Cape Refuge

by Terri Blackstock

  “Good,” Morgan said, “because I’m not. I can’t.”

  Blair got off of the floor and looked helplessly around her. “I’d better get going.”

  “Don’t go, Blair. Just tonight, let’s stay together, okay? I don’t want to be alone, even for a little while, and I can’t go with you. . . . Please, you’re not thinking clearly.”

  “Someone in the family has to do it, Morgan.”

  “No, they don’t. That’s what the funeral home is for.”

  “Mama is modest! She doesn’t want—”

  “She’s not there, Blair!” Morgan cut in. “She’s not in that funeral home, and she’s not in those bloody clothes! It’s not her!”

  Blair stared at her as if she were the enemy—as if those words exposed her.

  “Then who is it?” Blair demanded.

  “It’s her shell,” Morgan said. “Mama is somewhere else, and she doesn’t care what clothes she’s wearing or who sees her. Neither does Pop. They would want us to huddle together and get through this, Blair, and not torture ourselves with things that don’t even matter.”

  Blair stared again, helplessness and hopelessness tightening her face. “It’s something I can do. I need to do it.”

  “No, you don’t. You want something to do? Then stay here. Get through the night. Wake up and help me with all the details tomorrow.”

  “I told them I’d come,” she said quietly.

  “I’ll call them. I’ll tell them to go ahead and do what they need to do. Blair, you know Mama wouldn’t want you torturing yourself.” She reached out a tentative hand and touched her sister’s arm. “Come on, Blair. Stay here, okay? We’ll just leave this mess and go over to your house where we can think.”

  Blair’s eyes had no luster as she kicked some of the books aside and made a path to the door.

  Blair saw Melba Jefferson the moment she stepped outside, and almost turned back. Her mother’s best friend stood at her door with tears streaming down her face, and she clutched a casserole dish in her chubby hands. When she saw them, she set it down on the hood of her car and pulled them both into a fat embrace.

  “Oh, you poor things!” she wailed. “It’s just so awful.”

  Wiping her tears, she went back to her trunk and pulled out several more casseroles that she had made. Blair wondered if she kept a freezerful of the things, and took them out to thaw when someone died.

  “Now just tell me what you need me to do,” Melba said, her voice wavering. “I can answer your phone, or clean up your house. Or I can just sit here all day tomorrow while you take care of the arrangements. I’m available. I want you to know that.”

  Blair wanted to tell her that she preferred to have her sit at her own house and leave them alone, but Morgan piped in, “I just can’t think of anything right now, Melba. But we appreciate it.”

  “If you’re not hungry, it’ll keep,” the woman said. “You’ll need it after the funeral.” Her voice broke off again and she swallowed. Her ample chest heaved with grief. “I could go to the funeral home with you tomorrow,” she said. “You know your mama and daddy wouldn’t want anything fancy. They weren’t like that. But sometimes in our grief we overextend ourselves, choose coffins that we can’t quite afford.”

  Blair lifted her chin. “We can afford to bury our parents, Melba.”

  “Of course you can, honey. I’m just saying, don’t you get talked into anything. Now if you need me to go, I’ve had plenty experience with this sort of thing.”

  “You’ve had parents who were murdered?” Blair asked. Morgan squeezed her arm to silence her.

  “Why, no, I’ve never had a murder. Just death, that’s all. The older you get, the more you deal with death, you know. They weren’t just your parents. They were my good friends. I don’t know what I’ll do without Thelma.” She turned back toward the car, as if she didn’t know whether to stay or go.

  Morgan shot Blair a scathing look and touched Melba’s back. The woman turned around, and Morgan pulled her into a hug and held her there just like her mother would have done.

  “Oh, darlin’. You’ve got Thelma’s heart,” Melba said. “You always have.”

  Blair had heard that before. Morgan was the one with the heart. But she didn’t care. She wasn’t out to impress any of the socialites of Cape Refuge. She didn’t even care about those who attended church with her parents. They had nothing to do with her, she thought. As far as she was concerned, Melba was among those who stared at her when she was a little girl and clicked her tongue and said what a shame it was that such a pretty girl would be so terribly marred. She had caught Melba’s own son shuddering once, sitting next to her in class. It was his way of showing off for his buddies, but Blair had never forgotten it.

  “You take care now, Blair,” Melba said before Blair walked inside. “I’m going to be praying for you whether you like it or not.”

  C H A P T E R

  17

  The warm breeze whispered from the Atlantic and ruffled Sadie’s hair as she sat on the porch at Hanover House. She could see the beach across the street and the waves rolling in, and her heart soared at the idea that she had actually made it here. Jack would never find her.

  A van pulled up into the driveway, and she got to her feet slowly, suddenly nervous at the prospect of meeting these people face-to-face. What if they weren’t like Tammy said? What if they were impatient and angry? What if they insisted on calling the police and reporting her as a runaway?

  But it wasn’t an old couple that got out of the car. Instead, it was a young man of about twenty, with sandy blond hair a little too long and wire-rimmed glasses. He got out of the driver’s side and went around to the back, pulled out a big wreath with flowers all over it, and carried it up across the yard. Sadie stepped to the post and met him as he came up the porch steps.

  “Hey,” she said, awkwardly. “Do you live here?”

  The young man shook his head. “No, I just work for the florist. My boss told me to stop by here and put this wreath on the door.”

  Sadie backed away. “Oh, okay.”

  He found the nail that was, no doubt, there to hold the Christmas wreath and gently placed it on the door.

  “I’m Matt,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand.

  She took it. “Sadie,” she said. “What’s the wreath for?”

  “Don’t you know?” he asked, frowning. “About Thelma and Wayne?”

  Sadie had had bad news many times in her life, and it was always preceded by a tightening in her chest, a closing of her throat, a headache starting behind her eyes. She felt all of that now.

  “No. What about them?”

  “You haven’t heard about them being murdered?”

  Sadie felt suddenly dizzy, and she stepped back against the post, reached out for it to steady her. “They were murdered?”

  “Found dead,” he said, “just this afternoon.”

  She groped back to the rocking chair and sat down. “I was waiting for them. I didn’t know.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he said. “They were nice folks. Real nice folks.”

  That was it, she thought. There went her chance of finding shelter and safety. Thelma and Wayne Owens, the two people in the area who could have helped her, were no longer here.

  “Are you all right?” Matt asked.

  She nodded absently.

  “Your arm, I mean? And that bruise on your face. What happened?”

  She got up and slipped the backpack over her good arm. “I’ve got to go,” she said.

  He stood there on the porch, then followed her down the steps, but before he could catch up to her, she had crossed the street and was headed out across the sand.

  “Nice to meet you,” he shouted. She didn’t turn back, and after a moment she heard him driving away.

  She tried to calm herself, tried to tell herself not to panic. She would be all right. She had pictured it this way, anyway—sleeping on the sand at night under the stars, the warm breeze blowing
across her body, the sound of the ocean lulling her to sleep. It looked like the safest place in the world, she thought. If she could get the murders out of her mind, she could sleep here and find the public showers in the morning where the beachcombers washed off. Maybe she could come across a bar of soap and wash her hair, then head out looking for a job.

  She stood on the edge of the beach and saw the condominiums and hotel rooms five stories deep for as far as she could see. There were rooms everywhere, empty beds, linens, fresh and clean, but she didn’t need them, she thought. She was here and she wasn’t afraid.

  At least, not yet.

  She walked along the beach, carrying her backpack on her shoulder, looking for an inconspicuous place where she could lay her head. She walked until darkness began to fall over the water and the few remaining beachcombers had gone in. Then she found a place between two decks, pulled out a light jacket that she had brought, and slipped it on. The pain in her arm tormented her, and she examined it for a moment, realizing it was turning black and blue, that the bones still didn’t quite meet. It throbbed all the way up to her shoulder, but she couldn’t get medical help just yet, she thought. She didn’t have the money. And besides, whoever treated her would want to know where she had come from, how the accident had happened. She would have to think of a story first, but not now. Now she just needed to sleep.

  She made herself a little nest in the sand between the two decks and lay down, then covering herself with a shirt from her backpack, she fell into a light sleep to the sound of the ocean and the wind.

  C H A P T E R

  18

  Billy Caldwell’s nervous radio call was broadcast on every police scanner in Chatham County. “Chief, I found Gus Hampton.”

  “Where is he?” Cade asked.

  “In the Owens’s boathouse, about a mile down from Hanover House. His truck’s parked out front. Want me to go in?”

  “No,” Cade said. “Just wait there for backup. But if you hear him starting the boat, go in. We can’t let him get away.”

  Cade cut off the radio and began barking orders to the dispatcher. “Call the other three patrol cars and have them meet me there. No one’s to act until I get there.”

  He heard her dispatching the other three officers, who were all out beating the bushes for leads. Cade ran out to his car, turned on his blue light, and headed for the southern tip of the island.

  They had been looking for Gus since the bodies were found. His boss had sworn that he’d been at work until a little after six, probably an hour after the murders, and that he hadn’t left all day. He had been there when Gus heard about the killings and said he had been visibly upset. Then Gus had rushed out.

  Relief flooded through Cade as he flew across the island, traffic separating to the sides of the road to let him through. Maybe this was the break they needed. Maybe it would clear Jonathan.

  The boathouse was a mile north of the bed-and-breakfast, not visible from the street. The woods were thick there, maple trees and mimosa, loblolly pines and sassafras, standing sentry at the dirt road that led down to the water.

  Cade pulled in and saw that the other three cars had beaten him here. They had stopped near the entrance, not wanting to alert Gus that they were there. He saw Billy with his weapon drawn, standing near the door of the boathouse. Cade signaled the others to follow him, and he ran quietly down the side path.

  They reached the boathouse, a simple wooden building with only three walls. Inside, Wayne Owens kept his small fishing boat, which he allowed his tenants to use as they wished. Cade had been there before. It held only the boat, a couple of toolboxes, some bait and tackle, and his fishing rods.

  He stood to the side of the door and drew his own gun and listened hard. There seemed to be no movement inside.

  He turned back to the others and signaled for two of them to go to the water side of the building, made sure they were ready, then he put his hand on the doorknob.

  He threw the door open and lurched inside.

  Gus, crouched on the floor at the corner of the building, sucked in a breath and held out his hand. “Don’t shoot, mon. It’s just me.”

  Cade could see that the man had been crying. His eyes were red and his face was wet.

  “It’s just me, mon.”

  “Gus, I need for you to get to your feet, and if you’re carrying a weapon, drop it right now.”

  “You crazy, mon?” he asked, getting up. “I ain’t got a weapon. What you think? That I’m the killer?”

  “Turn around,” Cade ordered. “Put your hands over your head.”

  Gus did as he was told and turned facing the wall. The other officers came in as Cade frisked him. He wasn’t armed.

  “Gus, what were you doing here?”

  “I was trying to get off by myself,” he said. “To think things through . . . to pray . . . I didn’t want to be around nobody.”

  “Gus, I’m gonna have to take you in for questioning about the murders of Thelma and Wayne Owens.”

  “Who did it, mon?” he asked, beginning to sob. He turned around to Cade, his black face twisted in anguish. “Who would do that kind of evil? Who would do it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “Am I under arrest? Do you suspect me?”

  “We just want to ask you some questions,” he said. “You’re not under arrest.”

  “I’ll answer whatever I can, mon. I want that killer found. I want to look him in the eye and ask him why he done this.”

  The man looked like a linebacker for the NFL, but he was as compliant as a kitten as Cade walked him back to the car.

  They questioned Gus for a little over an hour, but his alibi was clear. He’d been at work when the murders were committed, and his boss had been there with him. There was no evidence at all that he had committed the crimes.

  It wasn’t until Cade released Gus that he realized how much he had wanted him to be guilty. Then he could have released Jonathan.

  But as it stood, he had a serious problem.

  And so did his best friend.

  C H A P T E R

  19

  It didn’t really matter what size Blair’s bed was, because she couldn’t sleep anyway. Blair got up and wandered through the house, feeling dazed and light-headed. She wondered why she had knocked over all the shelves in the library, how she would ever put it all back together. She hoped the mayor didn’t pay her a visit there in the next couple of days. She might lose her job. Then again, he’d probably understand. She was surprised at herself, surprised to think that she would lose control of her emotions that way and snap like some raging kid throwing a temper tantrum. She would have thought she was stronger than that.

  Her head ached, so she went to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and found a bottle of Tylenol. She poured some into her hand, then caught her reflection in the mirror. As she often did, she held her hand up in front of her scars, imagining what she might look like if she didn’t have them. She could have won beauty pageants, she thought. She could have been homecoming queen. She would probably be married by now, have babies.

  Thank goodness those weren’t things she wanted.

  She threw the Tylenol into her mouth, filled her cupped hand with water, and washed them down. Finally, she went back to her bed and lay down next to Morgan. But sleep would not come.

  On the outskirts of sleep’s netherworld, Morgan sank into a dream of flames dancing around her, someone pulling on her hand. She felt the heat of it on her face, on her arms, on her legs, her bare feet. She heard the sound of her feet running, running, running away, looking back over her shoulder at the flames dancing and prancing around. And then she saw someone coming through—a little girl, wreathed by the flames. She pulled away and took off running toward the child, but hands grabbed her and wrestled her back.

  She saw that the little girl was Blair, and the flames were closing in.

  She caught her breath and sat up straight in bed, pulling herself ou
t of the quicksand of that dream. She looked over at her sister, saw that her eyes were closed and she was lying still. Blair wasn’t three years old anymore, but twenty-five. But there were scars on that face, scars that she didn’t think had been put there by a grease fire in the kitchen, as her parents had always maintained. It was a much bigger fire, she thought. She had dreamed about it too often for it not to be real.

  Why would her parents have lied about such things?

  The truth was there somewhere in the recesses of Morgan’s memory, but she couldn’t quite get to it.

  She got out of bed and wandered around the house, hoping that Jonathan was all right, that someone guarded him at the jail, someone reliable who wouldn’t let anybody in. She reeled through the possibilities of killers in her mind.

  There was Gus Hampton. She wondered if the police had found him yet. The idea of him killing her parents seemed ludicrous to her. Instead, he was probably grieving like the rest of them.

  And then there was Rick Morrison, the gentle, tormented man who’d come to Hanover House to get his bearings after a tragedy had hit his family. A tragedy much like this one.

  She went into the living room, curled up on the couch, and tried to pray. She was thankful that Jesus interceded for the saints. Sometimes she couldn’t find the words to pray herself. How did one pray when something so hideous and violent preyed on her mind? How did one find that peaceful, joyful feeling that came with salvation when Satan had been so victorious?

  Where had God been when her parents were fighting for their lives? Where had their guardian angel messed up? Why hadn’t Jesus interceded for them at the moment when they had needed deliverance? She fought the anger welling up inside her at her Lord, for she knew it was irreverent and disrespectful. But she couldn’t fight those feelings coursing through her, making her anxious and sick.

  “Eat something,” a voice in her head seemed to tell her. Maybe she would feel better, she thought. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so queasy, and she could sleep and wake up rested enough to do the business she had to do tomorrow.