Apparently satisfied that Rae was in the bedroom, Hyla turned and walked toward them. She stopped a scant foot away, looked from Annie to Marian and back at Annie. “You have a scanner?” The words were pleasant, but the skeptical look in her eyes told Annie that her presence there was definitely suspect.

  “I was on the back porch. I heard sirens.”

  “You always go out to see about sirens”—Hyla glanced at her watch—“you hear close to two A.M.?”

  “I knew the sirens stopped at the inn. It’s only a half mile through the woods to our house. And after what happened tonight . . .” She trailed off, aware that Hyla and Marian both watched her. “I was afraid something else had happened to Rae and I was afraid she was all alone. I just came to see.”

  Hyla’s pale green eyes still looked skeptical. “Right. Well, I’d say there’s nothing to see now.”

  Annie was dismissed. She left silence behind her as she rounded the wall and walked toward the terrace. Hyla obviously intended to wait until she was out of earshot, but Annie caught a scrap of Hyla’s question to Marian.

  “Is your car in the front . . .”

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison consciously elevated her chin. There would be no evidence of fatigue in her demeanor this morning. From a history of World War II, she remembered a dictum favored by General George C. Marshall: An officer is responsible for his own morale. In war, officers as well as their men were hungry or exhausted or in peril but it was their duty to remain positive, forceful, and commanding. Hyla liked that thought. No matter how tired she might be after the late-night alarm, she reported for work on schedule at eight A.M., r
eady for the day, makeup fresh, hair neatly brushed, uniform crisp.

  Now she was once again in the east wing of the Seaside Inn next door to the suite where Alex Griffith violently died. Last night, she’d checked each occupied room, spoken to all but three guests. None reported seeing anything useful to the investigation from their patios.

  She ignored the Do Not Disturb placard hung on the knob and knocked firmly on the door to Room 128, guest Robert Haws.

  No answer.

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  No answer.

  Hyla knocked again, waited a minute, knocked, waited, knocked. She checked a page in her small notebook, slid it back into a pocket, pulled out her cell phone, swiped a number.

  “Seaside Inn. How may I help you?”

  “Police Officer H. Harrison. Will you ring Room 128, inform Mr. Haws that a police officer is at the door and wishes to speak to him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The tone was breathy, excited.

  Hyla held until the recording function switched on. She ended the call, frowned. She walked swiftly up the hall, into the small arcade, past the shops, and into the main lobby.

  The clerk at the desk was tall, willowy, in her forties, with an old-fashioned upswept hairdo. With a worried frown, she watched Hyla approach. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I’d like information about the guest in Room 128.”

  The clerk, Mrs. Childers, turned to her workstation. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. Relief was evident when she turned back to Hyla. “Mr. Haws checked out via the hotel television channel this morning.”

  “He didn’t come to the desk?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I’d like his credit card information.”

  Mrs. Childers tapped again, gave Hyla a bright smile. “He didn’t use a credit card. He paid cash.”

  Hyla stiffened, much like a dog on point. Anomalies were warning flags. “Did he have a reservation when he arrived?”

  Dark eyes turned back to the screen. “Yes. The reservation was made on Monday.”