Lowcountry Bonfire Page 3

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “The first time I talked to him.”

  I scrunched up my face. “The first time he had a massage appointment?”

  “No.” Her head moved slowly from side to side. “We talked before that, at a party back in March—at the Robinsons.”

  Margie and Skip Robinson owned the marina and lived beside it on the north side of the island. They’d both grown up here.

  “You’re friends with the Robinsons?” I asked.

  Crystal shrugged. “I know them. Margie gets her hair done here like every other woman in town. But Coy Watson invited me. Skip invited him.”

  Coy Watson was a bartender at The Pirates’ Den. “So you talked to Zeke at this party. Was Tammy Sue with him?”

  “Yes. But he went for a walk on the beach with me. We hit it off.”

  “I see. Were you and Coy Watson dating before that?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. It wasn’t serious.”

  “And while you were walking on the beach, Zeke told you—right after you met—that he wanted to divorce his wife, who was back at the house you’d just left?” I knew Zeke Lyerly. Casually volunteering personal information was not his style. If she’d said he’d told her about parachuting into Chechnya on a top secret mission to rescue visitors from Krypton, that I would’ve believed—that he said it anyway.

  “We’d met before that. I mean, I knew him. He knew who I was. He worked on my car a couple times.”

  I nodded. “Why do you think he confided in you that he wanted to divorce his wife?”

  She cut her eyes away. “So maybe it wasn’t then that he told me. It might’ve been later. But I know what I know. “

  Was she rattled by the news of Zeke’s death or being deliberately contradictory? “You went for a walk on the beach, you talked, and then…what? He came for a massage?”

  “That’s right. I told him he should. He said he had a pinched nerve. I told him a massage would help.”

  “At what point did your relationship become…social?”

  “A few days later. I took him some homemade cookies. Tammy couldn’t be bothered to bake for him.”

  This was inconsistent with what I knew of Tammy, who shared recipes with Mamma. “Did Zeke tell you that?”

  “Not in so many words. But I can tell when a man hasn’t had cookies in a while. If she baked for him, he wouldn’t’ve been hungry.”

  Was she still talking about cookies? “When was the first time you saw him privately?”

  She looked at the ceiling. “I guess you could say it was then.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “When I took him the cookies. We saw each other privately then.”

  “That same day? You mean at the garage?” Surely she meant something else.

  “In his office. Cookies weren’t the only thing Tammy didn’t have time for.”

  I coughed, took a deep breath. Was she trying to shock me? “And after that, you saw him regularly?”

  “Couple times a week.”

  “Where? At your place?”

  “Usually. Sometimes I stopped by the garage to take him treats.”

  “More cookies?”

  “Sometimes a pie. Whatever he wanted. Are you going to tell me what happened to Zeke? Did she hurt him?”

  “Who?”

  “Tammy Sue. He said she was crazy.”

  “He was afraid of Tammy?”

  “I wouldn’t say afraid. Zeke could take care of himself. He was an Army Ranger.”

  I moistened my lips, nodded. “That’s what he said. What exactly did he say about Tammy?”

  “It’s not so much what he said.”

  “I’m not following. Did he tell you he was afraid of what Tammy might do?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “What exactly did he say, and in exactly which words?”

  “I don’t remember.” She leaned in close to me and her voice rose with each word. “What. Happened. To. Zeke?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. I only know he’s dead. Did you work yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Six fifteen.”

  “After that? Where were you last night?”

  “Good grief, you don’t think I killed him?”

  “Did you?” I gave her a level look.

  “Of course not.” Her voice softened. “I loved him.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I was at home, all right?”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone. What of it?”

  “Did anyone call or stop by?”

  “You mean do I have an alibi?”

  I shrugged. “Do you?”

  “No. Do I need one?”

  “It would be helpful,” I said.

  “Well I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, but even though I don’t have an alibi, I did not kill Zeke.”

  I sighed. “Do you have any idea who might’ve—aside from Tammy Sue? What about Coy Watson? Was he upset when you started seeing Zeke?”

  Crystal gave a dismissive wave. “He had no way of knowing. I certainly didn’t tell him. I told you. It wasn’t serious between me and Coy.”

  “And Zeke never mentioned anyone he had a disagreement with?”

  “No.” She raised her brow in an innocent expression, shook her head. “Well. Like I said. Just Tammy Sue.”

  THREE

  Colleen met me on the sidewalk in front of Phoebe’s. “I would’ve thought they’d’ve given me a heads up or something if someone on the island was in mortal danger.” Her voice was pensive, her green eyes troubled. Since she died, Colleen favored sundresses. That morning she wore a gingham number that matched her eyes and set off her ginger-red hair.

  Before I spoke, I pulled out my iPhone and ended the voice memo. “If you’re telling me there’s a glitch in the system at work, that’s disturbing on a great many levels.” As a guardian spirit, Colleen’s afterlife mission was sponsored by The Almighty.

  “Of course not.” She gave me an exasperated look. “It’s just…I guess I’m still learning the ropes.”

  I mulled that. “You really were surprised this morning?”

  “You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. I went to check in—see if I’d missed something. Nope. I was told this isn’t my concern. I kinda think they’re making a point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I have been pushing the boundaries of my position a bit. My mission is to protect the island. Keep the population at current levels or lower.”

  I made a rolling motion with my hand, nodded. I was well acquainted with Colleen’s mission, though I thought it was more the people who lived here she was protecting than the island itself.

  “I’m not supposed to be helping you with your cases,” she said. “I have to be more careful. I could get reassigned.”

  “But you haven’t been helping me with my cases—just occasionally watching my back. And I’m certainly grateful.”

  “Well, someone must think I’ve crossed the line.”

  “They’ve clipped your wings, have they?”

  “I told you, I’m no angel. But, yeah, I guess.”

  I shrugged. “We’ll manage. Nate and I are good at our jobs, you know.”

  “I never said you weren’t. Where are you going now?”

  I nodded towards Lyerly’s Automotive. “Across the street.”

  “Oooh. I’m coming too.”

  “That ‘more careful’ thing didn’t last long.” I looked both ways and stepped into Palmetto Boulevard.

  “I’m fine on the island. Anything going on here could relate to my mission. I think maybe I’ve been spending too much time in Charleston.”
>
  “Your call. I just don’t want you to get into trouble.” I crossed the sidewalk into the parking lot of Lyerly’s Automotive. The original building was a brick rectangle, circa the early 1900s. Zeke added on three service bays with oversized garage doors when he bought the building after he came home from his stint in the Army, or whatever he was doing. An older burgundy Subaru was parked in front of the service bay on the far right.

  “I can handle my business,” said Colleen.

  “You sound like Blake.” My brother took every opportunity to share that sentiment with me. I retrieved my phone, started a new voice memo, and slid the phone back into the outer pocket of my crossbody bag. I’d had to pare down what I carried with me, but I’d come to rely on the hands-free style of purse as an investigative tool.

  A doorbell chimed as I opened the door and stepped inside. The reception area held a metal-legged desk and the kind of sofa and chairs they must sell only to car dealerships and repair places. The air smelled vaguely of grease. No one was around. “Hello?”

  “Someone’s here,” said Colleen.

  “Someone had to open the place,” I said. “Unless it was never locked up last night.” Had Zeke been killed here?

  “No, I mean, I can sense it. Someone’s here,” said Colleen.

  “Hello?” I stepped towards the door against the back wall. Somewhere beyond, a toilet flushed. A door opened and closed. Footsteps. “Hello?”

  A young man sporting James Dean hair and the matching sneer stepped into the room. “Sorry, I was in the back. What can I do for you?”

  The name on his shirt was Price. That rang a bell. “Are you Price Elliott?”

  “I sure am. And you’re Liz Talbot.” He looked me up and down, grinned.

  “Seriously? Is he even of drinking age?” Colleen levitated. She raised her arms slowly. A breeze blew through the room, riffling a stack of work orders on the desk.

  Price’s grin flickered. He glanced around the room.

  “That’s right.” I smiled real friendly. “How’re your mom and dad?” Grant and Glenda Elliott had both lived in Stella Maris all their lives. They went to St. Francis Episcopal, the church I’d grown up in.

  He shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

  “Did you open up this morning?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Zeke should be here soon. Normally he’s here before me. But I have a key just in case.” He crossed to a bookshelf that housed a stack of magazines and picked up a coffee mug and a cell phone from the top.

  “Was the building locked when you got here?”

  He took a long sip of coffee. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Was everyone I talked to today going to have an attitude? “Just curious. That your Subaru out front?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, you’re a mechanic?”

  “Dad thinks so, I reckon. This was his idea, not mine.”

  College must not’ve worked out for Price. Vaguely, I remembered hearing he’d gone to University of South Carolina for a while. “When’s the last time you saw Zeke?”

  “I left at five yesterday. He was still here. Why?”

  “How long have you worked for him?”

  He sighed heavily. “A year or so. Do you need your car looked at?”

  “No, thanks. Anyone else work here besides you and Zeke?”

  “Tammy Sue does the books. But she does that mostly from home. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you mind if I take a look around?”

  He made a face that could’ve meant any one of several unpleasant things. “Zeke wouldn’t like that.” He sat on the edge of the desk, glanced at the screen of his cell phone.

  I stepped to the door to my right, which led to the first bay. The top half of the door had a window. “Who does the Accord belong to?”

  “Connie Hicks. Works at the bank. Car was leaking transmission fluid.”

  I knew Connie. “When did she bring it in?”

  “Yesterday about noon.”

  “Was anyone supposed to come by to pick up a car last night after five?”

  “Yeah. Connie was supposed to come by after work—around six, she said. Car’s ready. Zeke filled out the service ticket.” He nodded towards the desk.

  “Anyone else?” I asked.

  Colleen passed through the door we’d come in. Where was she off to?

  “Nah. Most of yesterday’s work was oil changes. All of those were picked up before I left. Any particular reason you’re asking all these questions?”

  “Let’s just say—”

  The door opened and in walked Colleen—solidified. Price could see her. And he seemed to appreciate what he saw. He stared slack-jawed at her.

  Forever seventeen, Colleen had changed into jeans, a blue and pink patchwork shirt, and converse tennis shoes. Her hair fell in molten curls around her shoulders to halfway down her back. She looked like she’d stepped out of an Urban Outfitters catalogue.

  What on earth was she up to? Price was too young to remember Colleen, but if someone older walked in…Would they recognize her? Her afterlife body was a perfect version of the one she’d occupied when we were in high school, her skin clear and luminous, her figure slim. Still, I had recognized her right off when she first appeared to me a few years back. Materializing in public was risky.

  “Do y’all have rental cars?” Colleen’s voice was all sultry, theatrical.

  “Ah…well, let’s see…” Price licked his lips.

  Go. Colleen threw the thought at me. “My car broke down over at the ferry dock? I’m going to need to see about getting it fixed. But I need a rental car in the meantime.”

  “I’m going to take that look around while you help this customer,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure. Go ahead,” said Price.

  I opened the door and stepped into the service bay. Connie’s silver Accord sat above the hydraulic lift. Oversized garage doors on the front and back could be opened to allow cars to pull in one side and out the other.

  The area was neat. Zeke appeared nearly as fond of organization as I was. The tools were put away. Rolling tool carts were closed and pushed to the walls. The floor was even clean. Aside from that, it looked like every repair shop I’d ever visited. Nothing testified to foul play.

  A walk-through door near the back led to the next bay. I continued my tour. The second garage was empty and just as neat as the first. Another door identical to the one leading from the first to the second work bay led to the last. It was vacant and clean as well.

  I headed back towards the office. As I approached the door leading to the reception area, I crouched, slipped over, flattened myself against the wall, and peered through the window in the door. Get him outside. I threw the thought to Colleen.

  “I need some fresh air,” she said, perhaps a little too loud.

  “Hey, we have that. Right out here. You want a Coke?” Price opened the door for her.

  Colleen was doing exactly what she just got through telling me she wasn’t supposed to be doing. And it wasn’t like I couldn’t have talked Price into letting me look around the shop without her help. She and I needed to have a talk. There were times I really needed her. She didn’t need to be getting into trouble doing things I could easily do for myself. She was having fun, is what it was.

  I shook my head and walked through the pass-through door into the reception area. Quickly I stepped through the door in the back. I was in an office with a large double pedestal desk—looked like oak to me. The kind of desk school teachers had when I was in school. Zeke’s desk.

  I reached into my purse, pulled out a pair of latex gloves, and slipped them on. Then I stepped around the desk and slid into the chair. A large blotter-style calendar took up most of the surface. May was still on top. I studied the last month of Zeke’s life.

  Each day had eight lines. Customers’
last names were written in a neat block print. It looked as if business had been good. Nothing stood out, but I snapped pictures of May and June in sections for my records. If nothing else popped, I could work my way through his last few weeks of business. Perhaps there’d been a dispute. But poison…If I was right about the poison, that required planning, which meant it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment crime of passion.

  I slid open the top drawer. Its contents—the usual paper clips, note pads, and whatnot—were neatly organized. Nothing interesting. I felt underneath. Nothing taped there. Systematically, I worked my way through the desk. The most interesting thing was a bottle of Makers Mark in the bottom right-hand drawer.

  I sat back in the chair, scanned the room slowly. In front of the desk were two leather sling chairs with exposed metal frames. The wall behind them held a calendar sold by the Little League and two framed photos of a beach that brought the Caribbean to mind. On the wall to my right was a short section of cabinets with a coffee maker on a black laminate counter. The wall to my left held file cabinets. I’d likely be back to go through those. No time for that now.

  My eyes slid back to the counter. Had Zeke been poisoned here? I swiveled around, stood, and took a closer look at the coffee supplies. Beside the Cuisinart, upside down, in a black silicone case that had been camouflaged by the countertop, was a cell phone. Zeke’s? Price had his phone. Personal electronics were often treasure troves of information. I took a picture of it, showing where it had been found, then picked it up. It was an iPhone.

  I pressed the “Home” button. The wallpaper was a photo of Zeke and Tammy Sue on the beach at Devlin’s Point. I pressed “Home” again. The passcode screen displayed. Shit fire. I pulled an evidence bag from my purse, labeled it, dropped the phone inside, and slid the bag back into my purse.

  The coffeepot was on, with three-quarters of a pot in the carafe. I opened the two wall cabinets wide, drew back, maybe jumped a little.

  Right there on the shelf, front and center, was a bag with a skull and crossbones.

  I snapped a picture.

  Death Wish Coffee Company. I examined the bag, which proclaimed it to be the world’s strongest coffee, fair trade and USDA organic certified. I opened the bag. It looked like regular coffee to me, and the bag was more than half used. If it turned out Zeke had been poisoned, this would be a sad piece of irony. I returned it to the shelf.