Don't Go Home (25 page)

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.

A
nnie 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?”

Annie was already moving down the center aisle. She heard a murmur of voices. Ingrid said “they” were waiting. Who were “they”?

Marian met her halfway, her rapid steps a clatter on the heart pine floor. She grabbed Annie, gave her a huge hug, rattled in her raspy tone, “I wanted to bring you and Max all up-to-date on everything.” She had Annie by the arm.

As they reached the coffee area, chairs scraped.

Marian gestured. “This is Craig.”

Tall and muscular, Craig's big face creased in a smile. A shock of dark hair was threaded with gray. “And here's David. He's grown a lot since you last saw him.” David was almost as tall as his father, with sun-streaked hair and blue eyes. “They've heard a lot”—her dark eyes looked carefully at Annie—“about the big story I was working last week.”

Annie took her seat, glanced from David to Craig. “I'll bet Marian hasn't told you that if it weren't for her, two people would be facing trial for murders they didn't commit. Marian kept digging.”

Marian still stood, hands on her bony hips. “We did it together. And I just wrote a story for this afternoon's
Gazette
that cinches the deal. The police confirmed that Lynn Griffith's fingerprints were in the sitting room where Alex died. Plus the treads from her bike match
tire tracks found at Widow's Haunt. So they've got big-time physical evidence.”

Annie started to ask Marian why she had been so certain Lynn Griffith had a bike.

Marian looked at her.

Annie saw a flash of cold satisfaction in Marian's dark eyes.

Oh.

“Anyway, Lynn Griffith was arraigned this morning. Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly are free and have left the island. And now . . .” Marian's voice was light and happy. “I—we—Craig and I—Craig and David and I—have great news. Craig and I are getting remarried at seven o'clock at Parotti's. Did you know Ben was once a ship captain and can marry people? Anyway, he's going to marry us and we want you and Max to stand with us.”

Ingrid and Barb were standing by the coffee bar, clapping. Marian was crying. Craig looked both proud and embarrassed. David's grin was as big as a baseball diamond.

Annie grabbed paper napkins, thrust them at Marian. “No tears. Not even happy tears. Congratulations. Of course Max and I will do the honors. This will be one of the best nights ever at Parotti's Bar and Grill.”

Marian reached out and pulled Annie close for another hug. Craig wrapped his arms around both of them. “Hey, gals, happy days are here again. We have some terrific planning—” He looked over their heads and up at the watercolors. “Neat idea. I know those early books. My dad ran a secondhand bookstore. And the new ones are three of my favorite authors.
The Puzzle of the Blue Banderilla
by Stuart Palmer,
Great Black Kanba
by Constance and Gwenyth Little,
Miss Dimple Disappears
by Mignon F. Ballard,
Out of Circulation
by Miranda James, and
Murder at Honeychurch Hall
by Hannah
Dennison.”

Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!