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  Praise for Lowcountry Boil

  “Imaginative, empathetic, genuine, and fun, Lowcountry Boil is a lowcountry delight.” – Carolyn Hart, Author of What the Cat Saw (October 2013)

  “Plenty of secrets, long-simmering feuds, and greedy ventures make for a captivating read...Boyer’s chick lit PI debut charmingly showcases South Carolina island culture.” – Library Journal

  “I love this book. And you will too. Witty, droll, clever—and just a tad quirky! This light-hearted and authentically Southern mystery is full of heart, insight, and a deep understanding of human nature. Susan M. Boyer is a fresh new voice in crime fiction!” – Hank Phillippi Ryan, Anthony, Agatha & Macavity Winning Author of The Other Woman

  “Lowcountry Boil avoids caricatured Southerners and pulls the reader in like the draw of a riptide with a keeps-you-guessing mystery full of romance, family intrigue, and the smell of salt marsh on the Charleston coast. A welcome visit home with people you want to know and, in some cases, are glad you aren’t related to. A fun summer read!” – Cathy Pickens, Author of the Southern Fried Mysteries and Charleston Mysteries

  “Lowcountry Boil bubbles with all the ingredients of a great Southern mystery: A feisty firecracker of a main character, a magnolia-scented atmosphere, and pages full of simmering suspense and intrigue.” – Karin Gillespie, Bestselling Author of The Sweet Potato Queens’ First Big-Ass Novel (with Jill Conner Browne) and the Bottom Dollar Girls series

  “Lowcountry Boil offered an intriguing mystery and a unresolved romance which should keep enthusiasts of both genres happy and eager to read the next book in the series...The book was a page turner full of southern charm. I gobbled it up quickly and I can’t wait to read the sequel. Five stars out of five.” – Lynn Farris, Mystery Review Examiner at Examiner.com

  “Susan M. Boyer has crafted a thoroughly entertaining story in Lowcountry Boil, and she’s made sure to include all of the tastiest ingredients a southern mystery calls for: the murder of a family member, prickly relatives, advice from a long dead friend, a sensory-rich island setting, and of course, one savvy belle of a protagonist who is not afraid to ruffle feathers, cross lines or pack heat. You won’t be able to put this book down!” – Beth Webb Hart, Bestselling Author of Grace at Low Tide, Adelaide Piper, and Sunrise on the Battery

  “What do you get when you cross a Southern mystery, a ghost of a warning, a love triangle and a savvy protagonist who will stop at nothing? Easy, you get a page turning read—Lowcountry Boil.” – Donnell Ann Bell, Bestselling Author of The Past Came Hunting

  “Boyer’s deft hand at Southernese adds a rich texture to the narrative and breathes sass into the coastal setting, leaving no doubt that this author is a fresh new voice on the mystery scene.” – Maggie Toussaint, Author of Death, Island Style

  Praise for Lowcountry Boil

  Acknowledgments

  Stella Maris Residents of Note

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Reader’s Discussion Guide

  About Susan M. Boyer

  If you liked this Henery Press Mystery

  LOWCOUNTRY BOIL

  A Henery Press Mystery

  First Edition

  ebook edition | September 2012

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2012 by Susan M. Boyer

  Cover design by Kendel Flaum

  Author photograph by Phil Hyman Photography

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938383-05-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Jim,

  I could have looked the world over and not found a better man.

  Acknowledgments

  I am so insanely, ridiculously blessed. My heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped me along the way to making this book a reality. There are many of you, and I have a clawing fear I’m going to have a blonde moment and accidentally leave someone out. Nevertheless, here goes.

  Mega thanks to my family for their patience while I spent countless hours playing with my imaginary friends. Thank you, Jim, for making my life possible. Thank you to my mom, Claudette Jones, for sharing with me at an early age your love of reading, and my dad, Wayne Jones, for telling me at an early age that paper will lie still for anyone to write on it. Thank you, my brilliant sister, Sabrina Niggel, my first reader and fierce cheerleader, and my mega-talented brother, Darryl Jones, for inspiring and encouraging me to chase my dream. Thank you to the best, most supportive brother-in-law a girl ever had, Joe Niggel, and the best, most supportive sister-in-law, Danielle Jones. Thank you, Jennifer, Melanie, Jimmy, and Brandon, for forgiving me for not being like the other kids’ moms.

  Huge thanks to our extended family and friends for their long-term suffering and encouragement, especially Sandra and Wilson Childers. My dear friend Sandra was one of my first readers. Wilson thinks we can now buy a plane. His boundless optimism has helped me through the rough spots. Thanks, Casey Williams, the Queen of Pain—my Jazzercise instructor—also an early reader. I’d love to thank all of our family and friends by name for their years of encouragement, but you all know there are far too many of you. (Please refer to the first sentence regarding how ridiculously blessed I am.)

  Mega huge thanks to my dear friends and critique partners who have read this novel so many times I bet they can recite it: Sarah Cureton, John and Marcia Migacz, and Bob Strother. Special thanks to Bob’s wife Vicki for her support. Thanks to the members of the Greenville Chapter of the South Carolina Writers’ Workshop not thanked above, my first critique group, bless your hearts. Here I know I’ll leave someone out, and I’m so sorry: Phil Arnold, David Burnsworth, Kevin Coyle, Barbara Ev
ers, Betsy Harris, Steve Heckman, Jim McFarlane, Dana Neilson, Valerie Norris, Carole St Laurent, Pat Stewart, and Steve Stewart. Thanks to those in the Saturday novelist group not already mentioned, Melissa Lovin and Melinda Walker.

  Thank you, Kristen Weber, for giving me permission to tell my story my way, and then asking all the right questions to help me make it better. Thank you, Evan Gregory, for your efforts on my behalf and for helping me to do this my way.

  Thank you, Donnell Ann Bell, for preventing me from setting my hair on fire many, many times. A special thank you to my new Hen House sisters and fast friends, Terri L. Austin and Larissa Reinhart for all the hand-holding and late-night Twitter therapy. Thank you to my friends at Sisters in Crime, the Guppies, Romance Writers of America®, Palmetto Romance Writers, and Kiss of Death Chapter of RWA®.

  Thank you to everyone at the Warsaw, IN Hampton Inn for providing me with an ideal place to write without distractions, and for the endless supply of coffee, tea, and cookies.

  Last, but certainly not least, thank you Kendel Flaum, for having a dream and taking me along for the ride—and for being a brilliant editor.

  Stella Maris Residents of Note

  TALBOTS (Districts 3 and 4)

  * Talbot, Emma Rae Simmons . . . Liz’s Grandmother (Simmons: District 3)

  * Talbot, Frank . . . Liz’s Father; Retired (Talbots: District 4)

  Talbot, Carolyn Moore . . . Liz’s Mother; Active Volunteer

  Talbot, Blake . . . Liz’s Brother; Police Chief

  Talbot, Liz . . . Private Investigator

  Talbot, Merry . . . Liz’s Sister; Director of Teen Council

  Chumley . . . Liz’s Parents’ Bassett Hound

  DEVLINS (District 1)

  Devlin, Stuart . . . Michael’s Father; Deceased

  Devlin, Kate Sullivan . . . Michael’s Mother; Retired

  Devlin, Adam . . . Michael’s Brother; Manager Island Hardware

  Devlin, Deanna Stevens . . . Adam’s Wife; Works at Island Hardware

  * Devlin, Michael . . . Liz’s 1st Love; Owns Devlin Construction

  Devlin, Marci Miller . . . Michael’s Wife; Liz’s Cousin; Bank Teller

  GLENDAWNS (District 2)

  * Glendawn, John . . . Owns The Pirates’ Den

  Glendawn, Alma Ferguson . . . Married to John; Owns The Pirates’ Den

  Glendawn, Moon Unit . . . Owns The Cracked Pot

  Glendawn, Elvis . . . Unofficial Bike Patrol for SMPD

  SULLIVANS (District 5)

  * Sullivan, Grace . . . Liz’s Godmother; Owns B&B; Psychic

  Sullivan, Henry . . . Grace’s Brother; Rector at St. Frances

  Sullivan, Nancy Emerson . . . Henry’s Wife

  Sullivan, Mackenzie . . . Henry’s Son; Town Solicitor

  * Sullivan, Lincoln . . . Henry’s Cousin; Mayor of Stella Maris

  Sullivan, Mildred Kingsley . . . Lincoln’s Wife

  LIZ TALBOT’S CIRCLE

  Stevens, Colleen . . . Liz’s Best Friend; Deceased

  Andrews, Nate . . . Liz’s Partner; Private Investigator

  Andrews, Scott . . . Liz’s Ex-Husband; Nate’s Brother

  Rhett . . . Liz’s Golden Retriever

  STELLA MARIS POLICE DEPT

  Talbot, Blake . . . Liz’s Brother; Police Chief

  Cooper, Clay . . . Police Officer

  Manigault, Sam . . . Police Officer

  Murphy, Rodney . . . Police Officer

  Cooper, Nell Baker . . . Clay’s Mother; Dispatcher

  Glendawn, Elvis . . . Unofficial Bike Patrol

  EXTRAS

  Bradley, Kristen . . . Merry’s Roommate

  Causby, Troy . . . Merry’s Boyfriend

  DiTomei, Phoebe . . . Owns Phoebe’s Day Spa

  Harper, Warren . . . Town Doctor; Medical Examiner

  Lyerly, Zeke . . . Owns Lyerly’s Auto Repair

  * Pearson, Robert . . . Talbot Family Lawyer; Councilman Dist 6

  * Denotes Town Council Member

  ONE

  The dead are patient.

  I know this firsthand. My best friend Colleen drowned in Breach Inlet the spring of our junior year in high school, and I didn’t hear a peep out of her until last March—a month after my thirty-first birthday. It was a Friday night, a few minutes past nine, and I had just chased a rabbit into Falls Park, in the West End of Greenville, South Carolina. The rabbit was fast, for one so big. At the foot of the rock steps that led down from the street, he darted under the Liberty Bridge. We’d had a cold snap, and while the sidewalks of downtown Greenville bustled with restaurant traffic, the park was deserted except for me, the rabbit, and my partner, Nate Andrews.

  Nate stopped one level up and sprinted towards the bridge. He passed the rabbit, cut through a planting bed, and jumped off the rock retaining wall into the rabbit’s path. Nate raised his hands in a stop motion. “That’s far enough.”

  The hare hesitated. He took a step towards me, and then glanced into the Reedy River. For a few seconds, we all listened to water rushing over rocks.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said.

  Naturally, the rabbit pulled a gun.

  He pointed it at me, then at Nate, waving it back and forth. “I’m not giving that bitch a dime.”

  Nate said, “Hey, buddy, we don’t care.” He reached towards his jacket.

  The rabbit lunged in Nate’s direction, pointing the gun like a sword.

  Nate raised his hands.

  While the rabbit was distracted, I grabbed my Sig Sauer 9 from the holster at the waistband of my jeans. “Put the gun down. Now,” I said, as though bored with the routine task of whipping out a nine mil. I wasn’t nearly as nonchalant as I sounded. It was rare for me to draw my weapon.

  The rabbit swung back to me, waving what looked like a .38 caliber. “How ’bout you drop yours, blondie.”

  Nate slipped his gun from his shoulder holster and pointed it at the rabbit’s foot. “You can’t shoot us both.”

  The rabbit heaved his furry shoulders and burst into muffled sobs.

  “Lower the gun, slowly,” I said. “Put it on the ground and step back.”

  The bunny complied.

  “Now take off the headpiece to that costume,” I said. That evening, our subject had been playing Harvey in a local production of the Pulitzer-Prize-winning play about a six-foot-three rabbit visible only to gentle soul Elwood P. Dowd. Nate and I had staked out the theatre. We’d thought we’d be there another couple hours, but we caught a break when the rabbit stepped outside for a smoke. Harvey doesn’t get much stage time.

  He pulled off his furry mask.

  “Peter Tyler?” The rabbit’s name really was Peter. Once the mask was off, I knew it was him. His wife, our client, had given us a photo.

  “Yes,” he spat. He wiped his cheeks with his paw.

  Nate handed Peter the subpoena. “You’ve been served.”

  I picked up his weapon, removed the bullets, and handed it back to him. “Have a nice evening.”

  Peter sat heavily on the low rock wall and dropped his head in his hands.

  When I walked towards the steps, my long-dead best friend Colleen appeared on the swing that hung from a trellis beneath the bridge. I stopped short. I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked fantastic, for a ghost. Her skin was clear and luminous, her long red hair a cascade of molten curls. She looked like a perfect version of herself, as if she’d spent a month at a high-dollar spa. But I’d known Colleen Stevens my entire life. It was her–-her funeral fourteen years earlier notwithstanding.

  Tears pooled in her eyes. “Liz, come home.”

  Nate walked up behind me. “Let’s grab a drink.”

  “I think I need one.” I wasn’t r
eady just then to own the truth that Colleen’s presence signified.

  “Come home,” Colleen repeated. Then she vanished.

  I shuddered and blinked.

  Nate and I climbed the steps to Main Street. A guitar player set up by the fountain was covering Amos Lee’s Arms of a Woman. Foot traffic was steady, and he’d drawn a small crowd. Nate and I waded through. We crossed the street and headed down to our favorite bar. The executive chef might object to my calling it a bar. The Mediterranean food was excellent, but for us it served as a neighborhood bar.

  We settled into chairs at a table on the patio overlooking the Reedy River. Neither of us minded the chill, and my brain needed fresh air. I ordered pinot noir, Nate a Sam Adams.

  I stared into space, wondering why in hell Colleen showed up in the park. I never questioned what I’d seen. I was born and raised on Stella Maris, a sea island near Charleston, South Carolina. If you grow up in the South Carolina Lowcountry, you’re generally tolerant of ghosts, haints, spirits, and the like. Charleston County has more supernatural entities per capita than anyplace else in the country. Still, a ghost I’d played Barbie dolls with shook me in a way that specters rattling around antebellum homes didn’t. I pondered what she might want from me. Ghosts haunt folks for a reason, right?

  “Something about that guy bother you?” Nate asked.

  “Peter? No, case closed. Why?”

  The waitress laid down cocktail napkins and set our drinks on the table. When she stepped away, Nate said, “Something’s bothering you.”