Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  She turned on the kitchen light, not caring now who saw and knew there was movement in her house. She leaned back against the door, rested for a long while, then, legs leaden, walked to the kitchen table, sank onto a wooden chair. She pulled the sandwich bag from her pocket, laid it on the table.

  She was trembling. She must move, take a hot bath, fix a drink, get to bed. Tomorrow she must play her cards right. She held a good hand now. The woman who killed Alex had no inkling that a trap had been fashioned. It was as if Lynn stood there, confident, untroubled, serene in her safety. But the trap must be sprung.

  Marian slumped in the chair, too weary to stand. Tears streamed down her face.

  • • •

  Sun splashed into the kitchen. The smell of good strong coffee mingled with the scent of freshly squeezed oranges.

  Max slid a plate with a waffle in front of her.

  Annie added three strips of bacon. Maybe that was piggy but Max’s bacon—actually it was good Arkansas bacon—practically danced its way onto a plate. And, she sighed happily, Max had fixed whipped cream and fresh strawberries. “It is nice to have you home.”

  Max’s smile was wry. “Hmm. I recall murmuring sweet somethings to you last night, proclaiming that frolicking with you was much grander than fishing. Am I to understand you are glad to have me home to cook?” Great emphasis on the last verb. His eyes were telling her how much he remembered of their moments together in the night.

  Annie grinned. “To frolic.” A pause. “And to cook.”

  “On a scale of one to ten—”

  But her mouth was full of crisp, succulent waffle with a bite of bacon. “I’m not any good at math.”

  Max joined her at the table, grumbling. “Serves me right for being such a good cook. Maybe I’ll take a sabbatical.”

  “Ten,” she said hastily.

  “Which is a ten?”

  “You.”

  “That’s better.”

  Annie enjoyed breakfast. Most of all she enjoyed looking across the table, talking, laughing. How lucky was she? It wasn’t simply that Max was handsome, sexy, and fun. When he was beside her, her world was right. As simple as that. As complex as that. They never ran out of things to talk about, though this morning they were avoiding rehashing Marian’s early morning call and her plea that they meet her at Widow’s Haunt.

  Annie glanced at the clock. “We’d better hurry.”

  Max’s face creased in a frown. “We should go straight to Billy and tell him about Lynn Griffith in the bay the day Heyward died. That’s what matters. Going to Widow’s Haunt won’t accomplish anything.”

  “I think,” Annie said slowly, “Marian has a hunch.”

  “Ah, feminine intuition.” He had the long-suffering-male expression. “Annie, they’ve done studies. It doesn’t exist.”

  Annie was short on studies to cite, but statistics could prove whatever anyone wished to prove. She didn’t need a study to recognize the utter conviction in Marian’s voice. Marian said she had a feeling something had been missed, she’d waked in the night, knew they’d find something, they had to look.

  “Marian’s really upset—” She heard three rapid pings. Annie pulled her cell from her pocket, smiled at Max. “My morning uplift from the Incredible Trio.” She looked down. “From your mom: ‘Life does not consist mainly—or even largely—of facts and happenings. It consists mainly of the storm of thoughts that are forever blowing through one’s mind. Mark Twain.’ Max, that’s exactly what Marian was describing, a storm of thoughts!”

  Max laughed. “Why am I not surprised when a woman has a storm of thoughts? Men, of course, arrange thoughts in an orderly fashion.”

  But Annie was already reading Henny’s text: “‘The Corpse Was Beautiful by Hugh Pentecost describes the home front and the work of civilian air spotters. The moral is: Careful observation makes all the difference.’” Annie looked meaningfully at Max.

  He raised an eyebrow. “So it’s our duty to carefully observe Widow’s Haunt?”

  Annie glanced at the final text, laughed. “The oracles have spoken. Emma’s text: ‘Marigold dared me to dump her, popped a title at me. In Plain Sight. What the hell does that mean? She wins. Have to find out.’” Annie grinned at him. “What more do you want?”

  • • •

  Marian Kenyon’s untidy mop of dark hair had scarcely been touched by a brush. She’d added a dash of makeup but bright red lips emphasized the gray-white of her face. Billy Cameron prided himself on an ability to read body language. Marian Kenyon’s posture—head poked forward, shoulders tight, arms tensed—told him she was defensive, desperate, determined. A wrinkled pale blue blouse half tucked into brown slacks told him she’d dressed hurriedly.

  “. . . came straight here.” Marian held up a plain manila envelope. “I found this on my front steps. When I saw what was written on it, I got a dish towel to pick it up.” She held the envelope with a Kleenex.

  Billy saw an inscription in plain block letters: FOR POLICE.

  Her small chin jutted. “I figured somebody left it at my place because of the Gazette. So it’s like a tip. That’s why I slid out the stuff inside.” She pushed up from the straight chair, took a step, and held the envelope open. Out onto the desktop fell a quart-sized plastic baggy and an eight-by-twelve sheet of computer paper. She pulled a pencil from her pocket, used it to turn the sheet toward Billy.

  He read the all-cap message aloud: “‘Check fingerprints on butcher paper’”—he glanced at the white paper stuffed into the baggy—“‘against any unidentified prints found at Griffith death scene. If a match, get prints George Griffith, Joan Turner, Lynn Griffith, Eddie Olson.’”

  Billy leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. “On what basis do I ask people for their prints when we have suspects in custody for the murders of Alex Griffith and Warren Foster?”

  Marian flung out a hand. “You can do it. Tell them it’s a matter of protocol. Tell them the prints are necessary to prove they weren’t present when Warren was killed. Tell them you know as good citizens they want to help finalize the case against the suspects who will be arraigned on Monday.”

  “People aren’t stupid, Marian.”

  Marian’s lips twisted in what might have been a smile. “No, they aren’t stupid. But quite often they are credulous. And the killer will be delighted to aid the police in proving their case against Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly.”

  14

  Max jiggled his car keys in his pocket. “Where’s Marian? She insists we meet her at nine sharp and she’s nowhere to be found.” He slapped at his arm with his free hand. “I saw a mosquito the size of a 727. Five more minutes and I’m out of here. At least the golf course sprays. What’s the problem with the historical society?” He slapped again, waved away a cloud of no-see-ums.

  Annie answered absently. “It’s the director, Jane Jessop Corley. She’s an ecological nut. Insecticides are listed in the evil lexicon, right after Exxon Valdez.” Annie shaded her eyes from a sun that was already scorching, but the Widow’s Haunt parking lot was barren of cars except for Max’s Maserati. She was turning toward the line of pines that screened the ruins when a screech of tires announced Marian’s arrival.

  The faded yellow VW skidded to a stop. The driver’s door opened and slammed shut. Marian was out and jogging toward them, one hand steadying the Leica that hung from a strap around her neck, sandals slapping on the blacktop. “Thanks for waiting. Found a surprise on my porch.” Quickly she described the manila envelope and plastic bag and Billy’s reaction. “Who knows? Maybe it will amount to something.” Her narrow face was pale. “Anyway, thanks for coming. Last night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how Lynn Griffith came to Widow’s Haunt. Did she drive? If so, she had to park in either this lot”—she jerked a thumb behind her—“or at the inn. She knew she was going to kill him when she came because she brought garden w
ire. So she knew from the get-go she didn’t want anyone to realize she’d been anywhere near Widow’s Haunt. She wouldn’t park at the inn. Her MG is too distinctive. It might easily be seen and remembered by someone. As for the Widow’s Haunt lot, the road dead-ends here. She’d be boxed in if anyone else came. Plus, again, everybody on the island knows her car. So I figured she didn’t drive.”

  Max pointed vaguely to the north. “Doesn’t she live a couple of miles from here?”

  Marian nodded. “I checked the map. A bike trail runs right behind her house. It intersects a trail that runs into the parking lot. So we’re going to hunt for bike tracks.” She half twisted to reach into a backpack.

  “Marian”—Max sounded exasperated—“don’t you think Billy Cameron knows how to secure a crime scene? As soon as the ME certifies a victim’s dead, they string crime scene tape a good fifty feet in each direction, then search foot by foot, looking for anything that could be physical evidence.”

  Marian’s hand came out of the backpack, clutching a dozen or more darts with feathered tips held together by a sturdy rubber band. “Sure he knows how to secure a crime scene. And I’ll bet Annie’s told you everything that happened Thursday night. We got here right behind Rae Griffith and the boyfriend. I called 911. Billy and Hyla were already at the inn, looking for Rae and Neil, so they got here pronto. It looked like Rae Griffith was fresh from the kill. Everybody knew she and the boyfriend walked over here. No car. Whatever they looked for, it wasn’t bike tracks.” She slipped off the rubber band, handed Annie four yellow-feathered darts, Max five red-feathered darts, kept the blue ones.

  She started walking. “I figure Lynn got here before Warren. She didn’t want him to know she was here so she didn’t leave the bike in the lot. She’d either ride it around to the back of the ruins to get to that opening in the front wall or she’d walk it there. Either way, that bike had to cover some ground. Okay, I’ll take the segment that runs alongside the oyster shell path to the main clearing. Max, you veer off on the path that skirts behind the main ruins. Annie, you take a look just behind the wall . . .”

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison appraised George Griffith. Curly black hair needed a cut. Red-veined face was a whiskey marker. Pouchy middle, pudgy fingers. Too much pasta. She smelled a faint scent of garlic. But she gazed at him with false camaraderie. “Good of you to see me, sir. Chief Cameron said he was sure you would be glad to help out.”

  Pale eyes stared at her. “Help out?”

  Hyla held up a small black vinyl case. “Fingerprints. Quick. Easy. As I’m sure you know, arrests have been made in the murders of your brother and Warren Foster. To complete our case against the accused we want to counter any defense allegations that we were slack in investigating unexplained prints at the scene of the Foster murder.” She placed the case on his desk, popped it open. “There’s a full handprint on the back of the wall where his body was found.” She lifted out the rectangular container with the fingerprint pad. “Taking your prints will prove that the unidentified print doesn’t belong to you.”

  • • •

  Red-feathered darts framed a clear print of a bike tire in a dusty patch near the stand of cane.

  Annie looked from the cane to the back of the wall with the empty space for the long-ago window. She looked back at the cane stand, at the square of darts, their feathers bright in the morning sun. The sun fully illuminated the bare patch of ground. Annie pointed. “That looks like a little punched-out spot for a kickstand.”

  Marian took a blue-feathered dart, placed it a few inches from that impression. She stepped back, lifted the Leica, snapped several times. With a satisfied nod, she edged away from the cane. “Prints in four different places. Now we have something for Billy. He can send Lou to make molds.”

  “To prove what?” Max ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, we haven’t had a rain for four days. But those prints could have been made anytime since then. How many tourists come over here on bikes? At least a few a week. You know what these bike prints prove? Somebody rode a bike here.”

  Annie winced inside. She hated to see Marian disheartened, but Max was right. What did bike prints prove?

  Marian’s face gave no hint of discouragement, looked tough, determined, convinced. “The prints will prove Lynn Griffith rode a bike here. Hey, you say that’s not against any law. Of course not. But the prints of her bike at Widow’s Haunt will be evidence she was here and when that evidence is added to everything else, Billy will find out what he needs to find out.”

  “Like”—Max’s tone was faintly sarcastic—“whether Lynn Griffith owns a bike?”

  Marian’s retort was fast, sharp. “Yeah, like whether she owns a bike.” Triumph flashed in Marian’s dark eyes. Triumph and certainty.

  Annie understood. Marian in her own mind had figured out what must have happened and, for the night to have unfolded as Marian believed, Lynn Griffith had to own a bike.

  Time would tell.

  • • •

  Marian waved for Max to drive out first. As the Maserati curved into the narrow road lined by pines, Marian yanked her cell from her pocket. She swiped. As soon as Walt answered, a brusque “City desk,” she said, “Marian. Gonna have a big story. Need a little help. ASAP. Go out to the boardwalk”—the Gazette offices were at one end of Main Street—“use the pay phone, call my number. I’ll answer. We talk for a couple of minutes. You can read the tide table.” Walt had a thing about tides, always knew the times. “Whatever. Just chat. Three minutes. When you leave the booth, you’re in a somnambulist state, don’t know where you’ve been, what you’ve done. Total amnesia.” She felt uncomfortable using Walt to set up her plan, but she’d already crossed that bridge. She would do what she had to do to trap a killer.

  She swiped End. She could count on Walt. He’d do precisely as asked. And no one else would ever know.

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison neatly removed a strip at the top of a foil packet, handed the packet to Joan Turner. “Moist towelette, ma’am. Removes ink in a jiffy.”

  Joan’s violet eyes looked huge in a pale face. Tight lines splayed at the edges of her mouth. “Thank you, Officer.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, for cooperating.”

  Joan glanced at the ink pad, still open, and the cards with her fingerprints. He cheekbones were sharp, prominent. “I will do anything I can to convict the people who hurt Alex.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

  • • •

  Max drove fast. Dust rose in swirls behind them.

  “Don’t asphyxiate Marian.”

  “Sorry.” He slowed. “But I feel like we should have already reported to Billy, told him about the watercolor and Lynn Griffith coming up out of the ocean. We’ve known since last night.”

  Annie twisted a little in the seat. “I don’t see the VW. I thought Marian would be right behind us.”

  Max relaxed a little in the seat, drove at a sedate thirty, though that pace still kicked up dust. “I know she wanted to have as much confirmation as possible for Billy but I’m afraid she’s counting too heavily on those bike tracks.”

  Annie had one of those odd feelings that she usually attributed to spending too much time with Laurel, though maybe she should accept that the subconscious often reaches the right conclusion from a myriad of tiny, scarcely realized observations. But she knew what was going to happen. “Lynn Griffith will have a bike. Those tire prints will be from her bike.”

  Max gazed at her with a question in his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” she said breathlessly, “how I know. But I know.”

  Max looked thoughtful.

  Annie twisted again to look back. Despite the haze of dust, the VW was closing fast on their trail.

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison stepped under an awning.

  Eddie Olson was bare to the waist. He used a block of sa
ndpaper on a strip of mahogany cap rail. His tanned back was sweaty.

  “Nice boat.” Her admiration was genuine.

  He turned, saw her. His eyes narrowed at the uniform. “You looking for a boat?”

  “I wish.”

  His dark eyes were friendlier. “Got a couple of good ones. I’ll sell ’em on time, a couple of thou down.”

  “I’ll check them out when I’m off duty. Right now . . .”

  He listened as she explained. “Like I told you the other day, I wasn’t there.”

  Hyla nodded. “I recall. So you have no reason not to help us out.”

  “Maybe not. What’s in it for me?”

  “A good citizen—”

  Eddie laughed. “I wasn’t a Boy Scout. I got no merit badges. As somebody once said, I don’t give a damn. But what the hell.” He held up a broad stubby hand in a mock Scout salute. “Maybe if I get stopped for speeding, there’ll be a gold star on my record.”

  • • •

  The call came as Marian expertly tucked the VW into a parking space a half block from the station. She let the cell ring twice to be sure the number logged in as a recent call. “Yeah.”

  “Humphrey Creek. Low tide one twenty-eight A.M. High tide seven forty-four A.M. Low tide one fifty-three P.M. High—”

  “Hope you aren’t frying in the booth.”

  “If it’ll be above the fold, worth it. If not, you can scrub my kitchen this weekend.”

  “Lead story Monday.”

  “Hell, we’ve already led with the arraignment—”

  “More. Better. Trust me.”

  “I guess I do. Or I wouldn’t be standing here sweating up my best seersucker pants. Should have worn my usual khakis.”

  “I’ll pay for the cleaning bill.” Marian saw Annie and Max starting up the station steps. “Got to go.” A quick breath. “Walt”—her voice was choking up—“you’re a—”

  “Got it. Peachy guy. Sweetheart. You can tell my ex-wife. There’s a herd of tourists shambling by. I’m going to hang up, slip out as gracefully as somebody built like me can slip, and end up at the pier for a smoke. If anybody ever asks, I don’t know from nothing. And I’ve held on to the receiver with my dandy handkerchief. Always knew it was good to carry one. Besides, I’ll bet the receiver was sticky. Ditto the handle to open the door. Me, I don’t like sticky.” The connection ended.