Choosing Charleston

by T. Lynn Ocean

  “But you know what? Something about his voice that day was vaguely familiar. I just never placed it,” Trent said. “So your last name is Ellis? I thought it was Stone.”

  “It is Stone. I kept my maiden name,” I said, looking at my bare toes as we walked in the direction of the construction trailer. I wore black flat sandals, and was glad my brightly painted toenails still looked good from the pedicures Jenny and I got the day of the charity ball.

  Although the fire had destroyed most underbrush and the land was leveled for development, a fine layer of leaves and pine straw covered the sandy ground. We stopped to admire a beautiful live oak tree that had to be two or three hundred years old. It would have taken six, maybe seven adults, hand to hand, to encircle the trunk. Thick curving limbs created inviting archways in every direction and some almost touched the ground.

  Protter’s architect made allowances in the blueprints to preserve several clusters of trees and three of them held a single, magnificent live oak. I had to give the Protter men credit for that. It cost money to leave anything standing on a plot of land. It would have been much easier to clear-cut.

  “So then, Robert sold it to you in his own name?” I said.

  “The seller was actually a company. At least on paper. But, yeah, an R. Ellis was the man who was doing business as Vive Investments. If he’d changed his name to Carpenter when his aunt and uncle adopted him, I’d have realized there was some sort of connection between him and the original owners, because Jack pulled the tax map information to get an ownership history of the land. There’s no record of this land ever having been owned by anyone else, other than the Carpenter family. And then, Vive Investments.”

  “I think they wanted him to take their name after he got old enough to consider it, but he refused. Carpenter sounded too… blue collar for his taste. And besides that, he’s always been bitter about being cheated out of growing up with his ‘real’ family.”

  “Well, Jack said the low selling price to Vive Investments was unusual. But then again, people commonly work out all kinds of deals under the table especially when family is involved. More than once, I’ve seen a selling price of one dollar for a parcel of land.”

  We’d stopped walking and were back where we started, at the construction trailer. Trent nodded at my BMW, parked next to his truck.

  “Any more tire trouble?” he said.

  I shook my head ‘no’ and started to explain that the flat had been successfully patched and was performing flawlessly when he grinned. He was just teasing me.

  It was the same grin I’d first experienced nearly two months ago through a foggy, alcohol-saturated brain at seven-thirty in the morning. Wearing crumpled blue jeans and the previous night’s makeup. Over a dropped country ham biscuit, in Diana’s at the espresso bar.

  I took a deep breath to help me claim the memory. By the time I exhaled, the biscuit encounter was so vivid, it felt like it had just happened yesterday. I forgot about Robert and Daddy’s store and Handyman’s Depot and my uncertain future, and allowed myself to wonder about the man who had changed my flat tire then and was grinning at me now. To wonder what he would do if I just moved straight into his arms and kissed him. Boldly, full on the mouth.

  “You know, I don’t remember if I even thanked you for changing my tire. That day seems like it was forever ago!” I lied, attempting a light-hearted laugh.

  “That day seems like yesterday, Carly Stone,” Trent said in a voice an octave or two lower than normal.

  In that moment, I almost did move in to kiss him, boldly, full on the mouth. But before I could act out my fantasy, Trent let out a small laugh and got his normal voice back.

  “I’m headed to the office to see Pop for a few minutes. Why don’t you ride along and I’ll have Sophie get you copies of everything you wanted.”

  I agreed and let him open the passenger side door for me before hoisting myself into his truck. He called his secretary on a two-way radio and asked her to make the copies.

  Lost in our own thoughts, we were quiet during the drive but it was a comfortable silence. When we pulled up to the office of Protter Construction and Development Company, Trent turned off the engine but didn’t immediately get out of the truck. He cocked his head and looked at me. He’d just realized something important.

  “What?” I said.

  “You can read everything for yourself,” he began, “but there were some unusual contingencies and clauses in the contract. The upfront purchase price, four hundred and twenty thousand dollars, was a good bit less than the true market value but Robert will receive seven percent of the gross tenant lease income for the next five years. He has absolutely no ownership or management involvement, but he does get seven percent off the top.”

  “Why not just go for a higher purchase price to begin with?”

  “Any number of reasons. There could be a tax advantage for him. It could be a way to show income over the next five years for his bogus investment company. Who knows?”

  I nodded. In the world of real estate and land development, everything was negotiable. If you owned a desirable piece of property, you could sell to a buyer on your terms.

  “We agreed because we wanted that particular piece of land. The location is prime. But our attorney—“

  “Jack,” I interjected.

  “Right. Jack put in a clause that the seven percent would only be paid if the center were completed to the exact usable retail square footage specifications and number of tenant slots as outlined in the original master plan. Or it could be higher, but not less, as a safeguard for us. In other words, based on lease income per square foot, we could give up seven percent and the numbers worked. But if the plans changed for any reason, as they sometimes do,” he shot me a you-certainly-know-how-that-could-happen look, “that seven percent could become a problem.”

  A crease appeared in Trent’s forehead as he thought back.

  “They didn’t realize the safeguard was in the contract until closing, when the attorney questioned us about it. She was flying back to New York that afternoon, but said she’d stay an extra day if we would reschedule the closing to give us a chance to negotiate the clause. She thought that a sliding scale should be determined, instead of the percentage being paid on an all-or-nothing basis. For example, say the retail square footage dropped by ten percent from the original plans. Then, instead of Robert getting seven percent for the next five years, he’d only get six percent. That kind of thing.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She contacted him on her mobile phone and explained the situation. But he was adamant about proceeding with the closing that day. He told her to go ahead and close, and not to miss her return flight to New York.”

  “And?”

  “And we closed. That was that. I guess your husband just didn’t want to wait. Although, if something happened, he’d forgo the seven percent. Which, over five years, could add up to several hundred thousand dollars.”

  “How did you pay?”

  “We prefer to directly deposit funds into a seller’s account, but in this case, he insisted on a certified check for the full amount. The attorney took the check back to New York with her.”

  “Do you remember what day it was? The closing?”

  “Well…let me think.” He looked up, through the sunroof of the truck. “It was June of last year. I remember because it was the day after Pop’s birthday.”

  He told me the date. It was a date that gave me the same sickening feeling of betrayal as when I’d discovered Robert in my bed with Corin Bashley.

  Needing fresh air, I opened my door, as the implications of what Trent had just told me sunk in.

  “That was the day before we left for our honeymoon,” I mumbled. “We got married three weeks before, during the first week of June, but took a delayed honeymoon because of his work schedule. Robert demanded you close that day because he wanted to have the check in hand when we left for Belize, and he couldn’t very well reschedule the honey
moon.”

  “You obviously didn’t know about the sale,” Trent said. “But what difference did the honeymoon make?”

  “He opened an offshore account. You closed on Wednesday and the attorney brought him the check that night. We flew to Belize the next day, but got in late. So, the first day of our honeymoon was Friday, and I remember thinking how odd it was that Robert disappeared to the bank to cash a check for three hours while I was sunning on the beach. But now I realize he must’ve opened an offshore account. To hide the money from me.”

  A throbbing ache emerged at the base of my skull and I subconsciously rubbed it to ease the tightness. The sensual part of my brain, the part that could care less about the unfolding drama, imagined Trent’s strong hand massaging the back of my neck.

  “See,” I told him, “I just wanted to go somewhere quiet in the Florida Keys for our honeymoon. But he convinced me that we needed to go to the Caribbean. Then at the last minute, he surprised me with airline tickets to Belize. And when I spoke about my upcoming honeymoon at work, one of the clients, a banker, mentioned that Belize is one of the best places to hide money right now. Of course at the time, I thought nothing of it.”

  “So he planned your honeymoon around hiding money from you. And maybe Uncle Sam, too.”

  “Right. And what you just told me about the seven percent all-or-nothing clause?”

  Trent nodded, frowning. He’d already come to the same conclusion.

  “If the Handyman’s Depot spot were axed because of the red-cockaded woodpeckers, Robert would have lost his seven percent. Which you said would amount a lot of money.”

  “Yes.”

  “The fire…” I began before my sentence melted into nothingness as I envisioned a jumbled mass of horrific possibilities, all involving Robert and greed and arson.

  Trent reached across the console and found my hand.

  He gave it a squeeze. “We’ll figure this thing out together, Carly. Okay?”

  It was my turn to nod.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The first thing I needed to know was whether or not Robert had been in Charleston at the time of the fire. Minnie Beth said he hadn’t visited them, but then, he rarely ever did visit them. My next plan was to start checking hotels near the site. I’d pose as Mister Ellis’s secretary calling to see if anything had been turned in to the front desk, as my boss believed that he’d left his mobile phone in his room. They’d want to know the date he checked out, which I’d say was the day after the fire and they would want to know what room number he’d been in, which I’d talk my way through. Over and over again. Charleston was home to a lot of hotels. Not to mention the bed and breakfasts and vacation condo rentals.

  It suddenly dawned on me that Robert would have most likely flown from New York and checking with the airlines would be much easier. After all, there were only two that flew into Charleston. He usually flew the same airline everywhere he went, and at social events, he liked to brag about how many frequent flier miles he’d racked up. A good travel war story was his second favorite ice breaker, right after the day’s stock market activity.

  I retrieved my frequent flier card from my wallet and made the toll free call. My member number was imprinted into the plastic and I’d written in Robert’s number on the back.

  After being put on automated hold for ten minutes, I got a bored customer service representative whom I thought would be easy to manipulate.

  “I’d like to find out how many total points my husband and I have because I’m planning a surprise vacation for our one year anniversary. Can you help me with that?”

  “That information would be on your current statement, ma’am.”

  “Right, but he’s real close to having enough points for two first class tickets. And he just took a recent flight that isn’t reflected on the statement.”

  She sighed, as though my call were an intrusion to her workday.

  “I’ll need his frequent flier number, mother’s maiden name for security purposes and the confirmation number of the last flight.”

  I gave her the first two answers and tried to talk my way through the last.

  “I can’t help you ma’am, if you don’t have the confirmation number. You can have your husband submit a request in writing to get an updated points statement.”

  I hung up and hit the redial button. This time I only had to listen to oldies music and intermittent recordings about my call being important for eight minutes. I got a much friendlier representative. I gave him the same story but ended it with, “my husband will be so surprised! I really appreciate your help with this.”

  When we got past the initial questions, I told him, with as much contrition as I could muster, that I didn’t have the confirmation number or flight number because my husband’s secretary handled all that. For good measure, I added that she was having a baby and was out on maternity leave.

  “Well, let’s see what I can do,” he said, apparently studying the computer monitor in front of him. I could hear the clicking of his fingers hitting a keyboard. “Yes, you’re right. There are a couple of recent flights that aren’t reflected on the most current statement. And you’ll be pleased to know that your husband has earned enough points for two roundtrip airfares in the U.S. or Puerto Rico.”

  “Oh, that’s super!” I said with forced enthusiasm. “The round trip to Charleston, must have added just enough miles!”

  “Yes ma’am, that was the last one,” he said happily. “If you have his password, you can go ahead and reserve your flight right now.”

  “What a good idea, but I’ll have to reserve the hotel first. You’ve been so helpful. Can I ask for you when I call back?”

  “Sorry, no. You just get the next representative. But anyone can make your reservations.”

  “Oh, well then. Thanks again,” I said, dismayed that I still didn’t have the information I needed. “Just one more thing. That flight from LaGuardia to Charleston – what were the dates on that?”

  He hesitated.

  “I just want to write it down on my frequent flier statement, so I’ll know I’ve already counted those mileage points.”

  He told me the departure and return date to LaGuardia.

  Robert had only spent one night in Charleston. The night of the fire.

  * * *

  My next call went to the fire chief and I didn’t dance around the fact that I’d called seeking information. Had he not been long-time friends with Daddy, he would have politely told me to get lost. But instead, Chief Jim agreed to pass along what he’d learned so far, after I agreed to keep it confidential.

  “The fire was set, using the diesel from the fuel truck. And you were right about the toluene and the woodpecker nests. The cavities were completely burned out, but we did find some traces of residual chemical in the wood. It could have been two men – one standing on the shoulders of another to reach the nests. But, more likely, a single man or woman just used an extension ladder. For that matter, someone could have driven an SUV up to the trees and stood on top of it. ”

  The news confirmed what I already suspected. I asked Chief Jim if he could tell me anything more, especially pertaining to the man whose body had been found. There was a long pause while the fire chief decided how much to tell me.

  “Well, you’ll be reading about it in tomorrow’s paper anyway,” he began. “The Charleston Police Department is involved and they’ve requested assistance from SLED.”

  SLED was the acronym for the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division. They were the elite of the cops and handled special situations and unusual occurrences.

  “So if the police and SLED were brought in, then the autopsy report must indicate murder?”

  “Let’s just say that Jerry Stillwell was injured before the fire started,” Chief Jim said.

  “But what is the evidence of actual murder?”

  “Well, either Mister Stillwell just happened to die, with a head injury, sitting against a pine tree, on a construction sit
e, sometime in the middle of the night. And then a fire mysteriously broke out. Or,” the fire chief said, “someone dragged his unconscious body across the ground, propped it against a tree and set the fire.”

  “He had a head injury? And, what was he doing out there in the first place?”

  “Who knows? His wife says he left right after dinner to check on the storage shed that he forgot to lock up, where they keep the chemicals. That’s the last she saw of him.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “The entire situation doesn’t make sense,” Chief Jim agreed. “That’s why we called in SLED. We’re talking arson, murder and purposefully destroying an endangered species… all wrapped into one tidy package.”

  “So how did it go down?”

  “There was debris inside the back pockets of what was left of his jeans to indicate he had been drug along the ground. He’d also been hit across the side of the head with something heavy and it wasn’t falling debris.” Chief Jim paused to take a drink of something. “And his lung tissue had smoke damage, so he was still breathing when the fire broke out.”

  I wondered if Robert broke into the storage shed in search of chemicals and stumbled upon Jerry Stillwell. Even if Robert had knocked the man unconscious, he could have let him live. Had he really drug the man to the cluster of trees, lit the fire, and left him for dead? The thought that I married a possible murderer sickened me.

  “Does his wife know?”

  “Yes,” Chief Jim said. “She knows her husband may have been murdered. But she is somewhat comforted by the knowledge that, in all probability, he didn’t suffer.”

  We both thought about that for a moment, seeking some solace in a circumstance where there really wasn’t any.

  “Now, it’s your turn, Carly. I know you found the woodpeckers, but what’s your continued interest now?”

  “I’m just trying to figure a few things out,” I said, evading his question. “If I come up with anything that will help, I promise to pass it on.”

  “You do that,” he said. “And give your daddy my regards.”