2 Lowcountry Bombshell

by Susan M. Boyer

  I sighed a long-suffering sigh that called Mamma to mind. Reigned, I reached inside my handbag. “I was afraid you’d mule up. If you won’t let me stick close, put this on and don’t take it off—not even to shower.” I handed her a silver pendant.

  “It’s not very attractive, is it?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “It’s not that bad. A little clunky maybe. But it’s not supposed to be a fashion statement. Take it. Put it on. You can wear it inside your blouse. It has a GPS inside, and if you press the center swirl, it sends an alert to my cell phone. I can tell where you are and I’ll know you’re in trouble.”

  She took the necklace from my hand. “It’s like those things they give senior citizens in case they fall?”

  “Sort of. But you can’t talk into it. May I have your cell phone?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to install some software on it that will allow me to spy on your phone calls, texts, emails—pretty much anything you do on your phone. I can also track the phone’s location this way. The pendant is in case you get separated from your phone or can’t call for help.”

  Very slowly, she pulled her phone from her purse. She placed it on the table and slid it to me. Her eyes stayed locked on mine. “I’m a very private person.”

  I searched for the website I needed from Calista’s phone, logged into my account, and downloaded the app. “This is a very temporary arrangement. As soon as the threat is neutralized, you can watch me remove the software.”

  “If I survive August fourth—when she actually died—and August fifth, which is when she was officially declared dead, then that’s the end of it. There’s nothing left for them to try to pattern.”

  “You’re assuming that your Aunt Grace, your mamma, and your ex-husband are behind this. I think that’s a dangerous assumption.”

  A commotion broke out near the doorway. Two women of a certain age with big sunglasses and teased hair headed our way with open arms, making all kinds of racket.

  Calista said, “It makes perfectly good sense to me.”

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The brunette pulled the fake blonde towards the table. “I can’t believe it, Gladys, here’s our girl!”

  “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it’s you. It’s just so good to see you,” said the blonde, who didn’t look a bit like Calista in my opinion.

  Calista was unnaturally calm. “Mother, Grace, this is Liz Talbot. Liz, Gladys Monroe and Grace McKee. Or do you prefer Gwen and Donna?”

  That shut the women up. They both stepped backward. Grace, or whoever she was, gave Calista an appraising look. Gladys looked at Grace for her cue. After a moment, Grace regained her composure and continued her act. “Sweetheart, we’ve missed you so much. Why, you’re just as beautiful as always. Look at her, Gladys, isn’t she gorgeous?”

  “Gorgeous,” Gladys echoed.

  I couldn’t think of a thing to contribute to the conversation.

  “Why are you here?” Calista asked.

  “We came to see you, of course,” Grace said.

  “We came as soon as we got the postcard,” added Gladys.

  “We’ve been looking for you ever since you left California. We kept thinking you’d come back to us…”

  “Excuse me, ladies,” I said. “But did you say you received a postcard?”

  “Why yes,” said Grace. “Postmarked right here in Stella Maris. It said, ‘Norma Jeane is here.’ It was so pretty. Had a picture of a beach.”

  “Who sent it to you?” I asked.

  “We don’t have any idea. It wasn’t signed,” said Grace. “I hoped maybe you’d sent it, Norma Jeane.”

  “I certainly did not send it. And my name is Calista. Don’t either of you dare call me by that other name. I won’t stand for it, do you hear me?” She had steel in her voice, her eyes, and her spine.

  “Ladies, pardon me, but I’m curious how you came to be right here, at The Pirates’ Den right now,” I said.

  They looked at each other. “We asked the woman at the bed and breakfast for a recommendation. We wanted a restaurant overlooking the ocean. Neither of us have ever seen the Atlantic Ocean before this trip. She recommended this place. When we walked in the door, the first thing we saw was our girl.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” I said, wondering if it was a coincidence at all. Another Grace – my godmother, Grace Sullivan – owned the only bed and breakfast. She was a psychic. I needed to talk to her.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Grace smiled, oozing satisfaction. “Here, Gladys, you shouldn’t stand so long, let me pull us up some chairs.”

  Calista stood. “We were just leaving.”

  “What?” Gladys looked confused. “Baby girl, we just found you, after all these years. Why would you leave now?”

  “Because, Mother, I simply don’t care to stay any longer. Liz?”

  I did a quick calculation, and decided neither Grace nor Gladys would deviate from the script while they were together. I needed to speak to Gladys alone. I opted for solidarity with my client. “Coming. How long do you ladies play to stay on at the bed and breakfast?”

  “As long as necessary,” Grace said. “Please talk to her, won’t you?” She grabbed my hand.

  I stood and pulled my hand along with me. “I surely will.”

  “Norma Jeane?” Gladys cried out. “Where are you going, Norma Jeane?”

  “We’ll wait to hear from you,” Grace called.

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Calista said.

  Gladys started wailing as the door closed behind us.

  SEVENTEEN

  The afternoon heat in Charleston didn’t nearly bother me as much as usual after the scene with Calista’s family at lunch. Half my salad had been left in the bowl, but I didn’t mind. My appetite had gotten lost in all the crazy.

  Security Solutions, Incorporated occupied a squat, nondescript, concrete office building on the section of East Bay between Chapel and Charlotte Street. It wasn’t the kind of place you could wander into by accident—the front door was steel, and it was locked. I pressed the call button and identified myself to a curt gentleman.

  “Step inside, Ms. Talbot,” he said after making me stand in the afternoon heat for longer than should have been necessary. “Last office on the left.”

  The door was so heavy it would likely survive a bomb blast. I proceeded down a hall lined with closed doors to the office at the end, which stood slightly ajar. I tapped two short knocks and pushed the door open.

  The office was unexpected. It screamed testosterone, but tastefully. I’d bet a high-dollar decorator was responsible for the wide-plank paneling, local artwork, and tailored window treatments. Of course, the window was opaque, so you couldn’t see the bars on the outside.

  The man behind the heavy desk stood. “Ms. Talbot, I’m Mack Ryan. Have a seat.”

  “So nice to meet you.” I shook his hand, then settled into a leather wingback. He was definitely ex-military. The man was one big muscle with a brown crew cut. The crease in his khakis would slice bread. His black golf shirt bore the SSI logo.

  The release form Calista had signed was the lone piece of paper on an uncluttered desk. He glanced at it, then regarded me with piercing gray eyes. “How can I help, Ms. Talbot?”

  “I’m concerned that Ms. McQueen’s system did not activate yesterday morning. I would imagine that would be rare for a company with your reputation.”

  “Not rare. Never happened. I pulled the electronic records. The system was activated with her code at twenty-three forty-seven Wednesday night. Someone turned on perimeter security and the outdoor cameras. At one fourteen, the system was deactivated using the same code.

  “Nevertheless, out of an abundance of caution and concern for o
ur client’s welfare, I dispatched my technicians. They were onsite within an hour of her call yesterday afternoon. Every component of her system has been tested—twice, by different techs. Everything checks out.”

  “Does anyone have the system code besides Ms. McQueen?”

  “Only SSI personnel and anyone Ms. McQueen has shared the code with. I assure you there was no technical failure with our system or monitoring. The motion detectors didn’t activate the cameras because someone turned them off. Someone inside the house.”

  I squinted at him. “How many keypads are there?”

  “Three. One by the front door, one in her bedroom, and one in the pool house.”

  I mulled that. “And because she doesn’t turn on the inside cameras, there’s no way to know who turned it off.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Can you tell which keypad was used to turn it on and off?”

  “It was activated and deactivated from her bedroom.”

  “So you’re thinking she disarmed it herself.”

  “Ms. McQueen says that she armed the system but did not disarm it. She is my client. Not my business to speculate otherwise.”

  I liked Mack. He struck me as a straight arrow. “Is this a pattern? Has the system been deactivated other nights, or was this an isolated incident?”

  “It’s happened every night for the last four nights. Before that, never.”

  “Would you have known this if she hadn’t reported that the system failed to activate?”

  “The information is part of the electronic log, but we’d have had no reason to check it or frankly question it absent her call. Clients turn their systems on and off all the time for various reasons.”

  “It happened again last night?” Who had been in the house besides Calista?

  “Affirmative.”

  “And was it activated and deactivated from her bedroom every time?”

  “Yes.”

  “When the system has been working normally—before the last four nights—have the cameras ever picked up anyone outside her house?”

  “Since the system was installed, no one has approached the house while the system was armed except Ms. McQueen and Mrs. Harper.”

  “Mrs. Harper has gone in alone?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Then she must have the code, right?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. Typically domestic employees have alarm codes. The cameras were also activated by swine in the flower beds three times the first week they were installed.”

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  “I wish I were. The techs had to raise the angle on the cameras so the crew in the screening room didn’t have to monitor hogs all night.”

  “Damnation. I hate those hogs. How many were there?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted them back. How many were there? I sounded like a wild hog hunter.

  Mack gave me a look that telegraphed how he thought the question odd. “I couldn’t say. We didn’t keep that footage.”

  I coughed gently into my hand, searching for a natural segue anywhere. “The interior cameras are motion activated as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, hypothetically speaking, if Ms. McQueen turned on all the interior cameras when she went to bed, she would activate the cameras if she got up for a drink?”

  “The cameras are aimed at doorways and windows with access. There’s incidental coverage of every room except the bathrooms. The cameras in her bedroom cover the sliding glass doors and windows that access the porch. There’s access to her private bath and the kitchen without activating a camera. We set it up that way for privacy reasons. If she gets up in the middle of the night and goes to the bathroom or kitchen, she won’t trip a motion detector.”

  “And she’s aware of this?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Why would she go to the expense of having equipment installed and not use it?”

  “I couldn’t speculate on that.”

  “The keypad in her bedroom. Does a camera cover that?”

  “No. It’s on the wall near her bed.”

  “Is there a delay on the motion detectors?”

  “Negative. If there’s an intrusion, seconds count.”

  “There’s always someone monitoring the cameras?”

  “We have three people in the surveillance room at all times. Of course, they’re monitoring multiple cameras for multiple clients. But remember, all the cameras are motion activated. Most of the screens stay dark most of the time. An alarm sounds and a red light comes on any monitor that’s activated. If someone takes a bio break, we still have two sets of eyes on the screens.”

  “And if someone other than Calista shows up on her screen?”

  “Unless she sent us a photograph and asked that the subject be added to her cleared list, we would dispatch a team and call the Stella Maris PD. Your brother is closer. It takes us forty minutes to get there.”

  I raised my left eyebrow. “You know Blake?”

  “We’re familiar with law enforcement in every jurisdiction where we have a client. I also check out private investigators who make appointments to discuss clients.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “I’ve asked Calista to use the interior system. I’ll reiterate that she can access the kitchen and bath without being on camera.”

  Mack nodded. “That would be optimal.”

  I offered him a sunny smile. “I was unfamiliar with your company prior to this case. There’s not much goes on in Charleston County I miss.”

  “We keep a low profile.”

  “How do your clients find you?”

  “Word of mouth. Our clients tend to have some connection, not necessarily social, though I’d guess some do. Many have the same attorneys. In Ms. McQueen’s case, the referral came through her accountant at Dixon Hughes Goodman.”

  “Are all of your staff members ex-military?”

  “Ninety percent. We have a few former police officers and a spy or two. Are you exploring a career move?”

  “No. Just curious.”

  He stood. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  I turned right on East Bay, headed to meet Sonny at Kudu. I needed caffeine and an update. Sonny probably had the same two things on his mind. The driver of a black Mustang with dark tinted windows turned right onto Calhoun behind me. The car followed me way too close—almost on my bumper. What the hell? When I lucked out and found a spot halfway down the block from Kudu on Vanderhorst, the Mustang pulled past me, paused at the stop sign, and turned right onto St. Phillip Street with a short squeal of rubber on asphalt. Jerk.

  On the sidewalk, I stepped over a tangle of laundry, no doubt dropped by a College of Charleston student on the way to the laundry mat. This area of town, adjacent to campus, was their domain. Laundry on the sidewalk was not uncommon.

  Hot as it was outside, I still craved a mocha latte. The air conditioning inside Kudu was in high gear, so I ordered my coffee, then checked the back left corner of the shop. Sonny was there, and on the phone.

  He waved, and I pointed at the giant red cappuccino machine. I’d wait for my double soy mocha latte while he finished his call. I smiled and thanked the barista as he handed me my cup. I loved the signature twin swirls on top. It’s the little things.

  Sonny was off the phone and munching on a danish. I took the seat across from him. “Hey, Sonny.”

  “Hey, yourself. Thanks for the tip about Jim Davis.”

  “Any time. Did you get anything useful from him?”

  Sonny eyed me over his coffee cup. “It didn’t get past me that I just did your job for you.”

  I widened my eyes and gave an innocent look my best shot.

  “You can save all that,” he sai
d. “It’s a good thing I’m an easy going guy.”

  “Why, that’s what I love best about you, Sonny.”

  “Uh-huh. So, Mr. Davis received an anonymous postcard alerting him to his ex-wife’s presence in the area. I saw the postcard. Looks legit. His story is that he still loves her, and he has been searching for her for since she left California in nineteen ninety-four. His motives are pure, and so forth, and he has no knowledge of Ms. McQueen’s association with Harmony, aka Helena Calhoun Rigney.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Frankly, he seems like a simple guy—what you see is what you get. He’s never remarried.” Sonny shrugged. “I can’t say how he fits into your case, but I don’t like him for Mrs. Rigney’s murder.”

  “You think that’s South of Broad drama?” Behind the wrought iron gates to brick-walled gardens, stately, moss-laden oaks guarded historic homes where George Washington had slept. Inside those regal residences, the pedigreed and the nouveau riche inhabitants of South of Broad had problems just like everyone else. Wealth created its own theatrics. But unpleasantry among the upper crust had the added layer of keeping up appearances, avoiding scandal.

  Sonny winced. “Unfortunately not. That would be too easy. I’m only telling you this because it’s got the hair on my neck up. You need to steer very clear of this case. Something happens to me, you go straight to the Post and Courier. Hell, screw that. Call Nancy Grace. Mrs. Rigney was a pretty little thing—Nancy Grace loves those. Comes to it, I might call Nancy myself.”

  “What on earth?”

  He spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. “Mrs. Rigney was killed with a Glock used in a murder outside a King Street nightclub four years ago. The gun was found in a nearby dumpster. The murder is an open case, so the gun should be in evidence. But it’s not there.”

  I inhaled sharply.

  Sonny nodded. “Someone removed the gun from evidence. Only two reasons anyone would do that. To protect the murderer—but it was an unregistered gun, so that doesn’t fly—or if someone needed an untraceable gun for another purpose.”