Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  “Mrs. Townsend, please.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  Hyla grew up in Florida. She recognized the smooth, uninflected tone of a housekeeper. “Officer H. Harrison, Broward’s Rock Police Department. Official business.”

  “Yes, ma’am. One moment, please.”

  It was a bit longer than a moment and this time the voice was full and throaty. “I always knew my lurid past would catch up with me.” There was raucous amusement and the utter confidence of a certain kind of Southern belle, rowdy, unconventional, ready to hike up a satin skirt and slide down a banister or start a morning with champagne. “What can I do for you, Officer H. Harrison?”

  “Alex and Rae Griffith live across the street from you.”

  “I saw the morning news. So the handsome laddie met his match.” There was a tinge of regret in the husky voice.

  “Did you know the Griffiths?”

  “I recognized them going in and out. He drove a red Porsche. She has a black Mercedes.”

  “Do you have any idea whether the Griffiths were on good terms?”

  “Lord, woman, I’d be the last to chide my neighbors for their marital woes. I just booted out my third. Good in bed but too prone”—a hoot of laughter—“to sliding between the sheets with other married women. As for the Griffiths, I don’t know anything firsthand but my Miriam knows the Griffiths’ housekeeper, Ella, and according to Miriam . . .”

  • • •

  Annie sat gingerly on the hot leather, turned the air-conditioning on full blast. She remembered her frugal mother’s warning not to sit in the car and run the motor and waste gas. They watched pennies and dollars when she grew up in Amarillo. Funny how an unexpected memory could be so clear and distinct; it felt almost as if she could reach out and touch her mother, who died when she was in college. Frugal, yes, but generous and warm and caring, always there for her daughter and her friends. Her mom would have liked Marian.

  Annie touched the steering wheel, yanked her hands away. Cars around here heated up like volcanoes in July. Firmly she punched the ignition, gripped the wheel. Her thoughts were skittering, focusing on heat and steering wheels and long ago because she didn’t have a single idea what to do next. It was easy to tell Marian that of course they could figure out who killed Alex Griffith. At least Marian had specific tasks: cover Billy Cameron’s news conference, write the Gazette’s lead story, check out unsolved crimes when George Griffith was in high school, track down how someone named Michael Smith became a paraplegic when Warren Foster, Eddie Olson, and Alex Griffith were teenagers.

  As for Annie, she had a list, too: other islanders who’d waited in dread last night for Alex to speak. Had one of them known he would never speak?

  Annie rolled up the windows, pulled out her cell. Joan Turner had offered a haven to Rae Griffith. Annie found Joan’s home number, called.

  “Hello.” Leland’s voice was pleasant though a bit weary.

  “This is Annie Darling. May I speak to Joan?”

  “She’s at the shop. Do you have that number?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” Annie dropped the cell back in her purse. It was interesting that Leland answered the phone, not a friend from church. Usually when a family is bereaved, ladies show up, handle phone calls, bring food, offer comfort. Instead Leland answered the phone and Joan had gone to work, though her brother was lying in a mortuary, a murder victim.

  Annie backed from the slot, turned toward the main drive to town. She knew the way to Joan Turner’s shop. She’d gone there often with Laurel, watched with amazement when her mother-in-law murmured about the sea at night, waved a graceful hand, and Joan Turner immediately suggested a wall of photographs by William Hartshorn, turning Laurel’s family room into a spectacular evocation of moonlight and ocean.

  Joan’s shop was in a small frame cottage overlooking the harbor. Annie hurried up the steps, admired the massive brass knob as she opened the door and stepped inside.

  Joan was seated at a sleek and simple Danish modern white desk, hand poised over a sketch pad. Two crimson molded chairs that faced the desk made it appear even whiter. The desktop held only a framed photograph of Leland and a seashell. Joan looked up with the beginning of a smile. Her face froze for an instant before she managed a pleasant expression. “Hello, Annie. What can I do for you?”

  Annie walked across the floor, knew that Joan’s gaze was wary, possibly frightened. As she’d driven toward town, Annie grappled with how to approach people who had every reason to hate a murdered man.

  She realized that truth is always best.

  Annie didn’t sit down. She wasn’t sure she would be welcome to sit down. “Death on Demand initially agreed to sponsor your brother’s talk last night.”

  Joan’s face was now carefully empty. She made no response.

  Annie continued despite that resistant silence. “Rae Griffith came to the store Monday and invited me to sponsor Alex’s talk. I was excited. He was a famous author. I thought I’d sell a lot of books.” She saw understanding in a fellow shopkeeper’s eyes, a good project, a good return on time and effort. “I hadn’t seen the article in the Gazette. I read the article. Yesterday morning I withdrew.”

  “That was kind of you.” Joan’s tone was cautious.

  “I don’t like cruelty.”

  “I don’t either.” Joan gestured toward the molded chairs that faced the desk. “It’s awfully nice of you to explain the connection.”

  Annie perched on the edge of a red chair.

  Joan took a deep breath. “Very thoughtful of you.” A pause. “I hadn’t seen Alex in years.”

  “That’s what his wife said. She came to see me this morning. She doesn’t know any of you. I felt sorry for her.” Sorry for Rae, scared for Marian. “Rae hoped someone he spoke to yesterday might know if he quarreled with anyone.” Annie gambled. She didn’t know specifically who Alex called, but family seemed likely. “Alex came to see you.”

  Joan picked up a letter opener with a turquoise handle, turned it over and over. “Did Alex tell her what he said to me?”

  “I can’t speak to that.”

  Joan’s face was tight, her words clipped. “I offered hospitality to her. She’s Alex’s widow. I invited her to come home with us last night. And this is how she repays me. I gather she doesn’t want to have anything to do with us. There won’t be a funeral.” Her voice was empty. “She said Alex didn’t believe in funerals.” Joan glanced toward the window that overlooked the harbor.

  Annie knew she wasn’t seeing the Miss Jolene at her berth or dolphins curving above a placid sea or the distant shape of a passing freighter.

  Joan looked at Annie. “You’ve read Don’t Go Home.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The funeral scene. That was how it was when Alex’s mother died. She was Dad’s second wife. He already had Heyward and George and me. Our mother left when George and I were eight and ten. Heyward was already in college. I always wondered whether Dad had something on her, if that’s why she didn’t get custody. Maybe she didn’t give a damn.” Joan’s voice reflected nothing more than mild curiosity, as if she were chatting about someone she’d scarcely known. “About a year later, she died somewhere in Italy, we never knew exactly how. Dad married Jessica. She died—cancer—when Alex was seven. To George and me, he was a pest, always hanging around, butting in.” Her gaze at Annie was rueful. “Looking back, I can see George and I ignored Alex. Heyward had a soft spot for him, kept in touch with him. Even years later. Maybe because Heyward and Lynn never had kids. George and I both were busy with our kids. Dad was remote from all of us. He died the summer after Alex finished high school. Heyward and George and I were all married. We sold the house. Alex went to Augusta to stay with Jessica’s parents, then he went to Emory.” Her face was thoughtful. “I wondered later, after the book came out, if Heyward talked about George and me with Alex. Heyward was always st
iff and formal. He thought George drank too much. And . . .” Her gaze fell. “Heyward disapproved of”—a pulse flickered in her throat—“some of my friends.”

  Joan lifted a graceful hand to brush back a sprig of dark hair. “Ever since the story in the Gazette, I’ve wondered why Alex wanted to come back and tear lives apart, like an Aztec priest yanking out a living heart. Vindictive? Maybe. Heedless? Maybe. Or maybe he was willing to do whatever he had to do to get another book. What made him the way he was—handsome, brilliant, able to make any sentence sing? Why do people turn out the way they do? A twist of genes, choices. Sins of omission and commission. People are who they are. Heyward was judgmental. George drinks too much, runs around on his wife; his kids are a mess. Alex sucked the life out of everything around him. Maybe he couldn’t feel other people’s pain; maybe he had so much pain bottled up inside that he had to write to survive. I don’t know. Heyward demanded too much of everyone around him. George was reckless and unstable. And Alex was watching . . .”

  Joan made no mention of herself. Annie recalled the action in the novel. A drunken teenager hid a crime. A high school sports “accident” resulted in paraplegia. A fatal car accident after the money was gone. An unhappily married copywriter’s affair led to a surprise pregnancy. A sister was unfaithful to her husband. Alex had indeed been watchful, learning secrets, keeping them until one day he took those lives and used them in his novel.

  Joan’s gaze challenged her. “However, all of this is hypothetical. People can say what they wish, believe what they wish. Death changes everything.” She spoke without expression, as if merely stating a fact. Slowly tension eased out of her body. “No one now can make any claims about what may or may not have been in Alex’s mind when he wrote the book. As for my conversation with Alex, I don’t recall anything of interest to anyone else. If he offered lurid accusations to his wife about yesterday”—a shrug—“well, Alex dramatized everything. She should remember he wrote fiction.”

  • • •

  “Miss Ella Peabody?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Officer H. Harrison, Broward’s Rock Police. I’m calling to confirm that Neil Kelly resides in the garage apartment, formerly chauffeur’s quarters, behind the home of Mr. and Mrs. Alex Griffith.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Miss Peabody, I am asking you to confirm information received from a confidential source. On the night of July eight, your car turned into the drive of the Griffith home in Buckhead—”

  “I forgot my purse. That’s the reason I came back.”

  “—and you followed the drive to the back. The drive curves around a line of pines. The garage isn’t visible from the street. Lights were on in the bedroom of the garage apartment. The renter, Neil Kelly, reached up to close the curtains. He was embracing Rae Griffith. He was bare chested, apparently wearing only boxer shorts. Before the curtains closed, they were seen in a passionate embrace. Can you confirm this information?”

  Her voice was small and tight. “It isn’t any business of mine what—”

  “Miss Peabody”—Hyla’s voice was stern—“there is a criminal investigation under way into the murder of your employer, Alex Griffith. Are you aware Mr. Griffith was killed last night?”

  A quick gasp. “Yes’m. I saw the story this morning on Channel 46. They had pictures of this real pretty place with pillars in front and rocking chairs, then they showed this smashed sliding glass door and a picture of Mr. Griffith in that white suit he liked to wear sometimes. I never been so shocked. He was always real nice to me, gave me a special bonus every Christmas.”

  “You understand that every citizen has an obligation to answer police inquiries honestly?”

  “Yes’m, I do.”

  “All we are asking is for you to confirm or deny information received from a confidential source.” Hyla suspected Ella was amazed at the call. Did she wonder who else might have been observing the garage apartment that night or did she link the information to her friend and confidante who worked across the street? Whichever, the request simply to confirm or deny freed her from feeling that she was betraying her mistress. “Did you observe the scene I have described?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Mr. Griffith was out of town that night.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Mr. Kelly drives a red 2009 Mustang. Do you know if the car is currently at the address?”

  “No’m. It hasn’t been here since Tuesday. I saw Mr. Kelly put a suitcase in his trunk on Tuesday morning.”

  • • •

  Marian held up her Leica, framed Billy Cameron standing on the steps in front of the police station. The light onshore breeze stirred his short, silvered blond hair. He was imposing, broad face with a strong jaw, solidly muscular in a short-sleeved white shirt and khaki trousers.

  Reporters stood as near the steps as possible. Cameramen held videocams. A small crowd had gathered: curious residents, tourists enjoying proximity to drama.

  Billy spoke slowly, clearly. “. . . and the autopsy confirms the initial report. Alex Griffith died from suffocation after he was either stunned or rendered unconscious by a crushing blow to the back of his head. The blow cracked the cranium and blood seeped into the interior of the brain. Another blow struck the right side of his face. Griffith was seated on a sofa. He was struck by a heavy piece of wood approximately two inches in circumference, a piece of live oak, which is a hardwood. Griffith slumped to his left. A cushion from the sofa was pressed against his face. The ME estimates he was dead within two minutes after he suffered the brain injury. No fingerprints were found on the stick or the pillow.”

  Two camera crews from Savannah jostled for advantage. A smooth-faced young woman with blond hair held out a mic. “Time of death?”

  “Mr. Griffith died between approximately six thirty P.M. and eight oh nine P.M., when his body was—”

  Marian edged even with the TV crew. “Chief, when was he last seen?”

  Billy’s gaze touched her, impersonal and professional. “His wife says she left Griffith alive at a quarter to seven. No one has admitted seeing him since then. Room service received a call from Suite 130 at seven seventeen—”

  The TV reporters brightened. Something new. Maybe a good sound bite.

  “—and attempted to deliver an order at seven thirty-four. Room service waiter knocked, received no answer.”

  A TV reporter called out, “Did Griffith make the call?”

  “A man called from Suite 130.” Billy was precise. “Room service greeted the caller as Mr. Griffith. The caller ordered one gin and tonic, one rum collins. Either Griffith placed the call or another man placed the call.”

  A rotund, balding reporter swiped sweat from his face. “Is the assumption that Griffith was entertaining a guest?”

  “No assumptions. These are the possibilities: The order was placed by Griffith, which suggests he had a guest, who could have been either male or female. The fact that there was no answer when the order arrived makes it likely that Griffith was dead by that point. Or the order was placed by an unknown male, which could indicate that Griffith was already dead when the call was made. Or a male guest placed the order at Griffith’s request. Any hotel guests, employees, or members of the public who observed anyone in the hallway of the east wing or near the patio of Suite 130 are asked to contact police.”

  “Chief”—the TV reporter poked a shoulder in front of Marian—“any evidence of robbery?”

  “No.”

  Marian knew that nothing had been taken at the time of Alex’s murder, but Billy apparently didn’t intend to mention the briefcase that was stolen from the suite later that night.

  The TV reporter pressed. “Drug deal gone wrong?”

  Billy shook his head. “No drug paraphernalia was found at the scene. There is no evidence Griffith used drugs. According to his wife, he drank wine and gin, did not
take drugs of any sort. Toxicology tests are being run to complete the record. Those findings will be released when they are available . . .”

  Marian made notes, knew that any minute the question would be asked—

  The sweaty reporter looked wilted in the midday heat, but his brown eyes bored into Billy’s. “Looks like you’ve knocked out robbery and drugs as motives. Griffith ordering up drinks suggests he had company. Is this homicide considered personal?”

  “It is possible that Mr. Griffith was acquainted with his killer.”

  The reporter was irritable. “Come on, Chief. Griffith—or somebody—ordered drinks. That sounds like Griffith knew his guest.”

  Billy nodded. “That is one possibility.”

  The reporter persisted. “Last week the local paper carried a story suggesting Griffith planned to tag people on the island as the ‘inspiration’ for his characters. Some of the characters in the novel are pretty tawdry. Are you checking out people who knew Griffith when he lived on the island?”

  “We are making inquiries into Griffith’s past.”

  The blond TV reporter thrust out her mic, a predatory expression on her lovely face. “Do you have a person of interest?”

  Billy looked especially stolid.

  Marian knew this indicated knowledge he had no intention of sharing. Her gut tightened. He wasn’t looking her way. Was that deliberate?

  Billy’s voice was uninflected. “At this point we are pursuing information about individuals who may have been connected in some manner to Mr. Griffith. Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen. We will offer an update tomorrow morning at ten.” He gave a brisk nod, turned away.

  As the front door closed behind him, the TV reporter smiled into the videocam. “Broward’s Rock police today revealed that the murder of Southern author Alex Griffith may be linked to steamy scenes in his world-famous novel, scenes reportedly based on real individuals on this idyllic sea island where Griffith was brutally slain last night. Police have declined . . .”

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison studied the Georgia driver’s license for Neil B. Kelly. Address: 107½ Ginger Lily Lane. DOB: May 6, 1986. Eyes: Brown. Height: 5'10". Weight: 146 lbs. For an instant photo, the likeness was good. Narrow forehead beneath curly hair. Thin, straight nose. Pointed cheekbones and chin. A bony face, eyes deep set.