Don't Go Home (21 page)

They came up with seven: Twila Tullis, Sydney Morris, Clarinda Smith, Viola Graham, Ginevra Hill, Cairo Ainsley, and Storm Porter.

Marian tapped the sheet. “Twila James is the dental technician for Dr. Forbes. I'll bet she was Twila Tullis. She's about the right age.”

Max made a checkmark by Cairo Ainsley. “Cairo Richards sells real estate. Ditto and ditto.”

Annie had a quick memory of an elegant woman with coal black hair drawn back in a chignon and a Mona Lisa face. “Viola Hunter's a tech at the vet's. She's the right age, too.”

Marian popped to her feet. “I'll run the list past Ginger Harris, see if she knows anything about the others.”

When she was gone, Annie looked at her notepad. They needed to be careful how they approached Alex's former classmates. Possibly start with the simple question, “Are you one of the old friends Alex talked to on Wednesday morning?”

She glanced at Max. His expression was . . . interesting. “Are we being silly?”

He shook his head. “No. It's as good a lead as we have. But there's something surreal about ferreting out a witness—if there is one—because of an odd name. Only in a small town.”

Annie began to feel restive, but finally the door opened. Marian returned with a bemused expression. “If you ever want to disappear, don't even think about it. Ginger Harris knows all, sees all, remembers all. She told me where all seven of the girls are, their marital history or not, children, political persuasion, and hair color. She gave us a gold star, said those three we know are the only ones still on the island. Then she asked me—I swear she's a barracuda with blue eyes and a white perm—if she could have first dibs for a color story on the heart-tugging moments Alex spent with an old friend on the last day of his life. I won't go so far as to say she was licking her lips but it's only because she's always a lady and ladies do not.”

M
arian pushed back a lock of dark hair. “I have phone numbers. We'll each call one. Any preferences?”

Annie chose Viola; Max selected Cairo; Marian took Twila.

Marian glanced at Annie. “You first.”

Annie held for a moment until Viola Hunter picked up the call. “Is Dorothy L having more trouble with her paw?” The venturesome cat had ended up with a thorn in her back left paw two weeks earlier.

Annie put the cell on speaker. “She's fine, Viola. I'm calling about a classmate. You were in school with Alex Griffith—”

“Golly.” Viola's sweet voice was shocked. “I can't believe what happened to him.”

“When you saw him Wednesday—”

“Me? Must have been someone else. I haven't seen Alex since the high school prom. I hoped he'd ask me to dance. But he didn't.”

When Annie's call ended, Marian nodded at Max.

He put his cell on speaker: “. . . tracking down people Alex Griffith spoke to on Wednesday.”

“Are you calling for the police?” Cairo Richards's deep voice was wary.

Max answered carefully. “If we learn anything that would be helpful to the police investigation, it's our duty to inform them.”

“We?” It might simply have been an inquiry but the query suggested reserve, hesitation.

Annie pictured Cairo's face: eyes dark and deep, high cheekbones, full lips, a firm chin.

“Annie and I are trying to put together a complete picture of Alex's activities Wednesday.”

Marian pointed at herself, then at the phone. Her narrow face was intent, her glare demanding.

Max placed his forefinger briefly on his lips, mouthed, “Later.”

Cairo was silent, then said slowly, “Perhaps I should talk to you. I've been debating what to do. I'll be in my office for a few more minutes before I leave for an appointment. If you can come—”

“We'll be right there.” Max clicked off the cell.

Marian's expression was fierce. “
You and Annie
are trying to put together his day? What about me?”

Max was already standing. “We'll fill you in. But some people, especially someone like Cairo, don't want to be in the
Gazette
in connection with a murder case. She's always dressed to the nines, drives a Mercedes coupe, and butter won't melt when she's trying to sell a beachfront property for a couple million.”

Marian tensed like a cheetah ready to spring, then slowly relaxed. “Gotcha. I'll walk over with you, wait on the pier.”

•   •   •

A
s they followed Cairo Richards down the hall, Annie glanced at the closed door to George Griffith's office, wondered if he was here or out showing a property. Cairo led the way to a corner office that overlooked the harbor. She gestured toward a brocaded sofa. A white leather album lay open on the oak coffee table. As they settled on the sofa, Annie admired superb photographs of a Mediterranean mansion overlooking the ocean.

Cairo's white linen jacket emphasized the midnight darkness of her ebony hair. A heavy linked gold necklace added richness to a pale lime blouse. Tall, slender, and elegant, she walked across the heart pine floor and sat opposite them in a chintz-covered chair, crossed linen-clad legs to display green stiletto heels. She placed fingertips together, spoke in her distinctive deep voice. “There was a knock on my door about ten Wednesday morning. I called, ‘Come in.' The door opened and Alex stepped inside. I was delighted. We dated a bit in high school. He said he'd dropped by to see George and saw my name on the door and wanted to give me a kiss.” There was a flash of sadness in her eyes. “I was glad to see him. He sat on the sofa.” She nodded toward Annie and Max. “I'd seen the story in the
Gazette
about his talk. I told him I'd definitely be there. And then he was expansive, the old Alex. He sprawled back against the cushions and said he intended to pull the draperies off some old statues, but that was enough about him. I'd find out everything Wednesday night. Then he looked at my wall”—a graceful hand gestured to her right and a wall with more than a dozen paintings, all obviously by the same artist—“and asked if those were mine. I'd just said yes when my phone rang, I went to my desk to answer. Alex got up and wandered
over to look at my watercolors. The call—well, it doesn't matter but it was complicated, a problem with a second mortgage. I finished and when I turned to Alex, he was staring at one of the paintings in the first column. I could tell even from his back that he was shaken. He looked back at me and I knew he was excited. He asked, ‘Can I take a picture of that painting?'” She pointed to the third watercolor.

Annie was the first one to reach the wall. She looked at the third painting. She could hear Cairo's deep voice saying, “. . . plein air . . . absolutely made the painting . . . took a photograph so I had the image clearly . . .”

The watercolor had a brooding quality, showing a narrow inlet between thickly wooded banks, the spartina grass dull beneath scudding gray clouds, the water dark as well, with the only points of light its rising whitecaps. A long wooden pier jutted out from the marsh to deeper water. A wet figure climbed the ladder's pier, pulling off a white swim cap to loose a cascade of silver blond hair. Her body was lithe and strong in a full-body stinger swimsuit, black with pink stripes down each arm.

Annie gripped Max's arm, pointed at the bottom right of the watercolor, the artist's name and the date.

•   •   •

T
he jukebox blared—Annie always felt a sense of comfort when she heard Bob Wills's “Deep in the Heart of Texas”—but the booth was a pocket of tension. Max's face furrowed in a tight frown. Marian's small jaw jutted in determination. Parotti's Bar and Grill was packed with boisterous vacationers and querulous sunburned kids who were too tired to eat. The holiday aura emphasized the grim divide in their booth.

Max was adamant. “Once Billy sees that watercolor, he'll know
what happened. Lynn Griffith's a master swimmer. We all knew that. Now we know she was out for a distance swim the afternoon Heyward's sailboat capsized.”

Annie chimed in. “That's what Alex meant when he was talking to Rae. He said he had proof in black and white and then he laughed and said in color. He was talking about Cairo's painting.”

Marian nodded energetically. “The watercolor places Lynn in the right place to plan a swim out to intercept Heyward. I agree—”

Cairo had described the mansion for sale that summer on an inlet north of the marina and how on Mondays, which she always took as her day off since she worked weekends, she'd take her portable easel and set up on the second-floor balcony. “The Browns were in Europe and I was showing the place and I knew no one was ever there. The pier was part of their property. That day was perfect for a brooding, dark painting. But the swimmer added depth, power. I always have my camera along. I got a half dozen shots and that's how I was able to get the figure at the top of the steps just right.”

“—this is terrific evidence. But it isn't enough. What do you think Billy would do?”

Max finished his last bite of grilled flounder. “He'd know there were three murders. He'd go see Lynn Griffith—”

“Exactly.” Marian was dismissive, aggressive. “She'd gaze at him with that perplexed dumb-blonde look and say he was mistaken, she can't imagine what he's talking about, and she has a meeting so if he'll excuse her. And that will be that.”

Max said again, firmly, “We need to alert Billy.”

Marian pushed away her half-eaten grilled cheese. “Max, what difference does it make whether we go to him now or tomorrow? Here's what I want us to do . . .”

Annie moved her hand below the tabletop, gripped Max's knee.

His gaze slid toward her, saw the plea in her face. His hand came down on top of hers, squeezed. “Okay, Marian. We'll do it your way.”

•   •   •

M
oonlight streamed across the bedroom. Annie slipped her arms around Max's bare back. “I'm glad you're home.” Glad for love, for care, for warmth, for touch and passion.

His lips were soft against her throat, her cheek, her mouth, his hands warm and seeking, and then there was no thought, only feeling, dizzying, tumultuous, incandescent.

When they were lying quiet in the moonlight, hands clasped, he said, “Me, too. Some things beat fishing.”

She laughed. “I'm glad I outrank a tarpon.”

“Outrank? On a scale of . . .”

She snuggled against his side, listened drowsily as Max made clear his priorities. Nice to know she was a billion light-years more desirable than a fishing trip. As she drifted into sleep, she felt a poignant wish that Marian could be as happy as she was, but perhaps at least she was resting better tonight, knowing tomorrow they might bring a sad chapter in her life to a close.

•   •   •

M
arian glanced in the mirror. Black turtleneck, tight black jeans, black sneakers. No wonder this was the style for cat burglars. Even in bright moonlight, she'd be hard to see and she intended to make certain no one saw her. She'd recently watched
To Catch a Thief
. Thankfully she wouldn't have to scale a chateau roof. But she still felt dryness in her throat, the parched discomfort that fear brings. She was afraid.

Her mouth twisted in a wry grimace. Not being an utter fool, of course she was afraid. Lynn Griffith was a tall, imposing, ruthless killer.
Lynn had murdered her husband, moved swiftly to kill Alex when he posed a threat, waited unseen to choke the life out of Warren. Surely any killer, Marian thought, is preternaturally alert to danger. Perhaps especially this one. There would be no mercy if Marian got caught.

Marian stood still, breathing shallowly. She didn't have to do this. She didn't have to take this kind of chance. Instead, she could fix a drink, take a hot shower, let the police send Rae and Neil to prison. And if she did, she'd never be at peace.

She slowed her breaths, made them even. She had to do whatever she could, whatever it required, to make sure Lynn Griffith, not Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly, faced a jury. She knew the ways of police and the courts. There wasn't enough evidence to convict Lynn. Not nearly enough. Lynn Griffith was a triple murderer. Marian had to see her brought to justice, even if she put herself in danger.

She glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. She'd studied a map of the bike trails that webbed the island. She knew precisely how to ride from her house to Lynn Griffith's home, not more than a half mile distant, and from the Griffith house to Widow's Haunt.

In the kitchen, she took a last sip of water, slid a small LED flashlight into one pocket. She wore soft, supple leather gloves. She turned to a cabinet, lifted down a box of quart-sized plastic bags. She pulled out several bags, selected one that had been in the interior and never touched, folded the plastic, tucked it into the other pocket. She turned off the lights, moved in darkness across the kitchen, stepped out the back door. Probably no neighbors were watching, but she was now a part of the substratum of society that moves in the night and does not wish to be observed.

She hurried across the hummocky ground to the shed that housed the lawn mower, leaf blower, David's bike, and hers. Almost every island home had a similar shed. She pulled and the door creaked. The rasp could be heard above the whir of the cicadas and chirp of
the crickets. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness, stepped carefully to avoid the dark lump of the mower, reached her bike. She flipped up the kickstand, rolled out the bike, closed the door.

Once on the street, she pedaled fast. She used the bike's front light on the streets. A dark bike might seem sinister. She was simply an eccentric islander out for a midnight ride. Again, her mouth twisted wryly. She'd have to do a survey, write a feature about midnight riders. She imagined Walt's reaction:
Who the hell would do that?
It was comforting to think about Walt and the newsroom, bright lights and sharp minds, no connection to her foray into the night and the terrifying task that lay ahead.

She felt safer when she turned off into the woods and onto an asphalt trail. She followed the winding trail through tall pines. Thick undergrowth flourished on both sides. A crashing sound off to the right might have been a deer. She slowed as she skirted a lagoon, watching for alligators. She saw a fork. If she went left, she would reach Widow's Haunt. She veered right. She kept the headlight on until she was about a quarter mile from Lynn Griffith's home. She turned off the light, managed with occasional brief bursts from the flashlight. The trail here ran about twenty yards behind the houses.

She caught a faint scent of cigar smoke and immediately braked. She waited, listening. Although it was late, some smoker, likely forbidden to light up in the house, must be on a patio.

Marian rolled the bike forward.

Deep ferocious barks shattered the silence.

Marian stiffened, stood still.

Shrubbery rustled. A dark, moving shape hurtled toward her, stopped a foot away. Deep-throated barks rose to a crescendo.

“Sinbad.”

The smell of cigar smoke was stronger.

“Sinbad, you damn fool.” The deep male voice was aggravated. “The last time, you got twenty quills in your hide. Come back here, idiot dog.”

Marian blinked back angry tears. She had to get past this. Hoping her instinct was right, she reached down, flicked on the light, called out, “Hey, sorry. Do you mind asking Rover to let me by?”

The red tip of the cigar appeared, then a heavyset man in a tee and shorts. “He's a big blowhard. He'll roll over on his tummy for you in a minute.”

The German shepherd's fangs were near enough she could see yellow from tartar. Saliva drooled as he continued to bark.