Chapter 21
Four days after the arrests, Cadie was scheduled to perform at Stratton House. It was a relief to focus on that, and on the future. She was already dressed for the evening. She relaxed on the sofa while Barrett showered.
Although the restoration of Stratton House would take a year or more, Jaxon Boone had decided to host an impromptu concert that night. He wanted Cadie to play on the grand piano in the performance hall, and she'd readily agreed.
The performance was an informal community event.
Jaxon wanted to announce plans for restoration and give the neighborhood a chance to see the space one more time before the renovations began.
Cadie agreed that was an excellent idea.
While she waited for Barrett to get ready, she thought about recent events.
With the danger handled, Barrett's priority had been Cadie.
She swore that her injuries weren't serious, but he kept a close eye on her anyway.
The skin on her wrists recovered from the irritation of her restraint.
The first couple of days following the incident, Cadie's back and shoulder were sore.
The pain improved without need for intervention.
The doctor confirmed she had no broken bones, and a couple of days of rest was desirable.
Barrett was willing to accommodate her and seemed happy to take care of her needs.
Cadie was grateful to the fire department.
Stratton House was largely undamaged. Mineral clay, similar to kitty litter, was spread over the floor and along the wall.
It was very absorbent and effective in soaking up the remaining liquid.
Then the firemen used soap, like dish soap, to neutralize the gasoline.
Throughout the process, industrial-size fans blew to dissipate fumes from the building.
When the dish soap and warm water process was complete, the floor and wall finished drying. The smell of gas was gone.
Detective Sullivan shared another fact that was ironic.
In a building fire, signs of gasoline doused on the premises would prompt suspicion of arson.
Thus, Kal's gasoline spree provided evidence of his crime, despite his intention to wipe out any trace.
The list of his crimes continued to grow.
Attempted arson was a crime, even though the fire didn't ignite.
But that was the least of Kal's concerns.
The district attorney filed formal charges against Kal Davis for a hefty list of offenses, not the least of which was conspiracy to commit murder.
And Olivia Stewart didn't fare much better, since she was accused of first-degree murder.
She was also charged with elder abuse for her actions.
Sullivan was sure that she couldn't evade prison, but she agreed to testify against Kal in exchange for a reduced sentence.
In her final months, Celia Ann Stratton had been lucid enough to know something was wrong and leave instructions with her attorney. She had trusted Barrett to investigate, and he'd methodically followed the trail with the thoroughness of a man who took his promises seriously.
Cadie had honored her aunt in the way that mattered.
She'd stayed in Charleston and fought for the truth when it would have been simpler to accept the death certificate at face value.
And she had ensured that Stratton House would endure, protected by legal covenants that no developer could circumvent.
She had fought for that outcome through the investigation, the threats, and the confrontations with a man who wanted to tear the building down and replace it with luxury condominiums.
Barrett emerged dressed in a dark blazer over a crisp white shirt, looking sexier than ever. "I'm ready. Shall we go?"
Cadie touched his lapel. "You look handsome this evening."
"I have to look my best," Barrett said. "My sweetheart is performing." Then he kissed her, the intimacy holding promise of so much more.
*****
At Stratton House that evening, the community arrived in small groups.
Cadie watched from a window in the corridor as people walked up the front steps of Stratton House.
They were neighbors and local business owners and members of the music community who had known Celia Ann and remembered what the building had meant to the city.
They came in pairs and in small clusters, talking quietly among themselves, and they filed into the performance hall and took seats in the rows of chairs that Jaxon Boone's team had arranged that afternoon.
It wasn't a large crowd. Jaxon had kept the event intimate, a gathering rather than a production.
There were no printed programs and no formal introductions planned.
The evening was meant to be simple and meaningful, a chance for the community to once again hear the music that had once filled its rooms.
Barrett appeared at her side. "Are you nervous?"
Cadie smoothed the front of her dress. She had chosen a simple black sheath that fell just below the knee, elegant without being showy.
She wore a small piece of jewelry her father had given her, a delicate gold pendant that rested against her collarbone.
She had not dressed for a performance at a concert hall. She had dressed for a farewell.
She smiled. "I'm thrilled to be here."
Barrett took her hand and held it for a moment. His grip was warm and steady. He didn't tell her she would be wonderful, because that would have been unnecessary. He simply held her hand and looked at her with a loving expression, and that was enough.
When Cadie went to the stage, Barrett took a seat in the front row.
The room had filled with perhaps forty or fifty people, seated in the rows of chairs and talking in low voices that created a soft murmur beneath the high ceiling.
The windows along the upper walls let in the last of the evening light.
Jaxon stood near the stage. He greeted Cadie with a handshake and a warm smile, then turned to the audience.
He spoke briefly and with genuine feeling.
He told them about Boone Properties' commitment to restoring Stratton House to its original purpose.
He described the covenants that would protect the building in perpetuity, the restoration plan that would preserve the historic architecture while updating the infrastructure to modern standards.
He spoke of Celia Ann Stratton and her husband Emory, and of the decades they'd devoted to making the building a center for music and education in Charleston.
He promised that their legacy would be honored.
Then he turned to Cadie and extended his hand toward the piano.
Cadie climbed the three steps to the stage and crossed to the bench.
The grand piano waited for her, its dark surface gleaming under the overhead lights that Jaxon's team had installed for the evening.
She sat on the bench and adjusted her position, feeling the familiar height and angle of the keys beneath her fingertips. The keys were cool and smooth.
She looked out at the audience. The faces were attentive and kind, the faces of people who had come because they cared about the building and the woman who had dedicated her life to it.
Cadie did not know most of them, but she recognized a few from the neighborhood and from the music community contacts she had visited during the investigation.
They were here for Celia Ann. They were here for Stratton House.
And in a way that Cadie was only beginning to understand, they were here for her.
She spotted Barrett in the front row. He was sitting with his hands resting on his thighs and his attention focused entirely on her. What she saw in his expression was pride and love. She was filled with confidence.
Cadie took a breath and turned back to the piano. Then she placed her hands on the keys and began to play.
The music filled the performance hall. The notes climbed toward the high ceiling and spread through the room and resonated against the walls.
The sound was rich and full and alive. Cadie played a piece she had been composing in her mind since arriving in Charleston, a melody that had taken shape during her stay.
It was not a sad piece, though it carried sadness in its lower register. It was a blues composition about memory and the resilience of beautiful things. It moved through minor keys and resolved into major ones. The rhythm was steady and grounding, the melody clear.
Cadie played with her eyes closed. She played for her aunt, who'd sat on the same bench and filled this room with music.
She played for the students, for the concerts that had been performed on this stage, for the history that lived in the woodwork and the plaster and the worn floorboards beneath her feet.
And she played for herself. She was no longer the piano player who faded into the background when the song ended. She was center stage, alone in the spotlight, and the music that filled Stratton House was her own.
The piece built to its final movement, a passage that was both tender and resolute. Cadie let the last chord ring until the sound dissolved into the silence of the room. She held her hands above the keys for a moment, feeling the vibration fade through her fingertips and into the air.
Then she lowered her hands to her lap and opened her eyes.