LOWCOUNTRY BOOMERANG

by Susan M. Boyer

  Despite my efforts to pace myself, the wine made me perhaps a bit bold. “Did y’all hear about that reporter who was killed Sunday night in Philadelphia alley?”

  Mo and Jim studied their plates, played with their halibut. Finally, Mo said, “Yes. That was tragic. Did you know her?”

  “No,” said Nate. “I never met her. Had you, darlin’?”

  “No,” I said. “But she did go to school with some friends of mine. She was a few years ahead of me.”

  “How about them arresting Darius Baker?” asked Nate. “Hard to believe he’d be a killer. Seems like such a nice guy on TV.”

  Mo looked at her glass, swirled the wine. “It is awfully hard to believe.”

  Jim looked at her, drained his glass, and set it on the table. “Mo saw him.”

  “Jim.” She turned towards him, gave him a look that said, What are you thinking?

  “It will do you good to talk about it,” he said. “I know you’re preoccupied by the whole ordeal.”

  “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” said Mo.

  “We’re not supposed to talk to the press,” said Jim. “And that one detective certainly did his dead-level best to discourage us from talking to investigators for the defense. But I keep telling you, that’s not illegal in the slightest. Witnesses do it all the time. Defense attorneys could hardly do their jobs otherwise. In any case, I hardly think discussing what happened to us with friends is what the detective meant.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Mo.

  “You saw the murder?” Of course I knew she hadn’t.

  “No.” Mo took a deep breath. “We went to dinner at East Bay Meeting House. After dinner we felt like a walk. So we went down Vendue Range past the fountains and walked out and sat on the swings for a while.”

  “We don’t have to tell them every step we took,” said Jim.

  “I’m telling this,” said Mo. “Then we took the path along the waterfront. We walked past the pineapple fountain and just walked along the waterfront. At some point, I don’t recall exactly what street we were at, we cut back over to East Bay and just walked on down to The Battery. We’d gotten all the way down to Oyster Point—there at White Point Garden—and were just looking out at the harbor. We walked back a little ways up East Battery, not far. And we stopped to look at a boat out in the harbor. Then I turned around and was just looking at the park, and the statue and the cannons across the street when all of a sudden, there he was.”

  “Darius Baker?” I asked to confirm.

  “That’s right,” said Mo. “He came walking down the sidewalk across the street. I just love his show. I don’t watch much television. A few crime shows. But I do watch Main Street USA. We both do.”

  “That’s right,” said Jim.

  Mo continued. “He had on a baseball cap, but I knew it was him. I climbed down the steps off The Battery and ran across the street. He was carrying a white bag. I called out to him, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Baker.’ He looked around, smiling, like he was happy to be recognized. But he stopped and threw that bag away in the trash can there at the park—the one in front of the last cannon. Then I was standing right in front of him and telling him how much I loved his show. Jim finally caught up to me—”

  “I thought she’d lost her mind.”

  “You were happy to meet him too.”

  “I was.”

  “I asked him for his autograph,” said Mo. “He signed a receipt from dinner I had in my fanny pack. The police took it.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What did you actually see him do?”

  “I just told you,” said Mo.

  “What was in the white bag?” asked Nate.

  “How would I know?” asked Mo.

  “The police claim there was a gun in it,” said Jim. “A Glock.”

  “Why would they have looked to see what was in it?” I felt my face scrunch into one of those expressions Mamma is forever fussing at me about.

  “Well, that’s the crazy part,” said Mo. “We talked to him for a few minutes, then walked back across the street to The Battery, walked the rest of the way around—down Murray Boulevard—then cut up Rutledge and back to the B&B. Of course, we heard sirens. Noticed something was going on way down Queen Street when we walked by. But we never dreamed it had anything to do with Darius Baker.”

  Nate and I were both riveted by her story. The waitstaff came and cleared away the halibut and brought pasta and pinot noir. They seemed ruffled that we showed little interest. When they stepped away, Mo continued. “The next morning, the police detectives came to the B&B and asked to see us. Mary Hannah came to get us. She was disconcerted, to be sure. Anyway, we went down to the parlor, and these two detectives are asking us about seeing Darius Baker at White Point Garden the night before. They said we’d called them. We told them that was crazy, and that we hadn’t done any such thing. Then they asked us if we saw Darius Baker put anything in the trash can, and of course I had to say, yes I did. I saw him throw away a white bag. They had me come in and make an official statement. Sign it and everything.”

  “We just don’t understand how they located us,” said Jim. “It was all very odd.”

  “Sounds like,” I said.

  “They claim we reported it,” said Jim. “Seem to think we’re confused senior citizens, or maybe we don’t want to admit that we called. Like we had second thoughts and didn’t want to get involved. But that’s not what happened.”

  “No,” said Mo. “We did see on the news that the reporter had been killed, and we put together that’s what the commotion on Queen was about. But we did not call the police and say, ‘Darius Baker threw away a suspicious package at White Point Garden.’ Nothing like that. Why would we? There was nothing vaguely suspicious about it.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “Why would you? Was there anyone else around when you were talking with Darius?”

  “Lots of people,” said Mo. “I mean, it wasn’t crowded. It was after 10:00 at night, but there were people out walking.”

  “And the young lady,” said Jim.

  “That’s right,” said Mo. “I asked a young woman to take our picture with Darius. She took one with my phone, so I didn’t get her name or anything. It’s not like she needed to send us the photo.”

  “Did you see where Darius went?” asked Nate.

  “He was standing on The Battery the last we saw of him,” said Mo.

  I took a bite of pasta and chewed thoughtfully. It was a mushroom and asparagus cavatelli, the flavors so good they were a distraction.

  “That’s some story,” said Nate. “What do y’all make of all that?”

  Mo said, “Well, we read a lot of crime fiction. And I have to tell you, it seems to me that someone is framing Darius. But I did see him put that bag in the trash can. I can’t say I didn’t.”

  “No,” I said. “I can certainly understand that. I wonder if the gun was registered to Darius.”

  “They didn’t tell us that one way or the other.” Jim washed down the last of his pasta with the rest of his pinot noir.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “We’ve given a statement,” said Jim. “If there’s a trial—”

  Jim paused as servers cleared the pasta and brought venison tenderloin with huckleberry-port reduction and a nice Côtes du Rhône. Having been raised by a mother whose primary expression of love was feeding us all silly, I was accustomed to large meals. But all of the servings were more generous than I’d anticipated. I tried to pace myself on the food. The Côtes du Rhône was so delicious I had to speak sternly to myself.

  When the waitstaff had moved away from the table, Jim continued. “If there’s a trial, I guess we’ll have to come back to testify. Nothing else we can do.”

  “But…” Mo shook her head. “I can’t get over the feeling we’re helping some
one frame Darius. I wish I knew what to do.”

  “Nah,” said Nate. “Jim’s right. You told the police what you saw. Now you just have to leave it up to the investigators to get to the bottom of it.”

  “But it’s maddening,” said Mo. “According to that detective, we can’t talk to the very people who will be looking for some other explanation than Darius killed that girl and put the gun in a trash can. Those police detectives have made up their minds, that’s for sure. And that prosecutor. She’s a piece of work.”

  “You spoke to the solicitor?” I asked.

  “Scarlett Wilson,” said Mo. “Yes. She was there when we went in to give our statement.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Mo,” said Nate. “The thing is, the investigators for the defense? They’re working hard right now to get to the bottom of things. Trust them to do their jobs.”

  Mo prepared a bite of venison, stopped with the fork halfway to her mouth. “I just detest feeling like we’ve been used.”

  The venison dish was delicious. It was followed by lamb chops with lamb au jus and mint chimichurri, puréed potatoes and a vegetable medley, paired with another lovely French red wine with a complicated label. By the time we got to the sorbet to refresh our palates, mine was exhausted. But we all rallied when dessert arrived—fried waffle and cherry-vanilla ice cream sandwiches with cream cheese mousse, orange-cherry coulis, and white chocolate crumbs. A lighter, sweeter, French red wine was served with it. My wine horizons were definitely broadened over the course of the meal.

  Just when we thought we were finished, Adam brought another plate of small-bite confections, which none of us could manage. We chatted briefly about the highlights of the meal, then I excused myself and headed towards the ladies’ room.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Mo.

  We made our way through the dining room and through an arched doorway, then went left down the hall to the restrooms. The ladies’ room was empty except for the two of us. When we’d washed up, I reapplied my lipstick and a light coat of gloss.

  Mo watched me in the mirror. “What would you do if you were me?”

  I put my lip gloss away in my purse. “I’d enjoy the rest of my vacation and try not to worry about what’s happened. It’s an anomaly. Charleston is safe. And like Nate said, there are investigators for the defense hard at work getting to bottom of all this.”

  “I know it’s not my job. But I’d love to be a part of that, help them.” She had a gleam in her eye.

  “I bet you’d make a great detective. You know, I always wanted to be Nancy Drew myself.”

  THIRTEEN

  It was 10:30 before we got back to 86 Cannon. We talked while we changed into soft clothes—pajama shorts and a tank for me and pajama pants and a T-shirt for Nate.

  “I don’t even want to know how much that dinner cost,” I said. “I’m just happy Darius is paying for it.”

  Nate gave me a quizzical look. “Now don’t act like we’ve never had a nice meal in a restaurant before.”

  “Of course we have,” I said. “But that was so far over the top it’s ridiculous. We could’ve paid half our property tax bill with that much money.”

  Nate studied me for a minute. “Do you worry about paying the taxes on our house?”

  “Taxes, insurance, a new roof, painting, new HVAC systems in a year or so. I worry about all that. Don’t you?”

  He looked perplexed, like this was a trick question. Then he rubbed his eyes and said, “You know what, it’s done. We’ll bill Darius. No sense getting all worked up about it.”

  “I’m not worked up. I’m just sayin’…”

  He raised his eyebrows at me. “You’re a little worked up.”

  I threw a pillow at him with a quelling look.

  “Oh, you wanna have a pillow fight?” He flashed me a devilish grin.

  I tilted my head at him. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “Have it your way.”

  “I make a point of it.”

  “Damn if that’s not the truth.”

  Was he still joking around? The tease in his voice told me he was.

  We piled up pillows at the padded headboard and leaned against them, each with our laptop.

  “Until we can talk to Darius, I think we have to assume the gun was planted,” I said. “If he did put a gun in the trash can a few blocks from where Trina was killed, immediately following the crime, and it was the murder weapon, well, given that Colleen assures us he’s innocent, that’s got to be one hell of a story.”

  “I’ve never met the guy, but I think he has to be innocent. You don’t think he’s that stupid, do you?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “If he were guilty, with his resources, he’d have chartered the first plane out of here, not waited at home to be arrested. And I guarantee you that’s exactly why Sonny has a problem with this case. That, and the whole gun in the trash can with witnesses who say they didn’t report it…Sonny knows that smells wrong.”

  “Do you know anyone else at Charleston PD well enough to ask a few questions?” Nate asked.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t. But I’d surely like to know who pressured them to make an arrest, and what their motives are. Blake knows a few people. Let’s see if he’ll nose around.”

  “That most likely went straight down the chain of command.” Nate typed something into his laptop. “I’m just looking at the CPD website. Looks like there’s several divisions under the Investigations Bureau. Homicide…that’d fall under Crimes Against Persons, and Violent Crimes under that. So Sonny and Jenkins report to a team leader, could be a sergeant. But that’s probably more logistical than anything else. They all report to a lieutenant, I’m guessing, who reports to the captain over investigations. That person likely reports to a deputy chief. I can come up with a pretext to get those names.”

  “That makes me feel queasy, but okay.” My experience with the Charleston Police Department had been mostly positive. We needed to keep things that way, protect our professional reputation. Questioning the integrity of someone in the command staff could prove a career-limiting move for us.

  “All I’m looking for right now is names. See if there’s a connection we’re missing. I’ll be cautious. Next, we need a detailed outline of Darius’s movements after he left the restaurant,” said Nate.

  “We won’t likely get that until Friday. What did you find out at Hall’s? You haven’t had a chance to tell me.”

  “I got the name of the downstairs hostess from Sunday night, tracked her down. She was able to tell me who the lead server was for Darius and Trina Lynn’s table. Guy named Glenn O’Brien. He remembered hearing an argument, but I had to pull that much out of him by making it sound like he was single-handedly responsible if an innocent person went to jail. Professional waiters are trained to be discreet, no doubt. Swears he has no idea what the argument was about. Says they stopped talking and glared at each other when the waitstaff came to the table. Glenn’s convinced other diners could not overhear anything they said. He added that if that had been the case, someone from management would’ve quickly gotten involved. They’re alert to any whiff of unpleasantness.”

  “Sounds right,” I said. “But the net of all that is, there’s no witness at Hall’s who’s bolstering the prosecution’s case.”

  “Not as far as I’ve been able to find out,” said Nate. “I think their whole case is the gun.”

  “That’s a pretty damning piece of evidence,” I said. “Sonny would’ve remembered Darius and Trina Lynn dating. He knew there was history there. So they get this call, retrieve the gun, test it, it’s the murder weapon. Then they go talk to the people they think led them to it, only Mo and Jim don’t know what they’re talking about. Sonny and Jenkins go talk to Darius, who is so sure he’s innocent that he talks to them without a lawyer present. He tells them he and Trina had dinner together th
at evening.”

  “Okay, so their theory of the crime is obvious,” said Nate. “What are our alternatives?”

  “Hang on. I want to get all this down.” I opened a spreadsheet to serve as a temporary case board and created a tab for “Facts” and one for “Questions.” I named a third tab “Narratives,” and created columns labeled “Suspect” and “Motive.”

  “While you’re getting set up,” said Nate, “the other thing I did today was spend some time in Philadelphia Alley.”

  I looked up from my laptop. “Find anything?”

  “There are cameras on the back of the Footlight Players Theatre building.”

  “Surely Sonny and Jenkins asked for the footage.”

  “They did,” said Nate. “I spoke to the folks at the theatre. Unfortunately, for some unknown reason, the cameras weren’t working that evening. They’re motion activated. But they didn’t come on at all between 9:30 and 10:30.”

  “Are they Wi-Fi?”

  “They are,” said Nate. “Someone who knows how tampered with them.”

  “Whatever happened was premeditated, and carefully planned to happen exactly where it did. Not a crime of passion arising from an argument over dinner that night.”

  “Exactly. I also looked at all the possible exits from the alley. It’s not like you can only get in or out at Queen Street or Cumberland. There’s a parking lot off State you can cut through and come through an iron gate. That’s open, but it’s pretty close to the Cumberland end. There’s another gate on the other side leading to the church property. There are multiple doors leading into the Footlight Players’ building, but they stay locked. No indication any of them were disturbed. And there’s one gate leading to a courtyard, one to a private residence, and one to a church building.”