The High Tide Club

Millie’s hand closed on the bottle of sleeping pills she’d pilfered from her mother’s pocketbook. Almost a whole bottle. These would do the job nicely. She shook them into the palm of her hand. Tiny pink tablets, as sweet and promising as a first kiss. One swallow. Not nearly as messy. She would take the pills, then climb into the bathtub for a long, lovely nap. But what if the pills didn’t work? She could barely choke down baby aspirin. What if she vomited them back up? Or worse yet, what if she woke up, still engaged, still doomed to the life with Russell Strickland that had been so neatly planned for her? She could picture the shock and disappointment on her mother’s face.

That wouldn’t do either. She frowned and dumped the pills into the sink, turning on the tap to wash them down the drain.

Millie looked back in the mirror again. She was no longer the coed who’d met and flirted and become infatuated with Russell Strickland. That girl disappeared the first night he’d forced himself on her, months ago, in the backseat of his car, taken her in the same violent way he took anything he regarded as his property.

The woman who’d emerged from that car was someone who had to stay hidden. But she was there, just beneath the innocent veneer Millie presented to the world. She turned away from the mirror quickly, having glimpsed the resolute, rage-fueled visage who came and went in the blink of a long, fluttery eyelash.

She brushed her teeth and combed her hair and returned to her bedroom, where she dressed quickly in dark slacks because there was a chill in the air this morning.

The house was eerily quiet as she tiptoed past the closed bedroom doors of her oldest, dearest friends, Josephine and Ruth. What would they think if they saw this version of Millie? She crept down the stairs and into the big kitchen. Someone had put a pot of coffee on the stove, and she was tempted to pour herself a cup to soothe the throbbing in her temples, but time was of the essence. She must act before the sleeping household awakened.

She slipped out the back door and made her way in the predawn darkness toward the garage. She would have her pick of the Bettendorfs’ vehicles. The Packard, the roadster, the truck. All the keys were kept in their ignitions, because who would steal a car on an island? She’d read about carbon monoxide poisoning. A length of garden hose inserted in a tailpipe and then wound into a nearly closed window. Just the trick. No fuss, no muss.

A male voice cut abruptly through the morning stillness. “Millie? What are you doing out here?”

Her stomach roiled at the sound of his voice. Her first instinct was to run and hide as far from here as she could get. But just how far could she get on an island?

69

Mary Balent was a presence in Carter County. According to her website, she was a fifth-generation native and had gone to undergrad and law school at the University of Georgia, which made her what faithful alum referred to as a “Double Dawg.” Her law office stood directly across the square from the county courthouse, and since moving to St. Ann’s, Brooke had watched her with envy as she skillfully navigated the local legal landscape.

Now, a week after her harrowing experience at the lighthouse and Gabe Wynant’s demise, Brooke and Marie sat in Ms. Balent’s office, seeking representation as they attempted to untangle Josephine Bettendorf Warrick’s estate.

Mary Balent had already read the wartime letters from Millie to Gardiner Bettendorf, which Brooke had dropped off a week earlier, and Marie had submitted a cheek swab for DNA testing to compare with Josephine’s hair sample.

“We still don’t know the outcome of a DNA sample Gabe sent off, comparing Josephine’s DNA to a local man who believes he could be Josephine’s son,” Brooke explained.

“Really?” Ms. Balent said, intrigued. “It was my understanding that Mrs. Warrick never had children.”

“There is a chance that she could have had a son out of wedlock while she was living in Savannah in 1942 and given him up for adoption,” Brooke said. “My friends and I did some sleuthing. We found some anecdotal evidence that shows Josephine was interested in a boy who was raised at two different children’s homes there, but we didn’t find any concrete proof. As far as I know, Josephine never acknowledged having a child, and of course, we have no idea who the father might have been.”

“But this man, C. D. Anthony, is convinced that he is Josephine’s son. He’s the man Gabe tried to kill last week,” Marie said. “Brooke saved his life.”

“We’ll have to have this man retested,” Ms. Balent told her. “But in the meantime, I’d say your next-of-kin status to Mrs. Warrick is entirely provable. I can get the paperwork started to have myself appointed administrator of the estate this afternoon, and given the circumstances of the previous administrator’s death, that shouldn’t be a problem, but it’s probably going to take a while to get this mess straightened out. It could take months.”

“We understand that,” Marie assured her. “My most immediate concern is going forward with my aunt’s burial. It’s been a month now. Josephine’s oldest living friend is ninety-one years old and is still heartbroken over her death. For her sake, at least, we’d like the closure a funeral could provide.”

“Have you been in contact with the cousins you mentioned earlier? Do they have any objections to a burial?”

“I called them,” Brooke said. “They were pretty shocked—and disappointed to discover that Gardiner Bettendorf had a daughter and that she was Josephine’s closest blood relative—but they indicated they don’t oppose a funeral.”

“I’ll see what I can do to expedite that. We’ll have to get the body released. Have you talked to the sheriff?”

“That’s my next appointment,” Brooke said.

Marie spent the next ten minutes filling out legal documents as Mary Balent explained what each one meant.

“You know,” she told Brooke, “I served on a couple of different bar association committees with Gabe Wynant over the years. I wouldn’t say we were friends, exactly, but I respected his expertise. I have to say, all these revelations coming out of Savannah are sending shock waves through the legal community, even all the way down here in little-bitty Carter County. I hear his former law firm has really taken a hit from this, which is a shame. You worked there, right?”

“Yes. Gabe hired me right out of law school,” Brooke said, glancing at the clock. “Mom, while you finish up here, I’d better get over to the sheriff’s office.”

Ms. Balent gave her an appraising look. “I know the sheriff pretty well. Is there anything I can help with?”

“He says it’s just a few more routine questions so he can close out the death report on Gabe,” Brooke said. “But if it’s anything more than that, I might take you up on your offer.”

* * *

The Carter County courthouse was a looming brown brick Spanish revival–style two-story building from the early 1920s, but the courthouse annex where the sheriff’s office was located was a squat 1970s-era concrete bunker with leaky smoked plate glass windows.

Howard Goolsby offered Brooke a seat in his cluttered office. “How’re you feeling? I heard you had a concussion.”

“I’m much better, thanks,” she said, making an effort to sound and look composed. “You have some questions for me?”

“Just a few,” he said, opening a file folder and leafing through the papers inside. “We took statements from those other two women, Elizabeth and Felicia, who witnessed Mr. Wynant’s fall. They both said Mr. Wynant struck you. And you feared for your life?”