Clint was a handsome, wealthy man.
With Shelby out of the picture, he was a handsome, wealth, available man.
TEN
Tallulah Poinsett had agreed to speak to me at three. I had some time to kill, so I cruised East Battery, Water, Meeting, and South Battery with the moonroof open until a parking spot opened up on East Battery. Charleston was dressed in her prettiest spring frock—colorful blooms burst from planters, beds, and bushes. Deep green palm fronds danced against the bright blue sky. I parked and rolled the windows down.
I tried calling Sonny. He was apparently avoiding me. I left him another message and beat down my anxiety. I knew Sonny. If Shelby’d had an affair—and whether I liked it or not, it was looking more like she had—it wasn’t with him.
I pulled my iPad out to check on Paul Baker. He had changed locations—or at least his van had. The map on my GPS locator screen had him at a spot on a back corner of Oak Plantation Campground, about seven miles down Savannah Highway from his house. Was he working a case, or hiding out? He surely wasn’t vacationing that close to home. Was that where his wife and kids were?
I mulled the note someone—who?—had left in my purse. Delta, from all appearances, was a proper Southern lady, not a zombie alien Sasquatch loon after all. Divorce had become so commonplace it wouldn’t diminish her reputation in the slightest. Would she covet her friend’s husband? And if she did, was it an innocent crush she’d never act on? Or was it one of those boil the rabbit scenarios from Fatal Attraction? Maybe Colleen would pick up on something, spend some time browsing Delta’s mind.
I opened the Numbers app on my iPad and created a spreadsheet with a list of all the book club members, my initial impressions of each, and the alibis I’d gathered already. Being at home with your kids was not a particularly strong alibi. That said, I wasn’t keen on questioning the children to verify their mothers’ alibis. I’d leave that as a last resort. With a couple of quick phone calls, I verified Erin, Anne, and the other Liz’s whereabouts on the night Shelby died. Unless there was a conspiracy—too unlikely to spend time on at this point—they were all in the clear.
At three o’clock, I got out of the car and crossed the street to the Poinsett home. It was a lovely three-story, rosy-taupe colored masonry structure with stacked side verandahs and a front balcony with lacy wrought iron railing. I passed through the street-level gate and took the sidewalk to the door at the front of the house. I rang the bell and waited. Presently, a woman opened the door.
“Ms. Talbot?” she asked.
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Poinsett.” This beautiful creature could only be Shelby’s mother. The resemblance was striking, though time and grief had lined Tallulah Poinsett’s face. She wore her muted blonde hair in a bob. Her soft knit outfit might’ve come from J. Jill. While neat and attractive, nothing about her personal appearance screamed I have tons of money.
“Of course. Please come in.” She led me down the hall and up the stairs to the second floor. The home could’ve been a museum. Built in the early 1800s, like several of its neighbors it had withstood the Civil War, the Earthquake of 1886, and countless hurricanes. The decor, though doubtless expensive, was tasteful and elegant.
“Let’s talk on the verandah, shall we?” she said. “I’ve brought us out some iced tea.”
I followed her and we settled into a deeply cushioned wrought iron conversation area, me on the sofa, her in a chair. She poured us each a glass of tea, then picked hers up and slid back in her chair.
“Forgive Williams for not being here,” she said. “He just can’t talk about Shelby without breaking down. It’s still too fresh. Although, I honestly can’t imagine this ever getting easier. They say it’s the worst. Losing a child. I believe that’s true.”
My eyes watered. “Mrs. Poinsett…” I swallowed hard. “I had hoped not to trouble you. I truly am sorry.”
“Nonsense. If I can help in any way, I want to. I know in my heart that Clint didn’t hurt Shelby. I want whoever did to pay dearly.”
I nodded. “First, is there anything you can think of that you’d want me to know?”
“Just what I’ve told you. Clint is innocent. He’s like mine, you understand? He’s part of our family—one of us. Clint knew the value of family because he had such a horrible one when he was a child. He treasured Shelby.”
“I understand—I do. I hope you understand why I have to ask a few questions that will sound like I suspect him. I don’t. I’ve met Clint. I want to help him, and in fact that’s what I was hired to do. But because so often the love of money is at the root of violence, I need to ask the hard questions.”
“Very well.”
“I understand Shelby’s trust was redone when she and Clint married.”
“That’s right. That’s what Shelby wanted. She never wanted money to be an issue between them. She said she wanted it to all be as much his as hers. Williams and I had thoroughly vetted Clint. We saw no reason not to do as Shelby asked.”
“So if they ever divorced, he would’ve gotten half of everything that was hers?”
“Well, it wasn’t hers anymore. At least not only hers. So, yes. Half would’ve been his. It already was.”
“And jointly, their approximate net worth was…”
“Approximately two hundred and fifty million.”
I gulped several times, cleared my throat. “And now it’s all his.”
“Well, yes,” she said. “But half of that would’ve been a great deal of money. Even if I thought him capable of such a thing, it’s not reasonable that he killed her for the money.”
“I agree. Is there anyone else who benefitted financially in any way from her death?” I’d asked this question to both Clint and Jane. But with that much money involved, I needed verification.
“No. Williams and I have seen families devour themselves over money. We took steps to prevent that from happening to ours.”
I nodded, sipped my tea. “Were you aware of anyone Shelby was having problems with?”
“Not at all. Shelby was the kind of person who made peace with people. She always looked for ways to solve problems. She’s just the last person in the world you’d think anyone would want to hurt.” Her voice cracked and a tear slipped down her face.
“I’ve heard several people say similar things—what a warm, tender-hearted person she was. I promise you, I’m going to do everything I can to find out who did this.”
She composed herself, took a few sips of tea. “I beg your pardon.”
“No, ma’am. I beg yours for stirring all this up.”
“It’s not like it ever goes away.”
I swallowed hard, took a deep breath. “Do you know of anyone in Shelby’s circle—friends, family—who you would say is maybe mercurial? Someone who might not’ve intended to hurt Shelby, but who maybe became overwrought?”
She sighed, stared out into the garden for a moment. “I dislike gossip. I never engage in it, nor did Shelby. But if I’m honest, I have to tell you that Delta Tisdale has always struggled with her emotions. At times I’ve wondered if she might be bipolar. Most of the time she’s sweet as sugar. But once in a while…I believe if you checked her bathroom cabinet, you might find she’s medicated. Ask her former husband, Tommy. I can’t imagine a scenario where she would turn on Shelby. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have happened.”
Oh, sweet reason. I knew I needed to poke around more at Delta’s house. If only Francina hadn’t been upstairs, I could’ve slipped up and taken my time while the business meeting and book discussion took place downstairs.
“No ma’am,” I said. “It doesn’t. I’ll follow up on that, thank you. I need to ask you to take a look at something.”
“All right.”
“I have Shelby’s address book here.” I pulled it from my purse. “I know Lark Littleton was her college roommate. An
d I think I know most of her local friends, but there are a few names I can’t identify. Could you take a look and tell me who these folks are? I’ve marked them with sticky notes.” I handed her the notebook.
“Shelby hasn’t spoken to Lark in years. They exchange Christmas cards, that sort of thing. Lark and her husband own a very successful restaurant in San Francisco. She’s busy with her life. Shelby stayed busy too.” She flipped through the pages. “All of these girls you have marked went to college with Shelby. She hasn’t stayed in touch with them. Like Lark—the occasional card, and even those have dwindled. I can’t imagine any of them have anything to do with this.”
“That’s the trouble with this case.”
“What do you mean?” She handed me the address book back.
“There are no good suspects. No one can imagine anyone wanting to hurt Shelby. And because of the situation—with her and Clint locked inside the house—the person who killed her must have been someone she trusted enough to let in the house. But that doesn’t necessarily mean someone close to her. Just someone she wasn’t afraid of. There’s quite a long list to work through.”
“I see your problem. I can eliminate a few people for you.”
“Really? How?”
“We were invited to a dinner party that evening. It was an informal thing, some of the folks from church. Williams and I didn’t go because I wasn’t well. If you need to check on us, I don’t know what to tell you. But the dinner party was at Mary and Jack Bernard’s house.”
“Mary Bernard who’s in Shelby’s book club?”
“Yes. And Mariel and Roy Camp were there. The Wilkinsons and the Butlers as well. Though honestly, I wouldn’t think any of the folks from church would be suspects. But that should help you cross a few names off your list. Mary can confirm all that, of course.”
“Of course. Thank you. This is helpful.” Thank Heavens I could erase a few names from our case board. After I verified they were all actually present at the Bernard residence. “So there was nothing controversial going on at the church? I know that sounds crazy, but I wouldn’t’ve thought the book club ladies would have so much drama either.”
“Oh, you mean that waiting list kerfuffle? Goodness gracious, that was nothing anyone would hurt anybody over. And no, nothing remotely like that was going on at our church. It’s a very special place.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Poinsett. You’ve been very helpful. If I have any further questions, is it all right if I call you?” I rose to leave.
She stood. “Certainly. Call me any time. I mean that. It would do me good to help.”
“Oh, one more quick thing,” I said.
She looked at me expectantly.
“Do you recall Shelby ever mentioning the name Sonny Ravenel?” I asked.
“The police detective who volunteers with her?”
“That’s right.”
“She talked about him all the time. Sounds like a nice fellow. You don’t suspect he killed my Shelby, do you?”
“No ma’am. I’m just checking off my list.”
The stop sign just inside the entrance at Oak Plantation Campground insisted all visitors must register at the office. But since there was no one around to notice whether I did or not, I saved myself the time it would take to come up with and deliver a story and drove on in.
I’ve never spent time at a campground, so I had nothing to compare this one to. But it looked inviting, well-organized. An asphalt road led down the center, with two sections of grassy campsites laid out on grids with a nice shade canopy. Massive motorhomes, travel trailers, and the occasional pop-up camper were scattered throughout the grounds. There wasn’t a tent in site.
Two rows back from where the GPS indicated Baker’s van was still parked, I pulled over to an empty site between two deserted-looking motorhomes. Likely, the occupants were downtown sightseeing or at the beach. I grabbed shorts, a knit top, tennis shoes, and socks from a duffle in the back, slipped into the backseat, and executed a wardrobe change with a high difficulty score. Then I put my ball cap and large sunglasses back on and went for a stroll.
I smiled and waved at folks sitting around campsites. I was just another camper out for a walk on a pretty day. Every once in a while, I stopped to take pictures of trees, birds, other nature. Unlike the other sections of the campground, the access roads running off the main road here ended in cul-de-sacs. There were no campsites along the far side, and thus no loop. I walked to the end of the row I’d parked on, turned around and walked back to the main road, turned left, and headed to the back row. Gradually, I made my way to the back left corner spot.
Part of me worried Baker had found the GPS, left it on another vehicle for me to find, and this was a fine goose chase. But as I neared the end of the cul-de-sac, his van came into view. It was partially hidden, parked between the tree line and a shiny silver Airstream trailer. Also on the site was a diesel Ford F-350, which was likely used to tow the trailer. It had been backed into the site, so the tag wasn’t visible.
Was this his trailer? His truck? I hadn’t run across it when I’d pulled the Caravan registration and his wife’s Camry. But I’d been in a hurry.
No sign of Baker. No sign of anyone. I did a one-eighty at the end of the drive, made a show of checking my watch, which did not count steps, but no one watching knew that. I made my way back to the Escape. Baker had already seen it once today. I didn’t want to get close enough for him to spot it. But I needed to get closer to have a view of the site.
A burgundy motor coach was parked across the street from Baker. I could see it from where I was parked. It was on the row between mine and his. I pulled out my binoculars. No one appeared to be at home. It was possible someone was inside, but there was no car parked beside the motorhome and no signs of life.
I put my iPad in my tote and walked over to knock on the door. No answer. I perused the campsite. A group of chairs were set up around a fire pit. I chose one facing Baker’s campsite. Then I opened my iPad, logged onto one of our subscription databases, and rechecked for vehicles registered to Paul Baker or his wife. Neither the trailer nor the truck were there. I cross-checked with a property database that referenced tax info. Nothing.
Had Baker created some sort of corporation to own the truck and trailer, or did they belong to someone else, a friend maybe? If I was into something shady—like taking money to double-cross Fraser Rutledge on a murder case—I might plan for the possibility of having to disappear. That trailer was certainly big enough for the whole family. I’d wait for a while. Maybe he’d leave in the van. Then I could get the tag numbers easy enough, see where they led.
It was almost five o’clock when Baker approached on foot, alone, with a fishing rod. I’d passed a lake on the way in. I made him at under six feet tall, but not by much. In his mid-forties, he carried extra weight around the middle and had a receding hairline. He wore khaki shorts and a t-shirt and blended in well with the other campers I’d seen. His head slowly swiveled, scanning in all directions. This was the trouble with investigating investigators. It was impossible to tell if he was here surveilling someone else, or making himself scarce in case someone came looking for him.
No one came out to greet him. He put the fishing rod in the back of the truck and unlocked the trailer door. Had anyone been inside, at a campground, I doubted the door would’ve been locked. He didn’t call out a greeting.
From behind me, a car approached.
Shit.
I stood, turned, and waved enthusiastically.
A family of four, Mom, Dad, and two preteen kids, got out of a Jeep Wrangler.
I plastered a surprised, ditzy blonde smile on my face. “Well, y’all aren’t Aunt Jean and Uncle Buster.”
“No, honey, I’m afraid we’re not,” said the mom.
I raised my hands to my cheeks in embarrassment. “I am so sorry. They were supposed to get in today
, and their camper looks just like y’all’s. I’ve been sitting here just waiting for them. I figured they’d gone over to the Publix to get groceries.”
“No problem,” said the dad. “We won’t even charge a chair rental. Maybe you should check at the office and see which spot they’re in.”
“Oh. That’s what I should’ve done to start with. Y’all excuse me. I am just mortified to death.” I moved past them, towards my car.
“Hope you find your family,” the mom called out.
“Thank you,” I called over my shoulder. “Bye.”
ELEVEN
Colleen took the ferry ride back to Stella Maris with me. We sat on the upper deck to drink in the sunshine and salt air. I had my earbuds in so folks would assume I was on a phone call and not on the run from the nervous hospital.
“So fill me in. What did I miss at the business meeting and book discussion?” I said.
“The minutes from the last meeting, the treasurer’s report. Delta reminding everyone they’re reading To Kill a Mockingbird next month. The theme for the year is southern classics. After that, there was a very ladylike cat fight over that waiting list.”
“Do tell?”
“Delta announced that Nerissa Long would be joining the club at the next meeting, pursuant to the well-established bylaws.”
“I bet Mary Bernard wasn’t one bit happy.”
“Boy howdy. She tried to raise the issue of voting on letting Angela join as well, but Delta held her ground. She said the bylaws just wouldn’t permit it, and she was very sorry, but Angela was next up, and she hoped she would be joining soon. Then Mary asked her if she was expecting any more sudden vacancies.”
“She didn’t.”
“Yes, she did. There was a very tense back and forth between them. I’m giving you the Cliff’s Notes version.”
“How did the other women respond?”
“They all just sat there, staring. No one wanted in the middle of that.”
LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB Page 12