The High Tide Club

“Except that Lizzie, as astute a journalist as she is, is not a forensic archivist,” Gabe said.

“Give me a week. One week, that’s all I ask,” Lizzie chimed in. “I’ll put everything in order and notify you of anything and everything I find.”

“Please, Gabe?” Brooke asked.

He glanced at his watch. “All right. I’ve got court up in Glynn County this afternoon. You’ve got a week, Lizzie, then I really have to insist that you decamp. Let me know what you find.”

47

“Who died and left him boss?” Lizzie asked.

“Josephine did, remember?” Felicia said. She picked up an envelope from the card table. “Find anything interesting yet in all this mess?”

“Lots. Josephine really led a fascinating life. She was a prodigious letter writer.” Lizzie picked up a file folder. “She was mad as hell at her ‘dear cousins’ for selling their land to the state. There are carbon copies here of all the letters she sent—to them, to her state representative, the governor. She even wrote letters to Jimmy Carter. Turns out she contributed a hundred bucks to his campaign when he ran for governor of Georgia, so naturally she thought he should intervene on her behalf.”

“Did he write back?”

“Nope. And when she didn’t hear from him, she fired off a scathing follow-up letter telling him she was glad she’d voted for Ronald Reagan against him,” Lizzie said.

Brooke sighed. “Well, you heard the man. You’ve only got a week before Gabe kicks you out of here and cuts off your access to these papers.”

“What exactly are you looking for?” Felicia asked, sitting in Josephine’s recliner, a seat Brooke had consciously.

“Answers. Why did Josephine cut off contact with Millie and Ruth—and Varina, to some extent? I mean, she went to all that trouble having Brooke invite us over here, but she never really gave us any answers. And of course, I’m hoping to figure out this thing with the unsolved disappearance of Russell Strickland,” said Lizzie.

“Wasting your time,” Felicia said. “Why don’t you find some way to prove that C. D. wasn’t Josephine’s son?”

“I’ve been trying, but like Brooke said, there are a ton of papers just in that secretary. I did find these, though.” She picked up a shoe box and held it out.

Felicia and Brooke peered into the box, which held a jumble of small, thin leather-bound books. Brooke picked one up at random. The cover was stamped in gold with 1965.

“Datebooks?”

“Yup. They start in 1938 and run all the way through the mideighties. And before you ask, I’ve looked at the relevant years. No mention of killing anybody or birthing any illegitimate babies.”

Brooke riffled the pages of the book in her hand and read aloud from the first entry. “‘Dentist appointment, Brunswick, January 12.’ And then there’s this, in February: ‘Lunch with Emma.’”

Lizzie nodded. “From what I can tell from skimming her calendars, she had a lot of lunch dates, played bridge with some ladies at the Cloister every other week, went to fund-raisers for various good causes, and she was diligent about getting her teeth cleaned and her cars and boat serviced. She also noted the tide charts, how many deer and feral hogs were shot on the island, and how many sea turtle nests she observed on the beach every summer.”

“Do we know what year C. D. was born?” Felicia asked.

“He claims he was born in ’42,” Brooke said.

Lizzie sifted through the shoe box contents. “Here’s the datebook from 1942. Help yourself, but I’m telling you there’s nothing about having a baby.”

Felicia pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and began skimming, turning pages, occasionally reading aloud. “Josephine was living in Savannah then, right?”

“Yes,” Brooke said. “Once the war started, her father closed up Shellhaven. I believe he went back to Boston, but Josephine lived in a town house in Savannah that her family owned.”

Felicia ran her finger down the calendar pages. “War bond drives. Bridge parties. Luncheons. Dinners. Josephine was quite the social butterfly. Wait. Here’s a notation about a doctor’s appointment. In February,” Felicia said.

Brooke looked over Felicia’s shoulder. “But it doesn’t say the doctor’s name.”

“No.” Felicia turned over a few more pages. “Another one in April. Still no doctor’s name.”

Brooke looked down at the penciled notation. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I mean, maybe she had heartburn. Or migraines. Or bunions.”

“Or God forbid, a bun in the oven,” Felicia said dryly.

“Hey!” Lizzie said, lightly punching Felicia’s arm. “That was funny! You actually do have a sense of humor.”

Felicia looked from Lizzie to Brooke. “Did you think otherwise?”

“You seem pretty serious most of the time,” Brooke said.

“I think that’s Southern for ‘You go around acting like you have a stick up your butt,’” Lizzie said. “Maybe you could lighten up just a little?”

Felicia blinked, then pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “You sound like some of my students. I mean, I teach African American studies. It’s serious stuff. And as an African American woman, I’ve spent my whole career trying to take my work seriously.”

“We’re not your students,” Lizzie pointed out. “We’re your friends. Or we’re trying to be.”

“Okay. Point taken. Lighten up. Loosen up. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Turn the page on that datebook. Any other interesting entries?” Lizzie asked.

“Hmm. Red Cross committee meeting. Junior League committee meeting.” Felicia flipped pages. “Bond drive.” She looked up, startled. “March 20. Maternity clothes.”

Lizzie reached for the datebook. “Let me see that.”

Felicia stabbed the notation with her index finger. “Right here. See?”

“It actually says, ‘Mtnty clothes,’ but yeah, you’re right. Shit. Maybe C. D. is for real,” Lizzie said. “Why else would she be shopping for maternity clothes?”

“Okay, I think we shouldn’t start jumping to conclusions,” Brooke said, trying to be the voice of caution. “Lizzie, maybe you and Felicia can team up to finish going through all Josephine’s papers.”

“Or maybe—” Lizzie started.

“We go to Savannah and start doing some primary research,” Felicia finished. “Talk to that Catholic whatever-it-is. Visit the orphanage where C. D. says he was raised.”

“Brilliant!” Lizzie beamed at her newfound colleague. “Let’s do it.” She turned to Brooke. “I say we head up to Savannah first thing in the morning. And since you’re a native daughter, you can be our Savannah tour guide.”

“I can’t just drop everything. I’ve got a job, you know. And a child,” Brooke said.

“Have your calls forwarded to your cell phone and get the babysitter to take care of the kid,” Lizzie said. “Come on, Brooke. You know people in Savannah, and we don’t. This is important. To all of us.”

“It’s just one day,” Felicia said.

Brooke sighed. “Okay. This is crazy, but I’ll do it.”