Tell No Lies (10 page)

Augusta knew the truth when it stared her in the face. The thing was . . . she
was
thinking with her heart, but her head wasn’t arguing at all. A wave of emotion nearly choked her. “Maybe not,” she admitted.

“Anyway,” Savannah said, “we’re heading over to the Simmonses’. You coming?”

Augusta shook her head, knowing that she should, but too confused to be much comfort to anyone.

“Well . . . I’d better go before she leaves me,” Savannah said, glancing toward the car. Caroline was already seated behind the wheel, checking her makeup in the rearview mirror. “Call me later if you need to talk,” she offered.

Augusta nodded, and Savannah hurled herself into Augusta’s arms so fast that Augusta had no choice but to hug her as she fought off another wave of emotion almost too unbearable to deny. All the feelings she had kept pent up for months now threatened to erupt right here in front of half the city. Somehow, she sensed Savannah knew more than she was saying, and her sister’s compassion was her undoing.

In that moment, she regretted not having kept in closer touch with both her sisters. But it wasn’t too late to change that . . . and she desperately wanted to. She missed Savannah, missed the easy camaraderie they used to share as children. And she really, really missed Caroline. Somehow, Augusta had built a fortress of ice around her heart and stayed far enough north of the Mason-Dixon Line to keep it frozen and intact.

Maybe it was time to change that?

Maybe it was time to take the restoration of the house a little more seriously?

Maybe it was time for healing?

“Gotta go,” Savannah said, and tore herself away.

Augusta felt the separation acutely. She swallowed hard as she watched her younger sister walk toward Caroline’s silver Lexus. She stood rooted to the spot for a moment, trying to temper her emotions. At this point, the funeral crowd had already dispersed from the area, and she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She lingered a moment, watching her sisters drive away, watching so intently that she was startled by the unexpected voice at her side.

“Hi,” the man said. In his late thirties, he looked vaguely familiar though Augusta didn’t immediately place him. He extended his hand. “Brad Bessett,” he said. And then noting her confusion, he offered, “I work with Caroline at the paper.”

Augusta swallowed and nodded. “Oh. Hi,” she said, and forced a smile.

“I was watching you with your sisters,” he said, his blue eyes canny. “Caroline can be a bit of a firecracker, can’t she?”

Augusta decided she didn’t like the guy. No matter what she might call her sisters in private, she was fiercely loyal to both of them. Still, she held back, not wanting to light into her sister’s employee without cause. “Are you a friend of the Simmonses?” she asked, her tone curt.

He gave her a little smirk, as though he knew exactly what she was implying—that otherwise, he was intruding. For Caroline’s sake, she was being uncharacteristically tactful, so she was glad to see that he wasn’t obtuse. “Nah. I’m covering the funeral for the paper. Not really my beat, but since this one is connected to the investigations, I figured we’d kill two birds with one stone.”

Augusta’s back went rigid. “I see.” Obviously, another Sandra Rivers, except with a penis dangling between his legs.

Sensing Augusta’s withdrawal, he said, “We met when you came in a few weeks ago to inventory the office. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Augusta lied. She had been way too distracted that day to remember anything at all. She had gone in to inventory the
Tribune
offices for the fund-raiser, to hone in on her mother’s extravagances and expunge them, and had walked out with a single item on her list—a gaudy chandelier—and a brand-new crusade in the form of Ian Patterson.

Recalling Ian’s expression as he’d kicked her out of his house, she swallowed another wave of emotion.

“So how’s the fund-raiser coming along?”

Nosy little shit.
“A little off track for obvious reasons.” Augusta glanced around to see if there was anyone left who might save her from this conversation. Most of the guests were already gone, and only a handful remained—no one she recognized.

“Understandably,” he said and grinned, and Augusta wanted to ask him what the hell he wanted. As cute as he might be, there was something about him that just grated on her nerves—maybe it was the sense that he thought he could pry open doors with his smile. He reminded her of one of those guys in high school who expected girls to trip over themselves whenever he passed by.

His expression changed suddenly, sobering. “Anyway, I’m also covering Pam Baker’s funeral . . . too bad . . . she was a nice girl. Reminds me of those murders way back in the nineties, remember? The ones where Realtors were all being picked off while showing houses? Talk about being in the right place at the wrong time, huh?”

A shiver raced down Augusta’s spine at his choice of words.

Her brain flashed on the ruins. Pamela Baker had gone missing after being there. But how widely known was that? Augusta knew about Pam’s photos, placing her at the ruins on the day of her disappearance, but only because of Jack and Caroline. As far as Augusta knew, Caroline had not shared that knowledge with the paper. In fact, Augusta was pretty sure Jack was trying to keep that particular information out of the media entirely. But maybe that wasn’t what Brad was implying. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Look, I’ve got to be going . . . to the Simmonses’,” she lied, and felt a tiny stab of guilt for it. “It was nice seeing you again . . . Brad?”

He nodded and shoved out his hand, and Augusta shook it, even though she didn’t want to. Then she walked away as fast as her legs could carry her.

“Catch you later,” he called after her as she hurried toward her car.

Not if she could help it, Augusta thought.

For once, reporters weren’t camped in his front yard, so Ian decided it might be a good time to get out and take care of business. Unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life behind bars, he needed to find a good attorney to take his case—not one appointed by the state.

On his way out the door, he snagged the list he’d printed from the Internet, determined to continue his search for Jennifer.

Her mother had still heard no word from her or the authorities. In so many ways, it was as though she had walked out of her house and vanished into thin air. She’d texted Ian a few times and sent him that photo of herself at the ruins, but other than that, he hadn’t much evidence of her ever having been in this city. He’d checked the shelters, couldn’t locate where she might have been staying, nor anything that indicated she might have held a job. And yet her cell phone bill was being paid—he knew that because of the texts and photo she had sent him.

He remembered that she’d signed off as Jennifer Leigh—her first and middle name, having adopted the signature after the actress, Jennifer Jason Leigh. Apparently, she’d been influenced by watching the actress in
The Hudsucker Proxy
where Leigh played a reporter. That’s what Jennifer most wanted to do with her life when she grew up—be a reporter.

A thought occurred to him.

Shoving the list of lawyers into his pocket, he wondered if Jennifer had been drawn to the Aldridges because of the
Tribune.
Maybe she’d tried to get a job there? Augusta might be able to help him find out, but the last thing he wanted to do was get her involved. Damn it. She was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

He shut the front door and locked it, checking it twice.

She was like a tick in his brain. She had planted herself there, and no matter how hard Ian tried to remove her, she wasn’t withdrawing. The hurt look she’d had on her face before he slammed the door gnawed at him now.

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt inexorably drawn to her. And it had nothing to do with the semi he’d been carrying in his pants from the instant he’d laid eyes on her. Damn it. He couldn’t think straight in her presence—or even out of it, apparently.

Fuck him if he didn’t want to see her. But that wasn’t all he wanted. He wanted to bury his face between those beautiful breasts—wanted to make love to her properly—not on a beach under a pier with sand creeping between the cheeks of his ass. And when all this was over, if she was still willing, he planned to do exactly that.

If he didn’t end up back in jail for the rest of his life.

He got into his car and shut the door, then stared at his cell phone, determined not to punch in numbers that were becoming far too familiar.

 

Feeling a little friendless, Augusta walked into the house, grateful to find Tango waiting by the front door to greet her, his black tail wagging happily. He whined and she laughed, despite her mood, and she patted his head affectionately. “Do you have to pee, boy?”

He whined again, pitifully, and she took that as a yes, and led the way into the kitchen, setting her purse down on the counter as she searched for Tango’s leash.

“Where does Sadie keep the leash, Tango?”

Tango whined, slapping his tail on the kitchen floor.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be in plain sight,” she complained, and then turned to look at Tango. “Why is it you like Caroline so much when Savannah’s probably the one who walks you, huh?” He was a male, she decided, and men always liked Caroline. Probably because she was far more amenable than Augusta and didn’t have a chip on her shoulder. Augusta accepted that. She realized she wasn’t the most approachable person. But Savannah was far more agreeable than Caroline. Augusta gave her youngest sister a hard time but it was probably because Augusta wished she could have even a fraction of Savannah’s patience.

Tango didn’t answer—not that she expected him to—and she continued searching for the leash, thinking about her elder sister. Even though Augusta couldn’t live her life by Caroline’s edicts, it was probably true that both her sisters were far less inclined to forgive her these days for marching to her own drum. In many ways, after all these years, they were strangers now. And how much had she actually contributed since her return? She had spent so long being pissed off about her mother’s will that she hadn’t truly checked out of limbo. Well, it was time she pulled her weight around here, even if it was a temporary stay. And now, with Sadie gone, everyone would need to do their share. Hopefully, Savannah would get her cast off soon.

She’d talked to a builder who’d said he could begin as early as tomorrow, the twentieth. She felt good about that. And in the meantime, it was probably time she got to know her mother’s dog a little better since they had nine more months of incarceration together.

However, the leash seemed to be avoiding her. She rifled through drawers to no avail, trying to think like Sadie. Where would Sadie put the leash?

Despite the fact that the dog seemed to have become Caroline’s shadow, she knew Caroline wasn’t around the house much to take care of his daily necessities. And Savannah, with her cast, probably needed help walking him.

There was some comfort to be found in everyday drudgery, especially in these dire circumstances. Missing kids. Dead neighbors. Mutilated women. With all that was going on, was it any wonder Augusta couldn’t keep her mind on her given task? And then there was the fund-raiser . . . she still needed all this junk out of her way before she could really get the restoration underway. Rifling through the crowded drawers only drove that fact home.

According to the terms of her mother’s will, she had approximately nine months left, and then the clock stopped ticking and all three of them either walked away with everything or nothing at all. But how the hell was she supposed to work on the house when people were getting murdered left and right?

Not only were the ruins smack-dab on their property, but the first body in the Secessionville murders—a college student—had been discovered not more than a stone’s throw away, in the backyard of one of the brand-new houses that were still for sale on Backcreek Road. She could literally spit out her back window and it would land on their docks.

Augusta thought about the girl who had been playing onstage the night she’d met Ian. Judging by the way the girl had been staring at them, she was smitten with him.

Would she have lied to give him an alibi?

She couldn’t start second-guessing everything she did right now.

Frowning, she took a break from searching for the leash. Thirsty and needing a drink before continuing, she opened the fridge and grabbed a bottled water, then twisted off the cap and guzzled a few swallows before setting it down on the counter. “Sorry, boy,” she said, and then resumed her search. Tango followed her around the kitchen, whining at her heels as she opened more drawers.

Finally, she found his leash in a drawer beside the pantry and set it on the counter. It was only then that she noticed the old photograph sitting on the kitchen island. She hadn’t seen a Polaroid in years—not since her father left. Picking up the photo from the counter, she furrowed her brow. It was overexposed. She imagined sun glinting into the eyes of the photographer, but she recognized the subject of the photo and the little inflatable canoe. Both had disappeared on the same date.

Tango whined again, but she ignored him, studying the old photograph.

For all she knew, the photo might have been taken on the same day Sam had disappeared; she wasn’t sure. But it was the same stretch of beach they always went to—north of Folly. In retrospect, a dumb place to set a kid free in a little inflatable raft when the currents there were infamously treacherous.

Not far from that spot, the Morris Island Lighthouse fought a losing battle with the sea. When it was first constructed the lighthouse had stood in the middle of an island, some 2,700 feet inland. Now it was 1,600 feet offshore and slowly inching into the Atlantic. In fact, the currents around there were so intense that during the 1700s there had actually been three islands stretching four miles between Folly and Sullivan’s Islands. The lighthouse had been constructed on the middle island, and eventually, because of the currents, and partly because of efforts to deepen the channel, the inlets that separated those islands silted in, resulting in a single strip that became known as Morris Island. Lives had been lost in those waters. Nowadays only stupid people swam that stretch of ocean . . . though sometimes even dumber surfers braved the whitecaps.

But no one in their right mind would let a four-year-old sail around in an inflatable canoe supervised by three flighty little girls, all eight and under. Augusta had been seven at the time, Caroline eight and a half, and Savannah five. What idiocy to leave them all with that burden.

Augusta was still angry with Flo over that one. She hoped her mother had enjoyed every one of her margaritas that day on the beach—and every one thereafter. For her part, Augusta couldn’t see a salt-rimmed margarita glass or a froufrou paper umbrella without thinking of that terrible day.

She wondered which of her sisters had unearthed the photo. What was it doing on the counter? Turning it over revealed nothing. Her dad would sometimes write on the backs of his Polaroids but this one had nothing written on it.

Both Savannah and Caroline had been rummaging around the attic lately, trying to help Augusta gather items for the fund-raiser, but neither had mentioned discovering the photo. Nor was it something any of them was inclined to just leave lying around. As much as they all loved their little brother, neither she, nor Caroline, nor Savannah relished the memories his name evoked—and Sammy had long been banned from discussion and reminiscence. For a while, they hadn’t even been allowed to speak his name or refer to his death. Flo had been so certain for so long that he had simply gone missing and that he would just turn up one day. She had set her heart on finding him . . . and then had become depressed when she couldn’t.

Augusta tossed the photo down on the island with a sigh, wondering how Amanda Hutto’s mother was faring. She had tried to help Karen find her daughter by offering a reward, but now that so much time had passed without a single lead, the poor woman had stopped calling and Augusta tried not to think about her at all. Cody was different. His disappearance was recent and so close to home.

She remembered when the kid was born. Going to visit him in the hospital was one of the last things she remembered doing in Charleston before she’d left the city. He was so cute, with his tiny red face and little balled fists. Augusta remembered feeling such an incredible stab of envy, thinking that maybe she would never get close enough to anyone to justify having a child of her own. And so far, she had been right. A string of bad relationships had left her happier alone . . . until Ian. Although apparently Ian wasn’t the answer either. Even if you put all other troubles aside, he didn’t seem to want anything to do with her.

Tango whined again and she grabbed the leash off the counter, shaking off her self-reflection. She hooked it on his collar, shifting her focus away from all the drama, away from Ian, and away from the photograph on the counter.

Still, it was strange that it would show up today of all days, when they had just buried Cody’s grandmother . . . and Cody was still missing.

She glanced at the calendar hanging by the door, and an unexpected realization head-butted her.

It was August nineteenth.

She glanced back at the photograph and a sense of foreboding assailed her. Today was the twenty-ninth anniversary of Sammy’s death.