LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB

by Susan M. Boyer

  Mercedes glided into the room. Tall and pale with a long neck, her blonde hair, an array of shades similar to mine, was pulled up into a smooth chignon.

  Fraser said, “Mercedes, get Mr. Andrews and Miz Talbot a copy of everything we have on Clint and Shelby.”

  “It’s waiting for them out front,” she said.

  “Why, of course it is,” Fraser said. “You keep this place running, don’t you, darlin’?” He flipped through the retainer agreement in front of him, initialing where indicated, and then dashed a signature on two copies and handed the documents to Mercedes. “File one of these. The other belongs to our potential investigative team.”

  Mercedes handed me our copy and was back out the door as we stood.

  Fraser watched her go. “She prefers women. Damned unfortunate waste, but it keeps things simple around the office. My wife purely has no patience with me sleeping with the help.”

  Just then I was thinking how Mrs. Rutledge must have the patience of a saint. My mouth itched to open and opine as much. Nate read my mood, reached out and touched my arm. “It was a pleasure meeting you both.” He offered Eli his right hand.

  Eli nodded. “I look forward to working with you.”

  Fraser walked around the side of his desk. He smiled at me with genuine warmth, then took Nate’s hand and patted him on the back. “You have got yourself a tiger by the tail, don’t you, son?”

  “Mr. Rutledge, I don’t have a grip at all,” said Nate.

  On the Broad Street sidewalk, less than a block from East Bay, we turned away from the Old Exchange and headed west. We’d parked on the street between State and Church. Nate and I each carried two file boxes’ worth of the Gerhardt case. We’d have to work all night to get through this and be back by ten the next morning. Whatever it took. Fraser’s poignant recollections of little Shelby sticking up for him in the schoolyard, coupled with the photographs documenting how her life had been abruptly cut short, had stirred my need to set things right. As right as they could now be set anyway.

  Colleen trailed behind us.

  Nate said, “Colleen, it’s not my intention to sound ungrateful for your help, but there are times when I would be in your debt if you could just stay in the background. Behind me, where I can’t see you, would be ideal.”

  “There’s no connection to my mission here,” she said. “I’m going to be of limited help. Strictly protection.”

  Colleen’s mission—what she was sent back from beyond to do—is to protect Stella Maris, the barrier island northeast of Charleston, South Carolina, where our hometown by the same name was situated. Stella Maris chiefly required defense from those who would like to line our pristine beaches with hotels, condos, and all manner of commercial enterprise. Since I was on the town council and heavily invested in maintaining the quality of our small-town life, protecting me was part of Colleen’s job.

  Nate said, “We’ll holler if we need you.”

  “Yeah, try that sometime,” I said.

  Colleen appeared in front of us, sitting cross-legged on the rich Charleston breeze. “That’s not fair. I’ve always been there when you needed me.”

  “Yes, you have,” I said. “And we’re grateful. But you have to admit, you rarely show up if we simply call your name.”

  “I stay busy,” she said. “And I’m not your dog.” She disappeared like someone flipped her switch, not her typical fade out.

  “She’s going to be seventeen forever, you know,” I said.

  “It’s like having a teenager no one else can see. We’ll be lucky if we don’t both end up in an institution, either because people think we’re mad as sunbathing raccoons or she drives us that way.”

  We reached his brown Ford Explorer, put the boxes in the back, and climbed in. As Nate pulled into Broad Street traffic, I pressed the button to open the moonroof. The sparkling clear Carolina blue sky and warm May air were irresistible.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “About Fraser Rutledge or about the case?”

  “The case.”

  “It’s worrisome that Paul Baker couldn’t find anything. I don’t know him, but I would venture a guess that our new friend Fraser doesn’t suffer incompetence. Sounds like Baker worked for Rutledge and Radcliffe a while. He must be a decent investigator.” Nate turned left onto East Bay.

  “But if he’d found something we wouldn’t have this opportunity.” Part of our business plan was to develop relationships with Charleston attorneys. We had ties with several firms in Greenville, in the South Carolina Upstate near the Blue Ridge foothills. We’d established Talbot & Andrews there right after we’d finished our internship fourteen years earlier. But we needed to build our Lowcountry clientele. Although we still owned a condo in downtown Greenville, Stella Maris was home.

  “Fair point,” said Nate. “My concern is what if there’s nothing to find? Given Fraser Rutledge’s high regard for his client, if we fail him, I don’t think we’ll get a second chance.”

  I sighed, looked out the window at palm trees and storefronts passing by. “We can only do our best and pray that if there’s something to find, we find it. I can’t bear to think he’s innocent and there’s no way to prove it. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.”

  “If he’s innocent, all they have is circumstantial evidence,” said Nate. “But those are some hellacious circumstances.”

  TWO

  It would’ve been a sinful waste not to have lunch outside on a day as beautiful as that spring Tuesday. Back home on Stella Maris, a twenty-minute ferry ride from the Isle of Palms marina, we toted the legal boxes that made up the Gerhardt file into my office. Then I made chicken salad sandwiches, and we took them out to the Adirondack chairs on the deck overlooking the Atlantic. The rambling yellow beach house my grandmother left me was fringed on all sides by porches, but this was our favorite spot. Rhett, my golden retriever, stretched out in the sun at our feet.

  The rhythmic song of waves on the sand worked the tension from me. I inhaled a deep, cleansing breath of salt air. How blessed was I to live in this magical place.

  “I appreciate you not putting Fraser Rutledge in his proper place,” said Nate. “I was sorely tempted to take care of that bit of business myself, but this case calls to me.”

  “Me too. But dear Heaven, what nerve that man has. A tiger by the tail. Miz Talbot. Clearly he disapproves of me. Proper Southern ladies take their husband’s last name. And they most assuredly are not private investigators. Whatever. I want justice for Shelby and Clint. On that we can agree. And Fraser surely is entertaining.”

  “He is that. And he has three last names. First one’s spelled funny.”

  “Those are all likely family names. I bet his ancestry is fascinating.”

  “Is this your mamma’s chicken salad?”

  “I made it. Why?”

  “This is the best chicken salad I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

  “You like hers better.”

  “She uses the bad-for-you mayonnaise.”

  “Get used to it.”

  “I’m not complaining, Mrs. Andrews. This is fine chicken salad. And I appreciate your care with our health.”

  “I love it when you call me that.” I smiled from the joy of it. “You really do understand, don’t you?”

  “Why you won’t legally take my name? Of course I understand, Slugger. Don’t go letting Fraser Rutledge get under your skin.”

  “I can be your wife without notifying the DMV and ordering new stationery.”

  “You’re a fine wife. Even if you aren’t a hundred percent proper. Truth be told, the more improper you are, the better I like it.” His slow grin made all manner of suggestions.

  A fire ignited deep in my core. I sipped my iced tea, doused the flames as best I could. “We have work to do. How about you start going through those boxes, and I
’ll start setting up profiles for Shelby, Clint, and anyone with a connection to the case. You can toss me names as you come across them.”

  “That’ll work.”

  We finished our lunch and headed inside. Rhett snuffed his disapproval and scampered down the steps to play in the yard. Nate and I settled into the large room off the front hall. Originally a living room roughly the size of a ballroom—Gram had loved to entertain—it now served multiple functions. The front half, to the right as you walked in, was still a living room, with an oversized green sofa flanked by wingbacks in a tropical print. Straight ahead, on the far wall, was a fireplace with two reading chairs. The left side of the room held my desk and two leather visitor chairs. Bookcases lined the wall behind my desk and on either side of the fireplace. Though we’d furnished a separate office for Nate in one of the former guest rooms, we most often worked together in here.

  “I’m going to set up the case board and grab a couple of six-foot tables to spread this stuff out on,” he said.

  “Hey, would you hand me Shelby’s death certificate from the file?”

  “Sure thing.” He opened the box marked “1” and flipped through the folders.

  I turned on my computer. Nate laid the form on my desk on his way to the storage room underneath the house adjacent to the garage. By the time he came back, I was deep into setting up an electronic case file for Clint Gerhardt. Through Rutledge and Radcliffe, he was our client. But in my mind, the client was his deceased wife, Shelby. I would start with her.

  I began my profile with her basic data, which was on her death certificate. I liked to know as much about everyone involved as possible. It was impossible to predict when you started a case what would end up being important. So much information was available online to anyone who cared to look, about any of us. Especially if the person looking had a date of birth to start with. Beyond that, Nate and I had access to several subscription databases which broadened the information we could collect. But the first thing I pulled up was her obituary.

  Shelby had been forty years old when she died on December 28. We’d been on our honeymoon when it happened. She was survived by her husband, Clint. They had no children. Her parents, Williams and Tallulah Poinsett, were still living, lifelong Charleston residents. Shelby had one brother, Thomas, who lived in San Francisco with his wife and four children. In lieu of flowers, the family requested memorials to Shelby’s favorite charity, One80Place, a local nonprofit organization that managed, among other things, a homeless shelter, a community kitchen, veterans’ services, and legal services.

  “The Charleston PD detectives assigned to the case were Bissell and Jenkins,” said Nate.

  “Mmm.” I winced. That gave me pause. We’d crossed paths with them a few times. They were good guys. Good detectives. But not infallible, I admonished myself. It was a universal assumption that a dead wife had left behind a guilty husband precisely because that was so often the case. Bissell and Jenkins were following the most common theory of the crime. Given the unique circumstances, they could hardly be faulted. That didn’t make them right.

  Next I checked the local news coverage of Shelby’s death. I scanned for quotes from people who knew her. The staff and board members of One80Place were well represented. Shelby had been a long-time, dedicated volunteer as well as a generous donor. One80Place. That name rang a bell. Didn’t they used to be Crisis Ministries? I pulled up the website.

  Impressive. The organization featured a long list of services for those facing dire circumstances, with clear directions to get help. Their mission statement was to provide “food, shelter, and hope to end homelessness and hunger one person at a time, one family at a time.” Surely, here were God’s angels at work.

  They had a staff of more than seventy and a board of directors that listed former Charleston Mayor Joe Riley as Chairman emeritus. I clicked the Google Maps link.

  The building was located at the end of Walnut Street, between Meeting and King, on the Upper Peninsula, not far from I-26. Wasn’t that near the “tent city” where some homeless folks had been camping on Department of Transportation land? The issue had been in the news a good bit recently. I Googled “Charleston SC Tent City” and pulled up a long list of articles and photos. One of the photos led me to an article in Charleston City Paper. I scanned it. In March, some of the campsite residents had moved into One80Place. Others resisted the structured environment of a shelter. A whirlwind of controversy, with high emotions on all sides, surrounded the tent city. Had Shelby somehow become involved in a dispute?

  I googled Shelby’s name and clicked images. She smiled back at me in an array of happy times. I clicked on a photo from a charity event in October. Even in the still photo, Shelby was effervescent in her black strapless evening gown. Someone had called to her, and she’d looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes round and bright, an impish grin at the ready. Blonde, layered hair hung to her shoulders.

  I clicked the arrow to the right to see the next image. Shelby in a polo shirt with a One80Place logo. Laughing children piled on top of her in an oversized beanbag chair. Joy glowed from the goofy face she made. I wanted to think of her like this. This was the life that had been extinguished. I printed the photo and used a magnet to attach it to the top center of the case board Nate had set up in front of the fireplace.

  Back at the computer, I put together a timeline of Shelby’s life. “Interesting,” I said. “Shelby went to Berkeley.”

  Nate looked up from the stacks he’d sorted onto one of the tables that now formed an “L” in the back left corner of the room. “I would’ve guessed somewhere more traditional. What did she study?”

  “Sociology. With double minors in English and Philosophy. She came home in the spring of 1997 with a degree and Clint Gerhardt. They married the following May.” I admired the photo I’d pulled from the newspaper archives. They sure looked happy. “They got married at St. Michael’s Church.”

  “That the big white church at Meeting and Broad?”

  “It is. One of the Four Corners of Law.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The intersection of Meeting and Broad has each of the Four Corners of Law. St. Michael’s represents God’s Law. The post office, federal law. The court house, state law. And city hall, local law. Robert Ripley—the Believe it or Not guy—named the intersection. Apparently it’s a regulatory oddity.”

  “Well I’ll be damned. Episcopal?”

  “Yes, well, Anglican,” I said.

  “So they would’ve gone through all that premarital counseling we went through.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Seems like maybe the priest didn’t see Clint as one of Shelby’s strays.”

  “Clearly not. And good grief, they’d been married for…eighteen years. Surely it wouldn’t’ve lasted that long if he’d been merely a project for her.”

  “What’s his background?” asked Nate.

  “I’m working on it. Very different from hers.” I read from three open windows on my screen—a city directory, a newspaper archive, and a subscription database. “He’s five years older than she was. He grew up in Oakland, California. Joined the Army right out of high school. He was a Ranger when he and Shelby got married, and he didn’t leave the Army until 2007.”

  “Where was he stationed?”

  “Fort Benning, Georgia. I can’t find any indication he’s had a job since he was discharged.”

  “Interesting. When did they buy their house on Tradd Street?”

  With a few clicks I was into the county real property records. “Before they were married. Right after Shelby came home from college. And it was titled to both of them, but I’d bet the money was hers.” Property records were public information. Bank records weren’t legally available.

  “Parents have money?” asked Nate.

  “Piles. They have three homes, one on East Battery. No mortgages
. They’re on several philanthropic boards. All the usual tells.”

  “They must’ve approved of Clint if they gave Shelby the money for a house on Tradd Street with her engaged to him. And Shelby and Clint would’ve had to’ve lived in Georgia ninety percent of the time for the first ten years they were married. I guess she came home when he was deployed. Otherwise that house sat empty a lot.”

  I pondered that. “Maybe they were renovating it over time. And her parents may not have given her the money. She could have a trust from her grandparents. I need to dig some more. What did Paul Baker focus on? Can you tell yet?”

  “So far all I’ve seen indicates he was convinced Shelby was having an affair.”

  “Oh no.” How sad, if that were the case. I wanted to believe Clint and Shelby had still been as in love as they looked in their wedding photo. “With who?”

  “I haven’t run across anything yet to suggest he ever figured that part out. Looks like the solicitor’s office maintains adultery was Clint’s motive. Baker apparently spent a good deal of time trying to find this alleged lover. His working theory seems to’ve been that the paramour was maybe the culprit.”

  “And after four months of looking he couldn’t find him?” I felt my face contort into one of those looks that causes Mamma to hold forth about wrinkles. “Maybe Shelby wasn’t having an affair. What evidence is there that she was?”

  “If any exists, and it’s in these boxes, it’s well hidden.” Nate continued scanning and sorting folders. After a few moments he said, “Apparently our client gave Charleston PD the idea that Shelby was unfaithful.”

  “Hell’s bells. What was he thinking? He surely didn’t lawyer up right off. He could’ve caught her entertaining half the men South of Broad in her birthday suit and a lawyer wouldn’t’ve let him breathe a word of it. Which makes me tend to believe he’s innocent.” I sighed. “We need to talk to him right after we talk to Fraser in the morning.”