Don't Go Home by Carolyn Hart

day cravat was a deep purple, his shirt gray, and thought longingly how nice the cravat would lookstuffed between his thin lips or tied around his long, thin nose, possibly muting those inevitable sniffs.
    â€œâ€”he knows all about her fling. Husbands can sense these things. At least that’s what I’ve been told. As for Eddie Olson”—a slight shudder—“he’s as appalling now as he was in high school. I avoided meeting him in a hallway. What a brute. Looked at me like I was a palmetto bug. But I didn’t know until I read the book that he was the one who hurt Michael Smith. I knew he was sullen that Michael beat him in tennis. Never a good idea to beat someone like Eddie. Of course, he relished football. Physical, you know. Star turns for bullies. I didn’t go to football games, my dear. Savagery, that’s what football is. Everyone said, ‘Oh well, too bad, these things happen.’ Eddie still has that tough-guy glare but he’s restless tonight, too. He can’t stand still for long. First he’s here, then there.” Sniff sniff. “Then there’s poor George Griffith.” The light high malicious voice was regretful. “He used to be much better looking, but he’s let himself go. A definite potbelly. Cute on pigs and babies. Someone should tell—”
    â€œOh golly, Warren, I see a customer I need to say hello to. Excuse me. Good to see you.” She didn’t want to spend another instant listening to that soft trickle of venom, but Warren’s patter was a harsh reminder that she wasn’t alone in connecting islanders to Alex’s book. At least Warren hadn’t mentioned Marian.
    She strode firmly away, skirting those who had yet to take seats, until she reached a favorite customer, SueLee Douglas. “Margaret Maron’s new book will arrive next week. Do you want me to hold a copy?”
    They chatted for a moment, then Annie edged nearer the gazebo, though she made no effort to make eye contact with Marian, whose thin face was turned toward the steps.
    Near the steps, the TV reporter shrugged her shoulders impatiently.Her photogenic face was abruptly not quite so lovely, perfect brows drawn in a frown, lips pressed together. She glanced at her watch. Likely the crew intended to film a portion of Alex Griffith’s talk, then leave to catch the nine o’clock ferry back to the mainland.
    Annie looked at her watch. Five minutes after eight. Abruptly she made up her mind. Maybe it wouldn’t matter but she was going to find Alex Griffith, try to stop him. She knew she had to move fast. Maybe Alex was waiting for the lights to dim, intending a dramatic entrance up the center aisle.
    Annie was painfully aware of Marian’s hunched figure a few feet away. Annie knew that she was helpless to prevent misery for Marian. Nothing stopped an avalanche. But she could try. She started toward the far side of the terrace.
    The TV reporter, who had forgotten to smile, huffed, moved with a grim face, dark hair swinging. In two long-legged strides, she reached Rae Griffith. The reporter’s gestures were clear. One bright nail tapped the wrist with a watch, a slender hand swept toward the gazebo.
    Annie had no difficulty imagining the cool, modulated tone as the reporter pointed out they had a ferry to catch, and where was the speaker?
    Rae brushed back a strand of silky black hair, her expression ingratiating. She said something, then quickly ducked around the reporter and walked fast toward the inn. She passed within a few feet of Marian.
    Marian’s face . . .
    Annie hurried after Rae.
    Rae was at the corner of the inn.
    â€œRae,” Annie called out, starting to run, her steps loud on the terrace. Maybe Rae would help.
    Rae Griffith half turned, frowned, looked both impatient and irritated. “A little late, aren’t you? Did you change your mind?”
    Annie skidded to a stop. “I’m not