Don't Go Home (8 page)

Rae's eyes narrowed. She took a step toward Marian. “How come you're here? Alex said he used to know you.”

Hyla looked from one to the other, absorbing every nuance, every breath, every flicker of expression.

Marian returned Rae's stare. “I heard the alert on the scanner. I cover the news. I don't know anything about your husband's activities.”

Rae took another step forward. “You used to know a lot about him. He said he knew you in the old days, before I met him. What did that mean? Are you the one who threw the hurricane lamp at him?”

Annie wondered if Rae, in her shocked state, was attuned to fear and desperation. She had somehow connected the violence that morning with Marian.

Marian managed a strained laugh. “If someone threw a hurricane lamp at him, I'd think there are a lot of people who might have wanted to smash things around him. As for me, I can't explain why the lamp was thrown.”

Annie wished she could turn and leave. Marian, her friend Marian, Marian, who was light and funny and clever and eager, was picking words as delicately as a scam artist. Marian said she couldn't
explain why the lamp was thrown. If she explained, she would have to admit she'd thrown the lamp at Alex in a rage.

“The lamp doesn't matter.” Marian talked fast. “What matters is why someone came here tonight. Did your husband have something somebody wanted?”

Rae rubbed knuckles against one cheek, like a tired child. “The policeman asked me if Alex had papers that might be connected to his murder. Alex brought his briefcase when we came to the island. He was carrying it yesterday, but he left it in the car when he got back to the inn. I went out to Alex's car and got it.”

Hyla's eyes narrowed. “Where's the briefcase now?”

Rae pointed inside. “I put it on the counter.” She turned, walked wearily into the suite.

Hyla followed.

Marian stepped to the open doorway, rose on tiptoe to watch. Annie joined her. The hotel clerk scurried to be near them.

“What was in the briefcase?” Marian's voice was taut.

Rae looked back at her. “Things about people on the island. And a letter, something to do with his brother. He was talking about the letter after he got back today but I didn't pay much attention. The letter and some old friend.”

Hyla stood next to the counter by the wet bar. The empty counter.

Rae stared. “The briefcase is gone. That's where I put it.”

Every light burned. A green tarp covered the sofa and a portion of the floor. Had the police covered the sofa to hide the bloodstains when Rae insisted on remaining in the suite? The crime scene survey had been completed or Billy would not have permitted Rae to stay. But traces of the crime would be evident from dark splotches of dried blood on the sofa and floor.

A stool near the coffee bar had been toppled. A lamp had been knocked to the floor from the table by the bedroom door.

Rae pointed at the wet bar. “The briefcase was lying on the counter.”

Hyla moved swiftly. She searched the room, even lifted the tarp to flash her light beneath it.

Annie averted her gaze, but not before she saw a grisly blackish stain.

Hyla said briefly to Rae, “Stay here.” She came toward the patio.

Marian and Annie moved out of the way and the plump girl remained within a foot of Annie.

Hyla flashed the Maglite over the patio, walked out ten feet toward the woods. Finally, she shook her head and strode back.

Rae stood in the opening. “They—he—whoever—took the briefcase.”

Hyla nodded. “Looks like that's what the intruder wanted. Description?”

Rae rubbed her eyes. “I got it for him for Christmas. A man's briefcase. Small. Tan leather. His initials on the front in gold letters.” She sagged a little against the upright metal rod of the patio door. “That man, the big one, he asked me if Alex had brought any papers with him to the island. I looked around and didn't see his briefcase and so I went out and the policeman went with me and I got the briefcase out of Alex's car. We brought it in here and he looked through it.”

Marian stood quite still. “You said there was information about people on the island?”

Annie saw fear in Marian's dark eyes.

Rae massaged her right temple. “We didn't find anything that looked important.” Her voice was weary. “The police chief and I looked. A woman took pictures of stuff. There wasn't much.”

Annie saw Marian swallow.

There was thrashing in the woods, coming nearer. Lights flickered, became brighter. Lou Pirelli thudded out of the woods, followed by two other officers. He strode to Hyla. “No luck. We went all the way through the woods to the main road. Fifty people could be hiding in there. If the perp knew the terrain, he probably got clear before we arrived.” He looked at the gathering, noted Rae Griffith, and saw, with a slight look of inquiry, Annie standing by the wall and Marian at the edge of the patio. “What have you got?”

Hyla was precise. “Unauthorized entry into corner suite. Bedroom occupied by Rae Griffith. Intrusion awakened her. She went out into the sitting room. Intruder struck her. She fell. Intruder escaped. No injury beyond bruised shoulder. Intruder apparently removed a briefcase belonging to the dead man. The intruder did not gain access to contents of bedroom. No description.” She turned back to Rae. “Anything of value in the sitting room?”

Rae looked exhausted. “I'd taken our things out after the policewoman finished. She was nice enough but she warned me not to go into the sitting room, that the site shouldn't be disturbed. Site.” Rae's voice was uneven. “Site of murder? That's what she meant. But I wasn't going to be driven away. She watched while I took my things into the bedroom. She told me to go in and out through the bedroom door into the hall, not to come into the sitting room. As if I'd want to go in there.”

Hyla's gaze flickered toward the broken patio door. “I'm sure the hotel will provide another room—”

“No.” Rae's response was sharp. “I'm staying here.”

Hyla nodded. “Tomorrow we'll check the sitting room and surroundings for fingerprints. Most perps who come prepared to break in, especially to this kind of scene, wear gloves so it's unlikely we'll find anything useful. We'll look. I suggest you lock the bedroom door. I'll wait here until you are safely in the bedroom.” She watched as
Rae picked her way through the broken glass. Her running shoes looked odd beneath the bare legs and shorty nightgown.

Lou spoke quietly to Hyla, the words indistinguishable.

Annie knew Marian strained to hear, just as she herself did, but he spoke with his back to the two women, his voice a murmur, as was Hyla's reply. Lou gave a nod, turned to leave the patio, gesturing to the officers standing a few feet away. They moved toward the front of the inn.

Hyla stepped to the threshold of the sitting room, head cocked, apparently charting Rae's progress to the bedroom.

Lou passed close to Annie and Marian. He knew them both well, but his gaze was neither friendly nor unfriendly. He was a cop, observing, thinking, wondering.

Apparently satisfied that Rae was in the bedroom, Hyla turned and walked toward them. She stopped a scant foot away, looked from Annie to Marian and back at Annie. “You have a scanner?” The words were pleasant, but the skeptical look in her eyes told Annie that her presence there was definitely suspect.

“I was on the back porch. I heard sirens.”

“You always go out to see about sirens”—Hyla glanced at her watch—“you hear close to two
A.M.
?”

“I knew the sirens stopped at the inn. It's only a half mile through the woods to our house. And after what happened tonight . . .” She trailed off, aware that Hyla and Marian both watched her. “I was afraid something else had happened to Rae and I was afraid she was all alone. I just came to see.”

Hyla's pale green eyes still looked skeptical. “Right. Well, I'd say there's nothing to see now.”

Annie was dismissed. She left silence behind her as she rounded the wall and walked toward the terrace. Hyla obviously intended to
wait until she was out of earshot, but Annie caught a scrap of Hyla's question to Marian.

“Is your car in the front . . .”

•   •   •

H
yla Harrison consciously elevated her chin. There would be no evidence of fatigue in her demeanor this morning. From a history of World War II, she remembered a dictum favored by General George C. Marshall: An officer is responsible for his own morale. In war, officers as well as their men were hungry or exhausted or in peril but it was their duty to remain positive, forceful, and commanding. Hyla liked that thought. No matter how tired she might be after the late-night alarm, she reported for work on schedule at eight
A.M.
, ready for the day, makeup fresh, hair neatly brushed, uniform crisp.

Now she was once again in the east wing of the Seaside Inn next door to the suite where Alex Griffith violently died. Last night, she'd checked each occupied room, spoken to all but three guests. None reported seeing anything useful to the investigation from their patios.

She ignored the Do Not Disturb placard hung on the knob and knocked firmly on the door to Room 128, guest Robert Haws.

No answer.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

No answer.

Hyla knocked again, waited a minute, knocked, waited, knocked. She checked a page in her small notebook, slid it back into a pocket, pulled out her cell phone, swiped a number.

“Seaside Inn. How may I help you?”

“Police Officer H. Harrison. Will you ring Room 128, inform Mr. Haws that a police officer is at the door and wishes to speak to him.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The tone was breathy, excited.

Hyla held until the recording function switched on. She ended the call, frowned. She walked swiftly up the hall, into the small arcade, past the shops, and into the main lobby.

The clerk at the desk was tall, willowy, in her forties, with an old-fashioned upswept hairdo. With a worried frown, she watched Hyla approach. “Is anything wrong?”

“I'd like information about the guest in Room 128.”

The clerk, Mrs. Childers, turned to her workstation. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. Relief was evident when she turned back to Hyla. “Mr. Haws checked out via the hotel television channel this morning.”

“He didn't come to the desk?”

“No, ma'am.”

“I'd like his credit card information.”

Mrs. Childers tapped again, gave Hyla a bright smile. “He didn't use a credit card. He paid cash.”

Hyla stiffened, much like a dog on point. Anomalies were warning flags. “Did he have a reservation when he arrived?”

Dark eyes turned back to the screen. “Yes. The reservation was made on Monday.”

“Don't you require a credit card?”

“Yes.”

“The number, please.”

Mrs. Childers complied. Hyla wrote down the number for a Visa card. If the number checked out to a Robert Haws, that would allay her suspicion, but if the number was fake . . . “What time Tuesday did he check in?”

The clerk peered at the screen. “Ten oh seven
A.M.
”

“Why did he get Room 128?”

The clerk looked back at the screen. “Special request. He asked for a room as near the end of the east wing as possible.”

Special request. Hyla was quick. “Instruct housekeeping not to enter Room 128 until further notice.”

Mrs. Childers looked shocked. “I don't know if—”

Hyla's gaze was commanding. “This is part of the investigation into the murder of Mr. Griffith, who was killed in the suite next door to Room 128. The manager assured Chief Cameron that the inn will cooperate in all matters. Since Mr. Haws has checked out, the room is currently unoccupied and permission to enter is at the prerogative of the hotel.” Hyla was bluffing, but she felt confident some such agreement had been reached between the manager and Chief Cameron.

Mrs. Childers picked up the house phone and dialed. “Jesse, the police don't want housekeeping in either 130 or 128. Will you please see to that? . . . Good. Thanks.” Her look at Hyla was bright. “Housekeeping won't clean the rooms.”

Hyla held out her hand. “A key to 128, please.”

When she held the card in her hand, she nodded. “Now I need to speak to the manager.”

•   •   •

A
nnie scanned the rows of gorgeous—to her—white mugs that lined the glass shelves behind the coffee bar. She chose
A Close Call
by Eden Phillpotts and poured a steaming mug of double-strong dark Colombian brew. She'd never read his mysteries but anyone who wrote a hundred books deserved the minor acclaim afforded by her mugs. She carried the mug, warm in her fingers, to a table and settled into a chair. She glanced again at the title in red script. Last night had been a near thing, definitely a close call. She had promised Max she would mind her own business. She had little doubt that Max would not be delighted that she'd run through the dark woods at two in the morning. It was time to keep her promise to Max and not do anything that
might put her in danger. Rae Griffith had chosen to remain at the hotel. Annie could do nothing to ease her grief or her anger. Rae would cope as best she could. Certainly she should be safe enough in her bedroom. It was unlikely anyone would try to gain access to the suite now because enough time had passed that anything incriminating among Alex's papers would have been found and turned over to the police.

The mug remained poised halfway from the table to Annie's lips.

Annie's conclusion was swift. There might not be papers that incriminated anyone, but surely Rae knew the identities of the family and friends Alex exploited in his novel . . .

“Stop.” She spoke aloud. What Rae Griffith knew or didn't know, did or didn't do, was no concern of Annie's. Last night was over and done. She was a bookseller. Period.