Chapter 3
Barrett Anson woke up at five thirty. That habit was ingrained from his SEAL days. While running his own PI firm in California, he'd seen no reason to change. Making the most of the mornings gave him an edge. He had a chance to strategize before the rest of the world started making noise.
He sat up in the hotel bed and rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness from yesterday's flight. He was back in Charleston, which was strange after so many years.
The room was comfortable enough, with thick curtains that blocked out the early light.
Barrett pushed them aside and looked out at the city.
Charleston had changed since he'd left. There were a few newer buildings, updated infrastructure, and more tourists than he remembered.
But he appreciated the historic architecture, the Spanish moss hanging from old oak trees, and the fall colors. In some ways, it still felt like home.
He showered and dressed in jeans and a dark shirt, practical clothes that let him move freely.
While he went through his morning routine, he was already thinking about the case.
He had left his firm in good hands. His business partners were both former SEALs, could handle things at his company while he was away.
They had worked together long enough to trust each other completely.
That was the kind of trust built in combat and carried forward into civilian life.
For the current case, he'd been specifically requested. Celia Ann Stratton had given clear instructions to her estate attorney before she passed away.
Barrett made a cup of coffee then sat at the desk and opened the file Thomas Hartwell had given him. It was sparse. Celia Ann Stratton was deceased. The report indicated it was due to heart failure. That was not unexpected for an eighty-one-year-old woman with a heart condition.
But Celia Ann had left instructions. If she died, her attorney should contact Barrett Anson to investigate. The act of doing so suggested that she'd suspected something was amiss. She wouldn't have left such a message unless she'd had concerns or sensed danger.
Barrett had known Celia Ann, although not well.
She had been a fixture in Charleston when he was growing up, an elegant woman who ran the music conservatory at Stratton House.
She had taught piano to kids in the historic district, hosted concerts, and contributed to the city's classical music scene.
He remembered her as kind, dignified, and sharp as a tack.
He had not realized she'd kept track of him after he joined the Navy.
The attorney said she had followed his career.
She knew he'd become a SEAL and that he'd later opened his own investigation firm in California.
She wanted someone she could trust and had selected Barrett, who was from Charleston.
She had confidence that he understood the city and its people.
Barrett was honored but concerned. He wondered what she'd suspected or known.
The medical examiner's report was brief.
Celia Ann's heart had failed, but there were no signs of trauma.
She'd appeared to die quietly, with no sign of struggle.
The report stated that an elderly woman with a diagnosed heart condition had died in her sleep.
It wasn't unusual and wouldn't be a reason to investigate.
But Celia Ann's instincts had told her otherwise. Barrett trusted instincts. His own had kept him alive through more combat situations than he cared to count. He had learned to listen to that quiet voice in the back of his mind that said something wasn't right.
The frustration was that Thomas Hartwell had been unable to tell him who'd inherited the property until after the will was officially read. That was due to attorney-client privilege and estate law. Barrett understood the legal reasoning, but it did not make his job easier.
Hartwell had not mentioned the name of the heir, just that the reading of the will was scheduled soon. After that, Barrett could expect a call. In the meantime, he was limited to what the attorney could share, which was not much.
Hartwell had let him inside Stratton House briefly, just to see the layout.
Barrett had walked through the main rooms, noting the beautiful architecture.
The building needed work and would require significant restoration.
It was a property with history and character, in a prime location in Charleston's historic district.
Real estate like that didn't come on the market often, so would be in demand—if the new heir wished to sell. Barrett wondered whether a new owner would preserve it or tear it down for redevelopment.
Barrett finished his coffee and closed the file. He couldn't do much more with the information he had. But he could visit the property, walk the perimeter, and get a feel for the place. Observation was key in any investigation.
He grabbed his keys and headed out.
*****
Stratton House was nearby. Barrett was familiar with the area. He had grown up in Charleston, played football in high school, and driven around with friends on Friday nights. But that had been another life, another version of himself.
He parked on the street and got out, scanning the area with the automatic awareness that came from years of tactical training. The neighborhood was mostly residential and relatively quiet. The narrow streets were lined with old trees and historic homes with well-maintained gardens.
Stratton House was on a corner lot, a large building with ornate ironwork and tall windows.
The architecture was classic Charleston, with European influences and careful attention to detail.
Even in its current state of disrepair, the building commanded attention.
It had once been something special. With the right investment, it could be again.
Barrett walked around, making mental notes. The property was larger than he had realized from the interior tour. The main building faced the street, but there was a courtyard behind it.
The locks looked old and were likely original. The ground-floor windows were accessible from the street, though most were shuttered. The neighborhood was generally safe, but any property sitting empty for weeks was a potential target.
Barrett completed his circuit of the building and returned to the front.
The architecture really was beautiful. He noticed the detailed cornices, arched doorways, columns that showed careful craftsmanship.
The building was special. Celia Ann had poured her life into it, teaching music and hosting performances.
He hoped the heir would respect that. But he had learned not to count on people doing the right thing just because it seemed obvious.
As he stood looking up at the facade, he noticed that the front door was ajar. Not wide open but not closed all the way.
Barrett moved toward the entrance, listening. There was no sign of forced entry. The door was unlocked and open.
He considered calling Thomas Hartwell first to ask if he expected anyone. But Barrett's training pushed him forward instead. Better to assess the situation first, then decide whether to involve others. He approached the door quietly, then listened for a moment at the threshold to piano music.
Barrett put his hand on the doorframe. The sound was faint but unmistakable. The music was blues, rich and soulful, the kind of playing that came from years of training and genuine talent.
The sound sparked something in his memory, although he didn't immediately place it. The rhythm and emotional depth of the playing was familiar. But he hadn't been to Stratton House in years and hadn't attended the concerts Celia Ann hosted.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The interior was exactly as he remembered from his walk-through with Hartwell. He saw the grand entrance hall with high ceilings and ornate plasterwork that had seen better days.
Barrett moved through the hallway, following the sound of the piano. His footsteps were silent on the worn wooden floors. Dust motes floated in the morning light coming through the window. He didn't miss the way sound carried through the rooms designed for music and performance.
The playing continued, filling the house with melody. The blues progressions were skillfully executed and full of feeling. The pianist was good and had the kind of talent that should be on a stage.
Barrett reached the doorway to the main performance hall and stopped.
The room opened before him, larger than most of the others.
He saw a stage at one end with rows of seating, and on the stage was a grand piano.
The instrument was old but well maintained, probably one of the few things in the building that Celia Ann had kept in perfect condition.
A woman sat at the piano. He could only see her from behind. Her wavy, dark hair fell past her shoulders. She had a slender frame and graceful posture. She was completely absorbed in the music, unaware of his presence.
Barrett stood in the doorway and watched. He considered announcing himself to let her know that she was not alone. But he held back to listen to the music. He admired the way she played with total focus and emotional depth in every note.
There was something about the way the woman held herself. The curve of her shoulder and the tilt of her head were familiar.
Then his heart started beating faster. He knew that posture. He recognized the way she moved and remembered the grace of her hands.
It was Cadie.
His mind raced. Cadie Ladd was his high school friend whom he'd kissed goodbye before leaving for the Navy and never saw again.
What would she be doing in Charleston? She lived in New Orleans and played piano in a blues band.
He had kept track of her over the years, because she'd meant something once.
He knew she had made a life in the music scene, that she was talented and successful in her own way.
But it was a surprise to see her at Stratton House. Unless…she was the heir.
The music ended and the final notes faded into the silence of the empty hall. For a moment, she sat at the piano with her hands resting on the keys and her head slightly bowed. She seemed to hold on to the last echoes of the song, reluctant to let go.
Then she turned on the bench and looked out at the hall. Her gaze swept across the empty seats, the dusty stage, and the tall windows—then stopped. Her eyes locked with his.
For a moment, she didn't move. She just stared at him across the space of the performance hall.
Barrett's heart hammered in his chest. Every tactical instinct told him to move, to speak or do something. But he was caught in her gaze like he was eighteen again and meeting her for the first time.
She looked just like he remembered her, older…but still Cadie. He looked into those green eyes that had haunted him more than he wanted to admit. So many times, he'd wondered what might have happened if he'd stayed, if he had reached out.
Cadie's lips parted slightly. Then, without looking away, she said, "Barrett…"