Save The Date Part 41

"Take it up with her, not me," Cara said. "Um, while I have you on the phone, did you and Harris kiss and make up yesterday? Your mom and Libba were pretty upset when you left the way you did."

"Geez," Brooke said. "I should have known blabbermouth Patricia would tell you we were fighting about the d.a.m.ned bachelor party. My girlfriends keep saying it's no biggie-just a bunch of overaged frat guys getting hammered and cruising strip clubs. And Harris insists it's harmless. They've rented a van and a driver to take them to Atlanta and back. 'Good dirty fun' he calls it."

"But you don't see it that way."

"No. When I was a first-year a.s.sociate I had a pro-bono client-a girl who'd worked in one of those clubs. She was barely twenty-one and had a five-year-old son and a string of prost.i.tution and solicitation arrests. And a raging meth habit. She told me what it was like working in a strip club. They treat those girls like ... trash. They post rules telling them they're not allowed to fraternize with the customers, but the only way the girls make tips is by coming on to the guys, offering them, you know, hand jobs or whatever out in the parking lot. My client got busted for meth, and her little boy ended up in foster care. I've never forgotten her."

"Did you tell all that to Harris?"

"I told him I hated the idea, and he said he couldn't cancel, because all the guys would say he was p.u.s.s.y-whipped."

Cara could see both points of view. They were both right, but there would be no winner over an issue like this.

"It's just one night," she pointed out.

"You sound like my mom. I know, I'm a b.i.t.c.h. I'll get over it. I guess I'm just really, really tired. This sounds awful but I wish I didn't have my own bachelorette party tomorrow night."

"Aww, you don't want to miss your bachelorette party," Cara said. "What are you doing?"

"Holly won't tell me. It's supposed to be some big surprise. All I know is, there better not be any male strippers involved."

"I'm sure they'll have something fun planned for you. Look, Brooke. I know you have a lot on your plate right now with the trial and the wedding. And it probably doesn't do much good for people to tell you to relax and stop stressing, but I've done tons and tons of weddings, and I'm telling you, relax. Your wedding is supposed to be fun, you know?"

"Fun," Brooke said dully. "Got it."

"Magical."

"Right."

"Never mind," Cara said, finally. "Please, please, I beg you, call Meredith and get over there and have your wedding portrait taken. And while you're at it, you might practice smiling."

54.

Because her real-estate agent knew how to make things happen-or maybe just because her new about-to-be landlord had a certain laissez-faire att.i.tude about legal matters-Cara picked up the key to the Hall Street duplex Sat.u.r.day afternoon.

Friday night must have been a happening scene on this block. Empty malt-liquor bottles, fast-food wrappers, cigarette b.u.t.ts, and even something she feared might be a condom littered the sidewalk out front of the building. Cara made a mental note to bring a hose, a bottle of Pine-Sol, and a scrub brush on her next trip back.

Poppy sat down on the sidewalk while Cara unlocked the front door. "Come on, girl," Cara said, stepping inside and flipping the light switch. "Let's see our new place."

The dog wouldn't budge. "Let's go," Cara urged, gesturing toward the doorway. "Check it out. I'll bet there's a whole bunch of squirrels out back."

Cara couldn't bear to tug at the dog's neck, with its fresh abrasions from Thursday. In the end, she simply picked Poppy up and plopped her down inside the building.

The inside of the shop wasn't much cheerier than the exterior. Alice Murphy said the last tenant had been a dry cleaner and alterationist. The faded linoleum floor was gritty underfoot; the wide plate-gla.s.s window was streaked with dust and what looked like remnants of masking tape.

She forced herself to overlook the negative and focus on the positive. The walls were the original exposed brick, and there was a handsome fireplace with a carved Victorian mantelpiece and stained marble hearth. The walls would be charming once she pressure-washed them, and the fireplace, which was intended to burn coal, could perhaps be fitted with gas logs, which might be nice on what pa.s.sed for a cold winter day in Savannah. The front room was much wider and deeper than the shop on Jones Street. Eventually, maybe she'd have a large showroom here, with a counter and display shelves, with the workroom separated by a part.i.tion or finished wall.

For now, though, with the huge b.u.mp in rent, she'd have to leave things as they were.

Before being turned into commercial s.p.a.ce, Cara knew this floor of the building, like most of the others on the block, had been residential. There were still a small kitchen and a tiny, squalid bathroom here, and a back door that led out to a large fenced area.

She opened the thick fire door and frowned at the sight that met her eyes. Impossible to find anything to like here. The s.p.a.ce couldn't even be called a yard, and it certainly wasn't a garden. It was overgrown with weeds, and a tall, narrow, sickly-looking magnolia tree blocked whatever sunlight might otherwise have shone there. She could see a couple of bashed-up Dumpsters next to the stockade fence, and next to them was an abandoned supermarket shopping cart, probably stolen from the Kroger a few blocks away. Cara shuddered, sure the area was probably teeming with rats, snakes, spiders, and G.o.d knew what else. She would have to have the yard cleared out and mowed before she'd dare let Poppy out there.

One more thing to add to her to-do list. She closed the door, locked and bolted it.

"Let's go upstairs," she told Poppy. The dog yawned and dropped to the floor. Only a puppy, and she was already a prima donna.

The staircase was narrow and steep, with worn risers and a handrail and bal.u.s.trades thick with gummy layers of old paint.

At the top of the stairs she stood and took it all in. Her new home. The wallpaper was a dusty blue pattern of baby ducks and tulips, circa 1982, Cara thought. She knew there were probably wooden floors under the cheap commercial carpet, but she also knew she wouldn't be pulling that carpet up to find out anytime soon.

"It's a nice, big s.p.a.ce," Alice Murphy had pointed out. Big, yes; nice, not so much.

Whoever had installed that fugly wallpaper back in the eighties had also seen fit to install a dropped ceiling of stained and yellowed acoustical tile. She was standing in the living room, which had a fireplace that roughly matched the one on the first floor. It was also much bigger than her apartment on Jones Street, but with not a scintilla of appeal. An arched doorway led from the living room to the dining room, which led to the kitchen.

The kitchen was about what you'd expect. Yellow vinyl floor, cheap orangish-stained pine cabinets, laminate countertops littered with c.o.c.kroach corpses, rusting stove and fridge, no dishwasher, tiny sink. Depressing. A window over the sink overlooked the Dumpster graveyard.

Cara meant to head up to the third floor, where her bedroom would be, but suddenly found she lacked the energy.

Poppy was where she'd left her in the living room. "Come on, girl," she said, opening the door. "Let's go back home. While we still can."

She stripped down to shorts and a tank top in the Jones Street apartment, and halfheartedly began packing boxes of books. After an hour or so, she gave up, and plopped down on the sofa. She'd brought her laptop upstairs, and out of boredom, logged on to Facebook.

Cara had a business page for Bloom, and in the past, she'd made a regular practice of posting pictures of happy brides and beautiful bouquets. It was good marketing, and most of the "likers" on her page were former clients or other vendors in the wedding business.

She was scrolling down the page when a bubble popped up on her screen-a private message from Layne Pelletier.

OMG-have you seen this? There was a link, and Cara clicked it, the link taking her to Harris Strayhorn's Facebook page.

The OMG-inspired item Layne referred to was a timeline photo at the top of Harris's page. It was definitely a cell-phone picture, with bad lighting and fuzzy focus, but there was no mistaking the subject matter: Harris Strayhorn, leaning back in a chair, his eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth slack, with a very naked, voluptuous redhead straddling his lap. And just to make it clear who the subject of the photo was, the caption read HARRIS STRAYHORN TAKES IT LIKE A MAN.

There was a whole alb.u.m of photos, and each one was worse than the one before-fifteen in all, fifteen photos of a bunch of overaged frat guys in a cheesy strip club, including five or six starring the bridegroom and man of the hour, Harris Strayhorn, receiving lap dances from two different naked women.

Cara felt a little sick. It was nearly four in the afternoon. The photos had been posted hours ago. Why hadn't Harris taken them down? Brooke had to have seen them by now. She glanced at the post again. There were forty-two comments and sixty-eight likes.

She closed the laptop, went to the refrigerator, and got a bottle of cold water. She felt like she also needed a cold shower, to rinse away the ugly images she'd just viewed.

Dinner was a slice of pizza at nine o'clock. She wasn't really hungry, but she needed to get out of the house, so she and Poppy strolled over to Mellow Mushroom on West Liberty Street.

Cara ordered a slice of the Philosopher's Pie and a gla.s.s of wine, and sat at a table outside, with Poppy crouched at her feet. This was a college hangout, and SCAD kids swarmed the sidewalk around her, laughing, talking, swearing, smoking. They rolled by on bikes and skateboards, and the atmosphere was noisy and electric. There were old-timers in Savannah who hated SCAD, with its artsy, avant-garde faculty and wacky, and some said ent.i.tled, student body, but Cara loved the energy they contributed to her neighborhood.

She took her time finis.h.i.+ng her wine, enjoying eavesdropping on the swirl of conversations going on around her. Finally, when she could stand the hot sticky air no longer, she walked home, being vigilant about staying under streetlights and away from dark doorways.

They were only a few steps from her own door at Bloom when a tall, slender figure suddenly emerged from the shadows, stepping directly in front of her. Poppy gave a startled bark, and she had to choke back a half-formed scream.

"Cara? Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

It took a moment for her heart to stop racing and to gather her wits.

"Startle me? Jesus, Bert, you scared the living beejesus out of me." She held up the can of Mace she'd been clutching in her right hand. "Another second and you'd have gotten a faceful of this."

He laughed nervously. "Yeah. Rookie move. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

She fetched them both bottles of water, and they sat in her living room, with Poppy's head placed contentedly on Bert's lap.

He was dressed oddly, and acting strange, even for Bert. He wore his usual weekend attire of baggy shorts, flip-flops, and white "wife-beater" unders.h.i.+rt, but tonight, despite the stifling heat, he'd seen fit to throw a calf-length raincoat over the ensemble. His hair was cut shorter than she'd ever seen it, and he was obviously on edge.

Cara had no time for subterfuge. "Why are you here, Bert? Did Cullen send you?"

"Cullen? G.o.d, no." He kept running his fingers along Poppy's ears.

She raised one eyebrow, expectantly. "I'm waiting."

"I guess you were right. I guess this is where you get to say 'I told you so.'"

"About?"

"Cullen. Us. Everything. You were right about all of it. He doesn't give a d.a.m.n about me. He was just using me to get to you. He's evil, Cara. Evil and twisted, and smart as h.e.l.l. Scary smart."

"How did you figure it out?"

"I started putting things together almost as soon as I left here and went to work for him. I'm such a twit. I actually thought he cared about me. I bought everything he was selling-that he'd make me a designer, and I'd get to do my own events. But you saw where he had me at his studio-answering the phone. I never even touched a flower. My actual job was to pour champagne for clients and tweet photos of Cullen's fabulous creations. And empty his cat's litter box. When I moved in with him? I had to stay out in the carriage house. I was a glorified house boy. With fringe benefits."

Cara knew she should have felt vindicated-everything she'd predicted about Bert's experience with Cullen Kane had come true-but it felt like a hollow victory. He looked so sad and defeated.

"So you broke up with him?"

Bert snorted. "There was nothing to break up. It was like you said. I was just an easy lay for him. He's got half a dozen guys just like me between here and Charleston."

"I'm so sorry, Bert," she said gently. "Truly I am. I feel partly to blame, because he did use you to get to me."

"No." Bert shook his head vehemently. "This was all me, Cara. Me falling into my old bad habits."

"Are you drinking again?" She had to ask it.

"I wanted to," he admitted. "Cullen did everything he could to make it easy for me. But somehow, I didn't. Maybe that's how I had the nerve to walk away. I started going to meetings again Friday. And that helped."

"I'm glad," she said. "At least you've got your sobriety."

"Two years, three months, sixteen days," Bert said. "But that's not the reason I came here tonight."

"Tell me you came to ask for your old job back," Cara said.

His face lit up. "That'd be great, but that's not really it." Then he reached into the raincoat and brought out a medium-sized linen bag that he'd shoved into an inner pocket. "This is the real reason I came."

Cara took the bag and loosened the drawstring opening. An heirloom-quality eighteenth-century sterling-silver epergne slid out onto her lap.

"Lillian's?"

"Uh-huh."

"Where on earth did you find it?"

"In Cullen's gym bag. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d has had it all this time."

"But how did you find it?"

Bert laughed bitterly. "House boy take Mercedes to get detailed. House boy empty trunk, think maybe he wash boss man's stinky gym clothes, score extra points with boss. Instead, house boy find missing s.h.i.+ny silver doodad."

"Unbelievable," Cara said, holding up the epergne. "I can't even process it."

"I can," Bert said. "Cullen must have swiped it from the van that weekend after Torie's wedding." His face flushed and he looked away, embarra.s.sed. "That's when I first met him. I'd gone to an after-hours club in midtown with a couple friends, and he was there, kinda window-shopping I guess you'd say. He sent a drink over to my table, but I told the waiter to take it back, because you know, I don't drink. A few minutes later, Cullen came over. He said he recognized me from Torie's wedding, talked about what a great job we'd done with all the flowers. He bought c.o.c.ktails for the whole table, and we sort of hit it off, and after a while ... I can't believe I'm telling you this s.h.i.+t..."

"You went out to the van?"

"Yeah," Bert whispered. "I think he was kinda into that."

"Remind me to have that thing steam-cleaned," Cara said.

"So ... what now?" Bert asked, after he'd related the whole tawdry Cullen Kane affair.

Cara put the epergne back into the linen bag. "First thing tomorrow, we take this thing back to Lillian Fanning. You know she's been going around town tras.h.i.+ng my reputation, right?"

"Cullen was loving that," Bert said. "He's got quite the network of ladies who lunch."

"I can't wait to see her face when she sees the epergne," Cara said.

"What will you tell her?"

"Just that we figured out who took it from the van, and we were able to recover it. Don't worry. I'll leave you out of it."

"And what about that Detective Peeples? Won't she be asking a lot of questions?"

"If she asks, we'll tell her the truth," Cara decided. "Let Cullen Kane deal with it. He's got a lot to answer for as far as I'm concerned."