LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB

by Susan M. Boyer

  While I washed my hair, I gave myself a talking to. I had to shake off this funk and get to work. I stepped out of the shower and wrapped up in a towel. “I think I’ll eat breakfast at The Cracked Pot this morning.”

  Nate stood in front of his mirror, shaving. “You got a hankering for country ham and grits?”

  “Always. But I want to talk to Blake.” I’d feel better if I talked to my brother. He was the police chief of Stella Maris. Evacuations were somewhere in his job description.

  “You figure he’d tell you if he knew Sonny was having an affair?”

  I startled. How had that not occurred to me? “Never,” I said. “The two of them, everything goes into the vault. But I can read my brother like a neon billboard.”

  “I’m just going to grab something here and head into Charleston quick as I get the paperwork caught up.”

  “Blake may be more forthcoming if I’m alone. Doubtful, but possible.”

  After I dressed, I went down to the office and typed up my interview notes from the day before. I wouldn’t be right all day if I didn’t get that done. Nate worked on his notes in his office, then came by the living room on his way out.

  “Are you all right?” He set down his backpack and came over to the desk.

  “I’ll be fine.” I stood, the better to hug him goodbye.

  “You’re sure looking fine.”

  “Well, thank you, sir.” I’d chosen a black linen jacket and pencil skirt with a polka-dot shell and my Kate Spade black wedge-heel sandals. They were perhaps a bit racy for this book club crowd, with their gold studs on the straps. My toe nail polish offered a pop of pink to the ensemble.

  “Don’t work too late, hear? Let’s get takeout tonight, get you to bed early. You need some rest.”

  “Sounds good.” I looked up and he leaned in to kiss me. It was a sound kiss, one that testified to a deep bond.

  “I love you,” he said.

  I smiled up at him. “I love you too.” An ache crept into my heart, echoes of the panic from last night’s dream. I couldn’t imagine my life without Nate.

  As reliable as sunup, my brother walked under the pink striped awning and into The Cracked Pot at eight.

  I caught up to him just inside. “Let’s get a booth in the back.”

  He looked me up and down. “You’re dressed awful fancy for breakfast here.”

  Moon Unit Glendawn, the owner of the diner, whose father had an unfortunate fondness for Frank Zappa, breezed out from behind the counter. We’d been friends our entire lives—she’d been one of my bridesmaids. It was a mystery to me why my brother hadn’t married her long ago. It was common knowledge she had a crush on him. Moon Unit was a beautiful woman, inside and out. She also manned the control tower for the island’s gossip network.

  “Good mornin’, y’all!” Moon Unit’s long, wavy golden hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her smile, as always, was lit from within.

  “Hey, Moon,” I said. “Could we have the booth in the back?”

  “Sure thing. You both want the usual?” she asked.

  “Please.” There was no need to verify this with Blake. We both had country ham and grits with red eye gravy, eggs, and biscuits. The only difference in our orders was that I had scrambled eggs with cheese and his eggs were over medium. Always.

  “Y’all have a seat. I’ll get your coffee.” Moon Unit whirled away.

  We slid into the corner booth.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “What?” Blake turned over his coffee cup.

  “She didn’t even speak to you.”

  “Sure she did. She said good morning to both of us.”

  I squinted. “Yeah, but—” Normally she chatted Blake up as much as possible.

  Moon Unit approached with the coffee carafe. She filled our cups.

  “You doing alright today, Moony?” Blake asked.

  She gave him a thin little smile, a far cry from the mega-watt one we’d both received moments ago. “I’m doing fine, Blake. Thank you so much for asking.” And she was gone again.

  “See?” I said.

  Blake grimaced. “Maybe it’s her time—”

  “Don’t you even dare.” I gave him The Look. The one our mamma had used on all of us our entire lives.

  He rolled his eyes. “Did you want to talk to me about something besides Moon Unit’s bad mood?”

  “She is not in a bad mood. She—” The dream came back to me. The wind. The waves. The people. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  He stirred sugar and cream into his coffee, looked at me from under a lowered brow. “What’s up with you? You look…shook up.”

  “I am. This will sound crazy—from nowhere—but we have evacuation procedures, right? For the island? There are plans, I know there are. Town Council has discussed them. To be honest, I didn’t focus that much on the specifics. But your department. You monitor these things…storms. It’s your job to make sure everyone leaves in time, right?”

  “Of course. We have procedures, and we get updates on any threat from the National Hurricane Center. Where is this coming from? There’re no storms in the Atlantic.”

  “It’s just on my mind, with all the crazy weather this year. The past couple years, really.”

  He gave me a look that said he knew that wasn’t the whole story.

  I said, “But how many people can we evacuate in a day?”

  “We typically have more than a day’s notice, but if we had to, we could get everyone off the island in twenty-four hours. But you know as well as I do, some folks aren’t going to evacuate. Most people here have ridden out a tropical storm or two.”

  Moon Unit set our plates in front of us. “Y’all enjoy.” She turned around and walked away.

  “Did you see that?” I said.

  “What?”

  “When is the last time she brought us food and only said two words? That has never happened. Never.”

  Blake shrugged. “Are you going to tell me why you’re all of a sudden concerned about our evacuation procedures?”

  I sighed. “I had a nightmare. A very vivid one. It started me thinking how crazy it is we’ve all fought against a bridge for years because we love our splendid isolation. People could get hurt—killed, even—if we couldn’t get everyone to the mainland.”

  “Seriously? I know you think you could do my job better than me—”

  “That’s not true at all.”

  “Yeah. It is. But nothing about my evacuation plan needs investigating. You just keep on chasing down adulterers and harassing Sonny about his cases. This falls under the category of things you don’t need to worry about. I worry for all of us. I’ve got this.”

  I watched him for a moment. I knew how much Blake loved this island. “Have you ever thought we ought to cap our population?”

  “No. I’ve never thought that. Are you nuts? Don’t answer that. How would you even do that?”

  “Ordinances. Hell’s bells. I don’t know. But I think we need to start figuring out how we avoid reaching the tipping point where we can no longer evacuate everyone in twenty-four hours.”

  He paused, biscuit halfway to his mouth. “That would sure address development once and for all. You’re on the Town Council. Make a motion.”

  “I need to look into that very thing.” I dug into my grits, which had waited far too long for my fork. I savored the thick, creamy, buttery comfort food of my people.

  Blake shook his head, muttered something, and sliced off a bite of country ham. We ate in companionable silence for a few moments.

  Then I asked, “Do you know if Sonny is seeing anyone?”

  Blake seemed to choke just a bit. He washed down whatever he had lodged in his throat with a few gulps of coffee. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. I remember him bringing that girl from Folly
Beach over to The Pirates’ Den a few Fridays ago. She was cute. He seeing anyone else?”

  Blake studied his plate.

  That was a surefire tell. Something was up.

  He said, “You know Sonny.”

  I did indeed. I also knew my brother.

  After we’d finished eating, we took the check to the cash register. One of the waitresses rang us up. I looked around for Moon Unit. From the window to the kitchen she caught my eye and flashed me a mischievous grin. What game was she playing with Blake? Changing tactics? I hadn’t spoken to Moon at any length in a while. Maybe we needed to have lunch.

  EIGHT

  I did some of my best thinking on the ferry ride from Stella Maris to Isle of Palms. That particular morning, I was conflicted on several fronts. On the one hand, my training and experience said the smart bet was that Shelby’d had an affair. But I didn’t want to believe that.

  And because we only had two suspects for the role of Shelby’s lover, and one of them had an alibi, that pointed to Sonny. But that went against everything I knew about the man. On the trip into Charleston, I pondered scenarios wherein Charles Kinloch might’ve had an accomplice to do his dirty work. A rejected lover might resort to cold-blooded murder if he had sociopathic tendencies. But nothing in his background—at least what was on record—hinted at such a thing. I needed to know more about Charles Kinloch.

  Once on the peninsula, I headed towards the Kinlochs’ home on Huger Street. I’d done some preliminary snooping using Google Street View, and familiarized myself with how the home was situated in the block. There’s nothing like a satellite view. I drove past slowly. A two-story frame house, it appeared newish for Charleston. The green wood siding and beige trim looked freshly painted. Flower boxes overflowed on the porch railing. On the wide front porch, deep-cushioned wicker furniture invited you to sit a spell. The house and yard had a spit-shined look to it, like maybe someone had staged it to show.

  Jane and Charles Kinloch may have lived in a more modest neighborhood than some of their friends, but they kept things nice. I’d pulled their car registrations Tuesday night. Through the windows in the dark-stained wood garage doors, the tops of both Charles’s dark blue Range Rover and Jane’s Audi SUV were visible. No way to let myself in and browse through their house for possible motives or evidence of a personality disorder. Damnation.

  I had a couple of hours until I had to be at Delta Tisdale’s for book club. At the stoplight at Huger and Rutledge I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. And then I set Charles Kinloch aside for the moment.

  I tried calling Paul Baker, but got his voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. I zipped on over to the also prescreened West Ashley brick ranch where he and his wife lived with their two kids. Unlike the Kinlochs, the Bakers appeared to’ve left for the day. Paul’s wife worked at a downtown inn. The kids should be at school. Unless something outside the ordinary routine happened, she and the kids wouldn’t be home until mid-afternoon at the earliest. The question was, where was Paul?

  If he was working a case, he could be anywhere, and be home at any time. He kept an office on Ashley River Road, not much more than a mile from the house, in a strip mall that might’ve been built in the seventies. I headed in that direction.

  The building was brick, but each of the storefronts was painted a different color. Baker’s was the washed-out blue one in the middle. His Dodge Caravan—an excellent choice for a PI—was parked in front of the office. I pulled around to the side of the building and parked between two sedans. The side road was narrow and deserted. I popped open the back of the Escape and walked around. My long tan raincoat covered my outfit completely. I pulled my hair up under a ball cap and slid on my largest, darkest sunglasses. Then I retrieved a GPS tracker from the toy box.

  I walked around front and strolled down the sidewalk. An awards shop, an empty storefront, Paul Baker Investigations, a Japanese restaurant, a bar, and an office of indeterminate business. A handful of cars were parked out front in the slanted spaces that bordered the sidewalk. But no one was coming or going.

  I slipped between Baker’s minivan and the SUV parked beside it, faked a stumble just in case I was being observed from inside, caught myself on the side of the Caravan, and slipped the GPS underneath it as I stood.

  I smoothed my coat, looked around. Still no company. I walked with a slight limp back to the sidewalk, and slowly made my way back to the end of the building, playing the part all the way to the end of the scene. No one came to see if I was all right. This likely meant no one had seen me “fall.”

  Back in the Escape, I opened the tracking software on my iPad. The GPS signal was transmitting. I could see the tracker on Baker’s van as a dot inside a blue circle on a map. I set the alarm feature to notify me if the van moved, then headed back to the Baker residence. If Paul Baker left the office and came in my direction, I’d know it. I’d also know everywhere else he went.

  I parked on the street around the corner. If any of the neighbors happened to be home, they might notice a strange car in the driveway. I scanned the street. It was mid-morning on a weekday. This was a working-class neighborhood. No one was around.

  I put my pick set in my pocket, grabbed a kit with a few other toys and slid them along with my iPad into my tote. I walked back to the Baker house. From across the street, I studied the perimeter. It looked to be a three-bedroom, two-bath ranch. Did Baker have the same level of security that we did?

  I pulled out my binoculars and scanned for exterior cameras. No sign of any. Several varieties of palm trees and a magnolia screened much of the front of the house, but not enough. Since I’d dressed for the book club meeting, I wasn’t disguised enough to go in through the front.

  I slipped around back. No exterior cameras here either. But was there a security system inside, and was it armed? I glanced at my iPad to be sure. Baker’s van hadn’t moved. I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my tote and slipped them on.

  I retrieved my pick set from my coat pocket. In less than a minute, I had the deadbolt and the knob lock open. I eased open the back door and entered the kitchen. No tell-tale beeping announced an alarm system that demanded an access code. There were no obvious signs of door sensors, motion detectors, glass breaks, or cameras. Baker could easily have a do-it-yourself system that had none of those things or concealed them well. But his van wasn’t moving. If he had any sort of system, I hadn’t tripped it. Yet.

  I could’ve spent all day going through Paul Baker’s house, but I didn’t have that kind of time. He could head home at any moment. He was a PI, and I had to assume, too smart to leave evidence on his computer. And too smart to deposit a large sum of money in a bank account. If he’d taken money to throw the Gerhardt case, he’d likely stashed it somewhere close. Given the apparently unsecured nature of his home, it wasn’t likely here. But I had to check.

  I went for the closets.

  I navigated through the dining area and den and headed down the hall towards the bedrooms. The master was at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open. The bed wasn’t made. The room had a cluttered look. I set my iPad on the chest of drawers, glanced at the screen. All clear.

  I moved to the closet. The doors were standing open. Many empty hangers mixed in with the hanging clothes. No suitcase in sight. I checked the chest of drawers and dresser. The contents looked thin, like half the clothes were gone.

  I went to the other bedrooms. The Bakers had one boy and one girl. Their closets and dressers were likewise low on inventory. I pulled out my iPhone and Googled Planters Inn on North Market. When the results displayed, I tapped the phone icon on the top hit to call.

  I asked to speak to Mrs. Baker, said I was calling from the school.

  “She’s not in this week. They’re on vacation. I hope everything’s all right with the kids.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. “I have another contact number. Thank you so mu
ch.”

  The state of the kids’ rooms told me that wherever the Bakers had gone, they’d taken the kids along. And they may or may not be coming back in a week. It was odd they’d take the kids out of school for a vacation this close to the end of the year.

  Had something spooked Paul and he sent his wife and kids out of town? Or had she left him for one of the standard reasons that had nothing to do with my case? Was he at his office after all, or did he just leave the van there?

  I searched the closets more thoroughly. No sign of a bag of cash. The ceilings were the white popcorn stuff blown over sheetrock. No panels to pop up. I pulled the rope to let down the folding attic stairs. Carefully, I climbed the steps, thankful I’d chosen the lower stacked heels.

  At the top of the stairs, I pulled the string attached to a light socket. A dim glow revealed a few pieces of plywood flooring with a dozen boxes scattered around. I opened one after the other. Christmas decorations, baby paraphernalia, assorted memorabilia no longer wanted downstairs, but too sentimental to throw away.

  The alarm on my iPad sounded.

  I scrambled down the rickety stairs, folded them back up, and closed the attic access. Then I dashed back to the master bedroom.

  The van was moving. The blue dot was headed in my direction.

  I crammed my iPad in my tote and scurried towards the kitchen. I turned the knob lock, closed the door, and dashed back towards the Escape. I climbed in, shut the driver’s side door, started the engine, and pulled away. I drove around the block and waited at the stop sign.

  Moments later the Dodge Caravan passed the intersection and pulled into the driveway. Paul Baker got out, looked around, scanned the neighborhood. His eyes slipped by the Escape.

  Should I confront him? If he’d taken money to look the other way, he was hardly going to tell me all about it. Better to monitor the GPS, keep an eye on him. And see if his wife and kids came home.