LOWCOUNTRY BOUGHS OF HOLLY

by Susan M. Boyer

  “Or perhaps some of their associates. It could be that he had knowledge that caused some unsavory people to feel threatened.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose,” she said. “Given the timing, it’s as likely as anything. Although it doesn’t explain what he was doing in a boat parade, does it?”

  “Do you have any other ideas regarding who might have had a motive to kill your father?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I honestly don’t. Everyone loved Daddy.” She glanced at her lap, teared up. “I feel like an orphan now. And what’s worse, Daddy is the only one who ever stood up to Mother. God help us all.” She raised a hand, pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

  “Perhaps you and Mr. Heyward could go on an extended trip.” I caught myself. I felt so sorry for her, and I was trying to help. Still, it purely wasn’t my place to offer her that kind of advice.

  “Perhaps. It’s the twins, then?” Pain and bewilderment wrestled on her face.

  “That’s one plausible theory,” I said. “We have a few others. We’ll run them down one by one. I wonder if you’d mind telling me a bit about your brothers.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Are they social types? They strike me as a bit shy.” Shy was the polite word I latched on to as a substitute for peculiar.

  She made a small noise that might’ve indicated scorn, then inhaled slowly and exhaled, as if counting to ten before she spoke. “No, they’re not especially social. But I wouldn’t say they’re shy either. They’re just very…particular…about their friends.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “There’s a small group of friends they’ve hobnobbed with since they were boys. They tend to stick to themselves. Although I daresay none of them will be visiting the boys in jail. They’re probably all quite busy purging Peter and Peyton from their electronic devices and club membership records.”

  “Do you know any of their names?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not. I probably did at one point…wait…one of them is a Prioleau, if memory serves.”

  “Are either of the twins romantically involved?” I asked.

  “Not that I’m aware, but I’ve never been close to my brothers.”

  “Have either of them ever had a serious relationship?” I asked. “Brought someone home for the holidays, to meet the family?”

  “No, never. When they were younger, both of them went through the motions of being cotillion escorts, that sort of thing. They participated in social events to the extent Mother insisted. Aside from that, I’ve never met anyone either of them dated. They’re extraordinarily private about such matters. Although I can tell you, for whatever it’s worth, that Peyton is gay.”

  “And Peter?” Could identical twins have different sexual orientations?

  “Peter is heterosexual. Fascinating, isn’t it? As I said, the boys weren’t generally shy, but Peter was always quite shy with the ladies. Though I confess I’m baffled how my brothers’ personal lives could be connected to Daddy’s death.”

  “I’m trying to get a complete sketch of Peter and Peyton’s world, as it were. Switching gears for a moment, are you aware of anyone in your family engaging a local interior design firm by the name The Chadwick Studio?”

  “I think we all have,” said Virginia. “Mother’s used them for decades. They’ve done work for me. Charlotte had them redo her entire house after they bought it before they moved in.”

  “Do you recall a Hollace Spencer who worked with them in the late 1980s?”

  “Gracious, that’s a long time ago,” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall anyone by that name.”

  If she was lying, there were no tells. Surely, if Peter had been involved with Hollace, the family would’ve known—there would’ve been drama on a grand scale. “Did your father discuss with you the provisions of his will?”

  “Not recently,” said Virginia. “He created a charitable foundation a long time ago. It’s my understanding that there’s a sizable transfer to the foundation. It will make annual gifts to childhood leukemia research, One80 Place—that’s a local homeless shelter—The Gibbes Museum of Art, The Galliard Center, St. Michael’s Church, as well as smaller gifts to a few other charities.”

  “Aside from the charitable foundation, who else stands to benefit from your father’s death?”

  She gave a small shrug. “Unless he’s made changes, long-time staff members receive bequests.”

  “And the family?” I asked.

  “The family trusts have been in place for quite some time,” she said. “We’re all well provided for.”

  “Do you mind telling me which attorney drew up your father’s will?” I asked.

  “It was someone in the estate planning department at Rutledge & Radcliffe. I don’t know the specific attorney’s name,” she said. “Sam Witherspoon manages my trust. I would imagine he manages them all.”

  “Your father told me once that your mother was better off financially while he was alive,” I said. “Do you think that’s true?”

  “Oh, I’m quite certain of it,” she said. “Mother will hardly be left destitute. That said, she wasn’t pleased at all with how much of his estate Daddy chose to give to charity, nor I suspect with how much of the family trust is transferred to the rest of us upon Daddy’s death. While he was alive, she had virtually unlimited funds. Now, she’ll have to live within an allowance. It’s a generous allowance, mind you. But Mother prefers the flexibility of unfettered resources. Money is power. Power is Mother’s drug of choice.”

  “Are you aware of any special provisions of your father’s will?”

  “Special prov—oh…ohhh.” An unpleasant smile crossed her face. “Someone’s told you about the Abigail Clause. I’m surprised.”

  “The Abigail Clause?”

  “That’s what Daddy called it. Well, he said that to me anyway. Daddy loved Mother, but he had no illusions about her whatsoever. I guess he knew I of all people understood how ruthless she could be. He told me once that he knew she’d do anything for power, but that he was safe because if he died of anything other than natural causes, the trustee would have to be fully satisfied that Mother had no involvement whatsoever or her trust would be liquidated, divided between the rest of us.”

  “I would imagine he made her aware of that clause,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Otherwise, it would’ve been poor insurance.”

  “So we can rule her out as a suspect entirely then,” I said.

  “I would say so,” said Virginia. “Mother would never risk poverty. She would find it unbearable.”

  I pondered that for a moment. Virginia had powerful reasons to want revenge against her mother. Abigail would likely prefer death to poverty. Virginia might be capable of framing her mother, but she adored her father. Was there someone in the family who wanted to punish Abigail but harbored no such love for C. C. Bounetheau?

  Virginia gave me an inquiring look. “You don’t have reason to suspect Mother, do you?”

  “Not beyond the statistics. People are most often killed by those closest to them. And your mother’s history, of course.” Abigail had proven to have no aversion to killing those who stood in her way. “Was there anything going on between them lately, any disagreement you’re aware of?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “When was the last time you saw your father?” I asked.

  “We had lunch together on Tuesday at the yacht club.”

  “Did he mention anything that was bothering him at all?” I asked.

  “No.” She wore a mournful look. “He was his usual jovial self.”

  “What did you talk about?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “The holidays. We discussed the twins, naturally. Daddy was angry at them, of course. More than that, he was frightfully worried about them.”

 
I tilted my head at her, gave her a confused look. “Was he more jovial or more worried?”

  She flushed. “He was both. We talked of happy things and sad things as well. It was a mixed bag, I suppose, if you want to put that fine a point on it. However, there was nothing in our conversation that pointed to dissension between my parents.”

  “Did your mother expect your father to fix things—to find a way out for the twins?” I asked.

  “I think she knew things had gone far too far for that to be a possibility. There are limits to what money can buy, after all.”

  “This wasn’t a stress point, then—their arrest and incarceration?” My voice was coated with a healthy layer of skepticism. It was plausible to me that Abigail wanted C. C. to move Heaven and earth to get her sons out of jail and he refused.

  Virginia drew back her shoulders, gave me a haughty look worthy of her mother. “Of course it was stressful, for all of us, especially Mother. They say the relationship between mothers and sons is unique. In our family that certainly was true. Mother would kill for Peter and Peyton. Their predicament is hellish for her.”

  Abigail’s willingness to commit murder was precisely my concern. “There was no disagreement between them on how to address the issue?” I asked.

  “Not so far as I’m aware,” she said.

  “Who’s representing them?” I knew the answer to this because their attorneys were on the news nightly, issuing sound bites.

  “They brought in people from elsewhere, who put their heads together and decided the twins should have separate attorneys. Peter is represented by Amanda Bremner, Peyton by Sally Chapman.”

  “Those are very high-dollar attorneys,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Did you expect they’d get a public defender?”

  “No,” I said. “I just wondered who’s paying these out-of-state attorneys and their teams. The hotels and meals alone must be astronomical. I heard in the news that the twins’ assets had been frozen.”

  “Yes, well, some of them have been, of course. The boys are quite resourceful. There are ways around all of that.”

  “Neither of your parents are involved in mounting their defense at all?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” she said.

  “Back to your father. The money, it was his then?” I asked. “Not theirs, not jointly owned—just his?”

  “Most of it, yes,” said Virginia. “Mother’s parents left a small estate, divided between her and Aunt Tess. But Daddy inherited most of the money from Granddaddy Bounetheau. My father had a good head for business. He grew the principal considerably.”

  “The organizations your father left money to, do they have special significance?” I asked.

  “He’s given money to One80 place since they were founded. Daddy believed strongly in their mission. The Gibbes Museum of Art—you’re aware of his passion for art. The Galliard Center—he was there practically every time the doors were open. He took a great deal of joy in the arts, in all forms. He was a lifelong member of St. Michael’s Church.”

  “And childhood leukemia research?” I asked.

  “Daddy had a sister, Vivian. She died very young—I think she was nineteen—from leukemia. Daddy was crazy about her. In some ways, I don’t think he ever got over losing her.”

  How had I missed that detail? I guess where C. C. was concerned, I’d been focused elsewhere. “How terribly sad. I’m sure the organization is grateful for the bequest. Have arrangements been finalized for your father’s service?”

  “Yes,” she said. “We’ll receive friends at J. Henry Stuhr’s downtown chapel next Monday evening at six. The funeral is Tuesday at one at St. Michael’s.”

  I thanked Virginia Heyward for her time and showed myself out. The clock was ticking. Nate planned for us to leave town in less than a week. I simply couldn’t go until we’d figured out why C. C. Bounetheau was killed and by whom. My instincts said it had to do with Tallulah, and if that were the case, she and her girls could well be in danger. I couldn’t leave town until I knew they were safe.

  Then again, if C. C.’s death was somehow connected to Peter and Peyton, it could be because C. C. was a witness to criminal activity—and who else might also fall into that category and thus be in danger? Dwight and C. C. had been practically joined at the hip.

  The other possibility was that Peter and Peyton were just as evil as their mother and were livid at their entire family for failing to secure their freedom. If this was about revenge, their sisters, Virginia Bounetheau Heyward and Charlotte Bounetheau Pinckney, were potential targets, possibly even Abigail herself.

  TEN

  Charlotte Pinckney told me—through her house manager—that I should direct all inquiries to her attorney, Mr. Thomas Butler Barnwell, Esquire. Thomas Barnwell was one of Charleston’s top attorneys—in the same league with Fraser Rutledge and Eli Radcliffe, though Fraser and Eli were both more effective and more expensive. Why did Charlotte Pinckney feel the need for legal representation? I dismissed the question. If it were anyone else, this move would’ve made me suspicious. But Charlotte was cut from the same cloth as her mother. She would not be troubled by the bourgeoisie. Honestly, I didn’t think there was much to learn from Charlotte that Virginia hadn’t told me, or I would’ve pressed the point.

  As it was, I really wanted to talk with Abigail again. Now that she was no doubt expecting me, I would get the same response from her I’d gotten from Charlotte if I called or rang the bell by the gate. So I called her sister, Tess Hathaway.

  Tess was the opposite of Abigail in every way except money. They’d both married well and were ridiculously wealthy. And now they were both wealthy widows. Tess’s husband had died of a heart attack years ago. She ran a non-profit foundation that helped victims of domestic abuse. She’d hired us back in August through her attorney, Fraser Rutledge, and it was because of her I’d met Poppy Oliver, now my sister-in-law. Tess probably felt like she owed me a favor or two. She took my call straight away.

  “Liz, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need to speak with Abigail, and I wondered if you might help facilitate that.”

  “You’re looking into C. C.’s death, I understand,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s in her best interests to speak with you and not be difficult, most assuredly. I’ll call Abigail and tell her I’m coming over to see her. Would you care to come to my house, and we can go together?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  Tess greeted me with a wide smile at the front door of her home on South Battery, across from White Point Garden. While Abigail Bounetheau fought the aging process with every treatment and procedure money could buy, her sister surrendered to it gracefully. Tess was nicely dressed in a blue skirt suit with a matching hat and low heels. Under her hat, her short silver hair was styled in a manner that reminded me of Queen Elizabeth. At seventy-eight, Tess was comfortable in her own skin. Had any unfortunate soul been reckless enough to point out that Tess was the younger sister, Abigail would’ve no doubt had him tarred and feathered.

  “I’d offer you tea,” said Tess, “but Abby said I should come now. I’ve pulled the car around front.”

  She closed the door behind her and led the way to her silver Cadillac XTS parked at the curb. I wondered if anyone else drawing breath on planet Earth had ever called Abigail Kent Rivers Bounetheau “Abby.”

  We could easily have walked. It would’ve been barely more than a quarter mile door to door. But it was nippy, and Tess wasn’t dressed for a walk. She drove around White Point Garden and headed up Meeting, then made a right on Atlantic Street.

  Tess grinned mischievously, both hands on the wheel. “We’ll just go in the back way.” She turned off Atlantic into the parking court of her sister’s house.

  I followed her inside and up a different staircase than the one Griffin ha
d escorted Nate and me up the day before. Somehow, we ended up in the same room. It was clear everyone in this family used the same decorator. They all had pairs of cream-colored sofas.

  “Let’s just get comfortable,” said Tess. “Sister will be along in a moment.” She took a seat on the same sofa Nate and I had sat on the day before.

  I roamed the room a bit, taking things in. We were one floor above street level, and even from here, the views of Charleston Harbor were lovely. The impressionist oil painting above the fireplace featured shades of watery blues. A table in front of one set of French doors held framed family photos. Charlotte and Bennett Pinckney and their four boys; Virginia and Colton Heyward with Kent, not very long before she died; Abigail and C. C. and all four children. Abigail and Tess posing together at a luncheon of some sort. The family looked astonishingly normal, all things considered.

  My eyes moved to the next frame in the lineup and I gasped. There was a photo of Tallulah, taken several years ago, I’d guess. She was in profile, seated on a chaise, looking dreamily out another set of French doors.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” asked Tess.

  I picked up the frame and carried it to where Tess sat. “Do you know who this is?”

  Her face took on a sad look. “That’s C. C.’s sister, Vivi. She died not long after that was taken. Poor dear had leukemia.”

  “Oh…I mistook her for someone else.” I replaced the photo on the table. Vivian Bounetheau was Tallulah Hartley’s doppelgänger, and I knew a thing or two about doppelgängers. There was no way anyone who’d ever laid eyes on Tallulah Hartley and had known Vivian Bounetheau would not see the striking resemblance. I slid my phone out of my crossbody bag and took a snapshot of the photo.

  With my back to Tess, I opened the Voice Memo app on my phone and started recording, then slid it back into my purse and walked over and took a seat by her on the sofa. I’d no sooner settled in than we heard footsteps. Abigail appeared, took a few steps into the room, then stopped. She gave Tess a confused look, then turned to me.