The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  They heard the toilet flush again, and the rusty water pipes groaned when the faucet was turned on. Millie emerged from the bathroom carrying a damp cloth, which she placed on the back of Varina’s neck.

  “Better?” she asked. She sat down beside Josephine and Varina, and the three of them laughed out loud when the bedsprings loudly protested.

  “But where will we all sleep?” Ruth asked. “Is there another bed?”

  “Nope. Just this one, although if you want the sofa, be my guest.”

  Ruth glanced at the ripped stuffing and shuddered. “No, thanks.”

  * * *

  At Millie’s insistence, they stripped the sagging mattress from the bed and turned it over. Then they all took turns sponging the salt spray off themselves in the bathroom’s claw-foot bathtub.

  When Josephine returned from her makeshift bath, she found that Millie had managed to find a broom, sweep the floor, and remake the bed using the coverlet as a bottom sheet and their blanket as a bedspread.

  “Well, Millie, you really are going to make somebody a wonderful wife someday,” Josephine said.

  “Just not that bastard Russell Strickland,” Ruth added.

  The four of them crowded onto the bed, and Josephine switched off the flashlight.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Millie said after a long yawn. “Remember, we used to do this all the time when we were at boarding school and I was so afraid of the thunderstorms.”

  “What I remember is that Jo snores worse than my grandpa,” Ruth said drowsily.

  “And you had terrible gas,” Josephine retorted. “And Millie likes to talk in her sleep.”

  Varina giggled in the darkness.

  “This’ll probably be the last time we get to do something like this,” Millie said, sounding wistful. “Once I’m married…”

  “You are not marrying him,” Jo said. “And we would never forget about you.”

  “I ain’t ever getting married,” Varina said.

  “Sure you will,” Millie answered. “Not right away, of course. But someday you’ll find some nice boy and get married and have the sweetest babies ever.”

  “No, ma’am,” Varina said forcefully. “I ain’t ever gonna let some bad man beat up on me or drink too much or tell me what to do. Someday, I’m gonna get off this island, and I’m gonna get me a job and have me a house of my very own.”

  She expected an argument from the others, but after a moment, all she heard was a low rumbling snore emanating from Josephine on the far side of the bed. Varina closed her eyes tightly and turned on her side, toward the wall. She felt Millie’s slight body, spooning into her back, heard her mutter something incoherent.

  She heard the rain pelting the tin roof and saw flashes of lightning through the windows. The wind picked up and the curtains danced. She pulled the edge of the quilt over her eyes and burrowed deeper into the lumpy mattress.

  The last thing Varina heard before drifting off to sleep herself was a faint phhhhhht coming from Ruth, who was stretched out between Josephine and Millie. She giggled softly.

  27

  Marie whipped her head around to stare at Lizzie. “What do you mean? Are you saying my mother was engaged to marry this man who just vanished?”

  “According to the old newspaper accounts my grandmother saved, yes,” Lizzie said calmly.

  “That’s impossible.” Marie shook her head. “I’ve never even heard of this Russell … what did you say his name was?”

  “Strickland. I can’t believe this is news to you. It was a really big story back in the day.”

  Brooke reached over and touched her mother’s hand. “That must be the man Josephine told me about. She said his name was Russell. Granny never said anything at all? About being engaged to somebody before she married Pops?”

  “Never,” Marie said. “In fact, after Pops died, I teased her once, saying she should find another husband. She was so young to be a widow, only in her forties, and so pretty too. She got really angry at me for even suggesting such a thing. I can still remember what she said. ‘I had one true love—and he’s gone. That’s enough for one woman.’”

  “So … is it possible she was talking about Russell Strickland and not Pops?” Brooke asked.

  Marie didn’t hesitate. “No. Mama was devoted to Pops. As he was to her.”

  “Maybe your mother just felt uncomfortable talking about this guy,” Lizzie suggested. “That generation—your mother’s and my grandmother’s—could be pretty stoic. Or in denial. Or both. Take my dad. It was clear to anybody who met him that he had issues. I mean, he once set fire to my grandma’s Cadillac when she wouldn’t give him the keys—this after he showed up at her house, at nine in the morning, stoned out of his gourd. But she never once admitted that he might be an addict.”

  “Well, this certainly puts a whole intriguing new light on our trip to Talisa,” Marie said.

  * * *

  The desk clerk at the Seafarer Motel looked at Lizzie Quinlan and then pointedly at the cat carrier she’d placed on the counter at the reception desk.

  “Sorry, Miss, uh, Quinlan. But we don’t allow cats.”

  Lizzie’s eyes narrowed. “Dweezil is not just a cat. She’s a certified emotional therapy support pet.” She slapped an envelope on the counter. “Here’s her registration from the California secretary of state’s office.”

  The clerk ignored the envelope. “Ma’am? This is Georgia. And it’s management policy. No cats, no dogs, no ferrets. No pets of any kind.”

  “Policy?” Lizzie shrieked. “Is your policy posted on your website? Is it posted on the property? I don’t see any signs.”

  Brooke stepped up to the counter to intercede. “Can you recommend any of the other local hotels that do accept pets? It’s just two nights.”

  He shook his head and pointed out the lobby’s plate glass window, where knots of gaudily costumed adults dressed up in pirate garb strolled past on the sidewalk. “I guess you could try the Happy Wanderer. Myrtice, the owner, is a crazy cat lady. But you know, it’s Buccaneer Ball weekend, and every hotel in town has been booked for months. We’re all pretty slammed.”

  Dweezil yowled her annoyance.

  “What the hell is a Buccaneer Ball?” Lizzie asked.

  Brooke slapped her forehead. “I’d totally forgotten that was this weekend. It’s a local festival. A big tourism draw. Grown men and women dress up as pirates and wenches and take turns invading each other. There’s even a big parade.”

  Lizzie gave Brooke a winning smile. “Maybe I could stay with you. As you say, it’s only two nights.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Brooke said. “I have a tiny two-bedroom cottage, and I share it with my three-year-old son.”

  “A kid? Never mind. I don’t do kids,” Lizzie said quickly.

  “And Mom is already sleeping on my sofa,” Brooke added.

  Lizzie’s shoulders sagged as she gathered up the cat carrier and her rolling suitcase. “I guess it’s Shellhaven and Talisa, then,” she said, heading for the door.

  “I’ll call Louette and let her know to expect an overnight guest,” Brooke said.

  * * *

  C. D. took Lizzie’s suitcase and stowed it in the bow locker. “Y’all having some kind of a convention over on the island? This is the third boatload I’ve had today.”

  “Third?” Brooke asked. “I know Felicia and Varina were going over this morning, but who else have you taken to Talisa today?”

  “That other lawyer fella,” C. D. said, casting off the lines and easing the boat away from the pier. “Louette called me first thing this morning to tell me to pick him up. Wasn’t even daylight.”

  “Lawyer? You mean Gabe Wynant?”

  “Yup,” C. D. said. He gestured toward Lizzie, who was clutching the pet carrier with both hands. Inside, despite having shared a tranquilizer with her owner, Dweezil yowled loudly and pitched herself against the carrier’s sides. “A cat, huh?”

  “Good guess,” Lizzie said coldly.
/>   C. D. stretched his neck to see inside the carrier. “Wow. That’s one pretty kitty. Never seen one like that before.”

  “She’s a Maine coon cat,” Lizzie said, preening just a little. “She was actually cover kitten of the July 2015 issue of Cat Fancier.”

  “Have to check that out,” C. D. said as the boat puttered away from the city dock.

  Lizzie looked over at Brooke. “Wynant. Is he the lawyer who’s making Josephine’s new will?”

  “That’s right,” Brooke said. “He was my boss at the law firm I worked at in Savannah.”

  “Why don’t you just draw up the will yourself?” Lizzie asked.

  “I thought the same thing, but Brooke can’t do it because of me being involved in the trust,” Marie explained. “It’s a conflict of interest.”

  “Who are the other two women he took over earlier?” Lizzie asked.

  “Varina Shaddix is the only other surviving member of the High Tide Club, and Felicia is her great-niece,” Brooke said. “Varina’s Geechee, and as a young girl, she worked for the Bettendorf family.”

  “What’s a Geechee?” Lizzie wanted to know.

  “They’re called that, for the Ogeechee River, which is one of the big tidal rivers in South Georgia,” Marie said. “In South Carolina, they’re called Gullah.”

  “The Geechees are the descendants of the slaves who were brought to Talisa from West Africa,” Brooke added. “Varina’s family, the Shaddixes, have lived at Oyster Bluff, in that settlement, for generations.”

  “So this Varina, she was black, and yet she was friends with Josephine and Millie and Ruth? Wasn’t that kind of unusual? This being the South and all?” Lizzie asked.

  Brooke shrugged. “Josephine’s an unusual woman. Very conservative, politically, but on the other hand, she’s deeply concerned about the environment and keeping Talisa from being developed. She said she and her friends regarded Varina as a sort of little sister, because she was five years younger.”

  “Even so, that puts her in her midnineties,” Lizzie observed. “Does she still work for Josephine?”

  “Not anymore. After she retired from her job in Jacksonville, she got homesick and moved back to Talisa and worked for Josephine in some capacity, but she currently lives with her great-niece Felicia, who’s become her caregiver.”

  “What’s Felicia like?” Marie asked, gazing back toward the rapidly disappearing waterfront.

  “Very smart and polished. She’s a PhD, teaches African American studies. A little prickly, maybe. She’s convinced Josephine has taken advantage of her Auntie Vee her entire life.”

  “And has she?” Lizzie asked.

  “Not for me to say,” Brooke said with a shrug. “I can tell you Josephine feels genuine affection for Varina. But there’s something else, something she obviously feels guilty about in her relationship with all these women.”

  “Any idea what it is?” Marie asked.

  “Wait until you meet her,” Brooke said. “Josephine Warrick is not somebody who easily relinquishes her secrets.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, they were within sight of the island when the boat’s motor sputtered, coughed, and quit.

  “Sheeeuttt,” C. D. muttered under his breath. The cigarillo fell from his lips onto the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “What’s wrong?” Lizzie said. “Why’d we stop?”

  “Mechanical difficulties,” C. D. said. He switched the key in the ignition, and the engine turned over for a moment, then died again. His second and third attempts to start the motor achieved the same result.

  “Damn it.” He stood and yanked the cover from the outboard, fiddling and cursing for a full five minutes as the boat fell and rose gently with the tide.

  “Don’t tell me we’re stuck out here,” Lizzie said, sounding panicky. She wrapped her arms protectively around the cat carrier.

  “Naw, it’s probably just a fouled spark plug,” C. D. said. He opened the door to the stern locker, reached in, and rummaged around but came up empty.

  “Damn it.” He stood with his hands on his narrow hips as the boat rocked up and down. The sun beat down on the three women who stared expectantly at their captain. The drug-addled cat mewed loudly, thrashing against the sides of the carrier.

  “Now what?” Even Brooke felt a tiny prickle of anxiety. They could see the faint green outline of the island, just tantalizingly out of reach.

  The old man sighed heavily and went back to the locker, finally extracting a long wooden oar.

  “Now we paddle.” He nodded at Lizzie, still seated on the bow. “You might wanna move, ma’am.”

  For the next thirty minutes, C. D., standing on the bow like a Viking boatman, poled the craft in the direction of the island. The tide and the current aided somewhat, but sweat drenched his shirt, and he finally took it off, using it to mop his gleaming face. His bare chest was sun-blackened, the skin as saggy and leathery as a saddlebag, with patches of kinky white chest hair. His damp pants hung limply on his hips, and he panted with exertion as the boat inched toward his target. Brooke worried that he might keel over at any minute, and from the worried look on her mother’s face, she knew Marie was thinking the same thing.

  A hundred yards from the dock, the wind died, and their progress slowed dramatically. “Tide’s changed,” C. D. said grimly. “Can’t fight this current.”

  Without another word, he set the oar down, removed a timeworn billfold and a box of cigarillos from his hip pocket, and tucked it into the glove box.

  Then he jumped into the water. Dogpaddling, he called to Brooke, “Throw me that bow line, would ya?”

  “What are you doing?” Lizzie cried. “There are sharks in this river. I read all about it. Get back here immediately!”

  “Gonna walk it in,” C. D. said calmly, standing on the shallow river bottom. “Unless you know a better way.”

  “Call somebody,” Lizzie ordered.

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. The police. The Coast Guard. Get them to send a helicopter.”

  He chuckled. “My phone’s dead. Anyway, we ain’t out in the open ocean, and this don’t count as no life-threatening emergency. Ain’t nobody gonna send a helicopter over here when we’re just a hundred yards from the island. You ladies just sit tight.”

  As they watched, he tied the bow rope around his narrow waist and proceeded to do as he’d promised, walking the boat, at an agonizingly slow pace, toward the island. When they finally reached the dock, he tossed the line to Brooke. “See if you can tie us up to that piling,” he instructed. “Then tip the outboard back into the water so I can climb up on the prop.”

  Five minutes later, the old man hauled himself up into the boat. He lay panting on the fiberglass floor, as dark and wet as an oversized otter.

  Then, with effort, he heaved himself to his feet. “Goddamn, I need a drink.”

  “Me too,” Marie said weakly.

  * * *

  Louette stood next to the red pickup truck, squinting into the sun. When she saw the boat arrive at the dock, she ran out to the end. “What happened?” she called. “I’ve been waiting here for an hour. I could see you out there, but there was nothing I could do.”

  “Engine conked out on me,” C. D. replied. “Where’s Shug?”

  “He took the ferry into town to pick up Miss Josephine’s medicine after I tried to call you but didn’t get an answer.”

  “Phone’s dead,” C. D. said.

  “Is Josephine okay?” Brooke asked, climbing out of the boat.

  “Last night wasn’t a good one,” Louette said. “The doctor called in something stronger for the pain.”

  “Oh, my,” Marie said quietly. “Will she feel well enough to see us?”

  “Louette, this is my mom, Marie,” Brooke said before climbing into the bed of the pickup. “And this is Lizzie. Her grandmother Ruth was one of Josephine’s best friends.”

  “Nice to meet you ladies,” Louette said. “Just
slide up here on the front seat with me, if you don’t mind being a little close for a few minutes. As for Miss Josephine, she’s got herself set on seeing you no matter what. It’s all she’s talked about for days now.”

  She started the truck’s engine, waved goodbye to C. D., who was tinkering with the outboard motor, and started off down the road toward Shellhaven.

  28

  Louette pulled the truck up to the front door at Shellhaven, and Marie, and then Lizzie, cat carrier in hand, hopped out.

  “What a dump!” Lizzie exclaimed, looking up at the crumbling pink mansion. “The pictures made it look a lot nicer.”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Marie said, looking over her shoulder at Brooke, who’d climbed out of the truck bed. “Didn’t you say a famous architect designed it?”

  “Addison Mizner,” Brooke said. “Very famous, especially for the homes he designed in Palm Beach and Miami.”

  Louette stood motionless by the side of the truck, her usually cheerful, round face lined with worry.

  Brooke walked over to her. “What’s wrong, Louette?”

  The older woman shook her head mutely.

  “Where are the others?” Lizzie asked, pausing between taking photos of the house with her cell phone.

  “Varina wanted to show Felicia her old house at Oyster Bluff, so Mr. Wynant drove them over there in my truck,” Louette said. “They ought to be back pretty soon.”

  “I want to see that old slave settlement and the site of the plantation,” Lizzie said. “But first, Dweezil needs to stretch her legs.” She set the carrier down on the ground, and the cat bolted out, streaking across the lawn.

  “Dweez!” Lizzie cried, taking off after her. Marie followed right behind.

  Brooke pulled Louette aside. “Louette? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Josephine. She fired me and Shug.”

  “What? That can’t be true.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Louette nodded for emphasis.

  “But why? How? She can’t mean it. She wouldn’t fire you.”