Chapter Thirty
The rain began Monday afternoon, swept in by bloated, gray clouds that drained the color from the landscape.
In a way, it felt like it was storming indoors, as well. Caroline longed to barricade her office door against the deluge—not the least of which included Augusta’s announcement: her sister wanted to offer a reward for information leading to the safe return of Amanda Hutto.
She sat in the facing chair, her chin lifted in challenge.
“That’s not a good idea, Augusta!”
Augusta straightened in her chair. “Why not? You think you’ve got some exclusive right to go after the truth?”
Caroline didn’t know what to say.
“Mom may have put you in charge of the Tribune,” Augusta persisted, “but technically, we all own a share—whatever, if you don’t break this story, you’ll just have to publish it second- or third- or fourthhand! Because, like it or not, I will take it to the Post and every news channel in this city!”
Caroline was only beginning to understand that every decision she made in regard to Amanda’s disappearance would have an impact on how the Huttos ultimately dealt with their grief. After so long without a word, maybe it was best that Karen Hutto begin accepting the fact that her daughter might not come home. “You’re giving her false hope.”
“And that’s somehow worse than implying her daughter was strangled and murdered by some ex-priest?”
“We have never published those words!”
“No, but you’ve suggested it at least a dozen times in a dozen different articles, Caroline. This entire city—including Karen Hutto—believes Patterson is guilty of murdering her child. You’re ruining the man’s entire life!”
“We’re trying to get at the truth!” Caroline argued, throwing Augusta’s own words back at her. “We didn’t fabricate the charges he has on record.”
Augusta glared at her. “Well, I’m doing this whether you like it or not. You are not talking me out of it. I came to you first so you can publish it first. You can either do that, or be the last to report it—it’s that simple. In fact,” she added, “if you’re smart, you’ll use it as a public service opportunity and donate money in the name of the paper. At least then, it shows you’re trying to be objective and that you haven’t already decided Amanda’s fate and Patterson’s guilt.”
Whatever she was going to say to counter Augusta’s declaration, that simple truth stopped her. Caroline had to admit that Augusta had a point. She had, in fact, started out with an agenda, and offering the reward would at least interject some measure of objectivity and do some damage control.
Augusta sensed she was caving, because she quickly added, “Never mind the money—I’m offering the reward—I don’t need any credit.”
She had that determined look in her eyes Caroline knew only too well. “Will you at least hold off long enough to let me check in with Daniel to make sure there aren’t legal implications?”
Augusta sat back, considering it a moment before nodding. “Fair enough.”
Feeling a little as though she’d negotiated a cease-fire with an unfriendly nation, Caroline said, “Jesus, Augie! When did we end up on opposite sides?”
Augusta stood, her eyes glittering fiercely. “Clearly, you don’t know me very well, sister dear, because I’ve only ever been on one side,” she said. “The right side!” And with that, she made her exit.
Caroline watched her go, thinking the line between right and wrong had never seemed so thin.
The elaborate Fourth of July celebration planned for Brittlebank Park was canceled. Provided they could find high enough ground to set up a fireworks stage, a small-scale fireworks exhibit was still in the works so people could celebrate from the safety of their homes. But the city was inundated. Flood-producing tides had been predicted, but two days of summer storms put half the downtown streets under water.
By Tuesday morning, the City Market area was deluged, along with Calhoun Street, Ashley and Lockwood Avenues. The headlines shifted to topics of a more aqueous nature. The morning edition of the Tribune read: RAIN, TIDE FLOOD CITY accompanied by a shot of resourceful citizens navigating floodwaters in their kayaks. One woman was spotted out searching for her dog, who’d lost his way home but took refuge on one of the historic porches, under a joggling board. She was pictured holding the little schnauzer to her bosom. Yet another article showed people in their waders—one holding up a copy of the Tribune—not that anyone was actually going out for newspapers. However, not even Mother Nature could stop the presses.
A skeleton crew manned the Tribune office, while most of the reporters worked from home. Caroline hijacked her mother’s home office, but neither Savannah nor Augusta complained. Savannah, who still could do little more than peck with her right hand, embraced any excuse not to work, even with the antique typewriter. Augusta took her laptop into the kitchen where she could easily persuade Sadie to give her a taste of the goodies she was busy baking.
During their childhood, rainy days in the Aldridge house were typically filled with incredible scents—everything from cobbler to brownies and pineapple upside-down cake. The great thing about Sadie was that she had a philosophy that too much was never enough and Caroline noticed no one was all that focused on her weight any longer.
She and Augusta forged a temporary truce—wholly necessary when three grown women were stuck for any length of time under the same roof. For the most part, they kept out of each other’s way, but Augusta poked her head into the office late in the afternoon. “How’s it going?”
Caroline peered up from her laptop. “Okay . . . but this is the sort of day I wish we had a better Web presence. It would be great to be able to give people better updates—street openings, closings—that sort of thing. Plus I’m sure they are cancelling fireworks shows all over town.”
“In due time,” Augusta said, venturing into the office. “I have no doubt you’ll manage everything phenomenally—that’s why Mom put you in charge, you know.”
Caroline blinked at the unexpected compliment.
“Sorry about everything,” Augusta said. “I guess I’m just a little unnerved about being here, and I probably took some of my frustration out on you.”
Caroline shrugged. “Actually, you made me think a lot about the things you said. You were right.”
Augusta came in and sat down in one of the two brown paisley-upholstered armchairs facing Caroline’s desk. Leaning across the polished mahogany wood, she tested the surface for dust. There was none. For a moment, they were both silent.
Outside, the rain continued to pelt the leaded glass windows. More than nine inches had fallen during the last twenty hours, and they were nearing the all-time record high since 1988.
“What if I fail at my task, Caroline . . . what if I can’t fix this house . . . or even stay under this roof? On days like this, I feel like I’m going clean out of my skull!” Augusta confessed.
Caroline pushed her laptop away and looked soberly at her sister. “There’s a lot at stake here, Augusta. But you can only do what you can do. If you can’t stay . . . no one is going to make you. We’re not going to starve and we’re not going to hate you. Some charity will just get an awful lot of money.”
In that moment, Augusta’s face lost all of its hard lines, softening to that gentle, compassionate gaze she’d had as a child—the little girl who had started a cricket hospital to save all the “one-legged” insects. The one who was heartbroken when Josh took them out to use as fishing bait. She didn’t forgive him for weeks.
“Mom isn’t around to make you do anything, Augie. Whatever you decide to do, you do of your own accord.”
She blinked and Caroline spied the telltale gleam of unshed tears. “But I don’t even know where or how to start!”
Caroline shook her head. “Of course you do! You already have. That auction is the first step, Augie. You’re doing a great thing there. You’re uncluttering this house before diving into the real work and you’re getting rid of stuff none of us will ever put on our mantles. Mom’s gone, and none of us are all that attached to anything in this house.”
Augusta laid her head back down. “Some of us would like to see it all burn,” she said without any real passion.
Caroline couldn’t help but laugh, despite the low-grade threat. She knew Augusta wasn’t serious. “They already did that once, right? Didn’t work. They rebuilt the house and bought more shit. Besides, while this crap would make an awesome bonfire, it’s too damned hot out there to burn anything—and ashes won’t put food in a homeless child’s belly.”
They sat there looking at each other, and Caroline felt compelled suddenly to bring up the topic of Ian Patterson. Something about Augie’s defense of him gave her an odd feeling . . . like maybe her interest was hovering on advocacy. The last thing Augusta needed to do was get involved with a suspect. Maybe he wasn’t a murderer, but he sure wasn’t “safe.” But Caroline knew her sister well enough to realize that bringing it up would only push her in the very direction she was afraid she’d go.
“Good point,” Augusta said, and got up. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge . . . for now.” She started to walk away. “More to the point, thanks for not pushing me off.”
Caroline’s lips curved into a half smile. “Thanks for not tempting me,” she countered. Augie laughed and walked out, leaving Caroline to gnash her teeth over murderous financials. These were not fun, and she hadn’t realized just how much they were integral to her job. She was not a journalist any longer, she was a damned strategist.