I gave her time to read. When she looked up from the page, I said, “May I read it?”
She screwed up her face. “No, you can’t read it. What’s the matter with you, wantin’ to read people’s private mail?”
I sighed. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened to Zeke before my brother arrests Tammy Sue. I’m guessing some part of that letter asks you to take care of her, right?”
She shrugged, nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. So lemme get this straight. You work with Zeke’s attorney? And your brother—what? He’s the sheriff or somethin’?”
“I’m actually a private investigator.” I explained who was who, all the connections. “Do you think it’s possible someone from your past killed Zeke?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you know about my past?”
“Hell’s bells you sure are prickly,” I said. “All I know is what was in Zeke’s letter to Tammy Sue. That you were his partner. He told Tammy, in the letter, that the two of you were ex-CIA. Can that possibly be right?”
“What? You think I sound too redneck to be in the CIA?” she asked.
“No. I didn’t say that. It’s just that Zeke always seemed like a good ol’ boy who told colorful stories. We never took him serious. Well, I kinda did, I guess. I wasn’t sure what to make of him, to be honest. But—”
“You thought he was a yokel? A hick? White trash?” Her tone was defensive.
“No,” I said. “Not at all. I liked Zeke.”
“Let me tell you somethin’. Zeke and I had the best cover goin’. We were a real life Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” A wide grin split her face. Mischief danced in her eyes. “You seen that movie? Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?”
“Then it’s true?” Mr. Smith? The draft email in Zeke’s phone flashed through my mind.
“For nearly twenty years,” she said.
“Why’d you get out?”
She shrugged. “We were homesick. I grew up in the Lowcountry, near Goose Creek. Zeke was from Stella Maris. We both missed the smell of salt air. Being someplace where we had roots. And it got old. Pretending to be what you’re not.”
“Were you always just partners? Your marriage…”
“It was complicated between Zeke and me. The relationship started out as part of our cover. But we definitely had chemistry. The marriage was real. It takes more than chemistry to make a marriage work. In the end we just wanted different things. He wanted the white picket fence, Sunday chicken after church. That just wasn’t my thing.”
“Zeke really went to West Point?” I asked. “I haven’t had a spare moment to try to verify that.”
“He did.” Her voice turned sad. “He was one of the smartest people I ever knew.”
“Please,” I said. “Tell me if you think there’s any way his death has something to do with your job. Your former job.”
“What happened to him? All that attorney told me was that he died,” she said.
I outlined what we knew and what we suspected.
“Nah,” she said. “If someone was out for revenge for something we did years ago—and I’m not sayin’ what or where that was, you understand—they’d a put two bullets in his head. And they woulda hit me on the way out of town most likely.”
I told her about the safety deposit box. “Why would Zeke leave the passports where they could be found like that? I’m thinking our bank manager is going to fill out some form—”
“An SAR.”
“A what?”
“Suspicious Activity Report. She will. But it’s fine. That’s why he did it.”
“He wanted the passports to be reported?” I asked.
“That much cash and that many passports are pretty dang suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Well, yeah.”
“That’s the point. Those SARs are monitored by the CIA. That was Zeke’s way of letting them know he was dead. If there was any chatter that makes them think someone was after us, they’d reach out to me.”
“Fascinating,” I said.
“Do you think Tammy Sue killed Zeke?” she asked.
“Hell’s bells, no.”
She screwed up her face again. “Is that some kinda ladylike cussin’ or what? What is that? Hell’s bells?” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Do I need to teach you how to cuss?”
“Thank you so much, but no,” I said.
“So who killed him?” she asked.
“I’m still working that out. Ah, if you don’t mind me asking, where were you Monday between five and eight p.m.?”
She bristled. “You’ve got a helluva lot a nerve.”
“I’m just eliminating folks that might’ve had a problem with Zeke one by one. Not many people did. But the last time anyone saw you on Stella Maris, Zeke was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Those charges were dropped.” She gave her head a dismissive shake.
“I understand. Where were you Monday?” I asked.
“At the spa at Charleston Place. I was there all day, didn’t leave ’til close to seven. I had a massage, a yoga session, a seaweed wrap, a mani-pedi—the works. Call ’em up. Ask ’em. There’s no way I coulda got to Stella Maris inside that window.”
“Thank you.” Just then I was mulling how everyone but me was getting in their spa treatments.
“But I would never have hurt Zeke in the first place. Just so you know. We were like family.”
“Did you still see each other?” I asked.
“We had lunch once in a while,” she said. “It was complicated. He was happy with Tammy. He really loved her. I’m glad he had that.”
It crossed my mind to probe for insight as to why he was unfaithful to Tammy if he loved her so much. But that would’ve meant betraying my client’s confidence. “I should go,” I said. “Can I call you if I have more questions? Does Tammy know how to reach you if she needs to?”
She gave me a wary look, laid the gun on the coffee table, scribbled a number on a piece of paper, and handed it to me. “Don’t wear it out. You can give it to Tammy. I woulda given it to her tomorrow night.”
“Are you coming to the memorial?” I asked.
“Says in my letter it’s a party. Zeke was real clear on that. Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll see you there.” I stood.
Her face got hard. “When you find out who killed Zeke, you call me. You hear me?”
“Of course.” I showed myself out.
SIXTEEN
I’d street parked half a block up on State. If April left by car, she’d exit the garage that occupied the first floor of her condo building on State Street. But if she left on foot, she’d most likely come through the Queen Street door I’d come in. Of course, she might not leave at all. But if she did, I wanted to see where she went. Something had her on high alert. As careful as she was being, she couldn’t be as sure as she claimed that Zeke’s death had nothing to do with their past. I didn’t buy it.
There was no place I could park and monitor both doors. I went back to my car and opened the back. Keeping an eye on the garage door, I pulled a baseball cap from a plastic crate. I twisted my hair into a knot and tucked it underneath the cap. Then I swapped my Wayfarers for my largest pair of sunglasses and slipped a lightweight sweater on over my sleeveless top. My appearance altered as much as possible, I climbed into the passenger seat to wait.
I pulled out my iPad and propped it on the steering wheel so I could see it and still keep watch on the oversized metal garage door from the corner of my eye. This wasn’t the best practice for stakeouts, and I typically didn’t divide my attention like that. It was always better to stay fully focused on the subject of your surveillance. But I needed to know what April drove.
I did a quick search in one of our subscription databases and found a silver 2014 Mazda MX-5 Miata registered to April L
ynne Fox. Movement caught my attention. The garage door slid up. Moments later, a white Mercedes rolled out and turned left on State Street. I reached for a bottle of water in a small cooler on the front passenger seat.
Then I got antsy. What if she’d already come out the front door and taken off on foot? Maybe I’d just peek down Queen Street. I got out of the car and crossed State. I stayed close to the blue-grey house on the corner, peered down Queen Street, and checked pedestrian traffic as far as I could see. No sign of April.
I had taken one step towards the car, thinking how this could take a while, or it could be a dead-end, when the brown metal garage door rolled open. A silver MX-5 darted out and went left.
Sonavabitch.
I scooted for the car as quickly as I could without attracting undue attention. If she saw me tearing after her in the rearview mirror, she’d know she had a tail.
I climbed in, started the Escape, and eased into the traffic lane. The Miata was already sitting at the corner of State and Broad, but that was okay. I had to give April plenty of room. She was more experienced at spotting surveillance than most of the people I’d followed. She turned right on Broad. A red and white Chevrolet pickup rolled up behind her, too close for me to turn in front of it. Having a vehicle between us might be best in any case. I pulled in behind the truck.
Broad Street traffic was relatively light that morning. April passed through the intersection at Church, and I narrowly made the light. She pulled up at Meeting and Broad. The truck between us had to be twenty years old, and the back was filled to overflowing with lawn equipment. The truck’s exhaust fumes were noxious.
The light changed and April hit the gas. The pickup in front of me rolled forward, inching up to five miles an hour. Breathe in. Breathe out. Good grief, was the truck burning? I coughed, tried to see around it.
April had already cleared King Street, and I was still in front of the court house.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I pulled on the steering wheel and willed the truck out of my way.
Gradually, we creeped up to the light at Broad and King. It was yellow. The truck stopped. I stayed back as far as I could. It was easier to see around the truck and easier to breathe from a distance.
I leaned left and right, trying to see around the Chevrolet. I’d lost sight of April’s Miata. After an eternity, the light changed, and the truck meandered forward. Nothing was coming in the opposite direction. I glanced around. No police cars in sight.
I swerved around the truck, waving to the driver as I passed. As soon as I cleared his bumper, I slid in front of it. Where was April?
I barreled past Legare and ran through a light that was turning red at Logan. No sign of the silver MX-5. Shit. Had she turned off?
When I made the right turn, where Broad becomes Lockwood, I sped up, zipped along the Ashley River. Still no April. Where had she been headed? I simply had no idea. I followed Lockwood past the Marina. Just as I was about to pass under the James Island Expressway, I caught a glint of silver from above. It was just a flash—could’ve been sunlight reflecting off any car. I took the ramp, accelerated.
Across the Ashley River, I caught sight of the Miata just as it moved out of sight off exit 1. She was headed out Highway 61. I took the exit, but backed off the accelerator. We settled in for a scenic drive up Ashley River Road. Having lost her once, I kept April in front of me, giving her as much room as I could. Thirty minutes after we’d left downtown Charleston, she turned right and drove through the gate at Middleton Place Plantation. Surely she wasn’t playing the tourist this morning.
I followed her underneath towering live oaks to the unpaved parking area. Middleton Place was popular that morning. April pulled in between a tree and a Taurus. I looped around and found a spot one row over. April climbed out of the Miata, scanned the area slowly as she rummaged in her purse, then set out towards the ticket booth.
I waited until she’d purchased her ticket and walked off towards the reflecting pond, then stood in line and bought a ticket for the self-guided garden and stableyards tour. I’d taken that tour several times, and it was gorgeous.
Middleton Place was a former rice plantation. Union troops had lit a fire to the original residential complex of a main house plus two flankers in early 1865, shortly before the end of the civil war. Williams Middleton had, after all, signed the Ordinance of Secession.
Only one of the flankers was rebuilt, and it served as the house museum on property. But the real charm of Middleton Place was the gardens—they were a national landmark, the oldest landscaped gardens in the country.
Designed by Henry Middleton in 1741 following the same principles used at Versailles, the gardens at Middleton Place reflected a grand classic style found in European gardens of the time. They were manicured, with walkways bordered by trees and shrubs that created outdoor rooms and secret passages. A riot of color when the azaleas bloomed, the gardens were designed so that something was always flowering. They had captivated my imagination as a child and held it still today as I pursued a former CIA agent. I took the path April had struck out on.
When I reached the reflecting pond, April turned off the path on the opposite side. She disappeared beyond a row of trees. As quickly as I could without causing a scene, I hustled down the walkway and followed.
When I stepped beyond the line of trees, I was in a verdant hall formed by a variety of trees and shrubs on both sides. April was nowhere to be seen. I hurried along the lane and made a right. Had I not been familiar with the garden layout, I might have wandered along its footpaths for days and not found April. As it was, I followed the path I was on to the next intersection and made a left.
The gardens were laid out geometrically, and the centermost section where I now stood was comprised of six large rectangles of grass, bordered by paths, trees, and shrubs. I stepped to my right. The four rectangles closest to the river had a large circle, cut into wedges like a pie made up of beds. Footpaths crisscrossed the circle. I had a clear view of this part of the garden. No April.
I moved to my left and scanned the gardens surrounding the remaining two rectangles of grass in that section. April was not among the pairs and groups strolling around the edges.
I moved back along the corridor between the trees and shrubs and proceeded towards the Middleton family tomb. Surrounded by trees, it was tucked away in an outdoor room in a corner near the Octagonal Sunken Garden. I turned off before I reached the tomb and circled behind it. I knew there was a bench near the tomb. If I were meeting someone for a private chat, I might meet them there. That is, if I were in need of inordinate secrecy.
I moved slowly along the path behind the tomb. No one in the area around the tomb could see me, nor I them. But I was hoping I could hear them.
I stood quietly admiring the octagonal garden and the view beyond to the river. Live oaks dripped with Spanish moss. The breeze smelled of magnolias. After a moment, through the stand of trees behind me, I heard a familiar voice.
“I ’preciate you coming on such short notice,” said April.
“Of course. I hope everything is all right.” A man’s voice. European accent, one I couldn’t place.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Europeans. CIA agents. This was getting out of hand fast.
“Zeke is dead.” April’s voice broke.
“What? When did this happen?”
“Don’t pretend you’re all sad about it. We both know that’s a lie.”
“I never wished him harm. Well, not in recent years in any event. Tell me what happened.”
“He was poisoned.”
“Cyanide?”
“Strychnine they think,” said April. “But that’s not official.”
“Strychnine. That is very odd.”
“What I thought too. I wanted to be sure you had nothing to do with this.”
“My dear, I assure you. I had no reason to harm him anymore. You know t
his.”
“Don’t touch me, dammit.”
“I apologize. I only meant to offer comfort.”
“Is there anyone new in the office?”
“Not recently. I cannot believe Zeke’s unfortunate death has anything to do with our work here.”
“Well, keep your ear to the ground. Send me a message if you hear anything that might be connected, okay?”
“Of course. And if you change your mind about dinner, likewise, you must send me a message.”
“Dammit, Sergei. Stop that shit right now.”
“Of course, my dear. Again, I apologize.”
The voices fell silent. Sergei? I moved towards the tomb. I wanted to get a look at Sergei.
When I reached the bench, a tall man was on the path moving towards the reflection pond. I followed him. He was slim with broad shoulders and dark hair. He wore khaki pants and a long-sleeved button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was alone. That had to be Sergei. I trailed him back to the parking area.
April’s Miata rolled out of the lot and turned down the dirt lane. Sergei climbed inside a black BMW. I followed him all the way back down Ashley River Road. He took Sam Rittenberg, then hopped on I-26 and got off on Meeting Street. A few blocks down, he turned left onto Cool Blow by Meeting Street Academy. He pulled to the curb and went inside a modern three-story concrete and glass office building. I drove almost to the end of the block and walked back to the door he’d gone inside.
The sign on the building listed the occupants. My breath caught.
The Georgian Honorary Consulate was in Suite 322.
SEVENTEEN
On the way back to Stella Maris, I focused on my breathing. In. Out. I needed to think about something normal for a while. I’d talked Mamma out of her last ripe June Pink, so I went home for a late lunch. There’s just nothing better than a homegrown heirloom tomato sandwich. I sliced the tomato thick, salt and peppered it, and let it sit while I made a fresh pitcher of tea.
Nate was spending the day surreptitiously scouting the island for anything with strychnine in it. He’d left early, in old clothes, and I was grateful I wasn’t the one who’d be poking through sheds and garages. What could I make him for dinner?
Lowcountry Bonfire Page 13
