Lizzie waited until the women were out of earshot before offering Gabe a high five.
“Well done, sir.” She laughed. “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry? And not even offering to have Shug take them back to the mainland instead of waiting on the ferry? I call that cold!”
“Shug has other work to attend to,” Gabe said. “I’ve asked him to stay on here and take over the outside maintenance again.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” Louette said fervently. “That grass was getting so high I was afraid what might be hiding in it.”
Gabe reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out an envelope. “I’ve brought both your paychecks too,” he said. “And I hope the past few days haven’t been too stressful for you.”
Louette tucked the envelope in the pocket of her slacks. For the first time, Brooke realized that with the death of her former employer, Louette had stopped wearing the white uniform and switched to more casual clothing.
“Thanks for coming over so quickly,” Brooke said to Gabe. “Things were getting pretty sticky with those two.”
“Yeah, they look like they’re gonna be major pains in the ass,” Lizzie said. “I think they thought I was going to put a match to Josephine’s papers.”
Gabe frowned. “I hate to say it, Lizzie, and I didn’t want to mention it in front of the cousins, but it is somewhat problematic for you to be riffling through Josephine’s personal effects.”
“Why?” Lizzie asked. “I’m just doing research for my magazine article, that’s all. And I’m actually doing you a favor, organizing and indexing everything I find.” She gestured at the cardboard file boxes surrounding the card table. “Besides, maybe I’ll find a clue to who actually killed Russell Strickland and where he’s buried.”
“If they do get a lawyer involved, he may raise an objection with the court,” Gabe said.
“You’re now the administrator of the estate, right? You could counter that by pointing out that Lizzie’s research is necessary to make sure Josephine’s papers are in order,” Brooke said. She pointed to the secretary. “Josephine was a total pack rat. That thing is full to overflowing with old letters, cards, correspondence, and who knows what? Josephine had me going through it on one of my first visits here, to try to track down Ruth’s and Varina’s families, and I barely scratched the surface of what’s in there. Maybe there actually are other living heirs that need to be notified of her death. Maybe she’ll find something that will either prove or disprove C. D.’s claim that he’s Josephine’s son.”
“Doubtful,” Gabe said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but this is just not a good idea.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes but said nothing.
“Look, Gabe. Just let her finish cataloging the contents of the secretary and whatever else is in the room. Okay? If some judge asks questions, you can say you hired her to provide archival services.”
“Except that Lizzie, as astute a journalist as she is, is not a forensic archivist,” Gabe said.
“Give me a week. One week, that’s all I ask,” Lizzie chimed in. “I’ll put everything in order and notify you of anything and everything I find.”
“Please, Gabe?” Brooke asked.
He glanced at his watch. “All right. I’ve got court up in Glynn County this afternoon. You’ve got a week, Lizzie, then I really have to insist that you decamp. Let me know what you find.”
47
“Who died and left him boss?” Lizzie asked.
“Josephine did, remember?” Felicia said. She picked up an envelope from the card table. “Find anything interesting yet in all this mess?”
“Lots. Josephine really led a fascinating life. She was a prodigious letter writer.” Lizzie picked up a file folder. “She was mad as hell at her ‘dear cousins’ for selling their land to the state. There are carbon copies here of all the letters she sent—to them, to her state representative, the governor. She even wrote letters to Jimmy Carter. Turns out she contributed a hundred bucks to his campaign when he ran for governor of Georgia, so naturally she thought he should intervene on her behalf.”
“Did he write back?”
“Nope. And when she didn’t hear from him, she fired off a scathing follow-up letter telling him she was glad she’d voted for Ronald Reagan against him,” Lizzie said.
Brooke sighed. “Well, you heard the man. You’ve only got a week before Gabe kicks you out of here and cuts off your access to these papers.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” Felicia asked, sitting in Josephine’s recliner, a seat Brooke had consciously.
“Answers. Why did Josephine cut off contact with Millie and Ruth—and Varina, to some extent? I mean, she went to all that trouble having Brooke invite us over here, but she never really gave us any answers. And of course, I’m hoping to figure out this thing with the unsolved disappearance of Russell Strickland,” said Lizzie.
“Wasting your time,” Felicia said. “Why don’t you find some way to prove that C. D. wasn’t Josephine’s son?”
“I’ve been trying, but like Brooke said, there are a ton of papers just in that secretary. I did find these, though.” She picked up a shoe box and held it out.
Felicia and Brooke peered into the box, which held a jumble of small, thin leather-bound books. Brooke picked one up at random. The cover was stamped in gold with 1965.
“Datebooks?”
“Yup. They start in 1938 and run all the way through the mideighties. And before you ask, I’ve looked at the relevant years. No mention of killing anybody or birthing any illegitimate babies.”
Brooke riffled the pages of the book in her hand and read aloud from the first entry. “‘Dentist appointment, Brunswick, January 12.’ And then there’s this, in February: ‘Lunch with Emma.’”
Lizzie nodded. “From what I can tell from skimming her calendars, she had a lot of lunch dates, played bridge with some ladies at the Cloister every other week, went to fund-raisers for various good causes, and she was diligent about getting her teeth cleaned and her cars and boat serviced. She also noted the tide charts, how many deer and feral hogs were shot on the island, and how many sea turtle nests she observed on the beach every summer.”
“Do we know what year C. D. was born?” Felicia asked.
“He claims he was born in ’42,” Brooke said.
Lizzie sifted through the shoe box contents. “Here’s the datebook from 1942. Help yourself, but I’m telling you there’s nothing about having a baby.”
Felicia pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and began skimming, turning pages, occasionally reading aloud. “Josephine was living in Savannah then, right?”
“Yes,” Brooke said. “Once the war started, her father closed up Shellhaven. I believe he went back to Boston, but Josephine lived in a town house in Savannah that her family owned.”
Felicia ran her finger down the calendar pages. “War bond drives. Bridge parties. Luncheons. Dinners. Josephine was quite the social butterfly. Wait. Here’s a notation about a doctor’s appointment. In February,” Felicia said.
Brooke looked over Felicia’s shoulder. “But it doesn’t say the doctor’s name.”
“No.” Felicia turned over a few more pages. “Another one in April. Still no doctor’s name.”
Brooke looked down at the penciled notation. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I mean, maybe she had heartburn. Or migraines. Or bunions.”
“Or God forbid, a bun in the oven,” Felicia said dryly.
“Hey!” Lizzie said, lightly punching Felicia’s arm. “That was funny! You actually do have a sense of humor.”
Felicia looked from Lizzie to Brooke. “Did you think otherwise?”
“You seem pretty serious most of the time,” Brooke said.
“I think that’s Southern for ‘You go around acting like you have a stick up your butt,’” Lizzie said. “Maybe you could lighten up just a little?”