Speak No Evil (22 page)

Augusta marched into the house, releasing the screen door without looking back, nearly smacking Caroline in the face.

Caroline threw her hand out to stop it and followed her in. “Stop running away!”

Augusta spun to face her like a human tornado, shrieking with indignation, “You’re kidding, right!”

Even Tango, who had been sleeping by the front door, whined and scurried away, tail between his legs.

“No, damn it! We were worried!”

“You’re such a hypocrite, Caroline! For years, you’ve been running from everything! You left this godforsaken piece of shit ten years ago without ever looking back. You rarely called me—and I’m sure you rarely called Savannah, but she’s too much of a martyr to ever complain! You thumbed your nose at everything about that stupid paper and everything Mother stood for and then you come back here and act like she was your hero or something! You step into her ruby red pumps, click your heels three times and suddenly she’s the Good Witch! At least I’m standing by what I’ve always said!”

Caroline took a step backward at the vehemence of her speech. “Seriously? All this because I was worried about you?”

Augusta’s eyes shot daggers through her. “No! All this because things don’t just change when you suddenly want them to,” she said, and with that, she turned and bolted up the stairs.

W
hile Tango stretched peacefully beside her on the bed, Caroline tossed and turned, remembering the look on Augusta’s face. Not even the memory of Jack’s loving could soothe the ulcer Augusta’s tirade had left on her soul.

Caroline had always felt closest to Augusta. Just eleven months apart, the two of them had always had so much in common, including their powerful discontent with their mother. Augie’s was just infinitely closer to the surface, while Caroline worked hard to bury hers beneath a mountain of apathy.

By the time she and Augusta had outgrown their dolls, Savannah had still been planning tea parties, inviting their mother who attended only by proxy—too busy even on a Saturday morning to linger over Sadie’s pancakes. Caroline and Augusta had accepted it, feeling sorry for Savannah who, with her perpetual optimism, kept an eternally empty place setting.

As they grew older, the chasm between them had widened, until even Savannah’s optimism had become a source of irritation—not just because Caroline couldn’t stand seeing her baby sister disappointed time after time, but because her sister’s wellspring of hope and goodwill only put a harsh spotlight on her own buried feelings.

When Caroline first heard the song “Cat’s in the Cradle,” she had easily placed Flo into the role of “Dad.” She didn’t know who Little Boy Blue was, or the Man on the Moon, but she knew intrinsically how they felt. What the song didn’t say could be read between the lines . . . the disappointment turned to anger—the “take-that-how-does-it-feel-Mom” attitude that Augusta promenaded instead of Dolce & Gabbana.

She tried to see things from her sister’s perspective, but couldn’t seem to get beyond the hurt inflicted by her anger and incrimination.

It seemed to Caroline that there was a volcanic buildup of emotion simmering just below the surface of Augusta’s skin, probably building since they were children. Caroline had just never realized that part of it was directed at her.

Augusta was right. Caroline had walked away and never looked back—until their mother’s death had jerked her home like a rubber band that had stretched too far. And then, her thoughts had been completely self-absorbed.

She had let both of her sisters down. Coupled with the look of surprise on Savannah’s face when she had relinquished the typewriter, Augusta’s indictment of her character left her feeling about as cold and selfish as a person could feel.

Her mother at least had the defense of mental illness. Flo had been clinically depressed ever since Sammy’s disappearance.

Listening to Tango’s easy breathing, Caroline wished she were a dog. Only a dog could sleep that peacefully, even in the face of loss.

He’d snuck the shoe into the bed again, she noticed, but she didn’t have the heart to take it away, though the sight of it creeped her out. She hoped, at least, that it was the left shoe, not the right. Something about it made her feel uneasy—even if Patterson had in fact come by it as innocently as he claimed.

Augusta certainly seemed willing enough to believe him, but Caroline couldn’t picture her mother simply losing a shoe out there in the woods . . . nor would she have let Tango run off with it.

Caroline was only glad Augusta was distracted with the fund-raiser. The last thing they needed was something else to argue about . . . or another cause for Augie to champion.

 

Karen Hutto’s house sat at the far end of East Ashley Avenue in one of the last remaining homes before the road leading to the abandoned Coast Guard station. During the peak of summer, people used the access to the beach, but during the off-season, the location might feel a little desolate, surrounded by older houses and acres of beach scrub. The sun-bleached yellow cottage, built on weathered stilts, with its faded gray roof and peeling trim paint, reminded Augusta of the woman who opened the door.

Petite, with slightly greasy, naturally wavy brown hair and blond highlights that hadn’t been touched up in months, Karen Hutto looked like a poster child for hopelessness. Dark circles ringed haunted eyes, and she wore a long T-shirt that had apparently seen its share of nervous worrying. The left corner was wrinkled and twisted, as though she had been sitting for hours, diligently working wrinkles into the material. The question in her eyes was mostly unconscious.

“Mrs. Hutto . . . I’m Augusta Aldridge.”

Karen Hutto’s eyes brightened slightly and she gave a little nod of recognition. “Caroline’s sister?”

Augusta nodded.

She opened her door wider. “Please come in,” she said. “I was . . .” She shrugged. “Well, reading.”

Uncertain whether this was the right thing to do, Augusta hesitated at the door, but here she was, so she might as well continue.

“What can I do for you?” Karen Hutto asked.

Augusta stepped into the house. “I just wanted to talk to you,” she said, a little hesitantly. “I thought maybe . . . I could . . . help . . . somehow.” But the word “help” suddenly felt completely disingenuous. She had come because Caroline believed Amanda Hutto’s disappearance was connected to Ian Patterson, and she hoped to get at the truth, so that if there wasn’t a connection, Caroline maybe wouldn’t feel so hell-bent on getting an innocent man prosecuted. However, faced with Karen Hutto’s obvious grief and pain, she wanted to apologize and turn around and leave.

But, ultimately, Augusta needed to pursue the truth. The only problem was . . . how to get at it without upsetting the fragile woman standing before her.

“I think I know how you must feel,” she began, and for once, the lame condolence at least had a backbone. “Not exactly . . . but I’m not sure if Caroline told you . . . our little brother disappeared the same way your daughter did. He was four.”

Karen Hutto’s eyes grew big and round and glassy. “Oh no! She didn’t tell me!”

“It’s okay . . . it was a long time ago,” Augusta said, and Karen ushered her into the living room, where she spilled her story and her guts.

 

“You’re never going to retire, are you?” Caroline asked Sadie.

Sadie stood over her stove, humming “In the Sweet By and By” as she lovingly wiped prints from the stainless steel. “Mornin’!” she declared, answering Caroline’s question with a backhanded admonishment. “This is not a kitchen that should be neglected and I don’t foresee you or your sisters ever giving it the care it deserves. Anyway, I went to the farmers’ market yesterday, picked up fresh fruit. I cut some oranges and pears and threw in a few blackberries for you.” She gestured toward the island.

After yet another restless night, Caroline couldn’t quite share Sadie’s morning bliss, but she was grateful for the company and the breakfast. If she felt empty inside, at least her stomach would be full.

Venturing into the kitchen, she sat down at the island. “So I guess you’ve added Sundays to your list of days to donate to the Aldridge cause?”

Sadie’s answer was full of exasperation. “Child, how many times have I told you I am here because I want to be—maybe one of these days you’re going to believe me!”

Caroline understood the concept of caring about people. What she didn’t understand was why Sadie would continue to perform duties she had been paid to do her entire life when she no longer had to. “Have you at least eaten?”

Sadie smiled. “Long before you even thought about wiping the sleep from those mile-long lashes. Did you know people are tattooing their eyelids now? Can you imagine having needles that close to your eyes?”

She was changing the subject of course, but it made Caroline smile. “You always seem to know exactly what to say to make me feel better.”

Sadie walked over to the island to continue her cleanup there. “I helped raise your bony little behind, eah me, so I know what’s bothering you even before you realize something is bothering you.” She crooked a finger at her. “Just you remember that.”

Caroline studied Sadie’s face. Time didn’t appear to have aged her at all, despite the blood and sweat she put into their household. In fact, she seemed to endure, even when no one else did. Hers was the loving hand that persistently stitched and re-stitched the frazzled threads of their family tapestry together.

“I love you, Sadie.”

The words came out before she even realized she was thinking them. But it was the first time in memory Caroline had ever said those three words to Sadie and Sadie’s eyes grew suspiciously moist. “I know, child.”

Caroline pulled the bowl of fruit near and stared at the medley of oranges, greens and deep purples. For a moment, she couldn’t talk, knowing Sadie was watching her much too closely. A lump the size of an orange wedged in her throat. Tears came before she could stop them. She brushed them away. “I can’t seem to find my way, Sadie,” she said, her voice catching on a sob.

“But you will.” Sadie’s black eyes sparkled. “You’ve got your mama’s tenacious spirit.”

More tears came.

Sadie put down her sponge, but didn’t run to Caroline’s side, knowing Caroline’s instinct would be to push her away. “You don’t need to listen to your sister, eah me? Augusta is battling her own demons—as we all do. She’s doing the best she can. Just as you are doing the best you can. Sometimes we figure it out and sometimes we don’t, but we’re all just human, baby girl. We’re all just putting one foot in front of the other, eah.”

Caroline dried her eyes. “I feel like she hates everything about me!”

Sadie shook her head. “No, ma’am, she does not. She loves you—just like somewhere deep down she loves your mama, too. Augusta is just a scared little girl. She shows her fear—and her love—through anger. I know that’s why she gets so mad at me, too!” She crooked a finger at Caroline, as though she wanted to say something more and then shook her head. “Look, don’t you worry about Augusta, eah . . . she’s going to figure everything out . . . just like you.”

Caroline nodded. “I guess this is why you came by this morning?”

Sadie hitched her chin, her hands going to her hips in a gesture of challenge. “Why?”

Caroline picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of fruit. “To make me feel better after last night?”

Sadie sighed. “I came here because you couldn’t be more my child if they had dragged you kicking and screaming out of me, eah! Yes, I knew you were gonna be upset.”

Caroline opened her mouth to respond, but Sadie wasn’t quite finished.

“
And
I’m here for the same damned reason my great-grandmother didn’t run screaming out of this place when they gave her her freedom—and the same damned reason her daughter and my mother didn’t find themselves another job when they had every right to. For more than one hundred eighty damned years we Childreses and Aldridges have been tighter than ticks, and just because the color of my skin isn’t the same as yours doesn’t make me any less kin to you, Caroline.”

Caroline opened her mouth to speak again, but Sadie raised a finger, shushing her.

“What’s more, I loved that stubborn fool mama of yours! She was my friend, not just my boss—though I assure you we had our years of strife.”

“You and Mama?” Caroline would never have guessed. Flo had never once said a cross word to or about Sadie.

“Yes, me and your mama! Like I said, we are all only human, eah—all of us have our faults. Some of us keep ours a little closer to the surface and some bury them deep down.”

Caroline chewed over that bit of info, along with her fruit. Curiosity got the best of her. “What would you and Mama have to fight about? Us?”

“Now that is none of your concern!” Sadie declared. “And while we’re at it, you might as well know that your mama tried to give me half this property ten years ago, along with a share of the
Tribune,
but I told her no.”

Caroline shrugged. “What was the point in holding her off? She ended up giving it to you anyway after she died, right? You could have been enjoying it ten years sooner.”

“Because I wanted her to think real hard about giving a piece of the land to the city like we talked about. My life isn’t going to change much either way—what’s an old woman like me gonna do with a bunch of burnt up bricks and way too many acres of stinkin’ plough mud?”

“S
o you’re here because you
don’t
believe Patterson is connected to Amanda’s disappearance?” There was a heartbreaking mix of fear and hope in Karen Hutto’s eyes.

Augusta was careful responding, reminding herself that truth was what she was after. She wasn’t here to prove Patterson innocent—unless, of course, he was. “No. I’m not. But I’m afraid my sister is so obsessed with finding answers that maybe she’s too willing to stop asking the right questions. My sister cares an awful lot, Ms. Hutto, but I believe she’s too close to this. It’s entirely possible that Patterson is innocent and if we’re so quick to pin it on him, we might miss . . . the truth.”

Karen Hutto’s eyes gleamed with sudden anger. “What makes you think that man is innocent?”

If coming to Patterson’s defense was the impression she was giving, then she was no better than Caroline, she realized. “I’m not saying that either. It’s just that a man’s entire life hangs in the balance—if he is innocent . . .”

Augusta let that possibility hang between them, hoping Karen Hutto would see the injustice.

“But he’s not innocent! It takes a monster to molest a child and that man has already had charges filed against him for that. I can’t even stand the thought of him touching . . .” She choked suddenly

Augusta took a deep breath. “But that’s my point, Ms. Hutto. Those charges were dropped nearly two years ago. That girl in Murrells Inlet admitted she lied. But it doesn’t seem to matter to anyone. No matter what he does now, he’s guilty. Your daughter could still be out there . . . somewhere . . . all I’m saying is that I want to help you find her. I think if we can find out what happened to her, my sister will begin to see the bigger picture a little more clearly.”

Karen Hutto shook her head. “It’s been nearly three months already. We put out flyers. The police searched everywhere. They even had the river dragged. We’ve searched and searched and searched!” She started to cry, burying her face in her hands. “I don’t know what else to do!”

Augusta felt tears well up in her eyes. Moved by the depth of the woman’s sorrow, she found her own long-forgotten pain trickling in. “Ms. Hutto . . . I want to put some of my own personal resources into this,” Augusta said. “I want to offer ten thousand dollars to anyone who can lead us to Amanda . . . or the arrest of the person responsible for her disappearance.”

There was always the chance Amanda had wandered near the water, but Augusta didn’t remind her mother of that. The woman probably already suffered a mountain of guilt.

Karen Hutto’s head came up in surprise. She blinked, squeezing tears from her eyes. They rolled down her cheeks. “You would do that?”

Augusta picked nervously at her thumbnail with her index finger. “I want to help you find her,” she said.

Ms. Hutto’s hand went to her mouth. Her tears came freely now. Augusta let her weep without disturbing her. It was clear she had been through too much already.

She didn’t remember her mother losing it like this, but she couldn’t help wondering if Flo had cried this way when there was no one else around . . . in her room . . . into her pillow.

“What about Amanda’s dad?” she asked once the woman’s sobs had subsided. “Do we need his permission?”

Karen Hutto shook her head, her eyes darkening considerably. “He’s not in the picture anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“He and I were in the middle of a custody battle when Amanda disappeared.”

Augusta nodded, surprised.

Ms. Hutto’s eyes glittered with animosity. “Last year, I pressed charges for endangerment because he fell asleep drunk with a lit cigarette in his mouth while Amanda was sleeping in his house. Now this—he was supposed to pick her up for school that day . . . I went to work—but I had to go!”

She started to cry again and Augusta grimaced.

But while she sat there listening to Karen Hutto spill a gutful of vitriol about her husband, she knew with certainty that this was the right thing to do. There had never been any mention of a bitter custody battle in any of the papers—not even in the
Post,
and she had made it a point to read everything she could get her hands on before reaching out to Patterson. If all these events could be explained separately, the case against Ian might be nothing more than a heaping pile of circumstantial evidence.

 

At six o’clock, the July heat clotted the air.

It was difficult to believe the fourth would mark two months since their mother’s death.

The fine sheen of sweat at the back of Caroline’s neck dampened her hair so she pulled the long auburn strands into a ponytail, twisted it absently, and fanned herself twice before releasing it—an old habit.

She had forgotten how muggy summers could be in Charleston, but this was somehow worse, because while the mercury was rising, so was the humidity. There was a front passing over the Gulf Stream, bringing moist air inland from the ocean, along with a summer storm with predicted flooding. At the moment, however, the spartina grass lay undisturbed across the salt marsh. The scent of brackish water permeated the stagnant breeze, and in the utter stillness of the afternoon, it was difficult to believe someone was out there hurting people.

Maybe Amy Jones’s death was an isolated incident?

Six weeks had passed since her body was discovered . . . and all was quiet. If Ian Patterson was guilty, maybe keeping him under a spotlight had kept him on his best behavior? Or maybe the killer was gone?

In any case, the creeping sense of dread that had permeated the city after Amy Jones’s death was fading now and it was hard to see the ugliness in a world surrounded by beauty.

From where she sat, the salt marsh seemed to stretch for miles. Sitting on the pier, with her back to the house, she could easily imagine herself in another place and time.

A brown pelican landed on the end of the dock a few feet away. She watched it nose around, looking for food, but their dock hadn’t seen gutted fish in far too long to remain of any interest and the bird took flight again, looking for richer bounty.

As far as the eye could see, the surrounding wetlands had once been planted in cotton and rice fields, tended by the hands of slaves, but these lands had never really belonged to anyone, Caroline mused. Her family might hold documents giving them the right to build here, but if the land and sea weren’t amenable, even the sturdiest bricks would come tumbling down.

The ruins on their property were a perfect example. The instant the flames had cooled, the land had begun to swallow the remnants, enfolding the structure brick by brick, taking it back into the earth from which it was built. Now, all that was left of the old Georgian house was a pile of scorched bricks hugged by vines and painted with moss.

No matter what men built here, eventually, it all returned to the wild. The best you could hope for was a temporary alliance. But even that was tentative.

Right where she sat some claimed one of South Carolina’s most pivotal battles had taken place. Cloaked in twilight, thirty-five hundred Union soldiers had descended on Fort Lamar, treading though swamps that sucked them down to their thighs. Had that battle been lost, the Union might have forced the Confederates out of Charleston two years earlier, but a victory bought Charleston two more years of free human labor. After the war, the plough mud had been too soft to support machinery and the rice and cotton industries ended—for all but those whose slaves remained despite their newly won freedom. Caroline hated to admit her family was one of those, so she pretended their dysfunction didn’t have roots as deep as the Angel Oak Tree’s. Like Augusta, she didn’t know how Sadie could look out into these wetlands and not feel the overwhelming need to go someplace where there was no memory of the past and the scent of magnolias didn’t linger like old-lady perfume.

God only knew, she had felt that way for most of her life.

Ironically, she was finding her peace with it now only after the woman who had brought her into this world was no longer in it.

The sad truth was . . . the only real chance to know her mother now was literally through this house . . . and her role at the paper. Too late, she realized her mother had been just a human being doing the best she could on any given day.

Although Caroline’s grandmother had outlived her grandfather, she’d died shortly after Caroline was born, so essentially Flo had weathered every life storm alone—the loss of her son, her husband, the estrangement of her daughters—except for loyal Sadie, who remained steadfast at her side through it all. Those two had had a depth of friendship Caroline was only now beginning to understand. But no one had ever handed Florence Willodean Aldridge a guidebook. She’d learned to be a mother, an heiress and a newspaperwoman all on her own. That knowledge filled Caroline with an intense feeling of sorrow and regret.

The sun was setting, painting the marsh with a warm blush that gave at least the impression of serenity, but Caroline didn’t feel any of it in her soul.

Luckily, her eyes were open in time that maybe she could begin repairing her relationships. That was the one real gift her mother had given her, she realized—the dead certainty that she never wanted to feel this much regret again.

One by one, she intended to make things right—with Augusta, Jack, Frank, Savannah—with every life she had the chance to touch.

And with those she couldn’t help—like the Karen Huttos of the world—she would have to find a way to be okay with it. Or she would go crazy. No one could carry such a burden and not lose something of herself. In retrospect, it was easy to see why her mother had withdrawn to deal with her losses.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

Caroline started at the unexpected interruption, but recognizing the voice as Jack’s, she didn’t bother getting up. She peered back to find him walking purposefully down the dock toward her, as handsome as ever, even when he was unkempt. The man really needed a woman’s touch so he didn’t look like he’d crawled out of a laundry basket.

“Trying to keep up with the Joneses?”

Caroline caught his reference, and shivered, despite the heat. “Where’d you pick up that morbid sense of humor, Mr. Shaw?”

He winked at her, but didn’t answer.

Apparently, that was Jack’s price to pay—the loss of his innocence—what little he’d held on to after his mother’s death. “The real question is . . . what are you doing here?”

“Apparently, I couldn’t wait around like a good little boy for you to call me.” He bent behind her, nipping her playfully on the shoulder.

Caroline shivered again, drawing her knees up, hugging them defensively—a last bulwark against the ambush he waged on her body and heart.

He sat down beside her. “Seriously, this is not the place for a beautiful woman to be alone.”

Caroline laughed. “Beautiful?”

“Quite!”

Even through his joking, she picked up the note of concern in his tone. “I’m within plain sight of the house,” she reasoned.

“So was the late Ms. Jones.”

Except
that
house was empty, with no guardian eyes peering out from inside; still, Caroline didn’t bother pointing that fact out. She didn’t want to talk about Amy Jones right now, and she knew Jack better than to believe he couldn’t wait for a phone call from her. He was the most stubborn man she had ever known and he had gone an entire ten years without calling her even once, despite the fact that he claimed to love her. His patience was not always a virtue. But he was genuinely worried, she realized. “It’s still light out. I would have gone in,” she reassured. “Eventually.”

“Eventually could get you killed,” he persisted.

“Jack . . . there haven’t been any more murders.”

He brought up one knee and linked his hands before him, looking down at the dock. “I know.”

“Jesus! Don’t sound disappointed!”

“It’s not that, Caroline. I know what I know. It’s not over.”

Caroline bit the inside of her lip. “What if you’re wrong, Jack?”

He squinted against the setting sun. “I hope I am.”

“But you don’t believe you are?”

He shook his head.

“I’m just throwing this out there . . . and it’s not a personal indictment, because I am just as guilty . . .”

He threw a hand up to stop her. “I know what you’re going to say even before you say it.”

“Listen, Jack . . . I ran that story because I believed in your intuition, but at some point, we have to concede that maybe Jack Shaw’s infallible gut is not really all that infallible.”

He remained silent, listening.

“I’m just thinking out loud here, but so far, we have nothing but circumstantial evidence—not one thing. . . .”

He was still listening, so she kept talking.

“You can’t even get CPD to publicly acknowledge the possibility of a serial homicide, because no matter how you look at it, there is
still
only one body. And everything both of us have done since the discovery of that body has hinged on one thing: the fact that you believe there’s a killer out there.”

He tilted her a questioning look. “Look, all I’m saying is that maybe we are wrong, Jack . . . maybe we should start thinking about that.”

“I can’t,” he said darkly.

“Can’t or won’t?”

He grinned suddenly, unexpectedly. “Can’t—because my feeble, male brain has been hijacked.” He winked at her when she cast a questioning look his way.

He was staring at her, Caroline realized, specifically her mouth, and the realization that she still had that sort of power over him gave her a heady feeling. Her voice softened and she smiled. “So what are you really doing here?”