Lowcountry Boneyard

by Susan M. Boyer

  “Have you spoken to her since you met her? Aside from connecting online, I mean.”

  “No. Gosh, I just pray she’s all right.”

  “Samantha. This is really important. A lot of people are very worried about her. The police are looking for her. Are you sure you haven’t heard from her?”

  “I’m sure. I would tell you.”

  “If she were in trouble and asked to stay with you, would you let her?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe. I mean, I’d have to talk to my parents. If she were in trouble they’d want to help, I guess. Unless she was in trouble with the police. We only met that once. Do you want to talk to my parents?” The tone of her voice told me how odd she thought the question was.

  Which told me Kent wasn’t there. It had been an incredible long shot. “Okay. Well, if she contacts you, would you please let me know?”

  “Sure. But like I said, I barely know her. We talked for maybe fifteen minutes. I don’t think I’m the one she’d turn to.”

  I gave her my contact info just in case.

  With the Samantha lead exhausted, I turned my attention to the source of Evan Ingle’s financial security. I clicked over to his website. On his home page, there was a brief statement about his education. There was a list of artists he’d studied with after earning his BFA—several abroad. More money unaccounted for. But that filled the gap in his timeline between college and opening his gallery.

  On the tab for exhibitions, there were drop-down boxes for “Current,” “Upcoming,” and “Past.” Only the current tab had photos of his work, and it was what I’d seen in the gallery. His website was a bit bare, which called into question why Kent would’ve turned to him for website advice. There was no indication anywhere of who had purchased his paintings or how many he’d sold. Had he made enough money from selling his work to pay for the gallery? Financial records were the hardest to come by online, even with my variety of databases.

  Evan’s profile held no more revelations that morning than it had when I’d pulled it together the day before. His mother must’ve left him money. Maybe she had a life insurance policy. As a single mother, that would’ve made sense. Except Evan had gone to Porter Gaud, a private school. Where had that money come from? The unaccounted for resources started way before Evan studied abroad and opened his gallery.

  I opened a file on Talitha Ingle. First, I pulled her birth records. She’d been born in Charleston, parents Mark Ingle and Melanie Turner Ingle. I documented the single car accident that had taken both of their lives in 1979. Next, I pulled obituaries and discovered that Talitha had a brother, Turner Ingle, four years her junior.

  A few clicks later, I was looking at Turner Ingle’s death certificate. Unbelievable. He had also died due to internal injuries sustained in a single car accident. What, could this family just not drive worth a damn? Coincidences like this made me itchy. Turner had died in 1981, barely two years after his parents. According to his death certificate, he had lived and died in Greenville. The address listed was on Trails End, a street I recognized from a neighborhood near Cleveland Park. Some of the homes there were large and pricey, others more modest. In recent years anything in the area was high-dollar real estate. But in 1981, it would have been more affordable. It would’ve had to’ve been. The occupation listed on Turner Ingle’s death certificate was “welder,” and his employer was GE Gas Turbines.

  Oddly, the box “married” was checked, but no spouse’s name was listed. The informant was his sister, Talitha Ingle. There was no indication where Turner was to be buried, but he’d been released to the J. Henry Stuhr funeral home in Charleston. Talitha had brought her brother home. Was he buried beside her at Magnolia Cemetery? What had happened to his unnamed wife? Who were their people? Sometimes you could find answers about a person’s life in their final resting place.

  I glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes past one. I called Colton Heyward and made an appointment for nine o’clock the next morning. Then I grabbed my keys.

  Magnolia Cemetery occupied a former rice plantation on the upper neck of the Charleston peninsula and backed up to the Cooper River, roughly where the Wando River flowed into the Cooper. It opened in 1850, and its residents included a who’s who list from historic Charleston. I drove through the white painted brick columns and wrought iron gate. A beautiful, park-like place, the grounds were divided into several sections, with roads and paths that wended through and around marshes, two lagoons, and wooded areas.

  I needed a map, but the sign at the white, two-story cemetery office informed me it was open Monday through Friday. According to Talitha’s obituary, she’d been buried in the Greenhill section. I proceeded along the road I was on. Massive live oaks draped in Spanish moss dotted the grounds, some performing improbable acts of contortion. I didn’t see another soul. Being as well acquainted with the departed as I am, I wondered how many of the folks whose names were carved in the monuments were wandering among us on missions similar to Colleen’s.

  Before long, the road turned to dirt and gravel. Elaborate monuments—crosses, angels, and spires—many much taller than me, stood inside iron fences and stone borders marking family plots. Presently, I came to a sign pointing right to Greenhill.

  I passed between two marshes. The Greenhill section of Magnolia Cemetery was in the back, isolated, and surrounded by a combination of woods and marshes. This was definitely not a place I would care to visit at night.

  “Creepy, isn’t it?” Colleen said.

  I jumped so high my seat belt locked down. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “What?” Her attempt at an innocent look was ruined by the smirk she couldn’t control. “This place make you nervous?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I admit it looks spooky. Beautiful and peaceful, too. There’s no one here but you, me, and a bunch of alligators. And snakes.”

  I shuddered. I’d seen one more snake than I wanted to already that week.

  “And of course birds and small critters. But these folks…” She waved her hand like Vanna White. “…they’re either resting a spell, or they’re on assignment somewhere, like me. Or they’re like Sue Ellen and haven’t crossed over. Either way, they’re not here. The folks you need to be afraid of are the ones still living and breathing.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Turn left,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Do you want to visit Talitha Ingle’s grave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then turn left. It’s down there.” She pointed.

  I turned left as instructed and drove halfway down the grid-like section.

  “This is it,” Colleen said.

  I pulled over as far as I could, cut the engine, and got out.

  A border of granite surrounded a plot large enough for eight graves, if I were to guess. Only three markers stood there, roughly in the middle. These were simple but elegant granite markers. The one farthest to the left was Turner Mark Ingle, March 9, 1959 – October 14, 1981. The inscription read: Beloved husband, father, and brother. What had become of his loving wife and children?

  Next in line was a smaller stone, with an angel engraved on top: Eva Drew Ingle, October 14, 1981 – October 14, 1981. A stillborn child. How sad. Was she Turner’s child, Talitha’s, or another family member’s I hadn’t yet discovered?

  The third stone was Talitha’s: Talitha Anne Ingle, January 21, 1955 – August 10, 2014. Her inscription read: Beloved mother.

  My eyes darted back to the child’s stone. I hustled back to the car, pulled out my iPad, and tapped icons until I had Evan Ingle’s file open.

  His birthdate was October 14, 1981. Eva had been his twin sister.

  Who was their father? And who was Turner Ingle’s child or children? He was someone’s “loving father.” And he’d died on the same date the twins were born.
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br />   “Can you get any kind of read on this?” I asked Colleen.

  She held out her arms, looked to the heavens, and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she said. “Tread carefully. I sense danger for you here.”

  “Here in this cemetery, or here as in asking questions about Turner, Eva, and Talitha?”

  Colleen studied the sky. “Perhaps both.”

  “Danger from who?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “That’s all I’ve been given.”

  I took photos of the headstones for my files. Slowly, I turned and scanned the area. It was deserted. The surrounding marsh and woods were dense and wild. “Colleen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How much of the Charleston peninsula do you suppose is like this?”

  “Like what? Graveyards, you mean?”

  “No, I mean, how much of it has this kind of tree canopy, these thick woods surrounded by marshes?”

  “Not much. It’s pretty built up.”

  I opened Google maps on my iPad. “Exactly.” The satellite view confirmed what I already knew. Charleston had several beautiful parks near tourist areas and neighborhoods. But the biggest green spot on the map was right where we stood. My gut clenched when I noticed how close we were to Bayside—and to Shipyard Creek, where Nate had located Peyton and Peter’s warehouse. Magnolia Cemetery sprawled between the two locations, not immediately adjacent to either, but close by.

  “It wouldn’t be a bad place to hide a car, if you wanted to make one disappear. Or a person,” I said.

  Colleen’s eyes grew. “You’d need a machete to hack through the thickets between all the big trees. And the marshes are right behind the trees.”

  “Maybe.”

  I climbed into the car and started the engine. I drove down the dirt road until I came to the road that looped all the way around the biggest part of the Greenhill section. I turned right and slowly circumnavigated the area. A dirt road forked off to my left. I turned down it. Shortly there appeared a massive pile of dirt. A backhoe, and various other pieces of heavy equipment I couldn’t name sat over to one side. The kinds of heavy machinery one needed to dig large holes and move extra dirt around. “This is a working area. Someone comes back here regularly.” I put the car in reverse.

  “Maybe you should call Nate,” Colleen said.

  “I will if I find anything.”

  She bit her bottom lip and looked worried.

  I stopped the car and looked at her. “You always know way before I do when trouble is coming. Should I get the heck out of here?”

  She looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head.

  “No. There’s no immediate threat.”

  I breathed a little easier, turned the car around and went back out to the main loop. The open marsh wouldn’t hide a car. I drove past less dense spots where the tree canopy thinned. After a moment, we were back at the fork in the road at the entrance to the Greenhill section. I made a hard right, and continued along the border. No crushed undergrowth or broken limbs betrayed a disturbance. Could you even tell a month later?

  Like a hunting dog with a scent, I persisted. This may well have been a wild goose chase, but I had a feeling in my bones that I was close to discovering something important. I rolled forwards. For her part, Colleen was unusually quiet.

  At the elbow where the border road made a right turn, another service road forked left. A chain attached to simple posts let visitors know this area was off limits. I pulled over and got out of the car. The entire area was still deserted. I walked to the chain and stepped across. A short ways down the dirt road, a section of woods had clearly been disturbed. Weeds and saplings lay flattened. A few limbs were snapped. I approached the dented forest with dread, for both what I knew I would find—wildlife—and what I was very much afraid I would find—a red Mini Cooper.

  I glanced around, thinking maybe Colleen could scout it out. Alligators and snakes wouldn’t bother her one bit. Where had she gotten to? “Colleen?”

  Damnation, she picked the wrong time to evaporate. On the other hand, the fact that she wasn’t there confirmed I didn’t need her to survive whatever I found. I took a deep breath, pushed back a hanging limb, and stepped into the woods. The ground became mucky almost immediately. I was busy watching where I put my sandal-clad feet and stepped straight into a gigantic spider web.

  Batting, brushing, sputtering, and cursing ensued.

  Finally clear of web and spiders, I focused again on where I was headed.

  I stilled.

  Thirty feet in front of me, a red Mini Cooper appeared to squat in the woods. It had sunk into the marsh about halfway. The canopy of trees was impenetrable. It would never have been seen from the sky. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket, snapped photos in every direction.

  I crept a few steps closer, tried to see inside the car. Oh sweet Lord, how I did not want to find Kent in that muddy, infested with who-knew-what car, but I had to look. I pulled back a pine branch. Just a few more steps. Oh, thank goodness. The front seats were empty. Weak with relief, I backed out as carefully as I’d come in.

  I called Nate, then Sonny.

  Ten minutes later, the first Charleston PD vehicle arrived. It was an unmarked car. Two gentlemen in street clothes emerged.

  “You Liz Talbot?” the short one asked.

  “Yes.”

  “See some ID?” the tall, broad-shouldered one said.

  “Sure.” I pulled out my PI and driver’s licenses and handed them to the tall one.

  He scrutinized both, then me, then handed them back. “I’m Detective Jenkins. This is Detective Bissell. I understand you’ve run across a red Mini Cooper.”

  “I have. I was retained by Colton Heyward to look into his daughter’s disappearance. It’s back there a ways.” I pointed down the service road.

  “How did you come to look for it back there?” asked Detective Bissell, his tone neutral.

  “I’ve given a lot of thought to where one might hide a car, assuming it was still in Charleston. There aren’t many places it wouldn’t be found in a month’s time. This seemed like a good spot.”

  “So you got lucky.” Detective Bissell sounded defensive.

  “I guess you could say that.” I was more concerned about Kent’s luck just then. I heard more cars approaching and glanced to my right. Nate and Sonny arrived at the same time, but under separate cover.

  They both got out of their cars and approached our group. Nate walked over and stood by me. Sonny took the spot between us and the other detectives, so that we formed a semi-circle. The Charleston PD guys all did this little chin lift in acknowledgement of each other.

  “This is my partner, Nate Andrews,” I said.

  Everyone said quick hellos.

  Detective Jenkins said, “We’ll go check it out.” He made eye contact and nodded. He didn’t say, Y’all stay here, but he conveyed the message nevertheless.

  “It’s not too far down, on the right. You’ll see where the woods are disturbed,” I said.

  Sonny and the other two detectives headed down the service road.

  Nate canted his head at me and squinted. “What have I missed since breakfast?”

  I gave him the Cliff’s Notes version.

  “You went walking into a swamp—in those shoes?” He glared at my sandals.

  “Well, I didn’t go very far.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” He spread his arms wide and gave me a look that asked what am I going to do with you?

  “I did.”

  With his free hand, he gestured in the direction the detectives had disappeared. “If you’d called me earlier, you wouldn’t’ve had to’ve gone traipsing through a marsh, all’s I’m saying.”

  “It worked out,” I said with no enthusiasm whatsoever. I’d tried to keep a realistic view of the prospe
cts for this case. But it weighed heavy on me how this turn of events made the chances of finding Kent safe less likely.

  “This narrows our possible narratives quite a bit. Could you tell if anyone was in the car?”

  “The front seats were empty. That car has a tiny backseat and a trunk. It’s possible she’s somewhere I couldn’t see her.”

  We stood around simmering in our own thoughts for what seemed like an hour. Finally, the three detectives reemerged, mucky in varying degrees.

  Jenkins said, “It’s her car. Good news is she’s not in it. We’re going to call in crime scene techs, rope this area off.” He looked at me. “You mind coming in tomorrow morning, giving us a statement?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Nine o’clock?”

  “See you then.”

  Jenkins got busy on his cellphone.

  Nate and I turned and headed towards our cars. He’d parked in front of me. I spoke quietly to Nate. “We need to talk to Colton Heyward today instead of tomorrow.”

  “Liz.” Sonny’s voice came from behind me.

  I stopped and turned.

  He walked in long-legged strides towards us, stopped a few feet away. He raised his chin in acknowledgement. “Good job.”

  “Think your friends will play with me now?”

  He huffed out a half chuckle. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  Sixteen

  I called Colton Heyward and asked to change our meeting to immediately. I wanted to tell him about the Mini Cooper. Because I knew someone from Charleston PD would be knocking on his door sooner rather than later, I needed to do it lickety-split.

  We left my car at the Hampton Inn, climbed into Nate’s Explorer, and headed towards the Heyward home.

  He let out a low whistle as we rolled down the driveway. “Would you look at this?”