1 Lowcountry Boil

by Susan M. Boyer

  A few blocks down Palmetto Boulevard, businesses gave way to churches, then homes. Ancient, sprawling live oaks dripped Spanish moss and shaded neighborhoods. At the end of Palmetto, I turned right on Ocean Boulevard. A couple hundred feet later, I made a left into Gram’s driveway. Palm trees lined the oyster-shell-and-gravel lane that approached the house and ended in a wide circle. I parked the Escape and stared at the life Gram had left me.

  The house was architecturally schizophrenic. When Gram and Granddad first built it in the sixties, it was likely considered a craftsman-style beach cottage. But they’d added on several times. The result was a sprawling yellow house with teak trim flanked by an assortment of porches. Elevated to protect it from storm surge, the house roosted on a four-car garage. A wide staircase lined with potted gardens beckoned me to the deep front porch where Adirondack chairs, a swing, and a hammock waited. As it had my whole life, the house utterly charmed me, spoke to me of rain on the tin roof and starry nights on the deck.

  I let Rhett out of the car. He had bushes to water. I needed to see the ocean. Two acres of lawn surrounded the house that now belonged to me. At the edge of the lawn on both sides of the house was a maritime forest—nearly three hundred acres total. I owned the northeast point of the island. It was just sinking in, the responsibility of it. For the first time since Robert Pearson read the will, I wondered how I would pay the taxes and insurance, let alone maintain a fifty-year-old house. I had a little in savings. I could pad that when the condo sold, but I needed to scare up some clients—soon.

  I rounded the front corner of the house and crossed the side yard. On the beachfront side of the house, sea oats and palm trees created the natural landscape that led out to the Atlantic. I couldn’t see the ocean over the sand dunes, but the music of the surf and the warm salty breeze called to me.

  As I reached the back corner of the house, something yellow fluttered in my peripheral vision. I glanced left and gasped. Crime scene tape outlined the back deck, stairs, and a large rectangle of sand.

  How had I forgotten the house was a crime scene?

  Someone murdered Gram here, in the place she loved most. I stumbled backwards, tears brimming in my eyes. Those horrid yellow streamers were a stark reminder: My home was forever changed. I swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand. All I could do for Gram now was find her killer.

  I pulled out my phone and tapped Blake’s name. “I’m at Gram’s,” I said when he answered. “Are you guys finished here? Can I take down the crime scene tape?”

  He made a noise that was part growl, part roar. “I’ll be right there.”

  I waited in the hammock on the front porch.

  FOUR

  Blake parked his Tahoe in the drive less than ten minutes later. Rhett came barreling across the yard to greet him. Blake, already in mid-rant when he climbed out of the SUV, stopped and stared at the dog. Rhett sat on his haunches, tongue hanging out of a sloppy grin.

  “Hey buddy.” Blake scratched him behind the ear. It’s hard to hold onto anger when faced with a dog who’s happy to see you. “Good thing Liz has you for a butler, isn’t it?” Blake patted him on the side, and Rhett romped off to explore the yard.

  Blake started towards the steps. “I should’ve known better than to’ve expected common sense from you.”

  “You should’ve known I’d never stay away.”

  One foot on the first step, he stared up at me. My brother’s only two inches taller than me—he’s about five-ten—but he works out. Edges of medium-brown hair peeked out from under his Boston Red Sox cap. His uniform consisted of a golf shirt, jeans, and leather boat shoes, no socks.

  “Let’s talk out back.” He turned and headed around the house.

  By the time I’d rolled out of the hammock and caught up to him, he’d ripped down the crime scene tape and wadded it into a ball. We climbed the deck steps and settled into Adirondack chairs. From here I could see over the dunes. Waves meandered in, toppled over themselves, and rippled towards the beach.

  Not taking my eyes off the surf, I said, “At the funeral, all I could think was that she was gone.”

  Blake looked up the beach, away from me.

  “She was still doing the Cooper River Run,” I said.

  Blake jerked with a half-chuckle. “And throwing themed cocktail parties. Last month it was Roaring Twenties. She was a flapper.”

  Tears raced down my cheeks. “She wasn’t finished living yet.”

  Blake put his arm around me and squeezed me tight. “I know.”

  “When you told me her fall wasn’t an accident—I don’t think I really accepted it until I saw the crime scene tape.”

  “It’s hard to credit.”

  I straightened in my chair. “I want to know how it happened.” My grief fueled my resolve for justice.

  “When I know something, I’ll tell you.”

  “So, you don’t have any leads?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Blake, let me help.”

  “Hell no.”

  “I’m a trained investigator—”

  “Who may be the next target,” he said. “I can’t make you leave, but I will not allow you to participate in this investigation. For Pete’s sake, Liz, I probably shouldn’t be working this case. We can’t turn this into a family affair.”

  “It is a family affair.”

  “It’s also an open police investigation.” He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “This is hard enough as it is.” Blake looked more stressed than I’d ever seen him. I felt awful that I’d added to his burden.

  Then he switched gears. “You need to get a security system installed.”

  “I bet not a soul on this island has a security system.”

  “Some do. We’re not as isolated as we used to be—lot more marina traffic.”

  “I’ll look into it.” I tried to appear cooperative. “I understand you don’t have much to work with, but you know how she was killed. You’d tell any victim’s family that much.”

  He shook his head in exasperation. “Look. Very few people outside the department know she was murdered. The dunes hid the crime scene tape from the beach. Everyone thinks she fell down the steps.”

  I squinched my face in one of those expressions Mamma is forever telling me causes wrinkles.

  Blake continued. “Someone hit Gram over the head with a blunt instrument and placed her at the bottom of the steps to make us think she fell.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because it’s my job to be suspicious.”

  He picked up a seashell lying on the deck. “I thought it was odd there was blood on her head but not a trace on the steps. The head wound was the only mark on her. If she’d fallen down the steps, she’d have had other injuries. The autopsy confirmed it.”

  “So why haven’t you alerted the media?”

  Blake tossed the seashell over the deck rail. “Culprit thinks he got away with it, maybe he’s less careful. Also, I’ve avoided the mass hysteria that will turn this island into Bedlam by the Sea.”

  “Who knows besides Mamma, Daddy, Merry, and me?”

  “No one outside the department—except Mackie Sullivan. He’s the town’s attorney. I’m required to notify him.”

  Blake gestured with his head up the beach towards the bed and breakfast. “Oh—and Grace. I didn’t tell her, she told me.”

  “Figures.”

  Grace Sullivan, my godmother, was our local psychic. She’d nearly drowned in the ocean when she was seventeen—white light and all that. Ever since, she’d possessed insights that fascinated some and scared others.

  “Any idea what the murder weapon was?”

  “There were small pieces of bark in her hair consistent with the firewood underneath the deck.
The forensic team went over the house with a fine-tooth comb. No evidence anyone else was inside that night. Nothing obvious is missing. My guess, it happened out here.”

  “What makes you think she was moved?”

  “The position of the body. She was face down in the sand at the bottom of the steps. She didn’t fall. The blow came from behind. The killer would’ve had to’ve been on the deck when she came outside. She would’ve seen him—there’s no place to hide. Motion detectors light this place like a football field on a Friday night.”

  Blake hesitated. “Also, I found a flashlight underneath the deck. It’s possible she dropped it when she was hit from behind.”

  “Why would she have a flashlight if the outdoor lights were on?”

  “No lights under the deck.”

  “Do you think she went down for firewood?”

  “Nah,” he said. “She had a fire going in the fireplace. But the log rack in the sunroom was full. TV was still on. Glass of wine on the table by her chair. Something else, the wind was up that night—near gale force. Hard to figure why she’d go outside.”

  “And Alma Glendawn found her around nine-thirty that night?” Alma and John Glendawn lived just down the beach, next to their restaurant, The Pirates’ Den.

  Blake nodded. “It was a fluke. Alma stopped by to bring her a slice of key lime pie when she left the restaurant. Gram loved the stuff. When she didn’t answer the front door, Alma came around back.

  “So what’s your read?” he asked, like curiosity and stubborn had fought, and curiosity won in a points decision.

  “It wasn’t random,” I said. “Probably has something to do with the land.” The Stella Maris beaches weren’t pristine by accident. Much of the land on our twenty-four-square-mile paradise had been in the same families for generations—folks who cherished our small town and were terrified of timeshares.

  Others looked at our wide beaches and saw the potential for enormous wealth. Zoning regulations protected the island from exploitation. Still, the town stood one town council election and one real estate deal away from becoming its own worst nightmare.

  “Did you notice how pissed Marci was about the will?” I asked.

  “She didn’t exactly try to hide it.”

  “But do you think she really expected she’d inherit?”

  “She’s the oldest grandchild. Always thought she was entitled to…well, whatever she wants.”

  I knew that better than most. “Do you think she’s capable…?”

  “Oh hell, yeah,” Blake said. “But she’s got an alibi. She was home with Michael. He wouldn’t lie for her.”

  I mulled that. Thinking about Marci being home with Michael stirred up all manner of emotions, none of them happy. “How did you find out she had an alibi for a reported accident?”

  “I’m highly skilled.”

  I nodded, but I was thinking about the turtles.

  The summer I was six and Marci was eight, Gram bought Blake, Merry, Marci, and me pet turtles. Gram taught us what to feed them, how to clean their tanks, and to make sure they spent time under sun lamps. Merry was only four, so Blake and I helped her take care of her turtle. She named him Ted. Mine was Susan Akin, after the reigning Miss America, and Blake’s was Donatello, after one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Marci would never tell us her turtle’s name. She probably never gave it one.

  Against Gram’s better judgment, Marci took The Turtle with No Name home to the rented duplex where she lived with her parents. Marci’s mamma, my daddy’s older sister, was one of those mothers who had too many of her own problems to pay much attention to her daughter, let alone a pet. Mamma generally avoided allowing us to cross the threshold of that sad, neglected home, but she occasionally relented, when she ran out of excuses to offer Aunt Sharon.

  One day I was over at Marci’s and The Turtle with No Name was splotchy, his eyes filmy. The tank smelled to high heaven, and what little water the turtle had was filthy. I told Marci the turtle was sick and needed to go to the vet. She told me to fuck off. By the time I alerted Gram, his symptoms had disappeared.

  That evening, Merry’s turtle, Ted, had splotches and milky eyes. He died before we could get him to the vet. Marci denied switching the turtles and Aunt Sharon pitched a hissy fit when Gram called her on it. Two weeks later, my turtle disappeared. I know in my bones Marci took Susan Akin, either for the pure-T meanness of it or to replace Ted after she’d killed him. Donatello lived to a ripe old age under tight security. The last occupant of Marci’s tank died within a month.

  I was only six, but I think I knew even then that something was bad wrong with Marci.

  A flock of seagulls flew by.

  “How do you know when the flashlight was dropped? It could’ve been there for months.”

  “Maybe,” Blake allowed. “But I don’t think so. Looked brand new.”

  “Where exactly was it?”

  “I’ll show you.” Blake led the way down the steps. The space was adjacent to the garage and had a sand floor. “Over there.” He pointed to the area in front of the stacked firewood.

  It felt preternaturally chilly under the deck. A burst of wind swirled through, whipping my hair into my face and blowing sand. I rubbed my arms.

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” Blake said. “Promise me you’ll let me handle this.”

  “Don’t ask me to make a promise you know I can’t keep.”

  “Dammit, Liz—”

  “I’ll promise you this. I’ll bring you anything I find. I’d never do anything to make you look bad. And I’ll be careful.”

  His shoulders rose and fell heavily. “It’s still a mess inside. I would’ve had someone clean up the print dust if I’d known you were coming.” He turned and left.

  I stepped back into the sunlight and surveyed the area one section at a time. What had Gram been doing out here that night in gale force winds?

  A familiar ripping pain tore through my abdomen.

  I staggered to the nearest support beam and leaned against it, holding my stomach with one arm, gripping the post with the other. Ovarian cysts, the gynecologist in Greenville had said. I squeezed my eyes shut. Bursts of light popped behind my lids. Somehow I was going to have to see a local GYN damn quick. Thank heavens the bad pains were rare.

  Rhett’s high-alert bark sounded from the front yard. I made my way around the house. Rhett ran a circle around me, then sprinted down the driveway and barked emphatically up Ocean Boulevard.

  Catching up with him, I peered up and down the street. The only sign of life was an older gentleman in a baseball cap several blocks away walking in the other direction. Rhett kept barking at him, alternating woofs at me.

  “What is it, boy?” I knelt and stroked his head. The man disappeared around a curve. Someone whizzed by on a bike. Uneasy, I scanned the area once more. If anyone else had been there, he—or she—was gone. I turned towards the house and called Rhett to follow. But I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d missed something important.

  FIVE

  I grabbed my suitcase, garment bag, and makeup case from the back of the Escape. Another wind gust, too cool for the day, beat at my back as I climbed the steps. When I unlocked the mahogany and stained-glass door, it blew open. Oddly, the wind offered no resistance when I closed the door behind me.

  I set my luggage down on the heart-of-pine floor in the foyer. Rhett followed as I wandered down the wide entry hall and through the dining room, where Gram had presided over holiday feasts. In the kitchen Gram’s grocery list was still on the refrigerator, an open copy of Southern Living on the black granite-topped island.

  I slipped into the sunroom that fringed the back of the house, hungrily exploring for more of Gram. The wall of full-length windows offered a panoramic view of the Atlantic. A half-completed crossword sat atop a st
ack of magazines in the sweetgrass basket by her favorite chair. I sank into the overstuffed tropical print and put my feet up on the ottoman. A soft throw spilled across the chair arm. I gathered it to me, nuzzled my face in it, and inhaled. Lavender. Gram’s favorite.

  Gram’s life passed before my eyes. When I was little, she rocked me to sleep crooning Broadway tunes. She taught me to play Scrabble, Monopoly, and poker. We had slumber parties and watched old movies wearing pajamas, wide-brimmed hats, and pearls. She taught me which glasses were for champagne, how to shag, and why life isn’t fair. She held my hair while I puked up the tequila I swiped from her liquor cabinet and she never told Mamma. It’s not that she loved me more than Blake, Merry, or Marci. It was more that Gram and I were kindred spirits.

  The doorbell chimed. Rhett raced towards the foyer and I followed. I glanced through the tall window to the right of the door. Kate Devlin stood on the porch holding a casserole dish. I couldn’t help but think of Kate as an old-fashioned Southern Belle—gentility personified. Her delicate ivory skin would never confess her age, though she was only a few years younger than Gram. Kate’s dark-chocolate hair was no doubt the same shade it had been the day she married Stuart Devlin.

  In a world where things went according to script, Kate would have been my mother-in-law. In my fantasies, she reflected a great deal on how I would have made a more suitable wife for Michael than Marci the Schemer. I fluffed my hair and opened the door.

  “Hey, Kate.” I stepped back to welcome her inside.

  “Liz, darlin’, I was hoping I’d catch you. I know you won’t have time for cooking while you’re settling in. I made you this chicken potpie.” She handed me the dish.

  Boy, word got around this island fast. “Well, thank you so much. Aren’t you sweet? Please come in.”

  Rhett sniffed at the dish and whined.