DONE GONE WRONG

by Cathy Pickens

  I couldn’t offer any consolation. My own doubts—about his case and my decision to stay involved—battled in my head.

  “Can you manage all that?” He indicated the stack of binders I balanced on my hip.

  “Sure. It’s a short walk back to the inn.”

  “Your room okay?” He walked me into his lobby, luscious with antiques at whose price tags I could only guess.

  “It’s the honeymoon suite at Two Meeting Street, one of the most romantic bed chambers in Charleston. How could it be anything but perfect?”

  “Well, when you turned down my offer, chaste and proper though it was, to stay at my place, it was the least I could do. Though you don’t know, you might have found my place even more romantic.”

  “Jake, romantic ain’t what you’re offering.” Best to keep it light and playful.

  “You cut me, Av’ry.” He placed his right hand on his heart as he held open the massive oak front door for me.

  Right on cue, Lila arrived on the sidewalk outside the front entry, glaring daggers at me as she climbed the stone steps toward us.

  “I’ll leave you two in charge.” I smiled in Lila’s direction. “I have a little beach reading to get through here.”

  Lila sailed through the door as Jake held it, claiming possession of the premises without so much as a nod.

  3

  THURSDAY MORNING

  Clutching three large deposition binders to my chest, I carefully picked my way down the uneven granite blocks that served as Jake Baker’s front steps. Like most else in Charleston, the steps were canted, a bit off center. A weathered brass boot scrape stood conveniently beside the steps, though muddy boots had gone the way of horses, highwaymen, and streets paved with ships’ ballast. Charleston clings to what past it can.

  Along Broad Street, buildings leaned this way and that, a funhouse mirror effect created by time, earthquake, fire, and hurricane. As I approached the massive white church at the comer of Meeting Street, bells began chiming in the countless other churches scattered over the small peninsula that held Charleston.

  I always marvel at the sense of history that every breath of air seems to carry here. Charleston is surrounded by wild marshlands, gray beaches, and shanty towns that breed a sense of separateness. Charlestonians wear that separateness proudly. They fought two wars here over pride and separateness, and a lot of them would secede again, given half a provocation, to maintain their identity and independence. Outsiders miss the point if they only focus on the blot of slavery. You don’t have to go back far into the gene pool to find Southerners’ warlike border-Scots kin, and Southerners will still fight to be left the hell alone.

  Bulky tree roots made the narrow, uneven sidewalks difficult to navigate. The notebooks were unwieldy to carry, but the startlingly crisp blue sky made the walk worth the straggle.

  Two Meeting Street Inn sat at White Point Garden, right on the Battery. The harbor lay on the other side of the sea wall, and live oaks sheltered the park, surrounded by massive mansions built with the riches a centuries-old port brought their owners.

  The low-hanging branches in White Point Garden always remind me of what the tour books don’t tell. Before the area was reclaimed from the bottom of Charleston Harbor, it had been a stinking, slimy mud flat where the citizenry hung pirates, then buried them in the muck, a reminder to anyone else who would go astray. But stray they did. Genteel Charleston even boasted at least two female pirates—I’d been thrilled to learn that in elementary school.

  Charleston had been a wide-open seaport town, filled with drunken revelry and debauchery. Even in Prohibition, thanks to an understanding mayor and police force, hidden saloons known as “blind tigers” operated freely. Though Charleston didn’t have the party-hearty reputation of its southern sister, Savannah—after all, the Catholics settled Savannah, not dour Huguenots and Presbyterians—it still boasted a lively bar district, thanks to the students and tourists.

  On this tree-shaded street under the blindingly blue sky, those secrets and evils and revelries were far distant in time. Here, I was surrounded by the serene, genteel image, the chimera that people believed was Charleston.

  I loved believing it, too, even when a dank, musty odor wafted up to street level from underneath a house. The myth was a tantalizing image to maintain.

  Balancing the notebooks on one hip, I straggled with the inn’s side gate, then took time to savor the smooth perfection of the fluted tulip that supported the second-floor bay window. How many times had I strolled past and thought, what a magical place to stay. And here I was, with Jake Baker footing the bill. Of course, my fantasy had included some dashing prince with whom to share the room. That piece was missing, for sure.

  In my room upstairs, I dumped the notebooks on the freshly made counterpane and was mentally running down a list of phone calls I needed to make when my cell phone buzzed in my shoulder bag.

  “Avery, doesn’t South Carolina have a stalking law?”

  “Hi, Mom. Who’s stalking you?” With Mom, nothing would be a surprise.

  “Not me, goose. Miranda. Miranda Cole. You probably don’t know her; she’s only fifteen.”

  “She’s being stalked?” The only folks less surprising than my mother are her projects.

  “I guess so. I mean, this man is calling her, parking outside her house—her mama’s house, anyway—at all hours of the day and night, sending her notes, waiting for her outside the high school. Her mama’s scared to death.”

  “Sounds like stalking, all right. Who is this guy?” I plopped down in one of the wing-back chairs.

  “Some goober old enough to be—well, old enough to know better. She met him at the Burger Hut. She’s part of that teen after-school employment project. He’s about twenty-three and just moved to Camden County a few months ago from somewhere up the mountain. Can you believe it? He insists after only a few weeks that he’s got the true love for Miranda.” The way she said true love gave every indication she either doubted the existence of true love entirely—or entirely doubted the goober’s capacity to comprehend abstract terms.

  “Of course Miranda’s got no daddy in sight. Miranda and her mama live over at the trailer park. Miranda’s already developed way past the point where she’ll ever be a ballerina.”

  I never bother to ask anymore how my mother finds these people. They can be anybody from white trash to a state senator’s son to a hitchhiker she’s picked up. She finds them, fixes them, witnesses to them, and—her true gift—knows when to set them on their own. Daddy long ago gave up lecturing her about how she was going to be found dead in a ditch some day. Some folks have a gift for the fringe element. You just gotta know your gifts.

  “—She’s been sashaying around like a cat in heat for years now, apparently. Trouble is, this time she’s attracted more than she can handle. So. What can we do?”

  I stood up to pace. I think better that way. “Call the county solicitor’s office.” No doubt some assistant solicitor, fresh out of school, would be given the case. “You can also help Miranda’s mama swear out a restraining order, unless you think that might make him violent. If he’s not completely unhinged, a restraining order should make him back off.”

  “When you comin’ home?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t know.” I checked myself in the mirror, pulling a stray red-gold hair off my lapel. Winter in the mountains would melt away very soon, with spring the harbinger of summering Yankees and tourists. “Soon, Mom. This shouldn’t run more than two or three weeks.”

  She promised to keep me posted about Miranda and the goober. One of these days, one of us should write a book.

  I’d just fingered the off button when the phone buzzed again. I always feel a wave of frustration at the intrusion of a phone call, which meant a real love-hate relationship with cell phones. I was glad, though, to hear my younger sister’s voice.

  “Avery,” Lydia drawled.

  “What’s up?” I checked my watch. “I thought you’d be doing your
civic duty somewhere.”

  “Playin’ hooky. Not feeling too well today.”

  “That cyst acting up again?”

  “Afraid so. Nasty little thing really hurts.”

  Lydia had recently been plagued by ovarian cysts, benign but extremely painful at times.

  “What’s the doctor say?”

  “What do they ever say? My ob-gyn said he’d gotten word about some study they’re doing out of Charleston, something new. But I don’t know.”

  Small world. I start reading up on drag testing and suddenly it’s everywhere. Like somebody saying, “Look for the color red,” and there it is, everywhere you look. Is there a name for that?

  “Why don’t you give it a try? They’ve got new drugs and new delivery mechanisms. This might be the very thing you need.”

  “I don’t know.” Her words stretched thoughtfully.

  “Almost anything would be better than spending a couple of weeks a month doubled over in pain.”

  “I asked him about surgical alternatives. You know, with all the publicity about the long-term effects of hormones, that might be best.”

  “So you’re serious about not having any more kids?” I didn’t want to talk about the risks of surgery. I’ve spent too much time reviewing medical records where something went wrong. I sometimes have to bite my tongue.

  “Look who’s asking, Little Miss Sworn-Off-Men,” she fired back. “You even dating anybody? Valentine’s coming, you know.”

  “Whoa, Nellie. Just asked. I’m perfectly delighted with the niece I already have.” And my love life isn’t the topic of this conversation. “How is that strange, precocious little Emma of mine?”

  “Wondering when her Aunt Bree’s coming home. We thought you were here to stay. Then we look up and you’re gone again.”

  “You knew coming back to Dacus was temporary.” I sounded defensive, even to my ears. “Just exploring my options. Trial lawyers don’t exactly have a rich client list in Dacus.”

  “But you can do other things. There’s lots of other kinds of lawyers here. You could even teach at the university. I’m sure Frank could get you a job. Maybe just part time, to see if you liked it.”

  “Whoa again.” I had to chuckle. “Trace. I won’t do your family planning for you and you don’t do my career planning, okay?”

  She paused. “We just miss you. It was nice having you back. It was like—we had a chance to get to know each other again. You know what I mean? As adults. Then you were gone again. And Emma really misses you.”

  “I miss her too.” An actual lump caught in my throat. I adored that strange little kid, with her uncanny observations on life and her endless questions. “This case is probably going to convince me I’m not cut out to be a plaintiff’s lawyer. It’s a whole ‘nother world, I can tell you that. I should be back in Dacus before the dogwoods bud.” I still wasn’t quite sure how long I’d stay.

  A hesitant knock at the door of my room interrupted. “Wait a sec, Lydia.” I opened the door.

  “Miz Andrews. I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a gentleman downstairs who says he needs to speak with you.” The inn doesn’t have room phones, which adds greatly to its charm.

  “I heard,” Lydia said. ‘Talk to you later.” The phone clicked off.

  “He’s downstairs on the porch. He phoned earlier, when you were out.”

  “Thanks.”

  I followed her down the stairs, then went through the parlor to the wide, shady front porch. A barrel-chested man with close-cropped white-blond hair stood at attention beside one of the porch columns, almost blocking the view of the massive oak in the front yard.

  “Avery Andrews.” From him, it wasn’t a question but a statement expecting confirmation.

  I craned my neck to look up, and I must have nodded. He reached inside his jacket, straining the shoulder seams of his polyester suit coat. “I’m Casper Kirkland.” He flashed a badge but no smile. “Do you know a young man named Mark Tilman?”

  4

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  When Casper Kirkland asked if I knew Mark Tilman, surprise—and then a shot of worry—must have crossed my face. “Yes, I do. What—”

  He motioned to a couple of porch rockers. I kept watching his face as I accepted his unspoken invitation. The wooden rocker and floorboards creaked under his weight as he sat down.

  “He had your name, phone number, and this address in his wallet. His father said you might be able to tell us more about his movements here in Charleston.”

  “Y-yes.” Suddenly the porch felt chilly, even with the early afternoon sun coming through the tree branches. “We were supposed to meet for dinner last night, but he never came.”

  “He was in a car accident. At least, we believe it was Mark Tilman. A wallet with his ID was found a distance away. With no money. The car was his and the body fits the description we have, but we’d like confirmation.”

  I clamped my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering. My Great-aunt Letha says the deepest grief grows in the soil of deepest guilt. My anger and frustration at Mark for not showing up for supper choked my memory. Dear Lord.

  “Where was—when—?” I tried to ask, hating that I must look like any other twitter-headed female faced with bad news. I’d be damned if I’d cry.

  He paused a beat too long before answering. “His car ran off the road into a tidal creek across the Ashley River. Toward Folly Beach.”

  He kindly kept talking, ignoring how hard I bit my bottom lip.

  “We have a few questions about the accident, and we’re waiting on a formal identification of the body.” He paused again. “Mr. Tilman wondered if you’d be willing to make the ID.”

  I couldn’t trust myself to speak, so I nodded. Mark’s brother Gregg had moved to California after college, and it would be hard for Mr. Tilman to leave his invalid wife for the five-hour drive from Dacus for that sad task.

  “Can you come now?”

  Casper Kirkland’s manner was exceptionally polite but matter-of-fact. He had a lot of things to do today, I was sure, and this wasn’t his first dead body. I went upstairs to get my purse, buried under the avalanche of binders on my bed.

  The air in his car was comfortingly hot from the sun. If anyone asked me to show the way, I couldn’t repeat the route that led us from the inn to the dingy viewing room.

  They had Mark laid out, visible through a curtained window that struck me incongruously like an aquarium. The sheet was folded back to show only his head. His nose looked swollen and braised, but it was Mark, even though his resemblance to Gregg was gone.

  The grief that enveloped me was partly self-mourning for my own mortality, mixed with the inevitable guilt Aunt Letha warns against. The questions that gnawed at me were selfish. I wanted to know what had happened to bring this shell of Mark here. I wanted to be able to tell myself I couldn’t have done anything to help him while I had sipped she-crab soup and drummed my fingers on the table. Of course I couldn’t have done anything. But, for my own peace of mind, I needed somebody to tell me so.

  I felt Casper Kirkland staring at me as I signed a form he proffered on a clipboard. I met his gaze. “What happened—to Mark?”

  He stared a moment more. “You have time for me to make a little detour on the way back? I wanted to stop by the marsh creek. No harm in you seeing for yourself.”

  No way this cop could read my mind, but maybe my morbid, guilty curiosity would get some relief. “Certainly.”

  As we drove across the new bridge, which soared in an arc over the Ashley River, Casper started chatting about Charleston weather, Charleston crooks, and what his ex-wife had thought about him being a cop. He brought her up, not me, so it must still be a fresh wound. Casper—Cas for short, and there was nothing ghostlike and something only mildly friendly about him—didn’t look like he carried any scars. It’s the ones who carry them deep I’m most wary of.

  He kept me distracted until we turned off the main road, the whish of the tires on th
e sandy road noticeable as the car crept along. We came upon the break in the sea grape suddenly. Once he’d pointed out the crumpled undergrowth, it wasn’t hard to see.

  “His car left the road there.” The road curved slightly, following a tiny wobble in the creek below. The bank of the creek fell away steeply under the roots of the oaks that sheltered the road, probably a ten-foot drop from the road to the water.

  “He missed that little curve in the road and ran off here.”

  Trying to picture it in my mind brought back the flashing lights of emergency vehicles from last night.

  I’d driven right by. I bit my lip in the same place where I’d raised a welt on it earlier. I’d driven right by, picking out the track between the overhanging oak trees with my headlights, not wanting to look too closely. Not wanting to be a looky-loo or an ambulance chaser. I’d driven right by.

  Cas turned off the engine, parking with the right tires off the road. We hadn’t passed a single car, and I didn’t know of anything else along this road except the stilt restaurant and endless grassy marsh.

  “Up to a closer look?”

  Not quite trusting my voice, I shrugged and heaved open the door of the county-issue Ford. We half slid down the bank to the narrow shoal of sand that sided the creek. Gouges where Mark’s car had landed were clearly visible along the sand and into the water. I turned to study the creek bank and the thick undergrowth.

  Cas read my mind. “Apparently the car was airborne for a short distance, going fast enough to propel itself into the water. So the bank and the sand didn’t slow him down much.”

  He tucked his shirt into his waistband where it had ridden up during his downhill slide. “He had a bloody nose, probably from hitting the steering wheel. In all likelihood, he was stunned or even unconscious from the impact.”