“I know Sheriff duBose quite well,” Gabe said. “We’re in Rotary Club together.”
“Wayne’s a good man,” Goolsby said. “Comes down here fishing with me when he can get away from the big city.” He tapped his notebook with a pen. “I think we’re about set here. I’d heard Mrs. Warrick was terminally ill, and the housekeeper confirmed that. She was on some pretty strong new pain meds, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And she consumed some alcohol at dinner last night, even though the housekeeper warned her against mixing the pills with alcohol?”
“That’s correct,” Gabe said. “We finished dinner around ten o’clock, and I helped her from the dining room because she was somewhat unsteady on her feet.”
“Did she seem okay, otherwise?”
“She was groggy,” Brooke said.
“And there were some dogs in here? The housekeeper mentioned she might have tripped over them?”
“Two Chihuahuas,” Brooke said. “Teeny and Tiny. You rarely saw Josephine without those dogs at her feet. I guess Louette must have put them in another room now. But they were here this morning when I came down.”
“Okay, then,” Goolsby said. “Kendra and I agree, this is a textbook accidental death, likely alcohol-and-drug-related. Hell of a way for the old lady to go, though. She was pretty much a legend around here. Her family did a lot of good in this county.”
“She told me her father was always very community-minded, even though he wasn’t originally from here,” Brooke said.
“That was way before my time, of course, but my granddaddy used to talk about what a fine person Mr. Bettendorf was. What happens to all of this now?” Goolsby asked. “She never had any kids, did she?”
“No children, no close surviving family,” Gabe said. “And unfortunately, as far as we can tell, she died intestate.”
Goolsby blinked. “I thought you said you did her will.”
“I did, but she died before it could be witnessed.”
The door opened, and Kendra Younts wheeled in a gleaming chrome collapsible stretcher.
“Son of a bitch,” the sheriff said.
Gabe pointed at the stretcher. “That might not be necessary. Mrs. Warrick specified that she wanted to be buried in the family plot here on the island. According to Louette, she even has a handmade casket out in the barn. So why transport the body over to the mainland when it’s just going to end up back here?”
“That’s a pretty unusual request,” Kendra said.
Brooke imagined the coroner mentally calculating the amount of money her family’s funeral home would not be billing to Josephine’s estate. No transport. No embalming or cremation. No bronze coffin, no visitation in the Younts Mortuary’s Palmetto Parlor, no hearse …
“Josephine Warrick was a pretty unusual woman,” the sheriff said. He nodded at Kendra. “We’re agreed it’s an accidental death, but I think we might want to touch base with her doctors to confirm their diagnosis of her illness and all. So we’ll go ahead and take her over to the morgue at the hospital just in case. Afterward, we can release the body to be brought back over here.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Brooke agreed.
“First thing Monday, I’ll petition with the court to be named administrator of the estate,” Gabe said. He stood and handed business cards to the sheriff and the coroner. “Please let me know if you have any questions, and of course, I’d appreciate it if you could notify me when the death certificate is ready.”
Brooke quickly left the room before they began transferring Josephine to the stretcher. The dining room was empty and had been cleared of all traces of breakfast. When she went looking for more coffee, she found Louette and Shug standing in the kitchen. Shug had his arm around his wife’s waist, and Louette’s head rested on his shoulder. Their backs were to her, but she could hear Louette’s racking sobs from where she stood.
She backed out of the room to leave them alone with their grief.
*
She was walking back toward the living room when she heard scratching and whining from behind another door.
Brooke opened the door slightly, and Teeny and Tiny came scrambling out, barking indignantly and flinging themselves at her ankles.
On an impulse, she scooped them both up and cradled one under each arm. “Hey, girls,” she crooned. “Poor little girls. I guess we sort of forgot about you in all this excitement.”
One of the dogs raised her head up and began licking Brooke’s neck. She read the tag on the collar. “So you’re Tiny.” She held the dog at arm’s length. “How am I gonna tell you apart from your sister? Oh, okay. Your ears are way longer than Teeny’s. And no offense, but you’ve kind of got an overbite. How did I miss that?”
The back door opened, and C. D. poked his head inside the hallway and cleared his throat.
“Hey, uh, Brooke. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course. Did you already take the sheriff back to the dock?”
“Yeah. Them and Josephine.”
“I probably need to let the girls outside for a potty break,” Brooke said. “Can we talk outside?”
“Yeah. That’d be okay.”
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dazzling sunlight after the dim half-light of the house. The moment she set the dogs down, they ran straight for a clump of oleander bushes at the edge of the veranda.
Brooke pointed at a rusting wrought iron table and two chairs. It was the only furniture left on what must have once been a beautiful spot overlooking the ocean. The slate tiles were crumbling, with weeds poking up through the cracks. Still, a fine breeze ruffled the palms at the edge of the low wall, bringing the scent of gardenias blooming in what was left of the garden just beyond.
She studied C. D., who sat stiffly, staring out at the ocean. He still wore his ever-present oversized aviator sunglasses, but today he was dressed in a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of baggy jeans whose hems just brushed the top of his bare brown feet. This, she realized, was as dressed up as she’d ever seen him.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked finally.
He looked at her now. “This morning, I was out in the kitchen, and I heard y’all talking about Josephine and how she didn’t have no close kin or nuthin’.”
“That’s right,” Brooke said. “If you’re worried about your job, though—”
“The thing is, she does have kin.”
“Yes, we know about the cousins, and they’ll be notified—”
“I’m not talking about the cousins. I’m talking about me.” He thumped his bony chest and raised his glasses to look her straight in the eye. “Me. I’m Josephine’s son. I reckon that’s about as close a kin as you can get.”
38
May 1942
“You’re the doctor? Thank God!” The woman who’d met him at the door was wrapped in a thin cotton bathrobe and didn’t wait for his answer. “She’s having an awful time. Please hurry.”
Thomas Carlyle was getting accustomed to receiving urgent phone calls in the middle of the night. All the younger physicians in Savannah, even the middle-aged ones, had enlisted in the war effort in the immediate aftermath of Pearl Harbor. But he was in his seventies, and his fondness for gin was well known among a certain clientele in the city.
Still, he was surprised to be summoned to this particular address. It was a handsome, pale pink double town house on one of the most fashionable blocks of West Jones Street, so he’d dressed for the occasion; his only black suit, too large for him now and full of moth holes, and a heavily starched white dress shirt, although no necktie. He was poised to ring the bell when the door opened.
He heard the moans and shrieks as soon as he began to climb the narrow stairs, which did nothing to quicken his steps. He’d heard it all hundreds of times before, and in his experience, babies took their own time.