Don't Go Home (12 page)

Two camera crews from Savannah jostled for advantage. A smooth-faced young woman with blond hair held out a mic. “Time of death?”

“Mr. Griffith died between approximately six thirty
P.M.
and eight oh nine
P.M.
, when his body was—”

Marian edged even with the TV crew. “Chief, when was he last seen?”

Billy's gaze touched her, impersonal and professional. “His wife says she left Griffith alive at a quarter to seven. No one has admitted seeing him since then. Room service received a call from Suite 130 at seven seventeen—”

The TV reporters brightened. Something new. Maybe a good sound bite.

“—and attempted to deliver an order at seven thirty-four. Room service waiter knocked, received no answer.”

A TV reporter called out, “Did Griffith make the call?”

“A man called from Suite 130.” Billy was precise. “Room service greeted the caller as Mr. Griffith. The caller ordered one gin and tonic, one rum collins. Either Griffith placed the call or another man placed the call.”

A rotund, balding reporter swiped sweat from his face. “Is the assumption that Griffith was entertaining a guest?”

“No assumptions. These are the possibilities: The order was placed by Griffith, which suggests he had a guest, who could have been either male or female. The fact that there was no answer when the order arrived makes it likely that Griffith was dead by that point. Or the order was placed by an unknown male, which could indicate that Griffith was already dead when the call was made. Or a male guest placed the order at Griffith's request. Any hotel guests, employees, or members of the public who observed anyone in the hallway of the east wing or near the patio of Suite 130 are asked to contact police.”

“Chief”—the TV reporter poked a shoulder in front of Marian—“any evidence of robbery?”

“No.”

Marian knew that nothing had been taken at the time of Alex's
murder, but Billy apparently didn't intend to mention the briefcase that was stolen from the suite later that night.

The TV reporter pressed. “Drug deal gone wrong?”

Billy shook his head. “No drug paraphernalia was found at the scene. There is no evidence Griffith used drugs. According to his wife, he drank wine and gin, did not take drugs of any sort. Toxicology tests are being run to complete the record. Those findings will be released when they are available . . .”

Marian made notes, knew that any minute the question would be asked—

The sweaty reporter looked wilted in the midday heat, but his brown eyes bored into Billy's. “Looks like you've knocked out robbery and drugs as motives. Griffith ordering up drinks suggests he had company. Is this homicide considered personal?”

“It is possible that Mr. Griffith was acquainted with his killer.”

The reporter was irritable. “Come on, Chief. Griffith—or somebody—ordered drinks. That sounds like Griffith knew his guest.”

Billy nodded. “That is one possibility.”

The reporter persisted. “Last week the local paper carried a story suggesting Griffith planned to tag people on the island as the ‘inspiration' for his characters. Some of the characters in the novel are pretty tawdry. Are you checking out people who knew Griffith when he lived on the island?”

“We are making inquiries into Griffith's past.”

The blond TV reporter thrust out her mic, a predatory expression on her lovely face. “Do you have a person of interest?”

Billy looked especially stolid.

Marian knew this indicated knowledge he had no intention of sharing. Her gut tightened. He wasn't looking her way. Was that deliberate?

Billy's voice was uninflected. “At this point we are pursuing information about individuals who may have been connected in some manner to Mr. Griffith. Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen. We will offer an update tomorrow morning at ten.” He gave a brisk nod, turned away.

As the front door closed behind him, the TV reporter smiled into the videocam. “Broward's Rock police today revealed that the murder of Southern author Alex Griffith may be linked to steamy scenes in his world-famous novel, scenes reportedly based on real individuals on this idyllic sea island where Griffith was brutally slain last night. Police have declined . . .”

•   •   •

H
yla Harrison studied the Georgia driver's license for Neil B. Kelly. Address: 107½ Ginger Lily Lane. DOB: May 6, 1986. Eyes: Brown. Height: 5'10". Weight: 146 lbs. For an instant photo, the likeness was good. Narrow forehead beneath curly hair. Thin, straight nose. Pointed cheekbones and chin. A bony face, eyes deep set.

Hyla squinted, imagining a wide-brimmed straw hat, a blond curly wig, aviator sunglasses, a fake mustache, and a couple of small gauze pads stuffed in each cheek.

Slowly, she nodded. She'd check the photo from the inn's security cam but those high cheekbones couldn't be disguised. She reached for her desk phone, glanced at a small pad with the description of the car registered to Neil B. Kelly. “Mavis, send out an alert for a red 2009 Mustang.” Hyla's smile was satisfied. “Vanity license plate: CHARIOT. If found, do not stop or apprehend unless attempting to leave island. Maintain surveillance. Ascertain activities. Do not alarm suspect. Kelly may be a person of interest in the Griffith kill.”

•   •   •

A
nnie pushed the bell, smelled the cloying sweetness of a gardenia shrub flowering in a waist-tall blue vase on the front verandah. Gardenia shrubs flanked both sides of Lynn Griffith's porch. The fanlight over the Greek Revival front door sparkled with cleanliness.

The door swung in. Lynn Griffith stood in the shadowy hall. As always she was immaculately dressed. A gold-and-ivory-striped tunic hung loose over white narrow-legged slacks. Already tall with an imposing appearance, wearing jute and rope wedges gave her an added inch of height so that her wide blue eyes looked down on Annie.

“Annie, I wasn't expecting you.” The voice was light and pleasant.

Annie knew she had been pleasantly but firmly reproved. One called before one came. There seemed to be a distinct distance between them.

“Lynn, I hope you can spare a moment. I promised Rae Griffith I would find out more about what Alex did yesterday.” Annie had scored when she blandly announced Alex had visited his sister. Now for his sister-in-law . . . “We know he came to see you.”

Lynn's face molded into a conventional expression of sorrow. “Such a shock.” Her voice rose. “I couldn't believe it when that policeman made the announcement. I didn't know what to do. I thought perhaps I should stay”—her tone was earnest—“then I thought I didn't know anything that would matter to authorities and I didn't want to be in the way. I am still reeling. I can't believe Alex was killed at the Seaside Inn. That's not the kind of thing we expect here. Why, you'd think we were in Chicago. Though I understand he wasn't shot. I turned off the television this morning as I just knew it was going to be too graphic. Heyward always kept that kind of thing from me.
Won't you come in?” She held the door wide. “I doubt I can help, but, of course, I want to do everything I can for his widow. Not that we've ever met. Alex hadn't kept up with family in recent years. Poor, poor Alex. I was saddened—”

Annie stepped inside. Lynn closed the door. Their reflections wavered in the graying depths of an old mirror in an ornate gilded frame as Annie followed her through a wide doorway into the drawing room. Gold hangings added color to oyster gray walls. Lynn led the way to a brocaded sofa in a warm apricot tone, sank gracefully at one end, patted the sofa beside her.

“—truly saddened when I spoke to Joan and she told me there won't be a service. I don't think ashes scattered from a boat is the least bit fitting. But Alex has been gone for so many years and people do follow different paths, don't they?” The last was offered with a pitying shake of those perfect silver blond curls.

Annie felt overwhelmed by the scent of gardenia, obviously Lynn's perfume of choice. “You saw Alex yesterday?”

Lynn folded her hands together. “Wasn't that nice of him?”

Annie had a sense of bewilderment. According to Rae, Alex set out to taunt his prospective victims, make certain they were among the listeners at his evening event. “Nice?”

Lynn nodded energetically. “Of course, Heyward was so much older that we spent very little time with Alex. I almost feel as though I scarcely knew him. Still, I thought it showed a proper family feeling that he came by to visit with me.” There was the slightest tinge of satisfaction in her sweet voice.

“I understand Alex used family background in writing his novel. Did he talk about that with you?”

Lynn's laughter was a trill of amusement. “Oh, I have to confess. I hope you won't hold it against me, being a bookseller, but I don't
bother with books. I have so many interests. I've started a collection of cameos. Sometime I will have to show you my newest, though of course it isn't new. It's a carving in high relief of the goddess Ceres and the coral is the most glowing delicate peach color. By the famous Chicago jeweler Peacock in about 1910. The craftsmanship is exquisite. I simply adore her. I would have shown it to Alex, but he didn't stay long. As I say, just a little family hello, so kind of him.” She came to her feet. “I don't know a thing about his book. Such a shame he didn't have a chance to give his talk. We all could have learned so much.”

•   •   •

M
arian did a little math, figured out when George was in high school. Marian's fingers flew over the keyboard as she accessed an index. It was very helpful that all the
Gazette
s back to 1980 were available online. It took time, almost an hour, before she found the stories.

TEENAGER REPORTED MISSING

Police announced this morning that the family of Lucy Galloway, 16, is seeking information about the teen, who was last seen by her parents Friday evening when she left home to spend the night with a friend.

Lucy told her mother, Jane Galloway, that she would be home midmorning Saturday. When she did not return as expected, Mrs. Galloway called the friend's home and was told that Lucy had not spent the night. Lucy was among a group of girls attending a movie at the Rialto Theater.
Lucy's friend said she slipped in and out of her seat several times to go out to the concession area. The last time she returned she told her friend she'd changed her mind about spending the night and she was going home early because the movie was boring.

Mrs. Galloway called a number of Lucy's friends but no one admitted seeing her after the movie. Lucy was driving a green 1994 Oldsmobile sedan. The island was experiencing occasional mist and there were patches of heavy fog.

Mrs. Galloway insists Lucy would not run away from home and that she was happy and looking forward to her junior year in high school.

Anyone with information as to her whereabouts is asked to contact the Broward's Rock Police Department or the Galloway family.

DEATH IN A LAGOON

According to police reports, Lucy Galloway, 16, apparently drowned in Ghost Lagoon sometime last Friday night. Police recovered the car Monday afternoon. The deep lagoon is in a remote area of a forest preserve. Miss Galloway was reported missing by her parents on Saturday.

John Elliot, 165 Crescent Drive, notified police when he saw tire tracks in the mud at a boat ramp. Elliot was jogging on a path that passed by the ramp. He jogs every morning and said the tire tracks weren't there Friday morning.

Police Chief Frank Saulter examined the tire tracks and knew the missing teenager's car had not been found. Saulter ordered an exploration of the lagoon. A dragging operation indicated a vehicle was submerged at a depth of twenty feet. The car, which proved to be the missing Oldsmobile, was pulled from the lagoon at 4:09
P.M.
Monday.

According to police, the car, traveling at a high rate of speed, traveled onto the boat ramp, became airborne, and entered the water hood down. The car windows were open. Lucy Galloway's body was found in a second search. Police indicated she was not wearing a seat belt. Police cannot explain why the teen would have driven onto the boat ramp. However, the lane that leads to the ramp forks off another road through the preserve that has a reputation as a drag strip as it runs straight for about fifty yards.

NO EVIDENCE OF ALCOHOL

The drowning death of high school rising junior Lucy Galloway remains a mystery. Police today said toxicology tests revealed no traces of alcohol or drugs. How the teenager came to drive her car onto a boat ramp and into a remote lagoon is unknown.

A friend of Galloway's, who declined to be named, said she has no idea what caused the accident but she remembers Lucy was always up for a dare and liked to drive fast and often didn't wear a seat belt. “It's real sad. I thought something was up that night at the movie because she sounded kind of excited when she said she was leaving.”

Marian had covered a lot of stories. More than that, she was the mom of a teenager. She could write this script. How about a stroll into the lobby and a good-looking senior—George Griffith wasn't paunchy and red-faced when he was young—swaggered up to Lucy. Maybe he was already half drunk, slipping bourbon into a tall Coke. Maybe he said,
How about we split this place, go out and take a drive
. Somehow they went in her car, not his, and he was the macho man—
Hell, I'll drive, I'll show you some fun
—and off they went . . .

H
yla Harrison tried to look like a tourist, laid-back and unofficial, but it was hard to shed the impassive face and shoulders-back posture she presented when in uniform. Her casual clothes definitely weren't tourist flamboyant: a crisp lemon blouse, khaki Bermudas, well-kept running shoes. She rode her secondhand Harley Street 500 with competence and in compliance with all rules of the road. She rode sedately but she quivered with excitement at her assignment. She carried with her a proud memory of Billy Cameron's praise. “Excellent work, Officer. You'll be pleased to know fresh fingerprints were found in Room 128. Light switches. Toilet handle and seat. TV remote. Bedside radio alarm. You sense a connection to the murder. They will be checked against unidentified prints from the murder scene. If there is a match, we are going to have evidence, thanks to you. Moreover, thanks to you, we may have a suspect in Neil Kelly. He could be on the island. All officers have been alerted to be on the lookout for the car. See if you can find him.”

As she steered the small Harley down Main Street in the momentary clog of traffic that indicated the ferry had just docked, Hyla checked out parked cars. She slowed near Coble's Drugstore but the red car turned out to be a Dodge. It took twenty minutes to explore every nook and cranny near the harbor, including the parking areas near Fish Haul Pier and the Pavilion Park and the small lot near the lone hotel. She eased off onto a graveled path in the park, straddled the bike, and considered. If she were a stranger to the island, running scared, trying to avoid notice, where would she go?

•   •   •

M
arian hit pay dirt as soon as she opened the 2001 Broward's Rock High School yearbook. The dedication read:

To Michael Smith
In admiration for his courage

The cheers ended on a foggy Friday night in November as classmates watched in shock when Michael Smith was unable to get up after a play ended in the football game against Chastain High School.

Michael suffered a neck injury that resulted in paralysis. His classmates have worked all year to raise money for his care. Soft-spoken and gentle, Michael says he has no memory of the play that brought him down.

Marian found the football page, noted names of players, including Alex Griffith and Eddie Olson. Turning to the
Gazette
's database, she
found several stories about the injured player. Cheerleader Kristin Akers described the moment: “It was a huge dog pile and all these players climbed on and I think Michael was near the bottom, but it was so foggy you could barely make out the players. We are all brokenhearted for Michael. He was our best tennis player. He'd been accepted to switch to a tennis academy on Hilton Head for juniors. We were all excited for him.”

A soft ping announced a text. Marian glanced at her cell.
Meet me for lunch, Parotti's. A
.

•   •   •

W
arren Foster took a tiny sip. Perfection. He'd adored daiquiris ever since he and Mother made that cruise to the Caribbean. Cuba was off-limits then and everything he'd heard about the tours people now took didn't sound appealing. He did so dislike run-down cities and apparently Havana was just as drab as an old house shoe. But it might be soulful to go to Cuba, a pilgrimage to daiquiris and, of course, to Hemingway, who loved daiquiris, too. To visit Hemingway's home would be splendid, so easy to picture him there. Such a virile man.

Warren carried the chilled flute with its golden contents to a sumptuous white sofa in his ruby-walled living room. Mother, may her soul R.I.P., would likely have objected to the color scheme, but ruby simply spoke to his imagination and Mother always admired his imagination. He hummed a little tune, almost giddy with delight as he contemplated the evening ahead. But he must remain practical. As soon as he finished his libation, he would reconnoiter.

•   •   •

A
nnie loved Parotti's Bar and Grill whether on a bleak winter day when the wind whistled and the most excitement would be a long table with retirees playing checkers or, as now, jammed with
customers in the height of the season. She eased her way past a gaggle of sunburned tourists, smelled coconut oil and sweat. The old-fashioned jukebox blared Glenn Miller's “In the Mood.” Owner Ben Parotti had inherited the 1940s jukebox from an uncle and what was good enough for Uncle Travis was good enough for Ben.

Marian waved from a table for two near the entrance to the bait shop. Off-islanders experienced a qualm when they saw—and smelled—the bait shop, which offered coolers filled with chicken necks and chunks of black bass, squid, grouper, and snapper. A well-smeared blackboard behind the bar proclaimed:
SPECIAL TODAY—SALTED EEL—$3 PER LB.
Inch-deep sawdust covered the floor. The bait shop was much as it had been for the past fifty years, but after Ben married a tea shop owner on the mainland and brought her to the sea island, she transformed the main eating area into a genteel replica of her shop, with cloth-covered tables and bright menus.

Annie dropped into the chair opposite Marian.

The reporter gave her a searching look. “No luck?”

Annie wondered if it was that apparent that she was discouraged. Maybe it was time to try for a little inscrutability, the quality author John Marquand celebrated in his imperturbable Mr. Moto. But Marian knew her too well to try for false cheer. “I talked to Joan Turner and Lynn Griffith.” Quickly she recounted the conversations.

Marian's smile was grim. “I'm not surprised that Joan Turner figured out she's in the catbird seat—all of them are.” At Annie's blank look, Marian elaborated. “You never hung around a sports desk in a newsroom. Old baseball term. At least, that's what I was told. Used by Red Barber to describe a batter who's seeing the ball like it's a slow-motion grapefruit. Anyway, I'd say the catbird seat's pretty damn crowded right now. They're all home free—Joan and George
and Lynn and Eddie. It's not like Alex had already written his tell-all. If he knew things, saw things that could louse up people's lives, well, he's dead now.”

But there was no lift in Marian's voice.

Annie was afraid she understood. The only claim that could ever be proved beyond question was the paternity of the child resulting from a love affair. Marian could not rest easy as long as a search continued for Alex's killer. If suspicion ever turned on her, if there was a hint that Marian was Louanne in
Don't Go Home
, the question could be asked, “Who is David's father?”

Annie reached across the table, gripped her friend's arm.

Marian turned her hand, gave Annie a reassuring squeeze, managed a gallant bright smile. She looked past Annie. “Yo, Ben. Full house today.”

Ben Parotti skidded to a stop by their table. Five feet, four inches tall on a good day, he looked like a harried gnome but he was expansive. “Three fishing charters, plus some eco-specialists—that's what they called themselves—over here to ponder sea turtle eggs, and I told them we keep the island dark as a witch's hat at night. We love the bloomin' sea turtles. What's good for you today?”

Marian ordered spinach quiche and sweet tea. Annie selected the grilled flounder sandwich with Thousand Island dressing, plain tea.

As Ben turned away, Marian raised an eyebrow. “I won't tell Max if you order a fried fish sandwich.”

Max encouraged healthy eating and she'd chosen the grilled fillet because it made her feel in an obscure way that at least she was doing something he approved of. Usually, as Marian well knew, she ordered crisply fried flounder. Annie loved the cornmeal crust, which was seasoned with a dash of paprika. She met Marian's concerned gaze with a bright smile. “Can't be in a rut.”

Marian said, almost angrily, “I heard about your promise to Max. You shouldn't have agreed to help me.”

Annie spoke firmly. “You are
our
friend.” She emphasized the possessive. “He'll be glad if I can help. Though”—she sighed—“right now I don't see I've made any headway at all.”

Marian reached across the table, gave Annie's arm a squeeze. “I'll tell Max it's all my fault. But you know how much it means to me that you're standing by me. And maybe between the two of us, we will find out what happened. I'm hoping what I found will lead somewhere. The tip from Warren Foster was right on. Here.” She pushed several sheets of paper toward Annie.

Annie first read the stories about Lucy Galloway. She was almost finished with Marian's factual summary of Michael Smith's injury when Ben returned with their orders.

She took several bites of the sandwich and realized grilled was good, too.
Max, I wish you were here. Or at least, if not right this minute, soon. I mean, I have to keep helping Marian . . .
She read the last sentence about Michael, looked up at Marian. “Warren Foster claimed as soon as he read
Don't Go Home
, he immediately knew it was Eddie Olson who hurt Michael Smith. I'll use that when I talk to Eddie. And I think I can rattle George Griffith.”

Marian looked uneasy. “I don't have a good feeling about you taunting somebody who may have killed Alex.”

“I'll be careful. I promise.”
Max, I won't be stupid.

“Max will kill me if anything happens to you.”

“Then I better make sure nothing does.”

•   •   •

H
yla made several calls. Four single males, none using the names of either Neil Kelly or Robert Haws, had checked into some of the seedier accommodations on the north end of the island that
morning. Two matched the description of Neil Kelly. Hyla headed out on her Harley.

At her first stop, the manager glanced at Hyla's printout of Kelly's driver's license. “You just called? A guy by himself, you said? Sorry, sweetie, his honey just showed up with a couple of kids and they're out by the pool.”

Hyla was thorough. She strolled around a clump of palmetto shrubs, glanced at the blondish man, in his late twenties, who was pulling a toddler holding on to a plastic ring, hoped the murky green water had enough chlorine to keep it safe, and turned away.

It was a quarter mile farther to Mickey's Fish Camp, which boasted a half dozen ramshackle cabins on stilts. The balding, portly manager took a look at the photo, nodded. “Eight.” He studied Hyla. “Seen you around. No uniform today. There gonna be any trouble?”

“Surveillance only. You never talked to me, right?”

The manager nodded. “I'm in my office, watching bass fishing on my black-and-white, sipping a cool one. Speaking of cool, just kind of talking to myself, there's a clump of pines next to 8. Plenty of shade in there. Got a good view.”

•   •   •

W
arren Foster didn't relish the heat, nudging ninety-five. The languorous air steamed, could be seen shimmering in sunlight. The tabby ruins of the old plantation home only hinted at the magnificent 1790s home that had once stood there. A portion of the walls of the central house remained almost intact. Behind the main house were tumbled walls of an overseer's home and slave cabins. The sun was high so the tall pines that rimmed the ruins offered no shade.

The local historical preservation society kept the grounds cleared and maintained the oyster shell paths. Warren wallowed in the
haunting quality of the ruins, imagining the sound of a harpsichord, a melody played by fingers long since turned to dust. The low cry of a mourning dove mingled with the shrill caw of a crow. There were tales of loves lost, duels fought, a fortune frittered away. The ruins were called Widow's Haunt. Theodosia Ryan's husband was lost at sea in 1910. She became a recluse, dressed always in black with a large black hat and veil. She was found dead one winter morning half submerged in a lagoon. It was discovered after her death that the long black flowing clothing covered an emaciated body. There were no survivors and the house and grounds fell into disrepair.

Warren nodded in pleasure. The site was perfect. Except, of course, for ever-present swirls of no-see-ums, the little biting midges that made outdoors a misery in areas not heavily impregnated with insecticides. But an artist sacrifices comfort for perfection. Tonight there would be a full moon, light enough for visitors to find their way. Now to find just the right spot . . .

He walked several yards to a huge spreading live oak. Spanish moss hung from the limbs, delicate and fragile. Leaves crackled underfoot. He shook his head, turned away, gazed again at the portion that remained of the main structure. Ah . . . Moving quickly despite the heat, he came around the corner of a tabby wall. A large square opening had once been a window. If he stood behind the wall, he could see anyone who approached but he would be out of sight.

•   •   •

A
nnie squinted against the brilliant sun, wished she had thought to wear her floppy brimmed hat. Her sleeveless lacy white blouse and pale yellow linen skirt were perfect for the store, not so great in the afternoon glare.

Eddie Olson, face red beneath a worn ball cap, was caulking a
seam in a dingy wooden boat elevated on blocks. With a sharp-edged tool in his right hand, he jammed a strand of looped cotton into the boat's seam.

Annie came within a few feet.

His head jerked toward her. The hand with the tool remained pressed against the strand of cotton.

Annie knew she'd made very little noise as she worked her way through the boatyard. Did he have unusually acute hearing to pick up muted footsteps over the squeal of gulls and the slap of water against the pilings of a pier? Or was he tuned to a high pitch of awareness, alert for any hint of danger?

His dark eyes were unreadable. Sweat slid down his heavy face. His T-shirt clung to him. He loomed beside the boat, strength evident in bulky shoulders, massive chest, powerful legs. “Yeah?” His tone was brusque.