Nate stood at the far end of the reception desk with his suitcase. His phone was to his ear, his pretext that he’d been about to check in when he got a call, and had politely stepped out of the way of other guests.
The desk clerk was a brunette, early thirties. She gave off an efficient vibe. Her nametag claimed she was Barbara. Barbara was on the phone when I walked up. “Good evening, Mr. Davis. We have an envelope for you at the front desk.”
The second Barbara hung up, I smiled widely. “Hey.” I stretched the word out, employing my thickest drawl. “I’m Suzanne Thompson? I called earlier?”
Barbara smiled at me and stepped away from her computer to the front counter. She was oblivious to Nate. I was the customer in front of her. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I didn’t make a reservation because the man I talked to said y’all had plenty of rooms available. Should I have made one? Oh, please tell me y’all have a room. I declare, I just can’t sleep in that hot house. The air conditioning repairman can’t get to me until tomorrow.”
This was Nate’s opportunity to look at Barbara’s computer screen and get Jim Davis’s room number. With any luck, it would still be displayed. She hadn’t had a chance to start another transaction.
Nate said, “What’s that address?” into the phone. He pulled out a notepad and pen and jotted something down.
Barbara said, “I’m sorry to hear your air conditioning is out, but we’re happy to have you here this evening.”
“Thank you so much.” I smiled and tilted my head at her. Then I leaned in, widened my eyes, and whispered, “I’m not feeling well. Would it be all right if I powdered my nose before I check in?”
“Certainly. Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you so much.” I made a left turn at the end of the counter.
Phone still to his ear, Nate looked out the front, away from me. He slipped me the piece of paper with the room number. The counter was high, our hands out of Barbara’s view.
“Miss?” Barbara said.
“Yes?” I stopped.
“The ladies lounge is down that way.” She pointed the opposite way down the hall, towards the ladies room and one of three elevators.
“Oh, my. Thank you so much.” I shook my head in dismay, as if I hadn’t known full well where the ladies room was located and made for the other end of the hall.
Behind me, I heard Barbara greeting “Tommy,” who had finished his phone call. Before she could check him in, he said, “Ma’am, could I ask your opinion on something?”
“Why, certainly,” said Barbara.
I glanced at the room number—354. I pressed the elevator button.
Tommy spoke loudly and his voice carried. “I just bought these for my girlfriend. We’ve been dating almost two months. Do you think they are too much? I don’t want to scare her away, but I don’t want to disappoint her, either. She has very discriminating tastes.”
My elevator arrived.
A man of medium height and build, with brown hair, got out and turned towards the front desk. Odds were it was Jim Davis, coming for his package.
I slipped inside the elevator and pressed three.
Sadly, before Tommy could open the jewelry box to show Barbara what was inside, he would drop the box containing one very large, very good fake diamond stud. He would spend the next fifteen minutes looking for the matching earring, which would seem to have bounced right out of the box, but was actually in Nate’s pocket. He would surreptitiously hide it very well while hunting. Before it was over with, he’d have Barbara and, hopefully, Jim Davis, helping him look. If Jim failed to join the search, Nate would text me.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a gadget that looked like a dry-erase marker. I’d bought it six months ago at our favorite online toy store, but we’d only used it a handful of times. The elevator opened and I made my way to room 354. Nate was right about one thing. This Hampton Inn had an odd layout, with four hallways surrounding a courtyard.
I propped my purse against my suitcase, glanced up and down the hall, pulled the top off the dry-erase marker tool and inserted the tip into the power jack on the bottom of the key card-reader. In seconds, the electronic gadget hidden in the shell of the marker had hacked the code to open the door and the light on the card-reader turned green. I opened the door, picked up my purse, and slipped in, pulling my suitcase behind me.
I set the timer on my phone for ten minutes and put the door opener back in my purse. Then I started with the nightstand. Nothing there but a prescription bottle of Nexium. The name on the bottle was James Davis. I was in the right room. The other nightstand held nothing but the hotel’s clock radio, phone, and Bible in the drawer.
I checked the closet next. Nothing there but two changes of khaki pants and three golf shirts. Nothing in the pants pockets.
I turned my attention to the dresser drawers under the TV stand. Jim Davis’s socks and underwear held no secrets.
I glanced at the timer on my phone. I had four and a half minutes.
I rummaged through the suitcase. Empty.
I moved to the desk. The surface was clear except for the hotel information. I opened the single drawer. Calista stared back at me. At least it looked like Calista from eighteen years ago. There were three photos. One of them was of Calista and Jim together at what must have been a simple home wedding. The other two were candid shots of Calista.
Underneath the photos was a postcard with a beach scene. Stella Maris, SC, was printed across the top. What the hell?
I turned it over.
On the back, someone had printed, “Your wife is here,” in block letters. The postmark was two weeks old. There was no signature. I grabbed my phone and took a photo of the postcard front and back, and the pictures.
Then, I put everything back in the drawer exactly as it had been and tore my clothes off.
I opened my suitcase and pulled out a black dress with a slit up to there, stilettos, and a wide brimmed hat. I crammed the clothes I’d had on inside the suitcase and slid into the black dress just as the alarm on my phone sounded.
I stuffed my shoes in my purse, grabbed my suitcase and purse, took one last look around the room. I eased the door open a crack. No one was in the hall. I rolled my suitcase behind me, and headed for the elevators at the other end of the hall. In the elevator, I fished a hairband out of my purse, pulled my hair into a knot on top of my head, and settled my hat top at an angle that partially hid my face.
When the elevator doors opened, I was on the ground floor, but on the backside of the hotel, away from the lobby. I exited through the door closest to where we’d parked and ran as fast as I could across the asphalt in bare feet, dragging the suitcase and holding my hat on.
I threw my suitcase into the Explorer, grabbed my pumps from my purse, and slipped them on. I grabbed my phone and the black handbag from the car. I took the red lipstick from the purse and slathered on a coat. Then I darted towards the hotel lobby in five-inch heels.
Just before I rounded the corner, I stopped. I glanced at the phone. No texts.
I smoothed my dress adjusted my hat, and slid on my largest pair of sunglasses. Then I sauntered into the lobby employing my best imitation of a femme fatale. Nate, Barbara and Jim, I presumed, were doing a grid search of the lobby floor, pine board by pine board.
Barbara stood and adjusted her suit. She smiled a welcome. “Good evening.”
“Got it!” Jim said. He was holding the earring in his palm.
“You found it?” Nate stood, a perfect, awestruck look on his face.
“Is this it?” Jim stepped towards Nate, red-faced and grinning.
Nate said, “Thank you, sir. I can’t thank you enough. Where was it?”
“Right by that basket of games.” Jim pointed.
; “Well, I’ll be. I just looked over there myself, and I missed it.”
“It was almost underneath it. It’s no wonder you didn’t see it.”
“See?” Barbara had returned to her customary position behind the counter. “I knew we’d find it. Shall we get you checked in now?”
“Tommy,” I said in as haughty a voice as I could manage. “What is the meaning of this display?”
“Sweetheart,” Nate said. “Nothing. Everything’s fine. We were just looking for something. But we found it.”
Barbara said, “Will you need one room or two this evening?”
I looked at my watch. “We’ll have to check in later. There’s no time now. Tommy, father is waiting.”
“I’m sorry, Sweetheart. That’s fine. We’ll check in after we meet your father for drinks.” He smiled graciously at Barbara and Jim. “Thank you both again.”
Nate took my arm to escort me out the door.
“Why are you thanking these people?” I asked loudly.
“They were just very nice while I was waiting for you,” he said. “Bye, now,” he called over his shoulder.
“Bye,” called Jim and Barbara in unison. I thought I detected a hint of confusion.
We stepped into the thick night air and held hands as we walked towards the car.
“You do high-maintenance bitch very well,” Nate said. “But I confess I prefer your portrayal of the hysterical Southern belle. Both are positively award-worthy.”
“Why, thank you. You know I was in the drama club in high school.”
“You have any problems upstairs?”
“None. This routine is so much easier with this new tool than back when we had to swipe a housekeeping key.”
“Find anything?” he asked.
I grinned. “As a matter of fact, I did.” I told him about the pictures and the postcard.
“Someone sent him a postcard telling him where Calista is? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I kid you not. How did things go in the lobby?”
“It was a damn disaster. I had to beg Davis like a little girl to help look for that earring, and Barbara kept wanting to go check on Suzanne Thompson in the ladies room. It was hard work keeping them both in that lobby.”
Nate opened the door to the Explorer for me. This was new. I offered him my brightest smile. “Thank you, sir.”
He walked around and climbed in the driver’s side. “I just can’t gain sympathy from folks as easy as you can.”
I looked at him sideways. Something in his tone aroused my suspicions.
He grinned like a kid caught sneaking a cookie before dinner. “Everything went according to script.”
I punched him in the arm. “Then why didn’t you tell me that straight off?”
He laughed. “Just to see you get riled.”
I threw him a look. I was aiming for aggravated, but he was so damn handsome I gave up and laughed. “You just prefer searching hotel rooms to crawling around the lobby.”
“Who wouldn’t?” he asked. “Davis seems like a nice enough guy. I tried to get acquainted while we were crawling around on our knees. It’d sure be handy if we had the software to use Bluetooth or Wi-Fi to force pair cell phones. He probably had his in his pocket. We could tell pretty quick what his intentions are if we could monitor his calls and texts.”
“That technology is not available from any of our toy stores. I’ll keep looking. Being able to force a proximity pair would be slick.”
I mulled Jim Davis and the postcard. The postcard seemed to suggest Jim Davis had been lured to South Carolina by someone. But Mr. Davis could still be involved in a conspiracy with this unknown party. “What do you say let’s call Sonny Ravenel and tip him off as to Jim Davis’s current location? I’m thinking he might want to question him regarding Harmony’s murder.”
Nate tipped his head from side to side, appearing to weigh the options. “Or…maybe we should talk to Davis first. Just in case he’s feeling more chatty before law enforcement is involved.”
“Might be he’s more forthcoming after the threat of the long arm of the law has reached out and touched him. We could play good cop.”
“Could go either way.”
“I’m going to want information from Sonny. He’s more likely to give it to me if I give him something first. He’ll owe me.”
Nate started the car. “Well, then. By all means, let’s do our civic duty.”
FIFTEEN
Friday morning arrived before I was prepared to offer it a proper welcome. I’d stayed up too late reading Donald Spoto’s biography of Marilyn Monroe. Dragging myself out of bed took every bit of self-discipline I could muster. It helped that Nate jostled me awake while Rhett barked encouragement. I almost barked at them both. I’m not at my sunniest when I haven’t had enough sleep, my run, or my coffee.
A run, a swim, and a shower later, I slathered on sunscreen and consulted my closet. I had several appointments that day and it was going to be hotter than the gates of hell. I needed cool and comfortable, but cute. I slipped into an Anthropologie white-on-white embroidered skirt and a blue sleeveless chambray popover. I added a wide brown belt, my brown Kate Spade flat sandals, and my silver hoop earrings. A little mascara, a little lip gloss, and I was down the stairs.
Nate and I took our coffee and yogurt parfaits into my office and got to work. He had research to do for a case in Greenville, and I had Calista’s lists to process. It felt warm and familiar, working with Nate, even with the hum of electricity that flowed between us.
“Hey, can you do a bug sweep for me?” I asked.
“Sure. Calista’s house?”
“Yeah. Whoever’s gaslighting her has access to the house. They may well have bugged it. I’m going to move our ten o’clock to noon at The Pirates’ Den. Once she’s out of the house, I’ll call and ask her to send Elenore on an errand and clear Niles out if he’s hanging around. If you’ll meet us at The Pirates’ Den, you can pick up a key and the security code.” I tapped Calista’s name on my iPhone.
“Roger that.”
After I spoke to Calista, I donned latex gloves. I examined the shopping list I’d picked up with a tissue the day before from her credenza. Blake might not have the resources to test the contents of capsules absent compelling reason, but he could surely have this piece of paper checked for fingerprints.
I pulled out a magnifying glass and studied the lined page. Calista had told me their normal procedure was for Elenore to keep a running list of grocery and household needs, and Calista would add personal items. Monday was shopping day. It was easy to tell Elenore’s tight script from Calista’s loopy handwriting. The last item on the list was the enema kit. At first glance, it did resemble the entries for sunscreen, toothpaste, and shampoo. But under the magnifying glass, I detected subtle differences. The “m” in particular was off. I compared the entry to the list of names Calista had given me and noted that the “m’s” were similar everywhere except the last entry in the shopping list. It was a good forgery. I slipped the page into a plastic evidence bag and labeled it.
Calista’s list of connections was poignantly short. Every person on it was either on her payroll or someone who’d exploited her in the past. From what I’d read, here was one more parallel to Marilyn Monroe. Even when Calista tried to break away from the pattern her crazy family established, she seemed to stumble into similar situations. Like moving to the East Coast and changing her name. Although the studios had been behind Marilyn’s name change. Still, both women were vulnerable to people they should’ve been able to trust. I took a moment to give thanks for every member of my family and all my friends and neighbors.
Jim Davis headlined Calista’s list. If I had my guess, he currently occupied Sonny’s interrogation room. Nothing in his background seemed suspicious except
his efforts to cash in on the coincidence of Calista’s birth and her appearance by forcing her into a career she didn’t want. In fact, the only incriminating things about him were that he was the ex-husband and he was present in the area. He was a piece of the puzzle, but I wasn’t convinced he was Calista’s biggest problem. I set him aside.
Grace and Gladys were next. These women made my skin crawl. Just to see what I could stir up, I tried calling the latest home phone number I could find. Apparently, when Gladys wasn’t institutionalized, she still lived with Grace. No one answered. I didn’t leave a message.
I turned back to the list. After a space, Calista had recorded the people currently populating her world. Harmony was at the top. Her being dead and all, I didn’t think she posed a danger, but her death was likely connected. I searched my usual databases. Harmony’s profile produced a shocker: Under the name her mother had put on her birth certificate, Helena Patrice Calhoun had an MBA from the Darla Moore School of Business at the University of South Carolina. She’d married a Rigney and lived on Tradd Street, South of Broad.
Hells bells, poor Sonny was deep into a hot mess. Dealing with old money, society types whose people had occupied the tip of the peninsula since well before the Revolutionary War, complicated any investigation.
Phoebe DiTomei was next on the list. The owner of Phoebe’s day spa, she colored every female’s hair on the island over age fifteen. I could vouch for Phoebe.
But the next name gave me pause. Charles Gadsden was Calista’s therapist. After what I had read about Ralph Greenson, Marilyn Monroe’s therapist, I shared Calista’s suspicions of him. According to Donald Spoto’s well-documented biography of Marilyn, Greenson appeared to control every aspect of Marilyn’s life. He gave her high dosages of various barbiturates and arranged for other doctors to do so, isolated her from her friends, and even maneuvered himself onto the Twentieth Century Fox payroll as some sort of consultant. Then there was a chilling incident in June—just two months before Marilyn’s death—where Greenson went to elaborate measures to conceal bruises of suspicious origin on Marilyn’s. There was something very sinister about his relationship with his most famous patient.
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