Out of the Shadows (Nick Barrett Charleston series)

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Thank you,” Claire whispered. She leaned down and kissed my forehead. “If she knew I broke it, she would have made my life unbearable.”

  **

  I asked the obvious question.

  “Why does Helen now need to sell her precious heritage?”

  “Tsk, tsk, young man.” Glennifer handed me my teacup on its saucer. “We do have questions of our own.”

  “I’ve learned that my mother was given my trust fund money before she left Charleston. She did not steal it as the newspaper reported. That’s all I can tell you for now.”

  Elaine clapped her hands. “I knew it. I knew it. All those years ago, right here behind this very desk, I turned to Glenny and said your mother was too good a woman to do it. Didn’t I, Glenny? Didn’t I?”

  “It was I who told you.”

  “Nonsense. I told you. Remember the day. It was just before Theodore Crane, bless his soul, brought in the wardrobe with the hideous glue patch where he’d tried to repair it himself.”

  “Of course I remember the day. It wasn’t a wardrobe, however, but a chest of drawers. And the hinges clearly showed it was fake. It was no less than an hour after he departed that I turned to you and—”

  “Why does Helen now need to sell her precious heritage?” I asked again.

  Each of them stopped, puzzled. It took them a moment to get their bearings in the present.

  “You would have to ask Pendleton,” Elaine said moments later.

  “I doubt he wants to speak to Pendleton,” Glennifer said in a theatrical whisper. “Remember, Laney? Claire.”

  To me, Glennifer said, “You did elope with Claire? At least confirm that.”

  “I did elope with Claire.”

  “See, Laney? He wouldn’t want to have anything to do with Pendleton.”

  “What would Pendleton know about Helen starting to sell off antiques?” I asked, ignoring the stab of pain.

  “It’s not what he knows,” Glennifer said. “It’s what he’s done.”

  “Oh yes,” Elaine added enthusiastically. “Some say his secret vice is gambling, but that’s a rumor I won’t place any stock in whatsoever. I think something he’s done has caught up with him and he’s paying for it. Maybe he’s fathered a child in one of his numerous affairs. Maybe—”

  “What we’ve heard,” Glennifer said, “is that he’s taken money from places he shouldn’t. Let’s leave it at that. And we won’t even get started on the fact that Claire has been known to wear dark sunglasses on cloudy days and cover her face with makeup.”

  Was this why Claire had left him? He beat her? I wanted

  to ask, but the conversation continued around me, as if I weren’t there.

  “He’s a brute,” Elaine agreed. “Like his father.”

  “But Lorimar wasn’t a thief. Or if he was, he was smart enough not to get caught.”

  “Places he shouldn’t?” I decided to go with that strand

  of Pendleton’s character. “Pendleton’s taken money from Helen deMarionne?”

  “Laney, not a word,” Glennifer said firmly.

  “It was blackmail,” I said. “Not gambling. Pendleton’s been blackmailed for years. I know who’s been doing it. And I know why.”

  “Perhaps we don’t need to leave it at that,” Glennifer said.

  “Oodles,” Elaine said. “He’s taken oodles from Helen. Real estate pyramid things. But you didn’t hear it here.”

  “Thank you.” I finished my cup of tea and stood. “Perhaps I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

  “You can’t leave! You didn’t tell us about the—”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. I had a feeling I would have more questions for them by then. “See you then.”

  Chapter 13

  Lunch. 12:30 P.M. At 82 Queen. It is about your mother.

  I was early and waiting at the restaurant for the person who had left the note

  earlier at the bed-and-breakfast. Layton had been

  asleep, there’d been no sign of his daughter, and a short

  cab ride took me back to the old quarters of Charles-

  ton.

  Eighty-two Queen was a street address and also the name of an elegant restaurant in the historic core. I sat in a courtyard of the restaurant, an open sky above me, among live oaks and palmettos. Lights were strung from tree to tree on invisible wires. At night those lights would give a luxurious glow, like stars set into the darkness above. I knew this because I had brought Claire here, only once, before our elopement. As with most of the rest of Charleston, I could not escape the ghosts of memories.

  Now the sky was pastel blue, and touches of a breeze reached me in the courtyard. I watched the entrance, unable to guess at who might arrive. I was convinced, however, it would be the person who had sent me the airline ticket and letter and old police report.

  When I saw her, I knew my guess was wrong, for it was the daughter of one of the men I hated.

  I stood to greet her, hiding my surprise at her arrival. The day before, in Edgar Layton’s hospital room, this woman had made it clear she did not want to see me.

  And now she was here.

  **

  Our table sat in shade, with the brightness of a clear midday providing a pleasant warmth among the perfume of flower blossoms.

  “This is fine? Outside?”

  “More than fine.” She allowed me to move her chair for her as she sat. “Thank you.”

  I took my own place, glad I could look at her directly. If I had been at another table, it would have been rude to stare.

  She had tied her hair back, and it showed the classic lines of her face. She had replaced the dismal browns and blacks of yesterday’s clothing with a navy skirt and jacket. This woman was beautiful.

  “My name is Amelia Layton,” she said.

  “Nicholas Barrett,” I said. “Nick.”

  “I know.” Before I could try to make sense of that cryptic remark, she continued. “I’m sorry for yesterday’s rudeness.”

  “The circumstances,” I said, “were less than ideal. You have my sympathy.”

  “As you do mine.”

  Another cryptic remark. I wasn’t sure why she thought

  I needed her sympathy.

  “Well, Nick Barrett,” she said, “I am interested in knowing how you make a living.”

  “It’s a good way to get an immediate handle on someone,” I said, trying to be flippant. “What do you do?”

  By the tone of her voice, I knew immediately my attempt had not worked.

  “I’m a physician. I specialize in heart problems. I’m single and work-obsessed, which hides a fear of getting hurt by yet another man. Does that let you judge me sufficiently?”

  No smile from her. I wished I could understand the reason for her tension.

  “I’m an astronomer of sorts,” I said, trying to lighten the mood by smiling. “More to the point, I teach the subject at a community college. In Santa Fe, New Mexico.”

  “And I live in Chicago,” she said. “Obviously neither of us wanted to add to the limited gene pool of old Charleston.”

  “Obviously not.” I let that rest. There were too many painful memories with that remark. “Are you hungry?”

  “This is why you have my sympathy,” she said, pushing some papers toward me. “And no, I’m not particularly interested in lunch.”

  I took them from her. They were photocopies of news-paper articles, arranged chronologically.

  I scanned the progression of headlines because I did not need to read the articles.

  TRUST FUND DISAPPEARS

  NAVY CONFIRMS BARRETT BOYFRIEND IS ABSENT WITHOUT  LEAVE

  MISAPPROPRIATION OF NAVAL FUNDS LINKED TO MISSING  ENSIGN

  FBI BEGINS NATIONWIDE SEARCH FOR CHARLESTON COUPLE

  FUGITIVE COUPLE NARROWLY EVADES FBI HOTEL SEARCH

  NEW SIGHTING PLACES FUGITIVE COUPLE NEAR MEXICO  BORDER

  I gave her back the p
hotocopied sheets.

  “That was your mother,” she said. “Carolyn Barrett. Involved in this scandal.”

  “Yes.” Although I had been facing this since I was a boy, it hurt no less because of the passage of time.

  “After you left the hospital, I went to the newspaper office,” she said. “I needed to know more before I spoke with you.”

  “Now you know.” My voice was flat.

  “Why do you think my father is involved?”

  “How did you know to look into the story?” I asked in return. “It happened when I was a child. In the hospital yesterday, all I told you was that I wanted to speak to your father about my mother.”

  “Why do you think my father is involved?” she repeated. Her face had a stubborn set. If this was poker, I had lost.

  “I recently received a letter,” I said. “I don’t know who sent it. But it directed me to your father.”

  “Will you tell me the specifics of the letter?”

  “I would rather not,” I answered. Although its directive echoed in my mind.

  Go to the hospital and speak with Edgar Layton. You must do this soon, for Edgar has advanced colon cancer and is about to die. He has answers about your mother.

  “I need to know more about my father too,” she said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here with you right now.”

  “Why do you need to know more? And why do you think

  I have any information that would help?”

  She shook her head.

  I could not tell if it was a gesture of amused irony or sad resignation.

  “Do you believe she did it?”

  “Steal the trust fund money?” I answered. “Take a train and leave with her boyfriend?”

  Amelia nodded. She kept her eyes on mine.

  “I don’t want to believe it.” I said. “Will you tell me how you know?”

  “It wasn’t until you mentioned my birthday that I realized why you were in the hospital room to see my father,” Amelia said. “And that’s why I went to the newspaper after visiting you yesterday.”

  “I didn’t mention your birthday.”

  “Yes, you did. July 12. Like you, it is a date I will never forget. I was eight years old on that Friday. I remember your mother because of that. I am only telling you this because it would be extremely unfair to keep it from you.”

  “Keep what from me?”

  “There was a witness,” she answered.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Me.”

  **

  Amelia told me her story without emotion. She described them to me in detail, the remnants of the day of her eighth birthday. She spoke steadily, without pause, as if she had waited a long time to tell anyone.

  “I can’t remember a happier day in my life. My present that morning was a birthday dress made of this red velvety material that I thought was finer than anything any queen had worn. All morning, I would run to my bedroom and model it alone in front of my mirror, hardly able to wait until my neighborhood friends came for cake and candles. And long after they had left, I still wore that dress.

  “Night was different than day. Because at night, the yelling would begin. I knew my mother had a bottle that she hid under the dirty clothes in the laundry room. By supper time, she would move slowly and carefully. I never needed to hear her speak to know she had spent the day with that bottle. She never spoke when he yelled at her, just smiled at him sadly, which only made the yelling worse.

  “That night it hurt me more, only because my day had been so happy. So I went up to my bedroom, but I could hear everything. I went outside. His car was there, his police cruiser that he would sometimes flash the lights or hit the siren just to make me proud. He was the police chief and people treated me differently because of it. I liked that, especially because he was always so gentle and kind with me. He never yelled at me.

  “I sat inside the car. In the back. I tried to think about my birthday, not that he was yelling at her more and more. I began to cry, and I lay down on the backseat.

  “It was dark, of course. A hot night where the air felt like a blanket. And I fell asleep. No one came looking. They thought I was upstairs in my bedroom.

  “He had this thing about the interior light of his car. He disconnected it because he hated the backdrop of light that would show his outline whenever he stepped out of the car during the night. So when he opened the door later that night, the inside of the car stayed dark.

  “He didn’t know I was in the back. And when I woke up, it was too late. The car was moving. I was too afraid to tell him I was there. I should have. But the longer I remained quiet, the angrier I thought he would be when he finally found out. So I crept forward and lay down on the floor.

  “I remember closing my eyes, as if that would keep me hidden. The car turned a few times and when it stopped, he opened the door and left me behind. He took so long that I finally became brave enough to get on my knees on the floor of the backseat and peek through the window.

  “I saw him standing in a doorway. Talking to a woman. She had a suitcase beside her. I ducked down again.

  “It seemed like forever until he came back. When he did, he wasn’t alone. The woman didn’t say anything, but I knew it was that woman. I’ll never forget it.

  “Perfume filled the car. I was still wearing my red velvety birthday dress, and I was hidden on the floor of the back of the car as he drove away with a strange woman.”

  **

  “That’s it?” I said.

  Amelia had stopped, a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Enough of it,” she answered. “And enough that you should at least return the favor. What do you know about my father? Why did you go to the hospital?”

  “How can you be sure that woman was my mother . . . ?”

  “The number on the house. It was the same number as the address of the woman in the newspaper stories. I looked it up in the phone book. And I also knew because they went to the train station. The stories said that too. She ran away with her boyfriend by train.”

  Growing up without my mother, I’d sometimes hoped, in a way that brought me confused fear, that perhaps she had fallen victim to a violent crime. That she had died, painful as that might be to me, was less painful than thinking she had run away. Now I could not harbor that guilty hope. All that was left was the equally guilty hope that she had died sometime after leaving Charleston. That had been another of my daydreams—that she had not abandoned me, only gone elsewhere to make us a better home, then died before she could return for me.

  “Did she say anything while your father was driving her there?” I asked Amelia. “Anything that would give you a hint of her intentions?”

  “No,” Amelia answered quickly.

  Too quickly?

  “Nothing at all? Nothing to tell you why the chief of police would help her leave Charleston one day, then begin a search for her the next?”

  “Nothing, I said.”

  Something in the set of her face told me there was more.

  “Can we meet tomorrow?” I asked. “Maybe by then I’ll know more that can help you.”

  “Noon,” she said.

  We decided to meet at my bed-and-breakfast. “Thank you,” I said. “At least now I know my mother is alive. Or was alive when she left me.”

  But I was lying when I expressed this gratitude. It appeared the only alternative to her death was that she had truly abandoned me.

  Because then I could only blame myself.

  Chapter 14

  It was a small white chapel, the Mount Carmel African Methodist Episcopal Church. It was located in Charleston’s East Side, between upper King and the river. The neighborhood around it was a stark contrast to the exquisite mansions gracing the waterfront less than a mile south.

  In this neighborhood, windows on two-bedroom houses were boarded with plywood, faded and gray. Instead of manicured grass, the yards were worn to dirt, with broken bottles as ornaments. At one point, the people of this neighbo
rhood had been the direct descendants of slaves. Now, most of them were servants and street cleaners. Charleston’s racism was never blatant, but all the more powerful because of its insidiousness.

  The grounds of the church were mowed neatly; the old wood siding was coated with fresh paint. No one answered the rapping of my knuckles on the church door.

  By then, I could already guess why Gillon had sent me here if I wanted to find Ruby Atkins, my mother’s maid.

  The ancient cemetery.

  I stood at the side of the church where the cemetery was fenced off with white pickets clear of weeds. I began to search the headstones for a name.

  I stopped in front of a small, rounded gray tombstone. Decades of exposure to rain and wind had blurred the engraved letters to barely legible grooves in the granite.

  It struck me that even in sunlight, cemeteries have an eerie softness of time and sound. As if those alive grow smaller in the presence of the reminder of death—some smaller with fear and some smaller with a longing driven by the soul’s instinct. A longing for beyond.

  **

  Was it preposterous to think that this world was moved by an invisible hand, that something or someone created it and existed beyond what we could sense? After all—from stars a thousand light-years away to a silent march of tarantulas in the desert to the miracle of birth—life itself was a humbling mystery.

  I existed because of sunlight and water and dirt. My flesh and blood and bones were nourished by bread from the wheat that drew from moisture and sunlight and soil, strengthened by the meat of animals that fed upon those plants, sustained by the water that fell from the skies and collected in rivers and lakes.

  In the macrocosm, the earth turned, the moon remained its fixed distance from the earth, all of the planets spun a dance around the sun, and the sun itself maintained a delicate balance between collapse and explosion, all of this held together by gravity that we could predict but could not explain. In the microcosm, subatomic particles were held together by the faintest pulses of electromagnetism, where particles flickered into energy and energy flickered into particles, so that in a very true sense, we consisted merely of impulses of electricity.

  What an incredible, inconceivable process, dulled simply because we saw it and lived it every day.