The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  That seemed like a lifetime ago. She tapped her pencil on the check Josephine had given her. On the boat ride back from Talisa, she’d made up her mind to return the check.

  Was there any way, ethically, she could keep Josephine’s money? She chewed the end of her pencil for a moment, then opened her laptop and her favorite search engine.

  * * *

  It took less than five minutes to discover the whereabouts of Josephine’s oldest friend, Ruth.

  The obituary ran in The Boston Globe on October 16, 2008.

  Ruth Mattingly Quinlan, formerly of Boston, died October 12 at Hospice Care of Palm Beach, Florida, after a short illness. She was 89. Born in 1919 to Frederick Eustis Mattingly and the former Prudence Patterson, Mrs. Quinlan attended the Grosvernor School and Smith College, from which she graduated in 1942. In 1946, she married Robert Hudson Quinlan of Highland Park, Illinois. Mr. Quinlan, a former pharmacist, was a successful businessman who owned a chain of midwestern drugstores, which he later sold to Walgreens in the 1970s.

  Mr. and Mrs. Quinlan made their home in Winnetka, where Mrs. Quinlan became active in civic and charitable circles in between raising the couple’s two children: Robert Hudson Quinlan Jr., born in 1949, and Diana, born in 1951.

  A devoted mother and advocate for liberal causes, Mrs. Quinlan became involved in the civil rights movement in the early 1960s, joining the Rev. Martin Luther King’s Washington peace march in 1963. She was a delegate to the 1972 Democratic National Convention and was also a key organizer for Walter Mondale’s 1984 presidential bid.

  Following the death of her husband in 1996, Mrs. Quinlan became a full-time resident of Palm Beach, Florida, where she resumed fund-raising for favorite charities and causes. In August, she served as the oldest Florida delegate to the Democratic National Convention, where she cast her state’s ballot nominating Barack Obama for president.

  Ruth Mattingly Quinlan was predeceased by her daughter, Diana Quinlan, who died in 1968. Survivors include her son, Robert H. Quinlan Jr., of Orlando, Florida, and one granddaughter, Ruth Elizabeth Quinlan, of Los Angeles, California.

  No services are planned. At Mrs. Quinlan’s request, memorials may be made to the American Civil Liberties Union or Planned Parenthood.

  Brooke chuckled at the last line of the obituary. Ruth Quinlan sounded like the lefty liberal Josephine had described. And like someone Brooke would have loved to have met. According to the newspaper, Ruth was survived by a son and a granddaughter. She typed the name Robert Hudson Quinlan Jr. into the search engine.

  The first hit she got was for an article in the Orlando Sentinel. A Robert Quinlan had been arrested in 2009 for breaking and entering, assault on a peace officer, and public intoxication.

  She found two more published police reports concerning minor legal skirmishes for the man she assumed was the same Robert Quinlan, another in 2011, and a third in 2012. She found a white pages listing for R. H. Quinlan, in Oviedo, Florida, and called the number, but got a recorded message saying the number had been disconnected. Maybe Quinlan was currently residing in a local jail or prison?

  Next she typed the name Ruth Elizabeth Quinlan into the search engine and was thrilled to see a list of more than a dozen hits. Clicking on each citation, Brooke learned that R. Elizabeth Quinlan was a somewhat prolific, if not wildly successful freelance journalist.

  She wrote for obscure trade journals like American Hardware Retailer and The Journal of Lawn Care Professionals. She’d penned a handful of travel stories for regional airline magazines, and her most prestigious byline, as far as Brooke could tell, was for a series of stories about midlife dating for the online version of Glamour magazine.

  Brooke bookmarked the articles to read later. Right now, what she really needed was to locate Ruth Elizabeth Quinlan. She couldn’t find a telephone listing for the woman, but after clicking around, she did find a website for R. Elizabeth Quinlan, freelance journalist. Which led her to R. Elizabeth’s private Facebook page.

  Brooke clicked on the private message button and typed in a missive to Ruth Elizabeth Quinlan, one she hoped would be intriguing enough to elicit a reply.

  Hi. I’m an attorney in Georgia, and my client was a lifelong friend of Ruth Mattingly Quinlan, whom I believe was your grandmother. If that is the case, my client would very much like to contact you. Please call or reply to this message at your earliest convenience.

  Almost immediately after she’d sent the message, she received a reply.

  This is Lizzie Quinlan. My grandmother has been dead nearly ten years. I don’t know anybody in Georgia. What does your client want? If this is some kind of a scam and you’re looking for money, you’re out of luck, because I don’t have any.

  That made Brooke laugh out loud, and she quickly typed a reply.

  Welcome to my world. I’m broke too. I can assure you that this is not a scam. My client was an old classmate of your grandmother’s. She is a widow and never had children. She lives alone on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia, and I’m sorry to say that she is terminally ill. She lost contact with your grandmother some years ago, and now she would like to meet and make amends to Mrs. Quinlan’s heirs.

  Lizzie Quinlan’s reply took less than a minute.

  Yeah, sure. And I’m the crown princess of Istanbul. Who is this really?

  Brooke sighed. It was late, and she was exhausted and in no mood to play games.

  My name is Brooke Trappnell. I’m a member in good standing of the Georgia bar. Feel free to check me out. In the meantime, I’m going to bed. If you want to talk further, contact me tomorrow, after 8:00 Eastern time.

  Brooke closed her laptop and looked at her phone again. Too late now to call her mother and ask for a loan. Maybe tomorrow she’d call. Maybe tomorrow things would look better.

  11

  October 1941

  Millie’s head spun. She’d had three glasses of champagne, which was two too many. She was dizzy but strangely happy. She knew Gardiner Bettendorf had asked her to dance out of pity—he felt sorry for her because her oafish fiancé had been ignoring her all evening. But she didn’t care.

  She let her chin rest on his shoulder and relaxed as Gardiner guided her around the polished dance floor, his hand resting lightly at the waist of her new gown.

  In the next instant, Russell was there, wrenching her away from Gardiner. His fingers dug into the flesh of her bare upper arm, and his breath stank of cigars and whiskey as he confronted her dance partner.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my girl, Bettendorf?”

  “Hey, fella,” Gardiner said, taking a step backward. “Take it easy. We were just dancing.”

  “Fuck off,” Russell said. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  Without another word, he dragged Millie through the crowded room and out the french doors and onto the veranda.

  “Russell,” Millie said breathlessly. “Russell, stop. Let go. You’re hurting me.”

  He released his hold on her arm. “But it’s okay when that clown Bettendorf grabs you, right?”

  “Gardiner didn’t grab me,” Millie said, trying to keep her tone light. It was always best to keep things light when Russell was drinking. “He didn’t even really want to dance. He only asked me because Josephine asked him to.”

  “And why would she ask her brother to dance with you? What business is it of hers?”

  “She’s our hostess,” Millie said. “You weren’t around, and I guess she felt sorry for me because I was sort of a wallflower. She was just being polite.”

  Russell edged her into the shade of a huge magnolia tree that towered over the slate-floored veranda. The full moon spilled light onto the other end, where a group of young men laughed and joked, passing a silver flask among themselves. Fireflies flitted in the treetops, and Millie could see the glowing tips of the men’s lit cigars.

  It was like a scene from a movie, Millie thought. Or a book. The creamy magnolia blossoms were the size of dinner plates, and they
contrasted brilliantly against the glossy dark leaves. Their perfume filled the night air.

  Russell’s dinner jacket was white too, although his tie was slightly askew, and his face had a fine sheen of perspiration.

  “You weren’t a wallflower. You’re the prettiest girl here. I was just out here having a smoke with some of the fellas.” He looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. His mustache tickled her ear, and he flicked his tongue just behind her earlobe. “Don’t tell me you missed me.” His words were only slightly slurred.

  Millie shivered, despite the warmth of the evening. “Just a little,” she said. “You haven’t danced with me all night. And it’s our engagement party.”

  “Too many people around,” Russell groused. “You know how I hate crowds and big parties. Too much small talk. Small drinks, small food, small people.” He nuzzled her neck and slid his hands around beneath her breasts, pushing them upward until they spilled from the neckline of her dress.

  “Russell, please behave,” Millie whispered, blushing in the dark. “Somebody will see us.”

  “Aw, who cares? We’re engaged, aren’t we?” He pulled her closer.

  “I care,” Millie said indignantly. “My mother is here. And my grandmother. What if they stepped out here and saw us like this?”

  “Your mother is inside, flirting with old man Bettendorf. And your grandmother is blind as a bat. She just asked a hat rack in the foyer if he’d get her a cup of punch. Anyway, if she did see us, that could be good. Maybe your grandmother would have a heart attack and leave all her money to us.”

  Millie giggled despite herself. She really should not have had that third glass of champagne. Unlike Josephine and Ruth, she wasn’t much of a drinker. “That’s a terrible thing to say. You’re terrible.”

  “I’ll show you just how terrible I am.”

  Russell’s teeth shone white in the darkness. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. They’ve got me staying in the guesthouse, out by the pool. It’s way more private there.” He tugged her by the hand, but Millie stood her ground.

  “But these are our friends. Josephine and her family have been so wonderfully generous to throw us this party, Russell. It would be rude to leave now.”

  “Who cares? They won’t even notice.”

  “You know I can’t go to your room alone. What if somebody saw me? What would they say?”

  “I said, let’s go,” Russell said hoarsely. He grabbed her arm and started towing her toward the walkway that led around the edge of the house, through the gardens to the pool. The walk was narrow and closed in on either side by tall boxwood hedges.

  “Russell, no,” Millie said, her voice rising. She stumbled along behind him, catching her heel on one of the cobblestones and nearly tripping before he roughly pulled her upright.

  “What is wrong with you tonight?” he snarled. He shoved her up against the trunk of another magnolia tree and pressed himself into her until she felt the rough bark scraping against the flesh of her bare shoulders. He forced a knee between her legs and pushed her dress up until it was nearly at her waist. “That’s better,” he breathed in her ear. “No more games.”

  She flailed helplessly against his hands, but they were everywhere, tearing at the neckline of her gown, fumbling with the snaps of her garter belt. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and a moment later, he was unbuckling his belt and unzipping the fly of his pants.

  “Stop it!” Millie cried. She pushed against his chest with both hands, but he was stronger, a head taller, and she was pinned there, half-naked, exposed to the world. She felt panicky. She was no virgin—Russell had seen to that—but this …

  “Just relax, baby,” Russell said, chuckling. “Let me just—”

  “No! Stop it!”

  “Millie?” A man’s voice.

  She heard the rapid clatter of hard-soled shoes on the cobblestones.

  He stopped, a few feet away. It was Gardiner Bettendorf. “Millie? Are you all right?”

  Russell kept her pinned, right where she was. “Get lost,” he said calmly, not even bothering to turn around. “The lady and I were just admiring the moonlight.”

  “That’s not what it sounded like to me,” Gardiner said. “Millie, would you like to go back to the house?” He stepped closer, peering at them.

  She squirmed under the weight of Russell’s body, mortified at her appearance, desperately trying to cover herself. She took a deep breath, willing herself to sound normal.

  “Um, yes. We were just about to come back to the party. But you go on ahead and we’ll catch up.”

  “I think I’ll just walk back with you, if you don’t mind,” Gardiner said. His tone was light, affable.

  “I said get lost!” Russell yelled. He whirled around and without warning threw a punch at Gardiner’s nose, just barely grazing it. He swung again and connected solidly this time.

  “Stop it!” Millie screamed.

  Russell was bigger, but Gardiner was faster, and now he swung hard, landing a solid blow to Russell’s jaw and then to his gut.

  The big man staggered two steps backward, a look of astonishment on his face. “I’ll kill you.”

  A thin stream of blood trickled from Gardiner’s nose and onto the spotless starched collar of his white dress shirt. “Enough, all right?” He nodded at Millie. “Why don’t you go on back to the party now?”

  12

  Brooke’s cell phone rang at precisely 8:01 A.M. She grabbed the phone, hoping the loud ring wouldn’t awaken her son.

  “Hello? Is this Brooke Trappnell? This is Lizzie Quinlan.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  Brooke glanced over at the crib mattress on the floor by her bed, momentarily reassured that Henry was still asleep, his favorite blue-and-white quilt wrapped around him, burrito-style. She took the phone and walked into the kitchen.

  “Who’s your client?” Lizzie asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “His name. You said your client was a dear friend of my late grandmother’s. So I’d like to know his name, since you know mine.”

  Brooke hesitated. Josephine hadn’t told her not to reveal her identity, and she couldn’t really think of a legitimate reason not to disclose it.

  “Her name is Josephine Bettendorf Warrick. Does that name ring a bell at all?”

  “Never heard of her,” Lizzie said. “Spell it for me, okay? So I can Google it?”

  Brooke spelled out her client’s name. “While you’re at it, you might want to do a search for Talisa; that’s the island Josephine owns, and it’s off the Georgia coast.”

  “Got it,” Lizzie said. “My Wi-Fi is slow as hell, so if you would, fill me in on the details while I wait. Like, what’s the deal with this Josephine? And what does she want with me?”

  “It’s complicated.” Brooke took a deep breath.

  “You’d be surprised at the depth of my ability to handle complicated issues, Mrs. Trappnell.”

  “It’s Ms. Trappnell, but call me Brooke.”

  “Okay, Brooke. I’m listening.”

  * * *

  “I know there are gaping holes in this story, but what you have to realize is that Josephine is ninety-nine and critically ill. I met her just a few days ago, so she’s been feeding me the details in tiny little spoonfuls,” Brooke said. “Your grandmother Ruth and Josephine were lifelong friends. They were roommates in boarding school and made their debuts together.”

  “I never knew Granny was a debutante,” Lizzie said, chuckling. “That’s just crazy! She was a card-carrying liberal.”

  “Which Josephine decidedly is not,” Brooke volunteered. “Anyway, Josephine and Ruth were also best friends with Mildred Updegraff, who, by the way, was my grandmother. They had another friend, who was much younger, named Varina. The four girls had a little club, sort of a secret society, which they called the High Tide Club.”

  “Cute, but what’s the point?” Lizzie said.

  “Sometime after the war—World War II, that is—Josephi
ne had a falling-out with my grandmother Millie and later, your grandmother Ruth. Over the years, she lost contact with everyone except for Varina. Josephine is hazy on the details, but that’s it in a nutshell. Now she’s got terminal cancer. She wants to reconnect with her old friends’ heirs and ‘make amends’ as she says. I should add that Josephine has been a widow for many years and never had children.”

  Brooke heard the tapping of keys from the other end of the line.

  “Holy shit,” Lizzie said. “I’m just reading an article about Josephine Warrick. This says that Talisa is twelve thousand acres. Is that true?”

  “Yes. A small portion of the island was owned by distant cousins, who sold it to the State of Georgia for a park in 1978, but Josephine retains ownership of the rest of Talisa, and she’s determined not to let the state take her land. That’s how I got involved.”

  “I’m looking at a photo of some gorgeous pink mansion. It looks like a frickin’ castle!” Lizzie exclaimed.

  “That’s Shellhaven. It was built in the twenties by Josephine’s father, who was a shipping magnate. It’s in pretty bad shape these days, but Josephine is also adamant that the house should be preserved. She wants her land and house transferred intact to her beneficiaries,” Brooke said.

  “Are you telling me a woman I never met, never even heard of until today, wants me to inherit a twelve thousand–acre island in Georgia?”

  “Not exactly,” Brooke said. “I mean, maybe. It’s not really clear. And yes, I understand how insane this all sounds to you, because it sounds insane to me too, and unlike you, I’ve met her, and I’ve been to Talisa.”

  “This is totally, totally nuts,” Lizzie said.

  “Agreed. So here’s the thing. Josephine wants to meet you. You and your brother. I’ve been trying to find a way to contact him too, but I’m sort of at a dead end.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

  “Bobby’s dead,” Lizzie said.

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Brooke said.

  “Don’t be. My brother had what we journalists like me call ‘a checkered criminal career.’ We hadn’t talked in years. I only found out Bobby was dead when his landlord called me up to ask for his last three months of back rent. Turns out he’d listed me as next of kin on his apartment application.”