Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) (21 page)

Mel and Will left Grant with his mother and met us at the house at five thirty, then we made the quick trip to Charleston. We decided that Mel should
go with Amelia and Will should come with me, basically because if anyone decided to give my cousin a hard time, Mel would handle it in a manner that wouldn’t get anyone arrested. And apparently Will has the most experience helping me come off like a normal person—debatable—so we’re together for the next couple of hours.
 

Mel and Amelia are going to see the nanny, while Will and I visit the teacher
and the business partner. We’re guessing the nanny is going to take the most time, and then afterward we’re all going to stop at F.I.G. and splurge on dinner. It’s easily the best restaurant in the entire country, no fooling, and I’m not just saying that because I love this city.

“We’re meeting at the restaurant at eight,” I remind the girls before we part ways by St. Philip’s Church.
 

“If you’re
going to be late, call,” Will stresses. “We have reservations.”

I roll my eyes and tug on his arm. “Let’s go. Good luck.”

My friend-slash-first love follows me down the block, away from his wife. It finally stopped raining but there are puddles between the cobblestones, begging to be hopped in. I refrain because trekking muddy water into a stranger’s house isn’t kosher.

“Which way are we heading?”

“Over off Chalmers.”

We stroll together in silence, the sun slipping toward the horizon and a sweet, pleasant breeze winding our way off the nearby water. Will’s never been one to talk unless he has something to say. And we have never been a twosome that has to speak to communicate. I guess some things never change.

We turn onto Chalmers, where I see the ghost of Anne Bonny’s dead pirate friend
skitter around the side of the house. He’s spotted me but he’s also seen Will, and he apparently hasn’t figured out that only some living people can see him. The front porch lights aren’t on but it’s not all that dark yet. Will leads the way through the white picket front gate and up the well-kept steps onto the porch. Like so many of its kind in Charleston, the roof has been painted haint blue
in order to keep the spirits out.

I cast a glance to where the pirate peers around the corner of the house. Huh. Guess that theory’s blown out of the water.

The sound of the doorbell pulls my attention back to the business at hand, and I go over the plan in my head. We ask if we can talk to her about a pending court case. Explain the whole sob story. Cross our fingers she knows something worthwhile
and hold our breath until she promises she’ll testify.

The whole mental prep thing turns out to be for nothing when she doesn’t answer the door. Part of me wonders whether she’s inside hiding because she isn’t expecting anyone and doesn’t feel like talking to strangers—a decision I can totally relate to—but the house has that eerie, empty feeling that promises she’s not here.

Out of the corner
of my eye, the pirate pulls out a pocket watch and points to it, then shakes his head. I nod.

“She’s not home. We’ll try later.”

“Okay.” Will, ever affable. “Where next?”

“Just up a few blocks.”

This time, Will feels like talking. “Do you really think any of this is going to make a difference? I mean, if these people knew things back when Jake was a helpless little kid but kept their mouths
shut because they were scared or the Middletons paid them off or whatever…why would they come forward now?”

I think about it for a minute as we dodge locals on their way home from work and a gaggle of college students probably on their way to catch the last few minutes of happy hour. “I don’t know. I guess I hope that people get wiser as they age. Realize where they went wrong. Figure out what’s
important and what isn’t.”

My heart reacts to Will’s sweet smile on autopilot, with a pitter-patter that’s just out of sync with my breathing. “You’ve always been such a philosopher. Don’t you think it’s kind of sad, though? That we understand the world once we’re older and have already made all the decisions that shape our lives?”

Instinct says to step carefully. It’s impossible to know where
the question comes from or where his head might be right now. We’ve all been through so much lately. The sun slips lower in the sky, we turn onto the street of our destination, and still, words fail me.

“I don’t know. I hope we’re never too old to change the shape of the world, Will. Ours or the people’s around us.”

I don’t know whether the answer is good enough, or what he wanted to hear. I
don’t ask, he doesn’t tell, and for now, the world stays straight on its axis.
 

One of the pirate ghosts who went with Amelia last night hides behind a big oak tree in the garden. Unlike mine, this one seems angry—at me, at being here, at being dead, maybe. I ignore him because this time, someone answers the door after Will rings the bell.

“Yes?”

The man who answers looks to be in his fifties
or sixties with thinning, mouse-brown hair, wire-framed glasses, and a potbelly only accentuated by his red-and-blue striped shirt. He’s wearing the wary expression most people adopt when confronted by people on their porch, usually because we’re waiting for them to either kill us or try to sell us something.
 

Honestly, some days it’s hard to decide which would be worse.

“Hi, Mr. Adams? I’m
William Gayle, from the Heron Creek Police Department, and this is Graciela Harper. We’re here to discuss an upcoming custody case.”

I want to scream at him for using his job at the PD. We agreed he shouldn’t do that even if it might give us more leverage. He could get in trouble, acting like he’s here in some kind of official capacity when he isn’t.

“Custody case? What does that have to do
with me?” He asks the question with the confidence of a man who hasn’t had sex in a very long time. No wedding ring glints around his pudgy finger, and once he lets us into the house, it’s clear no woman lives here. Or ever lived here.

There are no decorations, only sparse, masculine furniture and a massive Great Dane that I suspect would be as tall as me if he stood up. He’s a very polite dog,
though, barely raising his head to check out the guests before going back to sleep.

Paul Adams leads us into what would have been called the parlor in a different time and place, but doesn’t offer us tea, or coffee, or water, or anything before motioning to some very modern, very uncomfortable-looking furniture. I sit and wiggle around, trying to find a position that doesn’t compress my vertebrae,
while our host’s impatience swirls into the air like a cloud of bug spray. He doesn’t know me or he’d realize I’m more persistent than any mosquito.

“Well?” he prods. It makes me wonder what big plans he’s got cooking tonight. Maybe I’m wrong about his lack of ladies, but probably not.

“Sir, first of all, thank you so much for talking to us,” Will gushes, all butter and self-effacing smiles.
The man nods. He’s not looking like he’s excited about being helpful, but he’s at least being civil. “The case is between a woman named Amelia Cooper and her deceased husband’s parents—Randall and Bette Middleton.”

That startles him to attention. He sits up straighter, fiddles nervously with a stack of outdated magazines on the coffee table, as though he’s just noticed they’re not straight and
can’t stand it another minute. When he finally looks up and meets Will’s gaze, all his irritation has morphed into suspicion.

“I don’t know what you think I can do to help. I haven’t worked for the Middletons in over twenty years and have had no contact with them since leaving Mr. Middleton’s employ.”

Mr. Middleton.
Interesting that he used the formal, even here and now, after all this time.
The detail could go one of two ways: he either respects the man that much, or he doesn’t and never considered him anything more than an employer.

That’s when I realize Will never told him whose side we’re on. Poor guy doesn’t know if he’s in enemy territory or not.

“We’re here on behalf of Amelia Cooper. She was married to Jake, the Middletons’ son. Did you know him?” Mr. Adams shakes his head,
still looking as though he would rather be anywhere but here.
Anywhere.
“He was abusive and was killed in a struggle with his wife that landed her in the hospital and almost took the life of their unborn child. The child that Randall and Bette think they should raise. We’re here to ask if you know anything at all that might convince a judge that they have no business raising a child.”

“I don’t
know anything about their parenting skills,” he answers, too quickly. “Jacob hadn’t been born when I worked at Allied Pharmaceuticals.”

“A business Mr. Middleton owned before going into politics?” Will asks.

“Yes. One of many, and his interests were varied.”

“What did you do there?” Will asks, leaning back into the sofa and crossing his calf over his opposite ankle. Like we’re here for a casual
visit, making small talk with a friend of the family. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I don’t. I was in research and development. At the time we were heavy into researching a potential cure for AIDS.”

“Wow, that’s intense,” I comment, impressed.

“Yes, well, the company decided it wasn’t lucrative enough and switched its focus to antacids instead. You can imagine that’s made them plenty of money.
The whole damn country is sick to their stomachs.”

“The world,” I mutter, agreeing with him.

He flicks a gaze to me, appraising this time. Less concerned. What he said about AIDS, the way he said it, the timeframe they would have been doing the research…it might explain the lack of a wedding ring if he’s gay. But not the lack of decor.

“Why did you leave?” I’m the one who’s curious, now.

His lips twist, as though he’s disgusted with what he’s about to say. “I wanted to change the world. Stupid.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid.” Will sits forward, now, intent. “In fact, we were just discussing changing the world on the way over.”

I nod, catching on. “We were. And if you know anything, or heard anything, or suspect anything that would look bad—not just about their child-rearing philosophies—you
could change two people’s worlds for the better.”

It’s just a hunch that he knows something. The way he answered so quickly about not knowing Jake, as though relieved to be able to answer negatively and honestly at the same time, is part of it. More is that a dead pirate is waiting outside, stationed here by Anne Bonny. If I know one thing about that cranky, badass woman it’s that she’s not a
fan of wasting time.

Adams looks as though he might be considering responding in a helpful manner. Another point in favor of my hunch and my stomach clenches with the effort of waiting him out. Will’s hand covers mine, pressing down hard. He senses my impatience to know what Adams knows, to find something solid to cling to in this damn case.

Finally, after what feels like hours but was probably
less than three minutes, our host opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it. “The real reason I left Allied is that the company—with Middleton’s blessing—was testing drugs on human beings without FDA approval.”

My mouth falls open. It’s so much bigger than I expected. “How is that possible?”

“He went overseas. Third world countries. He offered them more money than they would make in half a year just
to take a pill and stay for a week in a place with three meals a day and air conditioning.” He blanches. “You’d be surprised how easy it is, especially with the kids.”

“That’s abhorrent.” Will’s looking a little green himself but pushes on. “Can you prove it?”

“No. They were meticulous about destroying records, and I had to sign an NDA when I left. They threatened to pretty much destroy my chances
of ever working in the field again if I didn’t.” He smiles. It’s more a defeated blanch. “But I’m retired, now. So if you need an anti-character witness, I think I’d be happy to play.”

The words do a little jig on their way in my ears. He said he would testify that Randall Middleton engaged in immoral business practices. On children.

I want to be happy, to be thrilled, but Will’s questions from
the street rings in my ears. Who would believe this man? Will it matter?

We leave a few minutes later after exchanging numbers and promises to keep in touch about the upcoming trial, and my phone rings before I can wave good-bye to the cranky pirate skulking back up to the porch. Apparently Anne’s not setting them loose just yet. Maybe it’s escaped her notice that we’ve figured out her clues
and visited her witnesses. Most of them.

“Hey, Millie. Good news.”

“Here, too.” She sounds out of breath. “The nanny has a ton of stories and she won the lottery two years ago.”

“Um, good for her but how are those two things connected?”

“She doesn’t need the Middletons’—quote—retirement money—unquote—anymore. And she thinks that any kid who grows up in that house will be a menace to society.”
She pauses, sucking air. “I don’t want my kid to be a menace to society unless I make him one, Grace.”

I bark a surprised laugh, and hear Mel honk one in the background, too. “Agreed. We’re going to stop by the teacher’s house one more time because she wasn’t home before, and then we’ll meet you at F.I.G. Okay?”

“See you soon. Damn, I wish I could have a drink.”

“I’ll have two.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Nice try, but it’s not going to make a difference.” Phoebe, lawyer extraordinaire, looks more beautiful today than she did the last time we were at her office. If that’s possible.

It’s Saturday and she agreed to meet us with great reluctance. Based on the clinging emerald green dress and killer designer heels, it’s because she has plans. Possibly with Chris Hemsworth.
Or Chris Evans. Definitely a hot, ripped blond guy named Chris.

“What do you mean?” My cousin’s voice is at least three octaves too high, but kudos to her for forming words that didn’t include expletives. That’s all that’s going on in my head.

We just told Phoebe about all of our great detective work, not to mention that we have two former employees willing to testify that the Middletons are
terrible, immoral people who should never have been entrusted with one child, and she has the nerve to look bored.