“I know. Phillip Drayton had his life interrupted. Poppy is innocent. It’s just—”
“Maybe there’s proof inside that Emma was in Switzerland the night Phillip Drayton died.”
“Maybe so.”
The Honda backed out of the driveway. I pulled up the tracking app on the iPad as they headed down Darlington. “We’re clear.”
Nate and I were dressed for church. People didn’t generally break and enter in church clothes, which was why it was a good cover. If caught, we were simply friends who had planned to go to church with the Williamses but must’ve missed them. We slipped on clear latex gloves and got out of the car.
We walked up the sidewalk, climbed the front steps, and made a show of knocking on the screened porch door. After a moment, we opened it and approached the inside door. I had my lock set ready, and as soon as the screened door closed behind us, I handed Nate the iPad and got to work. It wasn’t a great lock. It took mere seconds to pick. We were in.
We did a quick tour of the three-bedroom home. I pegged it at around fifteen hundred square feet. The floor plan was simple—the front door opened into a living room. To the left was a dining room, and straight ahead, a hall. The dining room passed through to the kitchen, which also circled back to the hall that led to three bedrooms and a single bath.
“I’ll start with the kitchen,” I said. “Are you monitoring the car?”
“They’re almost there. As soon as they park at the church, I’ll set an alarm for when the car moves again. I’ll get the master bedroom.”
I stepped into the kitchen and started with the small built-in desk. Two framed photos sat near the right corner, one of the family soon after the little girl was born. The new parents beamed with joy while the little boy touched his sister’s arm, seemed to inspect her. It was a cute picture, taken before the effects of whatever was wrong with Robert Williams had ravaged his body. They’d been a happy family.
The other photo was in a painted wooden frame with the word “Friends” engraved across the bottom. Emma and three other women of roughly the same age huddled together around a bar-top table with a brick wall in the background. I picked up the photo and examined it closer. It had been taken at the Blind Tiger, in the middle courtyard, next to the outside bar.
I used my iPhone to capture images of both framed photos, then opened the top center drawer. Piles of paperwork were stuffed inside. Much of it was medical bills, explanation of benefits forms, and doctor’s instructions for Robert Williams on letterhead from the Hollings Cancer Center.
Then there were the other bills, late notices, and collection letters. This family had all kinds of trouble. I took a deep breath and moved on to the top of a stack of three drawers down the right side of the desk.
Unlike the middle drawer, the top-right drawer was well organized. It held nothing but office supplies. I moved on to the next drawer. Here was a mountain of receipts waiting for someone to have time to organize them. It looked as if they’d just been opening the drawer and tossing things in. They’d be hard pressed to notice if this drawer had been disturbed.
For the next hour, I dug through the pile, looking for anything with the date of August 13, the night Phillip Drayton was killed. Someone must’ve been looking for something else because the slips were all out of order. I’d almost given the project up for a fool’s errand when I found it.
A receipt for $10.82 for one glass of wine from The Blind Tiger on August 13.
The sales receipt was time stamped at 9:15:34 p.m.
The name in the credit purchase section was Williams/Emma.
I laid it on the desk and snapped a picture.
One glass of wine didn’t typically make me tipsy, but on an empty stomach, maybe. Had Emma been impaired?
I put the receipt back in the drawer, stirred the contents a bit, and closed the drawer. Then I searched the cabinets. Was Emma a drinker? She’d had no record of DUIs, but maybe recent events had turned her to the bottle. There was a single, half empty bottle of Pinot Grigio in the refrigerator.
Nate came into the kitchen. “Nothing of any relevance in the bedroom. Lots of evidence someone very sick lives here.” He stopped, looked at me. “What’s wrong?”
I showed him the photo of the receipt from The Blind Tiger.
“That can’t be a coincidence.” He drew a long breath. His face wore a resigned expression. “You ready to get out of here?”
“Almost.” I turned to the refrigerator. Its white surface was covered with kid art attached with colorful magnets. The lower section had a set of ABC magnets for the kids to play with. In the center was a family calendar covered with doctor’s appointments and play dates.
The block for August 13 had “Karen’s Birthday” written in blue Sharpie.
I took a photo of the calendar.
Silently, we did a walk-through to make sure we’d left no trace, then we made our way out.
Nate started the car. “We still haven’t proven anything. But the receipt along with Emma suddenly stalking Poppy, a stranger, certainly moves her up the suspect list.”
“It could still be Sutton,” I said. “But it surely could be Emma. I hope like hell it’s not. But I cannot come up with another explanation that accounts for her behavior and that receipt. The SUV could be registered to the business—maybe she gets a corporate car.”
With the iPad, I searched our subscription database for Ridgetech, the company Emma worked for.
“There are no cars registered to the company at all,” I said.
“If it’s Emma,” said Nate, “either someone she knows owns a white SUV, or she rented one. Could’ve had car trouble, an older car like hers.”
“That makes sense.”
We did a grid search of the surrounding blocks but came up empty.
I pulled up the Bethel United Methodist Church website to see where they recommended visitors park. We checked behind the church, the two College of Charleston lots off Pitt Street across from the church, and J. Henry Stuhr’s lot, which was also open for church parking on Sunday morning.
We found no white SUVs with bush bars.
“It’s possible someone took that bar off,” said Nate.
“But the only reason they’d do that is if Emma told them what happened.” I shook my head. “If it was her—and I still think Ryan Sutton is an excellent candidate as well—she didn’t tell a soul. She has too much at stake. If she did this, we’re going to have to pry it out of her.”
TWENTY-THREE
At 9:30 Monday morning, Nate and I parked outside the bookshop.
“You really think they’ll show?” Nate gave me a skeptical look.
“The last time there was drama and one of them—Sofia—wanted to talk, she left a bookmark, and Jacynthe met her at the graveyard because Tess was tied up at the store. Saturday night, Ryan Sutton showed up at The Planter’s Club, plus you know at least one of those ladies mentioned my visit to the second floor. The combination of those two things will make Sofia very nervous.”
“What if they got together yesterday after all?” asked Nate. “The bookstore was open all afternoon.”
“The bookshop didn’t open until 11:00 a.m. yesterday. Tess and Jacynthe were at church in the morning. I’m betting they didn’t.”
“Do they go to that much trouble every single time they want to talk?”
“If we sit here, we’ll find out,” I said.
“Well, well.” Nate nodded towards the bookstore. “Maybe we’ll catch a break.”
Sofia Sanchez’s Carrera pulled to the curb across the street. She hopped out, looked both ways, jogged across the street and went inside the bookshop. Less than five minutes later she came out with a bag.
“I wonder what they do with all those books,” said Nate.
“They don’t buy one every time,” I said. “They just have to leave a bookmark and then so
meone has to come by to see where it is. Jacynthe goes in a few times a week to guide a tour. But I guess they do accumulate them. Probably give them as gifts.”
After Sofia had gone, I went inside to check the middle book on the display.
“Well?” asked Nate when I climbed back in the Explorer.
“Page eighty. The Lady in White. We’re going back to the Unitarian Graveyard.”
“Should we wait for someone to come pick up the message?”
“If you want to, we can, but the last time they had a meeting, it was right around eleven o’clock. I’m still not sure about this.” I gave him a worried look. “I say we confront them, tell them who we are and what we know and go from there.”
“We’ve been through this. We have to talk to whoever made that second 911 call—most likely Tess. She will not be inclined to be forthcoming. These women have way too much to lose. The photos you took of Anne Frances and the other woman, they might do the trick by themselves—get Tess, Sofia, and Jacynthe to talk. But once we tell them who we are, we won’t ever have this opportunity again. We lose our chance to get real leverage. We can only play this card once.”
“All right then. Let’s go park, get ourselves in place. Be there before them.”
“That works.” Nate started the car.
We found the Whitridge family plot and picked a spot not too far away, so they could hear us and we could hear them. But we picked it strategically so that it wasn’t along one of the main pathways in. We didn’t want any one of them to see us before the other one or two of them arrived. Then, we crouched behind a cluster of bushes. Between the tree limbs draped with Spanish moss, the gravestones, and all the vines, it was a perfect place to eavesdrop.
“I’ve never seen a graveyard like this,” said Nate.
“I’ve never seen another like it.”
We heard footsteps, looked at each other, drew a long breath and let it out slowly. I smiled as I watched him doing the exact same thing I did.
After a moment, a woman said, “Sofia? Honey, what’s wrong?” Jacynthe.
Sofia let loose a long, animated string of Spanish.
“English.” Jacynthe’s voice was gentle, but urgent. “Please.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sofia. “I’m too tired to speak English. I didn’t sleep at all the past two nights. I’ll tell you all about it when Tess gets here. I don’t want to have to tell it twice.”
“You’re pacing,” said Jacynthe. “This must be baaaad.”
“Here’s Tess,” said Sofia.
“Good morning ladies,” said Tess.
I nodded at Nate. He closed his eyes, steeled himself. What he was about to do went against every fiber of his being.
We stood but were still screened from the women by moss-draped trees and tall bushes.
Nate raised his voice. “Suzanne, I told you what would happen if you left the house without permission again, didn’t I?”
“But Tommy, I—”
“Shut up. Shut up, do you hear me? Get your ass to the car right now. I will deal with you at home.”
“No, please, Tommy—”
“You’re just making it worse.”
“No, I’m not going anywhere with you.” I stepped away.
He grabbed my arm, twisted it behind my back. “You wanna bet?”
“Ow, Tommy, you’re hurting me.”
“Release her immediately.” Tess stepped in front of Nate.
“Mind your own business, old lady. Walk, Suzanne. Now.”
There was yelling in Spanish. Sofia. Where was she?
Nate jerked, let go of me, and fell.
I spun around.
Sofia had tased him.
“You,” she said. “What were you doing upstairs at my house Saturday night?”
Nate lay on the ground, jerking.
“Oh my Lord.” I knelt beside him, sent up fervent prayers.
Sofia talked faster, her accent thicker. “This woman snuck upstairs while security was distracted. She may have been working with another man who they hauled out. It was on the security footage.”
Jacynthe stood over Nate with a can of pepper spray.
“No,” I said. “Leave him alone. Give me that.” I stood, snatched the pepper spray from Jacynthe’s hands.
Jacynthe looked at me. “Honey, are you sure? That Taser’s gonna wear off in a minute. You need a good head start.”
“We’ll take you someplace safe, if you like.” Tess held a puncture pen like a killer in a horror film holds a butcher knife.
I knelt back down, rubbed Nate’s arm. “No one do anything else to him. I am very serious.”
He groaned.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” I said.
“Honey, now, I know this is hard for you,” said Jacynthe. “But that man is just going to keep on hurting you if you let him.”
“The thing is,” I said. “As soon as he recovers, we really need to go somewhere and talk privately.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” said Tess.
I looked at Sofia. “You just tased my partner.”
“He was hurting you,” she said. “We saved you from him, sneaky ungrateful woman.”
I turned to Jacynthe. “You had the pepper spray.”
“And you,” I looked over my shoulder to Tess, “have a tactical pen. Those are the exact weapons used on Phillip Drayton just before he was hit by a car. We need to know exactly what happened to him. We’re your investigative team, Mrs. Hathaway.”
She looked at me for a long moment, then at Nate. “Well, you’re apparently very dedicated to your work.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“Are you sure you’re quite all right?” asked Tess. We were seated in her living room, Nate and me on the sofa, Sofia and Jacynthe in club chairs to our left, and Tess in a wing-back to our right. By Tess’s chair, Zelda the suspected Goldendoodle lolled on a green velvet cushion with her name embroidered on it and watched us all. Out the front window we could see White Point Garden. A young woman had brought in iced tea, a tray of assorted sandwiches, and pastries.
All of us had fussed over Nate for the past twenty minutes. I sat with my hand on his leg.
“Yes ma’am,” said Nate. “I’m fine.”
“I really am sorry.” Sofia winced, bit her lip.
“No, please don’t be,” I said. “We’re sorry we had to trick you. But to be honest, we didn’t have a choice. The only way we can help Poppy Oliver, which is what we were hired to do, is to find the vehicle that hit Phillip Drayton and the person who was driving it. Anything short of that and I’m afraid the police are going to figure Poppy must’ve done it. There’s a dent in her car, you see.”
Tess sighed, looked out the window for a moment. “Yes, I know. This is all my fault. I had hoped to protect Zelda’s Safe House, you see. We do a tremendous amount of good. And my friends, of course.”
She seemed sincere. I prayed that she was, that she was nothing at all like her sister and protecting Poppy had been at the top of her agenda all along.
“We understand that, truly,” I said. “And Mrs. Hathaway, we work for you. You hired us through your attorney. We’re here to help. Please let us.”
“Well, then,” said Tess. “Perhaps we should each tell our part of the story. Jacynthe, would you start?”
Jacynthe nodded, moistened her lips. “Anne Frances Drayton started coming into the emergency room in December of 2010. Every few months. She had injuries consistent with abuse and told stories consistent with wives covering it up. I tried to get her to talk to a social worker, but she wouldn’t do it. I did the only thing I could. I told her if she decided she wanted help, she should leave a message at the bookstore. I told her how.”
Sofia said, “On the day it happened, she left a bookmark on page forty-five. The Gentlem
an Ghost. That address is 20 South Battery. That’s two houses down from here.”
“How did you know she left the bookmark?” I asked. “After years of trying to help her?”
“I watched her do it,” said Jacynthe. “I was in the store for a tour.”
“Do they know what you’re doing?” asked Nate. “The folks who own the bookshop, the people who work there?”
“Absolutely not,” said Tess. “Polly is my dear friend. I’m in and out of the store several times a week to talk to her about one thing or another. We go to lunch regularly. Between my visits, which don’t raise eyebrows, and Jacynthe’s, who is a tour guide, and Sofia occasionally picking up a book for a friend, well, we stay under their radar, as it were.”
“Okay,” I said, “Anne Frances Drayton was supposed to be at 20 South Battery at 2:00 p.m.?”
“That’s right,” said Tess. “All our pickups are at 2:00 p.m., and if the three of us meet, it’s always 11:00 a.m., and it’s always the Unitarian Graveyard. It keeps things simple.”
“Did someone pick her up?” I asked.
“No,” said Sofia. “I came to get her, but she didn’t show up. Naturally, we were worried.”
“Usually that means the husband caught his wife leaving.” Jacynthe looked at her lap. “That’s ended real bad twice. We couldn’t take that chance.”
“What did you do?” asked Nate.
“We met here as soon as we could all come,” said Tess. “Jacynthe had to stay late—there were several accidents due to the weather. It was around nine o’clock. We went to check on Anne Frances.”
“We could not just ring the doorbell and ask the man if he’d killed his wife,” said Sofia.
“We umm, well, I—I did it.” Jacynthe looked up like she was talking to The Lord. “I didn’t mean any harm. I was trying to protect Mrs. Drayton—all these women. Us too. Our work can get dangerous.”
“What did you do?” I asked gently.
“I ordered us protection,” said Jacynthe. “The Tasers, the tactical pens, the pepper spray. But the online store also had listening devices. I ordered us these ink pens. You can hear what people are saying. You put the little thingamajig in your ear?”
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