Don't Go Home

by Carolyn Hart

  Hyla noted a painting above the fireplace. She wasn’t knowledgeable about modern art, but she was struck by the power of the canvas, swaths of thick red paint that made her think of bubbling lava spilling over the rim of a volcano and streaks of coal black and canary yellow. The red and yellow were echoed in a strident pattern on the rug between the couches.

  The coffee table held several pieces. Hyla didn’t think of them as objets d’art. She looked at them from an entirely different perspective. Her eyes moved from a creamy porcelain bowl with assorted wrapped candies to a silver filigree box, perhaps six inches by four inches, to an ivory carving of a snake to an open printed silk fan.

  Hyla reached into her pocket, pulled out a rectangular recorder as slim as the newest-model cell phone. She crossed to the coffee table, punched a button on the recorder, slid the case beneath the silver box.

  Joan’s face was somber.

  Hyla was brisk. “The recorder will run for fifteen hours. That’s more than enough time.”

  Joan glanced at the clock. A quarter to five. “I’m going to invite them to come at eight.”

  Hyla’s gaze moved to one of the end tables. “You do crosswords.”

  Joan looked vaguely surprised, nodded. “Yes.” She spoke as if talking about another time, another life.

  “Perfect.” Hyla withdrew a fountain pen from the same pocket. She slid the stylish black pen’s pocket clip to activate this recorder, placed the pen atop a small pad next to a crossword magazine.

  Joan’s eyes fastened on the pen. Her face was tight with pain and fear.

  Hyla said quietly, “Two people are dead, ma’am. We want the right person to go to prison.”

  Joan massaged one temple. “I wish Alex had never written that terrible book.”

  Hyla understood what Joan feared might be recorded on the small device. When Joan pulled into the parking lot at Widow’s Haunt Thursday night, she saw a car. She claimed not to recognize the car. Hyla now had no doubt that Joan recognized the car very well. The car belonged to her brother, George. “Ma’am, wishing can’t save lives. Doing saves lives. If you don’t mind making the calls now, then I can report that everything is in place.”

  Joan slipped her cell phone from the pocket of her slacks, swiped, put it on speakerphone. “Hi, Lynn. Joan.”

  “Oh, Joan, I’ve been so upset. Poor Alex.”

  Joan swallowed, continued, her voice tight. “I’m glad I caught you—”

  Hyla listened intently, her face impassive. Good. Exactly the right tone.

  “—I hope you can come over tonight. I’ve been upset trying to find out more about what happened to Alex. The family should be better informed. I ran down that reporter for the Gazette. She and Annie Darling were at the inn that night. They’ve agreed to come over and fill us in on what’s been happening and the latest on Rae’s arrest. Can you come around eight o’clock?”

  The next call was to Eddie Olson. After Joan spoke, there was a silence that stretched.

  Hyla remembered his tough face, the sinewy arms.

  Finally, “Deep background, huh? Yeah. I’ll try to make it.” Did he want to be sure no one was talking about that long-ago football game? Maybe. Or maybe he was curious.

  After the call to Olson, Joan turned away so Hyla couldn’t see her face. She called her brother. Her last brother.

  When the call was completed, Joan dropped the cell phone into her pocket and walked blindly to one of the red leather sofas, sank down, buried her face in her hands.

  • • •

  Officers arrived one by one, taking up posts among the pines that bordered the Turner backyard. Three figures, dressed in black, one of them carrying a large rectangular object covered in Bubble Wrap, crept silently from shadow to shadow to press against the wall on one side of the sliding glass door to the patio. The curtains were drawn, blocking out a view of the Turner family room.

  Hyla Harrison pointed to the slight space between the glass pane and the frame. Joan Turner had done as she’d promised, leaving the sliding door open an imperceptible amount, enough that the door could be moved after the guests arrived, making it possible for them to hear what was said.

  Billy Cameron nodded, turned a thumb up. Lou Pirelli’s head moved slowly as he scanned the shadows. He kept one hand on the wrapped rectangle that was now propped against his right leg.

  There were no lights on the patio tonight.

  • • •

  “It’s good of you to come.” Joan Turner managed the everyday social phrase though her eyes appeared sunken in her face and her cheekbones jutted. “Please sit where you wish. Everyone’s here.” She gestured toward the red leather couches and the blue chairs.

  Annie glanced at Marian, nodded toward the fireplace. Max turned to join Leland Turner at the wet bar.

  The guests watched in silence as Annie and Marian joined Joan and faced the couches and chairs.

  Leland Turner, tall, thin, attractive in a professorial way, shook hands with Max, looked toward the fireplace. “It’s very generous of you to take time to help us out.” He appeared to be his usual genial self, his long bony face that of a welcoming host, his tenor voice pleasant.

  George Griffith’s fleshy, red-veined face was sullen. He slumped against an arm of a leather sofa. Eddie Olson lounged back in a blue chair, his expression quizzical. Lynn Griffith looked regal in the other blue chair as she arranged a fold of a patterned lime scarf that matched the color of her blouse. Her thin-legged white linen trousers were immaculate.

  On any other summer evening, Joan would have been strikingly attractive in a beige pull-on top with a boatneck and finely stitched pattern in a center panel and slightly darker beige slacks cinched on one side near the ankles, a fashionable touch. A wooden replica of a sand dollar hung from a long shell necklace. Tonight she looked tight, tense, tormented.

  Leland Turner smiled at Marian. “Let me fix everyone a drink before you start.”

  Marian looked appreciative. “Beer will be fine.”

  Annie didn’t want a drink but this was supposed to be a quasi-social gathering. “White wine, please.”

  “Lynn?” Leland’s tone was expansive. “What would you like?”

  Lynn Griffith’s silver blond hair was teased in soft ringlets that framed her heart-shaped face. Lashes dark as midnight made her large blue eyes look wider. She brushed back a curl. “Rum collins, Leland. Thank you.”

  “Rum collins coming up.”

  George was ready. “Bourbon and Coke.”

  “Scotch and soda.” Eddie Olson’s tight polo emphasized the strength of his upper body. His tan slacks fit him a little too snugly.

  Max smiled at his host. “I’ll take a beer, Leland, thanks. I’ll serve while you bartend.”

  Leland glanced at Joan. She gave a slight headshake.

  Leland selected bottles from the shelving above the sink. The small refrigerator door squeaked as he opened it. Ice clinked in glasses.

  Max brought drinks to each in turn.

  Joan stood stiffly a few feet from Marian, did not look toward her. “I very much appreciate”—Joan’s voice was thin—“the willingness of Marian Kenyon of the Gazette and Annie Darling, who was helping Alex with the program at the inn, to come here tonight to bring us up to date on the progress of the investigation into Alex’s death. Marian will speak first.”

  Marian had made an effort beyond her usual casual appearance. Tonight she was crisp in a white blouse and dark slacks. A plain gold link bracelet was her only adornment.

  She reminded Annie of a ragtag wirehaired terrier who knew there was a bone to be found, her dark eyes alert and watchful.

  Marian began in a clipped rapid voice. “Alex Griffith revealed in a Gazette interview that he based various well-known characters in Don’t Go Home on real figures from his past. He returned to the island, announced pla
ns to publicly name the inspiration for his characters Wednesday night. During the day Wednesday, he went around the island, spoke to several people, making it clear what he intended. His wife, Rae, left him in the suite at shortly before seven P.M. She went to the terrace to greet members of the media and make sure the audio was in place and working at the gazebo. After she left the suite, Alex called room service. He always drank a gin and tonic. He ordered one gin and tonic. He also ordered”—her dark eyes settled on Lynn Griffith—“one rum collins.”

  Lynn held her rum collins in her right hand. “Really?” There was mild curiosity in her voice. She smiled. “Rum collinses are very popular.”

  Marian looked disappointed. “We thought you must have been there. Alex knew very few people on the island after all these years. Of those he saw that day, you are the only one who drinks rum collinses.”

  Lynn’s eyes glittered. “Drinking a rum collins isn’t a crime. Obviously Alex knew someone else who preferred rum.” She spaced the words. “I was not there. He did not order a drink for me. I never saw Alex that evening.”

  “Oh.” Marian’s face squeezed in a frown. “You weren’t in the suite?”

  Lynn was emphatic. “I was never in Alex’s suite, not that night, not anytime.”

  Marian shot Annie a triumphant look. The lie had been recorded. Now Lynn Griffith could not explain away her fingerprints in the room where Alex Griffith died. Now the fingerprints could be admitted into evidence in a capital murder trial. Alex’s murderer was going to be brought to justice.

  Annie wanted to make sure. She asked, as if puzzled and a little unsure, “So you are claiming you have never been in the room where Alex was killed?”

  Lynn was irritated. “I don’t know how to be any clearer. I was never in the suite where Alex was staying. I don’t know the room number. Besides, I had no reason to wish Alex dead.” Her exquisitely sculpted brows drew down in a frown. “I don’t see any point to your questions. The police have arrested the murderers. What more is there to know?”

  “Oh, not much,” Annie said carelessly. “Perhaps we could talk about the afternoon your husband drowned.”

  Lynn’s face tightened. “Heyward’s accident has nothing to do with you. It’s very unkind of you to bring up that sad day. It certainly has no bearing on what happened to Alex.”

  “That day”—Annie spoke slowly, distinctly—“has everything to do with Alex’s murder. Heyward’s death was not an accident.” She heard Joan’s sharp intake of breath.

  Joan reached out, gripped Annie’s arm. “What are you saying?” Her voice shook, rose.

  Annie put a consoling hand over Joan’s, felt the tremble beneath her fingers, but she continued to look at Lynn. “Alex found out that you killed Heyward. You are a powerful swimmer. You swam out to intercept Summer Song. Alex had proof. He told you when he saw you that there was a painting of you coming up out of the water in a bay late that afternoon, a painting that was signed and dated. You had to kill him. You planned it cleverly. You found a heavy piece of wood, probably in the trees behind your house. You brought the weapon with you. You walked behind him and turned and struck the back of his head.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But Lynn’s blue eyes were wide and staring, her voice grating.

  The curtain billowed. Billy Cameron stepped inside. All in black, he was formidable, a big man moving with the grace of an athlete. Hyla Harrison followed, one hand on her holster. Lou Pirelli turned a bit sideways to maneuver his large wrapped burden.

  Billy Cameron advanced toward Lynn, his heavy face tough and determined. “Lynn Griffith, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murders of Alex Griffith and Warren Foster. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

  As Lou walked, he pulled free the sheet of Bubble Wrap, tucked the protective material under one arm. He held the framed watercolor out in front of him.

  Joan Turner let go of Annie, stepped out, and stared at the painting. She looked. And looked. Then she swung around, faced Lynn. “You killed Heyward. I should have known. He’d told me a few days before that he was going to leave you. He said you never cared anything about him, only for money, and you’d badgered him to take out a huge insurance policy, double indemnity if he died accidentally, but he had no intention of dying. He was going to leave the island, go to Atlanta, stay with Alex, get a divorce. He said he thought with what he had left he could pay off his debts, keep Summer Song. He said he would be free and he would sail forever. When he died, I thought what a terrible irony that he’d died sailing. But it wasn’t irony. You killed him. You killed my brothers.”

  Lynn stared emptily at the watercolor, then her gaze slid around the room. But there was no way out. Her wide blue eyes moved back to the frame gripped in Lou’s strong hands. Forever and always at the bottom of the painting that depicted her, strong, vital, alive, climbing from the water, was the date, the date her husband died.

  16

  Annie glanced at her watch. “Marian’s being mysterious.”

  Max’s face creased in concern.

  “Happy mysterious. Not bad, sad mysterious.”

  “Good to know.”

  His relief was evident, which Annie found endearing. He truly didn’t want her mucking about trying to find murderers. She almost volunteered that she’d keep all mysteries on the shelves in Death on Demand, but it was too beautiful a morning to make a promise she might not be able to keep.

  He leaned against the railing that overlooked the marina. “Mysterious about what?” The morning sun turned his short hair to gold, made his blue eyes darker than a glacial lake. The breeze off the marina tugged at his shirt. She looked at him admiringly.

  She saw that he saw the—okay, admit it—lust in her glance, not to put too fine a point on it. She hurried to speak before he suggested maybe it was a good morning to hasten home for some afternoon delight.

  “About why she’s coming to the store and wants us there at ten sharp. That’s why I thought we’d better get here early since you want to drop by Confidential Commissions.” This past week she’d been instructed not to glance right when she stepped into Death on Demand.

  Max looked eager. He took her hand.

  They started toward the boardwalk. Annie stopped as she heard three pings. “I’d better see.”

  Max shook his head. “Has anyone ever told you you’re compulsive about texts?”

  “I am not.” But she spoke defensively. “Just their texts.” She didn’t have to explain whose. She pulled out her cell. “From your mom: ‘In a good bookroom you feel in some mysterious way that you are absorbing the wisdom contained in all of the books through your skin, without even opening them. Mark Twain.’ She added: ‘Perhaps, dear Annie, immersion in mysteries accounts for your affinity for puzzles.’” Annie beamed. “Now, that’s a nice thing for Laurel to say, isn’t it?”

  Max gave her an innocent glance. “Or maybe you’re a sucker for trouble?”

  “I like Laurel’s interpretation better.” She looked at the screen, read Henny’s text aloud. “‘Herbert Brean’s The Hooded Hawk beautifully captures the scarcity of new cars after World War II, an unusual background for murder.’” A quick frown. Where was Henny finding these books? Another ping. She skipped Emma Clyde’s text for the moment. Another from Henny. She read quickly, “‘You can find the books I’ve mentioned in American Murders, a fabulous collection of eleven short novels from American Magazine 1934–1954. The collection was edited by Jon L. Breen and Rita A. Breen, published in 1986 by Garland Publishing.’” Annie’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a collectible I have to have. I’ll trade with Henny. She’s nuts about Colin Cotterill’s books and I have a signed copy of The Coroner’s Lunch.”

  “Better watch your step.” Max had that told-you-you-were-addicted-to-texts smile.

  Annie waited until they finished climbing the steps to the boardwalk
before she flicked up to see Emma’s text: “‘Marigold’s off on a tear. Three bodies, a stolen emerald, invisible ink, a man in a Cossack’s fur hat, and, if it’s in plain sight, I don’t know where the hell it is! According to Lauren and Henny, the Mississippi’s awesome. I’m too busy to look.’”

  Annie was laughing as they came to the end of the boardwalk.

  The Gone Fishing sign no longer hung from the knob. An easel with a chalkboard sat to the left of the front door to Confidential Commissions. Printed in overlarge letters that had a happy tilt:

  Confidential Commissions

  Looking for answers? Lost a treasure map?

  Searching for an old friend?

  Puzzled?

  Need an adventure?

  Walk right in.

  Annie beamed. “I like that last.”

  Max eyed the chalkboard judiciously. “I aim to please. I decided to expand the field. I’m good at finding fun things to do. Safaris, gold mines, romantic getaways. And speaking of . . .” He took her hand.

  She gave a determined tug toward the front door of Death on Demand. “Later,” she murmured.

  Ingrid looked up from the counter with a smile. “Hey, Max, glad you’re back.” She tipped her head toward the coffee area. “They’re waiting at the table beneath the watercolors. And there’s going to be some treats coming. Barb’s already cooking.”

  Max grinned. “She’s the best secretary on the island.”

  “Barb’s bringing over a platter of honey buns.” Though thin as a rail, Ingrid had a weakness for sweets. “Barb said, ‘When I got Max’s text to come back, I knew he’d come to his senses. What are women to do if they don’t take care of folks around them?’”

  Max turned his hands up. “What’s a man to do when he’s outnumbered?”