Don't Go Home Read online

  “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.”

  • • •

  Annie 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.

  She drank her hot, strong coffee and gazed determinedly at the watercolors mounted above the fireplace mantel. Every month a local artist provided her with five paintings based on significant scenes in five mysteries. Bookstore visitors were invited to identify the scenes by title and author. The first reader to come up with five correct answers received a free month’s worth of coffee and one free book (not a collectible). This month, at Annie’s direction, the artist included in the bottom right-hand corner the year of publication. Fair was fair. Some of the books were from long ago.

  In the first painting, a tall blond man in a blue beret fired a huge pearl-handled automatic at a coral snake as the snake leapt from a wicker basket onto the tiled floor of a restaurant. A dark-haired woman stared down in horror. A tall, angular woman clutched the arm of an unshaven middle-aged man in a crumpled gray suit and vest. (1937)

  In the second painting, a blue-eyed, brown-haired young woman in a patterned brown-and-white silk dress stood in the compartment of a moving train, a vast treeless plain visible through the window. She stared down in horror at the body of a dark-haired young man resting on a train seat. The body was partially covered by a white sheet. (1944)

  In the third painting, a disheveled middle-aged woman in a purple dress sat on the edge of a bed in a dim room. Tortoiseshell combs were askew in her upswept hair. Lying beside her was an old handmade quilt with a log cabin pattern. Her feet rested on a rag rug. A man sat in a chair across the room. He wore a Halloween mask, which hid his face. (2010)

  In the fourth painting, a tall, attractive man with an intelligent, civilized expression stood before a mirror, appraising the effect of his costume, a wool suit in the style of the 1930s with a heavy linen shirt and a silk waistcoat, finished off by a thick cravat. A tidy black mustache that appeared artificial adorned his upper lip. A huge Maine coon cat watched. The cat appeared puzzled. (2013)

  In the fifth painting, a neglected sunken garden featured Greek statues set into alcoves. Tiny shells and fragments of colored glass paved the paths. A grand country house with crumbling cornices and a roof in disrepair was visible in the distance. An appealing young woman with thick, waist-length chestnut hair, dressed in a white shirt and jeans, looked down at a little boy wearing a World War I Biggles flying helmet and goggles. He held a toy Merrythought mouse. (2014)

  Annie relaxed against the chair, sipped coffee, and enjoyed silence. Death on Demand would open soon, customers would flock in, and it would be another busy summer day. Unpacking books, placing orders, sharing tips with customers—Don’t miss the new Mark Pryor . . . Carola Dunn’s historical mysteries are a delight . . . Kerry Greenwood has a new series set in Egypt—would make the day happy and soon the darkness from Seaside Inn would begin to recede.

  A firm knock sounded at the front door.

  5

  Hyla Harrison’s eyes adjusted to the dimness. The hotel meeting room on the second floor was set up for a film to be shown. Rows of chairs separated by a middle aisle stretched behind her. She was the only viewer. She half turned to watch as the manager adjusted the projector. Bud Crane was new to the island. In the future, Hyla would know him at a glance. Around six foot four with the aura of an old athlete gone a bit soft. Perhaps thirty-five or thirty-six. Reddish hair cut short, light brown eyes alert for trouble, a crooked nose, likely once broken, a smile that didn’t reach his gaze. Not a man to trifle with. Probably been around some tough blocks in his time. Right now he was eager to cooperate.

  He talked fast as an image flickered on the screen. “We run the cameras on a twenty-four-hour cycle. I’m fast-forwarding. Here we are. Tuesday morning.” Abruptly the film slowed. Images slipped across the screen with time noted below in numerals: 10:02, 10:03, 10:04 . . .

  Hyla leaned forward, held up her hand at 10:07.

  The film stopped.

  Hyla’s eyes scoured the image. She committed every detail to memory.

  A young man faced the counter. Approximately five foot ten. An oversized straw hat with a brim shadowed his face, hid his hair except for a fringe of thick blond curls on either side. Large aviator sunglasses, puffy cheeks, a bushy black mustache, smooth unlined skin. A Hawaiian shirt hung outside worn jeans, a bulge near the waistline. Lean, muscular arms extended below the short sleeves of the shirt. The arms looked fit, no stranger to weight bands at the gym, belying the soft rounding beneath the shirt. Worn Adidas running shoes. The left shoe had a tear along one side. Weight? A beer belly would add ten, fifteen pounds, make it one eighty-five. Was the belly authentic or artfully managed by a strapped-on pillow? Subtract the bulge, likely one seventy.

  • • •

  Billy Cameron declined a mug of coffee and a Danish. He looked fit and fresh in a short-sleeved white shirt, tan trousers, and brown leather loafers. His blond hair, flecke
d with white, was bleached a light gold by the summer sun. His face was tanned by the unrelenting sun of the late-summer afternoons that he and Mavis spent watching their son, Kevin, play baseball. The tan emphasized the deep blue of his eyes. He remained standing by the coffee bar, big and impressive, and those startlingly blue eyes studied Annie.

  “Midmorning yesterday you alerted the inn that Death on Demand was no longer associated with the Griffith book event.” It was a statement.

  Annie had expected this moment to come. Of course he had spoken to Rita White. “Yes.”

  For an instant, Billy’s broad mouth quirked in a slight grin. “Can’t you do a little better than that? For starters, had you told Alex Griffith that you were withdrawing?”

  “Yes.”

  Billy folded his arms, waited.

  Annie took a quick breath. “The whole thing came without warning. I mean, when I came to work Monday morning I didn’t know much about Alex Griffith except that he was a huge author and he’d grown up here. I didn’t see the Sunday paper because I was gone this weekend. Max—”

  Billy nodded. “Fishing.”

  A small town at work. Billy knew them, knew charter captains, loved to fish; likely he and Max had talked about the old-friends-on-a-boat outing.

  “Right. So I went to Savannah for the weekend.” She was filling in more than he wanted but she had to make the point about the Gazette story. “I drove straight to the store when I got off the ferry Monday morning. Rae Griffith came to see me. That’s when I realized I knew some of his family.” Billy was an island boy born and bred. She looked at him curiously. “Did you know Alex Griffith grew up here?”

  He nodded. “He’s years younger than I am. Alex was in the same class as my brother Ben.”

  At her blank look, another slight smile. “Ben went to West Point, career military, stationed at Wiesbaden in Germany right now.”

  Annie once again realized the gulf between native islanders and outsiders like her and Max. They were part of the community but . . . there would always be a but. “Anyway, I knew he was from here and famous and I was thrilled that his wife wanted Death on Demand to host a talk. I didn’t know about the article in the Gazette”—she looked inquiringly at Billy and he nodded—“until Monday afternoon and by then I was committed. At least that’s how I felt. But I read the article several times and then I reread Don’t Go Home. When I looked at those questions in the Gazette and thought about the characters in the book, I didn’t like the idea he was going to name names last night.”

  “But you didn’t do anything about it until Wednesday morning?”

  Here’s where the ice thinned. How long would it take Billy to decide something in particular Wednesday morning prompted Annie to withdraw? Or had that thought already occurred to him? The best defense . . . “I kept dithering.” Her tone was self-critical. “I didn’t like the article. The idea of tying particular characters to actual people here on the island was revolting. But I was in the middle of arranging the program and I’d promised. But the more I thought about it, the worse I felt. I didn’t want Death on Demand connected to that kind of spectacle. So I had a bright idea. I decided I’d talk to him, ask him to change the tenor of the evening, focus on talking about writing. But when I spoke to him Wednesday morning”—and she was being accurate, changing the focus to her morning encounter with Alex, though a taunting imp in her mind chanted, Sophism, sophism—“I told him I didn’t know what he intended to do but I wasn’t going to be a party to it.” She turned both hands palms up. “I walked out, went upstairs, told Rita that Death on Demand was out.”

  “Did you discuss the Gazette article with him?”

  “I told him I’d read it.” Oh happy day, she was going to succeed in skirting past the dangerous moments of her talk with Alex Griffith, the dangerous moments for Marian. “I told him I don’t like bullies.”

  “Did he identify anyone he intended to discuss?”

  “No.”

  “What was his demeanor?”

  “Pleased with himself. Impervious.”

  “Do you know if he had spoken with anyone else about the article?”

  “I have no idea if he discussed the article with anyone.” Again the choice of words saved her. “I told him what I had to say and I left. I didn’t wait for him to answer.”

  Billy’s gaze narrowed. “Yet you came to the inn even though you weren’t going to participate.”

  “I wanted people to know that Death on Demand wasn’t involved. I hadn’t quite decided what to do. I thought maybe I’d go up onstage just before he started and announce that Death on Demand had withdrawn from the program.”

  Billy’s blue eyes never left her face. “You showed up at the inn last night after someone broke in to the Griffith suite.”

  Annie felt tension ease from her body, hoped Billy’s watchful gaze didn’t pick up on her relief. She was happy to talk about anything but the moments she’d spent near the Griffith patio. “I was on our porch. I heard the sirens. I knew Rae Griffith was invited to the Turner house but I worried that she might still be by herself at the inn.”

  Billy’s gaze was searching. “A couple of weeks ago you set out to prove a suicide was murder. You got the proof but a killer almost got you. Max told me you’d promised to stay out of other people’s troubles. But last night you showed up at the inn.”

  “Not at all the same thing. Last night I was worried about Rae Griffith being alone. Obviously she’s decided to stay at the inn no matter what happens, but she’ll be all right. If there was anything in his papers, the briefcase is gone now. The word will get out. She doesn’t need my help. I’m not involved.”

  “Good to know.” His voice was mild. “Max will be proud of you.”

  • • •

  Hyla Harrison ignored the glare of the midmorning sun. She felt a trickle of sweat down her back and legs. Summer on a sea island. The thought was fleeting, dismissed. It didn’t matter if it was hot or if rare sleet whistled, she would keep after a trail until she reached the end or the trail disappeared. When she was back in the office, she’d make some calls, find out more about the widow. She was always suspicious of family members. Most crimes were committed, as she’d told the clerk, by someone who knew the victim. There was no doubt in Hyla’s mind that when they eventually discovered Alex’s killer, the killer would be known to him. The blow had come from behind, likely as he was relaxed on the sofa, catching him across the back of the head. Another strike and the stick bludgeoned the side of his face. The two together were enough to stun him. Then the pillow jammed against his face until there was no more breath. The killer could be a hulking man or a petite woman. Hyla pictured the widow. Looked like there was plenty of strength in her arms; obviously she was in good physical shape.

  What kind of shape had her marriage been in?

  • • •

  Ingrid understood her meaning when Annie pointed toward the back room, then turned her thumb down. It was a do-not-disturb, I’m-not-here signal. No one would knock on that door until Annie reemerged. The center aisle was clogged with shoppers. Annie was stopped twice on her way to the back room to respond to questions. “A book about a ship going down and an old champion swimmer? You may be thinking of The Poseidon Adventure by Paul Gallico.” “John Marquand is the author of Ming Yellow.” She declared herself baffled about a book that was either set in a garden or where the murderer was a gardener . . . “Sorry. Urgent call I have to take,” she said and slid past the customer to reach the door to the back room.

  Annie closed the door behind her, shutting out the noise and bustle of the store. On the worktable, Agatha stretched in utter abandon on her back, four paws elevated. Annie gave the lightest of strokes to the sleek soft fur of her tummy. Annie understood the great compliment. Agatha’s relaxed posture said to all the world, I’m safe. I’m loved.

  Annie unlocked the rear door that o
pened to the alley, then settled in her swivel chair by the computer. She clicked on an order form, shook her head, made no effort to work. She waited, dreading the coming moments. When Marian had called, her voice was grim, strained.

  The expected knock at the door sounded in only a few minutes. The knob turned.

  Marian Kenyon stepped inside, black curls mussed by the breeze off the harbor, dark eyes huge in a set, pale face. She was neatly attired in a short-sleeved cream linen blouse with a twisted drape collar and slim-leg gray slacks, stylishly short at the ankles with side slits at the hem, and gray sandals. She leaned back against the door. “You didn’t tell Billy. But I can’t ask you to lie for me.” Her voice was dull, hopeless.

  Annie jumped up and hurried around the table. She took one thin elbow, steered Marian to the rickety wooden chair by the worktable. “I’ll never tell him.”

  Marian looked up; her face worked. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “David gets home Sunday. I can’t bear it if he ever knows. He mustn’t know. Craig is his father. Craig’s been a wonderful dad to him. Having David turned Craig’s life around. If either of them ever finds out, everything will be ruined.” She used both hands to brush away the tears. “Billy’s suspicious. He looks at me and he knows I know something. He doesn’t know what it is. So far, he hasn’t connected me to Alex. But if he keeps looking, he’ll put it together. Craig and I were both reporters in Atlanta when Alex was hired. Craig was a mess. Drunk most of the time. But”—and now her gaze was earnest—“Craig was a good reporter and he never took a dime from anybody for anything. I never knew until later that he turned Alex in for being on the take.” Her face twisted. “I should have known Alex didn’t come after me because he thought I was—” She broke off, didn’t finish.

  Annie understood. Alex didn’t make love to Marian because she was appealing or fun or smart or kind. He came after her to get back at Craig.

  “Funny.” Marian’s lips quivered. “I thought it was the end of the world when he dumped me because I was pregnant. Craig never realized he wasn’t the dad. Craig—”