LOWCOUNTRY BOOKSHOP

by Susan M. Boyer

  As I neared the end of the alley, the brick courtyard wall of St. Michael’s graveyard was immediately on my right and 76 Meeting Street to my left, with Meeting Street directly in front of me. I glanced in my rearview mirror. Still no one behind me. This was the narrowest part of the alley. Claustrophobia squeezed at my chest. Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths.

  If I rolled forward, I’d be sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, which was what you had to do in order to see to turn onto Meeting Street. But I wasn’t ready to turn just yet. If they were coming here, the limo should be closing in. I needed to see what went down. Across Meeting, in front of the post office might’ve been a better vantage point, but the odds of snagging a parking space at that exact moment weren’t great.

  Being in that alley was like having blinders on. I could only see what happened right in front of me. The view was too narrow. I would have to take a chance on getting a parking spot across the street. I inched forward, looked right, then left for pedestrians.

  Approaching on my left, walking up Meeting towards Broad, came the couple from the bookshop, hand-in-hand. The limo rolled gradually up behind them. The young woman looked up at the man and said something, a warm smile and a look that asked “pretty please” on her face. She handed him her phone. He cut his eyes upward in a quick eye roll, then nodded and took the phone. She moved in front of one of the colorful, overflowing window boxes on 76 Meeting. The man held the phone to take her picture. She was talking to him as the limo pulled close to the curb in the no-parking zone right behind him.

  The front passenger door opened, bumping the man. He yelled, spun on the burly guy as he climbed out of the car. Burly guy was way bigger. The man appeared to think about his next move.

  While he was preoccupied, the driver’s side passenger door opened, and the woman darted around the back of the car. Just before she ducked into the car, she hollered, “I’m leaving you of my own free will. Don’t come looking for me.”

  He roared with rage, lunged in her direction.

  Both doors closed, and the limo rolled away.

  He ran a few steps, pounded the trunk. I snapped a photo of the tag, though I was positive who it was registered to.

  The man stood in the middle of Meeting Street, with two raised fists, red-faced. “Arrrrrrrrr. You bitch. Wait ‘til I get my hands on you.”

  The limo turned left on Broad Street.

  The apoplectic man braced himself, his hands on his knees, panting. He might’ve been foaming at the mouth.

  I honked my horn at him. He was in my way.

  He spun on me like a wild man.

  I turned right out of the alley and followed the limo. He moved out of my way at the last possible moment.

  I was reasonably certain where the limo was headed, so I didn’t try to catch it. Sofia had asked, and Jacynthe had answered in the affirmative. They were taking the woman to Sofia’s house for the time being. I took a leisurely drive out Ashley River Road. Once you’re out of the city, it’s a scenic trip—two lanes, lined with a dense stand of trees dripping Spanish moss.

  Along the way, I called Sonny to give him some context just in case a man reported his wife kidnapped near St. Michael’s Church at two o’clock that afternoon. Okay, I didn’t give him nearly as much context as he wanted. I left out everything right up to the woman stating that she was getting into the car of her own free will and that she didn’t want her husband to come looking for her.

  “Is this connected in any way to the Phillip Drayton case?” he asked.

  “I’m not certain yet.” This was the absolute truth.

  “How did you come to be sitting in St. Michael’s Alley at the exact right moment to witness a woman leaving her husband in such a dramatic manner?”

  “Pure luck.” There was a certain amount of truth in that statement.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “Sonny, I have to go now. I just didn’t want you to call out the cavalry if this man says his wife was kidnapped. She wasn’t. Talk soon.” I ended the call before he could cuss me.

  Just past the entrance to Middleton Place, I slowed.

  Then I drove another mile, and the only road I saw was an unmarked dirt road. When I got to Ashley River Drive, I turned around. The dirt road must’ve been Sofia’s driveway. I eased past it again, scanning the trees for security cameras.

  Bingo. I didn’t dare linger in the area. I headed back to Charleston. The woman in the limo was likely safer than she’d been in a long while.

  It was twenty minutes past three when I made it back to the city. I pulled into the first metered parking spot I found on Broad Street, just past Legare, across from the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. I needed a place to change and freshen up. Charleston had a plethora of lovely inns and luxurious hotels, but typically, for business, Nate and I would grab a room at the Hampton Inn if we needed one. We were scrupulous when spending a client’s money. A quick rate check showed that The Mills House—conveniently located on the corner of Meeting and Queen, across the street and a block away from the recent non-abduction on Meeting, and also across Queen Street from Poogan’s Porch—had a better rate that night. I booked a room.

  I drove another two blocks down Broad and turned left on Meeting Street. Moments later, I came to a stop at the light directly in front of the pink hotel with creamy trim and a frilly wrought iron balcony on the second floor. I turned left on Queen and parked in the garage behind the hotel. Along with my garment bag and the tote that doubled as my purse, I grabbed the overnight bag I kept in the car and checked in, leaving a key at the desk for Nate.

  All of the rooms in the Mills House were redone a few years back, and they were lovely. Mine was done in cerulean blue, cream, and taupe, and overlooked Meeting Street. It had a lovely view of the city. In the cool quiet, I took a deep breath, texted Nate to let him know where I was, then pulled out my laptop and settled in at the desk to dot an i.

  I opened the hotspot on my phone and connected it to my laptop. This was far more secure than any hotel’s Wi-Fi. Then I logged into the database where I could access vehicle registration. The limo’s tag did not come back to SCS, LLC, as I’d suspected, but rather to The Planter’s Club. That rang a faint bell. I’d heard rumors about a private, upscale club in an old plantation house. Was that what Sofia was up to these days? Was she behind The Planter’s Club?

  I pondered that for a moment. James Huger would know. If it went on in Charleston, was a secret, and a bit risqué, James knew about it. He had old Charleston money, and the connections that came with it. He was also a devoted husband and father, and a philanthropist. I’d first met James the year before while working a case involving a high-class bordello. On a delicate matter, I’d kept information not relevant to my case, but potentially damaging to his reputation, confidential. His friendship had proven quite helpful on a couple of occasions since. When he’d given me his cell phone number, he’d told me to call him any time for any reason. I made a point not to abuse the privilege.

  “Liz Talbot.” I could hear the smile in his voice when he answered.

  “How are you, Mr. Huger?”

  He chuckled. “My dear, if you have this number, we’re on a first name basis, as I am quite sure you are aware.”

  “How are you, James?”

  “I am well, thank you for asking. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’m working on the Phillip Drayton case.”

  “Phillip? I thought that was an accident.”

  “That remains to be seen,” I said. “There are several loose ends that need to be tied up.”

  “How may I be of assistance?”

  While I had him on the phone, I might as well ask. “Did you know him?”

  “Well, certainly. Phillip and I were in the same class at Porter Gaud. I knew him most of his life. Hell, I was a pall bearer at his funeral this afternoon.”<
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  “Oh no, I’m so sorry for your loss. I had no idea.”

  “Beatrice and I were out of town. We missed the visitation, I’m afraid. Nevertheless. To be frank, we haven’t been close since we left for college. But lifelong ties are special. His brother, Daniel, asked if I would serve, and of course I was honored.”

  “Do you know his wife?” I asked.

  “Not well. She seems very nice. A little quiet. We saw them socially several times a year.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but were you aware of any marital problems?”

  “Not at all. As I said, Phillip and I hadn’t been close in many years, but that kind of thing tends to make its way onto the gossip circuit.”

  “If someone suggested that he perhaps abused her, what would you think about that?” I asked.

  “Well, I would hate to believe such a thing about Phillip. It’s not at all consistent with the man I thought I knew. There again, no one really knows what goes on between two people aside from those two individuals, do they?”

  Coming from him, that was a loaded statement if ever there was one. I inhaled long and slow. “Certainly, you’re right. The other thing…the main thing, actually, is what can you tell me about The Planter’s Club?”

  “On the record, nothing, naturally,” he said.

  “Understood.”

  “Lovely club, in a restored plantation out past Middleton. Very private. You have to be a member, or a guest of a member. One doesn’t drive there, ever. You’d never get past the gate. You have to be picked up and dropped off by their private limousine service.”

  “How does one become a member?” I asked.

  “One must be nominated by a member, then approved. Then one is invited to join. The initial dues are substantial.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Hmm, well, the first floor is a series of lounges and dining rooms. Very tastefully appointed. They have the best chefs, top shelf liquor, an excellent wine list. Early in the evening, there’s piano music in the main lounge. The music wafts through the dining rooms. Later, a lounge singer or two perform. As the evening wears on, things become a bit more spirited. There’s a floor show.”

  “What sort of floor show?”

  “Musical numbers, dancing, occasionally comedy routines.”

  I chose my words carefully. “We’re not talking Lawrence Welk here, are we?”

  He laughed. “Most assuredly not.”

  “Nudity?”

  “A bit, but tastefully done. It’s not a strip club.”

  “So that’s the first floor. What goes on upstairs?” I asked.

  “That’s the owner’s private residence.”

  “Members don’t go up there…for privacy?”

  “Not at all. My dear, some of Charleston’s leading citizens are members of this club. There are no lap dances. I take my wife there. Many men do.”

  “What do you know about the owner?”

  “Ahh, the charming Ms. Sanchez. She grew up rough, had a rocky start. Straightened herself out. Married money. She enjoys playing the hostess. Occasionally she performs herself.”

  “Performs?”

  “She sings. Lovely voice. Would you and your husband like to go as my guests? See for yourself?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements. I’ll text you a password and a phone number. You call whenever you’d like to go and ask for a car. Give them your name and the password and they’ll pick you up, then bring you home when you’re ready. Oh, they don’t accept payment of any sort during the evening, and for goodness sake, don’t try to tip anyone. It’s all on my account. Don’t give it a thought.”

  “What’s the attire?”

  “Creative black tie. Wear a floor-length dress, my dear. Most of the ladies do. Your husband should wear a tuxedo, but many of the gentlemen get artsy with their ties and cummerbunds, if he’s so inclined.”

  “Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help.”

  “Happy to assist. I predict you’ll have a lovely time. Is there anything else?”

  “One last thing. Does Ms. Sanchez’s husband work with her at the club?”

  “Hugh? No. To be frank, I’ve never met anyone who cared for Hugh. Boorish man. He retired years ago. Used to be in real estate. They have a home in Honduras. Hugh loves to scuba dive. I can’t recall the last time anyone mentioned him coming back to Charleston.”

  “Ah, well, that explains it.” It seemed an odd arrangement, but as far as I knew, Hugh Conrad had no bearing on the case I was hired to work. “But it does make me wonder about something else.”

  “What’s that, my dear?”

  “Sofia has clearly turned her life around, but her people are not well-connected. She married money, but it’s brand new money, made by a guy from Nashville who no one likes.”

  Amusement crept into his voice. “You’re wondering how a club owned by someone from off is all the rage with the Old Charleston set, for whom one’s history is sacred?”

  “From off” was the way Charlestonians referred to folks born anywhere else, but now residing in Charleston. “Exactly.”

  “Tess Hathaway is Sofia’s dear friend. I’m sure you must know Tess is a Rivers.”

  “But how did Sofia become such good friends with Mrs. Hathaway?” I asked. “How would their paths have ever crossed?”

  “Charity work, I’m told. Sofia is heavily involved in Tess’s foundation—Zelda’s Safe House.”

  “And that explains that. Thank you again.”

  We said our goodbyes and I hopped in the shower. It had been a long day already, and I needed my wits about me for the charade awaiting us after dinner.

  THIRTEEN

  Charleston is blessed with so many wonderful culinary experiences. Often on date night, Nate and I try one of the newer restaurants that have sprung up over the last few years. But Poogan’s Porch is one of a few restaurants that is nearly as familiar as Mamma’s dining room. Housed in a charming yellow Victorian built in 1888, it feels like home. The menu, heavy on Southern comfort food artfully prepared, never disappoints.

  We were seated in the far corner of the back dining room, next to a wall of windows overlooking the courtyard. Nate took a quick look at the wine list while the waiter filled our water glasses.

  “We’d like a bottle of the Sass Willamette Valley Pinot Noir,” said Nate. “And if you would, go ahead and get us some of the mac and cheese, fried green tomatoes, and ribs and pickles started.”

  When the waiter stepped away, I said, “Thank you for not making me choose between the mac and cheese and the fried green tomatoes.” Nate loved the ribs.

  “You said you were famished. When your wife is famished, a smart man feeds her as expeditiously as possible, preferably with her favorite foods.”

  “You are a very smart man.”

  “You know we’ll never eat all of that and our entrees.”

  “I very well could tonight.” I studied my menu. “I think I’ll have the filet mignon, but with asparagus instead of the broccolini.”

  Nate grinned. “You’re going to eat the steak and the blue cheese and ricotta dumplings.”

  “I might get to some of the asparagus,” I said.

  The waiter returned with our wine and went through the presentation efficiently. When he’d filled our glasses and moved away, Nate raised his glass. “To the prettiest lady I know.”

  “You are too kind, sir.”

  “Nonsense. I’m simply making an observation.”

  We both sipped our wine.

  “Yum,” I said.

  “Hard to beat a Willamette Valley pinot noir,” said Nate. “You’ll never believe who one of Phillip Drayton’s pall bearers was.”

  I smiled sweetly, tilted my head. “James Huger?”

 
He drew his eyebrows together, looked around. “Where is she?”

  “Colleen? I haven’t seen her today, which is odd, come to think of it. She promised me we’d talk.” I mentally pushed the dream away with both hands.

  “How did you know about Huger?”

  “I actually spoke with him this afternoon.” I brought Nate up to speed on the couple at the bookshop, the episode with the limo, The Planter’s Club, and our invitation to visit.

  “So, these women, they communicate via bookmark,” said Nate.

  “Exactly.”

  “Why use a bookshop at all? Why not have women pop into the resale shop on King Street and leave a message they need help?”

  “My guess is because it’s common knowledge that proceeds from that store support victims of domestic violence. Often those victims have limited freedom. If their abusers saw them going into that store, that could make it harder to escape.”

  “Okay, so they leave a bookmark in a specific book that is guaranteed to always be in stock. And that tells these women what?”

  “It’s a request for pickup. Like manually ordering a rescue Uber. They communicate locations that way. I’m not sure about the time. The woman on Meeting Street was picked up at two o’clock, but Jacynthe and Sofia met at the Unitarian graveyard around eleven a.m.”

  We both mulled that for a moment. A server delivered our appetizers. I slid the ribs over to Nate and left the mac and cheese and fried green tomatoes in the middle of the table. Then I scooped some of each onto my small plate. I savored the first bite of smoked gouda, country ham, and pasta. “Ummm.” I closed my eyes.

  “You sure you don’t want some of the ribs?” asked Nate.

  “No, thank you. I’m eating strategically.”

  The waiter returned to take our dinner order.

  Nate said, “The lady would like the filet mignon, medium rare. Please substitute asparagus for the broccolini. And I’d like the pan roasted scallops.”