Lowcountry Boneyard

by Susan M. Boyer

  “I’m going up to change,” I said as I passed through.

  He poured two fingers of bourbon over ice in a rocks glass. “I’ll be out on the deck.”

  I went through my normal bedtime routine. The warm water in the shower felt like heaven. I tried to scrub the day away. I washed and conditioned my hair, and combed it out to air dry. I slathered myself with lavender lotion. Then I pulled on my favorite orange cotton pajama pants with yellow flowers and a matching yellow tank. Because I tend to take a while getting ready for bed, I figured Nate had come upstairs. I slipped down the hall and checked the guest bedroom. No sign of him. I grabbed a sweatshirt, slipped into my fleece-lined ballet slippers and went to investigate.

  As I reached the door leading onto the deck, I could see Nate in one of the Adirondack chairs. The sight made me smile. I paused to enjoy it for a moment. Rhett was curled up at his feet. The bottle of bourbon was on the table between the two chairs. I could hear Nate talking. He was gesturing with his left hand and periodically delivering the glass of bourbon to his lips with his right.

  “You know what I mean, don’t you?” Nate was apparently addressing Rhett.

  Rhett cocked his head, his tongue hanging out in a sloppy grin.

  Deciding to join the party, I opened the door and walked out.

  “Shhh,” Nate said.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “Nothing.” Was his voice slurred just a bit?

  “Were you talking to Rhett?”

  “Yep. Man to man.”

  Moonlight bathed us, casting its magic over the water and up onto the deck, framing the moment. I sat in the chair beside him. “I see. How much bourbon have you had?”

  “Why? I’m not driving anywhere tonight.”

  “Fair enough.” The sound of the moon-driven surf and the salt air eased the last of the tension out of me. “Are you trying to drink me off your mind?”

  “Slugger, there is not enough bourbon in Kentucky.”

  “I don’t understand you,” I said. “I offer to do exactly what you have asked me for two years to do—divide our time between here and Greenville so we can be together—and you immediately start pulling away. And yet, here you sit, drinking and talking to the dog like I’ve kicked you to the curb. Can you explain that to me?”

  “Yesss. I can.” He nodded his golden head emphatically.

  I smothered a grin. “Well then, by all means, please proceed.”

  He drained his glass and poured in two more fingers. He studied the caramel-colored liquid. “I am an ass.”

  “Do tell?”

  “Yes. Of the highest order.” He raised his glass, as if toasting the notion.

  Rhett barked.

  “See?” Nate gestured at Rhett, then nodded. “He knows.”

  “Could you elaborate?” I turned in my chair to face him directly.

  “Yesss. You see, Slugger, I know how much this island means to you. Your family is here. You said it yourself. This is your place in the world.”

  “And Greenville is yours. I get that.” I kept my voice gentle. He was clearly in a vulnerable state.

  “Ahh. But there’s the rub.” He gestured dramatically.

  “The rub?”

  “See, as long as you wouldn’t live there with me, at least part-time, it felt like you didn’t love me the way you loved Michael. I know you never loved Scott—not really. Hell, how could you. But you were you, and my brother is smooth, I’ll give him that. I digress.

  “When you agreed to a split-residency, I realized the truth.” He examined the contents of his glass.

  “And that is?”

  “You must really love me if you’re willing to give up the things that are even more precious to you now because you spent so much time away. People who mean the most to you—aside from me and Rhett here—part of the time. And then I just felt like an ass for asking you to do that.”

  “Nate—”

  “Because I like Greenville, don’t get me wrong. It’s been home my whole life. But when you’re not there, it’s just a pretty town where things are familiar, nothing more. It’s not like I have family keeping me there. Mom and Dad are in Florida most of the time. You know we’re not close. It’s not like you and your family. You have the kind of family everyone wants.”

  I was tearing up, so I let him keep talking.

  “And I was ready to take that away from you, just to make you prove you loved me. What kind of an ass does that? And then I started worrying, am I really just afraid you’ll belong more to your family—to this island—than to me if we live here all the time? And that’s even more messed up.” He looked at me, all walls down, storms in his beautiful blue eyes.

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s just crazy talk.”

  I reached out and touched his cheek with the backs of my fingers.

  “Is it? Are you sure?” His tone begged me to convince him.

  “Yeah. There’s plenty of me to go around.”

  I tried putting an arm around him, rubbing his arm with the other, but he was too far away.

  “I’m an ass,” he confessed to the moon.

  I took the glass out of his hand and put it on the table. Then I climbed into his lap. “You are the furthest possible thing from an ass.”

  Rhett yawned, snorted, stood and left, just like a child who didn’t want to watch his parents cuddle.

  “Well, that is a hell of a thing.” Nate watched him leave. He whipped his head back around. “No.” He shook his head emphatically. “See…I’m an—”

  I put two fingers over his lips. “Shhh.” I brushed a lock of hair off his forehead with my other hand. My eyes captured his and he drank me in like he was dying of thirst. “We can settle the details tomorrow.”

  He kissed my fingers. “No need. I’ve already decided. I’m going to sell my condo and—”

  “I guess I’m going to have to distract you from this topic of conversation.”

  His eyes turned a deeper shade of blue. “I do like the sound of that.”

  I gave him a slow smile full of promises. Then I leaned in and kissed his neck just below his ear and worked my way down from there. I inhaled his scent. “I just want to breathe you in. Sweet reason, how I’ve missed you.”

  He wrapped his long arms around me. His mouth found mine and he kissed me soft and slow.

  He pulled back, touched his forehead to mine. “Not nearly as much as I’ve missed you. I’ve all but screwed this up. But I’m going to make it right. Just give me a chance.”

  “All I need to know is that you love me, and you’re willing to fight for us.”

  He kissed me again, deeper. “I love you so much it scares me half to death.”

  “I love you back.” Moonstruck and crazy for each other, we floated, lost in each other’s eyes. Then, our lips met and we devoured each other. Tasting, holding, touching, rocking.

  Nate pulled back. “Slugger?”

  “Umm-hmm?”

  “I’m hoping you’ve changed your mind on that whole guest room policy.”

  I laughed out loud. “Do tell?”

  Based on the amount of bourbon he’d had, and given the angle of the chair, it was nothing short of impressive that he could stand while holding me against his chest and carry me inside and up the stairs to my room. But he did, without dropping me once.

  Eighteen

  The three of us ran together the next morning, Nate, Rhett, and me. I was still drunk from the night before, and I hadn’t had a drop to drink. I was positively giddy and had to speak to myself sternly to get my head back into the case. Realistically, we both leaned towards Peyton and Peter as the most likely culprits in Kent’s disappearance, and we’d agreed we weren’t going to pursue that avenue of investigation. We were at the point of running down the remaining scenarios to eliminate them. It’s frustrating
when you face accepting you may not be able to solve a case, but it happens.

  Miraculously, Nate wasn’t hungover. While we ran, I told Nate about what I’d found at Magnolia Cemetery before I’d found Kent’s Mini Cooper—Talitha Ingle, her brother, and Talitha’s child Eva, who’d been Evan’s twin. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, I hadn’t had a chance to get into any of that.

  “That’s all very intriguing,” he said, “but I don’t understand the connection to Kent’s disappearance.”

  “I don’t know for certain there is one,” I said. “But there’s a story there. We run down every lead, right? Lookit, I know we can’t bill Colton Heyward unless I can find a connection. What I’m saying is, while you’re verifying that Charlotte, her husband, and their offspring are upstanding citizens, maybe I could run with this just a little ways.”

  Nate shrugged. “I can’t see any harm in that.”

  “You know how when I put a puzzle together, I always want all the edge pieces together first? I feel like we’re missing edge pieces. This could be one of them. It’s a gut thing.”

  “Seems to me we have enough ‘edge pieces’ for two perfectly workable theories of the crime: the Matt and/or Ansley narrative, or the Peyton and Peter narrative. That said, if your gut says there’s something there, well, then, by all means, go with your gut. Just don’t forget we’re having dinner at seven.”

  “Like I would forget a date with such a handsome Southern gentleman. Hey, if you finish with Charlotte and her family, would you stop by Martech Agency—the place Kent worked? We haven’t spoken to those folks yet, and I need a list of employees to profile. Could be there’s yet another possibility we haven’t considered—a workplace problem.”

  “Sure. I’ll drop by. It’s downtown, right?”

  “Yeah. On Broad Street.”

  We’d run up to the chairs at the edge of the ocean. I pulled my shirt over my head.

  “You sure the water’s not too cold for a swim?”

  I shrugged and unhooked my sports bra. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.” I continued undressing.

  He took in the view. “That is so not fair.” He slipped out of his shorts and pulled off his shoes and socks. By the time he was finished undressing, I was already running towards the water.

  He caught up to me fast enough. “Hold on there just a minute.” He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him.

  “I’m going for a swim.” I squealed and struggled to splash him with zero success.

  “If you’re going to lure me into the water, you’re going to have to warm me up first. And likely after I get out.”

  Talitha Ingle’s home wasn’t listed with a realtor. She’d only passed two months ago, so that wasn’t a surprise. As far as I could tell, Evan was her sole surviving relative. He would have to either hire someone to go through her things or do it himself. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to face that yet. Whatever the case, it worked in my favor.

  Since I planned on breaking and entering in broad daylight, even though I had a very strong pretext as a realtor, I decided to go incognito. I tucked my hair under a chin-length brunette wig, slipped in brown contacts, and went trés dramatic with the eye makeup.

  My black Ann Taylor suit, a cute pair of Kate Spade polka-dot pumps, and my black tote completed my eager realtor look. In all likelihood, any neighbors who happened to be at home would be expecting a realtor.

  I snapped a selfie and printed out a few business cards with the photo, identifying me as Laura Beth St. Vincent, a realtor with an agency I made up out of whole cloth and named Lowcountry Homes. If I ran across any of the neighbors, I’d show them my card and make a pretense of offering it, but then make sure they didn’t leave with one. I had a story ready that involved me getting them a folder full of detailed information which would include a card in the mail that very day.

  Gram’s silver Cadillac convertible, which I’d held on to for sentimental reasons and occasions such as these, would make the perfect realtor car.

  The modest brick bungalow on Colleton Drive was in an established neighborhood off Savannah Highway, not much more than a half mile on the other side of the Ashley River Bridge. I drove through the neighborhood a few times, looking for joggers, walkers, mothers with strollers, et cetera, just so I’d be aware of them. But the streets were quiet. Few cars were parked in the drives. Most of the neighborhood appeared to be at work that Monday morning. I pulled to the curb right in front of Talitha’s house. A huge loblolly pine took up most of the front yard.

  I took photos of the exterior, as many realtors would. Some, like the one I’d hired in Greenville to sell my loft, would send out a professional photographer later. But she’d take her own shots for reference in the meantime. This gave me a good excuse to walk all the way around the house, looking for signs of a security system. There didn’t appear to be one.

  Back out front, I strode purposefully up the walkway, clipboard in hand. At the foot of the brick porch steps, I stopped to make notes just in case any of the neighbors were at home and happened to look out the window. Once on the porch, I set my tote, clipboard and phone by the door. Discreetly, I slipped on latex gloves, shielding them from view with my body. I had a standard door key in my pocket just in case someone approached. I would pretend someone had given me the wrong key, or perhaps the lock was sticking. Meanwhile, I pulled out my lock pick set.

  Talitha Ingle had not been particularly security conscious. The lock took less than a minute. I gathered my belongings and went inside, closing the door behind me. The front door opened into a small living room. It was neat and decorated in a traditional but not overly formal style. The stale air made me wrinkle my nose. A layer of dust coated the tabletops.

  I toured the house. It was maybe fourteen hundred square feet, no more. Three bedrooms, one bath, the living room, a galley kitchen, and a dining room. One of the bedrooms had clearly been Talitha’s. It was decorated in cream and pale greens, a pile of accent pillows on the bed. The second bedroom must have been Evan’s up until he’d left home. Here browns and darker greens provided a backdrop for sports trophies and framed paintings with his signature, from childish preschool-era efforts which were far better than anything I would ever create to a marsh landscape I’d guess he’d painted much more recently. The style was different from anything I’d seen in his gallery, much closer to impressionist than abstract.

  The third bedroom held a sewing machine and a table I’d guess was used for cutting and the like—I’d never been one for the needle arts—and a desk and file cabinet. The blinds were closed. I tried the light switch. The electricity was on. That would be helpful.

  Two files lay on top of the file cabinet, papers spilling out of three sides as though they’d been recently rifled through and dropped there carelessly. One was labeled “Insurance.” I flipped through it and found the usual home and auto policies, and one for long-term care for Talitha. I didn’t find a life insurance policy, but if Evan had gone through his mother’s papers looking for a life insurance policy, perhaps he’d found it and taken it with him.

  The second folder was labeled “Banking.” The bottom of this folder had flattened out, like it had once held substantially more than it did now. Statements for a savings account at First Federal went all the way back to 1971. Deposits of $57.85 were made weekly for a year, then they increased to $68.47. How old was Talitha then? I pulled out my iPad and opened her profile. She was born in 1955, so these were likely paychecks from jobs she’d held in high school.

  I laid my iPad on top of the desk and opened the top file cabinet drawer. Talitha had kept excellent records. There was an “Employment” folder with documentation of jobs going back to 1971 when she got her first job at the Piggly Wiggly.

  After high school, she’d worked eight years at Medical University of South Carolina as a data entry clerk before quitting her job in March o
f 1981 and moving to Greenville, where she’d held a part-time job at Greenville Memorial.

  Why had she moved to Greenville? I did some quick math. She would’ve been pregnant then. It made no sense. Her parents were already deceased, so she wouldn’t fear their wrath because she was an unwed mother. Back then, pregnancy would’ve been a pre-existing condition. Her insurance in Charleston would likely have covered her expenses, but a part-time job she’d gotten after she was pregnant? Not likely.

  The last piece of paper in Talitha’s employment file was a letter that had apparently been enclosed with her last paycheck from Greenville Memorial. It had been mailed to Talitha in Charleston in November 1981. Had she left that job abruptly as well? And was that the last job she’d ever held? How had she lived?

  I turned back to the bank statements, flipping through the pages. When Talitha went to work at Medical University of South Carolina, she’d opened a checking account. There were statements for every month through March 1981, but nothing more recent. The deposits appeared to be biweekly paychecks of $403.82. I pulled out my iPhone and did some quick calculations. Allowing for taxes, she’d been making somewhere in the neighborhood of $14,000 per year. Definitely not enough money to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-six and send her son to private school.

  I checked the file cabinet for another folder with more recent banking or investment records, but with no luck. One by one, I checked the other files for anything that would shed light on how Talitha had lived since the twins had been born. Whoever the father was, he must have paid generous child support. Did Evan know who his father was?

  I pulled up Evan’s birth certificate again. The midwife’s name was Aurora Luiz. Maybe she knew something. A quick check of the database I used to access DMV records showed thirty-five women with that name in the state. I’d have to run them down later and see if I could determine if one of them had delivered Evan and his sister.

  According to the real property database, only two current nearby neighbors had been living here at the time Evan and Eva were born. The Mitchells, who lived a few doors down and across the street on Colleton Drive, and the Spencers, who lived on Tynte Street, just around the corner. I put the files back the way I’d found them and continued my search with Talitha’s desk.