Southern Harm

by Caroline Fardig

  “Are you…was she sure…” A tear fell down his cheek. “Was it mine?”

  I nodded. “That was what she told my mother, although she didn’t mention you by name. She said the baby belonged to her latest boyfriend.” I thought for a moment. “Oh, did you used to own a Ford Escort?”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced at his bow tie, a somber dark gray one today. “And you’ve always worn a bow tie?”

  “Yes. Most of my adult life.”

  “Then that’s three votes in your favor.”

  He hung his head. “Why wouldn’t she have told me?”

  I patted his shoulder awkwardly. “I don’t know. It was probably a confusing time for her.”

  Wiping a hand down his face, he choked out, “We would have been a family.” He suddenly took off around the house, toward the gate.

  My heart broke for the poor man. Now more than ever, I knew Dennis Griffin was innocent. And that meant one or both of the Sheridans was guilty. Time to get out of here and take what I knew to the police.

  When I went back inside, the party—or the wake, rather—had broken up. Delilah was alone in the kitchen, transferring dirty dishes to the bins the caterers had left.

  She demanded, “Where have you been? The guests are gone. Tucker left for Tybee—his parents insisted he fix a leaky faucet immediately at one of their rental properties and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Brock went golfing with his buddies. And Portia…” She lowered her voice. “Evidently she got a migraine from not doing anything to help. She went upstairs to take a nap, but only after insisting we ‘tidy up’ before the caterers come back to get their stuff. I’m thinking we’ve put in more than enough time here. Let’s slip out quietly before she wakes up. Maybe we can find Dennis Griffin and talk to him so this day isn’t a total waste.”

  I replied, “Already taken care of.”

  Her jaw dropped. “He was here?”

  Nodding, I said, “Yep. Let’s go. I have a lot to tell you, and I don’t want to do it here.”

  “Cool.” Tossing the rest of a stack of dishes into the bin with a crash, she went to gather up some of our empty scone containers, which she started filling with leftover food.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Taking home some goodies.”

  “That’s rude.”

  She waved a hand and emptied an entire tray of canapés into our tub. “Oh, like Portia the Stick Insect ever eats anything. It’ll go to waste if we leave it here. Besides, we deserve some kind of restitution for all we did today.”

  Shaking my head, I said nothing. There would be no getting her to put any of it back, but at least I didn’t have to join in.

  She continued, “All I got out of Dave Marshall is that he has a golf handicap of four, whatever that means. Oh, and I also saw a couple of women nearly throw down over who was going to get the privilege of bringing him a homemade supper tomorrow night. I bet Coralee never cooked for him. It’s not like that aspect of his life has changed now that she’s gone.” She tossed me her keys. “Hey, pull the truck around to the front door. I’ll finish up here and meet you outside.”

  Happy to have something else to do besides watch my sister burgle food from a wake, I headed up the street to move her truck. I had to backtrack five blocks on the one-way side streets before I could get on the boulevard in order to pull up in front of the house. Of course I managed to get stuck in traffic, which wasn’t abnormal for a Saturday afternoon in December when the locals were trying to Christmas shop and visitors were trying to take in the seasonal sights and activities. By the time I got back to the Sheridans’ house, ten minutes had passed.

  My sister wasn’t waiting outside for me like she said she’d be. Surely she wasn’t still packing pilfered food into our empty scone tubs. I parked her truck and went to the front door, intent on scolding her this time for her gauche behavior. After all, the leftovers could have gone home with Dave Marshall, and then those poor ladies wouldn’t have to worry about who was going to feed him for the next few days.

  The front door was locked for some reason, which had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I hurried around to the side of the house with the gate. It was still open, so I entered the backyard and found the door I’d used when I returned inside from speaking to Dennis Griffin. This one was unlocked. I slipped inside. I didn’t hear Delilah banging around as I’d hoped I would. My stomach clenched as I rushed as quietly as I could into the kitchen, finding my sister nowhere. The bins she’d been filling were sitting on the counter. But when I got closer, I noticed one of them had fallen to the floor, spilling out its contents.

  Chapter 43

  Fear seized me. D would never have left the kitchen like this. I heard muffled voices, but I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. As I tiptoed around the spacious kitchen, listening, I found that the voices were louder near the rear of the kitchen, where the doors to the mudroom, garage, and basement were. I pressed my ear to the basement door. The sound was coming from there. There appeared to be two people speaking—possibly arguing, from the brisk cadence of both voices—but it was so muffled I couldn’t make out any specific words.

  Hoping I wouldn’t give away the fact that I was eavesdropping, I eased the door open and listened intently. I heard Portia’s voice, angry and snappy, and D’s voice, strained and tight. I didn’t like the sound of this. I kicked off my shoes in the kitchen and crept down the carpeted stairs.

  The main open area of the basement was as lovely as the upper floors, with overstuffed couches, plush carpet, and a TV the size of a movie screen. Vintage pinball machines lined one wall, while an elegant mahogany pool table took up the far corner of the room. There was even a full kitchen down here. Straight ahead, there were four doors, one of which was heavy and wooden, different from the rest and with a touchpad on the wall next to it. I assumed it was the door to the wine cellar. The voices were definitely coming from there. I could finally hear what was being said.

  Delilah spat, “I can’t believe this! I thought we were friends.”

  “You thought we were friends?” Portia laughed meanly. “Oh, please. Did you think for a moment that someone like me would want to be friends with someone like you? Especially considering who your wretched mother is?”

  “You leave my mother out of this!”

  “Your mother ruined everything! The slut stole my boyfriend!”

  Well, that wasn’t nice at all. I’d been apprehensive about the situation, contemplating if I should call the police, but nothing in their conversation indicated any danger—it sounded more like a catfight than anything.

  It was Delilah’s turn to let out a bark of laughter. “Trust me, sister. You got the better end of that deal. My dad’s a total deadbeat.”

  “Be that as it may, he still loves your mom, you, and your stuck-up sister more than he ever loved me.”

  Ouch. Portia Sheridan was calling me stuck-up?

  “How do you figure that?”

  “He’s in jail right now because he’s protecting you.”

  Delilah scoffed, “He’s in jail right now because he got framed for Esther’s murder by Coralee Marshall. And she may have been blackmailing him, too, or at least threatening him. You know anything about that?”

  “You think Coralee had the guts—or the brains—to do any of this? To end her miserable life? To write that note? To blackmail anyone, much less frame your father for murder? She was always the scaredy-cat. And the dumb one. I had to do everything!”

  I sucked in a breath. The conversation had turned on a dime. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone to call the police, but first I wanted to find out exactly what was going on in there. If Portia was spilling her darkest secrets to my sister, she had plans for her. Bad ones. I needed to know what we were up against.

  The wine cellar’s door had a decorative wi
ndow with an intricate leaded glass pattern embedded into it. I hoped that meant I could peek in without being seen by Portia. I risked a quick glance and saw two figures in the room—Portia was standing and Delilah was sitting. Portia had her back to me, so I took a longer look. My heart stopped when I saw D tied to a chair and a chef’s knife gleaming in Portia’s right hand.

  Scuttling away from the door and back up the stairs as silently as I could, I called 911. The words tumbled out of my mouth as I explained the situation, and the operator promised to send help immediately and offered to stay on the line with me. If the traffic hadn’t lightened up yet, we were looking at several minutes before anyone got here. I didn’t know if Delilah had that kind of time.

  My stomach rolled at the thought. After unlocking the front door and leaving it wide open so the police could rush in unimpeded, I raced back downstairs. As I went, my mind spun through possible scenarios of how I could help my sister—and not make matters worse in the process. I didn’t want to spook Portia and turn Delilah into a hostage, not that she wasn’t sort of one already. More than anything, I didn’t want Portia to think she was cornered and had no other choice than to bargain with my sister’s life.

  Once I got back downstairs, I was met with the sound of raised voices.

  Delilah cried, “I watched you sit and weep over both of your old friends, only to find out you’d killed both of them? What kind of sick person does that?”

  “Don’t get all preachy on me! I said Esther’s death was an accident! Weren’t you listening?” Portia’s voice had a defensive tone to it. “It wasn’t my fault!”

  “You literally just said you went into Esther’s garage and got her brother’s baseball bat and then hit her in the head with it on purpose because you thought my dad was cheating on you with her. That’s not how an accident works.”

  “But I didn’t mean to kill her!”

  “What in the world did you think was going to happen when you hit her in the head with a bat?”

  “I don’t know! I was angry and thought she needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “It’s still murder if someone dies because you assaulted them.”

  Portia huffed out a sharp breath. “You sound like Coralee. It was her idea to bury Esther in the yard next door so we wouldn’t get caught. Oh, I guess I was wrong earlier—she did contribute one thing.”

  Their tones became less confrontational, so I snuck a look inside the wine cellar. They were still facing each other like they had before, but Portia’s posture seemed a bit more relaxed. That was a good thing. If D could keep her talking until the police got here, maybe no one would get hurt. I wished I could get a message to her that I was here, but I didn’t know how to do it. If I made any noise whatsoever, it would tip off Portia. Same for calling or texting Delilah. If Portia had her tied up, D wouldn’t have access to her phone, if Portia hadn’t already taken it from her.

  I decided to wave at my sister through the small window, hoping she’d see that there was someone out here. The trick would be if Delilah could manage not to react.

  I waved my hand, then peered in through one of the clear sections of glass.

  D flicked her eyes my way only for a moment before she asked calmly, “Whose idea was it to plant evidence against my dad with Esther’s body?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief as Portia laughed and kept on with the conversation, oblivious to Delilah’s covert reaction. “Oh, the watch? That was a happy accident. I’d taken it from your dad while we were dating. I was wearing it at the time.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that I needed to be recording this exchange, since Portia was essentially spilling her guts. This could get Aunt Lela, Mom, and Dad freed. I took my phone back out and started recording.

  “Why?” Delilah asked.

  “Because I asked him to give it to me and he wouldn’t. I wanted it.”

  “Wow. You’re a psychopath.”

  “I’m a woman who takes what she wants and doesn’t let little things like the law get in her way.”

  “I have to hand it to you—I believed you when you said you were a terrible actress. But now I find out you’ve been acting this whole time. I never once saw even a glimpse of the real you.”

  “I know. You’re so gullible. What does it say about your acting skills when you can’t see that someone else is delivering an Oscar-worthy performance? Then again, your only claim to fame is community theater.”

  “Your acting may put mine to shame, but I’ve got you beat on detective work. You made a lethal mistake about my dad cheating on you with Esther. I know you keep calling it an accident, but that doesn’t make her any less dead. Don’t you feel any remorse at all?”

  She barked out a laugh. “I would think you’d be ecstatic I had the wrong girl. If I’d had the right girl, you’d never have been born.”

  D hesitated for a moment, understandably. But she managed to rally enough to say, “Honestly, I’m not buying that you didn’t plan on killing Esther. It was awfully convenient that Brock had lent my dad his family’s beach house for the night. That made it so Dad wouldn’t have an alibi.”

  “I really don’t care what you think.” Portia shook her head. “Why am I bothering with this conversation, anyway? You’re not going to live to tell anyone about it.”

  My heart pounding, I took another peek through the window. Portia hadn’t advanced on Delilah, but her posture had stiffened and she now had the knife pointed at my sister. I hadn’t heard a siren or any indication that the police were getting close. It might fall to me to diffuse this situation, and I was prepared to do whatever was needed to save my sister.

  Delilah’s expression turned fearful, but she managed to keep a steady voice as she said, “Now, Portia, you caused Esther’s death—albeit accidentally—and you fed Coralee enough pills to send her to an eternal slumber. Do you really want to cross a serious line and put that knife in me? It’s going to be messy as all get-out.”

  I fought a wave of nausea as the image my sister had painted flashed in my head. She was doing exactly the right thing to get Portia to come to her senses. I hoped it worked.

  “I do what I have to do to protect myself and my husband. He’s going to be president someday, mark my words. The only thing standing in the way of that is you and your sister. Before I take care of you, we need to send your sister a message. We want her to come find you and get caught in my trap.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work. I told you she left earlier with Tucker. Those two are joined at the hip, so she won’t come here alone. Besides, she’s too smart to fall for whatever you have planned.”

  “She really isn’t. It’s clear that you’re the brains of the operation.” Dang, this woman was harsh. “Once she’s silenced, I’ll be home free.”

  “Not quite. Again, you’re forgetting about Tucker. He’s been in on this investigation with us from the start. He knows things. He’ll go on a rampage if anything happens to Quinn. And our mom and dad know more than they’re letting on. Do you think they’ll continue to keep their mouths shut if you kill me? Or were you just planning to kill all five of us so you don’t have to worry about it? That’s a lot of killing for one person.”

  “Shut up!” Portia screamed.

  Her body shook violently. She was officially a loose cannon. That meant I had to do something, and fast.

  I ran for the main part of the basement, looking for anything I could wield as a weapon. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, I might have chuckled when I noticed an autographed baseball bat displayed on a shelf. As inspiration struck me, I grabbed the bat and the crystal vase sitting next to it. I also picked up a small side table light enough for me to carry with one hand. The vase was for a diversion. The table was for a battering ram. The bat was for…worst-case scenario.

  Chapter 44

  I raced to the door, only to hear my
sister pleading for her life. Shutting that out of my mind, I opened the door and hurled the vase at the nearest rack of wine bottles. The crystal vase exploded, shattering into a million pieces and even managing to break a couple of the wine bottles it hit, sending a cascade of rosé splattering down onto the floor.

  Portia whipped around to see what had happened. In the meantime, I’d picked up the little table, its legs pointed out in front of me like four jousting lances. I charged straight at Portia. The table legs caught her in the torso and forced her to stumble backward toward another wine rack. Taken by surprise, she dropped the knife. I intended to pick up the knife and end this nightmare, but thanks to my adrenaline spiking, I couldn’t stop barreling at my target. Portia’s back slammed into the wine rack, causing it to wobble wildly. The rack tottered to its tipping point and hit the floor with a thunderous crash. Portia fell backward onto it, crying out in pain. I finally managed to gain enough control of my body to fling the table aside, but I still landed on top of a whimpering Portia and the fallen wine rack.

  “Quinn, you are a badass!” Delilah whooped from across the room.

  “D, language,” I wheezed, gingerly picking myself up from the mess of wine and glass covering the floor. Ouch. I hurt all over.

  Portia lay still, her face contorted, pale, and drenched in sweat. If I was hurting this bad, she had to be in agony, between breaking my fall and cracking her back on the wine rack.

  She growled between gritted teeth, “I’ll get you for this! You can’t even fathom how much damage you’ve done!”

  I surveyed the room. It looked like a bomb had gone off in here. Shards of glass littered the floor. So much wine had spilled, you couldn’t even take a step without sloshing in it. I’d probably caused more damage than I could repay in ten years on my meager salary, but it was worth it.