1 Lowcountry Boil (9 page)

ELEVEN

Back at Gram’s house, I poured myself a glass of pinot noir. Rhett was snoozing in his bed in the sunroom. He seemed lost in doggy dreams, so I didn’t disturb him. I took my wine into my new office and logged on to one of my subscription databases. Seconds later, I knew that David Morehead had been meeting with Adam Devlin outside The Pirates’ Den. Adam was Michael’s older brother, but they were nothing alike. I didn’t know Adam well, but I’d never liked him. He’d married Colleen’s older sister, Deanna. She was the closest thing to an angel you’d find this side of heaven. I’d always held the opinion that she deserved better.

At first blush, it seemed reasonable that David and Adam might have legitimate business. After all, Merry and David’s project was to be housed on a sizable piece of Devlin land. But why would Adam and David be skulking about parking lots? People with nothing to hide meet inside the restaurant, not in the dark shadows outside.

I typed interview notes from my conversation with John Glendawn. Then I set up profiles for Hayden Causby and Stuart Devlin. A records check confirmed both were arrested at the same time as John Glendawn back in 1961. But, while Stuart and John were both  charged with simple marijuana possession, Hayden was sentenced to fifteen years for possession with intent to distribute. Interesting, but what did it mean? Maybe Merry could fill me in on some of the Causby history—if she ever spoke to me again.

Next, I checked up on David Morehead. Something about that guy was nagging at me. I knew I’d seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t place where. His proximity to Merry’s schizophrenic project—and his clandestine meeting with Adam Devlin—made me leery of David and the New Life Foundation. I Googled both. I came up with nothing on him, but plenty on the foundation.

The New Life folks had several camps across the country dedicated to helping at-risk teenagers. The website didn’t mention gangs or felons, but maybe they didn’t advertise that clientele. No high-rise facilities appeared in any of the photos. In fact, their operations looked more like campgrounds. There was no mention of David Morehead, or any of the executives, for that matter. It was all about the kids—success stories and testimonials.

The nonprofit was registered in New York, with a Quincy Owen as contact at a Lake George, New York mailing address. Three clicks later, I had a phone number for Mr. Owen, but it was too late to call.

The pinot noir was silky on my tongue. I savored a long sip and stared out the front windows. Gram was my client. She was the victim. As often happens, the victim would have to be a subject of the investigation. I sighed and set up a profile for Gram. Hers was the lone missing council member’s name on the list. And she was the one who’d been murdered. Whose name would she have written by her own on the legal pad?

I was pondering that when the stairs creaked.

I listened hard. Old houses make settling noises, right?

Squeak.

Now it occurred to me how odd it was that Rhett was asleep when I came in. He always greeted me at the door. I eased open the bottom drawer of my desk and retrieved Sig. Then I crept over to the french doors opening to the foyer. I hadn’t been upstairs since I’d come home, so the landing lights weren’t on. I couldn’t see past the first three steps.

The light switch for the foyer was by the front door. To turn it on, I’d have to pass in full view of anyone on the steps.

Creak.

“Marci? That you? I have a gun, it’s loaded, and I’m a pretty fair shot,” I said, in a chatty tone.

Creaks, squeaks, rapid footsteps. Someone scrambled back up the stairs and across the landing. I crossed to the door and flipped on the lights. A glimpse of denim disappeared down the hall to the right, towards Gram’s room. Marci wouldn’t run from me—she’d confront me.

I bolted up the steps.

Gram’s bedroom door slammed closed.

I sprinted to the door and tried the knob. Locked. Where were the interior keys? No time to pick a lock.

I rammed my shoulder into the door. Yeouch! That was stupid. The doors were solid mahogany. Why the devil would an intruder lock himself in Gram’s room? There was no way—yes, there was a way out.

Back down the hall I dashed, taking the stairs two at a time. At the landing, I swung around and flew down the hall towards the back of the house. I threw the deadbolt in the sunroom and burst out onto the deck. I looked up at the balcony outside Gram’s room. The french doors stood open, and no sign of the intruder. I knew—because I had done it myself as a child—that one could climb from the balcony onto the handrail of the deck using the wisteria trellis. But this was a dicey maneuver, not something you did in a hurry. No one except a monkey could have already climbed down and disappeared into the night.

I waited, panting.

Nothing.

Damnation.

Back into the house I ran. Through the sunroom, down the hall, up the stairs. I pulled up short. Gram’s bedroom door stood open.

Sonofabitch. I’d been had. The intruder waited until I was outside, then walked down the steps and out the front door.

I eased down the hall, Sig drawn, and into Gram’s room. I cleared the closets and her bathroom, then closed and locked the balcony doors. Room by room, I checked the rest of the house. All the windows and doors were locked. And no sign of forced entry. How the hell had anyone gotten in?

I went back to Rhett. I ruffled the fur on his back and called his name. He rolled over and yawned, but didn’t waken. I reached out to put my gun on the coffee table, but stopped short. A box of Benadryl sat on the edge of the coffee table. A box I hadn’t left there. The intruder wanted me to know he gave Rhett Benadryl—something that would wear off shortly and wouldn’t hurt him.

Anyone that thoughtful was probably not a killer. My prowler was not likely Gram’s murderer. And it damn sure wasn’t Marci. She’d have poisoned Rhett for spite. Nothing seemed missing, and the burglar made no attempt to harm me—just the opposite. He’d avoided a confrontation. Then what did he want?

With the house secure and Rhett sleeping off the Benadryl, I snugged Sig in the back waistband of my slacks, grabbed a flashlight, and went to look for signs of entry outside.

I stood in the circle drive and stared at the house. If I were going to break in, how would I do it?

I’d pick a lock. But that was a specialized skill set—not nearly as easy as it looked on television. If someone had picked a lock, it was either a professional thief or possibly another results-oriented PI with relaxed standards about occasional breaking and entering.

If I couldn’t pick locks, how would I break in?

I circled the exterior of the house looking for ideas. Blake was right about one thing, motion detectors illuminated the entire yard as I walked. When I reached the north lawn, I walked up the stone path to the garage. The side door was unlocked. I hadn’t checked it earlier—it hadn’t occurred to me. I turned on the lights and walked up the steps to the door leading to the mudroom. Something was on the top step. I bent down for a closer view.

It looked like a chicken nugget. I stood and quickly surveyed the garage below me. A box of car rags sat on a shelf at the foot of the steps. Perfect. I retrieved a rag and used it to pick up the lump. It was, in fact, a chicken nugget. My intruder likely slipped Rhett a bite through the pet door, called to him, watched him eat it, and then given him another treat with the Benadryl inside.

I sat on the top step, leaned back, and stuck my arm through the pet door. Barely a stretch to unlock both the knob and the deadbolt. With that mystery solved, I retraced my steps, locking the door to the yard behind me. It didn’t have a deadbolt. The knob-lock was accessible through the pet door just like the one at the top of the stairs. Maybe a security system wasn’t such a bad idea.

I walked back around to the ocean side of the house. What brought Gram outside the night she was killed? I stared under the deck and switched on the flashlight. Something sinister, with tiny cold feet ran up my spine. A wave of nausea hit me. This was where it had happened, on a night much like this one. The wind would have been howling.

I shined the flashlight on every square foot of the storage area. Frame by frame, I looked for anything out of place. Just like in the daylight, there was nothing here but firewood and sand. My gaze slid past the stacked logs, then back. I eyed the wood.

I’d seen things hidden in far stranger places.

I ran inside and came back with latex gloves and a pair of heavy gardening gloves I found in the storage room. I blew into the gardening gloves and shook them out. Who knows what might have nested in there, or who wore the gloves last, or how fastidious his sanitary habits were? I slipped on the latex gloves and the gardening gloves over top.

Log by log, I unstacked the wood, tossing each piece into a pile behind me. Thirty minutes later, I was sure there was nothing but wood. It took far longer to restack it than  to take the pile apart. When I finished, I stepped back and swept the flashlight once more around the area for good measure. I’m nothing if not thorough.

As I backed out from underneath the deck, something glinted in the flashlight beam. Something in the sand, a few feet in front of the woodpile. I stepped closer, brushed the sand away. It was a silver, heart-shaped locket on a dainty chain—must have been buried. In moving all that wood around, I’d uncovered it.

I pulled off the gardening gloves and lifted the necklace out of the sand. The clasp appeared broken. Inside was a picture of a man I’d never seen before. The image was small, but the smiling subject appeared to be somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty. A tanned, vibrant sixty.

Back in my office, I labeled a plastic bag, slipped the locket inside, and sealed the bag. A rift of blues from my iPhone signaled Nate on the line. The photo of him on the screen had been taken at Artisphere, an arts festival in Greenville, the year before. He was sprawled on a quilt in the grass at The Peace Center Amphitheatre. We’d been listening to a local jazz band and munching on street food. I smiled at the memory and slid the arrow across the touch screen to answer his call.

“Hey, you,” I said.

“What’s going on down there?”

I hesitated. Nate and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. But if I told him I’d just chased off a prowler he’d worry. This long distance partnership was still very new. “Ahh, not much. Family drama, a prowler, small-town politics, you know.”

“A prowler?”

“It was nothing. You should have been at that town council meeting—
man
.”

“A prowler in the yard or someone in your house?”

“He left in a hurry, no worries there. Hey, I found a locket near where Blake thinks Gram was killed.” I stared at the piece of jewelry in question. “I think it must have been hers, but I’ve never seen it before. Or the man whose picture is inside it.”

“Give it to Blake. Now tell me about the prowler.”

I sighed and told him about the prowler.

Nate was so quiet I thought the call had dropped.

“Nate?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“You know I can take care of myself. This was nothing, really.”

“Got it.” Nate’s tone rarely betrayed what he was thinking. He sounded calm, relaxed.

“What’s new with you?” I knew I sounded a shade too bright.

“Not much. Closed the file on the Walker divorce.”

“That was a messy one.”

“Yeah, but adultery pays the rent.”

“True.”

“I’m supposed to fly to Vegas tomorrow to chase down a lead on Atticus Vardry’s granddaughter.”

“Wow, that trail’s been cold for months. Wait, what do you mean you’re ‘supposed’ to fly to Vegas?”

“I mean I have an airline ticket, and the client would very much like for me to ascertain if the heir to his considerable fortune is currently performing as a showgirl at the Jubilee show. But I’m considering heading south instead.”

“What? No—I’m fine. Perfectly fine. And this is the first lead we’ve had on her in—”

“I know, months.” He sighed. “Are you sure you’re okay? I know you can handle prowlers. It’s your family that worries me.”

I had no doubt he was referring to Michael. He considered him yet another example of my bad romantic decisions. Although Michael was not technically family, Nate liked to remind me he was my cousin’s husband by calling him family. “I can handle things here. Go to Vegas. Let me know if it’s her. I’d love to close that case.”

“Fine. Stay safe.”

“You, too.”

“Talk to you soon.”

“Goodnight.” I pressed end to disconnect and held the phone in both hands. For the first time since I’d arrived home, I felt lonely.

TWELVE

I got up at five the next morning to run on the beach. Rhett woke fine as frog hair—well rested and itching to frolic—so I took him along. I dropped a robe across a beach chair for later, and we warmed up with a jog around the north point of the island. We passed Sullivan’s Bed and Breakfast, then Simmons’ Inlet as we rounded the point and headed south along the Intracoastal Waterway to the marina where my brother still slept on his houseboat. I detoured through the marina parking lot and then hit sand again on the other side of the boat slips.

At Heron Creek, I turned and headed back the way I came.

We rounded North Point and ran south, towards town. I passed The Pirate’s Den and half a dozen houses before the shore veered inland. From there, it was two miles to the spot where Main Street dead-ended into the dunes and I turned towards home. Round trip it was a five mile run, and I needed it. I was pent up.

Gradually the sky lightened enough that I could make out the clay-colored sand beneath my running shoes. I ran, like I run most mornings, until the endorphins flooded my brain. When I felt the rush, I jogged up the beach to the spot right in front of my house, took off every stitch of my clothes, and splashed into the surf. Rhett had better sense than I did. He got his paws wet, then scampered back up onto the beach.

I hadn’t swum naked at sunrise since I was eighteen. Fully sane people would tell you this is a dangerous indulgence, but I was one with the ocean creatures. I was God’s own mermaid.

The waves were rough that morning, so I didn’t go in far. I swam parallel to the shore a few hundred feet, fighting the current, and then turned back. I rode a wave in and pulled myself out of the brine, water sluicing off me in a sensual caress as the surf splashed at my back. The fluffy robe I’d left on the canvass-and-wood beach chair felt like a warm cloud. I wrapped up and sat down.

The
woosh...splash
rhythm of the surf was therapeutic. Rhett chased foam, and I wiggled my toes in the sand and let my mind drift while the sun came up. This was where I’d always found peace. The ocean was my drug of choice. How had I possibly lived so far from it for so long?

It was fully light when I heard footsteps on the walkway behind me.

My first thought was that it was stupid of me to be on a deserted beach at sunup without a weapon. Someone killed Gram not far from where I sat. Fear coiled in my stomach. Perhaps I hadn’t been taking Blake’s concerns for my safety seriously enough. I slid down and turned in the chair to peer over the top.

I recognized the masculine form coming down the steps as my brother. Rhett, who hadn’t opened his mouth, scampered with tail wagging towards Blake. Relieved, I turned back towards the ocean as he trudged through the wide belt of soft sand. A few waves later, I heard the gentle smack of bare feet on wet sand. Blake settled his beach chair beside mine and sat down.

“You know you’re making me crazy,” he said.

“I’m not trying to.”

“I saw you run past the marina. Can you not wait until daylight?”

“If I did, it would be light outside when I take my morning swim.”

“And that would be bad because…?”

I gestured toward my pile of clothes in the sand. “After daylight you get a lot more walkers.”

He stared at me for a long moment. “I think I’ll just go ahead and shoot you myself.”

I laughed out loud.

“This is not funny, Liz.”

“So, what did Merry say last night after I went back into the meeting? I bet she’s mad as fire at me. You guys cut out of there so fast I didn’t get to talk to either one of you.”

Blake rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s upset. I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

“I know enough to know she’s not being straight with me about her little project. But you know. Why won’t you tell me?”

Blake watched Rhett romp by, chasing a shorebird. “Because I know she will, eventually, and I know it’s harmless.”

“What she described to me wasn’t harmless.”

“You’ll see her tonight at dinner, right? At Mom and Dad’s? If she doesn’t tell you everything by then, I will. Fair enough?”

“Fine.” I kicked sand at his feet. I wasn’t really focused on Merry at that moment. Inside my head, a debate raged about whether to tell Blake about my intruder, and if I should show him the locket and the list. I was afraid he’d take the locket away from me, and I needed it for the time being. On the other hand, I had promised my brother I’d bring him anything I found—in exactly those words. But I hadn’t said immediately…. But the locket needed to be dusted for prints, something I couldn’t do. I sighed, resigned to handing over the evidence. Well, some of it, anyway.

“Someone broke in last night,” I said casually, “but it was a benevolent burglar. Also, I found a locket under the deck near where you believe Gram was killed.”

Blake slowly turned his head and stared at me. “What was that first thing you said?”

I’d hoped to slip that past him by distracting him with what might be critical evidence. I brought him up to speed on the intruder and the locket, but didn’t mention the list. It would be counterproductive for both of us to investigate the same folks. Besides, I didn’t know yet what it meant.

Blake’s face was three shades of red. “This is exactly what I tried to tell you. It’s not safe for you here. Dammit, at least go stay with Mom and Dad—just for a little while. ”