Nate looked skeptical. “But he was also at your parents’ house and at the bed and breakfast. I don’t think we should spend too much time analyzing Claude’s movements. He could just be a freedom-loving caribou.”
Which wouldn’t explain him flying over the marina, but there was no point in debating the matter. I’d known Colleen a lot longer than Nate had. “What did Sonny have to allow?”
“He put me in touch with a friend of his with the DEA who’s on the task force that rounded up Peter, Peyton, and their vast pharmaceutical and weapons network. Apparently, the twins are not faring well in prison. They’re both in solitary confinement, and the only contact they have with anyone aside from their attorneys is a handful of guards who’ve been vetted by the task force. The agent thinks it’s highly unlikely either of them have been able to communicate with anyone to issue any sort of orders.
“And, he said they arrested everyone who they could conceivably bring a case against. He seemed to think there aren’t any unindicted co-conspirators, so no one connected to their investigation with a motive to kill C. C. Bounetheau or any other potential witnesses.”
“Well, that’s good news,” I said. “That significantly reduces the likelihood that someone’s working their way down a list.”
“Could be,” said Nate. “Unless it’s a different list.”
“I think we’re still looking at one of three scenarios,” I said. “Either someone killed C. C. Bounetheau to keep him from revealing that Tallulah Hartley was his daughter—and that could’ve been someone who wanted to protect their share of his estate, or someone who wanted to protect Tallulah from the Bounetheau clan and all its baggage; or, someone killed C. C. to collect on their inheritance; or, it was a straight-up robbery. A long-shot fourth possibility is that it is connected to Peter and Peyton, but somehow the DEA isn’t aware of the person or persons who needed to silence C. C. Bounetheau.”
Nate set down his plate, carried his wine glass with him to the case board, and picked up a dry erase marker. “The simplest explanation is a robbery gone wrong. I know what a fan you are of Occam’s razor, so let’s start with that.” He created columns for suspects and motives on the dry erase board.
“As much as I favor simple scenarios,” I said, “I really don’t think this was a robbery. Then again, we can’t rule it out. It’s Christmas. Folks going through a hard time sometimes do desperate things to pull off gifts for loved ones. C. C.’s watch could’ve caught someone’s eye, clued them in he was wealthy, made him a target. The five hundred dollars in C. C.’s wallet was pocket change to him, but it would’ve been a lot of money to someone of modest means down on their luck.”
Nate propped against the corner of my desk. “Violent crime is still uncommon here. And the Christmas festival doesn’t draw many people from off the island. The churches in town do a good job, from what I’ve seen, of taking care of people who’ve fallen on hard times.”
“Robbery by a stranger doesn’t feel right to me,” I said. “I think it’s much more likely someone who knew him killed him and took his watch, wallet, cell phone, and the red bag to make it look like a robbery. If that’s the case, they probably threw everything in the water.”
“Statistics say it’s Abigail.” Nate went back to the board. “But given the terms of C. C.’s will, what would her motive be? Normally, it’d be money. Not in this case.”
“And a crime of passion seems unlikely,” I said. “Tess did mention multiple affairs, but that was all so long ago. Even if there were a more recent fling, why would she kill him now when she overlooked so much when they were younger? Still, Abigail is volatile and unpredictable.”
“Fair point.” Nate added Abigail to the board with the motive of jealousy or anger.
“If it was related to Tallulah,” I said, “we’d be looking at a family member who didn’t want her to get a share of the estate. The individual trusts for the children and grandchildren were established long ago, but the amount of money transferred into them at C. C.’s death could be lower if money were diverted to Tallulah. Although, all these people are so wealthy to begin with, it’s hard to imagine one of the family members acting preemptively to keep Tallulah from getting a share.”
“I agree with you,” said Nate. “But money is quite often the motive for murder. I think we have to consider it. And we can’t rule out Peter and Peyton either. If somehow the family found out about Tallulah, Peter and Peyton’s attorneys could’ve passed along the news.” He added each of the Bounetheau clan to the board.
“Hmm…” What other unhappy news might their attorney have brought? “Do you suppose Peter and Peyton could be disinherited because of their recent misfortunes? I know C. C. set up trusts for every family member. But think about what he did with Abigail. Might there be some provision that says if the beneficiaries turn out to be drug lords and wind up in jail, the trust is dissolved and the assets revert?”
A startled look passed quickly across Nate’s face and vanished. Had I imagined it? “Absolutely. I mean, yeah…sure. I think they call that an incentive trust. If C. C. had reason to believe his sons were involved in criminal activity—and he assuredly did—then he could’ve set up the terms of their trusts so that funds aren’t distributed to them if they’re arrested, or if they’re convicted of a crime. The trustee would probably have some discretion. But if C. C. did that—if the trusts were set up that way—they’d have no motive on that score to kill him now, after they were arrested.”
“What if the trusts weren’t set up that way to begin with, but for some reason they thought their daddy was going to make some changes?” I said.
“It would depend upon whether or not their trusts are revocable or irrevocable,” said Nate. “If they were irrevocable and not conditional, C. C. couldn’t have changed the terms. Well, he could’ve petitioned the court, I suppose. Generally, the thing about irrevocable trusts is they can’t be changed.”
“We need to talk to Fraser Rutledge,” I said. “See if he can prevail upon his partner or associate or whoever handles the Bounetheau trusts to fill us in. Virginia says Sam Witherspoon handles hers. Could be he handles them all.”
“Any trustee managing trusts of that size would have to take confidentiality very seriously,” said Nate.
“Right,” I said. “Still, wouldn’t their first loyalty be to our deceased client?” Technically, of course, the town of Stella Maris was our client, but that wasn’t the way I worked. In a murder case, the ultimate client was the person whose life had been stolen.
“We can absolutely make the case that it should be. If that doesn’t work, perhaps someone more sympathetic might also have the information we seek,” said Nate. “If nothing else, perhaps Fraser can find out who all knows their way around those trusts. Help us out with who to approach.”
“You’re brilliant.” I met his startlingly blue eyes. Smart and handsome. I was a lucky, lucky girl.
“It’s not in my best interests to argue with that notion.”
I spoke sternly to myself, got my mind back on the case. “The flip side of the Tallulah angle is people wanting to protect her,” I said. “Holly Spencer Aiken was very afraid of both C. C. and Abigail, according to Tess.”
Nate nodded. “And Drum Aiken, the man who raised her, who she’s always thought to be her father, would be on that list.”
I said, “But let’s back up to the money motive for a minute. It’s all relative. Like the five hundred dollars in C. C.’s pocket that would’ve been a lot of money to someone. Virginia said some of the staff would receive bequests. We need a list of which staff and how much money, but as close as Dwight Goodnight was to C. C., he has to be down for a tidy sum.”
“One would imagine,” said Nate. “And it’s not beyond possibility that a fanatical soul from one of the charities receiving bequests might’ve felt desperate for the money.”
“You’re right,”
I said. “We need to see that will. Wait—would there even be a will, with all those trusts? I should’ve asked Virginia a few more questions. Damnation.”
“The trusts only own the assets C. C. transferred to them,” said Nate. “It’s unlikely he transferred everything he owned. His will may create one or more additional testamentary trusts. I’m certain there’s a will.”
“This all makes my eye twitch,” I said.
“Wealth definitely complicates things,” said Nate. “So…what about C. C.’s sister-in-law?”
“Tess? Not a chance. What possible motive would she have?”
He shrugged. “Maybe she’s got money coming to her. Maybe he just made her mad. Who knows? Can we really rule her out?”
“I’ll get her alibi just to dot our i’s, but she’s an incredibly long shot. She’s wealthy in her own right. The idea of her shooting anyone…”
He said, “I have a vivid memory of her wielding a weapon.”
I gave him a look that telegraphed how ridiculous I thought that was. “A tactical pen she used in the defense of others.” She’d thought that was the case anyway.
“Humor me,” he said.
I rolled my eyes elaborately.
He stepped back and we perused the list he’d created.
SuspectMotive
UnknownRobbery
AbigailJealousy/Anger
AbigailMoney
Charlotte Bennett PinckneyMoney
Lyndon PinckneyMoney
Frasier PinckneyMoney
Wyeth PinckneyMoney
Charles Bennett PinckneyMoney
Virginia Colton HeywardMoney
Peter/Peyton BounetheauMoney/Tallulah
Peter/Peyton BounetheauMoney/will change
Peter/Peyton AssociateProtect identity/secret
Dwight GoodnightMoney
Other staff membersMoney
Charitable organizationsMoney
Holly Spencer AikenLove/protect Tallulah
Drum AikenLove/protect Tallulah
Tess HathawayUnknown
UnknownUnknown
I pondered the possibilities. “Three of our scenarios still involve Peter and Peyton. I guess one of us needs to focus on them.”
“Since I started down that path, I’ll stay with that angle,” said Nate. “The first step there is finding out how the Bounetheau trusts are structured. I’ll talk to Fraser about how best to approach that piece of it.”
“Given that Janet Batrouny saw two women leave the area where C. C. was killed around the time he was killed, I’d say I should start with the ladies on our list, see if any of them are our femmes fleeing the scene.”
Nate wore an uneasy look. “Regardless of how well C. C. thought he’d covered himself, we can’t rule Abigail out entirely. She may be a longshot, but we can’t forget who we’re dealing with.”
“On the other hand,” I said, “I seriously doubt Abigail was one of the women Janet saw for the simple reason I can’t imagine a scenario where she’d get her hands dirty. She hires out her killing.”
Nate was quiet for a few moments. “Abigail Bounetheau has already tried to have us both killed once. How do you think she’ll respond to being investigated? I’d lay odds she’s already having us watched, whether she’s guilty or not. Because she’s going to want to control the outcome if one of her darlings turns out to be a stone-cold killer just like she is.”
“We have an advantage now that we didn’t have at the beginning of the Kent Heyward case,” I said.
“We do know what we’re dealing with.” Nate nodded.
“Maybe we should put out a false narrative,” I said. “Let her think we’ve written it off as a robbery.”
“I like that idea. Let’s get Blake to have Vern Waters put that story in the paper.”
“It’s too late for tomorrow’s edition,” I said. “But I can tell Abigail, and Vern can back it up in Wednesday’s Citizen.”
Nate capped the dry erase marker and laid it in the metal tray attached to the case board. “It’s been a long day.” He walked towards the sofa and held out his hands to me.
I put my hands in his and he pulled me up, then into his arms.
His voice was soft against my neck. “You’re looking a little tense. Can I interest you in a back rub?”
“Umm…that sounds positively divine. Let me grab a hot shower first.”
“Now that’s a fine idea. I can scrub your back for you.” His mouth claimed mine in a kiss that wiped everything else clear out of my head.
THIRTEEN
I took the eight o’clock ferry the next morning and was in Charleston by nine. I parked on Atlantic Street facing East Battery, right behind the sign advising me I was in a residential parking district. I wasn’t planning to be there long.
Though I highly suspected it was pointless, I called the Bounetheau home and asked for a meeting with Abigail. I needed to convince her we were pursuing the robbery angle for our protection. This would hopefully curtail any urges she might have to proactively neutralize us. Somehow, I needed to simultaneously ascertain if she had an alibi, though frankly, she was the least likely of the ladies on my list to have been at the marina in Stella Maris Saturday night.
Whoever answered the phone told me I would receive a call back shortly. I wasn’t expecting Mercedes Westbrook, Fraser Rutledge’s executive assistant.
“I’m calling as a courtesy to Mrs. Bounetheau,” said Mercedes. “She called this morning to request that we contact you and stipulate all further inquiries of any nature be handled through us.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” I said. “It was nothing short of a miracle that I was able to speak with her at all.”
“I say it’s a courtesy because the firm represents Mr. Bounetheau’s estate. We’ve previously represented both Mr. and Mrs. Bounetheau. However, per Mr. Bounetheau’s express wishes, Fraser advised Mrs. Bounetheau to seek legal counsel elsewhere.”
“I bet that went over well.” C. C. must’ve anticipated Abigail would contest the will or the terms of her trust.
“As you would expect.” Mercedes, as always, was cool and unruffled. “You’ll hear from her new legal counsel soon. She asks for your patience in the interim.”
“Would you do me a huge favor?” I asked.
“If I can.”
I said, “Would you call her back and let her know we’ve determined her husband was killed during a robbery. We’re making every effort to identify the perpetrator, but as so many people were in town for the festival, we’re not optimistic. We’re sorry to have troubled her, but will have no further need to speak with her on the matter.”
“I’ll run that by Fraser,” said Mercedes. “He’s in with Mr. Andrews at the moment. Should I tell them you’ll be joining?”
“No thanks. Nate will fill him in on the details.” Good grief. She probably thought we were incompetent idiots who had no idea what each other was up to.
I reached for the start button on the car, then froze. Griffin Ellsworth came out the back door of the main house and headed towards the carriage house. He must know Dwight wasn’t there. What was he up to?
I slid out of the car, eased the door closed, and stepped across the street. The gate to the carriage house stood open, so I walked on through and followed the brick driveway towards the arched entrance. Griffin stood in front of the door, his back to me.
“Griffin, hey!” I called in a friendly voice.
He spun around. His face wore the expression of one caught doing something one wasn’t supposed to be doing. “Mrs. Bounetheau isn’t available this morning. It would be best if you’d call for an appointment prior to your arrival.”
If only that did me any good at all. I’d spoken to someone that very morning, someone who’d subsequently spoken to Mercedes Westbroo
k. Or maybe Mrs. Bounetheau had left that instruction in case I called. Apparently, Griffin hadn’t gotten the memo, which was peculiar. Just then I was reflecting on how Griffin might’ve been a nerdy kid in school, not that there was anything wrong with that. Often nerds turned out to be hugely successful. I turned up the wattage on my smile. “I came to see Dwight. Did you knock already?”
He opened his mouth then closed it. Flustered, he said, “He isn’t here. We haven’t seen him since before you and your partner came over here Sunday morning.”
“Really?” I tilted my head. “So you came to check again, see if he came home?” More likely he came to rifle through Dwight’s things looking for some clue where he was.
“Yes, really.” He flashed me a look of annoyance. “Was there anything else?”
“When might Mrs. Bounetheau be available?” I asked.
He raised an eyebrow, like maybe he was wondering exactly how stupid I was. “I couldn’t say. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Why yes, actually.” Let’s just see who the stupid one is. “Do you live onsite, like Dwight?”
“Yes and no. I have quarters in the main house. However, I only stay there days when I’m on duty.”
“You must’ve been on duty very early on Sunday,” I said. “You saw Mrs. Bounetheau at breakfast.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I work from seven until, depending on the needs of the day.”
“Five days a week? Six?”
He huffed out a sigh. “I work Wednesday through Sunday.”
“And yet here you are on a Tuesday,” I said.
“This isn’t a typical week.”
“I suppose not.” I gave him a look that said you poor thing. “So, you were here on Saturday? When Mr. Bounetheau left?”
“I don’t know what time he left,” said Griffin. “I told you, I last saw him late morning.”
LOWCOUNTRY BOUGHS OF HOLLY Page 13
