Finally reaching the boathouse, she peered inside. The place had the scent of a well-loved workspace. Josh had always taken great care of the boats, and Augusta had already brought up the possibility of giving them all to him. They were his anyway, and the simple fact that their mother had overlooked bequeathing them in the will was a moot point as far as she was concerned—especially in light of recent developments. They were as much his legacy as they were anyone’s. In fact, one of the boats, a twenty-five-foot Chris-Craft, had belonged to their father’s father. Augusta couldn’t remember the last time it had even been out on the water. Left to her and her sisters, it would likely rot here. It seemed only fitting that Josh should have his grandfather’s boat.
She thought about the house on Tradd Street and couldn’t recall the last time any of them had gone by there. That wasn’t a conscious decision, but none of them had really acknowledged that part of their family since their early youth. And now that the truth was known, it was entirely understandable why her mother would give Josh their father’s house. Despite the growing rift between them, Augusta thought he should have gotten more.
Inside the boathouse, everything seemed in order, except that the smallest of their boats, a dory, was missing from its rack. She went back to inspect the door, checking the lock. It was broken, but still hanging from the latch pin.
“Shit,” she said, and rolled her eyes. Something else to add to the growing list of trials. She sighed, uncertain she wanted to bother with a police report, when there was so much else they should be focusing their attention on—like poor Cody.
The door wasn’t completely busted yet. She walked through the boathouse, closing all the windows to keep the wind from blowing through, and then somehow, despite the rising wind, she managed to stabilize the boathouse door and shut it. She took the ponytail holder out of her hair and secured the lock as best she could, binding it all together with the ponytail holder. It certainly wasn’t thief-proof, but all she really cared about right now was that the door wouldn’t go flying off and injure someone. Tomorrow, she’d have Luke come over and take a look to see what repairs were necessary.
She heard the text come through on her phone as she was finishing up securing the makeshift lock, but she waited until it was done to check the message. The text was from Ian; it read: I love the taste of you.
She smiled and dialed his number immediately, anxious to talk to him. It went straight through to his voice mail, and she would have texted him back right then, but she shoved the phone into her pocket as the first drops of rain came pattering down on her head.
The headstone hadn’t been there on Tuesday when Sadie last went by to chat.
One trip to the cemetery per week was normally enough, but today she needed advice, so she took her troubles to Florence, as she always did, except that today she stood before a brand-new six-foot headstone.
It had been placed here without any commemoration, or acknowledgment by the family. Someone from the company where Florence had purchased it had simply delivered it and walked away. Not even Sadie had realized it was being set.
Of all the cemeteries here in Charleston, Magnolia was the most celebrated. Resting near the Cooper River, Charleston’s elite lay buried here amidst ancient cedars, magnolias and humpbacked oaks. A few dogwoods and crêpe myrtles were interspersed among the evergreens, and thorny yucca and cactus plants were planted to keep spirits in their place. Not everyone realized that fact, but Sadie did. It was a tradition that came straight from her Geechee roots. In fact, she’d planted one herself at the head of Robert’s grave—because he was a mean ole son of a bitch.
Sadie straightened, wishing she’d brought a sweater. There was a rare cool front coming through, and the rising wind held an unexpected bite.
She’d promised Queenie she would go help move her things out of the Simmonses’ house, but she wasn’t quite ready to leave yet . . . she still had some things to say. Staring at the pillar, she considered how to say what was on her mind.
Florence’s gravestone was a throwback to the past. She knew Flo had had to get special permission to erect the six-foot pillar. Many of the oldest graves were marked by simple field stone markers, or tablets of slate, sandstone or soapstone, and carved with simply the name, birth and death dates of the deceased, but the carvings in those soft stones were barely legible anymore. It was easy to tell which graves came later . . . those were marked with rich marble with grander designs. Before the War, many of the more intricate stones had been imported from New England. And later stones were made of industrial granite and carved by machines instead of chisels and hammers. Florence’s was made of granite, so that it would last the years, but it was larger than most of the newer stones. It stood as the centerpiece to the family’s plot. In contrast, Robert’s stone was barely a pillow upon the ground, and Sammy’s was a lovely, but small cross. Florence’s stood like a matriarch, presiding over her kin, past and present.
Even in death, she was larger than life.
Sadie stood, looking down at the grave, holding her red purse in her hand. “Florence . . . you know I found that codicil to your will—did you put it there, dear friend?”
There was no answer from the grave. But the wind moaned through the tops of the trees.
“Tell me . . . what is it I’m supposed to do, eah? You really want me to give up my house after all this time?”
The sky darkened as she stood there, and Sadie frowned and shook her head.
“I wish you were here,” she complained. “I got an awful feeling about things, Florence.”
The yucca plant Sadie had planted after Sammy’s death shivered violently with the wind, and a prickle of foreboding traveled down her spine. In all the years she’d been coming here, talking over these graves, she had never once felt like anyone was listening. Suddenly, she had the feeling she wasn’t alone.
For another instant, she stared at the quivering yucca plant, and then her nerve failed her entirely and she walked away, hurrying to her car.
Chapter 19
They were in the middle of hurricane season, but this storm didn’t officially have a name. It whipped itself up suddenly, sweeping over the Lowlands like an angry spirit. If it weren’t for the simple fact that, once again, after last month’s record-breaking storms, it threatened to dump a bellyful of precipitation at high tide, it would have been a welcome respite from the heat and humidity.
But no one was in the mood for more flooding or cleanup—especially since they were once again dealing with an overall gloom that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the recent unsolved murders.
Caroline sat at her desk, listening to Brad Bessett talk about information he’d uncovered—tips he’d apparently gotten from her sister, of all people.
Just when Caroline thought they were making progress, Augusta seemed determined to undermine their relationship.
And Jack . . . apparently he was sitting on the information as well, and hadn’t even bothered to tell her any of it. While they had certainly agreed not to encroach on each other’s work, this was information that brought everything closer to home.
Still, she felt compelled to protect Jack.
“Have you checked with the CPD’s public information officer to see what the official story is?”
“Absolutely,” Brad affirmed.
Frank Bonneau, her editor-in-chief, stepped forward, arms crossed. He had been listening quietly to the entire conversation, but interrupted now. “Caroline . . . I’ve vetted everything he’s bringing to you. It’s all accurate.”
“Then why are you bringing it to me? You have my full support, Frank. If you think we should run with the story, then go with it. If Daniel Greene is a person of interest, and it’s okay with the CPD that we print that information, I can’t let my personal feelings interfere.”
His expression was one of satisfaction. He gave her a nod. “Just making sure.”
Brad swept forward to gather his papers and
Caroline hesitated, lifting a finger, asking him to wait as she stared at the notes in front of her.
Daniel Greene was the title holder of the car registered to Jennifer Lee—at least according to her insurance company, which had already terminated her coverage for lack of payment. No one had seen the girl since early April. Her cell phone was prepaid and still had more than half its credits remaining. Not a single call had been made from it since April, but the number was still active. They had called it repeatedly, unable to leave voice messages because the mailbox was full. She wondered if Jack had the authority to listen to those messages but she knew better than to ask him. Even if he knew something, he wouldn’t tell her—not if it might jeopardize his investigation, which was taking an enormous toll on their relationship.
She hadn’t seen him but for a few minutes here and there since they’d discovered Pamela’s body. She knew he was driven to find this killer—and she wanted him to find the guy. To that end, there was no way she was going to risk his investigation—but she had a responsibility to report the news.
“Does anyone else have this information yet?”
By anyone else, she was clearly referring to local or national media. A knot formed in the pit of Caroline’s stomach. She had known Daniel Greene all her life. He’d spent many a Saturday at their home, ensconced in her mother’s office. Sometimes he would stay for pancakes and now, apparently, he and Sadie were heavily involved. Her heart hurt for Sadie, who was the one person in all this who was completely innocent.
“No.”
“What about arrests? Is there one planned?”
“So far, they’ve only brought him in for questioning.”
The Tribune couldn’t afford to lose the edge on yet another story. Her mother wouldn’t have hesitated, she knew. Flo would have handed over her own daughters on a platter if any one of them had crossed the line between right and wrong. Her mother had been a champion of the city and its people, first and foremost.
This wasn’t Caroline’s first test—simply the most difficult so far. Even throwing Jack under the bus—printing something he’d told her in confidence—had been easy compared to this, because she had made that decision, she thought, for all the right reasons.
But if Daniel was innocent, this could ruin his life . . . and Sadie’s, as well.
She sighed, shoving the papers away as though they offended her. “Run with it. Put it on the front page.”
That decision brought an instant headache and she sat down, rubbing her temples. The minute Frank and Brad walked out the door, her new administrative assistant entered the room. “Line two,” she said. “It’s your sister.”
“Great,” Caroline muttered and picked up the phone on her desk, feeling tense. “What do you want, Augusta?”
“It’s Savannah. Caroline, what’s wrong?”
Caroline let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Savannah,” she said with a sigh of relief.
Caroline got up and walked around her desk to close her door, and then sat down to tell Savannah everything.
3:47 P.M.
Augusta hated driving over bridges in this kind of weather. The wind was blowing so hard it actually shook her car, and her windshield wipers barely worked. She left her phone in her purse, knowing she needed all her attention for the road. She was soaking wet, but this was important enough that taking the time to look for an umbrella seemed inappropriate.
She drove straight to the Lockwood police station, hoping Jack would be there. If he wasn’t there, she would talk to anyone who would listen.
Luckily Jack was in his office. He wore dark circles beneath his eyes, and looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week, and although he greeted Augusta warmly, he seemed preoccupied. He lifted a brow. “Should I be happy or concerned to see you?”
Augusta crossed her arms, feeling a little uncomfortable. She was cold and wet and confused. “I don’t know, maybe a little of both.”
“Come on back,” he directed, leading her to his office. Augusta didn’t miss the looks she got as she followed him down the hall. She had purposely kept the TV off, but she was pretty sure the media was having a field day with her relationship with Ian. To his credit, Jack didn’t bring it up. In his office, he pulled a jacket off the rack on his wall and handed it to her, then sat down and waited for her to speak.
“I might have a tip,” she offered after a moment.
“About?”
“The car you guys are searching for—Daniel’s—the one he gave to Jennifer.” He narrowed his eyes at her, probably wondering how she had gotten that bit of information in the first place. “I think I saw it last night,” Augusta told him, and she described the vehicle. “I’m not sure about the make,” she said, and apologized. “But it was black.”
“There are a lot of black cars out there, Augusta. Are you sure about the plates?”
Augusta nodded, hugging herself. “That’s the one thing I am sure about.”
“Shit,” Jack said, and then, “Was Ian with you?”
Augusta tilted him a testy look, annoyed that he would once again turn this back to Ian.
“I have to ask.”
“Yes,” she said with certainty. “And while we’re on the subject of Ian. You’re doing the right thing, Jack. The night of Kelly Bank’s murder, he was also with me then.”
He lifted a brow. “And you’re only now coming forward?”
Augusta wrapped his jacket more firmly around herself, embarrassed, but prepared to make amends. “You didn’t ask before, and anyway, he already had one alibi you didn’t believe.” Her gaze challenged him.
“Touché,” he said, and got up. “I need you to file an official report. It’s going to be a few minutes. Wait here.”
Her gaze fell on the ashtray on his desk, where a lit cigarette had burnt down to the butt.
“Don’t tell your sister,” he said, noticing the direction of her gaze. “I’m trying to quit.” And then he walked out the door.
To his credit, he hadn’t picked it up even once, and it didn’t appear to have been touched. At least she wasn’t the only one who felt intimidated by Caroline, and the thought somehow made her feel a little better, because clearly it didn’t stop Jack from loving her.
Cody awoke with the first crack of thunder.
He blinked to clear the fog from his head, but didn’t bother looking around. He didn’t want to see this place anymore.
Outside, he could hear the sound of rain pelting the trestle. It plopped against the wooden roof in fat droplets. The air was full of moisture, but it was not enough to wet his throat. It teased his nostrils like the odor of bread baking in another room.
Without much energy, he stared at the gag that had come out of his mouth. Filthy and a little bloodied, it lay in front of his face, like a giant goober. He had been terrified the man would return and shove it back down his throat, but the man was gone now and it was dark again, and Cody was no longer afraid of the dark.
All the real horrors were visible in the daylight.
At least this way he could pretend he was sleeping in his bed at home.
He lay on the floor, awake, watching the rainwater pouring in through the window. It formed a shiny puddle on the floor and grew in circumference like one of those time-lapse videos on National Geographic. It grew and grew, until at last it began to spill down the slanted floorboards toward Cody.
Hope flared in Cody’s breast.
He felt it like a tiny bird wing flapping against his ribs.
Just a little hope that maybe the water would trickle down his way and he could drink a sip. He was so thirsty.
Peering back at the snake that sat regarding him from the corner with slitted eyes, he was almost grateful for its presence. No longer was its head cocked back in warning. It was simply waiting there patiently for something to eat.
Cody’s gaze returned to the trickle of water, learning from the snake, waiting for the stream to come to him . . . conserving his energy.
/>
6:47 P.M.
By the time Augusta left the police station, the news about Daniel Greene had already broken on the radio. She considered stopping by the Tribune’s office, but decided she had better go check on Sadie instead. If, in fact, they were going to arrest Daniel, she didn’t want Sadie to be alone. No matter what else they were going through right now, Sadie was still family.
She drove straight to Oyster Point and parked in front of Sadie’s cottage, then ran up on the porch. The rain was unrelenting. The sprint to the porch alone had soaked Augusta again. Sadie’s SUV was in the driveway, so she knocked on the door, and out of habit, tried the knob. For so long Sadie’s house had simply been an extension of their home, and finding the door unlocked, she pushed it open.
“Sadie?” she called out.
Even Jack’s jacket was soaked now—but then again, it wasn’t really a raincoat. It was a lightweight RiverDogs baseball jacket he obviously didn’t wear much. Cursing softly, she removed it and took it to Sadie’s back porch, setting it on a chair to dry.
“Sadie!” she called out again, and peered down the short corridor to her bedroom. The lights were out, and she didn’t appear to be home. Considering the rain a moment, she walked to the front window, then went back to the bathroom to grab a towel to attempt to dry herself off. She didn’t want to sit on Sadie’s furniture wet so she made her way into the kitchen, drying off there, hoping that Sadie wouldn’t be too upset that she had simply walked in. After all, they weren’t children anymore, and Sadie had a right to her privacy.
Gracie the cat sauntered into the kitchen, peering up at her and giving a long mewl, as though telling Augusta in no uncertain terms that she didn’t belong there.
“Yeah, I know, girl. Do you remember me?”
Tell No Lies Page 21