Blood, Ash, and Bone Page 8

  I stepped over the cart rope and headed for the pin, dodging goose droppings. “You and Mr. Fitzhugh don’t get along?”

  “That twit? He keeps trying to convince Audrina to cut me off. But she can’t—that’s not how our father set up the foundation. I control half, she controls half. Fitzhugh seems to think he should have a half too.”

  He pulled the flag for me and stepped out of the way. I could feel his eyes on my butt as I lined up the shot, but I popped the ball too hard, and it lipped out. I called the thing a foul name, and Reynolds barked a hearty laugh.

  I held the flag for him. As he approached, a blue heron took flight from the flat gray pond behind us, beating its wings hard against a slanting brisk wind. Everything was manicured and velvety green, tidy and precise, but the weather had a temper that no groundskeeper could tame.

  “So you’re here to make friends in the Lowcountry?” I said.

  “That’s the idea.” He blew out a plume of rich blue smoke. “Unless Audrina manages to kill me first. Then the whole plan’s shot to hell.”

  I stared at him. He placed his cigar on the ground, lined up the putt, and sank it quickly and cleanly.

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “Did you say she’s trying to kill you?”

  He picked up his cigar and stuck it in his mouth. “Last year for Christmas, she got me skydiving lessons. For my birthday, a Kodiak bear hunting expedition in Alaska. In six weeks, she’s sending me diving with great whites in Australia. What does that sound like to you?”

  “Like she’s trying to kill you.”

  “See?” Reynolds chuckled. “I’m kidding, of course. What she’s trying to do is keep me far away from the foundation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because deep in my sister’s tight little heart, she wants to control everything—the foundation, the collection, the family name. Having me out of the way makes that easier, which makes Fitzhugh happy too. He’s always telling her what a tragedy it would be to let the infidels get their filthy hands on the family treasures. Audrina falls for that ‘great privilege, great responsibility’ argument every time.”

  “But you think differently?”

  “I do. Those items belong to history, not us. Creating a museum will make sure they’re cared for properly for the long haul and accessible to all.” He waggled his putter at the hole. “Now sink that gimme already. I’ve got a poker game with the mayor, and you’ve got to chase that Bible.”

  I took my stance, eyes on the ball. “What Bible?”

  He laughed again. “Let’s drop the pretense. The tournament is a bribe. In return, I’m supposed to spy on you and let Audrina know if you find the Bible so that Fitzhugh can convince you to sell it.”

  I tapped the ball lightly, and it rattled into the cup. “Or steal it out from under me.”

  “Or that. And Trey’s here to keep me out of trouble while I perpetrate all this nefariousness, even though I’m not supposed to know that.”

  “I’m pretty sure Trey doesn’t know that.”

  “And Marisa’s here to grease the slippery wheels of her profit margin. It’s a game of monkey-in-the-middle, with that Bible the grand prize. And some of the other players don’t play nice.”

  “You mean like Hope Lyle?”

  He squinted in what looked like genuine confusion. “Who?”

  I hurried back to my bag and pulled out the screenshot of Hope smirking with tart satisfaction at the surveillance camera. I handed it to Reynolds.

  He grinned. “Goodness gracious. Is she single?”

  “No. You recognize her?”

  He shook his head. “What’s she got to do with the Bible?”

  “Long story.” I took the photo back. “But if she shows up, you need to tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will put me one step closer to finding that Bible. Which puts you one step closer to getting it without Fitzhugh’s involvement.” I smiled. “But don’t forget I don’t always play nice either.”

  “Some people play especially not-nice.”

  “Like who?”

  “You know who. The Invisible Empire. Well-moneyed and ruthless, with a taste for Confederate memorabilia. If she’s one of them…”

  I got a shiver, and it wasn’t from the suddenly chill wind. The Ku Klux Klan. The great Southern shadow, still long, still dark, still thick in the least expected places.

  “What would the KKK want with a Bible signed by Lincoln and Sherman? They’re Yankees.”

  “You got me. But whenever big money items show up, so does the Klan. And they pay well. But my sister and I will pay you better, and we’re not evil.”

  He said this pleasantly, but a vague feeling of apprehension washed over me anyway. We returned to the cart just as Trey and Marisa pulled up beside us. Trey got out, but Marisa remained in the cart, still talking on her phone.

  I plucked a piece of pine straw from Trey’s hair. “Did you find her ball?”

  “No. There were alligators.”

  I’d seen the reptiles in question, maybe three feet long, their knobby noses poking above the waterline. Not harmless, but no cause for panic. Of course, I’d watched Trey become practically unglued around a rather petite reticulated python.

  “So you gave up?”

  He looked at me as if I were insane. “Alligators,” he repeated. “Plural.”

  In the distance, the clouds thickened, and the first fat drops of rain splattered on the plastic windshield. Reynolds held out his hand, palm up.

  “Blast it,” he said.

  Marisa put her phone away. “It doesn’t matter, we have to go. The director of Secure Systems says he can squeeze in a lunch meeting. We might have a hardware vendor.”

  “But I have poker,” Reynolds protested.

  “Not if you want your tournament.” She turned to Trey. “How soon can you be ready?”

  “I’ve got to shower and change and print out the specs. I’ll meet you there in forty-five minutes.” He turned to me. “What will you do while I’m gone?”

  I remembered Reynolds’ words. The KKK had their grubby fingers in this mess, although for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. But I knew who could help me start.

  “I’ve got to make a delivery,” I said.

  “But I’ll have the car.”

  “I’ll take the bus. Or a cab.”

  He frowned. “Can’t this wait until I get back?”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Trey, you can’t be with me every second. I have my job to do, like you have yours. Trust me, okay?”

  The rain intensified, and the first rumble of thunder rolled over the horizon. He nodded, albeit reluctantly, and sat beside me in the cart. Reynolds climbed in next to Marisa. He tipped his hat in my direction and grinned wide, and for a second, I understood why Trey got squeamish around alligators. Even when they smiled, it was all teeth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Billie was my favorite relative. She was a distant cousin on my mother’s side, smart as a whip, with a laugh like a war whoop. She was also the most talented mechanic I’d even known. Boats, cars, motorcycles, it didn’t matter—they all loved her, and she loved them back. So I wasn’t surprised that when I spotted her overall-clad backside, she was working on an old Buick, arms deep in the heart of the vehicle.

  “That’s where you were last time I saw you,” I said.

  She spun around. “Tai!”

  She wiped her hands on her thighs and came around to give me a hug. She had the same build as I did, the broad shoulders and generous girl curves of my mother’s people, but where I tended to freckled and frizzy blond, she had ivory skin and close-cropped dark hair.

  “Special delivery,” I said, pulling the jewelry box from my pocket and opening it for her.

  She peered inside, eyes wide. “I swear, it’s just like the one in the picture!”

  A cameo brooch nestled in the velvet folds, a silhouette in creamy blue and ivory porcelain, exactly like the one belonging
to our great-great-grandmother. Our common ancestor had lived to ninety-seven, and most stories described her as a real pistol ball who smoked a pipe and pulled her skirts up too high when she danced. When I’d seen the pin in an online auction, I’d snapped it up for Billie. She looked like motor oil and overalls on the outside, but she was violets and lace on the inside.

  Her grease-stained finger hovered over the delicate filigree. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “How much?”

  “On the house.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can. And all I ask in return is a little information. And maybe some wheels.”

  She grinned at me. “That I can do.”

  ***

  We shared Cokes in the tiny windowed office next to the garage bays, a dinky window unit AC doing its best to make the air temperate. Two of her employees changed the oil in a Ford flatbed, laughing and cutting up. The dusty grease on the walls was as ancient as cave art, but Billie kept the space neat and organized.

  “What kind of wheels you need?” she said.

  “The kind that can get me out to Boone’s and back.”

  Her face went serious. She knew the complicated dynamics of that situation as well as I did.

  “What you want with Boone?”

  “I’m hearing rumors.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Klan rumors.”

  She sat back in her seat abruptly. “Tai—”

  “I know. But if anybody can give me the lowdown on what those sons of bitches are up to, it’s Boone.”

  She shook her head. “He got out of that in prison.”

  “I know. That’s why he’s the perfect source. He still keeps his finger on that pulse, but he’s got no loyalty to the cause. No reason to tell them I’m snooping around.”

  She toyed with a random screw, tapping it against the oilcloth-covered table. “Doesn’t matter, they’ll know the second you show up. His boys are still in it, both of them on the selectmen council, from what I hear.”

  “The what?”

  “Klan’s not what it used to be. It’s all committees now, and meetings, and agendas.” Her face wrinkled in disgust. “They’ve got lobbyists and lawyers.”

  “Any reason they’d be interested in a fancy Bible?”

  And then I explained. She shook her head, staring at her Coke.

  “They’re in the antique trade, but I can’t see them wanting that particular Bible.” She drained the rest of her Coke and put the bottle down hard. “Which one of the boys did you talk to about meeting Boone, Jasper or Jefferson?”

  “Jasper.”

  Her lip curled. “I heard he has his own little militia group within the ranks. Like a racist SWAT team. Still playing second dog to Jefferson, though, still looking for a way up the ladder.”

  That sounded exactly like the Jasper I remembered, always wanting what his big brother had. “Jasper said he’d ask Boone and let me know. So that’s the other reason I’m here. Boone’s gonna want to see me alone. And I have this problematic boyfriend—”

  “What?” Billie frowned. “He’s not giving you trouble, is he? You need me to explain things to him?”

  She was serious. If she thought Trey was mistreating me, she would wade in on him with a wrench in one hand and a blowtorch in the other. She’d get her pretty ass handed to her on a hubcap, but she’d go down bloody and beaten and glowing with righteousness.

  “Nothing like that. But he’s somewhat overprotective, and I occasionally need room to maneuver. Which means I need my own ride. And I was hoping you could help me with that.”

  She smiled. “You are gonna love me forever for this.”

  ***

  She took me out back, and I froze in my tracks. “My Camaro!”

  I approached it as a pilgrim might approach the Grail. The Z-28 glowed even in the cloud-dimmed light, a glorious stretch of cherry-red zoom-zoom with four on the floor and a performance-enhanced engine that would streak from zero to sixty in 6.7 seconds. When I’d sold it to her, it had been sun-bleached to a dull rouge, its console cracked and warped. But Billie had restored its former glory. It glistened now as lush as ripe fruit.

  She stroked the hood. “You can borrow it, no problem. But I was thinking you might want to buy it back.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It’s been fun, Lord has it. But I need something a little more grown-up.” She looked down, blushing. “Something big enough for a car seat, you know?”

  She put her hands on her belly. It took a minute for her meaning to sink in. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”

  She grinned. “Three months along now. Me and Travis love that car, but it won’t do for us anymore, and I’d rather you have it than some stranger.”

  Oh, how I’d missed that car, putting the pedal to the floor and feeling those horses rear and snort. I’d had my fifth kiss, third make-out session, and first cigarette on those leather seats.

  She ran one finger along the chrome. “So what do you say?”

  I felt luckier than I ever had in my life, like I might go buy a hundred lottery tickets. “God, Billie. Yes. Absolutely yes.”

  ***

  The leather squeaked against my khakis as I slid into the driver’s seat. I adjusted the mirror, seeing Billie standing there in my rearview. When I twisted the key in the ignition, the engine snarled, then vibrated into a rumble. I put the accelerator down, and the whole chassis shimmied.

  I pulled out slowly at first, getting reacquainted with the beast. Every time I sat in the passenger seat of the Ferrari, the speedometer pinned to fifty-five, my skin itched. But the Camaro was mine. I could let her off the chain, take her screaming over the bridge into South Carolina, find some oysters and cold beer.

  Instead, I turned down White Bluff and headed south. The live oaks held their moss-draped branches in a soft canopy over the road, every tree I passed a step backward in time.

  I’d spent my whole life with my rearview mirror angled so that I didn’t have to look at where I’d been. I’d kept my eyes on the horizon, my foot on the gas, and there was only one U-turn on my record—the one that had taken me back to Trey, the one that had ended less than ten minutes later with me in his bed.

  That was history, our history. And now I was back in Savannah, steeping in my own history. There and back again. Wasn’t that the oldest story in the book?

  Only my back-again was Atlanta now, that place of ashes and rising, not this place of salt and tides. Atlanta sprawled like an enormous amoeba, a city as transitory as its airport, nobody ever touching down for long. In Atlanta, you could write your own history, revise the story until even you yourself believed it.

  Nobody in Atlanta knew that my dad drank himself into an oblivion so deep that when the heart attack came, it must have been a gentle push over the edge. Nobody knew that my mother watched him sink into that oblivion, this man who was supposed to take her away from Georgia but who instead had joined her here. Nobody knew that I was an unplanned and probably unwelcome surprise. Nobody knew.

  Nobody except my brother. And Rico.

  I parked outside the gates of Plantation Cove—still exclusive, still sequestered. I didn’t know the access code anymore, so the wrought iron and boxwood barrier was as close as I could get. I called Rico, not expecting him to answer. When he did, my voice cracked.

  “Hey you,” I said.

  “Hey, baby girl, I was about to call you.”

  “You always say that.”

  He hesitated, and his voice went gentle. “Uh oh. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I wiped my eyes. “I’m sitting here outside Plantation Cove, that’s all.”

  Rico was silent. My childhood home lay beyond that gate. It had a rectangular swimming pool and a patio clouded with crepe myrtle, a cookie-cutter McMansion like dozens of others. Rico’s house sat across the street from it. Strangers lived in mine now. Rico’s parents still lived in his, I su
pposed, although I didn’t know for sure since they didn’t speak to me anymore. Or to Rico. Not since he’d come out of the closet.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Damn straight.”

  “It’s too big, Rico.”

  “Then leave it be until you’re bigger than it is.”

  We sat in silence, tethered to each other by the past and the phone line. Finally, he sighed. “We done reminiscing now?”

  “Yep. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Wanna hear what I found out about your dead guy in Florida?”

  I sat up straight. “You found something?”

  He laughed. “I knew that would cheer you up.”

  “Rico—”

  “DiSilva was a pretty vanilla dude—no criminal records, no wants and warrants, no divorces or paternity suits. Only one soft spot. He had a whole set of e-mails linked to the same IP address in Jacksonville. Each had a separate registration name, each would be active for a while and then deleted.”

  “He had an alter ego?”

  “More like a new identity every six months or so. Now some people do legitimate business under a pseudonym, but that looks a whole lot different than this.”

  “This looks like a scam artist.”

  “It does.”

  I drummed on the dashboard. “Black market antiques maybe, to supplement the retirement?”

  “Dunno. You said you talked to the cops down in Jacksonville?”

  “Garrity did.”

  “Nobody said nothing about this?”

  “No. You think I should put them on it?”

  “I would. Your old guy may have died innocent, but I’m thinking he didn’t live that way.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I got back to the hotel room, the first thing I did was download and print the files Rico had sent. The mass of new, neatly organized paperwork on the desk told that that Trey had come and gone again. He’d also rearranged the sofa cushions and re-made the bed with surgical precision. Our golf bags now stood sentinel in the corner of the bedroom, not sprawled next to the sofa, and my shoes were lined up in a soldierly row in the closet.