Don't Go Home (14 page)

The call ended.

Marian sat still, arms hunched, scarcely breathing.

•   •   •

W
arren 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.

•   •   •

P
ete 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.

“On foot. Walking to terrace.”

“Keep subject in sight. Do not alarm him. May be going to Suite 130 in east wing.”

Pete slipped from car to car, trying to remain undetected. A busload of seniors drew up at the entrance to the terrace, blocking his view. By the time he got around the bus, the occupants were spreading out onto the terrace, loud, happy, looking for tables. Pete looked frantically on the terrace, toward the pool. “Damn.” He dashed toward the entrance to the east wing.

•   •   •

M
arian dimmed the VW's headlights as she turned into the Seaside Inn parking area. She found a spot at the far end of a line of cars. She rolled down the windows, turned off the motor. She made no move to get out of the car. This was the easiest, most private way to reach Widow's Haunt. A narrow dirt road branched off the main road, wound through heavy forest to the ruins, where the historical society maintained a nicely graveled parking lot. Parking there, however, was an admission that you were on the grounds, that you had come specifically to Widow's Haunt.

If she was a reporter covering the story and she received an anonymous call suggesting information about a murder, she would have alerted Billy Cameron. He had every right to know if a damn fool was poking into a murder investigation. Then she would have grabbed her Leica and set out to see what happened.

That's what she would have done if she were just a reporter, not the mother of Alex Griffith's son.

Marian stared blankly out into the dim parking lot. Cold reason suggested Warren was toying with her. She hadn't been there when Alex was killed so Warren couldn't have seen her . . . Oh. How like Warren to call people he connected to Alex, poke them, see what happened. How many had Warren called? Abruptly, she was sure of her analysis. She wondered if anyone else had picked up on his identity. Warren obviously was unaware that he interspersed sniffs in every conversation.

She had to decide what to do, what she could do, what she must do. If she went to Widow's Haunt, she needed some way to explain her presence. If she went . . . But if she didn't alert Billy Cameron, she had to do something, find out what Warren was doing.

She turned on the motor, backed, turned. She could be at Annie's in a couple of minutes flat. If Annie would come with her . . .

•   •   •

W
arren heard the whine of a mosquito, swatted at his face. Truly it was a wonder early settlers survived long at all. They blamed yellow fever on bad air, had no idea what caused malaria. He felt a welt rising on his cheek. He almost swung around, fled back to the manicured lawn of the inn. But he'd come this far. It was only another thirty or forty yards. He walked as swiftly as he dared, occasionally using the flash. He reached the main oyster shell path. Enough moonlight spilled over the tops of the pines to illuminate the clearing and the dark broken walls that hulked up in the night, sinister and foreboding.

He strolled toward a slightly lighter shade of gray that indicated the empty window in the front side of the house. Oyster shells crunched underfoot. He reached the broken wall, humming a little. He was in good time. He wouldn't go behind the wall for a while yet. Besides, he'd hear anyone approaching. He turned to look back the way he'd come.

Behind him, a dark shape moved in the shadows beyond the empty window.

•   •   •

A
nnie put two scoops of pistachio ice cream into a red pottery bowl. She sat at the food island, slowly eating the ice cream. Between bites, she engaged in an imaginary dialog with Max in preparation for the message she would leave on his cell:

I promised I wouldn't do anything stupid. And I haven't.

She imagined Max's response:
You told George you didn't think many people knew. Is that supposed to draw a magic safety circle around you?

Max, he'll claim he never said any of it. He's probably so drunk by now he doesn't remember what he said.

Max:
Yeah, sure, if he's a murderer, it's slipped his mind that Annie Darling knows the guilty secret he thought he'd deep-sixed with Alex dead. As for stupid—excuse me, I'll be tactful—as for taking center stage as Sitting Duck Deluxe, you've made it clear to Joan Turner, Lynn Griffith, and Eddie Olson that exposure is only a heartbeat away. Your heartbeat.

Annie took another big spoonful of ice cream, though it lacked its usual soothing effect.
You don't have to be rude.

Max:
Rude? I'd like to wring your neck but Alex's murderer will probably save me the trouble.

A vagrant thump on the porch closed her throat. She drew in a quick breath. Her heart thudded. She sat quite still and listened.

•   •   •

P
ete's young face was forlorn, anguished. “I lost sight of him for just a minute.”

Hyla Harrison understood Pete's misery. He'd had an assignment. He'd flubbed it. Pete knew and she knew and the chief knew that this
wasn't a small mistake. This was big. The whole point in following Neil Kelly was to connect Kelly and Rae Griffith, prove that each knew the other was on the island, the first block in building a case for conspiracy.

Billy Cameron gave no evidence of irritation. “We have the Mustang covered. We won't lose him.” He glanced at the closed door to Suite 130. He raised his hand, knocked again. This was the third try. No answer this time either. He pulled out his cell, made a call. “Suite 130.” He held for a moment, clicked off the cell. “If they're in there, they aren't answering.” He pointed across the hall. “Pete, wait by the ice machine. You won't be visible to anyone in the hallway. Keep an eye on 130. Come on, Hyla. Let's take a look outside. Maybe he was too canny to come to her room.”

•   •   •

M
arian perched on a high stool at the food island. “I don't know what to do.” Her dark eyes were huge in a wan face. She made an effort to sit straighter. “I shouldn't have come here this late, bothered you, but I got a call a little while ago and I don't know what to do about it.”

Annie was shocked by Marian's appearance, dark hair windblown, cheeks prominent, one thin hand twisted tight in the other. Annie pushed away the bowl with the melting ice cream. “Who called?”

“Warren Foster. I went to see him after lunch. He kept hinting he knew more than anyone realized.” Marian knew Annie was on her side, but sharing Warren's anonymous call would make Annie a coconspirator hiding a fact the police should know. There was no way she would ever ask that of Annie. But Marian hoped that Annie would come with her to Widow's Haunt. Marian knew she couldn't call Billy, spin the same explanation. Billy would contact Warren, and Marian would be in big trouble. “Warren called a few minutes ago and hinted
he was going to find out a lot tonight. I couldn't make much sense of it, something about taking a picture and cable news. He said he'd set up the most delicious rendezvous at nine, very convenient for the grieving widow, absolutely a haunting locale. He said he'd tell me all about it tomorrow and then he hung up.”

The cuckoo in the wooden clock above the sink poked out its head. Treble cheeps marked a quarter to the hour. Max had been enchanted with the clock, one of Laurel's trophies from a Savannah flea market, because the cheeps vaguely sounded like “Rock Around the Clock.” “Clever, huh?” he'd said. (Annie had resisted replying, “Stupid, huh?”)

“Set up a rendezvous?”

“Right.” Marian brushed back a dark curl. “But why would the widow—I guess obviously he means Rae Griffith—go meet Warren anywhere? I doubt she's ever heard of him.” Marian glanced toward the clock. “It's close to nine now.”

“It sounds like he suspects her, plans some kind of trap. What do you suppose he meant by ‘very convenient for the grieving widow'? A ‘haunting—'” She reached out, gripped Marian's thin arm, tugged. “Widow's Haunt! It's next to the inn so it makes sense he'd pick that if it involves Rae. Come on, Marian.” Annie jumped down from the stool, hurried to the counter, pulled out the catchall drawer. “Here's a flashlight. We'll go through the woods. It's much quicker.”

Marian remained at the counter. “What's much quicker?”

“We can walk more quickly than we can drive. There's a path through our woods to the inn. We go past the terrace to the east wing. There's an entrance into the woods very near the patio to the Griffith suite. We take that path to the ruins and we can approach without anyone knowing. I did a book event there last fall. Ghost stories. Everyone loved it. Come on, we'll find out what Warren's up to.”

B
illy Cameron flicked off his cell. “No one's approached either car. Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly have to be in the area. Lou checked the cabanas; Pete's been through the lobby and the bar. No sight of them.”

Hyla could dimly see him in the shadow of the wall where they stood on the patio to Rae Griffith's suite. “Kind of interesting they've ducked out of sight.”

“Very interesting.”

Hyla was glad she wasn't Rae Griffith. Billy Cameron had Alex Griffith's widow in his sights as clearly as mallards against a November sky. Billy was a superb shot.

“Almost as good as a confession. The fact that he came here and she's nowhere to be found indicates they are together. I want to find them together. Then I'm ready to make a move.”

Hyla ignored a whir of no-see-ums. “When I talked to her this
morning, she was scared. You know how people hurt when they're torn up because somebody they care about got killed?” Her voice was gruff as she pushed away memories of the night her partner got out to check an alley and bullets ripped across his chest. “Well, she wasn't thinking about him. It was all about her. That doesn't mean she killed him, but she wasn't hurting.”

•   •   •

A
nnie slowed. “There's an alligator in the pond. Let me make sure he isn't lolling around on the path.” The fearsome creature was at least seven feet long and Annie had no intention of stepping on his tail. She flicked the beam down, lifted it enough to illuminate the area near the pond. “All clear.” Reassured, Annie hurried ahead. Broken branches littered the path. Ferns poked out feathery fronds, slowing their progress. Nearby an owl hooted. Undergrowth rustled. Annie hoped the passing creature was a deer, not a wild boar. “The ruins are about twenty-five yards farther—”

A ragged scream rose, drowning out the rustle of the trees, the whine of insects, the rasp of cicadas in full summer chorus, the distant bark of a dog.

Annie drew in a quick breath, stopped. Marian bumped into her.

A desperate cry rose not far away. “Help, help! Neil, where are you?”

Annie plunged ahead, skidding a little on pine needles, pulling free of vines.

Marian yelped, “Annie, wait, we don't know what's up there.”

Annie slowed. But the sound of that scream filled her mind, piteous, terrified, someone in bad trouble.

Marian's strong thin hand clamped on one arm. “Wait. Listen.”

A woman sobbed. A man's voice was uneven, shaky. “Oh my God. Look at his face.”

“We have to get out of here.” The woman spoke in jerky breathless bursts. “Hurry.”

“I'm going to be sick. Oh God.” His voice was muffled.

“Neil, get up.” Her voice shook. “Please get up. We have to get out of here.”

Marian spoke again. “I'll call 911. Damn, where's my cell? Got it.” Marian flashed the light down, tapped a number. She talked fast. “Woman screamed at Widow's Haunt. Somebody's hurt. Send help.” The strength of her grip on Annie's arm never eased. “Marian Kenyon. Annie Darling and I are on the path between the inn and the ruins. We heard a woman scream. There's a woman and a man and it sounds like somebody's hurt.”

Annie tried to pull free. “We have to see.”

Marian clung harder. “Help's on the way. They said Billy's at—”

It was as she spoke that running feet thudded toward them on the path from the inn. Billy Cameron, despite his size and weight, came around the curve in the path first, a brilliant beam from his Maglite turning the path bright. Hyla Harrison was close behind, hand on her holster.

Billy's light settled on Annie and Marian. He gave them both a searching stare. “What's going on?”

Annie knew they made an odd tableau, both of them half turned toward the path to the ruins, Marian holding tight to her arm.

Marian jerked her head toward the ruins. “We heard a scream. A woman yelled for help and a man told her to look at somebody's face.” She kept her voice steady with obvious effort. “Something bad's happened.”

Billy was already moving. “If there's shooting, get back to the inn. Otherwise wait here.” The last was flung over his shoulder.

Hyla Harrison didn't spare them a glance as she slipped past. She
looked calm and cool, ready for any eventuality. Now she had her gun free. The two of them moved fast but cautiously around the curve.

Marian started forward. “Come on—”

Now it was Annie who clung to Marian's arm. “Let them see. We don't want to be in the way.”

Marian resisted. “Got to find out what's happening. You can stay here.” She yanked free, grabbed the flashlight from Annie's hand, and started around the curve.

Annie started after her. Marian always pushed barriers. Being told to stay back assured she'd keep going. Annie hurried to catch up, keeping the gleam of light in view.

Ahead she heard the sounds of Billy and Hyla and Marian on the path, twigs snapping as they moved forward.

A woman's voice, edging toward hysteria, rose above the rustling on the path. “Somebody's coming. We have to get out of here.”

Abruptly the trees thinned. Annie and Marian were only a few yards behind Billy and Hyla. The stark beam from Billy's Maglite swept the clearing, stopped, framed Rae Griffith, wild-eyed, trembling, staring down at a slender young man on hands and knees, retching miserably onto the rough ground.

Billy's shout was emphatic. “Do not move. Stay in place. Police.”

Hyla came around Billy, stood, braced, gun raised, aimed.

Billy shouted again. “Hands up. Do not move. Both of you.”

Rae Griffith raised trembling hands. She wavered unsteadily. The man on the ground, still on his knees, managed to lift his arms.

Annie and Marian stopped at the end of the path. Marian muttered, “Why didn't I bring the Leica?” She held up her cell phone, began to snap pictures.

The Maglite revealed Rae and the man on the ground and a still
figure slumped against a wall, a camera lying near one hand. Annie struggled to breathe. She reached out blindly, clung to Marian. She knew they both saw the same horror: a man's body half propped against a wall of the ruins—Warren Foster's body. Warren was braced against the wall where a patch of darkness marked the existence of a long-ago window. Warren's head tilted to one side near that open space. His face looked bloated in the moonlight, swollen, distorted.

Warren's eyes bulged, his tongue protruded.

Annie understood Rae's scream and her companion's nausea.

“Strangled.” Marian shuddered.

Annie jerked her eyes away, knew that image would rise in the night, turn her sleep into nightmares.

“Hold on.” Marian steadied her, but Marian, too, was keeping her gaze away from the wall. “Don't look. Damn.” Her voice was deep in her throat, shaky.

Billy stepped to within a foot of Rae. “What happened?” The words were sharp, demanding, suspicious.

The night breeze stirred her dark hair. Her eyes were huge, beseeching. “I don't know.” She stared at him, her mouth quivering. “How would I know?”

“You're here.” Billy's voice was like the crack of a whip. “What happened to Warren Foster?”

“I don't know,” she cried again. “I don't know him. I found him. Neil and I—”

Billy took a step nearer. He glanced from her to the man now struggling to his feet.

Hyla turned the gun toward the slender man with a green-tinged face. “Hands up, Kelly.”

Annie was bewildered. Who was Rae's companion? Somebody
named Kelly? Neil Kelly? Billy and Hyla seemed to know all about him. Beside her, Marian looked from one to the other, her expression intent, wondering.

Hyla spoke into her lapel mic. “One-eight-seven. Three-nine. Two-six. Seven-nine. Widow's Haunt. Dispatch all available officers.”

Billy looked down at Rae. “What are you doing here?”

Arms still partially raised, Rae gave a desperate look at her companion.

He was struggling to breathe. A dark frown twisted his narrow face. “You better tell them. I knew we shouldn't come. I told you we shouldn't come.” His light tenor voice was tight with anger.

Rae stood silent.

“Like he said”—Billy jerked a thumb at Neil Kelly—“you better tell us. You're here; a man is dead. What happened?”

Rae dropped her hands, clasped them tightly together. “I got a phone call. A little after eight. Somebody whispered, said they saw me going in the suite during the time Alex was killed. That wasn't true. I didn't come back to the room until Alex was late and I went to see why and he was dead. But this voice whispered I had to come here or they'd tell the police. I said it was a lie, it wasn't me, it had to be somebody else.”

“You're here.” Billy flung the words at her.

The faint wail of a siren sounded in the distance.

Rae stared at Billy, eyes wild, lips trembling. “I was afraid not to come. I called Neil—”

Annie saw a look of satisfaction on Billy's face. If she were Rae, that look would terrify her, but Rae, her body shaking, kept on talking, faster and faster.

“—and told him what happened. Neil didn't want to come. He said I should ignore the call, that it was some kind of crank. But I was
scared. This whispery voice went on and on. I thought I had to come and see because you're all against me. I was afraid if someone called the police and said they'd seen me come back to the room, you'd arrest me. I told Neil we had to come and talk to this person and tell them it wasn't true.”

Neil was sullen. “We shouldn't have come. I told you we shouldn't come.”

Rae turned one trembling hand toward Billy. “Please believe me. I don't know that man.” She kept her eyes away from the wall and its grisly burden. “All I know is someone called and threatened me. I thought I had to come. I called Neil—”

Running steps sounded on the path. Lou Pirelli and two other officers came around the curve.

Lou gave Annie and Marian a quick look as they stepped out of the way, then he and the other officers spilled out into the clearing.

Billy held up a hand and they stopped, waiting for instruction.

Billy prodded Rae. “How'd you call him?”

Rae gave Billy a blank stare. “On his cell phone.”

“You know his cell phone number?” Billy spoke as if the question was innocuous.

Rae's hands twisted around and around. “I . . . Yes. I know his number.”

Annie knew the question was as terrifying to Rae as anything that had happened.

“What did you say to Mr. Kelly?”

Rae swallowed jerkily. “I told him to come to the hotel.”

The sirens sounded louder, nearer.

“Where did you meet?”

Rae's eyes flickered. Now her shoulders hunched and her hands were still in a tight grasp.

Marian leaned close, whispered in Annie's ear. “She's afraid to tell the truth. Whatever it is.”

•   •   •

A
nnie knew that she and Marian waited for her answer with a sense that they were observing disaster unfolding.

Neil Kelly wiped the back of a shaking hand across his mouth. “I should have got the hell off the island. I don't want to sneak around and hide from the cops. She said I had to meet her behind the cabanas by the pool. I didn't want to come back here—”

Billy pounced. “Was this your first time back to the inn since you checked out of Room 128?”

Neil's shoulders tightened. Fear stirred in the moonlit clearing, as unmistakable as the sudden flash of headlights. Cars squealed to a stop in the parking area on the far side of the ruins. Police spilled out of the cruisers, came hurrying, Maglites illuminating the clearing, settling on the woman with dark curls and a gaunt face, the man with a petulant expression.

Billy again held up his hand. He looked from Rae to Neil. “We'll have time to discuss Room 128 when we get to the station. Now I want to know about your plans tonight. Mrs. Griffith, you called Kelly, told him to come to the inn. Where did you meet?”

“Behind the cabanas.” She sounded drained, defeated. “He was”—she gave Neil a helpless, desperate look—“ugly. He didn't want to come with me. I told him I was afraid to go by myself. The voice had told me where to find the path. We didn't have a flashlight. It was awfully dark in the woods and we kind of had to feel our way to stay on the path. It seemed to take a long time. Finally, it was lighter ahead. I saw glimpses of moonlight and I thought we must be getting close to the clearing. The voice had said to come to the clearing and walk
across to the ruins. I thought maybe Neil should stay out of sight. He said I could yell if I needed him. I kept on going—”

“You went on alone?”

“Yes. I came out of the woods and there were the ruins. I didn't see . . .” She shuddered. “I called out, but nobody answered. I thought maybe it was just an ugly joke and we could go back. I stopped to listen. I didn't hear anything so I called out again.”

Billy turned toward Neil. “Could you see her?”

An odd expression slid across Neil's face. His gaze flicked toward Rae. “I kept back a ways. I thought it was all stupid.” His voice was thin. “I couldn't see her.”

Uncertainty, panic, and fear flitted across Rae's face.

Billy looked at Rae. “You went ahead by yourself.”

“The whispery voice told me to come to the wall with the missing window, that it was the front of the old house, the main part of the ruins.”

Billy spoke quietly. “You walked to the front of the ruins. What happened?”

“I walked across the open space and as I got nearer to the wall, I thought somebody was resting on the ground, kind of sitting there. I called out kind of softly, ‘Who's there?' Nobody answered. I kept on coming. I didn't know until I got right up to the wall. I looked down and I saw that horrible face in the moonlight. I screamed. Neil came running.”