LOWCOUNTRY BOOKSHOP

by Susan M. Boyer

  “No, I do not,” I said. “And you have no idea how close you danced to having Daddy for a houseguest with that kind of talk. Mamma has his bags packed.”

  “She what?” Daddy looked stricken. “Surely not.”

  “Oh yes. She ordered Nate to carry them downstairs and get them out of her house. So, I’d advise you to be on your very best behavior for the foreseeable future. You won’t eat nearly as good at Merry’s house as you do here.”

  “Hey.” Merry looked wounded.

  I shot her a look that said oh puh-leeze. Merry was likely able but completely unwilling to cook anything more difficult than a turkey sandwich.

  “Let’s get washed up for lunch,” I said.

  The backdoor opened, and Nate led a sullen Chumley around the obstacle course to the doggie condo—we never called it a pen. At least he’d stopped howling. The six-foot fence wouldn’t keep in goats, but Chumley had never dug out of it.

  Back in the house, things appeared normal. Nate had opened two bottles of a red blend and Mamma had put together a buffet on the kitchen island. Owing to the heat, she served cold side dishes with her fried chicken that Sunday—potato salad, pasta salad, cream cheese and olive deviled eggs, marinated tomatoes, cucumbers, and onion, and roasted corn salad.

  We all piled our plates high and settled into our usual places at the dining room table. From her chair at one end of the table, Mamma held out her hands to Merry on her left, and me on her right. We all joined hands and bowed our heads.

  Mamma returned thanks, asked for a blessing, and prayed extra hard for patience. We all dug into our food and for the next thirty minutes, Sunday dinner was amazingly normal given the drama that had preceded it. We were having dessert—Mamma’s homemade banana pudding—when the goat wranglers arrived with cages on a truck.

  We watched from inside as what looked like a father and son team lured the goats with baby carrots, slipped on leashes, and led them into the cages.

  “It’s embarrassing how easy they make that look,” said Blake.

  “Carrots,” Daddy said. “Of all things.”

  He went outside and spoke to the men. A few minutes later, they came inside and gentled a squealing Kinky onto her own bed, then carried her out to one of the cages.

  “Don’t worry,” said the older of the two men. “She’ll be fine. I’ve got a boar that’ll be happy to keep her company.”

  Poor Kinky. She was injured. What if she didn’t want any company. I looked at Nate. “Do we have tequila in the house?”

  He gave me a little shrug, raised his eyebrows.

  Daddy tipped the men well and thanked them for coming on Sunday. No one mentioned how sad they were to see the goats go, though Merry looked pouty around the edges. I gave her a look that dared her to protest.

  Mamma didn’t say a word until the truck had backed out the driveway and rolled down the street. “Now, about the rest of the mess in the backyard—”

  “Carolyn, I’ll handle it,” said Daddy.

  “And by that you mean—” Mamma started.

  “I will hire experienced tradesmen to finish the pool and the patio and repair the landscaping. I will pay them whatever it takes to get the yard straightened out lickety-split. But I am not going to take that company away from Ponder and Ray Kennedy. They just need a few experienced hands, is all.” I recognized the person speaking as Serious Daddy.

  So did Mamma. She smiled brightly. “Well, hopefully those boys will make a go of it.”

  Those boys were both older than Daddy—somewhere north of sixty.

  “I should’ve gotten them started years ago, doing something,” said Daddy.

  “You’ve helped them both over the years,” said Mamma. “Many times.”

  “You know, Mamma,” I said, “you should really consider spending tomorrow in Charleston, over at the spa at the Belmond. Relax. Destress.”

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Maybe I’ll do that very thing.”

  Just then I was thinking how I’d give Daddy the name of a good cleaning service so that she came home to a spotless house. It wasn’t grandchildren, but it was a start.

  “By the way….” Mamma raised an eyebrow at Daddy. “I’ve cleaned out your drawers and closet. You have things in there you haven’t worn in years. I’ve got some things set aside for you to drop off tomorrow at Goodwill.”

  “Is that’s what’s in the suitcases at the top of the steps?” asked Daddy.

  “No,” said Mamma. “Those are your good things. I just set them aside so I could get to everything. I’ll help you put them away after lunch.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you.” Daddy’s voice carried just a trace of sarcasm.

  Merry and I helped Mamma straighten up. Normally, the guys would settle in the den, or maybe the screened porch after Sunday dinner. But today, Daddy hovered, tried to stay out of the way. He didn’t attempt to help, just stood there beside the refrigerator with his hands in his pockets. Because he was in the kitchen, so were Joe, Nate, and Blake. Mamma ignored the men, so Merry and I did too.

  We chatted about safe topics—the fall festival at the church, the vacant town council seat, and how it was a good step for Tammy Sue Lyerly across the street, who’d recently lost her husband, to take up Jazzercise instruction.

  Mamma piled Chinet platters high with food for Blake, Nate, me, Merry, and Joe. None of us argued with her. She wrapped the last of them in foil and looked up, scanned our faces.

  “I’m going to read the paper,” she announced. “If you children are staying a while, you’d best put this food in the refrigerator in the garage. There’s no room in here.”

  This was our cue to get out of her hair. I was reluctant to leave, but maybe it was best to give her some space. Besides, Nate and I had work to do. Nate raised his eyebrows at me and I nodded. He picked up our plates. Joe and Blake followed suit, and we all hugged our way out of there. But I knew the trouble with Mamma was far from over.

  EIGHT

  Back at home, I changed into shorts, poured us each a glass of Cheerwine, and met Nate in my office—that’s what we called the large room off the foyer on the right front side of the house. Once the venue for my Gram’s themed cocktail parties, the oversized living room now served multiple purposes. The left front side of the room held my desk and a set of client chairs. Two club chairs with ottomans on the far wall by the fireplace, along with the bookcases that lined two walls, served as our library. The white board we used to lay out our cases stood in the corner between my desk and the fireplace.

  By the triple windows that looked out onto the front porch, a sofa, two wingbacks, and a large ottoman formed a sitting area. More than anything else, this room was where we talked through our theories, bounced things off one another, and pieced together the fragments of information that held the solution to each case. It was the hub of our business.

  Nate settled into the sofa with his laptop while I turned on the computer on my desk. This was the first opportunity I’d had to open a case file. I typed up interview notes from our meeting with Fraser and Eli on our standard form—a clone of the FBI’s FD-302. Then I repeated the process from our conversation with Sonny. This was the foundation of our case. I printed the forms, dated and signed each document, and put them in a fresh case folder. Then I turned to profiles.

  Normally, the first person I’d create a profile for would be the victim, Phillip Drayton, followed by the client, or, in this case, Poppy Oliver, the beneficiary of our client’s generosity. But I had a strong suspicion that the woman who’d reassured Aida Butler that morning was key to our case. I logged on to one of several subscription databases Nate and I used for research and looked up the license plate I’d snapped in the parking garage.

  The Mercedes was registered to Tess Camille Calhoun Rivers Hathaway. I typed her name into my primary background database. Rivers. “Oh, sweet reason. No.�
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  “Slugger?”

  “That woman. Tess Hathaway. She’s Abigail Bounetheau’s younger sister.” Abigail Bounetheau was the closest thing to pure evil I’d encountered so far in this world.

  “That can’t be good news,” said Nate. “What else do you have on her?”

  I scanned the screen. “She’s widowed. Husband was into real estate among other things. He died in 2005—heart attack. Tess lives alone, as far as I can tell, in a house on South Battery—across from White Point Garden. One daughter. She lives in Montana.”

  “I don’t recall a sister of Abigail’s turning up when we were working the Kent Heyward case,” said Nate.

  I shook my head. “I dug into Abigail. There was so much there. I must have seen that she had a sister. She just wasn’t relevant to our investigation.”

  “Siblings are often very different.” Nate gave me a long look.

  Nate was my second husband. A finer man did not walk this earth. My first husband, Scott the Scoundrel, was Nate’s older brother. That’s a whole nother story.

  I took a deep cleansing breath. “You’re right, absolutely.”

  I created a profile document for Tess Hathaway. For the next hour, I researched her background, filling in the puzzle pieces from public records and various subscription databases. When I had a sketch, I shared it with Nate.

  “I’m hoping hard not to find anything that changes my mind about this, but Tess may be the anti-Abigail. After her husband’s death, she created a non-profit foundation to help victims of domestic violence. Zelda’s Safe House. Tess owns a resale shop on King Street. The proceeds go to the foundation. Apparently there’s a shelter for women, but the location is kept secret to protect their clients.”

  “You thinking Mrs. Drayton was one of her clients?” Nate winced. “Did they talk to each in the bookstore?”

  I thought back. “No, but I came into the store a minute or so after Mrs. Drayton. They could’ve exchanged pleasantries. But she didn’t so much as flash a smile in Mrs. Hathaway’s direction on her way out the door. Then again, she is still grieving.”

  “They live, what—a couple blocks from each other South of Broad? They have to be acquaintances at a minimum.”

  “Agreed. But it’s a huge leap from acquaintances to confidants, further still to Anne Frances Drayton being Tess Hathaway’s client. If Mrs. Drayton was abused—and we surely haven’t proven that—she may have been considering leaving her husband and moving to a shelter. But bottom line, she hadn’t left her home.”

  “I wonder how easy that would’ve been for her,” said Nate. “As a practical matter. Abused spouses often have less personal freedom than most folks.”

  “Could be she was caught in the act of trying to leave or was maybe trying to work out the details of leaving. We need to know how much access to their considerable resources she actually had. If she had an escape plan, maybe that plan went sideways and her husband wound up dead. But she wasn’t the one driving the car. So, there was an accomplice. Unless Tess Hathaway is more like her sister than it appears, I don’t see her behind the wheel. It’s suspicious, Tess having a connection to Poppy and her being in the bookshop when Anne Frances was there. But that’s all it is.”

  “Let’s back up here.” Nate stood and crossed the room to the case board. “Our possible narratives of the crime are, number one, Poppy hit Phillip Drayton by accident and is afraid to tell the truth. Number two, she hit him on purpose and is either A, Mrs. Drayton’s accomplice, or B, deranged and imagines herself a vigilante protector.” He created a numbered list as he spoke.

  “Possibility number three,” said Nate, “is that an unknown subject hit him accidentally and fled. And four would be that an unknown subject hit him on purpose and fled, with options A and B for either Mrs. Drayton’s accomplice or someone trying to protect her, and C for motives unknown.”

  We both stared at the list and mulled it for a few moments.

  Poppy: accidentally hit Phillip Drayton

  Poppy: intentionally hit Philip Drayton Mrs. Drayton’s accomplice

  Vigilante: protecting Mrs. Drayton

  Unknown Subject: accidentally hit Phillip Drayton and fled

  Unknown Subject: intentionally hit Phillip Drayton and fledMrs. Drayton’s accomplice

  Vigilante: protecting Mrs. Drayton

  Unknown motives

  “Looking at it logically, all laid out like that,” I said, “it seems that we’re missing an unlikely possibility, but a possibility nevertheless. Poppy could have killed him for unknown motives.”

  Colleen popped in with a puff of blue smoke. She adored theatrics. “Except I told you that Poppy didn’t kill him.”

  “Yes, you did,” I said. “But we need to look at this analytically. And your input is what we refer to as unverifiable facts. It’s part of our process. We need to look at this from every angle or we might miss something.”

  “You’re wasting time,” she said.

  “Lookit,” I said. “Our chart is not symmetrical. We can’t prove that two C is not a possibility, so we need two C on the board.”

  Colleen bray-snorted exuberantly. “You are so anal-retentive it’s ridiculous.”

  Nate added 2 C to the chart: Poppy—unknown motive.

  “The really interesting thing about this case is how Drayton got the injuries that didn’t kill him,” said Nate.

  “A Taser, pepper spray, and a puncture wound—that could’ve been caused by any of a long list of things, but in combination with the other two items, I’m betting on one of those tactical pens. I have one myself in my purse. These are all items women carry to protect themselves.”

  “You thinking he attacked someone who fought back, but not his wife?” asked Nate.

  “It’s possible he abused other women in his life.” I dug all ten fingers into my hair, blew out a long breath. “We need a lot more information on Phillip Drayton. The man is dead through an odd set of circumstances. He’s not here to defend himself.”

  “Fair point,” said Nate. “But we need to ascertain whether or not he did, in fact, abuse his wife. It goes to motive.”

  “By all means, we do,” I said. “But we need to consider all the possibilities. What about his blog? People have killed over bad restaurant reviews before. I’ll profile Phillip Drayton next. Any number of people could’ve had all manner of motives to kill him. Then I’ll tackle Anne Frances and Poppy Oliver.”

  “When is the funeral service?” asked Nate.

  I googled “Phillip Drayton Charleston, SC”. The first hit was his obituary. “The service is at St. Michael’s Church. Tuesday morning at eleven, interment following at Magnolia Cemetery. The family is receiving friends Monday evening from six to eight at J. Henry Stuhr’s downtown chapel.”

  “We need to be at all three places,” said Nate.

  “I’ll come if I can,” said Colleen. “But I’m pretty busy right now.”

  “Who are you harassing into running for the Devlin seat on town council?” I asked. Colleen’s primary mission was protecting our island home from overdevelopment. The most compelling reason was the difficulty of evacuating, given that the island could only be reached by boat, and the ferry had limited capacity. An open seat on town council was a priority for her. Some island residents were vulnerable to the lucrative nature of real estate development on our pristine island.

  “It’s tricky,” said Colleen. “Calista would be perfect, but it will take a lot of persuading people to vote for someone who’s only lived here a few years. I have a few other ideas in my back pocket. You just focus on Poppy and let me worry about the town council.”

  “We could really use you to read minds at the funeral,” I said. “Everyone who knew Philip Drayton will be there. It’s a gold mine of potential information. That said, I don’t want you to get in trouble.” There were strict rules about what C
olleen could and could not get involved in. She’d been known to push the boundaries.

  “Like I said, I’ll come if I can,” she said. “But don’t waste your time investigating Poppy. The timing is critical here.”

  “Why?” I asked. “I mean, to be sure we have a sense of urgency. We don’t want Poppy to end up in jail. That would be horrible for someone as innocent as she seems to be. But what else do you know?”

  “Another life is in danger,” said Colleen.

  “Whose?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s all I’ve been given.”

  I squinted at her. “Why are you being given hints about this case? It has absolutely nothing to do with your mission.”

  “Duty calls.” She started to fade.

  “Wait—dammit, Colleen,” I said. “Did you put someone up to hiring us through Rutledge and Radcliffe? Who is our client?”

  She disappeared with a theatrical pouf.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a news alert on my phone. Tropical storm Jack had formed in the Atlantic. Panic rose in my chest. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, tamped it down.

  “You all right?” asked Nate.

  “Fine.” I reached for a smile.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. “Another storm.”

  Nate studied me. Concern, love, and bemusement wrestled on his face. “We’ve either got to find a way to ease your fears, or we need to relocate inland. These nightmares of yours—I worry you’re not getting enough rest.”

  “You know I can’t leave here,” I said. “This place owns me.”

  “What am I going to do with you?” he asked.

  “We’ll get to that later.” I teased him with a smile. “Right now, I need to get to work on Phillip Drayton. He’s the first piece of the puzzle.”

  Nate shook his head in surrender, put the dry erase marker back in its tray, and moved back to the sofa. “I’ll search property records for all of them.”