I changed channels quickly to gauge his response.
“I have racked my brain trying to figure out why a man would pay for two rooms at Miss Willowdean’s.”
“That is an intriguing question.”
James looked directly at me.
“Especially a man who is so devoted to his wife and children.”
Nate said, “Where on earth would one man get the time for three women?”
James laughed. “I can’t imagine.”
“Would you like to know my theory?” I asked.
“I’d be fascinated,” said James.
“I think a man with five children, a live-in household staff, a wife off the cover of a magazine, and a historic home with interior walls that aren’t well-insulated would have a unique problem.”
Nate cheated a glance at me, then straightened in his chair.
James smiled. “I would agree with your assessment. Such a man would face challenges.”
“How in the world would the couple ever enjoy privacy?” I mused. “Hotels certainly aren’t the answer. Those walls would be even thinner.”
“Indeed.” James held my gaze, not quite smiling any longer.
“If the man were a true Southern gentleman such as yourself, his wife’s privacy would be of the utmost concern.”
He looked away, then back. “It would be his highest priority after his family’s safety and well-being.”
“And if money were not an issue, this hypothetical man could probably find a way to help out a neighbor in need and a college student while solving his own problems. He could even pay for some high-end upgrades to the neighbor’s house so that it suited his needs.”
James nodded. “I imagine he could.”
“And if it all came out,” I said, “well, it couldn’t really all come out, could it? The gentleman’s reputation might suffer. But no one would ever know his wife had ever visited his neighbor’s home…except the college student who served as his cover story. And she’d be far too grateful that she didn’t have student loans to ever breathe a word.” James stared out the window.
“Of course,” I said, “over time there would likely be more than one college student. But it would be helpful if they planned on grad school. All the better if they volunteered for medical relief programs and traveled extensively.”
Nate said, “The two rooms over the garage have a virtually private entrance. Everyone who comes and goes at that house is concerned about keeping their own business quiet, not taking attendance on the young ladies who live there and checking it against patron visits.”
James said, “In a hypothetical situation such as you describe, no doubt the neighbor originally ran a boardinghouse. She’s likely been taken advantage of by men who aren’t as devoted to their wives.”
“The only remaining question I have,” I said, “is would such a man resort to murder to protect his wife’s privacy and reputation.”
A startled look flashed across his face. “I would imagine these hypothetical people would both be horrified by the very idea. They would alibi each other, of course, which could be problematic. Except neither of them would have a motive.” He met my gaze with sober, sincere eyes. “A reputation would never be worth a life.”
I studied him for a moment, nodded. Then I stood and laid my card on the coffee table. “If you think of anything that might be helpful in solving Thurston’s murder or protecting the other young women, please give us a call.”
“Certainly. And if you could do me the great favor of being as discreet as possible with your inquiries, I would be very grateful. You never know when having someone in your debt could prove helpful. Especially someone with my resources and connections.”
“Mr. Huger,” I said, “we have no interest in, nor the stomach for, embarrassing you or your wife.”
He nodded.
We walked out of the building and down Broad Street to our parking space. As we buckled in, Nate said, “Well, that was interesting.”
“Indeed, it was. Mr. Huger is a complex man, to say the least. I wish he knew something we didn’t. He seems to genuinely want to help.”
“I’ll say this,” Nate said. “He goes to a great deal of trouble to be alone with his wife.”
After our positive experience with James Huger, Nate and I decided to try the direct approach with our last subject. Perhaps he would likewise be filled with the spirit of cooperation. Dr. William Calhoun’s office was in one of the Medical University of South Carolina buildings over on Jonathan Lucas Street. Nate camped out in the waiting room. I waited at the elevator in case there was a back entrance to his office. We both had earwigs in so we could easily communicate.
At four fifteen, Nate said, “He’s on his way out.”
“Roger that.” I pretended to dig in my purse. A few minutes later, Dr. Calhoun walked towards me in khakis and a long-sleeved, blue button-down.
I looked up from my purse and smiled.
He smiled and pressed the down button.
“Oh, I feel so silly. I was distracted and forgot to push the button.”
“It happens to me some days.”
The elevator arrived and we both stepped on. In my ear, Nate said, “Taking the stairs.”
The elevator doors closed. Two seconds later, I said, “Dr. Calhoun, I apologize in advance for this shameful breach in etiquette.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “How do you know my name? Are you a patient?”
“No, I’m a private investigator.”
He stiffened.
“I have no desire to hang your dirty laundry out on the line. If you’ll answer two quick questions for me, I’ll be on my way. Has anyone attempted to blackmail you regarding your patronage of the house at 12 Church Street?”
He stared straight ahead, not acknowledging my presence. The elevator doors opened on the first floor. Dr. Calhoun took off at a fast clip. I kept pace. Nate fell in behind.
“Dr. Calhoun? Did you see anyone doing anything unusual Monday night as you were leaving? This could be very important.”
He kept walking and didn’t say one word.
“Of course, I could stop by the house later and speak with you and your wife, if that’s more convenient.” A beauty queen, Julia had said—likely a vindictive one.
Dr. Calhoun said, “If you show up at my house, I’ll call the police.”
“That’d be great,” I said. “It would save us all a lot of time.”
He stopped on the sidewalk.
“Perhaps you should stop by the psychiatry department while you’re here. Or maybe schedule an MRI. If it turns out your mental problems are caused by a brain tumor, give my office a call to schedule a consult.”
He crossed the street to a parking garage.
I followed, with Nate a few steps behind. “Truly, if you answer my questions, you’ll never see me again.”
Dr. Calhoun stopped at the garage entrance. “I don’t know what house on Church Street you’re referring to. I haven’t visited any house on Church Street this week, or in recent memory for that matter, so I could hardly have seen anyone as I was leaving.”
I didn’t care the teensiest bit for his tone. “I have photos,” I said. “I can put you and your car at that house many, many nights.” Okay, so I exaggerated.
His face took on a menacing look. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Not at all. But I’d like to know if someone else has attempted to blackmail you.”
He stared at me, didn’t say a word.
“Did you see anyone inside the house Monday night as you came in at approximately seven-eighteen, or as you were leaving at approximately eight thirty-five?”
He got in my face. A bit of spittle was on his lip, giving him the look of a rabid dog.
> Nate stepped between us. “Back off.”
Dr. Calhoun gave himself a little shake, composed himself. “This young woman is in need of medical attention.” He turned and walked away.
“He has a quick temper,” I said.
“Indeed he does,” said Nate. “And he’s disinclined to be helpful. Slugger, I think we need to pack up our toys and go home. Sonny will get to Dr. Calhoun soon enough. You and I have a honeymoon to plan. We’ve given Robert more than the day we promised. Olivia is shed of her blackmailer. Our work here is done.”
“All right,” I said. “I just hate leaving puzzle pieces on the table.”
“Come along and I’ll see if I can distract you from worrying about your puzzle.” His smile worked better on me than anyone.
We held hands and walked towards the Explorer, which was parked one level up in the garage.
Nate’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “Here we go.”
He pressed the button to accept the call. “Mother. Have y’all made it in?”
He looked at me, his expression one of a trapped animal. “That sounds nice. What time were y’all thinking?…You want us to pick you up?…All right then. See you soon. Bye now.”
I said. “They’re here?”
“Just checked into the Market Pavillion hotel over on East Bay. You’ll never believe where Dad made dinner reservations.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yes. Rut’s New South Cuisine is very convenient to their hotel and they’re tired from the trip.”
I felt a little jolt of joy. “That will give us another go at Henry. See, fate intervened on behalf of my puzzle. I’m going to have to freshen up. It’s a good thing we went ahead and paid for another night at the bed and breakfast. But I really need a change of clothes. What time is our reservation?”
“Not ’til seven. We have plenty of time to go shopping.”
“Why Mr. Andrews, you say the sweetest things.”
“Now see, here is the part where I was looking forward—after the wedding—to being able to say something like, ‘Mrs. Andrews, you look so beautiful in everything you put on, it’s a pleasure to take you shopping.’”
“It bothers you, doesn’t it? That I want to keep my name.”
“Sometimes. You bring out the old-fashioned in me.”
“But it doesn’t—”
The sound of rubber on concrete, taking a corner too fast, interrupted me.
A familiar BMW hurled towards us.
Nate shoved me between two parked cars, then leaped after me. I scrambled for balance, grabbing ahold of the sedan in front of me with one hand and Nate with the other. We steadied each other. The car blew past us. The driver slammed on brakes, tires screeching.
The car rolled backwards at an angle, coming to a stop inches from the backs of the cars we’d taken refuge between. Through tinted windows, we could clearly see Dr. Calhoun. He revved the engine twice, then drove off.
“I’d say that was meant to convey a message,” said Nate.
Twenty-One
The Scoop car pulled to the curb on East Bay. Nate tipped the driver, hopped out, then circled around the back of the car. He opened my door and reached in to offer me his hand. I smiled my thanks, my eyes holding his smoky blues.
Nate murmured in my ear, “You look stunning. I can’t wait to unwrap my Christmas present.”
“So that’s what this new dress is?” I grinned. “Wrapping?” I’d picked out a darling gold shimmery dress with a fitted waist and flared skirt at Anne’s on King Street and still had time to stop by Bob Ellis for a pair of strappy heels of a suggestive height.
“Absolutely.” He laced his fingers through mine and we waited for the Scoop car to drive away.
Across the street, the entrance to Rut’s New South Cuisine was decked out in full holiday regalia. Garlands of fresh greenery with white lights and bows draped the large glass storefront windows and the double door. Ivy topiaries with more lights and bows in large gold pots stood on either side of the entrance. Our favorite restauranteur stood just outside the door chatting with a group of folks like they were old friends.
Traffic cleared and we crossed East Bay. Henry Prioleau caught sight of us. He patted the man he’d been speaking to on the back and stepped in our direction. “Well, look who’s here. Y’all joining us for dinner again this evening? That’s twice in one week. We must be doing something right.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. He opened the door for us. The noise level inside hit me like a wall.
“We’re meeting my parents,” Nate said. “I believe they may already be here. Andrews, party of four?”
“Of course,” said Henry. “Are y’all celebrating a special occasion with us this evening?”
Nate and I exchanged a glance. Henry didn’t wait for a response. He escorted us three steps to the first in what appeared to be a line of hostesses. “The remainder of the Andrews party is here. Y’all enjoy your dinner.” He hovered a moment, then stepped back towards the door.
The hostess looked at him as if she’d missed her cue. Finally she said, “Hey, how are y’all?”
“We’re fine, thanks,” said Nate.
“Are y’all celebrating a special occasion with us this evening?”
There wasn’t a simple answer to that question. Nate said, “Just the season.”
I could barely hear him over the cacophony of too many voices straining to be heard above the baby grand piano, at which someone was playing “Winter Wonderland” at three times the customary speed.
“Welcome!” The hostess’s smile was wide and bright. She led us towards a sweeping staircase.
“Maybe it’ll be quieter upstairs,” Nate said in my ear.
“If not, I predict your mother is not going to be happy. And she already isn’t happy.” Glynneth Sloane McBee Andrews had not been happy when I married her older son. She quite possibly held me accountable for him turning out to be a scoundrel of the first order.
“Now, Slugger, that’s not true.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. He put his hand on the small of my back and we proceeded to the top of the steps. At the landing, the hostess paused at another hostess stand. An older woman standing there said, “Hey, how are y’all?”
“Great,” said Nate.
“Are y’all celebrating a special occasion with us this evening?” Her smile was even wider and brighter than the hostess’s.
“Just the season.” Nate smiled.
“I just want to personally welcome you!” she said.
We nodded and smiled our thanks.
The hostess led us past her and into a room where it was thankfully, a few decibels quieter—at first. The farther we went towards the back wall, the louder the din. I spotted the Andrewses at a table near a front window. Nate and I waved at the same time.
Mr. and Mrs. Andrews stood as we approached. Mr. Andrews looked fit and distinguished, just a bit of grey at the temples. Blessed with timeless beauty, Mrs. Andrews’s classic blond bob, high cheekbones, and flawless skin attested to her superb gene pool. One of the many things she held against me was, owing to a bad case of endometriosis that led to a complete hysterectomy, I would not be giving her grandchildren.
“Darling.” Mrs. Andrews reached for Nate.
“Mother.” He stepped in and gave her a hug.
“Liz, good to see you,” said Mr. Andrews.
“Good to see you too, Mr. Andrews,” I said.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. If you can’t call me Zach, I don’t know who should.” He stepped around his wife to give me a quick hug.
“Elizabeth,” she said. She didn’t enunciate it quite as clearly as my own mamma when she was displeased, but somehow it came out sounding like I was in trouble.
“Hey, Mrs. Andrews,
” I said.
“You must call me Glyn.” It came out sounding like a pronouncement.
Progress. In the entire time I’d been married to Scott, she’d never suggested such a thing. Glyn was what her friends called her.
I smiled. “Glyn. It’s good to see you.”
Nate and his dad exchange a quick handshake-half-hug-shoulder slap.
“Hey, Dad,” said Nate.
“Son.”
The hostess hovered until we were all seated. “Tyler will be your head waiter. He’ll be with you in just a moment.”
“It’s terribly loud in here,” said Glyn.
“Yes, it surely is,” I said. “I didn’t realize it, but the wall behind us opens to the staircase. The piano music is funneled up to this end of the room.”
“I’m sorry about that,” said Zach. “The restaurant is highly rated on TripAdvisor.”
“I’m sure we’ll grow accustomed to it,” I said. “And I’ve heard the food is divine.” This was a stretch. But clearly, Zach had tried to pick a pleasant restaurant. We all had our happy faces on. I wanted to keep it that way.
“How are y’all this evening?” A young gentleman in dark slacks and shirt with a tie stepped up to the table.
“We’re well, thank you,” said Zach.
“I’m Tyler. I’ll be serving you this evening.” His smile was freakishly gay, his energy level positively zippy.
Was everyone who worked here on something?
Tyler handed us menus and left the wine list with Zach. “If you’d like, I can send over the sommelier to help with a wine selection.”
Zach said, “I’m sure we can figure it out. Shall we start with cocktails?” He glanced around the table.
“Please,” said Glyn.
“I’ll have Woodford Reserve on the rocks,” said Zach. “A Grey Goose cosmopolitan for my wife.”
Nate said, “Wood Reserve, rocks, and the lady will have a Grey Goose pomegranate martini.”
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