Praise for the Liz Talbot Mystery Series
“The authentically Southern Boyer writes with heart, insight, and a deep understanding of human nature.”
– Hank Phillippi Ryan,
Agatha Award-Winning Author of What You See
“Boyer delivers a beach read filled with quirky, endearing characters and a masterfully layered mystery, all set in the lush Lowcountry. Don’t miss this one!”
– Mary Alice Monroe,
New York Times Bestselling Author of A Lowcountry Wedding
“A complicated story that’s rich and juicy with plenty of twists and turns. It has lots of peril and romance—something for every cozy mystery fan.”
– New York Journal of Books
“Has everything you could want in a traditional mystery…I enjoyed every minute of it.”
– Charlaine Harris,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Day Shift
“Like the other Lowcountry mysteries, there’s tons of humor here, but in Lowcountry Boneyard there’s a dash of darkness, too. A fun and surprisingly thought-provoking read.”
– Mystery Scene Magazine
“The local foods sound scrumptious and the locale descriptions entice us to be tourists...the PI detail is as convincing as Grafton.”
– Fresh Fiction
“Boyer delivers big time with a witty mystery that is fun, radiant, and impossible to put down. I love this book!”
– Darynda Jones,
New York Times Bestselling Author
“Southern family eccentricities and manners, a very strongly plotted mystery, and a heroine who must balance her nuptials with a murder investigation ensure that readers will be vastly entertained by this funny and compelling mystery.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“Lowcountry Bombshell is that rare combination of suspense, humor, seduction, and mayhem, an absolute must-read not only for mystery enthusiasts but for anyone who loves a fast-paced, well-written story.”
– Cassandra King,
Author of The Same Sweet Girls and Moonrise
“Imaginative, empathetic, genuine, and fun, Lowcountry Boil is a lowcountry delight.”
– Carolyn Hart,
Author of What the Cat Saw
“Lowcountry Boil pulls the reader in like the draw of a riptide with a keeps-you-guessing mystery full of romance, family intrigue, and the smell of salt marsh on the Charleston coast.”
– Cathy Pickens,
Author of the Southern Fried Mystery Series
“Plenty of secrets, long-simmering feuds, and greedy ventures make for a captivating read…Boyer’s chick lit PI debut charmingly showcases South Carolina island culture.”
— Library Journal
“This brilliantly executed and well-defined mystery left me mesmerized by all things Southern in one fell swoop... this is the best book yet in this wonderfully charming series.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
The Liz Talbot Mystery Series
by Susan M. Boyer
LOWCOUNTRY BOIL (#1)
LOWCOUNTRY BOMBSHELL (#2)
LOWCOUNTRY BONEYARD (#3)
LOWCOUNTRY BORDELLO (#4)
LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB (#5)
LOWCOUNTRY BONFIRE (#6)
LOWCOUNTRY BOOKSHOP (#7)
LOWCOUNTRY BOOMERANG (#8)
LOWCOUNTRY BOONDOGGLE (#9)
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Copyright
LOWCOUNTRY BOOMERANG
A Liz Talbot Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | September 2019
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by Susan M. Boyer
Author photograph by Mic Smith
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-543-7
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-544-4
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-545-1
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-546-8
Printed in the United States of America
For Jim, always
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to…
…each and every reader who has connected with Liz Talbot.
…Jim Boyer, my husband, best friend, and fiercest advocate.
…every member of my fabulous sprawling family for your enthusiastic support.
…Mo Heedles, who appears in this book by virtue of winning a character auction at Bouchercon 2018. I so hope you enjoy your role. Special thanks to Mo’s husband, Jim, for being a good sport.
…Margie Sue Frentress, Tanna Mullinax, and Vicki Turpitt, members of the Lowcountry Society, who appear as characters in this book. Special thanks to Margie’s twin sister, Marylou Willis, Tanna’s husband, Eric, and Vicki’s husband, Jim, good sports all.
…Mary Hannah, at 86 Cannon, for your patience with so many questions, and for agreeing to appear in this book as yourself.
…Marcia Migacz, Robin Hillyer-Miles, and Pat Werths, whose sharp eyes find my mistakes when I can no longer see them.
…all the members of the Lowcountry Society, for your ongoing enthusiasm and support.
…Susan Busada, my assistant, who handles All the Things with grace.
…Laura Henley, for lovely graphics.
…John Burke, at FSB Associates, for building and maintaining my virtual home.
…Christina Hogrebre at Jane Rotrosen Agency for being the best sounding board around and for your encouragement.
…Kathie Bennett and Susan Zurenda at Magic Time Literary.
…Jill Hendrix, owner of Fiction Addiction bookstore, for your ongoing support. I can’t imagine being on this journey without you.
…Kendel Lynn, Art Molinares, and all the folks at Henery Press.
As always, I’m terrified I’ve forgotten someone. If I have, please know it was unintentional, and in part due to sleep deprivation. I am deeply grateful to everyone who has helped me along this journey.
ONE
The dead are serene, joyful characters. That’s been my experience, anyway. Since my best friend, Colleen, came back into my life—thirteen years after her funeral, mind you—the import of this has gradually permeated my brain, giving me a deep-seated sense of peace I hadn’t known before. I’m truly grateful for this gift.
That’s not to say there aren’t still days when Colleen works my very last nerve and I want to throttle her—like the day last September when I was trying to have a civilized conversation with Moon Unit Glendawn at The Cracked Pot over a Cobb salad.
It was the Tuesday after Labor Day. The lunch rush had slowed enough at our island diner that the waitstaff could manage things. Moon Unit, who owned the place, took a seat across from me in the pink gingham
-backed booth, something she typically did when she wanted to milk me for gossip, or share some. This was no ordinary day. Moon had called me the night before and said she needed to talk, which was somewhat akin to her telling me she needed to breathe. She was universally acknowledged as our town’s Chief Information Officer.
Colleen popped in beside Moon. My guardian spirit wore a green gingham sundress. Her long red curls shimmered with golden highlights. The thick mane draped loose well past her shoulders. Heat and humidity had no effect whatsoever on her since her death. I’d pulled my own hair into a ponytail to get it off my neck. Colleen flashed me an impish grin and propped her elbows on the table. She was up to something, no doubt about it.
I glanced at the ceiling, took a deep cleansing breath.
“Liz? Is this not a good time?” Moon clutched her chest with both hands.
“Of course. It’s fine.” I grabbed something from thin air. “I was just thinking about Daddy.”
Moon twirled a finger through her own ponytail, it a more golden shade of blonde than my multi-toned version. She flashed me a knowing look. “Your poor mamma is a saint walking this earth, and that’s all there is to it. Nothing harder to deal with than a sick man. Every little sniffle, they think they’re ’bout to die.”
“Well, his ‘little sniffle’ has now turned to bronchitis.”
“Bronchitis?” Moon gave me an incredulous look. “He sneezed twice at the pool party week before last.”
“You know Daddy. He was running a fever that next night. Wouldn’t go to the doctor. Refused to take care of himself. He had a miserable cold within a couple days. By the time Mamma got him over to Warren Harper, it was bronchitis.”
“I am so sorry to hear that,” said Moon. “Is there anything I can do? I know—I’ll whip up a pot of chicken soup and run it by.”
“That’s sweet of you, really, but Mamma’s got a sixteen-quart stock pot full of soup on the stove. She’s trying to feed it to all of us to ward off the germs. I told her it’s too hot to be eating soup. She’s going to end up freezing some of it as it is. Doc Harper wrote Daddy four prescriptions, gave him strict orders to rest in bed, and sent him home with Mamma.”
“I hope you know I didn’t mean to sound unsympathetic to your daddy’s suffering. Bronchitis can be serious business. Even a cold is a misery in this blistering hot weather. It’s just…your poor mamma.”
“I know.” Everyone on this island knew my daddy was a piece of work. “He’s turned the corner, we think. But you’re right, he’s not an easy patient, to say the least. Anyway, how’s your family? Everyone doing okay?”
Moon waved a hand dismissively, “They’re fine.”
“Sonny?” I hadn’t talked to Sonny Ravenel since we wrapped up the Drayton case about a week ago. Sonny was a Charleston Police detective. My husband, Nate Andrews, and I were private investigators. Our paths crossed professionally on occasion. Sonny was also my brother, Blake’s, best friend. I’d known Sonny forever.
Colleen leaned in.
Moon glanced over her shoulder, like maybe she was verifying no one had sat down behind her. Her eyes slid around the room. She leaned in. “Sonny?” she said casually. “Oh, he’s fine.”
I scrunched my face at her. Something was off.
“Y’all still dating?” I asked.
“Four months now.” Happiness shone from her eyes.
“Sonny and Moon,” said Colleen, like she was about to follow it up with sittin’ in a tree. “This might stick after all. That’s like, totally awesome.” Of course, no one but me could hear her. She was in ghost mode, her default setting. Colleen, like me, was a teenager in the nineties. But while I grew out of that, Colleen would forever be seventeen, the age she was when she drank tequila and went swimming in Breach Inlet, which everyone in town knew was suicide, but no one mentioned in polite conversation.
I was thinking how four months was a record for both Sonny and Moon. I smiled back at her. “Y’all sure seem to make each other happy.”
She kept smiling, tucked a nonexistent stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then she glanced around again.
“Spit it out already,” said Colleen.
I waited for Moon to speak her piece. She called this meeting.
“It’s just…” She licked her lips, took a breath. Her shoulders rose and fell.
Moon tilted her head. “You know how when you really know someone, you can read between the lines?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I’m almost positive Sonny intended for me to tell you this. But he’d never, ever admit that. I’ve got to figure out a way to tell you, without tellin’ you.”
“Tell me what, exactly?”
“Well, you know about Trina Lynn Causby, of course.” Moon shook her head. “Just heartbreaking.”
“Did Sonny catch that case?” Trina Lynn Causby was Troy Causby’s oldest sister. My sister, Merry, had an unfortunate lapse in judgement and dated Troy Causby for a while, but that was a whole nother story.
Moon nodded. “Mmm-hmm. Him and his new partner.”
“Sonny has a new partner?” I caught myself furrowing my brow and responded instantly to Mamma’s voice in my head admonishing me about wrinkles. I smoothed the skin between my eyebrows.
“Didn’t I mention that?” Colleen’s eyes glinted mischievously.
“Detective Jenkins,” said Moon.
I pondered that. I’d met Detective Jeremy Jenkins a time or two. He was a decent enough guy. Seemed like a good detective. He probably wasn’t my biggest fan, but still. “Reassignments aren’t all that uncommon.”
“That’s what Sonny said,” said Moon. “But Detective Jenkins—Jeremy—he’s one of those that’s a stickler for policies, protocol, procedures—all such as that.”
“This’ll be trouble,” said Colleen. “Hey, don’t forget my ham biscuits. You didn’t order them when you ordered your salad.” One of the benefits of being departed was that Colleen never had to count calories. She did have to materialize to eat, something she couldn’t do in public. I ordered enough takeout with my meals to make folks wonder if maybe I suffered from an eating disorder.
I said, “So there’s something about the Trina Lynn Causby case Sonny wants me to know, but he and I can’t have coffee and discuss it. Why doesn’t he just call me?”
Moon studied something over my shoulder. “I’m not a hundred percent certain? But I think he doesn’t want to have to lie to his partner. And he knows Jenkins wouldn’t cotton to discussing an active case with a PI.”
“Maybe especially this PI.”
“Maybe so,” Moon winced. “Or a local small-town police chief.”
Sonny couldn’t get Blake to tell me, so Moon Unit was up. My brother was the Stella Maris chief of police. Something seriously unusual was going on here. Sonny had a burner phone specifically to talk to Blake when he technically couldn’t. “Trina Lynn was shot in Philadelphia Alley Sunday night. The news made it sound like a robbery gone bad. Do they already have a suspect?”
“So not what happened,” said Colleen.
What do you know about this? I threw the thought at her. Usually she could read my mind, which was how I communicated with her when other folks were around so they didn’t have me carted off to the nervous hospital.
“I know it was cold-blooded murder, but that’s all the information I’ve been given at this point,” said Colleen. “The fact that I know that much means there’s a connection to this island.”
Colleen’s afterlife mission was serving as the guardian spirit of Stella Maris, our island home just north of Isle of Palms, South Carolina.
“I think they might…have a suspect in mind. More iced tea?” Moon picked up the pitcher and filled my glass. “By the way, have you seen Darius Baker since he moved back home?”
“Darius Baker?” The question seemed completely ra
ndom. I drew a blank.
Colleen burst out in her signature bray-snort guffaw. “When you draw your chin back like that and squinch your face up, you remind me of your Uncle Cecil.”
Hush up. Mamma’s youngest brother Cecil took a Greyhound to Florida a few years back. The last we heard he’d started his own church somewhere near Orlando. He sent Mamma a postcard once with a picture of him, shaved bald, cloaked in a white robe, standing in front of a statue of Mary that wept blood. He had an albino boa constrictor draped across his shoulders as big around as a cat. I guess no one told Cecil that the snakes handled in religious services were generally the venomous kind. We didn’t discuss Uncle Cecil. It upset Mamma.
Moon examined her manicure.
“What does Darius Baker have to do with Trina Lynn being robbed and murdered?” I asked.
Moon shrugged, looked innocent.
“No,” I said, “I haven’t seen Darius Baker since he moved home. He’s only been here a week. The moving trucks have barely unloaded his furniture at the Devlin homeplace. And it’s not like Darius and I were ever close friends or anything. He’s four years older than us. By the time you and I were at Stella Maris High, he was already on his way to Hollywood. I hadn’t planned on taking him a casserole. Have you?”
“Me?” Moon raised her eyebrows. “Why no, I haven’t seen him. I hadn’t even thought about a casserole. Do you think we should take him a casserole?”
“No. No, I do not.” I searched my brain for anything I knew about Darius Baker. “He did date Trina Lynn in high school, but good grief—that was more than twenty years ago.”
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