Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  Hyla squinted, imagining a wide-brimmed straw hat, a blond curly wig, aviator sunglasses, a fake mustache, and a couple of small gauze pads stuffed in each cheek.

  Slowly, she nodded. She’d check the photo from the inn’s security cam but those high cheekbones couldn’t be disguised. She reached for her desk phone, glanced at a small pad with the description of the car registered to Neil B. Kelly. “Mavis, send out an alert for a red 2009 Mustang.” Hyla’s smile was satisfied. “Vanity license plate: CHARIOT. If found, do not stop or apprehend unless attempting to leave island. Maintain surveillance. Ascertain activities. Do not alarm suspect. Kelly may be a person of interest in the Griffith kill.”

  • • •

  Annie pushed the bell, smelled the cloying sweetness of a gardenia shrub flowering in a waist-tall blue vase on the front verandah. Gardenia shrubs flanked both sides of Lynn Griffith’s porch. The fanlight over the Greek Revival front door sparkled with cleanliness.

  The door swung in. Lynn Griffith stood in the shadowy hall. As always she was immaculately dressed. A gold-and-ivory-striped tunic hung loose over white narrow-legged slacks. Already tall with an imposing appearance, wearing jute and rope wedges gave her an added inch of height so that her wide blue eyes looked down on Annie.

  “Annie, I wasn’t expecting you.” The voice was light and pleasant.

  Annie knew she had been pleasantly but firmly reproved. One called before one came. There seemed to be a distinct distance between them.

  “Lynn, I hope you can spare a moment. I promised Rae Griffith I would find out more about what Alex did yesterday.” Annie had scored when she blandly announced Alex had visited his sister. Now for his sister-in-law . . . “We know he came to see you.”

  Lynn’s face molded into a conventional expression of sorrow. “Such a shock.” Her voice rose. “I couldn’t believe it when that policeman made the announcement. I didn’t know what to do. I thought perhaps I should stay”—her tone was earnest—“then I thought I didn’t know anything that would matter to authorities and I didn’t want to be in the way. I am still reeling. I can’t believe Alex was killed at the Seaside Inn. That’s not the kind of thing we expect here. Why, you’d think we were in Chicago. Though I understand he wasn’t shot. I turned off the television this morning as I just knew it was going to be too graphic. Heyward always kept that kind of thing from me. Won’t you come in?” She held the door wide. “I doubt I can help, but, of course, I want to do everything I can for his widow. Not that we’ve ever met. Alex hadn’t kept up with family in recent years. Poor, poor Alex. I was saddened—”

  Annie stepped inside. Lynn closed the door. Their reflections wavered in the graying depths of an old mirror in an ornate gilded frame as Annie followed her through a wide doorway into the drawing room. Gold hangings added color to oyster gray walls. Lynn led the way to a brocaded sofa in a warm apricot tone, sank gracefully at one end, patted the sofa beside her.

  “—truly saddened when I spoke to Joan and she told me there won’t be a service. I don’t think ashes scattered from a boat is the least bit fitting. But Alex has been gone for so many years and people do follow different paths, don’t they?” The last was offered with a pitying shake of those perfect silver blond curls.

  Annie felt overwhelmed by the scent of gardenia, obviously Lynn’s perfume of choice. “You saw Alex yesterday?”

  Lynn folded her hands together. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”

  Annie had a sense of bewilderment. According to Rae, Alex set out to taunt his prospective victims, make certain they were among the listeners at his evening event. “Nice?”

  Lynn nodded energetically. “Of course, Heyward was so much older that we spent very little time with Alex. I almost feel as though I scarcely knew him. Still, I thought it showed a proper family feeling that he came by to visit with me.” There was the slightest tinge of satisfaction in her sweet voice.

  “I understand Alex used family background in writing his novel. Did he talk about that with you?”

  Lynn’s laughter was a trill of amusement. “Oh, I have to confess. I hope you won’t hold it against me, being a bookseller, but I don’t bother with books. I have so many interests. I’ve started a collection of cameos. Sometime I will have to show you my newest, though of course it isn’t new. It’s a carving in high relief of the goddess Ceres and the coral is the most glowing delicate peach color. By the famous Chicago jeweler Peacock in about 1910. The craftsmanship is exquisite. I simply adore her. I would have shown it to Alex, but he didn’t stay long. As I say, just a little family hello, so kind of him.” She came to her feet. “I don’t know a thing about his book. Such a shame he didn’t have a chance to give his talk. We all could have learned so much.”

  • • •

  Marian did a little math, figured out when George was in high school. Marian’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she accessed an index. It was very helpful that all the Gazettes back to 1980 were available online. It took time, almost an hour, before she found the stories.

  TEENAGER REPORTED MISSING

  Police announced this morning that the family of Lucy Galloway, 16, is seeking information about the teen, who was last seen by her parents Friday evening when she left home to spend the night with a friend.

  Lucy told her mother, Jane Galloway, that she would be home midmorning Saturday. When she did not return as expected, Mrs. Galloway called the friend’s home and was told that Lucy had not spent the night. Lucy was among a group of girls attending a movie at the Rialto Theater. Lucy’s friend said she slipped in and out of her seat several times to go out to the concession area. The last time she returned she told her friend she’d changed her mind about spending the night and she was going home early because the movie was boring.

  Mrs. Galloway called a number of Lucy’s friends but no one admitted seeing her after the movie. Lucy was driving a green 1994 Oldsmobile sedan. The island was experiencing occasional mist and there were patches of heavy fog.

  Mrs. Galloway insists Lucy would not run away from home and that she was happy and looking forward to her junior year in high school.

  Anyone with information as to her whereabouts is asked to contact the Broward’s Rock Police Department or the Galloway family.

  DEATH IN A LAGOON

  According to police reports, Lucy Galloway, 16, apparently drowned in Ghost Lagoon sometime last Friday night. Police recovered the car Monday afternoon. The deep lagoon is in a remote area of a forest preserve. Miss Galloway was reported missing by her parents on Saturday.

  John Elliot, 165 Crescent Drive, notified police when he saw tire tracks in the mud at a boat ramp. Elliot was jogging on a path that passed by the ramp. He jogs every morning and said the tire tracks weren’t there Friday morning.

  Police Chief Frank Saulter examined the tire tracks and knew the missing teenager’s car had not been found. Saulter ordered an exploration of the lagoon. A dragging operation indicated a vehicle was submerged at a depth of twenty feet. The car, which proved to be the missing Oldsmobile, was pulled from the lagoon at 4:09 P.M. Monday.

  According to police, the car, traveling at a high rate of speed, traveled onto the boat ramp, became airborne, and entered the water hood down. The car windows were open. Lucy Galloway’s body was found in a second search. Police indicated she was not wearing a seat belt. Police cannot explain why the teen would have driven onto the boat ramp. However, the lane that leads to the ramp forks off another road through the preserve that has a reputation as a drag strip as it runs straight for about fifty yards.

  NO EVIDENCE OF ALCOHOL

  The drowning death of high school rising junior Lucy Galloway remains a mystery. Police today said toxicology tests revealed no traces of alcohol or drugs. How the teenager came to drive her car onto a boat ramp and into a remote lagoon is unknown.

  A friend of Galloway’s, who declined to be named, said she has no idea what cau
sed the accident but she remembers Lucy was always up for a dare and liked to drive fast and often didn’t wear a seat belt. “It’s real sad. I thought something was up that night at the movie because she sounded kind of excited when she said she was leaving.”

  Marian had covered a lot of stories. More than that, she was the mom of a teenager. She could write this script. How about a stroll into the lobby and a good-looking senior—George Griffith wasn’t paunchy and red-faced when he was young—swaggered up to Lucy. Maybe he was already half drunk, slipping bourbon into a tall Coke. Maybe he said, How about we split this place, go out and take a drive. Somehow they went in her car, not his, and he was the macho man—Hell, I’ll drive, I’ll show you some fun—and off they went . . .

  7

  Hyla Harrison tried to look like a tourist, laid-back and unofficial, but it was hard to shed the impassive face and shoulders-back posture she presented when in uniform. Her casual clothes definitely weren’t tourist flamboyant: a crisp lemon blouse, khaki Bermudas, well-kept running shoes. She rode her secondhand Harley Street 500 with competence and in compliance with all rules of the road. She rode sedately but she quivered with excitement at her assignment. She carried with her a proud memory of Billy Cameron’s praise. “Excellent work, Officer. You’ll be pleased to know fresh fingerprints were found in Room 128. Light switches. Toilet handle and seat. TV remote. Bedside radio alarm. You sense a connection to the murder. They will be checked against unidentified prints from the murder scene. If there is a match, we are going to have evidence, thanks to you. Moreover, thanks to you, we may have a suspect in Neil Kelly. He could be on the island. All officers have been alerted to be on the lookout for the car. See if you can find him.”

  As she steered the small Harley down Main Street in the momentary clog of traffic that indicated the ferry had just docked, Hyla checked out parked cars. She slowed near Coble’s Drugstore but the red car turned out to be a Dodge. It took twenty minutes to explore every nook and cranny near the harbor, including the parking areas near Fish Haul Pier and the Pavilion Park and the small lot near the lone hotel. She eased off onto a graveled path in the park, straddled the bike, and considered. If she were a stranger to the island, running scared, trying to avoid notice, where would she go?

  • • •

  Marian hit pay dirt as soon as she opened the 2001 Broward’s Rock High School yearbook. The dedication read:

  To Michael Smith

  In admiration for his courage

  The cheers ended on a foggy Friday night in November as classmates watched in shock when Michael Smith was unable to get up after a play ended in the football game against Chastain High School.

  Michael suffered a neck injury that resulted in paralysis. His classmates have worked all year to raise money for his care. Soft-spoken and gentle, Michael says he has no memory of the play that brought him down.

  Marian found the football page, noted names of players, including Alex Griffith and Eddie Olson. Turning to the Gazette’s database, she found several stories about the injured player. Cheerleader Kristin Akers described the moment: “It was a huge dog pile and all these players climbed on and I think Michael was near the bottom, but it was so foggy you could barely make out the players. We are all brokenhearted for Michael. He was our best tennis player. He’d been accepted to switch to a tennis academy on Hilton Head for juniors. We were all excited for him.”

  A soft ping announced a text. Marian glanced at her cell. Meet me for lunch, Parotti’s. A.

  • • •

  Warren Foster took a tiny sip. Perfection. He’d adored daiquiris ever since he and Mother made that cruise to the Caribbean. Cuba was off-limits then and everything he’d heard about the tours people now took didn’t sound appealing. He did so dislike run-down cities and apparently Havana was just as drab as an old house shoe. But it might be soulful to go to Cuba, a pilgrimage to daiquiris and, of course, to Hemingway, who loved daiquiris, too. To visit Hemingway’s home would be splendid, so easy to picture him there. Such a virile man.

  Warren carried the chilled flute with its golden contents to a sumptuous white sofa in his ruby-walled living room. Mother, may her soul R.I.P., would likely have objected to the color scheme, but ruby simply spoke to his imagination and Mother always admired his imagination. He hummed a little tune, almost giddy with delight as he contemplated the evening ahead. But he must remain practical. As soon as he finished his libation, he would reconnoiter.

  • • •

  Annie loved Parotti’s Bar and Grill whether on a bleak winter day when the wind whistled and the most excitement would be a long table with retirees playing checkers or, as now, jammed with customers in the height of the season. She eased her way past a gaggle of sunburned tourists, smelled coconut oil and sweat. The old-fashioned jukebox blared Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” Owner Ben Parotti had inherited the 1940s jukebox from an uncle and what was good enough for Uncle Travis was good enough for Ben.

  Marian waved from a table for two near the entrance to the bait shop. Off-islanders experienced a qualm when they saw—and smelled—the bait shop, which offered coolers filled with chicken necks and chunks of black bass, squid, grouper, and snapper. A well-smeared blackboard behind the bar proclaimed: SPECIAL TODAY—SALTED EEL—$3 PER LB. Inch-deep sawdust covered the floor. The bait shop was much as it had been for the past fifty years, but after Ben married a tea shop owner on the mainland and brought her to the sea island, she transformed the main eating area into a genteel replica of her shop, with cloth-covered tables and bright menus.

  Annie dropped into the chair opposite Marian.

  The reporter gave her a searching look. “No luck?”

  Annie wondered if it was that apparent that she was discouraged. Maybe it was time to try for a little inscrutability, the quality author John Marquand celebrated in his imperturbable Mr. Moto. But Marian knew her too well to try for false cheer. “I talked to Joan Turner and Lynn Griffith.” Quickly she recounted the conversations.

  Marian’s smile was grim. “I’m not surprised that Joan Turner figured out she’s in the catbird seat—all of them are.” At Annie’s blank look, Marian elaborated. “You never hung around a sports desk in a newsroom. Old baseball term. At least, that’s what I was told. Used by Red Barber to describe a batter who’s seeing the ball like it’s a slow-motion grapefruit. Anyway, I’d say the catbird seat’s pretty damn crowded right now. They’re all home free—Joan and George and Lynn and Eddie. It’s not like Alex had already written his tell-all. If he knew things, saw things that could louse up people’s lives, well, he’s dead now.”

  But there was no lift in Marian’s voice.

  Annie was afraid she understood. The only claim that could ever be proved beyond question was the paternity of the child resulting from a love affair. Marian could not rest easy as long as a search continued for Alex’s killer. If suspicion ever turned on her, if there was a hint that Marian was Louanne in Don’t Go Home, the question could be asked, “Who is David’s father?”

  Annie reached across the table, gripped her friend’s arm.

  Marian turned her hand, gave Annie a reassuring squeeze, managed a gallant bright smile. She looked past Annie. “Yo, Ben. Full house today.”

  Ben Parotti skidded to a stop by their table. Five feet, four inches tall on a good day, he looked like a harried gnome but he was expansive. “Three fishing charters, plus some eco-specialists—that’s what they called themselves—over here to ponder sea turtle eggs, and I told them we keep the island dark as a witch’s hat at night. We love the bloomin’ sea turtles. What’s good for you today?”

  Marian ordered spinach quiche and sweet tea. Annie selected the grilled flounder sandwich with Thousand Island dressing, plain tea.

  As Ben turned away, Marian raised an eyebrow. “I won’t tell Max if you order a fried fish sandwich.”

  Max encouraged healthy eating and she’d chosen the gri
lled fillet because it made her feel in an obscure way that at least she was doing something he approved of. Usually, as Marian well knew, she ordered crisply fried flounder. Annie loved the cornmeal crust, which was seasoned with a dash of paprika. She met Marian’s concerned gaze with a bright smile. “Can’t be in a rut.”

  Marian said, almost angrily, “I heard about your promise to Max. You shouldn’t have agreed to help me.”

  Annie spoke firmly. “You are our friend.” She emphasized the possessive. “He’ll be glad if I can help. Though”—she sighed—“right now I don’t see I’ve made any headway at all.”

  Marian reached across the table, gave Annie’s arm a squeeze. “I’ll tell Max it’s all my fault. But you know how much it means to me that you’re standing by me. And maybe between the two of us, we will find out what happened. I’m hoping what I found will lead somewhere. The tip from Warren Foster was right on. Here.” She pushed several sheets of paper toward Annie.

  Annie first read the stories about Lucy Galloway. She was almost finished with Marian’s factual summary of Michael Smith’s injury when Ben returned with their orders.

  She took several bites of the sandwich and realized grilled was good, too. Max, I wish you were here. Or at least, if not right this minute, soon. I mean, I have to keep helping Marian . . . She read the last sentence about Michael, looked up at Marian. “Warren Foster claimed as soon as he read Don’t Go Home, he immediately knew it was Eddie Olson who hurt Michael Smith. I’ll use that when I talk to Eddie. And I think I can rattle George Griffith.”

  Marian looked uneasy. “I don’t have a good feeling about you taunting somebody who may have killed Alex.”