by Kendel Lynn
“Back atcha. I’m just saying, it’s a cooperation. And I’m the official liaison for the family, as we’ve also already established. Seems inside the realm to share what you know at this early stage.”
“Fair enough,” he said. His chair sprung forward and he rustled a paper on his desk, as if checking his notes. “I was able to get a court order to look at her phone records for Saturday and Sunday. Her phone pinged a few times on the island between 9:13 p.m. and 10:47 p.m. on Saturday, then it stopped about an hour later. Looks like the phone itself turned off then, and it hasn’t turned back on. We’ll keep checking.”
We exchanged a quiet stare. “Basically, if she left town, she turned her phone off when she hit the road?” I asked.
“Squares with her mother’s opinion. Seemed sure she knew her daughter well enough to not be worried.”
I sighed. It didn’t square with Juliette, her closest friend. And I tended to think close friends knew more about us than our parents, even our mothers, and certainly a boyfriend probably knew us best. And hers had shown up at the search. “Alex Sanders, her boyfriend, have you talked to him?”
“Yep, again this morning” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Works over at Island Rentals near Sugar Hill, been dating Daphne for about six months. You probably know all that.”
“You said ‘again,’ as in you talked to him once already?”
“He’s coming back to talk tomorrow,” he said. “He’s out hanging flyers. I know where he is. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Me, too.”
He stood, extended his hand to shake. International code for “interview over.” He escorted me to the stairway. “Anything else, detective?”
“You have my number?” I asked.
“And I’m not afraid to use it.”
FOUR
(Day #3: Monday Afternoon)
As I drove through Summerton, I arranged to meet Juliette at the apartment she shared with Daphne. It was a more-shabby-than-chic rental community on the Summerton side of Palmetto Bridge. Eight or ten brick-and-wood-sided buildings, each two stories with exterior staircases, were set at angles. Asphalt lots were bordered by spaces covered with metal carport roofing. I circled around to the back of the complex and found their unit on the second floor without trouble.
Juliette held the door as I entered the compact entry. “What did the Sheriff say?”
“Pretty much everything I mentioned on our call,” I said. “Daphne’s phone last pinged on Saturday night, and her mother thinks she willingly left Summerton so she wouldn’t have to attend your wedding festivities this week.”
I’m not sure which news made Juliette’s features deflate so fully: That Juliette hadn’t been heard from in two days or that she hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place.
“Tell me about Down the Isle,” I said. “I’ve never watched a single episode.”
“Really?” She half-smiled at that and wandered into the kitchen part of the living room-kitchen combo. “Two years ago, almost, I guess. I was on the show. So was Daphne. We were two of eighteen Single Ladies.”
“Really?” My turn to be surprised.
“That’s where we met,” she said. “That’s where I met Tucker, too.”
“But your grandparents are married to each other.”
She laughed. “I know, right? We’d never actually met.” She took a deep, cleansing, yoga breath and seemed to gather her thoughts. Or gird herself to tell the story. “Daphne’s from Nashville, not sure if you knew that.”
“Let’s assume I know nothing about any of this.”
“Okay, right. Good point. Daphne’s momma encouraged her to audition for the show. So did Millie Poppy. Encouraged me. Can you imagine, these two women urging their daughters, granddaughter in my case, two states apart to go on tv to find a husband? And we agreed.
“Anyway, Millie Poppy adored Tucker. He lived out in San Francisco back then. Had only visited Sea Pine a handful of times over the years. Serious bad blood between his grandfather and his dad. Never once called Sam Grandpa.”
“Like you don’t call Millie Poppy Grandma?”
“I know, right!” she said with a light laugh. “I’m telling you, he and I are the same. My family tried to get ‘Nanna’ to stick, but everyone called her Millie Poppy. She loved her name. For a while, when I was really little, I called her by her full name: Millie Poppy Pete. I’d say, ‘Millie Poppy Pete, can we go to the beach? Millie Poppy Pete, what’s for dessert?’ It tickled her to giggles, then I’d giggle. How could I ever call her Nanna? Anyway, Millie Poppy Pete always wanted to fix me up with Tucker, and when she heard from Sam that he was the Eligible, why she—”
“Eligible?”
“That’s what they called him. Didn’t want to get us confused with the other bachelor show.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“Millie Poppy thought time was running out to get us together. Though she never told me all these matchmaking plans until it was over and we ended up engaged. Pretty pleased with herself.” Juliette smiled and poured us water from a pitcher, then handed me a cupcake from a domed plate. “Lemon raspberry with cream cheese frosting,” she said, almost absentmindedly.
“Down the Isle started with eighteen Single Ladies. We all met Eligible, Tucker, on day one, in the evening really, after we moved into Isle House. It’s over on Thatch Island. It’s gorgeous. Plantation house on a low bluff overlooking the ocean. And it’s massive. Like your Big House, only it was never converted into anything. It’s still just a massive house. Ten bedrooms, nine bathrooms, a wrap-around porch, pool house, guest house, croquet on the front lawn.”
“Sounds idyllic.”
Her sharp laugh held a bitter undertone. “The house was, the show most definitely was not. Daphne and I were roommates straight away. Instant besties. I think because we’re both creative types. I love cake decorating and she loves baking. Plus, she makes jewelry, the beaded kind. Used to have an Etsy shop.” She tossed away our cupcake wrappers and wiped the counter with a paper towel.
I finished licking the last of the tart frosting from my fingers, then slathered on a healthy helping of hand-sani and let her ruminate.
“Anyway, long story short, Isle worked just like every other dating show. The girls had dates with Tucker, in large groups at first, then as we dwindled in numbers, individual dates. We had daytrips and games and competitions. Daphne and I both had a great time with Tucker, and as other girls were eliminated, we stayed in the competition. In the end, Tucker picked me. He proposed in the finale, and now we’re getting married. Daphne was genuinely happy for me. She was never really serious about him, you know? Just something to break out of Nashville. But we were all really good friends. Super tight.”
“You, Tucker, and Daphne?”
“Yeah, we needed to stick together. It was the Hunger Games in that house. We were more tributes than contestants. There were mean girls, sure, lots of shade, but some were straight up nasty. I blame Jona.”
“Jona?”
“Yeah, Jona Jerome. She’s the producer on the show. More like puppetmaster. Makes great tv, though. But me and Daph stuck together, and Tucker knew we were like, real. Now he and I are getting married, and Daph is my maid of honor. I hated that show. It was so toxic. God, the worst. But at the same time, it wasn’t a total disaster. I got a fiancé and a best friend.”
“Daphne wasn’t disappointed when Tucker picked you?”
“Not at all,” she said. “Daphne’s mother wanted her on that show more than she did. Thought it could help her launch her bead business. Talked her into it. That’s the reason most of those girls even audition. Exposure. Daphne liked Tucker, sure, but only because she was my friend, you know? Tucker kept her until the end so I’d have an ally. I knew he loved me, but I still had to compete.” She shrugged. “That’s the show.”
I smiled an
d nodded knowingly, as if competing on national tv for a boyfriend was a natural courtship ritual. “Do you mind if I look around? Check out Daphne’s bedroom?”
“It’s down the hall. The room on the left. Take your time. Whatever you need, if you think it’ll help find her.”
Daphne was a neatnik with a bohemian vibe. A vibrant, handmade quilt covered her bed, itself adorned with beautiful overstuffed silk pillows embellished with beads and braids. So very many beaded and braided things. From the oversized throw to the macramé wall hanging to the tall jewelry tree holding at least a dozen necklaces. Everything ultra-organized. Patchworked, but lovingly done. A bulletin board hung over the dresser. Colorful postcards from several US cities pinned to the cork, photos of Daphne and friends wedged into the frame. I recognized Juliette and Tucker, along with some of the people who showed up to search.
“That’s her brother, Bo.” Juliette stood in the doorframe and pointed to a tall man in a scruffy beard. He held a guitar, while others in different photos held drumsticks and a fiddle. “He’s in a band. Moonshine. They play country. Mostly originals. They’re on tour right now.” She looked around the tidy room, then left me to search.
Two recent boarding passes, SPI (Sea Pine Island) to BNA (Nashville’s airport), were stuck to the corkboard, as were concert tickets and magazine pages featuring beaded bracelets and earrings.
I gingerly inspected inside the dresser drawers, under the mattress and bed frame, checked the closet and hanging clothes. I looked in her shoes (both pair) and her boots (both pair). It was sparse, but I couldn’t tell if it was because Daphne had packed a bag or because she lived small. For all the beautiful beaded boho belongings, there weren’t actually that many tangible things.
I was about to stop when I noticed the wood pole holding the macramé wall hanging. It was two inches in diameter with ornate endcaps. I first twisted the right side. Or at least attempted to twist. No amount of pulling or turning loosened it. I tried the left end. While it also was stuck on good, it had the slightest bit of give.
A combination twist/pull and it popped free. Something was rolled inside, almost too far for my fingertips to find purchase. With delicate fingernail scratching and tugging, I coaxed it from the tube. The bottom half of a car rental receipt from the Charlotte airport. Nothing special about it I could see, other than someone had circled the total amount due, underlined the return time, and the space where the date should be was blank. Perhaps a billing mistake? Why hide a billing mistake? I snapped a quick picture with my phone, then re-rolled the receipt and returned it to its tubular home.
Juliette was waiting for me in the living room, fast-typing on her cell phone.
“You had said Daphne’s purse and phone weren’t here,” I said. “How about her backpack? Tucker said she sometimes loaded her pack in the car and left town.”
“It’s not here,” Juliette said. “But that doesn’t mean she took off.”
“It doesn’t mean she didn’t,” I said as gently as I could.
Juliette hesitated, then seemed to acquiesce to some inner debate. “She left a note.” She went down the hall and returned a few seconds later.
The words “Be happy and shine bright” were scrawled in loopy handwriting on a single sheet of stationery decorated with butterflies.
“Where was this?”
“Attached to the garment bag covering my gown and headpiece. She must have finished the beading and hung it on my bedroom door after I left Saturday night. But it doesn’t mean she left. She’s wishing me well for my wedding. A keepsake note, not a goodbye note. She’d have more to say, right? I mean, not just our friendship and my life-changing wedding week. We have the Cake & Shake. She wouldn’t just abandon that, too.”
“You own it together?”
“No, it’s mine,” she said. “Well, mine and Millie Poppy’s—she’s a silent partner. Daphne works for me part-time. I couldn’t have opened it without her, that’s for sure. I mean, she’s so much more than a temp. She really wants to open a bead boutique. I respect that.”
“Here or in Nashville?”
“I thought here,” she said, then waved at the note in my hand. “But maybe not. I thought I knew her. Maybe we can’t really know someone, you know?”
“Her mother thinks she went home,” I said. “Though I doubt it takes two days to drive to Nashville.”
“Yeah, I talked to Zanna, too. She said Daph probably drove to Phoenix, or maybe it was Sedona? That’s where Moonshine is playing next. We didn’t talk long. She wanted to track down Bo. I’ll call her later today.”
“I’d like to talk to her, too. I’d appreciate her phone number.”
Before Juliette could look it up on her cell, the sound of a key scraping the lock came from the front door.
For the briefest of seconds, we exchanged a surprised glance, then the handle twisted and it flew open.
“Well, a good Goddamn, Juliette,” the woman said. She had choppy black and gray hair, flowy clothes, and more beaded jewelry than a gypsy. “Why’d you ever befriend my daughter?”
“Zanna, you’re here,” Juliette said.
“No shit, Sherlock,” she said and turned to me. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation,” I said with my hand extended. A ritual that made my germ-conscious countenance itch, but one I’d yet to find a polite way to avoid.
She avoided it for me, barely glancing at my hand before continuing her bite at Juliette. “It’s about time my girl got loose of you. Dragging me down to hillbilly country.”
“I take it you weren’t planning on attending the wedding this weekend?” I asked.
“It’s a small affair—” Juliette said.
“Affair is right, isn’t it? And definitely too small for the three of us. You, me, and that awful Tucker Turnbull.” She turned to me. “He broke my daughter’s heart on national television. Deserted my sweet Daphne for Juliette. On camera!” She glared at Juliette. “You two deserve each other. Hope my baby is on the road getting far away from you.” She marched down the hall into Daphne’s room and I followed.
“You’re not surprised Daphne isn’t here?” I asked.
“Why the hell would she stay?” She gathered clothes from the dresser. “Her brother, Bo, is on tour. I’ve been telling her to join him.” She moved over to the closet, stuffing clothes into a duffle I hadn’t noticed before. “Bo’s opening for a comedian. He’s pretty well-known. Gotta big tour bus motorhome with his whole family. It’s a huge entourage and all, but they’re good people.” She talked and stuffed at random, never slowing to make eye contact. “There’s a guy who sells the merch, for the whole tour, Bo included. He’s adorable. Perfect for Daphne.”
“But she hasn’t called you?” I said. “Or anyone, right? That’s not normal for a missing person.”
“Obviously, she doesn’t know she’s missing. Look, I spoke to Bo. He talked to her last week. Told her to get the hell out of here and stay with him awhile. The tour’s playing there a full two weeks. I think she did just that. Packed her bag, turned her phone off, and is driving to Sedona right now.”
“And you don’t like Alex.”
At Zanna’s look, her eyebrow raised, hand mid-stuff, I said, “You said the merch man is perfect for Daphne, but she’s not single. She has Alex.”
“That idiot is nothing but a rebound.” Her phone buzzed and she whipped it from her back pocket. After a quick scroll, she grabbed the duffle and brushed past me.
“Is that your son calling? Or maybe Daphne?”
“My ex-husband,” she said absently. “He hasn’t heard from Daphne, either. He’s trying to figure the route she’d take to Sedona, what stops she’d make. She’d never drive straight through. Too much to experience.” She tapped a reply, shoved it into her pocket, then turned to me, completely ignoring Juliette. “I’m at the Summer
ton Motor Inn off Cabana. Where’s the central search center? Who’s running point? You got enough flyers?”
“I’m running point,” I said.
“We’re meeting at the Cake & Shake right after this,” Juliette said. “We have about five thousand flyers there now.”
I’m pretty sure Zanna harrumphed as she left.
“You know, it really wasn’t as dramatic as Zanna makes it out to be,” Juliette said. “Daphne still visits Isle House. Not daily or anything, but she found it peaceful. Now that it’s empty.”
“The house is still there? I mean, unoccupied. They didn’t sell it?”
“They’re not going to sell it. They film every season there.”
“How many seasons so far?”
“Just the two.”
“You said she visits the house. Do you also visit it?”
She laughed, again with the bitter undertone. “That show was toxic. I know I just said it wasn’t a disaster. But I only meant between me and Daph and Tucker.” She placed her face in her hands, then breathed deep again and looked up at me.
“We’ll find her,” I said.
“I really thought she might have gone home. I mean, I really actually thought she’d help me with the wedding this week. Be in the wedding. And help with the cakes. And the shop. Maybe it was too much?”
“Don’t give up yet. She might be on tour with her brother.”
“Sure, sure. That’s why her mother is here organizing a search party, not on the road to Sedona.”
Zanna’s arrival in Summerton definitely undermined her assertion that Daphne was on the road to Arizona, escaping her life in South Carolina. And part of that life included a boyfriend. Certainly he would’ve received a note. Or a text. Or a something.
It was a quick drive from Summerton to Sugar Hill Plantation. One of the island’s larger plantations, the local name for residential communities, it was located mid-island and offered a handful of amenities along the road to its guarded gates. One didn’t need to be a resident to access the fire station, two restaurants, and the local bike rental shop, Island Rentals. The building resembled a hut, one you might find in Adventureland, with a thatched roof, bamboo poles, and hand-painted wood signs. A long row of beach bikes was lined up out front, and angled ATVs were parked along the side.