LOWCOUNTRY BOOKSHOP

by Susan M. Boyer

  Poppy cleared her throat.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m just running through the list of neighbors, trying to get a feel for folks.” I gave her a reassuring smile.

  She shrugged. “There’s not much I can tell you about Mrs. Hathaway to be honest. I know her to speak to her. That’s about it.”

  I squinted, recalled again how Tess Hathaway had referred to her as “our Poppy.” “When you say you know her to speak to her, do you mean you say ‘hello,’ or wave at her if you see her, or do you know the names of her pets?”

  “Zelda.” Poppy smiled. “Mrs. Hathaway has a mixed breed. Zelda looks like a Goldendoodle, but she’s a shelter pet. Mrs. Hathaway says she’s not sure what all is in there. Zelda’s a sweetheart. She loves baby carrots.”

  Carrots. Zelda and the goats. I was going to have to start carrying raw carrots in case I needed to sweet talk an animal. “So you do know her? Mrs. Hathaway, I mean.”

  “Sure, I know her. Just not as well as some of the folks on my route, I guess. I’m not sure what you want to know.” Poppy’s forehead creased.

  “That’s it for now,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “You have my cell phone number, right?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry again to have bothered you.” I understood she was curious why I hadn’t just called to ask her that question. But non-verbal communication was key in my business. I didn’t want to just hear the answer to a question. Whenever possible, I needed to see how people reacted. Poppy knew Mrs. Hathaway well enough.

  “No worries.” Poppy climbed in her truck. “Call me if you have any more questions.”

  “Sure thing.” I smiled and waved.

  Poppy was loyal, and she took her job responsibilities seriously. I liked her more each time I spoke with her.

  It was nearly ten o’clock. Surveilling Tess Hathaway was next on my to-do list. She might be at home, but then again, she might have gone out for the morning. I decided to drop by Zelda’s Fine Resale on King Street to check it out. It was doubtful that Tess would be there. She very likely had staff to run the store. But I might learn something useful there. I parked in a metered spot half a block away.

  It was a few doors up from the Society Street intersection, just past Anne’s. The three-story brick and masonry building featured large storefront windows. I could only imagine what the rent must be. Bells chimed as I pushed open the door.

  “Good morning,” Tess Hathaway herself called from behind the cash wrap desk. “Welcome to Zelda’s.”

  “Good morning.” I returned her smile.

  “Everything is ten percent off today.” Her voice was polished. Something about her called to mind the current queen of England, but she was quite a bit younger. “Let me know if I can help you find something.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll just browse.”

  “Very well then.” She turned back to a conversation in progress with a black woman in nurse’s scrubs.

  The sales floor was well organized and attractively laid out. Wide swaths of gleaming hardwood floors were visible between the racks. Someone who knew ladies’ retail apparel had designed the floor set. Four women browsed in different sections of the store. I skimmed through dresses. They had some cute things from top designers and the prices weren’t bad. But I wasn’t there to shop.

  I worked my way towards the register, pretending to check out the merchandise. When I got close enough to overhear Tess’s conversation, I picked a blouse from the rack and examined its seams.

  “Don’t you worry yourself one little bit about it. I’ll take care of it.” The nurse had a gentle voice, sweet.

  “You’re very kind, my dear,” said Tess. “With Jenny ill, I’ll need to be here all day today, probably tomorrow as well. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes,” said the nurse.

  “Please do.” Tess turned to a woman who approached the desk with an armful of clothes. “I’m so happy you found some things that you can use.”

  “Bye now.” The nurse headed towards the door.

  There was nothing to be gained by hanging out in the store all afternoon unless I wanted to confront Tess and ask her if she was my client. I wasn’t ready to do that just yet. I went with my gut and followed the nurse out the door.

  She turned left and walked south on King Street with a purpose. She didn’t window shop or meander. I was glad I had on my walking shoes. She crossed Market Street, then turned left, walking down the right-hand sidewalk. A block later, she crossed Meeting, and continued along South Market, weaving in and out of groups of meandering tourists.

  When she reached the corner of South Market and East Bay, I figured we’d go right or left, where most of the foot traffic was headed. Across East Bay sat the Customs House, and beyond that a massive cruise ship was docked in the Cooper River. We crossed East Bay and headed towards the Carnival Ecstasy.

  Because she’d seen me in the resale shop and I had no opportunity to change my appearance, I hung back, but kept her in sight. I was beginning to think I was tagging along on her daily exercise stroll. Then, she turned right on Concord. My antennae went up. Surely not.

  Bless Pat, if the nurse didn’t walk into Buxton Books. Damnation. I didn’t dare follow her inside. Was this the errand she was running for Tess, or did she simply want a book to read? I passed the door, stopped in front of the window to the left of it, and peeked inside.

  She scooted straight over to the display of The Ghosts of Charleston. I crossed Cumberland, slipped out of my overblouse, and tied the arms around my waist. Then I pulled a clip out of my purse and twisted my hair into a knot. It was the best I could do to look different than I had in the resale shop. I pulled out my tourist map and waited on the corner. Less than five minutes later, the nurse came out of the bookshop empty handed and turned right on Cumberland.

  I stayed on the opposite side of the street and a few steps back. She crossed East Bay and followed Cumberland to Meeting Street, then turned left and walked a block to Queen Street, where she turned right. One block later she crossed King Street, then turned right and headed north. Was she headed back to the resale shop or taking a self-guided walking tour of Charleston?

  Half a block up King Street, directly across from the Charleston Library Society, the nurse abruptly veered left. She was headed through the back entrance to the Unitarian Graveyard. I paused at the wrought iron gate set between brick columns. If you weren’t looking for it, you might miss it, sitting as it did in the midst of Charleston’s busiest shopping district. Slate plaques set into the brick columns announced that the Unitarian Church in Charleston was founded in 1787 and informed visitors that it was one of the oldest Unitarian churches in the United States, and the oldest in the South.

  I passed through the gate and followed the nurse down the shaded path. After a few feet, the slate gave way to a concrete walkway lined with planting beds filled with deep green, glossy-leaved plants that might have been a cousin to hostas. Immediately to my left was a tall brick building, and on the right a garden wall. I hung back. If the nurse spotted me on the path, she might make me for a tourist. She might not glean that I was following her. But whatever she was up to, she might abort it.

  The plants in the beds lining the walk were now a mix of palms, ferns, and shrubs, some flowering, others not. It was a lush haven inside the city. The temperature dropped and the noise from the busy shopping district behind me faded like someone had turned down the volume on the world. I continued down the walk and passed through another iron gate and into the Unitarian graveyard.

  As I walked inside, I was struck with the recognition that I was on hallowed ground. Of course, I knew that—it was a church graveyard. But the knowledge washed over me just the same. This particular graveyard had always fascinated me, not only because it was haunted. It was w
ild and lush, dotted with palm trees, crepe myrtles, and live oaks. Spanish moss dripped low from tree branches to the tops of the gravestones.

  The pathways were maintained, but everything else was God’s secret garden, and only he tended it. Owing to their philosophy that this was the way their dead wanted it, the Unitarians let flowers, vines, and all manner of foliage grow wild over the graves. Even inside the wrought iron gates of family plots, the graveyard was a riot of nature. The air was dense, more humid even than normal for Charleston in August. I caught a whiff of perfume, felt someone brush by me.

  I turned, but no one was there. My skin prickled, from the base of my spine, all the way up to my neck. Owing to my first-hand experience with the departed, perhaps I was more sensitive to their presence. Or perhaps my imagination was in overdrive. Either way, this sacred place was both beautiful and spooky, even in broad daylight.

  I walked a few steps down the brick pathway, then turned right, scanning for the nurse. I couldn’t see her, but the graveyard was so dense with foliage, she could be a few feet away from me. Where had she gone?

  Taking care to step lightly, I followed a dirt path towards the center of the graveyard. A few steps later, I heard voices. I crouched behind a headstone.

  A woman’s voice. She spoke rapid-fire in a language I didn’t understand. Spanish?

  “Now, Sofia, honey, you know I don’t understand a word you say when you talk to me in Spanish.” The sweet-voiced nurse spoke slowly, in a soothing tone.

  “I said, what are we going to do with all of this shit that has hit the fan?” The woman spoke with a Spanish accent, her words heavy with worry.

  “I told you, Tess has everything under control.”

  “How? How can she possibly have this under control?”

  “We just need to trust her and trust God,” said the nurse. “Everything’s going to be all right. We’re doing The Lord’s work. He’s going to look after us, you’ll see.”

  “Jacynthe Grimes. Are you seriously telling me that you think The Good Lord approves of this…this debacle?” She said something else in Spanish under her breath.

  “I grant you this is bad. Real bad. It weighs heavy on my heart too. But the Lord does work in mysterious ways,” said the nurse—Jacynthe. “He will set everything to rights in his own time, in this world or the next. I am at peace with whatever happens. You just settle yourself down. Stop fretting, now, you hear me? Have faith in God’s grace. Stress is so bad for you. It can cause all kinds of health problems, you know.”

  “You are off duty, Nurse Grimes.”

  “I’m just trying to look after you. You can’t do for others if you’re sick yourself,” said Jacynthe.

  “Fine. I will try not to worry. Thank you for coming.”

  “Any time,” said Jacynthe. “Listen, can you stop by the bookshop tomorrow morning? Tess is tied up at the store and I’m working a double shift. I can take Wednesday, I’m the guide for one of the tours. I think we’re going to hear from the Paxton girl soon. She’s ready.”

  “Surely. Am I to take her home with me?”

  “Yes, for the time being. Tess said she’ll have room at Moultrie Street soon.”

  “All right. I’ll take care of it. Bye now.”

  “Bye sweetie,” said Jacynthe.

  I watched for movement through the trees. I had no way of knowing which path the women would take out of the graveyard. Jacynthe would likely go back the way she’d come in. The most likely reason they’d be meeting in a graveyard was that they didn’t want to be seen together. I now knew Jacynthe’s name, what she looked like, that she was a nurse, and that she was a tour guide for some of the tours out of Buxton Books. I wanted to get a look at Sofia. Stealthily, I crept towards the front of the graveyard, which faced Archdale Street.

  As I approached the circular brick walkway at the front of the graveyard, a tall, slender, Latina woman with glossy, tortoise shell brown curls that hung past her shoulders passed through the gate and went left on Archdale. That had to be her. I gave her some space but kept her in sight and followed her down the narrow sidewalk. At Queen Street, she turned left. Less than a block later she crossed the street and went into the parking garage at 93 Queen.

  I hovered underneath a tree between two park benches, tapped the camera icon on my phone, and then pretended to talk on it. A few minutes later, a white Porsche 911 Carrera exited the garage and turned left. It was her. I hoped she had on her sunscreen, because it was August in the Lowcountry and the top to that convertible was down. Damnation. My car was parked all the way back on George Street near King. I snapped a picture of her license plate as she drove away.

  Had Jacynthe gone back to the resale store? For lack of a better idea, and because I had to go past it to get to my car, I headed back there. I walked in the opposite direction from the one the woman in the Carrera had taken, towards King Street, then turned left and covered the five blocks back to the resale shop at a fast stride. The bells welcomed me inside again.

  “Well, hello,” said Tess. “Welcome back.”

  “Hello.” I smiled.

  “Did you decide on something?” she asked.

  “Not yet.” I returned to the rack of dresses, surveyed the room. Tess appeared to be alone.

  “Did you know that one hundred percent of our proceeds go to support shelters for women and children who are victims of domestic abuse?” she asked.

  “I did know that, yes.”

  I continued browsing but could feel her looking at me. Was she suspicious? I had been there twice that day, but surely customers did that occasionally.

  “Dear, is everything all right?” she asked.

  I looked up from a navy tailored dress. Kind eyes radiated empathy and concern.

  Oh. Of course. She thought perhaps I was looking for help.

  “Yes.” I lowered my eyes, shifted my weight from one foot to the other like maybe I was nervous. “I’m fine.” I studied the navy dress, then slid the hanger sideways to see the next one on the rack.

  An entirely new twist for Tommy and Suzanne formed in my head.

  TEN

  J. Henry Stuhr’s downtown chapel sat on the corner of Calhoun and Smith. At five after six, Nate and I drove past the red brick building with white columns and pulled into the parking lot. It was packed. Nate pulled the Explorer into the last available spot.

  “Merry, I have to go. I’ve got work to tend to.” We’d been on the phone ever since Nate and I had left the house. We were both worried about our parents. “Let’s talk tomorrow.” We said our goodbyes and I ended the call.

  “Apparently Phillip Drayton was quite popular,” said Nate. “I still think we need a cover story.”

  “All right, fine. But if we’re going to that much trouble, let’s go through the receiving line. What is the least verifiable connection we could possibly have? Did you go to school with him at Duke?” I asked.

  Nate winced. “It’s not perfect. His brother went to Duke too. But I’m betting they didn’t know every single one of each other’s friends. Plus, that’s been a while. Local connections are hardest. Too many people in the room who might think they should know us if we knew Phillip from one of his charities or some such thing. Let’s go with Duke.”

  “Okay, but did I know him there too?”

  “Yeah, but you went to Meredith College in Raleigh. You and I were dating, and you met him through me.”

  “Okay, but that means if one of us is overcome with emotion, it should be you,” I said.

  “Hey, I have a sensitive side,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

  He climbed out of the Explorer, walked around the back, opened my door for me, and offered me his hand. “You do make a lovely brunette, but I much prefer your natural shade.”

  “Thank you, Sweetheart.” There was just nothing quite as appealing as a gentleman, especially one wh
o willfully ignored the every-six-weeks highlight appointments required to maintain my “natural” multi-toned blonde. In addition to the brunette bob wig, I wore brown contact lenses and a navy skirt suit that had belonged to Gram. It wasn’t dowdy—just much more conservative than my wardrobe. A navy and yellow scarf worn in a double loop close to my neck, and much heavier makeup than I typically wore completed the disguise.

  “Her car is the last one in the row closest to the building.” I slipped a GPS tracker from my purse. “Silver Lexus.”

  “Roger that.”

  We walked towards the side entrance to the building hand in hand. Others moved from the parking lot towards the chapel, some two by two, some alone, and some in small huddles. As we walked between Anne Frances’s car and the one beside it, I paused.

  “I need to fix the strap on my sandal.” I made sure my voice projected.

  Nate stood behind me, shielding me from the view of anyone walking in the direction of the building, which was everyone at that hour. I leaned down and attached the GPS tracker to the back-driver’s side wheel well of the Lexus, then stood and smoothed my skirt. If Anne Frances was slipping out of the house while Sonny wasn’t watching, we’d know.

  “All set?” asked Nate.

  “I need to take these shoes in to the shop. This strap is loose.”

  We proceeded towards the building. Nate held the door for me and then two ladies behind us. I waited for him at the top of a short stack of steps. A video display at the end of the hall announced that the family of Phillip Drayton would be in room C, the second room on our left. A line of folks waiting to pay their respects to the widow snaked all the way out into the hall. We moved to the back of the line.

  As the line moved forward, we entered the first of three connecting parlor rooms, which formed an L-shape. Each one was more crowded than the next. Traditional furnishings, wingbacks, sofas, and arm chairs, dotted the rooms. Forty-five minutes later, we were in the third room with the deceased. Thankfully, the casket on the far right between the United States and South Carolina flags was closed. In front of a pair of burgundy wingbacks with floral throw pillows, Mrs. Drayton and her brother-in-law stoically accepted condolences. If there was tension between them, they hid it well.