Lowcountry Boneyard (6 page)

I dressed carefully, but simply. My sleeveless Michael Kors navy and white maxi dress felt like the right choice. I slipped into a pair of neutral, T-strap sandals with pearly-petaled daisies on top. A simple silver chain necklace and a pair of oversized hoops completed my outfit. I kept the makeup simple—a little mascara, a little lip gloss. I could hear Mamma now telling me I needed some color and should put on some lipstick under that gloss.

I wandered downstairs to the kitchen and opened a bottle of pinot noir. Nate texted me as the ferry docked at ten to seven. I texted back to let him know I’d be out back. I set the bourbon and a rocks glass for him on the counter and went out onto the deck. The breeze had cooled, but was still warm enough I didn’t need a sweater. I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs and watched moonlit waves chase the sand. Ocean therapy. I needed this. Usually it helped me put the day away. That night, it brought everything I’d stuffed into a corner of my mind front and center.

Fifteen minutes later I heard the door behind me open.

Nate sat in the chair beside me. “I put dinner in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, but the surf held my gaze.

“Slugger, are you all right?”

“I am now.”

“You seem…subdued. I confess I’m accustomed to a more enthusiastic welcome after three weeks. A man could develop a complex.”

I turned to look at him. My mouth went dry. He was wearing a white button-down collared shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, and boat shoes, no socks. His blond hair was a bit longer than when I’d seen him last. I liked it this way. A curl danced across his forehead in the breeze. His electric blue eyes insisted on a response.

I sipped my wine. “I’m just feeling a bit introspective. This case—the reality that sometimes on a perfectly ordinary day, people you love are gone in the blink of an eye. Then there was a bad accident on the Cooper River Bridge this morning. If I’d been a few minutes later…”

He set down his glass and wrapped his long arms around me. “Thank heavens you weren’t.”

I snuggled into him. Oh dear heaven, he smelled so good. It would be so easy just to forget everything else.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asked.

“Not since lunch.”

“I’ve got a roasted chicken, some French bread, a few cheeses…picnic stuff. Why don’t I bring it out here along with the rest of the wine?”

“Sounds good—thank you. Did you see Rhett on the way in?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. He assured me he’d been keeping a close eye on you. Gave him a great big bone—not a real one. One of those all-natural, fake things. Gluten free. Pet store recommended it.”

Nate made several trips back inside. I kept watching the waves. When the food was spread on the table between our chairs, he sat back down. I could feel him watching me. After a few minutes, he said, “Liz, talk to me.”

“I just can’t stop thinking about it.” I turned to look at him. Something grabbed a hold of my heart.

“The accident on the bridge?”

I nodded. “That. Kent. And how none of us are guaranteed tomorrow.”

He gave me a quizzical look. “It’s not like you to dwell on what-ifs. It scares me crazy how fearless you are, chargin’ in when you ought to wait for backup, leaping off Jet Skis to tackle folks in boats…you’re not known for your timid nature.”

“I know, but…” I chewed on my bottom lip. It was so hard not being able to tell him everything—about Colleen’s intervention and all the questions that left me with.

He reached out and brushed my hair back from my face. “We all have close calls every now and then. Some of them we know about, others we don’t. You’re here, safe and whole. The thing to do is be grateful.”

“I am. Very grateful.” My eyes sought his out and held them.

“Then I don’t understand. What else am I seeing in those gorgeous blue eyes of yours?”

“It just brings everything into focus. How every moment is a gift. I have this instinct to pull everyone I love closer.”

“Understandable.”

“Today made me want to pull you closer.”

His voice was gentle. He set down his glass, reached out and cradled my face in his hands. “Slugger, I’m right here.”

“For now.”

He sighed and touched his forehead to mine.

The baggage from our shared and separate past set up shop between us.

“Nate, we’ve been living this long-distance, see-you-when-work-allows kind of life for more than
two
years
. How long do you think we can maintain a relationship this way?”

He pulled away, sat back in his chair. “Are you unhappy?”

“Most days I’m too busy to give it much thought. But I think maybe I should. Are you happy?”

“I’m not
un
happy. I’ve accepted that this is the way things are. I love you. Is this my first choice of how we should live? No. No, it is not.”

“It isn’t mine, either. People who love each other—they should live together. Or at least live close by and visit often.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.” His eyes were warm and bright.

The stark white of his crisp shirt against his golden skin made me ache to touch him. Why did he have to be so damned handsome? And why did it hurt so much that I had to ask him this yet again? “But you won’t live here?”

“Liz, that’s just not reasonable. We have established business relationships with attorneys in Greenville that give us a steady stream of work.” His voice was gentle, but firm.

“We have that here now, too.” Damnation
.
It sounded like I was begging him and that galled me to no end.

He grimaced, shook his head. “To walk away from all we’ve built there—that’s a hard thing.”

“So is living here without you.”

“I could say the same thing about living there without you.”

“You know why I can’t leave.”

“No, I don’t.” Stubborn crept into his voice. “I know you don’t want to leave. I also know you lived in Greenville for a long time and were very happy there.”

“I was.” I sighed. “We’ve been over and over this. How many times are we going to have this same conversation? I love Greenville. But it isn’t home. This is where I belong.”

His eyes hardened. He picked up his glass and took a long drink of bourbon. “Well, Slugger, I guess we’re right back where we always land—at an impasse, because Greenville is where I belong.”

“I can’t wrap my brain around why living there is more important to you than being with me.”

“Right back at you.”

His voice was ripe with sarcasm.

“My roots are here. My family is here—and family’s important to me. And I have a responsibility to this town.” I couldn’t explain to him that Colleen insisted I had to stay. I couldn’t explain Colleen period. She’d been adamant about that. There were rules governing her Point of Contact—me.

“And I have responsibilities in Greenville.”

“Greenville will still be Greenville without you. If I leave, my council seat goes up for election, and it’s anyone’s guess what the outcome would be.” According to Colleen and her “alternate scenarios,” my leaving would mean big changes for the island and everyone living here. Developers would gain a toehold, and life here would change radically, and not for the better.

Nate stood and walked to the deck rail, put some distance between us. “You know what I don’t understand? I can’t figure how when
Scott
needed you in Greenville, you were free to be there.”

Scott was my ex-husband. He was also Nate’s brother. The situation was not nearly as sordid as it sounded. Scott and I had been divorced for years before Nate and I were more than best friends and business partners. “That is
so
not fair. I’d just graduated from Clemson. We were interning, you and I, getting in our qualifying hours to get licensed. I stayed in Greenville for a lot of reasons.”

“Exactly. And the primary reason was Michael Devlin. When
you
needed to be where Michael Devlin was
not
, Greenville suited you just fine.”

“Really? Are we going to talk about Michael again? I haven’t even said so much as hello to him in months.” Michael was my college sweetheart. He married my cousin, Marci The Schemer, and I might have been a teensy bit obsessed with him for a while. But that’s a whole nother story and ancient history.

“That’s not the point. You were content to live in Greenville and let the fate of this island rest on someone else’s shoulders for thirteen years. But when
I
need you there, well now, I’m just not as compelling as my brother and your college sweetheart, I guess.”

I felt like I’d been punched. It hurt me that he would think I loved him less—that was lightyears from the truth. Things were just wildly damned complicated. “It’s not that.”

“Well then, by all means, tell me how I’ve got it wrong.”

“I was twenty-two and stupid. Just because I did stupid things when I was fresh out of college doesn’t mean I am required, for the rest of my life, to continue to make decisions on how and where I live for the wrong reasons.”

I realized how that had come out in the instant I saw Nate’s eyes shutter.

I stood and walked towards him. “I did not mean that the way it sounded. You have to know that.”

“On the contrary. I think you said precisely what you meant. We all have our priorities, Liz. It’s painfully obvious I’m not one of yours.” His face looked like it might’ve been carved from stone, hard and emotionless. He’d retreated, erected a wall between us.

“Nate—”

“I don’t believe I’ll be staying for dinner after all.” He crossed the deck in a few long strides.

“Nate, wait.” I dashed after him into the house.

He continued with purposeful strides through the kitchen.

I caught up with him in the hall, reached out and touched his arm. “Nate, please.”

He brushed me away and strode out the front door without a word.

He got into his dark grey Explorer and left and didn’t look back.

I sank into an Adirondack chair and let the tears come. My heart was breaking, and I was mad as hell at myself and at him. Rhett ambled up the porch and lay down at my feet.

Five

I parked in front of Phoebe’s Day Spa on Palmetto at 7:30 the next morning. Evan Ingle’s gallery was across the street and up a few doors. I hadn’t slept well, and my morning run and swim had done little to relieve my stress level. The picture-perfect day only served to make me crankier. I sipped my second cup of coffee from a travel mug and fought back the urge to call Nate. The image of me chasing him burned in my mind. Had he gone straight back to Greenville?

I needed to focus. The gallery was in an old three-story brick building that had once been a furniture store. Brightly colored abstract paintings lined the front windows. Based on the few browsing trips I’d made, none of the artwork fit my budget. I wondered why Evan Ingle had chosen Stella Maris for his gallery. It was a nice addition to downtown, and likely plenty of folks on the island were proud to have his work on their walls. But he offered only his own paintings, none by other artists. Surely he would have sold more of them in Charleston.

I hadn’t had a chance to profile Evan Ingle yet, but he was on my list. I needed to know everything about everyone whose life had touched Kent’s. There was just no way to know the critical from the irrelevant until I arrived at the truth.

My phone dinged, announcing a text message. I looked at the screen: Send file passcode. What do you need me to start on?

Nate was all business this morning, but at least he was communicating with me. And if he was working the Heyward case, he was probably still in the Lowcountry. Where had he slept last night?

I texted back the passcode to the electronic case file: Please focus on voluntary relocation scenario. Phone call from Atlanta. CC charges.  Forwarding email with list of friends. No means of support w/o help.

My fingers hovered over the keypad. Words that would make things right between us wouldn’t come.

By the time I’d forwarded Ansley’s email, the sign on the gallery door had been flipped to “open.” It was eight o’clock. I climbed out of the car and walked across the street. Soothing tones announced my arrival as I walked through the door—very Zen. I took in the man sauntering gracefully towards me. He reminded me a bit of Nate: six foot two, give or take, blond curling hair, very blue eyes, tanned and toned, early to mid-thirties. But this looker had softer features, an angelic vibe. His jeans were worn and the tail of his yellow button-down shirt hung loose. A puka shell necklace peeked out at the open collar.

“You must be Liz Talbot.” His voice called to mind the door chimes—soothing.

I smiled. “And you must be Evan Ingle.”

He nodded with a slight bow.

Oh, thank heaven, there would be no hand shaking. I returned his nod with gratitude.

“Would you like some tea?” he asked. “I have a pot of Roastaroma brewing. It has a bit of gluten, I’m afraid.”

With considerable effort, I kept my left eyebrow in place. I was unaccustomed to hearing men discuss gluten, not that there was anything wrong with it. “Thank you so much, but I just finished my second cup of coffee.”

He gestured to a conversation area in the back left corner of the showroom. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab a cup and be right with you.”

I chose one of a pair of gold chenille wingbacks. Two paisley Duncan Phyfe sofas and another pair of wingbacks completed the seating area. An oversized leather ottoman sat in the middle of the group. Mismatched end tables and mosaic tea stands provided a place to set drinks. A bit traditional, a bit whimsical, it was a homey space.

Evan reappeared. He stepped lightly across the gallery, placed his teacup on a table, and settled at the end of the Duncan Phyfe across from me. He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Have you been through the gallery before?”

“I have. I’m a fan.” This was a bit of a stretch, but I did admire the colors in the pieces on display.

His smile was genuinely appreciative, a bit humble. “You flatter me. I enjoy my work. However, my technique has a way to go. You wanted to speak with me about Kent. Is there any news?”

It crossed my mind that the price tags on his paintings didn’t reflect his opinion that his technique needed work. “I’m afraid not.” I handed him my card. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’ve been retained by the family to attempt to locate her. I wondered if you might tell me about the evening she disappeared.”

He glanced at my card, then laid it on the table by his tea. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

I pulled out my iPhone. “May I record our conversation? It helps me remember everything.”

He sipped his tea, set the cup in the saucer. “Certainly.”

I tapped record, and pulled out my pad and pen. “Let’s start with how you met Kent.”

“She came into the gallery a while back—in the spring. Said she’d seen one of my paintings in a friend’s house. She browsed. We struck up a conversation. She mentioned she was a painter as well. I invited her to bring me a sample of her work. I had in mind to offer her pointers—give back, as it were.” His eyes widened and he shook his head.

“That didn’t work out?”

“Oh, she brought in several paintings. They were magnificent. Frankly, I didn’t anticipate she would have that sort of natural talent. I was amazed. There was little I could do but encourage her to focus on her gift.”

“I’ve seen some of her work. It’s quite impressive.” Her father’s dismissal of her “hobby” irked me to no end.

“Such a waste. Her gift is too rare to be discarded for a career in advertising.”

“Agreed. So, you became friends?”

“Yes, well, I suppose we were moving in that direction. I invited her to a party here at the gallery. I was showing my new series for the first time. She met a few other local artists. We’ve been out as a group a time or two—drinks, dinner. I can’t say that I know her well.”

“The night she disappeared, she was to meet you and others at Bin 152 in Charleston?”

“That’s right. At eight o’clock. When she didn’t show, we assumed something more pressing had come up. It wasn’t unusual for one of us to bail. We’re a casual group.”

“You were meeting for dinner there?” While I could make a meal out of the menu at Bin 152 any time, it wasn’t a typical choice for dinner, more for a glass of wine and an appetizer. Their food menu consisted of meats, cheeses, and bread. The wine selection was divine.

“The menu is a bit limited for some tastes. It’s one of my personal favorites.” He smiled like he was remembering a good meal. It was a nice warm smile that filled his eyes.

“Who else was with you that night?”

“Sage Farrow, Clint MacLean, Julia Brock, and Greg Weir.”

These were names I hadn’t heard before, but that was as I expected. Kent kept her artist friends neatly segregated from the rest of her life. “Did all of them arrive around eight?”

“More or less.” He shrugged. “I was a few minutes late. Julia came in shortly after me. The others were there when I arrived.”

“Clint and Greg…any possibility either of them had a thing for Kent?”

Evan laughed softly. “Probably not. They’re quite intrigued by each other.”

“Ah. Any chance you had romantic designs on her?” I smiled to soften the question, like I was making a joke.

An emotion I couldn’t catch fluttered across his face. He reached for his teacup. “No,” he said. “My tastes tend more towards women closer to my own age. I find I have less to explain.”

This seemed an unusual sentiment for a guy in his early thirties. Didn’t guys always want twenty-three-year-olds? Something made me believe him. When he talked about Kent, I didn’t get the sense he harbored impure thoughts about her. “Makes things simpler, doesn’t it? Just to cover all my bases, the other two women…” I checked my notes. “Sage and Julia. Where do their romantic interests lie?”

“Sage is happily married. Julia is engaged and expressively passionate about her fiancée.”

I nodded. Of course I would verify everything he said with the others, but I expected he would anticipate that. “What time did you all leave the restaurant?”

“About twelve-thirty.”

“Where did you park?”

“In the garage on the corner of King and Queen.” Wrinkles appeared in his forehead, his expression inquiring what that had to do with anything.

“I’m trying to figure out why Kent would’ve driven that night. The restaurant was less than half a mile from her home. She would only have saved herself from walking a few blocks unless she lucked out and got a street spot.”

“I knew she lived downtown, but I wasn’t aware of where. Perhaps she had plans before or afterwards?” His voice was congenial, helpful.

“Perhaps. Do you know if any of the others also parked in the same garage?”

“We all did. We left the restaurant at the same time and walked together.”

“Did any of you see Kent’s car?”

He spread his hands. “If I did, I wouldn’t have known. I’ve never seen her car. The subject never came up. What does she drive? I doubt the others would know.”

“She drives a red Mini Cooper convertible.”

“It could have been there, or not. I wasn’t paying attention to cars. I doubt I would remember a month later in any case.”

I pointed at him with the top of my pen. “Do you happen to recall what the weather was like that evening?”

He searched the ceiling. “Hot, very humid. Typical September weather for Charleston. I do remember the forecast earlier in the day called for rain and possible flooding downtown, though I think they revised that. I took an umbrella with me, but it didn’t rain while we were outside.”

It was possible the forecast prompted Kent to drive just in case. I made a few notes, gathered my thoughts, then looked up at Evan. “You missed the last ferry back to Stella Maris.” The ferry between Stella Maris and Isle of Palms makes its last trip over each day at eleven-thirty.

“I did. I’d had too much to drink to be driving in any event. I stayed at the John Rutledge House Inn on Broad. It’s only a block away.”

My face squinched. “I thought you walked back to the parking garage with the others.”

He lifted his chin and inhaled deeply, then nodded. “Yes, I mean, I walked as far as the corner with them. They went into the garage. I continued on to Broad Street.” 

“I see. Can you think of any reason Kent would bring her laptop to dinner?” I didn’t know that she had, of course. I was fishing.

He shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to show us a photo of a new piece?”

“She has an iPad.” I gave him my confused blonde smile. “If it were me, I’d have brought that to show a photo and left the laptop at home.”

“Maybe she takes her laptop with her everywhere out of habit? I don’t really know her well enough to say.” He sipped his tea.

“When was the last time you spoke to Kent?”

“The Wednesday before she disappeared. I called to invite her to go out with us that Friday night.”

I studied a vibrant abstract over his shoulder. Shades of blues and greens swirled across the canvas in bold strokes. “Did she ever discuss anything with you, or in your presence—maybe a phone call you overheard—that would lead you to believe she was in any kind of trouble?”

“The only conflict I’m aware of was with her parents. They wanted her to work a few years in a ‘suitable’ environment. To learn the value of money, I understand. Their plan then called for her to marry well and be a pillar of the community, as it were. Kent had other plans. This is the sum total of what I know about that situation. It came up when I asked why she wasn’t devoting herself to her painting.”

I was thinking how that was a valid question. “Would you give me the contact information for the others at dinner that night? I’d like to see if any of them know anything helpful. Also anyone else in your circle who wasn’t there, but who Kent might have spent time with on other occasions.”

“Sure.”

He pulled a phone out of his pocket and began tapping and scrolling. He read out the phone numbers for Sage, Clint, Julia, and Greg. “Honestly, I can’t think of anyone else.”

I stood. “Thank you for your time. If someone or something comes to mind, please call me.”

“Of course.” He rose to escort me out. “And please, come back when you have more time to browse.”

I smiled. “I’ll do that. We’re lucky to have you in Stella Maris. I’m curious, though, what made you decide to locate your gallery here? The tourist traffic in Charleston would surely make you a wealthy man.”

“I would go insane.” He laughed. “I prefer the quieter island vibe. I enjoy staying over in Charleston occasionally. But I couldn’t work there. Here, my studio is upstairs, along with a small apartment. Not to mention, can you imagine how much this real estate would cost me in Charleston?”

“I see your point.”

Back in the car, I texted Nate: Nothing significant from the artist. Need to verify his story. Headed to Charleston to talk to the boyfriend
.

We didn’t normally share non-urgent details during the day when working the same case. But I was feeling less angry and more anxious by the minute. I needed to reach out to him. I’d hurt him last night with my careless comment. I needed to navigate back to where we were when he’d arrived so we could figure out a way forwards.

He responded:
Roger that.

The knot in my stomach tightened. I started the car, turned down a side street, and drove behind the gallery. A late-model turquoise Prius sat in one of the three spaces that belonged to the building. It was the only car in sight. I made note of the plate number. Likely it belonged to Evan and would serve as a starter for my profile. I drove towards the ferry dock.

Once aboard the ferry, I got out of the car and climbed to the top deck to enjoy the morning breeze. There’s nothing like the fragrance of salt air. A few deep breaths took the edge off my anxiety. I smiled and waved at friends and neighbors, then studied my pad carefully to send the message I was working. I pushed Nate and our problems firmly to the side. He was working and so was I. There would be time to set things right later.

After a few moments, I raised my head to feel the morning sun on my face. The ferry slid behind the northern end of Isle of Palms, heading for the marina at Morgan’s Creek. This early in the morning, most of the passengers were Stella Maris residents. Grace Sullivan chatted with three couples sporting cameras, no doubt tourists enjoying her hospitality at the bed and breakfast. I knew every other person I laid eyes on except for two men in the far corner tapping smartphones. Gelled hair, expensive suits, shoes not made for exploring the local attractions. They radiated impatience. My antennae went up. Were these developers? Where the hell was Colleen?

I pulled out my iPhone and discreetly snapped a photo of the pair. Then I texted it to my brother:
Any rumors of developers in town?

He replied: Haven’t caught wind of anything. Look like land grabbers to me. Will ask around.