“So do I.”
Mamma was going to have a record-breaking conniption fit.
I squeezed into a parking place on Tradd and approached the Izard front door. It was cocktail hour, which was good. Alcohol might loosen Evelyn’s tongue even further.
Edward answered the door. “Hello. You must be Ms. Talbot.” He was fifty, give or take, though he had a well-maintained air about him. Here was a man who got regular manicures. Khaki pants and a button-down were a much better look for him than running shorts.
“I am. And you must be Mr. Izard.”
“Please, call me Edward.”
“I’m Liz.”
“Won’t you come in?” He stepped back. “We’re having cocktails and oysters in the courtyard.”
Oysters? This was May. Oysters weren’t in season. “Thank you.”
“What can I get you to drink? I have a pitcher of vodka martinis.”
“That sounds perfect, thank you.”
I followed him down the hall and out a single french door into the courtyard.
Evelyn was seated at a wrought iron table. She rose unsteadily as we arrived. How much had she already had to drink? “Liz, it’s good to see you again.” Her voice didn’t slur. Perhaps she’d just stepped wrong.
We finished saying our hellos and making polite noises. Edward handed me a martini, and we all sat.
Edward said, “So you’re working on the Shelby Poinsett case? Sad, that.”
“Very sad,” echoed Evelyn. “You know, when I had my gallbladder out last September, Shelby brought me casseroles. She offered to run errands for me. It took me several weeks to recover. That surgeon, I can’t remember…what was his name, Edward? Anyway, I don’t think he was one of the better ones, if you know what I mean. If I had it to do over again—”
Mamma would’ve lamented my deplorable lack of manners. But I had to stop her, or we’d’ve been there all night talking about her gallbladder. “Yes, I’m so sorry, Edward, to answer your question. I’m trying to cover all the bases. I understand you all were home the night Shelby was killed?”
“That’s right,” Edward said. “We’ve told the police and some other detectives, neither of us saw anything. We were home all day. I went out for my run in the morning. Aside from that, I don’t think either of us even went outside.”
Evelyn had finished her martini. “Edward, I’d like another, please.”
He gave her a questioning look, but got up and retrieved the pitcher from the drink cart and refilled her glass.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “we can’t help you. I wish we had seen or heard something helpful.”
“What about before that night?” I asked. “I understand from the police report that you all heard the Gerhardts arguing on occasion?”
Evelyn’s voice was definitely slurring now. “It’s hard to tell who was talking or what they were saying over the wall, to tell you the truth. We heard them out here, isn’t that right, Edward?”
“That’s right. I believe there were many heated exchanges. It was hard to make out what the trouble was. Our courtyard walls are quite thick.”
“Is it possible,” I asked, “that the people you heard arguing were from another house? It seems several backyards are across your courtyard wall.”
“I suppose anything’s possible,” Edward said. “But I don’t believe so. We should eat these oysters before they get warm. These are Charleston Salts from St. Jude Farms. Are you familiar?” He slid the tray of cracked ice filled with oysters on the half shell towards me.
“Oh, no thank you.” I loved oysters, but only if they were cooked.
“St. Jude’s is farming triploid oysters. They’re going to extend oyster season, you watch. They’re just starting the process. I have a friend who got me these.” Edward offered the tray to Evelyn.
She picked one up, speared the meat with a cocktail fork, squirted it with lemon juice, and delivered it to her mouth. After a moment, she said, “Well, now, seems to me, the folks back behind us have had some trouble. There’s some history there.”
It was hard to focus on what she was saying. The oyster she’d put in her mouth had slipped back out and was stuck on her chin.
“Evelyn—” Edward made a motion with his napkin.
“Edward, I know those people have had the police over there and everything else.”
I ignored the oyster. “You mean the house that faces Bedons Alley?” I squinted at her. Surely that was too far away.
Edward stared at the oyster on his wife’s face. He was beet red.
She took a long sip of vodka. “I don’t know which one it is. Might face Tradd, but the backyard’s over this a-way.”
“So you can’t say for sure who you heard arguing?”
“It was the Gerhardts,” Edward said. “Evelyn, you were hardly in a position to remember.”
She reached for another oyster.
I looked away, then back. I needed to finish this and get out of here. “I wanted to ask you, Evelyn, about book club. Do you recall anyone being angry with Shelby over the wait list?”
The second oyster slipped out of her mouth.
Edward ran a hand across his eyes, slid it down the side of his face, and rested his chin in his palm.
Evelyn drained her glass. “What I heard was that several people were very upset. I overheard Mary Bernard talking to Mariel saying that Delta was going to speak to Shelby about it. Mary was not happy, as you can imagine.”
“When?” I couldn’t care less that she had two slimy oysters stuck to her chin.
“What I heard was that night. But Mary could tell you for sure.”
“That night? The night Shelby was killed?”
“That’s what Mary said. But now, I can’t say that she actually came.”
Edward said, “Evelyn dear, perhaps you should freshen up.”
“I don’t need to freshen up, Edward. If you need to, go on ahead. I’m a grown woman. I can decide when I need to go to the bathroom. Would you pour me another drink, please?”
I stood. “Thank you so much for your time. Y’all have a great evening. Edward, please don’t get up—I’ll see myself out.”
I crossed the courtyard as quickly as was decent, then practically ran down the hall and out the front door. I dashed to the car and called Mary Bernard.
We exchanged pleasantries, and then I asked her, “Mary, are you aware of any plans Delta had to approach Shelby regarding the wait list for the book club?”
Mary was silent for a long time. I thought the call had dropped. Finally she said, “As a matter of fact, I am. I had hoped not to become embroiled in this tawdry melodrama. But the truth is, Delta did tell one of the other members that she was going to talk with Shelby. Delta, as you know, is not in favor of a more liberal membership policy. She planned to plead her case to Shelby.”
“When?”
Mary made me wait for it. “Well, it was the night Shelby died.”
SEVENTEEN
I had to wait for the six-thirty ferry, so it was seven when I got home. Nate had grilled salmon and made rice pilaf and a salad to go along. He was quite the chef. We finished our wine on the sofa in the living room and brought each other up to date.
Nate went first. “Do you want the details?”
“Not unless they’re important. I have enough details for both of us.”
“Paul Baker didn’t leave the campground all day. I was able to get into the Kinloch residence for a solid two hours. Nothing on Charles’s computer or in his office incriminates him in any way.”
“I think we can forget Charles Kinloch,” I said. “And Sonny.” I gave him the highlights.
“So,” Nate said, “Delta is almost certainly bipolar and has a…I can’t call it a crush anymore. Three pictures in your nightstand of someone else’s husband crosses a line. S
he has an unhealthy fixation on Clint Gerhardt. And she reportedly planned to see Shelby on the evening of her death, though we don’t know if she did or not, and Shelby didn’t tell Clint she was expecting anyone.”
“Right.”
“And whether Sonny likes it or not, or believes it or not, Shelby was almost certainly having an affair with someone other than Sonny.”
“Right again.”
“Evelyn Izard, while a lush who can’t hold her oysters, is a reliable witness in that she remembered overhearing the bit about Delta going to see Shelby.”
“Yes,” I said, “and she also believes the neighbors who they heard arguing were from another house. She wasn’t clear on which one—the backyard lines are cobbled together back there. But she mentioned the police being called. If a report was filed, we should be able to find out where the neighborhood domestic issues were.”
“And if we can prove there were other neighbors with issues, and no one can say for certain who was arguing, that piece of so-called evidence against Clint is neutralized. I’ll talk to the Vennings tomorrow, see what they have to say, and follow up with Sonny.”
“I want to spend some time trying to locate our unknown Romeo, and I’ll definitely talk to Delta.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” asked Nate. “We certainly have an alternate theory of the crime there. If you tip her off, she has time to put together a defense—or run—before the police can question her.”
I scrunched up my face. “It all falls together very neatly. Even if she claims she wasn’t there, it’s still a good theory. And yet…I just don’t see it.”
“Slugger, you haven’t seen her off her meds. She’d be a whole different person.”
“I know that’s true, but think about this. What if she’s navigated her divorce, stayed on her meds, is taking care of her boys, and yes, she has a thing for Clint, but that’s really not a crime. Maybe it’s a harmless infatuation. If she’s innocent, being accused—questioned by the police—it could cause her to have a real setback. I just don’t want to burden her with more trouble if she’s not our killer.”
“She certainly has the means to flee,” said Nate.
I pondered that. “What if I ask Francina to confiscate her passport?”
“You think she’d do that?”
“Why not? Unless Delta tries to leave, she’ll never know. If she goes looking for her passport, asks Francina about it, then we have Francina pretend to help her look, but get a message to us.”
“I suppose that’s reasonable. But you have to promise to be careful with Delta. You don’t know what might set her off.”
“But if she’s on her meds, and she must be, I’d think she’d respond like anyone else. She might be angry, but I don’t see her going for my throat.”
Nate said, “Neither of us are doctors. And just because she took all her pills yesterday, that’s no guarantee she will tomorrow.”
“Point taken. I’ll be on the lookout for trouble and call 911 if I need to.”
“Oh, and I forgot, in my recap of your recap…The other thing you learned today is that Blake is dating a former courtesan.”
“Mistress. She was someone’s mistress. In unusual circumstances, yes. But, as Blake so eloquently informed me this afternoon, we all have pasts.”
“You know I’m just messing with you. I like how you come to your brother’s defense so quick. That’s you Talbots. It’s all fine and good for one of you to complain about the other. But God help anyone else who does.” He grinned.
“That’s all families,” I said, then instantly regretted it. Nate’s family was the opposite of that.
I watched his face change.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I said.
“You’re my family. You and the rest of those lunatics I married into.”
My heart hurt. Clearly, I was too tired to talk.
My phone sang out a few bars of “Carry on My Wayward Son” by Kansas.
Blake’s ringtone. He’d want to chew on me some more. I answered with a resigned sigh. “Hey, big brother.”
“Hey. You talked to Sonny?” Blake’s voice was tense.
My breath caught in my throat. Was this a trick question? Had he figured out Sonny had tipped me off about Heather? I stalled. “Since when?”
“This evening. We’re getting ready for our set at The Pirates’ Den. He was walking from his car to the house this afternoon, and somebody drove by and shot at him.”
I bolted upright. “Is he all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s fine. Scared him shitless. They fired five shots. Whoever it was, it wasn’t an experienced drive-by shooter. They’ve got an APB out on the car.”
“Does he have any idea who it could’ve been? Related to a case maybe?”
“He says it could’ve been any one of a hundred people. He’s locked up quite a few, and they all have friends and family.”
I knew right then in my gut this was related to Shelby Poinsett. How? I bit my lip, winced. “Thank God he’s okay.”
“My thoughts exactly. That coulda gone all kinds of wrong.” He was quiet for a moment. “Hey, Lizzie. Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you before. You’re my sister, and I know you’re trying to look after me. I shouldn’t’ve hung up on you.”
“Aww…I thought you were calling to yell at me some more. It’s all right. You were right. Heather’s great, really. I like her.”
“I need your help,” Blake said. “With Mom.”
“You want me to help you neutralize Mamma Drama?”
“Yeah. Please. She’s—”
“You’ve got it. When are you going to tell her?”
“I reckon now that word’s out, I’d better get it over with. Sunday, I guess. The way gossip spreads on this island, she’ll probably find out before then.”
“I’ll help you talk to her.”
We said our goodbyes.
I told Nate about Sonny. “It’s connected,” I said.
“How do you figure?” Nate squinted.
“I can’t figure it. Yet.”
EIGHTEEN
Saturday morning, we got in our run, then scarfed down yogurt parfaits. It took Nate fifteen minutes to shower and dress. When I had to dry my hair, my record shower-dress-and-primp time was an hour. I hit that while he checked our tool and supply inventory in the back of the Explorer. I kept essentials in the Escape, but the bulk of our toy chest was in Nate’s car.
We took both vehicles into Charleston for flexibility. Nate would talk to the Vennings, then try to catch up with Sonny. I was headed back to Market Pavilion Hotel. It was likely they had security cameras, but beyond unlikely they were going to let me see footage of guests. No crime had been committed in the hotel, and I wasn’t a police officer with a warrant. But I had a backup plan.
I settled into a plush wingback between the lobby bar and the registration desk, against the wall and out of view of the desk staff. I pulled out my laptop. So many tools have been developed for private investigators over the last ten years. The technology Nate and I own is mind boggling. But one of the best tools in our arsenal is free.
It never ceases to amaze me what people will post on Facebook.
I opened the site. It detected where I was and offered to show me what other people were saying about Market Pavilion Hotel. Oh, please do. This would’ve worked equally well from home. All I had to do was search inside Facebook for the hotel’s name. But I couldn’t follow up from home.
I clicked on the gear icon. First, I saw the hotel’s page, with reviews. Then came what my friends were saying—oh, look at that. Tomorrow night was not Sonny’s first date with Moon Unit. She’d posted a photo of them here two weeks ago.
Next came public posts. Here is where people get stupid. So many people have no idea what privacy settings are, or how best to use them. And it made
my job so much easier. Still, sometimes it took a while to find what I was looking for. Sometimes I didn’t find it at all.
I scrolled through strangers’ girls’ night out parties, check-ins, a video of a proposal taken inside one of the guest rooms, parents visiting college students, photos of champagne buckets, the ornate fixtures in the bathrooms…and many, many candid shots taken all around the property.
The posts were from total strangers, but that didn’t matter. I was looking at who was in the background, the people who had no idea they’d been photographed, much less posted to social media.
Rehearsal dinners, anniversaries, someone having a large birthday cocktail on video. Tons of photos of the view from the rooftop. And Nitrotinis, a trademarked—literally—martini chilled with nitrogen. There were lots of photos of those. Vacation photos that belonged to people all over the world.
I scrolled to the end, then started over. I’d been scrolling through other people’s precious moments for more than three hours when I found what I was looking for. A crowded lobby. A photo of friends sitting at the lobby bar. And in the background, Shelby.
With Eli Radcliffe.
Holy shit.
I stared at it long and hard. There was a crowd, and they weren’t looking at the camera. But it was them.
The picture had been taken in October. Angela had seen Shelby in the same lobby with a tall, handsome, black man in early December. I right-clicked and saved the photo, zoomed in on Shelby and Eli, and cropped it.
I finished scrolling and scanning to see if there were more, but no such luck.
One was enough.
I pondered my best play. I knew I’d get nowhere with the front desk, concierge, or management. Guest privacy would be a critical component of their customer service playbook. The rooftop bar wasn’t open yet. I couldn’t show the photo to the bartender until later.
I was overthinking this. Ditzy blonde or shy blonde? I’d go with shy. I packed away my laptop, pulled out a pair of fake cat-eye glasses, put my hair in a clip and pulled several stands loose. I hunched my shoulders forward a bit and approached the front desk. There was a possibility the desk clerk, like the bartender, would remember Shelby by name and know she’d been killed. But maybe she wouldn’t.
LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB Page 16
