Cara ordered a slice of the Philosopher’s Pie and a glass of wine, and sat at a table outside, with Poppy crouched at her feet. This was a college hangout, and SCAD kids swarmed the sidewalk around her, laughing, talking, swearing, smoking. They rolled by on bikes and skateboards, and the atmosphere was noisy and electric. There were old-timers in Savannah who hated SCAD, with its artsy, avant-garde faculty and wacky, and some said entitled, student body, but Cara loved the energy they contributed to her neighborhood.
She took her time finishing her wine, enjoying eavesdropping on the swirl of conversations going on around her. Finally, when she could stand the hot sticky air no longer, she walked home, being vigilant about staying under streetlights and away from dark doorways.
They were only a few steps from her own door at Bloom when a tall, slender figure suddenly emerged from the shadows, stepping directly in front of her. Poppy gave a startled bark, and she had to choke back a half-formed scream.
“Cara? Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
It took a moment for her heart to stop racing and to gather her wits.
“Startle me? Jesus, Bert, you scared the living beejesus out of me.” She held up the can of Mace she’d been clutching in her right hand. “Another second and you’d have gotten a faceful of this.”
He laughed nervously. “Yeah. Rookie move. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
* * *
She fetched them both bottles of water, and they sat in her living room, with Poppy’s head placed contentedly on Bert’s lap.
He was dressed oddly, and acting strange, even for Bert. He wore his usual weekend attire of baggy shorts, flip-flops, and white “wife-beater” undershirt, but tonight, despite the stifling heat, he’d seen fit to throw a calf-length raincoat over the ensemble. His hair was cut shorter than she’d ever seen it, and he was obviously on edge.
Cara had no time for subterfuge. “Why are you here, Bert? Did Cullen send you?”
“Cullen? God, no.” He kept running his fingers along Poppy’s ears.
She raised one eyebrow, expectantly. “I’m waiting.”
“I guess you were right. I guess this is where you get to say ‘I told you so.’”
“About?”
“Cullen. Us. Everything. You were right about all of it. He doesn’t give a damn about me. He was just using me to get to you. He’s evil, Cara. Evil and twisted, and smart as hell. Scary smart.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“I started putting things together almost as soon as I left here and went to work for him. I’m such a twit. I actually thought he cared about me. I bought everything he was selling—that he’d make me a designer, and I’d get to do my own events. But you saw where he had me at his studio—answering the phone. I never even touched a flower. My actual job was to pour champagne for clients and tweet photos of Cullen’s fabulous creations. And empty his cat’s litter box. When I moved in with him? I had to stay out in the carriage house. I was a glorified house boy. With fringe benefits.”
Cara knew she should have felt vindicated—everything she’d predicted about Bert’s experience with Cullen Kane had come true—but it felt like a hollow victory. He looked so sad and defeated.
“So you broke up with him?”
Bert snorted. “There was nothing to break up. It was like you said. I was just an easy lay for him. He’s got half a dozen guys just like me between here and Charleston.”
“I’m so sorry, Bert,” she said gently. “Truly I am. I feel partly to blame, because he did use you to get to me.”
“No.” Bert shook his head vehemently. “This was all me, Cara. Me falling into my old bad habits.”
“Are you drinking again?” She had to ask it.
“I wanted to,” he admitted. “Cullen did everything he could to make it easy for me. But somehow, I didn’t. Maybe that’s how I had the nerve to walk away. I started going to meetings again Friday. And that helped.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “At least you’ve got your sobriety.”
“Two years, three months, sixteen days,” Bert said. “But that’s not the reason I came here tonight.”
“Tell me you came to ask for your old job back,” Cara said.
His face lit up. “That’d be great, but that’s not really it.” Then he reached into the raincoat and brought out a medium-sized linen bag that he’d shoved into an inner pocket. “This is the real reason I came.”
Cara took the bag and loosened the drawstring opening. An heirloom-quality eighteenth-century sterling-silver epergne slid out onto her lap.
“Lillian’s?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where on earth did you find it?”
“In Cullen’s gym bag. The bastard has had it all this time.”
“But how did you find it?”
Bert laughed bitterly. “House boy take Mercedes to get detailed. House boy empty trunk, think maybe he wash boss man’s stinky gym clothes, score extra points with boss. Instead, house boy find missing shiny silver doodad.”
“Unbelievable,” Cara said, holding up the epergne. “I can’t even process it.”
“I can,” Bert said. “Cullen must have swiped it from the van that weekend after Torie’s wedding.” His face flushed and he looked away, embarrassed. “That’s when I first met him. I’d gone to an after-hours club in midtown with a couple friends, and he was there, kinda window-shopping I guess you’d say. He sent a drink over to my table, but I told the waiter to take it back, because you know, I don’t drink. A few minutes later, Cullen came over. He said he recognized me from Torie’s wedding, talked about what a great job we’d done with all the flowers. He bought cocktails for the whole table, and we sort of hit it off, and after a while … I can’t believe I’m telling you this shit…”
“You went out to the van?”
“Yeah,” Bert whispered. “I think he was kinda into that.”
“Remind me to have that thing steam-cleaned,” Cara said.
* * *
“So … what now?” Bert asked, after he’d related the whole tawdry Cullen Kane affair.
Cara put the epergne back into the linen bag. “First thing tomorrow, we take this thing back to Lillian Fanning. You know she’s been going around town trashing my reputation, right?”
“Cullen was loving that,” Bert said. “He’s got quite the network of ladies who lunch.”
“I can’t wait to see her face when she sees the epergne,” Cara said.
“What will you tell her?”
“Just that we figured out who took it from the van, and we were able to recover it. Don’t worry. I’ll leave you out of it.”
“And what about that Detective Peeples? Won’t she be asking a lot of questions?”
“If she asks, we’ll tell her the truth,” Cara decided. “Let Cullen Kane deal with it. He’s got a lot to answer for as far as I’m concerned.”
“And he’s still not done,” Bert warned. “He’s seriously obsessed with grinding his heel in your face. He went all batshit when he figured out that contractor friend of yours managed to buy this building out from under him.”
Bert looked around the living room and for the first time noticed the packing boxes. “Hey, what’s up with all this? I figured you wouldn’t have to move now, since Cullen got outmaneuevered.”
Cara shrugged. “Long, sad story. Things didn’t work out with the new guy. I’ll be out of here by the end of next week.”
“Oh.” Bert sank lower into the sofa cushions. “Well, shit.”
“Yeah.” Cara finished off the last of her water, wishing it were wine.
“Bert?”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t give up your apartment when you moved in with Cullen, did you?”
“Yup.”
“So … you’re basically homeless now?”
“Sorta.”
She patted the sofa cushion, then stood up. “I’ll get you a pillow and a sheet. And PS. You’re hired. Again.”
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55
In the morning, Bert was gone. The sofa bed was folded up, the pillow and sheet neatly stacked on top of one of the boxes of books. The smell of brewing coffee wafted from the direction of the kitchen. Poppy was missing, too.
Cara poured herself a mug of coffee and took it out to the courtyard garden. Out of habit, she deadheaded a spent rose and pulled a weed from the side planting bed. The big bell from St. John the Baptist was booming eight as she sat down under the shade of the café umbrella.
She wondered if she’d be able to hear the church bells over on Hall Street. Geographically, the new place wasn’t all that far away. Emotionally? That was a different story. She tried not to think about how much she was going to miss this little garden, miss all the work she’d put into it, and the enjoyment it had brought.
There was a big new yard over at Hall Street. It had seemed so hopeless yesterday, but things had shifted just a little last night. Bert was back. Bert had a strong back and he was a hard worker, when he wasn’t whining.
The timing of Bert’s return couldn’t have been more fortuitous. There was no way she could get through the Trapnell wedding without help.
Thinking of the Trapnell wedding made her remember what had triggered the sense of uneasiness that had propelled her out of the apartment the night before. She went inside and fetched her laptop, clicking onto Facebook and Harris Strayhorn’s page.
Thank God! The stripper photos had been deleted. Maybe, through some divine providence, Brooke hadn’t seen them after all. Just out of curiosity, she clicked over to Brooke’s page.
The bride-to-be wasn’t what you’d call a Facebook fanatic. It looked like she posted irregularly, whenever the mood struck. There were photos of Brooke and Harris toasting on the beach at Tybee at sunset, of Brooke in running clothes finishing a marathon, of Brooke and Marie at Mother’s Day brunch. The most recent item had been posted yesterday morning at 10 a.m. by Holly Strayhorn.
Bachelorette party tonight for my almost-sister BROOKE TRAPNELL! Woot, woot! #CosmoCraziness #Alertthemedia #Whosgotthebailmoney?
There were six responses to Holly’s post, including Brooke’s.
Can’t wait!
Cara was just about to post something on her own Facebook page about the Trapnell wedding when the kitchen door opened and Poppy came bounding out to the garden, with Bert right behind. He was waving a large white paper sack.
“Guess who went to Back in the Day for bacon cheddar biscones for breakfast?”
* * *
She called ahead to make sure the Fannings would be home. Lillian’s voice dripped ice. “We’ve got brunch plans at eleven. What’s this about Cara?”
Cara ignored the question. “It won’t take long. I can be there in twenty minutes.”
It didn’t get much better than Isle of Hope on a warm June morning. The live oaks lent cool shade, the sun sparkled off sailboats skittering over the river, and not a single blade of jade-green grass at the Shutters was anything less than perfection. It could have been a cover for Southern Living magazine.
Lillian Fanning sat stiffly on a wicker armchair on her porch and looked down at the epergne, which Cara had handed over without a word.
She picked it up, turned it over, and studied the hallmark. She held it up to the light, turning it this way and that, looking for dents or scratches, or any other clue to where the epergne might have been for these past weeks.
“It doesn’t look any the worse for wear,” Lillian admitted, her lips pursed. “And you won’t tell me how you managed to find it?”
Cara had been rehearsing her response all morning. She delivered her lines as practiced.
“Somebody … who has a grudge against me took it. Not because it was so valuable or to sell it. To cause trouble for me, and ruin my reputation. A friend found where this person had hidden the epergne, and last night, he brought it back to me. And now, I’m returning it to you.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Lillian’s face was flushed. “Torie was right. I should have known better. All these weeks, I’ve thought, and I’ve said, really terrible things about you. To that police detective, to my friends.” She shook her head. “I am deeply, deeply ashamed of myself right now, Cara. And I’m afraid an apology won’t even begin to make things right with you.”
“An apology is all that’s needed,” Cara said. “Thank you, Lillian. I’ll let you get to your brunch now.”
Lillian reached out and touched Cara’s bare arm. Her fingertips were cool.
“You know, Cara, we Southerners pride ourselves on good manners. Torie says I’m a big snob about these kinds of things, and that’s something else she’s probably right about. You’re from up North someplace … Michigan?”
“Ohio.”
“I knew it was one of those places. Anyway, I just want to tell you that the way you handled this whole episode, with such dignity, and the way you just accepted my totally inadequate apology with such grace, says a lot to me about who you are and how you were raised.”
Cara smiled. “My mother would have been happy to hear you say that.”
“Where was your mother from?”
“Actually? Kentucky.”
Lillian’s eyes twinkled. “That explains everything. Seriously though, Cara. I guess that’s a lesson learned for me. You don’t have to be Southern to have good manners. And you don’t have to be a Yankee to make a total ass of yourself.”
That got a laugh from Cara. She was halfway across the lawn when Lillian called out to her. “I’m going to make it up to you, Cara. You wait. Your phone is going to be ringing. There won’t be a bride within a hundred miles of this town who won’t be calling you.”
* * *
“Man, I hate it when you have to act all classy and grown-up, instead of going off on a bitch,” Bert complained, after Cara gave him the blow-by-blow of her encounter with Lillian Fanning.
They were upstairs in the apartment, and he was helping her finish packing books. “Grown-up is definitely not as fun,” Cara agreed. “But I’d much rather have Lillian as an ally than an enemy. Now she owes me, or she thinks she does. And that’s a good thing, considering the rent on Hall Street is double what I paid here.”
Bert gave her a quizzical look. “What happened with Jack Finnerty? I got the impression you two were pretty hot and heavy.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Cullen has spies everywhere,” Bert explained. “After Jack took a pass on doing the work over here, he started asking around. I think Patricia Trapnell probably helped him put it together because of all the work Jack and his brother were doing over at the Strayhorns.”
“I can’t believe Cullen Kane was that interested in my personal life.”
Cara’s cell phone was sitting on the coffee table. It buzzed and Bert picked it up and handed it to her. “It’s Marie Trapnell. You want to take it, or should I tell her it’s your day off?”
“Give.”
“Hi, Marie,” Cara said cheerfully.
“Cara?” Marie Trapnell’s voice crackled with agitation. “Have you heard from Brooke?”
“Nooo, we haven’t spoken since Friday. Should I have? Is something wrong?”
“Brooke is gone.”
Cara felt a cold whisper at the base of her neck. “When? Where?”
“We don’t know how long she’s been gone. Holly went to pick her up for the bachelorette party last night at eight, but she wasn’t there. She tried calling and texting, but Brooke never answered.”
“Has Harris talked to her?” Cara’s mind flashed on the pictures from the strip club. “Did they have another fight?”
“No. Not that I know of. I just talked to Harris. He hasn’t seen her since she left for work Friday morning. He and his friends went up to Atlanta Friday, and he didn’t get back till nearly ten last night. He went straight to bed, and he wasn’t really worried about her until just now, when Holly called to ask him why Brooke skipped out on the party.”
“
Oh no,” Cara said.
“I’m trying to stay calm, but I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job of it,” Marie said shakily. “It’s just that Brooke is so emotionally fragile right now. The trial and the wedding, it’s all just too much for her.”
“Have you called her friends? When I talked to her Friday, she mentioned that she was sort of dreading the bachelorette thing. Because she was so tired.”
“All of her friends were with Holly last night. Brooke was the only one missing. And none of them talked to her on Friday or Saturday.”
Cara’s mind was racing with possibilities. “Is her car there?”
“Her car?”
“Brooke’s Volvo. Was it at her house last night?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even think to ask, when Harris called to see if Brooke was with me.”
“You might want to check on that,” Cara said gently.
“I will. I’ll call Harris right now and ask.”
“Marie? You might also ask him if Brooke saw the pictures on his Facebook page.”
“What pictures?”
“Just ask Harris. He’ll know which ones.”
Ten minutes later, Cara’s phone rang. This time it was Harris Strayhorn. No surprise there.
“Marie says you asked whether Brooke saw some Facebook pictures? What are you talking about?”
“I saw the pictures from the strip club yesterday, Harris, before you took them down. I saw all of them. And I wasn’t the only one.”
“Fuuuuck.” His voice sounded distant. “I’m gonna kill Mike Bingham. He swiped my phone and posted them on my page. We were all pretty hammered. I didn’t even know they were on there, until another buddy texted me to warn me to delete them. Which I did as soon as I saw them.”
“Did Brooke see the pictures?”
“Christ, I hope not. Maybe not. She doesn’t look at Facebook on a regular basis.” He groaned. “But if she did see them…”
“Exactly.”
“They look awful, I know. But I swear to God, it was just a lap dance. Okay, two. Maybe more. I can’t remember. I got so drunk I passed out in the back of the van after the third or fourth club. That’s why I didn’t come home until last night. I didn’t want Brooke to see me until I got sobered up.”
Save the Date Page 35