Speak No Evil

by Anne Crosby Tanya

  “Oh, God! I’m such an idiot!” Pam declared, suddenly realizing her gaffe. “Please tell me what I can do to help you—besides shutting my mouth!”

  Caroline took a deep breath. “Actually, a lot, but first, if you don’t mind, why don’t you introduce me to the crew?”

  Pam hurried around her desk. “Of course! Let me help get your things into your moth—I mean, your office, then I’ll show you around.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline said gratefully.

  They dumped her satchel and purse in her new office, and made their way methodically through the editorial and sales departments, followed by circulation and accounting. Pam introduced her to a few of the braver souls who came forward to meet the new boss: Brad Bessett, one of their lead reporters—fairly new to the paper, because Caroline didn’t remember him; Agnes, a portly older woman with bright blue eyes and a double chin whom Caroline vaguely recalled from the editorial department a decade ago—she now handled classifieds; Doreen Hill, who held the education beat; and Bruce, the obligatory computer guy, who seemed to just follow them around as Pam led her from desk to desk.

  Considering the state of the paper’s finances, Caroline was surprised to find the offices had been renovated since her last visit—with modern desks and cubbies. The entire reception area now resembled a Victorian parlor, probably to highlight the paper’s venerable history. Although Caroline didn’t quite share Augusta’s extreme prudence where money was concerned, she would never have spent funds on decorating when the company was losing so much money. The price of the chandelier in the reception area alone could cover someone’s salary for a year.

  They passed a small windowless room and Pam waved to the occupants as they passed, but didn’t stop. “What’s that?”

  She pointed at the room they’d just passed. “That? Oh, Web slash audience development,” Pam said a little dismissively.

  Caroline didn’t hold it against her. She was pretty sure the girl had come by that attitude honestly. Her mother would only have had a skeleton crew on hand for the most rudimentary of Web tasks. Aside from having a presence on the Web as a substitute for the Yellow Pages, Flo had never been too keen on new media. This was something Caroline intended to change. The Web, with all its inroads into social media, was the undeniable future.

  “How many work in there?”

  Pam held up four fingers. “Four—an audience development specialist, two developers and a designer, but one of the developers is on vacation and our designer broke his middle finger and, uh . . . can’t work.”

  Caroline smirked. “I won’t ask how.”

  Pam leaned to whisper, “I didn’t either, but once you get to know him, it’ll make sense.”

  “Do you know how many people work for the paper now?”

  “Not exactly, maybe one hundred and twenty—but Lila, in payroll, can tell you for sure.”

  Caroline’s brows knit. If her guess was accurate, her mother must have already begun to pare down the payroll, despite what Daniel claimed. The last summer she’d interned for the Tribune, they had reached nearly one hundred and fifty employees.

  In the newsroom Caroline recognized the most faces, but the one person she’d expected to run into—dreaded it, in fact—she didn’t. Apparently, the editor in chief had a toothache and was spending the morning at the dentist.

  By the time Caroline made it back to her desk, it was lunchtime and she considered stepping out to call Savannah, but Pam had no sooner walked out of her office than she stepped back in, knocking tentatively on the doorframe. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a woman out here who says she really needs to speak with you.”

  Caroline stood, her brow furrowing. “She asked for me?”

  “Well, she asked to speak with the publisher, not the editor. That would be you, right?”

  It sounded strange to hear the title from someone else’s lips. The shock of it made her hesitate an instant too long.

  “Frank’s back, but I thought . . .”

  “No . . . go ahead and bring her back,” Caroline directed.

  Pam left and returned in less than five minutes, leading in a young woman whose eyes were full of torment. At first, Caroline barely noticed anything else about her, so palpable was her distress.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, stepping meekly into her office. She couldn’t be much older than Caroline and looked as though she had been sobbing for days. Her brown eyes were red rimmed, bloodshot, the lids swollen.

  Caroline walked around her desk, afraid the woman would collapse, she looked so frail. “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “My name is Karen Hutto,” the woman said, her voice catching on a sob. “I-I need your help to find my little girl.”

  Apparently Amanda Hutto’s father was supposed to have picked her up for school the morning she disappeared. Late for work, and in danger of losing her job, Karen Hutto had left her six-year-old standing out on her front lawn, book bag in hand, waiting for her father, who apparently forgot it was his court-appointed day to play dad and just never showed.

  Certain it was going to be another late night, Jack ran by the house to shower and clean up, and while he was there, he took a few minutes to speak with a few of the neighbors about Amanda. No one had seen the kid the morning she disappeared—no one saw anything—though a few voiced suspicions about the dad who, apparently, had a bit of a violent streak. From what little digging Jack had done, the mother had filed at least one restraining order that didn’t stick and the accusations seemed to fly between them more virulently than between reality-show celebs.

  At this point, there was nothing Jack could do. The little girl had disappeared from in front of her own house, so this case belonged to Folly Beach PD. If they needed assistance, it probably wasn’t CPD they were likely to call. They’d call in the sheriff ’s office most likely and in the end, Jack couldn’t justify spending more time on a case that wasn’t in his jurisdiction—especially now that it seemed there was a murderer to catch.

  He’d been up half the night because a college student by the name of Amy Jones had been discovered under the dock of a nearby James Island residence. The inside of her mouth had been painted with a blue dye and her tongue was removed. Whether it was fish bait, or the killer had taken it with him, was yet to be discovered, but one thing was certain, it wasn’t in her mouth.

  Could her death somehow be connected with Amanda’s disappearance?

  Logically, Jack didn’t think so. Other than the fact that they were both female and the islands were generally sleepy, with relatively few crimes, there weren’t any common denominators.

  At any rate, this case was going to be enough of a pain in his ass without adding unnecessary strife with FBPD. Jack had a feeling his new partner, Garrison, was going to be a thorn in his side. Luckily for Jack, Joshua Childres was assigned to the Jones case. Childres would give him all the space he needed while he worked with his team to solve the murder.

  Chapter Seven

  At the end of the day, Caroline felt a little like a bastard child who had come to the throne after the death of a king who had no heirs.

  Clearly, no one had bothered to tell anyone at the Tribune the outcome of the will, and Pam had sent the minions into a tailspin simply by bringing Karen Hutto into her office instead of to Bonneau’s.

  Although it wasn’t certain how much of the disorder was due to her mother’s death, little more than two weeks without Florence W. Aldridge at the helm, and it was no longer certain who should be running the office. She realized only now how prudent it was that she had connected with Pam because Pam was the gatekeeper, and for all her artlessness, her every action now was decisive—which, unfortunately, only seemed to force Bonneau to draw lines in the sand.

  The real test came during the afternoon, with news that literally stopped the presses: sometime last night, the body of a twenty-two-year-old College of Charleston student was discovered under the dock of a James Island home. The property, which actually wa
sn’t far from Oyster Point, was unoccupied and for sale, but the girl’s car was found in the driveway, keys still in the ignition. That’s all they knew. The police weren’t forthcoming with more details.

  Finally, Caroline came face-to-face with Frank Bonneau—over an argument about bumped heads on the front page—two similar headlines he felt certain competed with each other—especially since Amanda Hutto’s disappearance was old news in his book. In the end, Caroline made the decision to run both articles, arguing that a still-missing six-year-old was hardly the same story as a not-so-much missing and very dead twenty-two-year-old. She was pretty certain her mother would have made the same call. If there was one thing she knew Flo took to heart, it was her community.

  And yet as hideous as news of the murder was, the entire drive home, all Caroline could think about was Karen Hutto and the look of turmoil in the woman’s eyes. Her child seemed to have vanished without a trace. They had exhausted every resource and no one had responded to her flyers. Worse, separated and each blaming the other, she and her husband were now the primary suspects in a flagging investigation. The whole thing reminded Caroline of Sammy’s disappearance, minus the presumption of guilt. Hands down, her little brother’s death was the single most traumatic event of Caroline’s life and more than twenty-five years later, there wasn’t a day that went by that something—some tiny thing—didn’t make her flash back to that awful moment on the beach when Sammy was four and Caroline was eight.

  In some ways, Caroline would remain eight forever.

  Today, looking into that woman’s face, she could never have found the resolve to turn her away. It was that same look Caroline recalled seeing in her mother’s eyes—that look of quiet desperation and fear that had later become hopelessness, melancholy, and finally the emotional void in which her mother had lived until she’d died. But one thing was different: all those years ago, when her brother had disappeared off the same beach, Caroline had been powerless to help. She was in a position now to do something, even if it was just to help keep the woman’s story before the public so the police wouldn’t just close the case and look away.

  On her way home, she took the Expressway. Sailboats, big and small, dotted the Ashley River, billowy black silhouettes against a golden sunset. Along the shoreline, the marsh grasses slow-danced in the breeze.

  As serene as the vista was, it was difficult to believe that right across the channel, just a stone’s throw from her house . . . a girl had been brutally murdered.

  Despite that gruesome thought, she kept the window down, determined to enjoy the last of the temperate days before summer converged upon them with all the wrath of hell itself.

  Pulling the Town Car into the driveway, she found both Sadie and Savannah seated on the front porch. Caroline slid out of the car, leaving her satchel in the backseat for the moment, along with her purse. “I’m glad someone seems to have had a carefree day!” she called out, trying to sound cheerful.

  “Yeah, well, think again!” Sav replied. “I think we washed and returned fifty million dishes today. I would’ve gladly traded places!”

  “Did you hear from Augie by chance?”

  “Nope,” Savannah said, “but apparently Josh did. He came by for lunch.”

  Caroline made her way up the steps, stopping to snag an azalea bloom from the bush near the stairs. She lifted it to her nostrils. “They don’t smell like much, do they?”

  “Some do,” Sadie offered. “Not those, but they were your mother’s favorite color.”

  Caroline tossed the blossom away. “Oh, crap! I forgot to stop and get dog food.”

  “No worries,” Sadie said. “Got it while we were out.”

  Caroline gave her a tired but grateful smile. “I wouldn’t blame you if you quit, but I’m sure glad you’re still around!”

  “You look tired,” Sadie offered. “Go on in and get some rest, eah. Dinner’ll be ready soon—and before you say a thing, don’t. All I did was heat up some leftovers. Once that mess is gone, y’all are on your own.”

  “Now you’ve gone and done it,” Savannah interjected. “When we’re starving, remember this is entirely your fault, Caroline. You’re the one badgering her into retirement!”

  Caroline wasn’t worried. Sadie wasn’t going anywhere.

  All bluster, the housekeeper said, “You girls know where to find me if you forget where the can opener is.”

  Caroline gave Sadie a thumbs-up and ducked inside, craving silence.

  She found Tango lying at the bottom of the stairs with her mother’s running shoe and she snagged it wearily. “No, no!” she scolded, and went upstairs, tossing the shoe unceremoniously into her mother’s closet. She wasn’t quite ready to go in there yet and deal with her mother’s stuff. Tango, on the other hand, didn’t have the same hesitation. He raced in, retrieved the shoe and ran to the other side of the bed to hide it out of Caroline’s sight.

  “Whatever,” she relented. “Keep the blasted shoe!”

  Too beat to do battle with a dog, she lay on the bed to rest her eyes before dinner. Tango jumped up without invitation, bringing the shoe, settling next to her on the bed and Caroline automatically rolled over and hugged him, wishing the husky presence belonged to a very different male as she drifted off to sleep.

  The sound of glass breaking registered somewhere . . . maybe in a dream.

  Caroline’s eyes fluttered open.

  Tango was no longer on the bed beside her, but it took her a full moment to remember where she was and that he had been there in the first place. The shoe was a distinct reminder. It was pressed against her forehead, wafting the unmistakable odor of foot sweat. Groggily, she picked up the shoe, examined it and tossed it onto the floor, then got out of bed, glancing at the clock.

  The house was perfectly silent. It was after eight.

  Why had no one called her down to dinner?

  Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she walked to the window, peering out, noting the car was no longer parked out front.

  Maybe Savannah took Sadie home?

  Her laptop was still in the backseat, so work was out of the question until her sister got home—thank God! She was completely sick of numbers by now. With a sigh, she headed downstairs straight for the kitchen and realized belatedly that she’d skipped lunch entirely. Her stomach rumbled in protest. “Patience is a virtue!” she said.

  But the doorbell rang the instant she stepped into the kitchen. Cursing softly, she spun around, heading back to answer it and opening the door without thinking.

  Jack lifted a brow as the door opened wide. “Did you know a girl was murdered on Backcreek Road last night?”

  “Yes. I heard. What are you doing here, Jack?”

  “You really need to be more careful, Caroline.”

  “What are you—my daddy now?” She hitched her chin. “What can I do to for you, Jack?”

  “Are Savannah and Augusta around?”

  “Augusta’s in New York. She’ll be back in a few days. I have no idea where Sav is. What is it?”

  “Nothing pressing.”

  “You often make house calls after eight to talk about nothing pressing?”

  He didn’t even blink at her cantankerous tone. “You still get up on the wrong side of the bed,” he remarked with a slight curve to his lips. He rubbed at his forehead to indicate the spot on her head where the shoe’s imprint was still visible, but fading.

  She gave him a half smile. “And you are still ever so observant.”

  “Comes with the job,” he claimed. “Anyway, we got the toxicology report on your mom back today and I wanted to share results.”

  “Okay, well . . .” Caroline threw open the door and then her arms out in exasperation, annoyed with herself for having made Jack’s face the last thing she saw before falling asleep. Apparently, she had conjured him here. “By all means, do come in!”

  He stepped inside, peering around. “So you’re alone?”

  Caroline ignored her tripping heart. How many year
s had it been since she’d been alone in a room with Jack? She told herself she wasn’t the least bit affected by his presence, but it was an outright lie. “It would seem so.” He closed the door and she started for the kitchen, expecting him to follow. “Since you’re interrupting my dinner, are you hungry?”

  She caught the humor in his tone. “Any of Rose’s greens left?”

  Caroline tossed him a wry smile over her shoulder, warming to his presence, despite her resolve not to. “We can look.”

  “Alrighty then.”

  He followed into the kitchen and then just stood watching as she opened the fridge and pulled out a number of plastic containers. “Josh has been here, so no telling what’s left.”

  She placed a few of the containers on the counter, grabbed two plates and set them on the counter as well, then retrieved forks from the drawer. “So, spill it. What did you find?”

  “Nothing. Really.”

  Caroline opened up one of the containers, peering inside, cocking her head at him in disbelief. “So let me get this straight. You came all the way out here to tell me you found nothing in my mother’s toxicology report?” She set the newly opened container of cow peas on the counter and opened another, searching for the greens.

  His eyes were filled with thoughts she couldn’t read. “It was on my way home, and I came by just as much to see how you were doing, Caroline.”

  She set another opened container—this one with ambrosia salad—on the counter. “It’s a little late for social calls, don’t you think?”

  He looked at her with such a weary expression on his face that she felt immediately contrite. “Do you want to know everything we found, or would you rather rehash old bullshit?”

  Caroline exhaled a breath and leaned on the counter. “Okay, tell me . . . what did you find?”

  “Very, very little, and that’s the thing that bothered me. We found minute traces of benzodiazepines and alcohol, but we expected to find more based on what we discovered in her medicine cabinet.”