Lowcountry Boneyard (16 page)

“I stayed home from church this morning to work on Kent’s Facebook friends. I’ve been going through them nonstop since you called. I think I found something.”

“What?”

“There’s this girl—well, the profile identifies her as a girl, but it could be anyone, right? Supposedly, she lives in Bakersfield, California and is a high school student. Her name is Samantha Blundell. I don’t know who this is, or how Kent knows her. She’s never mentioned her to me. I don’t know how their paths would’ve crossed.”

“Hunh.” Bakersfield, CA was west of Amarillo. I pulled out a pad and pen and wrote down the name. “Everyone else checks out?”

“Yes. All two hundred eighty-five of the others are either family, friends from high school, friends from college, or other friends Kent and I both knew—with the exception of a few local artists who also have professional pages.”

I watched Ansley for a few moments, hoping Colleen would have something to offer. She was regarding Ansley intently, like she was trying to read her but couldn’t. I said, “Ansley, you have violated my trust. I’m only going to ask this once. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

“No. I promise. There’s nothing.”

“I have to report all of this to my client. He will likely report it to the police. He is already predisposed to be suspicious of Matt. This could get very rough before it gets better. Best you talk to Robert—or better yet, your daddy—about everything. You may need an attorney before this is over.”

She pressed her eyes closed, clearly trying not to cry again.

I said, “I give you my word I will not stop working this case until Kent is found or I’m satisfied the person responsible for her disappearance is in jail—preferably both.”

Ansley nodded. “Thank you. I believe you. And I really am sorry I didn’t tell you everything to begin with. I realize how stupid that was.”

“Well, when all of this is over, after you’ve graduated from law school, maybe you can use it as a cautionary tale for your clients when you are trying to impress on them the importance of telling you the whole truth.”

Ansley jerked with a humorless half chuckle. “When all of this is over. Right.”

“Are you all right to drive?”

“I will be in a few minutes.” She opened the door and climbed out, taking the box of tissues with her. “I’ll get you a new box.”

“Okay.” I started the car, rolled up the windows, and closed the moon roof. “Anything?” I asked Colleen.

“I’m sorry. I can’t read her—it’s like Matt. I don’t think that means anything either way. It’s simply a case of there’s no valid reason for me to know what’s going on inside their heads.”

“Does that point to innocence?”

“Not necessarily. Remember—my mission doesn’t include solving your cases.”

“Right.” I sighed.

Fifteen

I made a run by The Book & Grind for a mocha latte on the way home. My brain needed a caffeine boost. So many scraps of information floated around in my head. I had the feeling someone had mixed the pieces to three different puzzles in the same box, and I didn’t know which ones I needed and which ones I didn’t.

When I walked out the front door, coffee in hand, I glanced up and down Palmetto Boulevard. It was a storybook downtown with window boxes, awnings, trees with border beds, and brick sidewalks. Most of the businesses were closed—it was Sunday morning. I shared the street with one runner headed back towards Main. Stella Maris was blessed with a wealth of locally owned businesses that occupied historic buildings along the two streets that made up the business district—Main and Palmetto.

Across Palmetto, Evan Ingle’s gallery caught my eye. The vivid colors and bold strokes of the paintings lining the windows made me smile. Evan’s was the only art gallery on the island, but it gave me hope others would follow. Opening a gallery must be a huge undertaking for a young artist. Evan had paid cash for that building. How
had
he pulled that off? Were his paintings popular with collectors? He’d bought the building several years ago. Surely if he was a phenom there would’ve been more press about him. Unaccounted-for money bothered me. I took another sip of coffee and climbed in the car. I couldn’t call Colton Heyward until after one on a Sunday. Maybe after I checked out Samantha Blundell, I’d have time to satisfy my curiosity regarding Evan Ingle’s finances.

I zipped home, settled in at my desk, and turned on my laptop. Rhett, having greeted me and escorted me in, scampered right back down the hall towards the mudroom. He was on his way back outside and I didn’t blame him.

From Kent’s Facebook account, I brought up Samantha’s profile page. Cute girl. She had an open smile, dark blonde wavy hair, and evidently liked big round sunglasses. It was a good look for her. Assuming this was a real person, of course.

I clicked around her profile a bit, browsed her photos—almost seven hundred of them—and checked out her friends. If this account belonged to a predator in disguise, it was the best disguise I’d ever seen. She looked sprightly. This girl liked beaches, Jimi Hendrix on vinyl, and Harry Potter. She’d been to church camp over the summer and was Facebook friends with her mother, her grandparents, and a slew of other family members. She was the personification of the word “wholesome.” How did Samantha know Kent Heyward, a girl five years older and a continent away?

A closer look at her family showed some in Texas, where Samantha was born, and, hello, grandparents in Greenville. Progress. A connection to South Carolina.

I scrolled through her timeline. Lots of family stuff. Shared links to funny videos and thoughtful articles. And her college visits: Appalachian State and College of Charleston.

In April, Samantha had visited both campuses. She had an album of photos from the trip. I scanned through them. Tons of shots of the C of C campus. Samantha and her parents in front of Randolph Hall. Pictures from all over Charleston, mostly of historic homes and landmarks.

Then I got to the beach scenes. Of course. A beach lover wouldn’t come to the Holy City and not visit the Atlantic. I recognized Sullivan’s Island, Breach Inlet, and the beach near the pier on Isle of Palms. I scanned forwards until I saw the photo taken from the ferry looking back at the Isle of Palms marina. Samantha Blundell had been to Stella Maris.

Apparently, they’d spent the better part of a day here. She’d snapped photos from all over the island. There was a cute pic from one of the booths at The Cracked Pot. The three of them had their heads together over the remnants of what looked like lunch. I’d bet Moon Unit had taken the photo. Another photo from The Pirates’ Den showed they’d dined on one of John and Alma’s specialties—Lowcountry Boil—for dinner. There were streetscapes and beach shots. But there was no sign of Kent. And, however the friendship came to be, it was hard to imagine Samantha knew anything about Kent’s disappearance. Unless for some reason Kent was hiding out in Bakersfield, California. No one would think to look there, for sure. Perhaps that was the point.

I flipped back to Samantha’s “about” page. Her phone number was listed. I bet telemarketers worried her to death. I couldn’t think of a reason not to call. It was a little after nine in California. Maybe I’d catch her before church.

“Hello?” She answered on the third ring.

“Hey, I’m trying to reach Samantha Blundell?”

“I’m Samantha.”

“Great. I’m Liz Talbot. I’m calling from Stella Maris, South Carolina. How are you today?”

“I’m fine.” Her tone telegraphed,
What is this about?

“Samantha, I’m a private investigator. Would you like me to speak to your parents?”

“I don’t think so....”

She sounded confused, but curious.

“I’m investigating the disappearance of a young woman from Charleston. I think you know her—Kent Heyward?”

“Yes—I mean, we’ve met. I saw the posts to her Facebook page about her being missing. It’s horrible.”

“How did you meet her?”

“When I was in Charleston for one of my college visits. I met her at an art gallery on Stella Maris. My parents and I were over there for the day. That evening after dinner, we were walking around town, and the artist was having an exhibition. We went in, and Kent was there. It was funny. She and I had on the same shirt—one that kinda stands out, I guess. Anthropologie. Blue paisley, but the sleeves are yellow striped. We just looked at each other and laughed. And we started talking. She’s really nice. I told her I might go to college in Charleston, and she offered to show me around the city. She friended me on Facebook.”

“Have you spoken to her since you met her? Aside from connecting online, I mean.”

“No. Gosh, I just pray she’s all right.”

“Samantha. This is really important. A lot of people are very worried about her. The police are looking for her. Are you sure you haven’t heard from her?”

“I’m sure. I would tell you.”

“If she were in trouble and asked to stay with you, would you let her?”

She hesitated. “Maybe. I mean, I’d have to talk to my parents. If she were in trouble they’d want to help, I guess. Unless she was in trouble with the police. We only met that once. Do you want to talk to my parents?” The tone of her voice told me how odd she thought the question was.

Which told me Kent wasn’t there. It had been an incredible long shot. “Okay. Well, if she contacts you, would you please let me know?”

“Sure. But like I said, I barely know her. We talked for maybe fifteen minutes. I don’t think I’m the one she’d turn to.”

I gave her my contact info just in case.

With the Samantha lead exhausted, I turned my attention to the source of Evan Ingle’s financial security. I clicked over to his website. On his home page, there was a brief statement about his education. There was a list of artists he’d studied with after earning his BFA—several abroad. More money unaccounted for. But that filled the gap in his timeline between college and opening his gallery.

On the tab for exhibitions, there were drop-down boxes for “Current,” “Upcoming,” and “Past.” Only the current tab had photos of his work, and it was what I’d seen in the gallery. His website was a bit bare, which called into question why Kent would’ve turned to him for website advice. There was no indication anywhere of who had purchased his paintings or how many he’d sold. Had he made enough money from selling his work to pay for the gallery? Financial records were the hardest to come by online, even with my variety of databases.  

Evan’s profile held no more revelations that morning than it had when I’d pulled it together the day before. His mother must’ve left him money. Maybe she had a life insurance policy. As a single mother, that would’ve made sense. Except Evan had gone to Porter Gaud, a private school. Where had that money come from? The unaccounted for resources started way before Evan studied abroad and opened his gallery.

I opened a file on Talitha Ingle. First, I pulled her birth records. She’d been born in Charleston, parents Mark Ingle and Melanie Turner Ingle. I documented the single car accident that had taken both of their lives in 1979. Next, I pulled obituaries and discovered that Talitha had a brother, Turner Ingle, four years her junior.

A few clicks later, I was looking at Turner Ingle’s death certificate. Unbelievable. He had also died due to internal injuries sustained in a single car accident. What, could this family just not drive worth a damn? Coincidences like this made me itchy. Turner had died in 1981, barely two years after his parents. According to his death certificate, he had lived and died in Greenville. The address listed was on Trails End, a street I recognized from a neighborhood near Cleveland Park. Some of the homes there were large and pricey, others more modest. In recent years anything in the area was high-dollar real estate. But in 1981, it would have been more affordable. It would’ve had to’ve been. The occupation listed on Turner Ingle’s death certificate was “welder,” and his employer was GE Gas Turbines.

Oddly, the box “married” was checked, but no spouse’s name was listed. The informant was his sister, Talitha Ingle. There was no indication where Turner was to be buried, but he’d been released to the J. Henry Stuhr funeral home in Charleston. Talitha had brought her brother home. Was he buried beside her at Magnolia Cemetery? What had happened to his unnamed wife? Who were their people? Sometimes you could find answers about a person’s life in their final resting place.

I glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes past one. I called Colton Heyward and made an appointment for nine o’clock the next morning. Then I grabbed my keys.

Magnolia Cemetery occupied a former rice plantation on the upper neck of the Charleston peninsula and backed up to the Cooper River, roughly where the Wando River flowed into the Cooper. It opened in 1850, and its residents included a who’s who list from historic Charleston. I drove through the white painted brick columns and wrought iron gate. A beautiful, park-like place, the grounds were divided into several sections, with roads and paths that wended through and around marshes, two lagoons, and wooded areas.

I needed a map, but the sign at the white, two-story cemetery office informed me it was open Monday through Friday. According to Talitha’s obituary, she’d been buried in the Greenhill section. I proceeded along the road I was on. Massive live oaks draped in Spanish moss dotted the grounds, some performing improbable acts of contortion. I didn’t see another soul. Being as well acquainted with the departed as I am, I wondered how many of the folks whose names were carved in the monuments were wandering among us on missions similar to Colleen’s.

Before long, the road turned to dirt and gravel. Elaborate monuments—crosses, angels, and spires—many much taller than me, stood inside iron fences and stone borders marking family plots. Presently, I came to a sign pointing right to Greenhill.

I passed between two marshes. The Greenhill section of Magnolia Cemetery was in the back, isolated, and surrounded by a combination of woods and marshes. This was definitely not a place I would care to visit at night.

“Creepy, isn’t it?” Colleen said.

I jumped so high my seat belt locked down. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“What?” Her attempt at an innocent look was ruined by the smirk she couldn’t control. “This place make you nervous?”

“What do you think?”

“I admit it looks spooky. Beautiful and peaceful, too. There’s no one here but you, me, and a bunch of alligators. And snakes.”

I shuddered. I’d seen one more snake than I wanted to already that week.

“And of course birds and small critters. But these folks…” She waved her hand like Vanna White. “…they’re either resting a spell, or they’re on assignment somewhere, like me. Or they’re like Sue Ellen and haven’t crossed over. Either way, they’re not here. The folks you need to be afraid of are the ones still living and breathing.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Turn left,” she said.

“Why?”

“Do you want to visit Talitha Ingle’s grave?”

“Yes.”

“Then turn left. It’s down there.” She pointed.

I turned left as instructed and drove halfway down the grid-like section.

“This is it,” Colleen said.

I pulled over as far as I could, cut the engine, and got out.

A border of granite surrounded a plot large enough for eight graves, if I were to guess. Only three markers stood there, roughly in the middle. These were simple but elegant granite markers. The one farthest to the left was Turner Mark Ingle, March 9, 1959 – October 14, 1981. The inscription read: Beloved husband, father, and brother. What had become of his loving wife and children?

Next in line was a smaller stone, with an angel engraved on top: Eva Drew Ingle, October 14, 1981 – October 14, 1981. A stillborn child. How sad. Was she Turner’s child, Talitha’s, or another family member’s I hadn’t yet discovered?

The third stone was Talitha’s: Talitha Anne Ingle, January 21, 1955 – August 10, 2014. Her inscription read: Beloved mother.

My eyes darted back to the child’s stone. I hustled back to the car, pulled out my iPad, and tapped icons until I had Evan Ingle’s file open.

His birthdate was October 14, 1981. Eva had been his twin sister.

Who was their father? And who was Turner Ingle’s child or children? He was someone’s “loving father.” And he’d died on the same date the twins were born.

“Can you get any kind of read on this?” I asked Colleen.

She held out her arms, looked to the heavens, and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she said. “Tread carefully. I sense danger for you here.”

“Here in this cemetery, or here as in asking questions about Turner, Eva, and Talitha?”

Colleen studied the sky. “Perhaps both.”

“Danger from who?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “That’s all I’ve been given.”

I took photos of the headstones for my files. Slowly, I turned and scanned the area. It was deserted. The surrounding marsh and woods were dense and wild. “Colleen?”

“Yeah?”

“How much of the Charleston peninsula do you suppose is like this?”