Girls of Summer

by C. E. Hilbert

  The care Georgie gave Charlotte, care her sister openly rebuffed, was surprising. From all his research, he knew the sisters were barely acquaintances, but the buffet of stories he heard the night before painted a painful picture.

  With all he and O’Neal had discovered through casual conversation over okra and oysters, Georgie should despise Charlotte. The stories ranged from how Charlotte treated their father during his advanced cancer to the years of unreturned letters and spurned offers of reconciliation. And now, Charlotte was back in Colin’s Fancy set to acquire half of their father’s estate. Money Georgie clearly deserved more than Charlotte, just ask any one of the dozens of relatives ready to share their opinion. Yet, he had visual evidence, both on his phone and burned in his brain, of the generous spirit Georgie offered to her sister. If he hadn’t seen the unabashed love displayed before his own eyes, he would have doubted the sincerity of the photos. Scrolling on his phone, the photo he’d snapped of Stasi and her “friends” came into view.

  Stasi’s unexpected arrival was a pleasant turn in the case. He knew going straight to Charlotte to question her about her gallery was a risk, but a calculated one already paying dividends. He couldn’t be certain the fire and the car bomb were directly related to Stasi and her presumed illicit connections, but the timing was too coincidental to infer a mere happenstance. Guilt bubbled against his excitement over the case advancements. He hated that anything he did may have caused the violence, but thankfully, no one was hurt.

  Whether Charlotte was knowingly in league with her mother’s dangerous game or was simply a pawn on the board was still unanswered. His decision to interview Stasi’s daughter generated the sparks he needed to confidently move forward with his investigation. Guilt, or no guilt. He would keep pressing to discover the missing pieces to the puzzle.

  A thick pounding against his door snapped his attention from the photos.

  “Open up, Murphy,” Mac Taylor bellowed.

  Cade slid the case folder under the bed, closed the screen on his phone, adjusted his shoulder holster to secure his weapon, and opened the door.

  “Mr. Taylor. Did you swing by to wish me a Happy New Year? A phone call would’ve sufficed.”

  “Let us in, Probie.” Dylan said, peeking into the open doorway. “Mr. Taylor was just sharing some delicate details about your beloved case. I thought you’d like to know before I call Cavanaugh.” Dylan pushed past Cade, but Taylor was slow to move. He hesitated at the threshold, rain sliding down his face and shoulder.

  Cade extended his arm toward his cramped motel room.

  Taylor silently accepted the invitation.

  Without waiting to be asked, Dylan snatched a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and began recounting Taylor’s story between gulps.

  “Slow down, O’Neal, or you’ll be the first known case of a Special Agent drowning from a water bottle.”

  Dylan slouched in one of the four unmatched set of chairs circling the scarred corner table. “Cade, this story is too much. I’ve always believed your theories, but hearing what Mr. Taylor shared…”

  Cade dragged one of the chairs from the table and straddled the seat. Crossing his forearms against the backrest, he narrowed his focus on Taylor who stood barely inside the door. Water still rained down his frame, creating a puddle around his feet.

  “Take a load off, Taylor,” he said, extending his hand to the empty chairs, hoping his tone held a congenial welcome his mind couldn’t conjure.

  While Dylan recounted the story, Taylor remained stalwart and silent. Witnessing the protective defense Mac Taylor used at the hospital to shield Charlotte from interrogation, and the care he’d displayed at the party, Cade wondered if Taylor could be trusted.

  The stern lawyer was likely falling under the spell of Charlotte Dixon and would do anything to deflect attention from her. Cade needed to determine if Taylor was a concerned citizen or merely a besotted suitor. “Your story’s pretty fantastic, don’t you think?” Cade asked with a lift of his eyebrow. “Based on our research, you don’t know Miss Dixon very well, and yet you expect us to believe she shared this dark secret…secrets, with you? And she wanted you to share them with us? We’ve only known you for what? Two, three days now? What makes you think we believe you? Why didn’t Miss Dixon come to us directly?”

  Taylor didn’t budge from his spot against the wall. “I spoke with Jack Ramsey. He said I could trust O’Neal.”

  “Kind of a few steps from a lowly field agent to one of the highest-ranking national security officers.” Cade could only imagine the connections Taylor had if his first phone call was to Jack Ramsey. He lifted a shoulder toward Dylan. “How’d he even know who you are?”

  Dylan rolled the bottle of water between his hands. His focus dropped to the table. “I worked a kidnapping case with Ramsey early in my career.” He offered no further explanation.

  The room fell silent except the slash of rain beating against the building.

  Cade nodded, knowing his years of training kept his face from betraying the swirl of questions about his partner’s unknown connection to one of the legendary figures in national security. Ramsey’s exploits in covert operations had been rumored to be the framework of a popular movie series. “So, O’Neal comes highly recommended. What makes us certain that Miss Dixon isn’t just playing the odds?”

  In two strides, Taylor closed the gap between them, slamming his hands against the table, rattling the silk flower centerpiece. “Listen. I’m done. I’m tired. And I am scared out of my mind. I am terrified one or more people I love will end up in a body bag. I’m choosing to trust you, despite my better instincts. Charlie’s life is on the line, and she needs all the help she can get. I’m here asking you to help me save her. Are you in or are you out?”

  22

  The mist of the late afternoon rain, gave Georgie the sense she was in a distant world filled with wonder and glory, helping her forget the trials of the past week…weeks. Her inner child could almost see angels gliding above the fog rolling across the winter plowed fields. Snuggling into her fleece lined raincoat, she slogged through the thickening mud as she approached the tightly woven white pines and magnolias edging the property her many times great grandfather won as part of a card game when he first arrived in the Colonies from Ireland.

  Georgie loved to hear the fantastic stories of Colin Shaunessy. How he stood near this very spot and felt as fancy as a member of the peerage, and gave his land the name Colin’s Fancy so every generation would know exactly how he felt that first day. She knew Savvy and her father had exaggerated the tales of his exploits and glossed over the less savory aspects of their lineage. But she loved her roots and she prayed one day Charlotte would come to love them with equal passion.

  Plucking a dried hydrangea blossom from the ground, she turned down the gravel path toward the guest house. She’d walked the exterior with the lead investigator as the inspectors worked through the inside. He thought they would be able to make a claim on the destroyed contents with the insurance company by the time their offices were open tomorrow.

  She sucked in a deep breath as the charred exterior came into view. Twirling the flower between her fingers, she maneuvered the fifty-foot grass and mud-patched path to the porch stretching the length of the tiny house.

  Living in the guesthouse had been her idea. When her father announced the codicil to his will requiring her and Charlotte to cohabitate for one year, she knew they would never achieve the sibling intimacy her father desired in the main house. Too many nooks and too many relatives would give Charlotte ample opportunity to ignore her. The guest house, with its sweet dormers and single bathroom, was the perfect answer to developing immediate closeness, if only in proximity at the beginning.

  Those first few weeks with her sister tested every part of her Christian charity. Charlotte sneered when Georgie smiled. She ignored dinners, locking herself in her room for hours. Then she’d leave with Remy, but never invited Georgie along. When Charlotte was difficu
lt, which was often, Georgie recounted one of the last conversations she had with her father. “Patience, Georgie. Charlie will need more patience than you’ve ever given anyone or anything in your entire life. But a relationship with your sister will be worth the fight. Love her. No matter what she does or says. Just love her.”

  If she closed her eyes she could still smell the awful mix of ammonia and decay permeating her father’s final days. No matter how many bouquets of peonies, Daddy’s favorite, she ordered, their pungent aroma wasn’t enough to snuff out the fragrance of death. And no matter how hard she tried, she wasn’t able to crack the wall of ice his beloved Charlie erected between them.

  The floorboards of the porch creaked under her thick, knee high rubber boots. Brushing soot off the window, she glanced inside.

  The couch cushions were strewn across the floor and several small holes were visible in the walls. Turning from the damaged living room, she slid against the porch wall and sighed. Restorations on the guest house may not be complete until their year was up. How was she supposed to connect with her sister in a ten thousand square foot former plantation?

  “Knock, knock.”

  She brushed away the spilling tears before lifting her gaze to the generous smile of her friend, Cole. At just under six feet tall, he was lean with what her aunt referred to as patrician features: high cheekbones, deep set eyes, and a thin nose. Cole was the only friend she’d made at Watershed since she’d been forced to take an active role at the company. He’d only started a few months before her father passed, but Cole took his death harder than most of the other employees. She’d requested he work with her as an interpreter of sorts. After four years at Savannah College of Art & Design she was amply qualified to design a new jewelry line or even paint a mural in the center of town, but understanding anything with numbers was beyond her capacity. Cole was one of her father’s financial analysts and knew the mechanics of Watershed better than most. In only a few short months, she’d come to depend upon him not only for his business sense, but as a confidante.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, squatting in front of her. Concern marred his forehead.

  “I just realized we’ll likely be months before we can move back into the guest house.”

  “Is that so bad? One bathroom between the two of you couldn’t be easy. There’s like seven in the big house. You’ll have your space and Charlotte will have hers. Easy.”

  Her lips lifted, but the smile left her heart cold. “I don’t know what I’ll do, Cole. My father’s dream was for Charlotte and me to become true sisters. Over the last few weeks we’ve been little more than roommates, but at least we had to interact every day. I’m afraid when we move into the main house we will barely see each other in passing.”

  “Have you talked to her about how you feel?”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “How about, you love her and you want to spend time getting to know her?”

  Georgie snorted. “Why didn’t I think of that? Oh, right, I did when I invited her to dinner nearly every night since she moved to town. Or when I asked her to go to church with me. Or when I asked her to go with me to some of the Charleston galleries. And with every invitation she said no.”

  “But it seemed like you were getting closer.”

  “Maybe…last night she was too upset to be guarded and…”

  “And…what Georgie?”

  “She hugged me back.”

  He squeezed her hand. “That’s encouraging.”

  With a sigh, she gave him a sideways smile. “It only took two major tragedies in less than seventy-two hours for my sister to initiate human contact. Super promising.”

  He chuckled. “I heard her mother showed up. How did she handle her?”

  “How’d you hear about Stasi?” With the exception of Mac, no one from Watershed had been invited to the New Year’s Eve party. Savvy had insisted for years that both her father’s employees and his friends should have the ability to enjoy major holidays without the subtle strain of work talk floating from corner to corner.

  “One of the servers lives in my building. She told me it was quite the entrance.”

  “For all of Charlotte’s difficultness, her mother is about a thousand times worse than Charlotte on her worst day.”

  “Whew…that bad?”

  “And Charlotte had to have tea with her today. I’ve only been living with Charlotte a short time, and she’s afraid of nothing, at least from what I can observe. But one look from her mother and I was amazed she didn’t evaporate into thin air.” She shook her head. “Enough about my sister’s crazy mother. How was your New Year’s?”

  “It was fun. Set off some fireworks. Nothing too fancy.”

  Glancing at her watch Georgie cringed. She’d told Savvy she would only be gone about an hour and she was twenty minutes past her hour. Standing, she brushed off her jeans. “I need to head back to the house.”

  “Do you mind if I keep you company? I parked near the house but figured you’d be out walking in the rain.”

  “That predictable, huh?” She slid her arm through his.

  “Artist. Broody weather. Fits.”

  “Not everything is an equation.”

  Wrapping her chilled hand in his long-fingered warmth, he squeezed. “Georgie, everything is problem solving. A plus B always equals C.”

  They strolled in companionable silence. The drizzle’s shift to rain had them quickening their pace.

  “Let’s cut across the creek.” Georgie said, slipping her arm from his. “We’ll shave five minutes off the walk.”

  Hopping from slippery stone to stone, Georgie straightened her arms to either side for balance. With one leap her boot slipped against the rock, and she splashed back into the murky water.

  “Georgie!” Cole shouted, hustling to her.

  She laughed, reaching out her hand to his. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not graceful on those rocks when they are dry.”

  Clasping her fingers around his hand, she placed her opposite hand behind her for leverage. But her hand didn’t find the muddy bottom of the creek where she used to collect tadpoles and crawdads. Instead her fingers slipped over the ridges of what felt like tuxedo pleats.

  Twisting in the creek, she looked behind her. A scream stuck in her throat.

  Just above the surface was the bloated, beaten face and body of Remy Reynard, still dressed in his New Year’s Eve tuxedo.

  23

  Charlotte’s heart sped as she turned her car down the magnolia lined drive connecting the main road with Colin’s Fancy. Two local police cars, three state highway patrol cars, and one unmarked car lined the circle drive in front of the main house.

  Georgie!

  Thrusting the shift of her rental car into park with a jolt, she grabbed her handbag and rushed up the wide front steps. With a hip thrust, she scooted through the doorway and stifled a scream when she saw Special Agent Murphy.

  “Ms. Dixon. Where’ve you been today?” he asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

  “Tea with my mother. Why are you in my house? Again.”

  “Ms. Dixon?”

  Charlotte pivoted at O’Neal’s gentle voice. It seeped through her bones calming her racing spirit.

  “Special Agent O’Neal, why is half the Beaufort County sheriff’s office parked in the driveway? Is Georgie OK?”

  He nodded. “Ms. Dixon, I think we should go into your study and have a little talk.” He glanced toward his partner with quick lift of his chin.

  “Can I see Georgie first?” She wanted to stuff the words back into her body. Outward caring caused destruction in her world.

  “Georgie’s fine. You can see her in a minute. We really need to speak with you in private.”

  “I’m sorry. A parade of police makes a lady concerned. Whatever you need will have to wait a minute. I want to see my sister.” She pressed past him, her heels echoing oddly through the house. “Georgie?”

  “Charlotte?”
<
br />   Her sister’s broken voice floated from the kitchen and Charlotte closed the few steps to the swinging door.

  Huddled against her friend, Cole, in the breakfast nook, Georgie’s ashen face was streaked with tears.

  “Georgie? What happened?” She slid onto the bench on the opposite side of the table.

  “Oh, Charlie. I’m so sorry…so s-s-sorry…” Her voice trailed behind choking tears.

  She reached across the table and Charlotte clasped her hand. With soft strokes, she tried to sooth Georgie’s distress. Shifting her gaze to Cole, she attempted to gain unspoken answers.

  “Charlotte,” his voice shook. “I mean, Ms. Dixon, there’s been…” Visibly swallowing, he lifted his arm from Georgie, laying his palm over the sisters’ clasped hands.

  “Is it Savvy? Is she OK?” Charlotte swiveled her focus between Georgie’s flood of tears and Cole’s blank stare. “What’s going on?” She yanked her hands from the pile. “Why is every law enforcement agency within a hundred-mile radius camped out on the front lawn? And why do the two of you look as if your best friend just died?”

  “Charlie, honey.”

  Charlotte twisted in her chair at the welcome sound of Mac’s low voice. The sight of the day’s growth of beard sprinkling his jaw and his warm brown gaze settled the acid boiling in her stomach. “Mac, please tell me what’s happening.”

  He closed the few steps and dropped to Charlotte’s eye level. “Darlin’, it’s Remy.”

  “What’s Remy?”

  He clasped her hand in his. “He’s in the hospital, sweetheart. He’s in pretty bad shape. He’s at Memorial. He’s in a coma.”

  A sharp bolt of ice ripped through Charlotte. She yanked her fingers from Mac’s grasp. Bile threatened to leap from her body as the kitchen tilted to the left. She shook her head. “No. You’re wrong. He texted me this morning. He had to go to D.C. for work.”

  Fumbling for her handbag, she tugged her phone from its compartment. Swiping the screen with shaking fingers, she pulled up the text. “See? He’s fine. You’re wrong. Remy’s fine.”