The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “It’s none of my business, but…”

  “It really isn’t, so let’s change the subject,” Brooke said good-naturedly. “Talk to me about C. D. When was the last time anybody actually saw him?”

  “Shug rode him over to the mainland last Monday,” Felicia said.

  “Did C. D. say where he was going? And how does he get around when he’s over there? Does he have a car in St. Ann’s?”

  “According to Shug, C. D. has an old Vega. A real rust bucket he keeps parked at the city marina,” Felicia said. “And Louette thinks he might have a girlfriend there too.”

  “How does he get around on the island? Does he always use Josephine’s truck?”

  “I’ve seen him a couple of times on a motor scooter,” Lizzie said. “Don’t know if it’s actually his or if it belonged to Josephine.”

  “I find it hard to picture Josephine on a motor scooter,” Brooke said. “Does anybody know where C. D. was headed when he went to the mainland?”

  “He told Shug he was going shopping for a new boat so he’d be ready to buy it when his inheritance from Josephine comes through,” Felicia said. “Which gave everybody a good laugh.”

  The trunk bounced down the long drive to Shellhaven.

  “Looks like Shug’s been busy,” Brooke said. The huge expanse of grass had been mowed. All the fallen palm fronds and tree branches had been picked up, and the flower beds had been weeded.

  “Finally getting a paycheck was a real morale booster,” Lizzie said. “But Shug can’t keep these grounds up all by himself. He’s got to have help, from C. D. or somebody.”

  “Louette says C. D. wasn’t that much help with the lawn maintenance anyway,” Felicia said. “He mainly wanted to take care of the boat and run errands on the mainland. She says he’s forever wandering off and disappearing for a day or two.”

  “Does she have any guess where he goes?”

  “Maybe shacked up with the girlfriend?”

  * * *

  They walked over to the barn, a creaky wooden structure that seemed to lean at a near forty-five-degree angle. It was painted a weathered white, and sunlight shone through cracks in the old boards.

  “Shug says the barn roof is in worse shape than the house,” Lizzie remarked. “He’d finally talked Josephine into shelling out the money to hire roofers to do it, but then, after she got so sick, the roof sort of got put on the back burner.”

  “She wanted her husband’s cars preserved, Louette says,” Felicia added. “I walked over here and looked at them this week. If you’re into cars, it’s a pretty amazing collection.”

  Lizzie grasped one of the barn doors, and the rusted hinges squealed a protest. Inside, it was dim and relatively cool and smelled of mildew and mouse droppings. Four shadowy hulks were shrouded in dusty tarps.

  She walked over to the car on the end and yanked off the cover to reveal a gleaming vintage roadster.

  “This was the last car Gardiner owned, and we know Josephine worshiped him. And this car,” Brooke said, running a hand over the hood of the roadster.

  Felicia walked slowly around the roadster and peered in the back. “Is this the same car she told us they dumped Russell Strickland’s body in when they went to bury him?”

  “It must be,” Brooke said.

  Felicia jumped away from the car, eliciting a belly laugh from Lizzie.

  “What’s the matter, Felicia? You getting spooked by an old car?”

  “Must be ’cause I’m spending all my time with these Geechees,” Felicia admitted. “I had no idea how superstitious my people are. Even Auntie Vee. You can’t leave a broom in a corner because she says that means somebody’s fixing to die. And don’t you let her catch you leaving a pocketbook on a bed, either. I’ve started writing it all down. It’s really pretty fascinating.”

  Brooke carefully returned the dustcover to the roadster. “How far is C. D.’s place from here?”

  “Just a little ways away,” Lizzie said. “It used to be the chauffeur’s house.”

  The house stood in the shadow of an enormous oak tree. It was a step up from the humble slave cottages they’d seen at Oyster Bluff—wood frame, with a small front porch ornamented with simple Victorian-inspired gingerbread trim. Once, the house had been white, but only traces of the paint remained now. A front door with a small window was flanked on either side with tall windows.

  Lizzie stepped onto the porch and boldly jiggled the doorknob.

  “Lizzie!” Felicia scolded.

  “He could be in there, hurt and unable to call out to anybody,” Lizzie said. She stepped to the right and pressed her face against the wavy window glass, which was smeared with ancient layers of grime and cobwebs. “Can’t see a thing through all this dirt,” she complained.

  Brooke peered through the other window but saw only a shadowy interior.

  “Let’s look around back,” Lizzie said, leading them around the east side of the house. A lean-to roof jutted off the back of the house. The wooden floorboards groaned under her footsteps. A weathered broom, rag mop, and dustpan hung from nails, and a fishing pole and plastic bait bucket stood beside the door.

  Lizzie rattled the door handle. “Locked.” She took a step backward and lifted the edge of the doormat. Grinning, she extracted a large brass skeleton key, which she fit into the lock.

  “Stop. You can’t just break into the man’s house,” Brooke said.

  “Technically, it’s not his house. Louette says he doesn’t even pay rent. Josephine just let him stay here as part of the job. So technically, it belongs to the estate. Also, he could actually be in here, hurt or passed out or something, so really, this is a welfare check.” Undeterred, Lizzie opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Nobody home.” She popped her head outside the door. “Come on in. Don’t be so prissy. If he comes back and catches us, you can say I was the evildoer.”

  Felicia looked at Brooke and shrugged. “Might as well.”

  * * *

  They were standing in a compact galley kitchen. There were exactly four wooden cabinets, their doors warped from humidity. An opened plastic Sunbeam bread bag on the Formica countertop held a moldy heel of bread, swarming with black ants, and a jar of store-brand mustard was open, with a butter knife stuck into it. A greasy plastic ziplocked container held only the red stringy rinds of a half pound of bologna. The small stainless steel sink held a used coffee mug, a teaspoon, and a plate. An ashtray on the counter was full of cigarillo butts.

  Lizzie sniffed the air. “Yeah, this is C. D.’s place, all right.”

  “It looks like wherever he was going, he decided to pack a picnic,” Felicia said.

  They followed her into the small front room, which looked like it had been furnished with cast-offs from the big house. The sofa, a 1940s relic, had worn maroon tufted upholstery and another overflowing ashtray was perched on the arm. The glass-topped coffee table was part of an old wrought iron patio set. It was littered with file folders and photocopied news clippings.

  Lizzie ducked into the adjacent room. “Here’s his bedroom. No sign of C. D., though.”

  “We should get out of here,” Brooke said uneasily. “This doesn’t feel right.”

  Felicia perched on the edge of the sofa and began sifting through the papers. “Hey. Looks like he’s been reading up on Josephine and the Bettendorfs. Look at all this stuff.”

  “Let me see.” Lizzie sat beside her. She picked up a paper. “He’s been spending time in the library, going through the old microfiche issues of the Savannah and Atlanta newspapers, dating all the way back to the mid-1930s. I’m kind of surprised he knew to do that.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t strike me as the researching type,” Felicia agreed. She looked up at Brooke. “He’s gotten copies of the old property tax records from the Carter County courthouse too.”

  “It’s a matter of public record,” Brooke said. Against her better judgment, she stepped into the bedroom. Like the rest of the house
, it was tiny, with worn wooden floorboards. The cracked plaster walls were bare except for a calendar from a marine supply store, the page turned to the current month. The old brass bed was unmade, covered with a cheap white cotton bedspread and a pair of lumpy feather pillows. A nightstand held an ugly, oversized lamp, an empty beer can, and the usual ashtray full of cigarillo butts. A pair of worn jeans hung from the doorknob of a narrow closet.

  The drawers of a cheap wooden dresser facing the bed were pulled out.

  “I feel like a Peeping Tom,” Brooke muttered.

  But she looked inside the top drawer, which held balled-up crew socks and a folded stack of worn-looking white cotton briefs that had been pushed aside. An empty leather binocular case lay atop the briefs, and beside them was a half-empty cardboard box of bullets.

  She felt queasy. “Hey, y’all,” she called.

  Lizzie and Felicia approached and stared down at the cardboard box. “Nine-millimeter bullets,” Lizzie said. “I guess they’re for that holstered pistol he carries.”

  “So wherever C. D. went, he left in a hurry, and he took binoculars and extra ammo,” Felicia said. “And a picnic.”

  “And he probably lied when he told Shug he was going boat shopping,” Lizzie added. “But why? And where was he really going?”

  “I think we should leave,” Brooke said, slamming the dresser drawer closed. “As soon as I get back to St. Ann’s, I’m calling Gabe. Something weird is going on here.”

  56

  Henry reached across the kitchen table and touched Brooke’s sparkly diamond-and-pearl-drop earrings. “Pretty!” His face and hands were smeared with spaghetti sauce, but at that moment something in his expression so closely resembled Pete Haynes it took her breath away. She caught her son’s chubby hand in hers, kissed it, then pretended to munch on his fingers.

  He giggled, then presented his other hand for similar treatment, but the doorbell rang.

  “Farrah’s here,” she told him.

  Her heels clicked across the wooden floor, and she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the living room window. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d gotten really dressed up for a date. But fortunately, the strapless black cocktail dress she’d bought to wear to a long-forgotten party in Savannah still fit, and the earrings her parents had gifted her as a law school graduation gift were timeless.

  Brooke opened the door and frowned. Not at Farrah but at her companion, Jaxson, who stood beside her on the doorstep.

  “Wow!” Farrah said, following her into the house. “You look amazing.” She nudged Jaxson. “Doesn’t she look great?”

  “Uh, yeah, awesome,” Jaxson said. He’d changed since the last time Brooke had seen him. The greasy blond mullet and scraggly Fu Manchu mustache were gone. His head was newly buzzed, and he was clean-shaven. He carried a large cardboard pizza box in both hands and was setting it down on the coffee table.

  “New haircut?” she asked as he settled himself on the sofa.

  “Yeah,” he said, opening the box and shoving a gooey slice of pizza into his mouth.

  “Jaxson’s going into the army!” Farrah announced. “He leaves Monday for basic training.”

  “Congratulations, Jaxson. Farrah, why don’t you come into the kitchen and say hi to Henry. He’s just finishing his supper.”

  * * *

  “Fawwah!” Henry called, reaching out his arms to his favorite babysitter.

  The teenager lifted him out of his booster chair and swung him up in the air. “Henry McBenry!” She sat him on the kitchen counter, wet a paper towel, and began cleaning him up. “I already know what you’re going to say about Jaxson,” she said, her voice low. “So save it. We are not getting back together. He’s just a good friend, okay?”

  “That’s fine, but it would have been nice if you’d asked me if he could come with you tonight,” Brooke said. “I’m not really comfortable leaving you and Jaxson here alone with Henry while I’m away overnight.”

  “For God’s sake, we’re not going to have sex on your sofa or anything,” Farrah retorted. “We’ll eat some pizza, watch some television, and then he’ll go home. Okay? Don’t be such a buzzkill. Like my mom.”

  Brooke glanced at the kitchen clock. “I don’t have time to argue with you about this now. I should have left fifteen minutes ago. Jaxson can stay, but I want him out of here by no later than eleven o’clock. Understood?”

  “Whatever.” Farrah set Henry on the floor and began cleaning up the kitchen table.

  “There’s breakfast stuff in the fridge,” Brooke said. “I think there are some Cokes somewhere around here too. Don’t forget to lock the front and back doors before you go to bed, okay? I put clean sheets by the sofa bed. And let’s see. Remember to—”

  “Quit stalling.” Farrah handed Brooke the overnight bag she’d packed earlier in the evening. “Henry and I will be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Call me if anything comes up. Okay? No matter what time. In fact, I want you to check in with me at eleven. The pediatrician’s number is on the fridge. I’ll text you Gabe’s cell number too. And you’ve got my mom’s phone number, right? Just in case?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes. And remember,” Farrah said, giving her an exaggerated wink, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  * * *

  She called Gabe on the drive to Sea Island to tell him she was running late.

  “Damn. Well, I guess that means we won’t have cocktails at the house before we head over to the Cloister,” he said, sounding annoyed. “Dinner starts at seven.”

  “Sorry. Babysitter complications. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”

  “I’ve left you a guest pass at the gate. Park at the Cloister and meet me inside.”

  * * *

  As soon as she’d driven through the gatehouse at Sea Island, Brooke felt herself slipping into her privileged past. Everything about the grounds and buildings at the resort and second-home community whispered power and money and taste. There was even a row of moss-draped oaks, each of which had been planted by successive presidents, starting with Calvin Coolidge right up to the most recent occupant of the White House. She pulled up to the entrance to the Cloister, and a uniformed doorman stepped out to whisk her car away.

  The lobby was crowded with people dressed in elegant evening wear, and when she saw Gabe beaming as he walked rapidly toward her, a martini in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, she realized that her date might be the most attractive man in the room.

  Black tie suited Gabe Wynant. His jacket was custom-tailored to his slender frame, and his silver hair was just long enough to be hip, but short enough to be considered not trying too hard. Her pulse blipped at the sight of him, and she couldn’t have said if she was nervous or giddy at the prospect of the evening ahead.

  He handed her the champagne and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he said before tucking her arm in his. “And I am the luckiest man on this island tonight. Maybe in this state.”

  * * *

  They were seated at a round table with three other couples, all of whom were Gabe’s old friends or business associates. Despite her misgivings that she’d be seated with a bunch of strangers, theirs was a congenial group: the Johnsons, who’d recently retired and moved from Minneapolis to Sea Island, Dave and Susie (he was a business consultant, she did something in marketing), and Jack and Sharon, both closer in age to Brooke, and from the looks of it, still celebrating their recent marriage, because they held hands every moment they weren’t eating or drinking.

  The new chef Gabe had touted lived up to his reputation, producing a French-accented five-course dinner that had them all oohing and aahing—and groaning at the thought of the calorie count.

  Even the orchestra was a nice surprise—a versatile sextet that played everything from Big Band standards to sixties soul to eighties rock.

  “Hope you’re not too bored,” Gabe said as he led her out to the dance floor. The band was
playing a respectable version of “Unchained Melody,” and it felt good to be in a man’s arms again. He held her closely, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, and he was easy to follow.

  “You smell nice,” he said, his lips close to her ear. “I know this perfume. You’ve worn it for years, right? Even when you were at the law firm?”

  “Since high school,” Brooke said. “It’s Joy. Mom gives me a bottle every year for Christmas. I can’t believe you remembered my perfume from when we worked together.”

  “I notice a lot people don’t give me credit for,” Gabe said. “What does Marie have to say about your seeing me?”

  “She was all for it,” Brooke said. “She says age shouldn’t matter.”

  “Smart lady. And your dad?”

  “He’d probably call you a dirty old man. He doesn’t approve of much that I do anymore, but then, I can’t say I approve of all his choices either.”

  Gabe chuckled and let his hand slide farther down her back. “If I’m gonna get called a dirty old man, I might as well act like one.”

  “I like your friends,” Brooke said. “I was afraid I’d get stuck listening to a bunch of grumpy old men talking about tax reform and prostate surgery tonight.”

  “Not a chance. They like you too. Especially Byron. Which is good, because he just sold his share of a startup tech company, and he wants to start doing some estate planning. It’ll be a nice piece of business. He’s got two sets of kids: one set from his first wife, all of whom are in their early thirties, and his kids with Micki, who are eight and six.”

  “Really?” Brooke looked over his shoulder at the Johnsons, who were dancing together at the far side of the ballroom. “He’s got grade-school kids? How old is he?”

  “Only a couple of years older than I am. Do you think that’s too old to have young kids?”

  “I guess I’m just surprised he’d want to start over raising a family.”

  Gabe looked down at her. “Personally, I wouldn’t rule it out. Why not? I’m healthy, I can afford it, and I’ve always wanted kids.”