04 Lowcountry Bordello (8 page)

Eight

Maddison Row sat on the corner of Spring and President. It was a darling boutique in a large, three-story, white building that was likely once someone’s home. It had been modernized, and the street level windows and doors redone in warm, natural woods. The black-and-white-striped awnings made me smile.

I rushed through the door and immediately began apologizing. Lindsey, the store manager who’d been working with us, talked me down.

“You’re here now. Everything’s fine. Your mother and sister are right back here.” She led me to the viewing room.

Mamma and Merry folded me into a group hug and a cloud of happy chatter. No one mentioned my attire. Nicolette hung back, a tight smile on her face. A table against the wall held a bottle of champagne and four glasses.

Merry rushed to pour the bubbly. “We have to toast.” She filled our glasses and handed me mine.

Mamma smiled, tears in her eyes. She and Nicolette picked up their flutes.

Merry said, “To my sister. The most beautiful bride ever.”

“
Aww
. You’re so sweet.” I drank, then hugged her tight.

“Your shoes are in the bag by the dressing room,” she said.

Shoes. Panic with a chaser of sweet relief flooded through me. Lindsey couldn’t check the length without the shoes I’d wear down the aisle. I held Merry at arm’s length and beamed gratitude at her. “
Thank you
. You win Maid of Honor of the Year and World’s Best Sister Ever.”

“Here we go.” Lindsey carried in the dress and hung it in the dressing room.

“I can’t wait to see you in it again,” said Mamma.

I handed Merry my champagne glass and stepped behind the black and white print curtain.

Moments later, I emerged.

“Oh.” Mamma covered her mouth with both hands.

“You. Look. Fabulous.” Merry grinned.

Nicolette nodded. “It’s lovely.”

“Oh, I love that dress on you,” said Lindsey.

Lindsey led me to a black square box between antique floor-to-ceiling mirrors with silver and pearl frames. “Do you have your shoes on?”

“Yes.” I’d successfully resisted both Nicolette and Mamma and was wearing Kate Spade satin flats with pearl-accented bows on the toes. And I would totally be wearing the blue Kate Spade Happily Ever After flip-flops at some point during the reception.

Was that me in the mirror? The dress was perfection—the Ellie from Amsale Aberra’s Christos Bridal Line, it was a fit and flare gown with a champagne satin ribbon at the waist. Illusion netting with oh-so-delicate floral appliqué at the neckline and cap sleeves. The skirt had a tulle overlay that gave it an ethereal feel without making me look like a Disney princess or a meringue. I looked into the mirror behind me. The deep V in the back made the dress nearly backless.

“You look so beautiful,” Mamma said.

I smiled at her. Who wouldn’t feel beautiful in this dress?

Lindsey checked me over thoroughly, examined the length. “The fit looks perfect to me. What do you think?”

“I love it,” I said.

Something in my peripheral vision caught my eye. I turned my head. Colleen. She wore a wide smile. Tears slid down her face. What I wouldn’t give to have her alive and one of my bridesmaids.

“When do you want to pick it up?” Lindsey asked.

“Friday?”

“We’ll have it steamed and ready to go.”

“Sugar, are you sure you don’t want to wear a veil?” Mamma asked. “It’s not too late. They have some lovely ones here in the store.”

I stepped down, walked over, and put my hand on her arm. “Mamma, I wore a veil the first time. I’m going into this marriage eyes wide open. And I’m not hiding any part of my true self. It’s symbolic for me.”

“I understand.” She smiled and nodded.

Lindsey said, “I love the floral antique brooch. It’s going to be perfect with your hair up in a side sweep.”

“Run and change now,” Mamma said. “I want to have lunch with my girls.” The look she gave Nicolette issued no invitation to join.

I floated back into the dressing room.

Mamma said, “Honey, after you change, put on some lipstick. You look a little pale.”

Merry laughed.

“You need some, too, Esmerelda,” said Mamma.

An hour and a half later, after a decadent lunch at Charleston Grill and more champagne, I texted Nate from the backseat of the Prius I’d been Scooped up in:
Sit rep?

Half done
.

I replied:
On my way 2 help.

Doors locked. Fence post by door.

Then I texted Olivia:
Hey, r u free 4 dinner this evening
?

A few minutes later she replied:
Would love 2, but am having a girl’s day with friends. Having early dinner together. Won’t be back til after 6. Raincheck
?

Sounds good
, I responded.

If Seth happened to steal a look at her phone, this exchange wouldn’t raise his suspicions. But it told me things were going well, and we had until at least six to finish up. It was nearly three o’clock.

My phone made the Law and Order noise.
Boink-boink
. Damnation. Sonny. I could not talk to him yet. I sent the call to voicemail.

The driver dropped me off in front of the bed and breakfast. I scanned Church Street. No one in sight. I jogged over to number 12. The keys dangled against the inside of the wide post. Nate had hung them from a long piece of fishing line looped around the ball-shaped finial. I pulled on the string, retrieved the keys, and slipped them into my pocket. I pulled a pair of latex gloves out of the zippered compartment in my tote and pulled them on. Then I opened the door and slipped through, closing it right behind me and locking it.

I climbed the steps to the porch, walked past the front parlor windows, and stopped by the front door. There, from the supplies I’d stashed in my tote earlier, I pulled a vacuum-sealed bag. I tore open the plastic and shook out a disposable hooded coverall. I stepped into the built-in shoe covers, pulled the jumpsuit on, and tightened the hoodie around my face. The last thing we wanted to do was contaminate a possible crime scene.

We also wanted to be sure to leave no trace we’d been there. Who knew how far the investigation into this house would lead, or where it might eventually take the Charleston PD? While I had been inside the foyer and the parlor, I would have a hard time explaining if forensics were to find something I’d stepped in on Stella Maris or one of my hairs in another part of the house.

I let myself in the front door. The house was still. I texted Nate:
Foyer. Where r u?

Upstairs. Front bedroom
.

The staircase was a switchback, with a Palladium window at the turn. The raised panel wainscoting and woodwork detailing was the work of a craftsman. I made my way up the steps. A few of them creaked, but for a house built in 1810, it was remarkably well-maintained.

I turned towards the front of the house and stepped into the bedroom directly over the front parlor. The engraved silver doorplate announced I was entering the Calhoun Room. Dressed just like me, Nate stood on a chair near the center of the room. He was affixing a device with Velcro to the ceiling that looked exactly like any other smoke detector, but in fact held a motion and voice activated camera that would stream audio and video directly to our laptops across the street via Wi-Fi, courtesy of the mobile hotspot he’d installed in our room.

“I thought we were going to use the air purifiers,” I said. We had several versions of these devices.

“We had twelve of those. But this house is a huge monstrosity. I used six downstairs—front parlor, foyer, second parlor, dining room, kitchen, and keeping room. The ceilings are too tall to put the smoke detectors down there without a ladder. The bedrooms…most of them don’t have much clutter. Not many things on shelves and surfaces. I was afraid the air purifiers would be noticed anyway, so when I ran short, I started using these. Even though the rooms already have smoke detectors, these are much less likely to be spotted.” He shrugged. “If they are, most people would assume one is a smoke detector and the other carbon monoxide.”

“Where do you need me to start?”

“I can handle the equipment. Phone tap is in. Because the house is likely to be searched soon, I used the butt sett and put a recorder with a Wi-Fi transmitter on the junction box. If we can’t get all our equipment out before the search warrant is executed…Well, there’s no way they wouldn’t recognize a recorder found inside the house for exactly what it is. Thought maybe you’d want to search the rooms. I haven’t had a chance to get to that.”

“I’ll start with Miss Dean’s. A ledger would come in handy.”

“Master’s on the back end of the house. Three other bedrooms on this floor, and one on the third floor. Two more above the garage.”

“So eight bedrooms total, plus Seth’s in the guesthouse?”

“Right. None of Olivia’s keys fit the guesthouse lock. I had to get out the pick set for that. I did search the guesthouse while I was out there. Nothing helpful whatsoever. He drinks Budweiser and plays video games. I put a camera in the main room—small kitchen and a living room—but not his bedroom. We’re short on cameras, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not thrilled about all these bedroom cameras to begin with.”

I shuddered.

“Me either. But this is the quickest way to find out what we need to know. If any of these folks know anything, they’re more likely to talk about it behind closed doors. And, if any of the residents are in danger because of something
they
know, we’re close enough to intervene if necessary. These cameras serve two purposes: surveillance and protection.”

“I’m aware. Just unenthusiastic.”

“I don’t intend to watch the…action scenes. And neither will you.”

“I hope you’re not suggestin’ you think such a thing would hold appeal for me.”

“Of course not. I’ll be down the hall. It’s three fifteen. We need to be out clean by six.”

“Roger that.”

I followed the Oriental runner from the front bedroom to the back. A four-poster bed with cream-colored spread and taupe, brown, and robin’s egg blue accent pillows sat in the center of the right wall. To the left was a sitting nook anchored by a fireplace, with a chaise and a club chair and ottoman.

As with the rest of the house, the heart pine floors gave the space warmth. The furniture appeared to be heirloom quality antiques. This had to be the most tastefully decorated whorehouse in the history of whorehouses.

Methodically, I searched the room, beginning with the nightstand drawers. Thirty minutes later, I verified there were no hidden safes behind the paintings. I scanned the room. There was simply no place else to look. The closet and bathroom, while modern, well-appointed, and organized, were equally unrewarding. If Miss Dean had written records of her rents, she kept them somewhere other than her bedroom.

Was there a desk in the house? I went back downstairs. The front parlor held floor-to-ceiling bookcases, but no drawers. I didn’t have enough time to fan through every volume in the library.

The second parlor, to the right of the foyer as you came in the front door, was decorated similarly to the one in the front of the house. But there was a lovely desk in front of one of the windows. The room appeared to have more furniture than the others I’d seen. Had the desk been moved from the library to make room for the Christmas tree?

I sat in the wooden chair. The single drawer in the top center was locked. Damnation. I ran back upstairs and retrieved the pick set. It took me seconds to open the old lock. Inside the drawer, along with assorted office supplies, I found a leather-bound journal. I pulled it out and laid it on the desk. I held my breath as I opened the cover. Pay dirt.

The first page was dated June 14, 1995. Under the date, the first name listed was Bounetheau. I sucked in air. I was well acquainted with that family, and not in a good way. But that was a whole nother story. Underneath the name were months, beginning with June and ending with December. Each month had $1,000 beside it.

The next name was Huger, but the list of months began with July. The line for each month had $2,000 beside it. So a second room in the boardinghouse, as it was at that time according to Olivia, was occupied in July, at twice the rent as the first room.

In August, it appeared another tenant had moved in, and the last name listed was Middleton. The Middleton room had cost $1,000 per month. September brought the additions of Rutledge, and Simmons, both with the figure of $1,000 for each month. By December of 1995, the sisters had been bringing in $6,000 per month in rent for five rooms. One of the bedrooms would’ve been Mary Leona’s at that time, but that still left one room empty.

The next two pages covered 1996. The five names remained the same, and the rooms were filled for all twelve months. I flipped through the book. There was a lot of data here. I turned to the last pages with entries. The entire year of 2015 had the names Calhoun, Huger, Gibbes, Prioleau, and Russell listed. Still five rooms rented. That meant there must be two empty bedrooms in the house. Had Miss Dean not been able to bring herself to add Mary Leona’s former room to the rent roll?

Sweet reason. In 2015, all the rooms were going for $10,000 per month, with the exception of the Huger room at $20,000. Miss Dean had brought in $60,000 every month that year. And the girls were given an allowance on top of that, Olivia had said. Clearly there were men in Charleston with way more money than sense.

I pulled my iPad out of my tote, opened the scanner app, and started scanning with the most recent pages. If something interrupted me, I wanted the most relevant data secured. It was tedious work, with nearly forty pages of information covering twenty years.

No first names were recorded and no name for the “niece.” It was a rent ledger for each room, with the room names changing periodically. When I’d scanned all the pages, I put the journal back where I’d found it and re-locked the drawer.

The next piece of information I wanted was first names for the gentlemen who paid the rent and real names for the residents. We needed to know who we were dealing with before I could start investigating them.

I returned to the front bedroom upstairs, the Calhoun room. Nate had finished and moved on. I studied the room. Like the master bedroom, it was tastefully decorated in shades of cream and taupe. Here the accents were green. On the dresser, a silver tray held a crystal decanter of amber liquor, a single matching rocks glass, an ice bucket, a bottle of Schug pinot noir, and a single wineglass.

A picture frame on the left bedside table held a photo of the raven-haired girl, Amber, and a brown-headed, clean-shaven man with intelligent eyes and a nice smile. I pegged him at forty-ish. Though clearly much older than Amber, he wasn’t what I’d been expecting. He didn’t look like a dirty old man. Something about him shouted his pedigree. It appeared they were at an outdoor party, a pool in the background. I snapped a photo of the smiling couple.

In the bottom drawer of the left bedside table, I found a zippered portfolio. I laid it on the bed, opened the zipper, and eased it open. The document on top was a grade report from the College of Charleston for the second summer session. Amber McDonald had taken FINC 402 – Derivatives Securities. She’d made a 4.0.

I leafed through the portfolio. Additional grade reports, school correspondence, a passport, various other personal documents—all in the name of Amber McDonald. I photographed her passport.

I glanced at the time on my phone. Four twenty. From what I’d seen, this room could’ve belonged to any college student, except it was far neater than any I’d seen when I was in college myself. I would’ve liked to’ve searched her room further, but I had six more bedrooms to go through. With meticulous care, I put the portfolio back in order, zipped it, and returned it to the drawer. I did a quick search of the medicine cabinet in the adjoining bath, but found nothing more unusual than Tylenol.

The next room down the hall on the right was the Russell Room. It was smaller than the room on the front of the house, but similarly decorated. The silver tray on the dresser held the same refreshments. The only variation was the pinot noir here was an Estancia. Again, a single framed photo of the redhead named Lori with an early forties gentleman who reminded me of Kevin Spacey with a mustache. The picture could’ve been taken at the same event—a summer party.

Lori’s portfolio was similar to Amber’s, but harder to locate. I worked my way methodically through all the furniture, then moved to her closet, which was a revelation in so many ways. Clearly “Kevin Spacey” Russell had a thing for role-playing. An assortment of costumes hung in Lori’s closet, everything from a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, to sexy nurse, to cheerleader, to french maid, to a business suit with a skirt far too short to wear to any office.

The information identifying Lori as Lori Stowe, a twenty-two-year-old Information Systems Specialist student at Trident Tech, was hidden between sweaters folded on her closet shelf. I snapped photos of her passport and the framed photo.

The next room on the right was the Huger room. It was the same size and layout as Lori’s room and had the basics the other rooms had—antiques and a neutral décor. Why was this smaller room worth twice as much as all the others? The silver tray on the dresser held a decanter of dark liquor, ice bucket, and two rocks glasses—no wine. The bedside photo was of the brunette, Dana. The gentleman she was with also looked to be in his early forties, and boy, was he a looker. Salt-and-pepper hair, happy brown eyes, a chiseled face.

In the closet, in an otherwise empty makeup travel case, I found a portfolio like the ones the first two girls had. These cases to hide your real identity must be a custom of the house. Dana’s legal name was Dana Clark, age twenty-seven. She was a graduate nursing student at MUSC, working on her MSN. She was studying to be a nurse practitioner. Her passport had stamps from all over the world. I snapped a photo of the identification page, put everything back, and left the closet.

I continued down the hall to the last room on the left, the Prioleau Room. The neutral color palette in here was accented with soft rose. Two crystal decanters were on the silver tray in this room. One held an amber liquor, the other clear. As with the last room, there was an ice bucket and two rocks glasses. Smiling back at me from the bedside picture frame—another pool party shot—was one of the blondes, Heather. But the gentleman in the photo appeared to be close to her age. He had brown hair, round, wire-rimmed glasses, and a confident grin.

Heather’s secrets were in the large bottom drawer of her dresser. Some of her secrets reminded me of Victoria’s—bras, panties, bustiers, stockings, garters, teddies, baby doll nighties, et cetera. As squeamish as digging through someone else’s underwear drawer made me, nevertheless, all kinds of ideas popped into my head regarding last minute trousseau shopping.

The zippered portfolio identifying Heather as Heather Wilder, a graduate student in environmental studies at the College of Charleston, was in the bottom of the drawer. Heather was twenty-seven. I took my photos, slid the portfolio back under neatly folded silk and lace, and moved on.

On the third floor, I found the Gibbes Room—the one that belonged to the couple who’d gone to Innsbruck. This room was large, with views of both Church Street and the harbor beyond a line of rooftops and treetops. Like all the others, it had a modern, private bath. The picture from the pool party showed Wendi, another blonde with large green eyes, and the man who must be Nathaniel Gibbes. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. I stared at the photo. Did this sandy-haired man have a wife? Children? He should be coaching soccer. As in Heather’s room, Wendi’s hostess tray indicated both parties preferred the liquor in the decanter. I sniffed. Smelled like bourbon to me. Wendi’s bureau sported nice lingerie, sexy, but nothing more adventurous than what I had in my own drawer. I moved to the closet.

A long alligator case in the corner caught my eye. I pulled it out onto the bed and opened it. Oh, sweet reason. It was a portable stripper pole that appeared to work something like a tension drapery rod when assembled. Interesting. Could be fun for consenting adults in the privacy of their own home. I put it back where I found it.

Boink-boink
. Sonny’s ringtone. I stared at his photo on the screen for a few seconds feeling guilty, then sent the call to voicemail. He hadn’t let a message the first time he’d called, but I could guess what he wanted.

A backpack on the floor of Wendi’s closet held a few textbooks and her portfolio. Her real name was Wendi Hill, age twenty-five. She’d graduated from Charleston Southern University, a Christian affiliated institution supported by the Baptist denomination, with a double major in psychology and sociology. No doubt her alma mater would take a dim view of her current situation. I snapped my photos and went to find the entrance to the wing over the garage.

I went back to the main floor and walked towards the back of the house. From the foyer, I passed through the parlor where I’d found the desk, the dining room, and into a modernized kitchen a realtor would no doubt describe as “gourmet.” Restaurant-quality appliances, vanilla-glazed modern cabinetry, and granite countertops somehow managed to look as if they belonged in the historic house.

Beyond the kitchen, a cozy keeping room with a fireplace, more bookcases, and deep furniture invited one to sit a spell. From both the kitchen and the keeping room, there were views of a pool and spa hidden from the world by garden walls and greenery.