They walked toward the front door.
“Did you talk to your dad?” Marie asked.
Brooke tensed. “Briefly.”
“Gordon wouldn’t tell me what he wanted to discuss. From the look on your face, I’m guessing it didn’t go well.”
“You could say that. He doesn’t like the idea of me dating Gabe. I wish you hadn’t told him I was.”
“I didn’t think it was classified information. Did Dad have a specific objection, or was it just the age thing?”
“Patricia has some malicious gossip about Gabe that she’s just dying to spread, but I shut him down before he could get started.”
“Maybe you should have listened,” Marie said. “Gordon is many things, but a gossip isn’t one of them.”
“I’ve known Gabe for years. I think I know him a lot better than Patricia does,” Brooke said.
Marie kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Sometimes the people we think we know the best are the ones with secrets we can’t even fathom. Drive carefully, okay?”
63
On Friday morning, Brooke’s cell phone buzzed to signal an incoming text. It was from a number she didn’t immediately recognize. It was a screenshot of a court document. She squinted as she read the tiny print. It was a copy of a Chatham County property tax lien against Gabe W. Wynant, in the amount of $90,000, on behalf of KPW Roofing Inc.
Beneath the screenshot was the text message:
Heard you’ve been looking for me. Your boyfriend Gabe is a phony. If you want to know what I know, come over to island and we’ll talk.
Now she knew the number. It belonged to C. D. She was relieved that he was apparently alive and well but annoyed at his reference to Gabe as her boyfriend. And what was this about a lien?
Okay, when and where?
My friend Ramona has a boat tied up at the municipal pier. It’s calledFoxxy Lady. She’s waiting. I’ll pick you up at the Talisa dock. Come now, okay?
She hesitated, wondering why she felt uneasy about responding to a text from the old man. He was harmless, wasn’t he? But where had he been hiding, and why was he reaching out to her now? Her thumbs flew over the phone’s keyboard.
Waiting on my assistant to arrive at office. Can’t leave ’til then.
She glanced at the clock on the office wall. Farrah was thirty minutes overdue. So this was what the old man had been furtively researching in the library databases. The real estate lien must have been the result of a clerical error. Gabe’s town house in Savannah was on West Jones Street, one of the most beautiful streets in the downtown historic district. It was easily a $2 million property. She frowned. What was C. D. up to?
The office door opened, and Farrah breezed in, her cell phone wedged between her shoulder and left ear as she sipped from a huge Styrofoam Slurpee cup. Brooke fixed her with a disapproving stare. “Gotta go,” Farrah told her caller. “My boss is giving me the death stare.”
The girl set her backpack and Slurpee on her desk. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”
“You’re late,” Brooke said. She picked up her phone and texted C. D., and she reached for her pocketbook.
Leaving now.
His return text was almost immediate.
Come alone and don’t tell nobody.
“I’ve got to go,” she told Farrah. But the idea of a secret meeting with this paranoid old man was makingherfeel paranoid.
“Go where?” Farrah asked, sifting through the stack of papers piled atop her desk.
“I’m meeting C. D. over on Talisa.” Brooke quickly filled her assistant in on hermission. “It’s probably bogus, but he claims to have some damaging information about Gabe. Do me a favor, will you? Just in case, take a look at the online tax records for Chatham County. See what you can find in the way of tax liens.” Another thought occurred to her. “While you’re at it, check the plaintiff and defendant indexes and see if Gabe has been party to any recent civil actions.”
Farrah nodded as she scrawled notes to herself. “How far back should I look?”
