LOWCOUNTRY BOOKSHOP

by Susan M. Boyer

  My phone played a few bars of “Carry on Wayward Son” by Kansas. Blake’s ringtone. “Hey Big Brother, what’s up?”

  He sighed heavily. “Mom called me this morning. On her way into Charleston to go to the spa, she said.”

  “You have no idea what a blessing that is.”

  “I probably do,” he said. “But she told me to go by the house and make a platter of leftovers for that woman you brought to dinner last night. I have no idea where she lives. Don’t know her phone number. And I’ve got a platter full of steak and gravy.”

  “I’ll share her contact with you when we hang up,” I said. “She’ll be grateful for that food.”

  “What’s going on with all that?”

  “All what?”

  “I know Sonny thinks she ran into that guy,” he said. “What do you and Nate think?”

  I felt my forehead creasing. “We respectfully disagree.”

  “Yeah, I don’t see it either,” he said. “I better go. I need to get rid of all this food so I can get back to work.”

  I shook my head, shared Poppy’s contact information with Blake while giving him an odd look he couldn’t appreciate, and returned my attention to Ryan Sutton.

  Periodically glancing at the red blinking dot that told me Anne Frances was still parked in the same place, I checked vehicle registrations for anything other than the Fusion. Bingo. Ryan Sutton owned a 2001 white Ford Econoline E-350 Super Duty van. Why?

  Could a white van be mistaken for a white SUV in the rain?

  I googled images of the van. It was awfully large, but it was possible someone might mistake it for an SUV in a deluge.

  When I looked at the GPS app at one fifteen, Anne Frances was on the move. She was headed down Meeting Street. I put my phone on the magnet, started the Escape, and exited the garage. I wanted to be in position near Dock Street Theatre before she arrived. I zipped over to Church Street—this section was one-way running north. I pulled to the curb across the street from the Dock Street Theatre, a few car lengths before the entrance.

  While I watched on the screen, Anne Frances turned off Meeting onto Cumberland. Halfway down the block, just across from the Powder Magazine, she turned into the Cumberland Street garage. She was a block and a half away from me.

  At ten minutes ‘til two, she walked around the bend in Church Street that accommodates St. Philip’s Church. In a cream-colored pantsuit, she carried an overnight bag and a purse. She checked her watch, slowed her gait. In the rearview mirror, I watched for a limo. What was she up to and why?

  Anne Frances crossed Queen Street and climbed the two steps to shelter in the shade of the historic theatre’s second story verandah. I glanced from her to the rearview mirror and back.

  At precisely two o’clock, Tess Hathaway’s Cadillac pulled to the curb directly in front of the theatre. Anne Frances put her things in the back seat, looked up and down the street, then climbed into the car. The Cadillac pulled back into traffic. I let a car between us, then followed.

  I followed them all the way back out to the Planter’s Club on Ashley River Road, then I headed home. The only way I could get past the dirt road entrance was in one of the club’s limousines.

  On the ferry ride back to Stella Maris, Poppy called me.

  “I thought you’d want to know,” she said. “That blonde woman—the one you showed me the photo of? She turned up on my route again today. Same thing. She just drove by slowly and looked at me. It’s just so weird.”

  “It is that.” What in the name of reason was that all about?

  “Please tell your mother thank you for the food.”

  I could hear the smile in her voice.

  TWENTY

  As it turned out, The Planter’s Club had no availability for Friday evening, but could accommodate us on Saturday. We spent all of Friday holed up in our situation room hashing through all the bits and pieces of information we had accumulated about our upside-down case. At lunchtime, I went to the kitchen to forage for lunch and found a glass dish full of homemade pimento cheese Mamma must’ve left for us. When on earth had she had time to make that?

  I put together a tray of sandwiches and glasses of Cheerwine and carried it back into my office. We sat on the sofa with our feet propped up, munched, and studied our revised case board, which lamentably kept growing.

  Poppy: accidentally hit Phillip Drayton

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

  Vigilante: protecting Mrs. Drayton

  Unknown motives

  Unknown Subject: accidentally hit Phillip Drayton and fledEmma Williams?

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

  Vigilante: protecting Mrs. Drayton. Limo driver? Tess? Jacynthe? Sofia? Emma?

  Unknown motives

  Mallory Lucas: jealousy

  Daniel Drayton: jealousy

  Ryan Sutton: money/jealousy

  “The thing is,” I said, “it’s impossible to prove a negative. Just because we can’t prove Poppy didn’t conspire with Anne Frances Drayton doesn’t mean she did. I see that as too farfetched to even still have on the board.”

  “I can see I was giving the two of you way too much credit.” Blake stood in the doorway between the foyer and my office. He gestured dramatically at our case board, his face pinched into a scowl. He was clearly agitated.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.” I scrunched up my face. “What are you talking about? Are you hungry? There’s pimento cheese in the kitchen.”

  “That goofy woman did not kill anybody,” said Blake.

  “She’s not goofy,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He massaged the back of his neck with one hand and continued gesticulating his scorn at our case board with the other. “How can you possibly think a woman gentle enough to coax those goats from hell outside would intentionally run over a man for any reason?”

  “We don’t actually think that,” said Nate.

  “But it’s right there in black and white.” Blake muttered something under his breath. “And Sonny. I think he’s actually going to arrest her.” His voice rose. My brother was as angry as I’d seen him in a while.

  “Blake,” I said. “When did you talk to Sonny?”

  “Few minutes ago.” Disgust contorted his face.

  Alarm rose in my chest. “You think he plans to arrest Poppy today?”

  “No, no,” said Blake. “He said he agreed to wait. But I know Sonny. He thinks he’s got this figured out. He does not. I thought maybe y’all did. I can see I was wrong about that.”

  “Lookit,” I said. “This is a complicated mess of a case. But we do have some things figured out. We do not think Poppy hit Phillip Drayton, either accidentally or on purpose. But what I really want to know is why are you so worked up?”

  “I’m not worked up,” said Blake, in a tone that demonstrated exactly how worked up he was. “It’s just, that girl is so…so…innocent. It bothers me. She trusts people too much. She thinks everyone has good intentions. It’s gotten her into trouble. This Drayton woman, maybe she did conspire to kill her husband. But not with that poor little mail carrier.”

  I looked at Nate. He wore an expression that told me he was processing things. I turned back to Blake. “Is this a slow day for you? Because let me tell you, it isn’t for us. We’ve got work to do. Now do you want some lunch or not?”

  “No, I don’t want lunch,” said Blake. “Is there something I can do to help?”

  “I think we’ve got it,” said Nate. “We typically leave all our theories on the board until we can eliminate them. Liz was just saying, right when you came in, that just because we haven’t been able to exclude one of them doesn’t make it likely. These are just all the possibilities we know of.”

  “I’m
just sayin’,” said Blake. “Everything up there related to Poppy Oliver is not possible. Have you met her?”

  I threw him a look filled with as much exasperation as I could muster. “We are on her side. She’s our client, okay?” Technically, she wasn’t.

  Blake squinted at the board. “Who is Emma Williams? Ryan Sutton? You need me to look into some of these people?”

  I stood up, walked towards my brother. “Listen to me. Everything on that board is attorney work product. You don’t need to be looking at it, and thank you, but no, we don’t need you to look into anyone. We’ve got this. Now, I’m really sorry, but you cannot be here. You are the Chief of Police for a town in Charleston County. Good grief—you could compromise the confidentiality of our work.”

  Anger, confusion, and frustration waged war on Blake’s face. “Just make sure you get this right.” He stormed out the door.

  “What in this world?” I stared after him.

  “Poppy makes everyone who meets her want to protect her,” said Nate. “There’s just something about her. You felt it yourself, you said, the first time you saw her.”

  “You’re right.” I moved back to the couch, picked up my drink. “But good grief. He must be bored today. Where were we?”

  “We’ve established that Anne Frances was abused and in contact with Tess and the others through Jacynthe. She was also having an affair with Ryan Sutton, a man with no visible means of support,” said Nate.

  “I’d bet good money she was somehow keeping him up,” I said. “But I can’t prove it from her bank statements. I know I’m starting to sound like Daniel Drayton, but I have a strong suspicion she’s involved in her husband’s death.”

  Nate said, “Let’s walk through it step by step. Our working narrative is that Tess is our client and made the second call to 911.”

  “And if she was there,” I said, “perhaps Sofia and Jacynthe were as well. Somewhere in the vicinity of the accident, they were trying to help Anne Frances and things went sideways. That doesn’t necessarily mean one of them hit Phillip with a car, but they maybe had something to do with the other injuries. If he attacked Anne Frances while she was trying to escape with them. It’s possible one of the limos actually hit Phillip. We have only the second caller’s word—Tess according to our working narrative—that a white SUV was the vehicle involved. Poppy didn’t see it.”

  “All of those women—Tess, Sofia, and Jacynthe—they have a lot to lose, and no reason to tell us the truth if we confront them. We have no evidence. Zero. Only theories.”

  I pondered that. “Have you wondered why Fraser didn’t want Poppy to know his firm was involved? Didn’t want to talk to her personally?”

  “I have indeed,” said Nate.

  “Sonny’s right. Privilege and the work-product doctrine will protect Tess, not Poppy.”

  “But we were hired to help Poppy,” said Nate.

  “That’s what we were told anyway,” I said. “Never forget that Tess is Abigail Bounetheau’s sister. This could all be an elaborate scheme to protect Tess, not Poppy.” Saying that made a chill run up my spine.

  “You make an excellent point,” said Nate. “Especially given that we can’t just take what we learn and hand it to Sonny, especially if it incriminates Tess in any way.”

  “I hope we’re not being used that way. Fraser is quirky, to be sure. But I’ve always thought he was an honorable man. He wouldn’t be a party to that sort of deceit, and he wouldn’t be taken in by it.”

  We both thought about that for a few minutes, sipped our Cheerwine.

  I drew a long breath and blew it out slowly. “Bottom line, our working narrative is that Tess was there. Maybe Sofia and Jacynthe too.”

  “Right,” said Nate. “Who was driving the vehicle that hit Phillip—that could be a whole nother thing or not. Do you think Emma Williams is another one of them? Is she connected to Zelda’s Safe House?”

  “Not in any way I’ve been able to suss out. But that doesn’t mean she’s not.”

  “Any connection to Drayton?” asked Nate.

  “Again, none that I can find. But if she’d hit him in that Honda, you’d be able to tell it for sure. And we haven’t been able to tie her to any other vehicle. It’s strange, the way she keeps popping up. She could be an unstable soul with a beef with Poppy for some unknown reason—a damaged package. Who knows? But we need to eliminate her as a suspect if we can.”

  “My money is on Ryan Sutton and his white van for the driver and vehicle,” said Nate.

  “Mine too.” I bit my lip. “That van of his could well be the murder weapon. I wonder what he uses that for anyway? With Phillip out of the way, Ryan has much more control over Anne Frances and all the money she inherited. At least as long as she keeps him around. The question is, was she in on it?”

  “Her background gets murkier every time we dive into it,” said Nate.

  “But Ryan wouldn’t’ve used pepper spray, a Taser, and a tactical pen in the process of running over Phillip.” I scrunched up my face. “Which takes us back to Tess and her gang.”

  “Aside from that, the narrative that Ryan killed Phillip makes the most sense to me,” said Nate.

  “Me too,” I said. “At the end of the day, we have to find that white van or an SUV we can tie him to. I don’t think he’s connected to anyone else involved in this case other than Anne Frances. If it was him, it was either a crime of opportunity—he was staking out the house—or he conspired with Anne Frances.”

  “And someone else made the first call to 911. That wasn’t Ryan on the phone,” said Nate. “Our remaining candidates for driver of the vehicle are Mallory and Daniel,” said Nate. “I see them as unlikely at this point.”

  “Me too. We need to make Tess and her cohorts tell us what they know. One or more of them witnessed what happened. We need a better description of the vehicle we’re looking for. Right now we don’t have enough to even look for it.”

  “We’re going to need a lot of leverage for that,” said Nate.

  “I’m thinking we’ll find some at The Planter’s Club.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Aside from a couple of old bridesmaid dresses, I had two floor-length gowns in my closet. I decided the red sequin dress would make me stand out at The Planter’s Club and not in a good way. I went with the steel gray chiffon number. It was an A-line with a scoop neck, but the top and three-quarter sleeves were made of illusion with pretty beading. It was demur without being dowdy.

  “My, my. Mrs. Andrews, I’m not sure I should take you out in public looking like that.”

  I turned to see Nate propped casually against the frame of our bedroom door. In a classic black tuxedo, he was devastatingly handsome. His blue eyes had a smoky hue this evening. “The feeling is mutual, Mr. Andrews.”

  “We’d best go before I change my mind. After you.” He stepped back, and I proceeded out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

  “I’ve reserved a room at Charleston Place,” he said. “Odds are we’ll miss the last ferry back tonight. I figure those limos don’t typically pick up at budget hotels. Oh, and I called the number Huger gave you. They’ll pick us up at six thirty.”

  “Perfect.” At the front door I waited, smiled up at him.

  “Yes, you are.”

  The limousine pulled under the portico by the fountain at Charleston Place at precisely six thirty. A quick look at the tag told me it was the same one that had picked up the woman by St. Michael’s Alley.

  The passenger door opened, and the same sturdy gentleman climbed out to open the door. “Good evening,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews?”

  “That’s right,” said Nate. He helped me inside, then slid in after me.

  “I’m Louis. Please let me know if you need anything during our trip.” He closed the door.

  The glass between the front and the back of the car
was raised. There was a bucket of champagne and two glasses in the back. Nate poured us each a glass and we sat back to enjoy the ride.

  A little more than thirty minutes later, we turned down the dirt driveway leading to The Planter’s Club. The road curved sharply to the left and we passed through a manned security gate. Then we were underneath a canopy of giant oaks dripping with Spanish moss. We rolled down the wide drive for a minute or so, then made a turn to the right.

  “Notice the cameras?” asked Nate.

  “Every other tree,” I said.

  “That’s not historically accurate.”

  The house came into view and I gasped softly. It felt as though we’d arrived back in time.

  It was brick with a raised first floor, double porches, and a row of large white columns. “I never knew this was back here,” I said.

  “I wonder how long it has been here,” said Nate. “Could be a reproduction. Weren’t most of the plantation houses along the Ashley River destroyed during the Civil War?”

  “Yes, except, in a peculiar bit of congruency, Drayton Hall. We passed that on the way in. James said this home was restored. This is amazing.”

  We pulled to a stop and Louis opened the door. He handed Nate a card. “Just in case. Text or call if you need anything. When you’re ready to leave, give your name to any of the service staff and we’ll pick you up right here.”

  “Thank you,” said Nate.

  As we approached the double front doors, two gentlemen on either side opened them. “Good evening.”

  The house smelled like old wood and old money. We stood in a wide entry hallway with gleaming hardwood floors and dark, raised panel walls. A round table under a massive crystal chandelier held a towering floral arrangement. We took a moment to get our bearings.