LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB (10 page)

EIGHT

  

I did some of my best thinking on the ferry ride from Stella Maris to Isle of Palms. That particular morning, I was conflicted on several fronts. On the one hand, my training and experience said the smart bet was that Shelby'd had an affair. But I didn't want to believe that.

And because we only had two suspects for the role of Shelby's lover, and one of them had an alibi, that pointed to Sonny. But that went against everything I knew about the man. On the trip into Charleston, I pondered scenarios wherein Charles Kinloch might've had an accomplice to do his dirty work. A rejected lover might resort to cold-blooded murder if he had sociopathic tendencies. But nothing in his background—at least what was on record—hinted at such a thing. I needed to know more about Charles Kinloch.

Once on the peninsula, I headed towards the Kinlochs' home on Huger Street. I'd done some preliminary snooping using Google Street View, and familiarized myself with how the home was situated in the block. There's nothing like a satellite view. I drove past slowly. A two-story frame house, it appeared newish for Charleston. The green wood siding and beige trim looked freshly painted. Flower boxes overflowed on the porch railing. On the wide front porch, deep-cushioned wicker furniture invited you to sit a spell. The house and yard had a spit-shined look to it, like maybe someone had staged it to show.

Jane and Charles Kinloch may have lived in a more modest neighborhood than some of their friends, but they kept things nice. I'd pulled their car registrations Tuesday night. Through the windows in the dark-stained wood garage doors, the tops of both Charles's dark blue Range Rover and Jane's Audi SUV were visible. No way to let myself in and browse through their house for possible motives or evidence of a personality disorder. Damnation.

I had a couple of hours until I had to be at Delta Tisdale's for book club. At the stoplight at Huger and Rutledge I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. And then I set Charles Kinloch aside for the moment.

I tried calling Paul Baker, but got his voicemail. I didn't leave a message. I zipped on over to the also prescreened West Ashley brick ranch where he and his wife lived with their two kids. Unlike the Kinlochs, the Bakers appeared to've left for the day. Paul's wife worked at a downtown inn. The kids should be at school. Unless something outside the ordinary routine happened, she and the kids wouldn't be home until mid-afternoon at the earliest. The question was, where was Paul?

If he was working a case, he could be anywhere, and be home at any time. He kept an office on Ashley River Road, not much more than a mile from the house, in a strip mall that might've been built in the seventies. I headed in that direction.

The building was brick, but each of the storefronts was painted a different color. Baker's was the washed-out blue one in the middle. His Dodge Caravan—an excellent choice for a PI—was parked in front of the office. I pulled around to the side of the building and parked between two sedans. The side road was narrow and deserted. I popped open the back of the Escape and walked around. My long tan raincoat covered my outfit completely. I pulled my hair up under a ball cap and slid on my largest, darkest sunglasses. Then I retrieved a GPS tracker from the toy box.

I walked around front and strolled down the sidewalk. An awards shop, an empty storefront, Paul Baker Investigations, a Japanese restaurant, a bar, and an office of indeterminate business. A handful of cars were parked out front in the slanted spaces that bordered the sidewalk. But no one was coming or going.

I slipped between Baker's minivan and the SUV parked beside it, faked a stumble just in case I was being observed from inside, caught myself on the side of the Caravan, and slipped the GPS underneath it as I stood.

I smoothed my coat, looked around. Still no company. I walked with a slight limp back to the sidewalk, and slowly made my way back to the end of the building, playing the part all the way to the end of the scene. No one came to see if I was all right. This likely meant no one had seen me “fall.”

Back in the Escape, I opened the tracking software on my iPad. The GPS signal was transmitting. I could see the tracker on Baker's van as a dot inside a blue circle on a map. I set the alarm feature to notify me if the van moved, then headed back to the Baker residence. If Paul Baker left the office and came in my direction, I'd know it. I'd also know everywhere else he went.

I parked on the street around the corner. If any of the neighbors happened to be home, they might notice a strange car in the driveway. I scanned the street. It was mid-morning on a weekday. This was a working-class neighborhood. No one was around.

I put my pick set in my pocket, grabbed a kit with a few other toys and slid them along with my iPad into my tote. I walked back to the Baker house. From across the street, I studied the perimeter. It looked to be a three-bedroom, two-bath ranch. Did Baker have the same level of security that we did?

I pulled out my binoculars and scanned for exterior cameras. No sign of any. Several varieties of palm trees and a magnolia screened much of the front of the house, but not enough. Since I'd dressed for the book club meeting, I wasn't disguised enough to go in through the front.

I slipped around back. No exterior cameras here either. But was there a security system inside, and was it armed? I glanced at my iPad to be sure. Baker's van hadn't moved. I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my tote and slipped them on.

I retrieved my pick set from my coat pocket. In less than a minute, I had the deadbolt and the knob lock open. I eased open the back door and entered the kitchen. No tell-tale beeping announced an alarm system that demanded an access code. There were no obvious signs of door sensors, motion detectors, glass breaks, or cameras. Baker could easily have a do-it-yourself system that had none of those things or concealed them well. But his van wasn't moving. If he had any sort of system, I hadn't tripped it. Yet.

I could've spent all day going through Paul Baker's house, but I didn't have that kind of time. He could head home at any moment. He was a PI, and I had to assume, too smart to leave evidence on his computer. And too smart to deposit a large sum of money in a bank account. If he'd taken money to throw the Gerhardt case, he'd likely stashed it somewhere close. Given the apparently unsecured nature of his home, it wasn't likely here. But I had to check.

I went for the closets.

I navigated through the dining area and den and headed down the hall towards the bedrooms. The master was at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open. The bed wasn't made. The room had a cluttered look. I set my iPad on the chest of drawers, glanced at the screen. All clear.

I moved to the closet. The doors were standing open. Many empty hangers mixed in with the hanging clothes. No suitcase in sight. I checked the chest of drawers and dresser. The contents looked thin, like half the clothes were gone.

I went to the other bedrooms. The Bakers had one boy and one girl. Their closets and dressers were likewise low on inventory. I pulled out my iPhone and Googled Planters Inn on North Market. When the results displayed, I tapped the phone icon on the top hit to call.

I asked to speak to Mrs. Baker, said I was calling from the school.

“She's not in this week. They're on vacation. I hope everything's all right with the kids.”

“Everything's fine,” I said. “I have another contact number. Thank you so much.”

The state of the kids' rooms told me that wherever the Bakers had gone, they'd taken the kids along. And they may or may not be coming back in a week. It was odd they'd take the kids out of school for a vacation this close to the end of the year.

Had something spooked Paul and he sent his wife and kids out of town? Or had she left him for one of the standard reasons that had nothing to do with my case? Was he at his office after all, or did he just leave the van there?

I searched the closets more thoroughly. No sign of a bag of cash. The ceilings were the white popcorn stuff blown over sheetrock. No panels to pop up. I pulled the rope to let down the folding attic stairs. Carefully, I climbed the steps, thankful I'd chosen the lower stacked heels.

At the top of the stairs, I pulled the string attached to a light socket. A dim glow revealed a few pieces of plywood flooring with a dozen boxes scattered around. I opened one after the other. Christmas decorations, baby paraphernalia, assorted memorabilia no longer wanted downstairs, but too sentimental to throw away.

The alarm on my iPad sounded.

I scrambled down the rickety stairs, folded them back up, and closed the attic access. Then I dashed back to the master bedroom.

The van was moving. The blue dot was headed in my direction.

I crammed my iPad in my tote and scurried towards the kitchen. I turned the knob lock, closed the door, and dashed back towards the Escape. I climbed in, shut the driver's side door, started the engine, and pulled away. I drove around the block and waited at the stop sign.

Moments later the Dodge Caravan passed the intersection and pulled into the driveway. Paul Baker got out, looked around, scanned the neighborhood. His eyes slipped by the Escape.

Should I confront him? If he'd taken money to look the other way, he was hardly going to tell me all about it. Better to monitor the GPS, keep an eye on him. And see if his wife and kids came home.

I turned the corner and drove away, pulling off my ball cap and fluffing my hair as I went.

NINE

  

I hurried over to Delta Tisdale's charming Colonial Revival mansion on Rutledge Avenue overlooking Colonial Lake. While the house was two blocks north of Broad Street, it was nevertheless no doubt worth a million and a half, maybe more. The double semi-circular porticos and grand columns made the large white house appear even larger. I pegged it at somewhere north of five thousand square feet.

I might've been able to snag a parking spot on the street alongside Colonial Lake, except for the ongoing park improvement project. The landscaping, walkways, and the infrastructure of the lake itself, which was tied via underground pipe to the Ashley River, were all being redone. The entire park was a construction site, fenced for the duration with chain-link, the supports for which sat in what would otherwise be parking spaces.

If things went the way I planned, I would be inside a while. Best not to chance street parking in a residential area without a decal. I made for the closest parking garage at 93 Queen. After I parked, I swapped out my sunglasses and took off my raincoat and left it in the back. It was a short walk back—less than half a mile straight down Queen.

I loitered on the corner of Queen and Rutledge, faked a phone call for the benefit of child-strollers and dog walkers. I was early on purpose. To say the least, Jane hadn't been enthusiastic about me joining their book club meeting this afternoon. I wanted to catch her on the way in, before Delta or one of the other ladies had a chance to complain to Jane about the intrusion. These were Southern ladies. I knew my people. They would not be ungracious to my face.

I'd considered using a pretext, having Jane claim me as a relative or some such thing. The trouble was that Jane was unaccustomed to lying. At least that was my working theory. In this case, the truth would likely work best. I would be a novelty. These ladies had almost assuredly never met a private investigator.

At eleven forty-five, Jane approached my corner from the same direction I'd come. I ended my imaginary phone call, set Voice Memo to record, and slipped my phone into my inside jacket pocket. I waved to Jane. She waved back, flashed a quick smile.

“Good morning,” I called, when she was close enough that I didn't have to shout.

“Good morning. I started to call you several times. I'm not at all sure about this.” Jane wore a blue and white print skirt and a sweater set. She carried a copy of
The Prince of Tides
.

“Did you get pushback?”

“Not really. I spoke to Delta. We agreed not to mention it to the others. We're going to introduce you together when everyone gets here. You have to understand. This is highly unusual. None of us know you. Well, I mean, I do, of course. Anyway, it will be easier for both of us if she and I are a united front, so to speak.”

I grinned. “So we're going to ambush a group of ladies who lunch.”

Jane flushed. “I'm really not comfortable ambushing my friends. But Delta and I both feel that given the circumstances, it's better this way. If we'd told everyone, some of them might've stayed home.”

“You're right. That was very smart of y'all.” I'd almost asked her to do exactly that, but she'd been so skittish I didn't want to push my luck. “Do you know if everyone is planning to come? You mentioned something yesterday about not everybody showing up to meetings. That was why someone thought their daughter-in-law could join from the wait list?”

“Mary Bernard. Yes. That was her logic for bringing Angela McConnell—her daughter-in-law to be—off the waiting list. But I think everyone is coming today. We've only met twice since Shelby…We took January and February off. March and April we had perfect attendance.”

“Shall we go inside?” I asked.

Jane's chest rose and fell with a deep breath. She squared her shoulders. “We might as well.”

We crossed Queen Street together and walked up the sidewalk on Rutledge to the wrought iron walk-thru gate. A brick sidewalk led to wide brick steps, which led in turn to the lower portico. Planters at the top of the steps overflowed with large pink blossoms. As we walked up the steps, I noticed that the porch ceiling was painted a soft blue.

“A haint blue porch.” I smiled at the tradition. Southerners often painted porch ceilings pale blue to ward off evil spirits.

“You know that doesn't work.” Colleen materialized on a wrought iron bench on the porch.

“It's lovely, isn't it?” said Jane. “Wait 'til you see the rest of the house. It was originally built in 1903, but a lot of the woodwork was brought here later from Belvedere Plantation when it was dismantled.”

Jane rang the bell to the right of the double white doors.

“I don't know how long I can stay,” said Colleen.

I'm just glad you're here.
I smiled at her.

“You say that now.” She grinned.

Colleen had a habit of messing with me, trying to provoke me into talking to her in front of others. It was her favorite game.

I need to talk to you later.

The door swung open. A lovely brunette with porcelain skin, dimples, and bright blue eyes stood on the other side. Her deep rose-colored skirt suit complimented her coloring. “Hey, y'all.”

“Hey, Delta,” said Jane. “This is Liz Talbot. Liz, this is Delta Tisdale.”

“So lovely to meet you.” I held out a hand. She didn't look like a zombie alien Sasquatch nut.

She took my hand and gave it a ladylike shake. “Oh, it's so nice to meet you too. Come inside. Y'all are the first ones here.”

We stepped into the foyer. The house truly was gorgeous. If it was elaborate for my taste, I could still appreciate the ornate woodwork, crystal chandeliers, and antiques. We followed Delta into a living room to the left.

“Please have a seat,” Delta said.

A sofa faced the fireplace, above which a gilded mirror rose all the way to the ceiling. Fresh-cut flowers in a crystal vase sat in front of the mirror. Wingbacks flanked the fireplace, and a pair of parson's chairs sat at a right angle to the sofa on each end. Additional chairs, perhaps from the dining room, had been brought in to accommodate the group.

I chose one of the wingbacks by the fireplace. This would give me a good view of the room and the foyer beyond. Also, I liked having my back to the wall. It creeped me out to think of sitting on that sofa with my back to the door.

“I appreciate you agreeing to me joining y'all today,” I said to Delta.

“Well, my goodness,” she said. “When Jane told me you were looking into Shelby's death, how could I say no? We all loved Shelby. And we know Clint would never have hurt her. The idea is preposterous. I'm just glad someone is working to clear his name. But I confess I am curious how we can help.”

“You were Shelby's closest friends. I need to learn as much about her as I can, as fast as I can. And it's possible one of you knows something that you don't realize is helpful to the case.”

“Or maybe one of you pushed her out that door in a jealous rage.” Colleen popped in and perched on the corner of the massive fireplace mantel. Right above my head.

This will be a big group. I'm going to have a hard time keeping track. Please don't comment unless you pick up on something I need to know. Please. I'll buy you as many ham biscuits as you like.

“You'd take every bit of fun out of this if you could,” said Colleen. “But I would like some ham biscuits. Fine.”

I smiled at Jane and Delta, who'd sat on the sofa across from me.

The doorbell rang and Delta popped up and went to answer it.

Jane smiled a nervous smile and looked out the window.

We heard Delta make all the same welcoming noises she'd made when we arrived. Then a petite, fifty-ish, blonde woman dressed in a St. John pantsuit entered the room in front of Delta. She carried a copy of
The Prince of Tides
.

Jane and I stood.

Delta said, “Evelyn Izard, please meet Liz Talbot. She's a friend of Jane's. Excuse me. I need to get the door.” Delta slipped back into the foyer, though the doorbell hadn't rung.

Jane's eyes doubled in size. Pique and discombobulation danced across her face. The united front method wasn't going to work as well in practice as planned. I couldn't be sure if she was put out with me, Delta, or both of us. She pulled on a welcoming smile, and turned to face Evelyn across the sofa. “Hey, Evelyn. How are you?”

Evelyn Izard. The runner's wife. She was Shelby's neighbor to the right. Her townhouse shared a wall with Clint and Shelby's. Clint had described Evelyn as a lush.

“Well, I'm fine, Jane. How are you?” Evelyn's eyes lighted on me with interest. “Now who did you say this was?”

“I'm Liz Talbot. So lovely to meet you.”

Evelyn studied me for a long moment, a small smile on her face. “Are you applying for our waiting list?”

“Oh, no…” I mentally calculated our age difference and decided against adding “ma'am.”

Evelyn turned to Jane and lifted her chin, indicating Jane should clarify exactly what I was doing there.

Jane said, “Delta and I thought we should just explain why Liz is here once, after everyone arrives.”

“I think that's best,” I said. “What a lovely outfit, Mrs. Izard. That shade of cream is so flattering to you.”

“Oh, please. Call me Evelyn. Thank you. I got it on sale at the end of the season. I never pay full price.” She commenced rattling on and on about clothes and sales.

I smiled, nodded occasionally.

Evelyn seemed practiced at one-sided conversations.

The doorbell rang again. Presently, Delta escorted a light brown-haired woman into the room. Her St. John pantsuit was navy, and of a slightly different style.

Jane waited for Evelyn to take a breath, then introduced Mariel Camp.

We said our hellos.

Mariel looked at Jane. “Is she here for the waiting list?” Mariel's tone announced her concern regarding the wait list.

Jane assured Mariel I had no interest in joining the book club.

Evelyn picked back up her monologue, but by now she was telling me about her children, who were positively brilliant.

The next three members came in a group, and I had the impression they often traveled that way: Anne Spence, Erin Guidici, and Liz Bell. I pegged them as in their early thirties. Fit, attractive, well-maintained, and all sporting impressive diamond and wedding band sets, these young Charleston matrons appeared to have the world on a string. They said their hellos to Jane and Mariel, smiled politely when introduced to me, then walked on by. They moved to a corner of the room to chat amongst themselves.

Next in was Mary Bernard, a tall, trim woman with shoulder-length brunette hair in a style that had involved curlers. She had Angela McConnell, her soon-to-be daughter-in-law in tow. I remembered from somewhere that Angela was twenty-eight. She was a dark-haired beauty with a sweet smile. Her diamond would compete well with those worn by the group in the corner.

Delta kept delivering new arrivals. Necks were hugged, air-kisses exchanged. Everyone carried a copy of
The Prince of Tides
. Jane waited for an opening in Evelyn's chatter and briefly introduced me to each in turn. Finally, counting me, there were nineteen of us in the room. One by one, I looked at each of the well-dressed women, remembering the names that went with the faces, imprinting it.

Delta stood in the doorway to the foyer. “Y'all, I think everyone is here.”

All of the ladies took a seat on cue.

Delta continued, “Welcome everybody to the May 2016 meeting of the Ashley Cooper Book Club. As is our custom, we'll begin with the collect.”

I felt my eyes grow. A collect? At book club?

Everyone stood.

“This is different,” said Colleen.

It was certainly very, very different from how my own book club meetings started. We opened the wine first thing. My only experience of collects was in church.

All the ladies pulled a small leather-bound notebook from their purses, opened it, and looked up at Delta.

I slid over to look with Evelyn.

In unison, we said:

  

“Keep us, O God, from pettiness;

let us be large in thought, in word, in deed.

  

Let us be done with fault-finding and

leave off self-seeking.

  

May we put away all pretense and meet each

other face to face—without self-pity

and without prejudice.

  

May we never be hasty in judgment and

always generous.

  

Let us take time for all things;

make us to grow calm, serene, gentle.

  

Teach us to put into action our better impulses,

straightforward and unafraid.

  

Grant that we may realize it is the little

things that create differences,

that in the big things of life we are at one.

  

And may we strive to touch and to know the great,

common human heart of us all, and

O Lord God, let us forget not to be kind!”

  

The collect was attributed to Mary Stewart, and titled simply “A Collect for Club Women.” What a lovely sentiment.

“They use that in Women's Clubs—service clubs—all over,” said Colleen.

How do you know that?

“You know that thing you use to look stuff up on the computer?”

Google?

“Whatever. I have something like it in my head now.”

Everyone closed their books and sat down. I slipped back over to my chair, smoothed my skirt, and sat.

Delta said, “We'll head into the dining room in just a moment. Francina has a lovely luncheon prepared for us. Everyone knows Angela, who is here today as Mary's guest.”