LOWCOUNTRY BOUGHS OF HOLLY

by Susan M. Boyer

  “You’re sure of that?” Nate asked.

  “Positive,” said Griffin. “His bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  I squinted at him, gave him a look that demanded he elaborate.

  Griffin sighed. “Mr. and Mrs. Bounetheau have separate quarters. When Mr. Bounetheau didn’t come down for breakfast, I went to see if he wanted a tray brought up. Where was this body found? When?”

  “Stella Maris,” I said. “Early this morning.”

  “I’m not aware of any connection Mr. Bounetheau has to Stella Maris, not currently,” said Griffin. “I’m certain there’s been a misunderstanding. The Bounetheau’s have property in several locations. Perhaps Mr. Bounetheau left for Manhattan.”

  “Would Mr. Goodnight have gone with him?” I asked.

  “Indubitably,” said Griffin. “Mr. Bounetheau never travels anywhere without Dwight.”

  “Do you perhaps have a phone number for Mr. Goodnight?” I asked. “We just need to verify that Mr. Bounetheau is all right, and then we’ll leave you in peace.” What we really need is for you people to accept what’s happened.

  “Yes, of course,” said Griffin. He reached into a pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped a couple buttons.

  After a moment, he said, “Dwight, has Mr. Bounetheau left for Manhattan?”

  His eyes widened. He looked back and forth from me to Nate. “So you’re home then…. There are some folks here who need to speak with you. I’m sending them around.”

  Griffin stared at the floor between Nate and me. The hand holding the phone slowly fell to his side. Presently, he said, “Mr. Bounetheau is unaccounted for at present. I will notify Mrs. Bounetheau. The carriage house is right this way.”

  FOUR

  We walked across the courtyard in the direction Griffin indicated.

  “Some carriage house,” said Nate.

  I’d seen a few Charleston carriage houses, and many are quite lovely in their own right. But the Bounetheau’s carriage house was a mansion in its own right. It was a three-story stucco affair with its own balcony. Clearly the carriage house had been renovated into a modern residence. We knocked on the arched wooden door. Did Dwight Goodnight live here by himself?

  The door swung open. The man standing there in jeans and a button-down was clearly distraught, his face screwed up like he’d just been sucker punched. He ran a hand across his receding hairline. I made him for somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty years old. He was fit and looked to have aged well.

  “You’re here about C. C.?” The words appeared to have a bitter taste.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’m Liz Talbot. This is my partner, Nate Andrews. We’re with the Stella Maris Police Department.”

  “Come in, come in.” He stepped back, opened the door. “Lord, Lord.” He shook his head.

  The brick-floored room resembled what you might get if you asked a high-dollar interior decorator to put together a man cave for you. There was a bar along one wall with four stools. Tucked into a corner was a long, L-shaped booth with a couple low tables and a few chairs. High in the wall, semi-circled windows gave the impression the space was below grade. Each wall featured a large television.

  “Have a seat,” said Dwight.

  Nate and I sat in two of the grey leather chairs, and Dwight slid into the booth across from us.

  “We understand you work for Mr. Bounetheau, is that right?” I asked.

  “All my life,” he said. “Well, err…since I was seventeen, anyway.”

  “In what capacity?” Nate asked.

  Dwight made a face, raised his palms. “Whatever capacity he needs. Is C. C. all right?”

  I gentled my voice. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Dwight’s worried eyes cut from me to Nate, then back. “Yesterday, just before nine o’clock in the evening.”

  “Where was that?” I asked.

  “Over in Stella Maris.”

  “Do you mind telling us what y’all were doing there?” I asked.

  “C. C. wanted to be in the boat parade,” said Dwight. “He dressed up like Santy Claus, rode in his old teak boat. Had me pull him with the Chris-Craft. We put lights and so forth all over both boats. For the kids, you know.”

  This was completely inconsistent with everything I thought I knew about our victim. I nodded, tilted my head in inquiry. “Had C. C. ever done this sort of thing before?”

  “You mean ride in a boat parade? No. Not to my knowledge.”

  “Do you know if he’d ever dressed up like Santa Claus?” Nate asked.

  Dwight shook his head, “Not that I recollect.”

  “So, at some point you came home and Mr. Bounetheau stayed in Stella Maris?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Dwight. “After the parade, he said he wanted to go to the festival downtown, listen to the music a while. I went along for a little bit, but…well, we got separated in the crowd. I was tired, and it was dark. I don’t see as good as I used to, and I wanted to get back before it got any later. I went on back to the Chris-Craft. A little while later, C. C. showed up. Told me to head on home. He said he’d take the ferry back to Isle of Palms and call for a car when he got ready to leave. Tell me, please…is he all right?”

  “Mr. Goodnight, I’m so very sorry,” I said, “but Mr. Bounetheau passed away last night.”

  He raised a hand to his face, looked stricken. “What happened?”

  “We’re trying to piece that together,” I said. “You mentioned that you pulled the boat in the parade.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you untie it and leave it behind in Stella Maris?” Nate asked.

  “No, no. Last I saw, it was still tied up. I said goodbye to C. C. He was getting something out of the little boat. He said he’d see me in the morning.

  “Like I said, it was late. C. C. keeps the boats over to Charleston City Marina. We rode over to Stella Maris in the Chris-Craft, towed the rowboat. I didn’t want to go all the way back on the water by myself at night. I took the Chris-Craft back to the marina at Isle of Palms and left it there. I did notice the little teak boat had come loose, and I worried about that, cause C. C. purely loves that boat. But there wasn’t anything I could do about that last night in the dark. I called for an Uber. I figured we’d hunt it this afternoon. What happened to him?”

  “Someone shot him,” said Nate.

  Dwight jerked, looked startled. “Shot him? Who shot him?”

  “We don’t know,” I said. “Can you think of anyone who might have held a grudge against Mr. Bounetheau?” It was far easier for me to think of people with a grudge against Abigail.

  Dwight shook his head. “C. C. had a heart of gold. I’d a been dead before I turned twenty if it wasn’t for him. I was a hoodlum, that’s what my mamma called me, anyway. C. C. caught me breaking into one of his boats. He should’ve called the law, but he didn’t. Took me out to get dinner. Guess I musta looked hungry. Before he dropped me off that night, he offered me a job. Said he needed help looking after his boats. Truth was, he had plenty of people for that.”

  “How long have you lived here in the carriage house?” I asked.

  Dwight gave a half chuckle. “It’s something else, isn’t it? I’ve lived here more than forty years. About the time my mamma died, C. C. decided he needed me close by. Asked me to move in here. It was beautiful then—better than any place I’d ever lived, I’ll tell you that right now. I was twenty-one years old. Then in the early nineties…I was pushing forty. C. C. decided the carriage house needed to be modernized. This was our hangout. We’d play darts, shoot the breeze, watch a game…whatever. The place suited us just fine, but C. C. said if I was ever going to attract a wife, I needed a more respectable home. You should see the two upper floors of this place. It’s way too fine for the likes of me.”

  “And you helped maintain Mr.
Bounetheau’s boats, is that right?” Nate asked. “I must’ve misunderstood what Griffin said.”

  “I took care of whatever C. C. wanted taken care of. Some days I drove him around. They have a chauffeur, you understand. But he reports to Abigail, like everyone else around here except me. If C. C. wanted to go out in one of the boats, I’d take him. Sometimes we’d fish.”

  “So you were Mr. Bounetheau’s personal assistant?” I asked.

  “I guess you’d say that.” He sighed, shook his head. “He was like a brother to me. I’d’ve done anything he wanted me to. He didn’t have to pay me a dime. But he did. He paid me more than he should’ve.”

  “Sounds like you knew him quite well,” I said.

  Dwight nodded. “I did.”

  “So why did he want to be in the Stella Maris boat parade dressed up like Santa Claus?”

  Irritation washed across Dwight’s face. “I told you. For the little children.”

  “Any particular children?” I asked.

  He shrugged, raised his palms, made an elaborate face. “All of them, I reckon.”

  “Mr. Bounetheau had grandchildren, but they’re all older, right?” Nate asked.

  Dwight nodded, pressed his lips together. “Yeah, ah, his daughter, Charlotte, has four boys. Youngest one is twenty-three.”

  “And none of them have children yet, right?” I asked.

  “No, not yet,” said Dwight. “Virginia, his other girl, she had a daughter. But she died.” He raised an eyebrow at me.

  Did he know Nate and I investigated Kent Heyward’s disappearance? “So there aren’t any young children in the family, right?” I asked.

  He nodded agreeably. “That’s right.”

  “Then I don’t understand why all of a sudden at the age of eighty-three, C. C. Bounetheau decided to play Santa Claus for the children of Stella Maris.”

  Dwight raised his palms again. “I guess he had his reasons.”

  “But he didn’t share them with you?” Nate looked skeptical. “You were his drinking buddy, his confidant, so to speak. And he tells you he wants to dress up and be in a boat parade and you didn’t ask him why?”

  “’Course I asked him why,” said Dwight. “Listen, are y’all investigating who shot my friend?”

  “We are,” I said.

  He nodded, studied the floor. “Be real careful of Abigail. She can be ahh… a bit high strung.”

  That was an epic understatement. “Do you suspect Abigail of killing her husband?” I asked.

  His head jerked up. “I did not say that. Don’t you say I said that. Not to nobody.” He pointed at nothing in particular for emphasis.

  “Naturally, anything you tell us is confidential,” I said. “Unless you’re trying to cover up evidence of a crime.”

  “Now you listen to me.” Dwight pointed his finger at me. “Of all the people on God’s green earth, the one person you can be absolutely certain never harmed a hair on C. C. Bounetheau’s head is me. He was my best friend. I loved him. I can’t imagine what my life will be like without him. I would’ve walked through fire for C. C. Bounetheau. You hear me?”

  “Yes, of course.” I knew a thing or two about losing your best friend. “But we’re going to need your help to figure out who killed your friend. Do you suspect Abigail of any involvement? Confidentially?”

  He thought for a minute. “No,” he said. “Not really. It wouldn’t’ve been in her best interests.”

  That was consistent with what C. C. had told me himself. “Who, then?”

  Dwight shrugged elaborately. This seemed to be his favorite gesture. “Was he robbed? His watch alone was worth a pretty penny.”

  “That’s possible,” said Nate. “He didn’t have a wallet or a cell phone. No watch.”

  “He had all those things last time I saw him,” said Dwight.

  “That’s helpful.” Could this possibly be a simple robbery? My instincts said no. Nothing to do with the Bounetheaus had ever been simple. “Dwight, what kind of cell phone did C. C. have?”

  “It’s an iPhone.”

  “Do you know if the Find My iPhone feature was turned on?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He nodded.

  “Did he share his location with anyone else?” I asked.

  “Uh, yeah, he did. With me. We set up the Life 360 app for emergencies.” He ran a hand across his head. “I just didn’t know we were having one.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped in his passcode, opened the app, and passed the phone to me.

  I studied the screen. “Whoever took his phone must’ve turned it off or destroyed it immediately. The last known location is at the Stella Maris marina last night at 9:17.”

  “Do you know what all he carried in his wallet?” I asked.

  “Five hundred dollars in cash, an American Express Black card, a Visa card issued by Bank of America—that was more for everyday things. Some businesses don’t like American Express, even the black ones. His driver’s license, his passport card…I’m not sure what all else,” said Dwight.

  “Do you have the login information for his credit cards?” I asked.

  “I have it written down, for emergencies,” he said.

  “Would you get it?” asked Nate. “We need to see if anyone’s used either of them and where. Then we need to call and ask the issuers to monitor the cards, but not close them. If whoever stole his wallet goes on a spending spree, that could lead us to whoever killed Mr. Bounetheau.”

  Dwight nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  He came back a few minutes later wearing glasses and carrying a laptop. He set the laptop on the table and handed me a slip of paper with the login credentials. Then he powered up the computer, pecked in a password with one finger, and swiveled the screen to me.

  I logged in and pulled up C. C.’s recent Visa account activity. “The last transaction recorded was yesterday afternoon at The Pirate’s Den.”

  Dwight nodded. “We had an early dinner there before the parade.”

  The American Express card showed no activity in the last three days. “You’ll call the card companies?” I asked. “Are you authorized to speak to them on C. C.’s behalf?”

  “Yeah,” said Dwight. “I’m authorized.” That struck me as odd, outside his purview perhaps. There must be someone else who managed financial chores.

  “Did he have anything else with him?” I asked.

  “Not that I’m aware,” said Dwight. “Abigail…she’ll hold me responsible for this. Not that she’ll think I killed him. She’ll know that’s not true. But she’ll blame me for leaving him there by hisself. I shouldn’t a done that, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “I have to say, it does strike me as a bit callous,” I said. “That you’d leave your eighty-three-year-old friend to find his own way home.”

  “C. C. might’ve been gettin’ on in years,” said Dwight, “but there wasn’t a feeble bone in his body. He was more than capable of gettin’ hisself home.”

  “Apparently not,” said Nate.

  “How was I supposed to anticipate somebody would shoot him?” Dwight was agitated.

  “What time did you leave Stella Maris?” I asked.

  “It was right after they started the fireworks,” said Dwight. “A few minutes or so past nine.”

  “And when you climbed aboard the Chris-Craft, the wooden boat was tied to the stern, and C. C. was standing on the dock by the wooden boat?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly right.” Dwight nodded, his eyes wide and emphatic.

  I pondered that for a few moments. All we knew so far was what Dwight had told us. We’d only just met him, and had no idea if he was truly a grieving reliable witness or a cold-blooded killer. Just then I was thinking three things were key to the timing of C. C. Bounetheau’s death. His body had been found in
that teak boat, the cell phone had been turned off at 9:17, and the fireworks between 9:00 and 9:30 could’ve masked the sound of gunfire.

  “What model Chris-Craft?” asked Nate.

  “It’s a Corsair 34,” said Dwight.

  “Gorgeous boat,” said Nate. “Long, low decks. Swim platform off the stern?”

  “That’s right,” said Dwight.

  “Nothing at all to obscure your visibility of the boat you were towing,” said Nate.

  Dwight nodded. “That’s why we chose it. C. C. has several boats.”

  I didn’t want to tell anyone just yet that C. C.’s body had been discovered in the teak boat. Could be we’d need that piece of information that perhaps only the killer would know. “And when you pulled both boats away from Stella Maris, C. C. was alive and standing on the dock, and the fireworks were underway?” I asked.

  “Well, uh…no, that’s not exactly right,” said Dwight.

  “Tell us exactly what happened, moment by moment, from the time you and C. C. were separated in the park until you left the island,” said Nate.

  Dwight made an ornery face. “We were near the gazebo where they were singing. C. C. saw somebody he wanted to talk to. Said he’d just be a minute. He was standing just a few feet away from me. They kinda…wandered off, I guess. Anyway, I looked up and he was gone.

  “I rode the trolley from downtown at the courthouse back to the marina. I boarded the Chris-Craft and went below deck. It was cold out. Little while later, C. C. called me, to see where I was. I told him I was onboard. He said he’d be there in a minute.

  “I figured we were getting ready to leave, so I went up top. When C. C. got back to the slip, he was talking to me, saying he wanted to stay awhile longer. I climbed out onto the dock. My hearing’s not so good anymore. We stood there talking a few minutes. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to stay. Things were wrapping up, I thought. C. C. was adamant. Told me to head on home, like I told you before. We said goodbye. I climbed aboard the Chris-Craft. Last I saw C. C., he was reaching over into the little boat. Then I went down to the galley to make some coffee. I was there, maybe ten, fifteen minutes or so. The fireworks started while I was below deck. I came back up, untied the Chris-Craft from the dock, pulled in the bumpers, started the engine, and left. The little boat was back there when I left the marina. At some point before I got to Isle of Palms, it musta come untied, which I don’t understand at all, because I tied it myself, and I know how to tie a knot. I made arrangements to leave the Chris-Craft overnight and called an Uber.”