“When are y’all planning on her moving in?”
“We talked about next month. Kent wanted to give her parents time to adjust. She was hoping they’d warm up to me. It breaks her heart, the way they act. I tried telling her it doesn’t matter to me. But it matters to her.”
Colleen said, “He’s just the sweetest thing.”
I ignored her. “I get that they have other plans for Kent, but is there any reason you can think of aside from that why they wouldn’t like you? I mean—and, not to put too fine a point on it, but I will verify what you tell me—have you ever been arrested? Do you abuse drugs? That kind of thing.”
“God, no.” He looked like he wanted to spit something out.
Colleen said, “What is wrong with you?”
“I have to ask. Nothing personal.”
He canted his head and blew out a long breath. “I work hard. I have plans. One day I’m going to have my own restaurant in this town. Everything Kent’s parents suspect I am, I’m the opposite of that.”
“Noted. So, she left your place around two that morning. Did you talk to her after that?”
“She texted me when she got home. I texted her back. We said goodnight, that kind of thing.”
“And you didn’t speak to her on Friday at all?”
“Yes, I did. We spoke briefly around lunchtime. She was excited about seeing her artist friends that night.” He closed his eyes, then opened them. “Look, I shouldn’t have said what I did about them. They’ve been very encouraging to Kent, and she needs this. The guy from Stella Maris—Evan Ingle—he was going to help her set up a virtual gallery website. Kent has plans, too. That restaurant I’m going to open? We’re going to showcase her work on the walls.”
“Wait. He was going to help her set up a website Friday night at dinner?”
His forehead creased. “No, not during dinner. I had the impression they were going to do that after dinner.”
“She told you that?”
He thought for a minute. “Yeah. I mean, she wasn’t specific about where they were going to do that. She just said she didn’t know how late they’d be when I asked her about coming over after I got off. I should’ve asked more questions. Damn. Do you think that’s important?”
Only because Evan hadn’t mentioned it. And I’d asked him specifically if he knew why she would’ve brought her laptop. “Probably not. It’s too soon to tell what’s important. I’m just figuring out a timeline right now. What she planned to do, and exactly where things went off track.”
“Seems pretty clear. She never showed up at Bin 152. That’s why I never gave much thought to what she had planned after, I guess.”
I pondered that, unconvinced that whatever had happened to Kent had occurred in the fifteen-minute window between seven forty-five and eight p.m. “What time did you get off?”
“Around one.”
“Is that typical for a Friday night?”
“Yeah. Restaurant hours…they’re hard on relationships. But I love it. I could never do anything else.”
“How long have you been at FIG?”
“Three and a half years.”
“What do you do there?”
“I’m a sous chef.” There was pride in his voice, and just a touch of prickly.
“You didn’t just walk into that job, I’m guessing.” I needed to fill in details I wouldn’t be able to get online about Matt. I needed a better sense of him, needed him to keep talking.
“No. I started in restaurants right out of high school, washing dishes at High Cotton. That fall, I started culinary arts classes at the Art Institute. By the time I finished, I had worked my way up to sous chef at High Cotton. I left in May twenty eleven. I really wanted to work with the team at FIG. I gave up a sous chef position for a job as a line cook at FIG. Don’t get me wrong. The folks at High Cotton were good to me. It was just time for me to move on.”
High Cotton was another popular fine dining restaurant, part of a small chain specializing in Southern cuisine. “The night Kent disappeared, what did you do after work?”
An expression I couldn’t put a name to slipped across his face and then evaporated. “I went home. I was exhausted.”
“Did you see anyone else that night?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Colleen said.
I swiveled my head so fast it felt like it might spin all the way around. “Hush up.” Ever so slowly, I eased my face back in Matt’s direction.
He was staring at me wide-eyed, his expression chiseled in shock.
I beamed at him. In a real sweet, soothing voice, I said, “I mean, after you left the restaurant, did you see anyone else you know—a neighbor, a friend…”
“Why?” Irritation raked through the question.
At least I’d distracted him from my lapse. I dropped Little Miss Sunshine. “Because right now, I don’t have a timeline to work with. All I know for sure is that Kent left home at seven forty-five and didn’t show up where she said she was going. But she could have changed her plans. Women do it all the time—trust me. For all I know, she went shopping, browsed for hours, bought nothing, and met you at your place when you got off work.”
He looked at me with unvarnished horror. Clearly he understood the implications of Kent meeting him after work on that particular evening.
“Or,” I continued, “she could have driven straight to your house, let herself in, and watched TV until you got off from work.”
His enunciation was precise. “That did not happen.” His voice rose, and the words came out in a rush. “You’ve gotta believe me. I never saw Kent after she left at two that morning.”
“Does she have a key to your house?”
“Yes.” Clear green eyes met mine.
“You see my problem? Right now, all we know is the impossible. It’s impossible that she disappeared into thin air. She went somewhere. I have to examine everywhere that’s possible until I figure out what happened. Give me a reason why it’s impossible that she came to your house that night.”
He dropped his gaze. “I don’t have one. All I know is that she didn’t.”
He was hiding something. I could smell it. “Did the Charleston Police detectives interview you?”
“Are you freaking kidding me? I spent six hours in a little room at the police station. Kent’s daddy put the idea in their head I’d done something to her. I guess he gave you a load of that horseshit, too. I was at work. They talked to everyone else working at the restaurant that night to be certain I couldn’t have snuck out and come back. Clueless. None of them ever worked in a restaurant.”
I pondered this for a moment. “So their theory was that whatever happened to Kent happened before one a.m.?”
“How do I know what they thought?” Wounded, confused green eyes stared back at me. “I guess. When they accepted that I had an alibi, I never heard from them again.”
“What are you not telling me?”
He pursed his lips and glared at me like maybe he thought I was evil.
“There’s something. And maybe you don’t think it’s important. But let me tell you something, buddy. You don’t know what’s important. I need to know e-ver-y-thing. You love her. I can see that. Tell me.”
He looked at the patio to his left and shook his head. “I’m not hiding anything. That’s the truth.”
“For your sake, I hope it’s the whole truth.” I wasn’t convinced by any means, and he would stay on my radar until I was. “Was Kent taking any medications she wouldn’t have left home without?”
“No. Kent doesn’t take pills.”
“What about birth control?”
He scowled. “We use other methods.”
“So what are you not telling me?”
He stood. “If you figure out what happened to her, call me. Pl
ease. But if you want to pursue the crazy-assed idea I had something to do with this—that I hurt Kent?—then you call my attorney. Maybe you’ve heard of him. His name is Charlie Condon. He’s in Mount Pleasant.”
He strode across the courtyard without looking back.
I wondered what the salary range for sous chefs was. This one owned real estate in an up-and-coming area and could afford arguably the top attorney east of the Cooper—an attorney who’d served eight years as the South Carolina Attorney General, and ten as a district attorney. Why did Matt have any attorney’s name to whip out? Why did he hire an East Cooper attorney when he lived in Charleston?
Colleen said, “He looks just as good going as coming.”
“Lookit,” I said. “You and I are going to have to come to an understanding where you don’t talk when I’m talking to other people. Do you want folks to think I have Tourette’s syndrome?”
“You were antagonizing him for no good reason.”
“You just think he’s cute. You and I both know that doesn’t make him innocent. How do you know what my reasons were?”
“Because I can read your mind.” Colleen shimmered and then grew transparent. “See you at the Heywards’ house. Prepare yourself.” She disappeared altogether.
“I need some liquor in this coffee,” I said to no one in particular.
The gentleman at the next table turned around. I pegged him at roughly eighty. He wore a pink seersucker suit and a bowtie. “They don’t sell that here, darlin’, but I could spare a dash.” He opened his jacket to show me his flask.
“How nice of you to offer. Thank you so much.” I hopped up. “I’ve got to be running along. You have yourself a good day, now.”
Seven
William Palmer opened the door to the Heyward home. I recognized his voice immediately, his British accent quite elegant. Tall, lean, and wearing a nice suit, he was a distinguished-looking gentleman of African descent. “Good afternoon, Miss Talbot.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Palmer.” I stepped into the wide hall.
He closed the door. “Please, address me as William. This way.” He led me to the first door on the left and stepped inside. “Miss Talbot has arrived.”
From inside the room a woman said, “Thank you, William. That will be all.”
He stepped back and nodded, indicating I should enter.
I stepped through the door. Elaborately carved moldings, gilt-framed art and mirrors, antiques, and cream-colored upholstered furniture set the traditional Charleston living room stage. Five actors were on the set. Hell’s bells. The two identical men seated on one of the cream sofas stood. These had to be the twin uncles—Mrs. Heyward’s brothers.
From a wingback near the fireplace, the oldest of the three women stood. Her shoulder-length bob was a lighter shade of chestnut than Kent’s, and it had a teased look to it. There was only so much even the best colorist could do to maintain a youthful look past a certain point. Her skin was stretched tight, but well cared for. I’d bet she’d had work done. Her beige St. John skirt suit and pearls testified to her good taste. “Hello, Miss Talbot. I’m Abigail Bounetheau, Kent’s grandmother. After speaking with my daughter, we felt this would be the most expeditious way to move forward, don’t you agree?”
I’d been ambushed. Hell no, I didn’t agree. I offered her my brightest smile, crossed the room, and extended a hand. I would never get away with bowing and nodding in this crowd. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bounetheau.”
She took my hand and gave it a firm shake. “And you as well.” She looked to her right and nodded. The two women seated on a second, matching cream sofa stood. “These are my daughters. Virginia is Kent’s mother, of course. I’m sure you understand how much she needs her family beside her at this difficult time.”
“Of course. Mrs. Heyward.” I extended a hand to the middle-aged, well-maintained version of Kent.
She slipped hers in, then out of mine. “Pleased to meet you.” Her voice was cultured, but wispy. The elsewhere vibe she gave off screamed heavily medicated. Bless her heart, she likely needed a little something to help her get by. She had a missing child, after all. Mrs. Heyward’s St. John skirt suit was a darker shade than her mother’s, more of a taupe.
Abigail Bounetheau continued. “And this is her older sister, Charlotte.”
Charlotte made eye contact as she extended a hand. “Thank you for coming.” She neatly flipped the dynamics. This was their meeting, not mine. Charlotte’s hair was a shorter bob than Virginia’s and Abigail’s. But the family resemblance was unmistakable. No St. John suit for her—Charlotte wore a classic navy sheath. I didn’t recognize the designer, but the fabric and fit signified high-end.
Abigail gestured to her left. “My sons, Peter and Peyton.”
Peter and Peyton looked nothing like the women in the room. The gentlemen had blond hair, cut very short, with a touch of wave. The only common denominator seemed to be blue eyes. The twins were trim and slightly built. They wore identical navy suits. We said hello, shook hands, and the family sat back down. Two occasional chairs with cameo backs sat at the end of the conversation area nearest the door, across from the fireplace. “Please,” the matriarch gestured, “make yourself comfortable.”
What would make me comfortable was to get out my hand sanitizer. I didn’t dare. “Thank you for seeing me this afternoon.” I took the seat closest to the sisters and pulled my pad and pen out of my bag. If I read Abigail Bounetheau right, she would resist me recording the conversation, and might use it as an excuse to cancel the meeting. “I need a bit more background information. I’m sure Mrs. Heyward can help me.” I smiled at Virginia. “I hope you’re feeling better today.”
She looked at something over my left shoulder. “I am, thank you.”
“Tell us, Miss Talbot.” Abigail Bounetheau’s regal tone commanded everyone’s attention. She was not about to let me take control of the conversation. “How do you believe you can help us find our Kent?”
“I’m a private investigator, Mrs. Bounetheau. I have a great many tools at my disposal to assist in missing persons cases.”
“Tools which the police do not have access to?” Frost formed on her voice.
“Ma’am, as I explained to Mr. Heyward, I have great faith in the Charleston Police Department. Likely, things are precisely as they suspect. Kent chose to leave and chose not to tell anyone where she is. I hope to contact her and verify her safety.”
“I see.” Mrs. Bounetheau looked down her patrician nose at me. Clearly, she did not approve of me nor any of my ancestors.
I took the opening. “Mrs. Heyward, are you aware of any prescription medications Kent was taking?”
Mrs. Heyward looked at her mother.
Mrs. Bounetheau arched an elegant eyebrow as if to say, go ahead and answer, but this is a complete and utter waste of time.
Virginia Heyward looked directly at me for the first time, her expression demure, deferential. “She wasn’t taking anything as far as I know. Kent doesn’t like to take pills. She suffers from allergies, but on the rare occasion she takes something, it’s natural.”
Clearly, her mother did not share Kent’s aversion to pharmaceuticals. “Can you think of anything she wouldn’t dream of leaving behind that’s still here?”
Virginia’s hands lay crossed in her lap. She stared at them a long moment. Something was definitely wrong with this woman. I couldn’t decide if she was indeed heavily drugged, indifferent to her daughter, suffering from PTSD, or simply accustomed to deferring to others. Finally, she raised her chin. Desperate blue eyes met mine. “I can’t imagine she’d leave her diamond studs. We gave her those for graduation. Or her pearls. She has several nice pieces that I wouldn’t think she’d leave.” Virginia’s voice got softer as she spoke and her eyes glistened with tears. “Then again, if she were very angry with her father and me…well, we gave her all o
f her nice jewelry, so it’s hard to say. And of course, things don’t mean as much to Kent. She isn’t materialistic in the least.” Where was the woman who coldly made herself a manicure appointment yesterday while I met with her husband?
“We’ve been over this with the police.” Charlotte’s tone was clipped, not as imperious as her mother’s, but she was training hard at it. “There’s nothing missing from Kent’s belongings that one can draw a conclusion from one way or another.”
“What about clothes, luggage?” I asked.
“None of her luggage is missing,” said Abigail. “If she took any of her clothes, she took them out a piece or two at a time and she only took a few things. None of us has her closet inventory committed to memory.” That last bit was sprinkled with sarcasm.
If Abigail wanted to tangle, we’d just get to it. “Mrs. Bounetheau, one of the things I do in a case like this is eliminate all the possibilities, one at a time, until only one is left. One of the possibilities is that someone stood to gain financially if Kent were removed from the equation. Since so much of the family is here, let’s put our heads together, why don’t we? Can any of you think of anyone, on either side of the family, who stood to gain from Kent’s…disappearance?”
Abigail Bounetheau turned an interesting shade of fuchsia. “I beg your pardon,” she said, in that indignant tone that suggested unseemly things for both me and the horse I rode in on.
Simultaneously, Charlotte inquired, “Exactly who do you think you are?”
Virginia gasped softly.
The twins commenced whispering to each other.
I looked at Charlotte and Abigail in turn. “I’m the investigator, hired by Kent’s father, to find out what has happened to her. I aim to do just that. I mean no offense. But I need to know if anyone stands to gain financially if Kent doesn’t come home.”
“That’s insulting,” one of the twins spoke up.
“Revolting,” said the other.
Those two were a piece of work. “Mrs. Bounetheau,” I said, “forgive me for asking such a personal question, but what is the impact, hypothetically speaking, on your and Mr. Bounetheau’s estate should one of your heirs be…unaccounted for?”
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