Lowcountry Boneyard

by Susan M. Boyer

  Twenty-Six

  Nate pulled the Explorer to a stop at the parking lot exit. “Are you ready to head back to Charleston?”

  “Not just yet. We need to talk to someone who knows what happened after the twins were born.” How could we get information from Greenville Memorial?

  “I’d say your best bet there is Virginia Bounetheau Heyward,” said Nate. “Though I predict her mother orchestrated the operation.”

  “I’d like to talk to someone who is not a member of the family.” Talking to any of the Bounetheaus prematurely seemed like an invitation for them to tie up loose ends.

  “You’re thinking a doctor, a nurse?”

  “Exactly.”

  “The doctor’s name would be on the birth certificates. Only Vital Records isn’t going to give us those,” he said. “The bone marrow thing won’t work on them. We’d have to prove we were immediate family.”

  I stared across the street at the Health Department. “And I’d be willing to bet those birth certificates were never filed. They disappeared at the hospital. Talitha could’ve seen to that, and if she filed one in Charleston County for a home birth, she’d have had to’ve known another wouldn’t surface in Greenville.”

  Nate peered into space. “So how else do we find out who delivered those twins? Or…the twins were in the hospital for at least part of a day, because the Elmores visited. Maybe a nurse who tended newborns. Someone who worked that floor of the hospital in nineteen eighty-one.”

  I shook my head, looked out the window over my shoulder. “Privacy regulations being what they are today, going to the hospital will be a waste of time.”

  We both mulled that for a few moments. Nate said, “Let’s go back to the condo. Search through the databases for births the same night in the same hospital. If we can find a doctor who was there, that’s a start.”

  “Women have their own OB-GYNs. Kathy’s—Virginia’s—doctor wouldn’t necessarily have delivered any of the other babies. She would have seen the same doctor once a month at least. It’s a long shot, but maybe the Elmores remember who she was seeing.”

  Nate pulled over into the shade while I looked up their phone number.

  Vicki answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Elmore, this is Liz Talbot. I spoke to you and your husband yesterday afternoon?”

  “Oh, hey. Of course.”

  “I have one more question, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m happy to help if I can.”

  “Do you happen to recall the doctor Kathy was seeing? Her OB-GYN?”

  “As a matter of fact, I recommended him. I saw the man myself until he retired. It was Doctor Redrick Lawrence. His office used to be over near the hospital, in Cross Creek.”

  “Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help.”

  We said our goodbyes.

  “Back to the condo to research the doctor?” Nate asked.

  “Sounds good.”

  I started a profile on Redrick Lawrence. Fortunately, no one had seen a need to obscure his digital footprint. He’d lived in Greenville his entire life except for the time he attended the University of South Carolina at Columbia and its School of Medicine. He resided on McDaniel Avenue, a high-dollar, well-established neighborhood with a solid pedigree. Within an hour, I’d created a timeline of Doctor Lawrence’s life. His wife was deceased. He had one daughter, Lynda.

  Something was niggling me. I picked up the marriage license and studied it. Talitha had been a witness, as had a woman whose last name was the same as the minister’s. Here was proof Evan Ingle was a Bounetheau. Did he know that? Had he known it all along? And had they all kept him at arm’s length all these years, funneling money to him anonymously? Or had one or more of them reached out?

  I pulled up Kent’s Facebook profile again, and looked through her photo albums. Most of the pictures were more than a year old. There were hundreds from high school and college, but few recent, and none with Evan.

  I went back to Samantha Blundell’s profile and scanned the album from April. She told me on the phone she’d been to Evan’s opening for his new collection. But there were no photos posted from the gallery. Did she have other photos she hadn’t posted? Who might be in those photos? An opening exhibit was a big deal.

  It was eleven o’clock—seven on the West Coast. That was painfully early for a teenager. Then again, she’d be getting ready for school. I scrolled through the contacts on my phone and tapped her name.

  “Hello?” She didn’t sound like I’d woken her.

  “Samantha, this is Liz Talbot, calling from South Carolina.”

  She laughed.

  I didn’t pause to ask what amused her. “I have a quick question if you have a moment. I hope I’m not catching you on your way out to school.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m on fall break. I’m actually at my grandma’s house for the week, and she lives in Greenville. That’s why I laughed. I’m in South Carolina now, too.”

  “You’re in Greenville. South Carolina.”

  “Yes. What did you need to ask me?”

  I usually didn’t have much truck with coincidences, but I couldn’t see how this could be anything but a very convenient one. “The photos you posted from your trip to Charleston. I noticed there weren’t any from the gallery showing. I wondered if you had more photos from the trip that you didn’t post.”

  “I do, actually. I like disposable cameras. I haven’t finished using the last one from the trip, so I haven’t had the photos developed yet.”

  That seemed an unusual preference for someone her age. “You don’t use your phone?”

  “I do, but when you take a hundred photos on a phone and pick the best one, it isn’t as genuine as one quick snapshot,” she said. “Photographs taken with phones look more posed. I like the rawness of disposables. And taking photos with disposables gives this worn in and grungy type of feel that’s more authentic than photos with a phone.”

  Interesting. “Are there photos on your disposable from the gallery event?”

  “Yeah, most of them are. I had like four cameras that trip. I grabbed a new one from my purse by accident when we went in.”

  “That was back in April…”

  “Yeah, I kinda forgot about it. I brought it along to finish the roll at Grandma’s.”

  “If I buy you a new disposable camera, would you be willing to have that one developed?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No, I want to get you a new camera. Can you meet me? Is Walgreens okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Which one are you closest to?”

  “The one on Augusta Road.”

  “Can you meet me there at eleven-thirty?”

  “My grandma and I have lunch plans. Would one-thirty be okay?”

  “Sure. See you there.”

  “Nate?” Where had he wandered off to?

  “Yeah,” he answered from his office across the hall.

  “Want to grab some lunch? We have a couple of hours.”

  He walked across the hall and leaned against the doorway, eyeing me speculatively. “What do you feel like?” His smoldering eyes told me exactly want he felt like.

  “You are insatiable.”

  “Yes, I am. As a matter of fact, I think the condition is getting worse.” He crossed the room, stepped around the desk, and reached down from behind me to fold me into his arms.

  “You’re going to be starving by the time we finish at Walgreens.”

  “I already am.”

  “Nate.”

  He went to kissing on my neck.

  “Nate?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Focus. We have a case. New information. Missing girl.”

  He sighed and straightened. “You’re right. But I refuse to apologize.
You are a very pleasant distraction.”

  “About lunch? We have to eat.”

  “Feel like tacos? The Local Taco is on Conestee, just off Augusta.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He bent down and whispered in my ear. “That’s not going to take two hours.”

  Samantha Blundell was every bit as perky in person as she looked online. She chatted with Nate and me while we waited for the photos to be developed. I paid for two sets, one for her and one for me. Over her protests, I bought her a replacement camera.

  “Could you take a look at these with us, in case we have questions?” I asked when I finally had my copies in hand.

  “Absolutely. Anything I can do to help find Kent.”

  I spread the pictures across the counter at Walgreens. The photo tech didn’t object. There were twenty-three images, all from the inside of Evan’s gallery. The first thing that struck me was that the artwork was completely different from what he was currently showing. “These are impressionist paintings.” Was Kent drawn to him because his work was similar to hers?

  “Yeah, that’s what he said. I don’t know much about art, but I thought they were pretty. Lots of bright colors.”

  “He’s showing abstracts now. A completely different line. I wouldn’t think he’d have a big opening in April with impressionist paintings and switch them all completely out by October. Do painters work that fast?”

  “Beats me,” said Nate.

  I scanned the people in the photos. Hell’s bells, my brother, Blake, had been there—with Calista McQueen. Were they an item? There was Kent chatting with two folks I didn’t know, a guy and a woman. Kent with Evan, apparently discussing one of the paintings. I looked closer. I couldn’t make out much but the colors and the sky over their heads. The painting must have been a landscape.

  My eyes stopped short on a posed photo. Kent and Evan smiled on either side of a distinguished gentleman with white hair. He looked peacock-proud standing between his grandchildren in his light blue seersucker suit and red bow tie. C.C. Bounetheau. With him and Evan side-by-side you could see a resemblance. “Nate.”

  “Is that who I think it is?” he asked.

  “Indeed, it is.” I said. “Samantha, who asked you to take this photo?”

  “Kent did. I promised to email it to her. I just haven’t had it developed until now.”

  “Did she introduce you to either of the other people in the photo?”

  “Well, the young guy was the artist, and I’d already been introduced. She said the older gentleman was her granddad. She mentioned that he was a painter, too. And so was she.”

  “Did you talk to them any further?”

  “No. I mean, I did chat with Kent before then, like I told you. She saw me snapping pictures and asked me to take one of them. After that, I was browsing with my parents.”

  “Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful,” I said.

  “I’m glad,” she said. “I hope you find Kent. And I hope she’s all right.”

  “Me, too,” I said. But I was reasonably certain Kent was anything but all right.

  Doctor Redrick Lawrence’s home was as fine as anything on McDaniel Avenue. It was large by anyone’s standard and built of red brick. A courtyard wall in the same brick surrounded the property. An iron gate in the brick wall prevented me from ringing the doorbell. I tried the call box by the numbered keypad. A camera was mounted discreetly above in a tree. I couldn’t be sure if no one answered because no one was home, or because they didn’t recognize me.

  “What now?” I scanned what I could see of the yard through the gates. It had a look of vague neglect, like maybe someone was keeping it up, but not quite often enough. The front porch planters had the remnants of summer flowers, now dead. Weeds popped up through the mulch beds.

  “It’s tricky,” Nate said. “We need to be real certain no one’s inside before we let ourselves in, check it out.”

  “I know,” I said. “Let me think.”

  While I was thinking, a jogger came by. We smiled and waved, and so did he. My gaze followed him. From the other direction, a walker approached. “Maybe I’ll try chatting her up.”

  “You want me to do it?” He grinned.

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ll likely have better luck. Go ahead.”

  When the thirty-something blonde was close enough, Nate called out, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” she said, her voice guarded.

  “I wonder if you could help my sister and me out.” Nate gave her his full wattage smile.

  She returned his smile and crossed to our side of the street. “I’ll try.”

  “We were looking up Doctor Lawrence. He treated our mother for many years, and we need her records. But since his office closed, we don’t know where to call. Mom’s not doing well.” He looked at the ground for a moment, then back up at her.

  “I think they have all of that stored in the house. I remember when they brought it all in. Boxes and boxes. Takes up a whole room, Lynda said. She’s his daughter.”

  “I see,” said Nate. “Do you know what the proper procedure is to request a file?”

  “I’m afraid not. Doctor Lawrence isn’t well himself. In fact, Lynda had him moved to a facility near her…six months ago, maybe?”

  “Could you tell us where that is?” Nate asked. “Maybe we could call her.”

  “Sure. She lives on Sullivan’s Island. She’s a doctor, too. At Medical University of South Carolina? I think her father is in a care facility in Mount Pleasant. I have Lynda’s number here somewhere.” She pulled out a phone and tapped it a few times.

  I grabbed a pad and pen from my tote.

  “Here it is.” She called out a number and I wrote it down.

  “Thank you so much,” said Nate.

  “You’re welcome. I hope your mom’s all right.” She smiled and returned to her side of the street.

  When she was half a block away, I punched Nate in the arm.

  “What was that for?”

  “Flirting. And calling me your sister.”

  “Hey, I got you what you wanted. I like to think I used my body in your service. I can do some more of that later on if you like.” A grin slid up his face.

  I wrapped my arm around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. “I would like, very much. But first we have to get back to the lowcountry. We have a doctor to find.”

  Nate pulled back. His expression turned grim. “I know. Let’s go.”

  Twenty-Seven

  We’d taken what we needed from Nate’s condo when we left for lunch, so we left McDaniel Avenue and headed for Charleston. As Nate pulled onto I-385, I dialed the number he’d scored from the walker. Because we were still using the prepaid phones, the Sync system in the car wasn’t working. I put the phone on speaker so Nate could hear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, I’m trying to reach Lynda Lawrence?”

  “This is Doctor Lawrence.”

  “Of course—my apologies. Doctor Lawrence, my name is Liz Talbot. I’m a private investigator, retained by the family of Kent Heyward in the matter of her disappearance. You may have heard about it in the news.”

  “Yes, of course. That poor girl. Have they found her? I saw where her car was found—just awful.”

  “No, she hasn’t been found yet, but as you might imagine, time is of the essence.”

  “How can I help?” She sounded truly confused.

  “Through a rather complicated series of events, our investigation has led us to a patient of your father’s from the early eighties. I wondered if we might speak to him.”

  She was quiet for a long stretch. “Dad isn’t well.”

  “I understand. I promise we won’t stay long. Just a couple questions.”

  “I don’t think he can help you. Dad has Alzheimer’s dis
ease. He has good days and bad days, but for the most part his memory is gone.”

  Alzheimer’s. Such a cruel diagnosis. I felt bad for the doctor and his family, and ashamed that it also occurred to me this was the worst possible thing he could have in terms of being able to help us. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I know that must be terribly difficult for you both. I wouldn’t ask, except a young girl’s life may well be at stake. Could we please try? We’re in Greenville right now, but we’ll be back in Charleston in a few hours.”

  “Let me speak to his doctor. If he says it’s okay, that’ll be fine. I have your number on my cell.”

  “Thank you so much. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  “It could be a couple of days. Between my schedule and his, sometimes it’s difficult to connect with Dad’s doctor.”

  “I understand. Thank you for anything you can do.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” She ended the call.

  “Something tells me the doctor at the facility isn’t going to allow us to speak with her father,” said Nate.

  “I have that feeling, too, though I’d be surprised to learn she actually spoke to the facility doctor.”

  “We may have to arrange for flowers—maybe a potted plant—to be delivered to the good doctor. Florists with a delivery to make often call around looking for patients.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “I’d say what we’ve learned supports your working narrative pretty well.”

  “It also explains why someone invested in hired muscle to scare me off. I was questioning Evan. It’s not that the Bounetheaus didn’t want me looking for Kent. They wanted me to leave Evan alone. Or possibly they just wanted Virginia’s past kept in the past.”

  Nate said, “But that would mean that whoever hired those guys honestly believes there’s no connection between Evan and his background and Kent’s disappearance.”

  “Just because they want to believe that doesn’t make it true.”

  “I wonder if Evan knows who his family is.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “My guess is Talitha might’ve planned to tell him at some point, but she died unexpectedly. Part of her deal all these years had to be discretion, and the Bounetheaus paid her a lot of money for that.”