by Kathy Reichs
Finally, Chance emerged from the building. A tight frown was standing in for his usual easy grin.
“Tory, I found something.” He nodded to a bench down on the lawn. “Let’s talk over there.”
Despite my anxiety, I noted that Chance looked good. His lacrosse uniform displayed his muscles to perfect effect.
Eyes front and center. Your life might depend on his information.
“I heard back from the SLED,” Chance said. “They got a hit off your print.”
“Who is it?”
I flipped to a page in my spiral and poised a pen over it. Nervous sweat made the thing slide through my fingers.
“A man named James Newman. According to the SLED, Newman is a local thug with ties to crime syndicates throughout the southeast.”
Chance laid his palm over my pen hand. “He’s bad news, Tory. Very bad.”
His touch thrilled me, but I stayed on topic. “Does the SLED know where Newman lives, or what he’s been up to lately?”
“No. But apparently Newman’s jacket is as thick as a phone book. Over the years he graduated from petty thefts and assaults to robbery, drug trafficking, maybe even murder.” Chance’s fingers tightened on mine. “This isn’t someone you want to mess with over a stolen laptop. Or anything else.”
“I’ll just file a police report,” I said. But my mind was already searching for ways to find Newman.
Chance glanced at my notes. “I won’t pry into your personal business, but I advise you to stop whatever it is you’re doing. From what I’ve learned, this guy would never just cruise around looking for stray computers. If he was out on Morris Island, he was out there for a reason.”
Too true. But I can’t tell you.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll forget the whole thing. No point poking a hornet’s nest.”
Chance gazed into my eyes, as if taking my measure. Flustered, I looked away first.
Oh-so-gently, Chance began stroking my hand. His caresses left little burn tracks on my skin.
“Please don’t mess with this guy, Tory. I like you. I’d be upset if something bad happened to you.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“I can tell you’re not the type to back down. But Jimmy Newman is bad news.” Chance leaned close, voice earnest. “You could get seriously hurt.”
My pulsed raced.
“I promise, Chance. I’ll let it go.”
A smile spread across the beautiful face. God, he was gorgeous.
Before I could react Chance pulled me close, buzzed my cheek, released me.
“Smart as always.”
With that, he rose and walked away.
I couldn’t move.
Chance Claybourne had kissed me.
Holy smoking buckets.
CHAPTER 56
I glanced around, making sure I had the right universe.
And spotted Hi, jacket inside out, sneaking back up the steps.
Frick.
“Hold it!”
Hi straightened, slowly turned, and trudged down to my bench.
“Oh, hey.” Feigned nonchalance. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Come on, Hiram.” My hands found my hips. “Why the embarrassed face? What is it you think you just saw?”
“Not you and Chance canoodling like newlyweds, if that’s what you mean.” He smiled, then tsked. “Shame, shame! When good girls go bad!”
“It wasn’t like that.” My face burned to the tips of my ears. “Or maybe it was. I don’t know.” I covered my eyes and peeked through my fingers. “He started it!”
“None of my business,” Hi said. “And don’t worry. It’s in the vault. Forgotten.”
“Thank you. FYI, I’m not out to steal anyone else’s boyfriend. He hit on me.” Pause. “I think.”
“Sure.” Hi winked. “Whatever you say, TB.”
Grrr.
“What did loverboy have on the print?”
I looked at my notepad, thankful to change subjects. “It was left by a guy named James Newman, a local meathead with ties to organized crime.”
“Organized crime?” Hi’s eyebrows plunged into a V. “That sounds unpleasant. Where does he hang?”
“We’ve got to find him.”
“Right. The cops can’t but we will.”
“We have to. The guy was scoping out our activities at the library. That makes him our only lead in the Heaton case.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Hi dropped down beside me. “We may be going about this the wrong way. This Newman guy probably works for someone, right? That’s who we have to find.”
“Okay. How?”
“Motive,” he said. “We need to find out why Heaton was killed.”
That tracked right. And seemed safer than chasing a dangerous felon across greater Charleston.
“Then we should investigate Katherine’s disappearance,” I said. “Find something the cops missed back in ’69.”
“We already checked the newspapers,” Hi said. “Where else could we look?”
I had a sudden thought.
“What about Katherine’s family?”
“Her father was an orphan. And her mother died in childbirth.”
“Katherine was only sixteen when Frankie Heaton was killed in Vietnam. She must’ve been living with someone while he was overseas.”
“Maybe her mother had family?” Hi sounded dubious.
“Whoever it was, if that person’s still alive, they might remember details of the day Katherine vanished.”
Hi scratched his chin. “Back to the public library?”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
“What is the DOE Network?” Hi asked.
“An organization that investigates old missing person cases.” We were once again in Bolton’s computer lab. “Cold ones. It’s a long shot, but they might have a file on Katherine Heaton.”
After logging on, I navigated to the website and entered Katherine’s name. A link popped up the screen.
“Yes! She’s on here.”
I double-clicked to open the file. A case synopsis appeared. Barely breathing, I read the report.
“Someone named Sylvia Briggerman submitted the original missing person report.”
“On it.”
Hi walked to the next terminal and ran a search. “There’s one Briggerman listed in the Charleston area. Centerville address, on James Island. Shall I give her a ring?”
I nodded.
Hi dialed, listened, disconnected.
“It’s a retirement home. I can’t get through to her room without an access code.”
I looked at the clock: 3:45 p.m.
“The city bus would get us to Centerville in less than thirty minutes.”
“I’m supposed to help Shelton with Cooper,” Hi said. “The little guy’s all alone at the new bunker we found.”
“Shelton will be fine. This is more important,” I said. “Briggerman might be the last person to see Katherine Heaton alive.”
CHAPTER 57
The bus dropped us near James Island Park, a sleepy tangle of tree-lined paths meandering through salt marsh. We continued a quarter mile, turned south onto Riverland, then left onto a private access road.
Bordered by enormous willows, the laneway was shady and pleasantly cool. We passed slow-moving creeks and reed-covered banks, silent but for the gurgle of water and the whine of insects.
A pair of herons watched from deep in the spartina grass, long stick legs disappearing into water, avian eyes unblinking. Though Hi called to them, he got no response.
The terrain was classic Lowcountry—placid, serene, and muggy as a sauna. Despite the brackish marsh smell, I was enjoying the exercise. The insanity of the past two weeks had completely derailed my running routine. I hoped to get back on track soon.
If no one shot me first.
In minutes we reached our destination, a cluster of condo-like residences sandwiched between green-yellow swamp and the Stono River. The Sh
ady Gardens retirement community definitely lived up to its name. The Spanish moss overhead kept the grounds in perpetual dusk.
When we drew close, the front doors slid open with a hiss. The smell of air conditioning and hand sanitizer rolled over us.
We approached a desk and asked for Sylvia Briggerman.
Roadblock.
Roberta Parrish wore a white nurse’s uniform and brass nametag. Her hair was a shade of orange straight out of a bottle. Drugstore lashes crawled her lids like hairy little centipedes.
On seeing us, Parrish flashed a false smile.
“Visiting hours just ended,” she said. The centipedes fluttered. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“Is there any chance we could see Sylvia today?” I asked. “I hate to be a bother, but we took the bus all the way from downtown.”
Parrish shook her head, lips locked in the up position. “As you know, Ms. Briggerman suffers from dementia. We mustn’t disturb her routine.”
“I completely understand, ma’am.” Very polite. “But we only need a few minutes.”
“Are you family?”
Hi cut in. “Yes ma’am. And we never get to see Great-Auntie Syl.” He turned to me. “I told Dad she should be closer to the city. It’s too hard to visit out here.”
That got Parrish’s attention.
“Now, now! No need to fret. I just had to make sure you were kinfolk.” She glanced at the clock. “I’m sure we can squeeze in a quick visit.”
“Gee, thanks!” Hi beamed. “I can see why our parents picked this place.”
Parrish led us from the main building to a row of suites facing the river. I could tell she was trying to hide her annoyance.
“We’re going to hell for this,” I hissed. “What if Great-Auntie Syl blows our cover?”
“She’s got dementia,” Hi whispered. “She won’t know the difference.”
“That’s horrible.”
“People in these places love to have visitors. Even from fake relatives.”
“Like I said. To hell.”
“We’ll do something nice. Fill her ice trays, or fluff her pillows.” Hi shrugged. “We’re trying to solve a murder, for Pete’s sake. I think she’ll forgive us.”
“Here we are.” Parrish knocked on a bright blue door. “Sylvia, dear! Visitors!”
The door opened.
Sylvia Briggerman stood no more than five feet tall and wore an outfit that would have made Lucille Ball proud. I guessed her age at somewhere north of eighty.
“What’s that?” Sylvia’s eyes looked enormous behind thick bifocals. “Guests?”
“Your grandniece and grandnephew are here.” Parrish spoke slowly and loudly. “They’ve come to visit. From the city.”
“I don’t have a nephew.”
Great. We were sooo busted.
Then Sylvia’s face brightened. “Katherine?”
Oh, God. No.
This was too cruel. I couldn’t do it.
Hi nudged my back. Nudged again. Toe-kicked my heel.
“Yes, Aunt Sylvia.” I burned with shame. “I’m here. You remember me, don’t you?”
“Of course. Silly!” Sylvia turned to Parrish. “Don’t keep my niece on the doorstep. Show her and her little friend in.”
Parrish waved us forward.
“I’m sure she’ll know you,” Parrish whispered as Hi passed her. “Her memory comes and goes.”
Hi nodded solemnly. “Thanks. You’re doing a wonderful job. I’ll let my parents know.”
It was official. We were terrible people.
“I’ll return in a few minutes.” Parrish closed the door quietly.
Sylvia’s living room was an eye-stunning canary yellow. Bookcases lined one wall and a reading machine occupied one corner. Standard come-as-a-group sofa and chairs. Coffee table. TV, probably built when Lucy was big. Fake flowers on every horizontal surface.
The old woman sat on the plastic-covered couch and arranged her skirt. When she looked up, her eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
“Hello, Ms. Briggerman.” No more lies. “My name is Tory Brennan. This is my friend Hiram. We came about your niece, Katherine.”
“Oh.” Sylvia tugged down the sleeves of her gown. “Where is Katherine? I haven’t seen her today.”
“We’re not sure,” I said carefully. “We’re also looking for her.”
True, as far as it went.
“She stays busy, that one.” Sylvia smiled. “Always on the beach. She plans to go to college, you know. To study ecology. I’m not sure what that is, but I’m certain Frankie would have been proud.”
“Frankie is your brother?” Hi half-asked. “I thought he grew up at the Orphan House?”
“Well of course he did, young man. So did I.”
Sylvia pointed to a black-and-white photo hanging over the bookcase. A boy and girl stood by a swing set, dressed in worn but well-patched clothing. The girl was slightly older, and held the little boy’s hand. Both smiled like it was Christmas morning.
“Frankie and I aren’t blood-related, but we grew up together just the same. That was good enough for us. Katherine always calls me Aunt Syl.”
“What was Katherine doing when you last saw her?”
“She’s working on her science project,” Sylvia replied. “The one she and Abby have to do for school.” A frown deepened wrinkles crossing the bridge of her nose. “I hope Katherine arrives soon. She shouldn’t miss dinner.”
“Who is Abby?” I hoped Sylvia’s mind hadn’t tiptoed into another time.
“Abby Quimby is Katherine’s best friend. Haven’t you met her? They do everything together.”
Hi tried a new tack. “What beach did Katherine like? Might she have gone there for her project?”
The watery blue eyes seemed to lose focus. Several seconds passed. Finally, “Hello? Can I help you?”
“Hello, Ms. Briggerman.” I smiled brightly. “We were talking about Katherine.”
“Katherine’s not here.”
I looked at Hi. Time to go. He nodded.
“Thank you so much for your time, ma’am.” I said. “Is there anything you need before we leave?”
“Could you do one thing for me?” With surprising agility the old woman rose and shuffled from the room. Hi and I exchanged glances. He shrugged. Moments later she returned carrying a light blue sweater.
“Please give this to Katherine when you see her. It’s her favorite. I don’t want her to catch cold.”
What to do? I couldn’t take the sweater. But how to give it back?
I felt terrible lying to this woman. She couldn’t recall that her beloved niece had vanished years ago. The whole thing broke my heart.
My gut clenched. Tears threatened.
I needed to escape.
Now.
SNAP.
Electricity fired through me. My eyes watered, burned, flashed golden. My senses kicked into hyperdrive.
Hi noticed my eyes and stepped forward to block Sylvia’s view.
“Ms. Briggerman, how are you set for ice cubes? We’d better check your trays.”
“Ice cubes?”
Hi guided a confused Sylvia into the kitchen.
A clock ticked a thundering metronome. The refrigerator roared from the next room
On instinct, I held Katherine’s sweater to my nose. Inhaled deeply.
At first, just wool and dust. Then, from deep within the folds, a delicate blend of aromas. Shampoo. Perspiration. Clearasil.
A vague image formed in my brain.
Dissolved.
I filed the impressions away for later consideration.
Knock knock.
“Okay, kids.” Parrish was at the door. “Time for Sylvia to rest.”
SNUP.
The flare passed. My head cleared.
But the distinctive smell of Katherine’s sweater had burrowed into my brain.
I caught Hi’s eye, tipped my head toward t
he door.
“Bye, Auntie Syl!” he said loudly. “We’ll come back soon!”
Sylvia resumed her seat and spread the long, satin skirt out around her. Without acknowledging our departure, she leaned back, closed her eyes, and began to snore.
I left the sweater beside her.
On the bus ride home, I searched for Abby Quimby on my iPhone, found two listings.
I keyed in the first number. Disconnected.
I tried the second.
A woman picked up on the third ring.
“Abby Quimby?”
“Yes.” More curious than wary.
I wasted no time.
“Katherine Heaton?” Quimby sounded shocked. “I haven’t heard that name in forty years. Dear God, has she been found?”
“I’m sorry, no.” I hated lying, but had to be careful. “I’m updating cold cases for the DOE network. I thought you might have information we could use.”
“I’d love to help, but I told the police everything I knew. The day she disappeared, Katherine and I were supposed to meet for lunch. She never showed.”
“Sylvia Briggerman told me you were working on a science project together.”
“Yes.” Quimby paused. “You know, I don’t think I mentioned the science project in my statement. No one ever asked, and it didn’t seem important.”
“Please tell me what you remember.”
“Our assignment was to do an ecological survey,” Quimby said. “Simple stuff, really. But Katherine and I wanted to study an endangered species. It was 1969, and the whole conservation movement was just picking up steam. Katherine was scouting the beaches, looking for possibilities.”
“Do you know where she’d planned to go the day she went missing?”
“Oh my goodness!” Quimby’s voice rose. “The Morris Lighthouse. I’d forgotten that. I can recall it so clearly now. I’m not sure if I told that to the officer who interviewed me or not. At the time, I was very upset.”
My pulse quickened. The Morris Lighthouse wasn’t mentioned in the missing person report.
“Wasn’t that lighthouse decommissioned by ’69?” I asked.
“Yes. It had been replaced by the one on Sullivan’s Island. Katherine wanted to see which bird species were nesting there.”
I thought a moment. The Morris Lighthouse stood on a sandbar, which, even at low tide, was a short distance offshore.
