Jackie had known things were bad, but not this bad. “You mean he’s going to flunk out?”
“That’s precisely what I mean.”
Jackie had hung up and immediately called Sean. She’d threatened him with everything she could think of, including taking away his car and making him reimburse them for the wasted tuition, but based on his hostile tone, it was already too late. She would whip him back into shape in no time. He needed some direction in his life, and she aimed to help him find it. The sooner the better in order for her to continue building her career. She loved her family. She’d devoted two decades of her life to raising her sons. But now it was her turn. She resented this intrusion. She was in her prime, hitting her stride professionally, and she had a lot of living left to do.
She changed out of her cashmere bathrobe into a crisp white blouse, khaki pencil skirt, and wedges—casual attire suited for the work ahead. Her doorbell sounded promptly at nine as she was zipping up her cosmetics bag. She kept her work wardrobe, plus a few outfits appropriate for business dinners, at her house in Charleston and the rest of her clothes at Moss Creek Farm, her waterfront estate in Prospect. After she finished with her installation, she would drive to the farm and cook dinner for her husband. They needed to discuss the consequences of their son’s poor academic performance in advance of his arrival home from college the next day.
She dropped her cosmetics bag into her Louis Vuitton tote and hurried down to open the door. Jackie’s federal-style home had unofficially been on the market for months. She hadn’t bothered to consult her Realtor, and the only marketing she’d done was through word of mouth. She’d received several full-price offers, but had rejected them all. She wanted buyers who appreciated the house’s historical significance and could afford the upkeep. She’d purchased the house as a project, never intending to fall in love with it. She’d restored it with the help of her detail-oriented contractor, Hugh Kelley, and then filled it with antiques she’d selected herself. The carriage house had provided the ideal space to launch her fledgling interior design business, while the main house had showcased her work to potential clients she’d entertained with cocktail parties and elaborate sit-down dinners. But the main house had more space than she needed now, and her business had outgrown the carriage house. In search of a solution, she’d found a single house on Church Street that needed a loving touch, and a converted warehouse on Meeting Street that would be ideal for her showroom.
Jackie was surprised at how young the potential buyers appeared, but judging from the size of the diamond on Catherine Doyle’s hand, they could afford her asking price. She invited them in and conducted the tour.
“Have a look around,” she said when the tour concluded in the master bedroom. “I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen if you have any questions.”
She was finishing her coffee thirty minutes later when they sought her out. “We’re serious about making an offer,” Catherine Doyle said. “How serious are you about selling? We’ve heard—”
“I’m aware of the gossip,” Jackie said. “I told you on the phone, the house isn’t officially on the market. With that said, I have a couple of new projects in mind. The time has come for me to move on. If you make me your best offer, I promise to consider it in good faith.”
“Would you be interested in selling the furnishings?” Catherine asked.
Jackie lifted her gaze to the ceiling as she thought about it. “Perhaps. There are a few pieces I won’t part with. But be aware that would drive the price up significantly. There are some priceless antiques in here.”
The couple seemed satisfied with her answer. “We’ll be in touch,” Hank Doyle said when she showed them out.
Jackie took her time locking up, contemplating which pieces she’d keep as she walked from room to room. On her way to the installation, she drove by the single house for sale on Church Street. Her Realtor had shown her the house on Monday, and she’d driven by it numerous times since then. The house had real potential. She would need to act on it soon before someone else snatched it up. Her stomach churned with excitement over the prospect of starting a new project.
She was surprised and disappointed upon arrival at the installation site on South Battery to find that her client was away. Most of Jackie’s clients supervised every last detail of an installation.
“Ellie’s gone down to her studio,” Liza explained. “She asked us to call her when we’re finished. She doesn’t want to watch it come together piece by piece. She prefers the wow factor of seeing the finished product all at once.”
“Wow is definitely the response I’m hoping for,” Jackie mumbled.
She walked from room to room, marveling at her choices of fabrics and carpeting and wall coverings. A stunning Turkish Oriental in shades of coral and blue greeted guests at the door in the center hallway, while contemporary furniture in shades of gray set a comfortable yet elegant tone in the living room. But the most dramatic transformation had taken place in the library—Ellie’s architect husband’s study. An antelope carpet on the floor and neutral fabrics in shades of beige and khaki on the furniture and drapes accented the wood paneling and transitioned the room from the dark dungeon it had once been to a bright and inviting space.
Jackie, though eager to get on the road to Prospect, refused to leave until Ellie got there. The expression on her face when Ellie saw her new rooms was worth the wait.
“I must admit, I’ve been nervous about your reaction,” Jackie said. “I typically have more input from clients when decorating their homes.”
Ellie Hagood nodded her pretty auburn head. “I had reason to give you carte blanche. You’re the expert. As an artist, I wouldn’t want anyone telling me what or how to paint. I decided to give you a blank canvas and let you do your thing.”
Jackie agreed with her logic. “I’m just glad you like the result. We’d be having a very different conversation if you hadn’t.” She pressed her cheek against Ellie’s in parting and hurried out to her SUV.
She navigated the midday traffic downtown and was crossing the Ashley River Bridge when her phone lit up with a call from Sean. His sobs filled the line when she answered, causing her heart to race.
“Sean! What is it, son?”
“I’ve been arrested, Mom. I need you to come bail me out.”
FOUR
Sam
Sam and Eli’s bungalow was small but charming, with views of the inlet from every room. The first floor featured a master suite, upscale kitchen, and main room with an area for lounging by one of two stone fireplaces and a section designated for dining by a wall of windows overlooking the water. Two small bedrooms and a shared bath occupied the upstairs, where Jamie slept when he was home. Even though they would be tripping all over one another in the cramped space, Sam was looking forward to having her only child home for the summer. The days of Jamie living under her roof were numbered. When he graduated in December, he would move out of the house for good and into an apartment of his own. Whether he would have a job to pay for that apartment had yet to be determined.
Sam had never considered her son’s living anywhere else. He’d always been determined to return to Prospect. And she’d never discouraged him. Since he was a tiny boy, she’d dreamed of having him by her side at Sweeney’s. Had she done the wrong thing by not encouraging him to spread his wings? He was too young to understand what he was missing out on. This was his one chance to explore the world and discover something of himself in the process. His course was his own to chart. If he never came home again, she’d deal with it. Best case scenario, he’d move to Charleston. With historic inns and five-star dining, Charleston was the heart of tourism in the Lowcountry. And it was only forty-five minutes up the road.
She paced the heart pine floorboards from one room to the next. She was worried about her mother, who wasn’t answering her calls. Sam was distressed about the fire and knew she would go stark raving mad without a way to fill her days. Maybe she’d take up a sport. Tennis, perhaps.
Wouldn’t Eli love to see her legs in one of those little skirts? Although golf was probably a better choice. Golf required more time—four hours for eighteen holes. She mentally slapped herself. Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t be happy if she wasn’t earning money. And too much idle time was risky for a recovering alcoholic. She was resourceful, organized, and creative. She could do something entirely different. At nearly fifty-one, was she too old to start over? If her sister could launch a new career at this stage in her life, why couldn’t she?
Faith was not fooling anyone. She claimed to be retiring from the market in order to spend more time at home with her daughter and husband. But Bitsy, Faith’s nine-year-old daughter, was in school all day, and Mike, an emergency room physician, worked long hours at the hospital. Sam had known for some time that her sister wasn’t happy at Sweeney’s, and sensed Faith was searching for a way to fill an emptiness inside herself. She had never fully recovered from her abusive marriage, and having more children didn’t appear to be in the cards. Sam believed her sister might discover her passion by working with abused women, but Faith needed to come to that conclusion on her own.
Why not start a new business? I could do something out of my home, Sam thought. What about catering? Takeout catering had occupied a huge segment of the market’s business in recent years. And her kitchen was her best asset, with its commercial-grade appliances and miles of granite countertops. The wheels in her head began to spin. If Annie and Heidi could be successful at catering, so could she. But she would first need to find her mother’s secret recipes.
As she started for the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot from smoke and fatigue, and she had yet to change out of her pajamas. She dropped her bag on the floor by the door and went to her room to shower. She left the house fifteen minutes later, face shiny and hair still wet, dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a moss-green Captain Sweeney’s polo.
As she headed up Creekside Drive, she placed a call to Roberto, the middle-aged Mexican man in charge of Sweeney’s kitchen. They talked briefly about the fire, and he offered to help her any way he could in rebuilding.
“Honestly, Roberto, I haven’t decided whether to rebuild or not. There are a lot of obstacles to consider, one being Mom’s recipes. I know you had her box out yesterday afternoon when you were looking for her conch salad recipe. Do you remember whether you put it back in the safe?”
Silence filled the line. “There’s a good chance that I didn’t, although I’m not absolutely positive. I’m so sorry, Sam.”
Sam sighed. “I don’t want you to worry about this, Roberto. You had no way of knowing the place was going to burn down.”
The police had taped off what remained of the building and the adjacent parking lot. Sam parked at the marina and jogged across the street. She stood at the tape and stared into the black hole of burned debris. The acrid stench of smoke hung in the air. The brass ship’s clock that had hung over the front door, marking the decades since 1959, lay half-melted in a pile of ash. This time yesterday, she had been opening the front door to the line of customers waiting patiently outside. Twenty-four hours later, she no longer had a door to open or merchandise to sell.
She thought about the customers she’d served over the years, folks from all over the state who’d shopped with them year after year on their annual pilgrimage to the beach and locals who stopped in several times a week to share a tidbit of gossip while they purchased a salad for lunch or a pound of crabmeat for dinner. She was too lost in the past to hear someone calling her name until Donna Bennett appeared in front of her. A young reporter with a microphone stood behind Donna.
“I’m not buying whatever you’re selling,” Sam said and returned her attention to the rubble.
Several years ago, Donna had published a scalding review in her family’s tabloid newspaper, Prospect Weekly, that referred to the recent renovations at Sweeney’s as “Too Uptown for Small Town.” The article had brought a screeching halt to their business a week after their grand reopening. Fortunately, Eli had arranged an interview with a friend of his at Lowcountry Living, a monthly magazine out of Charleston that carried more influence with a larger readership. Janie Jasper’s glowing review saved Captain Sweeney’s from bankruptcy.
“No need to be rude, Samantha. I’ll only take a moment of your time. As you know, I pride myself on being fair. I’d like to give you a chance to comment on the rumors circulating around town. My sources tell me that you are responsible for starting the fire.”
Sam’s head jerked up. “Are you out of your mind?”
The young woman shoved the microphone at her.
“Get that thing out of my face!” Sam snarled.
Donna shooed the reporter away. “Give us a minute, please, Janice.”
Janice, who was wearing a red cocktail dress despite the early hour, teetered away on black strappy heels.
“Now, where were we?” Donna tugged her too-tight blouse down over her muffin top. “Are you denying these allegations?”
“What allegations?” Sam leered at her archenemy. She’d known Donna since they were children. For whatever reason, her sister Jackie had chosen Donna as one of her close friends. The mousy little brat had grown into a vindictive bitch. The hate was etched in deep lines around Donna’s mouth and eyes, wrinkles no amount of Botox could soften. “Your imagination is working overtime again, Donna. Why on earth would I destroy my family’s livelihood on purpose?”
Donna removed a notepad from her gaudy Chanel tote. “Sources say your business is in trouble,” she said, reading from the pad. “That you burned the place down in order to get the insurance money so you can retire.”
“Read your insurance policy, Donna. Standard provisions exclude fires caused by arson when the person who set the fire is a beneficiary of the policy.” Sam’s tone matched her flaring temper. “I fully expect the investigation will prove that lightning caused the fire. Now get off of my property.”
Donna glanced down at her feet. “The city owns the sidewalk, Samantha. I have every right to be here.”
A fire department SUV with Jared at the wheel turned into Sweeney’s parking lot. He’d changed out of his fireman’s uniform into navy chinos and a gray knit shirt with his fireman’s shield pinned to his chest. He clunked over to them in his size-twelve work boots. “Is there a problem here, ladies?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact there is,” Sam said, fists clinched at her sides. “Tabloid Tracey here is looking for a story. She’s got it in her deranged mind that arson was involved, that I’m the one who started the fire.”
“If not you, maybe your loony tunes mother is responsible,” Donna said. “Rumor has it she’s gone off her rocker again.”
Sam looked at Jared for help. “Will you please set her straight?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not able to discuss an ongoing investigation,” Jared said. “Out of respect for the Sweeney family, I’ll ask you not to print anything in your paper or spread gossip around town until we report our findings.”
Heat rushed to Sam’s face. Jared had done little to dispel Donna’s accusations. Last night he’d seemed convinced that lightning had started the fire.
“Will you hold a press conference when you conclude your investigation?” Donna asked.
“This is a small town, Donna,” Jared said, a smile of amusement on his thin lips. “We don’t hold press conferences in Prospect.”
Donna pressed him. “When can I expect a statement from your department?”
“Whenever we have one.” He tipped his hat to her. “Good day now.”
Donna stuffed her notebook back in her bag and stormed off in a huff.
Jared turned his lanky frame to Sam. “Did you get any sleep?”
“I didn’t even try.” She nodded at the three-drawer fire safe, the lone tower among the ruins. “It’s a good thing we purchased the heavy-duty safe. Can you help me get some things out of it?”
“Technic
ally, since this is a crime scene, I’m not supposed to. What is it that you need?”
“My mother’s wooden recipe box is the most important thing. You’ll know it when you see it. It should be near the front of the bottom drawer. I also need a file labeled ‘Insurance’ and the black checkbook binder. You’ll find those in the middle drawer.”
“The Insurance file is the only thing I can see that would be a problem. And since the Insurance company has copies of the policy . . . Let me get my gloves out of the truck.”
While he went to his SUV for his gloves, she ducked under the yellow tape and wandered over to her mother’s car. The metal was scorched, the tires flat, and all the windows blown out.
Jared joined her a minute later, tugging on his gloves. “I’m sorry, Sam. The car’s a goner.”
“Whatever. We’ve been looking for an excuse to get Mom off the road.”
He held his gloved hand out to her. “Do you have the key to the safe?”
She flipped through her ring until she found a medium-size square silver key.
He eyed her boat shoes. “You’ll have to wait here.”
Stepping through the debris, he unlocked the safe and searched through the drawers. He returned with the insurance file and checkbook.
“You didn’t see the recipe box?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I imagine those recipes are vital to your business.”
Her eyes frantically searched the rubble. “Do you mind looking around on the ground on the other side of the building near the back? The box was wooden and the cards paper. I’m sure it was destroyed, but just in case by some miracle . . .”
“Of course.”
She watched as he kicked through the debris in and around the kitchen area. He gave up after ten minutes. “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t see any signs of it.”
Saturdays at Sweeney's Page 3
