Speak No Evil (20 page)

A
ugusta had waited until Saturday to go to the
Tribune
’s offices.

The fewer people who were present the better. She didn’t want to do any explaining and the last thing she wanted to do was to scare folks into worrying about their jobs. The plan was to go in, take a quick look around and then touch base with Caroline later to see what she thought might be sellable versus what she wanted to keep.

Caroline had already warned her what to expect when she went through the offices. She drove the Town Car into the city, far less offended by it now that she knew it was soon to be sold off for charity. But she couldn’t say the same for the
Tribune
’s offices. The entire reception area now looked like a giant sorbet, complete with berry-colored carpet and peach walls. The colors alone made her want to put an ice cream scoop down her throat and gag.

Her jaw dropped when she spotted the chandelier, and she would have stood there gaping, except that she was afraid the ten-ton contraption might drop from the ceiling and crush her where she stood. Jesus, if her mother’s ghost was still hanging around somewhere, she might actually find a way to cut the iron chains from which it hung—especially if she caught wind of the fact that her daughters were going to gut the place and sell off all her overpriced crap. It galled her that Flo had probably spent more on that one lighting fixture than she had for all their birthdays combined throughout the years.

It wasn’t easy for Augusta to think of her mother sympathetically. She would never say it out loud for Sav’s and Caroline’s sakes, but the world was better off without Florence W. Aldridge.

Fishing a tin of Altoids out of her purse—her one remaining vice—she opened the box and popped one into her mouth. She’d traded the vice for both her smoking and drinking habits about five years ago, after she’d realized she was turning into her mother—running around permanently anesthetized and sucking on cancer sticks as though she had a death wish.

Keeping to herself, Augusta wandered the maze of cubicles, avoiding eye contact with the occupants. If she pretended not to see them, maybe they would leave her alone—or better yet, go away.

She found Caroline’s office easily enough—mainly because it was in the same spot her mother’s office had been.

Tossing the tin of Altoids back into her handbag, she went in and poked around the office, opening drawers and file cabinets. Unlike the uptight Confederate sitting room that doubled as a lobby, Caroline’s office was stark in comparison—nothing on the walls, except for a fine line of dirt where old paintings must have hung. Further evidence of museum-grade framing: a big, fat hole in the wall that probably used to accommodate a nail the size of a redwood trunk—perfect for hanging massive, gaudy, gold-framed paintings of the sort their mother would have displayed. Augusta hadn’t been around the offices in far too long to say what had actually hung there, but she wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was a portrait of the lovely and accomplished Florence W. Aldridge herself, righteous daughter of the fallen I-can’t-seem-to-forget-the-past Confederacy and an icon for the women’s league of America.

She was glad her mother had given the responsibility of the paper to Caroline. Augusta didn’t want a damned thing to do with it.

Then again, she didn’t want anything to do with the house, either, but here she was buried in lists of items that included antique bed warmers, pee-pee pots and handmade quilts that were probably lovingly hand-stitched by Betsy Ross herself.

At least the lion’s share of the inventory would make someone with a hole in their pocket very, very happy. Getting rid of it made Augusta ecstatic.

She sat down at Caroline’s desk, watching the paper’s employees mill about under the intense overhead lights of the editorial department—which also meant they were probably watching her back. From here, she could spy on everyone, except the farty old man who had been running the editorial desk since dinosaurs roamed the planet. She thought his office was right next door and he probably had his ear to the door, making sure Augusta didn’t overstep her boundaries. Crotchety old codger.

Setting her handbag on the desk, along with her notebook, she sat down in Caroline’s chair, rifling through the papers on Caroline’s desk—past editions—front-page stories about that guy Patterson, who had pitched her a line drive with her mother’s shoe. Poor gorgeous scapegoat. For some reason, she just couldn’t picture him as guilty. He had the face of an angel. And the body of a Greek god.

She sat there, trying hard to picture him strangling the Jones girl, but it just didn’t materialize in her head.

As far as Augusta was concerned, a man was innocent until proven guilty and possession of a stupid shoe and a few fingerprints on the victim’s car weren’t proof enough. Supposedly, he was getting her gas, right? Of course his prints would be on her car.

But what was he doing hanging around Oyster Point? That much Augusta was curious about, but the difference between her and Caroline was that she wasn’t afraid to come right out and ask him instead of publishing his entire life.

She stared at his picture in the paper—that sinfully gorgeous face—and set the paper aside, nosing around a little more. She found notes from a meeting—lots of shorthand references to Patterson—all questions that, as far as Augusta was concerned, presumed his guilt.

Why was Caroline so hell-bent on getting the guy arrested and convicted?

Augusta poked through the papers she held in her hand. At least three of them sported front-page stories about Patterson. Harassment. That’s what it felt like, and his ordeal struck a chord deep down in her soul. Admittedly, she had a thing for underdogs . . . as far as she was concerned he was about as much of an underdog right now as anyone had ever been.

Was there a single person out there asking whether this man was innocent? Anyone? Anywhere?

She glanced at her notebook. She had one item written down—the chandelier in the lobby—but suddenly she had no impetus to go through the rest of the office—at least not today. She could always come back later.

Ian Patterson might not have later.

On a mission now, she pored through all of Caroline’s notes until she found what she was searching for—phone numbers, addresses—anything that would help her ferret out Patterson. Then she got up, shoved her notebook and pen into her purse and left.

 

After more than six weeks, the police weren’t any closer to answers.

The initial media attention had kept the ongoing investigation under sharp focus, but now it was drifting off the front page. Pam’s chance to make a name for herself was slipping away.

She felt weird about violating a crime scene—even after all this time and despite the fact that the yellow tape had long been removed—but Caroline had gone to bat for her and she didn’t want to let her down. She had to find something—anything—to revive the story without harassing Patterson.

Even Frank had begun to listen to her, giving her appreciative nods and including her in their morning planning meetings. This was what she had been waiting for her entire career. This was the reason she had spent two years in a crappy admin position, despite her well-received résumé. And now, instead of envying the rest of the reporters, they were envying her, because she was working on the biggest potential story of the year—maybe the decade.

But she had to dig. She wasn’t about to wait around for hearsay to end up on her Twitter stream at two
A.M.
She wanted to be the one breaking news on this story. She really wanted that old coot Frank to be proud of her. And maybe there was a little I-told-you-so wrapped up in there, because Frank hadn’t believed in her to begin with. Still, she was genuinely proud that he thought her work was good enough to print on the front page. Frank reminded her a lot of her grandfather and made her want to live up to the standards he set and kept for himself. One of the things Frank kept drilling into all their heads was that if you wanted a story—a real story—you had to go out and find it.

So that’s what she was doing.

She knew Patterson lived nearby, but she was trying to figure out exactly what he had been doing out near the Aldridge estate. Caroline had told her about the shoe and she’d been doing a lot of reading. There were studies suggesting that a serial killer’s home base could be calculated using the disposal locations of his bodies. In this case, there was only one, but the study implied they didn’t travel far from a home location to commit their crimes—something they referred to as distance decay. In fact, most started their killing careers in their own neighborhoods—a fact that gave her a shiver.

What if she uncovered clues that led investigators to unearth a gruesome graveyard to rival Pee Wee Gaskins’ private cemetery?

If she found something like that, she could blow this investigation out of the water in a hard-nosed investigative report that would certainly put her name in the same bracket as solid
New York Times
reporters. Imagine where she could go from there: she could write her own ticket maybe—move to New York, make a real name for herself.

Figuring nobody was going to mind if she parked in the driveway of an empty house, she got out of the car and walked toward the back, scrutinizing the surrounding property. Even during the day, the house was shielded from prying eyes, surrounded by gnarly live oaks festooned with beautiful, draping Spanish moss and bloomed out azalea bushes. The scent of blooming magnolias reminded her of her grandmother’s perfume. The truth was that if you didn’t already know what had happened here, it would seem like a Garden of Eden: serene and lovely.

It was funny how deceiving beauty could be....

C
aroline walked in the door at Oyster Point a little after ten
A.M.
The scent of Sadie’s breakfast lingered, but Sadie was gone. Her kitchen sparkled in her absence.

She made her way through nearly every room downstairs, but Tango was the only sign of life. The house was too big, she thought, wondering how her mother could have managed all alone for so long. It gave her the willies—especially since the death of the Jones girl, and the break-in afterward, connected or not, didn’t much help. Really, the only reason this house felt like home was the presence of family—her sisters and Sadie. When they were gone, it was a cold museum and the only thing that kept her from feeling downright unnerved at the moment was the simple fact that Tango had been lying on his back, sleeping peacefully until Caroline walked through the door. Now he was following at her heels, tail wagging happily.

With Tango as her shadow, she made her way upstairs and found the attic stairs pulled down and the light in the attic on. She called out both Savannah’s and Augusta’s names.

“She just left!” Savannah shouted back.

Caroline expelled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and started to climb the stairs. She found Savannah in the attic hovering over half a dozen open boxes. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

Savannah smiled at the sight of her, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Helping Augie.”

Caroline had the immediate sense her sister’s good humor had nothing to do with Augusta’s inventory. “Sorry for not calling,” she offered a little sheepishly, before Savannah had a chance to say anything.

Savannah’s smile remained, but she continued rummaging through the box she had in front of her. “No problem. I wasn’t worried.”

Caroline’s brows drew together. “Really? ’Cause I would have been really upset—and scared—if you had done the same to me.”

Savannah’s tiny smile lifted the right side of her mouth. “I know.”

But she continued rummaging through the box, looking as unconcerned as she claimed to be and Caroline admitted, “I can’t figure you out, Sav. You crawl into my bed, terrified over a nightmare, but you don’t worry at all when you don’t hear from your sister all night long?”

Savannah looked up again with a patient smile. “I wasn’t worried because I sent Jack a text last night asking if he knew where you were.”

“And?”

She smirked. “He said yes, of course.”

Caroline’s cheeks heated. When the hell had Jack had any time to stop and send anyone a text? “Is that all? What else did he say?”

Savannah’s grin persevered, but she fell silent, going through her box with a knowing smile that made Caroline’s face burn a little hotter.

“Well! Are you going to just sit there looking smug or are you going to tell me what he said?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Savannah’s face split into a wide grin. “On whether you plan to get down here and help me go through this ancient crap or whether you’re going to stand there and let me choke on dust alone.”

Caroline blinked. “Oh . . . well . . . okay,” she said, and got down on her knees.

Savannah tilted her a glance without the least bit of judgment. “He said you were in his bed.”

Caroline grunted. “Jesus! He told you that?”

“Yep. I just asked if he knew where you were, and he answered with three words: ‘In my bed.’ Want to see the text?”

“No! That shithead!” Caroline said, but without any real heat.

For some reason, it was okay that Savannah knew, and truth be told, it actually relieved her a little. Augie was another story entirely. “Does the rest of the universe know I spent last night with him?”

“No. I just told Augie I was able to reach you and she went to bed satisfied with that answer.”

“What about Sadie? She must have wondered where I was this morning.”

Savannah shook her head. “Nope.”

Caroline wondered what that was supposed to mean. Had Jack texted everyone last night? “You mean she didn’t wonder or she didn’t ask?”

Savannah eyed her with a twinkle of amusement. “She didn’t ask.”

“It’s just that I find it hard to believe Augie didn’t have one smart-assed thing to say when I didn’t show up for breakfast this morning!”

Savannah studied her a minute. “She probably thought you were still sleeping. Having regrets?”

Last night had been . . . wonderful . . . every sensational moment, but Caroline didn’t know how to file any of it yet. “Not regrets exactly.”

“You’re just not ready for anyone to know?”

Caroline shook her head. “Especially not Augie. Do you think that’s wrong?”

Savannah shrugged. “Everyone has their own life to live, Caroline, so no. You have to do what you think is right—whatever that may be.”

She went back to her task and Caroline watched her sister work—her face so much like their mother’s, her hands steady and sure as she methodically worked through the box—and she felt a little unyoked. It was as though everything she thought she knew—her role in life, especially in regard to her sisters—was not at all what she’d thought. Certainly she was the eldest, but at the moment, she didn’t feel the most mature.

Savannah was an old soul, Caroline realized. But the fact that she was only now discovering that left her feeling self-centered and shallow.

From the moment she had returned to Charleston, her thoughts had been focused around how this all affected her. Augusta didn’t leave much room for anyone to wonder how she felt, but Caroline hadn’t even considered how it might be affecting Savannah. She realized she didn’t just want to know her baby sister better. She
needed
to.

“So is this all for the auction?”

Savannah stopped and looked up—her mother’s face, with one major difference. None of the hard lines were present—nor was that vacant look visible behind her gray eyes. Savannah’s eyes were kind and gentle. “Some. Not all,” she admitted. “I found a few things I didn’t realize were up here.” She stretched to reach into another box and pulled out a dirty pink bear. “Like this.”

For an instant, Caroline forgot about Jack, forgot about the paper, forgot about regrets. In a flash, the bear served up a fresh memory of the distant past. “Shit!” she exclaimed. “I remember those! Are they all in there?”

Savannah nodded, then rolled her eyes, as though not quite believing it herself.

There were five all together—Easter presents, one for each of them the year Sam died. Caroline remembered because after Sammy disappeared, Caroline had put her bear away with his, at the top of her closet, declaring she was too old for teddy bears.

Sensing Caroline’s interest in the box, Savannah shoved it toward her and let her look inside.

There they were—all of them huddled together in the bottom of the box, like scared dirty orphans. Caroline simply stared at them, studying their positions at the bottom of the box, all lying politely together side by side, lovingly placed. As she stared at them, all she could think was that five little bears were the last things she would have ever suspected her mother would keep, and she felt a tug at her heart that threatened to bring tears. She swallowed the knot that rose in her throat.

“I guess Mom was way more sentimental than any of us realized,” Savannah said, pulling the box away, saving Caroline from another emotional outburst.

“Yeah,” Caroline agreed, settling in beside Savannah on the attic floor.

Together, she and her sister went through box after box as the light filtering in through the tiny attic windows waned.

Some of the boxes contained items Caroline was sure she would be afraid to touch if only she knew their worth—authentic Tiffany lamps and fine silver. Hand-painted porcelain. An ancient handmade violin that looked like it must be two hundred years old. Three Civil War–era muskets and a Union soldier’s hat. Neither she nor Savannah had any explanation for that one, and to tell the truth, Caroline didn’t want to know the story behind it. They shared a puzzled look and Savannah tossed the artifact into the keepers box.

Box after box of antique treasures sat amidst dusty old commodes and porcelain washbasins. But none of the items received any more special treatment than the boxes containing those things Caroline would never have perceived to be on her mother’s radar—her old Spirograph set. A ruined Etch A Sketch, with the magnetic screen gone black from the heat of the attic. A full box of her writings from grade school. Their school uniforms. And Augusta’s piccolo flute.

Caroline tried to play a tune, but could barely remember where to place her fingers.

Savannah looked at her and said, “Please stop.”

Caroline laughed.

They went through items for hours, moving boxes and rummaging through them. Then Caroline spotted a vintage 1915 Hammond typewriter and her heart did a little somersault. She stared at it lustfully, admiring the ancient gold keys and the dusty but unmarred wooden base. She tested the carriage and it moved freely, as though it had been oiled only yesterday. It looked like it needed a good cleaning, but otherwise it was in pristine condition.

There weren’t many material things she valued, but this would doubtless be at the top of her list. In fact, if she had known it was up here, collecting dust, it would have been down a long time ago and occupying a place of honor.

She realized Savannah was staring at the typewriter too, her eyes wide, like an awe-filled child on Christmas morning.

It had been such a long time since Caroline had seen that look on her sister’s face. Pure joy, without the least bit of envy, and she knew that if she wanted to keep it for herself, Savannah would let her have it without complaint.

In so many ways, Savannah was the forgotten child. Caroline had been the prodigy, she realized only now. Augusta the rebellious middle child. After Sammy came along, he was the baby. And Savannah . . . well, she was mostly overlooked. There were no hand-me-downs in the Aldridge home, but if it was true that squeaky wheels got the grease, Savannah never made a peep.

Caroline shoved the typewriter toward Savannah. “Needs too much work,” she said. “All yours.”

Savannah blinked, peering up at her. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Caroline said. “Maybe you’ll get busy writing that blockbuster and stop texting about my love life.”

“Really?”

Caroline nodded.

Savannah squealed. “Oh my God! This is so awesome!”

Caroline laughed, and that little spot in her soul that previously had felt like a gaping, yawning hole somehow seemed a little less empty.