The High Tide Club

“Four girls in one bed?” Lizzie wrinkled her nose at the idea.

“Four very drunk girls,” Josephine said. “I was the tallest, and Ruth wasn’t exactly tiny, but Millie and Varina were so petite, they didn’t take up any room at all.” She yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth. “Oh my. Maybe I overdid it tonight. Or maybe it’s just these damn pills.” The old woman shook herself slightly as though she were shaking off her weariness. “I can’t remember who woke up first, but I know it was early, because that bed was facing east, so the sun was shining right in our eyes.”

“Y’all didn’t hear me creeping out of that bed, getting sick in the middle of the night, I guess,” Varina said. She held her head between her hands at the memory of it. “Ooh, I had a headache, and I’d never been so sick in my life.”

Felicia laughed. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I just can’t picture you hungover.”

“Girls do lots of crazy things when they’re young,” Varina said. “I seem to remember your mama and daddy putting up with all kinds of foolishness from you.”

“That’s true,” Felicia agreed. “I was a real handful.”

“We were all a little worried, because it was Sunday morning, and we didn’t want Varina to get in trouble for missing church, so we got dressed and hurried back to Oyster Bluff. We hadn’t gotten very far when I spotted something up ahead, in the middle of the road. As I got closer, I could see it was buzzards. Three of the biggest, boldest buzzards I’d ever seen. There was another, pecking at something off in the tall grass. And they didn’t fly off, even when the car was almost on top of them. At first I assumed it was a dead animal, like a deer or a feral hog or something. But as we got closer, I realized it was … a person.”

“I’ll bet it was Russell Strickland,” Lizzie said.

“Was he…?” Marie’s hand reached for her wineglass, but it was empty.

“Yes. He was dead.” Josephine looked back at the sideboard, where another bottle of port rested on a silver trivet. She pointed at Gabe. “Be a dear and fetch that, will you? We’re all going to need another drink.”

* * *

When everyone but Varina had a refilled glass, Josephine went on talking.

“He must have weighed nearly 250 pounds, and of course, all of it was deadweight. I still don’t know how we managed to lift him. I suppose it was adrenaline or something. Somehow, we got him into the rumble seat, and then, of course, we had to figure out what to do with the body.”

“Wait! Hold the phone,” Felicia said, her voice rising. “How did he die? Who killed him? Are you saying you just hid the body?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Varina nodded calmly. “That’s right.”

“But how did he die?” Lizzie persisted. “It was Russell Strickland, right? So who killed him?”

“Yes, it was him. He’d been shot. He didn’t tell us who did it, and we didn’t ask,” Josephine said.

Gabe had been silent throughout most of the dinner, but now he was shaking his head. “You didn’t notify law enforcement?”

“We did not,” Josephine said.

“Why not? He’d been murdered. A crime had been committed.”

“Russell Strickland was a monster,” Josephine said, her voice cold, detached even. “We’ve already established that. Varina saw him assault Millie. He was twice her size! He would have kept on assaulting her, and nobody could have stopped him. Whoever killed him did the world a favor.”

“So you got rid of the body. Just like that?” Gabe reached for the port bottle. “You didn’t wonder who the murderer was?”

“It didn’t matter. The four of us—Millie, Ruth, Varina, and me—we all agreed not to ask any questions. And never to tell what had happened. And we didn’t.”

“Until tonight,” Brooke said.

“Do I dare ask what you did with the body?” Gabe asked.

Josephine regarded him with cool dispassion. “Why do you want to know? Are you going to report me to the authorities?”

“I am an officer of the court,” Gabe said. He nodded toward Brooke. “And so is she. Did you kill him?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t tell you,” Josephine said.

“Do you know who killed him, Auntie?” Felicia peered at her great-aunt.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. We swore that night, and I won’t go back on my word,” Varina said.

“It couldn’t have been you,” Felicia said forcefully. “You’re the most God-fearing woman I’ve ever known. You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Varina gave her an indulgent smile. “Child, we are all sinners in this world. I have tried to live the Lord’s word the best way I know how, but the Bible tells us we are all born sinners, craving the Lord’s forgiveness.”

“It couldn’t have been Granny, no matter what he did to her,” Brooke said. “I bet she didn’t even know how to fire a gun.”

“We all knew how to shoot,” Josephine corrected her. “We learned to shoot sporting clays at summer camp. And of course, Gardiner taught me how to hunt.” She pointed at a pair of impressive deer mounts on the wall above the sideboard. “That eight-point buck is one I shot when I was twelve. That one”—she pointed to the mount on the right—“Gardiner shot just a week before the party.”

She nodded at Varina. “You know how to shoot, don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” Varina said. “On an island like this—with rattlesnakes and gators and wild hogs, every family has a gun and every child learns how to shoot it, even little bitty girls like me. My daddy had a big ol’ pistol, and he made me learn how to use it.”

“This is just unbelievable,” Lizzie said, slapping the tabletop for emphasis. “But it doesn’t really solve the big mysteries of the night. What happened to Russell Strickland’s body? Was it ever discovered? Granny’s scrapbooks just covered the year he disappeared. And it was a huge story at the time.”

“To my knowledge, the body was never found,” Josephine said.

32

October 1941

Harley Shaddix’s shoulders sagged as he parked the rusted pickup in front of Shellhaven. Samuel Bettendorf had been waiting for him, nervously pacing back and forth in front of the house, wearing a path in the lush green grass.

Dusk was approaching. Most of their houseguests had departed on the four o’clock ferry, including Millie Everhart’s mother and grandmother, but it had been hours since anyone had seen or heard from Russell Strickland. The knot of worry burned in his gut.

The hound tethered to a cleat in the bed of the pickup truck hung his head over the side, panting heavily.

“Anything?” Bettendorf asked.

“No, sir,” Harley said. He pointed at his dog. “Butch, he picked up a scent out in that dove field and followed it right close to the deer stand. Then, coming back down the road, he acted like he picked it up again, but I couldn’t find no sign of Mr. Strickland.”

“His kit and all his clothes and suitcases are still in his room,” Bettendorf said. “I can’t tell what’s missing, other than his shotgun. Poor Millie is so upset, I hate to ask her to look through his things. Josephine and Ruth are with her now, trying to keep her calm.”