Speak No Evil

by Anne Crosby Tanya

  “There are things I’d like to get rid of at the office too,” Caroline admitted. “Can we all agree to make decisions together?”

  “Absolutely!” Augie agreed. She elbowed Savannah, who was still eating, and Savannah dropped her bacon on the floor.

  Caroline had forgotten Tango was even there. He leapt up so fast to snap up the bacon that he shoved Savannah’s stool out from under her with his massive rear end. She went flying backward, landing with a thud, attempting to break her fall with her left arm. They heard the crack of her bone as it bent beneath her.

  “Jesus!” I’m so sorry,” Augusta said yet again.

  Augusta, Savannah, Caroline and Sadie all sat patiently in the ER, waiting for the doctor to call Savannah back. If their mother had been alive, there would be no way they would have endured this long wait. Flo would have moved heaven and Earth and gotten immediate treatment, but today, accompanied by Sadie, they got a little taste of what it meant to be just another patient in a busy hospital.

  For the tenth time, Savannah reassured her. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you planned it or anything.”

  Augusta wasn’t appeased. Even after Savannah was called back for X rays, she continued to beat herself over the head with guilt.

  “She’s going to be fine,” Sadie assured, patting Augusta’s leg. “Eah me?”

  Caroline had to admit that, for the first time in so long, despite Savannah’s black-and-blue swollen wrist, they all seemed as healthy as they had ever been—open and forgiving. Barriers were down, and she hoped they would remain that way—in fact, she would do everything in her power to bring them down further. It felt great to be reconnected.

  Finally, after about two hours, Savannah was called back and while they waited for her to return, they hashed out a plan for the event Augusta would oversee—an auction, maybe.

  Sadie was still executor of the will and as long as the final stipulations had yet to be met, she would, ultimately, be in charge of any final decisions—although she assured them fervently that as long as they were “loving each other,” she didn’t give a damn what they did with their material possessions.

  So Augusta planned to continue her inventory, but with the intention of setting aside anything she deemed to be “disposable.” Then the four of them, together, would decide what from her original list they would sell.

  Augusta agreed, without prompting, not to put items of obvious sentimental value in the to-be-sold column. And just like that, Augusta’s mood lifted, albeit still guilt-ridden over Savannah’s broken wrist.

  When there was a lull in conversation, Caroline told them about her visit to the cemetery . . . about the roses on Sam’s grave.

  Sadie remained quiet, listening.

  “Wow,” Augusta said. “I don’t remember Mom ever once taking me there after Dad died.”

  “Me either,” Caroline said.

  Sadie nodded soberly. “Your mama wasn’t the sort to talk about things that made her heart sore, but she missed Sammy desperately.”

  Both Augusta and Caroline shared a look and probably the same thought, but neither of them voiced it. Flo had been so busy missing her son that she had never realized how much her daughters were missing her, too. But that was water under the proverbial bridge.

  Savannah emerged another two hours later with a small cast on her left arm. The intra-articular fracture was minor enough that they were able to treat it without resetting it, but she would be wearing her new wrist jewelry for about six to eight weeks.

  They gathered their belongings, and it wasn’t until they got into the car that Savannah admitted, “Thank God I don’t have to try to write for a while!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The lemon-yellow vintage Town Car was the first thing they all agreed must go. In pristine condition, the 1978 edition car their mother had cherished had already caught the eye of nearly every local auto collector in town, but as beautiful as the car’s condition might be, none of the sisters could picture herself behind the wheel. Better to let someone have it who might actually appreciate it.

  Pulling the auction together was becoming primarily an effort for Augusta and Savannah, because Caroline had her hands full with the paper.

  They ran the first story about Patterson a few days after his release, and continued with periodic updates as new material emerged. Right now, with the intense spotlight on his life, Caroline would hate to be standing in his shoes. She almost felt sorry for him—almost, but not quite. It was difficult to find any sympathy for a man surrounded by so much suspicion and she was a firm believer that “where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  Sitting at her desk, she picked up the morning’s edition to read over Pam’s handiwork. With Brad as a tutor, and Frank overseeing both, Pam was quickly learning to be an ace reporter.

  This morning’s article was completely unbiased—although Caroline noticed Frank had allowed her to slip in a pat on the back for the Tribune.

  The article read:

  Ian Patterson, the defrocked priest identified as a person of interest in the death of twenty-two-year-old College of Charleston student Amy Jones, is now facing possible new charges in light of recent information brought to the attention of the Charleston Police Department by the Tribune’s ongoing investigation.

  Patterson, who was originally charged April fifth, 2011, with three counts of sexual abuse committed upon a minor, was forced to leave St. Luke’s Parish in November of 2011, despite all charges being dismissed against him, or face excommunication.

  At least one child sex abuse civil suit was also filed against the Murrells Inlet diocese, where Patterson taught religious education classes, but was later dropped after the alleged victim came forward to repudiate accusations. Patterson, a Charleston native, denies any inappropriate behavior with the alleged victim.

  The victim, Jennifer Williams, could not be reached for questioning and is presumed missing.

  The Archdiocese intends to make a stand and continue with excommunication proceedings for Patterson. “Next to murder,” said Archbishop James McMillain of the Murrells Inlet diocese, “this is the most heinous crime a human being can commit.”

  The disappearance of Jennifer Williams has now allegedly been connected to the ex-priest and the chief of police, along with the county solicitor’s office, are working in tandem with Murrells Inlet police to pursue new charges.

  “If he’s found responsible for Williams’s disappearance,” said Assistant Solicitor Joshua Childres, “we’re going after him. It’s that simple.”

  At the time of press, Williams’s mother was unable to be reached for questioning regarding Patterson’s excommunication.

  Authorities are still searching for six-year-old Amanda Hutto. To date, the two disappearances have not been connected.

  The article didn’t say the two missing persons were connected. In fact, Pam pointed out they were not . . . yet, it left one wondering. She was doing well, Caroline thought.

  Bonneau had also talked Caroline into moving the paper’s bedtime back to midnight, despite the extra cost in man-hours. He insisted it was the only way to remain relevant, and having their editors break away from brushing their teeth to tweet sound bites wasn’t going to get them the increased distribution they needed to stay afloat. The Tribune needed to get and publish news first. Caroline realized that now more than ever.

  Although the mellow competition with the Post continued, winning took on a new meaning. Winning was all about persevering. And although Caroline still wanted to bring the Tribune into the new millennium, she didn’t intend to do it by sacrificing trust. There was something very noble about reporting the news the old-fashioned way.

  It was four-fifteen. She had about an hour and a half before the City Market closed.

  Setting down her copy of the day’s paper, she packed up her laptop and gathered a few documents. She had begun to work from home in the evenings, where Bonneau could reach her if necessary. Today, she was beyond tir
ed after spending half the day at the hospital with Savannah and she wanted to run by the City Market to see if she could pick up a gift for Sadie—as a thank you for the constant care she provided. She stopped by Frank’s desk to tell him she was leaving, and then headed out the door, dropping her briefcase off at her car in the garage. The City Market was a few blocks away, and it was too beautiful not to walk. Besides, the streets were always crowded with tourists at this time of the year.

  Charleston’s City Market sat on a strip of land between Meeting and East Bay Streets. She began shopping at the Meeting Street end, walking past the Greek Revival Market Hall that housed the Daughters of the Confederacy Museum, skipping the indoor market. She worked her way down the vendor sheds, where descendents of West African slaves gathered with their expensive sweetgrass baskets alongside T-shirt salesmen and Lowcountry photographers. Charles Pinckney had ceded this land to the City of Charleston back in the 1700s with the stipulation that a public market be built on the site. In those days, vendors sold meat, vegetables and fish, along with another more lucrative Southern commodity—slaves. These days, no one liked to think of it in terms of its original name, but locals sometimes still referred to it as the slave market.

  On the streets parallel to the market, horse-drawn carriages trotted by. Tourists flashed photos of daughters and mothers and wives along the arched brick ways and the weavers sat weaving their baskets at the end of each walkway while tourists watched. Caroline wove in and out of the vendor sheds, searching for something Sadie might appreciate. She had no idea what to get her, but there was nowhere else in the city to find more creative gifts, all lovingly made by local artisans.

  She stopped at a table with pie tins. Right next to the tins sat beautiful, hand-painted porcelain cake pedestals and Caroline fingered one with sweetgrass blooms, admiring the artwork. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she caught snippets of the conversation between the two women standing next to her.

  “It is him. I think he’s looking at us!”

  “That man is beautiful!”

  Beautiful wasn’t a description attributed to many men and Caroline was reminded of Augusta’s fervent declaration about Patterson.

  “Do you think he’s guilty?”

  Caroline’s attention perked. Peering up, she looked around to see who it was they were speaking about.

  “Don’t you think if they had something on him, they would have arrested him by now?” one woman asked.

  “Well, he’s guilty if you believe the Tribune! ”

  Caroline’s breath caught as she spotted the figure standing on the other side of South Market Street, watching through the wide brick arches. Her heart tripped. She backed away from the table, automatically slipping into the crowd. She made her way quickly out of the pavilion, peering through passersby to see if he was following. He was. He kept pace with her, walking along the street, watching her. Caroline walked faster, her skin prickling with fear.

  He can’t hurt you here, Caroline.

  There are too many people.

  Those assurances didn’t stop her heart from pounding frantically.

  Suddenly realizing she was going the wrong way—away from Meeting Street and away from her car—she doubled back, ducking through the mass of shoppers, peering over the shoulders of people she passed.

  He wasn’t there. She didn’t see him any longer. Now was the time to make a run for it. She took off her heels, placing one in each hand. She raced toward Meeting Street.

  Almost there. Almost there.

  The sound of idle chatter was a roar in her ears and the echo of a thousand footsteps was magnified in the pavilion. Just before reaching the last section, the indoor market, she slipped out onto North Market Street, shrieking as she ran directly into Patterson.

  “Ms. Aldridge,” he said in greeting.

  Caroline swallowed convulsively. They were surrounded by people, she reminded herself. He wouldn’t dare hurt her here. Still, she backed away, keeping a safe distance. “Why are you following me?”

  His brows drew together as though he were genuinely confused, but he was mocking her, she realized by the gleam in his eye. “Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t you like being singled out and hassled?” he asked easily. He placed his hands into his pockets and leaned backward in a non-confrontational stance, but Caroline felt anything but reassured.

  Their proximity to so many people gave her more bravado than she felt. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “You are making it very difficult for me to do my job,” he complained.

  “And what exactly is your job, Mr. Patterson?”

  He eyed her shrewdly, blue eyes piercing. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, Ms. Aldridge.”

  Caroline straightened her spine, automatically turning the shoe in her right hand so she could use the heel as a weapon if it came down to it. “Is that a threat?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. You have nothing to fear from me, but I’d say it is a warning. There is a difference, you know?”

  “I don’t need a lesson in the meaning of words, Mr. Patterson! Though apparently, you do. This is harassment!”

  “No, ma’am. This is a simple conversation,” he argued. “One conversation. But I can see how you might have trouble with the concept of one. However, if you think this is harassment, I guess we’re even because I would say your paper is harassing me.” He smiled thinly. “I’m just here asking you nicely to stop.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  He nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Then I guess we’re done,” Caroline said, and walked away.

  He didn’t move to follow and Caroline hurried toward the corner of Meeting Street, where she turned again to see that he was still standing exactly where she’d left him. She fished her phone out of her purse, but even as she crossed the street he made no move to follow, just watched her go. Caroline resisted the urge to dial Jack’s number, remembering the women’s conversation in the market. Anyway, Jack hadn’t called her. What was she going to do? Go running to him every time she had a problem? He wasn’t her husband, or her boyfriend, and right now, she wondered if he were even a friend. The problem was that she couldn’t shake the desire—or the need—to hear his voice. Even more than her sisters, he was the one she instinctively turned to.

  Still, all Patterson had done was scare the shit out of her. He wasn’t following her any longer; he had simply taken advantage of their proximity. In his position, Caroline might have done the same. In fact, he was a hell of a lot less angry about the whole ordeal than Caroline might have been in his shoes. She dropped her phone back into her purse and resolved to—what? Stay away from everyone she managed to piss off?

  It comes with the territory, Caroline. Get over it.

  Or better yet, stop pissing people off.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Whatever Caroline’s personal feelings about Patterson, the conversation between the two women in the market struck a chord. She urged Frank to back off on the stories—or at least give the topic of Patterson a break. There was more than enough fear permeating the city already. You could smell it in the air—a muggy, lung-filled breath of reeking sweat and humidity.

  That was the thing about serial murders and rapists: everyone became a victim. While the physical victims were no doubt the ones to suffer the worst, the psychological effects of the crime were perpetrated upon thousands. Every alley held threatening shadows and every dark corner hid gruesome possibilities. Caroline doubted there was a female in the city right now who wasn’t looking over her shoulder—if there was, she was stupid.

  On the other hand, through Augusta’s auction, Caroline also witnessed some of the best efforts of the city at work. Many of the local charities had already offered to assist and the Aquarium was going to donate its facilities for the actual event. Sometime this week, her sister planned to come into the office to start an inventory there as well; Caroline had never seen her i
n such good spirits.

  Caroline purposely didn’t intend to bring up her encounter with Patterson to Augusta, because she sensed Augusta would just champion him.

  She left work a little later than usual because yesterday she’d spent her entire morning at the hospital and then left early to go the market—where she didn’t even accomplish her task. Trying to think of another place she might find something suitable for Sadie, she noticed the bulbs in the garage’s overhead lights were brighter than usual—that was good. Still, she felt compelled to hold her keys in her hand the way Jack had taught her to hold them long ago—with the sharp nose of the key nudged out between her fingers while she made a fist—an unlikely weapon to be used in the unlikely event she was attacked. The idea of carrying mace or pepper spray had never appealed to her, but right now, she wished she had some.

  Most of the cars had already cleared out. She’d parked within sight of the attendant’s booth, which was now being manned in the evenings since her ordeal with the obscenity on her car door. She noticed, however, that the girl who took their tokens was not in the booth. The light was on, but the booth appeared empty.

  Caroline picked up her pace, keenly aware of her surroundings, every creak of the garage’s foundation, every whiz of cars passing on the street. One of the halogen lights flickered, and she held her breath, repeatedly pushing the button to unlock her car door. Lately, it had begun to stick, and she needed to get that fixed.

  She thought she heard footsteps, and grabbed the car door handle, lifting it quickly and jerking open the door. Her heart thumped wildly as she slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut and hitting the lock button immediately. She couldn’t wait to get out of here and on the road home.