Don't Go Home (23 page)

M
ax jiggled his car keys in his pocket. “Where's Marian? She insists we meet her at nine sharp and she's nowhere to be found.” He slapped at his arm with his free hand. “I saw a mosquito the size of a 727. Five more minutes and I'm out of here. At least the golf course sprays. What's the problem with the historical society?” He slapped again, waved away a cloud of no-see-ums.

Annie answered absently. “It's the director, Jane Jessop Corley. She's an ecological nut. Insecticides are listed in the evil lexicon, right after
Exxon Valdez
.” Annie shaded her eyes from a sun that was already scorching, but the Widow's Haunt parking lot was barren of cars except for Max's Maserati. She was turning toward the line of pines that screened the ruins when a screech of tires announced Marian's arrival.

The faded yellow VW skidded to a stop. The driver's door opened and slammed shut. Marian was out and jogging toward them, one hand steadying the Leica that hung from a strap around her neck,
sandals slapping on the blacktop. “Thanks for waiting. Found a surprise on my porch.” Quickly she described the manila envelope and plastic bag and Billy's reaction. “Who knows? Maybe it will amount to something.” Her narrow face was pale. “Anyway, thanks for coming. Last night I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about how Lynn Griffith came to Widow's Haunt. Did she drive? If so, she had to park in either this lot”—she jerked a thumb behind her—“or at the inn. She knew she was going to kill him when she came because she brought garden wire. So she knew from the get-go she didn't want anyone to realize she'd been anywhere near Widow's Haunt. She wouldn't park at the inn. Her MG is too distinctive. It might easily be seen and remembered by someone. As for the Widow's Haunt lot, the road dead-ends here. She'd be boxed in if anyone else came. Plus, again, everybody on the island knows her car. So I figured she didn't drive.”

Max pointed vaguely to the north. “Doesn't she live a couple of miles from here?”

Marian nodded. “I checked the map. A bike trail runs right behind her house. It intersects a trail that runs into the parking lot. So we're going to hunt for bike tracks.” She half twisted to reach into a backpack.

“Marian”—Max sounded exasperated—“don't you think Billy Cameron knows how to secure a crime scene? As soon as the ME certifies a victim's dead, they string crime scene tape a good fifty feet in each direction, then search foot by foot, looking for anything that could be physical evidence.”

Marian's hand came out of the backpack, clutching a dozen or more darts with feathered tips held together by a sturdy rubber band. “Sure he knows how to secure a crime scene. And I'll bet Annie's told you everything that happened Thursday night. We got here right behind Rae Griffith and the boyfriend. I called 911. Billy and Hyla were already at the inn, looking for Rae and Neil, so they got here pronto. It looked
like Rae Griffith was fresh from the kill. Everybody knew she and the boyfriend walked over here. No car. Whatever they looked for, it wasn't bike tracks.” She slipped off the rubber band, handed Annie four yellow-feathered darts, Max five red-feathered darts, kept the blue ones.

She started walking. “I figure Lynn got here before Warren. She didn't want him to know she was here so she didn't leave the bike in the lot. She'd either ride it around to the back of the ruins to get to that opening in the front wall or she'd walk it there. Either way, that bike had to cover some ground. Okay, I'll take the segment that runs alongside the oyster shell path to the main clearing. Max, you veer off on the path that skirts behind the main ruins. Annie, you take a look just behind the wall . . .”

•   •   •

H
yla Harrison appraised George Griffith. Curly black hair needed a cut. Red-veined face was a whiskey marker. Pouchy middle, pudgy fingers. Too much pasta. She smelled a faint scent of garlic. But she gazed at him with false camaraderie. “Good of you to see me, sir. Chief Cameron said he was sure you would be glad to help out.”

Pale eyes stared at her. “Help out?”

Hyla held up a small black vinyl case. “Fingerprints. Quick. Easy. As I'm sure you know, arrests have been made in the murders of your brother and Warren Foster. To complete our case against the accused we want to counter any defense allegations that we were slack in investigating unexplained prints at the scene of the Foster murder.” She placed the case on his desk, popped it open. “There's a full handprint on the back of the wall where his body was found.” She lifted out the rectangular container with the fingerprint pad. “Taking your prints will prove that the unidentified print doesn't belong to you.”

•   •   •

R
ed-feathered darts framed a clear print of a bike tire in a dusty patch near the stand of cane.

Annie looked from the cane to the back of the wall with the empty space for the long-ago window. She looked back at the cane stand, at the square of darts, their feathers bright in the morning sun. The sun fully illuminated the bare patch of ground. Annie pointed. “That looks like a little punched-out spot for a kickstand.”

Marian took a blue-feathered dart, placed it a few inches from that impression. She stepped back, lifted the Leica, snapped several times. With a satisfied nod, she edged away from the cane. “Prints in four different places. Now we have something for Billy. He can send Lou to make molds.”

“To prove what?” Max ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, we haven't had a rain for four days. But those prints could have been made anytime since then. How many tourists come over here on bikes? At least a few a week. You know what these bike prints prove? Somebody rode a bike here.”

Annie winced inside. She hated to see Marian disheartened, but Max was right. What did bike prints prove?

Marian's face gave no hint of discouragement, looked tough, determined, convinced. “The prints will prove Lynn Griffith rode a bike here. Hey, you say that's not against any law. Of course not. But the prints of her bike at Widow's Haunt will be evidence she was here and when that evidence is added to everything else, Billy will find out what he needs to find out.”

“Like”—Max's tone was faintly sarcastic—“whether Lynn Griffith owns a bike?”

Marian's retort was fast, sharp. “Yeah, like whether she owns a bike.” Triumph flashed in Marian's dark eyes. Triumph and certainty.

Annie understood. Marian in her own mind had figured out what must have happened and, for the night to have unfolded as Marian believed, Lynn Griffith had to own a bike.

Time would tell.

•   •   •

M
arian waved for Max to drive out first. As the Maserati curved into the narrow road lined by pines, Marian yanked her cell from her pocket. She swiped. As soon as Walt answered, a brusque “City desk,” she said, “Marian. Gonna have a big story. Need a little help. ASAP. Go out to the boardwalk”—the
Gazette
offices were at one end of Main Street—“use the pay phone, call my number. I'll answer. We talk for a couple of minutes. You can read the tide table.” Walt had a thing about tides, always knew the times. “Whatever. Just chat. Three minutes. When you leave the booth, you're in a somnambulist state, don't know where you've been, what you've done. Total amnesia.” She felt uncomfortable using Walt to set up her plan, but she'd already crossed that bridge. She would do what she had to do to trap a killer.

She swiped End. She could count on Walt. He'd do precisely as asked. And no one else would ever know.

•   •   •

H
yla Harrison neatly removed a strip at the top of a foil packet, handed the packet to Joan Turner. “Moist towelette, ma'am. Removes ink in a jiffy.”

Joan's violet eyes looked huge in a pale face. Tight lines splayed at the edges of her mouth. “Thank you, Officer.”

“Thank you, ma'am, for cooperating.”

Joan glanced at the ink pad, still open, and the cards with her fingerprints. He cheekbones were sharp, prominent. “I will do anything I can to convict the people who hurt Alex.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

•   •   •

M
ax drove fast. Dust rose in swirls behind them.

“Don't asphyxiate Marian.”

“Sorry.” He slowed. “But I feel like we should have already reported to Billy, told him about the watercolor and Lynn Griffith coming up out of the ocean. We've known since last night.”

Annie twisted a little in the seat. “I don't see the VW. I thought Marian would be right behind us.”

Max relaxed a little in the seat, drove at a sedate thirty, though that pace still kicked up dust. “I know she wanted to have as much confirmation as possible for Billy but I'm afraid she's counting too heavily on those bike tracks.”

Annie had one of those odd feelings that she usually attributed to spending too much time with Laurel, though maybe she should accept that the subconscious often reaches the right conclusion from a myriad of tiny, scarcely realized observations. But she knew what was going to happen. “Lynn Griffith will have a bike. Those tire prints will be from her bike.”

Max gazed at her with a question in his eyes.

“I don't know,” she said breathlessly, “how I know. But I know.”

Max looked thoughtful.

Annie twisted again to look back. Despite the haze of dust, the VW was closing fast on their trail.

•   •   •

H
yla Harrison stepped under an awning.

Eddie Olson was bare to the waist. He used a block of sandpaper on a strip of mahogany cap rail. His tanned back was sweaty.

“Nice boat.” Her admiration was genuine.

He turned, saw her. His eyes narrowed at the uniform. “You looking for a boat?”

“I wish.”

His dark eyes were friendlier. “Got a couple of good ones. I'll sell 'em on time, a couple of thou down.”

“I'll check them out when I'm off duty. Right now . . .”

He listened as she explained. “Like I told you the other day, I wasn't there.”

Hyla nodded. “I recall. So you have no reason not to help us out.”

“Maybe not. What's in it for me?”

“A good citizen—”

Eddie laughed. “I wasn't a Boy Scout. I got no merit badges. As somebody once said, I don't give a damn. But what the hell.” He held up a broad stubby hand in a mock Scout salute. “Maybe if I get stopped for speeding, there'll be a gold star on my record.”

•   •   •

T
he call came as Marian expertly tucked the VW into a parking space a half block from the station. She let the cell ring twice to be sure the number logged in as a recent call. “Yeah.”

“Humphrey Creek. Low tide one twenty-eight
A.M.
High tide seven forty-four
A.M.
Low tide one fifty-three
P.M.
High—”

“Hope you aren't frying in the booth.”

“If it'll be above the fold, worth it. If not, you can scrub my kitchen this weekend.”

“Lead story Monday.”

“Hell, we've already led with the arraignment—”

“More. Better. Trust me.”

“I guess I do. Or I wouldn't be standing here sweating up my best seersucker pants. Should have worn my usual khakis.”

“I'll pay for the cleaning bill.” Marian saw Annie and Max starting up the station steps. “Got to go.” A quick breath. “Walt”—her voice was choking up—“you're a—”

“Got it. Peachy guy. Sweetheart. You can tell my ex-wife. There's a herd of tourists shambling by. I'm going to hang up, slip out as gracefully as somebody built like me can slip, and end up at the pier for a smoke. If anybody ever asks, I don't know from nothing. And I've held on to the receiver with my dandy handkerchief. Always knew it was good to carry one. Besides, I'll bet the receiver was sticky. Ditto the handle to open the door. Me, I don't like sticky.” The connection ended.

•   •   •

H
yla Harrison pushed the doorbell for the third time, waited. No one came. She glanced at the drive and the red MG TD that made her think of dancing slippers and champagne. She didn't have any dancing slippers, had rarely tasted champagne, but that was what the car brought to mind. The car also suggested Lynn Griffith was at home. Unless, of course, she had been picked up by a friend.

Live oak leaves rustled but the faint breeze did nothing to lessen the midmorning heat. Hyla turned, followed a walk to her right. She came to a wooden gate on the other side of the garage and pulled it open. Was she trespassing? If challenged, she would simply say it occurred to her that perhaps Mrs. Griffith gardened. For an instant,
her stride checked. A gardener would surely have green plastic-coated garden wire. But that wasn't her concern at the moment. She walked on flagstones the length of the garage.

She passed a hibiscus hedge in full bloom. A white picket gate was inset between hedges and beyond was a spectacular pool.

Pool water cascaded from a white cap as the swimmer rose out of the water in a powerful butterfly stroke. At the end of the pool, a flip turn, and a return lap freestyle, fluid and fast. The swimmer reached the end of the pool, stood.

Hyla opened the gate, walked across the patio.

Lynn Griffith's frown was quick. “I will not be badgered. I will ask you to leave—”

“Ma'am, I'm here with a special request from Chief Cameron.” Hyla stood near the pool. “We've asked all the family members to help us. You see . . .”

Lynn stood in the sun, listened. Slowly the irritation faded from her face. When Hyla finished, Lynn pulled off her cap, her face thoughtful. “Let me be sure I understand. There's an unidentified full handprint on some wall at Widow's Haunt that Chief Cameron believes is important? Oh, very well. Certainly I'm willing to do whatever I can to build a case against Alex's murderers.” She walked toward a glass-topped table, picked up a red-and-green-striped beach towel. “Let me dry my hands.”