Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  • • •

  Max Darling leaned against the rail on the top deck of the Miss Jolene. The breeze rippled his polo shirt, slapped at his trousers. He’d just spent five ocean-happy days, basking in the sun, fighting tarpon, drinking beer, but he never tired of the smell of the sea, the spume that dampened his face, the joyful glimpses of bottlenose dolphins at play, surfing in a boat’s wake or arching up and out of the water and down again. In another quarter hour, there’d be a gray smudge in the distance, the first glimpse of the low-lying tangle of greenery that was Broward’s Rock. The ferry wallowed a bit in heavy swells. Far out at sea, a tropical disturbance sent light boats scurrying for shore, slammed and slapped freighters and cruise ships. The coming storm was the reason for the early return of the fishing boat. Once onshore, he’d picked up his gear and, as he drove north, listened to a very familiar voice on his cell’s speakerphone. Max remembered the first time he’d taken the ferry to Broward’s Rock, a guy in a hurry to find his girl. Not that Annie Laurance knew she was his girl at that moment. But he knew. He’d come to the island determined that she would be his.

  His Annie, serious, honest, kind, hardworking—sometimes a sticky point of difference between them—positive, smart, funny, proud of being a Texan, quick to help anyone in need . . .

  He gripped the railing, squinted. A thin gray bar lay on the horizon. He willed the Miss Jolene to go faster. He was in a hurry again.

  • • •

  Billy Cameron stood at his office window. He liked to look out at the harbor when he was thinking. He was like a laughing gull diving for mullet, watching the surface, ready to pounce when the prey was in view. He’d felt pretty good about arresting Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly. Now he wasn’t sure. He understood Hyla Harrison’s reasoning and the deductions by Marian and Annie, but he still smelled murder when he thought about Rae and her boyfriend in the next room at the inn. Yet he would keep searching. Three folders rested on his desk, one for George Griffith, one for Lynn Griffith, one for Eddie Olson. Three more folders were stacked on the corner, one for the widow and her friend, one for Joan Turner, one for Marian Kenyon. They weren’t inactive folders but, for the moment, those suspects were not in his sights. He’d added Joan Turner’s folder when Annie reported Joan’s visit to the bookstore and her worry about Warren’s calls. Murderers did not worry about the innocence of others. The same reasoning now held true for Marian Kenyon. She would not argue for Rae Griffith’s innocence if Marian was the murderer. He was well aware, though he doubted Marian realized, of her connection to Alex. People had a tendency to think cops didn’t read. He read books, especially books about the island, and he’d grown up on the island. When Annie Darling described her talk with Warren Foster on the terrace Wednesday night, Billy already knew who was threatened. He’d also made the connection between the contents of Alex Griffith’s briefcase and the characters in Alex’s book. Now he had three names still on his list. He gave a short nod, turned, walked to his desk, leaned over to click the intercom. “Send Officer Harrison in.”

  12

  Tears slid down Rae Griffith’s thin face. “You came. Oh God, I’m scared.” The clownish, too-large orange jumpsuit only emphasized the terror in her face.

  Annie reached across the table, clasped a narrow hand. “I can’t promise anything but we are trying to find out who killed Alex.”

  “We?” Huge eyes stared at her.

  “Marian Kenyon, the reporter for the Gazette. Marian insists you are innocent.” At Rae’s uncomprehending stare, Annie continued. “Last night Marian and I thought Warren was trying to get a glimpse of the murderer. Something he said to Marian made us think of Widow’s Haunt. That’s why she and I came. We heard you scream.”

  Rae’s hand turned, took Annie’s wrist in a tight grip. She was excited. “You were there? Then you can tell them you heard us find that man. Maybe they’ll let us go.” The excitement drained away. The eyes that stared at Annie once again held dark visions, hopelessness. “That big policeman doesn’t believe us. He looks at me and he’s sure I killed Alex. I didn’t. And now I know I never could—” She broke off.

  Before Rae’s green eyes skittered away, Annie understood an ugly truth. Marian was right. Rae and Neil had planned for Alex to die. Annie didn’t know how or what they intended to do. But thinking of murder and committing murder were not the same. What they might be in God’s eyes wasn’t for her to know. Rae and Neil, if ever they were freed, could struggle with whatever reality they knew. But right now, she was here because someone else on the island had moved silently Wednesday and Thursday nights.

  Annie remembered Marian’s last words outside the station. “Rae, do you always drink the same thing?”

  Rae loosened her grip. She lifted both hands, pressed them against her cheeks. “I thought you came here to help me, tell me—”

  “This is important. If Alex were ordering drinks for you, calling room service, what would he order? Think carefully, tell me exactly what he would say.”

  Rae’s hands dropped. “You and that policewoman. What did I drink? I told her. I’m telling you. Ask anybody who knows me. I always drink a margarita and I like for the rim of the glass to be salted. If Alex”—a sick, sad look crossed her face—“if Alex called room service or we were at the bar, it was always the same: He’d order a margarita for me with salt, and for him”—her voice put the words in quote marks—“‘a gin and tonic, short on the tonic.’ What difference does it make?”

  “All the difference in the world. He didn’t order a margarita. He ordered a rum collins. So you weren’t there.”

  She gave a ragged laugh. “Can you find out who drinks rum collinses? I can see it now, go from bar to bar, get the names—‘Everybody who drinks rum collinses hold up your glass.’ Maybe on a resort island that might narrow it down to a few hundred.” She sagged back against the hard straight chair in the conference room.

  Annie spoke quietly. “Rae, close your eyes for a few minutes. Empty everything out of your mind. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

  Rae blinked, then closed her eyes. Soon her uneven breaths were regular, deeper.

  Annie watched the big black minute hand on the round clock move. One minute, two, three. She waited five minutes, said gently, “Keep your eyes closed. Picture Alex when you saw him Wednesday afternoon. He came back to the hotel late after he’d been around the island. Try to repeat exactly what he said.”

  Rae spoke in a near monotone. “He said he invited them all—”

  Gold-plated invitations to Joan, George, Eddie, and Lynn. All of them came to the inn to hear what he would say.

  “—to come to his talk . . . told them they didn’t want to miss their razzle-dazzle turn in the spotlight . . . Joan begged . . . never thought the high and the mighty would be reduced to that . . . not sexy enough anyway . . .” She stopped. “I didn’t hear much more. He was pleased with himself and talking about people I didn’t know or care about. I thought it was boring—”

  Not only, Annie thought, had Rae decided Alex’s conversation was boring, she thought he was boring.

  “—but he said he was going to knock ’em dead, he’d figured out what really happened with his brother, and he wished he’d talked to—and this is where I can’t remember the name, I think he ran into somebody he used to know and the name was really odd—he wished he’d talked to her before he’d written Don’t Go Home but maybe it was better this way. Now he had evidence in black and white. Then he laughed and said ‘actually in color’ but that didn’t make any sense to me.”

  Annie was confused. “Knew what had happened about what?”

  Rae looked uncertain. “About his brother. Alex saw this woman and found out something that changed everything.”

  “Which brother?”

  Rae shook her head.

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison showed her badge. “Offi
cer Harrison to see George Griffith. Which door, please?” Hyla was accustomed to shocked faces. She was often wryly reminded of actors on TV commercials evincing huge amazement at how quickly computer cobwebs can be removed.

  The receptionist stared at her with wide eyes. A hand reached toward an intercom.

  “I’ll show myself in. Which office?”

  The plump woman nodded quickly. “The third door on the left.”

  When Hyla reached the door, she didn’t knock, just turned the knob and stood in the doorway.

  George was stretched out on a sofa. He jerked upright. “What the—” He saw Hyla and broke off, like he had no breath left.

  Hyla stepped inside, closed the door behind her. “Mr. Griffith, I want an accounting of your movements last night.” She took three quick strides, stared down at him.

  “Thursday night? You don’t have any right—”

  “I am investigating the death of Warren Foster. If you prefer to answer questions at the police station, we can go there now.”

  George’s reddish face looked scared. “I thought you arrested that woman.”

  “We are pursuing further leads. Can you explain your presence at Widow’s Haunt at approximately nine P.M.?”

  “Who says I was there?” He struggled to get the words out.

  “You were observed. I suggest you accurately describe your movements, beginning with the receipt of the phone call from Warren Foster. Start with the time.” Hyla kept her gaze steady, her demeanor official, saw panic flare in his eyes.

  George tugged at the throat of his dress shirt. “It was a quarter after eight. It said ‘Unknown Caller,’ but it was my cell so I answered. I didn’t know who was calling. If I’d known it was Warren, I’d have ignored it. It was a damn whisper, said he saw me go into Alex’s suite. That’s a lie. I had nothing to do with Alex’s death. But I thought I’d better find out what it was about.” He leaned forward, placed his hands on his thighs. “I got to the lot about five after nine. I had a flashlight with me. I walked toward the ruins.” He took a deep breath. “I called out, ‘Hey,’ but nobody answered. I almost turned around and left but I was kind of mad by this point, so I kept on walking and I flashed the light all around the ruins.” He stopped and looked half sick. “I saw this body propped up on the wall. The face was awful but I didn’t look long enough to realize it was Warren. I knew something bad had happened. I turned and ran to my car and got the hell out.” He leaned back against the cushion, expelled a whoosh of air, as if he felt better having told what he’d seen.

  Hyla studied his flaccid face. Not a prepossessing face. Not a man you’d count on in a fight. But his expression of relief mixed with remembered horror impressed her. She nodded. “Thank you for the information. We’ll be in touch about making a formal statement.”

  • • •

  Billy Cameron was skeptical. “Pretty indefinite. Just a nice general smear of anyone and everyone. Does she think we’re going to go around the island hunting for a woman with an odd name?”

  Annie knew she’d slammed into a wall. Billy thought Rae wanted her husband to die. But he could be wrong. “Rae said Alex always ordered a gin and tonic, light on the tonic.”

  “If Kelly called room service, you can bet he was primed. He wouldn’t order a margarita.”

  Annie knew it was time to stop tugging on a dead horse. “What about the break-in at the suite late Wednesday night?”

  Billy leaned back in his chair, looked thoughtful. “Rae could easily have staged the entire scene to make it look like somebody was hot to find something. She had plenty of time to get rid of the briefcase before she called 911. She says Alex claimed to have incriminating evidence of some sort when he made the rounds Wednesday. It’s clear from your forays”—Billy’s gaze was chiding—“that Alex saw his sister, his brother, his sister-in-law, and his old classmate. He took the briefcase along when he left the inn. It was in his car after he was killed so if one of them killed him, they could have come back late at night hoping to find the briefcase. Right after the crime, the killer could have tried to find the briefcase but it wasn’t in the suite at that time. Maybe Alex carried the briefcase with him as he looked up people so the killer knew what the briefcase looked like and didn’t see it in the suite. Or somebody else had something to hide and thought the suite would be empty and decided to take a look.”

  Breaking in argued someone was worried about papers. “You and Rae checked the briefcase. What did you find?”

  Billy scooted his chair forward, reached for a folder. He flipped it open. “Mavis cataloged the contents, took some pictures, and scanned the contents. A bunch of clippings.” He paused, skimming the pages. “The football game where Michael Smith was hurt. The drowning of Lucy Galloway. Heyward Griffith’s disappearance. Clippings about his body washing ashore.” His face creased. “The brief in the divorce column for Marian and Craig Kenyon. Birth notice for David Kenyon. A letter—”

  Annie listened intently.

  “—from Heyward Griffith. Innocuous message: ‘Alex—looking forward to lunch Tuesday. I’ll bring you up-to-date. It’s time to cut my losses.’ And”—Billy was expressionless—“a picture of a big blond guy in swim trunks. No ID. Scrawled on the back: ‘Midsummer madness.’”

  It seemed obvious which memento was associated with which figure out of Alex’s past. Annie wondered how Alex had gotten the picture, if the man in swim trunks was the lover Joan had taken. Joan herself had revealed that Heyward kept in touch with Alex, possibly vented his displeasure with Joan and George. Joan had come to Death on Demand and when she learned that Warren had called Rae, Joan looked despairing. If Joan killed her brother, she would not have come, would not be concerned about Rae’s fate, would in fact be delighted that Rae and Neil had been arrested.

  Billy leaned back in his chair again. “That’s the sum total of the famous missing briefcase. I don’t see it gets us anywhere.”

  “Did Rae see you photograph the contents of the case?”

  Billy shrugged. “She was there. She appeared to be in shock. Maybe she did. Maybe not. Maybe she still thought a fake break-in was a good idea, divert attention from her.”

  “I don’t think so. Rae was half drugged. She’d taken a sleeping pill. I think someone did break in. But”—and now her face squeezed in thought—“it wasn’t the killer.”

  Billy raised an eyebrow. “Looking in your crystal ball?” But his tone was genial. “Why so?”

  “The killer would have checked out the suite after killing Alex. So the killer knew the case wasn’t there. That means someone else came, figuring the suite was empty and hoping to get whatever Alex had mentioned that day.”

  Billy shook his head. “Maybe the killer had to hurry. Maybe room service knocked and the killer got the hell out, not sure whether the case was there or not. So it could have been the killer who came or one of the others threatened by Alex or none of the above and Rae Griffith was looking for a decoy. As for Rae”—now he was fully intent—“exactly what did she tell you?”

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison was courteous but firm. “Mrs. Griffith, it is important that I speak with you.”

  Lynn Griffith’s pale lips tightened for an instant. She paused to let her exasperation show, then spoke. “Nellie—that’s my nail girl—is working me in. I’ve snagged one of my nails.” She held up her right hand, displayed the nail on her index finger. “I have to hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hyla spoke quickly. “It will only take a moment. What time did you get to Widow’s Haunt last night?”

  That perfect face was utterly still, then blue eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You received a phone call from Warren Foster and he told you when to come to Widow’s Haunt. If you can—”

  Lynn shook her head impatiently but her silvery blond hair remained in place. “Officer, I have been patient but
enough is enough. I don’t know what Annie Darling told you. She came here”—the voice lifted in outrage—“and asked me about Warren and I told her she was mistaken, and that’s what I am telling you. I didn’t speak to Warren. I didn’t go to that place where he died. I know nothing about his death. Or Alex’s. I do not wish to be harassed further.”

  • • •

  Marian welcomed the dimness beneath the spreading live oak even though the shade did nothing to diminish the July heat. She leaned against a low branch, watched the harbor. The front steps of the station were in her peripheral vision. Would Annie learn anything that could help? Or would she learn only enough to clear Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly, turn the investigation onto others—like her—who were desperate to prevent Alex from speaking out?

  Marian’s shoulders tightened. If she’d kept quiet . . . But she couldn’t remain silent. Not even for David. She felt a twist of pain deep inside. And, she knew another truth. She had to trap the person who killed Alex. Alex should be alive right now, causing trouble in his own bullheaded way. But Alex should be alive.

  David’s father . . . She owed Alex justice.

  Tomorrow was the last full day of David’s visit. He and Craig planned to spend the day at the High Museum. David had left a message on her cell. “Mom, there’s a huge exhibit of art of the Old West . . .” Marian had loved the excitement in his voice. He sounded younger than fifteen. He sounded . . . oh God, he sounded so happy.

  “Marian.”

  She recognized the familiar voice.

  She turned and watched Max Darling stride swiftly toward her.

  • • •

  Eddie Olson stood in the shade of an awning, gulped Gatorade from a cooler. He shot Hyla Harrison an amused look. “Like I told Annie Darling—and I don’t know where she got her deputy badge—I don’t know from nothin’. Yeah, I got a nutty call from the Whisperer, dire threats, I was to show up at Widow’s Haunt at half past nine. Like hell. At nine thirty or thereabouts I was having a big tall cool one out by my pool. And no, I don’t have a handy alibi. My wife’s in Chattanooga visiting her folks. Now if you don’t mind, I got to finish straightening out a propeller shaft.”