Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie was the first one to reach the wall. She looked at the third painting. She could hear Cairo’s deep voice saying, “. . . plein air . . . absolutely made the painting . . . took a photograph so I had the image clearly . . .”

  The watercolor had a brooding quality, showing a narrow inlet between thickly wooded banks, the spartina grass dull beneath scudding gray clouds, the water dark as well, with the only points of light its rising whitecaps. A long wooden pier jutted out from the marsh to deeper water. A wet figure climbed the ladder’s pier, pulling off a white swim cap to loose a cascade of silver blond hair. Her body was lithe and strong in a full-body stinger swimsuit, black with pink stripes down each arm.

  Annie gripped Max’s arm, pointed at the bottom right of the watercolor, the artist’s name and the date.

  • • •

  The jukebox blared—Annie always felt a sense of comfort when she heard Bob Wills’s “Deep in the Heart of Texas”—but the booth was a pocket of tension. Max’s face furrowed in a tight frown. Marian’s small jaw jutted in determination. Parotti’s Bar and Grill was packed with boisterous vacationers and querulous sunburned kids who were too tired to eat. The holiday aura emphasized the grim divide in their booth.

  Max was adamant. “Once Billy sees that watercolor, he’ll know what happened. Lynn Griffith’s a master swimmer. We all knew that. Now we know she was out for a distance swim the afternoon Heyward’s sailboat capsized.”

  Annie chimed in. “That’s what Alex meant when he was talking to Rae. He said he had proof in black and white and then he laughed and said in color. He was talking about Cairo’s painting.”

  Marian nodded energetically. “The watercolor places Lynn in the right place to plan a swim out to intercept Heyward. I agree—”

  Cairo had described the mansion for sale that summer on an inlet north of the marina and how on Mondays, which she always took as her day off since she worked weekends, she’d take her portable easel and set up on the second-floor balcony. “The Browns were in Europe and I was showing the place and I knew no one was ever there. The pier was part of their property. That day was perfect for a brooding, dark painting. But the swimmer added depth, power. I always have my camera along. I got a half dozen shots and that’s how I was able to get the figure at the top of the steps just right.”

  “—this is terrific evidence. But it isn’t enough. What do you think Billy would do?”

  Max finished his last bite of grilled flounder. “He’d know there were three murders. He’d go see Lynn Griffith—”

  “Exactly.” Marian was dismissive, aggressive. “She’d gaze at him with that perplexed dumb-blonde look and say he was mistaken, she can’t imagine what he’s talking about, and she has a meeting so if he’ll excuse her. And that will be that.”

  Max said again, firmly, “We need to alert Billy.”

  Marian pushed away her half-eaten grilled cheese. “Max, what difference does it make whether we go to him now or tomorrow? Here’s what I want us to do . . .”

  Annie moved her hand below the tabletop, gripped Max’s knee.

  His gaze slid toward her, saw the plea in her face. His hand came down on top of hers, squeezed. “Okay, Marian. We’ll do it your way.”

  • • •

  Moonlight streamed across the bedroom. Annie slipped her arms around Max’s bare back. “I’m glad you’re home.” Glad for love, for care, for warmth, for touch and passion.

  His lips were soft against her throat, her cheek, her mouth, his hands warm and seeking, and then there was no thought, only feeling, dizzying, tumultuous, incandescent.

  When they were lying quiet in the moonlight, hands clasped, he said, “Me, too. Some things beat fishing.”

  She laughed. “I’m glad I outrank a tarpon.”

  “Outrank? On a scale of . . .”

  She snuggled against his side, listened drowsily as Max made clear his priorities. Nice to know she was a billion light-years more desirable than a fishing trip. As she drifted into sleep, she felt a poignant wish that Marian could be as happy as she was, but perhaps at least she was resting better tonight, knowing tomorrow they might bring a sad chapter in her life to a close.

  • • •

  Marian glanced in the mirror. Black turtleneck, tight black jeans, black sneakers. No wonder this was the style for cat burglars. Even in bright moonlight, she’d be hard to see and she intended to make certain no one saw her. She’d recently watched To Catch a Thief. Thankfully she wouldn’t have to scale a chateau roof. But she still felt dryness in her throat, the parched discomfort that fear brings. She was afraid.

  Her mouth twisted in a wry grimace. Not being an utter fool, of course she was afraid. Lynn Griffith was a tall, imposing, ruthless killer. Lynn had murdered her husband, moved swiftly to kill Alex when he posed a threat, waited unseen to choke the life out of Warren. Surely any killer, Marian thought, is preternaturally alert to danger. Perhaps especially this one. There would be no mercy if Marian got caught.

  Marian stood still, breathing shallowly. She didn’t have to do this. She didn’t have to take this kind of chance. Instead, she could fix a drink, take a hot shower, let the police send Rae and Neil to prison. And if she did, she’d never be at peace.

  She slowed her breaths, made them even. She had to do whatever she could, whatever it required, to make sure Lynn Griffith, not Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly, faced a jury. She knew the ways of police and the courts. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict Lynn. Not nearly enough. Lynn Griffith was a triple murderer. Marian had to see her brought to justice, even if she put herself in danger.

  She glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. She’d studied a map of the bike trails that webbed the island. She knew precisely how to ride from her house to Lynn Griffith’s home, not more than a half mile distant, and from the Griffith house to Widow’s Haunt.

  In the kitchen, she took a last sip of water, slid a small LED flashlight into one pocket. She wore soft, supple leather gloves. She turned to a cabinet, lifted down a box of quart-sized plastic bags. She pulled out several bags, selected one that had been in the interior and never touched, folded the plastic, tucked it into the other pocket. She turned off the lights, moved in darkness across the kitchen, stepped out the back door. Probably no neighbors were watching, but she was now a part of the substratum of society that moves in the night and does not wish to be observed.

  She hurried across the hummocky ground to the shed that housed the lawn mower, leaf blower, David’s bike, and hers. Almost every island home had a similar shed. She pulled and the door creaked. The rasp could be heard above the whir of the cicadas and chirp of the crickets. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness, stepped carefully to avoid the dark lump of the mower, reached her bike. She flipped up the kickstand, rolled out the bike, closed the door.

  Once on the street, she pedaled fast. She used the bike’s front light on the streets. A dark bike might seem sinister. She was simply an eccentric islander out for a midnight ride. Again, her mouth twisted wryly. She’d have to do a survey, write a feature about midnight riders. She imagined Walt’s reaction: Who the hell would do that? It was comforting to think about Walt and the newsroom, bright lights and sharp minds, no connection to her foray into the night and the terrifying task that lay ahead.

  She felt safer when she turned off into the woods and onto an asphalt trail. She followed the winding trail through tall pines. Thick undergrowth flourished on both sides. A crashing sound off to the right might have been a deer. She slowed as she skirted a lagoon, watching for alligators. She saw a fork. If she went left, she would reach Widow’s Haunt. She veered right. She kept the headlight on until she was about a quarter mile from Lynn Griffith’s home. She turned off the light, managed with occasional brief bursts from the flashlight. The trail here ran about twenty yards behind the houses.

  She caught a faint scent of cigar smoke an
d immediately braked. She waited, listening. Although it was late, some smoker, likely forbidden to light up in the house, must be on a patio.

  Marian rolled the bike forward.

  Deep ferocious barks shattered the silence.

  Marian stiffened, stood still.

  Shrubbery rustled. A dark, moving shape hurtled toward her, stopped a foot away. Deep-throated barks rose to a crescendo.

  “Sinbad.”

  The smell of cigar smoke was stronger.

  “Sinbad, you damn fool.” The deep male voice was aggravated. “The last time, you got twenty quills in your hide. Come back here, idiot dog.”

  Marian blinked back angry tears. She had to get past this. Hoping her instinct was right, she reached down, flicked on the light, called out, “Hey, sorry. Do you mind asking Rover to let me by?”

  The red tip of the cigar appeared, then a heavyset man in a tee and shorts. “He’s a big blowhard. He’ll roll over on his tummy for you in a minute.”

  The German shepherd’s fangs were near enough she could see yellow from tartar. Saliva drooled as he continued to bark.

  “Damn sorry.” The deep voice was apologetic. “Stay, Sinbad.” He reached the dog, bent down, fumbled for his collar.

  “Thank you. At the inn, they said it was all right to take a late bike ride. I couldn’t sleep—”

  “Night owl, huh. Me, too. You ride on now, I’ll take him in.”

  Marian swung onto the bike, turned her face a little as she wheeled past the man and the dog, hackles still raised. Her heart thudded. Around the next bend, she slowed, turned off the headlamp. The Griffith house was the sixth past the fork in the path. Not this one, the next.

  Marian coasted to a stop. She hadn’t thought about whether Lynn owned a dog. But barking dogs were never unusual. The night forest held many creatures that excited dogs—porcupines, squirrels, raccoons, foxes, deer, occasionally wild boar.

  Marian propped the bike on the kickstand, stepped lightly through the thinning woods. Moonlight illuminated the back of the house and the swimming pool. The layout was simple: a wooden enclosure for trash pails, a small greenhouse, a shed. Marian pulled the leather gloves from her pocket, slipped them on. She looked for a long moment at the trash enclosure, shook her head, slipped through shadows to the shed. A lock hung from the hasp. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. She reached out, her hand trembling.

  The lock wasn’t engaged.

  Marian breathed again. She edged the shackle free of the hasp, pulled the door open slowly, stepped inside. A brief flash of the LED flashlight revealed an expansive, concrete-floored storage shed. Her eyes went directly to a red bike. She felt a flicker of triumph. She’d been sure there would be a bike.

  She moved the bike out of the shed, taking her time. Sweat slid down her back and legs. Once out of the shed, the door closed, the lock carefully rehung, she kept to the shadows. She reached the bike path. She waited until she was past Sinbad’s house—likely the dog was standing with nose pressed to a sliding patio door—to turn on the light. Then she went faster, gloved hands light on the steering grips so as not to smudge fingerprints. She was startled at how quickly she reached the fork and made the turn to Widow’s Haunt. This portion of the path plunged through woods. Another few minutes and she was at the deserted parking lot. She turned off the headlamp, waited. Nothing stirred in the night but creatures of the woods. An owl hooted. Mourning doves called. Cicadas rasped. Crickets chirped. High above, a plane moved through the night sky.

  She exhaled slowly. No door slammed, no voice rose, no footstep sounded. She had Widow’s Haunt to herself—to herself and whatever ghosts might be abroad, the emaciated woman who grieved herself to death, the unavenged spirit of Warren Foster.

  Marian wasn’t worried about ghosts. A part of her watched askance. Fabricating evidence . . . she’d done a series once exposing fake invoices in a city office. She’d despised an official for cheating, for betraying trust. She’d always tried to play it straight. But she knew that Lynn’s bike had been at Widow’s Haunt and a man died horribly. Bike tracks had been erased or avoided. How fair was it to make that piece of evidence available for a jury? Marian didn’t subscribe to the modern whatever’s-right concept but she had a clear memory of Rae’s haunted face and of Alex with all the life and vigor and strength drained away. There had been tire tracks from this bike. She set her jaw. There would now be tracks again.

  She felt pressure to hurry, to get her task done, to get the bike back into the shed and no one ever the wiser. But she had to do it right.

  She turned on the headlamp, used the flashlight as well. The paved parking lot was no good for her purposes. At the end of the lot, one path led to the front of the ruins, another cut a sharp left to curve through willows behind jumbled bricks. Marian shone the flashlight on the ground. Tufts of johnsongrass. Drifted pine straw. And there, about eight feet ahead, was a mushy area left from the last tropical storm, a low-lying depression that didn’t drain well.

  Marian smiled, swung onto the bike, pedaled slowly and carefully straight ahead.

  She rode the rest of the way behind the ruins, keeping close to the path. She found another low muddy patch.

  She stopped a few feet behind the remnants of the wall, saw the paler oblong that marked the empty space where there had once been a window. She flicked the light around the area behind her. A stand of cane. Perfect. She rolled the bike across the ground, careful not to step on any dusty or damp patches. She wedged the bike into the cane. In a moment, she pulled the frame free, trampling a bit of cane, perhaps leaving marks there as well. She swung onto the seat, rode across the ground, regained the parking lot.

  The journey on the bike path was dreamlike, silent except for the sounds of the night and the whish of bike tires. She found her bike where she had left it, a few feet off the path. She turned off the headlamp of Lynn’s bike. She rolled Lynn’s bike through the shadows to the shed, opened the door, replaced the bicycle precisely where she had found it. When the shed door closed behind her, she hung the lock on the hasp, then turned to look toward the trash enclosure.

  Again she slipped from shadow to shadow until she reached the concrete stoop of the enclosure. She lifted the wooden bar. The gate swung in. She cringed at a deep melancholy creak. She didn’t dare take a chance of being trapped within the garbage area. She stood on the step, pressed against the post, listened with an intensity that magnified every sound: the rattle of magnolia leaves, the soughing of the pines, calls and cries and chirps. She watched the back of the house. A minute passed. Two. Five. One part of her urged hurry, hurry, hurry. The other warned be careful, be careful, be careful.

  The windows remained dark.

  Marian stepped into the enclosure. Now she had to use her LED flash. She cupped one hand over the beam, located three trash cans. She stepped to the first one, unbuckled the straps that prevented foraging raccoons from retrieving late-night snacks. She glanced over her shoulder, felt queasy. She couldn’t see the house now. She had no way of knowing if there might be a light or a door opening. She lifted the lid; the sweet scent of spoiled fruit struck her full in the face. She wrinkled her nose, peered over the side, aimed the beam down. She pulled on the tie of the first trash bag, loosened it, spread the bag wide.

  Perfect, perfect. perfect. She reached down, plucked up the object she sought. She pulled the plastic sandwich bag from her pocket, opened it, slipped her trophy inside. She retied the trash bag, slid the lid in place, buckled the straps.

  She edged to the gate, looked out. No lights in the house.

  It took only a moment to cross the backyard, darting from shadow to shadow, but her shoulders ached from tension. She reached the trail, safe now in the darkness of the woods. She started to get on her bike, then paused. She stepped away, shielded the light with her body, ran the beam along the ground. Damned if there wasn’t . . . She thought for a moment
, then bent and used her gloved hands to smear away a print from her front tire. Now she moved foot by foot, finding tracks, obliterating them. And then she was on the bike trail and around the curve, turning on the headlamp and flying through the night.

  When she reached the house, she hurried the bike into the shed, stumbled, exhausted, across the yard, climbed the back steps and was in the kitchen.

  She was home.

  She was safe.