LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB Page 4

  “Brunette?” Nate asked.

  “Yeah, short hair. She was real cute.” As far as I knew, Sonny hadn’t been serious about anyone in years. I couldn’t stop staring at the photo.

  “Liz—”

  “Of course we need to talk to Sonny. And to this Delta Tisdale.” Her name came out of my mouth like maybe she was someone who frequently reported zombie alien Sasquatches. “Anyone else on the suspected adulterer list?”

  “No. Just Charles Kinloch and Sonny.”

  “If Paul Baker billed Fraser for four months, billed for a trip to London, and Sonny was the best idea he came up with, I don’t blame Fraser for being pissed.” I was feeling defensive of my friend and I knew it. I had to follow this wherever it led.

  I finished the call with Nate and tapped Sonny’s name in my favorites list. He answered on the third ring.

  “How well did you know Shelby Poinsett?” I asked without preamble.

  “Well I’m fine, Liz, how are you? How’s married life treating you?” If the question rattled Sonny at all, it wasn’t in his voice.

  “This is serious.”

  “Why’re you asking?”

  “Nate and I are taking over the case for Paul Baker, investigating for Rutledge and Radcliffe.”

  “Is that right?” He went quiet, like he was giving the matter careful consideration.

  “Answer the question, Sonny. How well did you know Shelby? Did you know Paul Baker was investigating you?”

  “I would be a damn poor excuse for a detective if I couldn’t pick up on that. He was asking questions around One80Place. I have friends there. Seems like Baker had some fantasy maybe I knew Shelby a little too well.”

  “Did you?” I maybe sounded a little crazy. I was staring at his smiling face in that picture.

  “Seriously, Liz?”

  “Sonny, I have to ask. This was his primary line of investigation—that Shelby was having an affair. His theory was that her lover killed her. Your name is one of two in his file, and the other guy has an ironclad alibi.”

  “Yeah, and when Paul Baker mentioned that crap theory to Bissell and Jenkins, we all had a good laugh about it. Rutledge and Radcliffe ought to get a refund.” Sonny sighed, muttered something. “Shelby and I were good friends. Have been for years. She volunteered at One80Place. So did I. But as someone who is also my good friend, you know damn good and well I don’t date married women. Besides that, Shelby was crazy about her husband. I told Paul Baker as much. I guess he didn’t believe me because he thought that served my interests. But it’s the truth.”

  I sat back, relaxed. Only then I realized how I’d been coiled tight as a spring. “I had to ask.”

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  “So if Shelby wasn’t having an affair—”

  “No one ever thought she was except Clint. And now Bissell and Jenkins, the solicitor, and Paul Baker. To hear Shelby tell it, Clint’s a good guy, but insecure. Held on a little too tight to Shelby. Hell, he probably knew she was way out of his league from day one. Shelby, she talked about him all the time, and her face lit up when she said his name. I’d bet my favorite Gibson guitar she was not having an affair.”

  “But who else besides a lover would come inside her house at nine o’clock at night, throw her out the french doors, and leave without her husband ever knowing they were there?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, you wouldn’t have a new case.”

  “How well do you know Clint?” I asked.

  “Never met him. Everything I know about him came from Shelby. Bissell and Jenkins are convinced he killed her. I hate to think that, the way she loved him. But there just isn’t another reasonable theory of the crime.”

  “I’ll let you know when we find one.”

  I ended the call without asking him about the picture. I pulled a notebook from my tote and tucked the photo inside the pages. It was nothing. There were children there, for Heaven’s sake.

  I would keep right on telling myself that for as long as I could.

  FOUR

  Our meeting with Fraser was brief. Nate and I were exhausted, but up to speed. We had no questions for Fraser at that juncture and weren’t ready to share any observations. Fraser was thankfully due in court. He called Clint Gerhardt and asked if I could come by. From Fraser’s end of the conversation, Clint was unenthusiastic. But he agreed and asked that I get it over with.

  I kissed Nate goodbye, and he set out for One80Place. Because the Gerhardt home was only a five-minute walk from Rutledge and Radcliffe, I left my car parked on Broad and headed towards the Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon. Across East Bay, the massive yellow stone building seemed to stand guard over the foot of Broad Street. It was hard to walk past it without recalling that the Declaration of Independence had been presented to citizens from the steps. Walking through Charleston was like stepping back in time, if you ignored all the cars.

  I turned right on East Bay, enjoying the bright blue sky and the Cooper River peeking at me between buildings on my left. As soon as I crossed Elliott, a horse-drawn carriage full of tourists pulled to a stop at the curb, the guide explaining the history of Rainbow Row. This cheerful line of historic houses painted Caribbean pink, yellow, blue, and green with their wrought iron balconies and window boxes spilling over with flowers always made me smile.

  I crossed Tradd, then turned right and walked up its left-hand sidewalk, against traffic. Most of Tradd Street, including this end, was a one-way street by car. It was a narrow lane crowded with street parking on my right. Several times I had to thread myself between window boxes and crepe myrtle trees planted in sidewalk cutouts. On both sides of the street, I caught glimpses over courtyards and through garden gates.

  I slowed my pace as I approached the Gerhardt home. You could always get a better perspective on things by foot, especially walking in a direction you couldn’t drive. It was a three-story brick townhouse, flush with the stucco house to the right—the Izard home. A short brick driveway on the left ended just past the side entrance where the house, which at first appeared rectangular, bumped out into an L-shape. A wrought iron gate allowed access to a pathway, but the gnarled branches of a live oak obscured anything beyond. The courtyard must’ve been behind the house.

  The neighbors’ house to the left sat back from the street, with a courtyard out front. The Venning driveway ran adjacent to the Gerhardt driveway, leaving space between the houses. Many of the homes on Tradd Street dated to the late 1700s. Like quite a few of the others, the Gerhardt home was so close to the street the front door was virtually on the sidewalk.

  I rang the bell and waited in front of the recessed, glossy black door with a fanlight above. A runner approached from my right. Dressed in high-end running shoes and togs, electric blue Oakley sunglasses with what looked like wings on the frames, a fitness watch, and an arm band for his smartphone, he could’ve been taping a commercial for one of several advertisers in Running World or some such publication.

  He stopped next door, nodded at me, and slipped a key into the lock. Mr. Izard, I presumed.

  The door in front of me opened and I got my first glimpse of Clint Gerhardt. Tall and solid, he had close-cropped reddish brown hair, agitated blue eyes, and enough facial scruff that I couldn’t be sure if he’d forgotten to shave for a few days or if this was his look. His jeans and button-down shirt were pressed. “Liz Talbot?” he asked.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gerhardt.”

  “The name’s Clint.” He stepped back to let me in. Multiple dogs barked from somewhere upstairs. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. You want coffee?”

  “Sure, thanks.” This wouldn’t be an easy conversation. Something to fiddle with would be good for both of us.

  I followed him down the side hall towards the back of the house. From what I could see, the home had been tastefully decorated and beautifully maintained.
Soft ivory walls, gleaming heart of pine floors, and traditional furnishings greeted me. I caught a glimpse of a large portrait of Shelby over the fireplace as we passed the living room.

  The kitchen had been recently modernized, with white custom cabinets, marble counters, and all new appliances. It was spotless. Not what I’d expected, given he was living alone under house arrest.

  “Have a seat.” Clint nodded towards a table in front of a set of french doors that led to the brick-walled courtyard.

  Oh dear Heaven. We were going to chat while looking at the very spot Shelby had died.

  “You take cream and sugar?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.” It was a lovely courtyard. Plants burst from the built-in beds and ivy covered one of the walls. A swimming pool sat against the far side with a fountain spilling into it from the wall.

  The kitchen table was round with four chairs. I took the one facing the courtyard. Clint brought me a mug of coffee, then sat across the table from me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Shelby,” he said by way of explanation.

  I nodded and sipped my coffee. Strong and rich with plenty of cream and sugar. “This is delicious.”

  He waited silently for me to get to the task at hand. For a moment I kept quiet too. Sometimes silence made guilty people uncomfortable, gave them the impulse to fill it with chatter. Was Clint guilty, or was he another victim of someone else’s crime?

  After a few minutes of a strange version of quiet chicken, I said, “I know this must be difficult for you. I apologize for asking you to talk about it again.”

  “Difficult.” He looked at me squarely, his grief a palpable thing, an aura emitted through his eyes from the core of his soul. His tone was soft, matter of fact. “Shelby was my whole world. I don’t even know how to get through the day.”

  “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I give you my word I will do everything in my power to find out who killed Shelby and why.”

  “That won’t bring her back.”

  “No,” I said. “It won’t. But it will keep you out of prison, or worse.”

  “Trust me, worse is here. It doesn’t get worse from Shelby being dead.”

  I held his gaze. In that quiet moment, I knew in my bones he hadn’t killed his wife. It was more than the pain he wore. Killers often missed their victims. But Clint Gerhardt impressed me as that rare creature completely without artifice, an upright man, a squared-away soldier.

  My resolve to find out the truth of what had happened here hardened.

  “Mr. Gerhardt—Clint, I’ve read the file. I’ve learned a thing or two about your wife. And I have a husband who I adore myself. I can tell you this for absolute certain: Shelby would not want you to go to prison. She wouldn’t want you to stand trial. She would want you to live a full and happy life. And as remote as that possibility must seem to you right now, the best way to honor her is to try to do what you know she would want.”

  He looked away for a moment, then nodded.

  “Is it all right with you if I record our conversation? I can focus and take fewer notes.”

  “Sure.”

  I tapped the Voice Memo app, then the record button, and laid my phone on the table. I pulled out my notebook and a pen just in case I thought of something I wanted to remember to follow up on later.

  “I have it on good authority that your wife was crazy about you. Can you tell me what in the name of sweet reason made you think she was having an affair?”

  He winced, looked at the ceiling, then shook his head. “Part of me could never believe she picked me. Eighteen years of marriage. She was a perfect wife. So much more than I ever deserved. But I grew up poor. Our worlds couldn’t be more different. Sometimes she’d be out working at One80Place—she spent a lot of time there—or at the Library Society, wherever. I’d start thinking about men she grew up with who maybe volunteered there too. She never gave me a reason. But this feeling I’d never be good enough for her, it ate at me. Once in a while I’d get a wild hair. Think maybe she was seeing someone. Then she’d talk me down and we’d be all right. It was a cycle.”

  “And you were in one of these—cycles?”

  He nodded.

  “And you decided it was prudent to share this with Charleston PD?”

  “I was in shock. I wasn’t thinking it could make me look guilty. I was thinking I wanted them to find who killed Shelby.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary that triggered your recent suspicions?”

  “Not really. She was spending a lot of time at the shelter. Working with homeless women and children.” He drew a slow breath, stared at his coffee mug. “We weren’t able to have children. Shelby…the doctors said we could’ve tried fertility treatments, procedures. They had a long list of things they were eager to do to her. But Shelby said no. If God didn’t choose to give us children, He had a perfectly good reason, and maybe she was supposed to love other children who needed extra.

  “We talked about adopting, but to be blunt, I wasn’t as convinced as Shelby that I was parent material. My role models were far from ideal. Shelby found other outlets for her maternal instincts. Lately, there was one little girl she talked about a lot. Her and her mother. The father was abusive.”

  “Do you recall the little girl’s name?” If Shelby had wound up in the middle of a domestic violence case, that could easily have gotten her killed.

  “Kelly. Her mother’s name is Sonya.”

  “Did you ever volunteer at One80Place?”

  He drew a long breath, then blew it out and shook his head. “I’m an idiot. I didn’t want her to think I didn’t trust her. Didn’t want to be too clingy, smother her. She wanted me to be happy, to do whatever I was interested in. It would’ve made her happy, if I’d’ve gone.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I build houses.” A fat orange tabby sashayed up and rubbed against Clint’s legs. Absently, Clint reached down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

  “What a pretty kitty. My grandmother had one who looked just like him. His name was Roscoe.”

  “This is Socrates.”

  “He clearly loves you.”

  “Ah, he just wants a treat.” He continued to pet the cat, who rolled over and assumed the universal “I want a tummy rub” position.

  “Where were we?...You went into construction when you got out of the Army?”

  “You could say that, I guess. I doubt anyone would pay me, but I’m dependable. I work with Habitat for Humanity. In my spare time I’ve been working on fixing up a sailboat I have docked over at Charleston Harbor.”

  “Tell me about the day Shelby died.”

  He recounted exactly what Nate and I had been over the night before from his last Sunday with Shelby.

  “Was it typical for you to spend evenings in separate rooms?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Occasionally. Shelby had book club business she needed to work on.”

  “Book club?”

  “Yeah, aside from One80Place and family, that took most of her time. Shelby was a reader. Loved books. The ladies around here…I don’t know how book clubs normally work. But these women take their book club seriously. Shelby was president. They have a treasurer, a secretary, the whole bit.”

  This didn’t sound anything like my book club, which was more of a social group where we drank wine, ate hors d’oeuvres, and chatted about a great many things, including the book of the month. “Sounds formal.”

  “It is. Most of Shelby’s close friends are in it. It’s like…more than a hundred years old. You have to be invited to join.” His face announced his disdain.

  “So she had book club business and was in the library on the second floor?”

  “That’s right. Just above where we’re sitting.”

  “And you were listening to mu
sic on the third floor?”

  “Yeah. I have a vinyl collection in my study.”

  “Did you have on headphones?”

  “No. But I closed the door. The acoustics are better with the door closed.” He swallowed, took on a sick look. “It’s an acoustic door. It’s designed to keep noise out.”

  “Did anyone have a key to your house aside from you and Shelby? A maid, any other staff?”

  “No one. I’m very security conscious. We’ve got the best deadbolts made. Only Shelby and I had keys. There’s a spare set hidden in each of our cars, and one in the safe deposit box.”

  “With respect, even the best deadbolt locks can easily be picked by anyone who Googles how. There’re YouTube videos demonstrating how it’s done.”

  “That’s why the locks are backed up by floor-mounted door barricades when we’re home. And of course we have a security system, which was armed in ‘stay’ mode when I went upstairs. No one could’ve opened either door except Shelby.”

  “Who set the alarm? You, or Shelby?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  “Would it be in Shelby’s character to let someone in the house she didn’t know well? Someone new at the shelter?”

  He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Shelby had a heart of gold, but she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t have opened the door for someone she didn’t know. We had an incident a few years back. Someone showed up begging at the door. Shelby was here by herself. She called me and I came home and got the guy a cab to the shelter.”

  “But what if it was someone she knew from the shelter?”

  “A client?”

  “Yes.” Or her client’s husband.

  “She wouldn’t let them in. We talked though all of that. We had protocols.”

  “So by process of elimination, Shelby was killed by a friend or family member.” I looked at him directly.