Don't Go Home Page 3

  Ingrid stepped inside, used her free elbow to push the door shut behind her. “Making progress?”

  “Three hundred books are promised. They’ll arrive on tomorrow’s ferry. I had to pull out all the stops to get them that quickly.”

  Ingrid was calm. “Duane can pick them up and schlep them over to the inn.”

  Annie looked at her thin, tireless, wonderful clerk, short brown hair frizzed by the summer humidity, brown eyes that observed carefully, a calm, comforting presence whether a hurricane was coming or a visiting author turned out to be truculent as a warthog. “I’ll fix Duane a basket of books.” Ingrid’s husband loved thrillers, especially those by Lee Child, Joseph Finder, Brad Meltzer, Michael Connelly, L. J. Sellers, and Michael Sears.

  Ingrid plopped the sack from Parotti’s Bar and Grill on the worktable. “Fried oysters on an onion bun with Thousand Island dressing, plus coleslaw. Slice of key lime pie on the house. I told Ben you were lit up like a pinball machine calculating how many books you can sell if you manage to arrange a Force Five blowout by Wednesday night.”

  Annie realized she was ravenous. She fumbled with the sack, pulled out her favorite meal from Parotti’s Bar and Grill, and, indistinctly, between mouthfuls, brought Ingrid up-to-date. “Gazebo rented, check. Hotel catering, coffee, cash bars, check. Seating for one hundred and fifty, check. Mic, sound equipment, speaker stand for gazebo, check. Two tables behind the rows of chairs, one for the author, one for book sales, check.” She ran over the list in her mind, nodded. “It should be really neat. There are lots of weddings in the gazebo so the inn’s used to setting up folding chairs. The event opens at seven, he’ll speak at eight. It will be pretty because they have strings of lights in the live oak trees on either side of the gazebo and around the pool. The weather will still be steamy but with the sun sliding behind the pines it won’t seem as hot.” She hoped. But islanders who stayed here in summer were acclimated to heavy hot air.

  Ingrid hesitated, then asked abruptly, “What did you think about the piece in the Gazette?”

  Annie wiped a smudge of Thousand Island from her chin. Ben’s sandwiches dripped. “I haven’t seen the Gazette. I’ve worked the phone and the computer nonstop since Rae Griffith left. Can you think of anything I’ve missed?”

  Ingrid looked thoughtful. “A fire brigade might come in handy.”

  Annie went on alert. “Fire brigade? Why?”

  Ingrid was blunt. “To put out the blazes when he tosses Molotov cocktails at the natives.”

  “Blazes?” Annie heard the hollow tone in her voice.

  “Did his wife tell you what he had in mind?”

  Annie looked at her clerk in apprehension. “I assume he’s going to talk about his book.”

  “The book and the people whose lives he used to write a ‘sprawling family epic about sex and lies and treachery.’ I thought you knew what was coming or I would have said something earlier.”

  • • •

  Annie settled in a rocker on the screened-in porch. Tuesday night. It seemed an eon since Rae Griffith had walked into Death on Demand Monday morning. The hours had passed in a blur, calling, arranging, planning.

  Worrying.

  She loved dusk and listening to rustles and calls as the night brimmed with life and movement. Cicadas sang their song of summer. Crickets trilled. A distant owl whooed, always a lonely cry to Annie. Virile frogs trumpeted a hot time in the old pond tonight to listening lady frogs. As shadows thickened, the vivid blaze of summer softened to impressionistic hints of color, indistinct splotches of orange, violet, and red hibiscus, golden daffodils, crimson roses. Pink crape myrtle flowered near the gazebo. This time tomorrow night Alex Griffith would look out at an eager audience.

  She took a deep breath of the usually soothing scents of pittosporum blossoms and honeysuckle. If Max were here, they would wander hand in hand to the gazebo and sit in the swing and she’d tell him about her frantic two days. She’d not realized how much she would miss him. They usually traveled together, but when an old friend invited him and three other college chums for a week of deep-sea fishing in the gulf, she’d been glad he decided to go.

  For one thing, his absence put on hold the final demise of Confidential Commissions. For another, they were determinedly bright and cheerful but there was a shadow between them.

  She gave a little push and the rocker creaked. Not that she believed there was a chance he would change his mind. He’d made himself absolutely, irrevocably clear. “No more delving into other people’s problems, Annie. Period. End of story. Since I’m not a politician, when I say ‘period,’ I mean ‘period.’”

  As he pointed out, if she wanted to help people, she could volunteer at a hospice, make food for Mobile Meals, tutor at the elementary school.

  Her face softened. She understood. He’d demanded her promise: Hands Off. No More Nancy Drew. Keep Crime on the Shelves. Because, as he put it, his face grim, “You scared the ever-living hell out of me. How do you think I felt when your cell didn’t answer? And didn’t answer? And then we knew you were there with a killer . . .”

  She felt an uneven lurch deep inside. Max had been scared for her. So had she. She’d not been stupid. She’d been on her way to the police station, sure she knew the truth behind the murder of a reckless young second wife who’d disappeared after a Fourth of July dance. Instead Annie had answered her cell phone and turned another way. At road’s end, she’d faced death.

  Her brush with death had occurred only a few weeks before. The very next week, Max woke up in the middle of the night and rolled over to take her in his arms and hold her in a bone-tight grip. After that, he had wasted no time deciding to close down Confidential Commissions, which had no real purpose other than, as he inelegantly phrased it, screwing around in other people’s lives. No more.

  She’d protested. Confidential Commissions helped people; it made a difference to their lives in ways both great and small. There had been those caught up in fear and despair and Max had helped right their world. He’d said, “Yeah. But one of these days, you’ll poke that snub nose into the wrong mess. No more danger, Annie.” She’d pointed out that Confidential Commissions wasn’t always involved in messes, that Max did all sorts of interesting things that made people happy. He’d helped a woman find a long-lost sister, found the rightful owners of a small Remington sculpture discovered in an abandoned well, put together a history of the Class of ’46 at the local high school, proved the provenance of a baseball signed by Babe Ruth, uncovered the final hours of a corporal who died in the Battle of the Bulge. She’d told him, “You’ve made a lot of people happy.”

  He hadn’t been swayed. “You were a short walk away from dying.”

  He was right. Her escape had been a very near thing. She thought of Max’s life without her or hers without Max. They would live because the living must do what they must do, but light would be leached from the world, leaving gray days without vibrancy, without music, without warmth.

  He’d extracted her promise:

  “I will not engage in any activities that could put me in danger. Period.”

  When she dropped her raised hand after completing the pledge, he’d given her his wonderful, terrific, all-American grin—to her mind, tall, blond, handsome Max was always Joe Hardy all grown up—and tilted her face up and bent down for his warm lips to touch hers. From there . . . She felt a glow at the remembrance.

  She wished Max was here, that she could reach out and take his hand. He was only going to be gone a week, but she hadn’t realized how accustomed she was to the ping of her cell and texts from Max—“Meet me at Parotti’s for lunch.” “Hey, how about some afternoon delight?” “Missing you.” “Look under the cushion in the gazebo swing.” He was always fun. Besides, he had very good judgment. Maybe he would reassure her that the Griffith event was no big deal. But he and the guys had left their cells onshore, sworn to a week o
n the boat untethered to the world. She hoped they were having fun—fish and beer and rowdy buddy talk on the gulf without a link to land.

  Annie gave herself an impatient shake. Okay. Max wasn’t here. What was, was.

  The phrase reminded her abruptly of the quote in the Gazette feature on Alex Griffith. A character had observed grimly, “What is, is.”

  Since Ingrid had alerted her, Annie had read the article a half dozen times. Last night and in snatches today, she’d reread Don’t Go Home. This time she read the book with the Gazette story clear in her mind and with an understanding of how Griffith’s past was revealed in the story. The characters were based on people she knew. Okay, fine. If he wanted to write a nonfiction book claiming people he knew were the real-life counterparts to fictional characters in compromising situations, that was his right. What he wrote was up to him. But did he intend to divulge the gritty details at a talk sponsored by Death on Demand?

  The more she thought about the reception, the edgier she felt. She glanced at the book lying in her lap. Previously she’d found the stark black letters on the alabaster white tombstone hugely effective. Now she loathed looking at the book. She didn’t have good vibes about tomorrow night. If Griffith spoke about writing, his stature as a Southern author, anything on the book business, that would be fine. But a hard cold kernel of worry lodged in her gut. What if he used the talk, sponsored by her bookstore, to name names? What if he revealed the inspirations for the characters, many quite unsavory? What if he blatantly linked people on the island to several episodes that hinged on criminal conduct?

  Rae Griffith had insisted on a Wednesday-night event, making it clear that was a good night for news to break, both for TV and for print.

  Was Rae expecting a scandal-laced story that would make the tabloids, land on TMZ?

  Annie gave a push with her foot and the rocker moved. She looked again at the Sunday Gazette, reread Ginger Harris’s opening paragraph:

  Has Martin felt remorse for pressuring Regina before her death? Will Buck keep Louanne’s secret? Will Mary Alice ever tell Charles the truth? As he swings a golf club, enjoying power and pleasure, does Kenny think of a wasted form lying on a bed? Does Frances remember choking in the water, flailing to the surface, swimming to safety with no thought for her companion?

  Annie pressed her lips together. She would not be complicit in an attack on people she knew. Tomorrow she would confront Alex Griffith. If he intended to publicly embarrass island residents, she would withdraw. Death on Demand would not be involved.

  • • •

  Annie parked her Thunderbird in the shade of a towering rhododendron. She left the windows down in hopes the red leather seat that matched the red exterior didn’t feel like a griddle on her return. The late-July morning was as humid as a sweat bath. Her once crisp candy-striped blouse was wilting. She was glad she’d opted for linen Bermudas rather than a skirt. Anything to be a little cooler. She walked swiftly on the crushed oyster shell path toward the entrance to the Seaside Inn. The inn looked like an old Southern plantation in front with inviting wicker rockers on a wide verandah. Huge blue urns on either side of the broad steps overflowed with sweet-smelling hibiscus.

  In the lobby, Annie threaded her way around clumps of wicker chairs and potted ferns. Island visitors, uniformly casual in tees and shorts, were beginning another day in paradise, some heading for the golf courses, others ready to fish or sail, many lugging beach umbrellas, chairs, and coolers. Elderly ladies rocked placidly.

  She curved around the broad sweep of central steps that led up to the second and third floors. Behind the stairway stretched a short hall with several shops. She paused for an instant to look through the window of a women’s casual wear store, Her Best. She admired a pristine white hip-length cotton blouse with ornate lace on either side of a V-neck and three-quarter-length sleeves with lacy cuffs. Maybe she’d stop and shop on her way out. She reached the door that opened to the terrace. She stepped out into the heavy heat and passed umbrella-shaded tables and deck chairs by a long pool. The springboard snapped. The diver executed a back one-and-a-half somersault. Although it was still early, the pool was perhaps a third full of swimmers, side clingers, and relaxed inhabitants of assorted floats. The pool water shimmered in the brilliant sunlight. To one side was a basketball hoop and a small paved area. A woman jumped rope with a steady rhythm, face creased in concentration. Annie recognized Rae Griffith. There was no sign of her husband. Rae looked like a woman engaged in a serious exercise program, oblivious to her surroundings.

  Annie didn’t try to attract her attention. She wasn’t here to see Rae. She was here to see Alex Griffith. Annie continued to the end of the terrace. She shaded her eyes and admired a sweep of grass framed by pines. An oyster shell path up the middle led to a white gazebo. She nodded in approval at the rows of folding chairs on either side of the path. These would be perfect for tonight. She walked up the path and climbed the gazebo steps. The lectern was in place and tonight a portable mic would be available. She looked out at the empty chairs and pictured the scene, dusk falling, cash bars set up. Before the program began, there would be plenty of room for people to mill around, say hello to friends, enjoy the small bright white lights twinkling in the live oaks.

  The inn was shaped like a square-edged U, with a wing on either side. Some ground-floor rooms looked out on the patio and pool. Ground-floor rooms in the outer west wing faced a side parking lot. The more desirable outer rooms, in the east wing, had individual patios that looked out on a thick cluster of loblolly pines.

  Annie started down the gazebo steps, then paused as she recognized a trim figure coming around the end of the west wing. Marian Kenyon’s thin shoulders were hunched. She was moving fast, canvas shoulder bag banging against one hip. Marian was always in a hurry, with a story to cover, a deadline to meet, quick to pick up on the unusual, the dramatic, sometimes the poignant, sometimes the heartbreaking. Marian talked in fast, staccato bursts, brown eyes bright in a gamine face beneath a mop of unruly dark hair.

  As Annie watched, Marian covered half the space between the end of the wing and the expanse of the patio, clearly on her way to the crushed oyster shell path on the far side of the east wing.

  Annie’s partially lifted hand fell. She’d been ready to call out, but now she had a clear view of Marian’s face in bright sunlight, a face Annie had never seen, pale, set, hard. Usually Marian exuded life. She brimmed with vitality. The woman striding toward the end of the wing looked bleak and driven, with hollow eyes, jutting cheekbones, lips pressed together.

  Annie hurried down the steps. Scarcely formed thoughts flitted in her mind . . . something wrong . . . Marian’s face . . . a look of fury, dread, implacable resolve . . . what had happened? . . . why is Marian here? . . . have to help her . . .

  Annie reached the path that ran behind the east wing. Ground-floor rooms had small private patios separated by head-high, stuccoed walls. She recalled the number of the Griffith room and thought it was at the end of the east wing, a corner suite.

  Annie reached the beginning of the path.

  “Alex, please.” The husky voice belonged to Marian. It rose from beyond the patio wall.

  Annie took one step, another, came close to the wall that extended from the corner.

  A man spoke. “I thought you were a free spirit . . . Louanne.” The tone was easy, amused.

  “Don’t call me Louanne.” Marian’s voice was harsh.

  “Would you rather”—the voice was silky—“have me call you Mom? Is that what the kid—”

  “Shut up, Alex. Someone might hear you.”

  A careless laugh. “They might. They’ll hear me tonight. I trust you’ll be on the front row.”

  “Why are you doing this?” The words were sharp, insistent.

  “For my art, darling. Readers have asked and asked about the characters and now it’s time for me—”

 
“You can’t.”

  “I can.” He sounded untroubled. “But maybe I won’t tell everything about you. For now. Just enough to give a hint of good old-fashioned scandal to come. I have to keep some spicy parts for the book. But I can mention enough to get everyone talking. That will make the book sell.”

  “It won’t sell.” Marian’s voice was flat. “Nobody cares about any of us.”

  “Sorry about that. But people care about me. The last time I was on The Diane Rehm Show, the phones rang off the hook.”

  “Alex”—she sounded like a woman holding on to a lifeline as a huge wave loomed—“don’t do it. Leave us alone.”

  “Trying to make me feel bad? It won’t work. You know the old saying, take what you want and pay for it. Afraid you’ve got a bill coming due. You’ve always been tough. We’ll see how tough you are. Will Louanne jut out that sharp little chin and spit in the wind? Or will she throw her bags in a trunk and ride out of town, leaving everything behind?”

  Annie touched the smooth stucco of the wall. She felt frozen in place. She wanted to help but there was no help she could give. Louanne was one of the characters . . .

  “Did I ever tell you how much I hate you—”

  “You didn’t always hate me.”

  The note of amusement and satisfaction jarred Annie.

  He continued in that light, faintly mocking tone. “Once, you couldn’t get enough of me. Do you know why I bothered with you? I owed Craig one. He shot me down with the boss. I damn near lost my job. How do you think I liked it when a slobbering drunk got all righteous about my getting a free weekend at a casino, girls included? Do you think I won’t enjoy his finding out the truth?”

  “Craig pulled himself together. Because of David. He’s been sober for years. Alex, please—”

  “Good for him. It’s even better that he’s sober. Cold, hard truth packs a punch when there’s nothing to dull the edges. His reaction should be interesting. Maybe I’ll pay him a visit, tell him how the cookie crumbled, how his wife—”