“Great,” I muttered, then eyed the bookcase, its shelves bowed with the weight of dozens of musty, linen-bound books. I set aside my computer and climbed out of bed. There was a row of books about the island—one in particular, Barrier Islands of Georgia, seemed appropriately thick. I took it back to the bed and skimmed the table of contents. Nothing helpful jumped out at me.
A search on the shelves in the library downstairs yielded more. I found three books on local plant life and another on Muskogee Native American history and customs. I hauled them back to my room and, after twenty minutes, found what I was looking for.
Ilex vomitoria, commonly known as yaupon holly or “cassina,” was sacred to the Native people of the Golden Isles. A tea made from the leaves of the plant—often called “black drink”—was purported to have spiritually cleansing properties and was used in many religious ceremonies. The cleansing usually resulted in heavy sweats, intense vomiting, and occasionally out-of-body trance experiences. The berries are known to be deadly.
The leaves must have been what Kitten used to make everybody sick. And my little researcher extraordinaire, Susan Doucette, figured it out. Smart girl.
I grabbed my phone, switched off the wireless, and waited to see if the cell network would kick in. Right away, four beautiful dots appeared.
I typed GTO into the search bar, and a bunch of links to old cars popped up. No surprise there. I entered AIM. At the bottom of the page, under the expected AOL-related suggestions, I saw the heading American Indian Movement. I clicked on it.
The website that loaded seem to be mostly press releases and news about different regional councils and their decisions; no mention of the defunct Guale tribe or Bonny Island, Georgia, or anything about the Kitchens family. After poking around a while, I decided I’d hit a dead end, so I swiped over to my newsfeed. Immediately an ominous headline flashed up on my screen.
I sat up and clicked the link.
ASHLEY SAYS FIFTH TIME IS THE REAL DEAL, read the headline. The picture below showed Frances, pale in a black swimsuit, floppy hat, and giant sunglasses, leading poor Beno?t down a beach. He resembled a translucent shrimp, squinting in the sun like he’d just been dragged up from the ocean floor. A knot formed in my stomach, and I tossed the phone away. Just as I did, it rang. I snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Good God, you’re hard to reach,” Asa said.
“Spotty cell service,” I said. “I told you that. Listen, I need to ask you a question. Have you ever heard of anyone named Susan Doucette in connection with the Kitty Cult? Or maybe with the TV show or one of the movies?”
“Nooo . . . can’t say that I have.”
“I’m wondering exactly who she is to Frances. Why she would’ve kept this kid’s book. Frances never mentioned her?”
“No.” He said it quietly, and, inexplicably, my stomach fluttered. It was nothing, just a feeling, but I was going with it. “Meg?” he said. “You there?”
“Have you talked to her lately? Frances?”
“Um.” He paused. “Last week, I think.”
I hesitated. Closed my eyes. “Are you really her assistant, Asa?”
He laughed. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a pretty straightforward question. Are you Frances Ashley’s assistant? Or have you concocted this whole bullshit story so that I would write your book?”
“No! I mean, yes. Of course I’m her assistant. Jesus. Rankin Lewis hired me eight months ago to be her assistant.”
“And she gave you the password to her email. And told you to handle her correspondence.”
“Right.” His voice had gone flat. “She told me that she was overwhelmed with all the fortieth-anniversary stuff and needed some help.”
Take a breath, Meg. I was overthinking this. Being paranoid. It was this place.
“Look,” he said. “If you don’t believe me, I can send you some pay stubs.”
I sighed. “No. I believe you. I’m just . . . This place is getting to me.”
“Meg.” His voice gentled. “If you don’t mind me saying, you have work to do, and quite frankly, all this feels like a giant avoidance tactic. You’re investigating some Kitty Cultist because you’ve got a touch of writer’s block. Am I right?”
“Maybe.” I rubbed my eyes. “Probably. But if I knew what really happened—”
“Look. All you have to do is open that laptop and write one sentence. Then another, then another after that. Okay? I feel for you, but we really, really don’t have time for this. We have a book to sell.”
“Okay.”
“Now go do your thing.”
I tossed the phone into the covers beside me. Glanced at the computer.
I dropped back on the pillows. Asa was right. I was avoiding the inevitable, imagining conspiracies where there weren’t any. I needed to pull myself together. I told myself to relax, then conjured up Koa’s face . . . followed by his well-defined, knotty shoulders . . . his sculpted chest and taut stomach. The enticing shadow just below the waistband of his jeans.
My fingers had just started to drift south when I heard a noise outside, right below my balcony. A muffled thump like something had been flung against the side of the house. I sat up, points of light pulsating at the edges of my sight.
Now a scraping sound, higher up.
Something was scaling the tabby walls outside my bedroom.
I flew to the balcony doors and cracked them open. Slipped out into the night air, being careful not to let the doors squeak. I tried to get a view of the wedding-cake walls on either side of my balcony, but the darkness was so thick, and the angle of my position so awkward, I couldn’t make out a thing.
I didn’t hear anything either. Not for the excruciating ten minutes I waited, motionless, sweat rolling down my back, shallow breath in my ears. Finally, I gave up and slipped back into my room. Whatever it had been was long gone. I made sure the door was locked securely behind me and crept back to bed.
I didn’t think of Koa again.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 8
For two days in a row, Beverly Cormley and her husband missed breakfast. It wasn’t entirely unexpected.
The paramedics had bundled up Cappie Strongbow’s small, decomposing body and shuttled it away, and the police had carted June Strongbow off in handcuffs. After that, most of the guests had retired to the safety of their rooms. The Talberts, the Del Riccios, and the Walthinghams had ferried back to the mainland. There was a feeling of doom clinging to the walls of the hotel.
The fourth morning, Carl Cormley joined everyone in the large dining room. He fell into the buffet line at the sideboard, nodding to the others.
From the back of the room, Delia Murphy spoke. “Dr. Cormley, may I send a cup of tea and milk of magnesia upstairs to your wife?”
His head jerked up, looking shocked that someone was addressing him.
“Dr. Cormley?” Delia repeated.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’ll take her coffee and toast. It’s nothing but a bit of female trouble.” He turned back to the spread.
Kitten piped up. “Maybe she’s sick because she’s going to have a baby. Wouldn’t that be something, Mother, a baby for the Cormleys?” She turned to the doctor. “What would you like the most, a boy or a girl?”
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Seventeen