Lowcountry Boneyard

by Susan M. Boyer

  “Did any of you see Kent’s car?”

  He spread his hands. “If I did, I wouldn’t have known. I’ve never seen her car. The subject never came up. What does she drive? I doubt the others would know.”

  “She drives a red Mini Cooper convertible.”

  “It could have been there, or not. I wasn’t paying attention to cars. I doubt I would remember a month later in any case.”

  I pointed at him with the top of my pen. “Do you happen to recall what the weather was like that evening?”

  He searched the ceiling. “Hot, very humid. Typical September weather for Charleston. I do remember the forecast earlier in the day called for rain and possible flooding downtown, though I think they revised that. I took an umbrella with me, but it didn’t rain while we were outside.”

  It was possible the forecast prompted Kent to drive just in case. I made a few notes, gathered my thoughts, then looked up at Evan. “You missed the last ferry back to Stella Maris.” The ferry between Stella Maris and Isle of Palms makes its last trip over each day at eleven-thirty.

  “I did. I’d had too much to drink to be driving in any event. I stayed at the John Rutledge House Inn on Broad. It’s only a block away.”

  My face squinched. “I thought you walked back to the parking garage with the others.”

  He lifted his chin and inhaled deeply, then nodded. “Yes, I mean, I walked as far as the corner with them. They went into the garage. I continued on to Broad Street.”

  “I see. Can you think of any reason Kent would bring her laptop to dinner?” I didn’t know that she had, of course. I was fishing.

  He shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to show us a photo of a new piece?”

  “She has an iPad.” I gave him my confused blonde smile. “If it were me, I’d have brought that to show a photo and left the laptop at home.”

  “Maybe she takes her laptop with her everywhere out of habit? I don’t really know her well enough to say.” He sipped his tea.

  “When was the last time you spoke to Kent?”

  “The Wednesday before she disappeared. I called to invite her to go out with us that Friday night.”

  I studied a vibrant abstract over his shoulder. Shades of blues and greens swirled across the canvas in bold strokes. “Did she ever discuss anything with you, or in your presence—maybe a phone call you overheard—that would lead you to believe she was in any kind of trouble?”

  “The only conflict I’m aware of was with her parents. They wanted her to work a few years in a ‘suitable’ environment. To learn the value of money, I understand. Their plan then called for her to marry well and be a pillar of the community, as it were. Kent had other plans. This is the sum total of what I know about that situation. It came up when I asked why she wasn’t devoting herself to her painting.”

  I was thinking how that was a valid question. “Would you give me the contact information for the others at dinner that night? I’d like to see if any of them know anything helpful. Also anyone else in your circle who wasn’t there, but who Kent might have spent time with on other occasions.”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled a phone out of his pocket and began tapping and scrolling. He read out the phone numbers for Sage, Clint, Julia, and Greg. “Honestly, I can’t think of anyone else.”

  I stood. “Thank you for your time. If someone or something comes to mind, please call me.”

  “Of course.” He rose to escort me out. “And please, come back when you have more time to browse.”

  I smiled. “I’ll do that. We’re lucky to have you in Stella Maris. I’m curious, though, what made you decide to locate your gallery here? The tourist traffic in Charleston would surely make you a wealthy man.”

  “I would go insane.” He laughed. “I prefer the quieter island vibe. I enjoy staying over in Charleston occasionally. But I couldn’t work there. Here, my studio is upstairs, along with a small apartment. Not to mention, can you imagine how much this real estate would cost me in Charleston?”

  “I see your point.”

  Back in the car, I texted Nate: Nothing significant from the artist. Need to verify his story. Headed to Charleston to talk to the boyfriend.

  We didn’t normally share non-urgent details during the day when working the same case. But I was feeling less angry and more anxious by the minute. I needed to reach out to him. I’d hurt him last night with my careless comment. I needed to navigate back to where we were when he’d arrived so we could figure out a way forwards.

  He responded: Roger that.

  The knot in my stomach tightened. I started the car, turned down a side street, and drove behind the gallery. A late-model turquoise Prius sat in one of the three spaces that belonged to the building. It was the only car in sight. I made note of the plate number. Likely it belonged to Evan and would serve as a starter for my profile. I drove towards the ferry dock.

  Once aboard the ferry, I got out of the car and climbed to the top deck to enjoy the morning breeze. There’s nothing like the fragrance of salt air. A few deep breaths took the edge off my anxiety. I smiled and waved at friends and neighbors, then studied my pad carefully to send the message I was working. I pushed Nate and our problems firmly to the side. He was working and so was I. There would be time to set things right later.

  After a few moments, I raised my head to feel the morning sun on my face. The ferry slid behind the northern end of Isle of Palms, heading for the marina at Morgan’s Creek. This early in the morning, most of the passengers were Stella Maris residents. Grace Sullivan chatted with three couples sporting cameras, no doubt tourists enjoying her hospitality at the bed and breakfast. I knew every other person I laid eyes on except for two men in the far corner tapping smartphones. Gelled hair, expensive suits, shoes not made for exploring the local attractions. They radiated impatience. My antennae went up. Were these developers? Where the hell was Colleen?

  I pulled out my iPhone and discreetly snapped a photo of the pair. Then I texted it to my brother: Any rumors of developers in town?

  He replied: Haven’t caught wind of anything. Look like land grabbers to me. Will ask around.

  Most Stella Maris residents viewed anyone with designs on our pristine beaches for resorts and the like as land grabbers. I looked at the pair again. Blake was probably right. If so, I could’ve saved them a lot of time by explaining our zoning laws. For some reason, certain types of businessmen always thought they could get around them.

  I put them out of my head and proceeded to Google the phone number for the parking garage on King and Queen Street.

  A man answered and identified himself as the operations manager. I explained who I was and offered that he could look me up and call back to verify I was a licensed investigator.

  “Nah, that’s all right.”

  “I wonder if you could help me. Does the garage have security cameras?”

  “Yeah. In all the potentially vulnerable places. Not every square inch is covered, but it’s covered.”

  “Do you capture cars and plates going in and out?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve been retained by the Heyward family to investigate the disappearance of their daughter, Kent. Has anyone contacted you regarding the case?”

  “They contacted the hell outta me. Red Mini Cooper convertible, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Police called the day after she went missing. I went over the recordings with them several times. They have the footage. Still and all, not a single red Mini Cooper entered that garage that night.”

  “I see. Thank you so much for your time.”

  I tried the city garage at 93 Queen and got the same response. Those were the two closest possible places Kent could have parked—unless she’d scored street parking nearby, which wasn’t impossible, but unlikely on a Friday night.

  I pondered
that for a moment, then called Sonny.

  He answered on the second ring. “What’s up, Liz?”

  “Have you had a chance to speak with your buds about briefing me on the Heyward case?” It would save me so much time if they would share. There was a country mile between allowing me to poke around without making a fuss and showing me the file.

  “I did. They won’t. Too high profile. Plus, they don’t know you.”

  “They have to get to know me sometime.” A flock of seagulls flew by.

  “I get the impression they don’t see it that way.”

  “Did you vouch for me?” Clearly his enthusiasm had been lacking if he hadn’t convinced them.

  “Of course.”

  “Did you tell them my brother is the chief of police in Stella Maris?” I almost never traded on Blake’s official status.

  “I did. That jogged their memories. They feel bad for Blake. One of them remembered the Jet Ski incident. Another recalled the hog story. Generally, they don’t like being in the paper associated with shenanigans. It’s just not a good career move.”

  “Hell’s bells, Sonny. I’m trying to help them out. But I need information here. I’m not going to do anything to embarrass them.”

  “I know you mean well. I told them that. They’re skittish.”

  I sighed. “Mr. Heyward is not going to like this.”

  “I would not recommend you play that card. Not if you ever want to develop a working relationship with these guys.” He used his big-brother voice. As Blake’s best friend, Sonny believed he had proxy rights.

  He was testing my sunny disposition. “Well, Sonny? Exactly what would you recommend?”

  There was a long pause in which I envisioned him studying the heavens for guidance. Finally, he said, “What do you need to know?”

  “Was Kent’s car caught on camera any time after she left home the night she disappeared?”

  “No. And they scoured every piece of footage available from every known camera on the peninsula—ATMs, bars, college feeds, traffic cams, parking garages, home security systems.”

  “But there are plenty of blind spots, right?”

  “Well, yeah. We don’t have city-wide video surveillance. Just the chronic problem spots. We have microphones that detect gunfire so we can respond quickly to trouble.” He sounded a bit defensive.

  “So, there’s zero evidence she ever left Charleston?”

  “Say again?”

  I watched the horizon, where the ocean met the sky. “If there’s no trace of her after she pulled out of the Heyward driveway, and no credit card activity with her on camera or anything else tying her—not just her plastic—to another location, as far as we know, she’s still in Charleston.”

  “That’s not the narrative they’re going with.”

  “Well, it’s the first one I’m working.”

  “I’ll let ’em know.” Sonny’s voice was calm as always. But I knew him well enough to read between the lines. He wasn’t happy and his buddies wouldn’t be, either.

  My tone was so sweet, hearts and flowers floated out of my mouth. “You do that. Bye-bye now.”

  I ended the call and growled at my phone in frustration. Nate was right about one thing. Some aspects of our job were easier in Greenville.

  Six

  Kudu was doing a brisk business that Friday morning. Classes were in session, and a great many College of Charleston students needed caffeine. I splurged on a cream cheese croissant with my mocha latte. I was stress eating.

  Well, hello. A Hollywood-handsome guy walked through the front door just as I was picking up my latte from the barista. Our ongoing challenges notwithstanding, I loved Nate with all my heart, but I wasn’t blind. Hollywood looked to be right at six feet tall, and I’d bet he worked hard for the muscles. He had medium brown hair tousled in that I-just-got-out-of-bed look and a day’s worth of facial stubble—just enough to be sexy. Worn jeans, low around his hips, and a faded blue t-shirt did nothing to detract from the overall package. I pegged him at late twenties. He was headed my way. I realized I’d been staring, glanced away, and turned towards the courtyard.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  I cringed, knowing what was coming next and suddenly feeling less-than-professional. He’d caught me ogling him.

  “Are you Liz Talbot?”

  I’m an idiot. I turned back towards him and flashed a smile. “I am. You must be Matthew Thomas.”

  Intense green eyes sized me up. “Nice to meet you. My friends call me Matt.” He had a firm handshake.

  “Is the courtyard all right?”

  “Sure, just let me grab some coffee. I’ll catch up to you.”

  “Sounds great.” I gathered my latte, the pastry I was no longer in the mood for, and my dignity and went outside. A table in the back corner was open. I chose the chair facing into the courtyard, laid my phone on the table, and pulled out the Purell, thankful for a moment alone. My fondness for good hygiene was often at odds with my sincere desire to avoid a disgraceful breach of manners.

  I sipped my coffee. Ansley was right about one thing. It was highly unlikely Kent walked away from Matt Thomas without so much as a goodbye. Unless of course he was a sociopath and she was afraid of him. Or a jackass. No amount of handsome made up for being a jackass.

  Colleen appeared to my left. “Boy howdy, he’s a looker.”

  I jumped a little, spilling coffee on my white Michael Kors hammered satin shirt. “Shit.” I blotted the stain with my napkin.

  “You don’t suspect him, do you?” Her tone allowed as to how she thought this was a foolish notion.

  “I haven’t even interviewed him yet. On the face of it, no. He has an alibi, so I’m told.” I gave silent thanks I had my earbuds in.

  “I haven’t been read in. But he looks innocent to me.”

  “Read in? What are you, CIA now?”

  “Ha. They wish they had my sources.”

  I rolled my eyes, then turned my attention back to the subject at hand. “Matt Thomas looks a lot of things to me. I’m not sure about innocent.”

  Colleen blushed, got all fidgety. “I mean I don’t think he hurt Kent.”

  I raised my left eyebrow. “It would be ever so helpful if you could tell me that for certain.”

  “For some reason, I can’t read his mind.”

  “That’s unsettling. The last person you couldn’t read at all turned out to be a stone-cold killer.”

  “I don’t get that kind of vibe from him.”

  “Do you need to be rebooted? If you could just spend the day with me and read everyone’s mind, that would make my job so much easier.” I may have been just the teensiest bit cranky. But she made me spill coffee on my new shirt.

  “It’s not my mission to make your job easy.” She raised her chin.

  I heaved a deep sigh. “I know. When you throw me the occasional bone, I can’t help but think how I could close cases a lot faster if it was.”

  “I help when I can. You know I can’t read minds reliably. Some minds are open to me, others aren’t. I get information on a need-to-know basis.”

  “So you tell me. Here he comes.”

  Matt set down a cup of coffee and took the chair across from me. “Sorry I made you wait.”

  I waved my hand, shooing the thought away. “I’ve just been enjoying my coffee.”

  He leaned across the table, arms circling his round mug. “Do you have any leads on Kent?”

  Right to the point. “Not yet. But it’s early. I just caught the case yesterday.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and sat back. “I never thought I’d agree with her daddy on a damn thing. But I wish she’d never gotten involved with this gang of artists.”

  I squinted at him. “You don’t mean gang in the sense that they are involved in anything illegal, do you?�
��

  “No, no. It’s just that they are the only new thing in her life. It’s hard for me not to suspect them of…something.”

  “Hang on. Do you mind if I tape our conversation?”

  “No.” He looked me straight in the eyes. His face was open. I couldn’t read a flicker of objection.

  I tapped the record button and read in the interview particulars. “You were saying you have reservations about Kent’s new artist friends. Have you ever met them?”

  Frustration flashed across his face. “No.”

  “Why is that? I get the impression this part of her life is important to her.”

  He shrugged. “It’s mostly a scheduling thing. I work nights. She works days. We don’t have much time together as it is. We tend to spend what little we have alone or with close friends.”

  “Okay. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about you and Kent. When did you meet?”

  His story matched what Ansley had already told me. When he talked about Kent, his voice went softer, his eyes bright. He looked and sounded like a man in love.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  “The night before she disappeared. I was off that Thursday. I made dinner for us at my place. She didn’t leave until after two a.m. Friday morning. I wanted her to stay. I didn’t want her out that late by herself. She wanted to be home for breakfast so her daddy wouldn’t lose it.”

  Colleen piped up. “He’d’ve had a conniption fit.”

  I bit back the urge to tell her to hush up. “Where do you live, Matt?”

  “I have a bungalow over on St. Margaret. Wagener Terrace area. My house is about the size of Kent’s closet. Honestly, I’m amazed she agreed to move in with me. It’ll be a huge lifestyle adjustment for her. She doesn’t care.” He blinked and looked away.

  While it wasn’t South of Broad, Wagener Terrace wasn’t exactly a low rent district. The area near the Ashley River, north of The Citadel was hip. Young professionals were snapping up houses built from the nineteen-twenties through the nineteen-fifties and renovating them.