Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.” Max, I won’t be stupid.

  “Max will kill me if anything happens to you.”

  “Then I better make sure nothing does.”

  • • •

  Hyla made several calls. Four single males, none using the names of either Neil Kelly or Robert Haws, had checked into some of the seedier accommodations on the north end of the island that morning. Two matched the description of Neil Kelly. Hyla headed out on her Harley.

  At her first stop, the manager glanced at Hyla’s printout of Kelly’s driver’s license. “You just called? A guy by himself, you said? Sorry, sweetie, his honey just showed up with a couple of kids and they’re out by the pool.”

  Hyla was thorough. She strolled around a clump of palmetto shrubs, glanced at the blondish man, in his late twenties, who was pulling a toddler holding on to a plastic ring, hoped the murky green water had enough chlorine to keep it safe, and turned away.

  It was a quarter mile farther to Mickey’s Fish Camp, which boasted a half dozen ramshackle cabins on stilts. The balding, portly manager took a look at the photo, nodded. “Eight.” He studied Hyla. “Seen you around. No uniform today. There gonna be any trouble?”

  “Surveillance only. You never talked to me, right?”

  The manager nodded. “I’m in my office, watching bass fishing on my black-and-white, sipping a cool one. Speaking of cool, just kind of talking to myself, there’s a clump of pines next to 8. Plenty of shade in there. Got a good view.”

  • • •

  Warren Foster didn’t relish the heat, nudging ninety-five. The languorous air steamed, could be seen shimmering in sunlight. The tabby ruins of the old plantation home only hinted at the magnificent 1790s home that had once stood there. A portion of the walls of the central house remained almost intact. Behind the main house were tumbled walls of an overseer’s home and slave cabins. The sun was high so the tall pines that rimmed the ruins offered no shade.

  The local historical preservation society kept the grounds cleared and maintained the oyster shell paths. Warren wallowed in the haunting quality of the ruins, imagining the sound of a harpsichord, a melody played by fingers long since turned to dust. The low cry of a mourning dove mingled with the shrill caw of a crow. There were tales of loves lost, duels fought, a fortune frittered away. The ruins were called Widow’s Haunt. Theodosia Ryan’s husband was lost at sea in 1910. She became a recluse, dressed always in black with a large black hat and veil. She was found dead one winter morning half submerged in a lagoon. It was discovered after her death that the long black flowing clothing covered an emaciated body. There were no survivors and the house and grounds fell into disrepair.

  Warren nodded in pleasure. The site was perfect. Except, of course, for ever-present swirls of no-see-ums, the little biting midges that made outdoors a misery in areas not heavily impregnated with insecticides. But an artist sacrifices comfort for perfection. Tonight there would be a full moon, light enough for visitors to find their way. Now to find just the right spot . . .

  He walked several yards to a huge spreading live oak. Spanish moss hung from the limbs, delicate and fragile. Leaves crackled underfoot. He shook his head, turned away, gazed again at the portion that remained of the main structure. Ah . . . Moving quickly despite the heat, he came around the corner of a tabby wall. A large square opening had once been a window. If he stood behind the wall, he could see anyone who approached but he would be out of sight.

  • • •

  Annie squinted against the brilliant sun, wished she had thought to wear her floppy brimmed hat. Her sleeveless lacy white blouse and pale yellow linen skirt were perfect for the store, not so great in the afternoon glare.

  Eddie Olson, face red beneath a worn ball cap, was caulking a seam in a dingy wooden boat elevated on blocks. With a sharp-edged tool in his right hand, he jammed a strand of looped cotton into the boat’s seam.

  Annie came within a few feet.

  His head jerked toward her. The hand with the tool remained pressed against the strand of cotton.

  Annie knew she’d made very little noise as she worked her way through the boatyard. Did he have unusually acute hearing to pick up muted footsteps over the squeal of gulls and the slap of water against the pilings of a pier? Or was he tuned to a high pitch of awareness, alert for any hint of danger?

  His dark eyes were unreadable. Sweat slid down his heavy face. His T-shirt clung to him. He loomed beside the boat, strength evident in bulky shoulders, massive chest, powerful legs. “Yeah?” His tone was brusque.

  She stopped only two feet away. “Alex Griffith came to see you yesterday.”

  “If you got a boat to be fixed, I can help you. Otherwise I’m busy.”

  “Alex was on the football field the night Michael Smith was hurt.”

  He looked back at the boat, pushed, and another cotton loop was locked into the seam.

  Gulls screamed. In the distance, a blast from the horn of the Miss Jolene signaled her departure from the dock.

  Annie took a step nearer, close enough to see the thickness of his neck, the shoulder muscles evident beneath the sweaty shirt. “In Alex’s book, a Scout fell from a rope swing. Kenny had sawed on the rope, weakened it so that it broke when the Scout was at the highest point of the swing.”

  “Yeah.” He spoke over his shoulder. “But that happened in a book.”

  “I did some research and found out what happened to Michael. But you and I know his injury wasn’t an accident. You grabbed Michael’s face mask, yanked, broke his neck, made him a paraplegic.”

  The big head slowly turned.

  She stared at that blunt, formidable face.

  Full lips moved in the slightest trace of a smile. “Who says?”

  “Warren Foster. He knew immediately when he read the book that you were Kenny and the Scout was Michael.”

  “Warren.” His tone was musing. “I haven’t seen him in a while. He was always sniveling about something. Nobody paid any attention to him.”

  “Alex was on the field. Did he warn you he was going to describe that night at his talk?”

  “Funny.” There was no laughter in his eyes. “I was surprised when Alex dropped by. I guess we talked about old times. But I’m not much to think about the past. And now”—his big body relaxed—“Alex isn’t thinking at all.”

  • • •

  As Marian drove to Warren’s, she passed the small cottage she shared with her son. Three bedrooms, combo living-dining room, small kitchen. They used one bedroom as a study for her and a work space for David, plenty of room for his watercolors and easel and a good, plain deal table where he was always working on a sketch. David would be home Sunday. He would know something was wrong. Kids always knew. She felt a wrench deep inside. Would Billy Cameron call her or come by the newsroom? Maybe he’d be waiting when she got home tonight. If he knew about Alex, if that information ever made its way into a report, somehow, someway, word would slip out. Word always did.

  Whether anyone on the island had any inkling of her connection to Alex was one of the reasons she wanted to talk to Warren. If anyone would know of the tiniest whispers, it would be Warren.

  Oh, David . . .

  She was pleased to see Warren’s low-slung cobalt blue Bugatti parked in the shade of a live oak. Ever since his mother’s death a few years ago, Warren had spent money with abandon. She’d heard rumors that he indulged himself in various unsavory pursuits off island, murmuring to a mutual friend, “Ah, the ennui. I am always seeking a new experience.”

  The front door opened before she was halfway up the immaculate steps of the Greek Revival mansion. The Foster family had known wealth since time immemorial: indigo, cotton, several times an infusion of money from Northern heiresses.

  Marian had attended several soirees, as Warren billed them, in the spacious drawing room. The ruby wal
ls, quite different from the pale gray when his mother was alive, reminded her of the interior of a fortune-teller’s tent, vaguely oppressive, suggestive of hooded glances, faintly heard whispers. She didn’t contrast the opulence of the Foster house with her small home. She was comfortable with her world. Warren Foster was wealthy. She was not quite poor, but bills could be a struggle. She never envied anyone. She had David. She had her work. At least that was true for now . . .

  Warren waited in the doorway. “Marian, my dear. What a delightful surprise. Won’t you have a drink with me? Or are you tracking me down for a tabloid exposé?” His tone was arch.

  He reminded Marian of a stork—sharp head, slender body, thin legs. She was always surprised to remember that he wasn’t old, though he had old mannerisms. Perhaps too many years under the thumb of his domineering mother. Now his eyes were bright, a slight pink flush stained his long face. He was stylish in a white guayabera shirt, beige linen trousers, and sandals.

  “Annie Darling told me you have some insights on Alex Griffith and—”

  “Oh, my dear, yes.” He took her elbow and his hand was clammy against her bare skin. “Do come this way. We’ll have daiquiris—my dear, I make the very best daiquiris—and I’ll reminisce. You can bring me up-to-date on what those stalwart policemen are doing. I can’t wait to hear.” Sniff sniff.

  • • •

  The Harley was tucked deep into the shadows of the pines. Hyla, too, would be indistinct in the shadows. As the manager had indicated, she had a clear view of Cabin 8. The lights were on.

  She waited patiently.

  Gnats buzzed. No-see-ums swarmed. She swatted away several mosquitoes. Her patience was rewarded twenty minutes later. She recognized Neil Kelly from his driver’s license photo. He no longer affected a disguise, appeared trim and athletic and in a hurry. He rattled down the front steps, jumped into his red Mustang. Hyla was on her Harley and ready to roll as the car reached the end of the tourist court drive. She waited until she wouldn’t be noticeable in his rearview mirror, set out in pursuit.

  Dust plumed behind the red Mustang as it bucketed ahead on an infrequently used road that didn’t boast a sign.

  Hyla stayed far enough behind to avoid the choking cloud; in a corner of her mind she added wash Harley to her to-do list. The road dead-ended at the northern tip of the island where an eroding bluff overlooked the water. Gurney Point. She didn’t spare time to think about the name. She wasn’t an island native but she knew the area. They’d staked it out a few times for drug busts. The point was named after somebody. Who knew, who cared? But so far as she was aware, Neil Kelly was a stranger to the island. Maybe he’d Googled a map on his cell. Whatever, he must be seeking solitude.

  Pines crowded thickly on either side of the dirt road. She remembered a narrow overgrown lane that led to an abandoned cabin about a hundred yards from Gurney Point. They’d picked up some off-island smugglers at that cabin last winter . . .

  She slowed, swerved, followed a faint path into the woods, aiming to reach the point without alerting Kelly. Her 500 wasn’t designed for off-road so she took her time, watching for fallen branches, ignoring the whip of encroaching ferns. Clouds of insects swirled and curved and zoomed around her. She reached the clearing that held the cabin, stopped, rested the Harley on its kickstand. She waited to be sure the Mustang wasn’t headed for the cabin. The only other open area was at the end of the road. She opened a front storage compartment, pulled out a pocket camcorder, slid it into a back pocket. She skirted the cabin ruins, then plunged into the woods, heading for road’s end. She had a good sense of direction though the thick overhead canopy blocked a view of the sun, surrounded her with murky dimness. The onshore breeze stirred the tops of the pines. Birds chittered and cawed and twittered. Her head jerked at a crashing noise to her left and she glimpsed a tawny doe followed by a gangly fawn.

  Hyla heard the rumble of surf before she reached the edge of the pines. At this end of the island, ocean butted hard against the headland. Bent trees dangled seaward as earth eroded beneath them. Water swirled over and around reddish-brown boulders at the base of a ten-to-twelve-foot bluff.

  Hyla scanned the open area past the pines. Not much cover. She hesitated, then ducked across an open space, plunged beneath the branches of an enormous live oak. She pulled herself up onto a low limb. In a few minutes she was high above the ground with a clear view of the bluff, the surging water, the spume from the rocks, but well hidden in the thickly leafed middle of the tree.

  She pulled out the camcorder, checked it, waited.

  The red Mustang nosed out of the woods, came to the end of the road, stopped.

  Hyla began filming.

  Neil Kelly got out of the Mustang. Tousled brown hair, narrow bony face, well built, not tall but muscular. His face was clear in the bright sunlight on the point. He gazed all around. He looked smart, scared, uneasy. The wind tugged at his polo, whipped dust around his feet. He walked to the point, moving cautiously. A misstep would see him crashing down into the water.

  Hyla shifted on the branch, steadied the camcorder in her hand. Excellent side view.

  Abruptly he yanked up his shirt, pulled a gun free from the waistband of his trousers.

  Hyla’s hand on the camera never moved despite her shock. She had only seconds to see the weapon before he raised his arm and threw, putting so much force into the effort that he almost lost his balance. The gun arched in a high trajectory, then curved down and down to splash into roiling water and disappear.

  Kelly turned and ran to the Mustang, flung himself into the driver’s seat. The motor roared, the car swung around.

  Hyla pulled her cell from her pocket. “Subject of interest in red Mustang departing Gurney Point. Pick up at exit onto Larrimore Road.” Hyla kept her eyes on the area where the gun had entered the water, some fifteen feet east of a craggy boulder. “Subject disposed of handgun in water. Suggest search and retrieval. Remaining here until backup arrives unless instructed otherwise.” She listened, then clicked off. A cruiser would be waiting when the car reached the main road. Surveillance would continue. Wasn’t it time to put out a pickup order for Neil Kelly?

  • • •

  Warren tipped the crystal flute, eyed the contents critically. “Not enough for a mouse, much less a man.” He downed a remaining inch of golden liquid, reached for the silver cocktail shaker on the end table, refilled his glass. He gave Marian a pitying look. “Another time when you aren’t working, I will make daiquiris especially for you. But”—he gave a delicate shudder—“it wouldn’t do to chase Dr Pepper. Your palate is ruined for now.” He took an appreciative sip. “Oh, my dear. Delicious.” He lifted the flute. “Here’s to crime. Definitely the high point of the summer, don’t you think?” Sniff sniff.

  She kept her face pleasant, unrevealing. A toast to crime and Alex twisted in death on a sofa. She ached to tell Warren he was loathsome, but she didn’t have that luxury.

  He leaned back, crossed his feet. “The high point of the summer. Up to now. But perhaps it will get even better.”

  “Better?” Her tone was sharp despite her intention to remain impassive, blotting up fragments of lives as he prattled.

  His face was now more flushed. His eyes glistened, long thin fingers drummed on the arm of the white couch. “I know more than anyone realizes.” He nodded portentously. “I know where all the bodies are buried. Joan’s little affair. George’s wild night. Lynn’s windfall from insurance. Of course, Heyward had to die before she got the pile. And there’s Eddie, a hulking creature. I knew who was who the minute I read the novel. And here we are, Alex dead and somebody did the deed. Ring around the rosies, who plucked the posies? I think I can flush out our partridge. Dear Mother, she taught English, you know. She’d scold me—‘Warren, don’t mix your metaphors’—but you get my point. I have a little plan. What would you think if I brought you a picture tomorrow of Alex’s mur
derer?” Sniff sniff.

  Marian felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir. There was something repellent in his excitement.

  “A picture?”

  Slow emphatic nods.

  “Be careful, Warren.” She blurted out the warning. “If you know who killed him, go to the police. Right now.”

  His smile was huge. “Got your attention, didn’t I? You know the cable news shows are running things about Alex day and night. They love murders of someone famous. If I get that picture, I’ll be on all the programs.”

  Marian felt the burn of nausea in her throat. Alex dead and this malicious man talking about murder as if it were fun, as if it were a game. She came to her feet. “Alex shouldn’t be dead.” She had a wisping memory of coming into strong, enveloping arms, the warmth of Alex’s body, the wild elation of passion. “He shouldn’t be dead.” No matter what he’d done, no matter anything and everything, he’d been alive and vital and once she’d loved him. She turned away, moved blindly toward the hall, her eyes filmed with tears.

  “Why, Marian”—Warren’s voice followed her, like an old dancer on mincing feet—“I haven’t had a chance to ask about those years in Atlanta. You and Alex worked on the same newspaper, didn’t you?” Sniff sniff.

  8

  George Griffith rose from behind his desk. A dark blue Tommy Bahama shirt with a light blue floral pattern emphasized the brightness of his red face. Loose lips spread in a smile that didn’t reach pale brown eyes. “Annie.” His voice exuded warmth and eagerness. “Are you and Max looking for a new house? Girl, you look wonderful.” His chubby hands outstretched.

  Annie pulled away from his sweaty handclasp as soon as possible. She didn’t know which she found more insulting, the odious use of “girl” or his utter lack of awareness that the term was offensive. She kept a smile on her face. “Actually, I’m looking for information.”

  George gestured toward a small sofa. “Come sit down and talk to me.”