Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  • • •

  Annie shaded her eyes against the midafternoon sun when she stepped out of the police station. She scanned the shade of a live oak. She’d expected Marian to be waiting there to hear if Annie had picked up any leads from Rae. If only Rae had listened more closely to Alex’s ramblings about his morning. Alex spoke of something in black and white, no, make that color, that changed everything about his brother. Would that be his brother George, who drove a girl’s car and made a deadly turn? Or his brother Heyward, who set out for a sail and whose body washed up three days later? Heyward was the brother everyone whispered must have committed suicide because he was much too expert a sailor to have an accident and he had an insurance policy to pay off his debts.

  Annie thought for a moment about suicide to save a lifestyle. Was Heyward that crazy about Lynn? Or was Heyward the one who couldn’t face being poor? She’d always felt certain that suicide reflected a morass of unhappiness that saw no brightness, only gloom and emptiness.

  A figure came out of the shadows of the live oak tree, walked toward her. Max stepped into the sunlight, tall, tanned, his golden hair shining, a smile lighting his face. He strode toward her, his arms open.

  She ran and the world was sunnier, brighter, better. Max was here. It didn’t matter when or where she saw him, tousle haired and stubble cheeked first thing upon awaking, across the room at a cocktail party, a quick turn to observe his profile at early morning church, crossing the sand in swim trunks carrying cold beers, the lift in her heart was the same.

  They came together, both talking at once.

  “I can’t go out of town for a minute and you’re off on a tear.” His voice was exasperated, but there was acceptance, too. “Annie, rescuer of orphans, homeless dogs and cats, and, of course, any creature in peril.”

  “I meant to keep my promise. I swear I meant to—”

  He bent down. She stood tall. Their lips came together. In a moment she pulled away, breathless; they were making a public spectacle but she didn’t even care. She looked up into blue eyes that scolded but said I love you.

  Her whoosh of relief was huge and heartfelt. “I was afraid—”

  He put a gentle finger on her lips, turned her about so that they were walking arm in arm across the dusty ground. “Time for a mea culpa. Mine, not yours.”

  Fish Haul Pier, as always in summer, was hot, smelled of bait, and played host to a motley array of fishermen, many creating small oases with umbrellas, chairs, coolers full of chicken necks and chunks of mullet, and smaller coolers with beverages of choice.

  Max steered Annie toward the end, found them a spot some feet away from the nearest fisherman. They stood with their elbows on the railing and the fresh sea-scented breeze tugged at their clothes. Water slapped against the pilings.

  Max’s handsome face was thoughtful. He looked at Annie, not at the whitecapped harbor. “I did a lot of thinking as I drove north. I thought about when I first saw you. Remember that party in New York? I saw you and I knew I had to know you and the minute we talked I made up my mind. You were going to be Mrs. Maxwell Darling. I learned all about you over time and everything I learned was good. That’s what I kept coming back to as I drove. You are Annie. When someone tugs at your heart, you don’t think, you rush out to help. Of course I recognize that when you don your Saint Joan cloak, a gecko has a higher self-preservation quotient. But I knew that about you from the start.” His eyes were soft. “That’s who you are. Who the hell was I to tell you not to do the right thing, not to reach out when a friend is in big trouble? So if you’re a gecko without any brains, I was an ass. I like geckos better than asses.”

  Annie started to laugh. It ended up midway between a laugh and a sob.

  Max’s warm, strong hand cupped her chin. “Hey, no gal from Texas worries about what a guy thinks. She does what she has to do. And you did.” He dropped his hand and grinned. “You should have seen Marian when I walked up. She watched me like I was a cross between an ax murderer and a body snatcher, maybe with a little zombie thrown in. I told her what I’ve told you and I told her we were here for her and we’d do our damnedest to find out what happened to Alex and Warren and keep her out of it.” His face changed. There was no more laughter. “I never thought I’d see Marian cry. I told her to mop up her face, you and I were officially part of Marian’s army. I told her to get back to the Gazette and kick back in her chair and think. Now”—his eyes were intent—“what did you find out from Rae Griffith?”

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison stepped into Joan Turner’s shop. The elegance of the white desk, the splash of crimson against a black background in a painting that was the only decoration on one wall, swatches lying on a steel table might have daunted her if she were on a personal quest. She knew enough to understand that the spareness was a statement, that she would be amazed and more than a little bit put off by the price of Joan’s services. But she was there about murder so she moved forward with an aura of command.

  Joan looked up as Hyla came nearer. Joan remained unmoving behind her desk. Her face was empty of expression but her shoulders tensed.

  Hyla ignored the red molded chairs, remained standing. “I’d like an explanation of your actions at Widow’s Haunt Thursday night.”

  Joan remained silent. Her thin face was stiff and still. The phone rang. Joan ignored the peals and finally there was silence.

  Hyla’s gaze never left Joan’s face. “If you prefer we can go to the station.”

  “I’d rather not. I was afraid you would be coming. I suppose Annie Darling told you I wanted to know if Rae got a phone call from Warren.”

  Hyla made no response. When witnesses started to talk, let them keep on talking, never let them know they’re telling you something you didn’t know.

  “I should have come and told you. I got a call, too. A little after eight. I didn’t know the caller was Warren. I suppose it should have occurred to me. Poor Warren. He was always a fool but so sure of himself. I suppose he thought he was being clever. I didn’t go into Alex’s suite that night but I was afraid to ignore the call. I didn’t know what I was going to do but at least I wanted to know who called me.”

  “What time were you supposed to come?”

  “At nine fifteen.” She took a shaky breath. “I was there, right on the minute, but I never got to the ruins. When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw a car parked there. I never stopped. I turned around and drove home.”

  “Can you describe the car?”

  Joan’s face was empty. “I can’t. It was just a car. I decided maybe I was being stupid trying to find out who called up and claimed something that was a lie. I drove home.”

  Can’t identify the car, Hyla wondered. Or won’t?

  • • •

  The break room at the Gazette had all the charm of wadded-up, day-old socks. It had dirty brown walls that likely last felt a paintbrush in the nineties; a warped, uneven wooden table, the Formica top marred by long-ago cigarette burns and time-immemorial stains; a vending machine that grabbed unwary quarters, burped, and resisted yielding its lukewarm cans until kicked.

  Marian dropped in two quarters, kicked, the machine shuddered, out came a Dr Pepper. “What can I get you?”

  Max poured coffee that had the consistency of molten asphalt, looked at Annie.

  Annie approached the vending machine with an aura of confidence, kicked. Before she could plunk in her quarters, out slid a Mountain Dew. She carried it to the table, pretending the can was cool, but, hey, it was sugar.

  Marian eyed her with amazement. “You figured out the magic charm. Kick first, no quarters needed. I’ll take that as an omen.” Her voice was determinedly light, an echo of the old Marian, but her face was ashen. “Tell me”—there was only the slightest quiver to indicate how much the answer would matter—“that the widow knew something we don’t.”

  When Annie f
inished, Marian popped to her feet. “Hang on. Enjoy the amenities.” A wave of one hand around the dingy room. “Back in a heartbeat. Or two.”

  When the break room door closed behind Marian, Annie took a sip of Mountain Dew, wished she hadn’t. Cold, the taste was great. Warm . . . not so much. She pushed away the can, looked up at a wall clock whose minute hand moved in jerks.

  Max looked, too, gave her an understanding glance.

  Time, as it always did, was moving inexorably forward. Monday morning would come and the ferry would leave for the mainland with two prisoners aboard. They had so little time to fashion a rescue for Rae and Neil. And not much information. Little more than Rae’s vague recollection that Alex talked to a woman with a funny name and something in color told him the truth about his brother. What was Billy doing? If anything? What could they—

  The door opened. Marian carried three folders. She settled at one end of the table, slid one folder to each of them. “We know all about gallant George and the girl in the lagoon, but I looked up the stories about Heyward Griffith’s death. Six years ago he went sailing on a Monday afternoon, an overcast day with a freshening wind. He left the marina at shortly after one o’clock in Summer Song, a thirty-two-foot Sabre. He was expected back about four, told Jody Carson at the dock house he was going to be off to Atlanta the next day and wanted the boat serviced while he was gone. At six the dock house got a call from Lynn Griffith. She told Jody she was just home from a round of golf and was surprised Heyward wasn’t home. She asked if Summer Song was back. Jody checked. The slip was empty. He tried the radio. No answer. Jody raised an alert. A search got under way, but the weather was deteriorating. The search was called off when it was too dark to see. Overnight there were heavy rains and wind but the weather cleared by daybreak. A shrimp trawler found Summer Song capsized shortly after six A.M. the next morning about a mile south of the marina. The boom was loose, nobody on board. His body came in to shore on Thursday.” Marian riffed through several sheets. “The autopsy report: Death by drowning. A head injury to the right temple consistent with a sailing accident.” She put down the sheet. “He was an expert sailor but everybody makes mistakes. The wind was gusting that afternoon. Maybe he lost control of a crossover, the boom cracked him, and he went over the side. Anyway”—she straightened the sheets—“he went out and he didn’t come back. So is he the brother Alex was talking about?” She looked from Max to Annie.

  Annie hunched forward on the uncomfortable wooden chair. “Rae said Alex saw someone he used to know, a woman with a funny name, and something she told him made all the difference.”

  Max picked up a pen, sketched a car, shaded in lines of rain. “Let’s suppose Alex was talking about George. George picked up Lucy Galloway in the lobby of the theater, went out and drove her car, heading out to an area where kids liked to race. But it was raining, he was driving too fast, she yanked on his arm, the car went into the lagoon. He got out. She didn’t. That’s bad but it wasn’t deliberate. Maybe this woman knew something to indicate the car in the lagoon wasn’t an accident, maybe George and Lucy had a history, maybe she claimed to be pregnant, maybe he decided to get rid of her.”

  Annie said slowly, “Alex may have learned something dangerous to George. The facts seem to be clear about Heyward’s drowning. He went out by himself. He didn’t come back. It seems the only question could be whether he committed suicide. That could make a huge difference to Lynn Griffith but I don’t see how it could ever be proved, one way or the other. Nobody was out there with him.”

  “So . . .” Max frowned. “We’re right where we started. Which brother was Alex talking about?”

  Marian was crisp; now she sounded like Marian going after a story, sure if she asked the right questions, kept on looking, she’d find out what she needed to know. “Look at the sheets stapled together.”

  Annie and Max both pushed aside the printouts about Heyward Griffith, picked up the attached sheets.

  Marian talked fast, gamine face squeezed in concentration. “The Gazette runs the list of high school seniors every spring, a full-page tribute.”

  Annie looked at Marian in concern. Had Marian, smart, cogent Marian, channeled Max’s mother? The remark seemed wildly irrelevant.

  Marian saw her gaze. For an instant amusement glimmered in dark eyes that for days had held nothing but fear and misery. “Alex’s friend has to be among those names. Alex left the island after high school, never came back for any extended period. If he saw an old friend, I think it would be someone he knew in high school. Let’s look for ‘funny’ names.”

  They came up with seven: Twila Tullis, Sydney Morris, Clarinda Smith, Viola Graham, Ginevra Hill, Cairo Ainsley, and Storm Porter.

  Marian tapped the sheet. “Twila James is the dental technician for Dr. Forbes. I’ll bet she was Twila Tullis. She’s about the right age.”

  Max made a checkmark by Cairo Ainsley. “Cairo Richards sells real estate. Ditto and ditto.”

  Annie had a quick memory of an elegant woman with coal black hair drawn back in a chignon and a Mona Lisa face. “Viola Hunter’s a tech at the vet’s. She’s the right age, too.”

  Marian popped to her feet. “I’ll run the list past Ginger Harris, see if she knows anything about the others.”

  When she was gone, Annie looked at her notepad. They needed to be careful how they approached Alex’s former classmates. Possibly start with the simple question, “Are you one of the old friends Alex talked to on Wednesday morning?”

  She glanced at Max. His expression was . . . interesting. “Are we being silly?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s as good a lead as we have. But there’s something surreal about ferreting out a witness—if there is one—because of an odd name. Only in a small town.”

  Annie began to feel restive, but finally the door opened. Marian returned with a bemused expression. “If you ever want to disappear, don’t even think about it. Ginger Harris knows all, sees all, remembers all. She told me where all seven of the girls are, their marital history or not, children, political persuasion, and hair color. She gave us a gold star, said those three we know are the only ones still on the island. Then she asked me—I swear she’s a barracuda with blue eyes and a white perm—if she could have first dibs for a color story on the heart-tugging moments Alex spent with an old friend on the last day of his life. I won’t go so far as to say she was licking her lips but it’s only because she’s always a lady and ladies do not.”

  13

  Marian pushed back a lock of dark hair. “I have phone numbers. We’ll each call one. Any preferences?”

  Annie chose Viola; Max selected Cairo; Marian took Twila.

  Marian glanced at Annie. “You first.”

  Annie held for a moment until Viola Hunter picked up the call. “Is Dorothy L having more trouble with her paw?” The venturesome cat had ended up with a thorn in her back left paw two weeks earlier.

  Annie put the cell on speaker. “She’s fine, Viola. I’m calling about a classmate. You were in school with Alex Griffith—”

  “Golly.” Viola’s sweet voice was shocked. “I can’t believe what happened to him.”

  “When you saw him Wednesday—”

  “Me? Must have been someone else. I haven’t seen Alex since the high school prom. I hoped he’d ask me to dance. But he didn’t.”

  When Annie’s call ended, Marian nodded at Max.

  He put his cell on speaker: “. . . tracking down people Alex Griffith spoke to on Wednesday.”

  “Are you calling for the police?” Cairo Richards’s deep voice was wary.

  Max answered carefully. “If we learn anything that would be helpful to the police investigation, it’s our duty to inform them.”

  “We?” It might simply have been an inquiry but the query suggested reserve, hesitation.

  Annie pictured Cairo’s face: eyes dark and deep, high cheekbone
s, full lips, a firm chin.

  “Annie and I are trying to put together a complete picture of Alex’s activities Wednesday.”

  Marian pointed at herself, then at the phone. Her narrow face was intent, her glare demanding.

  Max placed his forefinger briefly on his lips, mouthed, “Later.”

  Cairo was silent, then said slowly, “Perhaps I should talk to you. I’ve been debating what to do. I’ll be in my office for a few more minutes before I leave for an appointment. If you can come—”

  “We’ll be right there.” Max clicked off the cell.

  Marian’s expression was fierce. “You and Annie are trying to put together his day? What about me?”

  Max was already standing. “We’ll fill you in. But some people, especially someone like Cairo, don’t want to be in the Gazette in connection with a murder case. She’s always dressed to the nines, drives a Mercedes coupe, and butter won’t melt when she’s trying to sell a beachfront property for a couple million.”

  Marian tensed like a cheetah ready to spring, then slowly relaxed. “Gotcha. I’ll walk over with you, wait on the pier.”

  • • •

  As they followed Cairo Richards down the hall, Annie glanced at the closed door to George Griffith’s office, wondered if he was here or out showing a property. Cairo led the way to a corner office that overlooked the harbor. She gestured toward a brocaded sofa. A white leather album lay open on the oak coffee table. As they settled on the sofa, Annie admired superb photographs of a Mediterranean mansion overlooking the ocean.

  Cairo’s white linen jacket emphasized the midnight darkness of her ebony hair. A heavy linked gold necklace added richness to a pale lime blouse. Tall, slender, and elegant, she walked across the heart pine floor and sat opposite them in a chintz-covered chair, crossed linen-clad legs to display green stiletto heels. She placed fingertips together, spoke in her distinctive deep voice. “There was a knock on my door about ten Wednesday morning. I called, ‘Come in.’ The door opened and Alex stepped inside. I was delighted. We dated a bit in high school. He said he’d dropped by to see George and saw my name on the door and wanted to give me a kiss.” There was a flash of sadness in her eyes. “I was glad to see him. He sat on the sofa.” She nodded toward Annie and Max. “I’d seen the story in the Gazette about his talk. I told him I’d definitely be there. And then he was expansive, the old Alex. He sprawled back against the cushions and said he intended to pull the draperies off some old statues, but that was enough about him. I’d find out everything Wednesday night. Then he looked at my wall”—a graceful hand gestured to her right and a wall with more than a dozen paintings, all obviously by the same artist—“and asked if those were mine. I’d just said yes when my phone rang, I went to my desk to answer. Alex got up and wandered over to look at my watercolors. The call—well, it doesn’t matter but it was complicated, a problem with a second mortgage. I finished and when I turned to Alex, he was staring at one of the paintings in the first column. I could tell even from his back that he was shaken. He looked back at me and I knew he was excited. He asked, ‘Can I take a picture of that painting?’” She pointed to the third watercolor.