1 Lowcountry Boil

by Susan M. Boyer

  Moon Unit crossed her arms. “That part about how perfect this island is? For goodness sake, don’t tell it. We need to keep that to ourselves better. We’ve had our share of newcomers the last few years. All nice people, mind you, but the transplants are starting to outnumber those of us from here.”

  “I have noticed a lot of new faces.”

  “You would not believe the ruckus we had, oh, I guess it was about a year ago. Some reporter from Southern Living ‘discovered’ us. Had a big article on Stella Maris called Hidden Paradise. This place was a circus for six months. Tourists crawling out of the woodwork, not to mention real estate people looking for investment property. The real estate folks left when they figured out no one was going to sell them any oceanfront property, and if they did, good luck getting it zoned commercial. Hopefully the tourists are reading about someplace else. You know how it is. Tourists are fine as long as they’re our tourists. The ones who’ve been coming here for so long they’re like family. They have respect for the island, you know what I mean?”

  The doorbell announced another customer, and Moon Unit darted off before I could form a response.

  “How’s Deanna?” Colleen moved a wooden peg on one of the brainteaser puzzles Moon Unit kept on the tables.

  “Would you leave that thing alone?” Anyone looking would have seen the bright blue pegs jump. “She’s married to a grade A jackass, as I’m sure you’re fully aware—you sent me over there. But I get the feeling she’s had about all she’s going to take from him.” I took a sip of my iced tea.

  Colleen looked up at me sharply. “What do you mean? What did she say?”

  “It’s not what she said, just the look on her face. I’ve investigated a lot of domestic abuse situations. I can tell when a woman is invested in the whole ‘He really loves me and he swears it will never happen again’ fantasy. Deanna puts on that act in front of Adam, but I don’t think she buys it.”

  “Can’t you get her to throw him out?”

  “She’s not talking to me. She wouldn’t even admit he put the bruises on her arm. I can’t just barge in there and start giving her advice.”

  “Shoulda told Blake.” Colleen jumped another peg and flashed me a mutinous look.

  “You’re still seventeen, aren’t you?” I was beginning to figure out ghosts don’t mature much after death. “Once I tell Blake, it’s an official investigation. Deanna will not thank me for that.”

  “Shoulda told him about that list, too.”

  “What do you know about the list?”

  Colleen shrugged. “I know where you found it and I know whose names are on it. I think it means something just like you do.”

  I eyed her closely. I had the sense she knew more than she was saying, but it’s hard to pin down a ghost. “Until I know what it’s a list of, better to leave Blake out of it. He’ll thank me later.” I seriously doubted that was the case, but was trying to sell myself the idea.

  “Moron.”

  The bells on the door jangled, and Grace Sullivan, my godmother the psychic, strolled in. Her shoulder-length platinum bob was expertly styled, her make-up understated. In her navy St. John pantsuit, she oozed elegance. Grace was the same age as Mamma, and they were both practiced at making that age hard to guess.

  I stood as she approached our booth. This should be interesting. Lunch with a ghost and a psychic.

  Grace dropped her purse on the empty seat, opened her arms wide and gathered me into a perfumed embrace. “Liz, sugar. Let me hug your neck. I can’t believe you’re home. It’s so good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you, Grace.”

  She arranged herself on the other side of the booth. “So sorry I’m late. Phoebe was running behind this morning. Tammy Sue had a hair emergency. Tried to do her own color again, bless her heart, and it turned this hideous shade of pumpkin-orange.”

  Moon Unit appeared at the table with Grace’s iced tea, apparently knowing her standard order. “Y’all know what you want for lunch or should I come back?”

  “I know what I want.” Grace looked at me. “Are you ready?”

  “I’d like a Cobb Salad, please.”

  “I’ll have the same. I love the Cobb Salads here, they are simply divine.” Everything Grace said came out sounding dramatic, in a thick Southern drawl.

  “Well, thank you,” Moon Unit said. “We try. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  I pretended to admire something out the window and checked on Colleen. She had abandoned the peg game. I wondered briefly if she was nervous Grace could sense her presence.

  Grace leaned forward. “Sugar, what’s going on? You sounded terribly urgent on the phone. Are you really staying here with us?”

  “I’m staying,” I said. “And I need your help with something.”

  She reached forward and grabbed my arm. “Tell me.”

  I pulled a copy of Gram’s list from my purse and handed it to Grace. “Gram was working on something. I’m hoping you can help me figure out what it is.”

  Her face creased as she studied it. “My name is on here? Beside Mackenzie’s?”

  Colleen disappeared, then reappeared on Grace’s side of the booth. I flashed her an imitation of one of my mamma’s looks—the one that usually accompanied the words “You’d better straighten up and fly right.”

  Grace laid the page down on the table and rubbed her arms, as if chilled. She looked up from the list. “This is quite an odd list. Sugar, are you cold? It feels like Moon Unit turned the air conditioning on refrigerate.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, trying not to look at Colleen.

  “Who are HC and SD?”

  “I think Hayden Causby and Stuart Devlin.”

  “Anything Hayden Causby’s associated with can’t be good. You’re thinking this has something to do with Emma Rae’s death?”

  “Yes. I think she was trying to solve something, and these names are pieces to the puzzle. I just need to figure out the relationship between the names on the left and the names on the right.”

  “Well,” Grace said, “in confidence, I can tell you that aside from the accident of birth that made him my brother’s boy, I have no relationship with Mackenzie,” Grace said. Her brother, Henry Sullivan, was the rector of St. Francis Episcopal Church.

  “Y’all don’t get along?”

  “It’s not so much that. It’s more that I simply have no interest in him. I see him on holidays and so forth. He’s done all right for himself, the town’s attorney and all. But he really is a pompous ass, isn’t he?”

  I laughed out loud. “Yes, he is that.”

  Grace looked at the list again. “The only other thing I can think of… The names on the left are council members. Of course, all the seats are traditionally kept in the same families. If I were to decide not to run again, Mackenzie would likely run for the Sullivan seat. But you couldn’t draw that parallel between the others, could you?”

  “No. The only names on the right side without question marks are Mackie’s and Marci’s. It’s like Gram was sure of those connections.”

  Grace was quiet for a minute. “Well, this has no bearing on my relationship with him, you understand. But I have sensed for a long time that Mackenzie was in some sort of trouble.”

  “Sensed? Like a psychic thing, or you’ve noticed changes in his behavior?”

  She averted her gaze, looking out the window, or at Colleen, for a long moment. “I guess you’d call it a psychic thing.”

  “Do you think he’s having financial problems?” There had to be a reason he was mortgaged to the hilt.

  “As I said, I’m not close to Mackenzie, but he is Henry’s boy.”

  I waited.

  Clear gray eyes met mine across the table. “A few years back he had some gambling problems. Henry and Nancy bailed him ou
t with the bookies. I’ve bailed him out… He’s been in a program. I thought it was behind him, but my sense is he’s gambling again. I hope I’m wrong.”

  Grace leaned forward and said, “I’m having a very odd feeling, sugar. I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but I’m quite sure there’s someone else here with us at the table.”

  “I’ve never thought your intuitions were crazy, Grace.” I looked at Colleen.

  Colleen shook her head. “No matter what she says, don’t say a word about me.”

  A tune sang out from Grace’s purse. She reached in and pulled out her cell phone. “Excuse me, sugar. I’m expecting painters later this afternoon at the bed and breakfast. Hello?”

  I let my gaze wander while she spoke. I jumped slightly. Colleen had switched sides of the booth again. I sighed and bit back a curse.

  “Why no, it’s not at all convenient for you to come now. I’m having lunch,” Grace said, presumably to the painter. She closed her eyes and flung an exasperated gesture with her free hand. “Fine. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.” She ended the call and slipped her phone back into her purse.

  “I’m so sorry, sugar, but if I don’t go and meet with these painters, they won’t get the front bedroom done this week, and I’ve got a full house next week. Let’s do lunch another day, shall we?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take my salad home and have it tomorrow.” She pulled cash out of her wallet and laid it on the table. Then, Grace looked at me intently. “You must promise me you’ll be careful. You’ll be fine, I’m quite sure of it. But watch your back.” She rubbed my forearms, and then patted them with a wink. “I have a feeling someone else is watching it, too.” She stood and gathered her purse. “And Liz?”

  “Yes?”

  “Merry needs to stay away from that Causby boy—Hayden’s grandson—whatshisname.”

  I started to tell her I held little sway with Merry, but Moon Unit arrived with two salads as Grace spun towards the door.

  “Grace,” I said. “One quick thing.”

  She turned and looked at me expectantly.

  “Do you know Mildred Sullivan’s maiden name?” Grace and Lincoln Sullivan were second cousins. Surely she would know.

  Grace cocked her head and squinted in thought.

  Moon Unit beat her to it. “She was a Knox when she married the mayor. Of course, he wasn’t the mayor back then. She studied art history at Converse College is what I heard. But Knox wasn’t her maiden name. She was married before. I declare, I don’t think I know what her maiden name was, do you Grace?”

  “I never knew she’d been married before. I would have said she was a Knox when I eventually thought of it. Got to run.” She turned and glided toward the door, at a faster clip than her typical gait.

  “Is she coming back?” Moon Unit asked.

  “Looks so good.” Colleen eyed the salads wistfully.

  “Ghosts don’t eat,” I said. Then I wondered for a second. I’d seen a lot of new things the last few weeks. “Right?”

  “Say what?” Moon Unit tilted her head.

  “Grace had an emergency. Could you box up her salad? I’ll take it with me.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetie.”

  FIFTEEN

  Colleen made herself scarce right after lunch. She had a lot of explaining to do. I was frustrated, outraged, and baffled at the ghost. But I knew it would net me nothing to call for her. She’d pop back in when she jolly well felt like it, and not before.

  Fine. I had things to do at home. I wasn’t kidding when I’d told Blake I was hoping the intruder came back. But I needed to be ready for him. I spent the next hour installing my router, Wi-Fi, and the network server. Thankfully, no one had cancelled Gram’s internet connection.

  I love technology.

  Next I installed my surveillance controller. I’d purchased this unit, along with eight wireless IP cameras, motion sensors, and an RF DVR receiver a year back when the disgruntled subject of a domestic investigation turned stalker on me. He’d planned to surprise me in my loft one night, but an alert sent to my iPhone notified me when he’d crossed the threshold. I met the police there and let them in to arrest him. The surveillance system had been quite expensive, but likely saved my life that night. The party favors the psycho brought with him included chloroform, handcuffs, an ugly knife, and some plastic sheeting.

  I hid motion-activated cameras in the air vents inside the house, and covered the outside with three night-vision cameras aimed at all the entries. The only alarm would be sent to my phone. If my intruder came back, I didn’t want him to know he’d been caught. This likely wasn’t what Blake had in mind when he suggested I install a security system, but it served my purposes.

  System work completed, I washed up, filled my water bottle, and settled in at my desk. I generated invoices for my last few clients in Greenville, paid a few bills, and called the local utility companies to transfer service into my name. I tried reaching Quincy Owen at The New Life Foundation, but got his voicemail. I left a message, then tried to contact someone at one of the five camps. Apparently, office help was not in the budget. I left messages at all five locations. The nagging voice in my head about David Morehead was getting more persistent.

  Mildred was another loose end. After combing South Carolina records for a marriage license issued to Lincoln Sullivan and Mildred Knox with no results, I broadened my search. Queries of North Carolina, Georgia, and Florida produced nothing.

  But in Las Vegas, I hit the jackpot.

  Lincoln Elisha Sullivan married Mildred Kingsley Knox on December 24, 1978. A Christmas Eve wedding in Vegas. The Nevada Marriage Index listed South Carolina under residence for both. Now why no big wedding with friends and family in her hometown or here in Stella Maris? Though it was her second marriage; maybe she had the big deal the first time. Still, the Sullivans were a prominent family. Lincoln had been groomed to be mayor from the crib—well, that was my impression anyway. He was ten years older than my parents, so what did I know about him, really?

  Mildred’s divorce record came up on the first try. Oh, hello. William Alexander James Knox was granted a divorce in Charleston County on December 23, 1978. One day before Mildred married the mayor. Moon Unit’s earlier statement echoed in my head. “Of course, he wasn’t mayor back then.”

  In a town the size of Stella Maris, there had to be a juicy reason no one knew anything about Mildred’s background. Like a hound on the hunt, I’d caught a whiff of something. I didn’t know yet what it was, but I wouldn’t rest until I’d treed it. For the details, I’d have to go to the Clerk of Court’s office and pull the divorce file. I glanced at my watch. That would have to wait for another day.

  I ran my fingers through my hair. Deanna kept popping into my head. Rationally, I knew Adam had likely been abusing her for years. Just because I was now aware of it didn’t make her danger any more imminent. But Colleen’s sense of urgency was contagious. Finally I gave into it, grabbed my keys and headed to the police department to find Blake.

  When I arrived, Blake was on his way out to see Kate Devlin, Gram’s lifelong friend. Blake reasoned Kate might know something about Gram’s death she didn’t realize she knew. And hopefully she’d know if the locket belonged to Gram. Because he couldn’t get me out of his Tahoe without removing me bodily, he agreed to let me tag along.

  “Did you find any usable prints on the locket?” I asked.

  “None. The locket itself had been recently polished. The chain and clasp are too small.”

  “Damnation.”

  “Yep.”

  I gazed out the window. “Adam Devlin is abusing Deanna.”

  For a few moments, all I heard was the Tahoe’s engine and air blowing through the air conditioning vents. Finally, Blake said, “That doesn’t surprise me. How do you know?”

&n
bsp; I recapped what I’d seen in the hardware store.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “If she won’t file a complaint, what can you do?”

  “I’ll talk to Michael.”

  A flock of butterflies tried to escape my stomach through my throat. “Michael? What can he do?”

  “Well, he’s not a town employee. If he talks to Adam, lets him know folks are noticing he’s a wife beater, it won’t be official. I won’t have to listen to him carry on about suing the town for slander and whatnot. Michael can tell Adam that Deanna didn’t say anything, but it doesn’t look good, et cetera.”

  “I still think Adam will take it out on Deanna.”

  “Maybe,” Blake said. “But Michael can keep a closer eye on things. Maybe he can convince Deanna to file a complaint—or kick the bastard out.”

  “Or both.”

  Kate Devlin led us through the house, out to the oceanfront screened porch. “You all have a seat, won’t you?” She gestured to the wicker sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

  We sat as directed. Moments later she returned with a tray holding tall crystal glasses of ice, a matching pitcher of tea, and dishes of lemon and mint. After we’d been served, she settled into a large rocker. “It’s awfully hot for April, don’t you think?”

  Kate appeared as if the unusually warm day hadn’t touched her. Her crisp linen skirt and blouse were unwrinkled. Every hair lay in place, her makeup was fresh. The years had not been good to Kate, but the scars were internal. She was widowed when Adam was eleven, Michael seven. Stuart Devlin went sailing one Sunday afternoon and never returned, his sailboat lost at sea during a summer squall. Kate never remarried. She devoted herself to her boys and the coastal preservation efforts she and Stuart had held dear.