Lowcountry Bonfire

by Susan M. Boyer

  Praise for the Liz Talbot Mystery Series

  “The authentically Southern Boyer writes with heart, insight, and a deep understanding of human nature.”

  – Hank Phillippi Ryan,

  Agatha Award-Winning Author of What You See

  “Boyer delivers a beach read filled with quirky, endearing characters and a masterfully layered mystery, all set in the lush lowcountry. Don’t miss this one!”

  – Mary Alice Monroe,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of A Lowcountry Wedding

  “A complicated story that’s rich and juicy with plenty of twists and turns. It has lots of peril and romance—something for every cozy mystery fan.”

  – New York Journal of Books

  “Has everything you could want in a traditional mystery…I enjoyed every minute of it.”

  – Charlaine Harris,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of Day Shift

  “Like the other Lowcountry mysteries, there’s tons of humor here, but in Lowcountry Boneyard there’s a dash of darkness, too. A fun and surprisingly thought-provoking read.”

  – Mystery Scene Magazine

  “The local foods sound scrumptious and the locale descriptions entice us to be tourists...the PI detail is as convincing as Grafton.”

  – Fresh Fiction

  “Boyer delivers big time with a witty mystery that is fun, radiant, and impossible to put down. I love this book!”

  – Darynda Jones,

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  “Southern family eccentricities and manners, a very strongly plotted mystery, and a heroine who must balance her nuptials with a murder investigation ensure that readers will be vastly entertained by this funny and compelling mystery.”

  – Kings River Life Magazine

  “Lowcountry Bombshell is that rare combination of suspense, humor, seduction, and mayhem, an absolute must-read not only for mystery enthusiasts but for anyone who loves a fast-paced, well-written story.”

  – Cassandra King,

  Author of The Same Sweet Girls and Moonrise

  “Imaginative, empathetic, genuine, and fun, Lowcountry Boil is a lowcountry delight.”

  – Carolyn Hart,

  Author of What the Cat Saw

  “Lowcountry Boil pulls the reader in like the draw of a riptide with a keeps-you-guessing mystery full of romance, family intrigue, and the smell of salt marsh on the Charleston coast.”

  – Cathy Pickens,

  Author of the Southern Fried Mystery Series

  “Plenty of secrets, long-simmering feuds, and greedy ventures make for a captivating read…Boyer’s chick lit PI debut charmingly showcases South Carolina island culture.”

  — Library Journal

  “This brilliantly executed and well-defined mystery left me mesmerized by all things Southern in one fell swoop... this is the best book yet in this wonderfully charming series.”

  – Dru’s Book Musings

  Books in the Liz Talbot Mystery Series

  by Susan M. Boyer

  LOWCOUNTRY BOIL (#1)

  LOWCOUNTRY BOMBSHELL (#2)

  LOWCOUNTRY BONEYARD (#3)

  LOWCOUNTRY BORDELLO (#4)

  LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB (#5)

  LOWCOUNTRY BONFIRE (#6)

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  Copyright

  LOWCOUNTRY BONFIRE

  A Liz Talbot Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | June 2017

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2017 by Susan M. Boyer

  Author photograph by Mic Smith

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-227-6

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-228-3

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-229-0

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-230-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my daughter,

  Melanie Marie Boyer Shilling,

  with much love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks to…

  …each and every reader. Because of you, I can live my dream.

  …booksellers. You are rock stars. To those of you who stock the Liz Talbot Mysteries and recommend them to your customers, I am forever in your debt.

  …Jim Boyer, my wonderful husband, best friend, and fiercest advocate. Thank you could never cover it, nevertheless, thank you for everything you do to help me live my dream.

  …everyone at Henery Press—Kendel Lynn, Art Molinares, Erin George, Rachel Jackson, Amber Parker, and Stephanie Savage. This book is better because of all of you. Thank you for all you do. I count myself as very fortunate to be a Henery Press author.

  …the world’s best sister, Sabrina Niggle, who finds my mistakes when I can no longer see them.

  …the world’s best mom, and very likely the world’s most voracious reader, Claudette Jones.

  …Gretchen Smith, my dear friend and partner in a great many shenanigans—you know what you did.

  …my dear friends John & Marcia Migacz. John knows about things I don’t, like gunshot wounds and helicopters. Marcia has eagle eyes.

  …my dear friends Martha and Mary Rudisill, eleventh and twelfth-generation Charlestonians, respectively, thank you for your continued enthusiastic assistance.

  …Claire McKinney and Larissa Ackerman at ClaireMcKinneyPR.

  …Jill Hendrix, owner of Fiction Addiction book store, for your ongoing support.

  As always, I’m terrified I’ve forgotten someone. If I have, please know it was unintentional and in part due to sleep deprivation. I am truly grateful to everyone who has helped me along this journey.

  ONE

  The dead are not much given to hysteria. The morning Tammy Sue Lyerly piled her husband’s clothes into his Raven Black 1969 Mustang convertible and lit a match, my friend Colleen stayed oddly nonchalant. She’d been dead eighteen years and had seen a thing or two.

  For her part, Tammy Sue was pitching an F5 hissy fit. She dug all ten fingers into her 1980s pile of long red hair, clutched her head, and bellowed, “Let it burn.”

  Four Stella Maris volunteer firemen cast her worried looks but went about the business of hooking up the hose to the fire hydrant. We stood in a loose huddle a safe distance from the burning car in the Lyerly driveway.

  “I asked you what you were doing here,” said Blake.

  My brother, Blake, was the Stella Maris Police Chief. My husband, Nate, and I were private investigators, and Blake purely hated it when we meddled in his business.

  “I called her,” said Daddy. “I overheard at the flea market that your sister’d done some work for Tammy Sue recently. Thought maybe
she’d want to know.” Daddy shrugged, looked innocent. Mamma and Daddy lived across the street from the Lyerlys, so naturally Daddy was first on the scene. Mamma had come with him. She raised an eyebrow to let him know she had his number. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock. Daddy sipped coffee from a large insulated stainless steel travel mug, all nonchalant like.

  “For cryin’ out loud, Dad. We don’t need the whole town out here this morning.” Blake gave his head a shake. He scanned the neighborhood we’d grown up in. Folks gathered in clumps under the shade of massive live oaks in bordering yards. They’d all come out to see the show. The audience was growing fast. It was early on a Tuesday in the middle of June. Some of those folks were missing work. Blake lifted his Red Sox cap, ran a hand through his hair, and resettled the cap.

  Tammy Sue grabbed my arm with one hand and clutched her chest dramatically with the other. “Well, I want her here, and you don’t have a single thing to say about it. This is my property.”

  “Yours and Zeke’s.” Blake kept his tone easy, casual. “Where did you say Zeke was again?”

  “He’s with that cheap hussy, Crystal Chapman.” Tammy’s eyes glowed with crazy. She leaned forward and hurled the words at Blake. “And he’d better by God not come home unless he wants me to light his ass on fire too.”

  A particularly flammable piece of clothing caught fire in a whoosh. The flames climbed, crackled, and popped.

  Blake closed his eyes.

  “I just don’t see Zeke Lyerly being worth all this fuss, do you?” Colleen’s expression telegraphed her boredom. It was a slow morning otherwise on the island. Colleen was our guardian spirit. If she’d had anything better to do, she would’ve been elsewhere—she wanted that on the record.

  I raised my brows and blew out a breath. Nate and I had worked a great many domestic cases. One thing I knew for sure: when love soured, it could turn sane people into raving lunatics.

  Colleen said, “Everyone thinks he’s so good looking. I don’t see it.”

  “Seriously?” I squinched my face. Zeke was a fine example of the Southern male. I’d give him that much, and I was happily married and didn’t generally notice such things. Tall and lanky, with sun-kissed brown hair cut close to keep it from curling, mischievous blue eyes, an easy, movie-star smile, and a down-home drawl, Zeke was prone to flirt. He was a charmer.

  Nate quirked an eyebrow. A grin teased the corners of his mouth.

  Damnation. I’d responded to Colleen out loud. No one but Nate and me could see or hear Colleen. I used to be her only human point of contact. But as soon as Nate and I were married in December, he was added to the family plan.

  A wayward lock of dark blond hair brushed his forehead. His eyes were shockingly blue against his tanned, sculpted face. He kept his honeyed drawl low, where only I could hear. “We should never’ve given Tammy Sue those pictures.”

  I cast him a look that said, Give me a break. We’d had no choice in the matter. Tammy Sue hired us to find out if Zeke was cheating. In my heart I just knew we’d find some crazy Zeke thing—he was a certifiable character, no doubt. But I would’ve bet he was true to Tammy Sue and our investigation would prove that, just like the last time she’d hired us. Unfortunately, I would’ve lost that bet.

  Pete Carter, one of the volunteer firemen, trained the hose on the car and doused the flames.

  Daddy’s face was grim. “Shame to destroy such a pretty car like that.” He gave Tammy Sue a reproachful look. “That’s a collectible.”

  Tammy’s crazy eyes widened.

  “Now Tammy Sue.” I smoothed words on her like balm. “I understand you’re upset—anyone would be under the circumstances. But really, all you’ve accomplished here is destroying a marital asset—a valuable one at that.”

  “I couldn’t care less about the money.” Tammy Sue’s voice was harsh. Then she softened it to a stage whisper. “My whole world has just fallen to pieces.” Tears pooled in her eyes.

  “But you will care about the money,” said Nate. “When you’ve had time to process everything, trust me, the money is going to matter. It always does.”

  “Boy howdy,” said Colleen. “You mortals are all about the money.”

  Clay Cooper, Blake’s second in command, crossed the wide Lyerly front lawn. “Blake, I taped off the area. You want me to take statements?”

  “Nah, I think it’s pretty clear what happened here,” Blake said.

  “What happened here is that cheap tramp seduced my husband and destroyed our lives. Can’t you arrest her for something? Alienation of affection?”

  “That might be a cause for civil action, but it’s not against the law,” said Blake. “On the other hand, if Zeke wants to press charges for destruction of property—”

  “He wouldn’t dare.” Something flickered behind Tammy Sue’s eyes. She wasn’t completely sure of that, was my guess. She clutched her heaving chest and looked at me, a question in her eyes.

  “I seriously doubt he’d do that.” I gave Blake a withering look.

  Nate rubbed a spot on his neck above the white collar of his Columbia shirt. “I guess it depends on how attached he is to that car.”

  “Sure is a pretty car,” said Daddy. “It’s one of only three like it in the world, Zeke told me. Sixty-nine was when they came out with the Mach 1. That car—with the GT Equipment Group and 428ci Cobra Jet—it’s rare.”

  Mamma piped up. “Frank, your automotive trivia is not helpful in the slightest. Tammy Sue doesn’t need to be burdened with your appraisal of the car this morning. Why don’t you find something helpful to do?”

  “Well, Red Bird, the fire department has things under control, it looks like to me.” Daddy gestured with his mug towards the soaked, smoldering car. Red Bird was one of his pet names for Mamma, an homage to her auburn hair. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Perhaps you could go and find Zeke.” Mamma raised her chin, extended beyond her five feet two inches. “Maybe he stayed at the shop last night.”

  Zeke owned and operated Lyerly’s Automotive, a repair shop, over on Palmetto Boulevard.

  “Why would he do that?” asked Daddy.

  “Frank.” Mamma gave him The Look—the one she usually reserved for Blake, me, and our sister, Merry. All three of us had her cobalt blue eyes. None of us communicated as effectively with them.

  “Carolyn, Zeke has never spent the night in that shop. Not one time,” Daddy said.

  “I didn’t know you kept such close tabs on Zeke’s sleeping arrangements. Do you do that for all your poker buddies, or just the ones more than ten years younger than you whose gun collections you admire?”

  Mamma turned up the volume on The Look. I could read her mind clear as day. Surely Daddy could too. She was thinking as to how she didn’t care where Daddy found Zeke—just that he found him lickety-split.

  “Well, I’ll go check then,” said Daddy. He didn’t move.

  Pete Carter stepped forward, but kept his distance. “Tammy Sue? Could we get the keys to the car? We cut the battery cables. The flames are out, but just to be on the safe side, we need to fill the trunk with water to keep any sparks away from the gas tank.”

  Tammy Sue took a step towards him, yelled, “I hope the gas tank catches and the whole thing burns ’til it’s nothing but a chunk of melted metal. You hear me? When it cools off, I’m going to move it into the grass and plant flowers around it.”

  Pete blinked.

  Blake said, “Tammy Sue, I think it’s safe to say you’ve made your point with Zeke. Enough’s enough.”

  Nate said, “Here now, why don’t you let me have the keys?”

  She crossed her arms, gave her head a stubborn shake. “I want him to see it burning.”

  “Have you called him?” I asked Blake.

  “Tried. He’s not answering his cell,” said Blake.

  I said, “Tammy, if th
e gas tank catches fire, there could be an explosion.” I knew this wasn’t true, that cars rarely exploded when the gas tank caught fire. But I was betting Tammy didn’t know that.

  Defiance settled into carved stone on her face. “I hope it bursts into a sky-high, brilliant blaze of red and orange spangled glory with shooting stars and blows that car straight to kingdom come on a moonbeam.”

  Blake looked at the ground, inhaled slowly. “Of course you do.”

  “I’ll get the crowbar.” Pete backed away a few steps, then dashed off.

  “We need some fireworks.” Tammy raised her voice and hollered, “Anyone got fireworks?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mamma. “I’m afraid you’re overwrought.”

  “And a twenty-one-gun salute.” Tammy spun towards Daddy, her expression fevered. “Frank, get your guns. We’ll have a tribute for the car.”

  Daddy tilted his head towards his shoulder, made a face like maybe he was considering her request.

  “Frank.” Mamma’s tone held a warning.

  I said, “Tammy Sue, why don’t we get you inside?” I nodded towards her and Zeke’s creamy painted brick ranch.

  “No.” She shook her head, then nodded. She trembled, seemed to buzz with manic energy. “I need to watch.”

  Mamma clucked. “My gracious. The humidity’s gotten to you, is what it is.” She put an arm around Tammy. “How about a glass of iced tea? Maybe with some soothing mint? Do you want me to call someone for you?”

  A look of consternation washed over Mamma’s face. I wondered who she might call and reflected how she was wondering the same thing. Tammy Sue wasn’t originally from Stella Maris. Her family was elsewhere. Who were her close friends? She and Mamma were neighbors and friendly, yes. But Tammy was in her early forties, more than ten years younger than Mamma. They ran in different circles for the most part.