Lowcountry Boneyard

by Susan M. Boyer

  “Either way,” he continued his soliloquy, “now that we know for sure the twins think we’re investigating them, we’ll both be that much more a target for their merry band of uber hooligans. Now, that could be an additional threat, or an increased threat level on an existing problem, depending on whether I’m right or wrong. But what I am genuinely interested in hearing, Slugger, is why you wanted to leave forthwith for the Upstate. I’m certain of one thing—your reasons are not mine.”

  “I want to find out who Evan’s father is. According to Sarah Mitchell, Talitha’s neighbor, he’s from Greenville, and he has very deep pockets. Greenville is our turf. We should be able to suss this out in short order.”

  “Follow the money.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Evan had already taken Talitha’s banking statements from the time he was born until she was killed—at least I assume it was Evan who took them. He would have legitimate reason. I’ll check his apartment when we get back. But…the statements themselves likely reflect transfers from a company or trust that may be hard to trace. It will be easier if we can find out who his father is another way.”

  “Like the layers of companies separating the twins from that warehouse.”

  “Exactly. Except we’d start with the company names instead of the person’s name. It’s harder that way. If you know who you’re looking for to begin with, a trace like that is still tedious, but you hit fewer brick walls.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Someone took very good care of Talitha and Evan. If we find out who, that might lead us to what happened to Turner’s family. Sarah Mitchell said that Evan and Talitha were all the family each other had. But somewhere, Turner Ingle had a wife and at least one child. They are pieces to this puzzle.”

  “With a little luck, by the time we’ve identified everyone in Evan’s family tree, someone will’ve locked up Peyton, Peter, and all their cohorts. That will make for a much safer working environment for you and me.” Nate took the exit to I-26 West. “Like I said, I’m just happy to be headed towards the foothills.”

  “I’m going to check in with Sonny.”

  “Probably a good idea. Will he answer a number he doesn’t recognize?”

  “Sure he will. He’s a detective. You never know who might be on the other end of a line. It would eat me alive not to answer a call. I would lie awake at night and wonder who that was, what they wanted. I’d end up having to call back just to find out. Might as well answer to begin with.”

  “I’m just guessing here. I don’t know the man well, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and speculate that Sonny is not as neurotic as you are. And I mean that in a lovin’ way.”

  I laughed out loud. “I’m neurotic, but you love me anyway?”

  “Of course.”

  Sonny answered on the third ring. “Ravenel.”

  I smiled at Nate. “Hey, it’s Liz.”

  “Why are you calling me from what I’m guessing is a burner phone?”

  “Recent events have conspired to make me paranoid. Nate and I are in the car. I’m going to put you on speaker so I don’t have to repeat all of this, okay?”

  “All right.”

  I pressed the speaker button.

  “Okay, so, I had to tell Mr. and Mrs. Heyward that we suspect Peter and Peyton of illegal shenanigans that could be related to Kent’s disappearance. We have to assume additional individuals of the criminal persuasion will be unhappy with us. Is there anything new regarding the twins you can share?”

  Sonny was quiet for so long I thought the call had dropped. “Sonny?”

  “I’m here. Just needed to step outside. Look, all I know is there’s a task force assigned to whatever the Bounetheau twins have going on over at Shipyard Creek. All over the alphabet—DEA, FBI, SLED, the Coast Guard. Task force has been in place for months, but the specifics have been real hush-hush. Technically, we’ve got guys on the team, but I’m not sure how much they even know. But your instincts were good. You guys need to stay away from that for all kinds of reasons.”

  “Any way to find out if their investigation uncovered anything related to Kent?” I asked.

  “In a surreal act of interagency cooperation—I’ve never seen anything like it—the Special Agent in Charge told Jenkins and Bissell that he had techs check recordings from a week before Kent disappeared until three days after. Nothing there that points to her stumbling into her uncles’ operation. They’re convinced there’s no connection.”

  “Recordings?” I said.

  “Yeah, I don’t know what all they have going on. Wiretaps at a minimum would be my guess. Could be they’re listening to whatever’s going on inside the warehouse, offsite offices—I have no idea. They just mentioned recordings.”

  Nate asked, “You think they’re playing straight, not just brushing them off?”

  “Yeah, I think the non-criminal members of the Bounetheau family still have plenty of influence. Speaking of which, as soon as that car was found, the grandmother—Abigail—called God and everybody—the chief, the solicitor’s office, the state attorney general, a couple of senators, a few judges, et cetera—demanding Matthew Thomas’s arrest. Which, between you and me, was premature by any reasonable measure.”

  I said, “I would’ve bet Colton Heyward was behind that.”

  “He did talk to the chief. Except Jenkins told me Heyward just asked the chief to keep the pregnancy confidential and keep him updated. He was pleased the case was active again. His agenda is he wants his daughter found. Demanded hourly updates and whatnot. I’m not saying he was a pleasure to deal with. But he didn’t pressure anyone to arrest Matthew Thomas.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “I wonder if these people talk to each other at all. You’d think they’d be singing from the same hymnal.”

  “I hear tell the grandmother is convinced the boyfriend did it. If she had her way, they’d hang him at dawn at White Point Gardens where Stede Bonnet and all those other pirates were dispatched.”

  “You’re saying she’s not pressing y’all to find Kent, just to prosecute Matt?” I asked.

  “Yep. And isn’t that the damnedest thing? Strikes me that maybe she knows the longer we’re investigating anything related to her family, the more likely we are to run across Peyton and Peter’s import and export business.”

  “You think she knows about that?” Nate asked.

  “It’s a theory.”

  “Seems awfully cold,” I said. “I mean, she’s potentially sweeping whatever happened to Kent under the rug to protect two grown men who should’ve had the least motivation of anyone in Charleston to undertake criminal activities.”

  “Hell,” Nate said, “for all we know she’s in charge of the family import export business.”

  I mulled that for a minute. “I think she’s too proud of her pedigree. Which is probably why she’s desperate to keep the whole mess quiet.”

  “Sounds right,” Sonny said. “I’ve got to get back to it. Keep your heads low.”

  “Will do.” I ended the call.

  Nate said, “Task force operations can take years. I hope they’re being forthcoming. Sonny’s right about one thing. It’s rare for the alphabet gang to give anything to another investigation before they’ve wrapped up their case.”

  “I say we assume the info is good. We aren’t working that angle anyway. This gives me peace of mind checking it off our possible narratives list.”

  “I like it better when we eliminate a narrative ourselves before discarding it, but in this case, I think we’re going to have to live with it.”

  “If we can’t prove an alternate theory, and all we’re left with is the possibility that Kent somehow bumped into her uncles’ criminal enterprise and they felt obliged to make her disappear—then, like we agreed, we explain that to Mr. and Mrs. Heyward and walk away. Unfortunately, that will not get Matt out of jai
l.”

  “They don’t have anywhere close to enough evidence to convict him.”

  “That’s because he’s innocent,” I said.

  Twenty-Three

  We stopped by Nate’s South Main Street condo just long enough for me to print a picture of Talitha from her online obituary and search the county property database. I scoured records for the neighborhood Turner Ingle had lived in near Cleveland Park looking for neighbors who’d been there in nineteen eighty-one and hadn’t moved. I printed names and addresses as I found them. When I had four, I stopped. It was pushing five o’clock. If we didn’t get what we needed from any of these folks, we’d start again tomorrow.

  The shaded neighborhood perched on a hillside above Cleveland Park consisted of a mix of bungalows and ranch-style homes, with an occasional two-story colonial and a few newer homes best described as craftsman. The landscaping was mature and well-tended. It was a pretty, established neighborhood, the kind where it was easy to imagine families sitting down to dinner together. Nate pulled to the side of the street near the former Ingle home.

  Turner Ingle had purchased a small grey cottage near the intersection of Trails End and Dogwood Lane in early 1980. His was the sole name on the deed. I’d searched every database I had access to and found no marriage license. A little more than a year after he’d bought the house, according to Sarah Mitchell, Talitha had moved to Greenville. I knew she’d lived here with her brother, and worked at Greenville Memorial Hospital. I stared at the cottage.

  “It’s not going to confess,” said Nate.

  I scanned the street. “The house two doors down is for sale. There’s nothing over the windows, no cars. I make it for vacant. Why don’t you pull in there? If anyone asks, we can pretend we’re waiting for a realtor.”

  “As you wish.”

  I smiled and pulled out my property records and Talitha’s picture. “I’ll look less threatening by myself.”

  “Holler if you need me.”

  “I’ll start with the closest neighbors and work outwards. John and Marcia Clark live across the street. It’s still early, but these folks are all retirement age. Maybe someone will be home.” I climbed out of the car and made my way to the white frame ranch.

  The Clarks weren’t home, nor were the Hannahs or the Stouts. At the fourth house I tried, a painted brick cottage further down Trails End, a gentleman answered the door. “Can I help you?” He was trim, maybe just under six feet tall, with gray hair and a close-cut beard and mustache. His posture suggested ex-military.

  “Are you Bob Elmore?”

  “Yes.” His tone was guarded. He likely suspected I was selling something or running a scam.

  I pulled out my PI license and my ID. “My name is Liz Talbot. I’m investigating the disappearance of a young woman in Charleston. Could I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

  “Charleston, you say? I don’t know anyone in Charleston.”

  “I understand, Mr. Elmore, but it’s possible there’s a connection to your former neighbors, the Ingles, from down the street. Did you know them?”

  He scrutinized me for a moment. “Yes. I knew Turner. He was a good man. Welder at GE. Come to think of it, he was from Charleston, but he’s been dead…Vicki?” He called inside the house. “Darlin’, can you come here a minute?”

  “Coming.” A fair-skinned brunette approached and stood beside Bob.

  Bob said, “This is my wife, Vicki. She knew them better than I did. Vicki, this young woman is a private investigator up from Charleston. She’s asking about Turner and Kathy.”

  Kathy? I went on full alert. Was this Turner’s bride?

  Vicki said, “They were such nice folks. Such a tragedy.”

  “I was trying to think how long Turner’s been gone. He died in a car accident. When was that, hon?”

  “Oh, gosh, they hadn’t been here but…let’s see…it was less than two years. Turner and Kathy moved here in the early eighties. It was a February. I don’t recall what year. He died not that October, but the next. He was on his way to the hospital. Kathy gave birth to twins that same night.”

  “Kathy was his wife?” I said.

  They both looked at me like I was a bit slow. “Uh-huh. Yes.”

  “And Kathy was the twins’ mother?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” Vicki said.

  “Did you know Turner’s sister, Talitha?”

  “Yes,” said Vicki. “She came up from Charleston to help out. The doctors put Kathy on bed rest early on. Turner had to work. Talitha worked part-time, but her hours were different, so one of them was always there. Twins are sometimes difficult.”

  I showed them Talitha’s photo. “And this woman is Talitha Ingle?” I wanted to make sure no one was borrowing her name.

  Vicki took the photo. They both looked at it and nodded.

  “Course, she was a good bit younger,” said Bob. “But that’s her.”

  “Can you tell me what Kathy looked like?” I asked.

  “She was average height,” said Vicki. “Medium brown hair—pretty hair. Blue eyes. I’d say she was very attractive, wouldn’t you?” She turned to Bob.

  “She was a beautiful woman.”

  “Was she from around here?” I asked.

  “No,” Vicki said. “They were all from Charleston.”

  “Any idea what her maiden name was?” I asked.

  They looked at each other and shook their heads. “No,” Vicki said. “She never talked about her family.”

  Vicki said, “It was so sad, but a little strange, I’d say. Wouldn’t you, Bob?”

  “Yeah,” Bob said, like he was telegraphing how that was a doozey of an understatement.

  “What was strange?” I asked.

  “Kathy went to the hospital and had the twins. When we heard about the accident, we went by the hospital to check on her. She was distraught, of course. Turner was dead, and one of the twins—the girl, I think—was in an incubator. But Kathy didn’t say a word to us about going back to Charleston.”

  Bob said, “She just never came home. Neither did Talitha. A few weeks later movers came. After several months the house went on the market. We never saw either of the girls again.”

  “That is odd,” I said.

  “It wasn’t one of them that disappeared in Charleston, was it?” Bob asked.

  “No,” I said. “It was a much younger woman. I’m sorry to give you sad news, but Talitha was killed in a car accident two months ago.”

  Vicki’s hand went to her chest. “That’s just awful. Another car accident?”

  “That is strange, isn’t it?” I said.

  “They never did find out what caused Turner’s wreck. Just said he lost control of the vehicle. It was a clear night—no rain. He was coming straight from work to the hospital. Talitha had already taken Kathy. Accident happened on Garlington Road, not far from the plant. No witnesses. It’s like he swerved for no reason on a straight stretch of road and hit a tree.”

  “Talitha’s accident involved another vehicle,” I said. “But it is odd.”

  “Do you know whatever happened to Kathy?” Vicki asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” I said. “Thank you both so much for your help.”

  “You’re welcome,” Vicki said. “I hope you find the girl you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled and walked down the steps and back up the street.

  “Find out anything?” Nate asked as I climbed in the car.

  “As Colleen would say, ‘Boy Howdy.’”

  “Colleen?” Nate gave me a blank look.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them and gave him a sad smile. “You remember, my friend who died when we were in high school? It’s just something she says—said.” Life would be so much simpler if I could tell Nate about Colleen. Or he’d think I
was crazy.

  “Anyway,” I said. “Talitha Ingle was not Evan’s mother.”

  “Say what?”

  “Turner Ingle was his father, and his wife—Evan’s mother—her name was Kathy.” I filled him in on everything I’d learned.

  “And you’ve already scoured online records and databases for these folks?”

  “Yep. Which means tomorrow morning, we’ll be waiting at the door when the county offices open.” Occasionally, documents didn’t make their way into electronic databases, but could still be found on file in the county of origin.

  “If Turner was the father, and he was a tradesman of modest means, then Kathy’s family is the one with money.”

  “That’s what I think. Welders don’t have life insurance policies big enough to cover the amount of money funneled to Talitha and Evan over the years given that she didn’t work from the time he was born.”

  “And this Kathy…just gave her son to Talitha and walked away?” Nate sounded skeptical.

  “Doesn’t sound right to me either. I’m wondering if Kathy had an accident as well. The question is, did Talitha kidnap the children, or rescue them?”

  “Good question.”

  “So here’s narrative number three: Kent was getting close to Evan. Evan had a past someone—not Evan, but his wealthy, anonymous family—wanted to stay in the past. Kent found out something she shouldn’t have. Someone took Kent out of the picture.”

  “It’s sketchy, but we have a lot more than we had this morning.” He blew out a long breath. “My turn, I guess. Regrettably, our voluntary relocation scenario just got considerably less plausible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “While you were chatting with the Elmores, I got updates from the agencies doing our out-of-state legwork.”

  “And?” My heart rate quickened.

  “Kent’s college friends living in Denver, Seattle, and LA have been under surveillance since Friday. No sign of Kent. The investigators have also done some poking around. In all three cases, they’re reasonably confident she’s not there.”