Choosing Charleston

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Granny, making a show of situating herself on the ground, proffered her glass of wine to the half-snoozing dog. Taffy picked up her head to investigate the offering, sniffed it, licked the rim once, yawned and went back to sleep.

  “This dog don’t like wine!”

  Granny climbed back into her chair and began flipping through a magazine.

  “It’s like I said,” Daddy continued. “Wade would be proud of everything your mamma and I have done with the business that he started. And our employees won’t have a bit of trouble finding something else. They’re all good people and any company would be lucky to have them.”

  “You certainly are looking on the bright side of things.”

  He nodded. “If I had the power to decide exactly how this whole thing would go down, I’d choose my own version. But your mamma and I will take the hand that we’re dealt and make it work.”

  “What would your version be?”

  “Well, slowing down and spending more time with your mamma is certainly appealing. But I’d like to keep working, maybe part time.”

  “Doing what?” I couldn’t envision Daddy selling tee shirts or greeting people at Wal-Mart.

  “Good question. Hardware and home supply is what I know and love.”

  Mouth-watering cooking smells wafted out from Mamma’s kitchen and mingled with pipe smoke as the evening slipped into dusk. A chorus of crickets began to make their rhythmic music. Taffy snored contentedly.

  Mamma returned to announce that her famous plantation hash was ready and we could eat anytime. Whenever she prepared a meal out of rice and whatever she happened to find on the refrigerator shelves, it was dubbed plantation hash. The term originated before the Civil War years, when South Carolina’s rice plantations thrived and slave families would often mix cooked rice with whatever else they had on hand.

  Relaxed by the comforting scents and sounds of home, I suddenly figured out what had been nagging at me about the tax maps and closing paperwork. Like a persistent mechanic, my subconscious had finally repaired the loose connection in my brain and I sat up so abruptly that some wine sloshed out of its glass.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “What?” everybody said.

  “The dates!” I said.

  “What about the dates?” Daddy said.

  “When he bought the land from Minnie Beth and Patrick, Robert made sure the closing took place before we got married. The date on the settlement statement was the day before our wedding. A Friday.”

  “Right,” Daddy said.

  “But the title wasn’t recorded until the following Monday, after we were married. That’s what bothered me about the date, but I didn’t make the connection until just now!”

  Mamma and Daddy looked at me, not understanding my excitement.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  “What difference does a day or two make?” Mamma said.

  My heart pounded with the discovery. “It means that, technically, the asset wasn’t acquired until after Robert and I married. And South Carolina is an equitable distribution divorce state. Which means, I can ask for half of that seven percent income and half of the gain from the sale to the Protters.”

  “That money is probably already gone,” Daddy said.

  “Or it’s hidden offshore.”

  “So then, what are you so excited about?” Mamma asked.

  “I can make a strong case that the entire transaction was illegitimate, because Robert had no right to sell the land to the Protters to begin with! Since, theoretically, the investment was acquired after we became husband and wife, I can claim it was jointly owned property! I can make an argument that construction should be stopped because I want my half of the land back. Of course it won’t hold. Any judge in her right mind would work out an equitable solution. But I sure can slow things down in the interim. It could be a major setback for the Protters, time wise.”

  “You can do that just because the title deed wasn’t recorded the same day of the purchase?” Mamma said.

  I smiled. “Yes.”

  “How did it happen?” Lori Anne asked.

  “Well, after a real estate closing, a courier takes the paperwork from the attorney’s office to the courthouse. That’s why most closings are scheduled to take place in the morning or early afternoon. The sale, or transfer of the property from one owner to another, is not technically complete in South Carolina until the deed is recorded at the courthouse. But in this case, something must have happened to the courier.”

  I paused to eat a pistachio nut. “Who knows what? He could have had a flat tire on the way to the courthouse. Or a personal emergency. The bottom line is that he didn’t get to the courthouse before it closed that Friday, so the title wasn’t recorded until the following Monday. Meanwhile, Robert and I had gotten married during the weekend.”

  “Good Lord,” Mamma said.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Amazing,” Daddy said.

  “Is supper ready?” Granny said.

  We went inside and ate and pondered the possibilities.

  Robert had bought the land before we got married, or so he thought. Then just weeks later, right before our honeymoon, turned it for an outrageous profit. And to top that, he’d stashed the money in Belize. But, despite the fact that he’d done it all without my knowledge, I now had another way to stall Protter’s development.

  Mamma concocted tonight’s version of plantation hash with chicken, sausage, tomatoes, onions and yellow squash. It was delicious.

  “Oh, man, do I miss this cooking,” Lori Anne said through a full mouth. “If Carly leaves town again, can I still come over to eat?”

  “I’m not going anywhere!” I said.

  “And even if she does, you’re welcome to come eat anytime,” Mamma said.

  As I thought about the Protter family business and Stone Hardware and my newly discovered ammunition to once again halt progress at the construction site, I had a revelation. Forcing my mind to contemplate an even bigger picture, it dawned on me that I could fight and negotiate simultaneously. I didn’t have to give up one for the other. I didn’t have to avoid conflict to work out a win-win situation.

  I had additional ammunition in my arsenal. And I had the ability to sweeten Handyman’s pot with the lure of In Home Now as a marketing avenue for their exclusive products. I could do what I did best… negotiate… and fight!

  I told everyone what I had in mind.

  “Oh, man,” Lori Anne said. Her eyes glowed with anticipation. “This is going to be good.”

  “Exactly what will you negotiate?” Daddy asked.

  “That’s for you to figure out!” I said. “You’re the businessman.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “This is what we’ve got. The Handyman’s Depot is going to happen. But, it can happen smoothly or it can happen with delays. It’s in their best interest for the store to open on schedule. That’s our ammunition. That’s how we strong-arm our way to the table. Then, we work out a deal to market their exclusive products through In Home Now. That’s the incentive we bring to the table. The third part of this equation is your demand. How does the deal benefit you? For example, maybe you’d want to work part time for them as a local consultant. How would you paint your version of this picture?”

  Daddy nodded, thinking. After a minute or two, he asked for the dossier on Handyman’s Depot.

  We finished eating and Daddy and I retired to the drawing room while everyone else stretched out on the back porch. For the next hour and a half, Daddy read the information I’d given him and intermittently scribbled notes. I followed him to the screened porch when he got up to smoke his pipe and call Stephen with questions about In Home Now. When he hung up, he was grinning.

  “An exclusive products distribution warehouse and public showroom for In Home Now.”

  “In Home Now doesn’t have any public showrooms or stores,” I said.

  “Exactly!”


  When he finished explaining it, I realized Daddy’s idea was genius. It made good business sense all the way around.

  During his phone call, Daddy learned that In Home Now, in a trial move, was going to open three retail locations across the country. The stores would sell most everything featured on the show and give consumers the opportunity to do on-air reviews.

  Two of the locations were already targeted for New York and Atlanta but the third was open.

  Although In Home Now had not considered South Carolina, Daddy convinced Stephen that Charleston was a perfect choice. And Stephen was confident that he could sell the idea to the partners and his boss. Not only was it Jenny’s hometown, but the charismatic city drew a brisk tourist business year round. Between the locals and visitors, and Jenny’s support with frequent appearances, the site was sure to be a hit.

  Daddy also learned that In Home Now would entertain the idea of forming a partnership with Handyman’s Depot to sell their exclusive products on the air, which was the key to making my idea work. Meanwhile, the existing building Mamma and Daddy’s store occupied would make a perfect warehouse from which to inventory and ship Handyman’s products to In Home Now viewers. Daddy could oversee both the retail store and the warehouse. And, if he hired the right people to manage them, he could travel with Mamma as often as they wanted to go.

  “That’s brilliant!” Mamma told Daddy.

  “Can it work?” Lori Anne asked.

  My mind forged ahead, preparing lists of what I’d have to do to make it happen. “Of course it can work. Mamma’s right. It’s brilliant.”

  Lori Anne wished me luck, thanked Mamma and headed home to get a good night’s sleep. I thought about going to bed early but decided I’d never be able to doze off. There was too much activity inside my head. Energized, I headed to the kitchen table with my laptop and by the time I called Trent an hour and a half later, it was past midnight.

  “Hello?”

  It was a sleepy greeting. I tried not to think about what Trent’s perfectly proportioned body looked like stretched out in bed. I wondered if it was a king size bed. I wondered if he slept nude.

  “It’s Carly Stone. I want you to arrange a meeting with Joseph Jones and his people. Preferably here, in Charleston. Sometime soon. I have a proposal.”

  “Carly?” he asked, quickly gaining full consciousness.

  “Yes?” I said sweetly.

  “Can you repeat whatever it was you just said?”

  “Sure.” I did.

  “And what makes you think that Joseph Jones, president and CEO of Handyman’s Depot, has any desire to drop everything and show up for a chat with you?”

  I told him exactly why.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  “That’s what I said when I realized the possibilities.”

  I heard the rustling of sheets and imagined Trent sitting on the edge of the bed. Wearing only boxer shorts, or better yet, totally nude. He sighed heavily into the telephone and I knew he was no longer in bed. I had a mental image of him pacing, back and forth, on his bedroom floor.

  “Can’t you just have the divorce lawyer work something out between you and Robert?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re not going to just let this drop, are you?”

  I still didn’t say anything.

  “No, of course you’re not,” Trent answered his own question.

  I silently agreed.

  He muttered something that was probably a curse word.

  I nodded through the phone.

  “Can you at least tell me what you plan to propose at this little meeting?”

  I did. When I’d finished, Trent began laughing. It was a soft chuckle at first but escalated to a genuine, full blown laugh.

  “You’re a jewel, Carly Stone.”

  I wasn’t sure if the comment was a compliment or an insult. “So will you set up a meeting with Joseph Jones and his entourage next week?”

  “Sure. I’ll get Jo Jo to the table. He’s already scheduled to be in town because we’re having lunch Wednesday. Perhaps we can do it at Jack’s office.”

  I detected a mix of humor, frustration and resignation in Trent’s voice.

  “Look,” I told him. “This thing can turn out to be a good business decision for everybody involved. Good for Mamma and Daddy, good for In Home Now, good for Handyman’s and good for you, because you get to finish your shopping center on time. It’s a winner all the way around.”

  “But isn’t this negotiation?” Trent asked. “What happened to the new Carly Stone? The fighter. The one who told me she was tired of compromise?”

  “She decided to get off the end of the church pew and look at the bigger picture.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Is this Carly?”

  The sweet voice coming through the telephone sounded familiar, but I didn’t immediately place it.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m Alecia Stillwell, Jerry’s wife? Or, Jerry’s widow, I mean,” she said.

  “Alecia, how are you doing? I’m glad you called.”

  “You told me that you’re trying to find out who killed my husband.”

  “Yes, I am,” I told her. “But right now, all I have are suspicions. And the police won’t listen to suspicions.”

  “Can I come over?”

  Alecia arrived half an hour later. She looked as young and innocent and fragile as she had when I’d gone to her house, except this time she didn’t have the two youngsters hanging on her. She told me that she was moving in two days and her mother had come up from Savannah to help her drive the U-Haul back. We got two glasses of lemonade and sat on the piazza. She asked if I still had the photo I’d shown her before. I found it at the bottom of my purse and handed it to her. She studied it and frowned.

  “That could be him,” she announced.

  “Could be who?”

  She took a deep breath, deciding where to start. “I went by the construction site to see Mister Protter this morning. To say goodbye and to thank him. And because… I don’t know… I guess I just needed to get a feel for where Jerry died. To say goodbye to him, too.”

  She reached down to pet Taffy, who nuzzled her knees, probably detecting the scent of two small children on their mother.

  “There was this guy there? He was leaving when I got there but Mister Protter introduced me anyway. So when the guy finds out I’m Jerry’s wife, a real strange look comes over him. And then he says something about giving me condolences, or whatever, and gives me a hug? That’s when I smelled it.”

  “You smelled what?”

  “The chemical. It’s a solvent they use with the adhesives. The same stuff the arson people found traces of in those bird’s nests. The cavities in the trees?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I smelled it on his jacket when he hugged me. It was kind of windy and drizzly this morning? And he was wearing this red windbreaker jacket? With, like, a country club logo on the front?”

  Although she was talking in questions, they didn’t require responses.

  “So the smell was on the sleeve I think, or maybe the collar? I don’t know. But I definitely smelled it. I have a real good nose, and this stuff has a unique odor. Sort of like an oily plastic, but kind of sweet?”

  “When did you smell it before?” I asked. “How did you know what the chemical smelled like to begin with?”

  “Jerry didn’t work with that stuff, but once, him and a crane operator got it all over themselves by accident. I had a heck of a time trying to get the smell out of Jerry’s clothes? Anyway, he explained to me what the stuff was and what they used it for.”

  “So you smelled this adhesive solvent, the same one used in the fire, on this man that Trent Protter was talking to on the site?”

  “Uhm huh.”

  “And you think it might be the man in this picture?” I said holding up the small photo of Robert, my heart racing. “Are you sure?”

  She studied the p
icture again. “Pretty sure.”

  “You said Trent introduced you. Do you remember the name?”

  “Randy, maybe? Or Roger? I can’t remember. But I asked Mister Protter who the guy was after he left? He said some investor. I already knew from looking at the man’s hands that he wasn’t in construction, you know? They were manicured.”

  Something jumped in my stomach, and I had to put my glass of lemonade down before I dropped it. Robert had always taken pride in the way his hands looked, and got a manicure every two weeks.

  “Was the man’s name Robert?”

  “Yep, that was it. Mister Protter called him Robert.”

  “Did Trent tell you who the man is?” That he is my husband?

  “Yeah, I just told you. He was like, an investor.”

  I told Alecia that I knew the man she was talking about, and that I’d suspected his involvement in the fire.

  “Well, you tell me. Why would some investor have this chemical on his jacket? It’s not something you’d use around the house or anything. And besides that, there was a spot on his shoe.”

  “What do you mean, a spot?”

  “He was wearing these preppy looking brushed leather shoes? Like the kind with the white rubber soles that you’re supposed to wear on a boat? So one of them has this spot over the toe. Almost like a bleach spot, with a dark ring around it?”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “Well, it was exactly like the spots on Jerry’s boots when he got that toluene stuff all over himself.”

  “So you smelled it on his jacket and saw it on his shoe.”

  “Yep,” she said.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “I didn’t like the way he looked at me when he found out I was Jerry’s wife. It was a little creepy. I got good instincts about people.”

  I asked Alecia if she’d told the police what she was telling me. She hadn’t told anyone else, she said, because they would think she was imagining things. And besides that, she said, she had a good feeling about me.

  “With you being a lawyer and all, I figured you’d know what to do,” she said.

  I knew exactly what to do. “What color were the shoes?”

  “Tan,” she said. “Like, maybe a caramel color? With dark brown shoe strings.”