Don't Go Home Page 2
He stared out at the wind-flecked waves, slowed a little. If it weren’t for his wife, he wouldn’t give a damn what Alex wrote. Thank God she wasn’t a reader. She knitted, gardened, made his home happy. He’d be glad when she got back from visiting her folks. But if Julie ever heard the accusation, she would come to him, blue eyes wide and grave. She would look at him and she would see the knowledge in his eyes and she would turn and walk away. Forever.
Eddie’s lips closed in a tight hard line. It was as if he were back on a football field and the play was beginning. Bring it on.
• • •
George Griffith leaned back against his desk chair in his study. He sagged back, feeling weak and sick. He had to do something . . . He turned toward his computer, stopped. He’d better not put anything in print. Once inside a computer, information lived on and on, always available if someone looked hard enough. His jaw tightened. The whole damn night was in Alex’s book. But no one had ever connected the passage to him.
George’s hands tightened into fists. Could he still go to jail? There wasn’t any proof. Was Alex’s claim enough to start the police checking? Someone might respond if there were stories in the paper asking anyone with information about that night to contact the police. But the night was misty and no one had ever come forward to say they’d seen George drive away with Lucy. At least in the book Alex had turned George into a woman. But that was a nasty dig, too.
Maybe Alex would listen to reason. He had to listen to reason. Would he? Alex had sent him an autographed copy of Don’t Go Home. George remembered the icy shock when he read the inscription. You thought no one knew. I saw you come in that night, your clothes wet. I listened to you. Dad said you’d have to keep your mouth shut, that no one would ever know. He also told you what a sorry good-for-nothing shit you were. Read all about it, chapter 14. He’d flipped to the page and read, the words uneven in his vision: Frances tried to speak distinctly. “I know the way. Let go of my arm. Don’t want to slow down. Down, down, down.” She heard the scream as if from far away. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion . . .
• • •
Marian Kenyon walked onto the pier, oblivious to the cloying heat, to the squeal of seagulls, to the rattle of her steps on the wood. She didn’t have a copy of the Gazette with her. She didn’t need to see the paper again. The publisher had sent her an e-mail, the subject line a series of stars, acclaim for her last piece in an exposé of a charlatan medical outfit that bilked people in a weight-loss program. The story ran in today’s edition, slotted on page 1 above the fold. She was proud of the series. Good stuff.
Sunday morning had started well. The satisfying recollection that she’d excelled, that her boss was pleased, that she’d poked a hole in a mean moneymaking scheme. Then, icing on her personal cake, a happy call from David. “Dad’s taking me to a Braves game this afternoon . . .” Her son’s young voice was excited. She’d hung up, smiling, happy because David was happy, eager for him to come back to the island, make their house home again with the slam of doors and the thump of running feet. What joy David had brought to her and to Craig as well. She never could have imagined the difference David would make for Craig, that where once there had not seemed to be anything but desolation in her life, the odd pieces had fitted together to create something special.
Sipping her third cup of coffee, she’d picked up the Lifestyle section. Normally she’d have read the paper from cover to cover after the pressrun. The Gazette was an afternoon paper except on Sundays. The Sunday edition came off the press about six on Saturday evening. She’d left the office about noon to take David to the airport in Savannah, on his way to Atlanta to spend a week with his dad. So she was, like most on the island, picking up the paper to read on Sunday morning. She didn’t have any reason to know about the Lifestyle contents. Ginger Harris, the white-haired, elegant Lifestyle editor, had given her a cheery wave yesterday morning. Marian had waved back, still deep in writing the finale to the series.
It had never occurred to Marian to think that anything Ginger wrote could impact her life.
Water slapped against the pilings. Marian felt hollow inside. She’d read the passages in Don’t Go Home when it was published, read them with cold, hard fury. One sentence from Ginger’s feature ran through her mind in a continuous bitter loop: Will Buck keep Louanne’s secret?
• • •
Annie Darling tried to pretend nothing was changed, that it was just another Monday morning. She stopped at the railing, even though the air was already heavy with heat, and admired the yachts in the marina, as she usually did when walking to Death on Demand. This was the height of the cruising season. A pearl gray yacht that flew a skull and crossbones was rumored to belong to a famous movie star, and the quartet of pretty girls on board—all blondes, of course, like TV newscasters—were “secretaries.” As one fishing boat captain said to another, “Wonder how my wife would feel about me and four pretty little secretaries?”
A V of pelicans began their swift descent toward the wave tops, looking for lunch. Tourists with peeling sunburns moved up the gangplank of the tour boat, another of island mogul Ben Parotti’s successful ventures. A catamaran slid through the harbor, steered by a shirtless, well-built thirtysomething in cutoff jeans. A gorgeous girl—blond—held to his side.
Annie wished she were aboard the catamaran or the yacht or even the tour boat. Anything to avoid seeing the dark storefront next to her bookstore. She forced herself to turn and walk up the steps to the wide wooden verandah fronting the marina shops. She kept her eyes sternly focused on the front window of her bookstore. She thought of how she answered the phone: “Death on Demand, finest mystery bookstore north of Delray Beach, Florida,” or sometimes, “Death on Demand, the best in thrills, chills, puzzles, and pastries.” She was almost smiling when she reached Death on Demand’s front window.
Keeping her gaze straight ahead, she checked over the window display. Summer was the time to grab a suitcase and go. Stacked beside a well-worn trunk plastered with travel stickers were five crime novels and five traditional mysteries. She’d picked old favorites, titles by Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Lawrence Block, John D. MacDonald, Eric Ambler, Agatha Christie, Mary Roberts Rinehart, Dorothy L. Sayers, Josephine Tey, Ngaio Marsh. A sun hat hung on a corner of a red-and-white-striped beach chair.
Front and center, of course, were some of the best of current wonderful mysteries. She admired the bright covers of the recently published books she had placed upright in a semicircle: Midnight Crossroad by Charlaine Harris, The Wrong Girl by Hank Phillippi Ryan, Suspect by Robert Crais, Blind Justice by Anne Perry, The Kill Room by Jeffery Deaver, The Buzzard Table by Margaret Maron, Missing You by Harlan Coben, and The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie.
She never lost her sense of awe at the outpouring every year of amazing, original, provocative mysteries. As she liked to tell customers, “You’ll never run out of good books to read.” Certainly not as long as Death on Demand stayed open.
The temporary buoyancy from the bright display beyond the plate glass disappeared as her gaze moved to the right and the dark storefront.
The legend was still there:
Confidential Commissions
Problems?
We can help.
There was no light beyond the door. If she stepped inside, there would be hot musty air instead of a delicious scent of baking wafting from the little back kitchen where Barb created magical desserts—key lime pie or pecan sundrops—when Max had no secretarial duties for her. Barb’s computer monitor had a dark screen. Barb was off on a holiday to New England until Max decided the fate of his shop next door to hers. “No more snooping,” he’d groused. “Maybe I’ll change it to a lifestyle center. ‘Come and find out what you really want to do.’ That would be fun. I could steer people into new careers.”
Annie felt forlorn. Their last talk inside Confidential Commissions had not ende
d happily. She remembered them standing there, looking at each other across a gulf, Max with his handsome face obdurate, his arms folded. He had shaken his head one final time. “It took a few weeks for it to hit me. I guess I was so relieved at first. It’s like getting a kick in your gut and at first you don’t realize you’re hurt. Then I woke up in the middle of the night and I was still in this dream and you were disappearing. So, no more. I am not a detective and neither are you.”
Annie sighed as she unlocked the front door of Death on Demand. As she stepped inside, black fur flashed. Annie bent down and scooped up Agatha, who made the throaty noise that Annie always took as a carol of affection. She nuzzled sweet-smelling fur, hiked Agatha onto her shoulder. Everything was as it should be at Death on Demand. The molty stuffed raven, Edgar, looked down from a perch near the enclave for children’s mysteries, which contained every title in the Boxcar Children mysteries and the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys series.
Annie flicked on lights and eased Agatha to the floor. Shelves lined the walls and wooden bookcases ranged on either side of the broad center aisle. She still had an hour before the store opened. She’d come in early because the house seemed empty with Max gone. She might as well get some work done before the first customers arrived. A Monday morning in summer was sure to be busy. There were always some tourists who’d arrived on the weekend and frolicked too long in the sun. Wilted and red, smeared with zinc oxide, they came in search of books and a shady spot.
Her first task was fresh dry food for Agatha. Agatha settled at her blue pottery bowl and munched. Annie measured coffee beans and added the just-right amount of water. No weak coffee allowed on the premises. As the coffee brewed, Annie scanned the collection of coffee mugs in the glass shelving behind the coffee bar. Each mug featured the title of a famous mystery in red script. She glanced at The Fugitive Pigeon by Donald E. Westlake, Getaway by Leslie Charteris, and Gone, No Forwarding by Joe Gores, then picked up Getaway, thinking obscurely that was what Max had done.
As she filled the mug, a brisk knock sounded at the front of the store. She raised an eyebrow. Some people always believed they were special. The hours were listed on the door: MON.–SAT. 10 TO 9, SUN. 2 TO 6. It was still a good forty-five minutes before ten.
But a sale was a sale.
Annie put the mug on the counter, walked swiftly up the aisle. She unlocked the door.
A slender young woman in her midtwenties didn’t give Annie a chance to speak. “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m thrilled to find such a terrific bookstore.” She gestured toward the legend on the door. “I’m sorry to be early, but Alex insisted I come first thing.” She spoke as if this intelligence would be immediately understood by Annie.
Annie scrabbled through her mind. Alex? Was she supposed to know someone named Alex? She was certain she didn’t know her visitor. Emerald green eyes in an arresting face, features almost too sharp but softened by a mouth that appeared ready to quirk into a smile.
The smile came. “You don’t have any idea who I am. Or Alex. I’m sorry. There was a story in yesterday’s Gazette and I thought you might have seen it. I should have called first, but Alex is always impatient.”
“I didn’t see the Gazette.” With Max gone and Ingrid taking care of the store, she’d spent Sunday in Savannah—attended church at St. John’s, enjoyed lunch at Paula Deen’s, made a round of the antique stores, and devoured oysters on the waterfront. She spent the night at her favorite bed-and-breakfast, returned on the ferry this morning, driven straight to the marina. The Sunday Gazette awaited her on their front porch. Ingrid had dropped by morning and evening to feed and pet Dorothy L, the plump white cat who ruled Annie and Max’s house.
The visitor brushed back a tangle of soft dark hair that framed her narrow face like a cloud. “I’m Rae Griffith. Alex is my husband. He’s the author of—”
Annie clapped her hands together. “Don’t Go Home. We always stock his book. Is he here? On Broward’s Rock?” She knew—who didn’t?—that the world-acclaimed novelist had grown up on the island but so far as she was aware he’d not visited in recent years. If she ever thought about it, she assumed his family had moved away and he no longer had ties here. She would have heard if a celebrity of his stature spent time here.
Like the sun going behind a cloud, her visitor’s smile slipped away. There was an odd look on her face.
Annie wasn’t quite certain whether there was a flash of worry or concern or possibly dismay.
Alex Griffith’s wife took a quick breath, as if starting on a path with an unknown destination. “He’s here.”
Annie was excited. The island had its resident crime novelist, Emma Clyde, but there was no literary author of Alex Griffith’s stature. “Would he consider doing a signing?”
“Of course.” Again there was an odd note in her voice.
Annie ignored the lack of enthusiasm at the invitation. All right, he was a big deal and maybe a signing at a little store like hers would be more of a bother than a pleasure, but Rae Griffith wanted something and Annie intended to get a quid pro quo: Alex Griffith in person at Death on Demand. “Come in. I’ve just made coffee. Rich dark Colombian.” She beamed at her visitor, held the door wide.
Rae Griffith smiled in return. “Thank you.”
As they walked down the central aisle, Rae looked admiringly at the shelves filled with brightly jacketed books. “What a wonderful collection.” She pointed at a table with South Carolina authors. “I see you have lots of copies of Alex’s book.”
“He’s one of our top sellers.” Annie nodded toward the cluster of tables. “I’ll bring coffee.”
But Rae followed her to the coffee bar. She looked down at Agatha, now washing her face with a graceful paw. “What a beautiful cat. I admire cats. They never belong to anyone.” She described their cat, an orange tabby named Butch.
By the time they settled at a table in the coffee area, Annie felt thoroughly comfortable with Rae Griffith. “What brings you to the island?”
Rae Griffith’s face smoothed into blandness. “Alex grew up here. We’re back for a visit.”
Annie didn’t miss the change from relaxation to wariness. Interesting. Why the sudden reserve? “Does your husband have family here still?” With the continuing influx of new residents, Annie no longer counted on knowing most people in town. Annie had grown up in Amarillo, but she had often visited her uncle on the beautiful sea island off the coast of South Carolina. A couple of years out of college, she’d inherited his bookstore. Max Darling had soon followed and on a beautiful June day they’d married. They’d been here long enough to feel a part of the island, but they didn’t know all the family connections as did those born and bred on Broward’s Rock.
There was a slight hesitation, then Rae said without any hint of enthusiasm, “His sister, Joan Turner, and brother, George. And his late brother Heyward’s widow, Lynn.”
Faces flickered in Annie’s mind. She did know these Griffiths, though she’d never associated them with the novelist. Max’s mother, Laurel, had consulted Joan Turner when she redecorated her home. Annie had been fascinated at the interchange between crisp, no-nonsense Joan and Laurel, who was, to put it charitably, a free spirit rarely constrained by conventional ideas. The result—ethereal surroundings evocative of misty clouds and moonlight—surprised everyone except possibly Joan and Laurel. Joan’s clear-cut features were accented by ebony hair in a jagged cut that emphasized the depth of her violet eyes. Pudgy George Griffith, fleshy and faintly dissolute, always held Annie a little too close at the club dances. Bourbon laced his breath when he exhaled. Annie liked his wife, Susan, wondered why she’d married him. Lynn Griffith was always beautifully coiffed, perfect silver blond hair cupping a rounded face with wide-spaced blue eyes, a several-thousand-dollar complexion enhanced by every expensive emollient available, lips that curved in a social smile. It always faintly surprised her that Lynn was an accomplished
long-distance swimmer, competed in Masters events. But why shouldn’t an athletic woman also enjoy perfection in her appearance?
Annie tried to remember always to be kind to Lynn because she’d heard the rumors: Heyward’s drowning death was awfully convenient after his investment firm collapsed . . . a huge life insurance payoff saved Lynn from bankruptcy. Annie had sat next to her at a couple of Friends of the Library luncheons. Whatever the conversation, Lynn soon swung like a magnet to the wonderful antique she’d just bought, a cameo, a cut-glass vase, a silver tea urn, a serving tray in old English Davenport china, a Sèvres figurine of a Napoleonic soldier . . .
“How nice. Are you staying with Joan?” The Turner home was one of the loveliest on the island, not pretentious but perfect, a three-story white frame with front and back verandahs and a magnificent pool framed by palmettos.
Rae’s tone was just a shade too bright. “Alex is a great believer in Benjamin Franklin’s edict: Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days. Since we may be here all summer, we’re at the Seaside Inn. We’re hoping you’ll help us put together a really grand evening there.” She reached into an oversized catchall cloth bag, pulled out several sheets of paper. “Here’s what we have in mind . . .”
2
The storeroom door opened. Ingrid Webb poked her head inside. “I brought lunch.”
Annie swung around from her computer, frazzled and stressed. She pulled her mind away from orders and logistics and the challenge of setting up an extravagant book event in little more than forty-eight hours. As soon as Ingrid arrived that morning, she’d turned the store over to her, explaining in staccato bursts that she was under the gun—huge event, Alex Griffith, Wednesday night—and withdrawn to the storeroom to set everything in motion. “Lunch?” She blinked. “Oh hey, lunch. That’s wonderful.”