“No, I’ll get her myself.” Blair whizzed past her and reached the door before Sadie did. Nancy looked up, surprised. “I need your help, Nancy,” she said.
The woman sat at her cluttered desk, digging through a pile as if searching for something. “Blair, you’ve got a lot of nerve. After what you said about me at the city council meeting, you have the gall to ask for my help?”
Blair sighed. “Nancy, after all the things you’ve written in the past few months about Hanover House, you have a lot of nerve being insulted.”
Nancy set her chin on her palm. “What do you want?”
“I want to give you a story. News, Nancy. The real kind. The city council just served us papers. I need some publicity. You could do an article on this. You know it’s big news and the townspeople would want to know.”
“Of course,” she said, pulling a pencil from behind her ear. “Sit down.”
Blair looked suspicious, as if she knew better than to think Nancy could turn on a dime.
“I could write it!” Sadie said from the doorway. “I mean, living there and all, I could do a good job.”
“Sure you could,” Nancy said. “Come on in and sit down, Sadie.” She pulled a legal pad out from one of the stacks. “Here, take notes.”
Pride swelled in Sadie’s heart, but her stomach tightened. She hadn’t expected it to be quite that easy.
Blair wasn’t buying it, either. “Come on, Nancy. I was thinking you could probably devote a whole issue to it. Think of it. You could interview people who’ve stayed there over the years, do a piece about Joe and Miranda Hanover, interview people in the community about their feelings about the House. . . . No offense, Sadie, but I had a substantial article in mind.”
“I can’t give it a whole issue,” Nancy said. “Sadie can write it up, and if it’s any good, I’ll run it.”
Her noncommittal attitude worried Sadie as she followed Blair back to the front. “Do a good job, Sadie. Hanover House depends on it, and we’re not gonna get a lot of help from Nancy. Fax me the article when you’re finished with it, and I’ll proof it for you.”
Sadie felt as if the fate of the beloved home rested on her shoulders. She hoped they were strong enough to carry it.
She spent the rest of the day in a nervous flurry. She went to Hanover House and listened as Morgan gave her a quick rundown of the history of the house, complete with newspaper clippings and pictures of Joe and Miranda Hanover. She had Blair explain in detail what the city council was doing, then she rushed to Crickets and interviewed the few midday diners about their thoughts on the home.
She went back to the office and typed up the article, then faxed it to Blair at the library.
When Blair called five minutes later to say, “It looks great, Sadie. You got talent, kid,” Sadie wanted to dance and leap and let out a loud cheerleader whoop, but she had to act old enough to be a newspaper reporter. She took the article in to Nancy’s office.
Nancy was laying out the day’s edition, and Sadie saw with disappointment that the front page was already full.
“I finished the article,” she said. “I hope you like it. I can make any changes you want.”
Nancy took it and devoted three seconds to reading it over. Then she tossed it down. “Good job, Sadie, but I’m not going to put it in.”
“What? Why not?” Sadie picked it back up, feeling like a failure. “I can redo it. Maybe I just rushed too much. . . .”
“No,” Nancy said. “I’ve just given it more thought today, and I’ve decided it’s not newsworthy.”
“But . . . it’s Hanover House. People had nice things to say about it. I got a lot of good quotes. . . .” Her voice trailed off. Nancy wasn’t even listening.
“Maybe tomorrow’s issue, then?” Sadie asked.
“No, not tomorrow either,” Nancy said. “The community’s tired of hearing about Hanover House.”
Blair was waiting at Hanover House when Sadie got home from work that day. The girl came in, a sheen of perspiration on her face. She was flushed, angry, and shaken.
“How’d it go, Sadie? What page did she give the article?”
“She isn’t putting it in. She has no intentions of publishing it.”
“What?” Blair asked. “Are you sure?”
“She said it wasn’t newsworthy.”
Blair slammed her hand down on the counter. “Not newsworthy? And the article on the pros and cons of the post office being closed on Wednesday afternoons is? She ran a whole series on whether World’s Finest Chocolate was a better school fund-raiser than popcorn! Last week there was a front-page article about that thirteen-year-old who got her hair cut for the first time. Give me a break!”
“Did you ask her why she didn’t think it was newsworthy?” Morgan asked.
“I tried, but she told me the community is just sick of hearing about it.”
Blair shot Morgan a look. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. If this isn’t news, I don’t know what is. Has the whole world gone crazy?”
“Not the whole world,” Morgan said. “Just Cape Refuge.” She crossed her arms, and looked at the girl. “Sadie, do you think you can get that article back tomorrow?”
“Sure,” she said. “I kept a copy.”
“We could buy an ad for the paper and put it in that.”
“Contribute money to that rag?” Blair asked. “I don’t think so. Let’s just print it up ourselves and pass it out all over town.”
“We can send a copy to East Coast Properties,” Morgan said. “Just a few hours before we got served yesterday, they called and demanded an answer. Even raised the offer. Jonathan told them no.”
“What did they do?” Blair asked. “Call the mayor and get him to serve us so we’d change our minds?”
“Do you think someone pressured Nancy into not publishing the article?” Morgan asked.
“Could be. But if that’s the case, we’re about to show them that it didn’t keep us quiet. Before the end of the week, we’ll make sure everyone on the island knows what’s happening to Hanover House.”
C H A P T E R
71
The more she thought about it, the more suspicious Blair became. Things seemed too coincidental. First, the call from East Coast Properties, then the serving of the papers just hours later, and now Nancy’s refusal to run an article about the closing of the island’s most revered landmark. . . .
She went back to the library and turned on her computer. Her fingernails drummed on the table as she waited for it to boot up. She clicked in “Copernic,” the search engine that had access to eighty databases. She typed in “East Coast Properties, Inc.,” and watched as the bars traveled across the screen.
The search didn’t come up with anything she could use, so she logged onto the public-records database she was able to access.
While the database searched for East Coast Properties, she went to the bathroom for a glass of water. She turned on the faucet and stuck the glass under it, but her mind drifted back to the company, to those papers, to Sadie’s article, to Nancy’s refusal.
Something wasn’t right.
The water ran over the glass, wetting her arm, and she pulled it back and dried off her hand.
Her computer bell rang, so she rushed back into her tiny office. A few things had come up, so she quickly clicked the first.
East Coast Properties was owned by another company called Georgia Estates. She did a quick search to see who owned Georgia Estates.
Her heart jolted when she realized it was owned by Savannah Enterprises. She saw the pattern forming as she did the search on Savannah Enterprises. It was the classic modus operandi of dummy corporations set up for tax shelters or money laundering.
One company owned by another and another and another in a never ending trail that led nowhere.
But Savannah Enterprises did own quite a bit of property on Cape Refuge—three souvenir shops down by the beach and the Green Eggs and Ham Breakfast Nook near the Pier.
They also owned three hotels along Ocean Boulevard, some condominiums on the north side of the island, and various houses and convenience stores that she knew had been bulldozed for parking lots. So what did they want with Hanover House?
She sat back in her chair and stared at the screen.
Who was really behind East Coast Properties, and what did they want with her family home? Did they want to tear it down to build a parking lot, or did they plan to turn it into condos? Or did they hope to remodel it and turn it into a high-priced bed-and-breakfast that only wealthy tourists could afford?
And was it a coincidence that the city council’s harassment and the offer had come at roughly the same time?
She couldn’t say for sure. Not yet. But she was determined to find out.
C H A P T E R
72
Cade leaned against the wall in the back corridor of the Municipal Court building, waiting for the judge to come out of the courtroom. He had timed it so that he wouldn’t have long to wait—Randy Simmons never held court after three o’clock.
Randy was already unzipping his robe as he burst out the door. He wore a pair of baggy shorts underneath. “How’s it going, Cade?” Randy asked him.
“Pretty good. Can I talk to you in private?”
“Sure.” The judge led him back to his chambers, which consisted of a small office just barely big enough to hold a desk and a couple of chairs. Since Cape Refuge wasn’t big enough to have court every day, he did most of his work at his law firm.
He took off his robe, tossed it over a chair.
Cade chuckled. “I see you’re still taking the office of judge as reverently as always.”
Randy sat down behind his desk and propped his flip-flopped feet on it. “If you had to listen to a hundred people whining about speeding tickets and bad checks, you’d want to be comfortable too.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“So, what’s on your mind?” the judge asked. “Have you found that Rick Dugan character?”
“No, not yet,” he said. “We’re still looking for him. It’s strange that we haven’t found him. I have APBs in every county in Georgia and most of Alabama and Mississippi too. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Cade got up and slid his hands into his pockets. “Sadie . . . the girl who’s working for your wife—I found out she’s a teen runaway, but when I went to check on her family, I learned that her mother’s in jail, and she’s been living with the mother’s boyfriend. Name’s Jack Dent. He’s a drug dealer and abusive—which is why she came here so beaten up. She begged me not to send her back to him, and her mother did too. Morgan and Jonathan Cleary want to take temporary custody of her, with the mother’s permission.”
The judge dropped his feet and scooted his chair closer to the desk. “You’d have to get the proper papers drawn up, then have the mother sign them. It’s no hill for a climber. I could draw the papers up in my lawyer hat if you want me to.”
Cade nodded. “I would like to get this taken care of as soon as possible.”
“Tell Morgan to call me, and we’ll get the papers drawn up this week.”
“Meanwhile,” Cade said, “can you give me some kind of court order to keep her here?”
“I can’t do that,” Randy said. “It’s not my beat. But drawing up the papers and getting the mama to sign them should be enough.”
Cade had to be satisfied with that. He shook the man’s hand. “Well, thanks. I appreciate it. I’ll get details to you so you can draw them up. I’ll take them to the mother myself.”
Randy dropped his feet. “Sounds good. So how are Morgan and Blair? I heard Hanover House is being shut down. Any word on where they’ll go?”
Cade frowned. “They’re not going anywhere, and they plan to fight this.”
Randy breathed a laugh. “That’s crazy. They ought to just sell the thing and get it behind them.”
“I understand they’ve had offers,” Cade told him, “but I don’t think they want to sell. Looks like they’re going to dig in—and Sadie’s one of the big reasons.”
“What’s she got to do with it?” Randy asked.
“Well, if Hanover House is closed down, they have to ask all their tenants to leave.”
“They could get another place, take her with them.”
“But they’re real attached to that place, you know. They grew up there. Their parents were so invested in it. All this has happened kind of fast, and they’re just not ready.” Cade moved his chair out of the way so he could get to the door. “Thanks a lot, Randy. I’ll get in touch with you.”
“Yeah,” Randy said, behind him.
Cade was hopeful that they had an answer for Sadie as he went back to the station.
C H A P T E R
73
Jonathan couldn’t help being amazed at the number of people who turned out for the memorial service for Thelma and Wayne Owens. Many had come to the funeral, he understood, but now that their grief had taken root, they needed more of a good-bye to their friends. Some were gawkers, and others just came for the gossip value. But most came because they had loved the vibrant couple who had been such a part of the island’s life.
Jonathan was nervous and found himself perspiring more than he had ever done when he had come to this church before. He had them open all the doors, and as they began to sing the praise songs that Thelma and Wayne would have led, he felt a calm wash over him, reminding him that it wasn’t about how good he was as a preacher or how well he filled Wayne’s shoes. It was about reaching people, changing hearts for Christ just as they had always done. That is what Wayne would have wanted.
As their songs rose to the sky and spread out to the street, stragglers began coming in from the dock, seamen who had just come to shore, and customers from Cricket’s who heard the sound of praise. They all stood at the doorways, peeking inside. Morgan smiled as her mother would have done and played the chords of the praise songs that Jonathan led.
When they stopped singing, Jonathan began to preach about the two lives that had been so beautifully dedicated to the Lord, about the work and the place where they had invested their lives, and he told where they were and what their legacy was to the people of this community. And then he told why. As he did, he realized that the inadequacies of his own speech were overshadowed by the Holy Spirit as it worked in the hearts of those who listened.
Blair sipped her coffee at the picnic-style table in Cricket’s, watching through the screen window as people crowded into the doorways of the warehouse. She had not been able to make herself go. She didn’t want to hear testimonies about her parents and their life’s work for the God who had allowed them to be murdered.
She could hear the singing, the sweet peaceful sounds of praise for a God that so many seemed to believe in. She watched as people from the restaurant got up and gravitated toward the music. Whether it was curiosity or religion that drew them, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it wasn’t for her. She knew her sister would be disappointed, that others would wonder where she was. But they would just have to understand.
“Gonna miss the service,” Charlie said from behind the bar as he wiped the counter.
Blair stared into her cup. “I was at the funeral service,” she said. “I don’t need to say good-bye again.”
The screen door to Cricket’s bounced, and Cade walked in, looked around, and caught her eyes. He was wearing a sport coat and khaki pants, a white shirt that contrasted nicely with his tan. She propped her chin on her fist and looked out at the water.
She heard his footsteps approaching on the wooden floor.
“Mind if I sit with you?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He slid across from her, his eyes silently resting on her. “I thought I’d see you there,” he said finally. “Somebody said you were over here. Thought I’d see if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just not into church. Never was. You know that.”
“It’s no big surpr
ise, but this is a memorial service for your folks.”
“As I was telling Charlie, I’ve been there and done that.”
“And then there’s that minute possibility that you might learn something.”
“Doubt it.” She brought her cup to her mouth.
He just gazed at her, those eyes seeing far too much. She turned her face again, hiding the scars.
“So tell me what you’re thinking about while you watch those people fill that little building.”
“I’m thinking that I’m tired of this town, Cade,” she whispered. “That I don’t know why I stayed here all these years.”
“I sometimes ask myself the same thing,” he said, “but I think the island gets under your skin, in your blood. We couldn’t leave if we wanted to.” He shifted his body and looked back toward the warehouse. “Look at that, Blair. Those are your friends. Your parents’ friends. They love your family and what it represents. Those are the ones who make up the real Cape Refuge. Not that city council. That’s why you can’t ever leave.”
“Think again,” Blair said. “I’m thinking about doing just that.” She met his eyes and saw the concern on his face.
“You’d miss the ocean,” he said, “the sound and the smell. You’d miss the sand and the sunshine.”
“There are other beach towns,” she said, “but I was thinking of going to the mountains. Colorado, maybe. I want to live where there’s snow.”
His eyes were as serious as she had ever seen them. “There are people here who’d miss you, Blair.”
She smiled. “Who? My sister has Jonathan, and all those people she hovers over. They probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”
“You’d miss her.”
“Yeah, well, everything’s a trade-off.”
He reached across the table, took her cup out of her hands, sipped it. There was something strangely intimate about that, and Blair questioned the warm feeling it gave her.
He set the cup down and put her hands around it, pressed his over them. “And then there’s me. I would miss you, Blair.”
the Cape Refuge (Cape Refuge Series Book 1) Page 29
