by Kendel Lynn
The impromptu group met right in the foyer. Tod handed each person a stack of flyers while I explained the instructions Parker had provided. “We hang these within a five-mile radius of Daphne’s apartment and everywhere on the island. We used the Summerton Sheriff’s Office phone number for the contact.” Which reminded me I needed to call the Sheriff’s Office and tell them that. “And there’s a $10,000 reward for information leading to her location.” Which reminded me I needed to call Mr. Ballantyne and tell him that.
Zibby emerged at the top of the wide center staircase with a cardboard box that rattled with each uncertain step she took. Tucker ran up and grabbed it from her, then she placed a hand on his elbow for the rest of their descent. Once down, Tucker distributed the contents: Tape guns loaded with thick rolls of clear packing tape.
“Fast food chains, restaurants, groceries, banks and ATMs,” I continued. “We have dozens of condo complexes and gated communities. Give one to every gate guard.”
Twenty-somethings assembled in the foyer, at least fifteen to twenty, all wearing a variety of sunwear: Shorts, tees, flip-flops, hats.
“Juliette, Millie Poppy, Sam, Tucker,” I said. “You each grab three or four friends. Create teams and split up the flyers and destinations. Might have more room out in the drive.”
“And Alex, too,” Juliette said, pointing to the beachy guy they walked in with. “That’s Daphne’s boyfriend, Alex Sanders. He should be a team leader, too.”
He gave me a what’s up chin tilt and followed the crowd outside to the front steps.
“Is that it?” Juliette asked. “Anything else?”
“Recruit your most charming, forward, extroverted friends to approach the nearest pizza places. Ask the drivers to put flyers on every delivery box. John’s Pizza on the island is my number one speed dial, so I’ll call John.” She nodded and divided the remaining tape guns and flyers into smaller boxes.
The hardest part wouldn’t be finding spots to hang the flyers, it would be finding spots where they would be seen. The entire island benefitted from the foresight of city planners and island ordinances going back multiple generations. Their collective vision kept the island fairly close to how nature intended. It was covered in flora and fauna with even the roughest of dirt roads bordered by flowering bushes, swaying marsh grass, and towering trees. It was gorgeous and peaceful and almost impossible to locate modern buildings by sight. Every shopping center, municipal building, and condo complex was bermed by landscaping twenty feet deep.
We could post flyers on poles and in windows, but people would need to be directly in front of them to see them. We’d be largely unable to attract the attention of passersby along the main roads. At least on the island. Though while Summerton itself had less restrictive building regulations, it still clung to plenty of its neighboring island’s landscaping ideals.
Sid and I divvied up the rest of the initial duties as outlined in the packet. We needed to reach out to the hospitals (again), and I needed to call the Sheriff’s Office (again).
Juliette stopped me on her way out to the caravan of cars lined up in the drive. “Can this really help? The flyers all over town?”
“It certainly can’t hurt.” I hugged her. “Someone will call. Daphne will call. It’ll be okay.”
I did not tell her what I was really thinking. It had now been nearly a full day with no word. Thoughts of the importance of the first twenty-four hours had played on a loop in my head since I’d spoken with Mr. Ballantyne.
I texted Ransom: I know it’s not your case, but anything you can do?
He texted back: Keep posting flyers. Sheriff said no one’s heard from her since last night.
Me: That cannot be good.
THREE
(Day #3: Monday Morning)
I spent the rest of that evening making calls until the list had ended and hanging flyers until the box was empty. I felt mixed relief when my phone calls netted no results. At least when inquiring at places like the morgue and the hospital. My stomach tensed with each ring, each request for information on any young female patients. Thankfully, there were no Jane Does, dead or injured, within one hundred fifty miles of Summerton, even when I inquired far north along the South Carolina coast and into Georgia and Florida.
The pure blue sky lightened my bedroom through the skylight in the ceiling. I loved how the natural light slowly roused me from my sleep. The gentle swishing of ocean waves dancing on the sand drifted through the open windows. My second-floor master faced the sea. Though calling it a master made it sound grand. My cottage was exactly that: A cottage. Two bedrooms and a bath up, a compact kitchen, living room, and half-bath down. The décor included a mix of retro beach and vintage games with handmade rag rugs on the wood floors. An aged-plank patio overlooked the wide hard-packed sand beach and miles of sparkling sea clear to the horizon.
I grabbed a bowl of cereal and a fresh notebook and continued the investigation into the disappearance of Daphne Fischer. I’d originally started my investigative career in college with a major in Criminal Justice and a minor in Nick Ransom. He swept me off my feet during a slideshow in our shared evidence class. Literally. He caught my crumpled faint after a particularly graphic crime scene photo slid onto the screen and I slid onto the floor.
We were inseparable until he left me an answering machine message saying we’d meet again someday. He had been recruited by the FBI, and it turned out someday meant twenty years in the future.
Determined to become a skilled investigator, I vigorously pursued my degree for another two years before realizing my queasiness wasn’t abating, and class situations were only getting queasier. I never saw it as a sign of weakness, just that I had other strengths. Like running a billion-dollar charitable foundation and performing discreet inquiries for eccentric patrons and their minor transgressions. It’s only slightly shocking how many there were.
Though a missing woman was most definitely not a minor inquiry. Nor was it anything to keep discreet. Finding Daphne would require us to go wide and go loud. Getting the word out would be essential. The discreet part would enter in as I delicately nosed into her private life. Everyone held secrets, and I didn’t relish prying them from their hidey holes.
At this point, I didn’t have much to add to my notebook. I listed the names of everyone I’d met so far, including Alex Sanders, her boyfriend, and Juliette Pete, her best friend. I needed to get the names of her other friends, acquaintances, co-workers, and neighbors. Though the Summerton County Sheriff’s investigators would handle the bulk of the questioning of those close, and not so close, to her. The conventional way to investigate. Logging interviews and canvassing her neighbors, all by the book.
Not being sworn to uphold anything, I had the freedom to be more unconventional.
After a quick, but thoroughly-routined shower, hair, and dressing process, I popped into my Mini. With the top down and a hat on my head, I zipped down Spy Hop Lane toward the Oyster Cove Plantation’s guarded gates and onto Cabana Boulevard.
I wanted to start today’s investigation at the end and work backward from there. Not where she was last seen, but where she was last supposed to be. Juliette said Daphne never arrived at the brunch, but maybe she had, and no one knew it.
The Wharf was an award-winning fine dining restaurant offering sumptuous cuisine and spectacular views. It bordered the Intracoastal Waterway three miles down Old Pickett Road on the north side of the island. I parked amongst the cars dotting the asphalt near the front entrance. It was Monday, and though the Wharf only served dinner during the week, the staff usually began their daily preparations in the morning hours.
I entered through the heavy wood door into a rustically elegant foyer. The hostess stand stood empty, as did the high-backed chairs that lined the porch window. The sound of flatware clanking against porcelain drifted from the main dining room. I passed the dark coat check closet and leaned int
o the special events room.
Clearly, this was to hold the bridesmaids’ brunch. Petite sprays of peonies and hydrangeas in vintage jars ran down the center of a long table covered in a starched white cloth. Ribbons adorned gold boxes of chocolates at each place setting. A plastic bin, neatly packed, included Tiffany blue gift boxes and fragrant sweet lilies. The room looked beautiful, decorated for hope and romance. But now, a day later, the gifts unopened and the lights switched off, it was abandoned and silent.
I quietly closed the door and entered the main dining room. Four-tops were placed along a wall of windows. Beyond the glass, ropes of Spanish moss hung from thick oak trees, their tangled roots buried in the waters of the Intracoastal. Several sailboats drifted lazily in the morning sun, its rays shimmering off the calm waves.
Chef Tom Carmichael, the Wharf’s proprietor and head chef, was eating brunch near the window with Jane, our Ballantyne board chair. I’d recently discovered they were dating. It was a combustible connection to match up these two strong personalities. One egotistical, the other unpleasant.
“Elliott, I didn’t know you were joining us,” Chef said. “Here, grab a plate.” He half-stood to reach for a china plate on the table next to his.
“Oh, I can’t stay long,” I said. Possibly too soon. I’d just noticed the array of gooey glazed cinnamon rolls, fluffy frittatas, and sweet peach Bellinis. My favorite cocktail. I stifled a sigh and continued. “I’m sure you heard about Daphne Fischer.”
“Obviously,” Jane said. “I know everything happening at the Ballantyne.”
“Anything interesting with the brunch yesterday?” I asked Chef. “Perhaps Daphne arrived before everyone else? Maybe she snuck in or popped by after everyone left?”
“Not that I know of,” Chef said. “And I know everything here.”
A couple of know-it-alls.
“Nothing suspicious, if that’s what you’re asking,” Chef continued. “Nothing strange, other than a no-show bride. But that’s not as unusual as you think.”
“Oh?”
“We host about two of those brunches a month. A bridal shower makes it real. The point of no return.”
“True, but in this case, it was the maid of honor who was a no-show,” I said.
“That brunch made it very real for her, too,” Jane said. “Always a bridesmaid.”
“You can look around the restaurant if you want,” Chef said. “As long as you stay out of the way. We don’t open for dinner until four, but we’re prepping for a special prime rib this evening.”
I left them to enjoy their decadent brunch, weaving my way past uniformed servers. They placed heavy silver forks and spoons at dining tables around the room. Assorted kitchen staff in white coats clanged pans and sliced and diced through the swinging kitchen door.
A screen door with a mighty strong hinge led to an outdoor dining deck. Tables and chairs, more casual than their indoor counterparts, were shaded by tall square umbrellas. From this vantage, I could see the Palmetto Bridge spanning the land between Sea Pine Island and Summerton. A breeze flapped the sails of the boats, and pelicans and gulls intermittently dove and soared overhead.
I thought about this lovely setting. The room decorated with care. Elegant gifts and flowers. I wondered if Daphne ever arrived. Or even made it onto the island. Not a single trace of her stood out. There were no security cameras, no debris, no human footprints. Just an extension of the quiet from the special events room.
I followed the weathered path through the towering oaks and billowy Spanish moss to the parking lot. Additional staff members trickled across the pavement from their cars to the entrance. Missing persons posters were taped to light poles throughout the lot. I’d missed seeing them when I parked.
Apparently, so did the arriving staff. No one even looked at the flyers. Just heads down, holding aprons, putting on chef coats, hurrying into the restaurant. Not a glance at Daphne’s smiling face. Her hair curly and long, the top half casually knotted atop her head. The words MISSING in tall black type framing the top of the photo.
It almost seemed futile. We’d need to post thousands of flyers, and yet, how many people would actually see them? We’d need the exact right person to look up at the exact right time and remember something about a stranger, something insignificant to them. More than futile. Impossible.
I sat in my car and looked up at the sky. “I’m going to find you, Daphne. I promise you that.”
Sid had left me a voicemail while I was inside the Wharf. No news. Simply an update that the search would start from the Cake & Shake that morning. But before I joined them, I needed to meet with the investigator from the Sheriff’s Office. I was over the bridge and halfway to the Summerton County Courthouse when the desk sergeant phoned, rerouting me from the main Sheriff’s Office on the other side of the sound to the Summerton substation.
I’d already passed the turnoff to Poplar Grove, an elegant gated community situated on the May River, so I flipped around on Cabana, then made my way down the exquisite winding drive. It was bordered by climbing wisteria and vintage-looking gaslight lanterns. The police substation blended into the elegant surroundings. It was an iron and stone building about a mile before the main gates. While one might imagine the outpost quaint, once inside, one saw the bustle of a modern station.
A uniformed officer handed me a pass on a lanyard and showed me to a second-floor office with a view of the river—if you stood tiptoe, leaned to the left, and gave a good squint.
Sheriff Willem Hill, the youngest sheriff to be elected in the history of the county, was finishing up a phone call. He waved in greeting, then indicated a seat across from his desk. Though young for the county when he was elected ten years earlier, now he was mid-forties with hair cropped short and a trim goatee showing initial hints of gray. His smile reached his eyes and he lifted a finger to signal one minute.
It gave me time to adjust my expectations. I’d been expecting to meet with the lead investigator, possibly even a uniform. Definitely not the Sheriff himself.
I said as much when he turned his attention to me.
“I like to stay involved,” he replied.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
He laughed. “Also, Captain Finnegan called and name dropped.”
“Me?”
“Ed Ballantyne.”
“Gotcha,” I said.
“It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” he said. “Now what can I help you with?”
“This is my first missing persons case,” I said. “What happens next? Daphne’s been missing nearly thirty-six hours. No one’s heard from her since Saturday night, correct?”
“As far as we can tell,” he said. “We’ve opened a file, and we have two investigators working on it. Are you the local contact, with her family being out of town?”
“I am. We’ve called the hospitals and morgues from Charleston down to Jacksonville and began hanging flyers last night.”
“Sounds right,” he said. “That’s exactly what you should be doing when it comes to a missing person. We’ve also been making calls. Talked to her mother yesterday. She’s of the impression Daphne left because of the wedding.”
“Really? I’m of the impression she was the maid of honor in that wedding. Her duties pretty much put her in town all week.”
“True enough,” he said. “But she has a right to be wherever she wants. And a reason to not want to be at that wedding. It’s not odd a woman might not want to help her competitor marry the man of her own dreams.”
“Competitor? What competition?”
“You’ve lived here for what, twenty years, and you haven’t heard of Down the Isle?”
“The bachelor dating show?”
“That’s the one,” he said. “Filmed right here in Summerton County, over on Thatch Island.”
“Seriously?” I had always assumed the tv crews
filmed the exterior shots around Summerton and the beach, but the whole house and all the episodes were actually recorded on some studio in Los Angeles. “You’re saying Juliette and Daphne were contestants on Down the Isle, and while they look like best friends, they’re not?”
“Ask Juliette about it. I’m going to. You might find out that Daphne skipping that bridal party luncheon isn’t such a big surprise.”
“Even though she was maid of honor, you think Daphne willingly left town? Over a tv show?”
“Like I said, her mother seems to think so. Says she probably went home to Nashville or at least took to the road.”
“I’m assuming you’ve checked the cell tower pings?”
He studied me. In the pause I realized he had cited how long I’d lived on the island, down to the year, give or take. I knew when he was elected Summerton County Sheriff, but his was a widely publicized public position. Mine was not.
“This PI license you’re pursuing, you seem to be committed,” he said. “For someone not in the business. A couple of nasty cases over at your Ballantyne Foundation recently. You handle yourself pretty well. You see a future in investigations?”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m not sure about all that. Nasty is a strong word. Life is actually pretty slow on our island.”
“The May Bash, the Nutcracker ballerina, something with a burned boat, the tragedy at the Irish Spring, missing Pomeranians—”
“You seem well informed,” I said, shifting in my seat.
“I’m in the next city over, not the next state,” he said with either a smirk or a smile. I didn’t know him well enough to differentiate.
“Back to the cell phone pings. You check them?”
He leaned back in his chair, a large black leather office chair with hearty springs.
“I have the full support of Captain Finnegan and his entire Sea Pine Island police department,” I added with a touch of my own smirky smile.
“Which we’re not, but I appreciate the name drop.”
