Tell No Lies

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Drama,” Caroline said, mouthing the word with great emphasis. Augusta smiled and Caroline stood to go. “Need anything while I’m out?”

  “Nah, I’m good. I plan to run out for lunch anyway.” Lunch, meaning time with Ian.

  “Alright, then I’m off,” Caroline said and left the room. Her heels clicked against the wooden floor as she passed the rug in the hall.

  Augusta pulled her hair into a ponytail and then reached for the band she’d left on the bedside table last night, freezing at the sight of the small yellow paper umbrella.

  Abandoning the ponytail, she reached over to pick up the umbrella, inspecting it. It looked exactly like the one Ian had put into his pocket last night. Exactly. But she didn’t remember him giving it back to her. Nor did she recall bringing it home. She most assuredly didn’t remember setting it on her nightstand.

  Where the hell had it come from?

  Combined with the photograph of Sam and the Nilsson song, it was downright spooky. Outside, she heard Caroline’s Lexus start up and drive away and she glanced at the indentation Caroline’s rear had made on the bed. She’d sat too far away from the nightstand to place it there, and why would she anyway?

  She stared at the frilly little decoration, unnerved by the sight of it. But it was simply a paper umbrella, she told herself. Nothing special about it, except for the rotten memories it evoked—memories and bad feelings she could do without, especially this morning when she wanted to feel something different for Flo and for this house.

  It was time to put the past behind her.

  Her mother was a human being. Everyone made mistakes. Augusta had certainly made enough of her own. For everyone’s sake, she needed to put an end to all the disappointments that could no longer be atoned for. If she could forgive complete strangers for perceived wrongs, then why couldn’t she forgive her mother?

  With that thought, she tossed the umbrella into the trash by her dresser.

  It was morning.

  Again.

  He thought.

  But maybe he was dreaming.

  Cody’s arms were beyond hurting. Numbness had set into them, making him feel like they weren’t part of his body anymore—like his tongue. So far, the man hadn’t come back, but now Cody was pretty sure he was going to die before anyone came, so he wasn’t afraid anymore.

  His eyes were on fire. His lips were cracked and broken. He was so weak he didn’t even move when he saw the snake slither in from the locker room. He lay still, watching the reptile slip its way across the cavernous room, too feeble even to pull air into his burning nostrils. But his heart sped up painfully, beating erratically as he watched the reptile come closer. It wasn’t the first time since he’d been here that his heart seemed like it wanted to bust through his chest so he lay there quietly, willing it to settle down.

  Mind over matter, his dad would say, though he couldn’t remember exactly why he’d said it.

  Eyes half-closed, he watched as the snake paused to inspect him . . . almost as though he sensed Cody lying in the shadows.

  Don’t breathe, he told himself. Stay still.

  But he knew snakes could sense heat, so playing dead wasn’t exactly the right thing to do. Still, he lay as still as he knew how to do, not daring even to blink.

  His chest rose and fell in a quick rhythm.

  After a moment, the snake slithered away, into the corner behind Cody’s head and curled its long, thick black body around a pile of wood in the middle, where a shaft of sunlight poured in through the broken window.

  Cody could see the snake, lying there in the sunlight.

  It was large, with a big, wedge-shaped black head. From Cody’s viewpoint on the floor, he could see that the underbelly still had some cross bands, but not too many and they faded to brownish black toward the top of the snake’s body. That meant it was probably old, Cody realized. It had outgrown its yellow-tipped tail, but Cody recognized it as a cottonmouth the moment it settled into the woodpile and cocked its head back to show Cody the white interior of its mouth. It stayed there, with its mouth gaped, not more than three feet away—close enough that Cody could see the two large fangs, warning Cody to stay away.

  Cody tried not to breathe.

  He didn’t talk to the snake except inside his head.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  The cottonmouth responded by wiggling its tail, hitching its head farther back and turning its white mouth toward Cody so Cody could see its fangs more clearly.

  His dad had always told him that if you were near enough to see a snake’s fangs, you were too close, but Cody didn’t have much choice.

  For the longest time, the snake stayed in that threatening position, watching Cody from the corner of one elliptical eye.

  Outside, he heard the sound of thunder approaching, and the sky rapidly darkened, casting the snake’s body into shadow along with Cody.

  Cody blinked, closing his eyes, remembering the cottonmouth that had come straight up to their fishing boat. They swam with their heads above the water, their fat bodies nearly invisible in the black river. His dad said they were only curious, but the man at the wildlife habitat said they were aggressive and that his buddy narrowly survived multiple bites from one mean old moccasin.

  Forcing his eyes open, he watched the dark form in the corner through slitted lids, his brain weary as he fought the need to close his eyes.

  After a while, the snake shut its mouth and Cody relaxed, letting his eyes rest.

  Somewhere in his dream head, he thought he heard the snake say, “Don’t worry, Cody. I won’t hurt you.”

  Storm clouds were rolling in.

  The work crew had barely begun before they had to pack it up again, promising to return again Monday morning. Augusta stood on the front porch, watching the last of Luke’s crew head out the gate.

  The weather forecast called for light showers, but these particular clouds had an angry, bruised underbelly that promised more than sprinkles. The wind kicked up and even the tidal flats had a few visible whitecaps.

  Augusta might have been disappointed, but what she really wanted to do was to see Ian, and this would afford her the perfect opportunity to slip out if he was available.

  She knew that despite Jack’s warnings, he probably wouldn’t completely give up his search for Jennifer, but neither was he going full speed ahead with it either. He had promised to cooperate with the police and Augusta was sure he wouldn’t risk ending up behind bars again, especially now that all charges were being dropped. But she also knew he felt responsible for Jennifer.

  She stood on the porch, looking out over the marsh. It appeared as though the boathouse door had been left ajar and seemed to be hanging precariously. If she didn’t go out and batten it down, it was going to end up being just another repair they would have to make. In fact, judging by the way it was seesawing, it was already too late. But before she could head in that direction, her cell phone rang and she fished it out of her back pocket—Caroline’s back pocket, to be more specific, and the pants were a little tight. She’d stolen a pair of jeans from her sister’s drawer along with a cottony blouse. Disappointment filtered through her when she saw it was an unknown number. Wavering between letting it go and answering, she tapped the green answer button and said hello.

  “Hi,” responded the voice. “It’s Brad Bessett.”

  “Oh hey!”

  “Hey, so I looked into that tip you gave me—thanks, by the way.” He sounded genuine.

  A little distracted by the boathouse door, Augusta said, “Great, you’re welcome. What did you find out? Anything?”

  “Not what you were looking for. As far as we can tell Jennifer never applied here at the Tribune, though I did check with my source at CPD and they gave me a new lead. Seems Jennifer legally changed her name, and apparently, they’ve got a BOLA out for her missing vehicle right now.”

  Ian would be happy to know the police were actually following up on the informat
ion he’d given them. “That’s good news, right? So they’ve got a lead?”

  “Not sure, but I thought you’d be interested to know the vehicle is registered under a name you might be familiar with . . .”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah . . .” He paused for an instant, as though building suspense, and Augusta found herself instantly annoyed. “Daniel Greene,” he revealed before she could speak up.

  The disclosure bowled Augusta over for a second; she didn’t know what to say.

  “The car is an old decommissioned police-issue Dodge,” he added, when she remained silent. “With a license plate registered as NZ3 H43.”

  A chill ran down Augusta’s spine. “Repeat that license again, please.”

  “NZ3 H43.”

  The car following her last night had been a black Dodge with a license plate beginning with NZ3. Augusta was pretty sure Jennifer Williams wasn’t behind the wheel.

  Daniel Greene?

  But it couldn’t be.

  “Apparently, the car was auctioned a little over a year ago. Greene apparently buys and donates vehicles on a regular basis.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, that’s about all I know. He was Jennifer’s pro bono attorney and he does this sort of thing a lot—donates beaters to organizations like Wheels for Women, which in turn gives them to single moms and such. Except it looks as though he handed Jennifer the keys to this one directly because most charities will assume the title and act as dealer, selling the title to the recipient. This one’s still in Greene’s name.”

  “Is this public knowledge?”

  “Not yet. So please keep it under your hat. I’d like to cover this properly when I can.”

  Augusta was too stunned to know what to say.

  “I’m sure your sister would appreciate it, as well.”

  “Caroline?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and added, in case she didn’t understand what he was telling her. “She would probably appreciate your keeping quiet about it.”

  “Sure,” Augusta agreed.

  “Oh, and there’s one more thing . . . Greene was also Karen Hutto’s pro bono attorney.”

  Another prickle ran down Augusta’s spine.

  “Like I said, he’s pretty involved with a lot of these charities for abused women. Apparently, her husband was an abuser, and she was attempting to get full custody of her daughter Amanda before she disappeared. ”

  The hairs on the back of Augusta’s neck prickled. “Thanks,” she said, and then said good-bye and hung up, too dazed to carry on any further conversation.

  Daniel Greene knew every single victim, except possibly Amy Jones.

  She stared out at the boathouse, at the door slamming violently in the wind, her brain racing over possibilities. Her mother probably would have shown Daniel the codicil, though she might not have given it to him yet, because otherwise he wouldn’t have broken into their house to try to find it—assuming that’s how it went. The morning after they’d discovered the body on Backcreek Road, someone had broken into their mother’s office through the back doors. Nothing had been stolen as far as they could tell, and aside from the broken window in the expensive French doors, nothing was out of place. They’d found no fingerprints—none that didn’t belong in the room—and nothing to indicate there had actually been a successful robbery. All her mother’s documents and books were undisturbed.

  That break-in had happened after the break-in at Daniel’s law office on the morning of the reading of the will. But it didn’t make any sense that Daniel would break into his own office and beat himself up. Supposedly, he had responded to a silent alarm, surprising an intruder who then beat him nearly to death with a bat and put him in the hospital.

  Something didn’t add up.

  Besides, if Daniel had known about the codicil, he couldn’t have told Sadie about it because Sadie was one of the most honest people Augusta had ever known. Sadie could never have kept a secret like that to save her life—or so Augusta had believed until yesterday. And yet, her feeling was that Sadie had longed to tell the truth. If she had kept the secret of Josh’s paternity from them, it was because Flo had demanded it. That’s what Sadie had said, and despite the pain she felt over the disclosure, Augusta believed it.

  In the distance, the boathouse door swung to and fro, but Augusta stood rooted to the spot, too stunned to move, her brain filling up with new scenarios.

  Even through all the media hype, Daniel Greene had never uttered a single word about Jennifer Williams. He’d kept that information completely to himself—despite the fact that Caroline had dragged Ian’s name through the muck over his relationship with the missing girl. Not only that, Daniel had never once disclosed his relationship with Karen Hutto.

  On the other hand, Jennifer had never officially been a focus of this police investigation as far as Augusta was aware. Nor was Amanda Hutto. The only known murder victims at this point were college student Amy Jones and Kelly Preston—Jack’s ex-girlfriend cop, who was discovered at Brittlebank Park on July Fourth—potentially her sister Caroline—and now Pamela Baker.

  Had Daniel known Amy, too?

  She didn’t know the answer to that, but she needed to tell Jack about the car last night. And right now, the boathouse door was swinging wildly in the wind, so she made her way toward the dock, hoping to secure it before the weather worsened.

  Chapter 18

  12:47 P.M.

  Murrells Inlet was about an hour and a half’s drive from Charleston, but Ian still couldn’t officially leave town, so he did the next best thing. He picked up the phone, walked out onto his back deck and called Jennifer’s mother to give her an update.

  The conversation was terse and brief, because he still had a difficult time with the fact that she refused to come forward to hold her brother accountable. He gave it to her straight, telling her everything Jack Shaw had shared with him, with the confidence that Shaw wouldn’t have given him information that wasn’t already known or soon to be made public knowledge. At this point, Jennifer had been missing so long, he knew her mother would be grateful for closure, in whatever manner she could get it. He owed her that much at least. But he hung up feeling a sense of futility where Jennifer and her family were concerned.

  He’d spent a long time looking for the girl and it seemed there was a good chance no one would ever know what had happened to Jennifer. She was simply another missing person. There was no evidence to connect her to the recent murders. No physical proof, aside from the photo that she had sent Ian, which just happened to place her at the ruins. But that was hardly enough for the police to declare her dead and the victim of a serial killer. The fact that both Pamela Baker and Caroline Aldridge had come to harm after being at those ruins didn’t prove a thing. However, Shaw seemed to believe him—finally—and after their recent discussion, he knew the intrepid detective would pursue every available lead. The police were now working closely with SLED and had called in the FBI to assist. They were working with a bigger picture than the one Ian had. Sure, he wanted to find Jennifer, but he wasn’t in the mood to burn bridges with Shaw or with the Charleston police department. A few weeks in lockup was more than enough to make Ian want to keep Shaw at arm’s length—his sense of duty be damned. For the second time in his life, you could say he was scared straight.

  As for the missing kid . . . Cody was the main focus of their investigation right now, and rightly so. The boy had been missing for six days, with no clue as to where he might be. His chances weren’t looking great at the moment, and Ian felt awful for Augusta because she was so closely connected with the boy’s family.

  Not for the first time, it seemed everything came back to the Aldridges . . . they were the central connection here . . . even if they didn’t know it. That was a fact he’d shared with Jack, despite Jack’s connection with Caroline and despite Ian’s with Augusta.

  Come what may . . . the guilty should pay for their sins.

  Out on the marsh, dark
clouds were sweeping in, turning the water a mercurial gray. The spartina grass was being battered by a rising wind, but the cool front was a welcome respite from the brutal August heat.

  He wondered what Augusta was doing right now, and resisted the urge to dial her number. He sensed she needed space after last night, so he gave it to her. But there was no reason not to send her a text, he decided. Unlocking his phone, he punched in her number . . .

  Gray with age, but built to withstand weather, the Aldridge dock extended more than fifteen hundred feet out over the salt marsh, with access to deep water. A little more elaborate than most, it had room for three large seaworthy boats. Only one of the ports was empty. Their father had built it in a style to match the Georgian house, and the tin-steepled roof was the same steeple that adorned the widow’s walk.

  At the far end of the dock, the boathouse door slammed repeatedly, swinging a little drunkenly from one hinge.

  Augusta made her way down the long boardwalk, intending to secure the door quickly, then take the car downtown to see Jack. Obviously Daniel Greene’s connection to Jennifer wasn’t news to the police, because they were already pursuing that lead, according to Brad, but she felt the license plate was somehow a key piece of information. Although she hadn’t seen the entire plate, the description of the car seemed similar.

  She thought about Sadie and all that Sadie had already been through, and the prospect of telling her about Daniel made her ill.

  The wind whipped her hair into her face and into her mouth as she made her way down the long dock. Water sprayed up from the marsh, sprinkling her arms, and she inhaled the familiar scent of plough mud into her lungs, walking faster. Overhead, the sky darkened, casting a purple-gray shadow over the water. Out in the distance, she could see other boats heading in for cover.