04 Lowcountry Bordello

by Boyer, Susan M.

  “It’s possible,” I said with a straight face. I stared at the photo of Thurston with his wife and sons in the newspaper article on the screen. “Though I can see the resemblance to Robert. Looks to be about the same height and build. Same hair color. Their facial features are very different, but from behind…The point is, all of this is conjecture.”

  Nate shook his head.

  “You’re too close to this case. Clearly you are incapable of being objective.”

  “Listen,” said Colleen. “You cannot turn this over to Sonny yet. As soon as Charleston PD goes into that house with a search warrant, the people they need to talk to are going to cover their tracks. One of them will do that by killing more innocents. Okay, innocents may not be the exact right word. But it’s not their time.”

  “Alternate scenario?” I closed my eyes as soon as I spoke.

  “I can’t think of a single one,” said Nate.

  “Exactly,” said Colleen. One of her gifts was to see what would happen if people made different choices. She called these alternate scenarios.

  Nate took the East Bay Street exit off the end of the Cooper River Bridge. “We need to find Sonny and tell him everything that happened last night and wash our hands of this entire affair forthwith. We haven’t cashed the check. Give it back to Robert.”

  “Nate, please. Let’s just dig a little further. I have a feeling there’s more going on here than we know.”

  “Oh, I’m dead certain you’re right about that. But we are flirting with an obstruction charge.”

  “Not until we know the cases are connected. We have no evidence of that. You know how fertile Olivia’s imagination is. She probably hallucinated that body in the parlor. I have photos, remember? Olivia must’ve recalled what Robert was wearing. She was nervous being in that house. It was dark…You and I are working a blackmail case.”

  “What are you not telling me?” Nate asked. “It’s not like you to be irrational.”

  It killed me not to tell him. But I couldn’t. The consequences would be losing Colleen for the rest of my mortal life. “Nothing,” I said. “We just need time. My fear is, the second the police start investigating that bordello, everyone connected to it is going to do whatever is necessary to protect themselves. I want to know who all are involved—and I want as much information on them as possible—before they have a chance to hide evidence. And I don’t want one of my bridesmaids dragged into a high-profile murder investigation right before our wedding. Mamma would have a stroke.”

  Nate fell silent.

  “Turn right on Atlantic,” I said. “Left on Church. Then make a right on South Battery.”

  He followed my directions and within a few minutes, I spotted Olivia’s car.

  “There.” I pointed.

  Nate tapped the horn twice as he rolled close. The red Lexus pulled away and Nate slid the Explorer right into the parking space. He turned off the car and turned to me. “In deference to your mamma’s health, I’ll give this case the day we promised Robert. That’s it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s against my better judgement.” He climbed out of the car and waited for me on the packed dirt pathway that bordered the north side of the park.

  “Mine, too,” I said. But he couldn’t hear me.

  “Good job,” said Colleen. Then she vanished.

  I got out and joined Nate. For a moment, we both just stood there taking in the pandemonium. Emergency vehicles lined Murrary Boulevard on the other side of White Point Gardens. A stiff December wind battered the crime scene tape that formed a perimeter around the middle of the park. Beyond that, uniformed police officers kept the press and the public at bay. Eager young reporters were broadcasting live.

  Inside the yellow tape, a white tent had been set up between the Moultrie Monument and the bandstand. The tent served two purposes. It shielded the victim from public view, and protected the immediate area from the thick, low hanging clouds that threatened more rain. No doubt the body, the coroner, and the detectives were inside. Crime scene techs combed the surrounding area.

  Nate said, “Whoever moved that body certainly wasn’t concerned with hiding it. Just wanted it out of the house.”

  “We need to talk to Sonny. If Thurston Middleton was killed where they found his body and they know that, then there’s no connection. The problem is, if Sonny verifies the body was moved, we’ll have no choice but to tell him everything. Damnation. We can’t talk to Sonny. Not yet.”

  “And with that in mind, we should probably leave before he pops his head out of that tent, sees us, and wonders what our interest in his case could possibly be.”

  “We need to get inside that house. We need to learn everything we possibly can, as fast as we can.”

  “Let’s get you out of this chilly wind. We can sit in the car and plot how best to commit breaking and entering on a whorehouse.”

  “It’s not breaking and entering if one of the owners gives us a key,” I said.

  We got back into the car, both of us still watching the circus in the park. “All right,” said Nate. “Suppose Olivia gives us the key and the alarm codes. How do we get the other occupants out of the house? Stage a fake gas leak?”

  “No, that’s too risky. The handyman might not go very far. Seems like he’d stick close for something like that. What we need is a spa day.”

  “And you think that will get the handyman—what’s his name? Seth—to leave?”

  I pondered that for a moment.

  “Yes, I do. He’ll absolutely go if Olivia tells him he can’t.” I called Olivia using the Bluetooth system in the car so Nate could listen. I put a finger to my lips, asking him not to speak. “I need you to give every female in that house a spa day slash shopping outing for Christmas, Aunt Dean included. An expensive one. One no woman would turn down. I need you to go with them. And I need it to commence at noon. Today.”

  “I’ll call Charleston Place and book every available time slot for every available service,” said Olivia. “Aunt Dean can smooth things over with the…sponsors. You know, if they have appointments scheduled.”

  “Perfect,” I said. I’d gotten Mamma and Merry each spa packages at Charleston Place for Christmas. “Now listen, this is important. I want you to rent a limo. Make as big a splash as you can. And tell Seth that he’s not invited.”

  “If I tell him that, he’ll go or die trying.”

  “Exactly. Make a scene about it.”

  “Ooooh.” I could hear the smile in Olivia’s voice. “Smart.”

  “Thank you. Just make sure you keep them all out of the house until I call you and tell you it’s okay to bring them back. If you run out of spa appointments, go shopping, go out for drinks—or an early dinner.

  “If anyone takes a notion to leave early, you have to insist they stay. Order a lot of champagne. If Seth starts to leave, encourage him. Tell him you have things to discuss with Aunt Dean privately anyway.”

  “Reverse psychology. I can handle this,” said Olivia.

  “I know,” I said. “This is right up our alley. But if someone does leave, text or call me right away. And if you haven’t heard from me, give me a heads up when you’re on your way back.”

  “Okay. I’d better start making phone calls. I’ll need to get Mamma to stay with the kids.”

  “Wait—does your Aunt Dean have a landline? And does she use it, or does she have a cellphone?”

  “She wants nothing to do with cellphones. She has a landline. She’s just very careful about what she says on it.”

  “And how many girls live there?”

  “Five, plus Aunt Dean.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “That’s complicated.”

  “I don’t understand. You either know their names, or you don’t.”
r />   Olivia sighed.

  “Every ‘guest’ room is named for the family who sponsors the guest. Because these are ‘nieces,’ you understand, their last names are the same.”

  “So their last names are aliases.”

  “I guess you’d call them that. I can tell you the names they go by, but I’m not sure how much help that’ll be.”

  “It’s a start. Does your Aunt Dean know their real names? I mean, she pays them, right?”

  “Heavens, no. Here’s how this works. If there’s an open room, through word-of-mouth, a gentleman will refer a young lady. Usually he says it’s a cousin or a niece. Then he pays her rent to Aunt Dean—strictly a family obligation, you understand.”

  “Very slick.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Of course the gentlemen in question pay exorbitant rent, even for South of Broad. I’m told they also give their ‘nieces’ or whatever allowances to ‘tide them over.’”

  I pondered all of that for a minute. “You said the rooms were named for the gentleman paying the bill. Are you saying the rooms stay in the same families?”

  “No. Aunt Dean just has a new doorplate made when she needs to. Over time there’ve been a few repeats.”

  “Is one of the current names Middleton?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  She’d hear it on the news or through the grapevine soon enough. “Thurston Middleton was found dead this morning in White Point Gardens.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “But that doesn’t make the first bit of sense.”

  “We’ll figure it out. I just need you to play your part. What’s the alarm code?”

  “Five nine two five. J-W-B-J. Jackson Wayne Beauthorpe, Jr.”

  “We need your keys. Nate will pass you on the street just after you get out of the limo. He’ll bump into you and apologize. In case anyone is watching, act like you don’t know him. Slip him the keys.”

  “Got it.”

  “And we need your written request that we set up security surveillance and monitoring over the entire property. I’m emailing you the document. Just sign it and send it back. Do you know the first names of the men involved?” I switched gears quickly so as not to allow her too much time to ponder the words “security surveillance.”

  Best not to call her attention to the fact she would also be on camera if she went inside. If she behaved differently, it might give us away.

  “No. Aunt Dean keeps the business end of things very close to the vest. She’s given me bits and pieces over time. Some things I’ve figured out for myself. It’s like she wants to gradually initiate me. I imagine she thought it would be less of a shock that way.”

  “Is there any chance whatsoever your Aunt Dean doesn’t know what really goes on there?”

  “None. But no one could ever prove it.”

  “Then why on earth are you so worried about this coming out? If no one could prove it’s anything but a boardinghouse, run by a sweet little old lady trying to hang on to her family home?”

  “Because no one has to prove a damn thing to ruin all of our reputations. All the talk will do that. We’ll never live it down.”

  Just then I was thinking how with a dead politician involved, this was likely going to be national news. I couldn’t think of any scenario that would prevent that from happening. “All right, look. Just email me the names you have. And get everyone out of the house by noon.” I ended the call.

  Nate nodded towards the park.

  “Clock’s ticking.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Sonny emerge from the tent. He was talking to another detective, not looking our way.

  Nate started the car. He negotiated the Explorer into traffic, which was moving at a crawl.

  I said, “The first question on my mind is what exactly was Thurston Middleton doing inside 12 Church Street last night?”

  “Hold on now. I thought your theory for the events of last evening involved Olivia hallucinating the body in the parlor.”

  “That’s true,” I said, “but I’m trying to be fair here. Give you a chance to prove your theory, all the while proving how I’m right.”

  “So you’re planning to prove a negative.”

  “Exactly.”

  Finally, Nate turned left on East Bay. “You go to the liquor store to buy liquor. There’s no other logical reason to open the door and walk inside. Same principle holds, regardless of the product.”

  “But you heard Olivia. There is no Middleton room. If he isn’t a patron, what was his business there? He’s a politician. You’d think he’d avoid going anywhere near the place.”

  “Well, Slugger, this is South Carolina. We’re heavy into redemption here. All you have to do is confess your sins publicly and ask for forgiveness. Mark Sanford survived the Argentinian mistress scandal.”

  “If Middleton was trying to get the place shut down, he’d go in broad daylight, with protesters and the media. I need to dig deeper on Thurston Middleton’s background, first thing.”

  “Just because there’s no Middleton room currently doesn’t mean there never was one.”

  “Good point,” I said. “He may have been somehow trying to cover his tracks before he formally launches his campaign.”

  “Makes sense. So, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover—a tall order for so little time. Where do you want to set up shop? It’s nine thirty. We’ve got two and a half hours until we can get inside the house.”

  “We can’t be running back and forth to Stella Maris, that’s for sure. And we can’t park on Church Street to watch who goes in and out after the ladies get back from their spa day.” I did a quick search of local bed and breakfasts on my iPad. “I thought so. The house diagonally across the street, number 15, is a B and B. And they have third floor rooms. If we can get the room on the front of the house, we can see most of what we need to see without being seen.”

  Nate grinned. “We’re going to get an unsavory reputation among local inns if we’re not careful.”

  “We didn’t even give our names at John Rutledge House Inn.” I grinned at the memory of a pretext from a case back in the fall as I tapped in the phone number. Moments later we had a reservation for the Rose Room at fifteen Church Street, The Phillips-Yates-Snowden house.

  Six

  Fifteen Church Street was a lovely brick English side-hall house. Similar to Charleston single houses, the narrow end of the house faced the street, but with the front door leading to a hall that ran the length of the house. According to BedandBreakfast.com, it was built circa 1842 and was currently owned by Jack and Annelise Simmons. Nate pulled through the gate, as we’d been instructed, and down the narrow drive all the way to the back. The car would be hidden from all but the most inquiring eyes.

  Thankfully, we kept essential equipment, a change of clothes, and overnight necessities in each of our cars for emergencies such as this. We walked back around front and climbed the steps. On the landing, we looked at each other.

  “I always wonder whether to knock on the door at a bed and breakfast. It’s a business—”

  “And it’s also someone’s home.” I shook my head at him and knocked.

  “They’re certainly in the holiday spirit,” said Nate.

  The stair railing and every window were festooned with pine boughs, gold ribbon, magnolia blossoms, and white lights. Poinsettias lined the steps. The wreath on the door was a work of art.

  Mrs. Simmons welcomed us into the hall, which ran down the right side of the house. She was a lovely woman, with a chin-length blond bob.

  “Thank you for letting us check in so early, Mrs. Simmons,” I said.

  “Please, call me Annelise. No problem at all. We’re happy to have you with us.”

  “You have a lovely home,” said Nate.

  The butt
ery yellow walls with white trim, gleaming floors, and gilded accents spoke of good taste and regular maintenance. The scents of the season—pine, cinnamon, and cookies baking—enveloped us. LeAnne Rimes crooned “Hard Candy Christmas.” Annelise needed some happy Christmas music.

  “Thank you so much.” She went about the business of getting us checked in. “So y’all are locals, then?” she asked as she handed us our key.

  “That’s right.” Nate smiled. Sometimes I wondered if he knew the effect that smile had on women. “From time to time we just like staying over downtown. Walk to dinner. It’s nice.”

  “Well, you won’t be needing my overview of the area, then. But I do hope you’ll join us for our social hour at six. We’ll have wine and cheese. We can get better acquainted then. I’m afraid the weather’s too bad for us to be on the verandah. We’ll gather in the living room.”

  I leaned in closer, spoke in a soft voice. “To be perfectly honest, Annelise, Nate and I are getting married Saturday. We desperately need some alone time. All the wedding preparations—you know how hectic that can get.”

  She returned my smile. “Congratulations. I understand completely. Well, if you feel like company, we’ll be here. Breakfast is served between eight and nine thirty.”

  We thanked her and carried our things to the third floor. The Rose Room was aptly named. The walls were a lovely shade of pinkish red—it’s easy for red wall paint to lean towards tacky, but this room was anything but. A black iron queen-size bed with a shelf of sweetgrass baskets above sat between two windows. A day bed and an armchair would give us room to spread out and work. The remaining décor was a mix of period pieces and wicker.

  I crossed the room and checked out the view. From either side of the bed I could see rooftops, treetops, and beyond those, the harbor. On a clear day, this would be a beautiful vista. Looking down, I could see part of the south end of Church Street. Far more important to us were the windows on the front of the house.