The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  He gave her a winning smile. “So … how about me? Do I get a second chance? I don’t know what came over me last night. I could blame the martinis. I should have stopped after two.”

  “You really should have,” Brooke said. “Nobody likes a mean drunk. And that’s what you were last night, Gabe. You were mean. First when you went off on that poor valet kid, threatening to get him fired, and then to me. You were mean and rude.”

  “I know.” He shook his head. “So no excuses. I want you to know I went back over to the Cloister this morning. I left the kid a note of apology and a big tip.”

  She sipped her coffee and waited for what would come next. Did she even want to hear it?

  He ran his fingers through his hair, which was uncharacteristically messy. Come to think of it, Gabe was uncharacteristically messy this morning. Gray stubble, dark bags under his eyes, and he wore beltless khaki slacks that needed ironing, a faded gray T-shirt, and scuffed up Topsiders.

  “Look,” he said, his dark eyes pleading. “I’m not a kid anymore. I haven’t courted a woman in … well, a long time, and I’m not sure I was good at it back in my twenties. I’m in foreign waters here, you know?”

  He took Brooke’s hand and pressed it between his. “I wish you could forget the ugly turn the evening took last night. Because I want to. I’ll never forget how it felt, holding you in my arms, watching every other man in the room watching you and envying me, because I was the lucky guy you were with.”

  He brushed a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I had so many plans for us last night. A walk on the beach, a kiss in the moonlight. And when you called to say you were leaving, I guess I lost it. I lashed out, and the moment those words were out of my mouth, I hated myself.” Gabe leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Honestly? I don’t think this is about forgiveness,” Brooke said, drawing away. “It’s about understanding. What you said last night—about me pulling a disappearing act? It showed you don’t really know me, even after all this time. I left Harris Strayhorn because, ultimately, I wasn’t ready to be married. I’ve admitted that was wrong. I don’t regret canceling the wedding, but I do regret the careless way I did that and how deeply I hurt both our families. But I’ve changed. I have a child now, and he has to be my first priority. If you can’t understand that, there’s no future for us.”

  Gabe nodded solemnly. “I get it. Really, I do. That’s part of what attracts me to you. Your fierceness. And your intelligence. Can we start over? Can I have that second chance?”

  “Mama? Where Fawwah go?”

  They both turned. Henry stood in the doorway, naked from the waist down, clutching his stuffed Ninja Turtle. “I pooped,” he said solemnly.

  “This is my life now, Gabe,” Brooke said. “Are you really sure this is what you want?”

  58

  Brooke walked Gabe out to his car, blinking in the white-hot sunlight. “Any news on probating Josephine’s estate?”

  “I’ve filed all the paperwork, and I’m still tracking down all the assets,” he said. “It’s still amazing to me that she allowed the house to deteriorate to the extent it has, even though she had millions in cash and stocks.”

  “I think she wanted time to stand still after Preiss died. She only allowed Shug to do the barest minimum maintenance.”

  “Crazy old bat,” he said, shaking his head. He turned the key in the ignition. “So … are we good? Can I call you again? I need to head back to Savannah this afternoon, but maybe I could take you to dinner when I’m down here next time on estate business?”

  “Let’s take it a day at a time,” Brooke said. “Lizzie and Felicia and I are worried about C. D. Nobody’s seen or heard from him in several days.”

  “He called me just this morning, demanding to know when he can get his inheritance,” Gabe said.

  “Did he say where he was calling from? I meant to tell you, we checked his cottage at Shellhaven, and it looks like he hasn’t been there in a while. It looked like he’d left in a hurry.”

  “You broke into the guy’s house? Bad idea. C. D. is certifiable. He’s paranoid, and he’s got a gun. There’s no telling what he’d do if he caught you prowling around his house.”

  “We didn’t actually break in. Lizzie found the key. And we weren’t prowling. We were conducting a welfare check. Anything could have happened to him.”

  “And did you find anything interesting?”

  “No. Just copies of some old newspaper clippings and things of that nature.”

  Gabe frowned. “C. D. has a record, Brooke. Mostly petty stuff—public drunkenness, disorderly conduct, and a misdemeanor assault. My point is, until we have the results of that DNA test back, I’m not assuming he actually is Josephine’s heir.”

  “But what about the stuff we found out in Savannah? The photos of Josephine with him at the orphanage? The truck she gave him? He still has it, you know. And if he wasn’t her child, why was she so benevolent toward the orphanage and the boy’s home?”

  “The Bettendorfs believed in philanthropy. Josephine’s father built hospital wings, paid for local ball fields and libraries. He endowed university chairs, underwrote all kinds of things. Going through her tax records, I can see that up until her husband died, she gave away hundreds of thousands of dollars every year. That truck could be meaningless in the larger scheme of things.”

  “Or it could be proof that Josephine felt deeply guilty about abandoning her child,” Brooke said stubbornly.

  “We’ll see,” Gabe said. “So Lizzie is still living at Shellhaven?”

  “Is there a problem with that?”

  “Those cousins don’t like the idea of anybody who isn’t family living there,” Gabe said. “They’ve called me twice to complain that she’s trespassing. I thought Lizzie understood that. Magazine article or no, she has no business digging through Josephine’s effects. I hate to be the bad guy here, but she really can’t stay there any longer.”

  “But that’s so silly,” Brooke protested. “She’s not hurting anything.”

  “Lizzie has no standing in this estate,” he said firmly. “Please let her know she needs to go. Or I will.”

  59

  On Monday, Brooke attended a child custody hearing, took a deposition on behalf of a client who’d shattered an ankle after slipping on a newly waxed floor at a fast-food joint near the interstate, and on Tuesday, after a day’s worth of negotiating, managed to get all the charges against Brittni Miles dropped. Her feeling of triumph was short-lived.

  Farrah called shortly after nine. Brooke could tell from her voice that there was an issue.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Don’t hate me, but I need to miss work tomorrow,” Farrah said. “My granny’s back in the hospital in Jacksonville, and Mom says I need to go with her to visit.”

  “I’m sorry.” Farrah’s grandmother’s declining health was a source of continued concern for the tight-knit Miles family. “You’ll be back to work on Thursday, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good, because I need to take a run over to Talisa, and I’m going to need you for Henry in the afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Henry squealed with happiness as soon as she pulled into the parking lot at the library. He loved Wednesday morning story hour.

  “Hey, stranger!” Janice, the head librarian, a chunky brunette with a fondness for gaudy jewelry and big hair, approached and gave Brooke a hug. “We haven’t seen you in a while. Where’s Farrah this morning?”

  “Family issues,” Brooke said. She watched as Henry ran off toward the cozy book-lined children’s room, eagerly taking his place among the chattering semicircle of preschoolers seated around Miss Myra, their beloved octogenarian storyteller.

  “Life treating you all right?” Janice asked as Brooke plucked the Atlanta newspaper from the periodical rack.

  “I’m good,” Brooke said. Seeing the newspaper r
eminded her of something that had been bothering her. “Janice, have you had an older guy in here a lot lately?”

  “Tons,” Janice said. “The retirees come in to research their stock picks and read their hometown newspapers online, the unemployed want help writing résumés, and the homeless ones like the air-conditioning and use our bathrooms. Which old guy are you looking for?”

  “He’s short and wiry, has a gray ponytail, always wears a baseball cap?”

  “And smokes those stinky cigarillos? Don’t tell me he’s a friend of yours.”

  “No. He’s an, um, acquaintance.”

  “He’s a pain in the butt is what he is. He’s been researching back issues of the Savannah and Atlanta newspapers, doing all kinds of online searches. He seems to think I’m his personal computer instructor.”

  “Any idea what he’s looking for?” Brooke asked.

  “He’s very interested in local history. Especially the Bettendorf family. Do you know about them? They owned Talisa Island, and the last remaining member of the family died recently.”

  “I know them,” Brooke said.

  “I showed him how to search the local genealogical society databases here and in the next county over. And then we had to order him some books through interlibrary loan. One was an old out-of-print book about Josephine Bettendorf Warrick that she apparently commissioned back in the 1970s. He was incensed that we charged him three dollars for ordering those materials and having them shipped here. Gave me the whole line about being a Vietnam vet and how his tax dollars paid our salaries.”

  “What kind of books?”

  Janice lowered her voice. “I don’t mind telling you, because you’re a longtime patron, but that man, Mr. Anthony, was obsessed with privacy. To the point of being paranoid. He wanted to make sure we weren’t keeping any records of what he was looking at.”

  “Which was?”

  “Hmm. Well, he looked at the county property tax records. I know, because I helped him with that. He printed out some records concerning Talisa. And then he also researched legal records from Glynn and Chatham counties.”

  “Did he say why he was interested in those counties?”

  “I tried not to get too close to him, to tell you the truth,” Janice said. “His personal hygiene isn’t the best, if you know what I mean. But I think I printed out some tax records for him. And he was looking at civil and criminal dockets for those counties too. I remember because he raised holy you-know-what because we charge ten cents apiece for printouts!”

  “Weird,” Brooke said.

  Janice looked around to make sure she couldn’t be overheard. “Pretty sure he was also trying to look for online pornography sites too. We have blocks to keep people from doing that, but a couple of times, when he left before signing off the computer, I saw the record of his Google searches. Yeesh!”

  “Anything else you can think of?”

  “He was very interested in wills and trusts and that sort of thing. Funny, because he didn’t strike me as the kind of person who would stand to inherit anything from anybody.”

  “Fascinating,” Brooke said. “Has he been in here lately? Like in the past week or so?”

  “I didn’t see him myself, because I was at lunch, but Myra mentioned that he was here last week. She finally had to ask him to quit standing outside the doors smoking those cigars of his, because the other patrons were complaining. Excuse me,” Janice said, hurrying off to quiet a table of giggling teenage girls.

  60

  “Brooke?” Lizzie’s voice was crackling with excitement when she called early Thursday morning. “I found something. You need to get over here right away and take a look.”

  “I was planning on coming this morning. Are you at Shellhaven now?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Can you ask Shug to come pick me up? I can be at the marina by nine o’clock.”

  “He just pulled up with Louette,” Lizzie said. “I’ll ask him now.”

  * * *

  Lizzie met Brooke at the Shellhaven dock, and it struck Brooke that although she’d been on the island only a short time, the change since she’d arrived from California was remarkable. She wore shorts, a white tank top, beat-up sneakers with no shoelaces, and a baseball cap. She held Dweezil in the crook of her elbow.

  “My chariot awaits,” she announced grandly, pointing at a battered blue VW station wagon.

  “Where’d you get the car?” Brooke asked, jumping into the front seat.

  Lizzie handed over the cat. “Shug knew a guy who knew a guy. So for the price of a battery and new tires, I am now the proud new owner. I had it barged over Monday.”

  Brooke looked down at Dweezil, who was butting her hand with her head.

  “She would like you to scratch her ears,” Lizzie said. “And neck and chin. In that order.”

  Brooke did as instructed, and the cat purred her approval. As she scratched the cat, she brooded once again about how to tell Lizzie that she was about to be evicted.

  “Oh, hey, that’s Lionel.” Lizzie slowed the car as they approached a young Geechee child. He was barefoot, with a fishing pole propped against one shoulder, lugging a bucketful of fish.

  “Lionel, what’s happenin’?” Lizzie called, pulling up alongside him.

  “Hey, Miss Lizzie. You give me ride?”

  “Sure thing. Hop in the back.”

  He wrenched the back door open and slid the bucket across the seat. The smell of fish filled the car. In an instant, Dweezil leaped onto the backseat and began pawing at the bucket.

  Lizzie turned to look at the boy. “Did you catch all those fish?”

  “I cotched some, but Dobie, he give me some he had extra.”

  Lizzie frowned. “Those fish look pretty small, Lionel. They’re not really keepers.”

  “Oh yeah, they keepers. My mama gonna keep ’em and fry ’em for supper tonight.”

  “Next time, Lionel, they need to be fourteen inches long. Otherwise, you need to throw them back while they’re still alive, so they get big enough to make some more fish babies. If the ranger man comes around and finds you with those little fish, you could get into trouble.”

  Lionel shook his head vigorously, sending his dreadlocks flying. “The ranger man already come ’round today. Dobie, he see him coming, so he give me these fish and tell me go home.”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Dobie knows better than to keep undersized fish, Lionel,” she said. “It’s probably better if you don’t take any more fish from him.”

  “But he’s my friend,” Lionel protested. “He give me money to go to the store to get his smokes and let me keep the change and get me some candy and Cokes.”

  Lizzie pulled the car to a stop in front of the Oyster Bluff sign. “Okay, pal, this is as far as we go today.”

  She watched the child trudge away. “Dobie is sort of the town drunk of Oyster Bluff. He ignores all the local game and fish regulations. According to Shug, the Department of Natural Resources ranger regularly issues him tickets, but he tears ’em up and ignores the fines.”

  “Seems like you’ve settled in and gotten to know the locals,” Brooke said.

  “They have a covered-dish supper Sunday nights at the Oyster Bluff community house. Louette invited me.” She patted her belly with a rueful grin. “The food is unbelievable. Baked redfish, shrimp pilau, deviled crab. The island’s not such a bad place once you get used to the humidity and the gawd-awful bugs,” Lizzie said. She slapped at an invisible bug on her forearm and grimaced. “I’ll never get used to the damn no-see-um gnats.” She glanced over at Brooke, noting her glum expression. “What’s wrong? You’re not looking too cheery today. How did your date with sugar daddy Gabe go?”

  “It started out great, but then I had to cut the night short because of a crisis at home,” Brooke said. “The thing is, Gabe wants you out of Shellhaven. Like, right away.”

  “What’s the big hurry?”

  “I’m sorry,” Brooke said. “I hate to be the bea
rer of bad news, but the odious Dorcas and Delphine have apparently been kicking up a fuss. They say you’re trespassing, and Gabe agrees that you really don’t have a right to be going through Josephine’s papers.”

  Lizzie’s answering smile was enigmatic. “Just wait until you see what I uncovered in those papers. You can tell Dorcas and Delphine to take a flying leap.”

  * * *

  “Step into my office,” Lizzie said as they entered the library.

  Brooke set Dweezil on the floor, and the cat immediately leaped onto the windowsill.

  Lizzie pointed at a battered green footlocker. “I found this shoved way at the back of the closet in here. The lid was covered in an inch-thick layer of dust and spider eggs. Louette said she’s never seen it before, and I’m pretty sure it hadn’t been opened in decades.”

  S. G. Bettendorf—RCAF was stenciled on the side of the trunk, and the lid was unlocked.

  Lizzie plopped down on the floor, and Brooke sat down beside her. “This was Gardiner’s air force footlocker. I found a letter from the RCAF inside, indicating that it was shipped back here to Shellhaven after he was killed in 1942.”

  Brooke peered inside the trunk, not knowing what to expect, but it was empty except for a lingering, dank odor.

  “I had to throw most of the stuff away,” Lizzie said apologetically. “The clothes were moldy and full of silverfish.” She turned and retrieved a thin packet of papers.

  “Fortunately, these were wrapped in some kind of oilcloth, so they were pretty well preserved.” She handed over a gray cardboard folder.

  Inside was a hand-colored studio photograph of a young woman. Her blond shoulder-length hair was parted on the side and swept back from her face. She wore a blue sweater and a sweet smile.

  Brooke stared down at the photo, transfixed. “It’s Millie, right?” She turned the photo over.

  In girlish looping script, the sender had written, To Gardiner: All my love, Millie.

  “She looks so young,” Brooke murmured. “But I don’t understand what Gardiner was doing with this.”