69
Mary Balent was a presence in Carter County. According to her website, she was a fifth-generation native and had gone to undergrad and law school at the University of Georgia, which made her what faithful alum referred to as a “Double Dawg.” Her law office stood directly across the square from the county courthouse, and since moving to St. Ann’s, Brooke had watched her with envy as she skillfully navigated the local legal landscape.
Now, a week after her harrowing experience at the lighthouse and Gabe Wynant’s demise, Brooke and Marie sat in Ms. Balent’s office, seeking representation as they attempted to untangle Josephine Bettendorf Warrick’s estate.
Mary Balent had already read the wartime letters from Millie to Gardiner Bettendorf, which Brooke had dropped off a week earlier, and Marie had submitted a cheek swab for DNA testing to compare with Josephine’s hair sample.
“We still don’t know the outcome of a DNA sample Gabe sent off, comparing Josephine’s DNA to a local man who believes he could be Josephine’s son,” Brooke explained.
“Really?” Ms. Balent said, intrigued. “It was my understanding that Mrs. Warrick never had children.”
“There is a chance that she could have had a son out of wedlock while she was living in Savannah in 1942 and given him up for adoption,” Brooke said. “My friends and I did some sleuthing. We found some anecdotal evidence that shows Josephine was interested in a boy who was raised at two different children’s homes there, but we didn’t find any concrete proof. As far as I know, Josephine never acknowledged having a child, and of course, we have no idea who the father might have been.”
“But this man, C. D. Anthony, is convinced that he is Josephine’s son. He’s the man Gabe tried to kill last week,” Marie said. “Brooke saved his life.”
“We’ll have to have this man retested,” Ms. Balent told her. “But in the meantime, I’d say your next-of-kin status to Mrs. Warrick is entirely provable. I can get the paperwork started to have myself appointed administrator of the estate this afternoon, and given the circumstances of the previous administrator’s death, that shouldn’t be a problem, but it’s probably going to take a while to get this mess straightened out. It could take months.”
“We understand that,” Marie assured her. “My most immediate concern is going forward with my aunt’s burial. It’s been a month now. Josephine’s oldest living friend is ninety-one years old and is still heartbroken over her death. For her sake, at least, we’d like the closure a funeral could provide.”
“Have you been in contact with the cousins you mentioned earlier? Do they have any objections to a burial?”
“I called them,” Brooke said. “They were pretty shocked—and disappointed to discover that Gardiner Bettendorf had a daughter and that she was Josephine’s closest blood relative—but they indicated they don’t oppose a funeral.”
“I’ll see what I can do to expedite that. We’ll have to get the body released. Have you talked to the sheriff?”
“That’s my next appointment,” Brooke said.
Marie spent the next ten minutes filling out legal documents as Mary Balent explained what each one meant.
“You know,” she told Brooke, “I served on a couple of different bar association committees with Gabe Wynant over the years. I wouldn’t say we were friends, exactly, but I respected his expertise. I have to say, all these revelations coming out of Savannah are sending shock waves through the legal community, even all the way down here in little-bitty Carter County. I hear his former law firm has really taken a hit from this, which is a shame. You worked there, right?”
“Yes. Gabe hired me right out of law school,” Brooke said, glancing at the clock. “Mom, while you finish up here, I’d better get over to the sheriff’s office.”
Ms. Balent gave her an appraising look. “I know the sheriff pretty well. Is there anything I can help with?”
“He says it’s just a few more routine questions so he can close out the death report on Gabe,” Brooke said. “But if it’s anything more than that, I might take you up on your offer.”
*
The Carter County courthouse was a looming brown brick Spanish revival–style two-story building from the early 1920s, but the courthouse annex where the sheriff’s office was located was a squat 1970s-era concrete bunker with leaky smoked plate glass windows.
Howard Goolsby offered Brooke a seat in his cluttered office. “How’re you feeling? I heard you had a concussion.”
“I’m much better, thanks,” she said, making an effort to sound and look composed. “You have some questions for me?”
“Just a few,” he said, opening a file folder and leafing through the papers inside. “We took statements from those other two women, Elizabeth and Felicia, who witnessed Mr. Wynant’s fall. They both said Mr. Wynant struck you. And you feared for your life?”
“Yes.” Brooke crossed and uncrossed her legs. “He’d already shot C. D. Gabe grabbed me and was dragging me toward the stairs, but I couldn’t leave C. D. there to bleed to death. When I resisted, grabbing for the handrail, he pointed the gun at me. I thought he would kill me. I kicked him, thinking he might drop the gun, but instead, he fell backward.”
“I see,” the sheriff said, scribbling in a stenographer’s notebook. “Could you tell me again how you came to know Gabe Wynant?”
“Again?”
“Please.” The sheriff seemed amiable and relaxed.
“He was my boss when I worked for his law firm in Savannah. As I said in our last interview, Josephine Warrick called me over a month ago and asked me to visit her on Talisa. She first said she wanted me to draft a new will for her, and then said she intended to make me and my mother, as well as three other women, her beneficiaries. I explained that I had no expertise in trusts and wills, plus, I had a conflict, since that will would potentially benefit me and my mother. That’s when I reached out to Gabe, because I knew he did a lot of estate planning work.”
“So … the relationship was strictly professional?”
Brooke felt the flush creeping up her neck. “At first, yes. But recently, Gabe let me know he wanted something more. We had a couple of dates.”
“But nothing came of it? Was that your idea or his?”
“Why are you asking me this?” Brooke asked, wishing now that she’d asked Mary Balent to accompany her to this interview.
“Just doing my job. We found your name and number several times in Mr. Wynant’s phone log. He’d tried to call you several times the morning he was killed.”
“My phone has lousy reception on Talisa.”
“Mine too,” he said with a conspiratorial smile. “That’s when the old two-way radios come in handy, right?”
“I suppose.” She looked at the sheriff. “Do you know how he figured out where we were?”
“We think so. We found a fisherman who keeps a boat at the city dock. He said Wynant flagged him down and offered him twenty bucks for a ride over to Talisa. That little Geechee kid Lionel? Hangs around that dock all the time? He said a white-haired fella asked him if he’d seen you and C. D., and Lionel obligingly said he’d seen the two of you riding a motorcycle in the opposite direction of the house.
“Now, back to my questions. Remind me why Mr. Wynant would have tried to kill C. D. Anthony? Not once but twice, according to Mr. Anthony?”
There was a rapping at the glass door.
“Come in,” Goolsby barked.
Mary Balent stepped into the office. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, nodding at Brooke. “Howard, Ms. Trappnell tells me she’s already told you everything she knows about this unfortunate matter. Now, what else do you need from my client?”
Without waiting for an invitation, she dragged a chair from the corner of the room and sat beside Brooke, who found herself momentarily speechless.
“Just tying up some loose ends,” Goolsby said. “She’s a lawyer, the dead guy’s a lawyer, I didn’t think we’d need to get any more lawyers involved.”