04 Lowcountry Bordello

by Boyer, Susan M.

  The zippered portfolio identifying Heather as Heather Wilder, a graduate student in environmental studies at the College of Charleston, was in the bottom of the drawer. Heather was twenty-seven. I took my photos, slid the portfolio back under neatly folded silk and lace, and moved on.

  On the third floor, I found the Gibbes Room—the one that belonged to the couple who’d gone to Innsbruck. This room was large, with views of both Church Street and the harbor beyond a line of rooftops and treetops. Like all the others, it had a modern, private bath. The picture from the pool party showed Wendi, another blonde with large green eyes, and the man who must be Nathaniel Gibbes. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. I stared at the photo. Did this sandy-haired man have a wife? Children? He should be coaching soccer. As in Heather’s room, Wendi’s hostess tray indicated both parties preferred the liquor in the decanter. I sniffed. Smelled like bourbon to me. Wendi’s bureau sported nice lingerie, sexy, but nothing more adventurous than what I had in my own drawer. I moved to the closet.

  A long alligator case in the corner caught my eye. I pulled it out onto the bed and opened it. Oh, sweet reason. It was a portable stripper pole that appeared to work something like a tension drapery rod when assembled. Interesting. Could be fun for consenting adults in the privacy of their own home. I put it back where I found it.

  Boink-boink. Sonny’s ringtone. I stared at his photo on the screen for a few seconds feeling guilty, then sent the call to voicemail. He hadn’t let a message the first time he’d called, but I could guess what he wanted.

  A backpack on the floor of Wendi’s closet held a few textbooks and her portfolio. Her real name was Wendi Hill, age twenty-five. She’d graduated from Charleston Southern University, a Christian affiliated institution supported by the Baptist denomination, with a double major in psychology and sociology. No doubt her alma mater would take a dim view of her current situation. I snapped my photos and went to find the entrance to the wing over the garage.

  I went back to the main floor and walked towards the back of the house. From the foyer, I passed through the parlor where I’d found the desk, the dining room, and into a modernized kitchen a realtor would no doubt describe as “gourmet.” Restaurant-quality appliances, vanilla-glazed modern cabinetry, and granite countertops somehow managed to look as if they belonged in the historic house.

  Beyond the kitchen, a cozy keeping room with a fireplace, more bookcases, and deep furniture invited one to sit a spell. From both the kitchen and the keeping room, there were views of a pool and spa hidden from the world by garden walls and greenery.

  A nook recessed in the back kitchen wall hid the back staircase on the left. To the right was a walk-in pantry. Straight ahead, a door led to steps that went down into the garage. I flipped a light switch. The gold Cadillac likely belonged to Miss Dean, and the large black Dodge truck must’ve been Seth’s. I took pictures of the license plates for documentation.

  I checked the shelves on the back wall, and every corner of the neat garage. No bloody tarps, no hand truck with or without blood smears. No stairs led from this level to the living area above. I turned off the light, closed the door, and headed up the back staircase.

  At the top of the steps, to my right, just before the master bedroom, a slim door I’d mistaken for a closet led to a landing over the garage. Charleston single houses typically had straightforward floorplans. This home felt a bit like a maze.

  On the landing there were three doors. To my left was an exterior door leading to steps to the parking area. The doorplate on the right hand door identified it as the Rutledge Room. No Rutledge was on the current rent roll. I opened the door. It was decorated in keeping with the remainder of the house with one exception. Unlike the other rooms, this one had no rug on the pine floor. There was no photo, no clothes, no personal items.

  I exited the Rutledge room, stepped towards the last bedroom in the main house, and stopped short. The nameplate read Huger. The ledger had only one line for Huger, so I had assumed there was one Huger renter. Did he require two rooms? Were there two Huger men involved? I opened the door. Just inside was an entry hall, leading into a large room with a sitting area. It was roughly the same size as the master bedroom in the main house, and it had a spacious modern bath with a deep, jetted tub and separate oversized shower.

  There was no photograph on the bedside table in this room. The hostess tray held only bourbon, but a small wine cooler filled with champagne was hidden inside an antique console that had been retrofitted. The other side held a small refrigerator filled with fruit, cheeses, olives, et cetera.

  The furniture yielded no portfolio, but in addition to a drawer full of lingerie similar to what I’d found in Heather’s room, an entire drawer full of gadgets greeted me. I had to look through them—the portfolio could be on the bottom. I reached in my tote and pulled on a second pair of gloves.

  There were clearly labeled bottles of massage oil in a variety of flavors, tubes of lubricants, and a wide variety of things that, while I had no personal experience of, I recognized. But there were also items that genuinely perplexed me, left me feeling curious, and unsophisticated.

  Was this adventurous play what drove married men to mistresses? Were there some games they couldn’t bring themselves to ask their wives to play? I picked up a yellow and purple tear-drop-shaped object that could’ve be a child’s toy or a dog’s chew toy. I tilted my head and scrutinized it.

  The damn thing started to vibrate. How did you turn it off?

  “You almost finished?”

  I jumped three feet. “Oh!”

  “Slugger? What’ve you got there?”

  I felt myself turn fire-engine red. “I swear I don’t have the first idea. I’m just trying to turn it off.”

  Nate didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Let me see if I can help.” He took it from me, did something to it, and it stopped vibrating. He set it on the dresser.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “A massager.” He smothered a chuckle.

  “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “They’re fairly common.” He looked into the drawer and whistled.

  “Each of the girls had a hidden portfolio with ID. This is the last room. One of the other girls hid her private papers in the bottom of her lingerie drawer.”

  “You gettin’ yourself an education?”

  “I wasn’t aware I needed one.”

  “Now don’t go puttin’ words in my mouth. Do you want me to finish looking in there?”

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  He looked at me for a long minute, continuing to grin. “All right then. Where do you want me to start?”

  “I haven’t checked the bed or the closet.”

  “I’ll start with the bed. That’s quick work.”

  I turned my attention back to the drawer. I wasn’t going to pick up anything I didn’t have to. I moved a few larger items to the top of the dresser, then slid the smaller things from one side of the drawer to another to check the bottom. What was the glass egg-shaped thing for? Oh sweet baby Moses in a basket. Handcuffs. Tassels. Clamps. I made quick work of clearing that drawer bottom. Once I was sure there was no portfolio, I put everything back and closed it firmly.

  “You wouldn’t believe some of this stuff,” I said as I turned towards Nate.

  He was examining something at the top corner of the bed. “I believe I would.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Restraints.”

  I turned and made haste for the closet, which was a walk-in. I flipped on the light. An eclectic wardrobe greeted me. Everything from business suits to summer frocks to racy cocktail dresses. And leather pants, silk blouses, and all manner of lingerie. An entire wall was shelved for shoes, most sporting high heels with a message. While the variety of clothing was perplexing, the closet was nowhere
close to full. Unlike the other rooms, there didn’t appear to be clothes a college student would wear to class or out with friends.

  A built-in unit in the back right was partially lined with pegboard and had shelves below it. This section held all manner of paddles, straps, and whips, et cetera, many hanging from hooks on the pegboard. I’d known this was coming as soon as I’d heard the word “restraints.” I’d heard about the Fifty Shades of Grey. No wonder this couple had the room over the garage. And no wonder the girl next door had moved out. I’d bet these were not quiet neighbors.

  I ignored the implements and searched the shelves and hatboxes for the portfolio.

  Finally, I emerged from the closet. “There’s no portfolio here,” I said. I gave Nate the Cliff’s Notes version of what I’d found so far, and the Huger puzzle.

  “It’s five past six,” he said.

  “Hell’s bells.” I glanced at my phone. “No further texts from Olivia.”

  “We’ve got to move.”

  I gave the room a final glance to make sure everything was as we’d found it.

  “Which one of them do you suppose is the dominant?” Nate’s tone was casual.

  “I couldn’t possibly care less.”

  “You sounded a little like your mamma just then.” He grinned.

  I arched my left eyebrow at him, turned, and strode out of the room.

  Nate followed. “Do you have everything you came in with?”

  “Yeah. Just my tote.” I did a quick double check. Everything was there. “You?”

  “Yeah. I took all the equipment out of the boxes and left those in the car. Brought everything over in this trash bag, which now has Velcro backing in it and not much else.”

  We crossed into the main house and moved quickly down the steps and out the front door. Once we were on the front porch, I locked the door behind us. Then we moved to the end of the piazza closest to the door leading to the street. Here we had more cover from the view of anyone strolling down the sidewalk who happened to glance over the fence. The front part of the side yard wasn’t nearly as private as that on the other side of the garden wall, where the pool was located. We both stripped out of our coveralls and put them in the trash bag.

  “Ready?” Nate asked.

  My phone dinged a text. I glanced at the screen. Olivia: Turning onto Atlantic.

  “Hurry,” I said.

  Nate opened the door, and as nonchalantly as if we did this every day, we walked onto the sidewalk, him carrying a large black trash bag. We crossed the street on a diagonal, and passed directly through the gate at the bed and breakfast. Nate went to stash the bag in the Explorer. I did a quick scan of the street. A couple walked from the direction of South Battery up Church. They seemed lost in conversation. On the other side of the street, a jogger kept a steady pace towards South Battery.

  The nose of the limousine appeared at the corner. Nate grabbed my hand and we dashed up the steps.

  Showtime.

  Nine

  Gloves or no gloves, pawing through a whorehouse filled with other people’s pleasure gadgets deserved a thorough soap scrub with a generous hand-sani chaser. I craved a hot shower, but there was no time.

  At six twenty, I called. “Miss Dean, this is Liz Talbot, Olivia’s friend? We met last night.”

  There was a pause where I imagined she was recalling my odd attire. “Yes, my dear. What can I do for you?”

  “I apologize for the short notice, but I need to speak with you privately as soon as possible, regarding a matter of great urgency—Olivia’s troubles?”

  “Oh, dear. I’ve been out all day, and I’m completely exhausted. Could we talk in the morning, perhaps?”

  “I’m so sorry to press you. It’s a terrible breach of manners, really. But I truly need to speak with you this evening.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll have to rally, then, won’t I? How soon can you be here?”

  “I’m in Charleston, nearby, in fact. I could be there in five minutes.”

  “Give me ten if you don’t mind. The door to the piazza is unlocked.”

  “Thank you so much, Miss Dean. I’ll see you shortly.” I ended the call.

  Nate slipped the headphones from his ears to under his chin. He’d listened over the wiretap he’d installed earlier. “Well done.”

  “Nothing to it. I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time. Get what we need. I’ve got this.”

  “We’ve got a lot of work to do.” I wanted to get back to my research on Thurston Middleton and pull all the pieces together about the women who lived across the street and the men in their lives as quickly as possible.

  “Agreed.”

  We’d positioned a small chest to Nate’s right and put both laptops there so he could monitor the screens and watch the house at the same time. I pointed to the corner of the display on Nate’s laptop. “I managed to get feeds from all fifteen cameras up, but the images are small. Some of them are dark because no one’s in the room—no sound or motion. You’ve got eight on your laptop and seven on mine. Why did you put a camera in the vacant room?”

  “Can’t hurt anything. You never know. Someone could duck in there for a private phone call.”

  I shrugged. “Also, on this tab,” I clicked to another window, “my photo stream. All the photos I’ve taken so far on this case have uploaded.”

  “That will come in handy, thanks.”

  “Okay, normally, I’d tape my conversation with Miss Dean, but since we’ll have a record of it from the feed, I won’t bother with that. She’ll be more forthcoming if I don’t pull out my iPhone and ask.”

  Nate’s brow creased. “I like conversations that are admissible in court best, but in this case, I agree.”

  I verified the contents of my tote—Sig, Taser, pepper spray, hand sanitizer—along with my cosmetics bag, et cetera. Then I popped in my earwig and tucked a thin transmitter coil under my sweater. “I’ll do a communications check from the street.” I leaned in for a bye kiss.

  He put his hands around my face, brushed back my hair. “Be cautious.”

  “Always.”

  “That is not even a third cousin to the truth.”

  “Back soon.” I was out the door.

  From the sidewalk in front of the bed and breakfast, in a quiet voice, I said, “Everyone in their rooms?”

  “Sound quality is fine.” Nate’s voice was in my right ear. “And no. Miss Dean is in the right hand parlor. Amber and Lori are in the front parlor by the Christmas tree. Dana is in her room reading. Heather is in the kitchen.”

  “Roger that.” I crossed the street, opened the door, and climbed the steps to the porch. I glanced in the second window to the front parlor.

  Amber and Lori must’ve heard me on the porch. Both of them stared towards the windows.

  I knocked on the front door.

  Miss Dean opened the door immediately. “Come in, child. Let’s talk in the keeping room.” She gestured to my right.

  I headed into the parlor.

  Behind me, Miss Dean said, “Girls, let’s all freshen up before dinner.”

  I didn’t hear a response, but shoes on hardwood told me Amber and Lori were heading upstairs. I passed from parlor to dining room, and waited for Miss Dean to catch up.

  When we entered the kitchen, she also told Heather to freshen up before dinner. Must have been code for “go to your room,” especially considering I knew they’d all already had dinner. Heather responded without comment as well. Miss Dean did not introduce us.

  When we reached the keeping room, she said, “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

  “No thank you, ma’am. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.” I sat on the end of the sofa closest to a chair that looked well-used.


  Miss Dean settled into it, then looked at me expectantly. “Please, tell me what I can do for you. You mentioned Olivia’s troubles. Is she all right?”

  “Yes, Olivia is fine—for the moment. But I’m afraid things are about to take a turn for the worse unless we act quickly.”

  Her blue eyes locked onto mine.

  “Tell me everything.”

  “I will. But first I need your word that you will not mention any of this to Seth.”

  She sat back a little.

  “Very well. You have my word.”

  “Olivia is afraid of him.”

  “That’s absurd. Seth is family. Yes, he’s upset with the terms of Mary’s will—and mine. This is his home. Has been for most of his life. But he would never harm Olivia—or anyone, for that matter.”

  I studied her carefully. Miss Dean was likely good at poker. “That may very well be. But we can’t take any chances.”

  “I’ve given you my word. I’ll say nothing to Seth.”

  “All right. You’ve heard, no doubt, about Thurston Middleton’s death.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “Ghastly business, that.”

  “Did you know Thurston Middleton?”

  “Why, of course I did. He was my neighbor. Lived just a block down on Meeting Street.”

  “Can you think of any reason why he would’ve been inside your house last night?”

  “What? Goodness no. Why would you ask me such a thing?”

  “Because the reason Olivia called me last night—the reason I left home in my pajamas to rush over here—is because she found a dead body in your front parlor.”

  She stilled, sized me up with her eyes, deciding how much to trust me. I let my statement lie there. The longer she was quiet, the longer she failed to protest such an assertion, the more likely she either knew it was true, or knew it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibilities.