Not Quite Gone (A Lowcountry Mystery) (20 page)

“Three people agreed to talk to us—one is the assistant coroner, who’s working up in Myrtle Beach now. The other two were both students at Charleston Prep.”

“No luck with the half sister? I think her take would be interesting.”

“Yeah. She hasn’t called me back yet, but it’d be hard to blame her if she didn’t want to dredge it all up again,
you know?”

“I guess. But Nanette was her only family. That kind of wound doesn’t heal.”

We drive in silence for the next hour, until the signs for Myrtle Beach—or Dirty Myrtle, as it’s not-so-affectionately called by the rest of South Carolinians—lead us off the highway and into a middle-class, cookie-cutter neighborhood. The structure of the houses rotates about every three lots, and if the
GPS on my phone weren’t directing me, I’d probably die here before I found my way out.

“We’re on time. That’s good—he said he has to be at work by nine.”

“I knew there had to be a real good reason to get you out of bed so early. It’s always poor Amelia opening the library.”

“‘Poor Amelia’ was born one of those perky, annoying morning people, so let her have them.”

Our banter dies away as we
climb the couple of stairs to the porch. The doorbell plays a weird, chiming song instead of emitting a simple
ding-dong
, which makes
me
feel like a ding-dong for ringing the damn thing in the first place.

“Well, that’s douchey.”

I smirk. “Maybe it came with the house.”

The man who opens the door a moment later has a comb-over so awful I’m immediately convinced that the doorbell choice was
purposeful. It definitely sounds like something a Donald Trump-style follower would choose.

He pushes his huge glasses up on his nose. “Good morning.”

“Hi, Mr. Collins. I’m Graciela Harper. We spoke on the phone yesterday?”

“Yes, of course. Please come inside.”

We step into the foyer, Leo not bothering to introduce himself and Mr. Collins apparently unconcerned by the identity of the man squiring
me around town. The house is nice, with polished wooden floors and small upgrades like crown molding and vaulted ceilings, but nothing special. He guides us into a large kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, and motions to the cushioned barstools at a large island. He stands on the opposite side.

“Would either of you like some coffee?”

Leo and I both nod, then ask
for milk when he offers extras. The small task gives me five more minutes to organize my thoughts before he turns, stirring a cube of sugar into his cup.
 

“You said on the phone that you had some questions about Nanette Robbins’s suicide. That was many years ago. What has come up?”

“I’m working out at Drayton Hall, archiving for a new exhibition that they’re planning to open sometime next year,
and her story came to my attention. After reading the file there seemed to be some disagreement as far as whether she really killed herself…” I trail off, waiting for him to jump in, but he doesn’t. “You’re one of the people who didn’t want to close the case back then.”

“Forgive me, Miss Harper, but why would a suicide that occurred a mere fifteen years ago, that has nothing to do with the Drayton
family, be of interest to their archivist?”

He’s sharper than he looks. Kind of like Donald Trump, who I’m starting to suspect might be Mr. Collins’s own personal Jesus. “It wouldn’t be, except for my conscience. Brick Drayton’s name comes up in this discussion quite a bit and I just couldn’t live with myself, thinking that I’m making a living off people who had something to do with what happened
to a poor teenaged girl.”

Leo shifts on his stool, looking intently down at his hands. He’s totally trying not to fall to the floor laughing, apparently at the idea of me having a conscience. Or maybe it’s that I’m
 
sleeping with one of the aforementioned Draytons and have no moral complications with
that
, but either way, Mr. Collins doesn’t know me—or Leo—well enough to pick up on the vibrations.

“Well, I suppose I can understand that, though you should know that I won’t and never have spoken to the family’s knowledge of or involvement in what happened that night.”

“That’s fine. I just want to know why you thought it might not have been a suicide.”

“It’s pretty much all in the police report. Her fingers were torn up, and there were scratch marks on her neck. Those two things alone would
only point toward a girl who changed her mind at the last minute, but there was also the matter of the knot.”

“The knot?” I sit forward, not remembering anything about that in the file.
 

“It was tied onto the tree branch by someone left-handed, or at least, someone who tied knots left-handed. In addition, the knot at the back of her noose couldn’t have been tied by Nanette. Not after she had
it around her neck.”

“But she could have tied it beforehand, right?” Leo asks, his eyes bright and intense. He’s as into this whole thing as I am, and my gut tells me it no longer has anything to do with his dislike of the Draytons or the adventures he gets to go on with me. He’s genuinely curious.
 

“She could have, and that was the argument the officer in charge made for closing the case.”

“But what about the knot in the tree? Was Nan right-handed?”

“She was.”

“How come you’re the one who noticed all this? You’re a coroner, but you examined the knots?”

He sips his coffee, peering at me over the rim with new appreciation. “I’m an ex-Navy man and an Eagle Scout. Knots are a hobby of mine, and the rope was brought in with her body in order to help us determine cause of death. I’m
not sure the police even believed me, though they could have brought in other experts if they wanted.”

The more I hear, the more I believe Nan’s telling the truth about not committing suicide. Like the Town Car tire tracks, however, searching for someone in the area who’s left-handed and can tie a bang-up knot isn’t going to meet with much success.

Leo and I finish our coffee, making small talk
about Drayton Hall and Charleston, how Collins likes living in Myrtle Beach, before he lets us escape. We learned more that helps my case but nothing that can prove it, so although our first visit of the day was interesting, nothing has changed.

“That was intriguing. Especially the part about how he no longer works as a coroner,” Leo comments as we climb back into my car.

“He doesn’t what? When
did he say that?”

“When you were staring at his comb-over and zoning out, apparently. He said he took a job as a defense contractor through some of his old Navy buddies.”

“Huh. Well, let’s hope the girl from their class at school has something more concrete we can use. It’s sad that we know so little about Nan. And unless her sister calls us back, we probably never will.”

“Someone knew her,
Gracie. She wasn’t invisible.”

All I can think as we drive down the coast toward Driftwood, where Lindsay works, is that I hope it’s true that Nan wasn’t as invisible as a ghost while she was alive. But there’s a sad, sure feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’m going to end up heartbroken.

“So, how are things going with Beau through all this? I assume he’s found out about you seeing Nan by
now.”

It’s hard to say how Leo could guess, but as it does with Amelia, over a decade of friendship counts for something. I shrug, not really wanting to talk about it. “He’s not thrilled that I thought he would side with his family over me—if there is anything to side with them about, which remains to be seen—but he got over it. I know you don’t like him but he’s a decent guy.”

“With the exception
of your ex-fiancé, you’ve got a pretty good track record of picking decent guys.” Leo pauses, his gaze out the window. “And it’s not that I’m set on not liking him. I’m…considering the idea.”

I shake my head, one side of my mouth twisted as if it wants to smile. “You didn’t even know David. Maybe he
was
a nice guy and I’ve become a whack job since I left Heron Creek.”

“You were a whack job before
you left Heron Creek, but you’re our whack job. If a guy cheated on you, Gracie, he’s the nut. No question.”

A smidgen of peace glows around the edges of my heart at the mere chance that two of the men who mean so much to me could maybe, possibly, one day be friends.

We lapse into silence as we approach Driftwood. It’s a more touristy version of Heron Creek with its spot on the ocean drawing
a good number of visitors every year—which means more restaurants and a boardwalk jammed with cheap souvenirs and more teenagers wandering into to work their summer jobs. Most of us in Heron Creek prefer the quieter tone of our town, even if Driftwood makes quite a bit more money.

We’re pulling into the town center when Leo opens his mouth again. “I thought maybe we could grab brunch with Lindsay
after this next stop. Or at her table, at least.”

“Sure.” It’s not at the top of my to-do list, because she apparently hasn’t forgiven me for wanting to help her get out of prison, but I’m willing to try. For Leo. “Oh, here it is.”

I yank the wheel to the right, nearly missing our turn into an alley that leads us to a cute little bungalow within walking distance from the beach. It’s adorable
and painted sky blue, and even though it’s small, there’s no way it didn’t cost at least half a million bucks this close to the water. Whatever Vera Small does or whomever she married, she certainly hasn’t fallen from grace since leaving Charleston Prep.

“What’s her story?” Leo asks as we pick our way over the sandy ground up onto the porch.

“Same as pretty much everyone else at that school
besides Nan. Her dad’s an international banker, tons of cash.” I motion to the sea, the waves audible even from this side of the house. “She obviously married well.”

“You’re such a misogynist. Maybe she made all the money herself.”

“Oh man, you’re right. What’s happened to me? I move back South and all of a sudden my dreams consist of bare feet and pregnancy.”

“No comment.”

The strangled tone
of his reply causes me to cast a glance Leo’s direction, but he’s staring intently at the door, the deck, the landscaping, anywhere but me. I shake my head and knock, trying to remember if Leo’s always been this hard to read.

The woman who answers the door a few minutes later isn’t really what I expect, but maybe that’s because my own circles don’t consist of people living with tons of money
and too much time on their hands. At any rate, Vera Small—what sort of name is that, anyway?—has clearly gone way over and above the recommended amount of plastic surgery. Instead of making her look younger, the overly tight, shiny skin on her forehead, the too-high arch of her threaded eyebrows, the boobs literally spilling out of her white minidress, and the tan so dark she’s the color of a spoiled
tangerine, actually accomplish the opposite.

It’s a good thing I haven’t taken a drink of anything because this would be the most inopportune moment for my very first spit-take.

I glance over at Leo and see he’s having as much trouble pulling words together, but for different reasons altogether. His blue eyes are glued to that poor woman’s fake cleavage and he’s so not taking Jerry Seinfeld’s
advice comparing cleavage peeks to looking at the sun.

I clear my throat, getting Vera’s attention if not Leo’s. It’s a good thing he’s handsome because she seems more bemused than irritated by his
interest
.
 

Which kind of makes
me
irritated.
 

“Hi, are you Vera? I’m Graciela. We spoke on the phone last night.”

“I figured. Not too many people come knocking on doors around here. We’ve finally
managed to get some local ordinances passed to keep out those religious freaks.”

Yikes.
She’s going to be a treat.
 

I’m supremely glad I didn’t drag Sean or Jenna along for this fact-finding mission because anyone who can call Jehovah’s Witnesses names isn’t going to have a single qualm about making off-color remarks about race or sexual orientation. I don’t have any basis for my assumption
that Vera Small is one of
those
Southerners, but I’d eat the french fries off the floor mats in my car if I’m wrong.

Being in love with South Carolina, with its complicated history and divided citizens, isn’t the easiest relationship I’ve ever had in my life, but no way would I trade it in. It’s always been worth it, to me.

“Well, we’ll try not to overstay our welcome,” Leo says, recovered from
his ogling in the face of her bluntness—one can hope.

“Right.” I laugh, but it’s too high. Nervous. “And we don’t much care about the final destination of your immortal soul.”

Vera either doesn’t get the joke or doesn’t find it funny, and unlike Mr. Collins, she doesn’t offer us anything to drink. The house she leads us through is of the traditional beach variety in both layout and decor. She
might have plenty of free time on her hands but she doesn’t spend it on Pinterest finding cute ways to personalize her home, that’s for sure.

Vera collapses on a small wicker love seat on the sun porch, probably because she’s wearing four-inch espadrilles in the house. They remind me of Hadley Renee the day she led me into her beauty salon with every intention of keeping me there for what she’d
hoped was the short remainder of my life, and I swallow hard, forcing away the bone-chilling memory. Leo had been the one to be there for me that day, too.

“What do you want to know?” she asks, still curt as she examines her fingernails.

Leo and I sit on the opposite-facing love seat while I gather my thoughts. “I want to know about Nan Robbins, anything you’ve got, but mostly whether she and
Brick Drayton were friendly.”

She thinks for a minute, then picks up a drink that looks like a Bloody Mary. I suspect it’s not her first one of the day. Woman after my own heart.

“I don’t know much about Nan. No one did. She wasn’t like the rest of us—she knew it, we knew it. It wasn’t like the kids today, with the daily bullying and mean-girl shit—honestly, most of us had better things to do
with our time—but she didn’t have any friends.” Vera shrugs. “It never seemed to bother her.”