Don't Go Home (17 page)

But a killer had arrived earlier.

This was the chilling reality. If the killer came and knew the way to seclusion behind the wall, the killer was familiar with Widow's Haunt.

Warren would have made no effort to be quiet, to keep his arrival unannounced. He may have sauntered toward the wall, possibly reached the opening, and turned to congratulate himself again on an excellent choice for a rendezvous.

Silently, a loop of garden wire slipped over his head, pulled him down, choked out his life. When Warren no longer posed a threat, the ground was smoothed over, leaving no visible mark behind, and leaves were pushed back in place.

Despite the morning heat, Marian felt hollow coldness.

•   •   •

O
lson Marine didn't waste money on amenities. The boatyard was a model of neatness, with boats in varying stages of repair, but the small sign that said
OFFICE
hung askew on one side of an unpainted wooden shack. The door stood open.

Annie stepped into the doorway.

Eddie Olson looked up from a battered old desk. He looked sweaty; his face was reddened by the sun. He saw her. “You again?” His dark eyes held dislike, irritation. No fear.

Annie crossed the few feet to stand in front of the desk. It, too, appeared tidy, an open folder and papers neatly aligned in stacks. A computer sat on a stand behind the desk. A ceiling fan did nothing to lessen the heat, feebly stirred hot, heavy air.

Annie met his gaze with equal dislike. “What time did Warren Foster call you about Widow's Haunt?”

For an instant, nothing moved in that heavy face, then, slowly, his large lips spread in a grin. “Jesus, was that Warren? I should have known. Just like the little bastard to whisper like a girl.” Now Eddie Olson was laughing. “Got his, didn't he? Wish I'd been there.”

“Weren't you?”

Olson stood, rocking a little on his heels. “Anybody ever tell you to keep your nose out?” He came around the desk, stopped only inches from Annie, leaned forward.

She saw flecks of red in his eyes, maybe too much sun, maybe too much whiskey. She smelled sweat.

“He called you, said he saw you going into Alex's suite, told you to come—”

“I hung up on him. Wish I hadn't. I wouldn't have minded watching Warren do a little dance.”

Annie felt a churn of nausea. “You didn't see his face.” Her voice shook. “His face was awful.”

Olson folded his arms. “Bad, huh? Maybe you should think about his face.” Hot dark eyes stared at her. “If you want to keep your face pretty.”

•   •   •

M
arian Kenyon stood at the end of Fish Haul Pier. She loved the pier, loved feeling the breeze against her face, the taste of salt spray, the distinctive cry of the gulls, the glimpse of a dark smudge on the horizon, a ship bound for faraway ports. She came here when she was happy. She came when she was troubled. Now she came and found no peace. If she climbed the railing and dove into the surging water and swam as hard and fast as she could, she couldn't get away. Some things you can't outswim, outrun, leave behind. They are what they are. She was here and she knew too much. It was even more bitter to accept because last night she'd believed she was safe, she was safe and David was safe and Craig was safe. She and Craig . . . The last few times they were together, there had been a special feeling between them. Not just pride in David. Something more, a rekindling of the affection and caring they'd once felt for each other. There had been the beginning of an understanding; maybe the past didn't have to die, maybe they could be Marian and Craig and David together.

That was what she'd thought was almost hers after last night, a new life with Craig. Together they'd care for David. She'd been freed from the terror that the investigation into Alex's murder would destroy the world she had so carefully built. When Rae Griffith and Neil Kelly were led away from the ruins, Marian had been almost weak with relief. She was safe. They were safe.

But now she knew. Green plastic-coated garden wire, a scream,
and the ruins where Warren died. Now she had to decide who she was. She'd spent her life believing truth mattered. She'd always been ready to battle fat cats and bullies. She took up for the underdog, knowing some people had not one deck but maybe a dozen decks stacked against them. That was who she was. Marian Kenyon, poor but honest. Marian Kenyon, bright, smart, acerbic, hiding pain and emotion beneath flippant smart-ass cracks. But she'd always come down on the side of the lost, the hurt, the hopeless.

The breeze caressed her cheeks, tugged at her blouse.

What about now?

•   •   •

M
avis Cameron stepped into Billy's office. He looked tired. Of course he was tired after the two hard nights he'd spent dealing with murders, but his broad face was relaxed. The circuit solicitor was pleased.

Billy looked up with a smile. “Just sent off the last of the files to the solicitor. They're expecting the prisoners about ten Monday. We'll take the early ferry.” His expression was suddenly quizzical. “What?”

Mavis closed the door. He knew, of course. He always knew when she had a concern, whether it was Kevin's grade in chemistry or the flushed look when their little girl came home from preschool with a virus or something out of kilter at the station. Years ago Mavis had brought her little boy to the island to escape an abusive husband, and Billy, no glimmer of white then in his short-cut blond hair, had become her champion. She knew him to be always fair, always honest, always reasonable.

“That girl, Rae Griffith.” Mavis slipped into a straight chair.

Billy's gaze was affectionate. “I know. She's young, doesn't look mean, swears she didn't do anything wrong.”

Mavis wasn't deterred. “Billy, will you talk to her?”

He leaned back in his chair, surprised. “She didn't make a peep after we read her her rights.”

Mavis brushed back a strand of blond hair that had a tendency to droop down across her forehead. “I was in the cellblock. She begged me to let her talk to you.”

Billy's broad mouth eased into a wry smile, but his tone was gentle. “Swore she was innocent, right?”

Mavis nodded, but continued to gaze at him.

“Honey, perps lie.”

Mavis's tone was equally gentle. “It won't hurt to talk to her.”

•   •   •

A
nnie knew the way to George Griffith's office, but this time she didn't want to be announced. She doubted George would be eager to see her. She smiled at the pleasant-faced woman at the reception desk. “George is expecting me.”

Denise Fowler nodded agreeably. “Slow morning. Nobody seems pining to buy a house. Guess it's too hot to look.”

“Up to ninety-five already.” Even with the sea breezes the island was baking. Annie moved past the desk and into the hall. She went to the third door on the left, didn't knock.

George Griffith looked up as the door opened. The beginnings of a welcoming smile froze in place, making him look like a ventriloquist's dummy, with too much curly dark hair, a fleshy face, eyes bulging, lips stretched wide.

Annie closed the door. “George”—her tone was warm—“I'm glad I caught you. I know you want to help find out what happened to Alex.” It was as if they'd never spoken of Lucy Galloway and the car that went airborne and the lone survivor from the lagoon. Without
an invitation, she settled in the cushiony chair that faced his desk, leaned forward. “I told Billy Cameron I knew you would be the right person to help us out.”

His light brown eyes watched her carefully. “Billy Cameron?”

Annie knew she was taking liberties, but she'd promised Max she wouldn't be stupid and surely a claim to be working with the police offered some protection. Her smile was bright. “Since the bookstore was involved with Alex's appearance, I've been in close touch with Billy.”

George's thick black brows drew down. “They arrested that woman. Apparently she has a boyfriend. I don't know anything about them.”

“Of course not.” Annie was reassuring. “But now we're trying to figure out the timing of what happened last night at Widow's Haunt.” Was there a glint of fear in those pale eyes? Certainly she had his attention. One pudgy hand that was limp on the desk tightened into a hard fist before the fingers slowly, stiffly loosened. “What time exactly did Warren call you?”

“Warren?” He blinked in apparent surprise.

Annie watched him coolly, knowing he was scrabbling to decide what to say, what to admit, what to deny. If it was he who had carried a length of garden wire to the ruins, he would well know now that the caller was Warren.

“Didn't you know it was Warren who called up and whispered that he'd seen you go into Alex's suite?”

“I told him he was wrong.” The words tumbled out, fast, hot, scared.

“George, we're asking everyone about the time he called.”

“Everyone?”

Annie nodded. “Yes. We know he called several people and we're trying to find out exactly when he contacted each person.”

George's relief was obvious. “Oh yeah. I don't know what the hell he thought he was doing.”

“The time?” Annie's tone was patient.

After a moment's pause, George said cautiously, “It was about eight fifteen.”

Annie stood. “That's a great help. Billy will be pleased.”

When she was once again outside, she, too, was pleased.

•   •   •

M
arian pushed through unmarked doors that led to the kitchen on the second floor of the Seaside Inn. She walked directly to a small office, poked her head in the open doorway.

A dark-haired woman with an oval face, dark eyes, and smooth skin looked up from a neat desk. She was trim, dressed in a white blouse and black slacks. She had a competent aura. She cupped a hand over the receiver on the phone. “Be right with you.” Then she spoke to the listener in a pleasant, well-modulated voice. “That will be one chicken salad sandwich on wheat, coleslaw, and fruit, and one hamburger with mustard, onion, lettuce, no tomato, French fries, and two iced teas? Sweet teas? . . . Your order will be delivered in twenty minutes.” She hung up, swiveled to a computer, typed rapidly, hit Send, faced Marian. “I'm sorry but the kitchen is off-limits to everyone but hotel personnel.” She came to her feet, ready to shepherd Marian back to the main hallway.

“Marian Kenyon from the
Gazette
. I'm covering the story about the murder of Alex Griffith in Suite 130. It would be extremely helpful if I could speak to the person who took the order received from Suite 130 at seven seventeen
P.M.
Wednesday evening.”

A faint line creased the smooth face. “I'm not sure I'm authorized to release that information—”

Marian was swift. “I can obtain the name from police records but it will save time for me if you can give me that contact information. I'll wait in the hall.” Marian jerked her head toward the double doors. She expected that Ms. Rodriguez, whose name she'd noted on the tag pinned to the white blouse, would be relieved to have her offending presence removed from the kitchen; and maybe her matter-of-fact manner—and mention of police records—would yield a good result.

Five minutes passed. Marian frowned. Her next stop would be the manager's office. Maybe she should have started there. She was about to turn away when one panel of the white doors opened. A gangling young man with a nose peeling from sunburn stepped into the hall, walked toward her. Likely he was a college student working on the island for the summer, loving being a beach bum in his free time.

“Ma'am?” His accent was Southern-soft. “I'm J. T. Lewis. I took the call that night from the man that got killed.”

“Hi, J. T. I'm Marian Kenyon with the
Gazette
. Since you may have been the last person to speak to Alex Griffith before he was killed, I'd like to find out exactly what he said.” More than that, how he said it. God, it mattered; it might make all the difference to her, and to Rae Griffith.

J. T.'s short brown hair was cut in a crew. His face was spare with a thin nose and sharp chin. He gazed at her with wide eyes. “It was just an order. I wasn't paying a lot of attention. I mean, I was careful to get it right, but it was just another call. I answered, ‘Room service. How may I help you?'” His face squeezed in concentration. “He said, ‘This is Suite 130. Need some quick service, a gin and tonic, short on the tonic, and a rum collins.' He muffled the phone for a minute, said something to somebody, then came back on. ‘And some peanuts, okay?
Thanks.'” He looked at Marian doubtfully. “I mean, that's all there was to it.”

“What kind of voice did he have?” And what kind of question was she asking, what was she hoping for? Or not.

J. T. squinted. “Smooth. A guy used to people snapping to. He sounded”—a pause—“like he was having a good time.” Another pause. J. T. swallowed hard, perhaps grappling for the first time, in a happy young life, with unexpected death. “He sounded like he was on top of the world.”

•   •   •

A
fine line marred the perfection of Lynn Griffith's smooth face. “Annie, honey, there must be some mistake.” Her sweet voice was kindly. “I didn't get a call from Warren Foster last night. Why, I haven't talked to Warren in forever.”

They sat again on the apricot sofa. This morning the sun glinted through louvers, throwing a black-and-white pattern on the wooden floor.

Lynn shook her head but not a strand of silver blond hair was disarranged. “I'm so sorry about what happened, but Warren really wasn't very likable.” It was as if she confided a difficult but uncontested truth. Again that headshake. “I guess it's clear that awful young woman killed Alex and then Warren. Now”—she arched her eyebrows—“why are you asking?”