Don't Go Home (15 page)

Billy rocked back on his heels. He looked formidable, well over six feet tall, muscular, powerful. His broad face furrowed in thought. “You came to the clearing to meet Warren Foster—”

“I don't know him.” Rae's voice shook. “I only came—”

“Because a caller threatened to inform police you entered the room where your husband died at a time when you claimed not to be
there, an eyewitness placing you at the scene of his murder. You came into the clearing alone, walked to the walls. We only have your word for it that Foster was dead when you got here. Maybe you found Foster here, spoke with him, perhaps asked him if he heard a sound behind him, and when he turned away—”

“I didn't. I didn't!” Her voice rose. “I've told you the truth. I swear.”

Billy looked at Lou Pirelli. “Take these two into custody, suspicion of murder. Hold them at the station.”

Lou and several other officers came up on either side of Rae and Neil.

Rae struggled between two officers, her screams rising.

•   •   •

M
arian took a deep drink from a mug. “The coffee here's about as lousy as
Gazette
coffee.”

A patrol officer had driven them to Annie's, permitted them to follow him to the station in Marian's car, brought them to the break room, offered coffee or soda, and said the chief would appreciate it if they'd wait there to have their statements taken.

Annie nodded. “But it's hot. And we aren't out there.” Or in cells like Rae and the man named Kelly.

“Out there” would be the ruins in the moonlight and Warren's body. Doc Burford would have arrived by now and once he officially deemed Warren dead, the slow, careful, thorough crime scene investigation would begin: photographs, sketches, a search for physical evidence.

Marian's narrow face was somber. “Yeah. Looked like he was strangled. Billy can tell us what Burford says.” Marian pulled her cell out of her pocket, flicked to an image. “Warren had a thin neck. At
the angle he was resting, you can see something's embedded in the skin even in a cell pic. I'd guess a wire. Not a rope.”

Annie didn't want to think about Warren's neck. But she had to ask. “Wire?”

“Simple, effective. Sneak up behind him. Have to move fast. Drop the wire over his head, yank against his neck, cross it behind him, pull hard. Very little noise. Maybe a kind of grunt or harsh whistle. Warren probably was standing with his back to that empty window. Somebody could have hidden there and strangled him before he had time to react.”

“If it was wire,” Annie said, thinking out loud, “the murder was planned.”

“You can't trace a hard piece of wood and I'd guess it will be the same with wire.” Marian's face furrowed. “Wire's thin. Does that sound stupid? But the thing is, I'll bet there isn't enough surface to pick up fingerprints. Might not be fingerprints anyway.” Marian held up her hand, curled her fingers tight. “The wire would be gripped as the fingers folded against the palm.”

Annie pushed the coffee mug away. Did an ordinary person usually have easy access to wire? Did someone go to the hardware store today and make a purchase? That would be easy to trace. She tried to remember if she kept a spool of wire anywhere in the house or at the store. Not that she recalled. Why would Rae carry wire with her when she traveled? Billy could deal with that question. It was now up to him to dig out what needed to be known about Rae Griffith. And her companion, the slender young man who unwillingly met her behind a cabana and came with her into the woods.

Annie looked at Marian. “Who do you suppose the guy is? Billy seemed to know all about him. Neil Kelly. Where did he come from?” It seemed obvious to Annie that Neil had to be someone Rae knew
well. Why was he on the island? Why had Rae called on him to go to the clearing with her?

“I'd guess he's a boyfriend.”

“Why was he on the island?”

Marian shrugged. “Maybe he always tagged after Rae and Alex. Billy will find out. What I want to know is when they got together tonight.”

Annie was puzzled. “What difference does the time make?”

“It could make a lot of difference.” Marian spoke slowly. “Maybe Rae killed Warren before she met up with Neil and said she wanted him to come with her—”

Annie shook her head. “I don't think so. If she killed Warren earlier, why not slip out of the woods and go back to her room? She'd stay as far away from the ruins as possible. I think she was telling the truth. She got a call from Warren and was afraid not to go meet him alone.”

Marian's dark eyes were intent. “When they got to the ruins, she told Neil to stay back. She could have killed Warren then.”

Annie frowned. “Why bring Neil along?”

Marian was thoughtful. “Who knows? She wasn't expecting us or the police. Whatever she did, she thought she would come to the ruins, talk to the person who called her, and nobody else would be the wiser. Maybe she really was scared to go alone. That sounds like she's innocent.”

The break room door opened. Hyla Harrison came in, carrying a tape recorder. She nodded at them formally. “I'm here to take your statements.”

•   •   •

A
nnie stopped to look out at the marina. She'd managed only a fitful night's sleep but the tightness around her eyes and the dullness of fatigue eased as she breathed deeply of the salty air, heard
the slap of water against pilings, watched gulls wheel against the brilliant blue sky. She was free of the struggle to help Marian and Rae. In a few minutes, she'd be in the store, busy with all the happy minutiae that made up her day. And some of it not minutiae at all. In fact, now was a good time to call Max.

She pulled out her cell, tapped Max's name in Favorites. Although it would be better, far better to hear his voice, this was next best. “I'm at the marina, thinking about you . . . Marian's fine . . . I have horrible news about Warren Foster . . . Rae Griffith was arrested . . . Glad you're coming home tomorrow. I hope—”
What did she hope? That Max would understand her broken promise? That he would come home and something good would take the place of Confidential Commissions?—“I hope you'll understand.”

She felt better when the call was made and now she was busy in her everyday world. No more murder. Except in Death on Demand. As she turned to walk toward the boardwalk, she tapped Messages. She read the message from Laurel and stopped, eyebrows rising in amazement:
Better a broken promise than none at all. Mark Twain.

Annie smiled and shook her head in bemusement. How did Laurel manage to always align her stars with Annie's current activity? Obviously, her mother-in-law's ESP was in high gear.

The next message was from Henny:
The novelette Murder Goes to Market by Mignon G. Eberhart is priceless for its look at wartime Washington, D.C., and its description of an early supermarket. Probably you don't even remember the world before there were supermarkets!

Henny was having fun with Annie, dangling intriguing bits of information about two obviously rare publications, Phoebe Atwood Taylor's
The Disappearing Hermit
in the earlier text and the book by Eberhart in this text. Where had she found these titles?

Finally—and Annie's lips quirked in a smile—Emma's dictum:
I've
warned Marigold, stop sulking or I'll create a new heroine, an artist who sketches people in random places and one day at a coffee shop draws the picture of . . .

Annie laughed and ran up the last few steps, eager for the start of the day, leaving behind her the darkness of the night.

•   •   •

H
yla Harrison knew her place at the morning staff meeting. She was an officer, she did her job, she didn't expect credit for doing her job. She stood at parade rest facing a table in the small conference room. Billy Cameron sat in the middle, Mavis to his right. Hyla's tone was matter-of-fact. “. . . requested that the inn bar housekeeping from 128, which was rented to ‘Robert Haws.' Checked for fingerprints. Obvious effort had been made to wipe most surfaces. Found partial prints on handle of lower portion of closet door, thumb print on bottom of commode seat, four fingers on interior handle of sliding glass door. Subsequent match to Neil Kelly.” She sat down next to Lou Pirelli, who gave her a thumbs-up.

“Officer Harrison set this investigation off on the right track.” Billy was clearly pleased. “She was thorough, wanted to know why she couldn't contact the guest in the room next to the murder suite. She discovered he'd checked out, got the name, looked at the security film, set out to find him. And she did. She also turned up a witness who will testify the widow and Kelly were on intimate terms. Good work.”

At Billy's admiring nod, Hyla knew her face was turning pink. “Thank you, Chief.”

Billy leaned back, expansive now. “Here's how I see it, and the circuit solicitor agrees. He's drawing up the charges. We have conspiracy to commit murder; a wife and her lover planned the husband's murder, fixing it so she wouldn't be a suspect. Rae Griffith killed her husband before she went out to the terrace. Kelly's job was simple.
Come in through the sliding door to the Griffith suite, call room service—man's voice orders two drinks, slips out before room service arrives. We didn't pick up any of Kelly's fingerprints in the Griffith suite but obviously he'd be careful, probably wore gloves. The call to room service sets it up that Griffith was alive when his wife was in public view, but dead before she left the terrace and discovered the body. The next morning Kelly or”—Billy glanced at a sheet of paper—“‘Robert Haws,' the name Kelly used when he registered, checks out. He goes to a fish camp, rents a cabin, assumed name again, pays cash again. And”—now Billy's satisfaction was evident—“the search of his car turns up a blond wig, a pillow, a straw hat that matches what Haws wore when he arrived Tuesday. We've got him.”

Mavis, Billy's wife, was not only the dispatcher and crime tech specialist, she was his sounding board. Mavis had a slightly old-fashioned appearance, long blond hair that curled softly around her face, a grave expression, eyes that were deep pools of intuition and experience. “I'm puzzled about the gun Hyla saw Kelly throw over the bluff.”

“More good work there,” Billy said quickly. “Hyla kept him under observation; Lou got out in those currents and brought the gun up.”

Lou's round face looked pleased. “Sometimes you get lucky. The gun landed between a couple of rocks, wedged there, easy to spot. Once I got it back to the station, I ran a check. Reported stolen last year from an acreage out by Alpharetta. My guess is Kelly bought it at a garage sale.”

Mavis turned her serious gaze toward Billy. “Griffith was smothered, not shot. Why throw the gun away?”

Billy's eyes narrowed. “Could be he knew or guessed the gun was stolen property. In any event, he didn't have a license. There's another possibility. How about the widow and the boyfriend originally planned
to shoot Griffith? Say she were to persuade him to go out on a sailboat, shoot him, push the body overboard. Lots of possible scenarios. But maybe there was some urgency that he had to die that night at the inn. A gunshot could have raised an alarm. But after Rae smothered him, Lover Boy got worried, decided he didn't want to be picked up with an unregistered gun. Whatever, we've got 'em cold.”

•   •   •

M
arian Kenyon carried a big white mug of coffee to her desk. She was used to the murmur of activity that was the forever background to the newsroom: phones ringing; sports editor Eddie Abel grousing about that loused-up play at the Braves game last night where . . . (and here listeners could take their pick—the call was wrong, the strike was high, the outfielder smothered the ball, dammit, he didn't catch it); lifestyle editor Ginger Harris caroling into her phone, “Will you spell that name for me, please?” Everything was as it should be. Except that it wasn't.

Marian dropped into her chair, turned on her computer, noted the brief e-mail from the public information officer of the Broward's Rock Police Department, which was another title and duty managed by Mavis Cameron:
Press conference 10 a.m. Griffith/Foster murder investigations
.

Marian leaned back in her chair with a notepad in her lap. She always used soft pencils. She liked the rich dark lines better than the anemic, to her, ink in most ballpoint pens. She didn't need to check her notes. She had no difficulty remembering each and every moment of that week.

Especially last night. Warren's call. She sipped the coffee, could not have said whether it was hot or tepid, too strong or vapid. No one knew what Warren said to her. That was critical. She must remember exactly what she said in the statement she'd signed last night. That
Warren's call reiterated part of their conversation earlier in the day, his boast that he could get a picture of the murderer. In the evening call, he again made that claim and told her the rendezvous was very convenient for the grieving widow, absolutely a haunting locale. That was what she'd told Annie and that was what she must continue to tell everyone, especially Billy.

In the night, she'd lain sleepless, worrying that perhaps she might have saved Warren's life if she'd immediately notified Billy after she received the call from Warren. But, finally, that burden slipped away. Warren was dead by the time she and Annie arrived. Rae claimed he was dead when she and Neil came. If so, there would not have been time enough for Billy to close in on Widow's Haunt. That would have required calls, a quiet approach.

No, her inaction hadn't doomed Warren.

But she had another fear now. If she had to testify, those few words, which she had carefully devised to prompt Annie Darling to identify the meeting place as Widow's Haunt, would be another piece of evidence to help convict Rae Griffith of murder. She'd felt so clever putting the words into Warren's mouth: “ . . . very convenient for the grieving widow . . .”