Or so Rowe had thought. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Dewey found out much later in a conversation with Faye that one of Hammond’s oldest friends lived right down the street from Rowe and happened to see Gina and Rowe drive into the neighborhood together. He thought it was odd, so he mentioned it to Hammond. That’s how Hammond found out. He’d confronted Rowe the next day, and that’s why Rowe ended it so abruptly.
Dewey hadn’t bothered telling anyone but T.A. Reddick about his theory regarding Gina. Yes, he thought she was alive. Because a few things hadn’t made sense. The first had occurred to Dewey when he heard the young mother speak at the AA meeting about her son. It was true: killing yourself was difficult, but killing yourself when you’re responsible for someone else was nearly impossible. Even for those who were the worst off. Dewey couldn’t see a young woman like Gina taking her child’s life, too, just because of heartache. What he could see was Gina faking it to prove a point. To see if she could break Rowe Tinsley’s heart. To return the favor.
How could she possibly fake it? It had finally occurred to Dewey on the bridge. She was a rock climber. Heights weren’t an issue. Maybe she’d used a rope. She could have lowered down, dropped into the water, and swam to shore. It was dangerous, but by no means impossible. Gina Callahan was in good shape. That was his theory. Gina was already unstable. Heartbreak can make the sanest person do things that are beyond the imagination.
The Tinsley house wasn’t actually in Beaufort. It was on the other side of the bridge, two roads off of Sea Island Parkway, tucked back into the woods. Dewey shut his headlights off and pulled into the driveway. Flashes from a television illuminated the windows, and he had a moment of hope.
Well, it had been a crazy theory. Until he peeked into the window. Gina Callahan was lying on the couch watching a reality television show. Her belly wasn’t even showing yet. She’d found the perfect place to hide out for a while. Dewey was a little surprised that Rowe hadn’t discovered her while he was in Beaufort the day before, but Dewey figured Rowe had attacked him, stolen his camera, and then driven straight to John’s Island to sack Dewey’s home, not bothering to go by his place in Beaufort at all.
Dewey tapped on the window, and she was on her feet in less than a second and running down a hall. He walked around to the front door and knocked. “Gina, please let me in. Your mom sent me.”
She didn’t answer.
“Do you want me to call the cops? If you don’t answer this door in five seconds, I’ll call them. You’re not in any trouble with me.”
Dewey took out his phone and dialed a number. “Faye?”
“Yes?”
“This is Dewey.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Someone wants to talk to you. Hold on.”
Dewey pulled the phone from his ear and knocked on the door again. “Let’s go. I don’t have all night. I will have the cops here in minutes.”
The door cracked open. Gina was standing there in front of him in boxers and a T-shirt. Probably Rowe Tinsley’s. Her red hair was in a ponytail.
Dewey handed her the phone. “Your mom wants to talk to you.”
She put it to her ear. “Mom?”
Dewey heard Faye’s voice explode with excitement as he turned and walked away. He’d done his job. They could work it out from there.
12
Dewey placed the ball on the tee on the first hole of the Bird’s Bay Golf Course. He thought about how he’d saved this course, and he was happy about it. Sure, not many others knew that, but that was okay.
Shortly after the day it all went down, Rowe Tinsley’s wife had a press conference and outlined the details of a slew of illegal activities regarding Bird’s Bay. Apparently, Hammond and Rowe had paid several hundred thousand dollars in bribes to various state officials to facilitate the development. She’d overheard a phone conversation regarding something illegal and had taken it upon herself to investigate. She had more than enough proof.
The people of Charleston County went into an uproar, and the Governor of South Carolina had gotten involved. He was currently pushing through paperwork to permanently keep Bird’s Bay as public land, promising that it would never be developed or swapped. No doubt he’d be remembered for it, and that’s sometimes why we do the things we do.
No, Dewey hadn’t cured cancer, but he had done a good thing for the people and for the environment. Yeah, this was good work, and Lord knows, there was plenty of it still left to do. He just needed to learn how to defend himself. Maybe even shoot a gun. His line of work had the potential to be dangerous from time to time.
Standing back from the ball, Dewey looked at T.A. Reddick, a man he had too much in common with to ignore as a friend. “When’s the last time you played?”
T.A. pulled the sleeve off his driver. “I’m getting back into it as of two months ago. I quit for a while after a round at Wild Dunes years ago. The course and the wind ate me up, and I gave my clubs to the kid who was cleaning carts and left.”
“What!”
“Yeah, I’ve got a little temper…that I’m learning how to control. Now that the DEA is out of my life, I finally have the time to clean up my game. New clubs, new game, new life…know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Dewey addressed the ball and knocked it 270 yards down the center of the fairway.
“No breakfast ball today, huh?”
Dewey stretched out his arms, finally getting out of his finish. “Not today.”
T.A. lined up and without a practice swing, knocked the ball right down the middle, fifty yards past Dewey. T.A. had nice technique and an athlete’s swing. Made sense; he’d told Dewey he played soccer for UVA.
Dewey said, “ ‘Haven’t played in a while’…yeah, right.”
“I used to be good.”
As they loaded their clubs into the golf cart, Dewey asked, “What else are you going to do with your time? You want to go into business together?”
“You mean make music, or this private eye stuff?”
“Why not both?”
T.A. laughed. “I’m doing just fine on my own.”
“C’mon. Let’s pick some bluegrass and solve a few crimes. I’ll be the brains, you be the muscle.”
T.A. laughed as he stepped into the golf cart. “Tell you what, let’s make a bet. You beat me today, I’ll start a band with you. I beat you, you deliver a basket of veggies to my door every week for a year. As far as the private investigation stuff, that’s not my bag. You’ll have to follow dudes to Motel 6 on your own.”
What was it with people putting down his new profession? “Fair enough,” Dewey said. “What should we call ourselves?”
“You really think you can beat me?”
Dewey stuck out his hand. “I’ll take the bet.”
They shook on it. Little did they know how much that handshake would mean.
Dewey knew he’d beat him—even after seeing that long drive. Because brains always beat brawn. Almost always.
After nine holes, Dewey was losing by six strokes, and it wasn’t looking good, but he hadn’t given up. He knew T.A.’s temper would come into play soon. At least, he hoped so.
What he didn’t tell T.A. during the round was that today, Dewey was one year sober, and tonight, he was going to call his wife.
For another Charleston adventure, read Lowcountry Punch!
Also by Boo Walker
Turn or Burn
Lowcountry Punch
Writing as Boo Walker:
Red Mountain
Red Mountain Rising
A Marriage Well Done
About the Author
After picking the five-string banjo in Charleston and Nashville and then a few years toying with Wall Street, Benjamin (a.k.a. Boo Walker) chased a wine dream across the country to Red Mountain in Washington State with his dog, Tully Mars. They landed in a double-wide trailer on five acres of vines, where Boo grew out a handlebar mustache, bought a horse, and took a job working for the H
edges family, who taught him the art of farming and the old world philosophies of wine.
Recently leaving their gentleman's farm on Red Mountain, Boo and his family are back on the east coast in St. Pete, Florida. No doubt the Sunshine City will serve as a setting for a novel or three soon. Boo's bestselling page-turners are instilled with the culture of the places he's lived, the characters he's encountered, and a passion for unexpected adventure.
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