2 Lowcountry Bombshell

by Susan M. Boyer

  “Could it be misplaced?”

  “Case has never gone to trial. No reason anyone would move it. Only thing makes sense is someone took it.”

  “Would someone take it to sell it?”

  “Nah—it wouldn’t be worth the risk except for the express purpose of committing a crime.”

  “And the only folks with access are police officers?”

  “Of various roles, but yeah.”

  “Hells bells.”

  “You got that right. Needless to say, I’m watching where I step here, and you should, too. You hear me, Liz?”

  “Yeah. I hear you.” I pondered what he’d told me for a few moments. “That makes it unlikely Harmony’s death is connected to Calista.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Mrs. Rigney—that was a hit. And the hitter, at a minimum, has connections inside the department. Your client’s issues, entertaining though they may be, are of a different variety.” Sonny stood. “Anything comes up makes you think otherwise, call me. But do not do anything other than pick up the phone to call me.”

  “Mmm-kay. Sonny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch your back.”

  He nodded and left me alone to finish my mocha and try to figure any way Calista might be connected to a hit connected to a police officer. A feeling of gratitude for her screwball family washed over me. Just then I was hoping they were the root of Calista’s troubles. They were far less scary than a rogue police officer. But I was worried about Sonny.

  EIGHTEEN

  On my way home, a black Mustang pulled beside me on Johnny Dodds Boulevard. It had the same dark windows as the one that had been behind me in downtown Charleston, making it impossible to see the driver. Was this the same car? Surely my conversation with Sonny had made me paranoid. Nevertheless, I tried to slow down and let it pass so I could get the plate. The driver kept his speed consistent with mine. Then, he slowed down and pulled in behind me. He followed too close. I took my foot off the accelerator. Abruptly, I tuned right at Anna Knapp Boulevard, planning to circle around and maneuver behind the car. The driver switched lanes, made a U-turn, and sped off. What the hell?

  By the time I negotiated my way back to the intersection, the Mustang had disappeared into traffic. I slid into the left lane. The light was red, traffic steady. I willed the light to change so I could chase down the Mustang and inquire after the driver’s intentions. Was he just a jerk, or was he following me because I’d rattled his cage in connection to Calista’s case? Fourscore and twenty years later, the light finally turned green. I hung a left and changed lanes. I drove as fast as traffic would allow, weaving back and forth, flirting with reckless driving. Was the Mustang still on Johnny Dodds, or had the driver turned somewhere? There was no sign of him. I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. Damnation. No sense going back over the bridge when I couldn’t be sure my quarry had headed back to Charleston. I turned around at Houston Northcutt Boulevard and made for home. I took a cleansing breath. The jerk in the Mustang was probably just a jerk.

  I brooded about Sonny, the Mustang, and all things Calista until I was on the ferry. As it always did, the water soothed me. I stared out to sea and focused on the evening ahead. I had a date to dress for. Nate had made reservations at Anson for seven o’clock. My mouth watered thinking about Anson. Their she crab soup was to die for.

  Nate’s car wasn’t in the driveway when I turned in, so I called to check in with him.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I had some shopping to do. In my haste to get to Stella Maris, I neglected to pack proper attire to escort a lady to dinner.”

  “Oh, Nate. You didn’t have to do that. We could have gone someplace more casual. Honestly, I’ve seen people dressed very casually in Anson.”

  “Cretins. A gentleman wears a jacket for fine dining. I’m looking forward to this evening.”

  “Me, too. Hey, what did you find at Calista’s?” I pressed the button to close the garage door behind me.

  “She’s bug free. I did an RF sweep, an IR sweep, checked the wiring—I checked the house from top to bottom. The only people monitoring her are the folks at SSI.”

  “They only monitor her when she actually turns the system on.”

  “Fair point. But, no one else is listening in.”

  “Thank you for checking. Ohmygosh. I have to tell you what Sonny told me.”

  “Tell me when I get there. See you in ten.”

  “I may be in the shower.”

  “In that case, I’ll hurry along. Take your time.”

  I felt a huge, silly smile take over my face and floated up the stairs. I’d barely made it from the garage to the mudroom when Rhett went to barking. It couldn’t be Nate yet. I scooted through the kitchen, down the hall, and peeked out the door. Michael’s Jeep Cherokee was in front of the house. What on earth did he want?

  Hoping to make whatever it was quick, I opened the door before he could knock. “Michael.”

  “Liz…can I come in?”

  “I’m getting ready to go out. What’s up?”

  “I just need a minute.”

  “Michael, we’ve said all there is to say.”

  “Liz, please.”

  I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and opened the door. I waved him into the living room, and he made himself at home on the sofa.

  He looked up at me with such vulnerability my heart softened. I sat down in the chair to his right. “What did you want to talk about?” I asked.

  “I have something that belongs to you.” He reached into his jeans pocket and brought out a ring box.

  I raised both hands to my face and drew back. “Michael—”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  I squinched my face at him.

  He opened the ring box.

  “Gram’s engagement ring,” I gasped. “Marci took this—well, technically, Gram’s will specified Marci could choose a piece of jewelry—how did you get it back?”

  “She needed more money. I bought it back from her. I had planned—never mind. Here.” He held out the open box to me. I was transfixed by Gram’s two-carat, emerald-shaped diamond ring. I reached for it.

  “This is unexpected.” Nate stood in the living room doorway, confusion and hurt battling on his face.

  “Nate.” I jumped up and Michael followed.

  “Liz, talk to me,” Nate said, his voice calm and even.

  “This isn’t what it looks like at all,” I said, moving towards him as I spoke.

  “Please tell me what it is, then.”

  Michael took a step in our direction, seeming reluctant to cede ground. “I was just returning Liz’s grandmother’s ring.”

  “Marci had it,” I said.

  “I see,” Nate said.

  “Liz…” Michael said.

  “Thank you so much for returning Gram’s ring,” I said. Heaven help me, I didn’t want to hurt Michael, but my first priority was to make sure Nate did not get the first wrong idea. “Was there anything else?”

  Michael looked defeated. “No, that’s all. Nate.” He nodded and passed us on the way to the door.

  “Thank you again,” I said. “I can never thank you enough. This piece is very precious to me.”

  “I know.” Michael nodded, with his hand on the door.

  I was almost home free.

  Michael hesitated. “You know, this island is your home, Liz. You and me, we share that. This place means something to us. We have roots here. Roots are important.”

  “Michael—” I needed to make him stop talking, but I had no idea what to say or do.

  Nate did. He placed his hand lightly at the small of my back. “Thank you for returning Liz’s ring. If you’ll excuse us, we have a dinner reservation in Char
leston.”

  Michael nodded twice and left.

  I started babbling the second the door closed behind him. “He showed up here without calling or anything. I was just about to hop in the shower. I don’t want to keep my handsome date waiting.” I kissed Nate lightly and scurried up the stairs without looking back.

  NINETEEN

  Charleston is a foodie’s paradise. From oyster shacks down a dirt road where they serve salty bites of heaven with a shovel, to white-table-cloth restaurants that make the toughest food critic drool, we have it all. I was pleased that Nate had chosen Anson—it was one of my favorites.

  Anson is right off Market, in the heart of historic Charleston. We parked in the lot beside the restaurant, and I waited with a little smile on my face for Nate to come around and open my door. He reached in and took my hand to help me out. The current that passed between us made me lightheaded. I studied his eyes as I stood and was relieved to find no hint of tension from the earlier scene with Michael. It seemed neither of us was inclined to let Michael spoil our first date.

  Nate pulled me a little closer. “Nice dress.” His voice was a caress, ripe with promise.

  “Thank you.” My smile promised him things, too, like how maybe later he could help me out of my favorite red V-neck Ann Taylor sheath.

  Hand in hand, we strolled towards the restaurant. A horse and carriage clopped by. The guide, dressed in confederate uniform, waxed poetic about Charleston’s history.

  We stepped beneath the overhang covered in little white lights and through the door. Several couples perched by Anson’s massive cypress bar, each in their own private worlds. The décor was dark woods, muted green walls, plantation shutters, and warm candlelight. The hostess led us to a velvet-backed booth with a leather seat. Murmured conversations and sensual jazz comprised the soundtrack. I inhaled a medley of savory aromas and sighed a happy sigh.

  “Good evening, my name is Jonathan, and I’ll be the one taking care of you this evening.” Our waiter had a tie clip made of a bent fork.

  “I love your tie clip,” I said. “Do all the waiters wear those now?” I’d never noticed them before.

  “No, I made this myself.” He smiled, then was off to bring water. He took our cocktail order and returned momentarily with my Grey Goose pomegranate martini and Nate’s Woodford Reserve.

  Nate raised his glass. “To my lovely dinner companion.”

  I smiled, suddenly shy. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

  I couldn’t say why Nate unsettled me after all these years. We’d sat across the table from each other hundreds of times. But this was our first date. My best friend and partner Nate had all sorts of new, unexplored dimensions now that he was my fellow Nate. Off balance, I searched for familiar territory. “I never told you about Sonny.”

  “Can it wait? I’d rather talk about you tonight.”

  “Well…” There was nothing either of us could do about Sonny’s case, which now seemed not to intersect with our case, so I let it drop. “Of course.”

  “It was nice of Michael to bring your grandmother’s ring back.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Here was a topic I’d like to avoid.

  “I’m not sure I’d be such a congenial loser if you were dining with him this evening.”

  “No sense even entertaining such an idea. Have I ever mentioned what sexy eyes you have?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  I flirted shamelessly with him until Jonathan came by to discuss specials. After he mentioned the fried green tomatoes and pimento cheese appetizer, I didn’t hear another word he said until he started talking about grits. “I’m from up north,” he said. “I hope that won’t affect my tip.”

  We all laughed. Jonathan continued his routine. “I never liked grits until I tasted these. We grind them ourselves, and if you’ve heard of Anson Mills grits, that’s us.” Of course I’d heard this before, but his pitch was part of the experience. He slid away to give us a few minutes with the menu.

  After we’d picked out way more food than we needed, we set the menus aside and I pulled my hand sanitizer from my clutch. I slathered some on and set it on the table for Nate.

  “No, thanks.” He almost swallowed a grin before I caught it.

  “There’s nothing funny about getting sick. You don’t know how many people have handled those menus, not to mention the door handle.” I nodded at the sanitizer.

  “I prefer to keep my immune system well-practiced at defending all comers.”

  I tilted my head at him, giving him a look I borrowed from Mamma. He relented and picked up the sanitizer.

  Jonathan appeared.

  Nate said, “We’ll start with a couple of oysters each, the lady would like hers fried. I’ll have mine on the half-shell. Then we’d each like a cup of she crab soup. I’ll have the pork belly appetizer, and the lady will have the fried green tomatoes. And I’ll have the pork chop main course, and the lady will have the fried flounder. And we’d like a bottle of J pinot noir.”

  “Very good.” Jonathan topped off our water and stepped away.

  “I didn’t realize I’d ordered so much fried food until you said it out loud,” I said. “I’ll have to run ten miles in the morning.”

  “We’ll work it off somehow.”

  “We’ll need to. You know Mamma’s not serving health food come Sunday.”

  Something flickered across Nate’s face. “You haven’t had to intervene between your daddy and his computer anymore have you?”

  “Thankfully not. Not this week, anyway.”

  “Have you been doing that a lot since you’ve been back?”

  I shrugged. “Some. He’s just trying to get attention. I’ve been gone a long time. When he’s used to me being home all that nonsense will settle down. I hope.”

  Nate took a sip of his drink. “We haven’t thought very far ahead, I’m afraid.”

  I felt as if I’d been turned into a salt pillar. How had I not thought this through. Nate still lived in Greenville. He hadn’t mentioned how long he planned on staying in Stella Maris. I picked up my drink and downed the last sip.

  “We’ll work it out,” he said. “It’s not like Greenville’s on another planet.”

  “I guess I was hoping you’d move here.” Hoping, hell. I’d assumed he’d move. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Well, I like spending time here. But I have a condo in Greenville. Yours hasn’t sold yet. We have established relationships with several attorneys who send us a nice stream of business there.” He shrugged. “Greenville’s home for me—it’s my place in the world.”

  “Your parents still have a home there.” All of the things I hadn’t thought of piled up in my head.

  “Hunh. They spend most of their time in Florida. Who knows where Scott is—somewhere with no extradition agreement. Besides, he’s so damaged our best hope is to die in something other than a gunfight. I know you’re close to your family….” His face creased.

  “I am, and I stayed away so long for stupid reasons.”

  “Because of Michael. And Scott.”

  I pondered the truth of that. Scott’s career and Michael’s marriage to my cousin, Marci the Schemer, had held me in Greenville.

  “And now, you want to stay here because of your family and because you have roots.”

  Michael’s words echoed in my head and I knew that’s precisely what was running through Nate’s. “And the house,” I said. “I have a house here. On the beach. I’ve committed to the town council.”

  “What if we divide our time between here at the beach house and Greenville.”

  I did love Greenville. And he made a great point about the attorneys we worked with. But, I couldn’t entertain the thought of leaving Stella Maris again. And it hadn’t escaped my notice we’d skipped right over talkin
g about such things as love and gone straight to where we’d live. That didn’t sit right with me, but I didn’t want to spoil our evening with a quarrel. “We have time to figure all this out, right?”

  “All the time we need.” He smiled, and the edge had left his voice.

  Jonathan arrived with the wine. As soon as it was tasted and poured, our oysters appeared in front of us and we began the feast. We lingered, sharing bites of each other’s food, and talking about nothing more complicated than creating the perfect bite of pork belly, corn and cheddar waffle, hot pepper jelly, sunnyside-up egg, and succotash. After entrees neither of us finished, we topped off the meal with three bites apiece of mile high apple pie.

  Nate was quiet on the ride home. We took the long way, bearing right onto Coleman Boulevard coming off the Cooper River Bridge. We crossed Shem Creek, lined with fishing boats and shrimp trawlers. Lights from the restaurants that lined the shore reflected in the water and lit the scene like Christmas.

  Coleman Boulevard turned into Ben Sawyer. We crossed the Ben Sawyer Bridge, turned left, and drove the length of Sullivan’s Island. When we crossed the bridge over Breach Inlet onto Isle of Palms, I thought of Colleen, as I always did. How like her, to take her life somewhere other than Stella Maris, sparing her family a constant reminder.

  It was nearly ten-thirty when we pulled into the Isle of Palms marina parking lot. We’d have a short wait for the next ferry.

  Nate lowered the windows and turned the car off. Music from the band playing at Morgan Creek Grill drifted across the lot.

  “The night smells good.” I filled my lungs with salt air. “This time of year, the only time you can enjoy fresh air is at night. I’m sick to death of air conditioning, but grateful for it just the same.”

  “Something tells me your disposition would suffer if you spent summertime in the Lowcountry without air conditioning.”

  “Most likely.” I glanced right. At the far end of the parking lot, I spotted a black Mustang. “Seriously?”