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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 . . .”
• • •
Annie restocked Louise Penny titles. Which was her favorite? Maybe A Rule Against Murder. But Still Life, the first in the series, was terrific. Hey, they were all good. Ingrid’s favorite Canadian writer was Peter Robinson, but, of course, his books were set in Yorkshire. Lots of super Canadian authors—Vicki Delany, L. R. Wright, David Rotenberg, Gail Bowen.
“Annie, could I speak to you for a moment?” The cultivated voice was uncertain, diffident.
Annie came to her feet and turned. She was shocked at the paleness of Joan Turner’s slender face. Annie’s reply was swift. “Let’s go back to my office.”
When the door closed behind them, Joan rushed into speech. “I saw the news on TV. It’s dreadful. I never liked Warren but it’s hideous that he’s dead. And to have Alex’s widow arrested with another man . . . The news said you and Marian Kenyon were there last night. Why were you there? Oh, I know you must think this is strange, my coming here and asking. But I have to know.” This morning her face was gaunt, strained.
“It’s complicated. Rae Griffith came to see me yesterday. She was afraid of the police, thought they were going to blame her and weren’t really looking at anyone on the island. I told her I’d help. Marian Kenyon and I were trying to find out more about Alex and people he knew on the island.” Annie realized Joan was listening intently, absorbing every word. “Marian went to see Warren Foster because of something he said to me that night on the terrace, so Warren knew Marian was trying to figure out what happened. Warren called Marian, hinted that he was going to get a picture of the person who killed Alex, but he didn’t say where he was meeting this person. Marian was worried and she came to see me and together we figured out he might have been talking about Widow’s Haunt. So we went there.” Quickly, she described the scream and what they heard and what they found.
Joan’s voice was sharp. “You were there. You saw Rae. And the man. Do you think they killed Warren?”
Annie saw desperate hope in her violet eyes. Annie was back in that moonlit clearing with the horror of a dead man; a woman with wild, terrified eyes; her companion retching onto the sandy ground. “I don’t know. That’s what the police think. But I don’t know.”
“Why do the police think they killed him?” Joan’s stare was intense.
Annie blurted out, “I think mostly because they were there. Rae admitted Warren called her, threatened her. Of course, she claimed she didn’t know who called her. She said the voice was a whisper and she was afraid not to respond to the call.”
Joan lifted long thin fingers to grip the silver chain that shone against her blue silk blouse. “They arrested them because Warren called her?”
“Don’t you see?” Annie was sure she understood Billy Cameron’s reasoning. “Warren Foster called Rae because he saw her going into the suite during the time when Alex was killed. Rae swore she didn’t go back to the suite but stayed on the terrace.”
Joan’s fingers tightened around the chain, held so tight the skin of her knuckles blanched. “There’s no proof Warren saw her.”
“He called her. Rae said that he called.”
“He called her.” Joan’s tone was heavy. Her hand fell away from the necklace. She took a deep breath. “That’s what I needed to know.” She turned away, plunged to the door, pulled it open.
“Joan—”
The door closed. Joan Turner was gone.
10
Print and TV reporters clustered near the front steps of the station. Off-island media included three blond on-air reporters, all female, one a well-known local-news star from Savannah. Each was accompanied by a cameraman. The TV reporters were uniformly slick with perfectly coiffed hair, very short skirts, and good legs, the cameramen uniformly casual in sport shirts and jeans. Slow-moving cars clogged the street, holidayers curious about a crime that promised to have lurid details. Customers from nearby shops, even a couple of fishermen from Fish Haul Pier, jostled for a place in the growing crowd.
Marian stood on a slight rise at an angle to the steps, her Leica hanging on a strap around her neck. She’d get good shots from there.
The TV star from Savannah strode to the front door, opened it. “Anybody home? The clock struck ten.” She stood with her head poked inside, then withdrew, closing the door, and turned to face the audience. “I’m advised the presser will start shortly.” Satisfied, she moved down the steps, but turned at the base, planting herself right in the middle of the sidewalk.
A moment later, the door opened. Uniformed officers Hyla Harrison and Lou Pirelli stepped outside, Hyla trim, Lou a little pudgy but obviously athletic. Both stood on the second step. Billy Cameron followed, closed the door behind him. Cameras flashed, videocams whirred. Billy wore his usual short-sleeved white shirt, khaki trousers, and brown loafers. Despite a long night, he looked fresh, intelligent, capable.
Marian lifted the Leica. Three good shots.
Billy was brisk. “Police Chief Billy Cameron. With me are Officers Hyla Harrison and Lou Pirelli, who contributed to a successful conclusion of our investigation into the deaths of Alex Griffith Wednesday night at the Seaside Inn and of lifelong island resident Warren Foster last night at Widow’s Haunt. Rae Griffith, the widow of Alex Griffith, and Neil Kelly, who is known to Mrs. Griffith, were apprehended last night at the scene of Foster’s murder. The circuit solicitor will formally charge them as co-conspirators in both murders. They will be transported to the mainland Monday for arraignment at ten A.M. in the Beaufort County Courthouse. They are currently in custody on the island.”
The Savannah star called out, “Have they been Mirandized?”
“Both suspects have been read their rights and have contacted attorneys.”
Marian flipped open her notebook: Arraignment 10 a.m. Mon.
“Autopsy reports available?” The balding reporter who asked this looked pugnacious.
Marian recognized him as a print reporter for AP. There had been past struggles in South Carolina when officials refused to release crime autopsy reports. Good question. She held her pencil poised to write.
“We will make those reports available. Griffith died as a result of asphyxiation after being stunned by two blows to his head. Foster was also asphyxiated but he was strangled with a wire. The killer looped a sixteen-inch length of green plastic-coated garden wire around his neck, pulled the ends back, crossed them with enough force that the wire was embedded a quarter inch into neck tissue, resulting in a crushed windpipe.”
The words repeated themselves over and over again in Marian’s mind . . . green plastic-coated garden wire . . . green plastic-coated garden wire . . . “Chief”—she knew her voice was thin and high—“what about fingerprints?”
“No useful prints were found on the piece of wood that struck Griffith, the pillow used to smother him, or the wire that choked Foster. The portion of wire embedded in Foster’s neck was free of prints altogether and the extended ends were too narrow to retain a distinct impression.”
Marian asked with a catch in her voice, “Has the garden wire been linked to Mrs. Griffith?”
Billy folded his arms. “Garden wire is easily obtained.”
Marian persisted. “Was a search of her belongings made?”
Billy’s face was stolid. “After obtaining warrants, Mrs. Griffith’s car and her suite at the inn were searched. No wire was found.”
A small TV reporter, who made up for size with a loud voice, shouted over several other questions, “How about motives?�
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“It will be the State’s contention that Mrs. Griffith and Kelly were involved in an intimate relationship. The State will contend that Mrs. Griffith killed her husband before she came out to the terrace at approximately a quarter to seven. Mrs. Griffith then remained in public view until she, accompanied by island bookseller Annie Darling, went to the Griffith suite to check on the author, who was late appearing at the gazebo. Mrs. Griffith ostensibly discovered her husband’s body, professing shock and horror. It will be the State’s contention that Kelly entered the room while Mrs. Griffith was on the terrace and that Kelly called room service and ordered two drinks. The call was intended to indicate the author was still alive. The State will contend that the crime was planned in advance and that Kelly, using an assumed name, checked into the room next to the Griffith suite in order to enter the suite unobserved and make the call to room service, thereby providing Mrs. Griffith with an alibi.”
The AP reporter shouted, “Why tab the widow as the killer? Couldn’t the boyfriend have entered the suite, killed Griffith, then called room service?”
Billy was judicious. “That is a possibility, but our investigation places Mrs. Griffith in a leadership role throughout. Mr. Kelly appears to have responded to her directions. Last night at the scene of Warren Foster’s murder, Mrs. Griffith said she came to Widow’s Haunt in response to a phone call from Foster in which he claimed to have seen Mrs. Griffith re-enter the suite during the time when Griffith was killed, that Mrs. Griffith insisted Kelly accompany her because she feared Foster’s threat to notify police would incriminate her. It is the State’s contention that Mrs. Griffith disposed of Foster’s threat by strangling him with a length of garden wire. It will be the State’s contention that we have only Mrs. Griffith’s word for the contents of the call, that Foster may have made another threat that she thought too dangerous to ignore.”
Marian frowned. She remembered Warren’s call quite clearly. She knew she hadn’t entered the suite so she had assumed Warren was playing a game of “who’s left standing,” calling those he associated with Alex—Joan Turner, George Griffith, Lynn Griffith, Eddie Olson. She’d also assumed Warren whispered the same accusation in each call. Warren had no way of knowing Rae and Neil were involved or that Neil was in the room next door. Right now Billy obviously thought Warren had made a single call—the one to Rae. Certainly Billy would have read the statements Hyla Harrison took from Marian and Annie. Billy apparently believed Marian’s claim that Warren’s call was related to her earlier talk with Warren. Billy didn’t associate her with Alex. He knew her as Marian Kenyon, Gazette reporter. Billy knew Warren as well, knew him to be a gossip, knew him to revel in being a fount of information, assumed Warren had called Marian because she was a reporter, because he sought attention. If Billy knew Warren had called Marian and tried to lure her to the ruins with the same accusation, it would redirect his investigation. Quickly she shut off that thought.
The case sounded strong. She never doubted Billy had homed in on the squalid truth that Rae Griffith’s companion was her lover. A jury would likely be convinced as well. Lovers might think their secret safe but someone always knew. There would be proof offered. That was a strong motive—a woman who wanted to be free of her husband, a man who was quite wealthy. Divorce was easy but the payoff was not nearly as high. Nothing new there. Then Rae was found at the scene of a second murder. One plus one equaled two. Stamp the case closed.
Marian wished mightily that she could believe in Billy’s case. If Rae was guilty, Marian was safe, Marian and those she loved. But truth was truth, even when truth hurt. She followed facts. These facts seemed undeniable: Warren’s murder was in response to his taunting phone call so a weapon had to be found quickly. Warren was killed by a length of plastic-coated garden wire. There was no store open on the island at that time of evening where garden wire could be purchased. Last night at Widow’s Haunt, Rae Griffith screamed.
• • •
Annie scanned the mugs on the shelving behind the coffee bar. She reached up, chose the title Calling All Suspects by Carolyn Wells. She fixed a cappuccino with a dash of caramel and extra whipped cream. The Death on Demand coffee bar believed in customer rights. What you wanted was what you got. She smiled, thinking of an obituary of an islander who had created a fabulously successful high-end women’s shop and the instruction she gave new clerks: The first rule of sales—the customer is always right. The second rule of sales—the customer is always right.
Annie carried the mug to a corner screened from the main aisle by Whitmani ferns, sank into the embrace of a softly cushioned wicker chair, took a satisfying sip, and thought about Joan’s unexpected visit. Why had Joan come? Why was she upset? Joan wanted to know—appeared desperate to know—if Warren had called Rae. When Annie confirmed the call, Rae’s admission of that call, and Billy’s conclusion that Rae came to the clearing because she was afraid Warren might call the police, there was no relief in Joan’s face.
Instead, before Joan turned away, Annie saw a woman grappling with despair.
What difference did it make to Joan whether Warren called Rae?
Annie was afraid she knew. Billy thought only Rae had been called. What if Warren called Joan? And others. Like Marian, who said he called to gloat about the picture he intended to take. Had that really been the reason for his call? But maybe it was true. Joan hadn’t known the identity of the whispering caller. Surely if Warren called Marian to accuse her, he would also have whispered. Annie felt quick relief. She didn’t want to think Marian had lied to her. If Marian lied about a call, what else might she have lied about?
Annie turned the mug in her hands, looked at the red letters of the title. Had Warren called all the suspects, those he’d watched with malicious glee that night on the terrace? Joan Turner. George Griffith. Lynn Griffith. Eddie Olson. Rae Griffith.
If he had, that changed everything.
Annie drank more cappuccino, but the hot sweet coffee didn’t lift her spirits. If Joan remained silent, Rae and Neil faced prosecution, likely conviction, possibly the death penalty. If Joan went to Billy Cameron, told him she, too, had received a call—had she responded? did she go to the clearing?—then Billy’s entire picture of the case would have to shift. He might well still believe Rae and Neil guilty, and they might be guilty, but an honest investigator would consider who else might have known Warren was at Widow’s Haunt. Billy was an honest cop.
Annie pushed away the mug. She could go to Billy. If she did, Joan would face questions: Why did Warren call you? Did he threaten to reveal something you wanted kept hidden? Where were you last night at nine o’clock?
There might be another way.
• • •
Marian clicked Send. Press conference covered. Story done. She sat for a good fifteen minutes, too tired to move, drained. Finally she pushed up from her desk, walked across the newsroom, stopped by the city desk. Before she could speak, the cherub-faced city editor, whose hair was three strands of pale blond over a balding dome, barked, “Good job. I can smell the seaweed.”
That was Walt’s highest praise when he liked a story. He could smell the seaweed. Usually that would be a boost even though she knew she wrote good stories. Still, everybody liked a ribbon. Today the accolade didn’t matter, but she managed a smile. “Thanks. Think I’ll go out and look over Widow’s Haunt.”
His pale blue eyes gleamed. “Got a hunch?”
“Maybe.”
She stepped outside, wished the pulsing heat could warm the chill around her heart. It was about fifty yards to the parking lot rimmed by occasional palmettos and a couple of weeping willows. Even the drooping fronds of the willow looked hot. She’d left the windows in her VW down. She slid behind the wheel. It wasn’t far to Widow’s Haunt, perhaps a half mile. Hot air rushed through the windows, blowing her hair. But nothing pushed the refrain from her mind . . . plastic-coated garden wire, plastic-coated garden wire, pla
stic-coated garden wire . . .
A half dozen cars were parked in the visitor lot. She found a patch of shade beneath a live oak, walked briskly to the clearing. She shaded her eyes and studied the ruins, the broken wall that was attached to the remnants of a sagging front porch only partially supported by columns of tabby bricks. A knobby-kneed tourist crouched, snapping pictures. Another fun memento? Add a caption: They found a body on the other side of the broken wall . . . Several women watched from the shade of a willow.
There was no crime scene tape. That meant Mavis and her crew had covered the area, made meticulous drawings, videos, and photographs, felt that everything had been found that could be found. Now tourists were free to clamber where death had waited the night before.
Marian cut across the dusty ground. She stopped a few feet from the tabby wall where Warren had slumped in death. She had a good memory. She remembered exactly how his body, half sitting, half lying, sagged below the wide-open emptiness where a window once had existed. She walked closer to the wall. The windowsill was almost chest high. The long-ago window had opened onto a porch that had been gone for many years.
She stood on tiptoe, peered over the sill. Magnolia leaves had drifted against the base of the wall. Below the opening, the leaves mounded. As clearly as if it had been she who waited here for Warren to arrive, she knew a foot had brushed aside the leaves, made a clear patch where a killer waited, standing firmly without fear of a betraying crackle. Possibly Warren, too, had scouted out the ruins, studied the surroundings, decided cleverly that he could stand behind the wall near the opening and observe anyone arriving in the clearing. Warren no doubt arrived in what he felt was good time to take his place and was surveying the clearing before he followed the path beyond the porch to take his place behind the wall.
But a killer had arrived earlier.
This was the chilling reality. If the killer came and knew the way to seclusion behind the wall, the killer was familiar with Widow’s Haunt.