Lowcountry Bonfire Read online

  “Well, maybe he started hunting them at night. I hear that’s when they’re more active.”

  Blake snorted. “How did you come by that information?”

  I shrugged. “After I caught Zeke in his secret operation, I guess I became more alert to feral pigs in the news. They’re a growing problem in virtually every state, cause all kinds of damage to crops, parks, and forests.”

  “It’s a moot point, what he was using that stuff for,” said Blake. “Doesn’t matter now. But I’ll sleep better with it secured.”

  “Liz is going to talk to April tomorrow,” said Nate, “see what she has to say. Unless she has something contradictory to offer, I think we have to assume Zeke was telling the truth. I mean, it’s hard to believe a man would make up a lie and put it in his final letter to his wife.”

  Blake rubbed his left eyebrow. “Maybe. Then again, maybe he saw that as his last big tale. A whopper.”

  “Think, Blake. If this was some elaborate stunt, pulled by Zeke Lyerly, good ol’ boy extraordinaire, where would he get the passports?”

  He lifted his Red Sox cap, ran a hand through his hair, and resettled it. “Lab work came back on the samples from under Tammy Sue’s fingernails. It was Zeke’s skin cells all right. And he had fresh scratches on his face.”

  “She told us about that,” I said. “The only reason we had her fingernails scraped is that she told us about the fight. Why would she do that if she killed him?”

  “Maybe she’s that smart,” said Blake. “Figured it would make her look innocent.”

  “Wait. You can’t see Zeke as a CIA agent, but you think Tammy Sue is a criminal mastermind?” I asked.

  “Ah hell,” said Blake. “None of this makes sense. All I know is she has the best motive. And that motive gets a lot stronger when you throw in life insurance.”

  “She didn’t know about the life insurance,” I said.

  “Sis, are you really that gullible?” Blake said.

  “I’m not gullible at all. You’re just eager to make an arrest. And I’m telling you, Tammy is not the guilty party here,” I said.

  “Listen,” said Nate. “It’s only been a day. Tammy Sue is at your parents’ house. It’s almost like she’s in custody, right? Tell your daddy to give you a heads up if she heads out. Meanwhile, give us another day to check out a few of these other leads.”

  “Who?” said Blake. “Who are your other leads?”

  “Coy Watson, for one.” I told Blake about the drone and about Crystal and Coy’s relationship. “Or it could’ve been Price Elliott. Zeke threatened to fire him. Think about it. He failed out of college. His parents got him a job he thinks is beneath him, and he gets fired from that too? That could’ve been enough to send him over the edge. He’s only twenty-four. His impulse control isn’t fully developed yet. And he was the last one to see Zeke that we know of.”

  “But you said Zeke didn’t fire him,” said Blake.

  “As far as anyone knows,” I said. “But what if he wanted to leave early Monday, and Zeke lost it and fired him on the spot? Then Price gets mad and…”

  Blake nodded. “Right. If he got mad, he might’ve hit him, stabbed him with a tool, or shot him even. But he wouldn’t have had rat poison handy I don’t think.”

  “That’s true enough,” Nate said. “I spent an hour at the hardware store today. Nothing they carry on the island has strychnine in it. You can’t buy it here, and you can’t have it shipped here. This definitely took some planning.”

  “Not a heat of the moment thing,” said Blake.

  “No,” I said. “But Zeke and Price had argued before. He could’ve set the whole thing up as a ‘just in case’ scenario.”

  “Do you have any other suspects?” Blake asked.

  “Crystal. I think it’s more likely she killed him from jealousy than Tammy Sue. Crystal is much tougher than Tammy. Or it could’ve been someone who cared for Tammy. Thus far the only name that’s come up is Humphrey Pearson.”

  “Humphrey?” Blake gave me a pained look. “Humphrey is not the violent type. He’s a poet for Pete’s sake.”

  “Maybe the kind of person who would use poison?” I said.

  “That’s a stretch,” said Blake.

  “Maybe so,” I said. “That’s why he isn’t at the top of our list.”

  “Is that your entire list?” Blake asked.

  “Well…I did talk to Spencer today,” I said.

  “Spencer Simmons?” Blake’s expression said give me a break.

  “Yes. Winter was flirting with Zeke at this party at the Robinsons’. It’s a long shot. Another long shot would be someone from Zeke’s past—a spy. But I think we have to consider who would use poison and move his body to a car in his garage.”

  “I’ll tell you who,” said Blake. “Women use poison. Scorned wives. That’s who uses poison. And the scorned wife we’re talking about set the same car we’re talking about on fire.”

  “I don’t recall Zeke had his cap on,” I said.

  “What? When?” said Blake.

  “When we discovered his body. His cap wasn’t on his head. Did you find it in the trunk?”

  “No,” said Blake. “He probably ordered those by the dozen for the shop.”

  “And he normally wore them, right?”

  “Right,” Blake’s tone begrudged me the point.

  “He still had on his work shirt. Where was the cap?”

  Blake shrugged. “Maybe he took it off.”

  “Whoever drove his truck home Monday evening was wearing one. Remember what Daddy said?” I said.

  Blake nodded. “Yeah.”

  “So maybe the killer wore Zeke’s cap as a disguise. Then he or she worried about leaving trace evidence on the cap, so they didn’t leave it with the body. Can we please have one more day?” I asked.

  “Fine,” said Blake.

  “Hey, have the sheriff’s office techs gotten to Zeke’s computer?” I asked.

  Blake winced. “They had some trouble with it.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  Blake made a face, looked away.

  “Blake?” I said. “What kind of trouble did they have with Zeke’s computer?”

  He made a chopping gesture with his right hand. “This does not mean Zeke was some kind of damned spy.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “They were trying to break the password. Something went wrong. The disk was wiped clean. They’re trying to recover it, but they’re not optimistic.”

  Nate and I exchanged a glance. Blake could tell himself Zeke wasn’t a CIA agent all he wanted to. I turned back to my brother and dipped my voice in honey. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “No, thanks,” said Blake. “Heather is coming to my place for dinner.”

  Heather Wilder was an Environmental Studies grad student at College of Charleston. She was also the former resident of a house of questionable repute which Nate and I had recently investigated. Mamma was marginally less put out with me over introducing Blake to Heather than she was me being tangentially responsible for Daddy’s pet pig.

  “You’re still seeing her?” Nate asked.

  “Yeah.” Blake grinned, his mood lifting.

  “What does she think about your digs?” I asked. My bother lived on a houseboat. It was a very nice houseboat, but a lot of women didn’t take to it. Heather’s home in the historic house South of Broad that served as a boardinghouse of sorts had been quite luxurious.

  “Ah…at first she loved it,” said Blake. “Thought it was romantic. But I’m not so sure it’s not wearing thin. She’s used to nice big bathrooms, a walk-in closet. We’ll see. But she’s coming tonight.”

  “What are you cooking?” I grinned.

  “Me cook? No. She’s making me lasagna,” he said.

  “You
know how to cook.” I tilted my head at him, gave him a look that demanded an explanation.

  “It’s part of my system,” said Blake. “If she doesn’t mind cooking on the houseboat, maybe she’s the right one. I’m not giving up the boat. If she gets tired of cooking in my galley, she’s not the right girl for me.”

  “You’re well defended.” I shook my head.

  After he left, Nate said. “She’s not the right one, is she?”

  “No,” I said. “But not because she’s getting tired of cooking in a galley. If she was the right one, he wouldn’t be playing these games.”

  It stormed so bad that night the house shook with the thunder. Rain blew sideways against the windows so hard it came in around the seals. Rhett huddled with Nate and me in the sunroom until it passed. I fell asleep in bed with Nate spooned behind me, his hand clasped to my chest.

  Later, I had the dream again. I’d had it half a dozen times now. It was always the same. There’s a hurricane, a category 5. Nate and I have to evacuate in the middle of the night. Somehow, despite my hysterectomy several years ago, we have two children. We drive through a storm like I’ve never seen—trees falling all around us—to the marina because the ferry went down in the inlet. So many people are rushing onto boats at the marina—more people than have ever lived here. Too many people for the boats. Like every time before, a giant wave washes Nate off our boat.

  Colleen was there when I woke up screaming at two thirty.

  She hovered over the bed.

  Nate held me close, rocked me back and forth. “Slugger, it’s all right. Shh.”

  I clutched onto him for dear life.

  After a few minutes he said, “Maybe tomorrow you’ll tell me about this dream.” He stared at Colleen hard, like maybe he thought she was responsible. Or maybe he just wanted her out of our bedroom.

  “Talk to him,” she whispered to me as she evanesced.

  FIFTEEN

  A massive brick building built in 1835 as a warehouse took up most of a block of Queen Street between State and East Bay. More than thirty years ago, a developer turned the building into apartments and named it Queens Gate. Some said Ann Margaret used to stay there when she slipped into town incognito back in the 1980s. A decade later the apartments were converted to condominiums. April Fox bought a one-bedroom after she and Zeke Lyerly divorced.

  At nine a.m. that Thursday morning, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the arched entry. Queens Street was narrow, with another brick building on the opposite side.

  It felt vaguely like being in a tunnel, the sensation abated by the bright blue Carolina sky above and on the horizon across East Bay, down Vendue Range, beyond Waterfront Park, and over the Cooper River. Palm trees and Crepe Myrtles grew in sidewalk cutouts.

  I pressed the button to buzz April. She was expecting me. Robert had called ahead. I had the password Zeke had left. Briefly, I pondered the notion of leaving a password with your attorney so that after you were gone, folks would know whatever the attorney—or people he sent, like me—said was legitimate. Ten minutes and four tries later April still hadn’t answered. Damnation.

  Folks in Charleston were notoriously friendly and helpful. What the hell? I randomly pressed another button.

  “Yes?” A male voice came over the speaker.

  I employed my best helpless female voice. “This is April. I forgot my keys.”

  “April who?”

  Well, there’s one in every crowd.

  I tried another button.

  No answer.

  One more. I bit my lip, looked around to see if anyone was watching me.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice, older.

  “Hey, this is April. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I forgot my keys. Could you buzz me in please?”

  “Of course, dear. You should be more careful.”

  I heard a soft click.

  “Thank you so much!” I lunged for the dark wood door, pulled it open, and stepped inside.

  A small sitting area occupied the space near the bottom of the staircase. To my left was an elevator with a shiny gold door. I took the stairs to the second floor. Why didn’t April answer? Had something happened to her? What if Zeke’s death really did have something to do with his past?

  I needed to make sure she was okay.

  The heavy stained wood door to her condo showed no signs of tampering. I glanced over my shoulder. This would be risky. I knocked first.

  No answer.

  I knocked again.

  If one of her neighbors caught me breaking into this high-dollar address in broad daylight, they would no doubt call the police.

  I knocked three times.

  No answer.

  I took another look around. Everything was quiet. I hadn’t seen another soul since I’d come in the door. I pulled my pick set and a pair of gloves out of my crossbody bag, slipped the gloves on, and unzipped the leather case.

  The knob didn’t have a lock, but the deadbolt above it looked serious. I went to work. Picking a lock is more art than science. It takes practice. I’d honed my craft. Five minutes later I opened the door and closed it softly behind me.

  “Hello?” I called out. “April?”

  A yellow tabby cat wandered out from the kitchen, which was immediately on my right.

  “Hey kitty. Nice kitty.” I reached down to pet her. “Where’s Mamma?”

  I surveyed the place. I could see most of it from where I stood. With twenty-foot ceilings, exposed brick, and heart of pine flooring, it had good bones. April’s decorating taste was more modern than mine, and perhaps a bit masculine, with a brown leather sofa and abstract art in neutrals. She was also a bit of a slob. Dishes, beer bottles, and random articles of clothing were scattered about. A basket of laundry spilled into the sofa. Had her condo been ransacked?

  I moved farther inside. The door to my left accessed a powder room. Above me, the ceiling had been lowered in part of the room to accommodate a loft above. Open stairs ran along the right side of the living room. Underneath the stairs was a black X-Base desk. Stacks of catalogues and unopened mail were strewn across it. I fanned the mail. It was all addressed to A.L. Fox. The senders were folks soliciting business. Nothing remotely personal.

  April was clearly not downstairs. I scrutinized the loft from below, then climbed the steps. The loft was the bedroom, open to the downstairs. The clutter was more pronounced up there. Good grief. I stepped over a pile of laundry and pushed the closet open. Clothes were in seemingly random piles on the floor. Had someone gone through her closet? What were they looking for?

  “Well, you’re resourceful, I’ll say that much for you.”

  My heart went to my throat.

  I spun towards the voice. She’d come up the stairs without a sound.

  She was roughly five foot three, with layered blonde hair, distressed denim jeans, and a fitted blue t-shirt. A butterfly tattoo peeked out from the neckline. She had a gun pointed at me, and she seemed comfortable with it.

  “April?” I asked.

  “I’ll ask the questions, seeing as how you’ve broken into my home. I could shoot you right now where you stand and never spend a day in jail. You know that, right?”

  I stared at the gun.

  “Right?” Her i’s were hard and stretched. Riite? She’d been raised in the South, no doubt. In the country.

  “Right,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry. I thought you’d been killed or possibly kidnapped.”

  “It don’t look that bad in here.”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just with Zeke…Could you please put that gun down?”

  “What’s the password?”

  “Mustang Sally.”

  She lowered the gun, but still held it in both hands. “He loved to sing that song on karaoke night.”

  I felt the co
rners of my mouth lift. “I’ve heard him do it. At The Pirates’ Den.”

  “Who sent you?” April’s eyes were still wary.

  “Robert Pearson. He was Zeke’s attorney.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m Liz Talbot. Zeke was a friend. He lived across the street from my parents.”

  She raised her chin. “Talbot you say. I met the couple across the street once. Nice people. Can’t remember their names, but the lady brought me a pound cake when we moved into the house.”

  “That’s my mamma, Carolyn Talbot.”

  “She makes a damn fine pound cake.” She lowered the gun the rest of the way, took one hand off of it. Then she stepped away from the stairs. “I can’t be too careful right now. You go on down. Have a seat in the leather chair in front of the window.”

  “All right.” I complied. If she was this jumpy, it couldn’t be too far-fetched that someone from her past with Zeke had killed him.

  “What are you doing, poking around in people’s laundry like that?” She followed me down the stairs.

  “I was trying to figure out if someone had ransacked the place looking for something,” I said.

  “That’s just cold.” She slid the laundry basket over, tucked the errant pieces back in, and sat on the end of the sofa nearest me.

  “I really am glad you’re all right. Why didn’t you just let me in when I pressed the buzzer?”

  “Because how could I know for sure that really was Robert Pearson, the attorney, who called me, and not someone who tortured and killed Robert Pearson, the attorney?”

  “I suppose that’s a fair point.” Something about her sassy attitude reminded me of Crystal. Did Zeke have a weakness for boisterous blondes?

  “Do you have an envelope for me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And some questions if you don’t mind.” I reached towards my purse.

  “Careful there. Real slow like.”

  I pulled the envelope out and handed it to her.

  “You can ask your questions,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I mind. Lemme read this first.” She worked the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it with her left hand. She held onto the gun with her right.