Lowcountry Boneyard (28 page)

Thirty-Two

I climbed into the passenger seat of the Escape. “Did you get all of that?”

“Clear as crystal.” Nate zipped the case where the listening dish was stored. “I sent the voice file to you and stored it in the cloud lock box.”

“I’m not sure we’ll be able to use it for anything. But it’s always better to hold cards you don’t play than not to have any.”

“You think we should sit on evidence of at least one murder?” Nate looked troubled.

“I think if we hand that recording over to local law enforcement, someone will make sure it disappears, and us along with it. Let’s focus on Kent for now.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want to talk to the neighbors.” There were still missing pieces. I needed to go back to the beginning.

“The ones who complained to the police? I thought you already did that.”

“Not the Walshes. I want to walk the route she took when she left home that Friday night and talk to anyone along the way who is willing to speak to us.”

“Really?” Nate asked in a tone that signified surely I must be kidding. “You want to do a door-to-door canvas in this neighborhood?”

“I do. Someone saw something.” I stared at patches of blue on the other side of the park, where sunlight reflected off the water. “People don’t just disappear. Someone drove her car to Magnolia Cemetery. I don’t think it was her. But whoever was in the driver’s seat, the car left lower Legare at seven-forty-five the night she disappeared.”

“Don’t you think the police have already done this?”

“Probably. But since we never received a file, we’re going to have to bother these nice folks again. Let’s start with the neighbors across the street.” I was energized, eager. This felt right.

Nate started the car. “As you wish.” He still sounded skeptical.

We knocked on twelve doors on lower Legare. We spoke to whoever would talk to us. At two houses, no one answered the door. At the other ten, folks were just as nice as they could be. Everyone wanted to help, from wealthy matriarchs, to the couple who’d turned their ancestral family home into a bed and breakfast in an effort to afford to keep it, to the help. Yes, they’d spoken to the police. They wished they could offer anything by way of assistance, but no one had seen a thing.

When we came to the spot where Lamboll dead-ended into Legare, I said, “She either turned left here, or went on down to South Battery. There she could’ve gone left or right. If it were me, I’d’ve turned left here, gone over to Meeting, made a left, and gone up to Queen. Based on where she said she was headed, anyway.”

Nate sighed a weary sigh, nodded down Lamboll. “Let’s start with that.”

We’d worked our way halfway down the first block of Lamboll when we pulled through an open gate and into a driveway to get out of the narrow street. The house appeared to be in the last stages of a renovation. It was a sunny yellow Charleston single house—the style that sat with the narrow end towards the street and had stacked porches running long-ways down the front, which faced the garden. We climbed the steps and rang the bell. The antique lion’s head doorknocker seemed more for decoration. The gentleman who came to the door was roughly my age.

“Hi,” he said.

Nate and I said hey, introduced ourselves and whatnot.

“We’ve been retained by the Heyward family over on Legare to help locate their daughter, Kent. We believe she came by here on the evening she disappeared, and we wondered if you might have seen her. She drives a red Mini Cooper.”

“Oh, yeah. I saw on the news where they found her car over at Magnolia Cemetery. That poor girl. Please, come in.” Over his shoulder he called, “Emily, hon, could you join us?”

He stepped back, and Nate and I walked into the small foyer.

“I’m Mike Lowell.”

A trim woman with a dark brown bob joined us. “Hi, I’m Emily.”

We explained ourselves again.

“When did she disappear?” Emily asked. “Of course I’ve heard about it, but the specifics are vague.”

“September twelfth. It was a Friday night,” I said.

“Oh gosh, no wonder it’s vague. We were gone all of September,” Emily said. “My dad had a stroke. We were in Atlanta. Mom couldn’t cope with everything by herself. He was in rehab for four weeks. It was awful because the contractors were in the middle of the kitchen. Anyway, I wish we could help, but we weren’t here.”

“Thank you so much for your time.” I smiled and turned to go. Halfway into the turn, my eyes crossed the living room to my left.

The painting over the fireplace was a near duplicate to the one of Boneyard Beach hanging in Kent’s room. I stepped towards it. “That’s a lovely painting. Do you mind if I take a closer look?”

“Go right ahead,” said Mike.

I glanced at Nate, delivering the message that this was big. He followed me into the living room. It was beautiful. It reminded me of Van Gogh’s Starry Nights, just like the other painting had. “Who did this?” My eyes fell to the signature.

“Artist over on Stella Maris,” said Mike. “Evan Ingle. He’s a buddy of mine from way back. We went to Porter Gaud together. I’m happy to see him doing so well. We would’ve bought one of his paintings, regardless. Emily and I both fell in love with this one.”

“It is remarkable,” I said. “Do you mind if I photograph it?”

“Not at all,” said Mike.

I snapped several shots. “Is this part of his current collection?”

“I don’t think so. Like Em said, we were gone most of September. Evan kept an eye on things for us. Checked in with the contractor, made sure things were on track. When we got back, he invited us to the gallery. We had dinner and he showed us around. Emily wanted to see his studio. This one was upstairs. Like I said, we fell in love with it.”

“I can certainly see why,” I said, thinking how I’d bet my left arm Kent had painted it—not Evan.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

When we walked out the front door, from the porch I could see more of the backyard than I’d seen coming in. The driveway extended deep into the lot, and a detached two-car garage was near the back of the property. In front of the garage sat a large white covered trailer. “Is that yours?” I asked.

Mike shrugged. “Yeah, I bought it when we started the construction project. Came in handy, hauling supplies, furniture, all kinds of things.”

“What do you tow it with?” I asked.

“F-250 in the garage.” He looked confused.

“Do you mind if I look inside the trailer?” I asked.

“Sure. Do you need a trailer?” He started walking towards it and we followed. “I’ll be selling this one soon. Bought it secondhand, but still. It’s not something I’m going to need going forward.”

“You never know when one of these might come in handy,” I said.

The look on Nate’s face told me he was thinking exactly what I was thinking.

Mike opened the back of the trailer and Nate and I climbed inside. A Mini Cooper would easily fit. “Do you have ramps, like to roll things in? My brother has a band, and some of his equipment is on wheels.”

“Yeah, I’ve got them in the garage. If he’s interested, have him give me a call.”

A long red scratch down the left side caught my eye. I caught Nate’s glance and directed his gaze with mine. He looked, then nodded. Neither of us mentioned it. Nate walked in front of me, shielding me from view. I snapped a quick photo of the scratch.

“I’ll do that. I’m certain he’ll be interested. I’d appreciate it if you’d let him have first dibs.” We stepped out of the trailer.

“Sure thing,” Mike said. “Let me give you my number.”

I typed the number into my phone as he called it out.

“Thanks a lot,” Nate said.

“It was so nice meeting y’all,” I said.

“You too. Y’all have a good evening. I hope you find someone who saw something.”

Thirty-Three

Nate drove a little further down the block and pulled as far to the side as he could on the narrow street.

I said, “We need to stay here and make sure nothing happens to that trailer while Jenkins and Bissell get a warrant. Then we need to go over to John Rutledge House Inn and find out which room Evan stayed in, and if anyone would have seen him leave after he checked in.”

“Okay, I see where the red paint could be a scratch from a Mini Cooper. And I’m guessing you made that for one of Kent’s paintings with Evan’s signature.”

“Exactly.”

“Let’s make sure we’re on the same page. Walk me through what you’re thinking here.”

“Okay…Evan gets a surprise at his mamma’s funeral—he had a twin sister. And twins—I’ve read lots of research about the connection between twins. To find out as an adult you had one. That had to be weird.”

“Agreed.”

“Next Evan gets the letter from the attorney in Atlanta. Now he knows where the money came from his whole life. And there’s another shock, maybe the biggest of all. The woman who raised him is not his mother.
His
mother didn’t want him—or at least that’s how it would feel to me—but she wanted this beautiful young girl who showed up in his art gallery a few months earlier, who he had a connection with he couldn’t explain until now. Are you following me?”

“Yep.”

“Now maybe he resents Kent. And it turns out she’s more talented on top of everything else. She’s gotten everything. And his twin sister, who should’ve had the life Kent is living, is in a grave. Talitha made it clear she believed Eva would have lived if she hadn’t been taken out of the hospital. Remember, Vicki Elmore and Virginia both said Eva was in an incubator?”

Nate said, “And maybe Evan suspects the Bounetheaus of killing Talitha because Kent stumbled across him, and as you said earlier, aside from C.C. and Abigail, Talitha was the only one who knew the truth.”

“Very possible. So Evan has a whole lot of motive. Not the least of which is now he has a closet full of unsigned paintings he can whip out, sign his name to, and sell for a lot more money than the ones he painted. There’s proof of that hanging in the Lowells’ living room.”

“And that’s why he switched out the exhibits. C.C. said an expert could tell the difference, remember? If he planned to start passing Kent’s work off as his own, he’d have to get his impressionist work out of circulation as much as possible.”

I nodded. “And when Emily Lowell wanted to see his studio, he only showed her Kent’s work. Then he signed the piece she wanted.”

“We have a whole lot of theory, and very little evidence.”

“Which is why we need to get Jenkins and Bissell over here to get a sample of that red paint ASAP. If the paint’s a match, that’s hard evidence. And we can tie Evan to the trailer. He had access to the house the whole month of September. No doubt they left him the truck keys just in case. Except that’s the kind of question that will raise suspicion. We don’t want to ask that until after the paint’s been sampled. Everything will fall into place after we have that. Then we can start talking about art experts to examine paintings.”

“Do we call Jenkins and Bissell, or Sonny?” Nate asked.

I pondered that. “Jenkins and Bissell do not have a lot of love in their hearts for us. But they might after this. For now, maybe we’d best call Sonny. If he takes it to them, they’re more likely to listen.”

“Agreed.”

I called Sonny. Ten minutes later, he parked behind us on Lamboll and got into the backseat. “What do you have?”

I walked him through it. He thought so hard I could see a vein throbbing in his temple. Finally he said, “I’ll call them. But a warrant is going to take a while.”

“I bet good money if I call Colton Heyward he can get one lickety-split.”

“Fair point,” said Nate.

“Call him,” said Sonny. “I’ll stay here and wait for Jenkins and Bissell. Make sure no one disturbs the trailer, though that doesn’t seem likely. Better to be sure. You go on to John Rutledge House Inn and see what you can do with Ingle’s alibi.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

Sonny nodded. “Good job, guys.”

I took a long slow breath and let it out. “Thanks. Except we still haven’t found Kent. I think we’ll go talk to Colton Heyward in person. This is news he shouldn’t hear over the phone.”

Thirty-Four

We had a brief meeting with Colton Heyward in his office. I had asked for it to be just him. I didn’t want to talk to Virginia Heyward just then about the implications. And the odds of William Palmer eavesdropping on a conversation in Mr. Heyward’s office were significantly less than those of one held in the living room. All I told him was that we’d found red paint in a trailer nearby, and we suspected the trailer had been used to transport Kent’s car. I didn’t even try to put a positive spin on that.

His face seemed to fold into lines as I talked. He leaned on his desk, his perfect posture slipping into hunched shoulders. Finally, he made a phone call, promised a warrant was on the way. We showed ourselves out.

Nate found a parking spot on Broad a couple blocks down from the John Rutledge House Inn. With my previous phone call to the innkeeper in mind, and how she’d made a point of telling me she wouldn’t give me information I didn’t have, Nate and I came up with a pretext.

We climbed the grand marble staircase with its ornate green iron railings and columns. Nate winked at me and opened the door. We slipped into character as we passed through the vestibule and into the foyer with me hanging on him like I was trying to climb him. The gentleman at the writing desk which apparently served as both check-in and concierge services raised an eyebrow.

“Good afternoon,” Nate said.

“Good afternoon, welcome to John Rutledge House Inn. Do you have a reservation?”

Nate said, “I’m afraid we do not. Would you have a room available by chance?”

“We do. How many nights?”

I blew in Nate’s ear.

“Just one,” he said.

“Darlin’, ask about the room Evan had.”

“Sweetheart, we can’t be persnickety. We don’t have a reservation.”

I pouted.

He sighed and gazed at me indulgently. Then he looked back at the concierge. “Sir, a friend of ours stayed here recently. I think he may be a regular. Evan Ingle. He raves about this place. Anyway, there’s one room he especially likes. Would you happen to know where he usually stays, and if so, is that room available?”

He smiled and said, “Let me check.” He typed a bit and read the screen on his computer. “Mr. Ingle typically stays in one of our carriage house rooms. They’re out back, not in the main building. I’m sorry we don’t have one available for tonight. All we have is the mini-suite here in the main house. It’s quite lovely.”

He looked at Nate. Nate looked at me, then back at the concierge. “We have certain privacy needs. I’m not sure the main house is a good fit. Perhaps we’ll just stroll through the courtyard, then try you another time.”

“Very well. Y’all have a nice day.” He was a true professional. If he thought they were better rid of us, his tone didn’t betray him.

We walked out the back entrance and down the steps. Two narrow buildings occupied the far side of the walled courtyard, with a wide walkway between them and a gate at the back. They were secluded from the main house. Another walkway led from the courtyard around the inn and back out to Broad Street.

“Let’s check out the door locks.” Nate crossed the patio and tried the knob on the carriage house to the right. “It’s locked, but it takes an old-fashioned key, not an electronic one. He peered through the window in the door. “Locks on the rooms are identical. No records of anyone’s coming and going.”

“He could come and go as he pleased. No one would ever know the difference,” I said.

“He could’ve,” Nate said. “We just have to prove that he did.”

“Here’s exactly what he did,” I said. “He waited for Kent at the house on Lamboll. Probably asked her to stop there and pick him up on the way to dinner that night, made some excuse—they could share parking, something like that. She pulled in. He knocks her out, or maybe he kills her right then. He drives the car into the trailer and hides it. Then he gets in his car and drives to the parking garage and goes on to the restaurant. He spends the evening with his buddies, giving himself an alibi, then he walks back here and checks in.”

Nate said, “Then he leaves, walks back to the house on Lamboll, pulls the trailer over to Magnolia Cemetery, and dumps the car. The only problem is, Kent wasn’t in it.”

“But what better place to hide a body than a cemetery? We need to get over there, see who was buried the next day. What time is it?”

Nate looked at his watch. “Four-thirty.”

“They’re open ‘til five. Come on.” We jogged down the walkway beside the inn and back to the car.

I hopped into the driver’s seat. “We need to let Sonny know we’ve broken Evan’s alibi—at least hypothetically. And we also need to get to the cemetery before they close.”

“Let’s divide and conquer,” Nate said. “Drop me off at the Lowells’, or I’ll drop you off. One of us can brief Sonny while the other talks to whoever is in the cemetery office.”

“Sounds good. Why don’t I drop you off? Jenkins and Bissell are there by now. Y’all can bond. I think they like you better than me. I found the car.”

“Suits me.”

I made a left on Legare and drove down to Lamboll. There was no sign of Sonny’s car, Sonny, or Jenkins or Bissell.

I called Sonny. “What the heck? Where are y’all?”

“Inside the Lowell residence. Long story. We moved our cars inside the gate.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I pulled to the side of the road and waited for Nate to get out. “I’ll be right back. This shouldn’t take but a minute.”

He slammed the door and I made a beeline for Magnolia Cemetery.