Lowcountry Boneyard

by Susan M. Boyer

  “I have to say, no one has ever appreciated that quality in me before.”

  “I have a thought. And really, it’s good to have a couple possibilities in reserve. Things happen. Your Gram should have held that seat another ten years at least.”

  “Who is your other thought?”

  “Calista.”

  “Oooh! She’d be perfect. And trust me, she has stubborn down.” Calista McQueen was a former client, now a friend, who lived just down the beach from me. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, which had caused more than her share of grief in the past. But she’d settled into Stella Maris life as if she’d been born there. Lately she’d taken up teaching Mamma’s Jazzercise class.

  “Still,” Colleen said. “I worry about you. Calista doesn’t have the same risk factors. I can only protect the council members who I can depend on to serve the best interests of the island.”

  I tilted my head at her. “You watch out after Daddy, too?”

  “Among others.”

  “I would have thought everyone serving now would be dependable: me, Daddy, John Glendawn, Grace Sullivan, Michael Devlin, and Robert Pearson. Even the mayor, Lincoln Sullivan—and I’m likely not his favorite person, which goes both ways—but I’d still say he’d always put the town first.”

  “It’s complicated,” Colleen said. “Some of them are vulnerable to persuasion. It’s important to keep a majority who are not.”

  That made me wonder a great many things. I’d long suspected Robert Pearson had secrets. And were there yet more developers who had the island in their sights? I thought about the two men I’d seen on the ferry Friday morning. I filed all of that under “things to ponder when I get time.” “Okay, so, we replace me with Calista, and I can be a part-time resident.”

  Colleen unwrapped her second biscuit slowly.

  “I will only be able to help you very sporadically—when it doesn’t interfere with my other duties. Think about it. This impacts both you and Nate.”

  I couldn’t live with myself if Nate were hurt—or worse—and it could have been avoided.

  “How about this?” I said. “I mean, it’s not like the other council members never leave the island, right? They travel all the time. As long as I own a house here and it’s my primary residence, I qualify as a resident of Stella Maris. Isn’t the real issue showing up for council meetings? As long as I do that and am here part of the time…who’s keeping island attendance?”

  Colleen thought and chewed for an eternity. Finally, she said, “You’ll get away with that for a while. At some point, your residency will be challenged.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll just cross that bridge when I get there. And who’s to say a challenge would be successful? The remaining council members would decide, right?”

  “Except that you have to run for office every four years. If folks notice you’re not here much, it will be easy for someone else to win over enough votes to beat you.”

  “I need to mull this over. But I can get away with being in Greenville part-time for a while, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, when it looks like I’m getting into trouble, you let me know, and I’ll spend more time here. If it becomes impossible to balance, then we recruit Calista. Now. If you’re through devouring those biscuits, I could use your help with Ansley.”

  Ansley parked her Z4 in the space beside me and got out. I could see why Wendy Ryan had noticed the car—and why she wanted one.

  To Colleen, I said, “You’ll need to get in the back. See if you can read her mind. Get me anything to do with Matt Thomas or Kent Heyward.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Colleen said, slightly miffed. She liked to call the shots, not take requests. She faded, disappeared, and popped into the backseat.

  Ansley climbed into the passenger seat. “Did you find something?” she asked. Her face told me she was excited and eager, hoping I had good news.

  She was so…kittenish with her big innocent eyes, shiny blonde hair, and petite build. I sighed and used my stern voice. “Yes, as a matter of fact I did. I found out that your car was parked overnight in front of Matt’s house the night Kent disappeared.”

  She looked like she’d been sucker-punched. “I—oh no.” She put one hand over her mouth and furiously fumbled with the other to get the door open. She did, just before she started retching. Then she sobbed and retched alternately for a while. She was all tore up, is what I’m saying.

  When she was finished, I handed her the tissue box. She took a few and dabbled at her mouth and eyes. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  Colleen said, “She’s genuinely upset.”

  I threw her a look over my shoulder that telegraphed, ya think?

  “Ansley.”

  She sobbed on.

  “Ansley. Tell. Me. What. It. Is. Now, please.”

  She nodded, sobbed a few more times for good measure. “I didn’t want to say anything because it looks bad.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century.”

  “Matt and I are friends. I told you that. He was upset—really, really upset. He loves Kent, but with the baby—”

  “I thought you didn’t know about the baby?”

  She started crying again.

  “Would you stop that and talk to me?”

  She sniffled and then quieted and nodded. “I knew about the baby. I knew that was causing most of their problems. I went there that night because he needed a friend. Kent had other plans. He just wanted someone to talk to who knew them both—knew the situation.”

  “And you thought Kent would be okay with you spending the night?”

  “He didn’t get off until one in the morning. There was no way I could go home. The last ferry left at eleven-thirty.”

  “Why were you there before he got off work?”

  “I had to come over while the ferry was still running. I just came early, hung out, watched TV.”

  I had a sinking suspicion Ansley harbored feelings for Matt she’d had from the get-go. “You like being in his house.”

  She nodded, looked out the window.

  “You have a thing for him still, don’t you?”

  “Okay, yes. I’m crazy about him. But Kent is my best friend and I have never done anything but be a friend to both of them. Never.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with? I gotta tell you, Ansley, you’re making it hard for me to believe anything you say. This is the second—no, third—time you have either lied to me or left things out. It makes me wonder if you talked Colton Heyward into hiring me so you could feed me the information you wanted me to have and try to keep me from finding out the truth.”

  “No, no, no. That’s not it at all. I only wanted to protect Matt. This just looks bad.”

  “Ansley, do you know what Luminol is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a chemical you spray on things—floors, walls, pretty much everything. Then you turn out the lights. If there’s any blood at all, even a speck—people always think they can clean it all up, but they really can’t—the Luminol lights up. The police use it to solve crimes. Sometimes Nate and I use it. What do you think we’ll find in Matt’s house?” I hadn’t changed my mind about tampering with a potential crime scene, but I wanted to see her reaction.

  “How should I know? No one’s ever been bleeding when I was there.”

  I studied her for a long moment. She seemed not to connect my question to Kent at all. But Ansley had gotten an “A” in lying these past few days. “So that wouldn’t trouble you? Us performing a Luminol test?”

  “Of course not. But that house is like almost a hundred years old. Matt’s only owned it for a couple of years. Who knows what happened there before he bought it?”

  She was awfully quick with that. Then again, she did work for an attorney. How muc
h did she know about crime scenes? “That’s the beautiful thing about blood types. Kent’s is on file.” Of course it must be, but Luminol wouldn’t give us a blood type. Maybe Ansley didn’t know that.

  “You will not find Kent’s blood in that house unless it’s a drop from a nosebleed or something. Matt would never, ever hurt her.”

  “How about you?”

  “What?” Her face froze, mouth open, eyes wide with indignation.

  I shrugged, kept my voice casual. “She was getting ready to move in with the man you love.”

  “Oh. I can’t believe you would think such a thing. How could you?” The sobbing commenced again.

  “Ansley, I have to look at every possibility. That’s what I get paid for. I’m sorry if you thought I would do anything less. But here we are. Tell me why I shouldn’t think you got rid of your competition?”

  She cowered against the passenger door and stared at me like I’d beaten her down to a pulpy mess. “Because I’m not capable of hurting anyone, much less Kent, who I love like a sister.”

  “I don’t think you have murder in you. I don’t. My problem is I believed everything you said the first time we talked about this case. And the second time. Now, you’re a habitual liar. And you’re good at it. Really good.”

  “But I’m helping you.”

  “Really? Aside from feeding me half-truths and outright lies, how are you helping me?”

  “I stayed home from church this morning to work on Kent’s Facebook friends. I’ve been going through them nonstop since you called. I think I found something.”

  “What?”

  “There’s this girl—well, the profile identifies her as a girl, but it could be anyone, right? Supposedly, she lives in Bakersfield, California and is a high school student. Her name is Samantha Blundell. I don’t know who this is, or how Kent knows her. She’s never mentioned her to me. I don’t know how their paths would’ve crossed.”

  “Hunh.” Bakersfield, CA was west of Amarillo. I pulled out a pad and pen and wrote down the name. “Everyone else checks out?”

  “Yes. All two hundred eighty-five of the others are either family, friends from high school, friends from college, or other friends Kent and I both knew—with the exception of a few local artists who also have professional pages.”

  I watched Ansley for a few moments, hoping Colleen would have something to offer. She was regarding Ansley intently, like she was trying to read her but couldn’t. I said, “Ansley, you have violated my trust. I’m only going to ask this once. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  “No. I promise. There’s nothing.”

  “I have to report all of this to my client. He will likely report it to the police. He is already predisposed to be suspicious of Matt. This could get very rough before it gets better. Best you talk to Robert—or better yet, your daddy—about everything. You may need an attorney before this is over.”

  She pressed her eyes closed, clearly trying not to cry again.

  I said, “I give you my word I will not stop working this case until Kent is found or I’m satisfied the person responsible for her disappearance is in jail—preferably both.”

  Ansley nodded. “Thank you. I believe you. And I really am sorry I didn’t tell you everything to begin with. I realize how stupid that was.”

  “Well, when all of this is over, after you’ve graduated from law school, maybe you can use it as a cautionary tale for your clients when you are trying to impress on them the importance of telling you the whole truth.”

  Ansley jerked with a humorless half chuckle. “When all of this is over. Right.”

  “Are you all right to drive?”

  “I will be in a few minutes.” She opened the door and climbed out, taking the box of tissues with her. “I’ll get you a new box.”

  “Okay.” I started the car, rolled up the windows, and closed the moon roof. “Anything?” I asked Colleen.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t read her—it’s like Matt. I don’t think that means anything either way. It’s simply a case of there’s no valid reason for me to know what’s going on inside their heads.”

  “Does that point to innocence?”

  “Not necessarily. Remember—my mission doesn’t include solving your cases.”

  “Right.” I sighed.

  Fifteen

  I made a run by The Book & Grind for a mocha latte on the way home. My brain needed a caffeine boost. So many scraps of information floated around in my head. I had the feeling someone had mixed the pieces to three different puzzles in the same box, and I didn’t know which ones I needed and which ones I didn’t.

  When I walked out the front door, coffee in hand, I glanced up and down Palmetto Boulevard. It was a storybook downtown with window boxes, awnings, trees with border beds, and brick sidewalks. Most of the businesses were closed—it was Sunday morning. I shared the street with one runner headed back towards Main. Stella Maris was blessed with a wealth of locally owned businesses that occupied historic buildings along the two streets that made up the business district—Main and Palmetto.

  Across Palmetto, Evan Ingle’s gallery caught my eye. The vivid colors and bold strokes of the paintings lining the windows made me smile. Evan’s was the only art gallery on the island, but it gave me hope others would follow. Opening a gallery must be a huge undertaking for a young artist. Evan had paid cash for that building. How had he pulled that off? Were his paintings popular with collectors? He’d bought the building several years ago. Surely if he was a phenom there would’ve been more press about him. Unaccounted-for money bothered me. I took another sip of coffee and climbed in the car. I couldn’t call Colton Heyward until after one on a Sunday. Maybe after I checked out Samantha Blundell, I’d have time to satisfy my curiosity regarding Evan Ingle’s finances.

  I zipped home, settled in at my desk, and turned on my laptop. Rhett, having greeted me and escorted me in, scampered right back down the hall towards the mudroom. He was on his way back outside and I didn’t blame him.

  From Kent’s Facebook account, I brought up Samantha’s profile page. Cute girl. She had an open smile, dark blonde wavy hair, and evidently liked big round sunglasses. It was a good look for her. Assuming this was a real person, of course.

  I clicked around her profile a bit, browsed her photos—almost seven hundred of them—and checked out her friends. If this account belonged to a predator in disguise, it was the best disguise I’d ever seen. She looked sprightly. This girl liked beaches, Jimi Hendrix on vinyl, and Harry Potter. She’d been to church camp over the summer and was Facebook friends with her mother, her grandparents, and a slew of other family members. She was the personification of the word “wholesome.” How did Samantha know Kent Heyward, a girl five years older and a continent away?

  A closer look at her family showed some in Texas, where Samantha was born, and, hello, grandparents in Greenville. Progress. A connection to South Carolina.

  I scrolled through her timeline. Lots of family stuff. Shared links to funny videos and thoughtful articles. And her college visits: Appalachian State and College of Charleston.

  In April, Samantha had visited both campuses. She had an album of photos from the trip. I scanned through them. Tons of shots of the C of C campus. Samantha and her parents in front of Randolph Hall. Pictures from all over Charleston, mostly of historic homes and landmarks.

  Then I got to the beach scenes. Of course. A beach lover wouldn’t come to the Holy City and not visit the Atlantic. I recognized Sullivan’s Island, Breach Inlet, and the beach near the pier on Isle of Palms. I scanned forwards until I saw the photo taken from the ferry looking back at the Isle of Palms marina. Samantha Blundell had been to Stella Maris.

  Apparently, they’d spent the better part of a day here. She’d snapped photos from all over the island. There was a cute pic from one of the booths at The Cracked Pot. The three
of them had their heads together over the remnants of what looked like lunch. I’d bet Moon Unit had taken the photo. Another photo from The Pirates’ Den showed they’d dined on one of John and Alma’s specialties—Lowcountry Boil—for dinner. There were streetscapes and beach shots. But there was no sign of Kent. And, however the friendship came to be, it was hard to imagine Samantha knew anything about Kent’s disappearance. Unless for some reason Kent was hiding out in Bakersfield, California. No one would think to look there, for sure. Perhaps that was the point.

  I flipped back to Samantha’s “about” page. Her phone number was listed. I bet telemarketers worried her to death. I couldn’t think of a reason not to call. It was a little after nine in California. Maybe I’d catch her before church.

  “Hello?” She answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, I’m trying to reach Samantha Blundell?”

  “I’m Samantha.”

  “Great. I’m Liz Talbot. I’m calling from Stella Maris, South Carolina. How are you today?”

  “I’m fine.” Her tone telegraphed, What is this about?

  “Samantha, I’m a private investigator. Would you like me to speak to your parents?”

  “I don’t think so....”

  She sounded confused, but curious.

  “I’m investigating the disappearance of a young woman from Charleston. I think you know her—Kent Heyward?”

  “Yes—I mean, we’ve met. I saw the posts to her Facebook page about her being missing. It’s horrible.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “When I was in Charleston for one of my college visits. I met her at an art gallery on Stella Maris. My parents and I were over there for the day. That evening after dinner, we were walking around town, and the artist was having an exhibition. We went in, and Kent was there. It was funny. She and I had on the same shirt—one that kinda stands out, I guess. Anthropologie. Blue paisley, but the sleeves are yellow striped. We just looked at each other and laughed. And we started talking. She’s really nice. I told her I might go to college in Charleston, and she offered to show me around the city. She friended me on Facebook.”