The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Gabe grasped her by the ankle, and she instinctively kicked out, catching him square in the gut. His face registered a momentary flash of shock before he toppled backward, down and down and down, the sickening thud of his falling body echoing in the brick stairwell.

  * * *

  Time stopped. She was conscious of crawling to C. D.’s side, of wadding up another shirt, pressing it to his shoulder. The old man was deathly quiet, his breathing shallow.

  She reached for her cell phone. She had only half a bar. She tapped the number for the house phone at Shellhaven, but before the call could connect, the phone went dead. She had to go for help before C. D. bled to death. She tried to stand, but the floor swam beneath her feet.

  “Brooke! Brooke!” Two distinct women’s voices floated up from below. “Are you up there? Are you okay?”

  “I’m here,” she managed. “We need help.”

  Their footsteps pounded on the wooden steps, pausing only when they’d reached the lawyer’s body, corkscrewed across the stairwell, his head resting at an unnatural angle.

  “Oh my God!” Lizzie gasped.

  Another moment and they were both on the landing, surveying the carnage before them—the blood, the forgotten pistol, and a barely conscious old man and his makeshift nurse, who was softly weeping.

  “Get help,” Brooke croaked. “He’s been shot, and he’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “The sheriff is on the way,” Lizzie said.

  Felicia gently pried Brooke’s hands from C. D.’s shoulder. “Let me do this,” she said. She gingerly lifted the shirt, blanching at the sight. “The bleeding seems to have stopped.”

  “Gabe,” Brooke said, her throat dry. “Is he…”

  “Dead?”

  Lizzie and Felicia exchanged a look that confirmed Brooke’s worst fears.

  “I killed him,” Brooke whispered. “I did this. After he shot C. D., Gabe was trying to get me to leave. But I couldn’t leave C. D. And then, I looked down, and the stairs.” She shuddered. “Dizzy. I nearly blacked out. I couldn’t move. The nausea. He hit me. And then he started to drag me down those stairs. I just couldn’t. I could feel myself falling. So I kicked him.” She was weeping again. “I kicked him, and he fell backward, down the stairs. I didn’t mean to, but I killed him.”

  “Hush.” Felicia wrapped her arms around Brooke. “Don’t talk.”

  They heard cars approaching. Lizzie looked out the windows. “Sheriff’s here. He’s got a deputy and Shug with him. I’d better go down there and tell them we need a stretcher, for C. D.”

  “And a body bag for Gabe Wynant,” Felicia said.

  “They’ll arrest me for murder. I’m going to prison. And Henry. My Henry…” Brooke buried her face in her hands.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Felicia said. “It was self-defense, right, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie paused at the stair landing. “That’s right.” Her voice was matter of fact. “Gabe shot C. D. in cold blood. And he would have shot you too. He had the gun to your head, you were afraid for your life. You kicked at him, and he fell backwards.” She nodded at Felicia. “Right?”

  “End of story,” Felicia agreed.

  * * *

  There was a flurry of activity then. Sheriff Goolsby and his deputy seemed to fill the tiny landing with their male presence. Brooke shrank back against the wall, her knees drawn tightly to her chest, as an EMT and an ambulance, hastily summoned from the state park, arrived to bandage C. D., hook up IV tubes, and transport him out of the lighthouse and to the sheriff’s boat waiting at the dock at Shellhaven. Before they left, Brooke allowed them to clean and bandage the gash on her cheek.

  “Might need stitches,” the burly EMT muttered.

  Lizzie and Felicia hovered protectively beside Brooke as she numbly answered the sheriff’s questions, while the deputy quietly went about his business photographing the scene and taking notes and measurements.

  “She’s told you everything she knows,” Felicia said after the sheriff asked for the third time why a rich, successful Savannah attorney like Gabe Wynant had ended up dead on Talisa Island.

  “She’s in shock,” Lizzie agreed. “No more questions. You can call her tomorrow if you think of anything else.”

  They waited until the others had gone. “Okay, the coast is clear,” Lizzie said, watching the parade of trucks motoring away from the lighthouse. “Let’s go home now, Brooke.”

  They pulled her to her feet. Brooke took two steps, then froze. “I can’t,” she gasped. “The stairs … dizzy.”

  “You’ve got this,” Lizzie said firmly. She wound an arm around Brooke’s waist. Felicia took Brooke’s left arm and placed it across her own shoulders.

  “We’re just going to take it nice and slow,” Felicia said soothingly. “Close your eyes. Take a step when we tell you.”

  “I’ll fall!” Brooke started to tremble. “I’ll fall, and I’ll pull you down with me.”

  “You won’t,” Lizzie said. “We’ve got you. We won’t let you fall. Not ever.”

  65

  The emergency room admitting clerk called her name loudly. “Brooke Trappnell?”

  Felicia and Lizzie walked with her to the doors leading to the triage area, where a nurse in purple scrubs stood waiting, a clipboard tucked under her arm. “Sorry. I can’t let visitors back there. Family only.”

  “We’re her family,” Felicia said.

  “Sisters,” Lizzie agreed.

  The nurse rolled her eyes at the improbability of the statement but showed them back to a curtained-off treatment room. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

  Brooke sat on the narrow bed while Felicia leaned against the wall and Lizzie perched on a low rolling stool. Her head was pounding, and the gash on her cheek throbbed. She looked down at herself. Her hands and arms were bruised, her clothes were filthy and blood-spattered. “God, I’m a mess.”

  “You’re alive. That’s what counts. You scared the living bejesus out of us, you know,” Felicia said.

  Lizzie nodded solemnly. “Yeah. We heard the shots just as we were pulling up to the lighthouse. We didn’t know if you were dead or alive, or what.”

  “How did you even know where I was?”

  “It was Farrah. You’d better give that girl a raise,” Felicia said. “After that wacky call from you, she knew something bad was going down over there. I guess you gave her some clue about being at the lighthouse. Where she and Jaxson partied? She called the sheriff, and then she called the house phone at Shellhaven.”

  “And I picked up,” Lizzie said. “The poor kid was frantic. She was trying to tell me about Gabe and some tax liens and bad checks, and I didn’t really know what any of it meant, but she convinced me that you were in some kind of trouble.”

  The nurse pulled the curtain aside. “You’ve got more company. I’d say this is probably your real family.” She glared at Lizzie and Felicia. “You two will have to leave.”

  Marie and Gordon stepped into the already cramped space.

  Gordon’s face paled when he saw his bruised and blood-spattered daughter. “Jesus! What did that animal do to you?”

  Marie nodded at Lizzie. “Thanks so much for calling to let me know what happened.”

  “It looks worse than it really is,” Brooke said. “The EMT said they’ll probably just give me a few stitches. I’m fine, really.”

  “You two,” the nurse said, pointing to Felicia and Lizzie. “Out.”

  “Can’t they stay? Just for a few minutes?” Brooke pleaded.

  “The doctor is finishing up with a patient now. When he’s ready for you, they’ll have to leave,” the nurse relented.

  “I spoke briefly with somebody in the sheriff’s office while we were driving down here,” Gordon said. “They wouldn’t tell me much. Just that there’d been an incident over on Talisa and that two people were injured. I hope to God Gabe Wynant is the other injured party.”

  “Gabe is dead,” Brooke said quietly.

  �
�Good. Saves me the trouble of doing it myself.”

  Brooke’s head felt like it was in a vise. “I don’t understand. Dad, what are you doing here? What’s any of this got to do with you?”

  “You’re my daughter. You were nearly killed today. Why wouldn’t I be here?” Gordon said, bristling.

  “Your dad called me this morning. He was insistent that I make you listen to the truth about Gabe,” Marie said.

  “You always assume the worst about me,” Gordon said bitterly. “And Patricia. Who was only trying to warn you about that snake—”

  “Gordon?” Marie’s voice held a warning note. “Let’s not get into the family dynamics. Just tell our daughter what you told me this morning.”

  “Um, maybe we’d better let you guys have some space,” Felicia said.

  Lizzie nodded. “We’ll go check out the coffee situation in the cafeteria.”

  The two beat a hasty retreat.

  “Gabe Wynant was the executor of Patricia’s uncle Robert’s estate,” Gordon began. “Robert Zehring founded Chatham Community Bank, which got bought out by a bigger bank in Charlotte fifteen years ago. Robert’s been dead six or seven years. Patricia’s aunt Ellie is in a nursing home, suffering with dementia, so Patricia’s been trying to help untangle her finances, but she could never get a straight answer out of Gabe. She started doing some digging and discovered there was some funny business with the trust accounts. We hired a forensic accountant and, long story short, discovered Gabe had been treating Ellie’s trust account like it was his personal piggy bank. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had gone missing.”

  “And that’s not the only client he’s defrauded, right?” Marie looked at Gordon.

  “I’ve been making quiet inquiries around town,” Gordon said. “There are two others that I know of. Gabe was slick, I’ll give him that.”

  Brooke’s stomach heaved. She made it into the adjacent bathroom just in time. Marie was by her side in an instant, holding her hair as Brooke hunched miserably over the commode, then helping her back to the examining table.

  The curtain parted, and a white-coated doctor appeared. “Brooke Trappnell? I’m Dr. Schaefer.”

  “We’re her parents,” Marie said. “Can we stay?”

  The nurse came in, bearing a plastic-covered stainless steel tray.

  “Better not to,” Schaefer said. “Stitches and all. I’ll send for you when we’re done here.”

  He turned to Brooke. “How do you feel?” he asked when they were alone, leaning in to look at her face. “This cut is pretty deep. Does your head hurt?”

  “It’s killing me,” Brooke said.

  “Nauseous?”

  “Very,” she admitted.

  He held a small penlight and examined her closer. “Does this light hurt your eyes?”

  “Yes.” She winced, closed her eyes, and turned away.

  “And how did you get these injuries?”

  She gave him the condensed version, telling him about the dizziness and panic that seized her as she was climbing the lighthouse stairs, and about falling and hitting her head, and then being struck by Gabe.

  He nodded. “Vertigo. That could account for the nausea, but I think you’ve probably also got a concussion. We’ll get your wound area numbed, then I’ll stitch you up. With a concussion, I want somebody to check on you every few hours. Do you have somebody who can stay with you tonight? Your parents or one of your sisters?”

  “I think so,” Brooke said. Her head hurt too much to correct him about the status of her real and newly adopted family.

  “The man I was with, C. D. Anthony? Do you know how he is?” she asked.

  “He’ll be all right. It was a through-and-through gunshot wound. He’s one tough customer. We’ll keep him overnight, mostly because of his age and the amount of blood loss, but barring any surprises, we should be able to cut him loose tomorrow.”

  “Can I see him?” Brooke asked.

  “Tomorrow. There’s not much to see. He’s been sedated. You should go home and get some rest.”

  * * *

  Lizzie and Felicia were in animated conversation with Brooke’s parents as the nurse wheeled her out to the waiting room.

  “Who gets these?” the nurse asked, holding up Brooke’s discharge papers.

  “I’ll take them,” Marie said. She looked down at her daughter. “The girls and your dad and I have been talking. You’re going to need some quiet time at home, so I’m hoping you’ll let me take Henry back to Savannah to my house, at least for the weekend.”

  “Lizzie and I can hang with you,” Felicia said.

  “Is that really necessary?” Brooke asked, pressing her fingers to her throbbing temples.

  “Yes,” Marie said, ushering her out the door. “No arguments.”

  * * *

  Henry and Farrah were working on a puzzle when they got home. “Ree!” the child cried, ignoring his mother and flinging himself at Marie’s knees. She swung him into the air and spun him around as he laughed in delight. Gordon stood just inside the door, an awkward, silent outsider.

  “Omygod, Brooke!” Farrah cried. “I was so worried about you. Gabe showed up to take you to lunch. I told him you were at an appointment, but I knew he didn’t believe me.”

  Brooke gave her a wan smile. “You kinda saved my life today. If you hadn’t figured out where I was…”

  “I knew something was bad wrong when you said me and Jaxson should pick up Henry, but it took me a minute to figure out you were telling me you were at the lighthouse,” Farrah said, giggling.

  “Hey, buddy,” Brooke said as Henry reached for her.

  His dark blue eyes widened when he spotted her bruised and bandaged face. “Boo-boo?” he asked.

  “Just a little one,” Brooke said, taking him in her arms. “All better now.”

  Henry kissed his fingertip and touched it to her cheek. He stared and pointed at Gordon. “Who’s that?”

  Gordon’s voice was hoarse. “I’m your grandpop, Henry.” He took the child’s chubby hand in his and solemnly shook.

  “Grandpop is my daddy,” Brooke explained. “Just like Ree is my mommy.”

  “Let me take him,” Marie said. “I can tell your head is hurting. I can pack his bag, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Catching the cue, Lizzie stepped up and took Brooke by the arm. “Come on. Show me to your bedroom.”

  “Henry, would you like to go stay at Ree’s house and sleep in the big bed tonight?” Brooke heard Marie ask just as Lizzie pulled the covers back from her bed and urged her to get some sleep.

  66

  Every four hours, Lizzie and Felicia took turns shaking Brooke awake, asking the questions outlined in the emergency room discharge instructions. Brooke’s cheek still throbbed, and her head still hurt. She was disoriented and sleepy, but the women were relentlessly efficient.

  When she awoke on her own, she could see the sun through the slats in the window blinds. Felicia was asleep on the other side of the bed, facedown on a pillow.

  She found Lizzie in the kitchen, making coffee. “You’re alive!” Lizzie said, pouring her a mug.

  “Barely.” Brooke sat at the table and sipped her coffee. A moment later, they heard water running in the bathroom, and then Felicia joined them.

  “How did you sleep?” she asked.

  “Badly,” Brooke admitted. “All night long I kept dreaming I was falling down the stairs at the lighthouse. Down and down and down. And then one of you would wake me up and ask me what day it was.”

  “Sorry,” Felicia said. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “The past twenty-four hours all seem like a bad dream. I still can’t believe any of it happened. I can’t believe Gabe is dead. That he did those things my dad says he did. None of this makes any sense.” Brooke looked from Felicia to Lizzie. “Does it make sense to you?”

  “We sat up talking last night after you were asleep,” Lizzie said, “trying to piece it all together, but some of it’s just a guess
, and some of it, let’s face it, we might never know.”

  “We took a look at all the stuff Farrah dug up on Gabe yesterday,” Felicia said. “The man was having serious financial problems. There were tax liens on his house in Savannah and at Sea Island. He’d even had some bad check charges, although it looks like those were dismissed once he made restitution.”

  “Probably that’s why he looted his clients’ trust accounts. He figured he’d be able to pay back all the money before he was found out,” Lizzie said. “But the question is, why?”

  “Sunny,” Brooke said.

  The two women gave her a questioning look.

  “His wife. She’d been in and out of rehab for years. That couldn’t have been cheap. Gabe told me she would go on spending sprees when she was drinking. He claimed he didn’t even know about that Porsche he’s been driving until he found it in the garage of the house at Sea Island shortly after she died of liver cancer two years ago.”

  “Classic,” Felicia said. “Blame it on the dead wife.”

  “He needed money, and he needed it fast,” Lizzie went on.

  Brooke shook her head. “And when I called him and asked him to meet with Josephine to handle her estate, it must have looked like the perfect opportunity. My God, I’ve been so stupid and so naive.”

  “You couldn’t have known he was broke,” Lizzie said. “He fooled everybody.”

  “I was such a chump,” Brooke said. “He charmed me, romanced me, convinced me that he was a lonely widower looking for a second chance at love. I wish you’d seen him at the Cloister in black tie and tux. He was in his element. He basically proposed to me Saturday night. He wanted me to give up my practice here, move back to Savannah, and let him ‘take care of’ me and Henry. Oh my God! He even hinted that he’d love to have a child with me!”

  “But you didn’t say yes,” Felicia pointed out. “You didn’t sleep with him, right?”

  Brooke blushed and looked away. “I was tempted. Gabe made it pretty clear he intended to seduce me that night. But thanks to Farrah and her lowlife boyfriend, I cut the evening short and drove back home.”

  “And that’s the only reason you didn’t fall for all his smooth talk?” Lizzie asked.