When our turn in front of the widow came, Nate held out his hand to her. “Mrs. Drayton, I’m Thomas Moore. This is my wife, Suzanne. We knew Phillip back in college. I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.”
She was striking, in a black sheath with a long-sleeved cardigan, her hair pulled back to a bun at the base of her neck, with little makeup. Her large grey eyes, delicate features, and porcelain skin made her look incredibly vulnerable. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Her tone had the ring of sincerity. She turned to me and offered me her left hand. Nate still held her right. “It was so good of you to make the trip. I know Phillip would appreciate it. Thank you, truly.”
“By all means,” I said. “We’re just in shock. Is there anything at all we could do to ease your burden? We’ll be in town for a few days. At Charleston Place. Please call if you think of anything.” Naturally, I knew the odds of her doing such a thing were roughly the same as her riding an elephant down King Street. She didn’t know us from Adam’s house cat. But these were the things we said in situations where words were entirely inadequate.
“Thank you for your kindness. I will.” She nodded and looked past me to the next person in line.
We moved on to the brother. This was my first look at Daniel Drayton in person. He was not at all what I expected. His brown hair was long and wavy, covering his ears and touching his collar in back. His mustache didn’t reach his goatee and he wore a soul patch. It might have been that combination, or it could have been the drunken slur of his voice that brought to mind Johnny Depp in his Captain Jack Sparrow role.
Nate introduced us, repeating what he’d said to the widow.
“Of course. Tommy? My God, man—what’s the matter with you? What’s with the ‘Mr. Drayton’ rubbish?” Daniel pulled Nate into a hug and slapped him on the back. “Good of you to come.”
Perhaps Daniel Drayton had so many friends in college they all ran together in his memory. Or perhaps he drank a great deal then, or now, or both. “We weren’t sure you’d remember us,” I said. “It’s been such a long time.”
“Too long,” said Daniel, too loudly. “Why’d it take you two so long to get to Charleston for Heaven’s sake? S’not the other side of the planet, you know. Where are you staying?” He still held Nate in a half embrace, his right hand holding on to Nate’s, his left on Nate’s shoulder.
“Charleston Place,” I said. “Please call if there’s anything we can do.”
“It’s a damn shame,” said Nate. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are.”
Daniel’s face fell, like he’d suddenly remembered why he was there. “It’s a damn disgrace. Phillip was all the family I had left. Let’s get a drink after. Come by the house, would you? You know where it’s at, right? Tradd Street. Number forty-one.”
“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” said Nate. “But I’m afraid we have a previous commitment this evening.”
I resisted the urge to elbow my husband. It would be tricky if Daniel reminisced too much, but alcohol was the universal lubricant for tongues. We could learn a great deal.
“Tomorrow then,” said Daniel. “You can’t turn a bloke down on the day his only brother is buried, can you now?”
“Certainly, we’ll be there,” I said.
“Eight o’clock-ish,” said Daniel.
Nate extricated himself, patted him on the shoulder. “See you then, brother.”
We waded through the clusters of people who’d stopped partway out of the room to chat with someone they knew, and into the adjoining room. It was way too full of people. Claustrophobia spurred me to make a quick exit. I tamped it down. Through the crowd, I spotted an empty yellow upholstered chair in the corner. From there, one could see everyone coming and going.
“Tommy,” I said a bit louder than necessary, “I think I need to sit for just a moment. My head is simply pounding.”
“Of course.” Nate put an arm at the small of my back and escorted me to the chair, murmuring “excuse me’s” as we negotiated our way through the crowd.
I settled into the chair and Nate hovered beside me. No one paid us the slightest bit of attention. The line of people continued moving from the room to our right, through the room where I sat, and into the next room. Slowly, I scanned the room, searching faces. On my third pass around the assembly of well-dressed Charlestonians, I saw her.
Across from me, behind a pair of portly older gentlemen, a voluptuous redhead hovered alone just outside the doorway to the chamber where the casket was. She appeared to be in her early to mid-thirties. Her eyes and nose were red and moist. She twisted a wad of Kleenex with both hands. Whoever she was, she cared deeply for Phillip Drayton.
I was formulating a pretext to go talk to her when the line moved up and Poppy Oliver stepped into the room. What in the name of common sense was she doing here?
I looked at Nate. He was wondering the exact same thing. She’d never seen him before and I was in disguise, so we weren’t in danger of blowing our cover. But why on earth would she come to family visitation?
“Because the people on her route are all the family she has.” Colleen popped in, perched on the back of the sofa, with her ankles crossed between two elderly women. She wore a shimmery white dress and must have read my mind—knew I’d made note of it.
“I know mortals who were close to Phillip Drayton are in mourning, and I get it,” she said. “But I keep telling you, passing from this world to the next is not the tragedy you people think it is.”
Try again to read Mrs. Drayton’s mind—the brother too. I put a hand on Nate’s arm and he leaned down. “Keep an eye on Poppy,” I said. “I need to talk to the redhead.”
He nodded.
I stood and crossed the room. “Pardon me,” I said. “Do you know where the ladies’ room is?”
She nodded. “Take a left out this door, then go to the end of the hall and make a right. It’s not too far down on the left.”
“I’m so sorry to be a bother,” I said. “But I’m not feeling at all well. Could you come with me? I’d ask my husband, but, well, it is the ladies’ room.”
“Sure.” Concern crossed her face. She took my arm and helped me make my way into the hall. “Are you feeling faint?”
“I am. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“Have you eaten today?” She led me down the hall.
“Not much,” I said.
“I haven’t eaten in a couple of days,” she said.
“Did you know Phillip well?” I asked.
“You could say that,” she said.
“We were friends in college,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in years, to tell you the truth. I think maybe I’m coming down with something.”
“Right in here.” She opened the door and we stepped into a small lounge.
I moved to a small settee on the right and dropped into it. “I’m so sorry to trouble you. Thank you so much. I’m Suzanne Moore, by the way.”
“Mallory. Mallory Lucas.”
“So, you were close to Phillip?” I smeared sympathy all over my face.
She teared up, nodded.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “How stupid of me. I apologize for prying.”
“It’s all right. I shouldn’t have come here.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Why would you say that?” I asked. “That’s why they have these things—for those left behind. Phillip, as they say, is in a better place.”
“I believe that’s true,” she said. “He wasn’t perfect. But he had a good heart.”
“I remember him that way,” I said. “It’s just so tragic. And they haven’t even caught the person responsible. At least that’s the last we heard. Is there any news?” I hoped to hear her theories. Typically, folks shared those easily.
“Not that I’ve heard,” she said. “But it wouldn’t
surprise me in the least to find out that—that—” She inhaled deeply, wiped her eyes with the back of her index finger. “I should go. Are you all right? Do you want me to get you some water or anything?”
Finish the sentence already. What? “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Thank you again.”
She nodded. “Good bye, then.” She opened the door and stepped into the hall.
Just as the door swung closed, a man said, “Mallory, love. There you are.” Daniel Drayton’s voice.
“Daniel.” She sobbed.
I waited five seconds, then opened the door. Mallory and Daniel were locked in an embrace. He rubbed her back as she cried. I couldn’t see her face, but his eyes were squeezed closed.
I slipped past them and down the hall as discreetly and quickly as I could. Clearly, they knew each other quite well. I made my way back to parlor C, which had only gotten more crowded. Nate chatted with a gentleman in a bow tie who appeared to be a spry ninety-something. Poppy had evidently made her way into the room where Anne Frances was receiving. A feeling of foreboding washed over me. How would Anne Frances react to Poppy? She’d been friendly to her, but that was before the accident. Did Anne Frances hold Poppy responsible for Phillip’s death?
I wended my way back through the crowd and into the middle room, stretching to see over the tops of heads. Someone brushed by me and said, “Excuse me.”
I turned to see a woman with very long, straight blonde hair walking away from me. Was that the woman from the Honda on Hasell Street? Something about her tickled my natural curiosity. I was torn between following her and tracking down Poppy. I needed to see about Poppy. I moved to the far side of the entryway to the casket room. Poppy stepped in front of Anne Frances. They embraced each other warmly.
Neither of them cried.
From Daniel Drayton’s chair, Colleen raised two open palms. “Still can’t read the wife. But Poppy has a clear conscience.”
ELEVEN
I spent the trip home from Charleston on the phone with Mamma. Nate got out of the car and went into the lounge on the ferry. I rolled down the windows, put Mamma on speaker, and removed the wig, which was making my scalp itch something fierce. I fluffed my hair, sanitized the fool out of my hands, and took out the contacts while Mamma alternately vented about Merry running off to get married, Blake’s revolving-door of girlfriends, and the mess that had not yet been cleaned up in her backyard.
It was nearly ten before Nate and I made it home. We were famished, and it was far too late to cook. I pulled the leftover Chinese food out of the refrigerator while Nate opened a bottle of pinot noir. We sat at the island in the kitchen and caught each other up on the day as we passed the cartons back and forth.
I told Nate what Sonny had told me about Anne Frances Drayton’s history with a drug kingpin in Chicago.
He stopped, his glass halfway to his lips, and narrowed his eyes. “On the surface, that sounds compelling. But when you take into account how long ago it was and what her life is like now, it’s hard to see how that would figure in.”
“I agree, especially after seeing her tonight. It’s like she lives in another world now. But still, I’m going to dig into this Lucious Carter character when I get a chance. See if I find another connection to her. Just dot my i’s. Another thing that strikes me, though, is would a woman strong enough to extricate herself from the drug and gang culture allow herself to be a victim of abuse? Doesn’t seem the right personality type to me.”
“Nope,” said Nate. “That doesn’t fit.”
I told him about Poppy’s protective reaction to Tess Hathaway, the nurse in the resale shop, her visit to the bookstore, the trip to the graveyard, and the gorgeous Latina named Sofia in the Porsche.
“How do you know she’s Latina?” asked Nate.
“She speaks Spanish—she could be from Spain, of course. But of the twenty-one countries in the world where Spanish is the official language, most of them are in Latin America, and that’s closer, so I’m going with that for now.” I took a bite of sesame chicken.
“Sounds reasonable. I didn’t mean to get you all riled up.”
“I’m not riled up.”
“You sound riled up. Maybe you should finish eating first, and then finish telling me about your day. You have a tendency to get cranky when your blood sugar drops.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, swallowed a bite of spring roll. “I can multi-task. I’ve got the nurse’s full name and Sofia’s license plate. I’ll profile them first thing tomorrow. But it looks to me like they’re working with Tess. Helping abused women. Somehow, they’re sending messages to each other through the bookshop.”
“Seems a bit elaborate,” said Nate. “Why not just text?”
“An over-abundance of caution? I don’t know. Yet. Oh, and there’s another woman. Pale blonde in an old Honda. She may or may not be involved, but I saw her twice today and possibly once on Saturday, which provokes my suspicious nature. I also have her tag number. Did you find anything useful on our victim?”
“I picked a handful of folks I could connect to him through the Drayton Foundation, and a few social media friends. Called them up. Told them I was doing a piece on Phillip for Charleston Magazine. No one had a bad word to say about him, though that doesn’t surprise me. People rarely speak ill of the dead, especially to a reporter. That said, my general impression is that Phillip Drayton was cheerfully dedicated to the enjoyment of life—feasting, fine wines, friends. A good-time Charlie, as it were. And he generously supported a long list of local charities.”
“Interesting. Big turnout tonight at the funeral home too. Anyone offer anything about Anne Frances?”
“A few of them called her quiet, reserved. Made observations as to how she was not as outgoing as her husband. A couple of them remarked that she wasn’t from here, and they had no idea who her people were.”
“Naturally.” I sipped my pinot noir. Knowing who one’s people were was of paramount importance in our world. It was about history, connections, or lack thereof.
“But they all gave the impression they thought the marriage was happy. I asked specific questions. A man’s friends would never volunteer to a reporter that they suspected him of wife abuse. But at least a few of them would hesitate to tell me that he was happily married. There would be hedging. Didn’t happen. Even the ones who questioned her heritage said the Draytons were in love with one another.”
“So if he abused her, he hid it well from his friends. And undoubtedly, he would. If all abusive men were ill-tempered, wore wife-beater t-shirts, and stayed drunk, fewer women would marry them to begin with.”
Nate chewed thoughtfully, tilted his head towards his shoulder, cocked an eyebrow in an expression that conceded the point.
“What about the blog?” I asked.
“I think Phillip Drayton enjoyed eating out at restaurants, liked the attention he got as a reviewer. For what it’s worth, the restaurant folks I spoke with told me that Mrs. Drayton came with her husband to dine. Guess she just didn’t want to be a part of the blog. I read through a ridiculous number of his stellar dining experiences. Then I asked Blake if Nell could help us out.”
“She’ll love you for that.” Nell Cooper was Blake’s dispatcher/office manager. She kept him and his office in order, but Stella Maris was a sleepy town and most days she filled her hours browsing the Internet.
“I told her she could pick her favorite restaurant and I’d get her and Bill a gift certificate,” said Nate.
“That just might keep you on her good side, but it’s going to be expensive. What about Facebook?”
Nate shook his head. “Nothing useful. I did finish the property records search. That was the most interesting part of my day.”
“Pass me the lo mein, would you? What’d you find?”
“Tess Hathaway owns the property on South Battery outright—well, through a private trust
. Zelda’s Safe House—the foundation—owns no property. However, Mrs. Hathaway, through an impressively intricate web of corporations, owns eight different homes throughout Charleston County, plus the building on King Street that houses the resale shop.”
“Rental properties?” I asked.
“You’d think, but no. There’s not a single rental listing for any of the properties. And one of them is on Moultrie Street.”
“Where Jacynthe said Tess was going to send the new girl. Instead of a single shelter, she’s stashing the women in a network of houses,” I said. “Smart.”
“Looks that way to me. Makes sense she’d have a nurse involved. I imagine some of them come in injured.”
I swallowed a bite of beef fried rice. “I wonder what the woman in the Porsche brings to the table?”
“The question is,” said Nate, “did Anne Frances Drayton reach out to them? I mean, yeah, we can connect Poppy to Tess, and Poppy to Anne Frances Drayton. But Tess to Anne Frances? That’s another story altogether. The coincidental bookstore visit is awfully thin. We could spend a lot of time figuring out the details of how these women operate, but is it connected to our case or not? And I think we need to know that before we waste time investigating these good women who are ‘doing the Lord’s work.’”
I squinched up my face. “They were all worked up about something. That conversation in the graveyard—I’m thinking Phillip Drayton’s death is the debacle weighing heavy on their hearts. They may not be responsible, but they know something.”
“Maybe,” said Nate. “But we need more. A lot more.”
“I have a plan for that.”
“Okay.”
“I’m thinking Tommy is abusive,” I said.
Nate chewed thoughtfully.
“Going undercover with these women would not be dangerous.” I preempted his typical first response to my working undercover.
LOWCOUNTRY BOOKSHOP Page 11
