Lowcountry Bonfire

by Susan M. Boyer

  “I’m going to finish looking around downstairs,” said Blake. “Clay Cooper will be up here. This may take a while. I need the keys to your cars, please.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Grant. “I thought this was about the gopher killer.” He handed Blake his keys.

  “We’ll finish as quick as we can,” said Blake.

  Clay walked back through the room with the family shotgun and hunting rifles. He logged them, had Grant sign a receipt, and carried them outside.

  “Grant, Glenda,” I said. “Price…were y’all all home early this morning, between five and six?”

  “Glenda and I didn’t get up until seven thirty,” said Grant. “It’s Saturday. Price slept ’til lunchtime.”

  “Do you have an alarm system?” I asked.

  “No,” said Grant.

  “Was anyone else here?” I asked.

  “Just the three of us,” said Grant.

  “Did anyone else know you bought the gopher bait?” I asked.

  “No,” Grant shook his head. “I haven’t mentioned it to anyone. Have you, Glen?”

  “No,” said Glenda.

  “Has anyone had the occasion to be in your garage, where they might have seen it?” I asked.

  They were quiet for a moment. Finally, Glenda said, “It’s been a while…back towards the first of April, maybe. Brenda and Pete were over for dinner. They left through the garage because it was raining so hard. The door was just a few feet from where they parked. But they’d never…” She looked away.

  “Was the gopher bait in the garage that long ago?” Brenda’s name kept popping up. But it seemed unlikely that Zeke’s high school girlfriend had decided to take revenge for some long ago crime or a recent slight when they’d lived as friends and neighbors for nearly ten years. What motive would she have had?

  “Yeah,” said Grant. “I picked it up middle of March. Three bags. I used one of ’em. Figured I should get plenty while I was getting it.”

  “Anyone else in your garage since then?” I asked. “Price, have any of your friends been down there?”

  He looked sullen, but not worried. If he’d had any inkling someone thought he’d used that poison—if he even knew the gopher killer was poison—to kill someone, surely he’d be nervous. “Nope,” he said.

  Grant said, “Humphrey helped me carry in my new grill table a few weeks back.”

  “Humphrey Pearson?” There was only one Humphrey I knew of on the island. Still.

  Grant nodded. “Yeah, but he…I mean Humphrey wouldn’t…I have no idea what you think we’ve done beyond surreptitiously ordering gopher killer.”

  Damnation. Humphrey. Humphrey with a gun? That was a hard notion to subscribe to. But people had surprised me a time or two. Aside from Price, Humphrey had the closest thing approaching a motive of those who had access to the poison. And he’d lied to me. He had something to hide.

  For the next couple hours, I tried to engage the Elliotts in conversation, which was difficult given the circumstances. Finally, at a few minutes past six, Blake and Clay came back into the family room.

  “Grant, Glenda.” Blake nodded, took a deep breath. “We removed the items you’ve signed for, nothing more. We’ll get them back to you as soon as we can.” He turned to Price. “Keaton Price Elliott, you have the right to remain silent…”

  Glenda gasped. “Blake. What in this world?”

  Grant said, “Now hold on a damn minute.”

  Blake proceeded to read Price his rights.

  For his part, Price finally looked alert, but also confused.

  Blake said, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Zeke Lyerly.”

  Grant and Glenda both jumped to their feet.

  Price went to stuttering—all the cool evaporated right off of him.

  “Price, shut up,” said Grant. “That’s just damned crazy.”

  “I’m calling Daddy,” said Glenda.

  This was going to kill Charlie Jacobs.

  Blake cuffed Price and led him out.

  “Price,” said Grant. “Don’t answer any questions, you hear me, son? Don’t say a word. Not. One. Word. I’m calling Robert Pearson.”

  “Maybe call a different attorney,” I said.

  “What?” Glenda said. “Why?”

  “Robert represents Zeke’s estate, and also Tammy Sue Lyerly. There may be a conflict of interest,” I said.

  “Liz…” Glenda was sobbing now. “You need to keep investigating. Keep looking. I’m telling you, Price could not possibly have killed anyone.”

  Grant said, “Call your Daddy, Glenda. Let’s see what he says about an attorney.”

  I said my goodbyes and showed myself out.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Seven p.m. is magic hour on our island in June. The sun wouldn’t set for another hour and a half, but softening light bathed the foam-topped waves in shades of pink and gold. Humphrey Pearson had a front-row seat to the show every night.

  His wide front porch, rustic shutters, metal roof, and blue front door welcomed me inside. Humphrey wasn’t home, but I accepted the invitation anyway.

  I made quick work of picking the lock, stepped through the door, and closed it behind me. I had no idea where Humphrey was, or when he would be back. As unlikely as it seemed, I had to entertain the notion that he’d shot at me just that morning. I was on edge.

  Humphrey had a crush on Tammy Sue. It seemed common knowledge in their circle of friends. I wouldn’t put it past Zeke to’ve kept Humphrey close so he could keep an eye on his old friend. But had Humphrey decided he was tired of waiting on Tammy? He had access to the poison—Nate had walked right inside the Elliott’s garage. Humphrey knew their schedule. He could’ve helped himself at any time.

  Nate had already searched the shed out back. I focused on the house, looking for any sign of leftover gopher bait, automatic rifles, night vision goggles, or scopes and whatnot.

  The cottage was maybe twelve hundred square feet with an open floor plan. Places to stash things were limited. I started with the master bedroom.

  Like the rest of the house, the ceiling and walls were made of stained wood boards. There was no sheetrock to hide cubbies between studs. I moved to the closet, which was not a walk-in affair, but modest. Humphrey’s aversion to clothes perhaps kept the neat row of Hawaiian shirts and linen pants and shorts sparse. There was no rifle hidden in the back.

  I made short work of the dresser, chest, and nightstand, mindful of being cornered in the back of the house should Humphrey return home. He lived simply. There wasn’t any clutter to conceal contraband. The second bedroom had even fewer opportunities to hide things.

  In the bathroom, Humphrey’s medicine cabinet had aspirin and the usual toiletries. I made my way back to the living area, searching for attic access. There didn’t seem to be any.

  I scanned the great room. It was modest, but homey. Creamy painted trim set off the wood panel walls. A sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table were the only furniture in the living area. Two sets of french doors led to a brick patio with a pool and a variety of lush palms. There were even fewer places to hide things in here.

  I tried the stove, the refrigerator, and two sets of hung cabinets with no luck. But when I opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink, a pint-sized Mason jar caught my eye. I pulled out my iPhone and snapped a photo. The contents looked like large grains. I held it up.

  A key slid into the lock.

  I put the jar back in place, closed the cabinet, and bolted for the french doors.

  When Humphrey opened his front door, I stood on the outside of the french doors on the pool deck. I smiled my sunniest smile and waved real big. “Hey, Humphrey! I thought maybe you were out back. You got a minute?”

  He wore a quizzical look. “Liz. Sure. I thought that was your car.” He crossed to the patio doors in a few l
ong strides. His Hawaiian shirt was a muted green. In linen pants and sandals, he looked like a large Golden Retriever. He seemed harmless. Had he used that image to his advantage?

  Humphrey looked crossways at the door handle. “Thought I locked that.” He swung it open. “What can I do for you this evening?”

  What indeed. “Well, I…ah…I wondered if you could tell me more about Zeke.”

  His expression looked genuinely sad. “What about him?”

  “I wondered, since y’all were friends since—well, all your lives—if you might could help me out with some more background.”

  “Have a seat.” He gestured towards the sofa and sat in a wicker chair. “What did you want to know?”

  What topic would be safest? Get me out the quickest and cleanest? Not set him off? “Do you know if he was really in the Army?”

  Humphrey chuckled. “He was. I don’t know if he was ever a Ranger or not.”

  I gave him my best clueless blonde look. “I’m just trying to figure what he was doing for twenty years, you know, while he lived somewhere else? I’m thinking maybe someone from off came looking for him. Maybe someone who had a grudge from his Army days, you know what I mean?”

  Humphrey nodded, sad-faced. “I wish I could help you there. But whatever he was doing, he never shared that with me.”

  I popped up. “Well, thank you anyway. I’d better be going. I told Blake I was going to pop by here on my way to dinner, but I’m running late.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He stood and followed me to the door. “I hope you figure this whole thing out soon.”

  He seemed truly sincere. But what was that in the Mason jar?

  TWENTY-SIX

  Nate had dinner ready when I got home. Chicken with Champagne Mustard sauce with wild rice and broccoli.

  “This is delicious,” I said. “But how did you get Mamma to clear out, and why are you out of bed?”

  “Slugger, I have a scratch. I’m fine. I thanked your mamma profusely, had a big ol’ piece of her lemon pound cake, and told her it was hard for me to sleep with everyone in the house. She got Tammy and your Daddy out of here PDQ. I took a nap. And then I was bored out of my mind and needed something to do.”

  “Scratches don’t soak shirts and towels with blood,” I said. “It’s more than a scratch.”

  “I’ll be good as new in a few days. Did you tell Blake about the Mason jar under Humphrey’s sink?”

  “I sent him a photo.” I pulled out my phone and showed it to Nate.

  “That looks like the stuff in the Elliott’s garage all right.”

  “Hell fire. I didn’t want it to be Humphrey.”

  “I hope he doesn’t ditch the poison. Is Blake going over there?”

  “He’s asked for a search warrant. Judge Johnson is not going to like this, since he just signed one for Blake to search the Elliott’s place. But surely he’ll do it with such a limited scope.”

  “Surely,” said Nate. “I just hope he does it quickly enough. If he’s smart, Humphrey got rid of that as soon as you were a block away.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t suspect I was inside.”

  Nate gave me a look that said how slim he thought that chance was.

  I stood and picked up our plates. “I’ll clean this up. You go get comfortable on the sofa. You want to look into Humphrey’s background? You’re not as familiar with it as I am—not as prone to overlooking things, maybe.”

  “Sure, I can do that.” He picked up his water glass and headed down the hall.

  I loaded the dishwasher and wiped everything down, then headed into the office. On one end of the green velvet sofa that had been Gram’s favorite piece, Nate stared intently at his laptop. I tucked myself into the other end and put my legs up between us.

  Once more we were in a holding pattern, waiting for a warrant. Since Nate was doing background on Humphrey, I went back over the other profiles, scanning for anything I might’ve missed. Humphrey was a Pearson. His family had been on Stella Maris since before there was a town. Humphrey was a part of the fabric of our community. Before I let Blake arrest him, I wanted to be damn sure I hadn’t overlooked something. I started with Crystal and worked my way through.

  When I got to the Carters, I mulled why they’d married so young. What had caused Zeke and Brenda to break up after so many years of being inseparable? Was it simply that they’d grown up and apart? Had a long-distance romance proven too difficult to maintain?

  “I’d like to have a glass of ice tea and a nice long chat on Rita Newberry’s front porch,” I said.

  “Rita Newberry?”

  “Pete Carter’s aunt.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because she had a front row seat to whatever happened way back between Zeke and Brenda Carter.”

  “You think that’s relevant?”

  I shrugged. “I’d like to be sure it’s not before Blake arrests Humphrey Pearson. Maybe Brenda was looking to rekindle the old flame. She wouldn’t be the only woman on this island to flirt with Zeke. In fact, based just on the Robinsons’ bonfire, she’d be in the minority if she didn’t.”

  “You’re thinking Pete maybe didn’t care for that, I’m guessing.”

  “It’s a possibility I think we have to consider. Zeke’s parents aren’t here for me to talk to. Brenda’s moved to Florida years ago. This case has a lot of layers. I’d like some perspective on some of the history. Rita Newberry could at least help me understand the nuances better.”

  “Ciao.” Colleen appeared, roosted atop a wing back chair across from the sofa.

  “Where have you been?” I asked. “I was worried sick you’d been reassigned. And then you were in the car, on the way to the hospital. I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  Her expression was solemn. “I’m so sorry you were hurt, Nate,” she said. “I would never’ve let that happen if I’d had a choice.”

  “It was my fault,” said Nate. “I didn’t realize we’d gotten close enough to rattle our killer. Clearly we need to be more careful, even on friendly turf, when we’re working a case.”

  “But I thought protecting us was part of your mission,” I said.

  “It is,” she said. “But it isn’t my only mission. Sometimes I have to make difficult choices. Weigh the alternative scenarios.”

  “What could possibly have been more important than keeping Nate from getting shot?” I asked.

  “I had business in Milan,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you say Milan? Like in Italy?”

  “Si.”

  “That’s why you’ve been speaking Italian,” said Nate.

  “Si,” said Colleen.

  “What on God’s green earth do folks in Milan have to do with Stella Maris?” I asked.

  “There’s a young woman there who came here on vacation with her family last year. She fell in love with the island.”

  “Lots of folks do,” I said.

  “Well, this particular young woman is the object of a billionaire’s affection. He wants to marry her. And he’d like to give her a chunk of this island as a wedding present. If he does that, down the road, she’ll get it in a divorce, and her second husband will talk her into developing it.”

  “But who would sell it to this billionaire to begin with?” I asked.

  “Michael Devlin,” said Colleen.

  I caught my breath. “Seriously?”

  Colleen bit her lip. “He might be feeling a little desperate. That’s my fault. I have to control the situation, so the unintended consequences aren’t worse than Michael building more new houses here.”

  “But surely you knew we were getting shot at,” I said.

  She nodded. “I always know when you’re in danger. If you’d been in mortal danger, I would’ve dropped what I was doing, of course. But…”

&nb
sp; “But what?” I asked.

  She swallowed, looked away, then back. “When I protect you, and you’re sure that I will…It makes you overconfident, I’m told, perhaps reckless even. Or it could, if I continue doing it. You’re going to have to be more careful.”

  “It’s not that I expect it,” I said. “It’s just that you said—”

  “It is part of my mission. But maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. I think I screwed up. You’re taking more risks. I’m so sorry Nate got hurt.” Her eyes glistened.

  “Nate’s right,” I said. “It’s not your fault. We’ll be more careful.”

  She shimmered. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  Colleen disappeared.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Italy,” said Nate.

  “You know I have a fondness for Italian wine,” I said. “I hadn’t realized we’d come to count on her as our 911.”

  “I don’t think we have,” said Nate. “But we do need to be more cautious.”

  After a few minutes, we settled back in to work. I returned my attention to the Carters and Nate dove back into Humphrey Pearson’s background.

  I dug for an hour, dotting i’s, crossing t’s, and basically feeling bored with what seemed like irrelevant data. I sat back, closed my eyes for a minute—they were tired. It had been a ridiculously long day. When I opened my eyes, I stared at the report I’d just read.

  “Sweet reason.” Every muscle in my body tensed.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Nate.

  “Pete Carter’s mother died June 22, 1982.”

  “June 22, that’s—”

  “The same day someone killed Zeke,” I said.

  “I don’t care for coincidence.”

  “Me neither.” I started digging into Robin Smith Carter.

  The first thing I came across was a newspaper article. “Car accident,” I said, reading ahead. “Dear Heaven, a drunk driver hit her at three in the afternoon.”

  “That’s a horrible tragedy. Was the driver related to Zeke?”

  “No,” I said. “It was Bridgette Glendawn.”