Chapter 2
My Charlotte home is part of Sharon Hall, a nineteenth-century estate-turned-condo complex adjacent to the Queens University campus.
The property’s centerpiece is a redbrick manor house with a wide front porch, white shutters, pediments, and columns.
The grounds are accessed via a circle drive cutting through acres of lawn shaded by enormous magnolias.
A na?ve tourist might mistake the place for a set from Gone with the Wind.
My little abode is just inside the estate’s eastern wall, next to a gnarled old pine. The odd little two-story structure is called the Annex.
Annex to what? No one knows. The building appears on none of the estate’s historic plans. The hall is there. The coach house. The herb and formal gardens. No annex. Clearly, the tiny edifice was a postscript to the original design.
Friends and family used to play games guessing my home’s initial raison d’être. Hothouse? Smokehouse? Playhouse? Kiln? I’d play along. But I’m not much concerned with the architect’s intended purpose.
The Annex’s livable space measures barely fifteen hundred square feet. The kitchen faucet drips. Two staircase treads are warped. Nevertheless, the place suits my needs just fine. Bedroom, bath, and wee study up. Kitchen, dining room, and parlor down.
Why live in a tiny unit with bad plumbing and wonky flooring, you ask? Why not a slick high-rise condo like the one with your name on the deed in Montreal? Or a town house with modern wiring, a Sonos sound system, maybe a Toto toilet?
Attachment? Laziness? Lack of motivation? I’m not sufficiently introspective to probe my reasons for staying put. Maybe it’s the backstory that keeps me rooted.
Eons ago, finding myself suddenly single and needing a rental stat, I chose the Annex as a stopgap measure. My plan was to take my time, find something bigger and more up-to-date, and move on. Turned out I loved the place, warts and all.
I’ve made some modifications over the years, expanded the second floor when Ryan and I decided to try cohabitation. Splurged on new appliances. Upfitted the primary bath. I no longer think about leaving. Well, not often.
At seven-forty that evening I was sitting on a lawn chair on my small porch, tired but satisfied with the outcome of my trip to Stanly County. The specimen, which still baffled me, would be waiting at the MCME for analysis in the morning.
I was sipping a Perrier with ice, wishing the drink was vodka with lime. Another long story, colorful, but neither original nor pretty. Let’s just say that, for me, every bottle is permanently corked.
My cat, Birdie, was curled in my lap, mostly dozing, sporadically raising his head for a halfhearted sniff. Or to remind me that I should keep stroking his back.
Ryan had said he’d phone at eight. I was looking forward to that call. To making plans together for his upcoming visit.
The sun was low, the breeze cautious but managing an occasional frail gust. With each anemic puff, the grass shifted in soft undulating waves, momentarily going from green to bronze.
Two cardinals—each male and flamboyantly crimson—were arguing loudly high above my head. An unclaimed seed? A female? A coveted position on a branch? Whatever the dispute, both birds held strong opinions.
It was one of those velvety summer nights unique to Dixie. I felt relaxed, happy to have no obligations that evening. Pleased that Ryan might be with me soon.
Ryan, you ask?
Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, recently retired from the homicide division of the S?reté du Québec, the provincial police service for the Canadian province of Quebec.
Tall and sexy in a younger Harrison Ford sort of way, the French version, Ryan has been my cop partner for decades.
My romantic partner for a few years less.
Canada and North Carolina? It wasn’t easy but, at the moment, we were making it work.
Ryan and I had been apart for almost two weeks. I’d been stuck in Charlotte with commitments at the MCME. Bones discovered by a hunter stalking quail. A torso washed ashore along the Catawba River. An attic skull that turned out to be a “borrowed” museum specimen.
Ryan had been stuck north of the border working a PI job involving surveillance of an employee suspected of skimming from a family-owned business. The case, boring as mud, was typical of many he’d accepted since his retirement.
At seven-fifty-five my iPhone rang.
Sang. It’s dorky, I know. The teasing from Katy is brutal. Still, I program my mobile to alert me with musical ringtones. Currently, it was Fleetwood Mac singing about dreams.
“Hey, big guy,” I answered, certain it was Ryan.
“What?” Katy blew one of her trademark snorts. “You’re stealing material from Rachel Feinstein, now?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“I’m expecting a call from Ryan,” I explained, a bit defensive.
“How is the old dude?”
“He’s not old.”
“How is the young buckaroo?”
“He’s good.”
“In every way.”
Katy’s sense of humor leans hard toward sarcasm. Occasionally, I have no idea of her meaning.
“What’s up?” I asked, wanting to move the conversation along.
“Have you left yet?”
That caught me off guard.
“Nooo.” Neutral.
“Good. Can you pick up a baguette on your way? It seems I’m supposed to serve bread with mussels. Who knew?”
“Any particular kind?” Buying time as I swiped the phone’s screen to open my calendar app.
“The recipe says it should be crusty. Aren’t all baguettes crusty?”
Mental head slap.
Eight p.m. Dinner with Katy and Ruthie.
“Got it. That may delay me a bit.”
“No prob.”
“How’s it going with Ruthie?”
“We can talk about it.”
With that cryptic comment, she disconnected.
So much for my leisurely evening solo.
Racing inside, I dumped Birdie on the sofa, flew up to my bedroom, and yanked on fresh jeans and a tee. After a quick redo of my very questionable ponytail, I fired off a text to Ryan, then hustled back down to the first floor.
The cat watched with dubious eyes as I checked his kibble and refilled his water fountain. Or maybe he was still sleepy.
Grabbing my purse and keys, I hurried out to my car.
We Charlotteans insist on labeling every square inch of our burg. Dillworth. South End. NoDa. Opinions are split concerning the city center. Some call it Uptown, others prefer Downtown. Battles have been fought over this matter. Mannerly battles, of course.
My neighborhood is called Myers Park. Think surgically manicured gardens and lawns; sidewalks buckled by tree roots older than the Valley of the Kings; churches on every corner—Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic. Except for the steeples, each pious complex looks like a small college campus.
Myers Park’s charm comes with a price. Her southern gentility is fiercely guarded against any resident who might consider going rogue.
Paint your shutters orange? No way. Cut down that willow oak?
Not a chance. The fine ladies of the MP homeowners’ association could give Stalin pointers on authoritarian rule.
As predicted by the largely traditional architecture, the populace is mainly white and Christian—the golf at the club, martinis at five, church on Sunday crowd. During elections, most yard signs feature Republican candidates.
Why do I choose to live in such a conservative enclave? Typically, the quiet on my block is disrupted only by lawn mowers, leaf blowers, and the occasional barking dog. Tsk-tsk and call me boring. What can I say? I like the serenity.
Katy lives roughly ten minutes away in Elizabeth, Charlotte’s only neighborhood named for a woman, though a regal one. After a quick stop at the local grocery to buy its finest baguette, I was mounting the steps to Katy’s front porch a few minutes later.
My thumb had barely hit the buzzer when my daughter opened the door. Her honey-blond hair wasn’t exactly chaotic. It was cut far too short to rise to that level of disarray. But it was seriously tousled. I was unsure if the look was a fashion statement or the result of agitation.
The tension in Katy’s face suggested the latter.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she said
Not a shared warning. That’s how we Southerners greet.
Katy stepped back and held the door wide. I entered, followed her down a narrow hall to a shockingly large kitchen, and laid the baguette on the table, which was set for two.
That surprised me. Tonight’s dinner was arranged so that I could spend time with my sister Harry’s granddaughter, Molly-Ruth Howard. Perhaps I should unravel that little bit of the family tree.
My younger sister, Harriet Brennan Howard Daewood Crone, has been married and divorced three times. Or is it four? In all honesty, I don’t bother keeping track since the score sheet could change at any moment.
Harry, who lives in Texas, has a grown son named Christopher “Kit” Howard, the result of her second, and very lucrative, marriage to Howard Howard. Kit, a veterinary researcher living on an island near Beaufort, South Carolina, has two daughters born fifteen years apart. Go, Kit.
Victoria “Tory” Brennan is the older of the half sisters. Kit first learned of Tory’s existence when the kid was fourteen years old. The Brennan-Brennan surname match is a weird coincidence. Tory’s mother, sadly deceased, was from a clan of Massachusetts Brennans.
Unlike Tory, Kit’s younger daughter is the fruit of a long and relatively stable marriage. Molly-Ruth, called Ruthie since birth, was now seventeen and, according to Harry and Kit, pissed off with everything in life. And letting the world know about her unhappiness.
When the grandmother-father-daughter dynamic became intolerable, Katy took pity and invited Ruthie to spend the end of her summer in Charlotte. Ruthie gladly accepted and had been in town for two weeks. I thought the visit was going well.
“Where’s Ruthie?” I asked.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“If I knew that I would have said.” Removing a lid from a steamer pan on the stove and slamming it onto the counter. “Gone to class. Gone to the pharmacy. Gone to the park to shoot up.”
“What?” Unable to keep the alarm from my voice.
“Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Is Ruthie being difficult?”
“She’s being Ruthie.”
“What does that mean?” I was pretty sure of her answer but wanted to allow Katy the chance to vent.
“The kid elevates moody to a whole new level.”
“She’s not really a kid anymore,” I corrected.
“Exactly. I’d welcome some of that gag-me-with-a-spoon adolescent angst. Instead, she talks like she’s going on thirty. Do you know what her favorite book is?”
I shook my head.
“Sleeping, Dreaming, and Dying by the Dalai Lama.”
Katy crossed to the sink. Returned to the stove and emptied a colander of mussels into the pan.
I waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, I prompted,
“What do you mean by moody?”
“She’s all sunbeams and rosebuds one minute, sulky the next.
She’ll want to talk about something, I mean, TMI to the max.
The breakup with her boyfriend, the reason she barely graduated because of a D+ in algebra, the definition of consciousness.
But if I ask the simplest follow-up question, she shuts down like I’m a cop trying to rubber-hose a confession. ”
“That kind of unpredictability can be hard.” Hiding a smile at the irony. My daughter had been prickly as hell during her teens. Still was, at times.
“It’s always fucking eggshells with her.”
Katy ladled out two servings of mollusks and carried the bowls to the table.
“Let’s eat.”
I took my place, tore off and buttered a segment of bread. Opened a mussel and scooped out the soft, gray flesh.
We ate in silence for a while, the only sound the rattle of our shells hitting the discard bowl.
I spoke first.
“Is Ruthie still working at the shelter?”
Years back, Katy had been gutted when her fiancé was killed by an IED while on a Peace Corps mission in Afghanistan.
Though she had no legal claim to his estate by virtue of their relationship, his will had left her a large sum of money and she’d used it to establish a charity for homeless veterans.
She’d named the organization the Aaron Cooperton Foundation in honor of her lost love.
She’d also founded the Charles Anthony Hunt Center, a home for unhoused vets, named in honor of one of my friends who’d also died tragically young.
The organization and the shelter remained Katy’s two passions. She put in long hours daily, overseeing the running of each.
“Mmm,” Katy offered through a mouthful of seafood.
“That’s working out?”
“Reasonably well.”
Several moments passed. Then I tried again.
“Is Ruthie still refusing to consider college?”
“Yes.”
“I’m good with that.” I was. Not everyone is meant to go that route, at least not right out of high school.
Katy offered another noncommittal “mmm.”
“She can always change her mind.”
“I don’t see that happening.”
Though I wasn’t certain of Katy’s meaning, I let it go.
“Do you know if Kit’s on board with Ruthie’s decision?” I asked.
“Ruthie says he is.”
“How’s Harry taking it?”
Katy’s response was an Academy Award–level snort. This time I had no doubt regarding the message.
Harry hadn’t pursued any education beyond high school, preferring parties and booze to English 101 and a cramped dorm room.
Decades, marriages, and careers down the road, she still feels inadequate over her lack of a degree.
Ruthie’s refusal to attend college was a flamethrower issue with my baby sister.
We passed the rest of the evening engaged in amiable conversation. I didn’t mention my mutilated animal corpses. Katy didn’t talk about her soldiers damaged in body and soul.
The tranquil interlude was a well-timed blessing, given the events about to unfold.
At ten, I headed home.
Not having spoken to Ryan.
Not having laid eyes on my great-niece.