Don't Go Home (22 page)

“Damn sorry.” The deep voice was apologetic. “Stay, Sinbad.” He reached the dog, bent down, fumbled for his collar.

“Thank you. At the inn, they said it was all right to take a late bike ride. I couldn't sleep—”

“Night owl, huh. Me, too. You ride on now, I'll take him in.”

Marian swung onto the bike, turned her face a little as she wheeled past the man and the dog, hackles still raised. Her heart thudded. Around the next bend, she slowed, turned off the headlamp. The Griffith house was the sixth past the fork in the path. Not this one, the next.

Marian coasted to a stop. She hadn't thought about whether Lynn owned a dog. But barking dogs were never unusual. The night forest held many creatures that excited dogs—porcupines, squirrels, raccoons, foxes, deer, occasionally wild boar.

Marian propped the bike on the kickstand, stepped lightly through the thinning woods. Moonlight illuminated the back of the house and the swimming pool. The layout was simple: a wooden enclosure for trash pails, a small greenhouse, a shed. Marian pulled the leather gloves from her pocket, slipped them on. She looked for a long moment at the trash enclosure, shook her head, slipped through shadows to
the shed. A lock hung from the hasp. For an instant, she couldn't breathe. She reached out, her hand trembling.

The lock wasn't engaged.

Marian breathed again. She edged the shackle free of the hasp, pulled the door open slowly, stepped inside. A brief flash of the LED flashlight revealed an expansive, concrete-floored storage shed. Her eyes went directly to a red bike. She felt a flicker of triumph. She'd been sure there would be a bike.

She moved the bike out of the shed, taking her time. Sweat slid down her back and legs. Once out of the shed, the door closed, the lock carefully rehung, she kept to the shadows. She reached the bike path. She waited until she was past Sinbad's house—likely the dog was standing with nose pressed to a sliding patio door—to turn on the light. Then she went faster, gloved hands light on the steering grips so as not to smudge fingerprints. She was startled at how quickly she reached the fork and made the turn to Widow's Haunt. This portion of the path plunged through woods. Another few minutes and she was at the deserted parking lot. She turned off the headlamp, waited. Nothing stirred in the night but creatures of the woods. An owl hooted. Mourning doves called. Cicadas rasped. Crickets chirped. High above, a plane moved through the night sky.

She exhaled slowly. No door slammed, no voice rose, no footstep sounded. She had Widow's Haunt to herself—to herself and whatever ghosts might be abroad, the emaciated woman who grieved herself to death, the unavenged spirit of Warren Foster.

Marian wasn't worried about ghosts. A part of her watched askance. Fabricating evidence . . . she'd done a series once exposing fake invoices in a city office. She'd despised an official for cheating, for betraying trust. She'd always tried to play it straight. But she knew that Lynn's bike had been at Widow's Haunt and a man died horribly. Bike tracks had been
erased or avoided. How fair was it to make that piece of evidence available for a jury? Marian didn't subscribe to the modern whatever's-right concept but she had a clear memory of Rae's haunted face and of Alex with all the life and vigor and strength drained away. There had been tire tracks from this bike. She set her jaw. There would now be tracks again.

She felt pressure to hurry, to get her task done, to get the bike back into the shed and no one ever the wiser. But she had to do it right.

She turned on the headlamp, used the flashlight as well. The paved parking lot was no good for her purposes. At the end of the lot, one path led to the front of the ruins, another cut a sharp left to curve through willows behind jumbled bricks. Marian shone the flashlight on the ground. Tufts of johnsongrass. Drifted pine straw. And there, about eight feet ahead, was a mushy area left from the last tropical storm, a low-lying depression that didn't drain well.

Marian smiled, swung onto the bike, pedaled slowly and carefully straight ahead.

She rode the rest of the way behind the ruins, keeping close to the path. She found another low muddy patch.

She stopped a few feet behind the remnants of the wall, saw the paler oblong that marked the empty space where there had once been a window. She flicked the light around the area behind her. A stand of cane. Perfect. She rolled the bike across the ground, careful not to step on any dusty or damp patches. She wedged the bike into the cane. In a moment, she pulled the frame free, trampling a bit of cane, perhaps leaving marks there as well. She swung onto the seat, rode across the ground, regained the parking lot.

The journey on the bike path was dreamlike, silent except for the sounds of the night and the whish of bike tires. She found her bike where she had left it, a few feet off the path. She turned off the headlamp of Lynn's bike. She rolled Lynn's bike through the shadows to
the shed, opened the door, replaced the bicycle precisely where she had found it. When the shed door closed behind her, she hung the lock on the hasp, then turned to look toward the trash enclosure.

Again she slipped from shadow to shadow until she reached the concrete stoop of the enclosure. She lifted the wooden bar. The gate swung in. She cringed at a deep melancholy creak. She didn't dare take a chance of being trapped within the garbage area. She stood on the step, pressed against the post, listened with an intensity that magnified every sound: the rattle of magnolia leaves, the soughing of the pines, calls and cries and chirps. She watched the back of the house. A minute passed. Two. Five. One part of her urged
hurry, hurry, hurry
. The other warned
be careful, be careful, be careful
.

The windows remained dark.

Marian stepped into the enclosure. Now she had to use her LED flash. She cupped one hand over the beam, located three trash cans. She stepped to the first one, unbuckled the straps that prevented foraging raccoons from retrieving late-night snacks. She glanced over her shoulder, felt queasy. She couldn't see the house now. She had no way of knowing if there might be a light or a door opening. She lifted the lid; the sweet scent of spoiled fruit struck her full in the face. She wrinkled her nose, peered over the side, aimed the beam down. She pulled on the tie of the first trash bag, loosened it, spread the bag wide.

Perfect, perfect. perfect. She reached down, plucked up the object she sought. She pulled the plastic sandwich bag from her pocket, opened it, slipped her trophy inside. She retied the trash bag, slid the lid in place, buckled the straps.

She edged to the gate, looked out. No lights in the house.

It took only a moment to cross the backyard, darting from shadow to shadow, but her shoulders ached from tension. She reached the trail, safe now in the darkness of the woods. She started to get on her bike,
then paused. She stepped away, shielded the light with her body, ran the beam along the ground. Damned if there wasn't . . . She thought for a moment, then bent and used her gloved hands to smear away a print from her front tire. Now she moved foot by foot, finding tracks, obliterating them. And then she was on the bike trail and around the curve, turning on the headlamp and flying through the night.

When she reached the house, she hurried the bike into the shed, stumbled, exhausted, across the yard, climbed the back steps and was in the kitchen.

She was home.

She was safe.

She turned on the kitchen light, not caring now who saw and knew there was movement in her house. She leaned back against the door, rested for a long while, then, legs leaden, walked to the kitchen table, sank onto a wooden chair. She pulled the sandwich bag from her pocket, laid it on the table.

She was trembling. She must move, take a hot bath, fix a drink, get to bed. Tomorrow she must play her cards right. She held a good hand now. The woman who killed Alex had no inkling that a trap had been fashioned. It was as if Lynn stood there, confident, untroubled, serene in her safety. But the trap must be sprung.

Marian slumped in the chair, too weary to stand. Tears streamed down her face.

•   •   •

S
un splashed into the kitchen. The smell of good strong coffee mingled with the scent of freshly squeezed oranges.

Max slid a plate with a waffle in front of her.

Annie added three strips of bacon. Maybe that was piggy but Max's bacon—actually it was good Arkansas bacon—practically
danced its way onto a plate. And, she sighed happily, Max had fixed whipped cream and fresh strawberries. “It is nice to have you home.”

Max's smile was wry. “Hmm. I recall murmuring sweet somethings to you last night, proclaiming that frolicking with you was much grander than fishing. Am I to understand you are glad to have me home to cook?” Great emphasis on the last verb. His eyes were telling her how much he remembered of their moments together in the night.

Annie grinned. “To frolic.” A pause. “And to cook.”

“On a scale of one to ten—”

But her mouth was full of crisp, succulent waffle with a bite of bacon. “I'm not any good at math.”

Max joined her at the table, grumbling. “Serves me right for being such a good cook. Maybe I'll take a sabbatical.”

“Ten,” she said hastily.

“Which is a ten?”

“You.”

“That's better.”

Annie enjoyed breakfast. Most of all she enjoyed looking across the table, talking, laughing. How lucky was she? It wasn't simply that Max was handsome, sexy, and fun. When he was beside her, her world was right. As simple as that. As complex as that. They never ran out of things to talk about, though this morning they were avoiding rehashing Marian's early morning call and her plea that they meet her at Widow's Haunt.

Annie glanced at the clock. “We'd better hurry.”

Max's face creased in a frown. “We should go straight to Billy and tell him about Lynn Griffith in the bay the day Heyward died. That's what matters. Going to Widow's Haunt won't accomplish anything.”

“I think,” Annie said slowly, “Marian has a hunch.”

“Ah, feminine intuition.” He had the long-suffering-male expression. “Annie, they've done studies. It doesn't exist.”

Annie was short on studies to cite, but statistics could prove whatever anyone wished to prove. She didn't need a study to recognize the utter conviction in Marian's voice. Marian said she had a feeling something had been missed, she'd waked in the night, knew they'd find something, they had to look.

“Marian's really upset—” She heard three rapid pings. Annie pulled her cell from her pocket, smiled at Max. “My morning uplift from the Incredible Trio.” She looked down. “From your mom: ‘Life does not consist mainly—or even largely—of facts and happenings. It consists mainly of the storm of thoughts that are forever blowing through one's mind. Mark Twain.' Max, that's exactly what Marian was describing, a storm of thoughts!”

Max laughed. “Why am I not surprised when a woman has a storm of thoughts? Men, of course, arrange thoughts in an orderly fashion.”

But Annie was already reading Henny's text: “‘
The Corpse Was Beautiful
by Hugh Pentecost describes the home front and the work of civilian air spotters. The moral is: Careful observation makes all the difference.'” Annie looked meaningfully at Max.

He raised an eyebrow. “So it's our duty to carefully observe Widow's Haunt?”

Annie glanced at the final text, laughed. “The oracles have spoken. Emma's text: ‘Marigold dared me to dump her, popped a title at me.
In Plain Sight
. What the hell does that mean? She wins. Have to find out.'” Annie grinned at him. “What more do you want?”

•   •   •

M
arian Kenyon's untidy mop of dark hair had scarcely been touched by a brush. She'd added a dash of makeup but bright red lips emphasized the gray-white of her face. Billy Cameron prided himself on an ability to read body language. Marian Kenyon's
posture—head poked forward, shoulders tight, arms tensed—told him she was defensive, desperate, determined. A wrinkled pale blue blouse half tucked into brown slacks told him she'd dressed hurriedly.

“. . . came straight here.” Marian held up a plain manila envelope. “I found this on my front steps. When I saw what was written on it, I got a dish towel to pick it up.” She held the envelope with a Kleenex.

Billy saw an inscription in plain block letters:
FOR POLICE
.

Her small chin jutted. “I figured somebody left it at my place because of the
Gazette
. So it's like a tip. That's why I slid out the stuff inside.” She pushed up from the straight chair, took a step, and held the envelope open. Out onto the desktop fell a quart-sized plastic baggy and an eight-by-twelve sheet of computer paper. She pulled a pencil from her pocket, used it to turn the sheet toward Billy.

He read the all-cap message aloud: “‘Check fingerprints on butcher paper'”—he glanced at the white paper stuffed into the baggy—“‘against any unidentified prints found at Griffith death scene. If a match, get prints George Griffith, Joan Turner, Lynn Griffith, Eddie Olson.'”

Billy leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. “On what basis do I ask people for their prints when we have suspects in custody for the murders of Alex Griffith and Warren Foster?”

Marian flung out a hand. “You can do it. Tell them it's a matter of protocol. Tell them the prints are necessary to prove they weren't present when Warren was killed. Tell them you know as good citizens they want to help finalize the case against the suspects who will be arraigned on Monday.”

“People aren't stupid, Marian.”

Marian's lips twisted in what might have been a smile. “No, they aren't stupid. But quite often they are credulous. And the killer will be delighted to aid the police in proving their case against Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly.”