The High Tide Club
“Yep.”
“Good heavens. I had no idea she was even still alive. Let’s see. She must be in her nineties, right?”
“She turned ninety-nine in April,” Brooke said.
“How did you get mixed up with her?”
“She called me. Out of the blue. She’d seen those old newspaper stories about me trying to sue the Park Service, and she wants me to keep the state from condemning Talisa and taking it for a park. And that’s not all. She wants me to find the heirs of her oldest friends. I’ve already contacted one granddaughter, who lives in California. I’m trying to track down another woman and her niece. And that just leaves you.”
“Me? What’s she want with me? Or those other women?”
“She wants to meet with you. And then, if she likes what she sees, I think she intends for the three of you to inherit the island. And the mansion.”
“Really? Josephine Warrick hardly knows me. Why would she do something like that?”
“She says she wants to make it up to her oldest, dearest friends. But she hasn’t really told me what she’s trying to apologize for. It’s all pretty sketchy, to tell you the truth. I tried to talk her out of hiring me, but she’s absolutely adamant that she wants me and nobody else.”
Marie mulled that over for a moment. “You say she’s ninety-nine? Are you sure she’s not suffering from dementia?”
“Josephine is sharp as a tack. Most of the time. But she’s been diagnosed with lung cancer, so she tires easily. I gather she was a pretty heavy smoker for most of her life.”
“Funny you should mention that,” Marie said, “because that’s what I remember about her. Your father and I were at a party, years and years ago, at the Oglethorpe Club, and she was there too, and what I remember about her was that she had this long, jeweled cigarette holder, like something out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, you know? I thought she was quite exotic.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“Only briefly. I was in the ladies’ lounge, fixing my hair, and she came up and introduced herself and said how sorry she was about Granny. She went on and on about what a dear friend Millie was. Which I thought was very odd, since she didn’t go to Granny’s funeral or send a sympathy card or anything.”
“That sounds like Josephine,” Brooke said. “And you’d never met her before that?”
“Not that I can recall,” Marie said.
“Do you remember Granny ever talking about the High Tide Club?”
“Say that again?” Marie asked.
“The High Tide Club. Did Granny ever mention it to you?”
“Granny wasn’t much of a club woman. I think she did Junior League because her mother and grandmother did it…”
“This was a different kind of club,” Brooke said. “According to Josephine, it was just her, another friend named Ruth, Granny, and a young black girl, Varina, who worked for the Bettendorfs and grew up on the island.”
Marie gave that some thought. “I remember Granny talking about Ruth and Jo and the scrapes they got into in boarding school. And the name Varina sounds vaguely familiar, but what you have to remember is this was all a long time ago. Granny’s been gone almost thirty years now.”
“Twenty-eight,” Brooke said promptly. “She died when I was six.”
“Has it really been that long?” Marie said, her voice wistful. “I do miss her, Brooke. And I wish she’d lived long enough to enjoy you and, of course, our sweet Henry.”
Brooke glanced over at sweet Henry, who at that precise moment was in the process of trying to climb out of his high chair. He had one chubby leg over the tray, and the chair was starting to tilt.
“Henry, no!” Brooke yelled. “Sorry, Mom. Gotta go.”
13
Farrah was on the phone when Brooke arrived at the office, talking in what the young assistant liked to refer to as her “takin’-names-and-kickin’-ass voice.”
“Hi, Mr. Mabry,” she said, the model of crisp efficiency. “This is Ms. Miles, the office manager at Trappnell and Associates.”
Farrah frowned and looked up at Brooke in amazement. “He hung up on me! The douchebag hung up as soon as I said your name.”
“Was that Steve Mabry, the long-haul trucker who owes me $5,000 for handling his DUI case back in January?” Brooke asked with a sigh. “Forget it. He’s a bona fide deadbeat. I’ll have to file against him in small claims court, and it’s probably not worth my time.”
“No way,” Farrah said. “He’s gonna pay, and I’m gonna make it happen.” She picked up her phone and redialed.
“Hi. Steve Mabry? Dude, don’t hang up. I mean it. Look. You owe our firm $5,000 for representation on that DUI charge from way back last winter.”
Farrah listened, tapping long violet fingertips on the desktop and shaking her head. “Yeah, I am aware that the judge revoked your driver’s license. I’m also aware that it was your third DUI in the past five years, and if it hadn’t been for my boss, or ‘that bitch Brooke Trappnell,’ as you just referred to her, your sorry tail would be sitting in the county jail right now.”
Farrah’s eyes narrowed as she listened to the diatribe on the other end of the line. “Let me get this straight,” she interrupted. “You’re telling me you have no intention of paying your legal fee, ’cause you don’t have a job, ’cause you’re not allowed to drive? Then how come you delivered a pizza to my boyfriend’s house last night? Yeah, that’s right. I was there, and I also took a picture of you behind the wheel of your pickup. Which I’m fixin’ to email over to Judge Waller’s office unless you deliver the money you owe this firm, in person. Like, today.”
Brooke gasped in horror, but Farrah smiled smugly. “That’s great. And hey, don’t bother bringing a check. We’re gonna need either cash or a money order. And if I were you, dude, I’d ask your mama to give you a ride.”
She disconnected and gave her boss an angelic smile. “He says he’ll be right over.”
“Did you really get a photo of him driving last night?”
“Nope. It was way too dark.”
Brooke tried to look stern. “Blackmail is against the law, you know.”
Farrah shrugged. “So if that douchebag gets me arrested, I’ll hire a good lawyer. Know any? I gotta go to class now. Don’t forget to give him a receipt when he shows up.”
* * *
There was a light tapping at her office door. A moment later, it swung open, and a black woman in her midthirties stepped inside. “Come on in, Auntie,” she said, grasping the arm of a tiny white-haired woman with a walker.
“Hi,” Brooke said, standing. “I’m Brooke Trappnell. Can I help you?”
“This is a nice office,” the elderly woman said, looking around. “You reckon this is the right place?” She gave Brooke a warm smile. “We’re looking for a lady lawyer.”
“I’m a lady lawyer,” Brooke said.
“See, Auntie Vee? It is her.”
“Wait,” Brooke said, startled. “Auntie Vee. Is your aunt Varina Shaddix?”
“That’s right. And I’m her great-niece Felicia Shaddix. My aunt’s cousin Louette called this week and said you might be in contact. We were coming up from Jacksonville today anyway, to see about a headstone for my great-uncle, and I just decided to drop in and see what you wanted with my aunt.”