1 Lowcountry Boil

by Susan M. Boyer

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  As I pulled away from Marci’s house, I wondered where Michael was working that day. Like a teenager, I had an overwhelming desire to drive by and just look at him. Or maybe I could think of an excuse to be there…maybe he’d pour out his heart to me about his cheating good-for-nothing wife. This insanity is why I’d stayed in Greenville for so long. Michael made me irrational.

  With more self-control than I thought I possessed, I resisted the urge to do a grid search of the island for new construction. Instead, I swung by Phoebe’s Day Spa to make sure everyone knew the island was on high alert. The smell of sandalwood greeted me when I walked into the old five-and-dime Phoebe had transformed into a five-star retreat. An appointment desk in the foyer sat empty, so I went on back.

  The large room in the center of the spa housed hair, makeup, and nail stations. An indoor waterfall gurgled in the corner. Tropical plants, Polynesian art, and lots of sheer draped fabric gave the place an exotic feel.

  Grace sat with her hair half-foiled in Phoebe’s chair. Otherwise, the place was empty. Phoebe painted color on a section of Grace’s hair while Grace read aloud from The Citizen. “Stella Maris residents should take necessary precautions to ensure their personal safety.”

  “You know things are serious when folks cancel appointments with you,” I said.

  They both looked up.

  “Liz, sugar,” Grace said. “Come hug my neck.” She put the newspaper down and opened her arms. With tasteful makeup and manicured hands, Grace was elegant, even with foils sticking out of her head at odd angles. “I’m so sorry about lunch yesterday.”

  “What is it with you Southerners and necks?” Phoebe asked. “If you’re not hugging one, you’re threatening to wring one. Hey, stranger.”

  “Hey, yourself,” I said. I hugged Grace, careful not to get hair color on me, and then hugged Phoebe, too. She was roughly my age, and with her three-inch platform shoes, my size. The two-inch accent stripe in her long, black hair was purple that day.

  “Grace, weren’t you just in here yesterday?”

  “Well, yes I was,” she said. “But that was just for a wash and style.”

  I looked at Phoebe. “Did the rest of your clients call in scared?”

  Phoebe said, “Nah. Nobody booked appointments today. Everyone who isn’t working at your mother’s bazaar is shopping there. I let my staff have the day off.”

  “With the news about Gram being murdered in the paper, I figured everyone would buy bread, milk, and flashlight batteries and hole up at home. That’s what Blake was hoping,” I said. “I’m worried about the turnout for Mamma’s bazaar. She’s worked so hard…”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that.” Grace waved dismissively. “Everyone will come out for The Most Fabulous Spring Bazaar Ever—you mark my words. It’s in the church, you know. Folks will feel safe there. Besides, there’s safety in numbers. That’s what I’ve told everyone, anyway.”

  “And of course, they think you have the inside scoop.”

  Grace tried to look offended. “Well, you know I do.” The she turned serious. “I knew Emma Rae didn’t fall down those steps. I told Blake that to begin with.”

  “Do you have guests this week?” I asked her. If she had a crowd at the bed and breakfast, she’d be safer.

  “Two couples,” she said. “Some retired folks from Ohio, and two young ladies from Virginia.”

  “Good. Stick close to home—except for the bazaar, of course. There’s safety in numbers.” I tried for a grin, but didn’t quite execute it. I needed to call Blake and check in so he wouldn’t worry. He’d still be mad, but at least he wouldn’t worry about me.

  “I’m not in any danger.”

  “Grace, whoever killed Gram was trying to shove some zoning changes through the town council. Anyone who would’ve opposed that is in danger. You are in danger. You’ve got to take this seriously.”

  “Why, of course, I take it seriously,” Grace said. “But I’m not the one in danger. I could sense it if I was.”

  “Grace, I know you have a gift. But I also know you have blind spots.”

  Phoebe had been quiet far longer than usual. “I’m wondering why neither you nor Willa saw this coming.” Willa Butler was the closest thing our island had to a voodoo priestess, heavy into signs and portents.

  Grace pondered that for a moment. “You girls are quite right. This entire affair blindsided me. It often works that way. The people closest to me are the ones I don’t read well at all.” She looked at me. “I’ll be careful, sugar. I promise.”

  I hugged her again. “Thanks. I just couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you, too.” When I pulled back, I caught the edge of Grace’s black and white polka-dot drape and it came loose.

  “Watch it, will you?” Phoebe said. “I get hair color on that St. John pantsuit and you’re buying her a new one.” Phoebe laid down her paintbrush and picked up the drape.

  “Wait now,” Grace said. She fiddled with her necklace and smoothed the top of her suit. “All right.”

  Phoebe adjusted the towel that had been rolled into a collar protecting Grace’s neck, put the drape back on her, and fastened it.

  I straightened. “Phoebe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you ever see Gram wearing a silver locket?”

  “I never saw her wearing it,” Phoebe said. “But I know she had one.”

  Grace and I both squinted at her.

  “What?” Phoebe grimaced.

  “How do you know she had one?”

  “She lost it in here, couple weeks before she died. I didn’t know who it belonged to. I laid it aside and asked clients when they came in if they knew whose it was. The next time she was in—the last time she was in—I asked her and she said it was hers. She was sure happy to have it back.”

  “Is that important?” Grace asked.

  “I think it is,” I said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I left Phoebe’s Day Spa and hustled back to Gram’s for a wardrobe change. Stella Maris is a small town. No matter how many new people had moved in over the last few years, I was still far from a stranger. Snooping incognito seemed like a reasonable precaution. Typically, when working undercover, I dress as a generic utility meter-reader. It’s a common PI disguise. Put on khakis, a brown work shirt and a cap, and as long as you carry a clipboard and look busy, few people will question you.

  As I pulled into Gram’s driveway, I wrestled with calling Blake, and decided against it. It was easier to get forgiveness than permission. If I spoke to him, we’d have a big fight about how I needed to stay where he could keep an eye on me, et cetera—and also about last night. I had work to do, and no idea whatsoever what I was going to tell him about last night. How could I explain I saw the whole thing go down at Merry’s, but didn’t intervene, without mentioning Colleen?

  Once I was trés incognito, I grabbed stakeout essentials (small cooler with water and Diet Cheerwine, Dove Dark Chocolate Promises, can of Lysol, extra hand sanitizer, and my camera) plus a few of my favorite toys (Taser, binoculars, and eavesdropping equipment, and, of course, Sig).

  Troy had left the island, and law enforcement officers all over the state were looking for him. Scott had likely gone back to Greenville after he delivered his message in person to Adam. Adam was the only one of my axis of evil available for surveillance. My instincts said he was also the genesis of this whole endeavor, even if Scott was the financier.

  Time to find out exactly how much evil Adam Devlin was the root of.

  I didn’t think I’d been home long enough for Adam to know what I was driving, so I took the Escape. I’d swap off and take Granddad’s van for my next stakeout. I drove through the parking lot behind the hardware store. Deanna’s Volvo was there, but not Adam’s Lexus. I pulled into a parking sp
ot and called just to be sure.

  Deanna answered. “Island Hardware.”

  “Hey, Deanna. It’s Liz.”

  Silence. I imagined she was reliving our close call the evening before in the back room and not finding it pleasant.

  I plunged ahead. “Say, listen. We should talk. Can you get away for lunch?” Now, of course I knew this wasn’t gonna happen, or I wouldn’t have asked. Deanna would avoid me for a while if she could. That would make denial easier to hang onto.

  “No. I have to stay here. Adam’s home sick, so I’m here by myself until three. Then I have to pick up the girls. Let’s do it another time, okay?” Her tone brightened, as if we were discussing any ordinary lunch date. I wondered if she still had that twenty-five grand in her purse.

  “Sure thing,” I said. “But Deanna…”

  “Yes?”

  “Just be careful, okay?”

  “You too,” she said breezily. “Bye now.”

  Adam was home sick my Great Aunt Fanny. He probably was ashamed for customers to see him. Which was a problem, since he likely wanted an alibi for today. He was expecting someone to be murdered soon. Jerk was probably home with an ice pack on his eye. I wondered how he’d explained that to Deanna. Probably hadn’t. He probably left and called her to say he was going home. Which meant she would think he’d gone to see his mistress. Would Deanna try to track him down again?

  I pondered whether to stick around or go hunt him myself. What I needed was a second set of eyes. I needed Nate. Since he was still in Chicago, I’d have to settle for who I could get. “Colleen?”

  Miracle of miracles, she popped into the passenger seat. “Nice outfit.” Bray-snorting ensued.

  “Thanks. Can you hang out here with Deanna for a while and let me know if she leaves?”

  “I can try.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I can stay unless I’m given an assignment. Then I’ll have to go.”

  “All right. But try to let me know if you have to leave.”

  “Okay.” She faded out, presumably to pop into the hardware store.

  I zipped over to Sea Farm to see if Adam was really at home, which, of course, he wasn’t. Thinking that might work to my benefit, I circled the block and parked one street over. Then, I took a stroll around the neighborhood, which was deserted as far as I could tell. Everyone was at work or school. Sea Farm was predominantly a neighborhood of young families. Either they hadn’t read the paper, they didn’t feel personally threatened, or they wanted to be out and about to gossip with their friends. The stay-at-home moms were likely at the bazaar. I slipped through an adjoining back yard into Adam and Deanna’s.

  I hopped up onto the back porch of their two-story Victorian and examined the lock on the door. Given a little time, I could have let myself in. But through the paned top half of the door, a light on the alarm panel blinked red. The system was armed. Hell’s bells. I guess Blake was right. Some folks on Stella Maris did have alarm systems. Bypassing one was complicated, and something I did not have the equipment for.

  I thought for a moment, and then went back to the car. What I did have in my toy box was a butt set—a device that would identify Adam’s phone line for me in the phone company’s junction box—jumper wires to tap his line, and a digital recorder that would store all of his phone calls for me. The ones that went through the landline anyway. I realized if he were smart, he’d use a disposable cell for his criminal activity. On the other hand, I’d heard him talk to Troy on the hardware store phone. He even had his number in the rolodex. Adam wasn’t the smartest criminal I’d seen.

  The junction box was three houses down. Thank goodness the subdivision had underground utilities. Access would be easier. It took me less than thirty minutes to install the jumper wires. I sealed the recorder in a plastic bag, with only one small hole for the wires, and hid it in the pampas grass Adam’s neighbor had no doubt planted to hide the telephone junction box. Lots of people do this—they camouflage the utility boxes with landscaping. It makes my job easier.

  Most of the time I try my best to stay within the law. But when absolutely necessary, I do indulge in the occasional breaking and entering, wire-tapping, et cetera. But since my motivation is pure, I can sleep at night. I suspected Adam of hiring Troy to kill Gram. I knew Adam was plotting to kill someone else. I needed to stop him. For me, the moral lines were clear.

  I climbed out of the pampas grass, brushed off my clothes and looked around. Still not a soul. If anyone had asked what I was doing, I would have spun a story about investigating noise on the phone line, or a gas leak. In the days of outsourced technicians, no one looks for a recognizable logo on your shirt.

  My gaze settled on the recycling bins and trashcans at the end of each drive. The collection crew hadn’t made it down Adam and Deanna’s street yet. I dashed back to the car and pulled out a large trash bag from my handy stash of Heftys. I moseyed over to the Devlin trash containers. Nothing in the recycling, but that was always the way. The dirt was invariably in the nasty trash.

  I held my breath and opened the trashcan. First, I sprayed the contents with half a can of Lysol. Then, I pulled out the three kitchen-size white bags and stuffed them in my extra-large lawn-and-leaf bag. I closed the can and lugged my treasure back to the Escape, where I stowed it in back for later inspection. At least with the trash double-bagged it wouldn’t stink. I hoped.

  I climbed into the driver’s seat and slathered myself with sanitizer. Where might Adam be? After this morning’s drama, not likely with Marci. The only other place I could think of was onboard his sailboat, The Conquest, which was moored at the marina. That destination in mind, I started the car and pulled out into the street.

  Colleen materialized in the passenger seat. “Deanna’s on the move. She got one of the part-time clerks to fill in for her. She’s on her way home.”

  “And she won’t find Adam there. The question is, does she know where to find him?”

  “If she goes looking, she must have an idea.”

  “True.” I drove slowly around the block. Then, I wended my way through the neighborhood and circled back. I passed Adam and Deanna’s house just as she pulled into the garage.

  There was only one way in and out of Sea Farm by car. I pulled into the Shell station on Inlet Drive just past the entrance and parked at a right angle to the road so that I could turn either way. I’d give Deanna an hour. If she didn’t come back out, I’d head to the marina.

  Thirty minutes later, Deanna’s blue Volvo rolled to a stop at the intersection of Sea Farm and Inlet Drive. She crossed Inlet and headed down Palmetto Boulevard. I let one car between us and followed. When we circled the park, the car between us turned right and continued down Palmetto Boulevard. Deanna continued around the park to Main Street and bore right, towards the ferry dock. We were right behind her. I wondered if she’d seen my car the day before when I’d parked behind her in the bank lot.

  Moments later, she pulled into the ferry parking lot. She pulled close to the front, near the ferry, and I hung back.

  “Looks like we’re going off island,” I said. “But she’s not looking for Adam, or she wouldn’t be in her own car.”

  “Unless she couldn’t borrow one.”

  I conceded the point with a tilt of my head.

  I stayed a couple of cars back once we exited the ferry. Traffic was heavy enough to keep a couple of cars between us, but light enough that I could keep her in sight. This got more difficult when she headed into Charleston.

  I got caught by a light and lost sight of her on King Street. Where was Deanna headed?

  I looked at Colleen. She had a look of intense concentration on her face. “White Point Gardens,” she said. “Step on it.”

  I tooled down King Street as fast as traffic would allow, which was not nearly fast enough to suit me or Collee
n. She was tense, her eyes worried. She gripped the armrest on her right side and the console on her left.

  I turned left on South Battery and started looking for Deanna, her car, or a parking place. It was a sunny spring afternoon, and White Point Gardens—the park at The Battery—had an assortment of college kids, housewives with preschoolers, tourists, and locals playing hooky from work.

  “What was she wearing?” I asked.

  “A navy sailor dress. Matching shoes and hat.”

  “In the hardware store? The last two days she had on slacks. Wherever she’s going, she dressed for it before she left the house. Doesn’t sound like tailing-your-cheating-husband attire.”

  Colleen said, “Keep going. Park on Murray.”

  I turned right on East Battery, then rounded the tip of the Charleston peninsula onto Murray Boulevard.

  Colleen pointed. “There.”

  Deanna was making her way through the park in purposeful strides, her shoulder bag clutched tightly to her body. Every few steps she glanced over her shoulder.

  I pulled over and parked in front of a cannon.

  Deanna sat down on a bench under a huge live oak. Her posture was perfect, her purse on her lap.

  Colleen turned in her seat to look behind us. “Troy.” She pointed towards the battery.

  “Where?” I twisted to see.

  A man leaned casually against the black metal railing that ran across the High Battery. From that distance, I couldn’t make out who it was. I pulled out my binoculars to have a look for myself.

  It was Troy all right. “He’s got balls of brass, wandering around Charleston in broad daylight. I’m calling Blake.” I reached for my iPhone.

  “No.” Colleen’s eyes were frantic. “I don’t want Deanna caught with him. She has that money.”