Lowcountry Bombshell (A Liz Talbot Mystery) (23 page)

“After we build a sand castle, we can wash the sand off each other…” Nate smiled wickedly.

“How about a compromise?”

“And that would be?”

“After breakfast, I can work for two hours wrapping things up so I feel comfortable. Then we’ll have lunch and spend the afternoon on the beach.”

“And then I can wash the sand off of you?”

“Why, naturally.” I offered him my sultriest smile.

“Deal.”

Moon Unit delivered our breakfast. “I’m still thinking on it. Seems like he had two first names.” She whirled and was gone.

I needed to figure out what to do about Dr. Gadsden. Calista remained unconvinced that his relationship with her was inappropriate. Because I worked for her, I couldn’t call up whatever agency regulated therapists and file a report. My loyalty was to her, but that also meant protecting her from unscrupulous headshrinkers. I’d have to deal with him later—find a way to convince her.

I zeroed in on Ryder Keenan, digging deeper into his background. Except for the fact he was in debt over his head, there were no red flags. And a lot of people in this country had debt. I called Mack Ryan, and he told me Keenan had been off Friday night. So he could’ve been the guy on the ferry.

But he wasn’t Elenore’s love child. His family was from Summerville, but they’d lived there for several generations, and his parents were still married to each other.

I dug around for a birth certificate with Elenore’s maiden name—Causby—but still couldn’t find birth records for any children of hers except her three children with Warren. Her older son must’ve been born out of state. My databases accessed all fifty states, but the information available varied from state to state, as did the search criteria and the completeness of information. This would take more time.

Then I started fleshing out Joe Fernandez’s profile, looking for any connection who might have known about the lottery numbers. But that’s not the kind of information stored in databases. I searched the archives of the
Post and Courier
and read everything they’d printed about Joe’s death. There was nothing about the burglary or Calista’s attack. And not a word about that lottery jackpot after the one mention of the unclaimed prize. Calista’s advisors had done a good job of keeping her anonymous.

I needed to talk to the staff at the mini-mart, though I realized it was unlikely the same clerks would be there several years later. That type of job was not exactly a long-term career. I was just about to shut the archive window down when a headline caught my eye:
Convenience Store Clerk Missing.

I read the article three times.

I called Calista. “Did you know the clerk who sold Joe the winning Powerball ticket disappeared the same night Joe was killed?”

She inhaled sharply. “I had no idea. I was in sort of a state for months after Joey died and…the burglary. The law firm I hired claimed the prize for me, but that was more than a month later. They never mentioned anything about the clerk going missing. Do you think he did it? He could easily have remembered the numbers. Joe bought tickets at the same store every time.”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “If so, he’s not acting alone. He could be in on it—part of a conspiracy. It’s either that, or someone made him disappear because he knew whose numbers those were. Is your Marine on duty?”

“Yes. I’ve invited him in for lemonade.”

“Calista, send him right back outside. I don’t think we’re in the clear yet. Someone needs to be on guard.”

“All right.” 

A quick call to Sonny verified my suspicion. Roy Lee Jenkins had never been found.

Nate held me to my deal, even after I told him about Roy Lee Jenkins. He was not swayed by my concern for poor Roy Lee’s mamma, who had never found out what happened to her only son.

“Liz, you can’t make everything all right for everybody,” Nate said. He said this to me a lot.

Finally I gave in. Nate can be very persuasive when he sets his mind to it. We spent Tuesday afternoon and evening frolicking outdoors and in. It was fun—we kept things light. Maybe too light to suit me. There was a pall over my happiness. It was unusual for Nate and me to disagree on a case. He might think this one was solved. But every instinct I possessed screamed it wasn’t.

TWENTY-NINE

Early Wednesday, I headed over to West Ashley. The clerk at the Mini Mart on Sam Rittenberg was busy, so I browsed until the crowd thinned. By that time he was eying me like maybe I was casing the joint.

I approached the counter with my Diet Cheerwine slowly, smiling. His nametag labeled him as Boone. I showed Boone my PI license. That seemed to calm his nerves.

“Boone, were you working here a few years ago when someone bought that big lottery ticket?”

“No ma’am. I ain’t worked here but three months.”

“Do you know anyone who was working here then?”

“Prolly the manager was. His name is Mister Patel.”

“Does Mister Patel come in today?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’ll be in at ten. He’s real prompt.”

I nodded. “Good to know. Boone, if it’s okay with you, I’ll just pay for my Cheerwine, and wait in my car for Mister Patel.”

He shrugged. “Well, sure, okay.” He rang me up.

At five minutes to ten, a gentleman arrived and walked behind the counter. Boone pointed at me and was explaining all about me when I walked back into the store.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Patel. “How may I help you?”

I asked if he had managed the store when the big lottery ticket was sold.

“Oh, yes ma’am. Very exciting. The store won a prize, too, for selling the ticket.”

“Do you remember the gentleman who sold the ticket? Roy Lee Jenkins?”

“Yes, yes. I don’t know what happened to him. He left work one night and disappeared. His mother reported him missing. I checked with the police several times. I don’t think they ever found him.”

“Was he unreliable? The type to maybe just quit and leave town and not say anything?”

“Oh, no ma’am. He was very conscientious. Came in early for his shifts. He was always available to take an extra shift if someone called in sick. Ehh…he was a little strange—very, very quiet. Hard to engage in conversation. But he was polite to the customers. He was a good employee.” 

For Roy Lee’s sake, I’d been hoping to hear he’d wandered off before. “Mr. Patel, do you have cameras in the store?” I could clearly see that he had several.

“Yes.”

“Do you tape the feeds?”

“Yes. But the tapes are reused every thirty days.”

Damnation.

“Unless there’s a reason to keep them.” He smiled.

“Did you keep the tape from the night the big ticket was sold?”

“Yes, that one we kept.”

“Did the police ever ask you for it? After Roy Lee disappeared?”

“No. I thought they might, but no one ever asked to see it. There were many crimes to solve—murders, gang activities, drugs. In a tourist town, it is important to make people feel safe. The police were very, very busy. There was no evidence Roy Lee was a victim of a crime. I suspect they thought Roy Lee simply left town. His mother made a very big disturbance with the police department. One of the police officers thought he left to get away from her.”

“May I see the tape?”

He hesitated. “Are you searching for Roy Lee?”

I decided to keep things simple. “Yes.”

“The man who won all the money. Did he ever get it? It was very strange. We never heard. Usually there’s a big ceremony.”

“The prize was claimed.” I offered him my sunniest smile. “Is the tape here?”

“Well, it is a DVD. High tech. No, it’s in storage. I can find it for you. It may take a day or two.”

I sighed and swallowed my impatience. Pushing my luck wasn’t smart. Nothing said Mr. Patel had to give me the time of day, much less a DVD. “Thank you so much.” I pulled out a business card. “Would you call me when you find it?”

“Surely.” He nodded several times.

“Thank you. It’s very important. I really do appreciate your help.”

“You are very welcome.” He smiled and nodded.

I smiled and waved. “Bye now.”

We continued smiling, him nodding and me waving, until I was out the door.

I had an early lunch at The Blind Tiger Pub on Broad. I had a powerful hankering for their pot roast sandwich. They put roasted tomatoes, caramelized onions, Swiss cheese, and horseradish-sour cream on it, and it  was to
die
for. But I ordered the fried green tomato caprese instead, and lingered over my salad and iced tea. I had some time to kill before Dr. Gadsden would be back from his session with Calista.

I’d asked her to move it to ten on the pretext that I needed to meet with her at twelve. The good doctor rarely stayed less than two hours. Of course, I’d canceled my appointment this morning on another pretext. I felt bad about manipulating my own client, but I needed to deal with this doctor.

The protective urge I felt towards Calista struck me as odd given that, at thirty-six, she was five years older than me. I always did my best to get results for my clients. But this was the first time I’d experienced an instinct to look after one. Something about her inspired that. It occurred to me that this could be a slippery slope, and perhaps I wasn’t the first to go down it.   

I parked a block down from his Broad Street office and waited for him to return. He must’ve stopped for lunch, because it was almost two when he finally showed. I knew he was in his late fifties, and he looked his age. He was roughly five-ten, had a paunch, light brown hair, and a receding hairline. I scrambled out of the car, caught up to him, and followed him inside. He regarded me quizzically from behind square-rimmed glasses, but held the solid wood door for me.

“Thank you so much,” I said.

“Do we have an appointment?” He smiled, all courteous.

By that time, we were in his elegantly appointed lobby. A man waited in a wingback by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I leaned in close. “No,” I whispered conspiratorially. “But I do need just a moment of your time. It’s regarding a patient whose life I’m afraid is in grave danger.” This was the truth.

He drew back and scrutinized me. “Did you try making an appointment with my receptionist?”

I glanced at her. She stood and crossed her arms.

“Yes, sir, I surely did,” I whispered. “But she declined to make me one. And this is of the utmost importance. It’s about Calista McQueen.”

The receptionist objected to the whispering. “Doctor, is everything all right? Your two o’clock is waiting.”

He squinted at me. For a moment, I was sure he was going to order me out of his office. But curiosity won the day. “I’ll be just a moment,” he said to the receptionist. He regarded me like a spider he was considering squashing, but thought might be poisonous and didn’t want to get that close. “This way.”

He walked into his private office and I followed. He sat behind his colossal desk. “What’s this all about?”

I approached his desk, but remained standing. “I told you. It’s about Calista McQueen.”

“What about Ms. McQueen? You mentioned her life was in danger?”

“Yes, it is. And she is being protected around the clock.”

“I’m happy to hear it. What can I help you with?”

“Doctor, here’s the thing. I don’t know what your relationship is to your other patients, and really, it’s not my concern.”

“I beg your—”

“But I do know, for a fact, that your relationship with Ms. McQueen has crossed several doctor-patient boundaries.”

He stood, red-faced. “Get out of my office.”

“Oh, believe you me, sir, I will not stay here one single second longer than absolutely necessary to make my point.”

“And that would be what, exactly?”

“You’ve just had your last session with Calista McQueen.”

“I most certainly have not. Who do you—”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but in the interest of not keeping your next patient, God help him, waiting, I need to cut to the chase. And really, who I think I am isn’t relevant. Focus. You have an inappropriate relationship with a patient. I know it, and so do you. Cut ties with her today. Refer her elsewhere, or better yet, tell her she doesn’t need more therapy.”

“I think not.” He oozed indignation.

“Here’s how this is going to go,
Doctor
. At five o’clock, I’m going to call Calista. If she fails to mention your sudden defection, I will be back. And next time, I will bring a Charleston police detective and a warrant. And, I will talk to a reporter about your scandalous behavior. I’ll report you to the South Carolina Board of Examiners. What do you think they’ll have to allow about you asking Calista to come and stay at your home—with your wife out of town no less?”

He started sputtering. His red face now sported splotches of purple.

“I. Have. Evidence” I glared at him like I was trying to knock him backward via telekinesis.

He dropped into his chair.

“So. We good here?” I asked.

He looked at his desk for a long moment, then nodded.

“I’ll see myself out.”