LOWCOUNTRY BOOMERANG

by Susan M. Boyer

  “I’m going to talk to Fraser. I don’t know if he wants Nate and me to be seen visiting with Darius. He’ll be home Friday. What can it hurt letting her stay there two days?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” said Blake. “How’s Calista?”

  “Madder than a feral cat being baptized. I dropped her off at her house. She’d walked down the beach. Did you know she was seeing Darius?”

  “How would I know? I’m the chief of police, not head of the social committee.” He seemed truly disinterested, which surprised me a bit. He and Calista had been quite the item there for a while. I’d thought she was still on his radar. When he met Poppy Oliver, everything had changed.

  “I’m surprised I didn’t see a single reporter at Darius’s house. Have they found the Coopers?”

  “No,” said Blake. “They are all congregated at the gazebo.”

  “In the park? What are they doing there, having a picnic?”

  “Darius’s most recent ex-wife, Lily, is holding a press conference.”

  “Hell fire.”

  “Yep.”

  “Where’s she staying?” I asked.

  “I’m about to find out.”

  “Let me know. I’ll need to talk to her.”

  August Lockwood lived in Cooper River Farms, an apartment complex on Daniel Island, just off Clements Ferry Road. I contacted him the same way Darius had contacted Trina Lynn—through Facebook. He agreed to meet with me at 3:45.

  His apartment was on the top floor of a building that backed up to woods, across from the barn-styled club house. As apartment complexes went, this looked like a nice one. He opened the door before I knocked and just stood there looking at me. In his thirties, with dark hair that looked like it was styled to be messy and a body that hadn’t missed a workout in a great many years, August Lockwood was a good-looking guy by anyone’s measure. I understood immediately why Georgia said she wouldn’t have been surprised if Trina Lynn had told her they were dating.

  “August Lockwood?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Liz Talbot.”

  “Right. I was expecting you, of course. I’m a bit unsettled. Please. Come in.” He stepped back and opened the door wider. He closed the door behind us and led me down a short hall. The apartment was neat, with brown leather furniture and framed photographs of Lowcountry beaches, marshes, and landmarks. And Trina Lynn.

  “Your work?” I asked.

  He dug the fingers of his left hand through his hair, distracted. “Yeah.”

  “Nice.”

  “Thanks. Have a seat.” He sat on the end of the sofa and gestured to a club chair. “Let me make sure I have this straight. You work for the attorney who represents the man charged with the murder of my best friend.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why exactly would I help you, assuming that I could?” His tone was straightforward, but not aggressive.

  “Because Darius Baker did not kill Trina Lynn. My job is to discover who did. And you want to help me do that in order to get justice for your friend.”

  “How do you know, for a fact, that Darius didn’t do it?”

  I drew a deep breath, released it slowly. “Here’s the thing…there’s a lot I can’t tell you. Client confidentiality and so forth. You’ll have to decide if you trust me or not.” It would not help my case in the slightest to get into Colleen and her guidance, nor my instincts. Better I allude to facts I didn’t technically have in my possession just yet.

  He met my gaze and held it, assessing me. His eyes were a warm brown, roiling with a mixture of uncertainty and pain. “Do you think he’s being railroaded?”

  “I do.”

  “Because he’s black?”

  “I don’t know why. I know the detectives in charge of his case are good men, not prone to making race-based arrests. I have a sense they’re being pressured, but I don’t know by whom or what their motives are.”

  He thought about that for a few moments, nodded. “Okay. How can I help?”

  “Trina Lynn was your best friend?”

  “That’s right. I had been at WCSC for about a year when she started working there right out of college. Trina, she was trying to save the world single-handedly. A bit of a crusader, even when she was just a production assistant. We started hanging out after work. Been friends ever since.”

  “Were the two of you ever romantically involved?”

  “No. I was in a long-term relationship when we met.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m not.”

  “You have a lot of photographs of her.” I gestured at the walls. “You and Trina—”

  “It wasn’t like that. Ever. Two people of the opposite sex can be best friends, you know. I won’t say there wasn’t chemistry. There was. Just not that kind of chemistry. She was like my sister. Sure, I have pictures of her. We worked together. I was her cameraman. These photos represent our work, stories we covered together.”

  “Okay. So tell me about who she was romantically involved with.”

  His eyes widened and he dug both sets of fingers into his hair. “Well, officially, she wasn’t dating anyone. She was focused on her career.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “She’d been seeing Grey Hamilton, the news anchor, for about a year. She would’ve probably been fired if anyone found out.”

  “She must have loved him very much to take that risk.”

  He winced. “I think she did…”

  “But?”

  “Grey was crazy about her. He wanted to marry her. She kept putting him off, said it was because of her career. But I think it went deeper than that. Trina had bad luck with men. I don’t think she trusted that he really loved her.”

  “How did he take this?” I asked.

  “He kept hanging in there. Said one day she’d believe him.”

  “He wasn’t angry?”

  “No. And Grey Hamilton is the last person on the planet aside from me who would’ve hurt Trina.”

  “Any old boyfriends who might’ve been following her around, caught her with Grey?”

  August stared thoughtfully out the window. “No.”

  “August—”

  “Call me Auggie. Everyone does.”

  “Auggie, can you think of anyone you’d suspect of killing her? Any stalkers? Crazy fans?”

  “She got a lot of mail. Emails and the old-fashioned kind. Most people loved her. But there were a few crazies in the mix. One guy—Kevin Looney, hand to God, that’s his name—he sent her a letter every week. Seemed to have the idea they had a relationship. I thought it was creepy. Trina felt sorry for him. He’s a sad case, I guess.”

  “Is he local?”

  “Lives on Johns Island. Runs one of those pet washing vans. I’ve seen him, many times, watching Trina when we were taping spots or broadcasting live.”

  “Do you think he’d hurt her?”

  “Who knows what anyone’s capable of?” he said.

  “What about the stories she’s been working on? I understand she was meeting a source in Philadelphia Alley the night she was killed.”

  “Yeah, she said a woman called her. Said she had information about the missing petty officer case Trina Lynn had been investigating. This was Trina’s most recent passion project. She had it in her bones that the petty officer was somehow tied to the attempted abduction of a sixteen-year-old girl the night he disappeared.”

  “You disagreed with that?”

  “Not so much that. It’s just that she’d been chasing it for months, and there were no new leads.”

  “What’s the petty officer’s name?”

  “Fielding Davidson. Last seen February 2, at 9:15 p.m. leaving his girlfriend’s apartment in Goose Creek.”

  “And what did Trina think that had to do
with the sixteen-year-old girl?”

  “Mia Moretti. Someone tried to snatch her that same night, along the route Davidson would’ve taken home—between his girlfriend’s apartment and his. She was grabbed from behind in the parking lot at a pizza place on Red Bank Road.”

  “How’d she get away?”

  “Good Samaritan intervened. Started whaling away on the guy who tried to grab her. She ran inside and called 911. When the officers arrived, both the attacker and the Good Samaritan were gone. Fielding Davidson hasn’t been seen since. Trina believed he was the Good Samaritan, and it got him killed.”

  “Wow. What did the police think of her theory?”

  “Zero evidence. Mia couldn’t describe either her attacker or the guy who saved her.”

  “And the person Trina Lynn was supposed to meet Sunday night had information connecting the two incidents?”

  “That’s what she told Trina.”

  “Did she say why she needed to meet in Philadelphia Alley? Seems a bit out of the way. Why not a coffee shop?”

  “No idea.”

  “Was Trina worried at all about that?”

  “She would’ve met her in a barnyard. All she could think about was getting whatever information the woman had.”

  “Did it worry you? Did you think about going with her?”

  “Of course I did. Trina was adamant that she had to go alone.”

  “Have you or anyone else heard from this source since Trina’s death?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. I figure she’s freaked out. Whatever she knows, she’ll be too afraid to share it now. Probably thinking the information got Trina killed and she doesn’t want to be next.”

  “But why would someone kill Trina and not the woman holding the incriminating information?”

  Auggie shrugged. “I have no idea. I didn’t say it made sense. I just don’t expect to hear from that source again.”

  “When you heard that Trina Lynn had been killed, what’s the first thing that popped into your head? Who did you think had done it?”

  “Honestly, I thought it was a robbery. Trina was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I cursed myself for not going with her.”

  “And now?”

  “It was either a robbery or someone connected to Fielding Davidson’s disappearance.”

  “Just so I have it for my records, where were you Sunday night between 10:00 and 11:00?”

  He gave me a look that said I was trying his patience. “I was at the community fire pit drinking beer with half a dozen neighbors.”

  “Could I get those names, please?” I asked.

  He muttered something, stood and crossed the room to a desk. He grabbed a pad and pen and dashed something on a note pad, then tapped and scrolled on his phone, alternately adding to his missive. After a few moments, he spun and delivered the piece of paper without a word, exasperation all over his face.

  “Thank you so much.” I stood. “And thank you so much for seeing me. I know this is a difficult time.” I took a step towards the door.

  “Anything I can do to help.”

  “Hey, just one more question while I have you.”

  “Okay.” His tone held a note of warning.

  “Did Trina Lynn ever tell you that she had a child?”

  “She did. She thought about her son a lot. But she thought she did the right thing by him.”

  “Did she talk about Darius?”

  Auggie shrugged, shook his head. “Not really. I mean yeah, she told me he was the father. But he was part of her past. She never mentioned him.”

  “Were you surprised that she agreed to have dinner with him Sunday night?”

  “I guess I didn’t give it much thought,” he said. “He was back in town and wanted to see her. They had history.”

  “Did you know that Darius did not know about the child?”

  “Yeah. I think Trina really loved Darius. When they were in high school, I mean. She knew he had big dreams. Giving up the baby was heart-wrenching for her. She didn’t see any reason to put Darius through the pain. It wouldn’t have changed her mind. He wasn’t in a position to raise a child any more than she was.”

  “One thing that I just can’t wrap my head around is how in the world she kept that pregnancy a secret in a small town like Stella Maris.”

  “She told everyone she was going to take a year off and backpack through Europe. Then she went to stay with family friends in Travelers Rest. Came home after the baby was born and enrolled in Trident Tech. It was the mid-nineties. Facebook wasn’t invented yet. No one was expecting daily updates from Europe.”

  “She really did tell you everything, didn’t she?”

  “I told you. We were best friends.”

  “I can see that. If you think of anything else, here’s my card.” I offered him a small smile laced with something he could interpret as regret for having troubled him, if that suited him, and headed towards the door.

  When I opened the door, a petite redhead with bright blue eyes stood on the other side. She drew back, surprised.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s fine,” she said in a soft voice. Her hands twisted each other nervously. “I just came to check on Auggie.”

  “Hey, Camille.” His voice rang a bit tired to my ear, like maybe this wasn’t the first time she’d been by.

  “Bye now.” I waved to them both and headed to the elevator.

  When the doors opened, a brunette got off. She looked over her shoulder at me as she walked towards Auggie’s door. I’d be willing to bet there was a hoard of young women seeing after his well-being.

  ELEVEN

  They didn’t skimp on happy hour at 86 Cannon. Nate poured us each a glass of Veuve Clicquot while I put together a small plate of cheeses, sliced baguette, nuts, and fruits from the cheese board. Then we went out to the second-floor piazza. It was decorated similarly to the one below, but with more seating, and white grommet drapes around the perimeter, pulled back and tied at each column with a length of rope.

  To the right, Tanna and Eric Mullinax occupied two chairs against the rail with a small table between them. Across from them on a sofa was a couple we hadn’t met. Mo and Jim Heedles were seated on one side of an outdoor sectional sofa on the end of the porch to our left. On the other side of the sofa, two women were taking turns telling a story. We were late to the party. We smiled and waved in both directions. The wicker chairs directly in front of the door were available, but not what we needed at that particular moment. They were isolated from everyone else.

  “Let’s head over here,” I murmured to Nate and gestured right with my head. I wanted to speak to the folks from Travelers Rest. “Hey, y’all.”

  “Hey,” said Tanna.

  Eric stood. “Here, have a seat.”

  “Oh no, thank you.” I waved away the notion of taking his chair. “I’ve been sitting in the car. I need to stand for a while.”

  “I insist.” He smiled, held onto the chair as if holding it for me.

  “You are a true Southern Gentleman,” I said. “Thank you so much.” I sat and placed my glass on the small table to my left. I glanced to the couple I pegged at mid-fifties across the porch. They were sipping something red. From the hue, I gathered it was the pinot noir. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Liz, and this is my husband, Nate.”

  “Wynonna and Sam Williams.” She slurred the last name slightly. How many glasses of the pinot noir had the plump, sandy-haired woman had? “We’re from Dayton, Ohio.”

  “How long y’all in town for?” asked Nate.

  “We just got here yesterday afternoon,” said Wynonna. “We’re here ’til Wednesday, then we’re headed to Savannah.” One down. They hadn’t been here Sunday night.

  Sam rattled the ice in his rocks glass. Appar
ently he’d been to the honor bar in the library for a stouter libation. “Hot out here. Think I’ll grab another.” He stood and headed towards the doorway.

  “Tanna—it’s Tanna, right?” I took a sip of my champagne. “Such a lovely name.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile was warm and genuine.

  “You said y’all are from Travelers Rest, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded.

  “We met someone from Travelers Rest not too long ago. I’m trying to recall where. You remember, sweetheart?”

  Nate furrowed his brow. “Young guy?”

  “Yes. I believe his name was Brantley…” I looked up, like maybe I was searching for the name on the porch ceiling. “Brantley Miller. Now where did we meet him? Do y’all know the Miller family?”

  Tanna paled, looked at Eric.

  Eric cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t say we know them. We know of them.”

  I gave Tanna an inquiring smile and took a bite of cheese.

  Her hand went to her chest. “It’s a sad story, I’m afraid. Most of the Miller family passed away in a fire about six months ago. Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Their two teenagers. Brantley was the only one who survived.”

  “Oh dear Heaven,” I said. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry to bring up sad memories.”

  “Well,” said Eric, “it’s not like we knew them well.”

  “It was just sad, is all,” said Tanna. “I understand they were very nice folks. The story on the news was filmed outside the Methodist Church during the funeral. It was overflowing with people.”

  “I wonder how on earth Brantley was able to survive,” I said.

  “The newspaper said he wasn’t home at the time of the fire,” said Tanna. “He’s in college now. Clemson, I think.”

  “Do the authorities know what caused the fire?” asked Nate.

  “A clogged dryer vent, of all things,” said Tanna.

  I was hoping hard that was exactly what happened. But I couldn’t help but wonder if Darius’s son was a seriously disturbed young man. Imagining the worst was an occupational hazard for me.

  “I’m terribly sorry to have bought it up,” I said. “Please, let’s talk of more pleasant things. What did y’all do this afternoon?”