Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  “How I know these are for real?”

  I folded the papers. “What else do you need to let me in?”

  “I guess I need Reggie Sails to come in here and add you to the list.”

  “He was cremated, but I have his ashes in an urn if that will help.” I leaned in. “Look, kid, you’ve probably seen the news coverage of the murder. Reggie was the local bar owner killed last week.”

  A small glimmer of recognition appeared underneath the metal ornamentation jutting out from his face. “He was your uncle?”

  “Yeah. So, can I check out the unit, or not?”

  He gave me a dopey face. “I guess so. It ain’t like it’s my lot, anyway, ya know.”

  I wanted to throw the punk out the window but didn’t. He gave me a diagram of the complex and pointed me in the right direction. I found the unit and approached its roll-up door, pulling the key out of my pocket. The padlock was new and snapped open when I inserted the key. The door rolled more easily than I expected. But the escaping dust sent me into a sneezing fit. When I recovered, I took stock of what the sunlight exposed. Boxes filled the space, which went back twenty feet. “Oh, great. More junk.”

  I spotted a canvas cover and realized the boxes were stacked on top of something else. I moved a couple and peeled the cover back, exposing a car fender. Uncle Reggie’s old Mustang!

  When I was a teenager he had the baddest car on the island, a sixty-eight Shelby GT500 convertible. Chrome wheels and a four speed. I wondered what happened to this thing. My memory flashed on how he used to take me for joyrides, catching the gears, a grin pasted around the plastic tip of the ever-present cigar sticking out of his mouth. This car was the reason I bought my new Mustang and the reason I named my dog Shelby. My uncle, the old coot, never told me he still had it.

  The boxes would require a truck. Mostly Civil War relics Uncle Reggie collected before he got into pirates. I left them where they sat.

  The drive to the beach rental had me thinking of the old Mustang. Out of everything I’d inherited, it was the one thing I’d always wanted. He’d hidden everything else from me for some reason, and I wasn’t sure why. The hundred acres of wetlands. The EPA sites. Fisher. Everything. Maybe he was protecting me because he recognized the danger, but I think it was more because he was worried about me. I didn’t have myself together when I returned from Afghanistan and I still had to deal with Jo’s death. The pain nearly killed me, but I worked through a lot of it.

  When I eventually came out of my funk, Uncle Reggie went into one. He spent more time away from the Cove and wouldn’t tell me or Paige anything.

  The key to the storage unit was where he’d know I’d find it. And he made sure Patricia knew about the crab pots. Something told me those weren’t the only clues he’d left.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Spanish moss hung from the branches of live oaks along the sides of the road and glistened like garlands in the Monday morning sunshine. Outside Charleston County, the speed limit increased to the double-nickel and four lanes became two. Patricia blasted along at eighty in her SL550 Mercedes, one hand on the wheel, the other holding an iced triple-shot latte.

  The sweet tea with extra lemon in my own hand suggested a slightly less exotic palate. I said, “I think it’s time you tell me where we’re going.”

  “I told you at the office. It’s a surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises.” Especially when my gun was locked in the glove box of the Mustang and not on my person.

  “We’re going to meet the most influential environmentalist in the lowcountry.”

  The trees gave way to marsh. Bridges crisscrossed muddy banks. For the next thirty miles, fields of grass over the wetland danced in the hot breeze, changing colors with the reflected sunlight bouncing off the shoots. Halfway to Beaufort, our coffee and tea long gone, Patricia switched on the right turn signal and dropped to sixty. We were in the middle of nowhere, and I was ready to ask what she was doing when a county sign appeared.

  “Yemassee? You’re telling me the king of environmentalism lives in Yemassee?”

  Patricia said, “No, but the queen does.”

  We took the turn at speed, the sport suspension of her new SL absorbing the sudden change in direction with state-of-the-art precision. Patricia pushed the accelerator hard and we rocketed down a rough road. The windshield filled with blind curves and tight switchbacks. By the time she slowed again, I’d been wishing myself back in the brothel inhaling the secondhand opium smoke and being threatened by Asian mafia punks. Any place other than the passenger seat of this fearless woman’s car.

  We turned into a heavily overgrown drive and stopped at the gated entrance of what I guessed was a large estate. The tropical vegetation and local wildflowers were someone’s interpretation of planned chaos. Large palmetto trees grew here and there. Patricia lowered her window. A muscular black man stepped out of a modest guard hut protecting him from the elements. It occurred to me that the guard, like the rest of the world, was relegated to the peasant side of the walled fortress.

  He tipped his uniform hat to Patricia. His biceps flexed as he raised a clipboard. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re here to see Ms. Hagan,” Patricia said. “She’s expecting us.”

  The guard looked at his clipboard. “Name, please.”

  Patricia gave our names and I wondered if this routine was for show or if so many visitors actually came on a Monday to warrant a list for keeping them straight.

  After a brief moment he said, “Here you are.” He stepped inside the hut and pressed a button. The large metal gates ahead swung reluctantly outward. “Follow the drive around. It will take you to the house. You can park by the fountain.”

  “Thank you,” Patricia said.

  “I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re here. Have a nice day.”

  As we drove through, I watched the side mirror to see how fast the gates closed. I half-expected them to spring shut before anyone else could sneak through, especially the banished guard.

  I asked, “So who’s Constance Hagan?”

  “Michael Galston’s sister,” she said.

  Crushed shells popped and cracked under the tires as we cruised between monstrous, centuries-old live oaks. Beyond them loomed an imposing antebellum mansion complete with the large white columns out front. An impeccable lawn flanked the residence, each pass from the lawnmower leaving opposing diagonal lanes.

  The drive circled a large running fountain next to the porte-cochere. Patricia eased to a stop and we got out. Another black man greeted us. Smaller than the guard at the gate, he wore a neatly pressed butler’s uniform. His white jacket was buttoned to the top.

  “Welcome to Hagan Manor,” he said. “Ms. Hagan is expecting you. Please follow me.”

  We were escorted up the front stairs and into a large entryway. Staircases with mahogany balustrades anchored each side of the large room, the grandeur of the Old South. A large crystal chandelier hung from the center of a high ceiling. The butler led us through a doorway to the right and into a much larger room. Lined with patterned crown-molding, the ceiling soared at least another six feet above my head. Portraits of people whom I assumed were dead family members hung on the walls. Thanks to my wife’s influence, I recognized the artist’s name.

  A very large woman filled a couch in the center of the room, her legs stretched out over the cushions. Her light-blue cotton summer dress draped over her full figure like the tarp I covered my Mustang with. A small table to her left held a little silver bell with a handle, a cup and saucer, and a dish with pastry crumbs on it.

  The woman held out a hand in greeting but did not get up from the couch, undoubtedly because the task couldn’t be handled easily. “It is so nice to see you, Patricia.”

  “Constance, it has been too long.” Patricia approached the large woman and shook her pudgy hand.

  “I’m always here,” Constance replied.

  I believed her.

  Constance Hagan l
ooked past Patricia to me. “Who’s this with you?”

  “Brack Pelton,” Patricia said, “a local businessman.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” I said, taking her hand. “And if I’m not being too forward, the Sargent portraits are excellent.”

  The smile she gave me carried with it something more than an air of superiority. “Can you believe no one else in the family wanted them? It goes to show you can’t breed taste.” Constance held my hand tighter. “I was sorry to hear about your uncle, Mr. Pelton. I knew him from the old days.”

  I opened my mouth to ask what she meant by the old days but Patricia cleared her throat.

  Constance released my hand and said, “Please sit. Can I interest you all in some coffee?”

  “That would be fine,” Patricia said.

  We chose two chairs facing Constance. The large woman picked up the bell and gave it two jingles. The butler reappeared and received his orders. When she dismissed him with a wave, he moved quickly out of the room, like a pet avoiding the familiar swat of a newspaper.

  Constance shifted slightly to get a better angle on her visitors. “So what brings you out to the Manor?”

  Patricia said, “We understand your relationship with your brother has been strained for a long time. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  The large woman cooled herself with a small hand fan. “You think he’s connected to your ex-husband’s murder?”

  “To get right to the point,” Patricia said, “yes.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s turned into a real heel since Daddy died.”

  The pinging sound of china announced the butler, who came into the room holding a tray with two cups and saucers, an elaborate silver pot, and a plate of cookies. He held the tray with a practiced hand, poured coffee into a cup, and handed the cup and saucer to Patricia before doing the same for me. He set the plate of cookies on a coffee table closer to Constance than to us. I didn’t let manners or the distance stop me from reaching and taking one with chocolate chips before the host chose hers.

  “Thank you, Charles,” Constance said, and the butler left the room. “As I was saying, my brother has declared himself the head of the family. In his pursuit of leaving his mark on our dynasty, I’m afraid he’s taking us down the wrong path.” Constance examined the tray before choosing an oatmeal raisin cookie. “You should know this, Patricia. Your newspaper has printed more about his enterprises than anyone else.”

  The corners of Patricia’s mouth stretched into a full grin. “He does make good copy.”

  Constance nibbled on the edge of her cookie. “Frankly, I’m surprised you get away with it.”

  Patricia crossed her legs. “When it comes to publishing about someone like your brother, we triple-check our facts.”

  “You’d better,” Constance said, “or he’ll sue your skinny rear-end off.”

  Patricia opened her oversized bag and took out a stack of papers. “Are you aware your brother is in the process of trying to purchase one hundred acres of wetlands with the intent of using offset credits to develop them?”

  Constance choked on her cookie. “What?”

  When Patricia handed her the papers, Constance jerked them out of her hands and scanned them line by line.

  “The land is in North Charleston,” Patricia said, “on the Ashley River.”

  Constance shook her head. “It’s not possible. The board has to agree before anything like that can happen.”

  Patricia sat back and re-crossed her legs. “It appears your brother has found a loophole.”

  Constance reached among many folds of light-blue fabric to a pocket, took out a cell phone, and made a call. “Bill, I found out Michael has acquired the Sawyer Forest property and is going to use it for credits.” She listened to the reply. “Yeah, but how was he able to buy it?” Another reply. “But we should have known about it before it happened.” Her pale face reddened. “Listen Bill, this is my foundation. My brother—”

  She stopped speaking, her eyes narrow with fury. After a few deep breaths, she said, “Bill, do me a favor and find out what’s going on.”

  Ten more seconds and she hit the End button. She put a pudgy hand to her chest as she took several deep breaths.

  Patricia managed to get us back to the Palmetto Pulse in one piece and without accumulating any speeding tickets. I drove to the beach rental in my Mustang, and taking a cue from Constance, who’d said she was upset and needed to rest, crashed on one of the lounge chairs on the back deck.

  The Ai Ai Ai woke me up. I hit Accept.

  Patricia said, “I got a call from a Craig McAllister.”

  “I don’t know who he is.”

  “He’s one of the few reputable developers in the county. He said he was calling on behalf of Constance.”

  “She moves faster than she looks.”

  Patricia ignored my humor. “He’ll meet with you tomorrow. I can’t make it, but I’m sending my best reporter along.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Darcy and I took a booth in the diner where we were to meet Craig McAllister, Constance’s friend. It was Tuesday. The only windows in the small space faced the street by the entrance. Worn hardwood lined the floor. Vinyl and chrome covered the rest. The smell of fifty years of grease hung in the air as thick as the sulfur around a marsh. From the looks of the other patrons, I suspected I wasn’t the only one with a concealed weapon.

  A waitress came to our table and laid two menus in front of us. “What can I get y’all?”

  We ordered milkshakes and waited. When bells tied to the entrance door jingled, I watched our man come in. He slid his sunglasses from the ridge of his nose to the top of his head. His polo shirt had a monogram on it similar to the one Galston’s stooges wore and his work boots and khakis showed splattered mud. He was in good shape for what I guessed was sixty, with the deep tan of an offshore fisherman. His eyes scanned the place before they locked on mine. He came and slid into the booth facing us.

  The waitress broke the silence. “What can I get you, hon?”

  “Black coffee to go, please,” McAllister said. His accent sounded more like upstate South Carolina than Charleston low-country.

  The waitress left and returned with his coffee. “You wanna see a menu?”

  McAllister shook his head and she left.

  “You called this meeting,” I said. “Want to tell us what this is about?”

  “Constance Hagan called this meeting,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about your uncle. We were in Vietnam together a long time ago.”

  I sat back. “No kidding.”

  “Yeah. Lost touch over the years.”

  Darcy asked, “You ever been to his bar?”

  “Maybe once or twice. My work keeps me busy.”

  I put enough money on the table to cover our tab. “You want to talk here or somewhere else?”

  McAllister led us to a big Ford F450 Dually pickup truck with four doors. It was white and caked in mud like his boots and still had dealer plates. On the front door was stenciled McAllister and Associates. I let Darcy take the front seat. Despite the soiled exterior, the truck had that new-car smell.

  McAllister fired up the diesel engine and drove slowly through the small town, easing across railroad tracks and potholes. “Galston uses his companies to buy Superfund sites, and then filters money through them with minimal cleanup.”

  “How’d you find out about this?” Darcy asked.

  “Because I’m one of the few people around here with the capability and experience to do environmental restoration. I know everyone in the business and no one is doing any real work for Galston.”

  “What are you,” Darcy said, “the only ethical contractor in town?”

  Watching the rearview mirror, I saw McAllister’s mouth form a crooked smile.

  “Weirder things have happened.”

  Darcy turned toward him. “Not that weird.”

  McAllister veered onto a two-lane and gunned it.
“This area is thick with wetlands, which is why it’s so dangerous that a Superfund site is here.”

  Two miles out of town he flicked his left indicator and slowed. A pine forest surrounded us, taking the edge off the sun. He slowed more and steered onto a dirt road. The remains of a rotting sign jutted from the ground. I could barely make out the name.

  CHROMICORP

  We were in the middle of nowhere and I wondered for more than a few minutes how well Constance knew McAllister. Out the back window, I watched the trail of dust kicked up by the four rear tires and questioned where all the water was if this was wetland.

  The road turned sharply around a fallen tree and into a mud hole. McAllister touched a button on the dashboard just before we hit the thick clay, engaging the driveshaft to the front wheels. The nose of the truck dropped a foot or so into the pit and bounced us around the cab.

  Darcy grabbed the handle above her door. McAllister revved the diesel, spinning the wheels and powering us through the muck. The front wheels climbed out the other side of the hole, but the mud didn’t end there.

  Silently I took back what I’d thought about dry soil. I said, “We just having fun mudding in your new truck here or is there a purpose to this?”

  “Galston hasn’t touched this site since he bought it five years ago,” McAllister said. “He’s always a few steps ahead of the EPA. Even tried to put me on retainer to cover for him.”

  A clearing in the middle of the trees opened up. He slowed the truck to a stop and killed the engine. Through the windshield, I saw a small, overgrown gravel parking lot and two buildings; the small one looking like it was used for an office at one time. The other was larger and must have been where the chemical processing took place. Two rats scurried out of a hole in one of the buildings and underneath the broken-down door of another.

  “I call this place the rat farm.”

  Darcy said, “Yuck.”

  McAllister faced me. “I think your uncle was going to expose Galston.”

  “Got any proof?” Darcy asked.