“What if Gabby Newsome knows something? But do we think Adaire even knew who Gabby Newsome was?” I ask. I’d never heard a peep about some unwell woman who lived at the old sugar plantation; just goes to show the family did a good job keeping a lid on that little secret. But still.
“Her mom worked at the Watering Hole, right? And well, Becky worked there, too. Hush money or not, a few rumors about the Rutledge mansion still got out.”
It did make sense, sort of. Assuming Raelean was right and Gabby was a real person who lived in the mansion, all locked up and hidden away.
“Well then, what about the droplet of rain? She can’t mean that literally.”
“She said to ask her—you’ll just have to go and see for yourself.”
There’s a sudden pop-crackle of tires rolling over gravel, and we both duck out of the window’s view. A car door closes, and a static garbled voice mumbles over a walkie-talkie.
“Copy that.” We hear Deputy Billy Parnell’s voice from the driveway. “Ma’am, if you could just wait a minute.” I peer through the cracked window to see who he’s talking to.
Someone steps across the lawn into view. And it’s not Billy.
Lorelei Rutledge walks with purpose out toward the woods, telling the deputy she would appreciate him respecting her right to mourn in private. She slows about halfway, her eyes seemingly lost to the ground, searching. Like maybe she’s mustering her feelings before approaching where the Latham boys found her brother? Of course, it’s not but fifty yards out farther from where her father hung himself. This place’s meaning forever changed to her now.
“I can’t see,” Raelean whispers, tipping high on her toes, trying to peer out the window with me. I press a finger to my mouth for her to hush.
Deputy Parnell speaks frantically over the radio, trying to get orders on what to do. “She’s insistent,” he says through gritted teeth to the person on the other end.
Lorelei turns around, as if maybe she’s changed her mind—a batch of flowers fisted in her hand. With her back-and-forth struggle, she almost seems tortured by whether or not she wants to pay her respects. Lorelei’s knees give way just as the deputy comes up behind her to inform her she’s not allowed to be there.
“What is she doing?” Raelean asks once she finds a box to stand on. But the film and grime cloud her view. I’m wondering the same thing as Lorelei runs her hand over the dirt.
“Let me see.” Raelean presses her cheek right next to mine as the deputy hefts Lorelei to her feet. She shoves a fistful of dirt in her pocket. Her memorial flowers scatter to the ground.
We drop below the window’s view like skittish mice as the deputy escorts Lorelei by the elbow off the property.
“Did you see that?” I ask Raelean after we hear the deputy’s car leave.
“No, because somebody’s fat head was taking up all the viewing space.” Raelean claps the cobwebs and dirt off her hands. “See what?”
“She took the dirt.”
Raelean pauses in her grooming. “What?” She looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“She grabbed a handful of dirt and shoved it in her pocket.” I gather up the tin with Adaire’s note and the picture of my mother and Gabby.
“Is that, like, some hillbilly curse or something?” Raelean asks. At my eye roll she adds, “Jesus. Sorry. I don’t know what you backwoods folks do around here,” she adds playfully as she punches my arm.
“No, she must have picked something up with it.”
“What?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, but I doubt she came all the way out here for just a handful of dirt.”
We sneak out of the root cellar, once the coast is clear, and hightail it out of there like thieves, across the lawn and back through the woods to Raelean’s car. The rumble of the Camaro’s engine sounds extra loud, seeing how we almost got caught.
I drop my mother’s picture inside the button tin with Adaire’s note.
“Raelean,” I say, “you think Becky still has connections at the Rutledge mansion?”
TWELVE
The Riddled Tongue
Ten dollars will buy you a one-hour tour of the Sugar Hill Plantation if you’re dumb enough to fork over the cash. Which I was. It’s the easiest way I could figure to sneak up to the mansion’s elusive third floor and talk to Gabby Newsome, especially since I am enemy number one in this house now that two Rutledges are dead.
Luckily, none of the family’s vehicles are in sight. Not Lorelei’s gold Firebird Trans Am, Mrs. Rutledge’s white convertible, or Stone’s red Corvette. The murder weapon that killed Adaire. It seems horrifically unfair that they’re still sporting around town in that thing, like a hunting trophy proudly on display.
I shake off my angry thoughts and focus on what I came here to do, though I might have sprinkled a handful of walnut dust and graveyard dirt along the front stoop as I entered, inviting whatever darkness wanted inside for a visit.
A young girl in cheap period-specific antebellum attire has started the last tour of the day.
“William Tobias Rutledge purchased the land that eventually became Sugar Hill Plantation after an inspired visit to the Caribbean.” She details a general list of what we will see today.
I wrench the brochure in my hands—the only souvenir my ten dollars got me—and I keep an eye out for the second hallway on the left that Becky said would lead to the family’s private stairs.
The tour guide drops her regal flair and opts for a more somber tone. Now she’s telling of the sinful past that rots the South’s history, and the whole room quiets. She’s brutally honesty in her description of the horrible conditions here. The whole antebellum South sickens me and heavies my heart. She waits a poignant quiet moment, letting us digest that hideous truth before continuing on about what type of candies were created using the Sugar Hill crop.
She airs a hand toward the main hallway for the tourists to follow. I drop back until I’m at the tail end of the pack and jump the velvet rope at the second hallway. A long corridor leads me to a set of unmarked stairs I disappear up.
This mansion is regal as hell: detailed woodwork, refined antiques, ornate decor. Jesus, I’d be a spoiled brat if I grew up here.
Once I arrive at the top level, I use the master key Becky was able to get a copy of—took her more than a week to get it—and unlock the door to their private floor. Stepping through the entrance, my mind travels back to when Aunt Violet brought me out here to talk the death out of Mrs. Rutledge’s father, Mr. Godfrey Newsome.
She should have never dragged me there to save that rotting man.
