“Is she—”
I nodded. “John Glendawn’s sister. Oh my stars. She’s a recluse. This must be why. She never married. But what does this have to do with Zeke?”
“That’s the Final Jeopardy question,” said Nate.
“Is this just a rabbit hole?” I asked. “What did you find on Humphrey?”
Nate grimaced. “Humphrey has a long arrest record, but it falls into only two categories: civil disobedience and marijuana-related. Some of them are both. But there’s nothing that would make you think he was a killer.”
“I need to walk around,” I said. “I’m going to start the dishwasher. Do you need anything from the kitchen?”
“I need to stretch too.”
We wandered back into the kitchen. Rhett came bounding in from the mudroom to join us. I ruffled his fur and baby-talked him as I opened the cabinet under the sink to get the dishwasher detergent.
“Sonavabitch.” I recoiled.
“Slugger, what’s wrong?” asked Nate.
“Where did that come from? That wasn’t here this morning.”
“What?”
“The Mason jar. Whatever’s in it, it’s the exact same thing I found under Humphrey’s sink.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
At ten o’clock the next morning, Nate and I walked into Blake’s office. He stood, an eager look on his face.
“What did you find?” asked Blake.
We slid into the visitors’ chairs in front of his desk.
“The same exact kind of Mason jar with identical-looking contents is under Tammy Sue’s sink,” I said. “It definitely was not there when we searched the house on Wednesday. And there’s not one under Mamma’s sink.”
Blake reached into his bottom desk drawer and pulled out his baseball glove and an old ball. He tossed the ball towards the ceiling and caught it. Up. Down. “I’ve got Price Elliott and Humphrey Pearson both in holding cells. And I don’t have much more on either of them than I do on you.”
“Did you check under your sink?” asked Nate.
Up. Down. “Yeah. Nothing there.”
“The question is,” I said, “is either Humphrey or Price smart enough to put the bait under my sink and Tammy’s to confuse things? Or is someone else doing that?”
Nate said, “Whoever it is must’ve decided when he couldn’t kill us that he had to neutralize us another way. The best evidence we have on anyone is the gopher bait. If a lot of people have it…”
“We need to know who all has Mason jars under their kitchen sinks,” said Blake. “And there’s no way I’m going to be able to convince Hank Johnson I need that many search warrants.”
“It’s not practical in any case,” I said. “And most people would let us look if we asked.”
Nate shrugged. “Then let’s ask.”
I grimaced. “Well, the innocent folks would let us look. But then we’d likely tip off the person who planted it in the process. What if we just check the people with known connections to the case?”
“But what if there’s someone with a connection you don’t know about?” said Blake.
“Maybe you could put a notice in the Citizen,” I said. “Ask people to check under their sinks. Let them know that if they have a Mason jar of something that’s unfamiliar, it may be a dangerous poison, and they should call you right away.”
Blake nodded. “I’ll do that. Meantime, you and Nate go check everyone with a known connection.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Carters lived in Sea Farm, two blocks over from the Elliotts. The Carter home had the look of a much older home—traditional double porches, white lap siding, mature landscaping. Nate and I climbed the steps to the front porch.
“Nice place,” said Nate.
“Someone has a green thumb.” I admired the container gardens by the front door as I rang the bell.
When no one answered, I rang again. The house seemed quiet, no sounds of anyone coming to the door. We waited five minutes.
“It’s a Monday morning in June,” I said. “They could all four be at the Exxon station.” I figured Pete and Brenda would be at work, but I had anticipated their two teenage boys being home.
“Or,” said Nate, “the teenagers could still be in bed.”
“In which case we might get in and out without them even knowing we’ve been here.” I bit my lip, mulled the situation. “There’s a fifty-fifty chance they have a security system. I don’t see one of those signs that’s supposed to scare off burglars.”
Nate peered in the wide sidelight. “No control panel in the foyer. Let’s walk around back.”
We wended our way between beds mounded high with pine needles. Out back, a large screened porch ran the length of the house. The screen door was unlocked. We stepped inside and peered in the kitchen windows. No sign of life. And no sign of an alarm panel.
“I say we go in,” I said. “If we trip an alarm, the alarm company is going to call Blake. I’ll text him and let him know we’re here.” I pulled out my phone.
“I’m more concerned about the teenagers,” said Nate. “Or what if Brenda isn’t at the Exxon station? She could be at the grocery store, come home any minute.”
“Good point,” I said. “What if you park the car down the block and watch for anyone pulling in the driveway? I’ll go have a look around.”
Nate said, “Or you could be the lookout and I’ll go have a look around.”
“You’re injured. Not in top form for a quick getaway.”
“I have a scratch. But it’ll be quicker if I just give you your way and get on with it.”
I slipped on gloves and went to picking the lock, and Nate headed out front.
The kitchen was more modern than I would’ve expected in this house—all angles, sleek white cabinets, and minimalist decor. I closed the door to the screened porch behind me and scanned again for an alarm panel. If the home had an alarm system, the panel was hidden.
I moved quickly to the kitchen sink. Another Mason jar exactly like all the others. I snapped a picture. Since I was already inside, it would be a waste not to snoop around a little further. Now where would this family keep the guns? I did a quick tour of the downstairs. It was all white on white, with the occasional pop of turquoise, not a gun cabinet in sight.
I returned to the kitchen and checked the broom closet and the pantry. No luck. I headed upstairs. On the second step, I heard a door open upstairs.
Footsteps.
Someone was home and headed towards the stairs.
I tiptoed back down the steps and hightailed it out of there.
We had what we came for.
I climbed into the passenger seat of the Escape. “That was close.”
“Teenagers?” asked Nate.
“I didn’t stick around to find out. Spencer and Winter’s house next?”
“What’s a little breaking and entering between family?”
We found identical Mason jars of gopher bait under Spencer and Winter’s kitchen sink and at Connie Hicks’s cottage on Magnolia. I hadn’t picked that many locks in one morning since I’d been learning how.
The last house on our list was the Robinsons’ waterfront home near the marina. Nate rang the bell and we waited on the wide front porch. The house had an elevated first floor to protect it from flooding. White, with Charleston green shutters and a shiny metal roof, it screamed South Carolina Lowcountry. It was a relief when Margie Robinson answered the door.
“Liz. Nate.” She smiled a welcome. “I heard you’d been shot. I’m happy to see it’s not as serious as the gossip mill reported.”
“Just a scratch,” said Nate.
I punched his arm. “Will you stop saying that?” I turned to Margie. “It scared me to death. We’re very grateful it wasn’t as serious as it looked at first.”
“Please, co
me in.” She stepped back to let us inside. “What brings you by?”
“This is going to sound strange, but could I look under your kitchen sink, please?”
She startled a bit. “If you like. The kitchen is through here.” She led us to the large living area in the center of the house and through a pass-through door to the left. The kitchen called to mind a farmhouse, but the appliances were modern. Margie gestured to the porcelain farmhouse sink. “Help yourself.”
I pulled open the white painted doors. Margie and Nate hovered behind me.
The Mason jar was front and center. I snapped a picture.
“What is that?” Margie asked.
“Poison,” I said. “Leave it where it is for now. When did you last look under your sink?”
Margie thought for a moment. “Saturday morning. That’s the last time I ran the dishwasher. With just me and Skip, I don’t run it every day. That jar wasn’t there then. I have no idea where that came from.”
“Has anyone come over since Saturday morning?” Nate asked.
“Supper club,” said Margie. “We had a progressive picnic. Ordinarily I’d have run the dishwasher three times after that group. But we had one course at each house, and we used paper products. Dessert was here. I made trifle.” Her voice trailed off. She stared at the Mason jar.
“Who all is in your supper club?” I asked.
“Glenda and Grant Elliott. Winter and Spencer Simmons. Brenda and Pete Carter. Rita and Boone Newberry. And Lauren and Warren Harper.”
I looked at Nate. “No one else has come by?”
“Not that I can think of, no,” said Margie.
“Humphrey didn’t come by for any reason?” I asked.
“Humphrey?” Margie shook her head. “No.”
“Does Coy have access to your house?” Nate asked.
“He has a key for emergencies,” said Margie. “Sometimes if we’re out of town, he’ll let a repairman in or something.”
I closed the doors to the cabinet. “We should check Coy’s kitchen as well.”
She let us outside, and up the steps to Coy’s apartment over the garage. There was a Mason jar under his sink too.
“What’s going on?” Margie asked.
“We’re trying to figure that out,” I said. “Just don’t touch those jars or what’s inside. Even a small amount is deadly poison.”
We followed her back to her kitchen.
“I’m going to make a pot of coffee, y’all want some?” she asked.
“Sounds good, thanks,” I said.
“Y’all sit down.” She gestured to the painted yellow kitchen table.
Nate and I slid into chairs.
“This is crazy,” said Margie. “Who would sneak something under my kitchen sink? And Coy’s too?”
Just then I was thinking how everyone who had been at the bonfire had poison under their sink. The party guests, plus Nate and me. Price Elliott had the original supply in his garage, but no Mason jar under the sink. How sure was I that Margie and Skip were innocent? Should we drink the coffee Margie was brewing?
“You know what?” I said. “I slap lost track of time. Nate, we need to get back and brief Blake. He’s expecting us.”
TWENTY-NINE
We climbed into the Explorer.
“What was that all about?” asked Nate.
“I’m just rattled,” I said. “Let’s go home and kick this around.”
“As you wish.” Nate started the car.
“Wait.”
Nate looked at me expectantly.
“Let’s see if the Newberrys are at home.” Margie mentioning Pete Carter’s aunt and uncle reminded me that I had questions for Rita.
“You want to drop by and ask if she’ll sit on the porch and sip tea with you? Have you ever met this woman?”
“Well, no, actually. But Pete and Brenda had access to the poison. One of them could’ve planted it at the Robinsons’ and Spencer and Winter’s house during the progressive dinner.”
“But when did they—or anyone—plant it at our house? Whoever put those decoy jars under people’s sinks had to have access to our house too. And Tammy Sue’s and Humphrey’s and the Carters’ if it wasn’t one of them. But several of those folks had reasonable access to all the houses. The key is, who had access to ours?”
“Anyone.” I sighed. “I didn’t set the alarm when we went running Saturday morning. I just forgot. I was distracted. And then we went straight to the hospital, and we were gone until dinnertime.”
Nate’s forehead creased. “What time did your parents arrive with Tammy?”
“Around three.”
“So our culprit probably put the Mason jar under our sink first, before three o’clock. He could’ve gone by Tammy Sue’s anytime. Humphrey’s house…he’d just have to catch him on the beach. All the other houses were part of the progressive picnic thing.”
“Right. Back to the Newberrys…”
“You’re going to have your way here, aren’t you, Slugger?”
“I’m afraid so. The thing with the date of Pete Carter’s mamma’s death is a huge red flag to me.”
“But what does that have to do with Zeke and Brenda’s history, and a possible jealousy motive?”
“Maybe nothing. I just feel like we need to know more about Pete than I can find in databases.”
“Where do they live?” Nate asked.
I pulled up the town directory. “On Magnolia. Three doors down from Merry’s house.”
“Do you want to call ahead?” Nate asked.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dream of dropping in on folks that weren’t family unannounced. But this was far from an ordinary situation. “No,” I said. “Let’s act like we’re checking under their sink. They’ll see that in the paper tomorrow. Let’s talk our way in and see where it goes.”
Nate closed his eyes for a moment, gave his head a little shake, then started the car.
“Thank you for humoring me,” I said.
“At least we have a pretext handy,” he said. “It’s not like we have to pull out Tommy and Suzanne.”
“I miss them,” I said. “We haven’t played them in a while.” Tommy and Suzanne were personalities we sometimes used when it was necessary to con our way into places.
The Newberrys lived in a red brick ranch that was probably built in the 1960s. The yard was well kept, the beds full of dahlias, gladiolus, and canna lilies.
“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Newberry,” I said when they opened the door. “Y’all may not remember me. I’m Liz Talbot. This is my husband, Nate.” I offered them a bright smile. In truth, as I’d told Nate, we’d never met. But Stella Maris was a small town. They knew my people.
“Of course, dear.” Rita Newberry wore a warmup suit and tennis shoes. “Boone, you remember Liz. She’s Frank and Carolyn Talbot’s middle child. Merry’s older sister.”
“Hmm.” Boone Newberry didn’t look too sure about that.
“What can we do for you?” asked Rita.
Nate said, “We’re helping Blake out by checking homes on the island for a toxic substance that’s been discovered in several houses.”
That was true, and just vague enough. I nodded sincerely.
“Oh my,” said Rita. “It isn’t mold, is it? We’ve heard horror stories.”
“Is it the mold?” Boone squinted.
“No,” I said. “Not mold. And there’s probably nothing at all to worry about. Could we check under your kitchen sink?”
“Sounds like mold to me,” said Boone.
“No, sir,” said Nate. “This was sold as a pesticide, but some of it has been found not properly labeled.”
I shot Nate a glance. He was so good at this. Again, truth, but no troublesome details.
“Oh, all right then.” Boone stepped back, opened the door so we
could come in.
“Right this way.” Rita turned and headed through the family room. She led us into a homey kitchen that had last been updated perhaps twenty years ago. The cabinet doors were painted white, the wallpaper a cheery pink floral. She stopped to one side of the sink.
Rita and Boone hovered as I opened the doors under the sink. No Mason jar.
“All clear.” And good to know that our pattern was still holding. No one aside from the people who’d attended the bonfire—except for Nate and me—had surreptitious poison under the sink. “That’s a relief. My goodness, this has been a long day.” I leaned against the counter, closed my eyes, my hand to my temple.
“Come sit a spell,” said Rita.
I felt bad for conning her. She was a sweet lady. “You’re so kind. Perhaps just for a moment.”
“I’ll get us some iced tea. You go on in the den.”
“Oh, no thank—”
“Go on now.” Rita’s tone was a lot like the one Mamma used to get us to mind.
Nate raised an eyebrow at me. We moved to the den and took seats on the sofa.
“What were you looking for again?” Boone sat in the recliner and put out the foot rest.
“A pesticide,” I said. “You have a lovely home. Merry is always talking about your beautiful magnolia out front. How old is that tree?”
“It was planted when the house was built in 1965,” said Boone. “We bought the place in 1974, the year before our Rachel was born.”
“Does Rachel still live in town?” I asked.
“My, no.” Rita set a tray on the coffee table and served us each a glass of iced tea. “She’s been in Atlanta since she graduated high school. She loves the city. Me, I can’t abide it. It’s too loud.”
Nate said, “Is she your only child?”
“Yes,” said Rita. “But our nephew lived with us from the time he was ten. You know Pete Carter? Owns the Exxon station.”
“Right,” I said. “We know Pete.”
“That’s right.” A cloud crossed Rita’s face. “Pete was my sister Robin’s boy. Robin died in a car accident.”
Lowcountry Bonfire Page 20
