LOWCOUNTRY BOOMERANG

by Susan M. Boyer

  “Whoever killed Trina had multiple escape routes,” I said.

  Nate made a face like maybe he wasn’t ready to commit to that assessment. “Potentially. But with a couple of exceptions, he or she would’ve needed an accomplice inside the Footlight Players or the home on the corner of Queen and Philadelphia Alley.”

  I chewed on all that for a minute, then filled him in on what Auggie had told me about Trina Lynn, the missing petty officer case, and the woman with so-called information. “I’m thinking the most likely scenario is that whoever called Trina Lynn and set up that meeting lured her to her death. Killing her was about the story Trina was working on involving the petty officer, covering all that up. Whoever called her wanted to shut her up, not help her. It was a trap. And it’s highly unlikely another party to that situation would’ve killed Trina and let someone with the information she wanted live.” I listed “unknown fake informant” as our first suspect, and “coverup a crime/keep a secret” as the motive.

  “I’ll do some digging tomorrow into the missing petty officer,” said Nate. “See what I can find out about who all else was connected to that case. But at least as likely, based on statistics alone, would be that her boyfriend—the news anchor—killed her,” said Nate.

  I added “Lover/Grey Hamilton” and “Crime of Passion” to my list. “Continuing with the crime of passion theme, we need to find out if Grey Hamilton had any spurned lovers who might’ve wanted Trina Lynn out of the way.” I talked as I typed.

  “Which brings us to family,” said Nate.

  “I think we have to consider her child, Brantley Miller, a suspect. That fire story made the hairs on my neck stand up.”

  “Yeah, mine too,” said Nate. “We need to track him down yesterday. What about the Causbys?”

  “We can’t rule them out yet, but my sense is they’re unlikely suspects.” The vast majority of homicide victims were men. But when women were victims, they were statistically far more likely to be killed by a lover or family member. I added Billy Ray or Georgia Causby, Sawyer Causby, and Laura Beth Causby Coleman to my suspect list, with unknown motives.

  “What about Darius’s ex-wives?” asked Nate.

  “Well, I thought they were long shots until they started turning up.” I filled him in on my encounter with Vivianne Whitley, and then told him about Lily McAdams’s press conference. “I’m just wondering when his first ex-wife is going to turn up. But now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t recall Darius ever mentioning divorcing Trina Lynn. I didn’t see a record of that, either. If that marriage was legal and they didn’t divorce, none of his subsequent marriages are legal.”

  “That could have a serious impact on their claims to his money,” said Nate.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But surely a family court would take into account these women thought they were married to him.”

  “Probably varies state by state. But the first question is, did any of them even know Darius was married to Trina Lynn?”

  “Adding that to my questions list,” I said. “Auggie, Trina’s cameraman and best friend, told me about a stalker. She may have had more than one. The station would have all the letters and emails. But apparently Kevin Looney showed up regularly to wherever they were taping or broadcasting.” I added “Wannabe Lover/Kevin Looney” to my list with jealousy as a motive.

  “What about the best friend?” asked Nate.

  “I ruffled his feathers when I asked for an alibi, but he gave me a list of six people he claims he was with. Says he was drinking beer at the community fire pit. He lives at Cooper River Farms on Daniel Island.”

  “That’d be what, thirty minutes or so away?”

  “About that.”

  “Shall I speak with his friends?” Nate asked.

  “Sure, thanks. We need to cross him off our list.”

  “What about someone connected to another story Trina Lynn was working?”

  “That’s a real possibility,” I said. “Her job carried a certain amount of risk. And then we have the hardest culprit to find: the random unknown robber.”

  “I’m exhausted,” said Nate. “You ready to call it a night?”

  “Yeah, I think we have plenty to keep us busy tomorrow. Hang on…I just need to see what the funeral arrangements are.” I pulled up Trina Lynn’s online obituary. “The funeral is at St. Andrews in Mt. Pleasant tomorrow afternoon at 2:30. The family is receiving friends in Sam’s Hall on the church campus from 1:00 p.m. until the service starts. Private, family only interment following the service at Christ Church cemetery.”

  “You planning on attending?” He closed his laptop and set it on the bedside table.

  “I’d like to go, but if I did, it’d have to be incognito. I truly don’t want to intrude on the family’s grief. It won’t comfort them in the least to see me there. If I were some anonymous face, that’d be different. But we have history.”

  “They don’t know me,” said Nate. “I’ll go.”

  “You’ve already got a lot on your plate tomorrow,” I said. “The petty officer’s case, Sonny’s chain of command, Auggie’s alibi…”

  “Two of those things won’t take ten minutes. The petty officer…that may take a while. But I can still get to the funeral. You’re planning on going to Trina Lynn’s condo, aren’t you?”

  “You know me so well.” I grinned, put my laptop away, and crawled under the covers.

  “Hey, we got what we needed here. Do you want to stay here tomorrow night or head home?”

  “Let’s play it by ear,” I said. “As nice as this place is, I’d rather be home when we’re working. And I hate leaving Rhett so much.”

  “There’s no place like home.” He smiled, leaned over to kiss me goodnight.

  “Does it really feel like home to you now? Stella Maris?” For a while that had been a real issue with us. While I’d grown up on Stella Maris and had deep roots and family there, Nate grew up in Greenville.

  “Slugger, I’m at home wherever you are.”

  FOURTEEN

  When most people thought about Shem Creek, they imagined the stretch where it flowed into Charleston Harbor, not far from where the shrimp boats tied up and you could buy shrimp so fresh it was just caught that morning. They saw the bridge on Coleman Boulevard, and all the waterfront restaurants—Red’s Icehouse, Vickery’s, Shem Creek Bar and Grill—and the boat landing. But Shem Creek continued deep into Mt. Pleasant, and though it narrowed substantially before it reached Bowman Road, several communities between there and the business district had lovely views. Tucked into a shaded neighborhood off Anna Knapp Boulevard, Trina Lynn Causby’s condo sat on the banks of Shem Creek.

  It gave me pause, breaking and entering on the day of her funeral. But I was on the side of the angels, wanting nothing more than to find the truth about what had happened to her and to bring her killer to justice. I parked the Explorer—Nate and I had switched cars for the day because I needed gas and he was a gentleman—in front of an adjacent building, grabbed a tote with a crossbody strap filled with the things I was most likely to need, and strolled down to the creek bank. Trina’s condo was a first-floor end unit in a building with eight homes, four down, four up.

  Through the screened porch on the back, I noticed the security system sticker on the window. The company used a Wi-Fi signal and door and window sensors. I’d have to disable it. I continued around to the front of the building. Thankfully, the front door was recessed and hidden from view of the random neighbor who might walk by. I pulled out a Wi-Fi jammer, activated it, and slid it back into my tote. Then I slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves and used my pick set to let myself in.

  As I eased the door open, I listened intently for the beeping of an alarm, just in case I’d miscalculated. All was quiet. I carried my bag inside and relocked and bolted the door behind me. Should family show up, or Sonny and Jenkins, I’d need time to get out.


  It wasn’t a large condo, maybe 1,100 square feet, with two bedrooms and two baths. But it looked cozy for one or two people. With light-colored hardwood floors, it was decorated in soft neutrals—sand, cream, and white—with blue and green accents. It was clean and uncluttered. Trina had clearly been a neat freak, or perhaps she’d just cleaned.

  The floor plan was simple, with two bedrooms and a laundry closet off the foyer, and a living room with sliding doors to the screened porch. To the left of the living room was a dining area open to a galley kitchen. The window shades were the variety that virtually disappeared when open, and the curtains on the sliding doors were pulled back letting in lots of natural light. Mature oaks shaded the back of the condo. A variety of shrubs and grasses lined the bank of the creek beyond. It was a lovely view. Had Trina been happy here?

  I started with the front bedroom, which Trina had used as an office. The wooden file cabinet had been emptied. There was a single framed photo on her writing desk. Taken a few years back, it was of Georgia and Billy Ray Causby and all four of their children. They were all smiling, happy. Troy had an arm around Trina Lynn. That picture took my breath away. How many similar photos had we taken—Mamma, Daddy, Blake, Merry, and me? It was hard to fathom the hole in the Causby family.

  The only other items on Trina’s desktop were a box of tissues and a ceramic jar of pens. On the floor underneath was the power supply to the laptop the police had no doubt taken. I sat at her desk and opened the single drawer. Nothing but office supplies there. I rotated in her chair, taking in the room. Where would I put personal mementos?

  Across from the desk was a comfortable reading chair in front of a wall of bookcases. On one side of the chair was a small table with a coaster. On the other side was a stack of five artsy leather-covered boxes. Was that a non-functional accent piece? I sat in the chair and opened the smallest box—the one on top. Empty. I opened the bottom box to find it also empty. Perhaps because I’m a bit OCD, I continued opening all five boxes until I found something in the box in the middle of the stack. I pulled it onto my lap.

  Inside were maybe two dozen cards, the kind that come with flowers when they’re delivered. All came from the same florist in Mt. Pleasant, Sweetgrass Flowers. All were signed the same way: “Always, W.”

  Who was “W”? Not Grey Hamilton, unless it was a nickname of some sort.

  Nothing else was in the box. I examined the inside more closely. The leather on the bottom was loose at the corner. I peeled it back. Underneath it was a single photo of Trina Lynn with a man who looked familiar, but who I couldn’t immediately place. The photo appeared to have been taken at a formal occasion of some sort, perhaps a charity ball. Trina and the man were smiling and posing for the camera. Who was that? It came to me after a moment. His photo was on several billboards in the area and countless other ads. It was Walker Nance, one of the area’s most prominent real estate agents. When had this been taken? Why was it hidden? The two were in a room full of people.

  I looked at the photo closer. It appeared to be a recent photo of Trina Lynn, within the last year would be my guess. Clearly, Walker and Trina were involved, but the body language in the photo wasn’t intimate. I snapped a photo of the picture and the florist cards. Had Trina been seeing Walker before she started dating Grey Hamilton? Perhaps she’d forgotten she even had these mementos.

  Taking great care to put everything back like I found it, I restacked the boxes. I scanned the office one last time, then moved on to the bathroom adjacent to Trina’s bedroom. The toilet tank was empty except for the customary mechanism and water—no envelope of money in a ziplock bag. Her medicine cabinet had the usual over-the-counter cold remedies, ibuprofen, and the like. Trina’s beauty products—shampoo, conditioner, body wash, toothpaste, makeup, et cetera—were drugstore brands.

  I moved to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and opened her top bedside table drawer. Prescription nasal spray, a flashlight, a bookmark, pen and paper—nothing remarkable there. I checked the remaining two drawers and found one with scarves and other accessories and one with miscellaneous electronic cords. Nothing of interest here either.

  Trina’s closet was well-organized. I spent close to an hour going through hatboxes and checking the pockets of coats, suits, and dresses, but came up empty. After searching each drawer in her dresser, running my hands through the clothes and along the inside frames, I found nothing else related to Walker Nance. I let my eyes slide around the bedroom. There were two pretty watercolor paintings on the walls, and one collage of Trina with Auggie and a few other WCSC on-air reporters. Grey Hamilton wasn’t in any of them. I walked through each room of the apartment. There wasn’t a single photo of Grey Hamilton anywhere. Trina had taken discretion seriously where their relationship was concerned.

  I went back to the office and took a closer look at the bookcases. No photo albums were nestled among the collection of literary novels, biographies, and other non-fiction titles. Did Trina simply use electronic photos? Or had the police taken all the photos from her apartment except the one family photo and the work-related collage? I’d need to ask Auggie.

  Had she had any girlfriends? Or was Auggie her sole confidant? Perhaps she had been close to her sister, Laura Beth, and that had fulfilled her feminine companionship needs.

  It didn’t take me long to go through Trina’s kitchen. She had very little in the way of groceries, and some leftover takeout from P.F. Chang’s. Her kitchen had the customary items in the way of gadgets, dishes, and flatware, but nothing of interest was hidden amongst any of it.

  I unlocked the door, let myself out, and turned off the signal jammer. For a moment I looked at the door, fighting the urge to go back in and look some more. I knew there was nothing else to find. But I had a lingering feeling that I had an incomplete image of Trina Lynn.

  It was barely 10:00 in the morning. We’d stayed up late and had a lot of wine the night before. I could use another shot of caffeine. I zipped over to Brown Fox Coffee Company on Simmons Street, parked in the small gravel lot beside the grey painted brick building and stepped up to the window. I ordered my favorite, the Mexican Fox, a dark mocha latte with a kick of cayenne. Given the heat, today I ordered it iced. I’d brought my laptop with me and wanted to dig a little, so I set up shop at the back spot in a row of wooden picnic tables with bright orange umbrellas on the far side of the building.

  I activated the hot spot on my phone and plugged it into my laptop. I could access the hot spot via Wi-Fi, but the cord made it more secure. From Trina Lynn’s profile, I created a branch for Walker Nance. Immediately, my query returned the information that he’d been married to the former Julia Kensington for fourteen years. They had three children, two boys and a girl. What had Trina’s relationship to him been? How long had it lasted? Did Grey Hamilton know about it?

  Would Walker Nance show up at her funeral?

  I texted Nate his photo. Be on the lookout for Walker Nance at the funeral.

  Then I dug deeper. Neither Walker nor Julia had a criminal record, nor any civil claims. The Walker family home was on oceanfront on Sullivan’s Island. They owned it through a family trust, and I couldn’t find record of a mortgage. I’d known Walker did well in real estate. But this was an oceanfront compound, probably worth close to eight million dollars. Did either of them have family money?

  A few clicks later I had my answer. Walker Nance came from a middle-class background, had grown up in Mt. Pleasant. Julia’s father owned a technology company that specialized in banking software. Julia had grown up a few doors down from where she currently lived. Whether or not she’d been given part of the family fortune, I couldn’t tell. But she surely came from money.

  I pulled up Julia’s Facebook profile. She was a lovely woman with blue eyes and warm brown hair she wore in a classic bob. She didn’t post often to Facebook, and when she did, it was some sort of funny meme or video. But people tagged her ofte
n in photos they posted.

  One of her friends, Bunny Porter, had just tagged her and two other friends an hour before. She was looking forward to their regular “Seashell Sisterhood” Thursday lunch at The Obstinate Daughter. I clicked Bunny’s profile. Both women had an air of the well-maintained about them. Both were in their late thirties and had grown up on Sullivan’s Island. I was mightily curious about the “Seashell Sisterhood.”

  The Obstinate Daughter sounded good. Remarkably, I was feeling peckish myself.

  FIFTEEN

  In the spring and summer, you typically needed a reservation to get a table at The Obstinate Daughter on Sullivan’s Island, even for lunch. In September, I could probably walk in and be seated. If push came to shove I could eat at the bar.

  The restaurant was on Middle Street, diagonally across from Sullivan’s Island Town Hall. I parked on the street in front of a small park with a clear view of the restaurant’s parking lot and waited. It wasn’t quite 11:30, so I was betting I had beat them there. The Facebook post had tagged two other friends. Apparently it was a party of four.

  At quarter ’til twelve, a Lexus SUV pulled into the gravel parking lot, and Bunny, a petite woman with shoulder length blonde hair and large sunglasses, hopped out on the drivers’ side. A few seconds later, Julia came around the car and they meandered towards the outdoor stairs to the second-floor restaurant, continuing a conversation that involved the dramatic clutching of each other’s arms. I zoomed into the parking lot and hopped out of the car, looking around, rushing to meet imaginary friends. I followed Bunny and Julia up the steps.

  “I need to run to the little girls’ room,” said Bunny.

  “I’ll come with you,” Julia said as they passed through the door. “Libba and CeeCee aren’t here yet.”

  I loved the vibe in The Obstinate Daughter. With light wooden floors, grey, weathered wood walls, rope-accented ceiling fixtures, and soft seafoam green chairs, it felt like a restaurant at the beach. The pendant lamps with various shapes of orange shades were a nice accent.