Don't Go Home (13 page)

She stopped only two feet away. “Alex Griffith came to see you yesterday.”

“If you got a boat to be fixed, I can help you. Otherwise I'm busy.”

“Alex was on the football field the night Michael Smith was hurt.”

He looked back at the boat, pushed, and another cotton loop was locked into the seam.

Gulls screamed. In the distance, a blast from the horn of the
Miss Jolene
signaled her departure from the dock.

Annie took a step nearer, close enough to see the thickness of his neck, the shoulder muscles evident beneath the sweaty shirt. “In Alex's book, a Scout fell from a rope swing. Kenny had sawed on the rope, weakened it so that it broke when the Scout was at the highest point of the swing.”

“Yeah.” He spoke over his shoulder. “But that happened in a book.”

“I did some research and found out what happened to Michael.
But you and I know his injury wasn't an accident. You grabbed Michael's face mask, yanked, broke his neck, made him a paraplegic.”

The big head slowly turned.

She stared at that blunt, formidable face.

Full lips moved in the slightest trace of a smile. “Who says?”

“Warren Foster. He knew immediately when he read the book that you were Kenny and the Scout was Michael.”

“Warren.” His tone was musing. “I haven't seen him in a while. He was always sniveling about something. Nobody paid any attention to him.”

“Alex was on the field. Did he warn you he was going to describe that night at his talk?”

“Funny.” There was no laughter in his eyes. “I was surprised when Alex dropped by. I guess we talked about old times. But I'm not much to think about the past. And now”—his big body relaxed—“Alex isn't thinking at all.”

•   •   •

A
s Marian drove to Warren's, she passed the small cottage she shared with her son. Three bedrooms, combo living-dining room, small kitchen. They used one bedroom as a study for her and a work space for David, plenty of room for his watercolors and easel and a good, plain deal table where he was always working on a sketch. David would be home Sunday. He would know something was wrong. Kids always knew. She felt a wrench deep inside. Would Billy Cameron call her or come by the newsroom? Maybe he'd be waiting when she got home tonight. If he knew about Alex, if that information ever made its way into a report, somehow, someway, word would slip out. Word always did.

Whether anyone on the island had any inkling of her connection
to Alex was one of the reasons she wanted to talk to Warren. If anyone would know of the tiniest whispers, it would be Warren.

Oh, David . . .

She was pleased to see Warren's low-slung cobalt blue Bugatti parked in the shade of a live oak. Ever since his mother's death a few years ago, Warren had spent money with abandon. She'd heard rumors that he indulged himself in various unsavory pursuits off island, murmuring to a mutual friend, “Ah, the ennui. I am always seeking a new experience.”

The front door opened before she was halfway up the immaculate steps of the Greek Revival mansion. The Foster family had known wealth since time immemorial: indigo, cotton, several times an infusion of money from Northern heiresses.

Marian had attended several soirees, as Warren billed them, in the spacious drawing room. The ruby walls, quite different from the pale gray when his mother was alive, reminded her of the interior of a fortune-teller's tent, vaguely oppressive, suggestive of hooded glances, faintly heard whispers. She didn't contrast the opulence of the Foster house with her small home. She was comfortable with her world. Warren Foster was wealthy. She was not quite poor, but bills could be a struggle. She never envied anyone. She had David. She had her work. At least that was true for now . . .

Warren waited in the doorway. “Marian, my dear. What a delightful surprise. Won't you have a drink with me? Or are you tracking me down for a tabloid exposé?” His tone was arch.

He reminded Marian of a stork—sharp head, slender body, thin legs. She was always surprised to remember that he wasn't old, though he had old mannerisms. Perhaps too many years under the thumb of his domineering mother. Now his eyes were bright, a slight pink flush
stained his long face. He was stylish in a white guayabera shirt, beige linen trousers, and sandals.

“Annie Darling told me you have some insights on Alex Griffith and—”

“Oh, my dear, yes.” He took her elbow and his hand was clammy against her bare skin. “Do come this way. We'll have daiquiris—my dear, I make the very best daiquiris—and I'll reminisce. You can bring me up-to-date on what those stalwart policemen are doing. I can't wait to hear.” Sniff sniff.

•   •   •

T
he Harley was tucked deep into the shadows of the pines. Hyla, too, would be indistinct in the shadows. As the manager had indicated, she had a clear view of Cabin 8. The lights were on.

She waited patiently.

Gnats buzzed. No-see-ums swarmed. She swatted away several mosquitoes. Her patience was rewarded twenty minutes later. She recognized Neil Kelly from his driver's license photo. He no longer affected a disguise, appeared trim and athletic and in a hurry. He rattled down the front steps, jumped into his red Mustang. Hyla was on her Harley and ready to roll as the car reached the end of the tourist court drive. She waited until she wouldn't be noticeable in his rearview mirror, set out in pursuit.

Dust plumed behind the red Mustang as it bucketed ahead on an infrequently used road that didn't boast a sign.

Hyla stayed far enough behind to avoid the choking cloud; in a corner of her mind she added
wash Harley
to her to-do list. The road dead-ended at the northern tip of the island where an eroding bluff overlooked the water. Gurney Point. She didn't spare time to think about the name. She wasn't an island native but she knew the area.
They'd staked it out a few times for drug busts. The point was named after somebody. Who knew, who cared? But so far as she was aware, Neil Kelly was a stranger to the island. Maybe he'd Googled a map on his cell. Whatever, he must be seeking solitude.

Pines crowded thickly on either side of the dirt road. She remembered a narrow overgrown lane that led to an abandoned cabin about a hundred yards from Gurney Point. They'd picked up some off-island smugglers at that cabin last winter . . .

She slowed, swerved, followed a faint path into the woods, aiming to reach the point without alerting Kelly. Her 500 wasn't designed for off-road so she took her time, watching for fallen branches, ignoring the whip of encroaching ferns. Clouds of insects swirled and curved and zoomed around her. She reached the clearing that held the cabin, stopped, rested the Harley on its kickstand. She waited to be sure the Mustang wasn't headed for the cabin. The only other open area was at the end of the road. She opened a front storage compartment, pulled out a pocket camcorder, slid it into a back pocket. She skirted the cabin ruins, then plunged into the woods, heading for road's end. She had a good sense of direction though the thick overhead canopy blocked a view of the sun, surrounded her with murky dimness. The onshore breeze stirred the tops of the pines. Birds chittered and cawed and twittered. Her head jerked at a crashing noise to her left and she glimpsed a tawny doe followed by a gangly fawn.

Hyla heard the rumble of surf before she reached the edge of the pines. At this end of the island, ocean butted hard against the headland. Bent trees dangled seaward as earth eroded beneath them. Water swirled over and around reddish-brown boulders at the base of a ten-to-twelve-foot bluff.

Hyla scanned the open area past the pines. Not much cover. She hesitated, then ducked across an open space, plunged beneath the
branches of an enormous live oak. She pulled herself up onto a low limb. In a few minutes she was high above the ground with a clear view of the bluff, the surging water, the spume from the rocks, but well hidden in the thickly leafed middle of the tree.

She pulled out the camcorder, checked it, waited.

The red Mustang nosed out of the woods, came to the end of the road, stopped.

Hyla began filming.

Neil Kelly got out of the Mustang. Tousled brown hair, narrow bony face, well built, not tall but muscular. His face was clear in the bright sunlight on the point. He gazed all around. He looked smart, scared, uneasy. The wind tugged at his polo, whipped dust around his feet. He walked to the point, moving cautiously. A misstep would see him crashing down into the water.

Hyla shifted on the branch, steadied the camcorder in her hand. Excellent side view.

Abruptly he yanked up his shirt, pulled a gun free from the waistband of his trousers.

Hyla's hand on the camera never moved despite her shock. She had only seconds to see the weapon before he raised his arm and threw, putting so much force into the effort that he almost lost his balance. The gun arched in a high trajectory, then curved down and down to splash into roiling water and disappear.

Kelly turned and ran to the Mustang, flung himself into the driver's seat. The motor roared, the car swung around.

Hyla pulled her cell from her pocket. “Subject of interest in red Mustang departing Gurney Point. Pick up at exit onto Larrimore Road.” Hyla kept her eyes on the area where the gun had entered the water, some fifteen feet east of a craggy boulder. “Subject disposed of handgun in water. Suggest search and retrieval. Remaining here until
backup arrives unless instructed otherwise.” She listened, then clicked off. A cruiser would be waiting when the car reached the main road. Surveillance would continue. Wasn't it time to put out a pickup order for Neil Kelly?

•   •   •

W
arren tipped the crystal flute, eyed the contents critically. “Not enough for a mouse, much less a man.” He downed a remaining inch of golden liquid, reached for the silver cocktail shaker on the end table, refilled his glass. He gave Marian a pitying look. “Another time when you aren't working, I will make daiquiris especially for you. But”—he gave a delicate shudder—“it wouldn't do to chase Dr Pepper. Your palate is ruined for now.” He took an appreciative sip. “Oh, my dear. Delicious.” He lifted the flute. “Here's to crime. Definitely the high point of the summer, don't you think?” Sniff sniff.

She kept her face pleasant, unrevealing. A toast to crime and Alex twisted in death on a sofa. She ached to tell Warren he was loathsome, but she didn't have that luxury.

He leaned back, crossed his feet. “The high point of the summer. Up to now. But perhaps it will get even better.”

“Better?” Her tone was sharp despite her intention to remain impassive, blotting up fragments of lives as he prattled.

His face was now more flushed. His eyes glistened, long thin fingers drummed on the arm of the white couch. “I know more than anyone realizes.” He nodded portentously. “I know where all the bodies are buried. Joan's little affair. George's wild night. Lynn's windfall from insurance. Of course, Heyward had to die before she got the pile. And there's Eddie, a hulking creature. I knew who was who the minute I read the novel. And here we are, Alex dead and somebody did the deed. Ring around the rosies, who plucked the posies? I
think I can flush out our partridge. Dear Mother, she taught English, you know. She'd scold me—‘Warren, don't mix your metaphors'—but you get my point. I have a little plan. What would you think if I brought you a picture tomorrow of Alex's murderer?” Sniff sniff.

Marian felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir. There was something repellent in his excitement.

“A picture?”

Slow emphatic nods.

“Be careful, Warren.” She blurted out the warning. “If you know who killed him, go to the police. Right now.”

His smile was huge. “Got your attention, didn't I? You know the cable news shows are running things about Alex day and night. They love murders of someone famous. If I get that picture, I'll be on all the programs.”

Marian felt the burn of nausea in her throat. Alex dead and this malicious man talking about murder as if it were fun, as if it were a game. She came to her feet. “Alex shouldn't be dead.” She had a wisping memory of coming into strong, enveloping arms, the warmth of Alex's body, the wild elation of passion. “He shouldn't be dead.” No matter what he'd done, no matter anything and everything, he'd been alive and vital and once she'd loved him. She turned away, moved blindly toward the hall, her eyes filmed with tears.

“Why, Marian”—Warren's voice followed her, like an old dancer on mincing feet—“I haven't had a chance to ask about those years in Atlanta. You and Alex worked on the same newspaper, didn't you?” Sniff sniff.

G
eorge Griffith rose from behind his desk. A dark blue Tommy Bahama shirt with a light blue floral pattern emphasized the brightness of his red face. Loose lips spread in a smile that didn't reach pale brown eyes. “Annie.” His voice exuded warmth and eagerness. “Are you and Max looking for a new house? Girl, you look wonderful.” His chubby hands outstretched.

Annie pulled away from his sweaty handclasp as soon as possible. She didn't know which she found more insulting, the odious use of “girl” or his utter lack of awareness that the term was offensive. She kept a smile on her face. “Actually, I'm looking for information.”

George gestured toward a small sofa. “Come sit down and talk to me.”

She dropped into a chintz-covered chair that faced the sofa, said cheerily, “Much nicer if I can see you. You are looking very well.” On a par with a regular perched on a barstool: bleary eyes, droopy red-veined cheeks, unmistakable paunch of a bloated abdomen against the stylish shirt.

George smoothed his slightly too long black hair. “Good of you to say so. What can I do for you?”

“How did you persuade Lucy to let you drive that night?”

George stared at her, reddened eyes glazed, mouth slack, lips twitching. Perhaps he'd started his morning with a shot of bourbon. The hands lying on the sofa trembled.

“I don't know”—the words came with struggling breaths between them—“what you are talking about.”

“Oh, George.” Her tone was chiding. “Of course you do. Alex wrote about you and yesterday he came to see you. He told you that he was going to describe that night and everyone would know what happened to Lucy.”

George wrapped his arms tight across his paunch.

“He said he hadn't told anyone.”

Annie shrugged. “I don't think many people know.”

George pressed his trembling hands together. “Anybody can have an accident. He laughed at that.” George's voice shook. “The fog was really thick and getting thicker. Lucy kept tugging at my arm. She wanted me to slow down but I thought I had a straight run. She jerked real hard and I pulled to keep going straight. That's why the car went left. That's what happened. All of a sudden there was a jolt. She screamed. I held on to the wheel, then it was all up and down and Lucy screaming and I was in the water. I came up, spitting and choking. There wasn't any sound anywhere. I kept going under and then I was clawing through the reeds and I fell face down on the ground.”

“Did you try to find Lucy?”

His gaze slid away. He pushed up from the couch.

Annie tensed, ready to clamber behind the chair, shove it in his way, scream.

George stumbled to his desk, yanked out a drawer. He lifted out a bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, took one hefty drink, another.

Annie was at the door.

He put the bottle on the desk, braced himself with both hands. His face suddenly took on a cunning, careful expression. “Was I talking to you? I don't remember. Sometimes I imagine things. If I said anything, it was all gibberish, didn't mean—”

Annie stepped into the hallway, closed the door behind her.

•   •   •

T
he breeze tugged at Billy Cameron's shirt. He shouted, “Keep the rope taut. There's a twenty-foot drop-off west of the rocks.”

Hyla Harrison shaded her eyes. “Lou's in the right spot.” She'd shown him as clearly as she could, estimated the space between the rock and the entry point of the handgun.

The motorboat rocked in swells. An officer in the stern kept a rein as the thick Manila line slowly played out.

Billy squinted against the glitter of the sun off the surging water.

Hyla knew he was concerned about Lou fighting a tricky current, staying clear of the rocks, using an underwater light in his search. Lou was like an eel. No one on the island was more at home in the water. “He'll be fine.”

“Yeah.” Billy kept his gaze on the murky green water with irregular whitecaps.

Hyla watched, too. “Are you continuing surveillance?”

Billy understood the point of her question. “For now. We can always pick Kelly up. We can figure he's the widow's boyfriend, but we don't have any evidence there's been any contact between them even though, convenient, yeah, he got a room right next to the Griffith suite, plus he used an assumed name when he checked in. If we're right, if he was the voice on the Griffith phone to room service, if he killed Griffith or if she did and he came in a little while later to make
the call when she was out on the terrace to give her an alibi, we need to be able to prove they were in contact. Counsel could always claim, ‘One of life's coincidences . . . Broward's Rock is a popular vacation destination . . . prosecutor has no proof Mrs. Griffith and Mr. Kelly were aware the other was on the island.' We'll catch them together at some point and then we'll have some questions.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, crows cawing, seagulls circling near the boat.

Hyla cleared her throat. “Why throw the gun away? Griffith wasn't shot.”

Billy's smile was grim. “Does Kelly usually carry a gun? We'll find out. Does he have a license? Maybe he—or she—picked the gun up somewhere on the sly, an estate sale, a pawnshop that doesn't care where firearms come from. Maybe the original plan was to shoot Griffith. We may never know. I only know one thing. Neil Kelly is scared as hell or he'd never have tossed the gun into the ocean.”

•   •   •

A
nnie settled on the porch swing after a delectable supper—it was supper without Max—of local shrimp, tiny and pink, with her own homemade cocktail sauce, and her favorite nachos: tortilla chips topped with black beans, green chilies, jalapeño jack cheese, and sour cream.

She pulled her cell from her pocket. There was a call she had to make, which she dreaded.

“Hello.” Rae Griffith's voice was thin, tight. Scared.

“Annie Darling. I went all around the island today. I talked to several people. I wish I could say I found something out. But I can't.”

“Can't? Or won't?” There was an edge of hysteria.

Annie knew suddenly that Rae had been at the Seaside Inn all day,
perhaps pinning too much hope to Annie's promise. Waiting and knowing that only feet from where she sat, her husband had died. Waiting and imagining that the local police were conniving to ensnare her, perhaps coming at any minute. Waiting, alone, friendless, vulnerable.

“I tried my best. You have to believe that. I want to find out what happened. I'm going to keep looking. I don't know what I can do next, but I'll check out some other ideas tomorrow.” Because somewhere on the island Marian was terrified, too. “Look, maybe you should move out of that room.”

“No.”

Again that abrupt refusal. The idea that Rae was nearer to Alex there was harder to understand now. She could take his things, move to any room in the hotel, be free of the brooding horror beyond the closed bedroom door. “Have you had dinner? I could come—”

“No.” Now there was an urgency to her refusal. “I mean, you're nice to offer. I don't want to see anyone. Maybe tomorrow. If you know anything, maybe you'll tell me or go to the police. Anyway, thank you. Maybe tomorrow will be better.” Rae hung up.

Annie slid the cell into her pocket. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would burrow deeper. Ask Joan about the passage in
Don't Go Home
. Find out more about the day Heyward Griffith died, find a way to pierce Lynn's composure.

•   •   •

W
arren gave a delicate shudder as he stepped into the phone booth. Not a nice scent. Reminiscent of something dead washed up on the beach. The outer handle had been sticky to his touch. Had some grimy child devoured cotton candy, then used the booth for hide-and-seek? But the disagreeable odor and undeniable grubbiness added to the ambience of a phone booth. A phone booth, shades of Sam Spade.
Positively antediluvian. Thank heaven for the booth, a relic from a time that now seemed far distant. Did anyone ever use it? Perhaps only for clandestine calls. How thrilling to make a clandestine call.

He pulled the folding door as far shut as it would go. It was almost dusk, the figures passing on the boardwalk indistinct between tall lampposts. In July tourists wandered up and down the several streets that composed downtown, picnicked in Pavilion Park, watched the sunset from Fish Haul Pier.

He pulled a small card from his shirt pocket. He was rather proud of the numbers, all cell numbers plucked from this island directory or that. He had a very useful collection of directories from clubs, charities, churches. He lacked a cell number for the widow. That would require a call to the Seaside Inn. Cell phones almost always assured reaching the intended party. A message left on a cell would be heard by the chosen recipient. However, reaching the widow required calling the hotel. No matter. He could speak in a normal tone when he called and asked to be connected to Mrs. Griffith. The clerk would have no means of knowing his voice. Once he was connected, then he would affect a whispery voice. Of course an anonymous call must be made in a hoarse indistinguishable voice.

He pulled a handful of quarters from a pocket sagging with change, stacked the shiny coins on the scarred shelf beneath the cumbersome phone. The boy at the drugstore had given him an odd look when he asked for ten dollars in change, but he wanted to be certain he had enough to make all the calls.

Warren preened at his stroke of genius. He wasn't sure how the idea had come. As he'd pondered the undeniable truth that someone he'd seen that night at the Seaside Inn was fresh from the kill—had only moments before caught Alex unaware, struck him, held a pillow over his mouth and nose—he'd felt there had to be some way to flush out the quarry . . . and then in a rush of images, he'd known the
answer. One of them certainly was guilty so why not call all of them? Absolutely a stroke of genius.

Now . . . which one should he contact first? He had his list. The widow. Joan Turner. Lynn Griffith. George Griffith. Eddie Olson. And, added at the last moment, Marian Kenyon. There had been something in Marian's face when he mentioned the newspaper in Atlanta. He wriggled with delight. Could Marian possibly be Louanne in the novel? Not a woman he would have thought appealing to Alex, but who ever knew in matters of sex? She certainly had a son the right age and there was something in her face . . .

Which one first?

Darkness was thickening outside the booth. The darker the better. Perhaps he'd invite his listeners to come at ten-minute intervals, starting at nine o'clock. It would be interesting if more than one came. One definitely would come, but the others, the innocents, would likely be tempted to find out who had called them and be ready to deny any visit to Alex's suite. He felt a moment's misgiving. He wouldn't know the identity of Alex's murderer if more than one responded to his calls. He shrugged. But he'd certainly have a more exciting evening than roulette in the back room at the country club. He lifted the receiver, picked up several coins. At the very least he'd get some pictures that would be proof of his venturesome night. He murmured aloud, “The wicked flee . . .”

•   •   •

M
arian massaged one temple. Ever since Alex's death—Alex's murder—she'd struggled with a dull throbbing headache. She remembered the porch of a wooden cabin at Lake Chatuge, fog wreathing the panorama of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the feel of Alex's hand on her wrist. A slight tug and she'd stepped into his arms.

“Stop it.” Her voice was harsh, loud in the silence of the house empty
except for her. Remembering either the good or the bad was useless. Alex was dead. David was alive. David was coming home Sunday—

The ring of her cell signaled a call from a stranger. She had special rings for David and Craig, for the
Gazette
, for friends. She slowly took the phone from the pocket of her slacks, feeling dull, weary, defeated.

Unknown Caller.

The phone rang until it stopped.

Marian pushed up from the rattan sofa, moved like an old woman into the kitchen, poured unsweetened tea over ice cubes. She opened the cupboard, found headache tablets, drank one down with the cold tea. She knew why her head hurt. She was waiting for Billy Cameron to knock at her door or walk toward her desk at the
Gazette
.

She'd lie.

But Billy knew her.

She was afraid of Billy, afraid he would know from the way she answered, from the lack of inflection when she spoke. He might be suspicious, but there was no evidence linking her to Alex's murder. Her lips pressed together. Not unless they'd fingerprinted the remains of the hurricane lamp. But the lamp was broken Wednesday morning. She felt a flicker of dark amusement . . . “lamp was broken” . . . the passive voice. She avoided the passive voice when she wrote. Now she avoided remembering the weight of the lamp and the mad rush of fury when she grabbed the metal frame and flung the lamp at Alex. Nimble Alex. He'd gotten out of the way.
He always got out of the way, didn't he? Until now
. Alex was killed Wednesday night. There was nothing to link her to the room where he died. Still, if Billy named her as a person of interest, a judge might order a DNA test for David's paternity . . .

Marian picked up the glass and carried it into the living room. She'd call David. See what he and Craig were doing tonight, tell him she loved him, keep her voice light and cheerful. She sank onto the
sofa, picked up the cell, turned it on. Voice mail. She flicked, tapped, ready to delete, then sat rigid, listening to a breathy whisper.

“I saw you slip into Alex's suite.”

The whisper was soft and silky, insubstantial, unpleasant.

“We can talk about it tonight. I'll wait for you.” Sniff sniff. “Widow's Haunt. Nine o'clock.” Sniff sniff. “If you don't come, I'll tell the police.”