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  “Agreed. I’ll make that call. He’s at home with an ankle monitor. At least we don’t have to make a trip to the detention center.”

  “So he made bond. Any indication the family made a stink about him using marital assets to secure that?”

  “None so far.” Nate eyed a piece of paper on the top of a growing stack and tapped a number into his phone. After a few minutes, he ended the call. “He’s not answering, and his voicemail box is full. He doesn’t recognize my number. I wouldn’t answer either if I were him. Probably thinks I’m a reporter. We’ll get Fraser to make the introduction.”

  “Who all did Paul Baker talk to? Who did he suspect Shelby might be having an affair with?”

  “Baker is apparently not as meticulous with his interview notes as we are. Also, his filing system is indecipherable.” Nate picked up a file and flipped through the pages. After a while, he said, “Charles Kinloch. His wife, Jane, is a friend of Shelby’s. He spent enough time alone with Shelby to raise suspicions.”

  “Whose suspicions? His wife’s?”

  “That’s not on this page. Kinloch denied the affair, and he had an alibi for the night of the murder. He was in London on business, verified. I’m looking for what kind of business…What the…You won’t believe this.”

  “What?”

  “Baker went to London to check out that alibi.”

  “Sweet reason. You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Nope,” Nate said. “Invoice is right here. He stayed at the same hotel Kinloch did—South Place Hotel. No wonder Baker’s billed so much, if this is how he operates. We would’ve checked that alibi with a few phone calls.”

  “How long did Baker stay in London?”

  “Three nights.”

  “That’s just damn ridiculous. Looks like Fraser would’ve fired him right off.”

  “I think he did just that,” said Nate. “This invoice appears to be the last one. Baker was in London last week.”

  “Okay, back to Charles Kinloch. If he was having an affair with Shelby that went sideways, he could’ve hired someone to kill her. But typically if it’s a lover you’re looking at a crime of passion. We need to see if he could’ve had any other motive. Who else?”

  Nate flipped a page, skimming. “He seems to be the only candidate. But this file—Baker’s investigation—is awfully thin. There’s more legal motions in these boxes than anything else. Here’s a rough outline of the Gerhardts’ schedule the Sunday Shelby was killed.” He walked over to the scanner, laid the document on the bed, and pressed a button.

  A PDF appeared on my screen. I looked it over, then added it to the electronic case file. I started a profile on Charles Kinloch. He was a Charleston native with a pedigree. Graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University with a degree in Photography and Film. No criminal record, no civil complaints. “Kinloch is a self-employed photographer.”

  “The artsy kind, the newspaper kind, or the family portrait kind?”

  “It’s hard to tell. I think he does a little bit of everything.” I kept digging.

  Nate said, “Charleston PD, and later Paul Baker, interviewed the neighbors on both sides. Both reported hearing arguing once or twice, but nothing that caused them alarm. Both couples were home the night Shelby died, but neither saw anyone coming or going. Unfortunately, this strengthens the solicitor’s assertion that Clint killed his wife. He was the only one there.”

  “What are their names, the neighbors? I want to talk to them.”

  “Nick and Margaret Venning, and Edward and Evelyn Izard.”

  I added them to my list and went back to creating profiles.

  Nate and I worked until dinnertime, grabbed another sandwich, and sat on opposite ends of the sofa.

  I said, “The timeline for the day Shelby died feels awfully lean.”

  “It was just another Sunday. They spent it the same way we spend a great many Sundays. They had breakfast, walked the dog—in their case, dogs, I guess, from what Fraser said—went to church, puttered around the house, had dinner, and then he went to his study and she went to the library.”

  “We would’ve both been in here,” I said.

  “True enough, but I don’t think it necessarily means anything that they were in different rooms.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “So he went to listen to music in his study. And she was reading.”

  “They were in for the night. Alarm was on stay,” said Nate.

  “Someone she wasn’t expecting must’ve rang the doorbell. Clint didn’t hear it because of the music. Shelby recognizes whoever it is, disarms the alarm system, and invites whoever it is up to the library, or maybe they follow her up there. There’s an argument. The french doors are open because…okay, it was December. Why were the french doors open?”

  “What was the weather on December 28?”

  “I’ll check,” I said. “But they must’ve been open…there was an argument. The visitor pushed Shelby out the doors.”

  “That’s one possible narrative. Another is maybe there wasn’t an argument. Shelby’s visitor had malice aforethought. In which case he or she must’ve come armed with a weapon of some ilk, or a plan to use something in the house. No one would’ve set out to kill her by pushing her out the french doors. Too iffy.”

  “True,“ I said. “Or it could’ve been an accident.”

  “You mean she fell? The coroner’s report says she went out the doors backwards with force. Her back hit the rail. There was bruising. I guess she could’ve flung herself, but then we’d be looking at suicide, and that’s not a very efficient way to get the job done.”

  “From the second floor, she could easily have survived that fall. If she hadn’t hit her head so hard. Whoever is responsible, they would’ve had to’ve gone down to check to see if she was dead, right?”

  “Hard to see it happening any other way,” said Nate. “Either our culprit was checking to see if Shelby could be saved—in which case maybe they would’ve called 911. Or they were making sure she was dead.”

  “The only way this wasn’t someone she knew well is if it was someone she’d just met and was trying to help.”

  “Maybe Shelby did take in the wrong stray after all.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But my money is on someone she knew.”

  “Shall we divide and conquer?”

  “We’d best,” I said. “We don’t have much time. I want to talk to the folks at One80Place first thing in the morning.”

  “Maybe I’ll go get an up-close view of Charles Kinloch. See what he’s up to on a Wednesday morning. A self-employed photographer can mean a lot of things.”

  “True. We need to be at Fraser’s at ten. Then I’ll talk to Clint Gerhardt if you’ll head over to One80Place.”

  “I thought you wanted to go there first thing,” said Nate.

  “I do. But I’m going to show my ID and ask questions. Would you like to volunteer to serve lunch? I can sign you up online.”

  Nate flashed me a conspiratorial grin. “Good idea. But tell me again why Colleen can’t just find Shelby over in the next life and ask her what happened?”

  I sighed.

  Before I could open my mouth, Colleen popped in and solidified. When she solidified, she looked like any other person. She only did this when she had to for a case, maybe to serve as a distraction. Or when she wanted to eat.

  “Fix me a chicken salad sandwich and I’ll explain it to him again,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But then we have to get back to work. We’re nowhere close to finished going through these files, and I’ll never get all these profiles finished tonight. We’ve got to know everything Fraser Rutledge knows about this case and more by first thing in the morning.”

  I headed to the kitchen while Colleen explained how the rules prohibited her from interfering with anything not part
of her mission.

  Nate had adjusted to her easier than I’d had any right to hope. I think he was mostly relieved that there was an explanation for some of my odd behavior.

  THREE

  Nate and I took both cars to Charleston the next morning. I was at One80Place by seven forty-five. I parked my green hybrid Escape in front of the building and studied it. The tan, two-story brick facility with a red metal roof looked clean and modern. Bicycles were parked out front underneath the jaunty slanted portico. This didn’t look like a homeless shelter to me. Perhaps that was the point.

  The surrounding neighborhood was a mishmash of well-kept but modest homes, neglected homes, vacant lots enclosed by chain-link fences with barbed wire on top, and old industrial buildings of indeterminate use. An elevated section of I-26 floated a few hundred feet away.

  Casting an eye around to make sure I was unobserved, I took my Sig 9 out of my Kate Spade tote and locked it inside a floor-mounted safe in the back of the Escape. I had an idea firearms weren’t welcome inside the shelter.

  When the lobby doors opened at eight, I went inside. I offered the woman at the front desk my sunniest smile, introduced myself, and showed her my PI license and ID.

  The fifty-ish woman in the red One80Place logo shirt took me in from head to toe. In my denim skirt, blue gingham blouse, and white denim jacket, I probably didn’t look like her idea of a private investigator. She smiled, but her eyes were wary. I got it. Homeless folks had enough problems. An investigator of any sort had the potential to bring trouble down on somebody.

  “What can I help you with?” she said.

  “I’m working on the Shelby Poinsett case. Shelby Gerhardt, I mean.” If you were born a Poinsett in Charleston, you remained one even into the hereafter.

  The woman’s eyes saddened. “Such a tragedy. Shelby was a special person. We all loved her.”

  “I understand a lot of folks did. What exactly was her role here?” I asked.

  “I think you should talk to Tricia Hopkins. She’s our volunteer coordinator.” She picked up the phone, turned her back to me, and spoke softly. When she hung up, she turned around and told me that Tricia would be right down.

  I thanked her, wandered away from the desk, and took in the lobby. It was utilitarian, to be sure, with greyish beige walls and floors and nothing for purely decorative purposes. But the two-story glass entrance lent a sunny, optimistic air. A trio of what I assumed were staffers came through the door. A perky, petite brunette, a pale, chunky, red-headed guy, and a tall, muscled black man, all in One80Place logoed polo shirts, they were deep into a discussion. They smiled as they walked by.

  “Good morning.” A woman’s voice came from behind me.

  I turned to face the staircase. Tricia Hopkins was a well-dressed, late-thirties woman with light brown hair. As she got closer, intelligent eyes met mine. She could likely have been an executive at any number of Fortune 500 companies.

  We shook hands, introduced ourselves.

  “I understand you’re here about Shelby?” she said.

  “That’s right. I was curious what her role here was.”

  “She was a volunteer. And a donor. We deeply miss her. I was under the impression an arrest had been made in her death.”

  “I’m working with her husband’s defense attorney,” I said.

  She scrutinized me for a moment, seemed to think weighty thoughts. “Please, come upstairs to my office.” She led the way.

  I followed her up the staircase, through a set of glass doors, down a greyish beige hallway, and into her office.

  “Have a seat.” She moved behind her desk and I stepped in front of a visitors’ chair. I couldn’t help but contrast her office with Fraser Rutledge’s. Her clients didn’t have the deep pockets that his did.

  Before I could sit all the way down, she said, “I don’t mean to be blunt, Ms. Talbot, but I hope you aren’t suggesting to the authorities that one of our guests was somehow involved in Shelby’s death.”

  “Goodness, no,” I said. “I just started working this case yesterday. I understand your organization was very important to Shelby. I’m trying to get to know her, as it were.”

  “But you wouldn’t be here unless you suspected a connection to her death.”

  Tricia was sharp.

  “Honestly, I’m still far too new to this case to suspect anything. But I have to start with where Shelby spent her time and that was, to a large degree, here. The sooner I can get a clear understanding of exactly what she did here and eliminate any plausible connection to her death, the sooner I can move on to other avenues of investigation.”

  She held my gaze. “Very well. Shelby would’ve made an excellent case manager. But we require a master’s degree for that position. She was happy to do what she could, which was help out with some of our training programs, organize fundraisers, fill in at the front desk…She did a variety of things. She was willing to do whatever we needed her to do on any given day.”

  “To the best of your knowledge, did she ever involve herself in the affairs of the folks living in Tent City?”

  A look of relief flashed across her face. This line of inquiry wasn’t as close to home. “I honestly don’t know. Shelby was such a giving person. She often pushed the boundaries here—wanted to be a part of things in a more hands-on way. Is it possible she ventured into Tent City in an effort to help, perhaps convince the campers to come to us? I’d have to say yes. That would certainly have been in character.”

  “I apologize,” I said. “Do you have a ladies’ room I could use?”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Just down the hall to the right.”

  “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” I headed out of her office and down the hall, taking in the functional office space. I popped in and then immediately back out of the ladies’ room. I scanned the corridor, not sure exactly what I was looking for. I just wanted a few unsupervised minutes to snoop. All the offices were occupied. No luck there. On the virtually unadorned wall, a bulletin board full of photos caught my eye. Was Shelby in any of them? I stepped over to take a look.

  I scanned faces. There, in what looked like the cafeteria, wearing an apron with a woman and two small children. And again, outside on the playground with a group of children. Happy, smiling. Shelby was making a face in one photo, to the apparent delight of three little girls.

  And there she was again, in her One80Place logo t-shirt, with a very familiar face. Her arm was tucked behind his back, and his behind hers. Standing real close. They were eating ice cream cones and smiling for the camera.

  Sonny Ravenel.

  My brother Blake’s lifelong best friend. Practically a member of our family.

  Charleston Police detective.

  I looked up and down the hall, removed the push pin, and tucked the photo in the pocket of my denim jacket.

  What. The. Hell?

  I scurried back to Tricia Hopkins’ office, took a deep breath, and forced a neutral expression onto my face. “Thank you so much,” I said.

  “Not at all.”

  I returned to my seat. “Do you have a lot of community volunteers?”

  “Yes, actually. We’re very fortunate in that regard. Businesses help out with donations. It’s not at all unusual for local restaurants to cook for the residents. And countless individuals give of their time every week.”

  “How about the local public service offices? Fire department? Police department?”

  “Certainly. Individually and sometimes in groups.” A confused look crossed her face.

  “A friend of mine—he’s a police detective—Sonny Ravenel. I think he’s volunteered here before.”

  “It’s certainly possible.”

  I stood. “Well. I’ve taken enough of your time. May I call you if I have further questions?”

  “Of course.” She handed me her card
and walked me out.

  In the car, I took a few deep breaths, then pulled out the photo and stared at it.

  Ice cream. Kids romping all around. This couldn’t be anything other than an innocent coincidence. I posed for photos with my arm around other folks’ backs all the time. It didn’t mean a thing.

  Except the two of them looked so happy. And they were awfully close.

  This was nothing. Nothing.

  Damnation.

  My iPhone sang out “Always Gonna Be You” by Kenny Chesney.

  Nate.

  “Hey,” I answered.

  “I’ve got unfortunate news,” he said.

  My insides clinched, braced for another blow. “What?”

  “First, Charles Kinloch has a clear schedule, on this Wednesday morning anyway. Hasn’t left the house. Came out in what looks like yesterday’s clothes to get the paper earlier, but that’s it. At any rate, while I’ve been watching him do nothing, I finished going through the last file from the last box.”

  “And?”

  “Kinloch’s business in London involved getting a money shot of a Kardashian. His alibi is airtight.”

  “We knew he had an alibi. What’s the unfortunate news?”

  Nate sighed. “Paul Baker was looking at Sonny Ravenel.”

  “Why?” My right hand, the one clutching the photo, trembled.

  “According to Baker’s notes, Delta Tisdale, another friend of Shelby’s, suggested Sonny as a possibility because Shelby mentioned his name a lot. Apparently, she spent a good bit of time with him on behalf of folks at One80Place.”

  “Sonny would never be romantically involved with a married woman.” I was talking to myself as much as Nate.

  “Is he romantically involved with anyone?”

  I pondered that for a moment. Here was a glimmer of hope. “Last I heard he was dating a girl from Folly Beach. He brought her to The Pirates’ Den about a month ago, remember? It was a Friday night. The band was playing. I declare I don’t remember her name.” Sonny and my brother, Blake, along with a few of their friends, had a band—The Back Porch Prophets. They played most Friday nights at The Pirates’ Den, a local favorite restaurant and bar. Blake played pedal steel guitar and keyboards. Sonny played guitar, sometimes drums depending on who all showed up to play. They all had day jobs.