2 Lowcountry Bombshell Page 4

  Not many years ago, this step would’ve taken days and involved mailed requests for documents, trips to courthouses, and library visits. These days, in most cases, a PI could accomplish basic vetting in a few hours on the Internet.

  Calista was my first profile. I would’ve bet a case of my favorite pinot noir that in short order I would discover I’d spent my morning with either a con artist or a delusional woman. I would’ve lost that bet. Everything Calista told me about her background checked out—from her birthdate and time, to her history with the foster care system, to her marriage to James Edward Davis. Even to when she legally changed her name from Norma Jeane Mortensen Davis to Calista Faith McQueen, moved to West Ashley, and married a ballplayer named Jose Raphael Fernandez. I felt something cold with little feet crawl up my spine. It was creepy how much the first eighteen years of Calista’s life paralleled the other Norma Jeane’s.

  Jose’s early life was not the near-perfect parallel to the baseball icon’s that Calista’s had been to Marilyn’s. After a little digging, it was clear that beyond his chosen variation of his name and his profession, Joe’s background bore no similarities whatsoever to Joe DiMaggio’s. This came as a great relief. The crazy was limited in scope, and that’s always easier to deal with. Jose was an only child. His family was of Cuban descent, but had lived in Florida for three generations. His parents had died in a car accident in nineteen 1997.

  I was most intrigued by Calista’s mother, whose name had been Gwen Monroe when Calista—Norma Jeane—was born. The surname Monroe gave me pause. Was this the seed from which the obsession had sprung? Gwen changed her name to Gladys the following week, the same day a woman named Donna Clark at the same address had changed her name to Grace McKee. To go to the trouble of changing their names, these women must have been heavily invested in the whole recreating Marilyn fantasy.

  I found no trace of a man named Mortensen in Gwen’s history. Likely that was just a name she and Donna gave the hospital for the birth certificate to begin building their reincarnation fantasy. As far as I could determine, neither of them had ever been married. Here were the con artists—not Calista, as Blake had suggested. She was their victim. Dressing in outlandish costumes suddenly seemed tame as quirks go. If I’d been raised by crazies like that I might have a few screws loose, too.

  My iPhone quacked like a duck, which meant a client was on the line. I glanced at the screen and answered. “Hey, Calista.”

  “Liz, can you come with me to Charleston?” Calista’s voice sounded thick, like she’d been crying.

  “Right now?”

  “Yes. Please. Harmony’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry—Harmony?”

  “My life coach. Her assistant just found her. She’s been shot. Please.”

  A life coach? “Did the assistant call 911?”

  “I’m sure she must have. She called me because I had an appointment this afternoon. She didn’t want me to arrive at a crime scene.”

  “That sounds like good sense to me. I’m sorry for your loss, but there’s nothing you or I can do, and the police won’t appreciate our being there.”

  “I’m quite sure they will want to talk to me. I’d like you to be there.”

  “Why would they want to talk to you?”

  “Because I’m the one who got her killed.”

  “I’m on my way.” I grabbed my iPhone and my favorite summer Kate Spade tote.

  FIVE

  I pulled my hybrid Escape into Calista’s drive expecting her to be waiting. She wasn’t. I studied the white concrete dome in front of me. It looked out of place next to the palm trees and live oaks, as if it had landed here from someplace on the other side of the galaxy. Wide border beds with lavish gardens surrounded the whole affair. Massive walls of concrete reached out from either side like giant arms enclosing two sets of steps with a fountain between them.

  The opening in the concrete wall between the sections was about six feet wide. When I stepped through it, I was in a small courtyard. Glass block formed the front edge of the fountain, and the gurgle of water soothed me. It was like stepping into a temple. A feeling of peace washed over me. I climbed the steps on my right to the partially sheltered porch surrounding the house, rang the bell, and waited.

  Elenore Harper opened the door. Here was a surprise. Elenore was the first wife of Warren Harper, the town doctor. She had a reputation for being flakey. She’d abandoned Warren and their three children when the kids were little. Elenore was a rare breed of woman on Stella Maris—one who didn’t bother with such things as makeup and hair color, and owned only sensible shoes. “Ms. McQueen is expecting you.” She stepped aside without so much as a hint she knew me from Adam’s house cat.

  “Hey, Elenore, how’re you doin’?” I offered my brightest smile.

  “Ms. McQueen is in the living room. This way.”

  She started down the white-tiled foyer.

  “So, you work for Ms. McQueen?”

  “Yes.” She did not look back at me.

  “Are you her secretary?”

  “I manage the house.” Her voice crackled with ice.

  That seemed a little vague. I figured it meant she was the maid, not that there was anything wrong with that. The foyer opened into a large living space that combined the living room and dining room and was open to the kitchen. The décor was white-on-white, with stainless steel accents.

  Calista was curled into a nook of an over-stuffed white sectional. A brown-haired gentleman sat next to her, applying a compress to her forehead and petting her arm. My first impression was that if he took off his shirt, he’d look like he walked off a Chippendale’s billboard.

  Elenore announced me. “Miss Talbot has arrived.” Then she slipped away.

  “Hey, Calista. Are you ready?”

  Calista sat up and slid her feet into a pair of flats. “Liz, come meet Niles Ignacio. He’s my yoga instructor. Niles, this is Liz Talbot. She’s helping me out with a problem.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Niles stood and took my outstretched hand. “The pleasure is mine.” He moved with extraordinary grace. All that yoga, I guessed. He held onto my hand just a little too long. I retrieved it. Something flickered in his brown eyes. I fought the urge to reach for my hand sanitizer.

  Calista stood. “Thank you, Niles. You’ve been a life-saver.”

  Niles ran his hand slowly from Calista’s shoulder down her arm. “Darling, are you sure you want to go into Charleston today? Perhaps a nap would be in your best interests.”

  He was awfully chummy for a yoga instructor. And neither of them were dressed for yoga. I wondered exactly what he meant by “nap.”

  “Calista? We don’t have to do this today. I’m sure the Charleston detectives will come here to interview you if you have information related to their case, Niles said.”

  “No,” Calista said. “I want to speak to them today. It’s terribly important. Niles, let yourself out. I’ll see you tomorrow at one.”

  Niles clasped her elbow. “Calista, dear-heart, really, you shouldn’t push yourself.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not sick, just shook up a little. And who wouldn’t be?” Calista pulled her arm free and picked up her purse. She smiled gently at Niles.

  “I’m rattled myself.” Niles placed his now free hand on his chest. “Poor Harmony. Who would do such a thing?”

  “She was such a gentle spirit.” Calista’s eyes misted.

  I hated to sound uncaring about poor Harmony, but Niles was a new character in Calista’s orbit, and I needed to start vetting him quickly. “I didn’t realize we had a yoga studio on Stella Maris,” I said.

  “We don’t,” said Calista. “Niles comes all the way over from Mt. Pleasant to give me private lessons.”

  “How sweet of him,” I said, thinking I’d bet p
rivate yoga lessons were pricey, or lucrative, depending on which end of the transaction your downward dog stretched.

  “He’s just a doll,” said Calista.

  He looked like somebody’s toy, I’d give her that much. I wondered if he was hers. “We’d best go if we’re going,” I said.

  Calista passed me on her way to the door. “Do you mind driving?”

  “I insist.”

  Niles followed us out to the Escape. He hovered over Calista as she slid into the passenger seat, lodging one protest after another. He was still carrying on as I turned the car around and drove down the driveway.

  I turned left onto Ocean Boulevard, making my way towards the ferry dock. “He’s very attentive.”

  “Niles? Yes. He worries about my stress level.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Since just after I moved back to South Carolina. I’ve been practicing yoga for years. When I moved to Wild Dunes eighteen months ago, I started taking classes at Serenity in Mount Pleasant. I’d been there a few months when Niles came to work there. He was always my favorite instructor. After a while he started giving me private lessons. He’s a good friend.”

  I wondered if Calista had any friends she didn’t pay. “Is he from here?”

  “I don’t think so. He moved downfrom Vermont.”

  Ocean Boulevard dead-ended at Main Street. I turned right. This section of Main was residential, with brick sidewalks shaded by live oaks draped in Spanish moss.

  “I wish it was cool enough to roll the windows down,” Calista said.

  “Me, too. But the exterior thermostat says ninety-eight. I think we’ll leave the windows up and the AC on if you don’t mind.”

  I bore right into the traffic circle that bordered the park in the middle of town.

  Calista said, “I’ve loved this little town since I first laid eyes on it. It’s like the postcard for small towns. Bigger than Mayberry—you know what it reminds me of?”

  “What?” I glanced down the picturesque row of shops on Palmetto Boulevard as we rounded the circle.

  “Bedford Falls.”

  “Bedford Falls?” I turned right and continued down Main.

  “You know, from the movie, It’s a Wonderful Life. Lots of people watch that movie at Christmas. I watch it all the time. I’d like to live in that town. This is the closest thing I’ve ever found. Except there’s no snow here. Everything is so green. It’s perfect.”

  “Yes, it is. Calista, if you had an appointment with Harmony this afternoon, why was Niles at your house? Neither of you were dressed for yoga.”

  “He came by to drop off some essential oils. Lavender, chamomile, and sweet marjoram to help me relax. Niles helps me manage my stress level. Yesterday at our session, I was very stressed.”

  “How much have you told him?”

  “Nothing about the money. Nothing about my history. All he knows is that I’m a widow who traveled a bit and now lives on Stella Maris. I got the call from Harmony’s assistant while he was there. He was just doing what any friend would do. Comforting me.”

  “So you and he are not involved romantically?”

  “Oh my, no. Niles is gay.”

  “Really?” I’d read him wrong, and that unsettled me. I would’ve sworn he was exuding pheromones at both Calista and me.

  “Yes. He’s confided in me about his boyfriend. They fight a lot. I think his boyfriend is very jealous.”

  “So what does he think you’re stressed about, if he doesn’t know you’re in fear for your life?”

  Calista shrugged. “What is anyone stressed about? When he asks, I just say my investments, or mention something vague about family.”

  “Does he ask you a lot of questions?”

  “You mean like you do?”

  “I’m a private investigator. You are paying me good money to ask questions. You are paying him for personal fitness training and what-all. You’ll notice I haven’t said ‘Namaste’ once.”

  “I see your point.” Ordinary conversation sounded like bedroom talk coming from Calista.

  “So, does he ask you a lot of questions?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” she said, her voice oozing sensuality.

  “Have you always talked like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…like Marilyn. All breathless and…” I parked to wait for the cars coming off the ferry.

  “Yes. I’ve always spoken like this. Just like you’ve probably always had that lovely drawl.”

  “Drawl? I don’t have a drawl. I mean I can turn it on when I want to, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t normally speak with a drawl.”

  Calista giggled. “Of course you do. What’s interesting though, is that I’ve read she didn’t talk like this, not normally. Only for the camera.”

  “You’ve read up on her?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose I would, in your shoes. So, you don’t think she committed suicide, or died of an accidental overdose?”

  “No. I think her biographer, Donald Spoto, got it mostly right. Or maybe he knew the whole truth, but knew he couldn’t prove it.”

  “And what did he think?”

  “Marilyn was getting ready to remarry Joe DiMaggio. She was happy. Making plans for the future. Do you know she was being fitted for her wedding gown just a few days before her death?”

  “No, I’ve never heard that.”

  Calista nodded emphatically. “She’d made arrangements for a small reception at her home.”

  “Interesting. But how did she die, according to the biographer?”

  “She hadn’t slept well that Friday night, August third. She had several meetings on Saturday with her psychoanalyst, Ralph Greenson. She was in the process of terminating his services and the housekeeper’s as well. Both of them manipulated her terribly. The housekeeper reported to Greenson. He arranged for Marilyn to hire her.”

  I drove onto the ferry and parked behind a minivan. “That’s odd. For a psychoanalyst to hire a housekeeper for a patient.”

  “Precisely. Anyway, either he gave her Nembutal that day, or she took it on her own because it was a very stressful situation. She was moving on with her life. Cutting ties with the people who had been controlling her for the last year, people she’d trusted. They weren’t happy about that one bit.”

  “So she took some Nembutal during the day on Saturday?” I was remembering what Blake had told me about Nembutal.

  “Yes. And then later that night, either the good doctor instructed the housekeeper to give her an enema with a big dose of chloral hydrate, or the housekeeper did it on her own. That stopped Marilyn’s body from metabolizing the Nembutal, and it killed her. Of course it’s possible the chloral hydrate alone would have killed her. She had twice as much of that in her system as the Nembutal.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say the housekeeper gave her an enema? She was killed with an enema?”

  “Exactly. Marilyn was accustomed to using them for health and dietetic purposes. Lots of actresses did back then. But that night, hers had a dose of chloral hydrate in it. And she never woke up.”

  “You’re saying she was murdered?”

  “You should draw your own conclusion. It might have been an accident. It could have been that she took the Nembutal without Greenson knowing, and later he decided she needed the chloral hydrate enema to help her sleep. But she knew she’d taken the Nembutal, so it’s hard to imagine she would agree to an enema with chloral hydrate. Read her biography—the one by Spoto. Chapter twenty-two is fascinating. Many books have been written about her, but his is exceptionally well documented. Not gossipy at all.”

  “You believe people close to her killed her and made it look like she either accidentally, or purposeful
ly, took too many pills?”

  “That’s what I believe, yes. And I further believe that’s what will happen to me unless you prevent it.”

  “Who in your life is manipulating you?”

  “No one. I never let anyone get that close. Not anymore. With me, I think it will be people who feel like I let them down.”

  I was thinking how the people closest to her were on her payroll, which seemed yet another parallel to Marilyn, but as I had other questions on my mind, and in light of Harmony’s recent passing, I didn’t mention it. “We’re not going to let that happen. I understand you found a bottle labeled Nembutal by your bed.”

  “Yes. I would have told you about that on Friday. I thought I’d already overwhelmed you this morning.”

  I smiled, thinking how that was a valid concern. “Any ideas who would do such a thing?”

  “None that make sense.”

  “Tell me the ones that don’t make sense.”

  “Mother, Grace, or Jimmy. Maybe the three of them working together. It wasn’t just the pills.”

  “Something else was left by your bed?”

  “No, I mean, other strange things have happened. Sometimes I hear a dog barking inside my house. It only happens when I’m alone. I don’t have a dog, but I did when I was a little girl. It was a stray I brought home and named Tippy. I was amazed my foster family let me keep him. He followed me everywhere. One of our neighbors got mad because he thought Tippy barked too much. The heartless SOB shot Tippy with his shotgun.”

  “Ohmygosh. That’s heinous.”

  “Yes, it was devastating,” Calista said. “The same thing happened to the first Norma Jeane. But I bet she picked the name Tippy. I wanted to name my dog Taffy. Grace said it was silly to name a dog after candy. She insisted on Tippy.”