Tell No Lies

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Even the spooky evening couldn’t diminish the way he made her feel. He made her feel loved, even if he hadn’t said those three little words. After so many failed relationships, this time felt different. There was little point in denying it: Augusta was in love with him. She had turned to him after Sadie’s confession instead of reaching out to Caroline. Because she trusted him even more than she trusted her own family.

  Once they reached the gates, as he had before, he refrained from entering behind her and simply waited for Augusta to get inside.

  Spotlighted by his headlights, her sister Caroline sat on the top porch step with Tango lying quietly at her side. Her eyes mirrored Augusta’s pain, and Augusta saw . . . she knew about Josh.

  Tango’s head came up as Augusta slid out of the car and his tail thumped once against the porch, though he didn’t get up. “Sadie just left,” Caroline told her as she shut the car door. But that was all; she said nothing about Ian or his presence at Oyster Point—though Augusta knew she had spied his car. It was impossible not to notice because she was sitting directly in his high beams. Nor did she make any accusatory remarks about the two of them having been together.

  Out by the gate, Ian’s headlights turned away, casting her sister back into shadow, and then his glowing taillights disappeared slowly down the road as Augusta sat down on the porch steps next to Caroline. “Did she tell you everything?”

  Caroline looked at her, and inhaled deeply. “I sure as hell hope so. We’ve had more than enough drama, don’t you think?” She reached behind her to stroke Tango, adding, “She was worried about you.”

  Augusta sat quietly, uncertain what to say. She felt only a tiny bit of guilt for having taken comfort in Ian’s arms and leaving Caroline to face Sadie alone.

  Tango whined and nuzzled his head across her back.

  Tonight, there was a hint of a fog descending out on the water. The tin steeple of the boathouse was shrouded, but the water itself beyond the spartina grass was as lustrous as a sheet of black glass. Crickets chirped. Frogs croaked mournfully. Thankfully, they had missed the mating season this year, but if they were still here in March, she was going to have to buy a good set of headphones. The sound of mating frogs was deafening.

  “Is she okay?” Augusta asked finally.

  Caroline turned to look at her again. Augusta could tell she’d been crying. “Sad. I guess . . . this is hard for everyone.”

  Augusta nodded, and the sting of tears suddenly reappeared in her eyes. The gloom suddenly descended a little lower. “Poor Mom,” she found herself saying.

  Caroline simply stared at her, blinking, probably as stunned by the words that had come out of Augusta’s mouth as she was. Caroline’s eyes grew glassy as she stared at her sister. A trickle of moisture appeared at the corner of one eye, but was stillborn there.

  Augusta took the opportunity to speak her mind—to put into words the things that had been plaguing her from the instant Sadie had revealed her secrets. “I judged Mom based on what I knew—which was absolutely nothing,” she confessed. Taking her by surprise, a tear slipped down her cheek.

  Hearing the grief in her tone, Caroline threw an arm around Augusta’s shoulders. “We all did, Augie—Mom included—she judged herself. I’m pretty sure that’s why she continued punishing herself until the day she died.”

  “Do you think she was ever happy, Caroline?”

  “I don’t know. I think she was sad most of our lives—even before Sam—but she’s just as responsible as anyone for that,” Caroline offered. But her lips quivered a little, belying the calm, rational façade she was trying so hard to present. “If she wasn’t happy with Dad—with her life—she shouldn’t have stayed with him . . . but that’s easy for us to say now.”

  “She did leave,” Augusta reminded her.

  “Yeah, after everyone’s lives were practically ruined, hers included. Let’s face it, Dad was a bit of a sociopath.”

  Augusta sat there, considering their entire family, leaning into Caroline’s embrace. “At one time I would have said Mom was, too.”

  Caroline shook her head. “No way . . . there’s a difference between being incapable of feeling and choosing not to feel. Mom medicated herself so she wouldn’t feel. It’s not the same.”

  It had been easier to think of Flo as heartless. Thinking of her in so much pain made Augusta feel infinitely worse. But tonight it was impossible not to see her mother as a human being—flawed, but trying to do her very best with what she had. There was a reason her mother had brought them all together here under one roof, and as she sat next to Caroline, listening to the hitch in her sister’s breath, she realized they needed each other far more than any of them had known. Flo had cared enough to force them together.

  Maybe it was time to stop running? Maybe whether she liked this place or not—with all its sordid history and her mother’s ghost stumbling around, margarita in hand—it was time to face the past?

  Maybe it was time to let herself feel?

  “I worry sometimes I take after Dad,” Augusta confessed. “I can’t seem to feel what you and Savannah feel.”

  Caroline lifted both her brows and gave her an adamant shake of her head. “Augusta, there are a lot of things you are, sister dear, but unfeeling isn’t one of them. In fact, if you look up firecracker in the dictionary, your photo is next to the definition!”

  Augusta laughed, despite the morose mood—despite the probable insult.

  Caroline peered out into the marsh. “Anyway, it’s not really a matter of not feeling. Apparently, sociopaths do feel—they feel pain, anger—they just don’t have a conscience. They lack those sirens in their head when it comes to ethics and morality.”

  “Yeah? When did you become Dr. Caroline?”

  Caroline gave her a little smirk. “Probably about the same time I morphed into Mom.”

  Augusta laughed again. “You know . . . I really didn’t mean that.”

  “Oh yes, you did, but it’s okay.”

  “Did you call Savannah?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What about Jack?”

  “No. I was waiting for you.”

  Augusta’s eyes watered at that revelation. At one point, long ago, they had been each other’s greatest support. “You could have called.”

  Caroline shrugged. “Sadie was here all night. Besides, I was going to if you didn’t show up soon, but I was bracing myself for another lecture about how unsuited I was to be wearing Mom’s shoes.”

  Augusta laughed. And still Caroline avoided bringing up Ian. She was thankful for the reprieve.

  “No wonder Josh hasn’t been around,” Caroline said, after a moment. “Poor guy.”

  “I guess,” Augusta said. “He was spoiled rotten and both Sadie and Mom doted on him. Mom was certainly way more forgiving of Josh than she ever was of us.”

  “Yeah,” Caroline agreed. “He had it best for sure. He was the only man in a houseful of females and got away with murder.”

  The two of them fell into silence, staring out at the black water. A warm breeze swept in from the marsh, tousling Augusta’s hair.

  The scent of the mud was strong tonight—a sweet, sulfurous odor that permeated the air, especially now that the azaleas were done blooming. The faded blossoms were hanging on, but a little the worse for wear. Their mother used to tend the gardens herself, deadheading to encourage new growth. Now the bushes were full of petal blight, looking neglected and distressed. Augusta decided she’d do some reading and figure out how to care for them.

  “I ran into the work crew today,” Caroline said after a long interval. “Thank you for getting that started, Augusta.”

  She sounded as though she truly meant it.

  “You’re welcome,” Augusta said and smiled. And together they sat, arm in arm, listening to Tango’s easy breathing beside them.

  Sadie had forgotten to lock her door. She realized that fact only as she shoved her key into the lock. Shaking her head, she turned the handle and
pushed the door open, revealing an immaculate living room, everything precisely as she had left it. She had too much time on her hands these days, and didn’t know what to do with herself, so she cleaned incessantly and put things away with OCD compulsion.

  Good thing she had Gracie to clean up after and feed, or else she might be feeling worthless. Now she understood all the talk about empty nest syndrome. God only knew, she didn’t know what she was going to do with herself when the cat up and died.

  She was a mess, she realized, as she locked the door behind her and walked straight back to the kitchen to pour a glass of tap water. Some folks didn’t like the island water, but Sadie did. She drank it standing at the sink as she stood peering out onto the marsh.

  Lovely night—too bad she had spoiled the mood for everyone . . .

  But whatever might come, she couldn’t regret it. It was time to get rid of all the bad juju around here . . . never mind that some things were never meant to see the light of day.

  Those things she would take to her grave.

  She wondered if Daniel had come by. Normally, if she wasn’t home, he would have tried her at the main house, but with all that was going on, he’d probably figured that was the last place she would go. He knew she was thinking about telling the girls the truth and didn’t think it was a good idea, but Sadie didn’t much care. It felt like the right thing to do—no matter what Flo or Daniel thought, and if Daniel truly loved her, he was gonna have to let her be who she had to be.

  It was too late to call him now, so she resolved to call him in the morning, and with that decided, she didn’t bother searching for her cell phone. She’d had enough talk today anyway. Tomorrow she would call Savannah as well, because Savannah deserved to hear the truth from her. With a weary sigh, she set the cup down on the counter and made her way back to the bedroom.

  Gracie’s black form jumped down out of the bathroom sink as she passed, mewing a complaint over her absence. As expected, the cat followed her down the hall, ready to take up her spot at the foot of the bed.

  The old cottage was small—a bread box of a house, really, but it was hers. The back bedroom faced the marsh as well, and she loved that most—looking out her picture window at the spartina grass, dancing in the breeze, while she read.

  Making her way to the nightstand, she turned on the lamp and sat on the bed to remove her shoes, glancing at the current book sitting there—The Road to Forgiveness. Would she make it through a single page? Probably not, but it was her habit to read a little every night.

  She tossed one shoe on the floor. “Flo,” she said. “You got a lotta nerve dying on me like this, eah! Leavin’ me all alone with this mess!”

  The house remained silent, no response. Not that Sadie expected one. Though she was about as superstitious as they came, she knew the only kinds of spirits that lingered here on this earth were the mean ones—those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t move on. Flo didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

  “Then again, maybe you can’t go yet,” she said to a make-believe Flo. “You certainly made yourself a big enough mess.”

  Sadie realized she’d had a part in it, and she considered the possibility that maybe she and Flo might haunt what was left of this old plantation together. The thought of that was fitting somehow. It made her smile a bit and she tossed the other shoe on the floor, thinking that the only one mean enough to actually come back from the dead would be Robert.

  Selfish. Mean-spirited. Conniving.

  Wasn’t much positive to say about that man, and although it wasn’t Christian, she was glad he was dead. She hated that Josh had inherited the house on Tradd Street—there could be nothing but bad karma in that old place. Maybe Flo had thought she was doing him a favor, but that wasn’t the way Sadie saw it. She’d rather her son had stayed in the house Queenie had sold him on John’s Island. He’d had plenty of privacy there, and lots of room to grow—even if it was a little too far out for anyone to go visit him. She supposed at least now he was closer.

  “They’re gonna make a movie about us,” she said to Gracie, and reached over to stroke the cat.

  Gracie gave her a solemn “mech” and stretched out a paw, seemingly to push her away.

  “What do you know anyway?” she said to Gracie. But the truth was, Gracie probably knew far more than most folks did. Cats could see things people couldn’t see. With a sigh, she got up from the bed, found her nightgown, changed into it and then got into bed, pulling the covers up. Gracie watched her all the while, her blinky eyes fixed upon Sadie’s every movement, assuring her that there was nobody here tonight but the two of them.

  For a long moment, Sadie stared at the cat, thinking about that bottle tree outside. If anyone had ever bothered to empty out her notes from inside, they would have discovered all her secrets long ago. It was her way of giving her cares to God and lettin’ him deal with them. Once all those bad feelings and stories were in the bottles, all the bad medicine surrounding them was trapped inside. Although some folks believed that to truly be rid of them, you had to cap the bottle and cast it into water. Maybe she would try that someday.

  Her grandma used to have a bottle spell for every dang thing, but the only one Sadie had ever tried was the breakup spell. Maybe it was taking things a little too far, but just in case it was all true, she’d placed the hair of a black dog—courtesy of Tango—and the hair of a black cat—she eyed Gracie—into a bottle with both Augusta’s and Josh’s names. She didn’t want them to hate each other, but it was better than the idea of brother and sister getting up and married without even knowing they were related, and Flo had made her promise never to tell.

  “Sorry, Flo,” she said, and picked up the book lying on the nightstand. Beneath it was a folded sheet of paper. Setting the book aside, she picked up the sheet, unfolded it and read:

  I, Florence W. Aldridge, of James Island, declare this to be a first codicil to my Last Will and Testament dated May first, two-thousand-fourteen.

  Sadie blinked, her heart jolting. It was the missing codicil to Florence’s will—the one Savannah had accused her of hiding. She held her breath as she continued to read:

  Item I: I will and direct that item V of my said Last Will and Testament be cancelled in its entirety. Item II: I will and direct that the following shall be item V of my Last Will and Testament.

  Sadie clutched her breast as she read the next words:

  I will and direct that the property bordered by Secessionville Creek from the byroad to Fort Lamar Road, and consisting of the original living quarters of Oyster Point Plantation, as well as the bordering marshlands, shall hereby be donated to the County of Charleston.

  Her gaze fell to the bottom of the page where Flo’s name was placed in a clear, bold signature she recognized at once. Flo had given Sadie’s house to the city. She really had done it. But why? Even more important than why . . . what was the codicil doing under a book on Sadie’s nightstand? She had never seen this piece of paper in all her life. Even after Savannah had told her about it, she’d doubted its existence.

  Who the hell had put the codicil there?

  At the end of the bed, Gracie blinked at her serenely, her black eyes knowing. With trembling hands Sadie folded the codicil carefully, and placed it back inside the book, slamming it shut. She set the book down on the nightstand, her heart beating painfully, and then turned off the lights and stared into the darkness.

  The noise in his skull was rising.

  Like the screeching of frogs during mating season, the sound was maddening and incessant, drowning out rational thought.

  With fifty-two windows in the sixty-five-hundred-square-foot house, the odds had been in his favor that one would be left open. Finding her bedroom had been easy. Despite the size of the house, there were only four rooms upstairs. Her door was left ajar.

  The floor creaked softly as he entered the room.

  Killing the dog would leave an unnecessary warning. Luckily, the animal was locked up within her sister’s room, sleep
ing against the door. He could hear its coarse hair brushing the painted wood as he passed. But here . . . in this room . . . she slept soundly . . . the sleep of the innocent . . . unaware she had an audience.

  But she wasn’t innocent, he decided.

  Nor was she very intuitive.

  He wanted her to be afraid . . . wanted her to understand she wasn’t in control. He wanted her to know that even when she believed she was alone, the hand of fate was poised above her, ready to strike.

  He stood in the shadows at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep . . . for a time . . . her face illuminated by the silvery hue of the moon. At his side, he flicked the sharp tip of his knife beneath his fingernails, unwittingly pressed the blade into the tender skin beneath his nail. He felt an immediate stirring in his groin, but didn’t move.

  The clock on her bedside table read: 3:07 A.M.

  Some folks claimed the veil between the spiritual and physical world was thinnest at this hour . . . so that’s when he liked to work. But he wasn’t ready yet. First she had to understand . . .

  He waited until he was certain she wouldn’t waken, then he made his way to her bedside and set down his gift, then walked away.

  Chapter 17

  9:20 A.M.

  “Hey, sleepyhead . . .”

  Augusta awoke to the sound of Caroline’s voice and a tiny bounce on the bed. One open eye revealed that Caroline was dressed for work, and a glance at the clock told her it was late.

  “I slept in, too. Yesterday took it out of me,” Caroline said and Augusta shook the sleep from her brain. “I didn’t want to leave you sleeping alone with the work crew banging away downstairs.”

  Augusta sat up in the bed. “Oh God! I completely forgot! Are they here already?”

  Caroline nodded. “Yep. Though they seem to know exactly what to do without my having to get involved, I thought I’d stay until you woke up. But I have a meeting in forty minutes.”

  Augusta stumbled out of the bed and found her clothes, vowing to do laundry today. She glanced at Caroline. They were approximately the same size and height. Maybe Caroline wouldn’t mind if she borrowed an outfit for the day. “Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate it. That makes two days in a row I’ve slept like the dead. I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”