“Thank you, darlin’.” He nodded, smiled up at her.
Mercedes turned and glided towards the door.
Fraser’s smile widened, eyes all aglow. He watched her until the door closed behind her, shaking his head slowly. “Umm, umm, umm. I am telling you.”
I heaved a sigh and glanced at the ceiling.
“Not a thing wrong with appreciating the Good Lord’s fine craftsmanship, Miz Talbot,” said Fraser. “Even my wife tolerates me looking, just as long as I don’t touch.”
As he flipped through the papers, initialing and signing, he said, “This is a contract for your services, at your standard rate plus twenty percent, plus any expenses. It is an open-ended agreement—not for this case alone.”
“Hold on now,” said Nate.
“We’ve already discussed this,” I said. “Nate and I—”
“Do not wish to join our staff as in-house investigators. You have made that abundantly clear,” said Fraser. “This is not an employment contract. It merely stipulates terms for occasional freelance work, not limited to this case. It allows us to work together on another matter next month, or the month after, without having to execute yet another contract. All of the terms of our initial agreement—terms you set—are incorporated. I trust that is acceptable? There are two originals here.” He handed Nate the documents.
Nate passed one copy to me. We both read every word before signing. Nate gave one copy back to Fraser.
“Miss Oliver lives over on Wentworth,” said Fraser, “in a studio apartment above Mrs. Aida Butler’s garage. Here is the address and Miss Oliver’s cell phone number.” He handed me an index card. “We do have one further piece of information regarding this case, which you are likely not aware of.”
Nate, Colleen, and I all stared at him expectantly.
“Eli?” said Fraser.
Eli said, “There were two calls to 911 regarding the accident resulting in Phillip Drayton’s death. One from the victim’s phone and one from a burner phone.”
I felt my face squinch.
“A burner phone?” said Nate.
Generally speaking, folks who used disposable cell phones had a greater need of privacy than the average citizen. Typically, they were involved in something they needed to hide, sometimes from their spouses, sometimes from law enforcement.
“Poppy Oliver called from the victim’s phone?” I asked.
“I am afraid you’ll have to ask her that question,” said Eli.
“Wait just a minute,” I said. “There are only three ways your client could know that two calls were made to 911—about the burner phone. Either your client was a witness to the incident, an accessory after the fact, or he or she is a member of local law enforcement. And I don’t think the latter is likely. Gentlemen, if your client is a witness or an accessory, they need to talk to the police. We can’t cover up the fact that there is a witness.”
“Now, Miz Talbot, pray do not distress yourself. Eli never said that our client gave us that particular piece of information. Naturally, Eli and I have connections within the Charleston Police Department. We have made preliminary inquiries.”
I glanced at Eli, recalled how he and Sonny were good friends. Maybe that’s how it happened.
“What are we supposed to tell Poppy Oliver?” asked Nate. “Is she to know why we’re investigating this case?”
“She is not,” said Fraser. “You are not to tell her that you were hired on her behalf, nor anything about our agreement, nor even that our firm is involved at all. You should tell her only that you have a client who has retained you to look into the matter and, as is your custom, that client is confidential.”
“We tell Sonny the whole truth,” I said. This was not negotiable.
“I’ve already told him,” said Eli. “We spoke on the phone about an hour ago. I can’t say he’s enthusiastic about having help on the case. He became less forthcoming after I shared that information. However, he does understand that you don’t know who our client is and that we are, obviously, bound by privilege. I don’t think he’ll expect you to divulge our client’s identity.”
That would be helpful. Otherwise, it would be like Sonny to clam up until we told him the client’s name. He would have the same reaction I’d had—the client knows something. Eli had done us a favor.
“Well, let’s get to it then.” Colleen disappeared in a multi-colored spray of sparks.
THREE
It was hot as blue blazes on the sidewalk. We crossed the street and headed up Broad towards The Blind Tiger Pub. I wasn’t hungry after the brunch I’d eaten, but Nate was starving, and a glass of iced tea sounded really good to me. I called Sonny and he agreed to meet us.
The Blind Tiger Pub has changed owners a few times, but it’s been around since 1992. The building itself dates back to 1803. During prohibition, folks would pay an admission fee to see a live tiger—one that didn’t exist—and get free drinks at many a Charleston speakeasy. The current pub name is a hat tip to the historic tradition.
Normally in August we’d opt for a table indoors, but it would be easier to hear each other outside. We followed the hostess through the dark-paneled bar into the brick-walled courtyard. It was open to the sky but divided into multiple rooms by still more brick walls with charming arched entrances from one section to another.
Thankfully, the back-corner table under the shade of a lean-to roof was free. Overhead, a ceiling fan stirred the air. As soon as we were seated at the round wooden four-top, I reached into my purse for a hair clip. I couldn’t think with all that hair on my neck. We ordered iced tea for ourselves and for Sonny, and a cheeseburger and fries for Nate.
When the waitress was a few steps away, I said, “You realize he’s bribing us. Fraser.”
“You mean by paying us twenty percent above our standard rate?”
“Exactly. He’s hoping that will entice us to take the next case he comes to us with, then the next, and the next one after that, until we’re just as good as working for him.”
“It’s still our choice. Right now, the money comes in handy. As usual, there are several valid reasons to be irritated at him. The extra money…that offsets the irritation somewhat in my book.”
“Hmm…an irritation surcharge. That works for me.” The waitress set glasses in front of us and I sipped my tea. “Dang that Colleen. You might know she’d cut out without answering questions.”
I filled Nate in on the scene with Sonny and Poppy at brunch. “I’m reasonably certain Colleen inspired someone to call Rutledge & Radcliffe. Which means she knows who their client is—she’s responsible for this entire arrangement.”
He rolled his lips in and out, seemed to ponder what I said. “There’s a difference between Colleen insisting we work this case and Colleen certifying Poppy’s innocence. You’re saying she’s vouching for her as well?”
“Apparently,” I said. “We have so little to go on here. The way I see it, there are only three possibilities: One, Sonny’s right and Poppy Oliver hit Phillip Drayton with her car and is scared to tell the truth—”
“It just warms the cockles of my heart to hear that you’re willing to consider the possibility that I might be right.” Sonny tucked into the empty chair with a tea glass in front of it.
I raised an eyebrow at him and continued. “Two, someone else accidentally ran into him and left the scene. Poppy came upon Phillip lying in the street and stopped to help. Or, three, someone else hit Phillip Drayton on purpose and fled.”
“I see a fourth possibility,” said Nate. “All this testifying to Poppy’s strong moral fiber notwithstanding, we can’t rule out that she hit Phillip Drayton intentionally, at least not yet.”
“No, we can’t,” said Sonny. “Especially given that she seems overly involved with the private lives of the people on her route. She insists Phillip Drayton abused his wife. Maybe Miss Oliver
thought she was saving the wife somehow, who knows?”
“Seriously?” I said. “Hell’s bells, Sonny. You’re a better judge of character than that. She strikes me as the sort who carefully scoops up spiders from the kitchen floor and finds them a new home outside.”
“You analyzed her character in the, what, three minutes you saw her this morning?” asked Sonny. “I’ve spent a bit more time with her than you have. And yes, I will grant you, she doesn’t seem the homicidal type. But people can fool you. I don’t have to tell you that.”
The waitress arrived with Nate’s cheeseburger. He lifted the top of the bun and generously applied black pepper to the lettuce and tomato. “Eli mentioned there were two calls to 911. Did Poppy make the call from Drayton’s cell? Did you find the burner?”
Sonny stared at the condensation on his tea glass. “It’s just like I told Eli. I don’t understand why, after less than forty-eight hours, somebody feels like we need extra hands on this case. Let me do my job, would you?”
“Sonny Ravenel.” I admonished him with a look borrowed from Mamma. “Did you or did you not advise Poppy Oliver to retain legal counsel this very morning?”
“Well, yeah, but that was just to give her someone to talk to so she’d leave me alone and let me do my job.”
“We’ll talk to her,” I said. “She has legal counsel now. And they have hired investigators, like any attorney with the means would.”
“Nah,” said Sonny. “Eli told me they weren’t going to have any contact with her. They’re not advising her. She needs someone to talk sense to her.”
“And we will—I promise.” I offered him my sunniest smile. “Now, how about this? We’ll talk to her. Get her to stop following you around and all that. And you tell us what you know so we don’t repeat the things you’ve already done.”
Sonny sat back in his chair. “And you’ll give me everything you find?”
Nate and I exchanged a glance.
“You know we can’t,” I said. “Our report will be attorney work-product. It will be privileged.”
“I show you mine and you keep all your toys to yourself.” Sonny huffed out a breath, shook his head. “You know, I’m not sure that argument would hold up in court in this case. There’s been no communication between Poppy Oliver and Rutledge & Radcliffe. Ergo, no privileged communication.”
“I tell you what,” I said. “If and when this case goes to court, we’ll let the solicitor fight that one out with Fraser. Meantime, you know we’ll give you anything we can. Good grief. If it exonerates Poppy Oliver, or points to someone else’s guilt, of course our client will want us to share it. That’s the whole point of hiring us—to make Poppy’s problems go away.”
Sonny closed his eyes, sighed, then opened them. “The calls came roughly three minutes apart. First one was from the victim’s cell, at 9:42. A woman’s voice, extremely agitated—hysterical. Could’ve been Poppy Oliver. The tape is being analyzed. All she said was, ‘A man’s been hit by a car. Lenwood and Murray. Send an ambulance. Hurry. Oh God. Please hurry.’ The words were practically screamed, but muffled. It’s possible she was trying to disguise her voice by holding something over the phone.”
“And the second call?” asked Nate.
“Came from a burner phone,” said Sonny. “Also a woman’s voice. She said, ‘Send help immediately to the intersection of Murray and Lenwood. A man’s been hit by a large white sport utility vehicle.’ The accent and diction indicate it was likely someone from around here. Educated. Could’ve been a neighbor, but why use a burner? It was raining—hard. The streets were flooded. Any other night I’d say it might be a jogger, dog walker, something like that—a tourist out for a stroll even. But not in all that rain.”
“The first caller didn’t describe the vehicle.” Nate looked at Sonny. “That tells me the first caller was likely the person who hit Drayton. The second caller was a witness.”
“That’s the way I read it,” said Sonny.
“You said the first call could’ve been Poppy. But you didn’t say that about the second call,” I said. “Why?”
Sonny grimaced, turned his palms up. “It sounded like an older woman. It was…regal. I made it for a local matron.”
“With a burner phone,” I said.
“Yep,” said Sonny.
“You find either phone?” asked Nate.
“Nope,” said Sonny. “Uniforms scoured the whole tip of the peninsula.”
“What did Poppy say?” I asked. “Did she say she called 911?”
“No,” said Sonny. “Her phone battery was dead. We confirmed that. We searched her car and her person. By the time we arrived, she had no other phone in her possession. She stated that she was searching the victim’s clothing for a phone when we arrived.”
“It seems unlikely to me that she would’ve hit him on purpose, then stopped for any reason. Her actions aren’t consistent with intent. I don’t see scenario four as viable,” I said.
Nate shrugged. “Maybe she’s that smart. What does she drive?”
“Subaru Outback, 2004, white,” said Sonny.
“The color may be right, but I would hardly describe that as a large SUV,” I said.
“Some folks might,” said Sonny. “Plus, did I mention how hard it was raining?”
“Any damage to the Subaru?” Of course, I knew the answer to this question, but I wanted Sonny’s take.
Sonny winced. “Front bumper’s all dented up. Nothing that can be conclusively tied to the accident. Forensics still has the car, but, again, the rain. If there was any trace evidence—fibers, anything—it was washed away.”
“Or Phillip Drayton was hit by another car altogether,” I said.
“It’s possible,” said Sonny.
“What about the wife?” I asked. “Where was she when her husband was killed?”
“Mrs. Drayton—Anne Frances Drayton—was at home at the time of the incident,” said Sonny.
“And how do you know she didn’t do this?” I asked. “Seeing as how she was maybe abused and all? This could’ve been a domestic disturbance that escalated.”
“I know Mrs. Drayton did not plow a car into her husband because when I arrived at her front door at 9:50—just five minutes after the second 911 call—she answered the door dressed in dry pajamas and a robe. She seemed groggy, stated that she’d taken migraine medication and gone to bed at 8:00 p.m. Her hair—nothing—was wet. There was no evidence of water tracked into the home and both cars were in the garage, dry. There were no wet tire tracks. Both engines were cool. No one had driven either vehicle in several hours. I suppose it’s possible she borrowed or rented a car, lured her husband out into a rainstorm, and ran him down. She could’ve then ditched the car, sneaked back inside the house through the backdoor so Poppy Oliver didn’t see her, and changed into her pajamas. But if she somehow managed all that inside five minutes, she’d have been wide awake and out of breath when she answered the door, and there would’ve been a pile of wet clothes somewhere in that house. There was not.”
“How’d you get there so fast?” Nate asked.
I knew what he was thinking. Typically, detectives weren’t dispatched for 911 calls. Only after a patrol unit along with fire and rescue made an assessment would a detective be called in.
“I was on Ladson—few blocks away. Had just finished taking a statement in another case. I had my radio on in the car. Night like that, I figured it could’ve taken longer for first responders to get there. Minutes matter.” He shrugged. “I was the first on the scene, but patrol and EMTs were right behind me.”
“She could’ve hired someone,” I said. “The wife.”
“Maybe,” said Sonny. “But if she paid them, there’s zero evidence of it in any bank account attached to her social security number. No unusual withdrawals. No cash transactions more than two hundred dollars in the last six mon
ths, and only a few of those. Trust me. We’re looking at her hard. She’s the spouse. You know the odds on that. Plus, Drayton’s brother made it clear he’s suspicious of her.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “She inherits all the money.”
“Yep,” said Sonny. “Well, the brother, Daniel Drayton, he’s by no means a pauper. He got his half of Phillip senior’s estate. But he was also his brother’s heir until Phillip junior married five years ago. Their mother passed when they were kids. No other siblings. No children.”
“Where did Mrs. Drayton think her husband was?” I asked. “When did she last see him?”
“She says he was in the den sipping bourbon and watching Breaking Bad when she went to bed,” said Sonny.
“I’m guessing you guys talked to the neighbors,” said Nate.
“Everyone who was home at the time. No one saw anything. No one heard anything until the lights and sirens,” said Sonny.
“The evidence against Poppy seems awfully thin.” I gave Sonny a long, hard look. “What aren’t you telling us? I asked you this morning why you didn’t believe her, and you blew me off.”
Sonny took a sip of iced tea. “Phillip Drayton’s injuries include multiple broken bones and internal injuries, plus a fractured skull. The head injury killed him. All of these injuries are consistent with being hit by a car. But he suffered other injuries within an hour of his death that aren’t explained by a motor vehicle impact.”
Nate and I both squinted at him.
“What other injuries?” I asked.
“Skin marks consistent with a Taser,” said Sonny. “His lungs, eyes, and mucus membranes showed evidence of pepper spray. He had a puncture wound to the forearm. No evidence of any of those weapons in the family home. The wife consented to a search.”
Nate and I processed that for a few moments.
“Did Poppy Oliver have any of those weapons in her possession?” I asked.
“No,” said Sonny. “But whatever happened, it happened across the street from the Ashley River, within an hour of high tide. It would’ve been real convenient if you were trying to get rid of evidence.”
LOWCOUNTRY BOOKSHOP Page 3
