The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Brooke was at a loss for words.

  “So you were saying?” Lizzie prompted.

  “Josephine would like to meet you. In person. On Talisa. To be honest, I don’t know what happens after that. She’s old and ornery, and she’s dying.”

  “Is she rich?” Lizzie asked bluntly. “Because if she’s not, I have no interest in flying out to Georgia to meet some eccentric old crackpot. I’m on deadline for a crappy magazine story right now, and I can’t really afford to take time away from that, not to mention the cost of a plane ticket. So you tell her that. Tell her I’ll come if she’ll pay my way. All expenses, including airfare, meals, and hotel.”

  “I’ll tell her, but there’s no hotel on Talisa. There’s hardly even cell phone service,” Brooke warned.

  “Sounds dreamy,” Lizzie said.

  * * *

  Henry pounded on the plastic tray of the high chair with his sippy cup. “Milk! Milk! Milk!”

  “Milk, please,” Brooke said.

  “Milk, please, milk, please, milk, please,” he chanted.

  She refilled the cup and called her mother.

  Marie answered on the second ring. “Hi, sweetie. Is everything okay?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” Brooke asked.

  “Don’t be so sensitive,” Marie said. “You usually don’t call on weekdays while you’re working.”

  “Actually, I am calling you about work. I need to ask you something about my new client.”

  “Is it somebody I know?”

  “Well, she seems to think she knows you. It’s Josephine Bettendorf Warrick.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. Do you know her?”

  “In a roundabout way. She was your granny’s oldest friend. Does she still live down there in that creepy old mansion on that island?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good heavens. I had no idea she was even still alive. Let’s see. She must be in her nineties, right?”

  “She turned ninety-nine in April,” Brooke said.

  “How did you get mixed up with her?”

  “She called me. Out of the blue. She’d seen those old newspaper stories about me trying to sue the Park Service, and she wants me to keep the state from condemning Talisa and taking it for a park. And that’s not all. She wants me to find the heirs of her oldest friends. I’ve already contacted one granddaughter, who lives in California. I’m trying to track down another woman and her niece. And that just leaves you.”

  “Me? What’s she want with me? Or those other women?”

  “She wants to meet with you. And then, if she likes what she sees, I think she intends for the three of you to inherit the island. And the mansion.”

  “Really? Josephine Warrick hardly knows me. Why would she do something like that?”

  “She says she wants to make it up to her oldest, dearest friends. But she hasn’t really told me what she’s trying to apologize for. It’s all pretty sketchy, to tell you the truth. I tried to talk her out of hiring me, but she’s absolutely adamant that she wants me and nobody else.”

  Marie mulled that over for a moment. “You say she’s ninety-nine? Are you sure she’s not suffering from dementia?”

  “Josephine is sharp as a tack. Most of the time. But she’s been diagnosed with lung cancer, so she tires easily. I gather she was a pretty heavy smoker for most of her life.”

  “Funny you should mention that,” Marie said, “because that’s what I remember about her. Your father and I were at a party, years and years ago, at the Oglethorpe Club, and she was there too, and what I remember about her was that she had this long, jeweled cigarette holder, like something out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, you know? I thought she was quite exotic.”

  “Did she speak to you?”

  “Only briefly. I was in the ladies’ lounge, fixing my hair, and she came up and introduced herself and said how sorry she was about Granny. She went on and on about what a dear friend Millie was. Which I thought was very odd, since she didn’t go to Granny’s funeral or send a sympathy card or anything.”

  “That sounds like Josephine,” Brooke said. “And you’d never met her before that?”

  “Not that I can recall,” Marie said.

  “Do you remember Granny ever talking about the High Tide Club?”

  “Say that again?” Marie asked.

  “The High Tide Club. Did Granny ever mention it to you?”

  “Granny wasn’t much of a club woman. I think she did Junior League because her mother and grandmother did it…”

  “This was a different kind of club,” Brooke said. “According to Josephine, it was just her, another friend named Ruth, Granny, and a young black girl, Varina, who worked for the Bettendorfs and grew up on the island.”

  Marie gave that some thought. “I remember Granny talking about Ruth and Jo and the scrapes they got into in boarding school. And the name Varina sounds vaguely familiar, but what you have to remember is this was all a long time ago. Granny’s been gone almost thirty years now.”

  “Twenty-eight,” Brooke said promptly. “She died when I was six.”

  “Has it really been that long?” Marie said, her voice wistful. “I do miss her, Brooke. And I wish she’d lived long enough to enjoy you and, of course, our sweet Henry.”

  Brooke glanced over at sweet Henry, who at that precise moment was in the process of trying to climb out of his high chair. He had one chubby leg over the tray, and the chair was starting to tilt.

  “Henry, no!” Brooke yelled. “Sorry, Mom. Gotta go.”

  13

  Farrah was on the phone when Brooke arrived at the office, talking in what the young assistant liked to refer to as her “takin’-names-and-kickin’-ass voice.”

  “Hi, Mr. Mabry,” she said, the model of crisp efficiency. “This is Ms. Miles, the office manager at Trappnell and Associates.”

  Farrah frowned and looked up at Brooke in amazement. “He hung up on me! The douchebag hung up as soon as I said your name.”

  “Was that Steve Mabry, the long-haul trucker who owes me $5,000 for handling his DUI case back in January?” Brooke asked with a sigh. “Forget it. He’s a bona fide deadbeat. I’ll have to file against him in small claims court, and it’s probably not worth my time.”

  “No way,” Farrah said. “He’s gonna pay, and I’m gonna make it happen.” She picked up her phone and redialed.

  “Hi. Steve Mabry? Dude, don’t hang up. I mean it. Look. You owe our firm $5,000 for representation on that DUI charge from way back last winter.”

  Farrah listened, tapping long violet fingertips on the desktop and shaking her head. “Yeah, I am aware that the judge revoked your driver’s license. I’m also aware that it was your third DUI in the past five years, and if it hadn’t been for my boss, or ‘that bitch Brooke Trappnell,’ as you just referred to her, your sorry tail would be sitting in the county jail right now.”

  Farrah’s eyes narrowed as she listened to the diatribe on the other end of the line. “Let me get this straight,” she interrupted. “You’re telling me you have no intention of paying your legal fee, ’cause you don’t have a job, ’cause you’re not allowed to drive? Then how come you delivered a pizza to my boyfriend’s house last night? Yeah, that’s right. I was there, and I also took a picture of you behind the wheel of your pickup. Which I’m fixin’ to email over to Judge Waller’s office unless you deliver the money you owe this firm, in person. Like, today.”

  Brooke gasped in horror, but Farrah smiled smugly. “That’s great. And hey, don’t bother bringing a check. We’re gonna need either cash or a money order. And if I were you, dude, I’d ask your mama to give you a ride.”

  She disconnected and gave her boss an angelic smile. “He says he’ll be right over.”

  “Did you really get a photo of him driving last night?”

  “Nope. It was way too dark.”

  Brooke tried to look stern. “Blackmail is against the law, you know.”

  Farra
h shrugged. “So if that douchebag gets me arrested, I’ll hire a good lawyer. Know any? I gotta go to class now. Don’t forget to give him a receipt when he shows up.”

  * * *

  There was a light tapping at her office door. A moment later, it swung open, and a black woman in her midthirties stepped inside. “Come on in, Auntie,” she said, grasping the arm of a tiny white-haired woman with a walker.

  “Hi,” Brooke said, standing. “I’m Brooke Trappnell. Can I help you?”

  “This is a nice office,” the elderly woman said, looking around. “You reckon this is the right place?” She gave Brooke a warm smile. “We’re looking for a lady lawyer.”

  “I’m a lady lawyer,” Brooke said.

  “See, Auntie Vee? It is her.”

  “Wait,” Brooke said, startled. “Auntie Vee. Is your aunt Varina Shaddix?”

  “That’s right. And I’m her great-niece Felicia Shaddix. My aunt’s cousin Louette called this week and said you might be in contact. We were coming up from Jacksonville today anyway, to see about a headstone for my great-uncle, and I just decided to drop in and see what you wanted with my aunt.”

  “This is great,” Brooke said, still surprised. She pulled two chairs up to her desk. “Won’t you sit down? I’m glad Louette called, although I wasn’t aware Josephine had let her know I was looking for your aunt.”

  Felicia Shaddix got her aunt seated and then sat down in the other chair. She was tall and willowy, with short-cropped hair that had been peroxided nearly white. Her skin was a shade darker than her aunt’s. Half a dozen gold-and-ivory bangle bracelets jangled from her left wrist. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were outlined with kohl, and she wore a form-fitting black tank top, white jeans, and cork-soled gold sandals.

  “What’s that old bird want from my aunt now?” Felicia said, crossing her legs.

  Brooke found herself momentarily at a loss for words. Had she told Louette she wanted to contact Varina—and her niece? Had Josephine Warrick asked Louette to reach out to the two women?

  “Um,” she said, stalling. “I didn’t know Louette was related to your great-aunt.”

  Felicia gave a wave of her jangling wrist. “Everybody who ever lived at Oyster Bluff is somehow related to everybody else. Except Shug, of course, and he married into the family.”

  “Right.” Brooke took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You really did take me by surprise. I spoke to Josephine last week about trying to track you and your aunt down. In fact, that was my plan for today. And now you’ve showed up.”

  “Josephine wasn’t very nice to us last time, was she?” Varina said, looking from Felicia to Brooke. Her skin was surprisingly smooth for a woman in her nineties, Brooke thought. Varina Shaddix seemed swallowed up in the wooden office chair. She wore a neatly pressed pink floral cotton dress, loosely belted at the waist, of a style Brooke hadn’t seen since her own grandmother was alive, with pin tucks on the button-front bodice. Varina had undoubtedly made the dress herself. A large white patent-leather pocketbook dangled from her bony wrist. Her rubber-soled, white lace-up shoes were spotless, and her snowy white hair was parted down the middle, braided in a series of cornrows, and fastened with pink plastic barrettes. A tiny silver cross nested in the hollow of her throat, and a pearl brooch was pinned to the collar of her dress.

  “Josephine was Josephine,” Felicia said, shrugging. “She’s only nice when she wants something from you, Auntie Vee.” Now she turned again to Brooke. “So what is it she wants this time, and why now?”

  “She’s been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer,” Brooke said. “And she wants to make amends with her oldest friends and their heirs. She’s hired me to try to make that happen.”

  “Make things right how?”

  Brooke sighed. “Nothing is in writing yet, but as you know, Josephine has no living heirs. She wants to leave Talisa, and Shellhaven, to her friends and their heirs. And that includes your great-aunt.”

  “What’s that?” Varina leaned in.

  “Josephine is dying,” Felicia said loudly. She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “Serves her right, for all the things she and her family did to all of us. Now she wants to make things right by you, Auntie Vee.”

  Varina blinked rapidly. “Is that right?” she asked, her voice quavering, eyes welling up with tears. “Josephine is dying?”

  14

  October 1941

  Just as fast as Varina finished washing a load of plates and glasses in the big kitchen at Shellhaven, one of the waiters who’d been brought in special for the party from Atlanta toted in a tray with another load of dirty dishes. She had been standing at the big cast-iron sink for three hours with her arms plunged up to her elbows in soapy water, and still it seemed the dishes kept coming.

  The back door was propped open with a big electric fan, but it barely made a dent in the heat of the kitchen. It might be October in the rest of the world, but summer lingered on in this part of the Georgia coast. Sweat dripped down her face and her back. Her calves ached.

  Whenever the swinging door from the butler’s pantry opened, she could hear the strains of music coming from the ballroom. At one point in the evening, she’d been allowed to put on a frilly white apron and take a tray of sandwiches and drinks out to the men in the orchestra while they took a break from playing, but other than that, she’d been cooped up right here in this kitchen.

  The ballroom was so crowded she hadn’t even seen her friends, but that was just as well, considering how ugly she looked.

  She had a brand-new dress store-bought, special for the party, that Josephine had given her. It was her first grown-up dress, a light pinky-orange color with beautiful embroidery and no baby-looking puffy sleeves or silly bows or sashes like her mama used to make her wear. She had almost-new shoes too, which Ruth had brought her, all the way from Boston.

  They were pink. Pink shoes! With sassy ankle straps that fastened with rhinestone buckles. Rhinestones! And a little heel, and they were as far from her scuffed-up hand-me-down brown leather brogans as a pair of shoes could be. They looked just like the shoes in the fashion magazines Millie brought her every time she came to the island, and they were almost too perfect to wear.

  The biggest mirror they had at home at Oyster Bluff was the one on the bureau in Daddy’s room. She’d snuck in there, before leaving for the party, and tilted the mirror just the right way so she could admire how the shoes looked.

  Everybody said she was small for her age. She had light skin and good hair, which her auntie said came from her mama’s people, who were from away and part Indian. Her brothers called her Skinnystick, and her daddy was always saying she needed “some meat on her bones,” because she was not built like the rest of the Shaddixes. Just this year, her bosoms had started to come in, and Auntie gave her a brassiere, which she’d bought from the Sears Roebuck store in Jacksonville, and which was Varina’s most treasured possession, if you didn’t count her white leatherette Bible.

  Looking in the mirror at herself, Varina thought she looked real fine. She had no stockings, but she’d used some lotion Ruth had given her on her legs, and they looked smooth and silky, like the models in the fashion magazines.

  She wrapped up the new shoes in a flour sack and carried them on the walk to Shellhaven. After she got to the house, she used the flour sack to wipe her feet off, then put the shoes on and reported to work.

  Mrs. Dorris, the white boss lady, took one look at Varina and pitched a fit.

  “Girl, what do you think you are doing sashaying in here in that fancy dress and silly shoes? You ain’t getting paid to look pretty, and you sure can’t work like that.”

  Varina’s face fell. “I can wear an apron so it won’t get all messed up.”

  “No, ma’am,” Mrs. Dorris said. She rummaged around in the broom closet until she found one of her own faded cotton housedresses hanging from a nail and tossed it to Varina. “Go put this on, and be quick about it.” A moment later, she managed
a rare smile. “But first, go find Miss Josephine and her friends so they can see how nice you look. And then you get your tail back in here and start washing those dishes.”

  Varina had run up the back stairway and managed to catch Josephine just as she and Ruth were walking out of Josephine’s bedroom heading toward the guest bedroom where Millie was staying for the week of the engagement party.

  “Look here, Jo,” Ruth had said, when she caught sight of Varina. “It’s a fairy princess!”

  “Oh, Varina!” Josephine had exclaimed. “Turn around. Let me see!”

  The soles of the shoes were slippery, so Varina did a slow pirouette, her arms poked stiffly out from her sides.

  “You look so pretty,” Ruth said, touching the sleeve of the silk dress. “Jo, this color is perfect for her. And what a cute figure you have too.” She caught Varina’s hand in hers. “Come on, let’s show Millie how beautiful you look for her party.”

  Varina glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. “I have to get back downstairs. Mrs. Dorris needs me.”

  “If Dorris fusses, you just tell her I needed you upstairs for a few minutes,” Josephine said.

  Josephine rapped lightly on Millie’s door. “Come on out, bride-to-be,” she called gaily. “We have a surprise for you.”

  Millie opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Her blond hair was tied up in soft rag curlers, and she still wore a bathrobe. There were dark circles under her eyes, but when she caught sight of Varina, her face lit up with a smile.

  “Who is this gorgeous creature?” Millie asked.

  “It’s me,” Varina said, suddenly shy.

  “And I’m furious at her, because she is much prettier than all three of us put together,” Josephine teased. “No boy at this party will want to dance with us after they see Varina.”

  Varina blushed furiously. “Y’all know I can’t really come to the party. Mrs. Dorris only let me come upstairs to see y’all for a minute. She says I got to get back and change out of this dress and shoes so I can work.”