Don't Go Home Read online

  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.

  • • •

  The 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.”

  • • •

  Annie 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.

  • • •

  Warren 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 r
equire 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 . . .”

  • • •

  Marian 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.”

  The call ended.

  Marian sat still, arms hunched, scarcely breathing.

  • • •

  Warren drove into the west lot of the Seaside Inn and pulled into a handicapped spot. He reached into the glove compartment for the handicapped placard that he hung from the rearview mirror. Of course he’d kept the placard, which had belonged to his mother. Handicap spots afforded more room. People were clods. And careless. The Bugatti deserved extra protection.

  He rolled down the windows. In summer months, dim lighting in the lot made passersby shadowy figures and cars indistinguishable dark blobs. During the mating season for sea turtles, all lighting across the island was kept to a minimum. Although there was a swath of forest between the inn and the beach, the coastline was only a quarter mile distant and naturalists feared tall lampposts in the parking area would be hazardous for the sea turtles, encouraging hatchlings to head toward the woods instead of the water.

  Everything was working out perfectly. He’d contacted everyone on his list personally except for Marian. Perhaps she’d pick up the message. In any event, she’d been an afterthought. The responses fascinated him. Joan Turner and Eddie Olson hung up without a word. Lynn Griffith’s high voice was indignant. “You’ve made a mistake. It must be someone who looked like me.” George Griffith sounded like he’d had too much to drink. “Who’s this? What’s this all about? It’s a lie. Damn lie.”

  Warren picked up the camera from the passenger seat and got out of the car, scarcely taking time to appreciate the smoothness as the door lifted up, then settled back in place. He kept to the shadows, wondering if others he’d invited would also take advantage of the inn’s dim parking lot. Of course, many islanders also had bicycles. There were a number of ways to approach Widow’s Haunt unobserved.

  He skirted the back of the terrace. When he reached the woods, he stepped softly in the center of the path, which curved around a lagoon, darker than the night. He carried a small pencil flash that he used every few feet.

  He glanced at his watch. The luminous dial showed twenty minutes to nine. None too early. The insects would be a bother even though he was doused with repellent, but he wanted to be in place well before anyone came.

  • • •

  Pete Anderson sat in the patrol car, headlights and motor turned off. The car was hidden in the deep shadows of a line of pines at Mickey’s Fish Camp. The young police officer watched Cabin 8. Golden shafts spilled through the uncurtained windows. The 2009 Mustang was parked by the front steps. He had his orders. This was his first stakeout. He sat tensely, shoulders hunched. He wanted to do everything just right. Should he get out, take a closer look, make sure the guy was still there? He should be. Unless he’d managed to sneak out a back window. But then he’d have to walk around and get in his car. Behind the cabins stretched dark woods thick with
undergrowth. He’d need a machete to get anywhere. Pete took a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. You got more oxygen that way. Stupid to be uptight. He could handle this.

  Abruptly the windows in Cabin 8 went dark. Okay. Somebody turned off the lights. The front door of Cabin 8 swung in. Although the lighting was dim, only a pale wash from the windows in the next cabin, he thought it was a guy who hurried across the porch, thudded down the steps, dashed to the Mustang. As the car door opened, Pete had a good look at a young, sandy-haired, medium-sized male as he slid into the driver’s seat. The Mustang roared to life and the noise masked the rumble of the motor of the patrol car.

  The Mustang backed up, headed up the rutted dirt lane.

  Pete was cool now, steady, driving without lights, following. He spoke into his lapel mic. “Subject departing Mickey’s Fish Camp, turning left on Farraday.”

  The dispatcher’s voice was clipped. “Maintain surveillance. Do not lose sight of Mustang.”

  The Mustang was going a little fast for the curving, twisty road. Pete took care not to get too close even though he was taking a chance driving without lights; but this was a rarely used road. When the Mustang reached the main island road, Pete turned on his lights. The driver would have no reason to connect the lights behind him with the fish camp.

  “Mustang speeding.” The speed limit on most main roads was forty. The Mustang was edging near fifty.

  “Other cars alerted to let him pass. Stay on his tail.”

  When the Mustang turned onto a familiar road, Pete was excited. “Looks like he’s going to the Seaside Inn.”

  “Stay with him.”

  Confident his headlights were nothing more than beams in a rearview mirror, Pete closed the gap between the cars. He slowed as the Mustang turned. “Parking in the west lot of the inn. I’ll cruise past, find another spot.”

  “Backup en route.”

  Pete drove past the Mustang, which was parked in the second row. He found an empty slot a few cars down, parked, slid out of the car. He watched as the young man hurried toward the terrace.