Sage of Innocence Read online

  Chip's phone continued to ring. The innocuous ringtone sounded obscene, somehow, as it cut through the silence in the room. Everyone, children and adults alike, watched Muffy's face.

  "Answer it," she finally said in a toneless voice.

  Chip pushed back his chair and scurried out of the room and into the craft room, fumbling with the phone as he went.

  Muffy smoothed her napkin over her lap and aimed a wide smile at her kids. "It's okay, guys. Daddy is waiting for a very important call," she explained.

  "More important than quality family time?" Skylar asked.

  Muffy didn't seem to have an answer for that, so she changed the subject. "What gave you the idea to make a ninja panda, Sky?"

  Skylar prattled on, giving us a breathless scene by scene recitation of the plot of "Kung Fu Panda."

  Muffy nodded her encouragement, and Dylan interrupted every third sentence to correct his sister or more fully explain some minor point. I half-listened while I watched Chip through the French doors. He was pacing, his free hand cutting through the air every few steps. I brushed aside my rising unease and turned my attention back to Skylar's monologue.

  "And then it turns out he was the hero they needed after all!" she finished, picking up her fork and digging into her creamy grits.

  "Wow," Muffy said. Then she caught my eye. "Dare I ask about the dragon?"

  "You're probably safe. I don't think Dylan was cinematically inspired," I told her.

  Before she could ask, though, Chip was back, gray faced and sweating despite the cool air circulating courtesy of the paddle fan on the ceiling.

  "Muffy, can you help me with something in the kitchen?" he croaked.

  She hurried from the room to join him, leaving me to field the kids' questions.

  "Sage, why did Dad answer his phone at the table?" Skylar asked.

  At the same time, Dylan lobbed a question of his own. "Why are those people watching our house out front?"

  Two worried, little faces stared at me with big eyes, waiting for an explanation. Muffy had asked me not to mention Fred's murder or Chip's visit to the police station to them. She knew she was going to have to tell them eventually--the island was small, both in terms of land mass and in the sense that everyone knew everyone else's business. It was inevitable that they'd find out. She was just buying time--an instinct I understood and maybe even agreed with. But it put me in an impossible spot.

  I pursed my lips and thought. "Something happened at the club today. I don't know the details, but your mom and dad will explain everything to you when they get a chance. Those people in front of the house, Dylan, are reporters. They probably want to ask your dad about it. And, Skylar, the phone call was probably about what happened at the club, too. So it would be important enough that your mom made an exception to her rule." I nodded as if to say this was all completely routine and not at all unusual.

  Dylan squinted at me. "Something bad? Or something good?"

  "The thing at the club?" I stalled.

  "Yeah."

  "I don't think it was good," I admitted.

  "So not like when they had a Halloween hayride for all the kids?" Skylar pressed.

  "Right. Not like that."

  My stomach tightened. I didn't want to lie to them. And I was told not to tell them the truth. But if Muffy and Chip didn't get their butts back in here soon, I was going to find myself confronting a question that I couldn't handle.

  As if they'd been summoned by my fretting, Muffy and a glum-looking Chip walked into the room.

  "What happened at the club, Daddy?" Skylar blurted before her parents and returned their napkins to their laps.

  Muffy frosted me with a long look. I gave her the 'my conscience is clear' look I perfected the summer I helped sixteen-year-old Rosemary sneak out of our parents' house nearly every night to meet her dopey boyfriend, Thor.

  Chip coughed, cleared his throat, and then forced out an answer in a strangled voice. "One of my friends died, honey. Mr. Fred."

  "Mr. Fred died? Was he sick?" Dylan asked while Skylar's lower lip started to tremble.

  "No, he wasn't sick. He was ... in an accident."

  The kids considered that answer for a moment. Before they could press for details, Muffy jumped in. "Now, finish up your dinner. Sage can walk you down to Sea Salt's for an ice cream cone before you take your baths."

  Skylar and Dylan fell for the oldest trick in the parenting book. Distracted by the prospect of a rare mid-week visit to the ice cream parlor, they abandoned their quest for information and started shoveling shrimp and grits into their mouths in double time.

  "Slow down," Muffy and I said in unison.

  Chapter 3

  I crept down the stairs from the Moores' second floor and headed into the sitting room to find Muffy and Chip in their usual spots. Most nights, they were listening to some obscure indie folk music that Muffy had "discovered" on National Public Radio and sipping their nightcaps. Tonight, though, they were sitting side by side in silence, staring blankly at the cold, empty wood-burning fireplace.

  I paused in the doorway and cleared my throat. Neither of them turned toward the sound, so I crossed the room and stood in front of the hearth.

  "They're both asleep," I said.

  "Thanks," Chip said while Muffy nodded absently.

  "Is there anything else I can do before I go out to the cottage? I threw their clothes in the washer and started it--we had some chocolate ice cream casualties." I smiled, hoping to lift the mood in the room, which could fairly be described as glum. Depressing, even.

  "No. I'll move them to the dryer," Muffy said in a monotone.

  "Okay, great. Well, good night then." I hesitated awkwardly and then started to leave. Most nights, the Moores invited me to stay for a nightcap or a cup of tea and some conversation after the kids were in bed. This was clearly not one of those nights, but the vibe was decidedly weird--even given the trying day they'd had.

  "Sage, wait," Chip called. Then he turned to his wife. "There's no point in putting it off."

  She made a small, murmuring sound of protest then sighed. "No, I suppose there's not."

  I turned back to them, my heart hammering in my throat because I knew whatever was coming next wasn't going to be good. And it wasn't.

  "I'm so sorry, but we're going to have to let you go," Muffy said tearfully.

  "Let me ... go?" I stared at them while I tried to come up with a definition of 'go' that didn't involve income loss and homelessness. I came up blank.

  "It's not you, of course. You're an angel and Sky and Dylan adore you. It's just a matter of finances," she said, cutting her eyes toward her husband.

  Chip nodded his agreement. "Right. You're the best. But this matter about Fred's death, well, it's going to impact our bottom line. We talked it over with our wealth advisor, and Parker is adamant that we need to cut our expenditures now, so we can weather this mess."

  "I don't think I understand," I said. "You're still on the tour, right? I mean, you haven't even been charged with a crime. They can't take away your livelihood." I was starting to get indignant on his behalf.

  He hurried to correct me. "It's not the PGA. It's my endorsement deals. I'm tainted as a brand ambassador, now. I've already lost Duffers Duds. And, according to my agent, Sweet Southern Tea is making noises."

  Ah, the sponsorships and endorsements. Muffy's earlier comment now seemed prophetic rather than cold. I wrapped my arms across my torso in what my baby sister Thyme called my self-hug and said in the calmest voice I could manage, "I see." Even though I didn't see at all.

  "We'll call this your two-weeks' notice," Chip said. "And of course, you're welcome to stay in the guest house as long as you need to."

  "Thank you," I said. I meant it. Losing my job sucked. But losing my shelter, too, would have been a crisis. Then I had a thought. "What are you going to tell the kids?"

  Muffy shook her head. "I'm not sure. They're going to be devastated."

  We stared at
each other sadly thinking about the effect this would have on the munchkins. Chip, completely misreading the situation, plowed ahead with his severance package spiel. "I don't want you to think it's just you, Sage. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to have to tell Roman he's out of a job, too."

  Poor Roman. He loved being Chip's caddy. The guy basically worshipped Chip.

  "And we'll do everything we can to help you find a new family to work for," Muffy said forcefully, drawing herself up straight with posture that would make her finishing school teacher proud. "But, if, by some miracle, the authorities find Fred's killer quickly and bring him to justice in the next two weeks, then we'd love to have you stay on."

  I knew she wanted me to reassure her that I understood and didn't blame them. But I couldn't. Because I didn't understand. And, to be honest, I sort of did blame them. They could have done their belt-tightening without screwing over their employees. The situation cut a little too close to home. I thought of Betty, the property manager my parents had left high and dry. I just nodded and fled the room for the privacy of the guest cottage with plans to indulge in a good, long cry.

  Chapter 4

  I balanced the phone between my neck and shoulder while I adjusted the chamomile teabags that were draped over my eyes. I'd brewed the tea to drink, so I could start the day with a relatively low stress level. But when I saw my red, puffy eyes in the mirror, I figured the bags could be pressed into double duty to calm my eyes and reduce the redness and swelling--an old trick my mom had taught me and my sisters. I think the last time anyone used it was when that jerk Henry Samuels had dumped Thyme the night of her twenty-first birthday. The next morning had been all chamomile tea and home-brewed hangover cures.

  "Are you sure you don't want to come stay with me?" Thyme urged in my ear as I sank back into the sofa.

  While I'd called my older sister for rational advice when Chip was arrested, it was Thyme who I turned to for comfort. She'd made all the appropriate soothing sounds after I told her about my impending unemployment and pressed me to come visit her in New York to take my mind off my situation. It was almost tempting. Thyme had a natural empathetic quality that both Rosemary and I lacked. And slinking off to lick my wounds while Thyme plied me with fruity drinks and sympathy had a lot of appeal.

  "I'm sure." I couldn't abandon Dylan and Skylar. It was going to be hard enough to just up and leave them in two weeks.

  Thyme sighed as if she'd read my mind. "Those poor kids."

  "I know, right? I can't bear to think about saying goodbye to them." I nearly choked on the words.

  "Maybe you won't have to," she murmured.

  I knew she was just being positive, but suddenly I sat bolt upright, dislodging my teabags, which landed in a soggy pile in my lap. "Maybe I won't," I agreed. I dumped the teabags into the adorable, overpriced compost pail that Muffy kept in the guesthouse for decoration as much as for composting and headed into the bedroom to throw on a pair of shorts and a shirt.

  "Uh-oh. I recognize that tone."

  "What tone?"

  "Your 'I have a harebrained scheme' voice. I bet that's the one you used when you talked Rosie into playing girl detective when Amber died and she went cavorting around Los Angeles just barely staying one step ahead of the law with all her trespassing, high-speed chases, and .... Oh, no."

  "Relax," I told her. "I'm not Rosemary. I'm not going to do anything dangerous. But, you have to admit, if I can prove that Chip didn't kill Fred Spears, he'll no longer be damaged goods. He can keep his endorsement deals, and I can keep my job." I gave a little bounce of excitement at the notion. Why hadn't I thought of this earlier? Like, before I'd turned on the waterworks?

  "Sage, this plan is--"

  "Brilliant. I know."

  "I was going to say foolhardy. Reckless. Dangerous, even. You can't go prowling around the island alone trying to solve a murder."

  "Stop clutching your pearls. I'm going to enlist a partner."

  That stopped her. "Wait? You are? Who?"

  I lifted the bamboo slatted blinds and peered out toward the dock as Roman Lyman bicycled up the path, right on time for work.

  "Chip's caddy."

  "Roman? Shy, tongue-tied Roman? I thought he doesn't even look you in the eye when you talk to him. Good luck convincing him to go along with this crazy plan."

  "Thanks. I appreciate it," I said, pretending her wishes for luck were sincere. "Gotta go." I ended the call, swiped my favorite matte red lipstick across my mouth, and jogged down the stairs to waylay an unsuspecting caddy.

  * * *

  "Uh ... I don't even know what you're talking about," Roman muttered--or I assumed that’s what he said.

  His voice was barely audible. His eyes were fixed on a point just over my left shoulder. If I didn't need his help so badly, I'd be tempted to shout 'Boo!' right in his face to see if I could make him shriek in terror.

  Even with my morning-after-a-crying-jag eyes, I really didn't think I looked that scary. But big, broad-shouldered Roman Lyman sure did seem to find me terrifying. Although, in fairness, he seemed to be pretty frightened by me on a good day.

  Part of me wondered if it was because I didn't fawn all over him like some sort of Scarlet O'Hara wannabe. He did seem to have a rakish kind of Rhett quality hidden under that shy exterior.

  But instead of startling him, I reminded myself that Gone With the Wind hadn't exactly had a happy ending, took a deep breath, and flashed him my gentlest smile. "I understand. It's a lot to process. But, really, Chip and Muffy are slashing their costs, and you and I are on the chopping block."

  His eyes slid up the path to the house then back to meet mine. As always happened on the rare occasions he looked directly at me, I involuntarily caught my breath. His eyes were the oddest shade of brown I'd ever seen--amber, almost gold, flecked with dark inky swirls.

  "No offense, but I'll wait to hear that from my boss."

  I shrugged. "Suit yourself; but it's true. I imagine you'll get two weeks' notice just like I did.”

  “I’m sorry you’re losing your job, but my situation is a little bit different. Chip can’t go on tour without a caddy. He’ll have to keep me around.”

  That made me pause for a minute. Chip and Muffy had definitely said that Roman’s days were numbered.

  “I don’t know the details of their new austerity plan, but look, all I'm proposing is that we work together for the next fourteen days to figure out who actually killed Fred and maybe, just maybe keep our jobs."

  He furrowed his brow. "I'm a caddy, not a detective. And you're a nanny--"

  "Actually, I'm trained in forensics," I said coolly. Forensics, forensic accounting. Potato, po-tah-to.

  He blinked at that but forged ahead. "Oh. Okay, even so. You probably didn't know that Mr. Spears was, uh, not exactly the most popular guy on the course. There's no way Mr. Moore killed him--you're right about that much. But I bet a man like Mr. Spears had a lot of enemies."

  I would have probed for more details about Fred's fan club, but just as Roman dropped this tantalizing nugget of information, Muffy and Chip stepped out onto the porch. They stood arm in arm and smiled broadly for any paparazzi who might be lurking in the magnolias. They'd clearly coordinated their pale blue and white outfits. Then Muffy leaned up and gave Chip a chaste goodbye kiss. He extricated himself from their embrace and charged down the stairs like a man eager to face his day.

  "Roman, my man," he boomed in greeting as he neared us. "Morning, Sage."

  Roman shot me a look that suggested he questioned my sanity before trotting off after his boss like a polo-shirted puppy.

  Fan-freaking-tastic. We're all putting on our game faces. Yay.

  I mustered up an imitation of a happy expression and forced myself to head toward the porch where Muffy was waiting for me with her own constipated-looking grin. A close look at her face and her bloodshot eyes made clear that she hadn't slept any better than I had last night.

  I could already tell today was going to be an e
xcruciatingly long day. I glanced up at the sapphire blue sky. As long as the weather held, I'd be okay. Fresh air and sunshine could work its magic on me and the Moore kids.

  * * *

  The rain came down in sheets. Constant sheets of water falling from the sky. The howling wind and the pounding rain hitting the roof and the windows drowned out the dialogue of the half-hearted puppet show we'd put together in the shadowy playroom. Dylan tore the lion puppet from his hand and hurled it toward the floor as a bolt of lightning creased the sky outside the window.

  "This is boring. I want to go outside," he moaned, pressing his forehead against the windowpane.

  I uncrossed my legs and joined him at the bay window. I pulled aside the curtain and we stood there together, staring out into the gray, wet day. The wind lashed the trees and the rain poured from the dark sky relentlessly. The storm had come out of nowhere and showed no signs of letting up soon.

  "It's okay," Skylar chirped, remaining in character as a happy-go-lucky unicorn. She waggled her lavender-maned puppet at us. "The rain never stays long at the beach. Right, Sage?"

  "That's usually true. But today looks like an exception to that rule, sweetness. This is a real downpour, Sir Rainbow Wings."

  Her face fell, and Sir Rainbow Wings sagged in her hand. I scoured my mind for a sufficiently mood-brightening activity. Muffy had left the house for a library committee meeting just before the storm had started, so we had the run of the place. Twister? Shaving cream finger painting? Edible play dough? Dance party in the living room.

  No. This called for the big guns. Butter. Sugar. Chocolate. The utter destruction of Muffy's spotless kitchen.