Cape Refuge (9 page)

 

T
ammy took off her apron an hour later when her shift ended, freshened up her lipstick, then waved her long groomed fingernails at her boss before heading out. When she got to the parking lot, she looked around for any sign of the young girl who had been in there tonight. She hadn't been able to forget that black eye or the way she cradled her arm. She reminded her of herself when she was that age. She wondered if she'd been beaten by a boyfriend—or worse, her father. She had no doubt the girl had fled for good reason.

She got into her old Ford Escort, started it up, and pulled out into the traffic, but instead of starting home, she took off toward Highway 80, driving slowly and glancing at each side of the road for the girl with the backpack. She looked at her watch. Clarence, her boyfriend, would be expecting her any minute now, hungry and waiting for her to cook supper. But this seemed more important now than maintaining his paunch.

She saw the girl crossing a street up ahead, trudging east as if she thought she could actually walk all the way to Cape Refuge before dark. Carefully, Tammy pulled up to the curb and leaned over the seat to roll down the window.

“You ain't gonna walk all the way, are you, honey?” Tammy asked.

The girl swung around, startled. Then recognition flickered to her eyes. She stepped to the car window and leaned in. “I was going to hitchhike before it got dark.”

“Scared, huh? Don't blame you. You never know who'll pick you up. Hop in,” Tammy said. “I'll take you myself.”

Sadie straightened. “You live on Cape Refuge?”

“No, I live about three blocks from here,” Tammy said. “I would walk to work, but your dreadlocks friend has buddies, and sometimes they keep the streets from being all that safe. But I can't abide the thought of you walking all the way or even hitchhiking with strangers. Didn't your mama teach you better than that?”

Sadie slid off her backpack and got in, slumping into the bucket seat.

“I appreciate it, but if this is out of your way, really, I can—”

“Honey, I wouldn't be able to sleep tonight knowing you weren't settled. It'll be just fine. I'll take you across the river and drop you right at the front door of Hanover House, then I can go on my merry way knowing you'll be all right.”

Sadie was quiet as they crossed the causeway onto Tybee Island. Tammy hoped Thelma and Wayne Owens were home and that they wouldn't let Sadie down.

“Do you know these people, Thelma and Wayne Owens?” Sadie asked her, as they drew closer to her destination.

“No, not personally,” Tammy said, “but my sister lives on Cape Refuge and goes to church with them. I'd take you to her house, but her husband is mean as a snake, and it probably wouldn't be any better than where you came from. And I couldn't take you home with me, ‘cause Clarence likes blondes a little too much, and I'd be shooting myself in the foot, if you know what I mean.”

The beach came into view, and Sadie's eyes lit up as if she had just rounded a corner into some kind of glittering wonderland. The sun was going down over the horizon, and waves frothed and billowed as they hit against the shore. “It's beautiful,” she said. “Just like I pictured it.”

“Oh, honey, you should see it in the morning,” Tammy said. “It's a right pretty little island, nice place to visit and all that. Not for me, though. Things move slower than I like.”

Tammy drove along the beach, then crossed the bridge to Cape Refuge. She slowed the car as she got closer to the bed-and-breakfast, and she pulled onto the long graveled driveway in front of the yellow house with its massive front porch and huge yellow Victorian turret. A frilly little sign in the front yard said “HANOVER HOUSE.”

“Well, here you are. This is it, the end of the line.”

“It's perfect,” Sadie whispered.

Tammy looked around to the side of the house. “Doesn't seem to be any cars here. We might have come at a bad time. ‘Course, somebody could be inside. If not, I guess I could take you on back with me—”

“That's okay,” Sadie said. “There are rocking chairs on the porch. I'll just sit up there and wait until somebody gets home.”

“You're sure now?” Tammy asked.

Sadie nodded. “Thank you, Tammy. I really appreciate what you've done.”

Tammy reached into her purse and pulled out a receipt, marked her phone number down on the back of it, then thrust it at the girl. “Now, if you find yourself in a jam, you give me a call, you hear? There might be something I can do.”

“Okay,” Sadie said with a smile. She took the receipt, then grabbed her backpack and got out. “Thanks again.”

She closed the door and started up to the porch. Tammy waited as she knocked on the door, but no one came. Finally, Sadie sat down in one of the rocking chairs and waved that it was all right for her to go on. Tammy felt a little better about herself as she pulled her car out of the graveled driveway and headed back home.

 

M
organ found the judge on the soccer field, but she couldn't make herself get out of the car and walk through the spectators who were all probably buzzing about the murders.
“Did you hear that Jonathan Cleary did it? I always said that boy was trouble. . . .”

Those who had counted him the town hero as a quarterback when he led the high school team to a state championship would swear that they had always known he had violence in him.

Judge Simmons ran along the field, yelling at the teenage boys as they kicked the ball toward the goal. Morgan wondered if Nancy had reached him yet. If she had, why hadn't he already gone to the police station?

Someone knocked on her window. She jumped. It was Hattie Brumfield, motioning for her to roll her window down. Morgan did and looked up with dull eyes.

“Darlin', I'm so sorry about your folks,” she said. “How did it happen? They know who did it?”

That lump of emotion blocked her throat. “No.” She swallowed and drew in a deep breath. “Hattie . . . would you please . . . go tell the judge I need to speak to him? I just can't get out of this car and . . . walk through all those people.”

“Well, of course I will. But, honey, how did they die? Were they shot or beaten . . . ?”

“Hattie, please.” She opened her car door. “Never mind, I'll do it myself.”

“No, no, honey. I'll do it. Just get back in.”

Slowly, Morgan got back into the car. “Hattie, it's real important. Please. I need to talk to him right now.”

“I'm going.” The woman left the car and waddled down to the soccer field.

Morgan watched her approach the coach, and he turned back, looking for her. Hattie pointed toward her car, and several heads turned her way. She absently locked her door, as if that would protect her from their curiosity.

Finally, the judge barked a few more orders at the team, then headed toward the car.

He was sweating when he reached her, and his gray ponytail looked as if it hadn't been washed in days. “Hey, Morgan. Nancy came by and told me you needed to talk. I was gon' call you soon as the game was over. You okay?”

She didn't want to answer that question. “Randy, I know you're aware of . . . what happened to . . . my parents. Cade arrested Jonathan. I need for you to do something. Set bail or whatever . . . so I can get him out.”

“Why Jonathan?”

“Someone took his speargun and . . . killed them. . . . ” She stopped and took a deep breath. “That's all. Circumstantial evidence. Please, Randy . . .”

He straightened and set his hands on his hips. “I'll go right down to the station, but I can't promise anything.”

“Why not?” she asked. “You're the judge! You can promise whatever you want.”

“I don't like to interfere with Cade's investigations. If Jonathan owned the murder weapon—”

“He is not a murderer!”

“I'll see what I can do, Morgan.”

She started her car and jerked it in reverse. “I'll see you at the station.”

“No, Morgan. You don't need to be there while I'm reviewing the case.”

“Reviewing the case?” she asked. “Randy, the case is about two hours old, and you probably heard through the grapevine everything Cade knows about it. What's to review?”

“I have to take Cade's opinion under advisement. I can't just let people out on the street because their wives don't want them in jail.”

“They were
my
parents! Why would I want him released if I thought for a minute that he did it?”

“Go home, Morgan. Take care of yourself. I'll have Cade call you when I've finished.” He started back to the game, dismissing the discussion.

Morgan tried to pull herself together. What was she going to do? She thought of going home, walking into that big house with her parents' things everywhere, right where they had left them. And the tenants . . . and the friends who would start coming by, meaning well . . .

She couldn't go home just yet. She needed to be with Blair, who understood the storm in her heart and needed shelter from it too.

 

 

S
he saw Blair's car parked on the gravel parking lot in front of the library next to her house. She got out and went to the library door. It was locked, so she knocked and waited. Blair didn't come, so she knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer. She stood there, bewildered by the peaceful serenity of the shade trees and the blooming crepe myrtle and the sound of the water washing against the river wall just across the street. You would never know someone had been murdered just a couple of miles from here, that her family had been destroyed, that nothing would ever be the same again.

She heard something crash inside and ran to the front window to peer in through the glass. The shelves were on the floor and there were books everywhere. Alarms went off in her head. She ran around to the back of the building, feeling for the brick that Blair kept there with a key underneath. She scraped her fingers trying to pull it off, then found the key and bolted back to the door.

By the time she got the door open another shelf was flying over and books were catapulting down. She looked around for the culprit, for anyone who might be hurting her sister, when she saw Blair reach for the next bookshelf and pull it over. The books flew out and the shelf smashed to the ground.

“Blair!” she shouted, and Blair spun around. Her face was raging red and wet, and her eyes had a wild, desperate look. The scars on the right side of her face were crimson.

“Blair, stop it!” Morgan ran to her as Blair reached for the next shelf. She pulled her away and pushed her against the wall where she couldn't do further harm.

“Let go of me,” Blair cried. “Let go of me
now!
”

“You're going to hurt yourself,” Morgan cried. “You need to calm down.”

“Who did it, Morgan?” Blair screamed. “Who murdered them?”

“I don't know.”

“They won't get away with it.” She started to weep and put her arms around Morgan, and they held each other for a long time, standing against the wall, surrounded by books lying open and facedown beneath heavy bookshelves.

“How can you not suspect everybody on the face of this island?” she cried. “How can you walk into that bed-and-breakfast and look in anybody's eye and not suspect them? They shot them in the
throats,
Morgan! Mama and Pop must have looked the killer in the eye and feared for their lives. One of them saw the other one die! The horror they must have felt!”

Morgan couldn't speak. She just clung to her sister and cried, hating where this day had brought them, hating the uncertainty, hating what lay ahead. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

“That's easy,” Blair said. “We're going to find the killers. And when we do, I'm going to kill them myself.

 

A
n hour later, Morgan paced Blair's office, clutching her cordless phone to her ear. She had finally gotten the judge on the telephone at the police station, but he wasn't cooperating. “What do you mean, you can't release him?” she asked him.

“I'm sorry, Morgan. But Cade had good reason to arrest him, and for a murder case like this, I think it's appropriate to keep him in custody. If I were you, I'd get a lawyer as soon as possible.”

Morgan clung to the phone, speechless, then finally set it back in its cradle without another word. She stepped back into the library with its toppled shelves and books scattered like debris from some kind of explosion. Blair still sat on the floor among the fallout. “I've got to get a lawyer,” Morgan told her in a dull voice. “I don't even know where to look.”

“What about the lawyers who were advising Mama and Pop about Hanover House?” Blair's voice was quiet and without inflection. “We could use them.”

“Are they criminal lawyers?” Morgan asked. The words seemed to stick in her throat. It was absurd that she needed a criminal lawyer for her husband.

“No, they're not criminal, but maybe they could recommend somebody.”

Morgan called the law firm but got a recorded message that they were closed for the day. She hung up and rubbed her face. “Guess I'll have to wait until morning.”

“You can stay with me tonight,” Blair said. “I've got the guest room, and I don't think either of us should be alone.”

Morgan just looked at her. “You have a queen size, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Blair whispered.

“I'm too scared to sleep alone in the guest room. They're out there somewhere, Blair, laughing because the keystone cops in this town have the wrong guy locked up.”

Blair swallowed. “Yeah, we can share.”

“Just like when we were kids,” Morgan managed to get out. “We would sleep together, all huddled up. Two peas in a pod, Mama called us.”

Blair stared off into the air, as if she saw something there that Morgan couldn't see. “I have to go back to the funeral home. I have to get Mama out of those clothes, and Pop—”

“Blair, let them do that. That's what they do.”

“No,
I'm
doing it. You don't have to come.”

“Good,” Morgan said, “because I'm not. I can't.”

Blair got off of the floor and looked helplessly around her. “I'd better get going.”

“Don't go, Blair. Just tonight, let's stay together, okay? I don't want to be alone, even for a little while, and I can't go with you. . . . Please, you're not thinking clearly.”

“Someone in the family has to do it, Morgan.”

“No, they don't. That's what the funeral home is for.”

“Mama is modest! She doesn't want—”

“She's not there, Blair!” Morgan cut in. “She's not in that funeral home, and she's not in those bloody clothes! It's not her!”

Blair stared at her as if she were the enemy—as if those words exposed her.

“Then who is it?” Blair demanded.

“It's her shell,” Morgan said. “Mama is somewhere else, and she doesn't care what clothes she's wearing or who sees her. Neither does Pop. They would want us to huddle together and get through this, Blair, and not torture ourselves with things that don't even matter.”

Blair stared again, helplessness and hopelessness tightening her face. “It's something I can do. I need to do it.”

“No, you don't. You want something to do? Then stay here. Get through the night. Wake up and help me with all the details tomorrow.”

“I told them I'd come,” she said quietly.

“I'll call them. I'll tell them to go ahead and do what they need to do. Blair, you know Mama wouldn't want you torturing yourself.” She reached out a tentative hand and touched her sister's arm. “Come on, Blair. Stay here, okay? We'll just leave this mess and go over to your house where we can think.”

Blair's eyes had no luster as she kicked some of the books aside and made a path to the door.

 

 

B
lair saw Melba Jefferson the moment she stepped outside, and almost turned back. Her mother's best friend stood at her door with tears streaming down her face, and she clutched a casserole dish in her chubby hands. When she saw them, she set it down on the hood of her car and pulled them both into a fat embrace.

“Oh, you poor things!” she wailed. “It's just so awful.”

Wiping her tears, she went back to her trunk and pulled out several more casseroles that she had made. Blair wondered if she kept a freezerful of the things, and took them out to thaw when someone died.

“Now just tell me what you need me to do,” Melba said, her voice wavering. “I can answer your phone, or clean up your house. Or I can just sit here all day tomorrow while you take care of the arrangements. I'm available. I want you to know that.”

Blair wanted to tell her that she preferred to have her sit at her own house and leave them alone, but Morgan piped in, “I just can't think of anything right now, Melba. But we appreciate it.”

“If you're not hungry, it'll keep,” the woman said. “You'll need it after the funeral.” Her voice broke off again and she swallowed. Her ample chest heaved with grief. “I could go to the funeral home with you tomorrow,” she said. “You know your mama and daddy wouldn't want anything fancy. They weren't like that. But sometimes in our grief we overextend ourselves, choose coffins that we can't quite afford.”

Blair lifted her chin. “We can afford to bury our parents, Melba.”

“Of course you can, honey. I'm just saying, don't you get talked into anything. Now if you need me to go, I've had plenty experience with this sort of thing.”

“You've had parents who were murdered?” Blair asked. Morgan squeezed her arm to silence her.

“Why, no, I've never had a murder. Just death, that's all. The older you get, the more you deal with death, you know. They weren't just your parents. They were my good friends. I don't know what I'll do without Thelma.” She turned back toward the car, as if she didn't know whether to stay or go.

Morgan shot Blair a scathing look and touched Melba's back. The woman turned around, and Morgan pulled her into a hug and held her there just like her mother would have done.

“Oh, darlin'. You've got Thelma's heart,” Melba said. “You always have.”

Blair had heard that before. Morgan was the one with the heart. But she didn't care. She wasn't out to impress any of the socialites of Cape Refuge. She didn't even care about those who attended church with her parents. They had nothing to do with her, she thought. As far as she was concerned, Melba was among those who stared at her when she was a little girl and clicked her tongue and said what a shame it was that such a pretty girl would be so terribly marred. She had caught Melba's own son shuddering once, sitting next to her in class. It was his way of showing off for his buddies, but Blair had never forgotten it.

“You take care now, Blair,” Melba said before Blair walked inside. “I'm going to be praying for you whether you like it or not.”