Lowcountry Boneyard (8 page)

Seven

William Palmer opened the door to the Heyward home. I recognized his voice immediately, his British accent quite elegant. Tall, lean, and wearing a nice suit, he was a distinguished-looking gentleman of African descent. “Good afternoon, Miss Talbot.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Palmer.” I stepped into the wide hall.

He closed the door. “Please, address me as William. This way.” He led me to the first door on the left and stepped inside. “Miss Talbot has arrived.”

From inside the room a woman said, “Thank you, William. That will be all.”

He stepped back and nodded, indicating I should enter.

I stepped through the door. Elaborately carved moldings, gilt-framed art and mirrors, antiques, and cream-colored upholstered furniture set the traditional Charleston living room stage.  Five actors were on the set. Hell’s bells.  The two identical men seated on one of the cream sofas stood. These had to be the twin uncles—Mrs. Heyward’s brothers.

From a wingback near the fireplace, the oldest of the three women stood. Her shoulder-length bob was a lighter shade of chestnut than Kent’s, and it had a teased look to it. There was only so much even the best colorist could do to maintain a youthful look past a certain point. Her skin was stretched tight, but well cared for. I’d bet she’d had work done. Her beige St. John skirt suit and pearls testified to her good taste. “Hello, Miss Talbot. I’m Abigail Bounetheau, Kent’s grandmother. After speaking with my daughter, we felt this would be the most expeditious way to move forward, don’t you agree?”

I’d been ambushed. Hell no, I didn’t agree. I offered her my brightest smile, crossed the room, and extended a hand. I would never get away with bowing and nodding in this crowd. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bounetheau.”

She took my hand and gave it a firm shake. “And you as well.” She looked to her right and nodded. The two women seated on a second, matching cream sofa stood. “These are my daughters. Virginia is Kent’s mother, of course. I’m sure you understand how much she needs her family beside her at this difficult time.”

“Of course. Mrs. Heyward.” I extended a hand to the middle-aged, well-maintained version of Kent.

She slipped hers in, then out of mine. “Pleased to meet you.” Her voice was cultured, but wispy. The elsewhere vibe she gave off screamed heavily medicated. Bless her heart, she likely needed a little something to help her get by. She had a missing child, after all. Mrs. Heyward’s St. John skirt suit was a darker shade than her mother’s, more of a taupe.

Abigail Bounetheau continued. “And this is her older sister, Charlotte.”

Charlotte made eye contact as she extended a hand. “Thank you for coming.” She neatly flipped the dynamics. This was their meeting, not mine. Charlotte’s hair was a shorter bob than Virginia’s and Abigail’s. But the family resemblance was unmistakable. No St. John suit for her—Charlotte wore a classic navy sheath. I didn’t recognize the designer, but the fabric and fit signified high-end. 

Abigail gestured to her left. “My sons, Peter and Peyton.”

Peter and Peyton looked nothing like the women in the room. The gentlemen had blond hair, cut very short, with a touch of wave. The only common denominator seemed to be blue eyes. The twins were trim and slightly built. They wore identical navy suits. We said hello, shook hands, and the family sat back down. Two occasional chairs with cameo backs sat at the end of the conversation area nearest the door, across from the fireplace. “Please,” the matriarch gestured, “make yourself comfortable.”

What would make me comfortable was to get out my hand sanitizer. I didn’t dare. “Thank you for seeing me this afternoon.” I took the seat closest to the sisters and pulled my pad and pen out of my bag. If I read Abigail Bounetheau right, she would resist me recording the conversation, and might use it as an excuse to cancel the meeting. “I need a bit more background information. I’m sure Mrs. Heyward can help me.” I smiled at Virginia. “I hope you’re feeling better today.”

She looked at something over my left shoulder. “I am, thank you.”

“Tell us, Miss Talbot.” Abigail Bounetheau’s regal tone commanded everyone’s attention. She was not about to let me take control of the conversation. “How do you believe you can help us find our Kent?”

“I’m a private investigator, Mrs. Bounetheau. I have a great many tools at my disposal to assist in missing persons cases.”

“Tools which the police do not have access to?” Frost formed on her voice.

“Ma’am, as I explained to Mr. Heyward, I have great faith in the Charleston Police Department. Likely, things are precisely as they suspect. Kent chose to leave and chose not to tell anyone where she is. I hope to contact her and verify her safety.”

“I see.” Mrs. Bounetheau looked down her patrician nose at me. Clearly, she did not approve of me nor any of my ancestors.

I took the opening. “Mrs. Heyward, are you aware of any prescription medications Kent was taking?”

Mrs. Heyward looked at her mother.

Mrs. Bounetheau arched an elegant eyebrow as if to say,
go ahead and answer, but this is a complete and utter waste of time.

Virginia Heyward looked directly at me for the first time, her expression demure, deferential. “She wasn’t taking anything as far as I know. Kent doesn’t like to take pills. She suffers from allergies, but on the rare occasion she takes something, it’s natural.”

Clearly, her mother did not share Kent’s aversion to pharmaceuticals. “Can you think of anything she wouldn’t dream of leaving behind that’s still here?”

Virginia’s hands lay crossed in her lap. She stared at them a long moment. Something was definitely wrong with this woman. I couldn’t decide if she was indeed heavily drugged, indifferent to her daughter, suffering from PTSD, or simply accustomed to deferring to others. Finally, she raised her chin. Desperate blue eyes met mine. “I can’t imagine she’d leave her diamond studs. We gave her those for graduation. Or her pearls. She has several nice pieces that I wouldn’t think she’d leave.” Virginia’s voice got softer as she spoke and her eyes glistened with tears. “Then again, if she were very angry with her father and me…well, we gave her all of her nice jewelry, so it’s hard to say. And of course,
things
don’t mean as much to Kent. She isn’t materialistic in the least.” Where was the woman who coldly made herself a manicure appointment yesterday while I met with her husband?

“We’ve been over this with the police.” Charlotte’s tone was clipped, not as imperious as her mother’s, but she was training hard at it. “There’s nothing missing from Kent’s belongings that one can draw a conclusion from one way or another.”

“What about clothes, luggage?” I asked.

“None of her luggage is missing,” said Abigail. “If she took any of her clothes, she took them out a piece or two at a time and she only took a few things. None of us has her closet inventory committed to memory.” That last bit was sprinkled with sarcasm.

If Abigail wanted to tangle, we’d just get to it. “Mrs. Bounetheau, one of the things I do in a case like this is eliminate all the possibilities, one at a time, until only one is left. One of the possibilities is that someone stood to gain financially if Kent were removed from the equation. Since so much of the family is here, let’s put our heads together, why don’t we? Can any of you think of anyone, on either side of the family, who stood to gain from Kent’s…disappearance?”

Abigail Bounetheau turned an interesting shade of fuchsia. “I beg your pardon,” she said, in that indignant tone that suggested unseemly things for both me and the horse I rode in on.

Simultaneously, Charlotte inquired, “Exactly who do you think you are?”

Virginia gasped softly.

The twins commenced whispering to each other.

I looked at Charlotte and Abigail in turn.  “I’m the investigator, hired by Kent’s father, to find out what has happened to her. I aim to do just that. I mean no offense. But I need to know if anyone stands to gain financially if Kent doesn’t come home.”

“That’s insulting,” one of the twins spoke up.

“Revolting,” said the other.

Those two were a piece of work. “Mrs. Bounetheau,” I said, “forgive me for asking such a personal question, but what is the impact, hypothetically speaking, on your and Mr. Bounetheau’s estate should one of your heirs be…unaccounted for?”

Abigail Bounetheau stared at me like she was trying to melt me where I sat. “Our financial affairs are private family business.”

And most of the time when folks went missing their family was behind it. “Of course,” I said. “I’d just hoped that since we all want the same thing—to find Kent—that perhaps you would give me the big picture.”

“The only people who would have anything whatsoever to gain are family members who adore Kent and would never dream of harming her.” Abigail straightened her back, which I would have thought impossible, as it appeared to have a rod in it to begin with.

The twins went to whispering again. Charlotte spoke softly to Virginia. I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Naturally,” I replied to Abigail. I buttered my question and slid it in with a smile. “So, you have trust funds set up for each of the grandchildren, and the children as well, I expect?”

The four siblings stilled and looked at their mother. Mrs. Bounetheau pressed her lips together.

Before she could order me out, I said, “If you prefer, I could speak to Mr. Bounetheau. I suppose it’s better to ask him about financial matters, anyway.” My statement hung suspended in the air. It seemed everyone in the room had stopped breathing.

In a regal tone, Mrs. Bounetheau said, “Do not bother Mr. Bounetheau with your outlandish ideas. He has no time for this nonsense. If nothing else will satisfy you—and I assure you, it has no relevance whatsoever—Mr. Bounetheau and I have established a family trust, which owns all of our holdings. Professionals manage it all, of course. There are separate trusts for each child and grandchild, but should tragedy befall any of them, their assets would revert to the family trust. When Mr. Bounetheau and I have both passed on, after charitable bequests, the family trust will be split equally between our children. Are you quite satisfied?” Mrs. Bounetheau was the only person I’d ever met who shot more lethal death rays with her eyes than my sister, Merry.

“Quite,” I said, reflecting on just how far from satisfied I was. “Mrs. Heyward, what becomes of your and your husband’s estate should Kent be unavailable to inherit?”

She took a moment to draw herself together. “Everything is divided between several charities.”

I kept my voice low and gentle.

“I asked your husband this, but if you don’t mind, I wonder if anything has occurred to you that may have been bothering Kent before she disappeared?”

Mrs. Heyward looked over my right shoulder for a moment, then squared her eyes to mine, seeming to rally. “She and Matt were having problems.”

I felt my face scrunch up. “I thought they were getting ready to move in together?”

“What?” Abigail Bounetheau cast an accusing glare at Virginia.

Virginia Heyward kept her eyes on mine, as if I were her lifeline. “That was their plan. I don’t think that had changed. Kent would have married him, I think. Except he wasn’t ready to make that commitment. That was the source of the friction between them.”

“
Virginia
.” Abigail spoke sharply, as she would to a disobedient child, which I suppose is how she saw her, but Virginia Heyward was fifty-three years old. “Why on earth did you not tell me about this?”

Slowly, Virginia turned her head towards her mother. She was looking away from me, so I couldn’t read the message she was sending. For a split second, I would have sworn I saw fear in Abigail’s eyes. Then her face went completely expressionless. Damnation
.
Where was Colleen? I seriously needed a peek into a few of these gentrified heads.

Virginia looked back at me. She took several deep breaths, swallowed hard.  “Forgive me for not meeting with you yesterday. I should have been there. For Kent. I’m holding on as tight as I can to the idea that she has run away. She’ll call any day, I tell myself. But I know that isn’t right. Colton is right. We need your help, Miss Talbot. Thank you.”

Abigail brought a hand to her temple and remained quiet.

Maybe Virginia wasn’t on drugs. Seemed like that would be harder to rally through than emotional distress. You can’t turn drugged on and off that fast.

“Of course,” I said. “You have my word. I’ll do everything I possibly can. Did you mention this to the police? That Kent and Matt were having problems?”

“No,” Virginia said. “At first it seemed so…prejudicial. Colton was giving them all sorts of ideas, pointing the finger at Matt. I didn’t want to make more trouble for him. I really don’t think he’d hurt Kent.”

“Did your husband know Matt and Kent had been quarreling?” I asked.

“No, that’s not the kind of thing she would confide in him. I didn’t dare tell him. He’s convinced as it is that Matt is guilty of something, even if it’s just exposing her to the wrong element, putting her at risk.”

“Just to clarify, by the ‘wrong element,’ do you mean her artist friends?” Matt hadn’t introduced Kent to those folks. He’d never even met them.

Her forehead wrinkled. “Colton doesn’t approve of what he refers to as the service crowd. Restaurant workers. We weren’t aware that Kent
had
artist friends until Ansley mentioned that’s who Kent was meeting.”

“Mr. Heyward indicated that Ansley didn’t know who Kent planned to meet.” I didn’t mention how Ansley had a different story.

“Well, she didn’t, actually,” said Virginia. “I think she gave the police officers one name. Ansley doesn’t know that group.” Her words were dismissive. 

Under the circumstances, I could understand why Kent wouldn’t bring her artist friends home for dinner. Still, there was something odd about the way Mr. and Mrs. Heyward were eager to dismiss the fact that Kent planned to meet a group of artists the very night she vanished given their distrust of the entire vocation. Naturally, this piqued my curious nature. “Is there anything else that has come to you—anything you’ve remembered that might be helpful?”

“I’ve wracked my brain. Kent and I are close. If there’s anything else, I don’t know the significance of it. I keep going over and over everything in my head. There’s something I should have done differently. I just don’t know what it is.” The helpless look in her eyes touched me. But there was something else swimming around in there. Guilt.

Charlotte put her arm around her sister. “Virginia, that’s nonsense. You’ve done nothing wrong. Kent’s just blowing off steam. She’ll be home soon.”

Virginia collapsed into her sister’s embrace and sobbed softly.

I looked over at the twins, who were staring at Abigail. I followed their gaze. She seemed to be calculating a difficult equation. They seemed to be waiting for her to come up with an answer.

I took that as an opening. “Gentlemen, what do you all do? For a living, I mean?”

They both jumped a little. The one on the left said, “We manage our personal portfolios.”

“That must be very time consuming,” I said.

Two sets of identical eyes widened. The other twin said, “You cannot possibly imagine.” He looked down his aristocratic nose at me. Good grief, how did they tell themselves apart?

“Peyton?” I inquired.