LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB (12 page)

“Have y'all reported this to anyone else?” I asked.

“No,” Erin said. “It seemed like…you know, just book club drama. Nothing that the police would be interested in. And no one's ever asked us a thing.”

The other Liz said, “But since you're here, and you did say we might know something but not realize it was important…We talked about it and decided you should determine if it was important or not.”

“Think hard,” I said. “Was that everything you heard?”

“Yes,” said the other Liz. “We've gone over it several times.”

“Thank you for telling me,” I said. “It might not be related to Shelby's death. But on the other hand, it could be. If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“I just feel so relieved,” said Erin.

“You did the right thing,” I said. “Hey, where were y'all on December 28—the night Shelby was killed? I have to document where all her friends were.”

Erin spoke for the group. “We were all at my house, having a dinner party. Our husbands were there, and two other couples. Would you like their names?” Her tone let me know she offered as a formality and fully expected me to say that wouldn't be necessary.

“That'd be great, thanks.” I offered her my sunniest smile.

She rattled off a couple of mister and missuses.

“Would you text me those names and phone numbers, please? Thank you so much. I need to get back downstairs.”

I was on the first landing when I heard the sound of glass breaking.

“Oh, Lord Jesus, save me!” The cry came from the back of the house.

I darted into the dining room, then stepped through the door to the left of the fireplace into the kitchen.

A black woman in khakis and a polo shirt, with an elaborate hairdo made up of baby dreads, was backed up against the oversized refrigerator. Broken china littered the tile floor around her. Her eyes were large with fright.

Colleen was on the other side of the island. She'd morphed back to where only I could see her. I assumed the plate and glass on the counter were hers.

“You must be Francina,” I said.

The lady in front of the refrigerator nodded.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

She shook her head vigorously.

Colleen said, “I slipped in here to eat. When she came in from the hallway, I dematerialized. But I didn't set my plate and glass down quite fast enough. I didn't mean to scare her.”

Delta burst into the room, follow by Jane, and as many of the other ladies as would fit. “Francina, what's wrong?”

“I went out to clear the dishes on the porch. I came back in with a stack of plates, and…I know this sounds crazy, but that plate and glass on the island? They were floating in the air, like someone was holding them. And then they just floated onto the island, all by themselves. I'm so sorry about your beautiful china. I'll replace it.”

“Don't be silly,” said Delta. “Have you had your lunch yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“I bet your blood sugar's dropped. Here, sit down and let me fix you a plate.” She led Francina to the kitchen table.

Francina kept staring at the plate on the island.

Delta raised her voice. “Everything's fine. Everyone please go back to the living room. I'll be right in.”

Slowly, with a lack of enthusiasm, the ladies evacuated the kitchen.

I hung back.

Colleen said, “I don't want Delta to not believe her. And I don't want that poor woman to feel like she needs to replace all that expensive china.”

What are you planning to—

Colleen picked up the plate and glass.

Francina pointed.

Delta turned to look.

She gasped and her eyes went wide. “What in this world?”

“Delta,” I said, “it's possible you have a ghost in the house. But it seems like a harmless one, if a bit mischievous.”

“Shelby?” said Delta.

“Oh Lord Jesus,” said Francina. “Is that you, Miss Shelby?”

“It could be,” I said. “Have you ever had anything like this happen before?”

“Never,” said Delta.

Colleen set the dish and glass on the counter.

Delta and Francina gasped and jumped a little.

“I wonder if she's trying to tell us something,” said Delta.

“If only she could,” I said.

Colleen, I'm going to leave. Sit in on the meeting. Stay as long as you can, and tell me what they talk about after I'm gone.

“I guess I owe you that much,” said Colleen.

Delta said, “I need to get back to the meeting. Francina, go on up to the front guest room. I'll fix you a plate and bring it up.”

“Thank you. I'd appreciate that.” Francina backed out of the room.

“Why don't you let me fix her a plate?” I said. “I'll take it up and just slip out after I get her settled. I think I have what I need.”

“That's probably for the best,” said Delta. “The business meeting is next, and we don't need to air our dirty laundry in front of you. Thank you for taking care of Francina.”

“My pleasure.”

Delta headed towards the pass-through to the dining room.

Colleen…

“I'm on it.”

I piled Francina's plate high and took it upstairs with a glass of the peach tea. She seemed to be recovering. She'd quickly attached to the idea that the ghost was Shelby. She knew Shelby meant her no harm.

“Thank you, Miss Liz,” she said.

“My pleasure. Can I get you anything else?”

“No ma'am. I'll be fine.”

“All right then. Bye now.” I stepped out of the guest room and pulled the door closed. This was a golden opportunity to snoop. See if Delta was the genteel lady she seemed to be, or perhaps the mean-spirited zombie-alien-Sasquatch crazy I'd first suspected her of being.

Just as the door clicked shut, Francina called out. “Miss Liz?”

I opened the door. “Yes, Francina. What is it?”

“Would you please leave the door open? Just in case…”

“Of course.”

Damnation.

I smiled. “Is there a powder room on this floor?”

“No ma'am. But there's one downstairs just off the hall.”

“Thanks.” The way the room was situated, Francina would see if I did anything but go back downstairs. Reluctantly, I moved towards the steps. I smiled and waved as I descended.

Francina waved back, smiling.

When I made it to the first landing, I could hear the minutes from the last meeting being read. Hell fire. I was going to have to go back into the room and get my purse. I padded towards the living room. Then I noticed my purse on the round table in the center of the foyer. Delta must've set it there for me. I picked it up and cast a glance into the living room as I walked by.

Colleen was on the job. She'd returned to her perch on the mantel.

I let myself out the front door and made my way back to the parking garage. As I set my purse on the passenger seat, I noticed a folded piece of ivory paper in the outside pocket.

I slipped it out and unfolded it. The unsigned note said, “It's possible Delta has a crush on Clint Gerhardt.”

And just like that, we had one more potential motive.

In sorting through the web of possible motives friends, family, and fond acquaintances might've had to kill Shelby, we'd somehow failed to consider what should've been obvious.

Clint was a handsome, wealthy man.

With Shelby out of the picture, he was a handsome, wealth, available man.

TEN

  

Tallulah Poinsett had agreed to speak to me at three. I had some time to kill, so I cruised East Battery, Water, Meeting, and South Battery with the moonroof open until a parking spot opened up on East Battery. Charleston was dressed in her prettiest spring frock—colorful blooms burst from planters, beds, and bushes. Deep green palm fronds danced against the bright blue sky. I parked and rolled the windows down.

I tried calling Sonny. He was apparently avoiding me. I left him another message and beat down my anxiety. I knew Sonny. If Shelby'd had an affair—and whether I liked it or not, it was looking more like she had—it wasn't with him.

I pulled my iPad out to check on Paul Baker. He had changed locations—or at least his van had. The map on my GPS locator screen had him at a spot on a back corner of Oak Plantation Campground, about seven miles down Savannah Highway from his house. Was he working a case, or hiding out? He surely wasn't vacationing that close to home. Was that where his wife and kids were?

I mulled the note someone—who?—had left in my purse. Delta, from all appearances, was a proper Southern lady, not a zombie alien Sasquatch loon after all. Divorce had become so commonplace it wouldn't diminish her reputation in the slightest. Would she covet her friend's husband? And if she did, was it an innocent crush she'd never act on? Or was it one of those boil the rabbit scenarios from
Fatal Attraction
? Maybe Colleen would pick up on something, spend some time browsing Delta's mind.

I opened the Numbers app on my iPad and created a spreadsheet with a list of all the book club members, my initial impressions of each, and the alibis I'd gathered already. Being at home with your kids was not a particularly strong alibi. That said, I wasn't keen on questioning the children to verify their mothers' alibis. I'd leave that as a last resort. With a couple of quick phone calls, I verified Erin, Anne, and the other Liz's whereabouts on the night Shelby died. Unless there was a conspiracy—too unlikely to spend time on at this point—they were all in the clear.

At three o'clock, I got out of the car and crossed the street to the Poinsett home. It was a lovely three-story, rosy-taupe colored masonry structure with stacked side verandahs and a front balcony with lacy wrought iron railing. I passed through the street-level gate and took the sidewalk to the door at the front of the house. I rang the bell and waited. Presently, a woman opened the door.

“Ms. Talbot?” she asked.

“Yes. Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Poinsett.” This beautiful creature could only be Shelby's mother. The resemblance was striking, though time and grief had lined Tallulah Poinsett's face. She wore her muted blonde hair in a bob. Her soft knit outfit might've come from J. Jill. While neat and attractive, nothing about her personal appearance screamed
I have tons of money.

“Of course. Please come in.” She led me down the hall and up the stairs to the second floor. The home could've been a museum. Built in the early 1800s, like several of its neighbors it had withstood the Civil War, the Earthquake of 1886, and countless hurricanes. The decor, though doubtless expensive, was tasteful and elegant.

“Let's talk on the verandah, shall we?” she said. “I've brought us out some iced tea.”

I followed her and we settled into a deeply cushioned wrought iron conversation area, me on the sofa, her in a chair. She poured us each a glass of tea, then picked hers up and slid back in her chair.

“Forgive Williams for not being here,” she said. “He just can't talk about Shelby without breaking down. It's still too fresh. Although, I honestly can't imagine this ever getting easier. They say it's the worst. Losing a child. I believe that's true.”

My eyes watered. “Mrs. Poinsett…” I swallowed hard. “I had hoped not to trouble you. I truly am sorry.”

“Nonsense. If I can help in any way, I want to. I know in my heart that Clint didn't hurt Shelby. I want whoever did to pay dearly.”

I nodded. “First, is there anything you can think of that you'd want me to know?”

“Just what I've told you. Clint is innocent. He's like mine, you understand? He's part of our family—one of us. Clint knew the value of family because he had such a horrible one when he was a child. He treasured Shelby.”

“I understand—I do. I hope you understand why I have to ask a few questions that will sound like I suspect him. I don't. I've met Clint. I want to help him, and in fact that's what I was hired to do. But because so often the love of money is at the root of violence, I need to ask the hard questions.”

“Very well.”

“I understand Shelby's trust was redone when she and Clint married.”

“That's right. That's what Shelby wanted. She never wanted money to be an issue between them. She said she wanted it to all be as much his as hers. Williams and I had thoroughly vetted Clint. We saw no reason not to do as Shelby asked.”

“So if they ever divorced, he would've gotten half of everything that was hers?”

“Well, it wasn't hers anymore. At least not only hers. So, yes. Half would've been his. It already was.”

“And jointly, their approximate net worth was…”

“Approximately two hundred and fifty million.”

I gulped several times, cleared my throat. “And now it's all his.”

“Well, yes,” she said. “But half of that would've been a great deal of money. Even if I thought him capable of such a thing, it's not reasonable that he killed her for the money.”

“I agree. Is there anyone else who benefitted financially in any way from her death?” I'd asked this question to both Clint and Jane. But with that much money involved, I needed verification.

“No. Williams and I have seen families devour themselves over money. We took steps to prevent that from happening to ours.”

I nodded, sipped my tea. “Were you aware of anyone Shelby was having problems with?”

“Not at all. Shelby was the kind of person who made peace with people. She always looked for ways to solve problems. She's just the last person in the world you'd think anyone would want to hurt.” Her voice cracked and a tear slipped down her face.

“I've heard several people say similar things—what a warm, tender-hearted person she was. I promise you, I'm going to do everything I can to find out who did this.”

She composed herself, took a few sips of tea. “I beg your pardon.”

“No, ma'am. I beg yours for stirring all this up.”

“It's not like it ever goes away.”

I swallowed hard, took a deep breath. “Do you know of anyone in Shelby's circle—friends, family—who you would say is maybe mercurial? Someone who might not've intended to hurt Shelby, but who maybe became overwrought?”

She sighed, stared out into the garden for a moment. “I dislike gossip. I never engage in it, nor did Shelby. But if I'm honest, I have to tell you that Delta Tisdale has always struggled with her emotions. At times I've wondered if she might be bipolar. Most of the time she's sweet as sugar. But once in a while…I believe if you checked her bathroom cabinet, you might find she's medicated. Ask her former husband, Tommy. I can't imagine a scenario where she would turn on Shelby. But that doesn't mean it couldn't have happened.”

Oh, sweet reason. I knew I needed to poke around more at Delta's house. If only Francina hadn't been upstairs, I could've slipped up and taken my time while the business meeting and book discussion took place downstairs.

“No ma'am,” I said. “It doesn't. I'll follow up on that, thank you. I need to ask you to take a look at something.”

“All right.”

“I have Shelby's address book here.” I pulled it from my purse. “I know Lark Littleton was her college roommate. And I think I know most of her local friends, but there are a few names I can't identify. Could you take a look and tell me who these folks are? I've marked them with sticky notes.” I handed her the notebook.

“Shelby hasn't spoken to Lark in years. They exchange Christmas cards, that sort of thing. Lark and her husband own a very successful restaurant in San Francisco. She's busy with her life. Shelby stayed busy too.” She flipped through the pages. “All of these girls you have marked went to college with Shelby. She hasn't stayed in touch with them. Like Lark—the occasional card, and even those have dwindled. I can't imagine any of them have anything to do with this.”

“That's the trouble with this case.”

“What do you mean?” She handed me the address book back.

“There are no good suspects. No one can imagine anyone wanting to hurt Shelby. And because of the situation—with her and Clint locked inside the house—the person who killed her must have been someone she trusted enough to let in the house. But that doesn't necessarily mean someone close to her. Just someone she wasn't afraid of. There's quite a long list to work through.”

“I see your problem. I can eliminate a few people for you.”

“Really? How?”

“We were invited to a dinner party that evening. It was an informal thing, some of the folks from church. Williams and I didn't go because I wasn't well. If you need to check on us, I don't know what to tell you. But the dinner party was at Mary and Jack Bernard's house.”

“Mary Bernard who's in Shelby's book club?”

“Yes. And Mariel and Roy Camp were there. The Wilkinsons and the Butlers as well. Though honestly, I wouldn't think any of the folks from church would be suspects. But that should help you cross a few names off your list. Mary can confirm all that, of course.”

“Of course. Thank you. This is helpful.” Thank Heavens I could erase a few names from our case board. After I verified they were all actually present at the Bernard residence. “So there was nothing controversial going on at the church? I know that sounds crazy, but I wouldn't've thought the book club ladies would have so much drama either.”

“Oh, you mean that waiting list kerfuffle? Goodness gracious, that was nothing anyone would hurt anybody over. And no, nothing remotely like that was going on at our church. It's a very special place.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Poinsett. You've been very helpful. If I have any further questions, is it all right if I call you?” I rose to leave.

She stood. “Certainly. Call me any time. I mean that. It would do me good to help.”

“Oh, one more quick thing,” I said.

She looked at me expectantly.

“Do you recall Shelby ever mentioning the name Sonny Ravenel?” I asked.

“The police detective who volunteers with her?”

“That's right.”

“She talked about him all the time. Sounds like a nice fellow. You don't suspect he killed my Shelby, do you?”

“No ma'am. I'm just checking off my list.”

  

The stop sign just inside the entrance at Oak Plantation Campground insisted all visitors must register at the office. But since there was no one around to notice whether I did or not, I saved myself the time it would take to come up with and deliver a story and drove on in.

I've never spent time at a campground, so I had nothing to compare this one to. But it looked inviting, well-organized. An asphalt road led down the center, with two sections of grassy campsites laid out on grids with a nice shade canopy. Massive motorhomes, travel trailers, and the occasional pop-up camper were scattered throughout the grounds. There wasn't a tent in site.

Two rows back from where the GPS indicated Baker'
s van w
as still parked, I pulled over to an empty site between two deserted-looking motorhomes. Likely, the occupants were downtown sightseeing or at the beach. I grabbed shorts, a knit top, tennis shoes, and socks from a duffle in the back, slipped into the backseat, and executed a wardrobe change with a high difficulty score. Then I put my ball cap and large sunglasses back on and went for a stroll.

I smiled and waved at folks sitting around campsites. I was just another camper out for a walk on a pretty day. Every once in a while, I stopped to take pictures of trees, birds, other nature. Unlike the other sections of the campground, the access roads running off the main road here ended in cul-de-sacs. There were no campsites along the far side, and thus no loop. I walked to the end of the row I'd parked on, turned around and walked back to the main road, turned left, and headed to the back row. Gradually, I made my way to the back left corner spot.

Part of me worried Baker had found the GPS, left it on another vehicle for me to find, and this was a fine goose chase. But as I neared the end of the cul-de-sac, his van came into view. It was partially hidden, parked between the tree line and a shiny silver Airstream trailer. Also on the site was a diesel Ford F-350, which was likely used to tow the trailer. It had been backed into the site, so the tag wasn't visible.

Was this his trailer? His truck? I hadn't run across it when I'd pulled the Caravan registration and his wife's Camry. But I'd been in a hurry.

No sign of Baker. No sign of anyone. I did a one-eighty at the end of the drive, made a show of checking my watch, which did not count steps, but no one watching knew that. I made my way back to the Escape. Baker had already seen it once today. I didn't want to get close enough for him to spot it. But I needed to get closer to have a view of the site.

A burgundy motor coach was parked across the street from Baker. I could see it from where I was parked. It was on the row between mine and his. I pulled out my binoculars. No one appeared to be at home. It was possible someone was inside, but there was no car parked beside the motorhome and no signs of life.

I put my iPad in my tote and walked over to knock on the door. No answer. I perused the campsite. A group of chairs were set up around a fire pit. I chose one facing Baker's campsite. Then I opened my iPad, logged onto one of our subscription databases, and rechecked for vehicles registered to Paul Baker or his wife. Neither the trailer nor the truck were there. I cross-checked with a property database that referenced tax info. Nothing.