Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable
that we have to alter it every six months.
~ Oscar Wilde
Brianna rummaged through her clothes, or lack thereof, in the master closet. Was breaking and entering a good idea, or just an intriguing concept when she’d had too many beers?
“Don’t you have anything black to wear?” Virginia asked, looking over Brianna’s shoulder. “Your closet is an ode to beige and pink. You can’t sneak into Begley’s office looking noticeable, not to mention bland.”
Irritation prickled down Brianna’s back. “I don’t live in Hollywood and I work with the dead. Fashionable black outfits aren’t my top priority.”
“You’re in the South now. Fashion and reputation are essential.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” Virginia asked, obviously surprised anyone would question her wisdom.
“Why are those things so important? Look at your family. You’re dead. Declan died when I was fifteen. Life’s too short to focus on what others think. Clothes don’t decide who you are.”
Virginia wriggled her nose. “Heavens to Betsy, are all Yankees this dense, or is it just you?” She sat on the edge of the bed.
“Mama, stop,” Amy said. She settled across the queen-size bed on her stomach, her knees bent and ankles crossed.
“Presentation counts,” Virginia said. “You may think I’m full of myself, but we care about reputation. Even during the War of Northern Aggression—”
“The what?”
Amy laughed. “That’s her way of referring to the Civil War.”
“Oh.” How did Steven turn out normal with Virginia as a mother?
She wanted to sit on the bed herself and put her black tennies on. Virginia should certainly approve of wearing them. But the bed was too crowded, so she sat on the padded window seat.
“Don’t you get tired of catering to others’ opinions? What good has it done?” Brianna asked.
She’d tried to be the surviving child for her parents when Declan died. Keeping them happy, occupied, busy—in the end, nothing had worked. They lost part of who they were after Declan’s death. Understandable, yes. Ideal for the teenager left behind? No.
Virginia gave a blank stare. “Your point?”
Brianna shrugged. “In the end, life’s about who we are inside, not about the clothes on our backs.”
Amy frowned. “But don’t all Yankees wear dark colors? Dark leather jackets and black sunglasses, like in the movies?”
“Thank you,” Virginia added. “I thought so too. She can’t be inconspicuous if she doesn’t wear dark clothes.”
Brianna couldn’t think of what to say, but an uneasy feeling rose to the surface. Sure, she’d decided to help their cause. But did the Graysons wish they’d stumbled upon someone else who could see and hear them?
“Haven’t you ever needed a black outfit?” Amy asked.
For Declan’s funeral. I was fifteen.
“I’ll shop tomorrow. Begley will probably be at his country club Thursday night, so I’ll find a way into his office to look at his files. Besides, it’s not like I have to be at work. Let’s hope Edwin doesn’t figure out where I put Bobby Ray’s body.”
“Good. One more thing,” Virginia said.
Brianna waited with dread. “Yes?”
“Don’t shop near the historic district where you’ll be recognized. Go across the bridge to Tybee.”
Brianna raised one eyebrow. “Incognito cosmetologist in search of black wardrobe.”
Virginia chuckled, but her eyes held a sincere gratitude for Brianna’s help. “Exactly.”
* * *
The next day, Brianna drove out of the historic district and toward Thunderbolt, which would get her to Tybee Island, the local beach area.
Thunderbolt only comprised a few square miles, mostly watery swamps packed with cypress trees. In the afternoon fog, the knobby-kneed trees were eerie. Living spirits, sloughing around in the water, awaiting their next victim.
Oak trees lined the narrow roads, and decrepit homes with small, dimly lit windows stood in the distance. Why had Virginia recommended this route? Brianna couldn’t imagine someone as upper-crust as Virginia going within fifteen feet of Thunderbolt.
She pressed on the gas, eager to reach the bridge to Tybee. On either side of the road, dormant kudzu, a southern ropelike vine that supposedly grew more than a foot per day, wrapped its wiry tongue around the oaks, trying to swallow them whole. Brianna locked her doors.
Ghosts were in her home. Ghosts seemed alive and well in Thunderbolt. This wasn’t the life she envisioned when she moved down South.
Twenty minutes later, she’d escaped the fog and reached Tybee Island. Shops with tall windows displaying hot-pink bikinis, sunglasses, and Bugs Bunny beach towels flanked the streets. Visible from the highway, the Atlantic Ocean waves lapped up the shoreline.
While a tourist destination, Tybee provided an ideal beach getaway for Savannah locals. Those who avoided living in Savannah proper bought beach homes, even Begley.
Shit. Begley had bragged about having a Tybee beach house. What if she ran into him when shopping for dark clothes to break into his office?
Relax. Shopping wasn’t illegal, regardless of intent. Besides, Edwin had forced vacation on her. What else was she supposed to do with free time? Most Savannah folks went to the beach. She was simply trying to fit in. Nothing suspicious.
Near the end of a so-far-unsuccessful shopping strip, she found consignment stores featuring eclectic attire. She parked in the back, keeping her sunglasses on as she entered. Better safe than sorry. She didn’t want anyone to recognize her.
She browsed the clothing racks for any dark clothes. Unfortunately, most items in black were too ornate for breaking and entering. Smiling, she wondered if there was an ideal outfit for such things. Perhaps it could be the next hot-ticket item on QVC? Suitable B&E Clothing, now only $19.99.
Frustrated, she looked in the store’s adjacent space. No black outfits in her size, so she settled for a pair of petite, striped pants. Time was running out and she needed something. She couldn’t risk another Tybee trip. Edwin might find Bobby Ray’s body before she had a chance to learn the truth.
With a resigned sigh, she selected a few darker-colored tops and brought them to the counter.
The desk clerk wore an array of teals, purples, and pinks—all mismatched—and resembled an exotic bird. “Will this be all, darlin’?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“How do you want to pay for this, honey?”
Brianna looked up. “Cash. Absolutely, cash.”
With her change in hand, Brianna strode to her car. As she traveled over the bridge back to Savannah, the sunset began to paint the sky with pink and purple swirls.
The nearer she drove to the historic district, the more doubt crept inside her mind, nesting there like squatter mice. She continued on Highway 80, exiting on Bay Street, the last road in the historic district before the land dipped to River Street. Upriver stood the Talmadge Bridge with its illuminated cables. Against the setting sun, the cable strands reminded her of two large harps. A twinge of homesickness washed through her. The Talmadge could be the twin to the Bunker Hill Bridge in Boston.
River Street would be too loud tonight. She stayed on Bay and drove to Churchill’s, an authentic English pub. Once inside, she sat at the long mahogany bar with decorative carvings in the wood. Mugs of amber-colored ale twinkled beneath frothy heads. Liquor bottles of every shape and size sat against the back mirror, reflecting their colorful images across the walls.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. He had a British accent watered down by the Savannah South.
“Black and Tan, please.”
“Coming right up.”
He poured Harp Lager halfway into the glass before moving to the Guinness tap. With precision, he slowly poured Guinness over the back of a spoon until its dark color settled on top of the lighter ale.
She watched in awe. The classic Irish drink wasn’t like pouring a simple beer. Black and Tans took skill to create. Many tried but mixed the Harp and Guinness together. She knew the trick was to keep them separate in one glass.
After two swallows of the thick, chocolate-flavored head of the Guinness, the dark bubbles cascaded into the pale ale like two weather systems colliding.
She would be colliding with Begley soon, but she had to see this through. Move forward. Remaining stagnant is what kept you in Boston so long.
Sipping the cold beer, she tried to prepare herself for tomorrow night. The dark outfit she’d purchased wasn’t perfect. But if she got caught breaking into Begley’s office, the real police would come for her, not the fashion police.
“Get you another one, miss?” the bartender asked while pouring a cognac for an older gentleman a few stools down.
“Yes, please.”
As he mixed her drink, she pulled out her cell. Should she do this?
She pressed the numbers into the phone and hit enter.
“Hello?”
“Steven? Hi, it’s Brianna. Listen, I need to tell you something.”