The holes in Zeke’s background were telling. Most people left a trail of property transfers, inquiries to rental agencies, utility bills, and all manner of other electronic footprints in their wake. The fact that Zeke’s history had so much blank space pointed to either scrubbing or extended periods of time spent out of the country. And while there was no reason to think his death was related to anything that had happened in the twenty years he’d been gone—after all, he’d been back for nearly a decade—there was no reason to discount it entirely either.
What might I learn from his first wife’s profile? He’d been married to her for the last ten years he spent away. I returned to my desk and went to work on April Lynne Fox Lyerly. An hour later, all I knew about April was that she was born in Goose Creek, had married and divorced Zeke, and her last known address was at 3 Queen Street in Charleston—a condo in the French Quarter. The holes in her background matched his perfectly. What exactly had the two of them been up to, and where had they been?
April was a part of Zeke’s local history only for a brief time. Had she not liked life on Stella Maris? How had Tammy Sue felt moving into a house another woman had picked out? How had Zeke met Tammy to begin with? She wasn’t from here, but he’d married her after he returned.
I reached for Zeke’s iPhone, slipped it out of the bag, and typed in 8764.
Bingo.
Who had he spoken with in the last few days? I pulled up his recent calls. The last person he’d spoken to on his cell was Tammy Sue, at 11:13 a.m. the day before. Before that, there was a call from Carter’s Exxon at 10:57 a.m. There were several calls from Tammy Sue over the last few days, and double that from Crystal. Zeke had called Humphrey Pearson Sunday afternoon. And he’d called a number from our local area code without a saved contact identifying the number Friday morning. I scrolled through the older calls. The same names repeated, with occasional calls to and from Price Elliott, the mayor’s office, Coy Watson, Pete Carter, Skip Robinson, Spencer Simmons, and to other local businesses.
Whose was the number that didn’t belong to a saved contact?
I dialed the number. After five rings, a pre-recorded message announced that the number I’d dialed had not set up their voicemail box.
Zeke’s contacts held no surprises. I moved on to his email. His inbox was empty. That in itself was suspicious. Who on earth had an empty inbox? Zeke must not’ve given out his email address to everyone who asked like I did.
I opened the drafts folder. There was one email to [email protected] from [email protected], dated two weeks ago.
Dear Mr. Smith,
It has been a long time. I am currently relocating to a nearby city. I tell you this to avoid misunderstandings should we run into one another on the street. I wish you well, and harbor no hard feelings toward you or yours.
Sincerely,
Mr. Jones
Hell’s bells. What was that all about? The email was in Zeke’s drafts and it was signed “Mr. Jones.” Who the hell were Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones?
This was beyond strange—almost like a joke, but who would the joke be on? It’s not like Zeke anticipated someone would be snooping in his cell phone.
I massaged my temples. I had no idea what to make of Zeke’s email account. For the moment, I set it aside. Unlike me, Zeke had very few apps on his phone. In addition to the standard Apple apps, he had a couple weather apps, one for local news, and Fly Delta. I prowled through the phone with wild abandon, but was disappointed. Why did he even have a smart phone? He used very little of its capabilities from what I could tell.
I opened the Safari browser. Zeke had no favorites, no bookmarks, and no browsing history that I could see. Did he always use private browsing, or did he not use the internet with his phone at all?
Rhett padded in to check on me. It was nearly five o’clock. I stretched, decided I needed to clear my head. Rhett and I went for a romp on the beach.
An hour later, as I crossed the boardwalk over the dunes, Nate came out the back door onto the deck. The sleeves of his white button-down collared shirt were rolled up showing off tanned, muscled forearms. Late afternoon sunlight glinted in his dark blond hair. I was a lucky woman. Rhett raced ahead to greet him. I smiled and quickened my pace.
“Hey, Slugger,” he said. “Did you have a nice walk?” His blue eyes, warm and happy, caught mine.
“We should’ve waited,” I said.
He pulled me close to him, kissed me hello. Behind me, the ocean rolled and sluiced. I soaked in the moment, relishing the quiet, solid joy of this man, my husband, coming home to me at the end of the day.
“You are quite the distraction,” he said.
“I was thinking the same thing about you.” I nuzzled his neck.
Rhett ran in a circle around us.
Zeke, in the trunk of the car, flashed before my eyes. I heaved a sigh. “I’m not nearly through with profiles.”
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Something quick.”
“How about I grill us some salmon?”
“Sounds good. I’ll throw together a salad.”
“Teamwork.” Nate brushed my face, slipped a lock of hair behind my ear. “Perhaps if I help you finish those profiles you’ll allow me to distract you from work for a while, Mrs. Andrews.”
As always, his husky drawl sent shivers dancing up my spine. My husband could seduce me with his voice alone. “As if I could stop you from it.”
We set the case aside long enough to make and eat dinner. The breeze off the water died down, and the citronella candles weren’t doing enough to discourage the mosquitoes. We ate at the kitchen table, but opened the window to listen to the surf.
After dinner, we took the rest of the bottle of Cloud Break pinot noir to the office. I settled into the sofa with my laptop, Nate on the other end with his.
Nate stared at the case board. “That picture from Sunday evening?”
“Yeah.”
“For a man on the way to visit his much-younger mistress, does he appear to you to have a lack of enthusiasm?”
“I thought the same thing. But he sure was happy to see her when she opened the door, remember?”
“There is that. As displays of affection go, that was downright voracious,” he said. “Why don’t we start with forensics?”
“Sounds good. What did they find?”
“At the house, not much. The only fingerprints were Zeke’s and Tammy Sue’s. No sign of forced entry into the house or garage. They looked around for anything with strychnine in it. Nothing there. They took both computers—”
“Damnation. I figured they would.”
“They found the pictures we took of Zeke and Crystal. They’ve been logged into evidence. And guns—three shotguns and ten handguns. Zeke apparently had a fondness for Glocks.”
“I would’ve been shocked if they hadn’t found shotguns. I would’ve expected rifles as well. But that many handguns? That’s crazy.”
“What was more interesting was the way they were hidden.”
“What do you mean?”
“The handguns were all attached underneath furniture, well hidden but within reach, by magnets in the drawer bottoms and shelves. They were scattered throughout the house, as if Zeke always wanted to have a gun within reach.”
“He was afraid of something—someone. That’s interesting.”
“This looked more like full-blown paranoia to me. One of the shotguns was strapped underneath the bed. We knew Zeke liked guns—like your daddy. But your daddy has his gun collection on display. Zeke had his hidden but handy. At any rate, the guns were the headline at the house. At the shop, they found a chip off a coffee mug on the floor. Brown ceramic. No sign of the mug. Took all the coffee in for testing.”
“Did you get a look at the coffee?” I asked.
Nate rolled his lips in, nodded.
“I did. He had exotic tastes, to be sure.”
I shuddered. Who wanted to drink coffee ground from beans an animal had eaten and digested? Who even thought that up?
Nate said, “Looks like someone cleaned up a recent spill pretty aggressively in Zeke’s office. We need to ask Price if he knows anything about that, if any mugs are missing. Tammy too. Fingerprints, out front there’re too many to count, most unusable. Zeke’s office was wiped clean.”
“A broken mug and a spill,” I said. “Assuming for a moment that there is no other, more innocent explanation for that, our working theory of the crime is that the killer likely poisoned Zeke in his office. Zeke dropped the mug and broke it, spilling poison on the floor. The killer then cleaned that up.”
“As interesting as Zeke’s coffee supply is, it’s unlikely the killer poisoned a bag of it, or delivered a bag laced with strychnine. There would be no way to be sure of who you were killing, or when. Someone was there, watched Zeke die, cleaned up the mess, and moved his body.”
“Strychnine is extremely bitter,” I said. “The killer likely put it in coffee already brewed. That might’ve disguised the taste long enough for Zeke to consume a lethal dose.”
“Workday was over. Zeke was in his office doing paperwork or what have you. Someone comes in with, what, a thermos of coffee? Offers Zeke some. Pours some into Zeke’s mug. He drinks it, and either notices it tastes wrong right off and drops the mug, or a few minutes later when the poison starts to take effect he drops the mug then.”
“He’d have started twitching, then had spasms that got progressively worse until he asphyxiated. It’s odd he didn’t call for help. He must’ve known he’d been poisoned. And here’s something else. I didn’t find a single gun at the shop. Did the sheriff’s office?”
“No, now that you mention it.”
“The way he stashed guns all over the house, it doesn’t seem like he would’ve not had one within reach at work.”
“Indeed, it does not. Someone who knew the gun or guns were there must have removed them earlier. When Zeke realized he’d been poisoned, he may have tried to call 911, but maybe the killer had a gun for backup. Zeke went to get his, but it wasn’t there. Time ran out.”
We both mulled that for a few minutes.
“What did they say about the scrapes on the asphalt?” I asked.
“The back of Zeke’s boots were scuffed up. They have to run some tests, but it looks like he was dragged from the backdoor to a vehicle parked behind the building like you thought. What’s your take on Crystal?”
I filled him in on my interviews with Crystal, Price, Tammy, and Connie. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten very far with profiles. I spent hours looking into Zeke and his first wife, April. I found what I could, but there isn’t much there. And his phone was nothing but a frustration.” I told him about the odd draft email.
Nate’s forehead creased. “That is peculiar. Who do you want me to start with?”
“Why don’t you take Tammy Sue? I’ll start with Crystal. Then I’ll take Price if you’ll take Coy.”
“What about your cousin, Spencer?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not sure Connie’s gossip rises to the level of something that would put him on a suspect list. I need to follow up on that before we go there.”
“As you wish.”
We worked in silence for about an hour. Then I grabbed the photos we’d printed and took them to the case board. In a line under Zeke’s stand-in, I put headshots I’d found online of Tammy Sue, Crystal, Coy, and Price.
“Tammy Sue had motive, sure.” I wrote “jealousy” under her name. “But means and opportunity…I’m reasonably sure we’re dealing with strychnine. Did you see the way Zeke’s back was arched?”
“I don’t know about that, Slugger. He has long limbs, and he was folded up in the trunk of a ’69 Mustang.”
I shook my head. “It was more than that. Strychnine has a tell. And I’m not sure Tammy could’ve gotten Zeke into the trunk by herself.”
“I bet she could’ve. She looks strong. Doesn’t she work out with your Mamma?”
“Yeah, she’s in her Jazzercise class. They do use weights.”
“I’m not saying Tammy did lift him into that trunk, mind you. Only that she’s capable. What about opportunity? Tammy Sue was home alone. Can anyone confirm that?”
“Shoot. I forgot to ask her that. She was so upset. I’ll talk to her again tomorrow. Crystal doesn’t have an alibi.”
I wrote “Jealousy” under Crystal’s name and stepped back.
“Anything in her background that jumps out at you?” Nate asked.
“Not really. My opinion is that she’s a little volatile. But that’s all it is—my opinion.”
“Your instincts are good. We certainly can’t rule her out. But for my money, Coy Watson looks good right now. He has two motives, if he knew about Crystal and Zeke. And since he was spying on Zeke with his drone, he could’ve found that out without Crystal knowing.”
“Agreed.” I wrote “Jealousy” and “Revenge/Anger” under Coy’s name. “He lives in an apartment over Skip and Margie’s garage. Maybe we should see if Skip has any rat poison around.”
“About that,” said Nate. “I did some checking. Island Hardware doesn’t have inventory online. We’ll need to check with them in the morning to see what they carry. But if you go over to Lowes in Mount Pleasant and look for rat poison, your only choice is a refillable trap with bromethalin pellets. A few others I’ve found online have diphacinone, bromadiolone, or warfarin. Any of that will kill people if you give them enough of it. But you won’t have the violent convulsions you get with strychnine. And I couldn’t find anything with strychnine in it that you can ship to South Carolina. I suspect, but haven’t been able to confirm, that it’s illegal, or at least against DHEC regulations, to use it here. I don’t know how your average person with homicidal intent would get their hands on strychnine these days.”
“Where can you ship it to?”
“Mostly states west of the Mississippi,” he said. “But also Florida, Alabama, and Maryland. They’d be the closest places.”
“So someone knows folks that live in one of the states you can ship it to.”
“Could be, I guess. But it sure seems like there’d be an easier way to kill someone if you felt like it had come to that.”
“Maybe. But poison tells you something about the killer. He or she didn’t want to come at Zeke directly. Poison is a stealthy weapon.”
“Less chance of Zeke turning the tables on an assailant that way. Could point to a woman.”
“Not necessarily. With Zeke’s history, no one with sense would pull a gun or a knife on him.”
“Fair point. Anything intriguing in young Price’s profile?”
I listed “Revenge/Anger” as a motive under Price’s picture. Zeke had come close to firing him and they’d argued a week before Zeke’s death.
“Not really—nothing related. He had a DUI a couple years ago. I’m not sure I think he’s enterprising enough to acquire strychnine. But we can’t rule him out just yet either.”
I drew a box the size of a four by six photo in line with the other persons of interest and labeled it “Someone from Zeke’s Past,” and listed “Revenge” as a motive. “This is a long shot,” I said. “But I think we have to consider it given the holes in Zeke’s background. The fact that he and April were both off the grid for twenty years—that’s huge.”
“Agreed,” said Nate. “It’s significant. Anyone else we should look at?”
I drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “This party at Skip and Margie Robinson’s house keeps coming up. It might not mean anything, but it bugs me. What did you find out about Tammy Sue? It’s possible someone wanted Zeke out of the way so he could pursue her.”
“Hmm…well, she’s originally from Roswell, Geo
rgia—it’s a suburb of Atlanta. She owned a hair salon there until she married Zeke and moved here. He was her first husband. No restraining orders against ex-boyfriends, nothing like that. Her parents still live in Roswell. And she has two brothers that live there with their wives. Two nieces, three nephews.”
“That’s interesting. I don’t recall ever hearing about them visiting. I wasn’t sure she had family. But as far as someone who might be smitten enough with her to do away with Zeke…she’d likely know about that. Someone like that would at least be paying her attention, surely. I’ll ask her about it.” I drew another box and labeled it “Someone Smitten with Tammy Sue.”
I sensed Nate behind me. He wrapped strong arms around my waist and kissed the back of my neck. My skin tingled, and love, solid and warm filled my chest.
“I think we’re finished for the evening,” he said. “And I am smitten with you, Mrs. Andrews.”
SEVEN
The next morning, Nate, Rhett and I ran our customary five miles on the beach. At five a.m., the air was balmy. By the time we made it back to the house, the heat and humidity bore down on the morning. I dressed in a sleeveless blue blouse, capris, and comfortable sandals.
We took coffee with us and headed to Mamma and Daddy’s house. There was no sense in fixing breakfast at home when that would just upset Mamma. I smelled the country ham when we walked in the front door.
“We should’ve run ten miles,” Nate said.
“I’m not sure we can outrun Mamma’s cooking.”
“We may have to hide her cast iron.”
“Sugar, your cheese eggs are on the stove,” Mamma said as we entered the kitchen. “Nate, you want yours over medium?”
“You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” said Nate.
“You act like you’re new here.” Blake sat at the kitchen table, a platter of breakfast in front of him.
“Mornin’, Tutie,” Daddy called from behind the newspaper. “Nate.” For whatever reason, Nate was one of the few people Daddy didn’t have a nickname for. Tutie was short for Fruity Tutie, a jab at my aversion to germs.
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