Lowcountry Bonfire

by Susan M. Boyer

  For a split second, Tammy held her ground. Then she crumbled, put her head on Mamma’s shoulder, tucking in to her embrace. “Thank you so much, Carolyn.”

  Mamma patted Tammy’s head, then gentled her towards the house. “There, there now.”

  “I’m going to go inside with them,” I said to Nate.

  “All right. I’ll just—”

  “Ah, hell—” Blake stared towards the car.

  Pete backed away from the open trunk, dropped his crowbar. “Dear Lord, no.”

  Tammy raised her head, turned, and let loose a primal scream. “Zeke.”

  Nate lunged and grabbed her just before she hit the ground, nearly taking Mamma with her.

  I stepped towards the car.

  There Zeke Lyerly was in the trunk, clearly quite dead, his body frozen in a strange position with his back and neck stiffly arched and his limbs tucked behind him. Mercifully, at least for the rest of us, the fire hadn’t reached the trunk. He wore his work clothes, jeans and a shirt with his name on the pocket. His face was frozen in a ghastly grin, his eyes wide open.

  I fought the urge to look away and studied him closely. A clamor of shock erupted behind me.

  “How did I not see that coming?” Colleen sounded confused, indignant.

  “Father in Heaven, help us,” said Mamma.

  “Zeke…” Daddy’s voice was thick with grief.

  Next to me, Blake muttered a few curse words. “All right. Everyone step back, but no one leave the area. Coop?”

  “Yeah, Blake,” Clay Cooper called from beside the fire truck.

  “Looks like we need those statements after all.” Blake pulled out his cell phone.

  I backed away from the car. Poor Zeke. Could this be real? Maybe a horrible prank?

  “I’ve got to check in.” Colleen faded out.

  Nate met my gaze. “Probably for the best she’s out from under foot.”

  “Come again?” Blake looked at Nate sideways.

  I fought my way out of a stunned stupor. “You’ll want our help on this.”

  Murders were rare in our small island town off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina. My brother was not an experienced homicide investigator. Nate and I had worked many murder cases, most of them as a part of the defense team, granted. But this was the kind of situation Blake and the town council had anticipated when they retained us as outside investigators.

  Blake pursed his lips, sighed, and nodded. “I’ll call the county and get a forensics team out here right after I get ahold of Doc Harper.” He tapped his phone and raised it to his ear. “Hey, Doc. I need you right away at Zeke Lyerly’s house.”

  Nate and Mamma murmured back and forth and ministered to Tammy Sue.

  “I’m taking Tammy across the street to your parents’ house,” Nate said. “We need an EMT.” He scooped her up and carried her, still unconscious, across the yard.

  “Roger that,” Blake said. “Nah, Doc. It can’t wait. We’ve got a death here, and it doesn’t get much more suspicious than this. Right. Thanks.”

  Mamma trailed behind Nate. “Frank, help Nate. As soon as we get Tammy settled, I need to set out some drinks and get lunch together.”

  That’s my Mamma. She knew her role, and by golly no one would go hungry on her watch. I turned back to Blake, kept my voice low. “I think Zeke’s been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Blake screwed up his face in a look that called my common sense into question.

  “Strychnine, unless I miss my guess. There are no obvious wounds, but his body looks like it’s in mid-spasm. Strychnine causes violent convulsions. Victims’ bodies are often contorted like Zeke’s. His face…They call that a death mask. If it was strychnine, it was a horrible way to die. And almost certainly not an accident.”

  “No, that damn sure doesn’t look like an accident to me.” Blake wore a sick expression, like he’d eaten bad food himself.

  “Technically,” I said, “he could’ve died accidentally, then someone hid his body in the trunk. I’m not saying that’s what I think happened. But it’s possible. We need Doc Harper to tell us for sure. Be right back.”

  I circled the Mustang, leaving a wide swath, snapping pictures at every angle. I stopped in the driveway, faked a FaceTime call by holding the phone a foot from my face and chatting to thin air while I tapped “video,” and got a panorama of the throng of neighbors pressing as close as they dared to the crime scene tape. Was Zeke’s killer among them?

  I walked back to where Blake waited in the grass.

  “Are you going to have a conflict here?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your client has a damn fine motive. Former client. The town of Stella Maris is your client now. If Tammy Sue—”

  “Tammy Sue did not do this,” I said. “She’s positively stricken—didn’t you notice how she fainted dead away?”

  “What I noticed is that she has a flair for drama.”

  “You think that was an act? Her passing out and almost pulling Mamma to the ground?”

  “Simplest solution. You’re the one always trottin’ out Occam’s razor.”

  “That’s not the simplest solution. That’s simpleminded, is what it is,” I said.

  “Well, until you bring me a better suspect, she’s the only one I have. You’d better get to work.”

  I pulled out my iPhone, unlocked it with my fingerprint, tapped “Phone,” then Nate’s name at the top of my favorites list. It took him five rings to pick up.

  “I know you’ve got your hands full,” I said, “but Blake has it in his head that Tammy is guilty until we prove her innocent. I’m thinking one of us needs to talk to Crystal before word spreads. But one of us needs to be here.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “You go. Your mamma is taking over things here. I’ll head back across the street and wait with Blake for Doc Harper and the forensics team.”

  “It’ll take hours for them to process everything.”

  “No doubt it will. Go on now, find Crystal. See what you can learn. For all we know she’s already left town.”

  I glanced at poor Zeke, at the soaked, burnt-out, remnants of his Mustang. “Whoever did this is a stone-cold killer. I hope they make our job easy by leaving town in a hurry.”

  TWO

  Crystal Chapman worked as a masseuse over at Phoebe’s Day Spa. We’d exchanged pleasantries on occasion while Phoebe foiled my hair, adding several shades of blonde to the sandy color I’d inherited from Daddy. I called Phoebe on the way to make sure Crystal was there, but I didn’t tell her what I wanted with her. Aside from the fact that I knew from my recent case Crystal had been having an affair with a married man, I didn’t know much about her. I hadn’t done an in-depth profile. All Tammy asked for was proof of Zeke’s infidelity.

  Zeke. I mulled him as I zipped over to the business district.

  Zeke’s exploits were legendary, although the more colorful accounts were the ones he told himself—the ones no one could actually confirm. These were the tales that did not have the resounding ring of truth to them—such as his vivid reports of his days as an Army Ranger, his adventures as a prize-winning bull rider in the rodeo, and his heyday as an almost famous NASCAR driver.

  By far the most outrageous story he’d ever told purportedly occurred during his years with the DEA, fighting the drug war in the South American jungles. It involved an anaconda, a nuclear missile, a sexy French missionary, and the crazed drug lord who had been holding her hostage. According to Blake’s calculations, if everything Zeke Lyerly said were true, he’d have to be 235 years old.

  Much of the fodder, however, that Zeke generated for the local gossip circuit was a matter of public record, having resulted in complaints being sworn out, both civil and criminal. A recurring theme in Zeke’s local escapades was the creative use of his shotgun. In that respect
, he sometimes seemed to be in an undeclared contest of one-upmanship with Daddy.

  Zeke used his shotgun to expedite things. When his next-door neighbor installed an outdoor light that shined in Zeke’s bedroom window and disturbed his sleep, rather than wake his neighbor to complain, Zeke simply opened his window and shot out the offending light. When the drink machine at Carter’s Exxon declined to produce the bottle of Coke he’d paid for and Pete Carter was busy on the phone with a vendor, Zeke simply retrieved his shotgun from his truck, shot the lock off the machine, and collected his drink. When he found a nest of yellow jackets in his front yard, rather than bother with the usual chemical methods of extermination, he and Daddy shot a few rounds each into the rotted tree stump where the yellow jackets had made their home. This proved much more harmful to Zeke and Daddy, who each suffered a couple dozen stings, than to the yellow jackets.

  To the best of my knowledge, Zeke had never shot a person—although at least twice he’d come close enough that charges of assault with a deadly weapon had been brought. Both times the charges were dismissed: the first time because Zeke somehow convinced Hank Johnson, the presiding judge, that there was no way Zeke could’ve missed Jackson Beauthorpe, his ex-wife’s boyfriend, from his lawn chair if he’d really been trying to shoot him—the sonavabitch was barely twenty yards away, sneaking in Zeke’s backdoor; and the second time, in a related matter, because Zeke’s ex-wife had left town for an undisclosed location and could not be produced to testify against him.

  Zeke was a colorful, but generally affable, guy, who told unbelievable but entertaining stories. The last time Tammy hired us to follow him, I had cause to reassess whether his tales might not have more truth in them than most people thought. But that was a whole nother story, and at the end of the day, all I had to show for it was a suspicion I could neither prove nor disprove. Zeke was an enigma wrapped inside a Southern cliché.

  It was nine o’clock when I parked on Palmetto Boulevard in front of the spa. Lyerly’s Automotive sat almost directly across the street. I took a few deep breaths to steady my nerves. Many of our cases involved dead bodies. It was rare for me to be on hand when they were discovered—rarer still for them to turn up in a neighbor’s yard so early on a Tuesday. I climbed out of the Escape and went inside.

  “Do you need a massage, or what?” Phoebe asked as I walked through the door. She was about the same age as me—mid-thirties. With her signature three-inch platform shoes, she was eye-level with me. That morning, the wide stripe in her black hair was magenta. Living in Stella Maris for thirteen years had done nothing to dilute her Brooklyn accent. “Crystal’s booked this morning, but she could take you at two o’clock.”

  “Not today, thanks. Where is Crystal?”

  “She’s back with Winter Simmons. Ain’t she your cousin or somethin’?”

  “Something.” Winter was married to my first cousin once removed, Spencer.

  “I’m confused,” said Phoebe. “Massage is the only service Crystal offers.”

  “You might be surprised,” I said. “Does Zeke Lyerly come in for massages?”

  Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “Come on now. You know Zeke. He doesn’t like people knowing I cut his hair. If he did come in for massages, he wouldn’t want me blabbin’ about it.”

  “Yeah, well…Phoebe, Zeke is dead.” It was a wonder I’d beaten the news to the day spa.

  “What?” Phoebe drew back and her eyes popped open wide. “What happened?”

  I thought about Zeke in the trunk of his Mustang. “Honestly, I don’t have the first clue. But I came here to find one. Was Zeke a massage client?”

  “Here? Why in the world would you look for clues here?”

  “Phoebe. Please. Was Zeke a massage client?”

  “Well, yeah.” She spread her arms wide, palms raised, and gave me a look that asked so what? “He started comin’ in a couple-three months ago. Said he had a pinched nerve, okay? Crystal saw him three times a week at first. Now it’s once a week, if that.”

  “Did he come in asking for Crystal or for a massage?”

  Phoebe seemed to ponder that. “I can’t remember. Both, I think.”

  “Are you aware of any other relationship Zeke had with Crystal?” I asked.

  Phoebe cut her eyes toward the ceiling. “What do you mean? They were friends, I guess.”

  I gave her my best Oh puh-leeze look. “Maybe you should go get Crystal. I’m sure Winter will understand, under the circumstances.”

  “All right, fine.” Phoebe walked towards the hall where the treatment rooms were situated.

  “Don’t tell her about Zeke.” I pulled my iPhone from my purse, opened a voice memo to record, and slipped the phone, microphone up, into the outer pocket.

  “I won’t, already.”

  “After you get Crystal, send Winter on to work.”

  Phoebe muttered something under her breath. She knocked on the door. A few minutes later she returned, trailed by Crystal, a miniature but well-rounded blonde I pegged at early thirties. She wore a garnet Phoebe’s Day Spa logoed smock, jeans, and tennis shoes.

  “Hey, Crystal.” I offered her my brightest smile. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to you for a few minutes if that’s okay. Phoebe, can we use your office?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Phoebe waved towards the back.

  Crystal cut me a look that asked, what the hell? Nevertheless, she followed me down the hall to Phoebe’s office at the very end. We settled into opposite ends of a blue leather sofa.

  “My goodness, you’ve lived here a while now, haven’t you?” I asked in my chatty voice.

  “Right at eleven years.” Her patience expired. “What’s this about?”

  I smiled again. “Where are you from originally?”

  “Charlotte.”

  “That’s a pretty city,” I said. “How’d you end up here?”

  “I came down to Isle of Palms with friends after high school graduation. We took the ferry over one afternoon. I fell in love with this place. Now are you going to tell me what this is about? I know you’re a private investigator, but why are you asking me questions?” Her tone was sharp. Her hazel eyes telegraphed that she was fully pissed off.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you. I need to ask you about one of your clients.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry, but that’s a big ‘hell no.’ And speaking of my clients, I have one waiting right now.” She started to rise.

  “Phoebe asked her to reschedule,” I said. “This is about Zeke Lyerly.”

  She prickled, lowered herself back into the sofa. “What about him?”

  “Were y’all seeing each other before he became a client here, or did the affair start sometime after that?”

  She flushed bright red. “I never said we were seeing each other at all. I—”

  “I’m going to save us some time, Crystal. See, Zeke’s wife hired my firm a while back to find out if he was having an affair. I know, in vivid detail, all about your relationship with Zeke. I have pictures.”

  Truthfully, we’d stopped snapping pictures after we got several closeups of the two of them glommed onto each other in what looked like an octopus mating ritual as Zeke came through the front door of Crystal’s apartment. He’d slunk out two hours later with wet hair and a torn t-shirt. I had no need to know the sordid details of what had transpired in the interim.

  “What?” She raised a hand to her face.

  “But I don’t know how long all that’s been going on. So why don’t you tell me?”

  “Why would I tell you anything? You’ve ruined everything.” She stood up, took a step towards the door.

  “Crystal, please sit down.”

  “I have nothing more to say to you. Stay out of my business.”

  “Crystal—”

  Her hand was on the door kn
ob.

  “Crystal,” I said gently, “Zeke is dead.”

  She froze, then turned towards me. “What? No…no, you’re just saying that so I’ll…I’ll…I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but it’s true. Please sit down.”

  Her face went white. She moved back to the sofa in slow motion and eased herself back down. “What happened?” She bit back a sob. Her shock and grief seemed genuine.

  “I’m trying to find that out. How long had you been seeing Zeke?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Her voice rose. “What happened to him?”

  “Please answer the question. How long?”

  “Couple months,” she said. “He started coming here about that time.”

  “And when was the last time you saw him?”

  “Sunday night. He came over after dinner. I can’t believe this.”

  I nodded. He’d been there Sunday night—that much was true. We’d followed Zeke to Crystal’s apartment in an older Victorian over on Jasmine Drive.

  “What time did he leave?”

  “A little after ten.” She fixed her gaze on a spot on the floor.

  That was also true. “And you haven’t seen him since then?”

  “No.”

  “Have you spoken with him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of anyone he had trouble with?”

  She lifted her eyes, met my gaze. “Just Tammy Sue.” It came out hard, mean.

  “What kind of trouble did he have with Tammy Sue?” I asked.

  “He wanted a divorce. She wouldn’t give him one.” Her words were defiant, as if she thought I judged her harshly. But at the same time she sounded detached, undone.

  “He told you that?” Tammy hadn’t mentioned Zeke asking for a divorce, and if he had, I wondered if she wouldn’t’ve just hired an attorney instead of investigators.