Chapter 47
It was still drizzling, so there was no planting to get done that morning. Whelan was dumping bags of cedar mulch into the planting beds on the first traffic circle after the main gate when an ambulance sped past, lights flashing, no siren.
He turned and watched, and then, his curiosity piqued, he jumped in the cab of his work truck and followed, at a safe distance.
About a mile down the main road the ambulance turned onto a residential street bordering the golf course, and then it made another turn, at the end of which was a broad cul-de-sac.
Whelan paused at the stop sign and watched while the ambulance slowed and then backed down the driveway of Gardenia Cottage, a handsome single-story stucco bungalow.
There were three cars parked at the curb in front of the house, and a sleek black Porsche parked in front of a two-car garage. A man in a dress shirt and tie stood near the front door, shielded from the rain by a pink-and-white-striped Saint golf umbrella.
Two attendants hopped out of the ambulance and the man walked over to speak to them. After a minute or two, they went around to the rear of their unit, pulled out a gurney, and leisurely rolled it into the house in a way that suggested they weren’t there on an emergency mission.
The man with the umbrella didn’t follow the EMTs inside. Instead, he paced back and forth outside, talking animatedly on his cell phone.
Whelan pulled out his own phone, found the website for the county tax assessor’s office, and tapped in the home’s address, which was 267 Golfview Lane. According to county records, the home was owned by Fred Eddings.
Could umbrella guy be Ric Eddings, Traci’s brother-in-law? It seemed likely. He’d seen photos of Ric, but the guy’s face was obstructed by the angle at which he held the umbrella.
Whelan was a little worried that Eddings or whoever it was would wonder why one of the Saint’s landscape trucks was parked a few hundred yards away, but he needn’t have been concerned, because umbrella man was oblivious to everything except his phone.
After thirty minutes or so, the front door opened again and the EMTs slowly wheeled out a stretcher containing a zippered body bag.
An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing pink scrubs, followed the attendants out of the house. Just before they put the gurney on the lift, she stepped up and lightly patted the body bag. Then, she nodded at the attendants and stepped aside. The man with the umbrella walked over, and raised it over the older woman’s head, not touching her, but standing silently. This time, when the ambulance pulled out of the driveway, there were no lights and no siren.
The weather report wasn’t promising. Scattered thunderstorms for the rest of the day and into early evening. His supervisor had already sent the rest of the crew home with instructions to report back in the morning, but Whelan lingered, puttering around the landscape barn, cleaning, inspecting, and putting away equipment until noon, when he finally gave himself permission to knock off.
Whelan found Mike Sullivan’s work number through his LinkedIn profile.
“I was wondering if I’d hear from you again,” Sullivan said. “After you left the other day, I put your question on my family’s text chain. My sister Courtney is five years older than me. I’d forgotten that she was pals with those girls at the pool too, especially these twins who were from Birmingham. Emily and Jessica. Courtney and Emily swapped email addresses and wrote each other for a while after summer was over.”
“Great. By any chance, does she still have their contact information?”
“Nah. Courtney thinks those girls’ last name was DeRosa, but she’s not positive. My brother Brian was sixteen that year, and he had a summer job, so he only came down weekends while the rest of us were at the Saint for the whole month.”
“Did he know the girls?”
“Not really. Brian was kind of a nerd, not into girls. But he was into cars. He says it was a totally sick red ’Vette. Let me put you on speakerphone and I’ll read you what Brian says was the exact model.”
A moment later, Sullivan was back. “Okay, he says it was a C4-ZR7, whatever that means. Probably a ’99. He also said the guy who drove it was an a-hole. And just between us, I love my brother, but he can be an a-hole too. So for him to call a guy an a-hole? Well, trust.”
Whelan was scribbling notes while Sullivan spoke. “Hey, man, this is great. Really helpful stuff. You’ve got my number now, right? So if you think of anything else, will you call?”
“Roger that. And now you’ve got me curious, so let me know if you find out anything else about poor old Hudson, will you?”
He scoured the internet for an Emily DeRosa who would have been fourteen in ’02, which would have made her around thirty-five now, and he felt a flash of regret when the only online citation he found was an obituary in the Birmingham News for Emily DeRosa Palmieri, who’d died in 2019 of breast cancer.
Reading the obit, he noted that Emily’s survivors, besides a husband and son, were two other siblings, including a twin sister, Jessica DeRosa Womble, of Coral Springs, Florida.
He easily found Jessica Womble. She owned a real estate franchise called Jess Sells ReMax. He called her number and got a recording telling him that it was a great day to buy or sell a house. He left a message with his name and number, saying he had some business to discuss, in hopes that she’d call back what might be a hot prospect.
Whelan got to thinking about obituaries, and the peculiar art and science of what they included and what was left unsaid.
Out of morbid curiosity, he typed Hudson’s name into his phone’s search engine. Seconds later, he was reading the paid funeral notice that had run in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution on July 31, 2002.
Henry Hudson Moorehead, age eight; beloved son of Bradley H. and Kasey Ann Moorehead of Atlanta, died this week in Saint Cecelia, Georgia, after a tragic accident.
Hudson was a bright, inquisitive third grader. He loved riding his bicycle, playing Nintendo, and cuddling with his cat, Boots.
Survived by parents, paternal grandparents Henry and Sybil Moorehead of Highlands, N.C., and numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins. The family will receive close friends on Sunday at the Ansley Golf Club, from 5–7 p.m. In lieu of flowers, remembrances may be made to the American Red Cross.
Whelan’s name wasn’t included among the survivors.
His memory of Hudson’s funeral was hazy. He’d stayed with a high school friend, because he knew, without asking, that Brad probably wouldn’t welcome him at the Buckhead faux chateau.
Or, that’s what he’d told himself at the time. Thinking back now, he forced himself to face facts. He hadn’t stayed at the West Wesley house because of Brad, but rather because he couldn’t face Kasey, her raw grief and despair. Her neediness.
The uncomfortable truth was, he’d been jealous of Hudson, of what Whelan felt was his mother’s abandonment of her older son in favor of her new husband, new son, and affluent new lifestyle.
Whelan’s face burned with shame now thinking about that day.
He’d arrived at the country club thirty minutes late, half-wasted on Jaeger shots, had stood awkwardly by his mother’s side for a scant hour, then retreated to the patio, where he’d gotten so drunk that Brad had sent a cousin out to suggest that it was time for Whelan to leave.
Not a pretty scene. He hadn’t seen Brad Moorehead since that day. The marriage to Kasey was over within a year, and by that time, Whelan had joined the marines and shipped out.
Whelan hadn’t held any kind of service for his mother after she died, because she’d deliberately walled herself away from anyone who might have cared that she was gone. So what was the point?
Now that he was halfway down the rabbit hole of his unhappy family history, Whelan decided to dig deeper. He typed his stepfather’s name into the search engine.
And that’s how he found it—Bradley H. Moorehead, not of Atlanta. No. This Brad was a retired minister, who lived in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and helped run a street ministry for homeless veterans with addiction issues, called Fishers of Men.
Skeptical that this could be his late mother’s husband, Whelan clicked on photos of the Myrtle Beach Brad. After all, his stepfather had been a big-time real estate developer, scratch golfer, indifferent and irregular churchgoer, and martini aficionado.
A newspaper photo showed him there was no doubt. It was Brad. He was nearly eighty now, his posture somewhat stooped, but there was the square lantern jaw, the chiseled cheekbones, a full head of white hair, and the piercing dark eyes. He’d traded in the hand-stitched Italian loafers and custom-tailored suits of his past for baggy dad jeans, no-name sneakers, and a T-shirt proclaiming him a Fisher of Men.
Whelan watched a two-year-old video clip from a Myrtle Beach television station, showing Brad soliciting blankets and warm socks for “his guys” for Christmas. The station ran a crawl across the bottom of the screen, listing a phone number viewers could call to make donations.
Without stopping to think, Whelan tapped the number into his phone.
Two rings. And then that voice. “Hello? This is Brother Brad.”
He recognized the voice, that soft, cultivated Southern accent that spoke of prep schools and country clubs, not double-wides and honky-tonks.
Whelan found himself momentarily speechless.
“Hello?”
“Brad? This is Kasey’s son. Whelan.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Scott Whelan. Kasey’s son.”
“Scotty?” Brad’s voice cracked. “Scotty Whelan? Is that really you?”
“Yes, sir.” Whelan was bemused that he’d automatically reverted to his youth, addressing the older man as if the years hadn’t passed and Brad was still his stern, eternally disappointed stepfather.
“Praise Jesus!”
Was Brad crying?
“Oh, son, you don’t know how often I’ve thought and prayed for you over these years. Are you still in the army? Your mom was so proud of you for enlisting.”
“Actually, it was the marines. I’ve been out quite a few years now.”
“Well, good for you,” Brad said. “And I hope you’re doing well? Got a family and settled down?”
“Doing well, thanks,” Whelan said, neatly sidestepping the family question.
“And where are you living these days? I’d love to catch up with you and…” His voice cracked a little. “… make things right. I wasn’t much of a dad to you when I had the chance, wasn’t much of a husband to your mom, either, but, well, I’m a changed man these days. You could say I’ve seen the light.”
Why was it, Whelan wondered, assholes only saw the light after the damage was done?
“I wasn’t too eager to be parented back then,” Whelan conceded, trying to be civil.
“You asked where I am. And that’s actually why I’ve called you. I’m down at the Saint.”
There was a long pause. When Brad spoke again, his voice seemed to have hardened. “The Saint Cecelia? What on earth?”
Whelan cut him off. “Kasey died, you know.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t know that. When?”
“Last summer.”
“I wish I’d known. Your mother and I…” Brad sighed dramatically. “Well, another in my list of regrets.”
“Mine too. Look, I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, but all these years, I’ve had questions. About Hudson. And how and why he died.”
“Water under the bridge now,” Brad said, and Whelan could picture him, praising Jesus, or something like that. “You know how he died. In that pool, at the Saint.”
“But why? He was a good swimmer. And I’ve looked into it. Talked to people who were there, including both the lifeguards. There were no other kids in the pool. One minute he was fine, then the next minute, gone. And there was no follow-up, no police investigation. The owners of the Saint saw to that.”
“There was an investigation,” Brad said.
“By who?”
“By me, well, a guy I hired. Your mother wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t leave it alone. She was sure there was some nefarious force at work. She couldn’t sleep or eat. So without telling her, I hired my own investigator.”
“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?” Whelan asked, stunned.
Brad laughed and for a moment Whelan recognized the pre- Rapture Brad.
“No offense, son, but you weren’t really part of the equation back then, were you? You blew in and then out of your little brother’s funeral in what, two hours? If that?”
“Probably less. And I’m not proud about that.”
“There’s enough shame to go around where that unfortunate chapter of our lives is concerned,” Brad said.
“Did your investigator come up with anything?”
“Yes. And no. I had an autopsy performed, and that’s when we learned that Hudson had eaten a lot of food before going into that pool that day. Cereal, which his mom had given him that morning, hot dogs and French fries from the snack bar at the pool, and then, the thing we couldn’t account for, some kind of peanut candy.”
“Are you saying Hudson, what? Got cramps or something? I thought that was an old wives’ tale.”
“No. It wasn’t cramps. It turns out Hudson probably had an undiagnosed peanut allergy. He went into anaphylactic shock. Do you know what that is?”
“Yeah. A guy I work with down here got stung by a bunch of yellow jackets recently. Fortunately, he carries an EpiPen with him.”
“My little boy didn’t have that good fortune,” Brad said. “Hudson’s tongue and lips were swollen, and when they got him out of the pool, his lower abdomen was covered in red welts—hives. Any competent medical examiner would have seen the signs of an allergic reaction. But the Bonaventure County ME ignored those signs.”
Whelan’s mind immediately turned to what Mike Sullivan had told him about the man in the red Corvette handing Hudson a paper bag.
“You said Hudson got the hot dog and fries at the snack bar at the pool. What about the peanuts?”
“Peanut MM’s. At least a half-pound bag, probably. I never knew for sure, but I had my suspicions.”
Whelan waited.
“My investigator turned up something else I wasn’t expecting,” Brad said reluctantly. “This is going to be hard for you to hear, son.”
“I’m a big boy now, Brad,” Whelan said impatiently.
“Your mother was having an affair that summer. From the reports I got, and what she later all but admitted to me, it was some young guy. All this while I was up in Atlanta, busting my butt to make a nice life for my family—for Kasey and my little boy. The investigator thought, but I could never confirm, Hudson saw something he shouldn’t have.”
“So what? You think this other man bribed Hudson? Who was it?”
“We never found out. I’d also hired an attorney. We put the Saint’s owners on notice that I was thinking of suing for criminal negligence. After that, my investigator was never able to get access to the Saint to talk to folks who might have seen something. It would have meant getting a court order and things would have gotten… ugly.”
Whelan’s phone beeped to notify him that he had an incoming call. From Jess Sells ReMax.
Which was fine. He’d gotten what he needed out of his former stepfather.
“Hey, Brad. Sorry, I need to take another call.”
He disconnected and picked up the incoming call.
“Hi!” A woman’s perky voice greeted him. “Is this Whelan?”
“Yes. Thanks for calling me back.”
“It’s entirely my pleasure,” Jessica Womble said. “Now, are you interested in listing or buying, or better yet, both?”
“Neither. I’m actually calling about something not related to real estate. I understand your family vacationed at the Saint Cecelia, back in the summer of 2002?”
The cheery tone was gone. “That’s right, but how did you get my name?”
“It’s a long story. Briefly, it was my little brother, Hudson, who drowned at the pool that summer.”
“Ohhhh. I’m so sorry. I remember Hudson. He was a little cutie. But I wasn’t at the pool that day. My sister and I were down at the beach.”
“Doesn’t matter. There’s something else you could help me with. Do you remember a guy who was around a lot that summer? Drove a fancy red Corvette?”
“Oh yeah,” Jessica said. “All the girls had the hots for that guy. He was a lifeguard down at the beach, which, now that I think about it, was why Emily and I spent so much time down there. Not that he ever gave us the time of day.”
“What was his name? Do you remember?”
“How could I forget? His name was Ric. If I remember right, his family owned the whole place, or at least that’s what he told all the girls. But you know how guys like that exaggerate, right?”
“Rrrright,” Whelan said slowly. “Thanks, Jessica.”
Whelan sat for a moment, letting it all sink in. Ric Eddings riding around in a flashy red Corvette. A stranger handing Hudson a bag of peanut MM’s. How easily his stepfather had accepted the fact that his wife had been having an affair with a younger man that summer.
He tapped the most recently dialed number on his phone and Brad picked up immediately.
“I’m glad you called back,” his stepfather said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to visit Kasey’s gravesite. To pay my respects.”
“There isn’t a grave. She was cremated.”
“Oh. Oh, son…”
“Just a couple more questions, Brad. Did you, by any chance, reach an out-of-court settlement with the Eddings family, after Hudson’s death?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant after all these—”
“Yes or no?”
“I did,” Brad said finally. “To spare your mother the pain of a drawn-out lawsuit.”
“And she never knew about the settlement, did she, Brad? You left her less than a year later, and the only thing she got out of her marriage to you was a lifetime of guilt and shame.”
“Now, son—”
“Fuck off, Brad,” Whelan said. “And don’t call me son.”