Lowcountry Boneyard (19 page)

“Umm-hmm?”

“I’m hoping you’ve changed your mind on that whole guest room policy.”

I laughed out loud. “Do tell?”

Based on the amount of bourbon he’d had, and given the angle of the chair, it was nothing short of impressive that he could stand while holding me against his chest and carry me inside and up the stairs to my room. But he did, without dropping me once.

Eighteen

The three of us ran together the next morning, Nate, Rhett, and me. I was still drunk from the night before, and I hadn’t had a drop to drink. I was positively giddy and had to speak to myself sternly to get my head back into the case. Realistically, we both leaned towards Peyton and Peter as the most likely culprits in Kent’s disappearance, and we’d agreed we weren’t going to pursue that avenue of investigation. We were at the point of running down the remaining scenarios to eliminate them. It’s frustrating when you face accepting you may not be able to solve a case, but it happens.

Miraculously, Nate wasn’t hungover. While we ran, I told Nate about what I’d found at Magnolia Cemetery before I’d found Kent’s Mini Cooper—Talitha Ingle, her brother, and Talitha’s child Eva, who’d been Evan’s twin. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, I hadn’t had a chance to get into any of that.

“That’s all very intriguing,” he said, “but I don’t understand the connection to Kent’s disappearance.”

“I don’t know for certain there is one,” I said. “But there’s a story there. We run down every lead, right? Lookit, I know we can’t bill Colton Heyward unless I can find a connection. What I’m saying is, while you’re verifying that Charlotte, her husband, and their offspring are upstanding citizens, maybe I could run with this just a little ways.”

Nate shrugged. “I can’t see any harm in that.”

“You know how when I put a puzzle together, I always want all the edge pieces together first? I feel like we’re missing edge pieces. This could be one of them. It’s a gut thing.”

“Seems to me we have enough ‘edge pieces’ for two perfectly workable theories of the crime: the Matt and/or Ansley narrative, or the Peyton and Peter narrative. That said, if your gut says there’s something there, well, then, by all means, go with your gut. Just don’t forget we’re having dinner at seven.”

“Like I would forget a date with such a handsome Southern gentleman. Hey, if you finish with Charlotte and her family, would you stop by Martech Agency—the place Kent worked? We haven’t spoken to those folks yet, and I need a list of employees to profile. Could be there’s yet another possibility we haven’t considered—a workplace problem.”

“Sure. I’ll drop by. It’s downtown, right?”

“Yeah. On Broad Street.”

We’d run up to the chairs at the edge of the ocean. I pulled my shirt over my head.

“You sure the water’s not too cold for a swim?”

I shrugged and unhooked my sports bra. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.” I continued undressing.

He took in the view. “That is so not fair.” He slipped out of his shorts and pulled off his shoes and socks. By the time he was finished undressing, I was already running towards the water.

He caught up to me fast enough. “Hold on there just a minute.” He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him.

“I’m going for a swim.” I squealed and struggled to splash him with zero success.

“If you’re going to lure me into the water, you’re going to have to warm me up first. And likely after I get out.”

Talitha Ingle’s home wasn’t listed with a realtor. She’d only passed two months ago, so that wasn’t a surprise. As far as I could tell, Evan was her sole surviving relative. He would have to either hire someone to go through her things or do it himself. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to face that yet. Whatever the case, it worked in my favor.

Since I planned on breaking and entering in broad daylight, even though I had a very strong pretext as a realtor, I decided to go incognito. I tucked my hair under a chin-length brunette wig, slipped in brown contacts, and went trés dramatic with the eye makeup.

My black Ann Taylor suit, a cute pair of Kate Spade polka-dot pumps, and my black tote completed my eager realtor look. In all likelihood, any neighbors who happened to be at home would be expecting a realtor.

I snapped a selfie and printed out a few business cards with the photo, identifying me as Laura Beth St. Vincent, a realtor with an agency I made up out of whole cloth and named Lowcountry Homes. If I ran across any of the neighbors, I’d show them my card and make a pretense of offering it, but then make sure they didn’t leave with one. I had a story ready that involved me getting them a folder full of detailed information which would include a card in the mail that very day.

Gram’s silver Cadillac convertible, which I’d held on to for sentimental reasons and occasions such as these, would make the perfect realtor car.

The modest brick bungalow on Colleton Drive was in an established neighborhood off Savannah Highway, not much more than a half mile on the other side of the Ashley River Bridge. I drove through the neighborhood a few times, looking for joggers, walkers, mothers with strollers, et cetera, just so I’d be aware of them. But the streets were quiet. Few cars were parked in the drives. Most of the neighborhood appeared to be at work that Monday morning. I pulled to the curb right in front of Talitha’s house. A huge loblolly pine took up most of the front yard.

I took photos of the exterior, as many realtors would. Some, like the one I’d hired in Greenville to sell my loft, would send out a professional photographer later. But she’d take her own shots for reference in the meantime. This gave me a good excuse to walk all the way around the house, looking for signs of a security system. There didn’t appear to be one.

Back out front, I strode purposefully up the walkway, clipboard in hand. At the foot of the brick porch steps, I stopped to make notes just in case any of the neighbors were at home and happened to look out the window. Once on the porch, I set my tote, clipboard and phone by the door. Discreetly, I slipped on latex gloves, shielding them from view with my body. I had a standard door key in my pocket just in case someone approached. I would pretend someone had given me the wrong key, or perhaps the lock was sticking. Meanwhile, I pulled out my lock pick set.

Talitha Ingle had not been particularly security conscious. The lock took less than a minute. I gathered my belongings and went inside, closing the door behind me. The front door opened into a small living room. It was neat and decorated in a traditional but not overly formal style. The stale air made me wrinkle my nose. A layer of dust coated the tabletops.

I toured the house. It was maybe fourteen hundred square feet, no more. Three bedrooms, one bath, the living room, a galley kitchen, and a dining room. One of the bedrooms had clearly been Talitha’s. It was decorated in cream and pale greens, a pile of accent pillows on the bed. The second bedroom must have been Evan’s up until he’d left home. Here browns and darker greens provided a backdrop for sports trophies and framed paintings with his signature, from childish preschool-era efforts which were far better than anything I would ever create to a marsh landscape I’d guess he’d painted much more recently. The style was different from anything I’d seen in his gallery, much closer to impressionist than abstract.

The third bedroom held a sewing machine and a table I’d guess was used for cutting and the like—I’d never been one for the needle arts—and a desk and file cabinet. The blinds were closed. I tried the light switch. The electricity was on. That would be helpful.

Two files lay on top of the file cabinet, papers spilling out of three sides as though they’d been recently rifled through and dropped there carelessly. One was labeled “Insurance.” I flipped through it and found the usual home and auto policies, and one for long-term care for Talitha. I didn’t find a life insurance policy, but if Evan had gone through his mother’s papers looking for a life insurance policy, perhaps he’d found it and taken it with him.

The second folder was labeled “Banking.” The bottom of this folder had flattened out, like it had once held substantially more than it did now. Statements for a savings account at First Federal went all the way back to 1971. Deposits of $57.85 were made weekly for a year, then they increased to $68.47. How old was Talitha then? I pulled out my iPad and opened her profile. She was born in 1955, so these were likely paychecks from jobs she’d held in high school.

I laid my iPad on top of the desk and opened the top file cabinet drawer. Talitha had kept excellent records. There was an “Employment” folder with documentation of jobs going back to 1971 when she got her first job at the Piggly Wiggly.

After high school, she’d worked eight years at Medical University of South Carolina as a data entry clerk before quitting her job in March of 1981 and moving to Greenville, where she’d held a part-time job at Greenville Memorial.

Why had she moved to Greenville? I did some quick math. She would’ve been pregnant then. It made no sense. Her parents were already deceased, so she wouldn’t fear their wrath because she was an unwed mother. Back then, pregnancy would’ve been a pre-existing condition. Her insurance in Charleston would likely have covered her expenses, but a part-time job she’d gotten after she was pregnant? Not likely.

The last piece of paper in Talitha’s employment file was a letter that had apparently been enclosed with her last paycheck from Greenville Memorial. It had been mailed to Talitha in Charleston in November 1981. Had she left that job abruptly as well? And was that the last job she’d ever held? How had she lived? 

I turned back to the bank statements, flipping through the pages. When Talitha went to work at Medical University of South Carolina, she’d opened a checking account. There were statements for every month through March 1981, but nothing more recent. The deposits appeared to be biweekly paychecks of $403.82. I pulled out my iPhone and did some quick calculations. Allowing for taxes, she’d been making somewhere in the neighborhood of $14,000 per year. Definitely not enough money to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-six and send her son to private school.

I checked the file cabinet for another folder with more recent banking or investment records, but with no luck. One by one, I checked the other files for anything that would shed light on how Talitha had lived since the twins had been born. Whoever the father was, he must have paid generous child support. Did Evan know who his father was?

I pulled up Evan’s birth certificate again. The midwife’s name was Aurora Luiz. Maybe she knew something. A quick check of the database I used to access DMV records showed thirty-five women with that name in the state. I’d have to run them down later and see if I could determine if one of them had delivered Evan and his sister.

According to the real property database, only two current nearby neighbors had been living here at the time Evan and Eva were born. The Mitchells, who lived a few doors down and across the street on Colleton Drive, and the Spencers, who lived on Tynte Street, just around the corner. I put the files back the way I’d found them and continued my search with Talitha’s desk.

Two hours later, I’d gone through every room in the house and had come up with nothing. If Talitha had left clues to her past, someone—presumably Evan—had removed them from the house. Time to introduce myself to a few neighbors. Hopefully someone was home after all.

I gathered my belongings, turned out all the lights, and did a final walkthrough to make sure I’d left no trace that I’d been there. Then, I walked out, turned the knob lock, and pulled the door closed behind me. I slipped the latex gloves and iPad into my bag and my iPhone into my jacket pocket. Leaving my car parked in front of Talitha’s house, I walked towards the Mitchells’ house. The yard was neat, the brick house similar in style to Talitha’s. I rang the bell and waited. A small dog went to barking—at least it sounded small.

“I’m a comin’,” a woman’s voice called from inside.

I smiled and waved enthusiastically when she pulled back a curtain near the door to take a look at me. The dog continued to bark.

She must have decided I didn’t look dangerous, because she opened the door. “Mabel, be quiet.” She looked from the white fluffy dog at her side to me. “Yes?” I pegged her as approaching eighty. Her hair was silver and permed within an inch of its life. The burgundy velour jogging suit and white tennis shoes she had on were perhaps used for walking. She seemed fit, her eyes sharp. Mabel sported a bow on top of her head. 

“Good morning, how are you?” I offered her my brightest smile.

“Well, I can’t complain. How are you?”

“I’m fine—thank you so much for asking. Ma’am, my name is Laura Beth St. Vincent. I’m a realtor, come to see about poor Mrs. Ingle’s house.” I pointed to my car, evidence of my story.

“I wondered when Evan would list it. I hope you get a good price for it. Helps everyone’s property values.”

“Indeed, it does. I was just trying to get a feel for the neighborhood. That helps me know which of my clients are a good fit. Ma’am, do you mind telling me…have you lived here very long?”

“Boyd and I bought this house right after we got married. I’m Sarah Mitchell. I’ve lived here sixty years come June.”

“You must like it here, then, I guess.” I widened my smile.

“Well, it’s home. Of course I like it. Boyd passed on three years back. My sons would prefer me to move to an
assisted living
home.” She made a noise and a face that let me know what she thought of that idea. “Ungrateful scoundrels. The very idea. I don’t need assistance. I’ll leave when they carry me out in a box. That’s all the
assistance
I’ll require.”

I chuckled. “You certainly seem capable of taking care of yourself. This looks like it would be a good neighborhood for walking.”

“Oh, it is. Mabel and I walk every morning. Well, my goodness gracious, come in the house, why don’t you? We don’t need to stand here in the doorway flapping our gums.” She stepped back and ushered me inside.

“Thank you so much. That’s so sweet of you.” I walked in and paused while she closed the door.

“Come on in the living room and sit down.”

The living room was about the size of Talitha’s. The décor was one I could only think of as country-beach. A blue-and-white plaid sofa and matching love seat, pine coffee table, and a recliner made up the seating area. A framed print of a beach scene hung over the sofa. Family photos and containers of seashells were everywhere.

The recliner sat in the far corner of the room, angled to get a good view of both the front window and the television. Mrs. Mitchell settled into the recliner, clearly her spot, and Mabel hopped into her lap. I sat on the end of the sofa nearest them.

“It’s such a shame about Mrs. Ingle’s accident. Did you know her?” I asked.

“Of course I knew her. Lived across the street from her all her life. That was her parents’ house before her.”

I kept my eyes on hers and slipped my hand into my jacket pocket to tap record on my voice memos app.

“I never had the pleasure, of course, but Evan is certainly a nice young man.”

“Isn’t he though? Such a sweet boy. Adored his mamma.
Adored
her. This like to broke his heart. They were all the family they had.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I remember the day she brought that baby home. She didn’t know the first thing about how to tend to a newborn. I had to teach her everything. There wasn’t anyone else to show her. Her parents died—another car accident if you can believe it—two years before that.”

Brought
him home? The birth certificate had indicated a home birth.

“How awful. I guess his father wasn’t much help with changing diapers and all such as that.”

“Hmmphf. Some father. I never laid eyes on him. Far as I know, neither did Evan. The daddy paid his child support regular, I’ll say that for him. But that’s all he ever did.”

“What kind of man just ignores his own child?”

“Some man from Greenville. Talitha moved up there that spring and met him right off. Something went bad wrong. Talitha never did talk about it. She came home from up there with Evan when he was no more than a couple days old, and he was premature if I recall.” She raised a finger to her brow.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm.” I shook my head.

“It was a sad, sad time. Her brother Turner had just died—
another
car accident. Can you believe that? She brought him home to bury him. I kept Evan while she went to the funeral, if you could call it that. She didn’t have the means for a proper service. It was just her and the preacher to say a few words at the gravesite.”