The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “What is it?” Brooke asked.

  “Lab results on DNA testing performed on hair samples from C. D. Anthony and Josephine Warrick.”

  “Which show what?” Brooke asked, not bothering to try to hide her excitement.

  “No familial relation,” Goolsby said. “No big surprise there. I could have told you that old drunk was no kin to Miss Josephine.”

  “Could we have a copy of that report, Howard?” Mary asked. “For my client’s peace of mind?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t see why not.” He walked to the outer hallway with the envelope. They heard the mechanical whir of a photocopier, and a moment later he was back with the copy of the report, which he handed to Brooke. “Anything else?”

  Mary Balent spoke up. “Yes, actually, Howard, we’d appreciate it if you could release Josephine Warrick’s body as soon as possible so her family can have a funeral.”

  Goolsby tapped his pen on the edge of the desk and looked at Brooke. “I understand you’ve only recently learned that you and your mother are Mrs. Warrick’s next of kin?”

  “Yes,” Brooke said. “It was … a shock, to say the least.”

  He rolled the pen over and over between his fingertips. “You being next of kin, I guess I owe it to you to tell you that we now consider Josephine’s death a homicide.”

  “What did you just say?” Mary Balent asked, leaning forward.

  “It was set up to look like an accidental death.” Goolsby chuckled. “Hate to say it, but Kendra Younts, that hotshot new coroner we got now, she’s the one who made a believer out of me. You know she used to be a homicide detective up in Atlanta, until her granddaddy talked her into coming down here to take over the family funeral parlor business and run for coroner. I was dead-set certain when I saw that poor old soul laid out on that bathroom floor at Shellhaven that it was just an unfortunate accident. But Kendra, she had her suspicions. She took all kinds of photos and measurements of the scene and convinced me not to release the body for burial, even after Gabe Wynant called over here raisin’ all kinds of hell about it.”

  “So it was Gabe who murdered her,” Brooke said quietly.

  “What makes you think so?” the sheriff asked.

  “He had the best motive for wanting her dead. Money. Josephine must have told Gabe that my mom was her immediate next of kin. And as far as we know, he was the last one to see her alive that night when he helped her to bed.”

  “How did the coroner conclude that Mrs. Warrick’s death was a homicide and that Wynant was the murderer?” Mary Balent asked.

  “Just a feeling she had. She was looking back over the death scene photos and noticed that when we arrived, Miss Josephine was wearing her eyeglasses.”

  “I never saw her without her glasses,” Brooke said. “She was nearly a hundred.”

  “But if she’d tripped and fallen, don’t you think those glasses would have gone flying off? Probably would have been smashed too. But hers were right there on her face. We fingerprinted those glasses, and found a partial print from Gabe Wynant. Plus, our new coroner determined that she was struck on the side of the head with an unknown object, which caused the fall that killed her. And no, we don’t have a murder weapon.”

  “Not much here that would hold up in court, is there, Howard?” Mary Balent asked.

  “I won’t argue with you. But it wouldn’t have taken much for him to have done it. She weighed all of eighty pounds and was eaten up with cancer, on top of which she had some powerful prescription opioids in her system. And since we can’t exactly ask a dead man if he was a murderer, that’s the best we’re going to get,” the sheriff said.

  “It’s more than enough for me,” Brooke said firmly. “I’ve got a son to raise and a law practice of my own and a funeral to plan. So if you’ll excuse me…”

  70

  Brooke had barely settled in at her desk the next day when her cell phone rang. The caller ID said Younts Mortuary.

  “Miss Trappnell?” The woman’s voice had a soft, rural Southern accent, which was different from the harder-edged accents of urban Atlanta, Birmingham, or Charlotte. “This is Kendra Younts from the funeral home. I believe we met over on Talisa, the day of your great-aunt’s death.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Brooke took a sip of the coffee she’d just poured.

  “I spoke to Howard Goolsby last night, and we’ve gotten the okay to release Miss Josephine to the family.”

  “That’s great. And by the way, the sheriff told me about your theories about Gabe Wynant. Thank you for your diligence.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Kendra said, sounding properly somber. “The other reason I’m calling is because Miss Josephine has a pre-need plan in place with us.”

  “Pre-need?” Brooke was drawing a blank.

  “Yes. She actually set it up with my granddaddy twenty years ago. All the charges have been prepaid, and of course, we have her instructions.”

  “Which are?”

  “Cremation with remains in our Eternal Slumber Bronzesque urn. Now, that model is no longer in production, of course, but the finish on our new Odyssey urn is very similar. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Um, sure,” Brooke said. “You should probably ask my mom, just as a technicality, but what the hell, I don’t think she’ll know the difference.”

  “And Miss Josephine won’t care, will she? Oh, sorry, that’s a little funeral home humor. Anyway, I’m afraid that’s about the extent of your great-aunt’s wishes. The notes in the file say that she opted against a hearse or a funeral procession or reception here at the mortuary, and I see that she already has a headstone and a plot in the family cemetery on the island. It’s a fairly bare-bones plan.”

  “More funeral home humor?” Brooke asked, chuckling.

  “Sorry! Can’t help myself. My three-year-old didn’t sleep last night, and I’m a little punchy.”

  “I totally understand. I have a three-year-old myself,” Brooke said. “What happens next?”

  “We can have the remains ready for you by the end of the week,” Kendra said. “And if the family decides they would like a reception or something a little more formal, we would love to accommodate you. Miss Josephine was a much-beloved figure in this community, you know.”

  “I’ll consult with my mother, but my feeling is that she’ll want to honor Josephine’s wishes,” Brooke said. “So just plan on having the remains ready on Friday, please.”

  * * *

  Shug picked her up at the municipal marina. It had rained the night before, which lifted the oppressive June heat a little but left the air as thick and humid as a wet wool blanket.

  “How are things on the island?” Brooke asked. “Is Varina feeling all right?”

  “Varina still gets a little blue, but Felicia just jokes her out of it, and once she takes her over to see how her house is coming along, she’s all smiles,” Shug reported. “Your mama called to say she’s sending a roofing crew over to Shellhaven next week, and Louette hasn’t been that happy in months. She says I’m too old to be getting up on rooftops, and I can’t disagree.”

  “Have you seen much of C. D.?”

  “He comes around. That shoulder’s still bandaged up, but I see him out walking most days. That man’s like a cockroach, you know? Can’t nothing kill him.” Shug cast her a sideways glance. “How about you? You gave us all a scare that day. I saw that blood all over you, and I could have sworn you’d been shot too.”

  She touched the bandage on her cheekbone. It seemed to be healing, and the headaches had also subsided. “I guess I’m almost as tough as C. D.,” she said.

  He nodded his approval. “Good to hear.”

  * * *

  Lizzie was waiting at the Shellhaven dock, behind the wheel of the blue VW. “You look almost human,” she said as Brooke climbed into the car.

  “Thanks. I’m feeling better every day. Everything good over here? How’s your research on the magazine article coming?”

  “I’ve got enough m
aterial for ten articles, or one book. Josephine and Preiss had an amazing life. Quite the partnership. Their correspondence is so sweet. It makes her seem like a real person. Almost. I’ve even found old records dating back to the plantation days. So what have you been up to?”

  “I’m finally ramping up my campaign to stop the state from condemning Josephine’s land. I’ve been reaching out to the county commission and our state representatives, asking for a meeting so I can make my case. Also, we’re going to have Josephine’s funeral on Saturday.”

  “I heard. Louette’s been in a frenzy, getting the house spiffed up. And Felicia and Varina are here, getting started on their baking. I get a sugar buzz just walking past the kitchen. Are you really having the service in the African Methodist Episcopal Church at Oyster Bluff?”

  “It’s what Josephine wanted.”

  “Is that why you’re over here today?”

  “Not really. I need to talk to C. D.”

  “He’s keeping kind of a low profile. Has he been pestering you about his inheritance?”

  “He’s called me once or twice. The thing is, I’ve got news.”

  “Do tell,” Lizzie said.

  “The sheriff found the report on C. D.’s DNA testing in Gabe’s car.”

  Lizzie pulled the VW around to the back of Shellhaven and parked. “And?”

  Brooke held out the copy of the report. Lizzie read it carefully.

  “As you can see, there’s zero evidence of a DNA match with Josephine,” Brooke said. “He’s going to be devastated.”

  Lizzie was too busy reading to reply. After a few minutes, she looked up at her friend. “Did you read the whole report?” she asked. “Even the fine print?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  Lizzie thrust the report at Brooke, stabbing at it with her finger. “Check out this part right there.”

  Brooke squinted at the print, reading it once, and then again, and finally a third time.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Right? Are you sure you want to give the whole report to him? Maybe you should just tell him there’s no match and leave it at that.”

  “No. He’s got a right to know. He’s waited his whole life for this. This report might not have the answers he wanted, but he deserves to know something.”

  “Do you have to go see C. D. right this minute?” Lizzie asked.

  “No. He doesn’t even know I’m coming.”

  “Good. I know Varina’s going to want to see you.”

  71

  Felicia was taking a cake from the oven, a dishtowel tied around her waist for an apron and a scarf wrapped turban-style around her short-cropped hair. Varina sat at the kitchen table, chopping pecans. Both the women’s faces were shiny with perspiration.

  “Oh, Brooke girl!” Varina cried. “Come here and let me see what that rascal did to you.”

  Brooke and Lizzie sat at the table on either side of Varina, who gingerly touched the bandage on Brooke’s cheek. “I’ve got some salve I want you to start putting on that thing,” she said. “You do that every night, and you won’t ever have a scar on that pretty face of yours.”

  Felicia mopped her own face with her apron. “Auntie has become a conjure woman since moving back to Oyster Bluff. You watch out, or she’ll bury some chicken bones at midnight and put a spell on your enemies.”

  Varina took a playful swipe at her great-niece’s hand. “This one here thinks because she has a PhD, she’s smarter than her elders.”

  “Varina,” Lizzie said, her voice unexpectedly serious. “You know I’ve been going through Josephine’s old papers, working on a magazine article. I found something I don’t understand, and I wanted to ask you some questions, if that would be okay.”

  Felicia shot her friend an inquisitive look, but Lizzie brushed it off.

  “I’ll try,” Varina said cheerfully. “I might be an old, old lady, but I still remember a lot of things. What can I help you with, baby?”

  “I found an old letter from the fall of 1942 to Josephine from a Catholic priest in Savannah. His name was Charles Ryan. The letter is sort of a progress report for a baby boy named Charlie. It says the couple who took the baby can’t continue to care for him anymore, so he’s decided to take the baby to the nuns at St. Joseph’s. That was an orphanage in Savannah. It closed a long time ago.”

  “Oh?” Varina said with interest. “Well, I know Josephine used to give money to those orphans. She had a good heart, and she did a lot of good things, but she didn’t want people to find out because then they’d think she was weak or silly.” Varina set her knife on the cutting board. “But now, if this is about that crazy C. D. saying Josephine is his mother, you just need to stop with that foolishness. Josephine never had no baby. And I’d know, because I was living with her and working for her back then.”

  “I believe you,” Lizzie said, her voice soothing. “But I think, maybe, the person who had a baby was you. Can that be true, Varina? Were you the one who had a baby?”

  72

  Varina

  The first year after the war started, Josephine went to my daddy and asked could she take me with her to Savannah so I could go to a real school. Josephine told him I was so smart, I should go to a school in Savannah so I could make something of myself. But the real reason was that I had a big secret I couldn’t tell anybody about.

  Josephine was the only person in the world who knew. And I only told her because I was scared. And ashamed. So ashamed.

  My mama died right after I was born, and I never had any sisters, so there wasn’t anybody to explain women’s things to me. The first time I had my monthly, when I was thirteen, I thought I was bleeding to death. That’s when Josephine sat me down and explained things. She was the one who taught me how to take care of myself when I got my monthly.

  Josephine was the only person I’d told about that bad man grabbing me at the party for Millie. And I never would have told her at all, except that night when it happened, afterward, when everybody was asleep or gone, I came creeping up into the house as quiet as I could to try to wash him off me because I couldn’t go home and let my daddy and brothers know what that man had done to me. When I came out of the bathroom, Josephine was standing there. And after I told her, she took me upstairs to her bathroom and let me take a hot bath. My beautiful new pink dress was torn and dirty, so she gave me some clean clothes to put on and she took that dress and burned it in the fireplace. And then she drove me home in her daddy’s Packard. And I promised not to tell nobody.

  And Josephine was the one I went to, right after Christmas that year, when I figured out that I had missed my monthly three times.

  “Sweet Jesus!” she said. We went up to her bedroom and she locked the door and she looked at me and said, “Well, Varina. This is my fault. And I feel awful about it, and I will help you the best way I know how, if you trust me.” And then we both cried and cried.

  And that’s how I came to move off the island.

  Josephine said the public high school for colored students in Savannah was too crowded and not very good, so she put me in a school called Most Pure Heart of Mary, which had been started by some Catholic nuns from Baltimore who wanted to give colored children in the South a better education.

  Oh, I loved that school so much. I got to wear a pretty uniform with a white shirt and a plaid pleated skirt and new black-and-white saddle shoes. We had nuns for teachers, and they were strict, but sometimes they could be kind too. My favorite teacher was Sister Helen, who taught English and social studies.

  The best part about that school was getting to learn. Sister loaned me her own books to read, because at that time, colored children were not allowed in the big pretty public library on Bull Street. Because of Sister, I read The Count of Monte Cristo and Gulliver’s Travels and Little Women and Jane Eyre, which was very sad.

  73

  Varina’s face crumpled, and her dark eyes filled with tears.

  “What are you saying?” Felicia asked indignantly, her h
ands on her great-aunt’s shoulders. “Where would you get an idea like that? Tell her, Auntie. Tell her it’s not true. In 1942, you were what, fourteen? Just a child.”

  Varina’s hands trembled as they clutched for Felicia’s. “Oh, Felicia, honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I never said nothing.” She turned and faced her niece. “You think I’m a bad person? Maybe I was. Or maybe you just had to know how it was back then.”

  Felicia knelt beside her aunt. “Auntie, I’d never think anything bad about you. You’re the best, the godliest woman I’ve ever met. I would never judge you. Never. Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to, you know. It’s your secret. Not Lizzie’s or mine, and especially not Josephine’s.”

  “Get up off that floor now,” Varina chided, sniffling. “I guess maybe it’s time to talk about this thing. It’s been clawing at my heart all these years. Maybe now’s the time to let it out.”

  She took a deep breath and folded and unfolded her hands. “Lizzie has found out my story. My secret. Josephine told you about Millie’s engagement party. And I told you while I was hiding in the bushes, I saw that man, the one Millie was supposed to marry, attack her and paw her. I told you I saw Gardiner and him fighting. But I didn’t tell you that after Millie and then Gardiner went back to the house, I was trying to sneak on home, and he caught me.”

  “Who?” Felicia demanded. “Russell Strickland? What did he do to you, Auntie?”

  Varina picked up the knife and began chopping the pecans again. “He dragged me back to the guesthouse, where he was staying. And he…”

  “He raped you?” Felicia whispered.

  The old woman nodded, continuing to chop the pecans until they were less than dust.

  74

  Varina

  I never was what you’d call a grown-looking girl. “Skinny Minnie” is what the other kids called me. So I kept on going to school at Most Pure Heart of Mary, keeping my secret the whole time. When my belly started to pooch out a little bit in the spring, I moved the buttons on my school uniform, and then moved them again.