04 Lowcountry Bordello (17 page)

Nineteen

Sonny agreed to meet us at the bed and breakfast. We could talk much more freely in our room than in one of the local lunch spots. Because we were starving, Nate ordered more sandwiches from Bull Street Market.

Nate let Sonny in. He stared at me with this surly expression for way too long. Finally, he said, “We go way back. But our professional relationship is built on trust.”

“You’re mighty right it is,” I said, staring him down. “And that means if I don’t answer the phone, you should
trust
that I have a very good reason.”

Sonny closed his eyes, rolled his lips in, put a hand to his head and shook it. “No. No. What that means is that I have to be able to trust that when I need you to pick up the damn phone and give me straight answers, you will
do
that.”

I sat in one of the three chairs we’d arranged in a triangle. “Sonny, there are times you really don’t want to know what you’re asking. You just think you do.”

“We’re all a little stressed here.” Nate sat in the chair to my right. “Sonny, I believe you’ll find what we have for you very helpful.”

Sonny huffed out a breath and sat in the remaining chair. “Let’s hear it.”

“Monday night, Olivia called me in a panic…” I started at the beginning and worked my way through Tuesday morning exactly as it had happened, leaving out nothing except Colleen.

“Well, that explains why you were asking about missing persons, and why you wanted to know what Thurston Middleton was wearing,” Sonny said. “But what I don’t get is why you couldn’t’ve just picked up the phone when I called you back Monday afternoon and told me all that.”

“Because at that point,” I said, “we didn’t know that Olivia hadn’t had some sort of breakdown. I was in that house an hour after she called to tell me Robert was dead on the floor, and there was no sign of a crime. None.”

Nate said, “It was reasonable to vet our information before we clouded your homicide investigation with something that could’ve well been a figment of Olivia’s imagination.”

Sonny sat back in his chair and crossed his ankles. “How did you do that, exactly? And how did you arrive at the conclusion that the body in the house across the street was in fact Thurston Middleton?”

“I spoke to Julia Middleton,” I said. “I expect you’ve spoken to her by now about Thurston’s investigation into the ‘boardinghouse’ and their association years ago.”

“As a matter of fact, I have. And I have a search warrant for the premises which we’ll execute immediately after we finish here. Julia didn’t mention you.”

I shrugged. “She’s discreet. We have a lot more to tell you, but first, did you happen to get an anonymous tip regarding a rug that might be in a dumpster in North Charleston?”

Sonny heaved a massive sigh, crossed his arms. “Why yes I did. How did you know that?”

“I heard a rumor somewhere. Did you find the rug?”

“We found an expensive-looking light-colored rug with blood on it. The lab has it. We don’t know there’s a connection, but we will soon.” His tone softened. “I don’t want to know how you knew where to find that, do I?”

Nate said, “We’re just happy you found it.”

“I’m grateful to whoever called in that tip,” said Sonny. “That rug would’ve been in the landfill before we even knew to look for one. And we would’ve never known where to look. But it would be nice to know that no laws were broken in getting that evidence.”

I nodded. “It’s important that evidence as critical as that rug hold up in court—not be the fruit of some poisonous tree or other.”

Sonny looked away. He’d received my message. “What else do you have for me?”

“We have a great many anonymous tips,” I said. “Do you want them or not?”

“
Dammit
, Liz.” He looked from me to Nate and back.

“This is a complicated case,” said Nate. “I predict you’ll be glad for the information.”

After a long pause, Sonny said, “Yes. Please. I’ll take all the tips you have.”

“You’ll need to take notes,” I said. “Trust me. I’d give you mine, but they’re electronic, and that would ruin the whole anonymous thing.” He pulled a pad and pen from his jacket pocket. “In a desk in the right parlor, you’ll find a rent ledger. The most recent names are Calhoun, Gibbes, Huger, Prioleau, and Russell.” I walked him through the first names that went with those surnames, and the associated women. I told him everything he needed to know, including the timeline we’d built, which should save him considerable time. I left out all mention of cameras, phone tapping, guardian spirits, ghosts, et cetera.

He made a few final notes, then asked, “Why again did you take these women to your house?”

I said, “Because we don’t know who killed Thurston Middleton. And regardless of who did, when these men go to protecting their family fortunes from divorce attorneys, they may well try to cover their tracks. But we knew you’d need to talk to them, so we stashed them in a safe place.”

“There’s already been an attempt along those lines.” Nate filled him in on the knife-carrying burglar. “Whoever it was had a key. Which means one of the patrons, or perhaps a former patron. He likely planned to get rid of anyone or anything tying them to that house—especially the women who could be called to testify.”

Sonny said, “And Blake is holding Seth on blackmail and communicating threat charges.”

“That’s right,” Nate said.

I said, “The judge will be back tomorrow morning.”

Sonny nodded. “Good to know. We should have some hair and fiber evidence tying him to that rug. The warrant we have covers his truck. I’d better get someone over to Stella Maris. Is that everything?” He looked tired.

I winced. “When you serve the warrant, are you going to let cadaver dogs sniff around the yard?”

“What?” Nate gave me a look that said,
Here we go again
.

Sonny was quiet for a moment. “Given that we found that rug in the same dumpster where William Rutledge turned up a year ago, and the high profile nature of that particular cold case, I don’t think that would be unreasonable.”

Nate muttered, “William Rutledge.” He looked at me for a long moment, then away.

I handed Sonny a sandwich. “You’d best eat. It’s going to be a long afternoon.”

“Thanks,” he said. He unwrapped it and dug in.

I passed around drinks and Nate and I opened our sandwiches as well.

“Sonny?” I said, a few bites in. Maybe the food had taken the edge off his irritation.

He looked up at me, chewing slowly.

“When you know if Thurston could’ve been killed by a woman—if the angle is right, the upper body strength fits—will you let us know? We’ll sleep better knowing none of the women staying at our house could possibly be murderers.” And that my friend wasn’t in danger of being arrested.

He closed his eyes and nodded.

Twenty

We watched out the window as Sonny met two other Charleston PD detectives on the sidewalk. Moments later, a forensics unit arrived and parked on the street.

“I feel bad for Miss Dean,” I said.

“Why? She’s knowingly run a business that provides illicit services to married men for years. She’s either remained silent when Seth committed and covered up heinous crimes, or she’s been a party to them. Maybe even manipulated him into doing her dirty work.”

“I just don’t think she set out to do any of those things. She and her sister just wanted to save the family home.”

“Regardless,” said Nate. “At some point she crossed a line and she skipped right along and never looked back.”

Across the street, the detectives and forensics team entered the door to the porch.

I heaved a deep sigh. “We haven’t finished the job.”

“This is Sonny’s case now. Olivia’s blackmailer is incarcerated.”

“Still. I hate leaving a puzzle half-finished on the table.”

Nate turned to look at me. “Well, I suppose an argument could be made that it’s our duty to interview Miss Dean’s current clientele in order to certify no one else was caught up in Seth’s blackmail scheme.”

“Exactly. Because we were hired to investigate the blackmail. Which has nothing to do with Thurston Middleton’s murder, as far as we’ve been able to prove thus far.”

“We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t tie up the loose ends.”

“Precisely.” I offered him my sunniest smile. “And what kind of friends would we be to Sonny if we didn’t check out those last few remaining alibi issues while we’re at it? Save him a lot of time…”

Of the five current patrons at Miss Willowdean’s cathouse, Dr. William Calhoun was our first priority. He was a potential witness. Before we questioned suspects, we needed to know if he’d seen anyone we hadn’t accounted for or witnessed Seth’s crime scene cleanup at 12 Church Street Monday night on his way out.

Dr. Calhoun was with a patient according to his receptionist, and no, he couldn’t work me in. Appointments were booked four months in advance, she informed me, and his afternoon was booked solid and she highly doubted he would have a cancellation.

I’d already interviewed Arthur Russell. We knew he had an alibi and nothing to contribute to our investigation. And Nathaniel Gibbes was out of the country. That left our two top suspects.

Nate called and made an appointment with Henry Prioleau for one o’clock on the pretext we had emergency rehearsal dinner needs. Our original venue had canceled last minute. The receptionist enthusiastically confirmed he’d be happy to speak with us.

James Huger, CEO of Huger International, a holding company with offices on Broad Street, agreed to see us at two thirty. His secretary failed to hide the surprise in her voice when she came back on the line to confirm the appointment. We’d asked her to tell him our meeting request was in regards to Miss Willowdean Beauthorpe.

Henry Prioleau was vice president of the company that owned his family’s chain of fine dining restaurants. Rut’s New South Cuisine was named for Rutledge Prioleau, Henry’s grandfather. The offices were on the top floor of the original restaurant on East Bay, just up from North Market. The building was red brick and was perhaps once a hardware store or some such thing.

His secretary told us to come in the side entrance and take the elevator to the third floor. We stepped from the elevator into a reception area.

“Hey, how are y’all?” A perky, petite woman with burnished brown hair stood.

“We’re good. Hope you are. I’m Nate Andrews. This is my fiancé, Liz Talbot. We called about the last minute rehearsal dinner?”

“Of course,” she said. “Now normally, someone in catering would help you with that, but you asked for Henry, right?”

Nate said, “We did. A friend of ours recommended him personally.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you. Right this way.”

She led us towards the right front corner of the building. We approached a desk sitting outside of one of the offices. The receptionist said, “This is Gail, Henry’s secretary. Y’all have a good day.”

“You, too,” I said.

“Hey, how are y’all?” Gail, an effervescent blonde, stood.

“We’re good.” Nate smiled.

Julia Middleton’s comments on how the Prioleau family took their Southern friendly brand to extremes floated across my mind.

“Right this way.” She escorted us the remaining twelve feet to a corner office overlooking East Bay. She knocked once and opened the door.

Henry was on his feet and moving towards us with a big smile. “Hey, how are y’all?”

“Good. And you?” Nate took the hand Henry offered.

“I’m great. Just great. I’m so glad you’re here.” He held onto Nate’s hand for an abnormally long time, patted him on the back. I thought for a minute he was going to hug him. “Gail here tells me your big day is Saturday and you had some trouble come up with your rehearsal dinner venue for Friday night.”

“That’s right,” said Nate. “We’d be grateful if you could help us out.”

“Of course. We’d be happy to. Have a seat.” Henry gestured to a pair of leather chairs in front of his desk.

I said, “Have we met before? You seem awfully familiar to me.”

Henry took a seat behind his desk. “You’ve probably seen me in the restaurant. Our whole family works the floor here in our original location. We want to make sure everyone who comes in feels welcome—like family.”

“I bet that’s it,” I said. “We were just here Monday night.” We’d never dined at Rut’s New South Cuisine.

He grinned. “I probably opened the door for you. I was at the door during the early evening, then working the floor chatting with folks. Did you sit downstairs or up?”

“Upstairs,” said Nate.

Henry’s face creased in confusion. “It’s not like me to forget folks. I must be working too hard.”

I said, “In fairness, we were deep into wedding discussions.”

Nate said, “Likely we gave off an uninviting vibe.”

Henry shook off his confusion. “In any case, we can offer you the private room upstairs. How many are you expecting for your rehearsal dinner?”

“Oh my,” I said. “I was hoping to have it at my parents’ house. We’re going to have a hundred guests. The tents will already be up for the reception.”

Henry winced. “A hundred people, you say? At your rehearsal dinner?”

“Yes,” I said, “it’s so close to Christmas and all. Our families are coming in early. We have big families.”

“I see,” said Henry. “Unfortunately, we don’t do offsite events. And our private dining room will only accommodate thirty in any case. I’m surprised Gail didn’t mention that.”

“I’m so flustered these days,” I said. “There’s no telling. I’m sure it’s my mistake. We have several meetings set up this afternoon.”

Nate stood. “Sweetheart, with that in mind, we’d best get out of Mr. Prioleau’s hair. We have several more stops to make.”

Henry stood. “I’m terribly sorry we couldn’t help you. Y’all come see us when you get back from your honeymoon.”

“We’ll do that,” Nate said.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “Don’t forget, we promised to stop by Julia’s as well.”

“Of course,” Nate said. “Such a tragedy.”

“Do you know them?” I asked. “The Middletons?”

Henry’s face went as solemn as an undertaker’s. “Yes, of course. Such a shame. I don’t know them well, but they were our customers. And naturally we’re familiar with all they do for the community.”

In a hushed tone, I said, “I just can’t believe the rumors goin’ ’round.”

Henry stilled.

“Rumors? What rumors would those be?”

“You haven’t heard?” I asked. “Apparently, Thurston was being blackmailed by some deplorable reprobate runnin’ a bawdy house over on Church Street.”

“That is scandalous,” said Henry. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”

I met his eyes squarely. “No one’s been blackmailing you, have they, Mr. Prioleau?”

Something dark flickered in Henry’s eyes. Then the jovial restauranteur was back. “Thank goodness I don’t have to worry about that. Poor Thurston, my goodness. I hate to hear such things about such a good man.” He showed us to the door.

We said our good-byes to Henry, then to the two girls up front.

Back out on the street, I said, “Those folks are almost pathologically friendly. Even for Southerners.”

“Yeah,” said Nate. “Something was a little too frenetic in their Southern friendly.”

“Did you see the look on his face when I asked him about blackmail?”

“I did indeed. I think young Henry was badly rattled.”

“He has an alibi for Monday night,” I said.

“Nice sport coat.”

I shook my head, “Sport coats are common attire. That doesn’t prove anything.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it makes you think. Makes you wonder how hard it would be for the vice president to slip away from floor duty for a while. It’s less than a ten minute walk from here to the cathouse.”

I studied the cars in the parking lot. “You know what isn’t here?”

Nate’s gaze followed mine. “Young Henry’s Mercedes.”

I snapped a photo of the license plate on a brushed steel and red Ducati. “It would take a lot less than ten minutes on a motorcycle.” For good measure, I got every plate in the off-street parking lot.

“Good afternoon. Can we get y’all anything to drink?” James Huger was the epitome of a Southern gentleman. If I wasn’t mistaken, his was the voice on the phone with Miss Dean when she called “John.”

“Thank you,” Nate said. “We’re fine.”

“Did I understand correctly? You all are private investigators?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Please, have a seat.” James gestured to a leather sofa in a conversation area across the office from his desk. He took the wingback chair.

“You have a lovely family,” I said. On walls and shelves in his well-appointed office, photos of James Huger with his elegant wife and their five children outnumbered the photos of him with dignitaries, but not by much. The family photos were candid shots from far-flung vacations. Everyone was smiling, laughing. I recalled how Julia Middleton had said James doted on his wife.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m very proud of them. Family is very important to me. To most of us, I suppose. Now. Please tell me, is everything all right with Miss Willowdean?”

I focused hard on not thinking about the contents of the playroom over the garage. “I’m afraid not.”

“Is it her heart?” James asked. “I’ve tried to get her to see a cardiologist. Anyone fortunate enough to reach her age needs to see one regularly.”

I said, “As far as I know, her heart is fine. Mr. Huger, can we speak confidentially?”

“Of course,” he said.

“You were friends with Thurston Middleton, is that correct?” I asked.

He winced. Pain coated his words. “My whole life. He was like a brother to me. I was one of his chief supporters in his upcoming political campaign. Such a tragedy. My wife and I are grieving. And of course I’m heartbroken for Julia and the boys.”

I nodded. “Did you know Seth Quinlan was blackmailing him?”

“I had no idea.” He seemed genuinely surprised. “What possible grounds would he have had? Thurston was as straight an arrow as they come.”

“Apparently,” Nate said, “a long time ago, when Miss Willowdean and her sister first opened their boardinghouse—back when it
was
a simple boardinghouse—Julia lived there for a while. Thurston paid her rent to help Miss Willowdean get her business started. But in light of how the establishment has evolved over the years, and given Mr. Middleton’s political aspirations, Seth believed he’d found a cash cow.”

James was as cool as a cucumber.

“That’s disturbing, to be sure. Do you believe there’s a connection to Thurston’s death?”

I said, “We’re not sure what to believe. What do you think, Mr. Huger?”

“It’s certainly possible, I suppose.”

“Has Seth or anyone else ever attempted to blackmail you, Mr. Huger?” I asked.

His smile was genuine, though still tinged with grief. He seemed relaxed. “Me? No. There wouldn’t be any point in that. People tell tall tales on folks with money all the time. One of the very few downsides to wealth. My solid record of public service speaks for itself, I’d like to think. People generally believe what they want to believe. To be honest, I’ve never much cared what strangers think of me.”

My instincts said this wasn’t our guy, partly because of what Colleen had said about Dana’s secret not being relevant. But I also had the sense that his grief over Thurston’s death was genuine—that he would help us if he could. “Did you happen to be driving through the neighborhood Monday evening?”

He flashed me a conspiratorial little smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. I had to run out right at dinnertime. Business.” He shook his head as if to say,
It’s always something
. “I would’ve driven by Miss Willowdean’s house around seven, maybe a couple minutes after. Then again on my way back home about eight fifteen.”

I didn’t grill him about how that worked, what with him living on East Battery and lower Church being a one-way street a block out of his way to most places.

“Did you see anyone coming or going? Anything unusual going on?” I asked.

He pressed his lips together, shook his head. “I wish I could help. The only thing I noticed—and this isn’t unusual at all—was that Miss Willowdean’s niece was by to visit. Her car was parked on the street.”

I changed channels quickly to gauge his response.

“I have racked my brain trying to figure out why a man would pay for two rooms at Miss Willowdean’s.”

“That is an intriguing question.”

James looked directly at me.

“Especially a man who is so devoted to his wife and children.”

Nate said, “Where on earth would one man get the time for three women?”

James laughed. “I can’t imagine.”

“Would you like to know my theory?” I asked.

“I’d be fascinated,” said James.

“I think a man with five children, a live-in household staff, a wife off the cover of a magazine, and a historic home with interior walls that aren’t well-insulated would have a unique problem.”

Nate cheated a glance at me, then straightened in his chair.

James smiled. “I would agree with your assessment. Such a man would face challenges.”

“How in the world would the couple ever enjoy privacy?” I mused. “Hotels certainly aren’t the answer. Those walls would be even thinner.”

“Indeed.” James held my gaze, not quite smiling any longer.

“If the man were a true Southern gentleman such as yourself, his wife’s privacy would be of the utmost concern.”

He looked away, then back. “It would be his highest priority after his family’s safety and well-being.”

“And if money were not an issue, this hypothetical man could probably find a way to help out a neighbor in need and a college student while solving his own problems. He could even pay for some high-end upgrades to the neighbor’s house so that it suited his needs.”

James nodded. “I imagine he could.”

“And if it all came out,” I said, “well, it couldn’t really
all
come out, could it? The gentleman’s reputation might suffer. But no one would ever know his wife had ever visited his neighbor’s home…except the college student who served as his cover story. And she’d be far too grateful that she didn’t have student loans to ever breathe a word.” James stared out the window.

“Of course,” I said, “over time there would likely be more than one college student. But it would be helpful if they planned on grad school. All the better if they volunteered for medical relief programs and traveled extensively.”

Nate said, “The two rooms over the garage have a virtually private entrance. Everyone who comes and goes at that house is concerned about keeping their own business quiet, not taking attendance on the young ladies who live there and checking it against patron visits.”

James said, “In a hypothetical situation such as you describe, no doubt the neighbor originally ran a boardinghouse. She’s likely been taken advantage of by men who aren’t as devoted to their wives.”

“The only remaining question I have,” I said, “is would such a man resort to murder to protect his wife’s privacy and reputation.”

A startled look flashed across his face. “I would imagine these hypothetical people would both be horrified by the very idea. They would alibi each other, of course, which could be problematic. Except neither of them would have a motive.” He met my gaze with sober, sincere eyes. “A reputation would never be worth a life.”

I studied him for a moment, nodded. Then I stood and laid my card on the coffee table. “If you think of anything that might be helpful in solving Thurston’s murder or protecting the other young women, please give us a call.”

“Certainly. And if you could do me the great favor of being as discreet as possible with your inquiries, I would be very grateful. You never know when having someone in your debt could prove helpful. Especially someone with my resources and connections.”

“Mr. Huger,” I said, “we have no interest in, nor the stomach for, embarrassing you or your wife.”

He nodded.

We walked out of the building and down Broad Street to our parking space. As we buckled in, Nate said, “Well, that was interesting.”

“Indeed, it was. Mr. Huger is a complex man, to say the least. I wish he knew something we didn’t. He seems to genuinely want to help.”

“I’ll say this,” Nate said. “He goes to a great deal of trouble to be alone with his wife.”

After our positive experience with James Huger, Nate and I decided to try the direct approach with our last subject. Perhaps he would likewise be filled with the spirit of cooperation. Dr. William Calhoun’s office was in one of the Medical University of South Carolina buildings over on Jonathan Lucas Street. Nate camped out in the waiting room. I waited at the elevator in case there was a back entrance to his office. We both had earwigs in so we could easily communicate.