I jotted down, “What was the weather like on September twelfth?” and “Why did she take her car?” along with, “Where did she park?” I’d love to know what the case detectives had done by way of looking for her car.
As gently as possible, I asked, “Ansley, do you have any reason to believe her parents were abusive?”
“You mean did they hit her? Never. Her daddy has a temper. But he never laid a hand on Kent or her mother. Kent would have told me. Emotional abuse…I guess that’s a matter of opinion. I would say so. They would say they just want what’s best for her.”
“Do you think her daddy has a bad enough temper he could have hurt her in a fit of rage, maybe not meaning to?”
Ansley weighed that. “It’s possible, I guess.”
A companion to my list of questions was my list of possibilities for each case. I try to imagine all the scenarios, no matter how improbable. If he’d hurt his daughter, Colton Heyward wouldn’t be the first person to hire an investigator to make himself look innocent.
Four
Mamma sometimes referred to Merry and me as her twins born two years apart. Merry’s hair was the same multi-toned blonde as mine, highlights courtesy of Phoebe over at Phoebe’s Day Spa, just like mine. Her eyes were the identical shade of cobalt blue she, Blake, and I all got from Mamma. Strangers immediately made us for sisters. I was taller by four inches and didn’t care to reflect on the difference in weight. Merry was more petite, is what I’m saying.
We had a complicated relationship. In most respects, our ideas and perspectives were so aligned we often finished each other’s sentences. Sometimes I picked up the phone to call her and the phone rang before I had a chance to dial. The things we agreed on, we agreed on with zeal. We both did our dead level best to avoid topics on which we disagreed because the fallout was not pretty. My sister was a mule. No doubt she’d call me worse.
On the way home from The Cracked Pot, I called Merry. When she answered, I said, “According to Moon Unit, you have a new boyfriend.”
“Are you coming to dinner at Mamma and Daddy’s Saturday night?”
“Yes, but I still don’t understand why we’re having dinner on a Saturday night. What disrupted the Sunday and occasional Wednesday night schedule?”
“My new boyfriend. He has to fly out of Charlotte Sunday afternoon.”
“He’s coming to dinner Saturday night?”
“Yeah. You’ll really like him.” I could hear her smiling.
“And you were going to tell me about him…when?” Hurt and confusion battled for the upper hand in my head.
“I’d planned on telling you Saturday night when I introduced you.”
I pondered that for a moment. My sister and I didn’t have many secrets from each other. “Why didn’t you tell me when you met him? How long have you been seeing this guy? It must be serious if you’re introducing him to Mamma and Daddy. And Blake.” Our older brother was the Stella Maris chief of police. He took his brotherly duties just as seriously as his professional ones.
“I met him a few months ago on a plane to DC. I was going to a conference. He was going to a different conference. He’s an investment banker—municipalities—based in Charlotte. I didn’t mention him because at first I didn’t see this going anywhere. I can’t do the long distance thing.”
“I can’t believe you. I’m cut to the bone.”
“What, because of the comment on long distance relationships? I’m happy it works for you. I just can’t do it.”
It wasn’t working out all that great for me, either. “No—don’t play innocent with me. Because you’re seeing someone who clearly means a lot to you and you haven’t mentioned him to me at all. What the hell, Merry?” I was unaccustomed to being an outsider in my sister’s life and I didn’t care for the feeling the teensiest bit.
“That is odd, isn’t it?”
“Merry…”
“What’s the first thing you would’ve done?”
I had a clear vision of exactly what this occasion should have looked like. I felt robbed of a memory I should’ve had. “Well, I would’ve liked to’ve shared a bottle of wine with you on the deck under the stars while you told me all the juicy details. I cannot believe you wouldn’t tell me first.”
“What’s the second thing you would have done?”
“What?” What kind of fool question was that?
“What. Is. The. Second. Thing. You. Would. Have. Done?”
“I don’t know…” I squinched up my face.
“Okay. If I’d told Blake, what do you think he would have done straight off?”
“He would’ve run a detailed background check.”
“Ding, ding, ding!”
“I would never—oh, hell’s bells. Of course I would have done exactly the same thing.” I huffed out a sigh. “But I would’ve had your best interests at heart.”
“I know. And I love that about you. I really, really wanted to tell you. Only I didn’t want either of you picking through his life until you knew more about him than I did.”
Okay, I was slightly mollified because she’d wanted to tell me but couldn’t because of my protective tendencies and occupational resources. But what the hell was she thinking? “He could’ve been a serial killer. Most of them look like perfectly normal people. He could still turn out to be a serial killer. Many of them are highly functional. What did you say his name is?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, Merry, before he sits down at Mamma’s dinner table, don’t you think it would be a good idea for me to just verify he’s who he says he is?”
“Liz, seriously. Normal families don’t do background checks on dates.”
“In normal families, you don’t have newspaper clippings about how your sister’s previous boyfriend tried to kill her.” I still had nightmares about the evening two and a half years ago when I nearly lost my sister to a sleazy psycho with a nine mil. “And since when, precisely, did we start aspiring to normalcy anyway? What is his name? You’re just delaying the inevitable. You’ll have to tell me his name in two days anyway.”
Merry heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Joe Eaddy.” It came out sounding like, “Joe Eddie.”
I was thinking he had two first names, like Billy Bob, or Tommy Lee, which was a common thing in our world. “Last name?”
“Eaddy.”
“What kind of last name is Eddie?”
“His name is Joseph Andrew Eaddy. E-A-D-D-Y. Would you like his date of birth?”
“Yes, and place of birth, please. Do you have his social?”
The call dropped.
Shortly after three, I drove down the long oyster shell drive and pulled into the far right garage bay under the beach house I inherited from my grandmother two and a half years ago. It was ridiculously large for one person, but I loved every square foot. It started out as a modest craftsman-style beach bungalow Gram and Granddad built in the sixties. Several additions and remodels later, Gram left me a sprawling yellow house of debatable architectural pedigree, with teak trim. I loved the porches best, from the deep front porch, to the sleeping porch off the side, to the large deck out back, to the veranda off the master bedroom. The house sat atop a four-car garage, which elevated it to protect it from storm surge.
Rhett, my golden retriever, came running into the garage through his doggie door to greet me.
“There’s my boy.” I ruffled his fur and scratched behind his ear.
He gave me a sloppy grin and wagged his tail to let me know how much he liked the attention. Then he did a little prance that was my cue to come play. This would be good for both of us. I went out to the front yard to throw the ball for him. Rhett was the most uncomplicated male I’d ever had in my life. He helped balance the others. I gave him a beef jerky treat and a big hug before heading in.
I climbed the stairs from the ga
rage into the mudroom, stopping to freshen Rhett’s water. On my way through the kitchen, I poured a Diet Cheerwine over some ice for myself and settled behind my desk in the front room. I’d taken to calling my office the front room as it was massive and had multiple functions. After Gram’s final remodel, the oversized space had been her living room. She’d been the unofficial social maven of the island and had entertained on a large scale.
My entertaining needs were virtually nonexistent. Aside from date nights with Nate and an occasional night of dancing and karaoke at The Pirates’ Den, my social life was family-centric. Everything happened at Mamma’s house. These days, in addition to my office, the front room served as my living room and library. The tall windows provided lots of natural light, making it a pleasant space to work or relax.
Joe Eaddy would have to wait. I created an electronic file for the Heyward case, transcribed my notes from my interview with Ansley, and filed them with the ones from the Colton Heyward interview. For me, each case was a puzzle. I needed to find all the pieces, orient them the right way, and fit them together until the picture became clear and complete.
The first piece of the puzzle was Kent. I started an electronic profile for her, pulling together information from several public and private subscription databases, and adding that to what I’d learned. Amelia Kent Rivers Heyward was born March 27, 1991 at Medical University of South Carolina, parents Virginia Bounetheau and Colton Heyward. Kent was a family name that climbed farther back in her maternal family tree than I had time to trace, as was Rivers.
She attended Porter-Gaud private school and The College of William and Mary. I found nothing to contradict the information I’d accumulated from her father and Ansley. Kent had no criminal record, and no civil actions had been filed against her. Though I was reasonably certain that’s what I would find, experience had taught me to verify my instincts. Kent was only twenty-three. She had a smaller electronic footprint than most of the folks I profiled.
Next, I created profiles for everyone closest to Kent, beginning with her parents and working my way out. No doubt I would find new people to profile as the case progressed and I learned more about Kent. The software I used made easy work of tracking family connections. It automatically populated information on close relatives. You never knew what would turn out to be important, so I liked knowing everything about my clients and their families.
Colton Heyward was an only child, and it appeared Kent was the last—so far—in a long line of Heywards who’d lived in Charleston for generations. Based on the real estate he owned, the lack of mortgages on any property, the sizable charitable contributions he made, and the lifestyle he and Mrs. Heyward enjoyed, I pegged him as a millionaire many times over.
No software or database I had access to would give me banking information, or the details of his investment accounts or tax returns. There were limits to the information I could gather electronically. But everything I could find indicated that Colton Heyward was a very wealthy man. Another question for my list was what would happen to the Heyward estate should Kent be removed from the equation.
I did a preliminary search for distant Heyward relatives. The closest connection I found was a fifth cousin twice removed. That branch of the family had settled in Minnesota decades ago. It was unlikely they even knew Kent existed. Less likely was that this cousin was a beneficiary of Colton Heyward’s will in any circumstance. Still, I made a note.
I spent the better part of the next two hours documenting Kent’s mother’s family—the Bounetheaus, another South of Broad family. Virginia Bounetheau married Colton Heyward in 1982 when she was twenty-one. I found no record of her attending college. Her parents—Ansley had been right, they had big, old money, the kind that had been growing for many generations—were Charles Drew Calhoun Bounetheau, commonly known as C.C., and Abigail Kent Rivers.
Interesting. Ansley was hardly the “distant relation” to Virginia Bounetheau Heyward that my client had claimed. An early marriage by ancestors two generations back had made first cousins out of Ansley’s mother, Shannelle Victoria Rivers Johnson, and Abigail Bounetheau. In the South, that’s not a “distant relation” unless said cousins entertained ideas of marriage. If I calculated correctly, Ansley and Kent were second cousins once removed.
Shannelle was an unexpected choice of a first name for a girl from a family with old money in these parts. No wonder she’d shortened it to Nell. Were her bona fides strictly in order? And how had Ansley failed to mention this family connection—especially after casting aspersions on several of Kent’s first cousins? I made myself a note to follow up.
Virginia Bounetheau had an older sister, Charlotte, who married Bennett Pinckney. They had four sons, ranging in age from twenty-three to twenty-seven. Virginia and Charlotte also had twin younger brothers—the “creepy uncles” Ansley mentioned—Peyton and Peter. The twins were fifty years old and still lived at home. For men with such apparent resources, this was odd. I’d give Ansley that much. Still, oddity had no bearing on motive, means, or opportunity.
I needed to find out the particulars of C.C. and Abigail Bounetheau’s estate planning. I’d found enough to convince me they were worth hundreds of millions of dollars at a minimum. And that was a powerful lot of motive. How that estate was divided could indeed be a factor in Kent’s disappearance.
By five-thirty, the Bounetheaus and their money were making the spot behind my left eye throb—the spot where migraines originated. I dug all ten fingers through my hair and massaged my temples with my thumbs. Mr. Heyward’s sense of urgency wasn’t lost on me. I shared it. However, realistically, Kent had been missing for a month. If it were possible to find her in a day, Charleston PD would’ve already found her.
I mulled various possible scenarios and fervently prayed we were dealing with voluntary relocation. My plan was to get Nate to work this angle, find out what he could about the phone call from Atlanta and the credit card charges. And follow-up yet again with everyone Ansley and Mr. and Mrs. Heyward could think of who Kent could possibly be staying with—friends from school now living a safe distance away, et cetera. This would leave me free to pursue other possible narratives. If Kent had been the victim of foul play, odds were it was someone she knew. In any case, the first thing I needed to do was interview a gaggle of local relatives and close friends. Hopefully Virginia Heyward had dealt with her manicure crisis today and could speak with me tomorrow. I called the Heyward home and asked the gentleman who answered the phone—the butler?—for an appointment the next day. I waited on hold for ten minutes.
“Mrs. Heyward will receive you at two p.m.” Perhaps it was his British accent, but the words came out with triumphant flair. Trumpets. There should’ve been trumpets.
I wondered if Mrs. Heyward was displeased. She clearly hadn’t wanted to see me that morning. She might not appreciate being put on the spot. “Thank you so much. I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“It’s William, miss. William Palmer. I am the Heyward family household manager.”
“Mr. Palmer, would you be available to speak with me after Mrs. Heyward and I finish?”
“If necessary. I can’t imagine I’ll have anything to add. I was out the evening Miss Heyward disappeared.”
“Thank you, Mr. Palmer.” I made myself a note to profile Mr. Palmer and the rest of the household staff.
“My pleasure to be of service. Good evening, Miss Talbot.”
Matt Thomas answered on the second ring. He was eager to talk to me, and we made an appointment for ten a.m. the next morning at Kudu’s on Vanderhorst.
Maybe I could talk to Evan Ingle before I left Stella Maris so I could check that off my list. I wanted to get the names of the other artist friends Kent hung out with. One of them could’ve been stalking her for all I knew.
This group may not have been the last to see Kent, but they’d been expecting her. They represented the point never reach
ed on her timeline. They were a piece of the puzzle and had to be examined before I would know if they were the main focus or part of the background. A quick call later, I had an appointment to meet Evan at his studio at eight a.m.
Satisfied I’d done all I could for the day, I went upstairs and ran a bath, fully loaded—fizz balls, scented oil, and bubble bath. I docked my iPhone and shuffled my Bathtub Music play list. Kenny Chesney started singing “Always Gonna be You.” Then I slipped out of my clothes and into the water and thought of nothing but the feel of silky water on my skin, the scent of lavender, and Nate.
I dressed carefully, but simply. My sleeveless Michael Kors navy and white maxi dress felt like the right choice. I slipped into a pair of neutral, T-strap sandals with pearly-petaled daisies on top. A simple silver chain necklace and a pair of oversized hoops completed my outfit. I kept the makeup simple—a little mascara, a little lip gloss. I could hear Mamma now telling me I needed some color and should put on some lipstick under that gloss.
I wandered downstairs to the kitchen and opened a bottle of pinot noir. Nate texted me as the ferry docked at ten to seven. I texted back to let him know I’d be out back. I set the bourbon and a rocks glass for him on the counter and went out onto the deck. The breeze had cooled, but was still warm enough I didn’t need a sweater. I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs and watched moonlit waves chase the sand. Ocean therapy. I needed this. Usually it helped me put the day away. That night, it brought everything I’d stuffed into a corner of my mind front and center.
Fifteen minutes later I heard the door behind me open.
Nate sat in the chair beside me. “I put dinner in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, but the surf held my gaze.
“Slugger, are you all right?”
“I am now.”
“You seem…subdued. I confess I’m accustomed to a more enthusiastic welcome after three weeks. A man could develop a complex.”
Lowcountry Boneyard Page 5
