“Somebody got rid of it in a hurry,” said Nate.
I leaned in for a closer look. The wrapping paper and cardboard boxes had disintegrated, leaving a mushy mess. But there was a Rolex watch, iPhone, a men’s bifold black leather wallet, and two of the prettiest snow globes I’d ever seen. Inside each, children skated, sledded, and built snowmen, in miniature villages decked out for the holidays. Around the wooden bases, a train circled outside the globe, with a tunnel on the back side of both. The engraved plates on the fronts read, “To Archer with love from Granddad,” and “To Arden with love from Granddad.” I noted the switches on the backs for lights, music, and train.
“Cash and cards still in the wallet?” I asked.
“Five hundred dollars and an American Express Black,” said Blake. “Couple other cards. Whatever motive somebody had to kill C. C. Bounetheau, it definitely didn’t involve a robbery.”
“No indeedy,” I said. “Did you find the shell casing?”
“Unfortunately not,” said Blake. “Listen, I’ve got to head over to the city offices at three. The mayor wants to see me. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
EIGHTEEN
As anybody could’ve predicted, Nate and I surreptitiously followed Blake over to the city offices. With the rest of our family, we watched as the mayor presented him and Hoyt Thompson with certificates good for a sizable down payment on a house. Poppy and Mamma both cried tears of joy. For his part, Blake could not stop grinning.
Poppy hugged Blake, looked up at him. “I told you not to discount a Christmas miracle.”
“I’m as grateful as I can be,” said Blake. “But somehow I don’t think God goes around handing out money for houses. If he did, I think he’d give it to people in a lot worse circumstances than us.”
Mamma cast him a look that carried an admonishment. “Son, just because God didn’t personally descend on a cloud and hand deliver the check, don’t think he wasn’t involved. God uses people, and not just saints either. He’ll put any able body to work. Often, miracles straight from God are delivered by neighbors taking care of neighbors.”
Blake just kept grinning. “I’m sure you’re right, Mom. You usually are. We’re just grateful, however this came about.”
We hugged Blake and Poppy and congratulated them. Then Nate and I had to scoot right out of there and head home to get ready for our trip into Charleston. Ballistics still hadn’t come back, but we’d waited around as long as we could. We threw everything we’d need into Granddad’s old panel van and caught the four o’clock ferry.
The first thing we had to do was acquire blue polo shirts with a Lowcountry Premiere Janitorial logo. The company was over on Dorchester Road in North Charleston. Through a bit of online sleuthing, Nate had discovered that their employees were all hired through a temp service, but that shirts were distributed through the office at Lowcountry Premiere Janitorial. They closed at 5:30. We were cutting it close, but that could work to our advantage. Conceivably, we’d be less scrutinized late in the day, when folks are eager to go home and see about dinner.
We’d both worn jeans and tennis shoes for this adventure. My hair was in a high ponytail—the kind I wore to clean house. We parked on the side of the building. Nate went in first. I waited three minutes, then followed.
When I walked through the glass door, Nate stood to one side of the small lobby. I moved to the counter, though I couldn’t see anyone behind it. A moment later, a twenty-something young woman with jet black hair sporting a purple stripe came through door in the back carrying one of the shirts. Nate ambled up to the counter.
“Extra large, here you go.” She smiled widely at my husband, an invitation in her eyes. “Remember to wear jeans with no holes. The ones you have on look fine to me.” Her voice got all sultry as she looked him up and down.
“Thanks.” Nate returned the smile. “Anything else I should know?”
“Not that I can think of offhand,” she said. “But I could give you my cell number in case you have questions after hours.”
Could the woman not see he wore a wedding band? What was wrong with people?
“Now that would be real nice of you…” Nate pulled out his phone, glanced at her name tag. “…Ashlyn. What’s that number?”
She called it out and he typed it into his phone.
I cleared my throat, threw her a look with a tight smile to remind her I was waiting.
“You here for a shirt too?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” I said. “Size medium.”
She looked me up and down. “Looks like you could use a large to me.”
Oooh. The nerve. I smiled so sweetly hearts and flowers floated out of my mouth. “Aren’t you the helpful one? I believe I’ll stick with a medium if you don’t mind.”
“Whatever.” She turned back to Nate. “Let me just grab that. I’ll be right back.” She threw him a come-hither look over her shoulder as she walked to the back. In a moment she returned with a blue shirt wrapped in plastic. She handed it to me. “No holes in your jeans. Clean shoes. No tobacco products.”
“This is an extra-large,” I said.
She shrugged. “We have a reputation to maintain. Dress code says the shirts have to fit properly.”
I rolled my eyes, turned on my heel and left.
Five minutes later, Nate climbed back into the van.
“That took you long enough,” I said.
“We may need her later,” he said. “Slugger, please do not tell me you’re jealous of that child with the striped hair.”
“Oh puh-leeze.” Extra-large. Bless her skinny little heart.
The cleaning crew didn’t start at Rutledge & Radcliffe until eleven, probably because it wasn’t at all unusual for the attorneys to work late into the evening. We set up shop in a front corner booth at the Swig & Swine over on Savannah Highway. It was only fifteen minutes door to door to Rutledge & Radcliffe, and we had time to kill. And Nate had a hankering for barbecue, so there was that.
It was just a tad early yet for dinner, only 6:15, so we started with pimento cheese, half Ritz crackers and half pork rinds, which Nate loves but I purely do not. Normally, we’d have something fun to drink. I particularly liked the Swine Wine, which is Firefly Strawberry Moonshine, Cheerwine, and some sort of sparkling wine. Since we were working, it was an iced tea night for us.
I smiled, remembering how happy—and completely shocked—my brother had been earlier that afternoon. “I just can’t get over the timing on this trust—the gift to the town. It truly does feel like a miracle.”
“You think they’ll buy the house over by Merry and Joe?” asked Nate.
“I’d be shocked if Tammy Sue isn’t writing up an offer as we speak.”
“I’m happy it all worked out,” said Nate. “Although, I want it on the record, I would’ve been happy to have them move in with us.”
“So noted.” I studied the menu. “I think we’ll all be happier with this arrangement. I love the sides here as good as anything. That’s always my hardest decision. I know I want the brisket.”
“If you let me order the family plate you can pick all three sides,” said Nate. The family plate included pulled pork, brisket, smoked turkey, smoked pork belly, house-made sausage, ribs, wings, and three sides.
“You know that’s entirely too much food for us,” I said.
“And you know we can take the leftovers home. We’ve done it before.”
“We’re not going home for hours. The food will go bad,” I said.
“Seriously?” said Nate. “There’s a cooler in the van. I’ll ask for a go bag of ice.”
“Fine,” I said. “Looks like I’ll be needing that extra-large shirt before long.”
At 8:00 pm, we parked two spaces back from the intersection of State and Broad. Over the next hour, as the cars in front of us moved, we rolled forward until we ha
d the spot we wanted, with a clear view of the front of Rutledge & Radcliffe across Broad Street. The back entrance to the building led to a courtyard, and you could wend your way through narrow walkways and make your way to Elliott Street that way, but you’d be crossing private property to do it. Everyone came and left through the front door.
Several attorneys, assistants, and paralegals left between 8:00 and 8:30. We watched Eli leave at 8:45, then Fraser at 9:15. Mercedes Westbrook walked out the front door at 9:30. The building looked dark, but not all the offices had windows, so it was impossible to tell if everyone had left. We waited and watched.
We were both in and out of Rutledge & Radcliffe on a regular basis—we had an open-ended contract and worked cases for them often. But we’d never worked with any of the staff aside from Fraser, Eli, and Mercedes, so we didn’t bother with disguises. This was somewhat of a gamble. It was possible we’d run into an attorney or two burning the midnight oil, but we’d only ever seen them in passing. I could pick a few of them out of a lineup—that was about it. Effective disguises depended so much on context. In our cleaning crew shirts, late at night, with cleaning equipment, we reasoned wigs, makeup, and all such as that would be overkill.
At 11:05, a Lowcountry Premiere Janitorial van parked by the lamppost right in front of Rutledge & Radcliffe. Two men in jeans and the blue polo shirts climbed out and went around to the back. They set a rolling cart with cleaning supplies and a vacuum cleaner on the sidewalk, then locked the van and rolled the cart and vacuum towards the front door. The van was parked between us and the front door, blocking our view, so we couldn’t see when they’d gone inside. The lights on the third floor came on.
Nate slipped out of the van. The plan was for him to circle the block and come through a residential driveway off Elliott Street—a narrow lane that ran parallel to Broad for a block—hop a courtyard wall, and make his way to the back of the Rutledge & Radcliffe building. He’d locate the junction box for the telephone land line and internet service and take them both down. The security system used both. He’d reinstate service after we’d left the building. With any luck, no one would ever notice the interruption.
I waited and watched. No more staff came out during the hour the cleaning crew was inside. Shortly after midnight, the lights on the first floor went out just as Nate climbed back into the van.
“That’s our cue,” said Nate. “You ready?”
“All set.”
Nate started the van, made a left on Broad Street, then a right on East Bay, then a quick right on Elliott. He pulled to the side and hopped out. I kept watch while he hustled around to the back, opened the door, and pulled out the magnetic Lowcountry Premier Janitorial sign he’d had made—which was identical to the real thing to the casual observer. He closed the door and slapped the sign on the driver’s side of the van. Then he drove down to Church Street where he turned right on Broad. Down the block, the Lowcountry Premier Janitorial van pulled away from the curb. As they turned left on East Bay, we pulled into their spot.
I activated a multi-signal jammer device. This would effectively take down any residual communications the security system might use as a backup channel—Wi-Fi hot spots not tied to the hardwired internet service, Bluetooth communications, and cell service. While an audible alarm could still sound, the security system, including all connected cameras, would be rendered incapable of transmitting a signal. Any service monitoring the system wouldn’t be notified of a breach, and camera feeds wouldn’t record to a DVR.
We climbed out of the van and repeated exactly what we’d seen the cleaning crew do. Our cleaning cart wasn’t identical to theirs, but it was close. I slid the signal jammer into a side pocket on the cart, then rolled it to the front door while Nate pulled the vacuum. Between the van and the cleaning cart, we had effectively obstructed the view of the front door of Rutledge & Radcliffe. Nate made quick work of picking the lock.
We pulled the cart and vacuum inside and listened. No alarm beeped. Nate had an electronic gadget that would disarm it if an audible alarm sounded. Either the jammer had worked, stopping the signal from the door contact to the alarm, or the cleaning crew hadn’t turned the alarm on when they’d left, either as an oversight or by request. The possibility remained that someone, somewhere in the building, was still working.
We waited. The building was quiet. The enormity of what we were doing washed over me. This wasn’t your garden variety breaking and entering. These offices were filled with documents protected by attorney-client privilege—including the ones we wanted to see. Seeing as how we were, for better or for worse, seeking justice for C. C. Bounetheau—trying to find his killer, no less—my conscience wasn’t troubled the teensiest bit about snooping into his paperwork. The increased odds of being caught and the potential ramifications, however, made me twitchy. I took a deep, cleansing breath. The estate planning department was on the first floor. We rolled our cart down the hall and into Sam Witherspoon’s office.
“I’ll check his desk,” I said. “Since C. C. just passed, this is likely current work.”
“I’ll start with the files.”
Sam must’ve been a hardworking guy. He had a pile of file folders three feet high on his desk that threatened to topple over at any moment. His desk calendar was packed with scribbled entries. I snapped a photo of December, then checked for previous months. They had all been removed. I turned my attention back to December.
Hell’s bells. “Sam Witherspoon is either a business associate or a friend of Oliver Flynn. He’s on his calendar twice in December. Once for lunch and once for dinner.”
“Now that’s an intriguing connection,” said Nate.
I’d have to ponder that more later. I started on the stack of files, working my way from the top down, stacking folders neatly to my left as I eliminated them.
We worked quickly and quietly. Fifteen minutes in, we heard footsteps on the stairs. Nate closed the file drawer, turned on the vacuum cleaner, and went to vacuuming. I picked up a dust rag and commenced dusting. The door to the office opened.
Damnation. Eli’s paralegal, Keith Pope, put his head in the door. We’d passed him in the halls plenty of times, but we’d never met him per se. I sent up a prayer he didn’t recognize us.
Nate switched off the vacuum. We looked at Keith inquiringly.
Keith said, “I thought y’all were finished for the night.”
Had he laid eyes on the earlier crew? Or just heard them? Did he know them?
“Just about,” said Nate. “Few more minutes.”
“I’m the last one out.” Keith studied Nate. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
Nate furrowed his brow. “You look familiar to me too. Hey, I know. You go to my church, don’t you? Revelation Harvest Church of the Last Chance World on Fire Revival? Over in West Ashley?” Nate smiled, eager to chat with a friend.
Keith’s eyes widened. “Ah…no. I was raised Presbyterian.”
Nate said, “Like I said, we’re about finished here. I’d love to talk with you for a few minutes if you have the time. Share my testimony. I’d love to hear yours. We welcome visitors at Revelation Harvest.”
“I gotta go.” Keith shook his head. “Y’all be sure to set the alarm when you finish.”
He shut the door and was gone.
Nate put his head back in the file drawer.
I started giggling and couldn’t stop. When I caught my breath, I said, “You are terrible.”
“Now you know I was not mocking anybody’s bona fide religion. That was made up nonsense. And the quickest way to get anybody to leave you alone is to try to talk to them about The Lord. Hey, I found something.”
“What?” I moved over to look over his shoulder.
It was a memo to Charles Drew Calhoun Bounetheau from Sam Witherspoon, outlining the requested changes to his will and trust structure. I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture, then
read.
November 17, 2015
Mr. Bounetheau,
This memo is to confirm the recent changes you requested to your family trusts and to your will. I have mailed your copies of all the new documents. Changes are as follows:
The assets in trust for Charlotte, Virginia, Peyton, and Peter have been reallocated. A new trust for Tallulah Grace Spencer Aiken Hartley has been set up. The assets previously divided amongst four children have been redistributed to your five children.
The same changes have been made for the grandchildren, creating trusts for Archer Grace Hartley and Arden Gwen Hartley.
Language has been added to all family trusts making them conditional upon the following:
a) Beneficiary engaging in age appropriate school, employment, or charitable endeavor, to wit, no one is to become a member of the “idle rich” class, however, retirement at age 55 is acceptable. Homemaking is an acceptable endeavor for one member of a household provided some level of charitable work is maintained. The trustee will have discretion to determine if this condition is being met.
b) Should any beneficiary be convicted of a significant crime, his or her trust will be dissolved and the assets reallocated to other family members. The trustee will have discretion regarding misdemeanors, however there is no discretion regarding felonies.
c) The clause in Mrs. Bounetheau’s trust which prohibits her from inheriting should she be suspected of foul play in the event of your demise has been extended to all beneficiaries. Arrest and or conviction is not required to trigger this provision. Should the trustee become aware of possible foul play, investigators will be employed to make a recommendation. Final discretion remains with the trustee.
d) Should any beneficiary contest any provisions of their own trust or that of any other beneficiary, his or her trust will be dissolved and the assets reallocated to other family members.
LOWCOUNTRY BOUGHS OF HOLLY Page 18