Don't Go Home (24 page)

•   •   •

A
nnie sat in a shaft of sunlight shining through the harbor window in Billy Cameron's office. Max was in the middle straight chair facing Billy's desk, Marian to his left. Annie flicked an occasional glance at Marian's tense profile. Marian hunched forward, as if she had something more to say but was waiting, picking her moment. But what could she know that they didn't know?

Billy Cameron listened intently, made notes, as they marshaled all they knew: Cairo Richards's plein air painting on a brooding summer day, the rising from the sea of the woman both Annie and Max believed to be Lynn Griffith, the bicycle tire tracks at Widow's Haunt—he'd held up a hand then and barked orders into the intercom—and Annie's conviction that it was Alex who called room service.

Billy Cameron's tone was dry. “All of this is possible. But anything is always possible. If Cairo Richards painted Lynn Griffith in an inlet the afternoon her husband's sailboat was out in the sound, it raises serious questions.
If
she swam out, intercepted her husband's boat, how did she get aboard? Pretending she had a cramp? A happy chance? A couldn't-wait-to-see-you impulse? Let's say she swam out, got on board, cracked him on the head, pushed him overboard, left the boom loose, swam back to shore. If that's true, the watercolor would terrify her. So why didn't she go after the artist? Maybe Alex talked about a painting, gave no clue where he'd seen it. That would almost have to be the case.”

Annie frowned. “Cairo said Alex was excited when he saw the watercolor. He must have been certain the swimmer was Lynn. He saw the date beneath the artist's name. He knew she was a powerful swimmer. When he talked to Lynn, who knows what he threatened? Maybe he said he'd do a new book, describe the wife swimming out to the sailboat, create a scene of murder. Or maybe he told her he was going to announce Wednesday night what she'd done and then he intended to go to the police, insist on an investigation.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Billy murmured. “We need facts. We can check Alex Griffith's cell, see if we find a picture of Cairo Richards's watercolor, see if she happened to keep the photos she worked from. The date on the watercolor is definitely suggestive.” He tapped his pen on a printout of the investigation into Heyward Griffith's drowning. “If it gets to that point”—his tone suggested the possibility
was light-years distant—“we could have a lineup with Lynn Griffith and some other blondes, see if Richards can pick her out. But even then, even if she admitted being out for a swim, that doesn't prove she intercepted the sailboat. Now, if she killed Heyward, she might think she had to silence Alex and then Warren Foster, but a watercolor doesn't prove murder. However, the painting puts her in the proximity of Heyward's drowning and she claimed at the time that she was golfing that afternoon.”

Marian scooted to the end of the seat, placed her hands on the edge of Billy's desk. “Just before I got here, I got a ring on my cell. You know that butcher paper I brought you this morning?”

As Billy nodded, she turned briefly to Max and Annie and said, “That's what was in the envelope I found on my porch.” Then she looked back at Billy. “The caller said the prints belong to Lynn Griffith. If you find a match at the hotel—”

Billy's face was abruptly hard. “Let me see your phone.”

She took her cell from her pocket, handed it to Billy.

He looked, flicked on the intercom. “Mavis, trace this number.” He read the number out; then, as he turned off the intercom, he swung back toward Marian. “Okay, give: Who called?”

Marian looked regretful. “Sorry, Billy. I couldn't do that even if I knew the caller. A reporter has to protect her source.”

Billy looked grim. “Source?”

“This is a big story.”

He studied her for a minute. “Man or woman?”

Marian shook her head. “Somebody who didn't want to be involved. There was no explanation of how they got the butcher paper. I don't know how they knew her prints might be in the hotel suite. All I know is what the caller said: ‘Lynn Griffith killed Alex. Her prints are in the suite.' That's what I know.”

“Yeah.” His blue eyes were cold, suspicious. “How does some ‘source' happen to have your cell number?”

Marian's expression was wary. “My cell number's all over the place. I know a lot of people. If somebody knew something about Lynn Griffith, but didn't want to come out in the open, the easiest way to get information to the police is to tip off a reporter. Whoever left that envelope at my house or called me a little while ago doesn't matter. What matters”—Marian's tone was urgent—“is whether there are any matches at the hotel. If there are, then you'll know.”

Billy picked up his phone, dialed an extension. “Mavis, have you had a chance to finish checking the prints from that sheet that came in this morning?” He listened. “You're sure? . . . Where in the room? . . . Send me a report.” He put down the phone. “It isn't much, but it's definitive. In the sitting room of the hotel suite, three prints match or partially match the index fingerprint taken from the butcher paper. I sent Hyla Harrison to get prints from Joan Turner, George Griffith, Lynn Griffith, Eddie Olson. She's asking for them on the premise that we want to foreclose any defense attacks about unidentified prints at Widow's Haunt. When she gets back, we'll have Lynn Griffith's official prints. Mavis can check those prints against the prints from the Griffith murder scene. That means we can bring her in—”

Marian pushed up from her chair, leaned on the desk. “No.” There was desperation in her voice, intensity in every line of her thin frame.

Billy was exasperated. “If the prints place her in that room, she'll have to explain when and why she was there.”

“That's exactly what she'll do.” Marian's husky voice strained. “Lynn Griffith's smart. She has a dim-witted stare and she likes to prattle, but that's calculated. She'll flutter long eyelashes and talk in a sweet little voice about dear Alex and how could anyone possibly think she was involved and then she'll claim she dropped by to see him in
the afternoon and she hadn't mentioned it, it was no one's business, they had a nice talk about old times, she's so glad she saw him before that dreadful attack. She'll smile at you and get up and walk away.”

Annie came to her feet, too. “But we found those bike tracks at Widow's Haunt. If she has a bike”—Annie didn't doubt that there would be a bike; somehow Marian knew there was a bike; but that was a thought for another time—“and if the tracks match, how can she explain those?”

Marian was adamant. “She'll explain the bike tracks the same way. She'll claim she's been there many times on her bike. She'll say, ‘Oh, did I ride my bike there? Oh yes, I believe I did a few days ago, but I didn't think to mention it since I wasn't there Thursday night. I often ride that way.' No one can prove differently, just as no one can prove she didn't come to the hotel Wednesday afternoon and visit with Alex.” Marian's voice shook with intensity. “It won't work to bring her in for questioning. That would put her on alert and she'd probably decline to answer without an attorney. Instead, we need to have her say in front of other people that she was never in that hotel room, had never been in it. The only way to do that is to get her talking when she isn't aware she's under suspicion.”

Billy was thoughtful. “You think if she sees us, she'll go on high alert?”

“Exactly.”

His eyes narrowed. “Some kind of private showdown? I don't like that idea.”

Marian shivered. “Actually, I don't either.”

Annie looked at Billy. “You said Hyla's out getting fingerprints from Joan Turner, George Griffith, Eddie Olson, and Lynn Griffith?”

Billy glanced at his watch. “She should be back soon. Then we can certify the fingerprints—”

Annie shook her head. “I wasn't thinking about the prints. But Hyla's visit makes these people think they're on the side of the law,
that they're cooperating. How about getting them together for a report on the status of the investigation?”

Max was skeptical. “If Lynn's as smart and tough as you think she is, she won't tumble to a come-into-my-parlor conclave. How can you get all the so-called suspects to show up? Why would they? And where?”

Marian ran a hand through her tangled dark hair. “There has to be some place where she'd come.”

Max gestured toward Billy. “To a tête-à-tête with the police? If I thought I was getting away with a couple—no, make that three murders—I'd say, sorry, can't make it, have to wash my hair, bake a cake, play bingo. It isn't going to happen. You'd better pick her up and see what you can get.”

Annie rushed in, talking fast. “I know a way.” She hoped she did. She thought she did. Would Billy agree?

Billy looked at her inquiringly.

•   •   •

J
oan Turner stood at the window overlooking the harbor. At the tinkle of the front door, she turned. She saw Annie and her face tightened. She walked forward, unsmiling. “I thought you would come. Yesterday morning I could tell from your face that you knew Warren called me. But you don't need to worry. The police know now. That young policewoman came and asked me. I told her I went to Widow's Haunt. But I didn't stay. There was a car there. I was afraid. So the police know Rae isn't the only person Warren called. I've been trying to think what to do. I told Leland I couldn't play golf this afternoon, that I had to come up with a redesign for a clubroom. I've been here all day. I haven't answered the phone. I haven't had lunch. I keep walking and walking and thinking.” Her face was abruptly anguished. “What if the police come to the house, ask me in front of
Leland why I went to Widow's Haunt? Leland won't ask, but he'll look at me, wonder why Warren called me. Leland will realize Alex knew something about me that I was desperate to hide.”

“Leland won't ever have to know you went to Widow's Haunt.” Annie hurried across the shining parquet floor, took two limp hands in her own. “The police know who killed Alex and Warren.”

“They know?” Joan pulled her hands free, clasped them tightly together. “Have they let Rae go? And that man?”

“Not yet. It isn't simple. The police know who killed Alex, but they don't have proof. Marian Kenyon and I think we know a way to trap the killer. That's why I've come to you. You can help us.”

Joan frowned, fine dark brows drawn down. “I don't know anything”—but there was a flicker of worry in her eyes—“that implicates anyone.”

Annie gestured impatiently. “This isn't based on what you know about anyone.”

“Who killed Alex?” The demand was sharp.

Annie looked steadily into Joan's wide, worried gaze. “Let me explain what Marian and I want to do. If you agree to help, we hope to create a situation where the murderer will be publicly revealed.”

“You know who killed Alex!” She leaned forward, her face strained. “Who?”

“I can't tell you—”

Joan's hands clenched. “That's unconscionable. To come here and claim you know who killed my brother and refuse to tell me. Damn you, who?”

Annie felt the moment spinning out of control. “Please hear me out. I know this is horrible for you. But tell me, if you knew who killed Alex, could you look at that person and keep the knowledge out of your face?”

Slowly Joan's hands opened. Tears glittered in her eyes. “If I looked at that person—”

“If you opened the door for Alex's murderer to walk into your house, could you stand there, greet that person, offer a drink?”

Joan whirled away, walked to the window. She stood, her back stiff.

Annie waited. What would Joan say? What could she say?

Finally, Joan turned. Her face was drawn, bleak. “What do you want me to do?”

“You are the oldest in the family.”

Joan's face was still, quiet, watchful.

“If you invited everyone—”

Joan lifted a hand to touch her throat. “Who's everyone?”

“Your brother, George. Your sister-in-law Lynn. Alex's classmate in high school Eddie Olson.”

“Invite them to do what?” Violet eyes were wide and doubtful.

Annie spoke slowly, carefully. One wrong word and Joan Turner might refuse. “Those close to Alex surely must wonder what has been discovered. They know what has been publicly announced. You could call each one, say you believe family and friends deserve more facts about the investigation so you contacted the police. The police chief explained that he wasn't at liberty to speak about the prosecution, that was the prerogative of the circuit solicitor, but he suggested that Marian Kenyon of the
Gazette
and Annie Darling, who was involved in setting up Alex's program at the inn, might be willing to share what they know. That you contacted both Marian Kenyon and Annie Darling and they agreed to be at your house at eight
P.M.
and will be happy to provide more background.”

Joan walked to a red molded chair, sank onto it, buried her face in her hands. “I have one brother left.”

Annie waited a moment, said quietly, “The circuit solicitor has a strong case against Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly.”

H
yla Harrison rode her Harley as precisely as she drove a police cruiser: competently, unobtrusively, and intensely aware of her surroundings. She wore a pale blue tee, navy Bermudas, and sneakers with a soft cap and sunglasses, making her indistinguishable from ordinary vacationers who biked, swung golf clubs, sprawled on beach blankets. It was unlikely that anyone on the island, much less one of the three persons of interest listed by the chief, would know where she lived or have any interest in her Saturday afternoon activities. She'd studied the map carefully before she set out. She took a circuitous route from her apartment house. She was certain no one followed her when she turned off on the bike trail that skirted behind the home of Joan and Leland Turner.

She spotted the Turner house through the pines without slackening her speed, continued for a quarter mile, stopped, waited, listened. This was a less-frequented bike trail. The green tunnel beneath
overlocking limbs pulsed with the hot high heat of midafternoon. In the thick humid air, whining insects and chattering birds were the only signs of life on the secluded path. A good time to be in a pool or the sudsy surf or lounging in the shade with a tall, cool drink. Sweat beaded her upper lip, slid down her back and legs. She turned the Harley, rode back to the Turner house. In a moment, the bike was out of sight behind a hibiscus shrub. She reached into the storage compartment, drew out two items, tucked them in the capacious pockets of her shorts.

Following instructions, she opened a tall iron gate between pittosporum shrubs, sniffed the sweet banana scent of their blossoms. She followed an oyster shell walk around a weeping willow. She carefully noted the features of a broad backyard, a tiled pool with a cabana, a terrace with bright lawn furniture and umbrellas, a discreet garden shed near a side gate. The two-story white house featured expansive windows. A small contingent of officers could be deployed unseen on the far side of the sliding glass door to the patio.

As she crossed the terrace, the sliding glass door opened. Joan Turner stood aside for Hyla to step inside.

Joan followed her, closed the door, leaned back against the glass as if for support. “I thought we'd sit in here tonight.” Joan's face looked haunted, weary, despairing.

The room seemed dim after the blaze of the afternoon sun though lights shone from several table lamps. The family room was separated into two sections. A pool table and wet bar to the left; a comfortable grouping of two red leather sofas on either side of a fireplace and two large blue chairs facing it. An all-glass coffee table on chrome legs sat between the fireplace and the furniture. At the end of each sofa was a matching small side table with a lamp.

Hyla noted a painting above the fireplace. She wasn't
knowledgeable about modern art, but she was struck by the power of the canvas, swaths of thick red paint that made her think of bubbling lava spilling over the rim of a volcano and streaks of coal black and canary yellow. The red and yellow were echoed in a strident pattern on the rug between the couches.

The coffee table held several pieces. Hyla didn't think of them as objets d'art. She looked at them from an entirely different perspective. Her eyes moved from a creamy porcelain bowl with assorted wrapped candies to a silver filigree box, perhaps six inches by four inches, to an ivory carving of a snake to an open printed silk fan.

Hyla reached into her pocket, pulled out a rectangular recorder as slim as the newest-model cell phone. She crossed to the coffee table, punched a button on the recorder, slid the case beneath the silver box.

Joan's face was somber.

Hyla was brisk. “The recorder will run for fifteen hours. That's more than enough time.”

Joan glanced at the clock. A quarter to five. “I'm going to invite them to come at eight.”

Hyla's gaze moved to one of the end tables. “You do crosswords.”

Joan looked vaguely surprised, nodded. “Yes.” She spoke as if talking about another time, another life.

“Perfect.” Hyla withdrew a fountain pen from the same pocket. She slid the stylish black pen's pocket clip to activate this recorder, placed the pen atop a small pad next to a crossword magazine.

Joan's eyes fastened on the pen. Her face was tight with pain and fear.

Hyla said quietly, “Two people are dead, ma'am. We want the right person to go to prison.”

Joan massaged one temple. “I wish Alex had never written that terrible book.”

Hyla understood what Joan feared might be recorded on the small device. When Joan pulled into the parking lot at Widow's Haunt Thursday night, she saw a car. She claimed not to recognize the car. Hyla now had no doubt that Joan recognized the car very well. The car belonged to her brother, George. “Ma'am, wishing can't save lives. Doing saves lives. If you don't mind making the calls now, then I can report that everything is in place.”

Joan slipped her cell phone from the pocket of her slacks, swiped, put it on speakerphone. “Hi, Lynn. Joan.”

“Oh, Joan, I've been so upset. Poor Alex.”

Joan swallowed, continued, her voice tight. “I'm glad I caught you—”

Hyla listened intently, her face impassive. Good. Exactly the right tone.

“—I hope you can come over tonight. I've been upset trying to find out more about what happened to Alex. The family should be better informed. I ran down that reporter for the
Gazette
. She and Annie Darling were at the inn that night. They've agreed to come over and fill us in on what's been happening and the latest on Rae's arrest. Can you come around eight o'clock?”

The next call was to Eddie Olson. After Joan spoke, there was a silence that stretched.

Hyla remembered his tough face, the sinewy arms.

Finally, “Deep background, huh? Yeah. I'll try to make it.” Did he want to be sure no one was talking about that long-ago football game? Maybe. Or maybe he was curious.

After the call to Olson, Joan turned away so Hyla couldn't see her face. She called her brother. Her last brother.

When the call was completed, Joan dropped the cell phone into her pocket and walked blindly to one of the red leather sofas, sank down, buried her face in her hands.

•   •   •

O
fficers arrived one by one, taking up posts among the pines that bordered the Turner backyard. Three figures, dressed in black, one of them carrying a large rectangular object covered in Bubble Wrap, crept silently from shadow to shadow to press against the wall on one side of the sliding glass door to the patio. The curtains were drawn, blocking out a view of the Turner family room.

Hyla Harrison pointed to the slight space between the glass pane and the frame. Joan Turner had done as she'd promised, leaving the sliding door open an imperceptible amount, enough that the door could be moved after the guests arrived, making it possible for them to hear what was said.

Billy Cameron nodded, turned a thumb up. Lou Pirelli's head moved slowly as he scanned the shadows. He kept one hand on the wrapped rectangle that was now propped against his right leg.

There were no lights on the patio tonight.

•   •   •

“I
t's good of you to come.” Joan Turner managed the everyday social phrase though her eyes appeared sunken in her face and her cheekbones jutted. “Please sit where you wish. Everyone's here.” She gestured toward the red leather couches and the blue chairs.

Annie glanced at Marian, nodded toward the fireplace. Max turned to join Leland Turner at the wet bar.

The guests watched in silence as Annie and Marian joined Joan and faced the couches and chairs.

Leland Turner, tall, thin, attractive in a professorial way, shook hands with Max, looked toward the fireplace. “It's very generous of you to take time to help us out.” He appeared to be his usual genial
self, his long bony face that of a welcoming host, his tenor voice pleasant.

George Griffith's fleshy, red-veined face was sullen. He slumped against an arm of a leather sofa. Eddie Olson lounged back in a blue chair, his expression quizzical. Lynn Griffith looked regal in the other blue chair as she arranged a fold of a patterned lime scarf that matched the color of her blouse. Her thin-legged white linen trousers were immaculate.

On any other summer evening, Joan would have been strikingly attractive in a beige pull-on top with a boatneck and finely stitched pattern in a center panel and slightly darker beige slacks cinched on one side near the ankles, a fashionable touch. A wooden replica of a sand dollar hung from a long shell necklace. Tonight she looked tight, tense, tormented.

Leland Turner smiled at Marian. “Let me fix everyone a drink before you start.”

Marian looked appreciative. “Beer will be fine.”

Annie didn't want a drink but this was supposed to be a quasi-social gathering. “White wine, please.”

“Lynn?” Leland's tone was expansive. “What would you like?”

Lynn Griffith's silver blond hair was teased in soft ringlets that framed her heart-shaped face. Lashes dark as midnight made her large blue eyes look wider. She brushed back a curl. “Rum collins, Leland. Thank you.”

“Rum collins coming up.”

George was ready. “Bourbon and Coke.”

“Scotch and soda.” Eddie Olson's tight polo emphasized the strength of his upper body. His tan slacks fit him a little too snugly.

Max smiled at his host. “I'll take a beer, Leland, thanks. I'll serve while you bartend.”

Leland glanced at Joan. She gave a slight headshake.

Leland selected bottles from the shelving above the sink. The small refrigerator door squeaked as he opened it. Ice clinked in glasses.

Max brought drinks to each in turn.

Joan stood stiffly a few feet from Marian, did not look toward her. “I very much appreciate”—Joan's voice was thin—“the willingness of Marian Kenyon of the
Gazette
and Annie Darling, who was helping Alex with the program at the inn, to come here tonight to bring us up to date on the progress of the investigation into Alex's death. Marian will speak first.”

Marian had made an effort beyond her usual casual appearance. Tonight she was crisp in a white blouse and dark slacks. A plain gold link bracelet was her only adornment.

She reminded Annie of a ragtag wirehaired terrier who knew there was a bone to be found, her dark eyes alert and watchful.

Marian began in a clipped rapid voice. “Alex Griffith revealed in a
Gazette
interview that he based various well-known characters in
Don't Go Home
on real figures from his past. He returned to the island, announced plans to publicly name the inspiration for his characters Wednesday night. During the day Wednesday, he went around the island, spoke to several people, making it clear what he intended. His wife, Rae, left him in the suite at shortly before seven
P.M.
She went to the terrace to greet members of the media and make sure the audio was in place and working at the gazebo. After she left the suite, Alex called room service. He always drank a gin and tonic. He ordered one gin and tonic. He also ordered”—her dark eyes settled on Lynn Griffith—“one rum collins.”

Lynn held her rum collins in her right hand. “Really?” There was mild curiosity in her voice. She smiled. “Rum collinses are very popular.”

Marian looked disappointed. “We thought you must have been there. Alex knew very few people on the island after all these years. Of those he saw that day, you are the only one who drinks rum collinses.”

Lynn's eyes glittered. “Drinking a rum collins isn't a crime. Obviously Alex knew someone else who preferred rum.” She spaced the words. “I was not there. He did not order a drink for me. I never saw Alex that evening.”

“Oh.” Marian's face squeezed in a frown. “You weren't in the suite?”

Lynn was emphatic. “I was never in Alex's suite, not that night, not anytime.”

Marian shot Annie a triumphant look. The lie had been recorded. Now Lynn Griffith could not explain away her fingerprints in the room where Alex Griffith died. Now the fingerprints could be admitted into evidence in a capital murder trial. Alex's murderer was going to be brought to justice.

Annie wanted to make sure. She asked, as if puzzled and a little unsure, “So you are claiming you have never been in the room where Alex was killed?”

Lynn was irritated. “I don't know how to be any clearer. I was never in the suite where Alex was staying. I don't know the room number. Besides, I had no reason to wish Alex dead.” Her exquisitely sculpted brows drew down in a frown. “I don't see any point to your questions. The police have arrested the murderers. What more is there to know?”

“Oh, not much,” Annie said carelessly. “Perhaps we could talk about the afternoon your husband drowned.”

Lynn's face tightened. “Heyward's accident has nothing to do with you. It's very unkind of you to bring up that sad day. It certainly has no bearing on what happened to Alex.”

“That day”—Annie spoke slowly, distinctly—“has everything to do with Alex's murder. Heyward's death was not an accident.” She heard Joan's sharp intake of breath.

Joan reached out, gripped Annie's arm. “What are you saying?” Her voice shook, rose.

Annie put a consoling hand over Joan's, felt the tremble beneath her fingers, but she continued to look at Lynn. “Alex found out that you killed Heyward. You are a powerful swimmer. You swam out to intercept
Summer Song
. Alex had proof. He told you when he saw you that there was a painting of you coming up out of the water in a bay late that afternoon, a painting that was signed and dated. You had to kill him. You planned it cleverly. You found a heavy piece of wood, probably in the trees behind your house. You brought the weapon with you. You walked behind him and turned and struck the back of his head.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” But Lynn's blue eyes were wide and staring, her voice grating.