1 Lowcountry Boil (6 page)

SEVEN

I found Blake that Tuesday morning right where he is every morning at eight: walking through the front door of The Cracked Pot, the island’s diner. I slipped behind him and followed him inside.

Moon Unit Glendawn owns the place. She greeted him as the door closed behind us. “Well, good morning, Blake. How are you this bright sunny day?”

If she had been any more bright and sunny herself, she would have spontaneously combusted on the spot, leaving us to pour our own coffee.

“Doing great, Moony. Could use some coffee.” Blake hung his cap on the coat tree.

Moon Unit caught sight of me behind him. “Well, Liz Talbot, as I live and breathe. Welcome home.” She rushed out from behind the counter to hug my neck. Moon and I graduated from Stella Maris High the same year.

Blake turned and stared at me as if he’d been hoping my presence in town was just a bad dream and was now dismayed by the contrary.

Moon swooped back to the other side of the counter and went about the business of getting us fed. “Coffee. Coming right up. Hash browns or grits?”

“Grits,” Blake said. “With red-eye gravy.”

My mouth watered. “Me, too, please. And could I have my eggs scrambled with cheese?”

“Sure thing.” Moon tore off the ticket and spun it back to the kitchen.

This was the first time I’d been inside since Moon Unit bought the former Stella Maris Diner and transformed it into something that was part small-town diner and part tropical café. She’d kept the white and pink ceramic-tiled floor but added skylights and live plants. The most striking feature was the far wall. It was paneled in white beaded-board and covered in photographs.

Blake slid onto a stool and I took the one to his right.

I leaned in to him and spoke in an almost whisper. “When’s the last time you spoke to Merry?” I reached into my purse for my hand sanitizer and squeezed a generous dollop onto my hand. I offered it to Blake, but he waved it off.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Day before yesterday? Why?”

Before I could launch into how our sister lost her mind, Moon walked over and poured our coffee. “I hear you got trouble brew
ing
.” She replaced the pot on the warmer and slid onto the stool behind the counter. Her inquisitive hazel eyes jumped from me to Blake and back as she slid the cream and sugar within reach.

“What?” Blake measured precise amounts of cream and sugar into his coffee.

She leaned closer and lowered her voice, “A little bird told me Merry’s gonna build an orphanage over on Devlin’s Point.”

Blake stirred his coffee. I gulped mine.

“If you ask me,” she said, “there are way better places for an orphanage. First hurricane  blows through here, all the orphans will have to go stay at a shelter.”

Moon leaned closer, in imminent danger of sliding off her stool. “That is, if you could get permission to put one up there in the first place, which everybody knows is never gonna fly.”

“Camp.” Blake took a long sip of coffee.

“What?” Moon Unit and I both drew back and squinted at him.

He set down his cup. “It’s not an orphanage. It’s a camp for inner-city kids. Not a bad idea, you ask me.”

Moon looked horrified, and for possibly the first time in her life, was absolutely speechless.

I wasn’t. “Is there an outbreak of crazy here?”

“Relax,” he said. “It’s not what you think.”

Moon crossed her arms. “I’m just tellin’ you, that’s not what Tammy Sue Lyerly was tellin’ over at Phoebe’s Day Spa.”

“Yeah, well, more than hair gets twisted over there,” Blake said.

Coffee sloshed out of my cup as I sat it down. “I got the story straight from Merry, and—”

Blake put his hand on my leg and squeezed and I shut up.

No one squeezed Moon Unit’s leg. “Everyone is still in shock over poor Emma’s untimely departure for the hereafter, and she must be spinning in her grave already.”

Blake pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, some kids’ll camp on the beach for a couple of weeks each summer.”

Clearly Blake had missed the part about the kids being felons from rival gangs. And the high-rise, state-of-the-art facility. Merry gave Blake, Mamma, and me each a different story. What the hell was she up to?

Moon Unit grabbed our breakfast from the ledge and handed us hot plates. I let the first smoky bite of biscuit soaked in red-eye gravy melt on my tongue.

“Eh law.” Moon shook her head slowly, switching subjects. “I don’t think my mamma will ever get over finding Emma Rae like that.”

“I need a little more red-eye,” Blake said.

We had less than a minute of peace while Moon went around to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of gravy. She chattered on, and we both ate way faster than usual. Half a dozen bites later, I realized I’d missed a chapter in Moon Unit’s monologue.

At least she was carrying on about her family and giving ours a rest. “Speaking of Little Elvis, I’m surprised he’s not following you around already this morning, Blake. Isn’t he late?”

Blake drained his coffee cup. “Since Elvis doesn’t work for me, he can hardly be late.”

“Well, he sure
thinks
he does,” Moon said. “Whizzing around with a walkie-talkie in one hand, steering his bike with the other.
Patrolling,
he calls it. All day long. Some of these smart-assed teenagers around here have been making fun of him again.”

Little Elvis Presley Glendawn was two years younger than me, but was developmentally challenged.

Blake looked at her and nodded once. “I’ll handle it.”

“He’s smarter than those punks in every way that matters. He just won’t grow up much more inside, is all.” She softened and gave Blake a grateful smile. “Probably gets on your nerves a lot, following you around, reporting in and all that. It’s real good of you to put up with it like you do.”

“Sometimes he tells me things I need to know.” He grinned. “Kinda like you do.” 

He ducked as she swatted at him with the morning paper.

“Heck, Moony,” he said, “with you and Elvis around, I could cut a position from the patrol force.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you, I declare I don’t,” Moon said.

Blake looked at me. I drained my coffee cup as I stood. He laid a ten on the counter. “Breakfast was great, as always.”

“It was fabulous,” I added as we moved towards the door.  

Outside, underneath the pink and white striped awning, I inhaled a therapeutic lungful of salt air. I looked at my brother. “What exactly do you mean, ‘It’s not what you think?’”

Blake took his time settling his cap on his head. He massaged his neck with one hand and gestured at me with the other. “I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

“You already are.”

“Just talk to Merry, okay?”

“I already have.”

“Try again. Tell her I said she’d better tell you the truth or I will. And remember, she means well. That’s all I’m saying. Except this: stock up on Guinness—Extra Stout.”

“What?”

“For years, this family has done everything short of dragging you home by your hair. Now, when you should have stayed in Greenville, here you are.” His eyes locked on mine. “You’ll be seeing a lot of me. And I drink Guinness now.”

EIGHT

By the time I got back to Gram’s, the movers were waiting for me. All my furniture went into the empty bay in the garage. The movers hauled Granddad’s mammoth mahogany desk up to the living room. It was a sentimental piece, and my desk was too contemporary to blend with Gram’s décor anyway. While they worked I cleaned up fingerprint dust. At eleven o’clock they were backing out of the driveway.

I tried to humor my brother and talk to my sister, but Merry was mysteriously unavailable at work, at home, or on her cell. Fine. I’d take in the town council meeting that night myself.

I unpacked my clothes while periodically hollering for a ghost. Colleen had some explaining to do, but was unfortunately elsewhere. I needed to know if she was trying to tell me something about Merry’s halfway house/orphanage/camp, or if Colleen’s irritatingly cryptic clue had something to do with Gram’s death. Either Colleen knew something I didn’t, or she and I had different agendas. Our relationship needed more give and take. I made a mental note to speak to her about how maybe she could work on being a more cooperative ghost.

By two o’clock, I’d eaten a light lunch of hummus and pita and organized my desk. I slipped my Sig Sauer 9 into the bottom drawer. Daddy and Blake held the opinion that a Sig 9 was too big for a woman, but when I was in a situation where something might need shooting, I wanted heft. And I had an imaginary friend named Sig as a child, so there was a certain symmetry.

I pulled out the legal pad I’d found in the basket by Gram’s chair and looked at it with fresh eyes. More than anything, it looked like some of my case notes—things I doodled when I was puzzling something out. I tapped my pen on the desk. The politics of solving Gram’s murder would be complicated.

Blake had taken a job as a patrol officer right out of college because it was one of only two openings in town, and he wasn’t qualified to teach Jazzercise. Five years later, Charlie Jacobs retired and the town council offered Blake the chief’s job. He was flabbergasted.

He may have been an accidental police chief, but he was a good one. You take care of what you love. However, being a small-town police chief—even a good one—required little in the way of detective work. Most offenses fell into one of three categories: traffic, teenagers, or drunk and disorderly good-ole-boys. The culprits were of the caught-in-the-act variety. Clearly, he needed my help.

The Internet has made a PI’s job infinitely easier. In addition to the paid database services I use, there’s enough information available on public sites to make conspiracy enthusiasts head for the compound. When I don’t know what I’m looking for, I start with birth records and sift through a person’s life until I find a gold nugget.

I set up profiles on the computer for everyone on Gram’s list, with electronic copies of original birth certificates for everyone except Mildred Sullivan. She and Marci the Schemer were the only two persons of interest not born on Stella Maris. Marci’s birth certificate was easy to find—I knew she was born in Kissimmee, Florida, and I also knew the address on her birth certificate where my daddy’s sister and her husband parked their RV the year Marci was born. Cypress Cove was one in a long succession of nudist resorts they’d visited until Marci was old enough to go to school.

I searched for Lincoln and Mildred’s marriage license to find her maiden name, and hopefully, where she was born. Most often marriages happen in the bride’s hometown. Lincoln was a decade older than Mamma and Daddy, and I’d never heard anyone say where Mildred was originally from. I couldn’t find a record of them marrying in South Carolina or North Carolina.

I set Mildred aside and pulled criminal background checks for the others. I knew about Marci’s teenage infractions—a DUI and a marijuana possession charge. I did not know that John Glendawn had been arrested for marijuana possession in 1961. He would have been eighteen at the time, and had obviously not pursued a life of drug abuse, so I hardly thought it relevant.

Everyone else came up clean, so I started on financial profiles, the love of money being the root of so much evil and all. I pulled up the Charleston County real property database. Everyone on Gram’s list owned the property where they lived. John Glendawn also owned The Pirates’ Den. Aside from mortgages, no one had any outstanding liens or judgments.

I drew a big circle around Marci the Schemer’s name. She might have an alibi for the time of the murder, but she was damn sure guilty of something.

I glanced at my watch—five thirty already. I needed to get changed. My stomach began to knot up at the thought of a public debate with my sister. Merry was a fierce advocate for huddled masses everywhere, and an end-justifies-the-means type. She would firebomb any obstacle that stood between her and saving the world. I expected no quarter. I stepped into the shower and let the pulsating hot water work the tension out of my muscles.

Forty-five minutes later, I scrutinized the results of my primp session in the full-length mirror. I’m a healthy five-foot-eight, size ten. The world of runway models would no doubt classify me as obese. I can live with that. My gray Ann Taylor pantsuit and pink blouse fit perfectly. The matching silk scarf, sandals, and handbag completed the ensemble. I pulled my hair back into a sleek ponytail, and my makeup was transparent. I was ready for battle.

I gathered my essential equipment—camera, binoculars, laptop, bottled water, hand sanitizer, gloves, and notepad—and slid them into my orange Kate Spade tote. Then with a ruffle to Rhett’s head, I headed through the mudroom and down the steps into the garage. God bless Gram, she’d never sold Granddad’s van. He’d owned the only landscaping company in town, and his old white work van still sat in the garage next to Gram’s darling little silver Cadillac convertible. I’d never get away with using Gram’s car for surveillance in this town, but Granddad’s would be perfect as soon as I had it serviced and the back windows tinted.

I climbed into the Escape, backed out of the garage and headed towards town. Time to find out what my sister was up to.