Tell No Lies (11 page)

Frowning, Augusta went back to snatch the photograph of Sam off the counter. She tucked it into her purse and grabbed her cell phone before leading Tango out the front door, feeling completely unsettled. On the porch, Tango whined when she stopped to untangle his leash from around the cell phone in her hand. “Hold on, boy,” she appealed.

She had forgotten how eerie Oyster Point could be when no one was around. Even in broad daylight, there was something about being at the end of a lonely road, with only one way out, surrounded by the croaking marsh, that had always given her a bit of the willies. Add to that her reservations about the property’s history and it wasn’t exactly a place she had ever longed to be. Flo must be laughing it up in her grave right now to have forced her into sleeping under this wretched roof again.

It didn’t help much that Cody’s disappearance brought Sammy to mind, and that today of all days she would find Sammy’s photo lying on the kitchen counter.

Sweat beaded between her breasts, dampening her bra. August in Charleston had always been a bit of a steam bath and anything but white cotton in this weather was a mistake, but Tango couldn’t wait long enough for her to change out of her funeral garb, so she adjusted her bra, then wrapped the leash about her hand, and took the opportunity to look around.

Oyster Point was completely isolated at the end of Fort Lamar Road, but with the nearby woodlands decimated, it seemed vulnerable and open to scrutiny, even with the front gates closed. She had the feeling someone was watching . . . probably just paranoia. Lightning never struck twice in the same place, right? Simply because her sister had found herself in the crosshairs of a killer didn’t mean Augusta was in danger. In fact, Augusta thought maybe they were safer than most, because they were now living under a magnifying glass. Still, she wasn’t stupid enough to wander off alone without her cell and didn’t plan to take Tango far from the house.

Her sisters were at the Simmonses’ by now, and Sadie and Josh were probably there, as well. Augusta wondered if they would find a way to get past the argument, or if they would walk around avoiding each other forever. Knowing Savannah, she wouldn’t let Sadie go very long without another attempt at an apology.

Her gaze was drawn to the peeling blue paint on the porch ceiling. The entire house needed to be repainted at some point, and the looming restorations were beginning to weigh heavily upon her. If she didn’t begin soon, she would never get them done in time and in accordance with her mother’s will. Her sisters would never forgive her if she cheated them all out of thirty-seven million dollars.

Hell, they probably wouldn’t forgive her anyway.

Out of the corner of one eye, the old joggling board caught her attention. The sixteen-foot bench sat exactly where it had always sat, though, unlike the house itself, it sported a newish coat of green paint that hadn’t yet been buffed thin in the middle by too many rear ends. Augusta doubted anyone had sat on the bench since they were kids. Obviously, it was simply for show now, a throwback, not only to their youths, but to a bygone era. As children, she and her sisters had used the board to annoy one another. As far as benches went, it wasn’t an ideal place to sit, though it sat off to one side of the porch, surrounded by plants that offered a modicum of privacy. But Caroline in particular had used it often and Augusta was pretty sure it was where Caroline had gotten her first kiss from Jack. She smiled at the memory of her and Savannah hiding in the azaleas, spying on the two of them. Poor Savannah had always been dragged into her schemes.

On the other side of the porch, her mother had gathered a collection of rocking chairs, all handmade by a local craftsman. True to the man’s word, the chairs had outlasted Flo’s lifetime, and probably would outlast theirs, too, although the thought of growing old sitting on this particular porch, staring out at the bowing spartina grass, didn’t do much for her peace of mind.

Tango tugged her down the stairs, past the gravel drive and into the grass. She was still clutching the cell phone in her hand when it rang, startling her. And then her heart leapt again at the sight of the number on the caller ID.
Ian
.

She dropped the phone on the edge of the gravel drive—fortunately in the grass. “Shit!” she said and bent to pick it up, fumbling with it. “H-Hi,” she stammered, and rolled her eyes at the note of desperation in her voice.

“Hi,” he said, and then without preamble, “I owe you an apology, Augusta.”

Augusta didn’t know what to say. She was just glad to hear his voice.

“Look, I appreciate that you paid my bail. It was ungrateful of me not to say so to begin with. Can you forgive me?”

He sounded sincere, with none of the anger that had seemed directed at her yesterday. Augusta’s heart twisted a little. “Of course . . . I told you, Ian . . . I believe in you.”

She heard him blow out a sigh. “Listen,” he said, getting to the point. “I wouldn’t have called . . . except I need your help.”

“Of course,” she said again and stood there, clutching Tango’s leash, trying to sort through the emotions that assaulted her—most notably disappointment. Her sister’s words echoed in her head:
You’re not thinking clearly where he’s concerned.

“My house has been crawling with reporters,” he continued. “Do you think you could meet me at The Shack?”

Her heart lurched. “In Folly?

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Augusta took a deep breath, her emotions rocketing, feeling giddy in a way she hadn’t in far too long. Maybe he was simply using her, maybe not. She heard sincerity in his tone. She wanted to believe that if the circumstances were different, their relationship would be also. “Sure,” she said. “Let me finish walking the dog and I’ll be on my way.”

There was a moment of silence, and then he offered, “Want me to pick you up? I know you hate driving that boat of a car.”

“No,” she said at once, and smiled because he’d remembered. “I’m getting used to it.” Uncertain what else to say, and feeling awkward, she offered, “See you in about twenty minutes?”

“See you then,” he said.

Augusta hung up and grinned, realizing belatedly that she had been so excited, she’d hung up without even saying good-bye.

So what if he’d called just because he needed her help? It was a start, she reasoned. Simply hearing his voice made her feel better somehow. She waited for Tango to finish his duty, then led him back toward the house, cutting his walk short.

Her mother’s dog stared at her, dark eyes full of censure. If Augusta didn’t know better, she might think Flo had taught him that look.

“What?” she asked defensively. “The days of long walks are over,” she argued as though he could possibly comprehend what she was saying. “At least for a while,” she reasoned.

Tango stared at her.

“Hey, be glad I don’t make you pee on newspaper!”

He flipped his black tail back and forth and peered toward the woods, and Augusta gave him a gentle tug, starting him back toward the porch, feeling guilty. Poor dog couldn’t possibly understand everything that was going on. Even if Ian hadn’t called, she wouldn’t have gone traipsing through the woods—not with dusk falling. She gave Tango a pat on the head when he listened, and then made sure he was settled and fed, before checking her makeup in the foyer mirror. At her reflection, she shook her head, thinking Sadie must be right about the mirror being haunted, because right now, she looked a little like the living dead. Hopefully, Ian wouldn’t notice. She gave Tango a last pat and rushed out the door.

 

From his vantage point on the patio, Ian watched as Augusta pulled up in front of The Shack and finagled a parking spot large enough for that rig she drove—her mother’s, she had said. The vintage Town Car was difficult to miss, with its mint-condition lemon-yellow paint job—about as hard to miss as that undercover car sitting outside the T-shirt shop. It was the same car that had been positioned outside his house earlier—about as inconspicuous as fireworks with its short radio antennae on the trunk lid, the front bumper lights and remote spotlights.

Ignoring the car, he set his beer down and watched Augusta walk up, starved suddenly, but not for food.

Today she was wearing black—black skirt, black shoes and black button-down shirt. She looked as though she had just come from a funeral—probably had. He’d heard on the news that the old lady whose grandson had gone missing had passed away. He felt bad for the family, and figured Augusta must have known them. From what he knew, their families ran in the same circles—at least her mother had. He still didn’t know all that much about the Aldridge girls, and all he knew about Augusta was that her mouth tasted like lime—that, and the girl had serious altruistic tendencies. He had never known anyone so ready to bleed for the world at large. Except for him. The simple fact that he had been so willing to set his life aside—sex, children, love—without any true religious conviction, solely for the purpose of helping others, seemed extreme . . . but only now that he had met Augusta.

He watched her walk up to the front door, and stop at the hostess stand. She must have asked where he was seated, because the hostess poked her head into the patio and so did Augusta. She waved, said something to the waitress and walked his way.

Like some kid in high school, his palms began to sweat and the monster in his pants stirred. Damn it to hell. It was almost as though she had her own little relationship with his penis and the little Benedict Arnold didn’t give a crap what Ian had to say about any of it.

His heartbeat skipped as she slid into the seat across from him and gave him a tentative smile—one that was so sweet he had to stop himself from reaching out to brush a wisp of hair from her lips.

“Hi,” she said, looking a little uncertain.

Ian wanted to kiss her before saying another word, but he held back. “Glad you came,” he offered instead.

“So what’s the mystery?”

Ian sucked in a fortifying breath and decided to get straight to the point. Neither of them was much for beating around bushes. There was a lot they had in common; he sensed that without needing to be told. “I lied,” he admitted. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

Augusta braced herself for the next words to come out of his mouth.

She wasn’t really sure she wanted to know what he’d lied about—especially since he’d thrown it out there before she was even settled in her chair. She set her purse on the seat beside her and demanded, “Okay, so spill it.”

He stretched back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I’m still looking for Jennifer.”

A feeling of relief swept through her, and she sucked in the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That’s not news to me, Ian. I was pretty sure you wouldn’t give up.”

He tilted his head, the gesture a little boyish and uncertain, completely at odds with the hard lines of his face and his day’s growth of whiskers. “I didn’t think you’d buy it. I just didn’t want you involved. You understand that, right?”

Augusta lifted a brow. “But you do now?”

His pale blue eyes pierced her. “No.”

“So what’s changed?”

“Like I said, I need your help.”

Augusta tried to look away, but his gaze held her fast. She couldn’t even begin to understand what it was about this man that held her so enthralled. “What is it you need from me, exactly?” she asked, resigned to help him however she could. The unfortunate truth was that she was beginning to believe she would give Ian anything he asked for.

But he wasn’t asking for that, apparently. “I just need to know if Jennifer Williams ever applied for a job at the paper.”

Augusta furrowed her brow, surprised by the request. “The
Tribune
?”

“Would you like a beer?” the waiter interrupted. His tone wasn’t particularly friendly, and Augusta peered up at the guy—a surfer-type dude in his early twenties. Her gaze zeroed in on the bottle in front of Ian. She raised a brow. “No, thank you,” she said, and gave a little laugh. The last time she’d had alcohol with Ian, they’d ended up not even in bed, but on the beach, and the smell of wet sand and salt air was far too near. “Tea,” she told the waiter, clearing her throat.

“Sweet or unsweetened?”

Augusta smiled, largely for the waiter’s sake, because she felt so anxious at the moment that she really thought she might puke. “You mean I have a choice?” she quipped. It used to be that restaurants in the South gave you sweetened tea, nothing else. The waiter gave her a nod, seeming not to understand her question, or maybe not in the mood for jokes. He eyed Ian circumspectly. “Unsweetened,” she conceded. “Thank you.”

The waiter left, moving to another table at the other side of the patio to take an order. The couple there put their heads together when he left, and looked their way. Augusta turned to Ian, ignoring them. They probably recognized Ian—or her—but she refused to let them bother her, or give them the satisfaction of her annoyance. “I’m confused. Why would Jennifer Williams have applied at the paper?”

Ian took a long pull of his beer and set the bottle down in front of him, eyeing Augusta over the rim as he rocked the bottle on its edges. “She wanted to be a reporter once upon a time.”

“Did she actually
study
journalism?”

He shook his head. “She was a runaway,” he reminded her. “I doubt it.”

“Then she wouldn’t have gotten far with an application at the
Tribune.
Mom was a stickler about education. She barely allowed Caroline to intern there.”

“Could she have gotten a job as an intern maybe?”

Augusta shrugged. “Maybe, but I think Flo would probably have hired students. Still, I guess it’s possible.”

Ian nodded. “I would have asked your sister, but obviously, she doesn’t like me much.” He grinned, and Augusta laughed nervously, and shook her head.