The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Brooke’s memories of Millie, her granny, were hazy now. She remembered a crystal lidded dish, always placed on the coffee table and filled with pink jelly beans for her visiting granddaughter. She remembered stacks of library books and record albums, mostly classical music, that Granny played on a bulky turntable in what she called her “hi-fi cabinet.”

  She took the photograph, left the bedroom, and walked slowly downstairs, where her mother was still seated in the sunroom.

  “Mom?”

  Her mother’s beautifully composed face was in ruins. She stared numbly at the letters. “Where did you find these?”

  “Lizzie found them. In Gardiner’s footlocker, which was shoved way in the back of a closet in the library at Shellhaven. The military shipped it there to Josephine after he was killed.”

  Marie scowled. “That horrible, horrible woman.”

  “Who? Josephine?”

  “Yes.” Marie tossed the stack onto the table. “She read these letters, then hid them. She knew Mama was in love with Gardiner, was having—I mean, had—his child. Mama was her oldest, dearest friend. And Josephine just cut her out of her life. No wonder she wanted to make amends with us.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Brooke said. “Maybe that’s why Josephine quit talking to Ruth too—because she knew Granny had confided in Ruth but not in her. Of course Josephine read all the letters. She must have been furious at her best friends.”

  “Why? Why, after Pops died, didn’t she reach out to Mama? The secret wouldn’t have mattered so much then, not between the two of them, anyway.”

  “I don’t know,” Brooke admitted. “There’s so much I didn’t understand about Josephine. After Preiss died, she was essentially alone for the next forty years or so. All those years, she had no family, and she isolated herself from her oldest, closest friends. But she did have family—she had us, and we were what? An hour and a half away, in Savannah? A phone call, that’s all it would have taken. Instead, she waited until she knew she was dying.”

  “Mama never said a word,” Marie said, twisting and untwisting the napkin she held in her hands.

  Brooke sat down in the chair opposite her mother’s and gripped her hands in hers.

  “Do you think Pops knew?” It was a question that had haunted Brooke since she’d read Millie’s last letter to Gardiner.

  “He must have, but he certainly never let on to me,” Marie said, attempting a smile. She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin. “Pops was my father,” she said finally. “He was! He was the most patient, most loving and gentle man in the world.”

  “I can’t believe Granny kept this a secret, all these years. And none of us had any idea.”

  “I can,” Marie said. “Looking back now, I can understand why she was so private, and self-contained. I always thought it was just that famous New England reserve.”

  “It must have been awful for Millie, keeping that secret. Pregnant and unmarried, knowing it would cause a scandal, wondering if Gardiner would come home from war to marry her. And then having to grieve him all alone,” Brooke said.

  “I’m glad Josephine didn’t reach out to us,” Marie said. “I couldn’t have forgiven her for the way she treated my mother. She didn’t deserve to call us her family.”

  Marie jumped to her feet and went into the kitchen. When she came back, she had an open bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured a glass and offered it to Brooke.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to drive home, remember?”

  “Right.” Marie took a long drink of the wine.

  “These letters change everything, you know. You’re Josephine’s niece, her closest relative and her heir, unless we find out that C. D. actually was her son.”

  “I don’t need Josephine Warrick’s money.” Marie’s voice dripped scorn. “I had a career and saved my money, your father was generous with the divorce settlement, and I’ve done well with my investments. I thought it was a nice gesture when she reached out to us. I thought I’d be indulging her by going over to Talisa to meet her. And yes, I wanted you to have whatever bequest she wanted to give you. But knowing what we know now?” She drained the wineglass. “I’d be willing to give that damn island and the house to the state just to spite Josephine.”

  “Who are you kidding?” Brooke said. “You’re the least spiteful woman I know. Anyway, are you telling me you’re not even just a little bit curious about Josephine’s estate? Don’t you want to know what it’s worth? Call me a mercenary little money-grubber, but I am. I’ve been wondering ever since I first set foot in Shellhaven.”

  “I feel like I’m suddenly living in some weird parallel universe. All of a sudden, I’m not who I thought I was. I can’t even begin to process this. Anyway, what if this is all some kind of a mistake? And we’re jumping to conclusions?” Marie asked.

  Brooke pointed to the letters. “Do you think they’re fake? Does that look like Granny’s handwriting?”

  With a fingertip, Marie traced the elegant slanting script on a brittle envelope.

  “It’s Mama’s handwriting,” she said slowly. “And the voice in these letters, it’s hers. I can hear her so clearly as I read them. She used to write me letters like these when I was away at college. I still have them, you know. Packed away somewhere in the attic. I even have a few letters Pops sent me when I was away at summer camp. He knew I was homesick, so he’d draw these funny little cartoons of my cat, Mrs. Whiskers, with the silliest balloon captions.”

  She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again. “I wish you’d known Pops, Brooke. I wish he’d known you. And Henry, of course.”

  “I wish it too.” Brooke stood up. “I’d better hit the road.”

  Reluctantly, Marie handed her the letters. “You’ll need to give these to Gabe, right?”

  “Yes. I had Farrah make copies of everything for you, but he’ll want the originals,” Brooke said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if the cousins, once they hear this news, don’t insist on getting your DNA compared to Josephine’s.”

  Marie shuddered. “Does that mean needles? You know how I feel about blood. And needles.”

  “I think it’s just a matter of something simple. Like a cheek swab,” Brooke said.

  They walked toward the front door.

  “Did you talk to your dad?” Marie asked.

  Brooke tensed. “Briefly.”

  “Gordon wouldn’t tell me what he wanted to discuss. From the look on your face, I’m guessing it didn’t go well.”

  “You could say that. He doesn’t like the idea of me dating Gabe. I wish you hadn’t told him I was.”

  “I didn’t think it was classified information. Did Dad have a specific objection, or was it just the age thing?”

  “Patricia has some malicious gossip about Gabe that she’s just dying to spread, but I shut him down before he could get started.”

  “Maybe you should have listened,” Marie said. “Gordon is many things, but a gossip isn’t one of them.”

  “I’ve known Gabe for years. I think I know him a lot better than Patricia does,” Brooke said.

  Marie kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Sometimes the people we think we know the best are the ones with secrets we can’t even fathom. Drive carefully, okay?”

  63

  On Friday morning, Brooke’s cell phone buzzed to signal an incoming text. It was from a number she didn’t immediately recognize. It was a screenshot of a court document. She squinted as she read the tiny print. It was a copy of a Chatham County property tax lien against Gabe W. Wynant, in the amount of $90,000, on behalf of KPW Roofing Inc.

  Beneath the screenshot was the text message:

  Heard you’ve been looking for me. Your boyfriend Gabe is a phony. If you want to know what I know, come over to island and we’ll talk.

  Now she knew the number. It belonged to C. D. She was relieved that he was apparently alive and well but annoyed at his reference to Gabe as her boyfriend. And what was this about a lien?

  Okay, when
and where?

  My friend Ramona has a boat tied up at the municipal pier. It’s called Foxxy Lady. She’s waiting. I’ll pick you up at the Talisa dock. Come now, okay?

  She hesitated, wondering why she felt uneasy about responding to a text from the old man. He was harmless, wasn’t he? But where had he been hiding, and why was he reaching out to her now? Her thumbs flew over the phone’s keyboard.

  Waiting on my assistant to arrive at office. Can’t leave ’til then.

  She glanced at the clock on the office wall. Farrah was thirty minutes overdue. So this was what the old man had been furtively researching in the library databases. The real estate lien must have been the result of a clerical error. Gabe’s town house in Savannah was on West Jones Street, one of the most beautiful streets in the downtown historic district. It was easily a $2 million property. She frowned. What was C. D. up to?

  The office door opened, and Farrah breezed in, her cell phone wedged between her shoulder and left ear as she sipped from a huge Styrofoam Slurpee cup. Brooke fixed her with a disapproving stare. “Gotta go,” Farrah told her caller. “My boss is giving me the death stare.”

  The girl set her backpack and Slurpee on her desk. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”

  “You’re late,” Brooke said. She picked up her phone and texted C. D., and she reached for her pocketbook.

  Leaving now.

  His return text was almost immediate.

  Come alone and don’t tell nobody.

  “I’ve got to go,” she told Farrah. But the idea of a secret meeting with this paranoid old man was making her feel paranoid.

  “Go where?” Farrah asked, sifting through the stack of papers piled atop her desk.

  “I’m meeting C. D. over on Talisa.” Brooke quickly filled her assistant in on her mission. “It’s probably bogus, but he claims to have some damaging information about Gabe. Do me a favor, will you? Just in case, take a look at the online tax records for Chatham County. See what you can find in the way of tax liens.” Another thought occurred to her. “While you’re at it, check the plaintiff and defendant indexes and see if Gabe has been party to any recent civil actions.”

  Farrah nodded as she scrawled notes to herself. “How far back should I look?”

  “Maybe the past three years? And while you’re at it, check the Glynn County records too. I can’t remember the exact address, but his house on Sea Island is on Blue Heron Street. It might be listed under Sunny Wynant.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “His wife. She died two years ago.”

  “For real? I mean, he drives a Porsche.”

  “It’s called due diligence,” Brooke said. She fixed her assistant with what Farrah called her death stare again. “This is all highly confidential stuff. A man’s reputation is at stake. If anybody asks, just tell them I had an appointment this afternoon. Not a word about my going over to the island or who I’m meeting with. Right? I’m not sure how long I’ll be over there, so can you pick Henry up from day care if I’m not back by 2:30?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And Farrah? If you’re late picking Henry up? That’s a firing offense.”

  * * *

  C. D.’s friend Ramona had jet-black hair that fell nearly to her waist. She wore flowered board shorts and a neon-orange bikini top that displayed a pair of saggy sixtysomething-year-old breasts. “All set?” she asked after she’d helped Brooke onto the eighteen-foot Foxxy Lady.

  Brooke nodded, and Ramona backed the boat away from the slip.

  “You’re a friend of C. D.’s?” Brooke asked. “Have you known him a long time?”

  Ramona’s smile was enigmatic. “Been knowing him off and on for a while. More off than on, but since last week, I guess you’d say we’re on again.”

  “Has he told you what all the secrecy is about?” Brooke asked.

  “He says he’s fixin’ to come into an inheritance—which, knowing C. D., is a lot of crap. He also says I should keep my mouth shut about what I know, so that’s what I been doing.” Ramona turned her back to Brooke, and a moment later the boat was flattening out, skimming across the calm waters of the river with Talisa straight ahead.

  * * *

  C. D. was seated on a black motorbike at the edge of the Shellhaven dock. He raised a hand in greeting to Ramona, who returned the salute. Lionel, the little Geechee boy who’d been sitting on the dock, waved too.

  As Brooke walked toward C. D., she heard the boat’s engine start and turned to see the Foxxy Lady pull away from the dock.

  “Get on,” C. D. said in lieu of a greeting.

  “No helmet?” Brooke asked nervously, straddling the bike and gingerly wrapping her arms around the old man’s midsection. She noted the leather holster clipped to the waist of his shorts.

  “We ain’t goin’ that far,” he said. “You didn’t tell nobody you were comin’, right?”

  “Right,” she lied.

  He steered away from Shellhaven, turning in the opposite direction. The small bike’s engine labored beneath the weight of two riders. Bits of rock and crushed oyster shell sprayed her ankles and calves as they rode along, and she kept her lips clamped together and eyes squeezed shut against the stirred-up sand and grit.

  The bike finally slowed after they’d been riding for ten minutes. She looked up when she heard the waves pounding ashore and saw the old lighthouse looming in front of them.

  “We’re here,” C. D. said.

  She was grateful to hop off the bike and have both feet on the ground again. He pushed the bike off the roadway, leaning it against the abbreviated porch of a small wooden edifice that Brooke realized must be the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, the same one Josephine, Millie, Ruth, and Varina had stayed in the night before discovering Russell Strickland’s body.

  Was this where C. D. had been hiding out?

  Instead of entering the cottage, C. D. turned and walked toward the lighthouse itself.

  “In here,” he said, pushing against the heavy wooden door, which opened inward on long-disused hinges. An open padlock hung from a rusty hasp screwed into the rotting wooden doorframe.

  “Here? In the lighthouse?” Brooke peered uneasily inside. The landing in front of her was narrow, maybe six feet wide, and green-painted wooden stairs spiraled up the exposed brick column. Dust motes swirled in the shaft of sunlight pouring down from the top.

  “You got a better place?” He started up the stairs, and she was surprised at how nimble he was. She stood, rooted in the doorway, already regretting having come this far. She saw now that C. D. Anthony wasn’t just a harmless, aging eccentric. He was paranoid, and he was armed.

  C. D. read her expression. “Come on, now. You think I’m gonna hurt you? I swear, that ain’t what this is about.”

  “What is this about? Why can’t we just talk down here?” Brooke hoped her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

  “I like it up top.” He jerked his chin upward. “You got a 360-degree view up there. I can see anybody coming or going. See the whole island. That’s why I chose it. Anyway, I got my dossier up there. That’s what I want you to see.”

  He started up the stairs again, calling over his shoulder. His high, reedy voice echoed off the curving walls. “Your friend Gabe? He ain’t what you think he is, and I can prove it. I know you don’t believe me, but ain’t you curious?”

  She was, damn it. Almost against her will, she began to climb, higher and higher. Once, halfway up, she stopped to catch her breath. She made the mistake of looking down and was seized by a sudden wave of terror. The stairs spun crazily beneath her feet, and she felt herself about to pitch backward. Panic-stricken, Brooke clawed at the brick wall, trying to gain a handhold. Bile rose in her throat, and she felt a crushing weight on her chest. She knelt and gripped the wooden stair risers at waist level.

  “You coming?” C. D.’s disembodied voice floated from above.

  “I can’t do this!” Brooke cried when she could catch her breath. “I’m dizzy. I�
��m afraid of falling!”

  “Happens all the time. Don’t look down. Just keep coming.”

  Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She managed to stand upright. She took a step. Paused, took a breath then took another step, and then another.

  * * *

  C. D. leaned casually against the glass-enclosed turret. “Took you long enough,” he said when Brooke finally crawled onto the wooden landing. Her hands and knees were blackened from the gritty stairs, and she was sick and scared and bathed in her own sweat.

  “Dizzy,” she gasped.

  He reached into a Styrofoam cooler and handed her a bottle of water. “Don’t be such a crybaby.”

  After she’d regained her hard-won composure, she looked around at what must have been the lens room when the lighthouse was still operational. Queasy as she was, even she would admit that the view was, as advertised, spectacular. She understood why Farrah and her friends trespassed here. From 120 feet up, she could see the roof of Shellhaven and its outbuildings, the dock, and the river, and in the far distance, the mainland. The sweep of untouched beach and endless ocean felt calming. When she turned toward the north end of the island, she could see the state’s ferry boat churning away from the island.

  But the sudden head movement brought on another spasm of anxiety and nausea. She slumped down onto the floor.

  “You done sightseeing?”

  C. D. had made himself a rat’s nest of dirty clothes and a sleeping bag. A backpack was stashed beside a wooden soft drink crate, atop which sat a file folder and a heavy, lethal-looking flashlight.

  “Here’s what I wanted to show you,” he said with a smug smile. “My dossier.”

  * * *

  Brooke opened the folder and made a show of leafing through the documents, but trying to read the already blurry printouts made her even queasier.

  “What exactly do you want from me, C. D.?” she asked.

  “I need your help. Your lawyer buddy Gabe tried to kill me.”

  Humor him, Brooke thought. Isn’t that what you do with delusional people?

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Why would Gabe try to kill you?”