Lowcountry Boneyard (2 page)

Clearly, Mr. Heyward suspected Matthew Thomas of a great deal. “What do you believe has happened to Kent, Mr. Heyward?”

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. After a moment he looked at me. Pain coated his words. “I’m a realist, Miss Talbot. I love my daughter. I pray the police are proven right, and she’s run off just to prove she can. But my instincts tell me she’s fallen victim to foul play. Either someone is holding her against her will for purposes I’d rather not speculate on, or…something much worse has happened to her.”

The ache in my chest made it difficult to breathe. This poor man. On the one hand, I was terrified he was right and something unspeakable had happened to his daughter. On the other, I found hope in the notion that the police thought she’d run off. I needed to talk to Sonny Ravenel, my friend inside the department.  

“Did she take anything with her?” I asked. “Are any of her clothes missing?”

“She typically carried a handbag. We assume she had one with her, but neither her mother nor I saw her leave. I heard her go out and saw her car pulling away. We haven’t identified anything that’s missing.”

I nodded.

“Miss Talbot—Liz—I need you to find my daughter.”

“I’ll do everything in my power. I give you my word on that. I have a high regard for Charleston’s police detectives. If they think Kent simply decided to move out, there’s a strong possibility they’re right.” Just then I was holding on tight to that possibility.

“If you can prove that to my satisfaction, you will have earned your fee. We’ll know she’s safe.” His terse voice made it clear he very much doubted I could do any such of a thing. Colton Heyward was convinced the police had it wrong.

I was convinced that scenario was his best hope. “I understand you don’t agree with that theory, but if that’s what happened, ultimately that’s good news.”

His face contorted in a mixture of frustration, rage, and grief. He opened his mouth to speak, then pressed his lips together.

Colleen popped back in. She stood in front of the fireplace. “Great. Could you antagonize him after we get the check? You have property taxes to pay. We have to keep you on the town council.”

I patted the air in front of me with my palms in a soothing motion. “Hopefully I can locate her quickly and verify that she’s safe.” Until I spoke with Sonny, I would not discourage this idea.

“That is my fervent prayer.” His gaze locked onto mine, his eyes lit with a desperate hope. His voice had a ragged edge. “Mrs. Heyward and I are worried sick.”

“I can’t even imagine. Your poor wife must be heartbroken.” I was wondering, just then, why Kent’s worried-sick mamma wasn’t in the room. Her absence was sorely at odds with my experience of worried mammas.

“We both are.”

I shook my head in sympathy. “Is she out this morning?”

“Mrs. Heyward is not well.” The words came out like a pronouncement that we would discuss Mrs. Heyward no further.

“I see.” I pulled my iPad out of my purse and opened a blank client contract. “Do you have a wireless printer?”

“There’s one in the console behind my desk.” He nodded towards the dark, stately piece of furniture across the room in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling Palladian windows.

Colleen shot me a baleful look. “Really? One of the oldest families South of Broad and you’re going to ask him to fill out your questionnaire?”

“It’s the law,” I snapped.

My heart seized. I’d spoken aloud. To Colleen. And not in a professional tone. I coughed, wheezed, and whooped, demonstrating how the sudden onset of respiratory distress had distorted my voice. I patted my chest.

Finally, I took a deep breath. “Excuse me. My allergies are acting up. Ragweed. As I was saying, private investigators are required by South Carolina law to provide each client with a contract for services spelling out what work will be done and what the fees are.”

“Of course.” He looked at me from under full eyebrows like he suspected me of something but couldn’t decide what.

“Let’s get the paperwork done, and I’ll get to work right away.” I typed case-specific notes into the document and sent it to the email address he gave me, the one associated with the printer. “The contract should print any moment.”

He rose and moved to his desk, motioning for me to follow.

I picked up my iPhone, crossed the room, and stood in front of his desk.

He sat in a leather executive chair befitting the head of a major corporation. Opening a drawer with one hand, he reached towards the printer for the contract with the other. “What is your standard retainer?”

“Five thousand dollars. I bill a hundred and twenty-five dollars an hour plus expenses.”

He dashed out a check, signed the contract without reading it, then handed me both along with a five by seven photo of Kent.

“I’ll expect daily updates.”

“Mr. Heyward, sir. That’s not my protocol.” I took my time studying Kent’s studio headshot. Smooth, shoulder-length, chestnut hair, blue eyes, glowing skin—class personified. The same photo had been televised, printed in newspapers, and was no doubt all over the Internet. It was also on posters in the windows of businesses all over the lowcountry. I made eye contact with my client.

He looked at me like I’d spoken in Swahili. Red crept up his neck to his face.

I was not intimidated by his show of temper. I felt an enormous amount of empathy for Colton Heyward. At the same time, to help him, I needed him to let me do my job. “I will call the moment I have anything to tell you. And I will provide a weekly status report, even if the status is I have nothing new to report.”

“You indicated that you have a partner, is that correct?”

Nate flashed before my eyes. He’d been my best friend since college, my business partner for eight years, and my partner in a great many other ways for the last two. “I do. Nate Andrews is the Andrews in Talbot and Andrews.”

“And will he be assisting you?”

“If necessary. He’s currently in Greenville. We have an office there as well. If needed, he’s only a few hours away. His time is billed at the same rate.”

“I expect every available resource brought to bear to find my daughter.”

“Understood.” What I understood was that he was accustomed to being in control, and his daughter’s disappearance had left him completely helpless. He was coping as best he could by demanding action. “If we need to bring in more help, we have relationships with other agencies.”

I glanced through the contract. He’d left several boxes unchecked. I hesitated. “Mr. Heyward, purely as a formality, I need your answers to these questions.”

He frowned and reached for the document, glared at me while he put on his reading glasses. He read the first question on page three. “Illegal drugs,” he muttered and marked a large, bold x in the “no” box.

For my own protection, legally and physically, I needed to know if my clients were under the influence of anything more than stress. “We ask these questions of every client. It’s nothing personal.”

I also needed to know if they were armed.

He glowered at me, his tone ripe with sarcasm. “Would you like a complete list of my firearms? I have an extensive collection. Shotguns, rifles, sidearms. I have a handsome pair of dueling pistols.”

“Please just mark the box indicating that you own firearms.”

He complied, then read the final question. His head jerked up. He squinted at me from under dark eyebrows. “Young lady, my family has served this state—this country—in various capacities for generations. I assure you, not one of us has ever been treated for mental illness.”

“Good to know.” I gave him a smile that said, “Why of course I knew
that
. Damn all this bothersome paperwork,” and made a mental note to figure a polite way to ask about
un
treated mental illness and general bad temper.

He made his final x and passed the contract back to me with a flick of his wrist. “Just find Kent.”

Generally at this point I asked for a photo ID and made a copy. I decided to skip that step this once. “I will do everything I possibly can.”

“Do whatever it takes.”

“Mr. Heyward.” I kept my tone neutral. “In the interest of clarity, I need to make sure you understand the terms of the contract you declined to read. I promise to do my very best to find your daughter. Unfortunately, as much as I wish I could, I cannot promise I will be successful.”

“Understood.” His voice rumbled like thunder. While his word signaled his comprehension, his tone indicated he didn’t care for the situation worth a damn.

“I need a bit more information to get started.”

He stared at me the way I imagine a bear would before he devoured me for dinner.

“Was anything bothering Kent in the days leading up to her disappearance?”

“Not that I recall. The police asked us that. Her mother had no recollection of it either.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have a motive to harm Kent? Did she have difficulties with anyone?”

“Don’t you think that would have been the first thing I told you?”

“Of course,” I said, thinking he’d been too busy scrutinizing my wardrobe, age, and highlights to tell me anything of value first thing. “Is Kent employed?”

“She works for The Martech Agency. Advertising. They’re on Broad. She’s in consumer research and social media.”

I nodded. “Have you spoken with anyone from the company?”

“The police interviewed them all. No one there knew a single relevant thing.”

“How about Kent’s other friends, aside from Ansley and Matthew?”

“She isn’t close to her friends from high school any longer. The only one of her college friends her mother and I know well is Ansley. She contacted everyone in their circle. The police have interviewed everyone Kent ever met. Several of them started a Facebook page—whatever the bloody hell that is.”

“Did the police pull her cellphone records?”

“Of course. There were no calls to or from strangers. She spoke with Ansley and the Thomas boy around lunchtime the day she disappeared. Unfortunately, Kent prefers texting to having an actual conversation these days. I understand there’s no way to know who she was in contact with via text. I—” He shook his head.

“Mr. Heyward? Even the smallest thing could be important.”

“I want to be clear that incorrect assumptions are being made regarding this piece of information.”

“Understood.”

“A call home—to this house—was made from her phone at eight-fifteen the Monday evening after she disappeared. According to police, it pinged off a cell tower in Atlanta.”

“Who took the call?”

“I did. At the time we were expecting a ransom demand. No one was there, on the line. It was open—no indication the call had ended—for a minute or so. The police confirmed the call duration. I don’t believe for a single moment Kent made that call. I implored her to just let us know she was all right. She would’ve said something. I’m certain of it.”

“Was that the last time the phone was used?”

“Yes.”

“And, given the neighbors’ allegations, the police see this as further evidence she left town? Perhaps called and was too distraught to speak?”

“That’s their theory. They also found two separate credit card charges to service stations along Interstate Forty. One near Memphis and one near Amarillo. Neither have outdoor cameras. Neither is the kind of establishment Kent would visit by herself. We taught her to stop for gas during the day, and if she had to fill up at night to go to well-lit facilities in high-traffic areas.”

“Were there any other credit card charges after she disappeared?”

“None. Someone wanted to give us the idea she’d headed out west, which is absurd. She would’ve needed far more than two tanks of gas—not to mention food and shelter.”

“Indeed.” I was inclined to agree with him that the call and transactions were most likely an attempt at misdirection. “I’ll no doubt have more questions later. For now, could I see Kent’s room?”     

“The police didn’t find anything helpful there, but very well. This way.”

I followed him up the wide, curved staircase. Generations of Heywards watched from their framed perches on the wall. Except for our muffled steps on the carpet, the house was still. I had the eerie feeling all those ancestors were holding their breath in anticipation. I glanced around. Where had Colleen gotten to?

We went left across a wide landing and down the hall. Mr. Heyward stopped in front of the last door on the right. He straightened, seemed to steel himself, then opened the door. “Take your time. I’ll be in my office.” He avoided glancing inside and strode back down the hall.

Kent’s room most resembled a high-dollar hotel suite. It was tastefully decorated in shades of gold, cream, and beige. Heavy drapes stood open at the floor-to-ceiling windows to reveal sheers. The artwork caught my eye. Impressionist-style paintings hung on every wall. The furniture was dark, substantial, and probably possessed an unimpeachable pedigree. It contrasted nicely with the feminine touches—accent pillows, a stack of hatboxes, and jasmine-scented candles.

I snapped a series of photographs of the room, then checked out her desk. There was a wireless mouse but no computer. Likely the police had taken that when Kent was first reported missing. Unless she’d taken it with her. If she used a laptop, she probably carried it in and out on a regular basis.

But why would she take it to dinner?

A universal charging station occupied a corner of her desk. I checked the drawers for a tablet and came up empty. If her father didn’t know the specifics of her electronics inventory, Ansley likely would.

I sat in the chair at her dressing table. Gold cut-glass bottles and jars occupied one corner. The top right drawer held a makeup organizer. Sadness threatened to overwhelm me. The odds that Kent would ever enjoy the comforts of her own space again were long. She was so young. And she was just gone. I spoke sternly to myself. I was no help to anyone in an emotional state. Sometimes the missing do come home. I sent up a prayer that this was one of those times, then focused.

She liked Bobbi Brown cosmetics. Nothing obvious was missing, but she might own duplicates. A travel bag was in the second drawer, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. I had four of various sizes myself.

I took my time on the dresser, sliding my hands between neat stacks of clothes and checking under drawers. Then I went through the most organized closet I’d ever seen in thirteen years of going through other people’s belongings. Did Kent love order the way I did, or did the household staff keep it this way?

A complete set of luggage was shelved neatly in a back corner. She could easily own more than one set, but there were no empty shelves. And the closet didn’t have that thin feel mine had after I’d packed for a trip. Then again, Kent likely owned so many clothes it would be hard to tell.

The color scheme from the bedroom continued into the bath. The drawers yielded nothing remarkable, and if Kent was taking any medications, she’d left with them. Aspirin and an over-the-counter decongestant were the lone occupants of the medicine cabinet. 

I stepped back into the bedroom and let my eyes drift around the room. The paintings were stunning. I wandered over to a nighttime Charleston streetscape reminiscent of Van Gogh’s
Café Terrace at Night
. Like Van Gogh’s masterpiece, the painting was unsigned. The image of the row of houses along the Battery in moonlight was equally beautiful. I wandered from painting to painting. None of them were signed.

I studied the piece closest to the door. It was an exquisite interpretation of Boneyard Beach at Bulls Bay. Casualties in the never-ending battle with the surf, hundreds of fallen oaks, cedars, and pines line the beach. Some are still standing, their bare arms reaching for the sky. All are sun and saltwater bleached. The painting depicted the boneyard at night, the trees bathed in moon and starlight. It called to mind Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
. The paintings were compelling. It seemed odd that they were all unsigned. Curious about the unknown artist, I snapped photos of each painting with my iPhone.