Lowcountry Boneyard (27 page)

“No…how do you know that? I was stunned when Ansley mentioned his name. I assumed they were acquaintances. They had a common interest.”

“She’d been to his gallery. He told me that she saw a painting of his in a friend’s home and came in one day to look around. They struck up a friendship.”

“Neither of them could have known they were half-brother and sister.”

“I think perhaps she was drawn to his work because some of it is similar to hers.”

Virginia nodded. “Kent didn’t talk about her artist friends. She knew it upset her father.”

“It’s suggestive, I think, that she disappeared soon after Talitha’s death.”

“What do you think that suggests?”

“I think Talitha’s death may have been a catalyst. You learned that one of your children had survived, the other brought home for burial. The past was stirred up again. It could be your mother felt threatened by that.”

“But why harm Kent?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I need a better way to reach you privately.” I handed her a disposable phone. “My number is saved, as is my partner’s. Call us if you think of anything, if you need us, or if anything happens you think we should know.”

She took the phone. “All right.”

“One more thing I think you should be aware of. Someone tried to kill Nate and me in an incident intended to look like an automobile accident.”

Virginia jerked her head up and stared wide-eyed at me. “Turner.”

“Yes, and perhaps Talitha. Maybe even their parents.”

“Oh, God. I’ll speak to Daddy.”

“I’d appreciate that—but only if you’re positive his hands are clean in all of this.”

She held my gaze. “I’m sure.”

“Let him know I’d like to speak with him. Can you do that without your mamma finding out?”

“Yes. We have lunch together once a week, sometimes drinks at the club before dinner at home. I’ll ask him to meet me this evening. No one will be suspicious of that. I’ll ask him to meet you here tomorrow. What time would be convenient?”

“Eleven a.m.?”

“Very well.”

“Mrs. Heyward?”

“Yes?”

“This is a personal question, and beyond what you and your husband hired me to concern myself with. I apologize in advance for that. But I can’t help but wonder why you don’t tell your mother to mind her own business and fire that William Palmer.”

She stared out across the park for a long moment. “The last time I stood up to my mother, two of the people I cared most about died, and I lost having my son in my life, probably forever. Would you cross her again?”

I didn’t have an answer to that.

Thirty

I called Evan and asked him to meet me at Bin 152 at eight that evening to discuss the case. He agreed, seemed happy to hear from me. He tried to change the venue to his apartment. I told him maybe we’d stop there for a nightcap. That seemed to placate him. He wouldn’t be pleased to find Nate at Bin 152 in my place, but I won the coin toss. Even if Evan left mad straightway—which he likely wouldn’t do—that still gave me two hours round-trip travel time.

Nate texted me as soon as Evan pulled onto the seven o’clock ferry to Isle of Palms. That was my go-ahead to commence breaking and entering.

Evan’s gallery had a security system, which took me thirty minutes to disable. Then I entered through the back door. I’d already seen the gallery. I checked out the back room and found two file cabinets. It didn’t take long to locate Talitha’s bank statements. As expected, there were regular deposits going back to 1981 from a company named EDI, Incorporated. Evan Drew Ingle. I’d bet the company was owned by another company, and it would take hours of research to tie it to C.C. Bounetheau. I thought I’d just talk to him instead. I snapped photos of a sampling of the bank statements from over the years.

  Then I climbed the stairs to Evan’s second floor apartment. It was tastefully decorated and no doubt feng shui certified. I decided to come back to it if I had time. No news from Nate was good news. I climbed the stairs to Evan’s third floor studio. It was light and airy, and looked like one would expect a painter’s studio to look—easels, paint, brushes, drop cloths, et cetera.

The partially done painting on the easel was another abstract, similar to the ones currently in the showroom. I scanned the room, which took up most of the third floor. Three doors ran across the back wall. I checked them one by one.

The first door revealed a half bath. I checked the medicine cabinet. It was empty. The cabinet above the toilet held nothing but tissue. I moved on to the second door. A large closet held a dozen or so framed paintings. I turned on the light and flipped through them. These were more impressionist paintings, landscapes and seascapes. All were signed Evan D. Ingle. They were good. I’m no art critic, but I liked them much better than the abstracts he’d replaced them with.

I turned off the light and moved on to the third closet. More framed paintings. I turned on the light and studied them. More impressionism. Landscapes, seascapes—one of a Charleston streetscape similar to the one that had caught my eye in Kent’s bedroom. None of this group of paintings was signed. Were these Kent’s work? He’d said she’d brought a few paintings for him to look at, but he didn’t mention she’d left them. And there were more than a dozen pieces here. Why would she move her paintings to Evan’s studio? Was this part of him helping her? Were they going to photograph them to put on the website?

I checked the time. It was eight o’clock. Nate and Evan should be discussing how I was still recovering from my accident and was under the weather. Nate needed to befriend Evan, but not let on we were romantically involved. Evan would wonder why I hadn’t called and cancelled. Nate was to tell him I’d taken the earlier ferry to do some shopping, but had tired myself out. I felt bad at the last minute, but knew Evan had already left. I was resting at a friend’s house and hoped to join them shortly.

When I finished my work, I would call Evan, apologize, and reschedule. Meantime, Nate was just being a buddy. The one thing we hoped to glean if Nate could do it without sounding suspicious was why Evan had switched the paintings out—the abstracts for the impressionist exhibit. That detail continued to bug me, though I couldn’t say why.

I glanced around the studio one last time, then went down to the apartment. The great thing about Evan being in Charleston was that I would have plenty of time to get out once he headed home. I took my time with his apartment, leaving everything exactly as I found it.

The whole apartment was very clean and orderly for a bachelor. The layout was simple, one bedroom, one bath, and a large combination living/dining room with a galley kitchen in one end. There wasn’t much in the refrigerator. I checked the kitchen drawers and cabinets. Nothing there but the usual kitchen stuff. He must like to cook. He had a good selection of spices, vinegars, and oils.

The high-backed, leather barstools matched the dining furniture. Six dark wood chairs with leather seats and backs surrounded a round pedestal table with a compass inlay. Mamma made sure I knew a thing or two about furniture. Evan’s was quality.

The dark woods and leather motif continued into the living area. A sofa, two armchairs, and an ottoman appeared to be from the same collection. Matching tables flanked the sofa, which faced a flat-screened TV I pegged at sixty inches. There was nothing in the living or dining area to search.

I wandered through the bedroom into the bath. A large tiled shower with a glass door took one wall, a vanity with a sink the other. I opened the door at the end. Nothing in the water closet except the toilet. I checked the tank. Just water.

The vanity drawers held a mix of the usual male condiments—razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, et cetera. Nothing remotely interesting. Disappointed, I went back into the bedroom.

His closet was neat. No shoeboxes of old love letters. Just jeans, shirts, shoes, two suits, and a few ties. I turned towards the dresser. Surely I was not going to spend an hour on this apartment and come up empty. I searched each drawer, running my hands through the clothes and along the inside frames. In the bottom of his sock drawer I found an envelope. I sucked in a breath. My heart went to cantering.

I slid it out carefully. The return address on the envelope was Hamilton Law Firm in Atlanta. It was addressed to Evan at the gallery. I slid the contents of the envelope out. A single sheet and another envelope. I unfolded the heavy stationery.

It was a letter from Mr. Hamilton to Evan, explaining that Talitha Ingle had retained him to hold the enclosed envelope and mail it in the event of her death. The second envelope had simply “Evan” scrawled on the front. I slipped the letter out. There were two typed pages.

My Dearest Son,

My fondest wish is that you will never read this letter. If you have received it, I have gone to a better life before I summoned the courage to tell you all the things you should know. Because we live in an uncertain world, I’ve left you this so you can protect yourself. I have kept these secrets these many years to keep you safe….

My eyes raced through the letter. It was all there. Turner. Eva. Virginia. Abigail. Talitha had left this letter to Evan so he would know everything. She must have chosen an Atlanta lawyer because it was outside Bounetheau turf.

She’d signed it, “Your loving mother.”

Evan knew he was a Bounetheau.

I looked at the postmark. It had been mailed a week after Talitha’s death. My head spun with possibilities. He hadn’t contacted Virginia. She would’ve told me in the park. So was he sitting on this information, deciding what to do with it, if anything?

I laid the letter on the dresser and took photos of each page, plus the cover letter and the outer envelope. Then, I carefully reassembled the contents and returned the envelope to Evan’s sock drawer.

I made my way back downstairs, reset the alarm, circled the building, and walked back down the street to my car.

Once I was back inside my house, I poured a glass of wine. After a few sips, I called Evan and apologized profusely for missing dinner. He was very understanding. I could hear Nate laughing in the background, playing his part.

“So let me make you dinner tomorrow night,” Evan said.

“I’d love that.” I put a smile I didn’t feel into the words. I would cancel that date as well. Hopefully by this time tomorrow this case would be wrapped up.

I had no idea whereby I came that hope.

Nate made the ten-thirty ferry and was back at the house by eleven-twenty. I filled him in on what I’d found over nightcaps.

“That’s a lot to ponder.” He swirled his bourbon slowly in the glass. “Revenge, greed…several possible motives there.”

“Did you find out why he pulled the impressionist exhibit?”

“I found out the topic makes him nervous. Asked him if he still had any of the impressionist paintings he was showing back in the spring. Told him you had a special fondness for impressionism. He said they’d all been sold except a few he’d sent to other galleries.”

“Well, that’s a lie. I saw a dozen of them in a closet in his studio tonight. And even more of Kent’s work.”

“Seeing as how he’s taken a shine to you, I find it very strange he wouldn’t want to show off work he knows you like.”

“He said to me once that his technique had a way to go. Maybe he feels like his impressionist paintings aren’t ready for prime time.”

“Maybe.”     

Thirty-One

C.C. Bounetheau walked towards the bench where I’d met his daughter the afternoon before. He smiled and waved. As he approached, I could see the resemblance to Evan. Now that I knew to look for it, it was more obvious. C.C.’s hair was white, but the men were of a similar build. Odd how happy he seemed to see me, all things considered. How far could I trust his jovial demeanor?

I stood as he drew near. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Bounetheau.”

“Happy to help any way I can.” The man positively radiated Southern friendly. It was hard to conceive of such a man married to the monster Abigail had shown herself to be.

“Shall we sit?” I asked.

“By all means.” We settled onto the bench.

“You’re not wearing a wire, are you?” His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. He reminded me even more of Evan.

“No, sir, Mr. Bounetheau.” That much was true. I wasn’t wearing a wire.

“Call me C.C. All my friends do. I consider you a friend. Am I right in that estimation, Miss Talbot?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so. As far as I know, our objectives are the same. Find Kent. Bring whoever is responsible for her disappearance to justice. Mrs. Bounetheau, however, I believe, has different priorities.”

He sighed wearily. “Virginia told me of your troubles. I’m deeply sorry about that. I give you my word you have nothing further to fear. I have taken care of the situation.”

Could I trust that? Virginia had been adamant her father was not involved in her mother’s schemes. She’d trusted him all those years ago—told Talitha to trust him. From where I sat, it looked like C.C. had held up his end of the bargain.  “That’s very good to hear. Thank you.”

“I’m sure you’ll understand, I can’t let you have my wife arrested.”

I tilted my head at him.

“My dear,” he said. “Abigail insulates herself well. You’d never prove it. It would just be fodder for the gossips. No point in all that. Nothing good would come of it.”

“You’ve cleaned up a few of her messes,” I said, remembering Virginia saying he’d cleaned up after Peyton and Peter many a time.

“Family looks after family,” he said. “Virginia tells me you’ve discovered our Evan.”

“Yes. And I’m aware that you know Kent had as well.”

“They are friends.” He nodded. “I have to tell you, that gives me a great deal of joy. Neither of them knows about their relationship.”

“You’re certain of that?” I thought about the letter in Evan’s sock drawer. Had C.C. not considered Talitha would do such a thing? And if Abigail had been behind Talitha’s death, had she not considered this consequence?

He shrugged. “As certain as I can be of anything. Kent and I are quite close. I think she would tell me if she knew Evan was her half-brother. She would ask me straight up to explain it all.”

“And Evan? I saw photos of you with him and Kent at his opening in April. The three of you looked quite happy together. You were just there as a patron of the arts? Not as his grandfather?”

He chuckled softly. “I might have bought a painting or two. Evan’s talented.” He shook his head. “Truth be told, Kent has far more natural talent. To the untrained eye, some of their work is similar. Any expert could tell the difference. Unfortunately, Kent’s father and my wife disapprove of painting as an occupation.” He stared at the ground for a moment. All traces of joy had vanished. “But to answer your question, no. Evan has no idea I’m his grandfather.”

“Did your wife arrange Talitha’s death?”

“No. In fact, I believe that’s one of life’s ironies. Talitha’s death in a car accident is what stirred all this nastiness up again. Abigail would’ve had no reason to do such a thing.”

I’d need to ponder that a great deal before I decided whether I believed Abigail’s hands were clean in the matter of Talitha’s death. Perhaps she had considered the consequences and hadn’t arranged Talitha’s accident. If so, C.C. was right. It was indeed ironic that her death had brought the secrets she’d kept so long to light. “Does she know Evan and Kent connected?”

He studied me for a long moment, looked away. “I don’t believe so. It’s possible Kent innocently mentioned him. She wouldn’t have known the danger there.”

“How do you think Abigail would’ve responded to that?”

“She would’ve tried to put a stop to it.”

“Talitha was the only person alive who knew the whole truth. Everyone else knew only pieces.”

“That’s not true, my dear. I know the whole truth.”

“If I were you, I’d be really careful.”

He laughed. “Abigail will never harm me. She knows the terms of my will.”

“I thought everything was owned by family trusts.”

“To a point, that’s true. But what happens to the management of those trusts upon my death, how much money she has access to…let’s just say her life is easier now.”

“Is Evan provided for?”

“As he always has been.”

“Don’t you think he’s wondering where all the money comes from? Where it’s come from all his life?”

“Talitha told him his father had a substantial insurance policy which she had invested well. She told him she established the trust. The attorneys have been instructed to back up that story.”

“So you think everything is tied up with a bow—there’s no way he can learn the truth?”

“I suppose there are ways he could. My hope is that he’s happy and has no reason to question what he’s been told.”

“What do you think would happen if he found out?” I asked.

“Honestly, not much. He would come asking questions. I would tell him the truth, to a point. If he suspected the circumstances of his father’s death, that could prove problematic for Abigail.”

“And how do you suppose she’d respond to that?”

“She would never hurt Evan. She knows I would have her sent to jail.”

“And Kent?”

He gazed across the park for a moment. Then he gave me a sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My dear, Abigail is brilliant. She has some unfortunate sociopathic tendencies, to be sure. But to her mind, everything she does is for one purpose: to protect those she loves most. Kent is at the top of that list. Her grandmother adores her. She is safer than any of us from Abigail.”

“Would it be safe to assume that everyone in your family would know that Abigail harbors protective instincts towards Kent?”

He regarded me solemnly for a moment, assessing me. “If you’re asking me if other family members—perhaps with secrets of their own—would know that harming Kent was not an option, no matter the reason, the answer is yes. I can tell you to a certainty that Abigail would deal harshly with anyone who harmed any of the grandchildren.”

“Except Evan.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“And if it were one of her own children who harmed Kent?”

“She might not have them done away with. But there would be consequences they would find intolerable.”