Lowcountry Boneyard

Praise for the Liz Talbot Mystery Series

LOWCOUNTRY BONEYARD (#3)

“Has everything you could want in a traditional mystery: a credible and savvy protagonist, a meaty mystery, and setting that will make you want to spend time in South Carolina. I enjoyed every minute of it.”

– Charlaine Harris,

New York Times
Bestselling Author of
Day Shift

“This brilliantly executed and well-defined mystery left me mesmerized… Boasting a superb cast of characters, engaging conversations, a feel good atmosphere and all-around entertaining whodunit, this is the best book yet in this wonderfully charming series.”

–
Dru’s Book Musings

“This third in the series continues to smoothly combine elements of the paranormal and romance with a strong investigative plot that delves into the deeply hidden secrets of families…The charming setting, strong writing, and extremely engaging characters that have become hallmarks of this series never cease to entertain.”

–
Kings River Life Magazine

“Lovely writing with well-developed characters, a believable plot and plenty of interesting detail…Boyer may be unstoppable in conjuring mystery as she travels the social circles and back roads of the fascinating southern landscape.”

–
Speakers International

LOWCOUNTRY BOMBSHELL (#2)

“Is there anything more enticing than curling up with a thrilling whodunit that keeps you guessing until the very end? Susan Boyer delivers big time with a witty mystery that is fun, radiant, and impossible to put down. I LOVE THIS BOOK!”

– Darynda Jones,

New York Times
Bestselling Author

“
Lowcountry Bombshell
is that rare combination of suspense, humor, seduction, and mayhem, an absolute must-read not only for mystery enthusiasts but for anyone who loves a fast-paced, well-written story!”

– Cassandra King,

Author of
The Same Sweet Girls
and
Moonrise

“This Agatha Award-winning author of the Liz Talbot mysteries has put together a complicated story that’s rich and juicy with plenty of twists and turns. It has lots of peril and romance—something for every cozy mystery fan.”

–
New York Journal of Books

LOWCOUNTRY BOIL (#1)

“Imaginative, empathetic, genuine, and fun,
Lowcountry Boil
is a lowcountry delight.”

– Carolyn Hart,

Author of
What the Cat Saw

“I love this book. And you will, too...This light-hearted and authentically Southern mystery is full of heart, insight, and a deep understanding of human nature.”

– Hank Phillippi Ryan,

Anthony, Agatha & Macavity Winning Author of
The Other Woman

“
Lowcountry Boil
pulls the reader in like the draw of a riptide with a keeps-you-guessing mystery full of romance, family intrigue, and the smell of salt marsh on the Charleston coast.”

– Cathy Pickens,

Author of the
Southern Fried
Mysteries
and
Charleston Mysteries

“Plenty of secrets, long-simmering feuds, and greedy ventures make for a captivating read…Boyer’s chick lit PI debut charmingly showcases South Carolina island culture.”

—
Library Journal

Books in the Liz Talbot Mystery Series

by Susan M. Boyer

LOWCOUNTRY BOIL (#1)

LOWCOUNTRY BOMBSHELL (#2)

LOWCOUNTRY BONEYARD (#3)

LOWCOUNTRY BORDELLO (#4)

(November 2015)

Copyright

LOWCOUNTRY BONEYARD

A Liz Talbot Mystery

Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

First Edition

Kindle edition | April 2015

Henery Press

www.henerypress.com

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. 

Copyright © 2015 by Susan M. Boyer

Author photograph by Phil Hyman Photography

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Related subjects include: cozy mysteries, women sleuths, murder mystery series, whodunit mysteries (whodunnit), book club recommendations, private investigator mystery series, Southern humor, Southern living.

ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-49-7

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

This one is for my brother and sister,

Darryl Wayne Jones and Sabrina Jones Niggel.

If they’d let me pick out my siblings,

we’d have come home with y’all.

Blue Whale love to the Sibbles.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THANK YOU—yes, I mean you, Delightful Person Who Bought This Book. You make it possible for me to keep my dream job, making things up and writing them down. It’s a delicious thing I do, and I am forever grateful.

Thank you beyond measure, Jim Boyer, my wonderful husband and fiercest advocate.

Massive thanks to everyone at Henery Press—Kendel Lynn, my dream editor, Art Molinares, who always has my back, Erin George, Rachel Jackson, Anna Davis, and Stephanie Chontos—this book is better because of all of you. And of course, here’s a shout out to Charlie and Cali, the mascots.

As always, thank you Stephany Evans, my wonderful agent, Kristen Weber, my fabulous first reader who always asks the right questions, and Marcia Migacz and Jan Rubens, for their sharp eyes.

Heartfelt, exuberant thanks to Charlaine Harris. I remain your biggest fan.

Huge thanks to my cousin Linda Ketner. I’m grateful she chose to live in Charleston and even more grateful that she’s willing to read galleys. More huge thanks to my dear friends Martha and Mary Rudisill, eleventh and twelfth-generation Charlestonians, respectively, who answered endless questions, helped me find the right cemetery, and pored over galleys.

Thank you…

…Samantha Blundell, whose grandmother gifted her with the character she’d won at a charity auction. Your participation inspired a nice twist in the story.

…Jessica Slaughter at FIG Restaurant, for answering endless questions about chefs, sous chefs, and all things culinary.

…Marcia Beczynski with Magnolia Cemetery.

…Jim O’Neill and everyone at John Rutledge House Inn.

…Phil Sabatino with Queen & King Street Garage.

…and Mike Bowers, who is a real-life private investigator in Charleston, SC.

This book is richer because of all of these folks. Any mistakes are mine alone.

Immense thanks to Rowe Copeland, Kathie Bennett, Susan Zurenda, Liz Bemis, and Erin Mitchell. I have no idea what I’d do without y’all. Thank you Jill Hendrix, owner of Fiction Addiction bookstore, for your continued advice and support.

As always, I have a paralyzing fear I’ve forgotten someone. Should that prove true, please know it was unintentional and I am truly grateful for everyone who helped me with this book.

One

The dead are not generally fretful of mortal affairs. My friend Colleen passed from this world to the next seventeen years ago last June. She can’t be bothered with global warming, the national debt, or those Duck Dynasty folks from Louisiana. She’s careful to stay focused on her mission, namely, protecting Stella Maris, our South Carolina island home, from the evils of high-rise resorts, timeshares, and all such as that. But occasionally, she fixates on what appear to be random concerns, mostly cases I’m working. Colleen minds my business, is what I’m saying.

To be fair, I make my living minding other people’s business. I’m a private investigator, licensed by the state. Roughly half of my casework is pre-trial investigation for criminal defense attorneys. Another quarter involves domestic misunderstandings. The remainder is a mixed bag of human comedy and suffering—everything from conspiracy to kidnap a prize hound for stud services to conspiracy to commit murder. Sometimes it’s difficult to know which I’m dealing with at first, but I pray for the wildly farcical.

That Tuesday in mid-October, I was sitting in an Adirondack chair on my deck savoring my second cup of coffee and the music of waves breaking and racing to shore. The sun was warm on my skin. I’d just finished a read-through of my final report on a case when a ringtone named pinball announced a caller not in my contacts list. I glanced at my iPhone. It was precisely nine o’clock. The number was local. I set my coffee down and picked up the phone.

“Talbot and Andrews Investigations.”

“Miss Talbot?” The man’s tone brought to mind a professor who’d caught me daydreaming in class.

I pulled the phone away from my face and scrutinized the number again. What the hell? “This is Liz Talbot. How can I help you?”

“Colton Heyward here. I’d like to arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience.”

Something heavy and dark settled in my chest. The Heyward family and their missing early-twenties daughter had been all over the news. Kent Heyward had vanished from the streets of Charleston one late summer evening. I closed my eyes and forced air into my lungs. “Of course. I’ll come whenever you like.”

He gave me his home address on lower Legare Street in Charleston and asked me to be there at ten o’clock the next morning. Had I not been familiar with the family, the address—which was south of Broad Street near where the Ashley River converges with the Cooper to sculpt the end of the Charleston peninsula—would’ve told me I was likely dealing with old money and a family tree including names from history books.

Wednesday morning Colleen woke me at 4:45. She pestered the fire out of me to get an early start, proceeding to inform me of the time every five minutes during my run, shower, and the berry-yogurt-granola parfait that failed to summon my appetite. Kent Heyward’s disappearance weighed heavy on my heart. It haunted the entire lowcountry. I was both eager to help and apprehensive. What could
I
do that hadn’t been done?

“Are you about ready?” Colleen was working my last nerve.

“What is with you?”

“We can’t be late. I’ll be in the car.”

She rode shotgun on the trip to Charleston. As her sole human Point of Contact, I was the only one who could see her. Across Stella Maris, during the ferry ride to Isle of Palms, and through Mount Pleasant she barely spoke. I knew she was tense. Most days I would’ve quizzed her about it, but I was preoccupied myself. Colleen relaxed considerably once we crossed the Cooper River Bridge and I drove my green hybrid Escape into the Holy City.

Charleston was christened the Holy City forever ago, owing to the number of churches generously scattered across her cityscape and her history of religious tolerance. Her streets buzzed in the soft October air. Deliverymen unloaded their wares with a brisker step now that the oppressive summer heat and humidity had relented. The Carolina blue sky forecasted a pleasant day for all. October is my favorite month in the Lowcountry. The quality of light renders Charleston and her realm through a filtered lens, obscuring flaws and highlighting our best features. That particular morning, my joy in simply driving through the city was muted. 

At nine-fifty—ten minutes early—we rolled through the lacy wrought iron gate and down the tree-sheltered brick drive to the Heyward home. Shades of green surrounded us—magnolias, tea olives, gardenias, camellias, ferns, palms—all manner of tree and shrub. We’d been swallowed whole by the Garden of Eden. I turned off the engine. Everything was still except the gurgling fountain in a bed of massive hostas. We stared at the three-story, clay-colored masonry mansion with triple-tiered piazzas. 

“It’s magnificent,” I said.

“It was built in eighteen thirty-eight. Can you imagine everything that house has seen?” Colleen’s voice was reverent, her green eyes round, their color intensified by the similarly hued cardigan she wore over today’s dress.

“Do you think there are other ghosts in there?”

She cut me with a look. “You know I’m not a ghost.”

“Mmm-kay. Do you think there are other guardian spirits in the house?”

“No. I know all the locals.” She shrugged. “The place is crawling with ghosts. We may or may not see them this morning.”

The distinction, according to Colleen, was that guardian spirits had passed to the next world and been sent back with work to do. Ghosts were the lingering spirits of the dead who had yet to cross over to the next life.

“This should be interesting,” I said. “If you run across any specters, find out where the family skeletons are hidden. That information could come in handy.” I climbed out of the car, took a step towards the house, and stopped, startled.

Colleen waited on the lower porch by the front door.

“Would you please stop doing that?” I asked.

“What?” She twirled a finger through her long red curls.

“You know very well what. All that popping in and out disturbs my biorhythms.”

She laughed the distinctive bray-snort laugh she’d had since we were children and both mortal.

“Careful. The whole family is probably watching you from a window. You don’t want them to think you talk to yourself. I doubt these folks hire eccentrics.”

“I’d bet my mamma’s pearls these folks
are
eccentric.”

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t discriminating.”

“If you would stop chattering at me this wouldn’t be a problem.” I rang the bell.

Colleen flashed me a mischievous look and faded away.

I fluffed my hair and smoothed my skirt.

The heavy door swung open. A fit salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman studied me. His suit looked to me like a custom-tailored job. I recognized him from all the media coverage. “Miss Talbot?”

“Please, call me Liz.”

He extended his hand. “Colton Heyward. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Why couldn’t our culture adopt bowing instead of all this handshaking? It’s just unsanitary. His handshake was firm, his perfect posture a testament to his pedigree. He stepped back and opened the door wider. “Please come in, won’t you? Can I get you anything? A drink, perhaps?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” What I really wanted was my hand sanitizer. I resisted the urge to dig into my tote.

“Very well. Let’s talk in my office.” He turned and strode down the wide front hall.

I followed him, taking in the heart-of-pine floors, the detailed woodwork, and the smell of furniture polish. This old house was well-preserved and filled with what appeared to be heirloom-quality antiques. If there were ghosts floating around, they were courteous.

Mr. Heyward stopped just beyond a room on the right and gestured for me to enter. “Please, have a seat wherever you’re comfortable.”

Dark woods and leather greeted me, vouching for his good taste and deep pockets. I chose a club chair by the fireplace, and he settled across from me in its twin. Between us sat a heavy coffee table flanked by a sofa facing the fireplace. Colleen curled her feet under her on the end closest to me. I was long past being rattled by her presence during meetings—provided she kept quiet.

I focused on Mr. Heyward. “May I record our conversation? It will help me remember details.”

He looked like maybe he’d caught a whiff of manure but was too well-bred to mention it. “Very well.”

I opened the Voice Memos app on my iPhone and pressed the red button to record. “Initial meeting with Colton Heyward, Thursday, October ninth, two thousand fourteen, ten a.m., at his home.” I laid the phone on the table between us. “How can I help you?”

He nodded, grimaced, and hesitated. “Ansley Johnson speaks very highly of you. She claims you’re the finest private investigator our state has to offer.”

“How sweet of her. I’ve known the Johnson family all my life. Ansley’s a good bit younger than me, but her parents and mine are dear friends.”

“My daughter, Kent, is quite close to Ansley. They were college roommates. William and Mary. Mrs. Heyward is distantly related to Ansley’s mother’s family.” The creases in his careworn face deepened. He seemed to force the words out of his mouth.

Colleen stared at the ceiling. “I’m going to have a look around.” She faded out.

“Forgive me, my dear, but I’m a bit of a traditionalist. You have a solid reputation, but I must say, you’re not what one expects of a private investigator. Your appearance suggests you’re perhaps on your way to a Junior League luncheon.”

I tilted my head and offered him my brightest smile. “Which is precisely why I’m such an effective investigator. Tell me, Mr. Heyward. If you saw me several times any given day, why, it would never occur to you I might be in
vestigating
you, now would it?”

He pulled back his chin and regarded me from atop his nose for a long moment. “I suppose you make a fair point. How much experience do you have?”

Certain he already knew the answer, I humored him. He was taking the measure of me. “I apprenticed with a Greenville private investigator for three years, then worked for him another two. My partner and I opened Talbot and Andrews Investigations eight years ago last May. Altogether, I have thirteen years of experience.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t look old enough to have thirteen years of experience at anything.”

Mustering my manners, I stayed sweet. “I turned thirty-four in February, Mr. Heyward. If you require gray hair of an investigator, I can refer you to someone else.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He cleared his throat. “My apologies. My wife and I are beside ourselves with worry about Kent. She’s been missing, you see, for a month.”

“I’m familiar with the case, of course. At least, what’s been reported by the media. I can’t even imagine what your family is going through.”

“We’re devastated. After a brief—you couldn’t call it an investigation, really—the police concluded Kent left home of her own volition. Technically her case is still open, but they’ve as much as told me they aren’t looking for her any longer.”

I waited to see if he would embellish his story. I’d seen the press conferences. It was hard to believe Charleston PD had stopped looking for Kent Heyward. Something was off. What had been omitted from the news coverage? After a few moments I asked, “Why do they believe she left of her own accord?”

He waved his hand impatiently. “The neighbors.”

I tilted my head, signaling my inquiring mind.

He huffed. “They haven’t lived here long. We don’t know them well. The woman—Mrs. Walsh—is inappropriately inquisitive. She overheard several emotional exchanges. Private, family matters. Called the police. It was nothing, of course, but I’m afraid she’s given them the idea that Kent was mistreated here. I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, we’ve spoiled her rotten. Kent is our only child.”

  “I see.”

Emotional exchanges prompting neighbors to call the police must have been doozies. These folks were likely high strung.

“What were these disagreements about? Please forgive me for prying, but I need to know everything about Kent’s state of mind if I’m to help. It could be important.”

“Kent has been dating a
cook
,”
he said, like one might sooner date a llama. “Matthew Thomas. He works at FIG. Her mother and I wanted better for her. Kent told us a few weeks before she disappeared that she was moving in with him. Naturally, we were upset.”

“Naturally.” I was thinking how this didn’t seem one bit natural to me, and how Mr. and Mrs. Heyward took snooty to a whole nother level. FIG was one of the top-rated restaurants in Charleston. Everybody from Oprah to
Gourmet Magazine
had nice things to say about FIG. “Kent is…twenty-three, twenty-four?”

“She’s twenty-three.”

“Mr. Heyward, I apologize in advance. I know this is painful. I’m going to ask questions you’ve no doubt answered before. Much has been reported about Kent’s disappearance. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing what hasn’t been reported, or if I’ve missed something.”

He nodded for me to proceed.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

He fixed his gaze on a spot above my right shoulder. “September twelfth. It was a Friday evening. She left to go to dinner with friends and never came home.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Approximately seven forty-five.”

“Was she driving?”

He stiffened. “Yes. A red Mini Cooper convertible. She loves that car as much as I despise it. It’s not safe. I would have put her in a Hummer given my choice. As is her custom, she had her way and I bought her the damned Mini Cooper. In any case, her car hasn’t been located.”

“I’m assuming it has a navigation system with GPS, anti-theft.”

“Yes. However, the manufacturer believes it may have been tampered with. They cannot locate the car.”

Another possibility was that the car hadn’t been turned on since Kent had been reported missing. Surely they’d explained that to him. “Do you know who she planned to meet that night?”

“She didn’t say. It was a group Ansley isn’t familiar with, either.” His eyes burned with a quiet rage. “The police informed me that Matthew Thomas was at work that evening. It appears it wasn’t him.”