Lowcountry Bonfire

by Susan M. Boyer

  Most of the year, I eat only whole grain bread. But you need the cheap white stuff that’s bad for you to make a decent tomato sandwich. I coated two slices thick with Duke’s mayonnaise and layered on the June Pinks. Then I took my concoction and a glass of tea to the deck and ate it standing over the rail while I sucked in great lungfuls of salt air and thought about what April had said. And about Sergei.

  I believed that Zeke and April had been CIA agents. On the one hand, her hunch that Zeke’s murder didn’t look like some sort of spy thing matched my own. But on the other hand, it was hard to ignore something as significant as your murder victim being an ex-spy. How could it not be connected?

  I sincerely wanted this to be a normal case—something we had experience dealing with, your everyday lunacy. I was too far out of my element with Georgians named Sergei. Who knew there was a Georgian consulate in Charleston? What on earth did they do there? I needed to mull the next steps to take down that investigative path.

  And in truth, I did have several other possibilities in mind. I decided to focus on those for the moment. It felt like the sane choice. I washed my hands and went to my office to spend some quality time with the case board.

  Thus far, my possibilities and suspects list was slim. Tammy Sue, Crystal, Coy, Price, “Someone From Zeke’s Past,” and “Someone Smitten With Tammy Sue.” Under the heading of “Someone From Zeke’s Past,” I wrote Sergei.

  Then I pondered my conversation with Spencer from the day before and what Tammy had told me. I erased “Someone Smitten With Tammy Sue” and replaced it with Humphrey Pearson. Unenthusiastically, but to be thorough, I added Spencer Simmons to the persons of interest row.

  The bonfire at Skip and Margie Robinson’s tickled my brain. It kept coming up. The trouble between Zeke and Tammy had started then, with Crystal. How would things be different for them if they’d never gone to that party? With the exception of Price Elliott and now Sergei, everyone on my case board had been at that bonfire. Should I add Skip and Margie to the case board? What about Pete and Brenda Carter? They’d been there too. Who else? Connie Hicks. Winter. I was reaching. But I did need to talk to all of them.

  Surely someone had taken pictures. I moved to the desk, opened a browser window, and logged on to Facebook. Folks would be squeamish if they knew how often private investigators and even law enforcement employed social media. It came in handy.

  I’d already scanned Tammy Sue’s photos. I pulled up Margie Robinson’s page and clicked on the photos tab. Margie clearly wasn’t one of those who posted every day. I didn’t have to scroll back far to find shots with a bonfire, Adirondack chairs, and tiki torches.

  A shot of Tammy Sue with a plate full of chicken, shrimp, corn, beans, and slaw caught my eye. She was smiling, toasting the camera with a wineglass. Candid shots of everyone at the party except Zeke with piled high plates and either wine or a beer followed. It looked like a fun time.

  As the light grew dimmer, the shots with food gave way to pictures of people relaxing in the chairs by the fire. Coy and Skip tossed a football back and forth. Pete and Brenda threw corn hole bags with Zeke and Tammy Sue.

  Photos taken still later in the evening showed everyone around the fire. Even Zeke. Had he known someone took this photo? He wasn’t tagged, no one was. He grinned wide. My heart ached for the happy soul whose life had been stolen from him.

  Margie’s photos jumped to a series taken around the marina. I searched for Brenda’s page. Her first name was unusual. Tyne, like the actress, Tyne Daly. I’d never heard Brenda use the name.

  Brenda hadn’t posted photos from the bonfire. Most of her Facebook posts were of her and Pete’s two sons. They both looked like her: tall, slim, and fair. In the few photos she’d posted of herself, she looked as if she wore no makeup. Some women would envy Brenda Carter. I moved on to Winter’s photos.

  Here were more shots of everyone with food, then playing games, then later around the fire. They were all smiling, laughing. There was a picture of Coy leaning down to pick something up in the sand near the fire. What was that? A green wine bottle. A few photos later, there was Zeke, in another untagged photo, bending down apparently to pick up the same bottle. That was odd.

  When I got to the picture of Humphrey bending over the same bottle, I realized no one was picking it up. What in this world? Most of these folks were married. They couldn’t be playing spin the bottle, could they? Surely not. It had to be Truth or Dare. Still unexpected for this group, but better than spin the bottle. That must’ve been some party.

  Winter had photos of everyone except herself spinning that wine bottle. I was now more curious than ever about the Robinsons’ bonfire. I closed Facebook and remembered something from my conversation with April. She’d made a joke about her and Zeke being like the movie, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” where Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had starred as married spies. That had reminded me of the email on Zeke’s phone. With the information that Zeke had been a CIA agent, I saw that draft in a new light. Had he been using the draft folder of an email account to communicate with someone without having to send the email? I’d heard of people doing that. Two or more people logged into the same account.

  Thankfully, I hadn’t dropped the phone off at the police station yet. I unlocked my desk drawer, pulled out the evidence bag, and slipped out the phone. I typed in the passcode and opened the email application, then tapped on the drafts folder.

  There were now two drafts, the one I’d seen the day before from “Mr. Jones” to “Mr. Smith,” and another, dated today.

  Mr. Jones,

  The governor requests the honor of your presence at his home this morning at eleven.

  Ms. Smith

  Of course. This was how April had set up a meeting with Sergei. He must be Mr. Jones. The governor was a reference to Henry Middleton, one of the people buried in the Middleton tomb in the gardens. He’d been the governor of South Carolina for a while back in the early 1800s. Henry Middleton was also a minister to Russia—for far longer than he was the governor of South Carolina. I pondered for a moment how Russia was right next door to Georgia, and Georgia was a former Soviet republic.

  The original email from Mr. Jones…Had that been Sergei letting Zeke and April know he was moving to Charleston? Why had he addressed it only to Zeke? He’d said he harbored no ill will. Had there been bad blood between Zeke and Sergei? Clearly there must have been if April had needed to verify that Sergei’s hands were clean in the matter of Zeke’s death. But why would she trust what he said? I needed to talk to April again.

  But…why would Sergei have poisoned Zeke and moved his body to the trunk of his classic car? Why would anyone? That felt especially wrong for a professional spy. I shook my head to clear out the Russians and returned Zeke’s phone to my desk drawer.

  My thoughts skipped back to my conversation in the car at the bank parking lot with Tammy Sue. Harold Yates bugged me too. Not because I saw a connection to Zeke’s death. Harold had been dead for three years and he had no family. But because he was a lonely soul who lived in the shadows of our happy town, and only Zeke had thought to care for him. Who else was invisible?

  I spoke to myself sternly and refocused on the case board. Profiles. I needed profiles for Humphrey and Spencer, people I’d known my entire life. I suffered a profound lack of enthusiasm for either as a suspect, but I needed to make sure all the bases were covered. Often the person I least suspected surprised me.

  For the next hour, I dutifully documented what I knew about Humphrey and Spencer and came up with no red flags. Then I checked my email, retrieved the link Coy had sent me, and sifted through more pictures of birds and alligators than I’d seen in a while. If Coy had in fact taken pictures of people, he’d left those out of the cloud folder. If more evidence later pointed to him, Blake would have to get a warrant to explore Coy’s computer further.

  Nate’s ringtone, a rift of blues, sang from
my phone.

  “Hey, handsome,” I answered.

  “I found the strychnine.”

  I came halfway out of my chair. “Where?”

  “In the Elliotts’ garage. Gopher bait. I called in an anonymous tip to Blake. He’s getting a search warrant.”

  I bit my lip. “Oh, no. This is going to kill Charlie Jacobs.” Somewhere, in a corner of my mind, I acknowledged relief that this pointed away from the Sergei angle.

  “The former police chief? Blake’s predecessor? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Price Elliott is his grandson. Glenda Elliott is his daughter. Are you still at the Elliotts’ house?”

  “No. I’m at The Cracked Pot grabbing lunch.”

  “Price is out of work for the moment. Wasn’t he at home?”

  “His Subaru was there, as was Glenda’s car.”

  “How did you manage to get in and out of their garage in broad daylight without them seeing you?”

  “They left the walk-through door unlocked.”

  “Most people here do—it’s a small town. We’re fairly isolated.” My voice sounded defensive to my own ears.

  “I know, I know. I had a pretext ready in case I got caught. They have a pet door, just like the one we have for Rhett. I figured if they came downstairs, I’d say I saw a raccoon run in through it and gave chase to be neighborly. It being broad daylight and all, that critter would very likely be rabid. Fortunately, they never knew I was there.”

  “I’m going to talk to Price again before Blake gets there with a warrant. Before Price knows we know.”

  “Be careful, Slugger. He’s young and clearly hot-headed. Probably impulsive.”

  I scrunched up my face. “It just doesn’t fit very well, does it? He may be impulsive, but whoever killed Zeke took the time to plan it out. He or she waited. They used gopher bait.”

  “Hmm. Maybe ask Grant and Glenda how they came by that gopher bait. Price likely found it in the garage and used it because it was there. That’s my guess, anyhow. It was an instrument of opportunity.”

  “Price would’ve had his own cap.”

  “Come again?”

  “The cap. Price wouldn’t’ve needed to wear Zeke’s. If he was the one Daddy saw in Zeke’s truck Monday afternoon, he could’ve worn his own cap. But come to think of it, he wasn’t wearing one Tuesday morning at the shop.”

  “Zeke’s cap could be anywhere. Could’ve come off while his body was being moved, or he might’ve taken it off earlier.”

  “True. I’m headed out.”

  “Should I meet you there?”

  “No, I’ve got this. If we both show up he’ll know something’s up right off.”

  “As you wish. Hey, I made reservations for us tonight at 82 Queen.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow night is Zeke’s memorial. That leaves tonight for date night.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” And it did. I loved 82 Queen, and date night was one of the rituals we kept for us. But I hadn’t slept well the night before, and it had been a long day already. I still hadn’t told Nate about Sergei.

  EIGHTEEN

  Grant and Glenda Elliott lived in Sea Farm, a golf course neighborhood that occupied most of what used to be Pearson family land. The Elliott home was a green stucco affair. It sat, like many homes on our island, on top of oversized double garages. The wide driveway and parking area took up a swath of the front yard. A double staircase led from either side to a wider set of steps that ascended to the front porch. I started a voice memo, climbed the steps, and rang the bell.

  Glenda answered the door. In her early forties, she sported a short brown bob and a black Under Armour warmup suit. Immediately, I felt bad for her. Things were about to go sideways for her family.

  “Hey, Glenda. How’re you? I’m sorry to intrude on your afternoon, but could I have a word with Price?”

  She seemed startled. “Price? Why do you want to speak with Price?” She held onto the door, keeping it open no more than civility absolutely required.

  “You heard about Zeke, I guess.”

  “Of course. That’s the reason Price is home today.” Her look held me accountable for Zeke’s shop being closed.

  “Nate and I are investigating. I just need to ask Price a few questions. He could really help our case. He was the last person to see Zeke before someone killed him.” I felt so guilty for playing her it made me sick to my stomach.

  Apprehension was writ large across her face. She hesitated, then stepped back and opened the door wide enough to let me in. “I’ll get him. Have a seat in the family room.” She closed the door and headed upstairs.

  The foyer and the great room were vaulted. I watched as Glenda walked across the second floor balcony that must’ve connected the two upstairs bedrooms. The Elliotts also had a daughter. I settled into an overstuffed tropical print sofa.

  Moments later, Glenda came back downstairs, followed by Price. He had the look about him of one who’d only recently woken up, or perhaps had been closeted in the dark with a video game. Barefoot with baggy athletic shorts, a tank, and an open hoodie, he looked like a kid. And something white was taped to the side of his face.

  “I’ll just check on the laundry.” Glenda moved towards the kitchen. The openness of the floor plan meant she would no doubt be able to hear everything we said.

  “You wanted to see me?” Price remained standing. The James Dean snarl seemed at home on his face. But whatever it was he had taped to his jaw took some of the edge off. What in the name of common sense was that? It wasn’t a Band-Aid. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the hoodie.

  “Would you sit with me?” I asked.

  “Whatever.” He rolled his eyes elaborately and sat on the sofa across from me.

  “The logoed caps for Lyerly Automotive…do you typically wear those to work? I noticed you weren’t wearing one the other morning when I came by the shop.”

  He blew out a short breath. “Yes, I wore the stupid caps. When Zeke was there. It was a thing with him. Damn things messed up my hair.”

  “Did he have a lot of those made up?”

  “Hundreds. He gave them out to anyone who would take them. I have four or five myself.”

  “How nice.” That was unfortunate. “Back to Tuesday morning… you made coffee, right?”

  He gave me a look that suggested I was an idiot. “Yeah. I made coffee. Is that a crime now?”

  “No, of course not.” I smiled. “Did you happen to spill any?”

  “What?” The sneer deepened. He had a chip on his shoulder the size of Mt. Everest.

  “In Zeke’s office. Did you spill anything on the floor?”

  “How is that German?”

  “How is it what?” I squinted at him.

  “German. What’s it got to do with anything?” His face flushed.

  Oh my stars. Germane. He meant germane. I moistened my lips. “Price, I know it doesn’t seem important to you, but it might actually be key to what happened to Zeke. Did you spill anything in Zeke’s office?”

  Again with the eyeroll. “No. I did not spill anything on the floor. I got some coffee on the counter, but I wiped it up.”

  “Was it typical for you to make the coffee, or did you only do it on Tuesday because Zeke wasn’t there?”

  “He usually made the first pot of the day. After that, sometimes it was me, sometimes him.”

  “When Zeke was there did you use the bathroom in his office?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s the only one.”

  “Okay. So you went into Zeke’s office every day then.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you notice anything different than usual on Tuesday, anything missing or out of place?”

  “No.” He slouched, exhaled loudly.

  The thing on his face looked li
ke a big lump held in place by clear shipping tape.

  “It’s fatback.”

  I might’ve been staring at the bandage. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “It’s fatback. It’ll draw a cyst to a head. It’s a natural cure.” He shrugged. “I have a cyst.”

  Sweet reason. “I’ve never heard that.” Laughter welled up, threatened to escape. Surely this could not be our killer.

  He nodded. “Zeke’s the one who told me about it. It’s an old-timey cure. His grandmother knew all kinds of stuff like that. She was like, a medicine woman.”

  Zeke…the ex-CIA agent, class valedictorian, shotgun enthusiast, dispenser of home remedies. I swallowed my giggles.

  “I also wanted to ask you about a coffee mug Zeke liked to use.”

  “That ugly brown thing with the face?”

  “That sounds right.” Tammy had described it as pottery. Perhaps Price didn’t care for pottery.

  “What about it?”

  “Do you recall if Zeke was drinking out of it on Monday?”

  He winced. “Man, I don’t pay attention to that kinda thing. He used it every day. Probably.” His face changed. “Wait. He had it in bay one when he got back from lunch. He made a fresh pot of coffee. I remember thinking he’d made a whole pot and it wouldn’t get drank. I can’t stand it the way he drinks it—way too strong. That time of day, didn’t seem like he’d drink a whole pot by himself.”

  “Do you remember an accident—maybe he dropped something? Did anything happen where the mug might’ve ended up broken?”

  “Nah. I’d remember that too. Tammy gave it to him. He was real particular about it. Did it get broken? I didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

  “It looks like it did.” I waited a minute, gave him time to keep talking if he was of a mind. He wasn’t. “Tell me about the argument you and Zeke had.”