“Is that unusual?” I asked. “For you to not be aware of his schedule? You being his assistant and all.”
“I work primarily with Mrs. Bounetheau.”
“Was she at home all day on Saturday?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Griffin.
“You’re quite certain? She never left the house?”
“Quite certain.”
I said, “Did you leave the house? I mean, if you did, you couldn’t be certain she never left, right? You didn’t run any errands for her? Nothing like that?”
“No. Nothing of the sort. And may I say, I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I’m prepared to make whatever formal statement is necessary. Mrs. Bounetheau was here, at home, all day Saturday, all day Sunday, Monday, and today. The last time she left the residence was on Friday. She had various appointments in town and was home by dinner time.”
“How would you know?” I asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Surely, she doesn’t tell you every time she goes for a walk or craves an ice cream cone or runs to Walgreens.”
He rolled his eyes elaborately. “Mrs. Bounetheau doesn’t walk the streets for exercise or pleasure or any other reason. She doesn’t eat ice cream. And Mrs. Bounetheau never ‘runs to Walgreens’ or anywhere else for that matter. We have a full staff to attend her needs.”
All those people hovering all the time…that would get on my last nerve. “How many people were on duty Saturday?” I asked.
He made a frustrated noise. “Two maids, a cook, a security guard, and me.”
“The chauffeur…”
“Maxwell was on call,” said Griffin. “If Mrs. Bounetheau had needed him, she would’ve let me know and I would’ve called him.”
“So that’s how it works? All her needs go through you?”
“Yes, that’s exactly how it works,” he said.
“And she had no needs whatsoever on Saturday?”
“None.”
“Does Mrs. Bounetheau drive herself at all?” I asked.
Griffin shrugged. “Whenever she likes.”
“She has a car in the garage at her disposal?”
“Of course,” he said.
“What kind?”
“A Lexus RX.” His tone grew snippier by the moment. “It’s dark grey. Would you like the license plate number?”
“No, thanks.” I could get that easily enough. “So if she’d wanted to, she could’ve walked down the stairs, gotten into her Lexus, and gone wherever she wanted without notifying you or anyone else.”
“Yes, she could have done that,” said Griffin. “But she didn’t.”
“How can you be positive of that?” I asked.
He sighed the sigh of one dealing with a creature of inferior intellect. “The Bounetheaus are of a certain age and quite wealthy, as you may have heard. For security reasons, their movements are tracked electronically. I would’ve received an alert if Mrs. Bounetheau had left the premises. Had she done so without notifying me, we would’ve treated it as a security breach. Protocols would’ve been executed.”
“Yes, well…unless she has a chip embedded under her skin, you’re not tracking her any way she couldn’t disable with a few clicks.”
“Oh for the love of Pete.” He looked skyward, gestured dramatically. “If you must know, Mrs. Bounetheau and I watched a movie together in the home theatre Saturday evening. Occasionally we do that.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“What time?”
“We started it about eight thirty.”
“What did you watch?” I asked.
“The Wiz Live! It aired on December 3 and I DVRed it for Mrs. Bounetheau. She invited me to watch it with her. We had buttered popcorn and Nestle’s Crunch bars. Now is there anything else?” His eyes were large and round with exasperation and his head did a little taunting bounce move, as if he was thinking na-na na na na.
I shrugged. “Was it any good?”
“Queen Latifah was the Wiz, what do you think?” He stormed off towards the house.
FOURTEEN
Edisto Beach is roughly an hour and fifteen minutes south-southwest of Charleston. It’s a lovely drive through parts of the ACE Basin—the convergence of the Ashepoo, Combahee, and Edisto Rivers. They drain into St. Helena Sound and then spill into the Atlantic Ocean. On a much larger scale, conservationists had banded together to protect this 350,000-acre verdant paradise in much the same way we’d defended Stella Maris’s pristine beaches. As I drove beneath the canopy of ancient live oaks along HWY 174 across Edisto Island, I wondered if Edisto had a guardian spirit.
I turned right off Palmetto Boulevard just before it made the turn at Bay Point. Spencer’s was on the corner two blocks off the beach. I was early for lunch—it was only 11:15. The sign on the door said lunch was served from 11:30 - 4:00, but the door was open, so I went on inside.
The place was empty except for a bartender setting up for the lunch shift. I recognized him from his profile—it was Drum Aiken. I climbed atop a bar stool.
He glanced at me, continued stocking beer into a cooler. “We’re not quite ready for lunch. If you don’t mind a short wait, the special today is Buffalo Tacos.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I said. “But I think I’m going to try your sushi nachos.”
“Not a bad choice. What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ve got a long drive home or I’d have a margarita,” I said. “I guess I’d better have unsweetened iced tea.”
He grabbed a cup and scooped in some ice. “Where’s home?”
“Stella Maris.”
He grinned. “Oh yeah? We were just there Saturday night. Y’all do Christmas up right.” He set my tea in front of me.
“Thank you. We do love our holidays—any chance to gather and celebrate. Actually, I wondered if I might speak with Mrs. Aiken. Is she available?”
His face drew up in an expression that put me on notice I would have to do a great deal more explaining before he answered that particular question.
“My apologies.” I offered him my sunniest smile. “My name is Liz Talbot. I’m investigating the death on the island Saturday evening. You may have heard about it in the news?”
His face changed, took on an apprehensive look. “See some ID?”
“Of course.” I pulled out my credentials. “I’m a private investigator licensed by the state. For purposes of this case, I’m working on behalf of the Stella Maris Police Department. You’re welcome to call and confirm that.”
He ran a hand through his hair, winced, then nodded. “I’ll get Holly.” He stepped through the swinging door to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with his wife. With shoulder-length blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a sweet smile, there was a softness about her that made me regret having to drag up unpleasant memories.
She gave me an inquiring look. “I’m Holly Aiken. You wanted to speak to me?” Her drawl was honeyed, distinct. She looked at her husband. “Drum, maybe we should grab a table in the corner?”
He nodded. “I’ll get the girls to cover lunch.” He reached in a pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
Holly said. “We’ll be over here.” She nodded to the front corner by the window, then led me in that direction.
I carried my iced tea with me and took the chair against the wall facing the dining room. Holly sat across from me. “Drum tells me you’re here about the gentleman who was killed Saturday evening?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry to have to ask you such a personally intrusive question, but I need you to confirm that Charles Bounetheau was your oldest daughter’s biological father.”
Holly straightened, froze. A cornered look stole over her eyes. “I—how…” She wet her lips. “I don’t understand.”
>
“We’re investigating why Mr. Bounetheau was in Stella Maris Saturday. He had no connection to the town, and his family is mystified as to why he would be there. I believe he was trying to make contact with Tallulah.”
Two younger versions of Tallulah hurried in through the front door. One went to the kitchen, and the other spoke briefly to her father, then stepped behind the bar. Drum Aiken walked in our direction.
“Does Mr. Aiken know?” I asked.
Holly nodded. “Drum and I don’t have any secrets.”
At least I wasn’t putting her marriage at risk. “So it’s true then?”
She swallowed hard, nodded. “Yes.” She raised a hand to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.
Drum Aiken pulled out the chair to my left at the four-top. “What’s going on here?”
Holly said, “She’s asking about Tallulah.”
Drum closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face. “Tallulah has nothing to do with that man’s death.”
“That thought never crossed my mind,” I said. “Does Tallulah know? That he was her biological father?”
They reached for each other’s hand. “No,” Holly whispered. “It will destroy her. She adores Drum. And she’s had such a hard year. She has nothing to do with this. I beg of you—don’t tell her. Please.”
“I don’t understand,” said Drum. “If it never crossed your mind Tallulah had any involvement, why are you here?”
“Perhaps I misspoke,” I said. “It never crossed my mind Tallulah was responsible for his death. It’s possible she has a connection.” Should that have crossed my mind? Was it possible C. C. had told Tallulah he was her father and somehow triggered a violent response?
“How’s that?” Drum’s tone was harsh.
“Let’s take a step back,” I said. “Tell me about Saturday.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Drum.
“How did you come to be in Stella Maris?” I asked. “Tell me about your day, your evening.”
Drum looked annoyed and sounded sarcastic, started to get loud. “Our daughter and our granddaughters live there. There was a Christmas parade, singing, fireworks.”
“Now Drum,” said Holly. “She’s just trying to do her job.” She patted his hand, then looked at me. “Tallulah wanted a fresh start. She and Kenny are separated.” Holly looked down, played with her rings. “Their…their divorce will be final on Tuesday. They both grew up here. We’re—Drum and I—are best friends with Kenny’s parents. Have been all our lives, practically. Tallulah felt like Edisto was too small for both of them. We supported her move.”
“This was Kenny’s weekend to have the girls?” Of course, Tallulah had already said as much, but I wanted Holly to tell me everything, not leave anything out.
“That’s right,” said Holly. “But they’d been looking forward to the boat parade. We decided to make it a family day. In hindsight, it wasn’t a very good idea.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
Holly said, “Tallulah and Kenny…they haven’t reached a place where they can comfortably do family events together. There’s still a lot of pain there. And then there’s Oliver…”
“Who is Oliver?” I asked, like I had no idea.
“Oliver Flynn,” said Holly. “He and Tallulah have been dating for about three months. He’s a nice enough young man, but it’s too soon. He’s ready for things she’s just not.”
“So you and Mr. Aiken and Kenny Hartley and his parents, y’all took the girls over to Stella Maris for the parade, and you met Tallulah there and Oliver Flynn was with her. Is that right?”
“Yes.” Holly nodded.
“What time did y’all arrive?” I asked.
“We met at The Pirate’s Den for an early dinner at four,” said Holly.
Dwight had told me that he and C. C. had eaten at The Pirate’s Den before the parade. “Did anything unusual happen there?”
“Like what?” Holly blinked at me.
“Did anyone pay unwanted attention to Arden and Archer?” I asked.
Holly and Drum exchanged a look.
Holly started to speak, but Drum place a hand on her arm. “Sweetheart, that’s enough.”
He turned to me. “I think it’s best if you address any further questions to our attorney.”
I tilted my head at him, confused. “I don’t understand.” People with nothing to hide seldom pulled this move. Occasionally, wealthy people—like Charlotte Pinckney—did it as a power play, because they could.
Drum stood and looked at Holly, who followed suit. “A wealthy man is dead. Our family, whether we want it or not, has a connection. Out of an abundance of caution, I’d like further statements to be handled through our attorney. There’s less of a chance for things to be taken out of context that way. His name is Baker Connolly. He has a website.”
Holly wore an apologetic demeanor. “It was nice meeting you.”
Drum placed a hand at the small of her back and escorted her to the coat rack by the front door. I watched as he helped her into her black leather coat and tucked in the black and white plaid scarf—just like the one Janet Batrouny had described on the woman who ran from the marina the night C. C. Bounetheau had been shot. I didn’t think it was particularly cold out that day, but Holly looked like she was visibly shivering. Drum held the door and they walked out of the restaurant.
Of course, I knew right then Holly Aiken was central to my case. Either she was a material witness, or through some set of circumstances, she’d killed C. C. Bounetheau. Drum Aiken knew it too, which was why he’d first gone along to see how much I knew, then played the lawyer card. But in that moment, I had two choices: arrest her—and I could’ve done that in my role as a Stella Maris detective—or let things play out just a bit further, see what they’d do next.
My instincts said they weren’t a flight risk. They’d lived here in this half-wild paradise of a beach town their whole lives. Their family was here, their roots. I understood these folks, I thought. Something unspeakable had happened, and their lives were in the midst of being upended in a slow-motion nightmare. I waited a moment and followed them out of the restaurant.
Figuring they’d head home, which I knew was two blocks up Myrtle Street, I drove in the opposite direction. I cruised around the island, then parked in the public beach access area at the end of Holmes Street. I opened the back of the Escape and switched jackets, pulling on a tan windbreaker. Then I put my hair in a knot and stuffed it under a wide-brimmed Tilley hat and swapped my sunglasses for a large blue plastic pair with dark lenses. I grabbed a pair of 180 earmuffs and slid them on.
I walked across Point Street and headed down Holmes. It was a clear, sunny day, one of those winter days that enticed folks outside for exercise. I smiled and waved at everyone I passed like I knew them. At Palmetto Boulevard, I waited for a single car to pass, then crossed.
“Good morning!” I waved at a group of three women as we passed on Holmes.
They all smiled and called back a cheery “Good morning.”
It didn’t take long to reach the corner of Holmes and Myrtle.
The Aiken home was a traditional Lowcountry beach house, a two-story rambling affair, painted a soft sand color, with teal shutters. It was elevated with the garage underneath. Both Drum Aiken’s grey Ford Explorer and Holly’s ruby red Ford Edge were parked there.
I passed the house without slowing my pace, then cut behind a stand of trees and backtracked through the yard. Crouching low, I crept under the house and affixed GPS trackers to both vehicles. I was reasonably certain neither of them was going to run for the border. But I’d been wrong before. Hedging my bets was the prudent thing. I snuck out of the yard and jogged back to my car.
For the ride back to Stella Maris, I shuffled my Christmas Favorites playlist. Kenny Chesney sang “All I Want for Christmas is a Real G
ood Tan.” As I opened my iPad and pulled up the map to monitor the Aikens, it crossed my mind that I would likely be getting some sun for Christmas this year—but not a tan. I was careful about wearing my sunscreen. Where were we going? Had Nate rented a house somewhere, or were we staying in hotel rooms? Between us we had quite a few Hilton Honors points accumulated over the past few years. Maybe he’d cashed those in. That thought took a bit of the edge off my stress level.
I didn’t get a chance to order those sushi nachos, so I was grateful I’d packed something. As I rolled down HWY 174, I munched on a pimento cheese sandwich and sipped a Cheerwine. I pondered my next step where Holly was concerned. The least threatening move would be to call her attorney and ask him to make her available. A witness had seen her in the area near the time of the crime. I could insist we talk at the Stella Maris police department, but I wasn’t sure that was the right approach.
I was so wrapped up in this line of thought, I almost missed the black Navigator behind me. The driver hung back a bit. We were the only two cars in sight. I’d seen the same car on the way to Edisto, I was certain of it. I’d taken a shortcut on Toogoodoo Road and was driving down a deserted stretch of two-lane road with stands of tall trees on both sides. Remembering Abigail’s preferred method of dealing with people who displeased her—causing car “accidents”—I was instantly on edge. Had Mercedes called Abigail?
I kept a close watch, but the driver didn’t close the distance between us. When I reached the intersection of HWY 162 in Hollywood, I lingered, though I could’ve turned right on red, waiting to force whoever was in the SUV to have to pull up close enough behind me so I could see who it was. They must’ve slowed way down.
When the driver finally eased to a stop behind me, the light turned green. It looked like a black guy—a very large one—in a dark-colored driving cap with sunglasses. Whoever it was honked at me. I turned right and he followed.
When I reached the point where 162 ran into HWY 17, I pulled into a BP station. The Navigator went right on past me, but I’d known it would. I made note of the tag, then pulled back onto the road and followed my tail all the way back to the ferry dock on Isle of Palms. Who was this and what was he up to?
LOWCOUNTRY BOUGHS OF HOLLY Page 14