by Kendel Lynn
The front doors and windows were bolted tight. I followed the porch along the side wing, then a path around to an iron gate blocking access to the rear of the house. A wide chain held the latch to a post. It creaked when I pushed it, its chain stretching far enough to create an opening at least a foot wide. I scrunched down and sucked in my stomach, my back scraping and bumping against the unforgiving metal. I was halfway through before I realized nothing was actually attached to the chain to lock it to the post. It was merely looped. I unlooped it and walked through the open gate like a normal person.
Whilst the front of the property told the story of Southern wealth established long before the Civil War, the back spoke nouveau riche. A pool worthy of a five-star Las Vegas resort covered nearly half the grounds. Tiered sunning lounges, two swim-up bars, a tiki bar, and a fire pit peninsula. It probably once looked decadent and sparkling and refreshing in the summer sun, but now it was sans water and sans sparkle and surrounded by a low chain link fence dotted with faded warning signs.
The wraparound porch picked up again behind the side wing. I stepped onto it. All rear-facing windows were locked and bolted like their front-facing counterparts, including the double-wide entry French doors. Scratches on the metal lock indicated tampering. Perhaps by Daphne? I added my own set of scratches until the lock clicked and the handle cranked downward.
I expected the house to be empty, and it was. I thought it might be wrecked from vagrants and hoodlums who used its massive expanse as a flop house. It wasn’t.
My footsteps fell against the solid wide plank floors, echoing throughout the cavernous rooms. Chandeliers still hung from high ceilings nearing eighteen feet tall. A handful of rugs remained. Some scattered, some rolled. Elegance and grandeur exuded from the architecture with tasteful updates mixed in. Granite countertops in the kitchens (plural, there were two) with stainless appliances, and the baths (nine) each with jetted ceramic bathtubs. The master suite was larger than my cottage, even if you put the upper and lower floors side-by-side, included the garage, driveway, deck, and beach frontage.
I spent an hour touring the interior. Only the ghosts of residents past lingered inside. A single call sheet from an early Down the Isle taping, its edges curled from the humidity, rested on the floor of the butler’s pantry. No other evidence of the home’s prior occupants, including Daphne Fischer, one-time contestant, and perhaps dreamer of a Prince Charming. Or a new life, one outside the borders of Tennessee.
Awash in melancholy, I slipped out the rear French doors, shutting them with a soft click.
“We call that breaking and entering way out here on Thatch Island,” Sheriff Hill said. “Not sure how it runs over on that island of yours.”
“Who me? I was just testing the door handle.” I gave it a good rattle.
“I’ve been here ten minutes.”
I had no answer for that.
He half-sat on the wide veranda ledge. One leg bent, the other stretched. “You find anything?”
“You mean like an arrest warrant for Alex Sanders or notes indicating he’s a person of interest for the local sheriff? Nope, nothing like that. Tell me this, since you waited for me and clearly want to talk to me, how long you been focused on him?”
“You sound a little chapped,” Sheriff Hill said. “I can respect that. I’m happy to answer your questions. Sanders has been on our radar since Sunday morning.”
“Sunday morning, as in the day before I sat in your office and specifically asked about Daphne Fischer and you said she probably left town because she wanted to?”
“Yep, that’s the day.”
“You didn’t tell me about Alex Sanders being ‘on our radar.’”
“It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“What am I, if not an investigator?”
“Not an investigator.”
“So it’s like that?” My melancholy fully evaporated, I tipped my head in a short nod. “You have a fine day, Sheriff.”
“Stay awhile, Elliott,” he said, his voice stopping me as I hit the third wide porch step to the pool.
“I’m chapped, remember?”
“An arrest warrant for Alex Sanders can’t be the reason you’re really here,” Sheriff Hill said.
“Why are you really here?”
“Like I said, happy to answer questions. But as you noticed, you might not always like the answers.”
I waited.
“Patrol called in a pale blue Mini convertible in the Isle House drive without a driver.”
“Patrol called the actual Sheriff to pop on over and see what’s what? Man, it’s pretty slow on this island of yours.”
He smiled at that. “You’re on a list.”
“Of what?”
“People associated with the disappearance of Daphne Fischer. And this house. I like to stay personally involved. It’s a major case.”
The ocean air blew in soft puffs, swirling the blooming wisteria that ran wild through the trees. The air smelled of sweet jasmine and salty seaweed. I leaned against the rail and gazed over the empty pool.
“They put that fence up last summer when the house sat vacant too long. Too much of a liability. May need to fill in the pool soon or at least cover it.”
“I heard you took the parking tickets from the Sea Pine airport exit. An entire container’s worth.”
“We did,” he said. “Before you ask, about all we know is that someone took a ticket to enter the lot. The rest is just evidence gathering in case something comes up.”
“Would you actually tell me if you knew more?”
“The machine recorded issuing a ticket at the same time the parking lot camera recorded Daphne’s car entering at the security gate. Guess if we find that particular ticket, we might be able to tie it to the driver. Good call on the stub. I shouldn’t underestimate you.”
“No you should not. And you don’t need to be butter me up. I saw it on Dateline. A convoluted story about a guy who reluctantly reported his girlfriend missing. He had all this proof she left town, but they discovered her abandoned car at the airport. They later tied him to it.”
“With the parking stub?”
“They used cell towers to track his phone to the airport parking lot. However, in his case, he fed the ticket into the machine to pay the toll and exit the lot. I don’t remember the whole thing, but they found that parking ticket, and her body buried in his backyard.”
“We’re doing the same thing. Tracking, and you know, checking each ticket left in the container. Even though the driver didn’t leave it behind, it’s possible the driver did a trial run earlier.”
“You keep saying driver, but you mean Alex. You think he planned this in advance. And so much in advance, he did a trial run. That’s calculated. Premeditated. And definitely makes him more than a person of interest.”
Sheriff Hill stood, brushed the front of his pants. “Time to get back to it.”
We walked in silence down the garden path and around the side wing to the circular driveway. His department black and white SUV snuggled up tight to my pale blue Mini.
“Daphne may not have been happy about this particular walk down the aisle.” He opened his driver’s side door, leaned on the frame. “Seemed like that poor girl got way more than she bargained for. It was a crazy show, that’s for sure.”
“You watched Down the Isle?
“When I could. Never live, though, just recorded. Hard not to be curious, what with it filming right here in my backyard.”
“You have a copy of any of the episodes? I’d love to watch the season.”
“A copy? You mean like a VHS tape? You can stream it. Didn’t take you for a Luddite.”
“I’m not a Luddite, Sheriff. I can stream.”
“Next time you want inside Isle House, let me know. I have the key.” He tipped his hat and climbed inside, then drove
away.
I called Sid. “Do you stream?”
“Killing Eve, Goliath, Bosch, Ozark—”
“I need to stream Down the Isle episodes. Everyone keeps saying it was a crazy season, and maybe I should see just how crazy.”
“Isn’t that a little shut-the-barn-door-after-the-horse?”
“Very possibly,” I said with a sigh. “How’s the search?”
“Good or bad, depending on your perspective. We’ve found nothing. And I mean nothing. Another forty people registered to search, so now we number over a hundred.”
“Alex ever show up?”
“Nope. Neither did your Sheriff.”
“Not my Sheriff. And no surprise. He just left me at Isle House.”
“He tell you anything useful?”
“He alluded they were checking cell tower records. In a roundabout way, he glossed on about tracking and checking tickets for ‘the driver.’ I don’t think he intended to tell me about the cell towers, or for me to find out.”
“Because?”
“One needs to know whose cell phone to track. He already looked at Daphne’s. I’m thinking he’s now looking at Alex’s. Hard. Something’s up with Alex, and I want to know what.” I started the Mini and slowly drove down the long drive. “You busy tonight?”
“Noooooo,” she said slowly. “Why?”
“Meet me at my house at ten. No, wait, it’s too close to the Big House and search headquarters. We need to be more covert. Meet me at the Mariposa.”
“Clandestine margaritas, perchance?”
“Yes, definitely,” I said. “After.”
She sighed the sigh only a best friend can. Two parts love, one part I’m-not-going-to-like-this-but-I’ll-do-it-anyway.
The Mariposa was located mid-island in Locke Harbor, a one hundred boat marina with a bustling boardwalk of restaurant and shops. As close to genuine Mexican food one could find in a region known for its Lowcountry Boils and shrimp grits, they made tart margaritas and chunky guacamole. Unfortunately, the closest I planned to get to that palate-pleasing pairing was the parking lot.
Sid was waiting for me in the very last row, far from the entrance, close to Cabana Boulevard. Before debating which car to take—I liked my Mini, she liked her Mercedes; mine had sass, hers had everything else—I hopped out of mine and into hers. She was doing me a favor, and I appreciated it as much as I appreciated her.
“We’re going to Island Rentals,” I said. “That’s where Alex Sanders works. It’s after hours, and I need to take a peek at a few things they won’t allow me to peek at during business hours.”
“I’m waiting in the car,” she said.
“Of course,” I said. “You’re the lookout.”
She eased onto Cabana. The traffic was light for the late hour. Island life was a quiet life. Vacationers and retirees spent their days golfing and lunching in the sun, their evenings tucked in early to get up and do it all over again.
Sid turned onto Sugar Hill Drive, then drove two miles along the winding road to the Island Rentals hut. She slowed as we approached. “You said it was after hours, right?”
“Huh,” I said in reply. The overhead lights still shone inside the squat building, highlighting both customers and staff. “How late does one need to rent a boogie board?”
Sid tapped on her phone, clearly using her handheld Google machine to type and scroll. “Open until midnight seven days a week.”
“This must be the only thing on the entire island open until midnight.”
“The Mariposa is open ’til midnight.”
“Please do not name everything that’s open late.”
“You want to wait until they close?”
“For two hours? Um, no.”
Sid started to reverse out of the space when I stopped her. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving?”
“I meant, let’s not wait two hours, let’s go inside now and Plan B this sucker.”
“Which sucker? What exactly do you need?”
“Alex Sanders isn’t participating in the search for Daphne. He also isn’t cooperating with the authorities, and the Sheriff isn’t cooperating with me. He was quite open in the beginning, but now he’s watching me more than talking to me. Which means if I want to know about Alex, I need to find out for myself.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I want to see Alex’s travel records. It’s thin, but Alex said he travels for business, and this is his business. I want to know where he was going. Daphne certainly wasn’t going to Nashville, so maybe Alex wasn’t going to Charlotte. He said he goes to corporate, but really, why? Training? Expansion? Was he planning a move?”
“He kidnapped Daphne because he’s moving from one Carolina to the other?”
“I said it was thin. Alex has probably said all of thirty-two words to me, and those are the ones that stood out.” I leaned over the passenger seat and rummaged the space behind us. “You have a hat back here? A scarf? Sunglasses, maybe?”
“It’s nighttime.”
“I’m aware,” I said, ditching my backseat search. “Never mind, I have one.” I pulled a floppy hat from my messenger bag and handed it to her.
“I’ll look more suspicious wearing this thing. I’m six feet tall.”
“Calm down. You’ll look like a tourist. It’ll be great.”
“Me? What are you doing?”
“Going to take a look in that office.” I pulled another hat out of my messenger bag and ensconced it firmly over my slightly frizzy hair.
“How many do you carry with you?”
“Not nearly enough.” I slipped my slim lockpick case and phone into one pocket, my hand-sani and thin surgical gloves into the other.
We formulated a decent plan in the thirteen-second stroll to the entrance. We walked inside, me lagging ten steps behind, and to my great satisfaction, every patron wore a hat. Most were of the baseball variety, but still. Two couples left through the side door, leaving a lone staff member inside, the one I’d seen earlier when I questioned Alex. I wasn’t surprised Alex wasn’t there. He was probably being read his rights.
“Excuse me,” Sid said. “I have an issue with one of your ATVs.”
“Sure,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I strapped my boogie board to the rack and rode to the beach—”
“You rent them here?” he said. “You have your driver’s license? I can look it up.”
“Oh, sure, but I’m not…let me finish. I actually got cut off by an ATV, and it had one of your stickers on the back. Snapped my board in half.”
“The one strapped to the back?”
“It happened so fast.”
Sid continued to coat her story with an extra layer of varnish. She led him to the window overlooking the ATVs parked along the side. “Swiped right in front me and I skidded. This guy was driving recklessly, probably drinking. I’m sure y’all don’t allow that. These things all look the same, but perhaps up close…”
I quickly ducked behind the counter and crossed into a short hallway. Every step squeaked. The floor was a bit bouncy, as if it floated. Probably nothing more than plywood subflooring covered in thin carpet.
I passed the door marked “restroom” and chose the door marked “private.”
It was unlocked and empty. The overhead light was on. I looked for cameras, keeping my expression peppy and innocent, one hand on the knob. Just a tourist looking for a restroom.
No cameras.
I entered fully and closed the door behind me. I leaned against it, scoping the room and forming a search plan.
A crowded bookshelf hung over a heavily marred wood desk. It butted up against one wall, while dented file cabinets lined another. Receipts, forms, invoices, all in a rainbow of triplicate shades, were crinkled and stapled, stacked and tilted, on every surfa
ce, including the floor. Folders indicated a haphazard filing system. Filing, because they leaned against the dusty filing cabinets; haphazard because they were overstuffed with papers and had no labels.
My OCD germ-conscious palms began to itch.
I slipped on the thin surgical gloves without a pre-hand-sani rinse. It would have to wait. Sid’s boozy beach tale was being told on the fly, and I didn’t know how long her audience would stay engaged.
The only thing a quick rummage into the floor files, metal cabinets, and desk clutter netted me was a face full of dust and a concern the owner of Island Rentals had an audit in his future.
Unsure if there was an order to the various stacks of paperwork on the desk, I gingerly shifted and re-shifted them until I found a large calendar, or maybe it was a blotter. Something tacky stuck the whole thing to the wood surface. I pried a corner. It rippled with a deep zipper sound. I imagined a long-since spilled sugary drink hardening into the cardboard backer. It was a desk calendar dated two years earlier filled with doodles and scribbles and random food splots. Nothing useful.
Above the messy desktop, binders of vehicle catalogs and user manuals, along with office supplies and dirty coffee mugs filled a pair of ramshackle shelves. I flipped through a couple binders, but nothing fell out other than dusty microscopic mold spores. I couldn’t see them, but I could smell them.
Below the ramshackle shelves and above the messy desktop, additional papers were thumbtacked directly into the drywall. On the far left, a schedule. I pulled out my phone to check it against the dates of Alex’s flights. Alex was marked off for those particular dates. Nothing about a trip to the corporate office or team meetings or an industry conference on the schedule. It simply said, “Alex off.”
The only place left to inspect was the space beneath the table opposite the desk. On the floor. I first crouched, then remembered I wasn’t twenty-two and would never be able to stand back up if I knelt longer than three seconds. I sat instead. Fine spider webbing and fluffy dust bunnies kept me company while I scrabbled through the stacks of ancient boxes. The air reeked of old corned beef and mustard. The plastic wastebasket behind me overflowed with crumbled containers and half-eaten food.
