Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison pushed the doorbell for the third time, waited. No one came. She glanced at the drive and the red MG TD that made her think of dancing slippers and champagne. She didn’t have any dancing slippers, had rarely tasted champagne, but that was what the car brought to mind. The car also suggested Lynn Griffith was at home. Unless, of course, she had been picked up by a friend.

  Live oak leaves rustled but the faint breeze did nothing to lessen the midmorning heat. Hyla turned, followed a walk to her right. She came to a wooden gate on the other side of the garage and pulled it open. Was she trespassing? If challenged, she would simply say it occurred to her that perhaps Mrs. Griffith gardened. For an instant, her stride checked. A gardener would surely have green plastic-coated garden wire. But that wasn’t her concern at the moment. She walked on flagstones the length of the garage.

  She passed a hibiscus hedge in full bloom. A white picket gate was inset between hedges and beyond was a spectacular pool.

  Pool water cascaded from a white cap as the swimmer rose out of the water in a powerful butterfly stroke. At the end of the pool, a flip turn, and a return lap freestyle, fluid and fast. The swimmer reached the end of the pool, stood.

  Hyla opened the gate, walked across the patio.

  Lynn Griffith’s frown was quick. “I will not be badgered. I will ask you to leave—”

  “Ma’am, I’m here with a special request from Chief Cameron.” Hyla stood near the pool. “We’ve asked all the family members to help us. You see . . .”

  Lynn stood in the sun, listened. Slowly the irritation faded from her face. When Hyla finished, Lynn pulled off her cap, her face thoughtful. “Let me be sure I understand. There’s an unidentified full handprint on some wall at Widow’s Haunt that Chief Cameron believes is important? Oh, very well. Certainly I’m willing to do whatever I can to build a case against Alex’s murderers.” She walked toward a glass-topped table, picked up a red-and-green-striped beach towel. “Let me dry my hands.”

  • • •

  Annie sat in a shaft of sunlight shining through the harbor window in Billy Cameron’s office. Max was in the middle straight chair facing Billy’s desk, Marian to his left. Annie flicked an occasional glance at Marian’s tense profile. Marian hunched forward, as if she had something more to say but was waiting, picking her moment. But what could she know that they didn’t know?

  Billy Cameron listened intently, made notes, as they marshaled all they knew: Cairo Richards’s plein air painting on a brooding summer day, the rising from the sea of the woman both Annie and Max believed to be Lynn Griffith, the bicycle tire tracks at Widow’s Haunt—he’d held up a hand then and barked orders into the intercom—and Annie’s conviction that it was Alex who called room service.

  Billy Cameron’s tone was dry. “All of this is possible. But anything is always possible. If Cairo Richards painted Lynn Griffith in an inlet the afternoon her husband’s sailboat was out in the sound, it raises serious questions. If she swam out, intercepted her husband’s boat, how did she get aboard? Pretending she had a cramp? A happy chance? A couldn’t-wait-to-see-you impulse? Let’s say she swam out, got on board, cracked him on the head, pushed him overboard, left the boom loose, swam back to shore. If that’s true, the watercolor would terrify her. So why didn’t she go after the artist? Maybe Alex talked about a painting, gave no clue where he’d seen it. That would almost have to be the case.”

  Annie frowned. “Cairo said Alex was excited when he saw the watercolor. He must have been certain the swimmer was Lynn. He saw the date beneath the artist’s name. He knew she was a powerful swimmer. When he talked to Lynn, who knows what he threatened? Maybe he said he’d do a new book, describe the wife swimming out to the sailboat, create a scene of murder. Or maybe he told her he was going to announce Wednesday night what she’d done and then he intended to go to the police, insist on an investigation.”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Billy murmured. “We need facts. We can check Alex Griffith’s cell, see if we find a picture of Cairo Richards’s watercolor, see if she happened to keep the photos she worked from. The date on the watercolor is definitely suggestive.” He tapped his pen on a printout of the investigation into Heyward Griffith’s drowning. “If it gets to that point”—his tone suggested the possibility was light-years distant—“we could have a lineup with Lynn Griffith and some other blondes, see if Richards can pick her out. But even then, even if she admitted being out for a swim, that doesn’t prove she intercepted the sailboat. Now, if she killed Heyward, she might think she had to silence Alex and then Warren Foster, but a watercolor doesn’t prove murder. However, the painting puts her in the proximity of Heyward’s drowning and she claimed at the time that she was golfing that afternoon.”

  Marian scooted to the end of the seat, placed her hands on the edge of Billy’s desk. “Just before I got here, I got a ring on my cell. You know that butcher paper I brought you this morning?”

  As Billy nodded, she turned briefly to Max and Annie and said, “That’s what was in the envelope I found on my porch.” Then she looked back at Billy. “The caller said the prints belong to Lynn Griffith. If you find a match at the hotel—”

  Billy’s face was abruptly hard. “Let me see your phone.”

  She took her cell from her pocket, handed it to Billy.

  He looked, flicked on the intercom. “Mavis, trace this number.” He read the number out; then, as he turned off the intercom, he swung back toward Marian. “Okay, give: Who called?”

  Marian looked regretful. “Sorry, Billy. I couldn’t do that even if I knew the caller. A reporter has to protect her source.”

  Billy looked grim. “Source?”

  “This is a big story.”

  He studied her for a minute. “Man or woman?”

  Marian shook her head. “Somebody who didn’t want to be involved. There was no explanation of how they got the butcher paper. I don’t know how they knew her prints might be in the hotel suite. All I know is what the caller said: ‘Lynn Griffith killed Alex. Her prints are in the suite.’ That’s what I know.”

  “Yeah.” His blue eyes were cold, suspicious. “How does some ‘source’ happen to have your cell number?”

  Marian’s expression was wary. “My cell number’s all over the place. I know a lot of people. If somebody knew something about Lynn Griffith, but didn’t want to come out in the open, the easiest way to get information to the police is to tip off a reporter. Whoever left that envelope at my house or called me a little while ago doesn’t matter. What matters”—Marian’s tone was urgent—“is whether there are any matches at the hotel. If there are, then you’ll know.”

  Billy picked up his phone, dialed an extension. “Mavis, have you had a chance to finish checking the prints from that sheet that came in this morning?” He listened. “You’re sure? . . . Where in the room? . . . Send me a report.” He put down the phone. “It isn’t much, but it’s definitive. In the sitting room of the hotel suite, three prints match or partially match the index fingerprint taken from the butcher paper. I sent Hyla Harrison to get prints from Joan Turner, George Griffith, Lynn Griffith, Eddie Olson. She’s asking for them on the premise that we want to foreclose any defense attacks about unidentified prints at Widow’s Haunt. When she gets back, we’ll have Lynn Griffith’s official prints. Mavis can check those prints against the prints from the Griffith murder scene. That means we can bring her in—”

  Marian pushed up from her chair, leaned on the desk. “No.” There was desperation in her voice, intensity in every line of her thin frame.

  Billy was exasperated. “If the prints place her in that room, she’ll have to explain when and why she was there.”

  “That’s exactly what she’ll do.” Marian’s husky voice strained. “Lynn Griffith’s smart. She has a dim-witted stare and she likes to prattle, but that’s calculated. She’ll flutter long eyelashes an
d talk in a sweet little voice about dear Alex and how could anyone possibly think she was involved and then she’ll claim she dropped by to see him in the afternoon and she hadn’t mentioned it, it was no one’s business, they had a nice talk about old times, she’s so glad she saw him before that dreadful attack. She’ll smile at you and get up and walk away.”

  Annie came to her feet, too. “But we found those bike tracks at Widow’s Haunt. If she has a bike”—Annie didn’t doubt that there would be a bike; somehow Marian knew there was a bike; but that was a thought for another time—“and if the tracks match, how can she explain those?”

  Marian was adamant. “She’ll explain the bike tracks the same way. She’ll claim she’s been there many times on her bike. She’ll say, ‘Oh, did I ride my bike there? Oh yes, I believe I did a few days ago, but I didn’t think to mention it since I wasn’t there Thursday night. I often ride that way.’ No one can prove differently, just as no one can prove she didn’t come to the hotel Wednesday afternoon and visit with Alex.” Marian’s voice shook with intensity. “It won’t work to bring her in for questioning. That would put her on alert and she’d probably decline to answer without an attorney. Instead, we need to have her say in front of other people that she was never in that hotel room, had never been in it. The only way to do that is to get her talking when she isn’t aware she’s under suspicion.”

  Billy was thoughtful. “You think if she sees us, she’ll go on high alert?”

  “Exactly.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Some kind of private showdown? I don’t like that idea.”

  Marian shivered. “Actually, I don’t either.”

  Annie looked at Billy. “You said Hyla’s out getting fingerprints from Joan Turner, George Griffith, Eddie Olson, and Lynn Griffith?”

  Billy glanced at his watch. “She should be back soon. Then we can certify the fingerprints—”

  Annie shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking about the prints. But Hyla’s visit makes these people think they’re on the side of the law, that they’re cooperating. How about getting them together for a report on the status of the investigation?”

  Max was skeptical. “If Lynn’s as smart and tough as you think she is, she won’t tumble to a come-into-my-parlor conclave. How can you get all the so-called suspects to show up? Why would they? And where?”

  Marian ran a hand through her tangled dark hair. “There has to be some place where she’d come.”

  Max gestured toward Billy. “To a tête-à-tête with the police? If I thought I was getting away with a couple—no, make that three murders—I’d say, sorry, can’t make it, have to wash my hair, bake a cake, play bingo. It isn’t going to happen. You’d better pick her up and see what you can get.”

  Annie rushed in, talking fast. “I know a way.” She hoped she did. She thought she did. Would Billy agree?

  Billy looked at her inquiringly.

  • • •

  Joan Turner stood at the window overlooking the harbor. At the tinkle of the front door, she turned. She saw Annie and her face tightened. She walked forward, unsmiling. “I thought you would come. Yesterday morning I could tell from your face that you knew Warren called me. But you don’t need to worry. The police know now. That young policewoman came and asked me. I told her I went to Widow’s Haunt. But I didn’t stay. There was a car there. I was afraid. So the police know Rae isn’t the only person Warren called. I’ve been trying to think what to do. I told Leland I couldn’t play golf this afternoon, that I had to come up with a redesign for a clubroom. I’ve been here all day. I haven’t answered the phone. I haven’t had lunch. I keep walking and walking and thinking.” Her face was abruptly anguished. “What if the police come to the house, ask me in front of Leland why I went to Widow’s Haunt? Leland won’t ask, but he’ll look at me, wonder why Warren called me. Leland will realize Alex knew something about me that I was desperate to hide.”

  “Leland won’t ever have to know you went to Widow’s Haunt.” Annie hurried across the shining parquet floor, took two limp hands in her own. “The police know who killed Alex and Warren.”

  “They know?” Joan pulled her hands free, clasped them tightly together. “Have they let Rae go? And that man?”

  “Not yet. It isn’t simple. The police know who killed Alex, but they don’t have proof. Marian Kenyon and I think we know a way to trap the killer. That’s why I’ve come to you. You can help us.”

  Joan frowned, fine dark brows drawn down. “I don’t know anything”—but there was a flicker of worry in her eyes—“that implicates anyone.”

  Annie gestured impatiently. “This isn’t based on what you know about anyone.”

  “Who killed Alex?” The demand was sharp.

  Annie looked steadily into Joan’s wide, worried gaze. “Let me explain what Marian and I want to do. If you agree to help, we hope to create a situation where the murderer will be publicly revealed.”

  “You know who killed Alex!” She leaned forward, her face strained. “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you—”

  Joan’s hands clenched. “That’s unconscionable. To come here and claim you know who killed my brother and refuse to tell me. Damn you, who?”

  Annie felt the moment spinning out of control. “Please hear me out. I know this is horrible for you. But tell me, if you knew who killed Alex, could you look at that person and keep the knowledge out of your face?”

  Slowly Joan’s hands opened. Tears glittered in her eyes. “If I looked at that person—”

  “If you opened the door for Alex’s murderer to walk into your house, could you stand there, greet that person, offer a drink?”

  Joan whirled away, walked to the window. She stood, her back stiff.

  Annie waited. What would Joan say? What could she say?

  Finally, Joan turned. Her face was drawn, bleak. “What do you want me to do?”

  “You are the oldest in the family.”

  Joan’s face was still, quiet, watchful.

  “If you invited everyone—”

  Joan lifted a hand to touch her throat. “Who’s everyone?”

  “Your brother, George. Your sister-in-law Lynn. Alex’s classmate in high school Eddie Olson.”

  “Invite them to do what?” Violet eyes were wide and doubtful.

  Annie spoke slowly, carefully. One wrong word and Joan Turner might refuse. “Those close to Alex surely must wonder what has been discovered. They know what has been publicly announced. You could call each one, say you believe family and friends deserve more facts about the investigation so you contacted the police. The police chief explained that he wasn’t at liberty to speak about the prosecution, that was the prerogative of the circuit solicitor, but he suggested that Marian Kenyon of the Gazette and Annie Darling, who was involved in setting up Alex’s program at the inn, might be willing to share what they know. That you contacted both Marian Kenyon and Annie Darling and they agreed to be at your house at eight P.M. and will be happy to provide more background.”

  Joan walked to a red molded chair, sank onto it, buried her face in her hands. “I have one brother left.”

  Annie waited a moment, said quietly, “The circuit solicitor has a strong case against Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly.”

  15

  Hyla Harrison rode her Harley as precisely as she drove a police cruiser: competently, unobtrusively, and intensely aware of her surroundings. She wore a pale blue tee, navy Bermudas, and sneakers with a soft cap and sunglasses, making her indistinguishable from ordinary vacationers who biked, swung golf clubs, sprawled on beach blankets. It was unlikely that anyone on the island, much less one of the three persons of interest listed by the chief, would know where she lived or have any interest in her Saturday afternoon activities. She’d studied the map carefully before she set out. She took a circuitous route from her apartment house. She was certain no one followed her wh
en she turned off on the bike trail that skirted behind the home of Joan and Leland Turner.

  She spotted the Turner house through the pines without slackening her speed, continued for a quarter mile, stopped, waited, listened. This was a less-frequented bike trail. The green tunnel beneath overlocking limbs pulsed with the hot high heat of midafternoon. In the thick humid air, whining insects and chattering birds were the only signs of life on the secluded path. A good time to be in a pool or the sudsy surf or lounging in the shade with a tall, cool drink. Sweat beaded her upper lip, slid down her back and legs. She turned the Harley, rode back to the Turner house. In a moment, the bike was out of sight behind a hibiscus shrub. She reached into the storage compartment, drew out two items, tucked them in the capacious pockets of her shorts.

  Following instructions, she opened a tall iron gate between pittosporum shrubs, sniffed the sweet banana scent of their blossoms. She followed an oyster shell walk around a weeping willow. She carefully noted the features of a broad backyard, a tiled pool with a cabana, a terrace with bright lawn furniture and umbrellas, a discreet garden shed near a side gate. The two-story white house featured expansive windows. A small contingent of officers could be deployed unseen on the far side of the sliding glass door to the patio.

  As she crossed the terrace, the sliding glass door opened. Joan Turner stood aside for Hyla to step inside.

  Joan followed her, closed the door, leaned back against the glass as if for support. “I thought we’d sit in here tonight.” Joan’s face looked haunted, weary, despairing.

  The room seemed dim after the blaze of the afternoon sun though lights shone from several table lamps. The family room was separated into two sections. A pool table and wet bar to the left; a comfortable grouping of two red leather sofas on either side of a fireplace and two large blue chairs facing it. An all-glass coffee table on chrome legs sat between the fireplace and the furniture. At the end of each sofa was a matching small side table with a lamp.