Tell No Lies (7 page)

Sensing her distress, Tango sat upright and stared at her, and Caroline automatically reached out to reassure the canny beast.

Savannah’s eyes misted, too, and Augusta wondered why she couldn’t feel what they felt. Rose Simmons had been one of their mother’s dearest friends, and Augusta hadn’t even said hello to her at Flo’s funeral. But that wasn’t nearly as disturbing to her as the simple fact that she had yet to shed a single tear for her own mother. All her life she had been driven to do for others because her heart bled indiscriminately. Only now it seemed that wellspring of emotion had completely dried up. Yet she couldn’t get Cody Simmons out of her head. If her heart bled, it was for him right now.

“We figured,” Augusta said. “How are they?”

Caroline shrugged. “Upset.”

“Understandably.”

“Man, you’ve gotta feel for them,” Savannah said. “Cody’s missing. Rose is gone. How the hell do you grieve when you’re dealing with a missing child?”

“I can’t imagine,” Augusta said, her thoughts honing in on Cody.

Amanda Hutto had never been found—despite the reward money that had been offered for information—money Augusta had donated and the
Tribune
had sponsored. Tons of calls, but no one ever came forward with reliable information. Still, she thought about offering another reward for Cody anyway, despite the fact that his family had more than enough money of their own to do so if they wished. It probably wasn’t appropriate, she decided. What was appropriate had been getting Ian out of jail so he could pursue whatever leads he might have. She couldn’t find it in herself to feel bad about that.

Caroline sighed. “Poor Janet.”

“What about Claire?” Savannah asked.

Caroline shook her head. “I didn’t see her. I guess she’s due in tomorrow.”

Janet was Rose Simmons’s youngest daughter. Her oldest daughter, Claire, had been Caroline’s best friend—before life happened to them all—before a big to-do over Jack that had led to Caroline and Jack’s ten-year breakup. Their older brother Nick Simmons had been everyone’s crush in school, including Augusta’s, but Augusta had no idea where he was these days. She was sure they would run into him at his mother’s funeral. As much as Augusta might hope to avoid that, she wasn’t so far removed from her sense of propriety that she could ignore a funeral obligation. If she could have, it would have been her mother’s.

For a long moment, they sat together, all three of them, contemplating the circumstances, the only sound in the room the nervous tapping of Augusta’s nails on her crystal goblet and the soft jingling of Tango’s collar when he adjusted his position at Caroline’s feet.

“Did Sadie go home?” Caroline asked finally, sounding surprised by the prospect—for good reason. Since their mother’s death, Sadie had spent more time in their house than she had in her own home.

“Yeah . . . well . . . about that.” Savannah grimaced. “I hate to break it to you after a day like today, but there’s more drama, so brace yourself.”

Before Savannah could begin her story, Augusta grabbed the wine bottle from the table and poured the remainder into her own glass, taking a deep breath. She felt only slightly guilty for not offering it to Caroline, but after this conversation, if Caroline wanted wine, Augusta would gladly open a new bottle.

“I don’t think Sadie’s coming back for a while,” Savannah said, and she proceeded to tell Caroline about the afternoon’s argument. Augusta had already heard the story, so she said nothing, hoping to remain inconspicuous.

A few weeks ago Savannah had discovered a codicil intended for their mother’s will—an amendment that, although signed and dated, had somehow never made it into the attorney’s version. While the original will had bequeathed Sadie the carriage house along with all its surrounding property, the new codicil would have seized the house from her and willed it, along with the surrounding property, to the County of Charleston. Although Sadie had always claimed she didn’t care about the land, she damned well did care about the house. And evidently, Savannah had taken her discovery to their family attorney without talking to Sadie first, and he in turn had confided in Sadie. Clearly, Daniel Greene’s and Sadie’s relationship had become a conflict of interest and Daniel should be held accountable for the breach of ethics, except that he was obviously too close to their family—and to Sadie—to believe any of them would report him. He was right.

As Augusta had earlier when Savannah told her the story, Caroline screwed up her face in confusion. “What do you mean a codicil?” She shook her head. “And
why
is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

“Well . . .” Savannah sat up straighter, nervously tossing away the quilt. Augusta noticed and couldn’t help but wonder why they both seemed to fear Caroline’s wrath so much. She was their eldest sister, so what? “It’s not an official document,” Savannah explained. “I just wanted to see what Daniel had to say about it. Honestly, I didn’t expect him to tell Sadie.”

Caroline looked even more confused. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, it’s not an official document?”

“Yeah, so this is where it gets really confusing,” Augusta added, swallowing the last of her wine and setting her goblet down on the table.

Savannah sighed. “Okay, from the beginning . . . I found this pad of paper in Mom’s office. I noticed the indentations were well-defined, so, out of curiosity, I used a pencil to do a rubbing. So I don’t have the original—the one with the actual signature and writing on it—I didn’t think the damned thing would hold up in a court of law anyway. I just wanted to find out
why
a codicil Mom went so far as to sign and notarize never ended up in the final version of the will. I figured Daniel must have been aware of it, so I asked him. It’s that simple.”

“Mom is—was—a notary, right?”

Savannah shrugged.

Caroline placed a hand to her forehead, as though the conversation threatened to give her a headache. “Well, it doesn’t sound simple to me.”

Savannah continued, “Bottom line: Daniel says he’s never seen the thing. He suggested Mom must have written the codicil, then changed her mind and threw it away.”

“Which is entirely possible,” Augusta agreed.

“Since it was written the day before she died—that’s what the date says, right?—maybe the original never made it out of this house?” Caroline suggested. “Maybe it’s somewhere in Mother’s things and we just haven’t found it yet?”

Savannah shrugged again.

Caroline drew her brows together. “So Sadie’s pissed now because you brought the document to Daniel?”

Savannah shook her head solemnly. “No, Sadie’s pissed because I asked her whether she’d seen the codicil, which she felt implied maybe she’d kept it from us. And because I asked Daniel if there was any legal recourse to investigate honoring Mother’s wishes—if that’s indeed what the codicil is.”

“And the answer is?”

“No. There’s no original document, and even if it wasn’t just a pencil shading, it’s our word against . . .”

“Sadie would
never
lie!” Caroline assured them both. “Not even to save her house!”

A sense of gloom entered Savannah’s gray eyes. “I only asked her if she came across it in Mother’s things, Caroline. I never accused her.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments, and then Savannah added, “But you have to wonder about the break-in we had a few months ago. It’s awfully convenient that Mom apparently wrote this thing and then died the very next day.”

It was true. Augusta had nearly forgotten about the break-in with all the other drama that had happened since. The night after the first Secessionville murder, someone had broken into their mother’s office, shattering one of the expensive lead-glass panes in the double doors that led to the back veranda. No prints had been discovered, and nothing had been left out of place. Caroline had been alone that night, with Jack, in the kitchen. Augusta had been in New York, where she’d gone to pick up a few necessities for an extended stay in Charleston. Savannah had been with Sadie. But clearly that meant Sadie couldn’t have been the thief... unless it had been done much earlier in the day and made to look like a break-in . . . but why would she bother when she had free access to the house all the time? It didn’t make sense.

“Don’t forget the break-in at Daniel’s office the day of the reading,” Augusta interjected, remembering suddenly.

Caroline stood, apparently having heard enough. “Christ—no wonder Sadie’s pissed! Especially if you brought all this shit up to Daniel!”

Savannah sat back on the couch, looking defeated. “What would you have had me do? Ignore it?”

Caroline shot Savannah a glare. “You could have brought it to us, Savannah. Pissing off Sadie is the last thing any of us needs right now! We can’t manage without her.” Shaking her head, she walked out of the room, snagging her purse on the way out. Tango skulked after her without looking back. The sound of her footsteps receded down the hall.

“She’s had a hard day,” Augusta offered, when Caroline was out of earshot. “It’s not your fault, Sav. And it’s not your fault Sadie and Daniel are bumping uglies either.”

Savannah laughed at the image that presented and tilted her a curious glance. “You know that for sure?”

“Well, I haven’t stalked their bedrooms, but don’t you think it’s obvious?” The two of them had been spending an inordinate amount of time together.

Savannah shrugged.

“Anyway, Daniel should have kept his mouth shut.”

“All I was doing was asking questions,” Savannah explained. “Isn’t that what attorneys are for? I just wanted to be sure it was something before I got everyone all riled up over it. Turns out it was nothing and everyone’s all riled up anyway. I just wish he hadn’t told Sadie. But I do have to wonder why Mom was suddenly planning to give Sadie’s house to the city. It’s a huge departure from the original will and the break-ins are at least weirdly coincidental—don’t you think?”

Augusta shook her head. “There’s no telling what Mother was thinking, though I do know Sadie would have accepted Mom’s decree without any question. She’s loyal.”

“And give up the house?”

“Not happily, but yes.”

“Well, she’s pissed about it now,” Savannah observed.

“Yeah, well, I might be, too, if you didn’t come straight to me, and besides, didn’t you imply there might be something shady about the whole thing?”

“Indirectly.”

“No judgment here, Sav. Out of all of us, you’ve got the biggest heart, and you did what you thought was right. But Sadie is family. If you questioned my loyalty, I’d be pissed, too.”

Savannah’s eyes grew moist, and she averted her gaze to the dead television screen. “God, we’re all a mess, aren’t we?”

Augusta laughed softly. “Some of us more than others, and I’ll accept the greatest share of dysfunction.” She raised her wineglass. “At least I know you guys think so anyway.”

Savannah laughed, though her eyes remained glassy. “So how the hell do I fix this? You’ve had more practice at this sort of thing.”

Sadly, it was true. “Don’t worry. I’ll go by Sadie’s in the morning and talk to her.”

Savannah tilted her a look of surprise. “You?”

Augusta lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, why not?”

“Augusta, you haven’t been to Sadie’s in more than fifteen years!”

Augusta smiled ruefully, knowing that it was hardly an exaggeration. Although Sadie’s house was literally a stone’s throw away, Augusta could barely stomach the place and hadn’t gone there since she was a teenager with a bad attitude.

Some would say she still had a bad attitude, she supposed. “I guess it’s about time, huh?”

Savannah smiled. “I owe you one,” she said.

Augusta gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Nah. We’re sisters. We’re all in this together, right? Just remember this next time I piss you off.”

Which would be precisely tomorrow, Augusta thought.

Savannah laughed again. “You don’t exactly piss me off,” she countered.

Augusta gave her a wry smile, and for once, her barb was meant sincerely and without any sarcasm—at least not much of it. “Only because you were born with a degree of sainthood, Sav—something Caroline and I, unfortunately, don’t share.”

Savannah gave her a knowing look, one that Augusta recognized. It was a look that made Augusta feel as though Savannah could read her thoughts—as though somehow her sister knew all her darkest secrets. “Maybe I’m just better at keeping the devil on my shoulder muzzled?” she suggested with a bit of a grin.

“Right. Well . . .” Augusta stood, afraid of where the conversation might lead now. Tomorrow was soon enough to spill her guts about Ian. “I’m off to bed.”

Savannah gave her another look that made her feel as though she was waiting for her to speak up, but there was no way Savannah knew about Ian or she’d have said something by now, and for the moment that was how Augusta meant to keep it.

“Good night, Sav.”

“Night, Augie.”

“Night, John-Boy,” Augusta added and Savannah’s laughter followed her out of the den.

 

Some secrets were harder than others to keep.

Sadie Childres stared down at the trio of graves at her feet, feeling old and tired. Only through sheer tenacity did the morning sun permeate the canopy of green above, but the grass beneath the huddle of old oaks was thankful for the respite, verdant green even in this hellacious heat. New patches were already beginning to spread over Florence’s grave.

Florence had been dead four months now, and nothing would ever be the same.

Sammy’s empty grave lay between both of his parents’, a change decreed by Robert and Florence’s expedient and very discreet divorce. Neither of them had been able to stomach the thought of their bones lying beside each other through eternity. Robert, who, with those smiling blue eyes, could convince anyone of anything. And Florence, whose friendship had meant the world to Sadie—a friendship that had spanned their entire lifetimes.

Swiping at the moistness gathering beneath her eyes, she blinked at the fresh roses she’d placed upon their graves. Roses for both Florence and Sammy.

Robert got nothing—the same as he always gave. How anyone had ever loved him was beyond her—how
she
had loved him was inconceivable.

Staring at the roses, Sadie blinked back the assault of painful memories.

She had been coming here in secret for years now—ever since Sam’s death. Florence, God rest her soul, had never been able to bear it, but someone had to honor that poor child.

Devastated over his death, Flo had gone completely to pieces afterward, refusing to give him up, refusing to admit that he was gone. Once the authorities stopped searching for his body—long after there was a chance he might be found alive—she paid to have the shoreline dredged—more to prove he wasn’t dead than to prove he was. With the powerful currents in the channel, his body was never found. But as far as Florence had been concerned, no body meant no proof, and although she went through the motions of burying a child, she had always believed her Sammy was still alive.

But he was gone forever; Sadie knew that.

All these years later, she couldn’t forget his sweet smile and his father’s blue eyes—his chubby little fingers as he’d tugged at her skirts. Losing Sam had been devastating for all of them, not just for Florence. But despite Florence’s grief, after his funeral she had never, ever come here to his grave. It was Sadie who kept his flowers fresh.

And now she would keep Flo’s, too . . . in spite of everything.

Lord, could Florence truly have meant to put her out of her home?

Sadie had a hard time believing it—and yet . . . what if she had discovered the secret Sadie had kept all these years? Even twenty-nine years of praying hadn’t given her any peace. And it was probably why she couldn’t detach herself from the girls, even now.

The truth was that she wasn’t so much angry at Savannah for taking that stupid piece of paper to Daniel. She understood why Savannah needed answers. But Sadie was heartbroken over the question of her loyalty—and her honesty—heartbroken but not indignant . . .

Because she
had
lied.

She was
still
lying.

And she would continue lying until her final breath, because telling this particular truth would serve no purpose other than to destroy lives.

No, this was her burden to bear. And if her secret was a one-way ticket to hell, so be it. She wouldn’t be the only one there. She glanced at Robert’s grave and frowned.

“Find me, Sadie!”
she heard Sam’s little voice call out from the distant past.

His little face peered around the corner, looking neglected, his pink cheeks so unlike those of Sadie’s dark-skinned son, though his eyes were as vivid a blue.

“Please, please!”
he pleaded.

Sadie dropped a pair of red pajama bottoms on the hall floor.
“There you go now, eah. Why don’t you come help Sadie instead?”

His gaze fell upon the pajamas. He was too smart for a four-anda-half-year-old.
“After you do laundry, can I have a Popsicle then?”

Sadie smiled at him.
“Why yes, sir!”
She nodded down at the pajamas.
“Grab them for me. You want peach or blackberry?”

“Peach!”
he shouted gleefully, and hopped forward to grab the red pajamas from the hallway floor.
“I love peach, Sadie!”

He strutted beside her down the hall, peering up at her with a sweet smile. “
Josh?”

Sadie had laughed at that.

Josh indeed.

Josh had been the only male example the boy had had to look up to. His father had never been present, even when he was in the same room. God’s truth, even when Robert Aldridge was standing right in front of your face, he was gone missing someplace.

“You’re my best friend,”
Sam announced sweetly.

Now Sadie stared down at his empty grave, tears blurring her vision. “I love you, little boy,” she whispered.

A fat tear swept down her nose as she bent to straighten a long-stemmed peach rose in Sammy’s urn, adjusting it so the baby’s breath would keep the flower upright. The heat would soon wither it, but for now, she wanted the bud to stand lovely and tall. When Sammy’s was adjusted to her liking, she adjusted Florence’s roses, as well, and without a backward glance at the unadorned grave beside it, she turned and walked away.

 

No one was home at Sadie’s house so Augusta left her mother’s Town Car in the driveway and ventured toward the ruins with her cell phone in hand. Her shoes crunched over the gravel as she made her way down the drive and into the charred grass.

It had been three weeks now since the fire that had nearly claimed her sister’s life . . . three weeks since Ian was arrested. The woodlands were devastated. Only Hugo had wreaked this much havoc, pulling up trees, like the outcome of a sisterly cat fight where gobs of hair were ripped out by the roots.

Except that Hugo had been an act of God.

This was an act of human violence.

Were it not for recent rains, the fire might have actually engulfed Sadie’s home, as well, and then there would have been no house to fight over, Augusta mused. She looked toward Sadie’s house. Her blue porch was faded now to a dull blue gray. Haint blue, she called it. It was an old Charleston custom that had come straight from Geechee folklore. The blue was supposed to keep spirits out and the occupants of the house safe. But now it was a popular thing to do and most folks painted their porches blue around here. Even the main house’s porch was painted a pale sky blue to match the blue of a clear summer sky.

Augusta stood there, scrutinizing the landscape.

Before the fire, you couldn’t see Sadie’s house at all. Even in winter, it was completely hidden from view. But the once-thick underbrush was burned away now, and many of the trees had been lost besides. The ones that remained were scarred black. Peering around at the burnt trunks, she wondered how many of the old oaks had survived the first fire—the one that had destroyed the original house—only to succumb to this one.

The old slave quarters had once stood on this side of Sadie’s place, away from the main house—close to the marsh—where the mosquitoes were worst. The shacks were gone now, but Augusta always had a general feeling of malaise whenever she walked this part of the property. Today, the gloom was palpable.

She might have grown up here, but there was something not quite right about Oyster Point—something that she had never been able to put her finger on . . . but it was there just the same.

The first time she had set eyes upon him, he had been right here, in these woods, holding their mother’s running shoe like a football. He had been contemplating them from a distance—Caroline and her as they walked Tango. The expression on his face had been one of curiosity, not one of malice.

She tried to see the place through his eyes.

Certainly not the stupid tennis shoe, although finding their mother’s shoe out in the woods was certainly weird. At the time, Augusta had downplayed the fact when Caroline made such a big deal out of it, but she had to admit it was creepy. Florence W. Aldridge would never have stepped foot in the woods. She might have torn her skirts on blackberry brambles. And hell, she’d bought running shoes, but Augusta would lay bets that she had never used them for their intended purpose. So what was her shoe doing in the woods—one, not both?

The idea that Ian would break into their house and steal their mother’s shoe and then hand it back as some kind of warning was ludicrous. First of all, their mother’s death had been an accident. Flo fell down those stairs; no intrigue there. And while Caroline had been targeted by a killer, it was most likely because of her role at the
Tribune.
Caroline was high profile now, and she had made a big deal out of searching for the Secessionville killer. Of course he would notice her.
Everyone
in the city had noticed her. And despite the shit they all said—and felt—about their mother, Caroline seemed so ready to step into Flo’s shoes. It seemed Caroline’s principles had more dents than an Eggo waffle.

Admittedly, Augusta had a hard time with that fact. Maybe she wasn’t always in the right, and maybe sometimes she was a bit of a bitch about it, but at least when Augusta said something, she didn’t vacillate. Come what may, she was single-minded, decided.

She didn’t know her sister anymore and that fact made her sad.

She turned and walked a few yards deeper into the brush until she reached the burnt carcass of the old Georgian house. The original main house had burned down during a kitchen fire the year after the Civil War ended. All that was left of it now was a pile of twice-charred bricks with the remains of a chimney at one end. The wooden columns had burned completely the first time around, but pilings still remained to show where they had once stood, along with a few of the brick steps that led up to the porch. You could still see—but barely—where Jack had carved his and Caroline’s initials into the brick during their senior year together. Hopefully, their relationship would last at least as long as his artwork, she mused, and stopped in front of the steps to reexamine the surroundings.

Whoever had lured Caroline here that night had done so using Augusta’s cell phone. She tried to recall the kid who had taken her purse that day after she’d left Daniel Greene’s office, but all she could remember was that he had short brown hair and big feet. She couldn’t even give a proper description for a police sketch because it had been so late in the afternoon and she’d really only seen the back of his head as he ran away. By the time she’d realized her purse had been nabbed, along with her car keys and cell phone, the kid had darted into an alley. Augusta didn’t go in after him, chiefly because of something Savannah had said to her.

A few nights before the mugging, she’d said,
“There might come a moment when you will ask yourself, ‘What should I do?’ Do what Augusta Aldridge would never do.”
Although it had pissed Augusta off at the time, Savannah seemed to have this uncanny ability to know things.

Without her car keys, she’d called Savannah to come get her. And somehow their mom’s Town Car had weathered a night on the street in one of the worst parts of downtown without a single scratch. Later, police searched the area to no avail. In retrospect, Augusta wished she had paid more attention to details, but who could have predicted the events that had transpired that night? Not even Savannah could have truly known.

Crossing her arms, she wondered . . . if they found the kid who’d stolen her purse . . . would they find a link to the real killer? Ian—she was more certain than ever—was innocent.

Balancing on her arches on the top step of the ruins, she peered out toward the marsh. At low tide, the shallows seemed to stretch on forever. With so many of the trees decimated, all you could see now was spartina flats for miles. From where Augusta stood, it was easy to see where the water had risen the night of the fire because the singed grass stopped abruptly and fresh grass rose high beyond that threshold, golden tips swaying softly in the breeze.

The cemetery where Cody Simmons had disappeared was just down the road a bit—close enough to raise the tiny hairs on Augusta’s arms.

Was there something about the ruins themselves? Or was it simply a coincidence that both Jennifer and Pamela had visited this place—and that Caroline had been lured here, as well? It seemed to Augusta that Ian believed there might be a connection.

She turned to reexamine the charred bricks. Right now, they were laid bare—the moss and vines scorched away. Behind the ruins, she could see Fort Lamar Road. At this end of the street, there weren’t many cars passing by—for the most part only those coming to Oyster Point because the road dead-ended into their property. For all intents and purposes, the ruins were simply ruins . . . pretty much exactly the same as any of the ruins in these parts—random piles of bricks that nature had begun to reclaim.

Augusta had come across an old tintype once that showed the old house in all its former glory. With two wings that spread out like arms off the main house, its proudest moment was in its service as a Confederate division field hospital. Just down the road, commemorating the battle of Secessionville, there were nearly three hundred unmarked graves where she and her sisters had played as children. These days it was illegal to trample over the embankments, but there was something about old graveyards that drew kids . . . like moths to a porch lamp.