Later that morning, I piled into my car with my mother and Jayne. My father had arrived with my mother to watch the twins; he had brought child-sized plastic gardening implements with grand plans to begin teaching JJ and Sarah about gardening. Beau was back at the fence doing the laborious task of repairing it, the sound of an old-fashioned cash register clanging in my head each time I spotted him.
I buckled my seat belt, then pulled my car onto Tradd Street, trying to unclench my jaw at my thoughts of Jack and the note.
“Why is Mrs. Houlihan so upset with you?” my mother asked as she settled her gloved hands in her lap.
“Because I rearranged the kitchen drawers and relabeled everything. I mean, I might not know how to use any of the appliances, but it is my kitchen. I had a lot of pent-up energy this morning and I decided to do something useful with it.”
“You should have gone for a run,” Jayne suggested from the backseat.
“I said I needed to release energy, not torture myself.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” my mother added. “You do know how to use the microwave, refrigerator, and coffeemaker.”
I shot her a narrow-eyed glance. “Thanks, Mother.”
“Where’s Jack?” Jayne asked. “I saw his room was empty when I went upstairs to dress the twins.”
With as casual a tone as I could muster, I said, “I’m not sure. He left early this morning before I woke up and didn’t tell me where he was going.”
I felt both sets of eyes on me. “He’s deep in a book right now. I’m assuming he’s either doing research in a library somewhere or at his apartment.”
They didn’t say anything, but I felt their probing looks. My phone dinged with a text, and before I could recall that it was in the purse I’d tossed on the floor of the passenger side, my mother had pulled it out.
“It’s from Jack,” she said. “Do you want me to read it?”
I swerved onto the on-ramp to the Ravenel Bridge. “No, that’s—”
“The part I can see says to ‘read before visit to Rebecca’s house.’?”
“Oh,” I said, feeling a bit deflated. Not that I’d really been expecting an apology or an invitation for more discussion about the previous night, but still . . . “Okay. My security code is—”
“One-two-two-one,” Jayne and Ginette said simultaneously.
“You really should change that,” Jayne said. “Not only is it easy to guess, but you’ve used it for every single password in your life. Thomas says that’s just asking for trouble.”
“You’re seeing Thomas?” I glanced at my sister, watching her cheeks pinken.
“Go ahead and read the text, Mother,” Jayne said.
“I like the size of your font, Mellie. I can actually read it without my glasses. So can Martians from space, I’d guess.” She cleared her throat. “?‘Mandy said the missing painting is a small one and shows the fountain in the garden. So you’ll know what to look for.’?”
“The fountain?” Jayne leaned forward from the backseat. “Why would Marc have chosen that one to take? Assuming he’s trying to prevent us from discovering something, that just seems like a strange subject. He knows that the fountain has been taken apart and reassembled and nothing was found, right? Well, besides the two skeletons.”
I barely heard her. “That’s it? Jack didn’t mention anything about last night?” I bit my lip, too late realizing what I’d just said and in front of whom.
“No,” my mother said. “That’s it. Do you want me to text him back and ask?”
“No!” I shouted, making both of my passengers turn to stare at me. “I mean, I’ll ask him later.” I turned up the volume on the radio to prevent further discussion for the remainder of the short drive.
Rebecca had moved into Marc’s beachfront home on the Isle of Palms when they’d married. I’d been there only once, with Marc when we were dating, and I wasn’t looking forward to a repeat visit. The yellow stucco raised McMansion was new construction, undoubtedly built on the foundation of a modest home that had once held a generation of a family’s memories. Marc had told me proudly that he’d designed the house, culminating in an odd mixture of Craftsman, Greek Revival, and medieval castle. Judging by his forays into writing and movie directing, Marc wasn’t of the belief that one had to have extensive training or talent for any endeavor one chose to dive into. Or, in Marc’s case, make a huge belly flop.
“Wow,” Jayne said as we climbed out of the car, our heels crunching on the crushed-shell driveway. “I’m glad Sophie isn’t here. She’d have a few things to say about those crenellations encircling the roof deck. Doesn’t really say ‘beach,’ does it?”
I popped the trunk open and grabbed the two bags of food from Rodney Scott’s that my mother had picked up earlier as well as the requested doughnuts from Glazed, and handed one to Jayne. “Oh, just wait until you see the inside.”
“Be nice, girls,” our mother warned. “We should feel nothing but compassion for Rebecca right now.”
“Because she’s pregnant?” I asked as we climbed the long flight of tabby front steps, feeling winded by the time I reached the top.
“Because she’s married to Marc Longo,” she whispered, indicating the security camera above the front door.
I pressed the doorbell and listened as we were serenaded with chimes ringing out Gershwin’s “Summertime.”
“Is that . . . ?” Jayne began.