“So you say,” Delphine said.
“Amends for what?” Dorcas asked. She glanced down at Lizzie’s work space, with the scattered file folders, yellowing newspaper clippings, and stacks of old correspondence. Brooke realized that Lizzie, the journalist, had begun digging into Josephine’s past, delving into the secrets she’d been so reluctant to share.
“Old slights. Fractured friendships. It was Josephine’s story to tell, not mine,” Brooke said.
“Very touching,” Dorcas said. “But none of that explains what this woman”—she pointed at Lizzie—“is doing here, trespassing in our family’s home, meddling with our cousin’s private papers.”
“Just some genealogy work,” Lizzie said with an impish grin. “I’m harmless, really.”
“By whose authority?” Delphine asked.
“Mine, actually,” a man’s voice said.
Gabe was standing in the doorway, with Louette and Felicia right behind him.
Gabe was dressed in a somber gray business suit. “Gabe Wynant,” he said, extending a business card to each of the cousins. “I’m the court-appointed administrator of Josephine Warrick’s estate. Mrs. Warrick had mentioned that she had some distant cousins, but we had no names or addresses, since it seems you were estranged. I asked Lizzie here to search Mrs. Warrick’s papers for your contact information.”
“We certainly were not estranged,” Dorcas said, bristling.
“Never mind,” Delphine said, reading the business card. “Mr. Wynant, is it?”
“That’s right,” Gabe said.
“My cousin and I have hired a lawyer to see that our rights as Josephine’s closest heirs are protected. He’ll be in contact with you.”
“I look forward to speaking to him,” Gabe said. “Anything else I can do for you ladies today? No? Shug is outside with his truck, and he’ll be happy to take you back to the ferry if you’d like.”
* * *
Lizzie waited until the women were out of earshot before offering Gabe a high five.
“Well done, sir.” She laughed. “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry? And not even offering to have Shug take them back to the mainland instead of waiting on the ferry? I call that cold!”
“Shug has other work to attend to,” Gabe said. “I’ve asked him to stay on here and take over the outside maintenance again.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” Louette said fervently. “That grass was getting so high I was afraid what might be hiding in it.”
Gabe reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out an envelope. “I’ve brought both your paychecks too,” he said. “And I hope the past few days haven’t been too stressful for you.”
Louette tucked the envelope in the pocket of her slacks. For the first time, Brooke realized that with the death of her former employer, Louette had stopped wearing the white uniform and switched to more casual clothing.
“Thanks for coming over so quickly,” Brooke said to Gabe. “Things were getting pretty sticky with those two.”
“Yeah, they look like they’re gonna be major pains in the ass,” Lizzie said. “I think they thought I was going to put a match to Josephine’s papers.”
Gabe frowned. “I hate to say it, Lizzie, and I didn’t want to mention it in front of the cousins, but it is somewhat problematic for you to be riffling through Josephine’s personal effects.”
“Why?” Lizzie asked. “I’m just doing research for my magazine article, that’s all. And I’m actually doing you a favor, organizing and indexing everything I find.” She gestured at the cardboard file boxes surrounding the card table. “Besides, maybe I’ll find a clue to who actually killed Russell Strickland and where he’s buried.”
“If they do get a lawyer involved, he may raise an objection with the court,” Gabe said.
“You’re now the administrator of the estate, right? You could counter that by pointing out that Lizzie’s research is necessary to make sure Josephine’s papers are in order,” Brooke said. She pointed to the secretary. “Josephine was a total pack rat. That thing is full to overflowing with old letters, cards, correspondence, and who knows what? Josephine had me going through it on one of my first visits here, to try to track down Ruth’s and Varina’s families, and I barely scratched the surface of what’s in there. Maybe there actually are other living heirs that need to be notified of her death. Maybe she’ll find something that will either prove or disprove C. D.’s claim that he’s Josephine’s son.”
“Doubtful,” Gabe said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but this is just not a good idea.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes but said nothing.
“Look, Gabe. Just let her finish cataloging the contents of the secretary and whatever else is in the room. Okay? If some judge asks questions, you can say you hired her to provide archival services.”
“Except that Lizzie, as astute a journalist as she is, is not a forensic archivist,” Gabe said.
“Give me a week. One week, that’s all I ask,” Lizzie chimed in. “I’ll put everything in order and notify you of anything and everything I find.”
“Please, Gabe?” Brooke asked.
He glanced at his watch. “All right. I’ve got court up in Glynn County this afternoon. You’ve got a week, Lizzie, then I really have to insist that you decamp. Let me know what you find.”
47
“Who died and left him boss?” Lizzie asked.
“Josephine did, remember?” Felicia said. She picked up an envelope from the card table. “Find anything interesting yet in all this mess?”
“Lots. Josephine really led a fascinating life. She was a prodigious letter writer.” Lizzie picked up a file folder. “She was mad as hell at her ‘dear cousins’ for selling their land to the state. There are carbon copies here of all the letters she sent—to them, to her state representative, the governor. She even wrote letters to Jimmy Carter. Turns out she contributed a hundred bucks to his campaign when he ran for governor of Georgia, so naturally she thought he should intervene on her behalf.”
“Did he write back?”
“Nope. And when she didn’t hear from him, she fired off a scathing follow-up letter telling him she was glad she’d voted for Ronald Reagan against him,” Lizzie said.
Brooke sighed. “Well, you heard the man. You’ve only got a week before Gabe kicks you out of here and cuts off your access to these papers.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” Felicia asked, sitting in Josephine’s recliner, a seat Brooke had consciously.
“Answers. Why did Josephine cut off contact with Millie and Ruth—and Varina, to some extent? I mean, she went to all that trouble having Brooke invite us over here, but she never really gave us any answers. And of course, I’m hoping to figure out this thing with the unsolved disappearance of Russell Strickland,” said Lizzie.
“Wasting your time,” Felicia said. “Why don’t you find some way to prove that C. D. wasn’t Josephine’s son?”
“I’ve been trying, but like Brooke said, there are a ton of papers just in that secretary. I did find these, though.” She picked up a shoe box and held it out.
Felicia and Brooke peered into the box, which held a jumble of small, thin leather-bound books. Brooke picked one up at random. The cover was stamped in gold with 1965.
“Datebooks?”
“Yup. They start in 1938 and run all the way through the mideighties. And before you ask, I’ve looked at the relevant years. No mention of killing anybody or birthing any illegitimate babies.”
Brooke riffled the pages of the book in her hand and read aloud from the first entry. “‘Dentist appointment, Brunswick, January 12.’ And then there’s this, in February: ‘Lunch with Emma.’”
Lizzie nodded. “From what I can tell from skimming her calendars, she had a lot of lunch dates, played bridge with some ladies at the Cloister every other week, went to fund-raisers for various good causes, and she was diligent about getting her teeth cleaned and her cars and boat serviced. She also noted th
e tide charts, how many deer and feral hogs were shot on the island, and how many sea turtle nests she observed on the beach every summer.”
“Do we know what year C. D. was born?” Felicia asked.
“He claims he was born in ’42,” Brooke said.
Lizzie sifted through the shoe box contents. “Here’s the datebook from 1942. Help yourself, but I’m telling you there’s nothing about having a baby.”
Felicia pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and began skimming, turning pages, occasionally reading aloud. “Josephine was living in Savannah then, right?”
“Yes,” Brooke said. “Once the war started, her father closed up Shellhaven. I believe he went back to Boston, but Josephine lived in a town house in Savannah that her family owned.”
Felicia ran her finger down the calendar pages. “War bond drives. Bridge parties. Luncheons. Dinners. Josephine was quite the social butterfly. Wait. Here’s a notation about a doctor’s appointment. In February,” Felicia said.
Brooke looked over Felicia’s shoulder. “But it doesn’t say the doctor’s name.”
“No.” Felicia turned over a few more pages. “Another one in April. Still no doctor’s name.”
Brooke looked down at the penciled notation. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I mean, maybe she had heartburn. Or migraines. Or bunions.”
“Or God forbid, a bun in the oven,” Felicia said dryly.
“Hey!” Lizzie said, lightly punching Felicia’s arm. “That was funny! You actually do have a sense of humor.”
Felicia looked from Lizzie to Brooke. “Did you think otherwise?”
“You seem pretty serious most of the time,” Brooke said.
“I think that’s Southern for ‘You go around acting like you have a stick up your butt,’” Lizzie said. “Maybe you could lighten up just a little?”
Felicia blinked, then pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “You sound like some of my students. I mean, I teach African American studies. It’s serious stuff. And as an African American woman, I’ve spent my whole career trying to take my work seriously.”
“We’re not your students,” Lizzie pointed out. “We’re your friends. Or we’re trying to be.”
“Okay. Point taken. Lighten up. Loosen up. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Turn the page on that datebook. Any other interesting entries?” Lizzie asked.
“Hmm. Red Cross committee meeting. Junior League committee meeting.” Felicia flipped pages. “Bond drive.” She looked up, startled. “March 20. Maternity clothes.”
Lizzie reached for the datebook. “Let me see that.”
Felicia stabbed the notation with her index finger. “Right here. See?”
“It actually says, ‘Mtnty clothes,’ but yeah, you’re right. Shit. Maybe C. D. is for real,” Lizzie said. “Why else would she be shopping for maternity clothes?”
“Okay, I think we shouldn’t start jumping to conclusions,” Brooke said, trying to be the voice of caution. “Lizzie, maybe you and Felicia can team up to finish going through all Josephine’s papers.”
“Or maybe—” Lizzie started.
“We go to Savannah and start doing some primary research,” Felicia finished. “Talk to that Catholic whatever-it-is. Visit the orphanage where C. D. says he was raised.”
“Brilliant!” Lizzie beamed at her newfound colleague. “Let’s do it.” She turned to Brooke. “I say we head up to Savannah first thing in the morning. And since you’re a native daughter, you can be our Savannah tour guide.”
“I can’t just drop everything. I’ve got a job, you know. And a child,” Brooke said.
“Have your calls forwarded to your cell phone and get the babysitter to take care of the kid,” Lizzie said. “Come on, Brooke. You know people in Savannah, and we don’t. This is important. To all of us.”
“It’s just one day,” Felicia said.
Brooke sighed. “Okay. This is crazy, but I’ll do it.”
“High fives!” Lizzie declared, and the three slapped palms and bumped fists. “Now group hugs!” she added.
“Let’s not get carried away,” Felicia drawled.
48
Brooke was standing beside the Volvo, waiting, as Felicia and Lizzie walked toward the marina parking lot.
“Shotgun,” Felicia said, climbing into the front seat.
Lizzie rolled her eyes and opened the rear door. “Um, Brooke?”
Henry was belted into his car seat, quietly munching on a toaster waffle. His face and hair and hands were smeared with peanut butter.
“Ladies, this is my son, Henry. Henry, that’s Lizzie. And this is Felicia, up front with me.”
“Hi, Henry,” Felicia said, turning around to wave.
“Heyya, Henry,” Lizzie added.
“He was running a little temperature this morning, which meant I couldn’t take him to day care, and Farrah, my babysitter, has graduation practice today and she couldn’t keep him,” Brooke explained. “So we’re going to drop him off at my mom’s house in Savannah before we go do our thing. And Henry’s going to be a really good boy today. Aren’t you, Henry?”
“No,” Henry said, throwing his sippy cup onto the floor.
“He’ll fall asleep any minute now, I promise,” Brooke said.
“He’d better,” Lizzie muttered. “So what’s our game plan?”
“I thought we’d start where C. D. says he got his initial information, at the archdiocesan office in Savannah. It’s just a few blocks from my mom’s house in Ardsley Park. Depending on what we find out, we’ll hopefully also make it out to Good Shepherd too.”
“Remind me exactly what that place is?” Felicia said.
“It was the oldest continuously operating home for boys in the country. But their mission has changed over the years, and now it’s morphed into a privately operated all-boys prep school,” Brooke said. “C. D. says he lived there from the time this Catholic orphanage placed him there at six until he ran away at sixteen.”
“Louette says she almost hopes we can prove C. D. is Josephine’s son,” Felicia said. “He’s definitely a strange one, but she says he’s way better than those awful cousins.”
“I think we have to try to go into this with an open mind,” Lizzie said. “Ask the right questions and just follow the bread crumbs until we reach the truth.”
“Agreed,” Brooke said. “But realistically, I don’t have high hopes that the archdiocese will share much information with us, especially where it relates to those old adoption records. I’m sure they’ll cite privacy concerns.”
Lizzie leaned forward in her seat. “Listen, I dig up dirt for a living. It’s my job to outrun or outsmart every version of the answer no. When we get there, how about I ask the questions?”
“Works for me,” Felicia said.
“So whatever kind of pretext I come up with, you guys just go with it. Okay?”
Brooke felt uneasy. “You’re not going to tell any outright lies or try to make me do anything unethical, right?”
“We’ll see,” Lizzie said.
* * *
Marie met them at the front door of the Ardsley Park home where Brooke had grown up. She transferred the limp, dozing toddler to her mother’s outstretched arms.
“He feels a little warm,” Marie whispered, touching the child’s pink cheek.
“There’s some children’s Tylenol in here,” Brooke said, handing her mother the diaper bag. “Give him that with some juice.”
“We’ll be fine,” Marie said. “Call me and let me know how it’s going.”
“I will. Thanks again for pinch-hitting, Mom. Love you.”
Brooke made the turn from Victory Drive onto the impressive-looking grounds of the Catholic diocese campus. “This used to be a children’s home too,” she told her passengers. “When I was growing up, it was St. Elizabeth’s. But the grounds were so overgrown with trees and moss, it looked really spooky.”
They parked and started walking toward the entry
. “Rule number one for seeking information you probably don’t have any right to is always make friends with clerks and secretaries,” Lizzie said as they mounted the marble steps.
“You mean suck up to the man?” Felicia asked.
“No. Not the man. The man’s secretary or assistant or clerk, who is almost always a woman. The gatekeeper, if you will. Now watch and learn,” Lizzie said.
She swung open the door and approached a middle-aged woman at a reception desk.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “I’m Lizzie Quinlan.”
“Hello.” The woman looked quizzical. “How can I help you ladies?”
“I’d like to see some records from a now-defunct Catholic children’s home here in town, and I understand you have those on microfilm? The years I’m interested in are roughly 1942 through 1948 or ’49. And I’d be happy to pay whatever photocopying costs are incurred.”
“I’m sorry. We have strict privacy rules. Those records are only open to the actual children who were placed in the home and their biological mothers.”
“Oh.” Lizzie’s shoulders slumped dramatically. She stared down at the clerk’s nameplate, which said Debbie Winters.
“Well, I guess I did see something about that on the archdiocesan website, but I just thought maybe, because of the special circumstances, you all might make an exception, just this one time. And we’ve come such a long way too.”
“That’s a shame,” Debbie said. “Where are you ladies from?”
“I’m actually from California, and she’s from Florida,” Lizzie said, pointing to Felicia. “You see, Debbie,” she continued, “our dad is very, very ill. He’s in his seventies and we really don’t know how much longer we’ll have him with us.”
“Is it…?”
“Cancer? Yes. Very advanced. And very, very aggressive.”
“My sympathy to you girls,” Debbie said.
The High Tide Club Page 29