Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  “But I didn’t hurt Alex.” Now she gazed at him again. “If I could talk to that woman who owns the bookstore—”

  Billy felt a quiver of surprise.

  “—she said she’d try to help me. Please, will you let me talk to her?”

  “You want to talk to Annie Darling?” He frowned.

  Rae was animated, nodding her head quickly. “Just for a few minutes. Could you call and ask her to come and see me?”

  Billy considered the request. He didn’t want to mess up his case. Rae Griffith had been Mirandized. She didn’t have to answer anybody’s questions. At this point, building the case would depend upon facts and suppositions that they unearthed, not a confession from Rae Griffith. If she spoke to Annie . . .

  “Mrs. Griffith, a lawyer would advise you not to speak—”

  “Annie Darling promised she’d help me. She knows people on the island. She knows who wanted Alex dead. If she’ll tell me, I’ll have somewhere to start.”

  Start? Somewhere to start? Billy studied the thin, frightened face. “Look, if you talk to her, you understand that it won’t be a privileged communication?” At Rae’s blank look, he continued, “If you talk to her, I will interview her and she has to tell me what you said.”

  To his surprise, Rae Griffith brightened. “That’s all right. She can tell anyone she wants to tell.”

  • • •

  Annie slid her cell out of her purse as she hurried on the boardwalk. She wished she were a tourist with nothing to worry about except getting too much sun or twinging her back from staying too long on the driving range or trying to decide between key lime pie and apple cobbler for dessert.

  She unmuted the phone, saw she had a text. She stopped short, drew in a deep breath. Max. The message began: Back early. Got voice mail. See you shortly. Annie clicked off the phone. Oh. And oh. No “Luv U,” “Can’t wait 2 C U,” no hearts. Nothing but three crisp sentences. Should she reply? And say what? Talking to possible murderers, no harm intended?

  She pushed through the door and saw a double line of restive customers stretching all the way back to the coffee bar. For once, she was glad to see people impatiently waiting in line. She was grateful for anything that kept her thoughts at bay, the decision she had to make about said possible murderers, and the impending arrival of a husband with an angry glint in his eyes. Annie plunged around the cash desk, opened up the second register.

  As she started to ring up a stack of titles, she skimmed them, agreed with the purchaser’s choices: Cara Black, Bill Crider, Sue Dunlap, Miranda James, JoAnna Carl, Mary Jane Clark, Naomi Hirahara, winners all. And much nicer to think about than an irate husband who might arrive at any moment.

  Ingrid took a breath between customers. “Marian’s in your office waiting for you. She looks like hell.”

  • • •

  Carrying a folder in one hand, Hyla Harrison knocked on the door to Billy Cameron’s office. She turned the knob and stood in the doorway. The chief was always open to seeing anyone at any time, no need to call and ask.

  He was standing at the window looking out at the bay. The view was always the same, always different: the boardwalk, the shops that fronted on the water, the pier for the Miss Jolene, empty now, the marina filled with tethered boats, and, beyond, the richly green water, brimming with nutrients and sea life, gulls circling overhead, a V of pelicans skimming the whitecaps, shrimp boats trawling, sailboats, a distant catamaran, a windsurfer out a bit too far for Hyla’s liking.

  “Chief, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  He turned and the flood of sunlight behind him made his hair shine like ripe wheat. His broad face was furrowed in thought, but his nod was immediate and he walked to his desk and settled into his chair.

  Hyla sat down, wondering what had happened to worry him. That morning at the press conference he’d been relaxed, the department’s job done, crimes solved, the machinery of justice in motion. She didn’t want to add to his concerns, but the little burr of unease wouldn’t go away until she spoke out.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  Billy waited, his expression grave.

  The slight twitch of the chief’s lips didn’t escape her. Lou Pirelli’s nickname for her was Serious Sal. But she’d seen what she’d seen. “I got to thinking about Widow’s Haunt. I made a copy of Mavis’s sketches and took them with me.” She opened the folder, stood to spread the sheets on Billy’s desk. She tapped the sketch showing the body propped against the uneven sill of the long-ago window. “You’ll see that his head is hanging back on his left shoulder. The body stayed upright because the forearm rested against the sill. Since we figure the murderer stood behind Foster, there are two possibilities. Foster and his killer were standing together on the clearing side of the partial wall. The killer induced Foster to turn away, looped the wire over his head, yanked, choked him. At this point, for the body to settle where it did, the murderer had to pull him almost up against the wall, then let the body sag to the left and slump into the position where it was found. Could have been done, but why? Or Foster was standing with his back to the ruin. The killer was hidden on the other side of the wall. Foster stopped with his back to the open window. The killer leaned forward, dropped the wire, pulled. The body would naturally collapse into the position where it was found. On balance, it seems likelier the murderer was behind the wall, Foster was facing the clearing, and the body ended up where it did because he was yanked from behind.”

  Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Your point?”

  “I think”—the words came slowly—“the killer had to know the ruins. So far as we know, Mrs. Griffith had never been to the site.”

  “So far as we know.”

  “You have to be familiar with the ruins to get to the back side of that wall. There’s a path on the far side of the porch. There’s a stand of bayberry on the other side. You have to go a good ten feet back then climb over a broken sundial to get into the patch of ground on the far side of the opening. Last night, Kenyon and Darling stated they heard a scream and that’s why Kenyon called 911. We were on the terrace so we got there in maybe two minutes. When we arrived, Mrs. Griffith was standing on the near side of the wall and Kelly was on his hands and knees, throwing up. If she screamed right after Foster was killed, there wasn’t time to come around to the front side of the wall before we got there. Now, I guess they—she—could have swung over the ledge but that would likely have moved the body.”

  Billy leaned back in his chair, face furrowed, fingertips pressed together. “We don’t know how long Griffith and Kelly were there before she screamed. Foster may have been dead for several minutes and there was plenty of time to come around the wall.”

  “Why did she scream?”

  Billy looked more comfortable. “She’s smart. She heard someone coming, knew they were going to be seen, screamed to make it look like she’d just found the body.”

  Hyla frowned. “I guess that’s possible.” She hesitated, then continued. “There’s one more point. I looked behind the wall today. I know it’s exactly how Mavis pictured it. There’s this hump of leaves, really smooth, up against the base of the opening as you face the clearing. I think somebody moved leaves out of the way so there wouldn’t be any crackles, waited for Foster, killed him when he came, then smoothed those leaves up against the bricks. Now, it could be that Griffith and Kelly got there before Foster. Griffith waited behind the wall. Kelly stayed back in the woods on the other side of the clearing. She killed Foster, prettied up the leaves, came around the wall. They were going to leave and then she heard someone coming and screamed.”

  Billy’s face gave no hint to this thoughts. An eyebrow quirked up. “Doesn’t explain Pretty Boy throwing up, does it?”

  Hyla was judicious. “Maybe he hadn’t seen the body until just before Kenyon and Darling arrived. What worries me more is how she knew to find her way behind the wall if
she’d never been to Widow’s Haunt before. Plus, we didn’t find a flashlight on either Griffith or Kelly. The two routes to get behind the wall would be heavily shadowed despite the moonlight.” She reached for the folder, gathered up the sheets, rose. “When I got to Widow’s Haunt, Marian Kenyon was looking around. I’d say she’s wondering, too.”

  She was at the door when Billy spoke. “Officer.” She turned, a little apprehensive. Had she taken too much on herself? Was she out of line?

  “Good work. Again.” His face creased. “You picked up on Kelly’s phony registration, saw him throw the gun away. We built a solid case from there. Do you think he and the widow are innocent?”

  “I think”—she spoke deliberately, making a judgment—“the wife and the lover planned on killing Alex Griffith. I’ll never doubt that. But maybe somebody beat them to it.”

  • • •

  Annie took one look at Marian’s face, wan, strained, somehow defeated, and bit back the words she’d been rehearsing, the words that would link the phone call Marian had received from Warren to the other calls he’d made, implicitly suggesting that Marian had lied to her. Instead, she said crisply, “Did you have breakfast?”

  “Coffee.” Marian’s voice was dull, exhausted.

  “No lunch?” In fact, it was almost one and Annie hadn’t eaten either. “Stay right there. I’ll get us some food.” At the coffee bar, she quickly made two ham and cheese sandwiches on croissants, added a mound of potato salad, mustard based, not the overmayoed style that was too rich. A couple of dill pickles. Sour cream and onion potato chips, Annie’s secret vice at the store. Max preferred crisp thin white corn chips that were admittedly delicious; but sometimes a girl wanted her sour cream and onion fix. Two tall glasses of plain iced tea, unsweetened. She carried the tray carefully, working around oblivious customers.

  She brought the tray in, pushing the storeroom door shut behind her. As she placed a plate in front of Marian and the glass of tea, she said, “Not a word until we’ve eaten.”

  Marian started to speak. “We have to—”

  Annie shook her head. “Eat.”

  Marian slowly picked up half of the sandwich, took a bite, and then, with a faint look of surprise, ate fast, almost gulping the food.

  Annie was puzzled. The night before, when she and Marian parted, Marian had been hugely relieved. The crimes were solved. No one would have any reason to pursue Marian’s past. But ever since Joan’s visit, Annie had been afraid. And now, looking at Marian, she knew there was more to come.

  Marian finished first. She took a last gulp of tea, faced Annie. “Last night I thought I was sitting pretty, Rae Griffith and her boyfriend in jail. It got even better at Billy’s presser this morning. Kelly’s her lover. He registered under a false name. She and Kelly were found near Foster’s body. But Billy kept on talking. You know how Warren was killed? Green plastic-coated garden wire.” She stared at Annie. “I asked if they found garden wire in her room, in her car, in Kelly’s car? Nada. Where’d she get garden wire? You carry garden wire around in your purse? In your car? I don’t think so. I’ll bet if we check, she’s never done a day of gardening in her life. If she didn’t have garden wire, she didn’t kill Foster. Foster’s murder was last-minute. No time to go out and buy garden wire. And then I started thinking about Widow’s Haunt. I went back out there today. Unless I’m nuts, the killer got Warren through the empty window. The killer was standing on the other side of the wall.” Slowly, emphatically, Marian shook her head. “Nobody from off island could know the ruins well enough to plan an ambush there. And”—a heavy sigh—“she screamed. Sure, maybe she heard us coming and screamed to seem innocent as a lamb. That could be. But I lay awake most of the night. What if Rae’s telling the truth? What if she had nothing to do with Alex’s murder? Maybe she and Kelly just had the hots and didn’t want to be apart. If they are innocent, then Rae didn’t kill Alex and go out to the terrace and Kelly didn’t slip into the suite and call room service to make it sound like Alex was alive. Instead, it was Alex Griffith who called room service. I went out to the inn and now I’m damn sure they’re innocent.”

  Annie knew that now she would never have to ask Marian about the call from Warren. Maybe he called because he was pleased at his cleverness, wanted to show off, throw out tantalizing hints to Marian. Maybe he called and whispered he’d seen her enter the Griffith suite. What Warren said in his call to Marian didn’t matter now. Marian would not be sitting across the worktable, looking at Annie with despairing eyes because she now was convinced that Alex’s widow and her boyfriend were innocent, if Marian had killed Alex and Warren. Marian was here because she wouldn’t stand by, even to protect herself, and let a false accusation stand. Marian was innocent.

  Marian spoke rapidly. “Alex called room service. I talked to the kid who took the order. Alex was full of himself, sounded happy.”

  Annie felt a wash of disappointment. Was that all Marian had learned? How could she be certain the caller was Alex just because the voice was untroubled? She knew her face reflected her feeling. “That doesn’t prove anything. If you were standing in the room with a murder victim and calling room service to set up an alibi, wouldn’t you make it a point to sound upbeat?”

  “Kelly threw up.” Marian’s dark eyes were bleak.

  Annie had a sudden vivid memory of Alex Griffith’s body twisted in death and blood seeping from beneath a throw pillow. Warren’s swollen dead face had been grotesque but no more hideous than blood and Alex’s gray hand trailing on the floor.

  Marian was brusque. “Yeah. You got it. The odds Kelly could bring off a lord-of-the-manor tone with a dead man just feet away from him are, like, seventy to one in my book. So, we have to find out who killed Alex. I went back over everything that happened Thursday night. When you and I were on the path, I’m pretty sure I heard some crackling up ahead of us. Billy will say I’m imagining it because now I think she’s innocent. But if she and Kelly were just ahead of us, there wasn’t time for her to strangle Warren before she screamed.” Marian brushed back a lock of dark hair. “But she got a call from Warren. She told us that. If she’s innocent, that means somebody else, maybe several people, got calls.”

  “That’s exactly what happened.” Annie talked fast. “Joan Turner came here this morning. She wanted to know if Warren called Rae. When I said he had, Joan looked sick. She left without another word, but I know she must be struggling right now, too. If she got a call and Rae got a call, who else might have been called? I know the answer. All of them did. George Griffith admitted it. Eddie Olson thought it was funny, claims he hung up. Lynn Griffith said it never happened, but I’m sure she’s lying. I think that’s how she looks at life. If she doesn’t admit something, it doesn’t exist.” Annie wanted to drive the fear from Marian’s dark eyes. She gave her a steady look. “It’s fortunate you went to see Warren yesterday. That explains why he called you, too.”

  Just for an instant, Marian’s eyes closed. When they opened, she said quietly, so quietly Annie could scarcely hear, “From your lips to God’s ears.” She took a breath. “So now we know Rae Griffith’s in a hell of a mess. We know—at least we think we know—that Alex was killed by one of four people: his sister, Joan; his brother, George; his sister-in-law Lynn; or Eddie Olson. Each one had reason to fear Alex, but I’m damned if I see what we can do to figure out which one is guilty. The killer left no trace at the inn or at Widow’s Haunt.” Marian’s face squeezed in thought. “Maybe there’s one thing we do know—” She looked suddenly alive, intent, the Marian Annie knew. “Come on, let’s go see Billy.”

  • • •

  Billy looked from Marian to Annie. “Speak of the devil.” He added quickly, “Not meant literally, of course.” A brief wry smile touched his face. He gazed steadily at Annie. “I was considering whether to call you.”

  Annie almost explained hurriedly that she hadn’t meant to imply to anyone that she wa
s asking questions on Billy’s behalf, but stopped herself in time. Wait until the accusation was made. As Laurel often admonished in her husky voice, “Remember to be like angels—never rush in!” The advice was often aimed at Annie, though in the most dulcet of tones with only the tiniest hint of exasperation. “Angels,” Annie blurted out.

  Billy looked at her with a flicker of amusement, Marian with quick concern.

  “I was thinking,” she continued with as much dignity as she could manage, “that it was time for angels to appear at Rae’s and Neil’s shoulders.”

  Billy’s face tightened. “Not sure either of them deserves an angel.” He shook his head. “Strike that. We all deserve angels and,” he said thoughtfully, “maybe an unlikely angel has already appeared. I gather you two are here on their behalf. Let’s hear the rustle of your wings.”

  Marian set out the arguments.

  Billy listened as Marian described her interview with J. T. Lewis. The basic facts were the same as those discovered by Hyla when she spoke with the director of room service but Marian’s report gave an insight on the attitude of the speaker. He made notes on a pad. “Tell me again about the call. Is that how you remember it?”

  “J. T. Lewis said the caller was buoyant. That’s my word but that’s the impression I got from the kid. College boy. Smart. Well-spoken. Not embellishing. Seemed struck by Alex’s upbeat manner and the fact that he was dead within a few minutes.” Marian paused. “Kelly threw up at Widow’s Haunt.”

  “Yeah.” Billy leaned back in his chair. “All of this kind of reminds me of when I cleaned out my aunt’s attic after she died. Nobody had been up there for years. Cobwebs like a witch’s hut. Every time I turned around, I was enmeshed by these fine silky strands. That’s what this seems like. All kinds of silky strands, nothing strong enough to hold on to. But”—he sat up straight—“there’s enough here that I’m going to bend a regulation or two.”