“Okay, so what else did you get into today?”
“I had a lovely chat with one of the two neighbors still living there from when Evan was a baby. Sarah Mitchell. Sweet lady. Anyway, according to her, Talitha came home from Greenville with a newborn baby—Evan—and the body of her brother to bury. Turner Ingle. Incredibly, he also died in a car accident, by the way. Sarah never knew Evan had a twin until Talitha’s funeral when Sarah and Evan and anyone else who cared to see saw Eva’s grave. And Sarah said Evan never knew he had a sister.”
“And his birth certificate said he was born in Charleston?”
“Yes. A home birth with a midwife. I had planned to try to find her, but that would be a fool’s errand since the twins were actually born in Greenville. There’s a reason why Talitha falsified that on the birth certificate.”
“Could still’ve been a home birth. Almost would had to’ve been if there’s no birth certificate filed in Greenville County. The hospital wouldn’t’ve just let her waltz out of there with two babies and no paperwork.”
“Hmm. She worked at Greenville Memorial. Maybe she somehow did away with her own records.”
“Possible. But why?”
“I think everything she did was to hide the identity of the baby’s father. And it must’ve been someone with deep pockets, because he paid her a fortune over the years to keep his name out of it. I think they had a deal. Both parties kept up their end.”
“Sounds solid as far as it goes.”
“So there are three things I want to know. Who is Evan’s father, why was it so critical for him to be anonymous, and what became of Turner Ingle’s family after his death?”
“Why are you so sure he had a family?”
“Because his tombstone said he was a ‘beloved husband, father, and brother.’”
“I know this sounds distasteful, to say the least, but have you considered that maybe Turner was the twins’ father? Maybe we’re looking at incest here, which is why everyone wanted to hush it up.”
“See, there’s the problem. Evan Ingle is literally the last person alive in that family. There was no one to hush it up aside from Talitha. The money had to come from somewhere. Turner was a welder at GE who died in a car accident—no lawsuit with a big settlement.”
“Fair point. Always follow the money.”
As buildings go in downtown Charleston, the one that housed FIG—Food is Good—was unremarkable. It sat on the corner of Meeting and Hasell, a one-story brick building painted creamy white, with flat, modern-looking brown awnings and accents. The sign was three simple squares with round cutouts for orange letters that spelled the name.
Inside, the décor was simple—earth-toned walls in brown and gold, with stained concrete floors. The artwork was understated, seascapes in tones that complemented the walls. I had the impression that the interior design had been carefully planned to never compete with what was served. The artisans at FIG framed their work with plates and bowls.
The hostess seated us at a window looking out onto Meeting Street. A waiter appeared and Nate gave him our standard cocktail order: two fingers of Woodford Reserve on the rocks for Nate, and a Grey Goose Pomegranate martini for me.
We studied our menus.
“I love the John’s Island Tomato Tarte Tatin,” I said. “I’m tempted to order one for my appetizer and another for my entrée.”
“What the lady wants, the lady gets,” Nate said.
“On the other hand, the poached salmon is calling to me. I’ll say this, Matt must be very good at his job. To be a sous chef here? Everything I’ve ever tasted is fabulous.”
“I’m feeling the Alabama Pork Schnitzel. Want to share some of the skillet okra on the side?”
“Sure.” I’d never been known to turn down okra. “Are you going to get the tomato tarte?”
“The gnocchi looks good to me as a first course.”
“Fine,” I said with a lift of my eyebrows.
“What, you were going to have your appetizer and then some of mine?”
“Maybe just a bite.”
He chuckled and shook his head. The waiter arrived with our drinks. When he’d slipped away, Nate lifted his glass. “To whoever made that gorgeous blue dress. The color is nearly as amazing as your eyes.”
“Thank you. I declare, you Southern boys purely know how to turn a girl’s head.” I sipped my martini, my eyes locked on his. The connection between us was far more intoxicating than the liquor. I felt the happy wash over me. The rough spot had passed. We were going to be fine.
Another waiter arrived to take our dinner order. Nate spoke to him and I glanced out the window. Sticky Fingers, a chain barbecue restaurant, was directly across the street. Pedestrian traffic was light. A bicycle taxi rode by with two passengers. The traffic light changed and cars stacked up at the intersection. A large truck with ads for Sailor Jerry Spiced Rum stopped in front of the window.
I stared at the truck for a minute and turned back to Nate, who was still speaking to the waiter. “That’d be great, thanks.” The waiter retreated.
“Could you put a Mini Cooper in the back of a truck like that one?” I nodded towards the window.
Nate turned to look. “Sure. You’d just need a ramp to drive it up. Could’ve been what happened. Do any of our suspects distribute rum?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Theoretically, any large truck would do the job—some vans even. But I don’t see that happening. Why go to that much trouble when you could just drive the car away? Most criminals are basically lazy.”
“Because there are a lot of security cameras downtown. The culprit could have been caught on camera driving Kent’s car.”
“Criminals with that much forethought and imagination are generally the ones you see in movies,” Nate said. “Matt is working tonight. I asked the waiter. Told him we knew him. He’s going to let him know we’re here. I’d like to look him in the eye. See if he impresses me as innocent the way he does you.”
“Well, he hasn’t been arrested and he hasn’t left town.”
“Thus far.”
The waiter brought bread and wine glasses for the pinot noir Nate had ordered to go with dinner. A few minutes later, I saw Matt headed our way. He looked profoundly anxious.
“Good evening,” he said. “I hope everything is all right.” He was in professional mode, inquiring about the food, which was off, because we hadn’t had any yet.
“Everything’s great,” I said. “Matt Thomas, this is my partner, Nate Andrews.”
They shook hands.
Matt said, “I heard on the news they found Kent’s car.”
“Yes, well, actually, I found her car.” The news accounts had left me completely out of the story, which was as I expected and fine by me.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Anger and fear flashed across his face.
“Because that would’ve been a conflict of interest. I informed my client.”
“What else did you tell him?” Matt asked.
I looked at Nate. If I told Matt I’d left out the pregnancy, he’d never believe me. And he’d run or he wouldn’t, no matter what I said at this point. A mixture of pain and frustration seemed to radiate off him and he was fidgety. He looked wound pretty tight, is what I’m saying.
I said, “I gave Mr. Heyward a full report, as I’m obligated to do.”
Matt nodded. “I understand. Guess I’ll update my attorney.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Nate said. “Always good to keep them in the loop.”
“Enjoy your dinner,” Matt said. “Please let me know if you need anything at all.” His tone was practiced. He turned and headed back to the kitchen.
“Well?” I looked at Nate.
Nate looked at his bourbon, the hint of a smile on his lips. Then he raised his eyes to mine. “I’m just
wondering if the fact he looks like a model for men’s underwear has any bearing at all on your steadfast belief in his innocence.”
“Nate Andrews. You are a rascal of the first order for saying such a thing. First and foremost, I am a professional.”
“You’re not denying he has a certain appeal to the fairer sex?”
“Oh good grief. So he’s good looking. What about it? Most of the sociopaths I’ve run across were quite attractive. His appearance has nothing to do with it. I just don’t see him hurting Kent.”
Nate laughed. “I’m just yanking your ponytail, Slugger.”
I rolled my eyes with as much flair as I could muster without pulling a muscle. “Well, what’s your read on him?”
Nate tilted his head, winced. “It’s hard to say. You’ve had a lot more interaction with him than I have. Nothing about him shouts guilty to me. Your instincts are usually good about these things.”
Our appetizers arrived. I was so engrossed in my tomato tarte I forgot all about having my professional objectivity called into question. Our entrees were equally fabulous, as were the chocolate crepes we shared for dessert.
After dinner we walked hand in hand back to the Hampton Inn. We’d both had cocktails and several glasses of wine, so we’d agreed to spend the night there. As the elevator door closed, Nate brushed my hair back and kissed my neck. “Intriguing as it might be to stop this thing between floors and have my way with you,” he murmured, “I’m afraid we’d be rescued far too soon.”
“Not to mention, there are likely cameras in here.”
“At a Hampton Inn? I doubt it.”
The doors opened on the third floor, ending the discussion. Nate put his hand on the small of my back. “Well then, let’s seek our entertainment in the privacy of my guestroom. I have a king-size bed and a do-not-disturb sign. I promise there are no cameras. And I confess I’ve been wondering all evening what you have on underneath that dress.”
He slid the key card in the door lock, opened the door, and held it for me.
I plugged my iPhone into the alarm clock and shuffled the playlist labeled “A Little Romance.” John Legend started singing “All of Me.” Nate came up behind me and wrapped me in his arms. He held me there, gently, but firmly, and bent to press his head against my neck. “I’m a lucky man.”
I shivered all the way down to my toes, which curled.
And then he proceeded to undress me and show his appreciation for my choice in lingerie.
Twenty
We slept in until after eight the next morning. More romping under the covers ensued, followed by showers, me first, because according to Nate, I spend forty-five minutes playing in the water, which is a flagrant exaggeration. When I’d dressed and combed the tangles from my wet hair, I unplugged my iPhone from the radio.
Sonovabitch. I had ten missed calls and two voicemails from Ansley. And one from Colton Heyward. What the hell? How had I missed all those calls?
I listened to the first voicemail: “It’s Ansley. Matt’s been arrested. The police came early this morning. They barely even let him get dressed. Liz, they charged him with murder. They had a warrant to search the house. Some of them are still here. I called Charlie Condon. Call me.” She sounded like she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Hell’s bells. What on God’s green earth was that girl thinking that she’d be over at Matt’s again, apparently overnight?
Her second message was shorter, the frantic in her voice dialed to a new high: “Liz, where are you? Call me as soon as you get this.”
Colton’s message was to the point: “Miss Talbot, please come by this morning at ten.”
It was nine-thirty.
“Nate?”
He came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. “What’s wrong?”
“Matt’s been arrested. Ansley was apparently at his house when the police arrived this morning. Does that girl not have the first lick of sense? She’s already called his attorney. Colton Heyward wants us—well, me at least—at his house at ten.”
“I can be ready in five.” He pulled a shirt from the closet. “I think we should both go talk to Heyward.”
“We need to be rolling by ten ’til.” I was already dashing for the hair dryer. “I’ll call Ansley on the way and let her know we’ll be there as fast as we can.”
As Nate navigated the Explorer through tourist traffic, I examined my iPhone.
“How did the Do Not Disturb setting get turned on? I never turn that on when we’re working a case.”
“You know I didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t think that. It’s just very strange. I don’t see how that could happen by accident.” I made myself a note to chat with Colleen.
William Palmer escorted us to the living room in the Heyward home.
“Good morning,” I said as we entered the room.
Nate nodded his greeting.
Mr. Heyward sat in the wingback by the fireplace that Abigail Bounetheau had occupied the first time I’d visited this room. His face looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept in a very long time. Mrs. Heyward was on the end of the sofa to his right. Both of them were immaculately groomed. Neither stood.
“Please, have a seat.”
Mr. Heyward directed us to the sofa across from his wife.
When we were settled, Mr. Heyward said, “I suppose you’ve heard the police arrested Matthew Thomas this morning.”
“Yes,” I said. “Though I am far from convinced he harmed Kent.”
Mrs. Heyward looked at me as if I were her lifeline. She still held out hope her daughter was alive and well. My heart hurt for her.
“Be that as it may,” said Mr. Heyward, “the police are now actively working the case. I hired you because they had stopped doing that. It seems to me at this juncture the best course is to let them do their job.”
“With all due respect,” I said, “I don’t believe they can establish anything beyond a trumped up motive for the charge they’ve filed.” I avoided saying the word “murder” in front of Mrs. Heyward. “I’m shocked that they jumped straight from finding the car to arresting Matt on so little evidence.”
“Have they shared whatever evidence they have?” Mr. Heyward asked.
“No,” Nate said. “They have not. And I think it’s worth mentioning here that the only break they’ve had in the case is the one Liz handed them—the car.”
“The only break you know about,” said Mr. Heyward.
“Have they shared any new information with you?” I asked.
He exhaled slowly, looked away. “No. They have not.”
Nate said, “There’s a very good reason for that. They don’t have anything new. If they had a shred of an idea they could stretch into something resembling a lead, they’d be rushing over here to serve it up on a silver platter.”
“Mr. Heyward, you shared with them what we told you about the baby,” I said.
“Yes, as we discussed.”
“Sir, did you, perhaps inadvertently, give them the idea that you had concluded Matt was guilty?”
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“Because I believe they likely feel an immense amount of pressure to solve this case.”
“As they damn well should,” he said.
“Agreed, of course,” I said. “But sometimes operating under a great deal of pressure can lead to a rush to judgment.”
“What other leads are you pursuing?” Mr. Heyward asked.
Oh boy. I needed to give him something, but I didn’t even have a suspect yet connected to my Talitha Ingle puzzle. I grabbed the only thing I could think of fast. “We’ve uncovered a possible connection to alleged illegal activities involving other family members.”
I could feel Nate tense beside me.
Colleen popped in and perched on the mantle. “Do not name names.”
Mrs. Heyward’s voice was low and filled with dread. “She’s talking about Peyton and Peter.”
“Is that true?” Mr. Heyward asked.
Colleen hopped off the mantle and went to sit by Mrs. Heyward. She wrapped her arms around her, comforting her.
I’d experienced Colleen’s hugs for myself, and they were truly soothing.
Nate and I looked at each other.
He shook his head indicating how bad an idea he thought this was. “There are very good reasons why we don’t share every detail of a case until we either solve it or exhaust all of our leads. One of those reasons is that a few days into an investigation, we might have a lead that doesn’t pan out. That’s where we are right now. We have several leads, some of which will prove either invalid or unrelated, or both.”
I picked up on where he was headed.
“The last thing we would ever want to do is cast aspersions on the good character of any family member. We just need more time.”
Mrs. Heyward said, “I’ve always suspected they were up to no good. Daddy has bailed those boys out of more trouble than you can possibly imagine. And kept it quiet, of course.”
Nate said, “We have no evidence that your brothers are connected in any way to Kent’s disappearance.”
“However,” I said, “we would like to further pursue several avenues of investigation. Until Kent is found, the case hasn’t been resolved.”
A silver aura glowed around Colleen. It shimmered, and sparks of gold radiated from her fingertips. She brushed back Mrs. Heyward’s hair, and spoke to her soothingly. “Matt didn’t hurt Kent. He doesn’t have that in him. If Liz and Nate stop investigating, Matt will go to jail—or worse.”
I had seen Colleen do this before. She was planting thoughts in Virginia Heyward’s head. No one spoke for a few moments. I cocked my head at Colleen and threw her a question, since she could read my mind so well: Is this a fact, or more of your hopeful intuition?
Colleen glanced at me, but continued ministering to Mrs. Heyward. “Matt is innocent.”
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