Lowcountry Seaside Mystery Box Set, page 1
part #1 of Lowcountry Seaside Mystery Series
Dead South
THE LOWCOUNTRY MYSTERY SERIES: BOOK ONE
David Banner
Published by Golden Pineapple Publishing.
Copyright 2017 by David Banner.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance or similarity to any person, place, or event is purely coincidental. While I try my best to keep the geography of the beautiful state of South Carolina correct, some of the places in this work are fictional. Some are omitted for personal reasons, such as the sheriff’s office. Which in this book will be referred to as the Charleston County Police Department. No part of this book may be reproduced without author consent.
Other Books By David Banner
The Dangerous Waters Thriller Series
Echoes From The Water
Secrets In The Breeze
Dead On The Docks
Shadows In The Gulf
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Chapter One
If Detective Ryan Devereux would have known a simple phone call was going to change his life forever, he probably would’ve thought twice before stepping off his houseboat. That’s the thing about life-changing moments though. You almost never see them coming, and this one was miles away from what Ryan expected to find on his first week back with the Charleston County Police Department.
Having grown up in what was often referred to as the friendliest city in America, he was the definition of a true Southerner. Ryan grew up on sweet tea, Sunday mass, and more fried chicken than any one person had the right to eat. Unless, of course, that person happened to be raised by Melissa Devereux. Known as one of the best cooks in all of Charleston County, it wasn’t long after having her babies that Melissa decided to open her own little café. Besides, it wasn’t as though she had much else keeping her busy with her husband gone off to only God knows where to defend his country.
And wouldn’t you just know it, Ryan was named an employee on the spot. It never seemed to bother his mother—or anyone else, for that matter—that the young boy could barely see over the counter. His sweet smile and bright blue eyes were enough to make almost all of Mrs. Devereux’s patrons light up with joy every time they walked through the door. Yes, the fried chicken may have been cooked to perfection, but to the elderly church-going folks around Charleston, it was the soft smile of a little boy that made for a sweet ending to their meals.
The call came early in the morning, just as the bright orange sun began to rise out of the eerily still Atlantic waters. Since moving into his houseboat, Second Wind, he’d gotten accustomed to staying up a bit later than he was able to with a wife lying next to him. And now that that kind of thing was no longer a problem, he found himself enjoying more late evenings than he had any right to.
There was something so undeniably soothing about the crashing waves and the moonlight. With a cold drink in his hand and a few old memories on his mind, Ryan always managed to find himself lost in the idea of the ocean and the possibilities it seemed to hold.
“The property owner found her this morning,” said a red-haired officer. He was new to the force, a rookie in every sense of the word, which meant he’d seen far less than the seasoned detective. A good thing, if you were to ask Ryan. So good that he might just tell the young cop to consider a different career path before becoming too jaded with the harsh reality of being in law enforcement.
He knew better, though. Being a police officer took a certain kind of person, one with the desire to make things right, to find the truth in the lies, and to hold the guilty accountable for their crimes. That kind of thing was just in a man’s blood, period. Once he found it, there seemed to be no turning back, no denying it.
There was no crunch of leaves, no snapping of twigs underfoot, and no rustling of dry foliage in the breeze. The previous night’s heavy spring thunderstorm had made sure of that. The detective’s shiny black shoes sank into the soft marshland with every step, covering them in a thick, sloshy mess of leaves and mud. It was nothing new, though. Living in South Carolina’s Lowcountry meant many things, and chief among them was the understanding that shoes weren’t meant to stay shiny.
“Property owner?” the detective asked, following behind the young rookie.
The words struck his ears like church bells, loud and sudden if you weren’t expecting them. Waverly Plantation hadn’t been in use for the last ten years, ever since “Old Man Waverly” was found at the end of his driveway with a broken leg and the morning mail scattered around him like gossip at a cotillion.
Seeing as how his son was too busy chasing his dreams up in New York somewhere, Ronald Waverly had spent the last five years of his life being cared for in the local rest home. The idea of such a thing always rubbed Ryan the wrong way, leaving the man who raised you with strangers. In his eyes, it simply lacked proper respect.
“Yes,” the young man replied. “The property was bought a few months ago by someone out of Valdosta, Georgia. A family, I think. The owner was out exploring the marsh when he spotted an old rusted-out boat and decided to check it out.”
“I see,” Ryan answered. “And where is the owner now?”
“I believe he’s being questioned in the house. I don’t believe we’ve met.” The young man cleared his throat, then awkwardly extended his hand. “My name is Carter White.”
“Good to meet you, Officer White.” Ryan shook the young man’s hand. “How long have you been on the force?”
“About a month now. I started in early June.” There was a shaky hesitation in his voice, one the senior detective interpreted as nerves. Though honestly, he couldn’t remember being so shy, even as a rookie.
“Well that explains it,” Ryan said. “I was out for the beginning of the month.”
“I hope everything is okay,” he replied, dropping the octave of his voice just a little.
“Everything is fine,” Ryan answered, not particularly wanting to get into the complicated story of his current situation. “Just needed to get a few things together.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help—”
“I appreciate it,” Ryan interrupted. “I’ll manage. Now where is the victim?”
Officer White pointed. “Just past this tree line.”
Waverly Plantation was one of the largest properties in Charleston County. The land had seen many changes over its long history. Built as a rice farm, which any true Southerner would claim as one of South Carolina’s most important antebellum crops, the land was home to a long line of Waverly men in the years that followed. A large white plantation house sat at the end of a long tree-lined driveway. In the back sat a series of small houses, once home to a number of slaves in its early stages. After the shameful defeat of the Civil War, however, Waverly Plantation had transformed into a produce farm.
There was still something thick in the air, something a little darker than the dense southern humidity. Like so many places, lives had begun and ended on that property. Each one was a different story in the rich tapestry of Charleston County, each one remembered by the people who, generations later, still walked the same land as their ancestors.
The sound of Detective Devereux’s phone rang out through the swamp-covered land, ricocheting from the moss-covered trees before vanishing into the dark woods. Removing the device from his pocket, Ryan saw a familiar face fill the screen, one that caused him to feel a series of emotions, each one conflicting with the last.
“Be careful.” Carter pointed. “I dropped my phone in a marsh last week. Instant water damage.”
“It’s okay,” Ryan said, taking stock of the lithe-limbed man. “I live on a boat. My case is waterproof.”
“That’s Jillian Hathaway. I recognize her from the paper.”
“Yes,” Ryan replied, declining the call and sliding the phone back into his pocket.
Though the thought of speaking with her so early in the morning wasn’t something he was crazy about, he would have still answered the woman if not for the fact that he was busy with the matter at hand. A woman had, in all likelihood, been murdered, and it was Ryan’s job to find the truth of how she’d ended up alone and lifeless in a marsh.
Carter smiled. “She’s engaged, I think. To that news guy. You know her?”
“I do,” he answered, stepping out of the tree line and onto the banks of a small pond. “We used to be married.”
Spanish moss hung in massive tendrils over a black body bag that lay just a few feet from the water. Even in his earliest childhood memories, Ryan found himself amazed by the mystery and ambience of the moss, the way it only grew near the hot southern shores, the way it called out to him, reminding him of home in a way few other things could.
“Thank you.” Ryan turned to Carter. “I’ve got it from here.”
Tipping his hat, the young man stepped back, making sure to distance himself before turning his back to his superior. It wasn’t necessary, not at all. But that didn’t mean the detective didn’t appreciate the simple act of Southern respect.
“Sleeping in again?” Kit asked. “I’ve been here for fifteen minutes.”
“What do we have?” he asked, batting away her thinly-veiled jab.
Kit Walker was a firecracker, though not in the way you’d expect. Both full of energy and completely calculated, she was like a quiet storm, just waiting offshore for an opportunity to strike. Arriving from New Jersey just over a year ago, she’d been partnered with Detective De
“Skeletal remains. Female. Likely late teens or early twenties,” she answered flatly.
Ryan looked to his partner. “Is it one of ours?”
It had been almost two years since he’d been assigned to the cold-case department. And in that time, he’d handled mostly older, unsolved cases that often didn’t even include a body. So finding himself among the first people called to investigate struck him as a little odd. In the beginning, Ryan found himself missing the usual detective work, but thanks to Charleston County’s police chief, cold-case was more of a title than a cage. Many nights, Ryan found himself driving the winding backroads of Lowcountry doing what he’d always done as a detective. Serving justice.
“Can’t be sure,” Kit answered, kneeling down and unzipping the black bag. “Looks like she was headed to a wedding. She was certainly dressed for the occasion.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Look.” Kit spread the bag. “It’s a bridesmaid’s dress.”
It was an image he hadn’t seen in years, one he’d tried to keep from creeping back into his mind on the days he drove down Market Street and past his old high school. But standing there, feeling the thick humidity lick his skin and the sound of gnats buzzing near his ear, there was no denying the truth. Ryan Devereux knew exactly who lay on the ground in front of him.
“It’s not a bridesmaid’s dress,” he said, staring down at the dirty, tattered blue gown. He remembered the way her face looked that day in the store, the nervous smile on her lips as Ryan handed the cashier a one-hundred-dollar bill. They were so young then, so in love. At least, that’s what he thought. He sighed. “It’s a prom dress.”
“How do you know?” Kit raised an eyebrow.
“Because I bought it for her.”
Chapter Two
A quick look at his phone let Ryan know where to find Foggy King, brother of Haley King and the kid he’d always hated growing up. While it would take a little while for a positive identification to come in, the detective knew without question who the body in the marsh would turn out to be.
Foggy King was the proud owner of Kingfish, one of Charleston’s most popular bars. Though looking at the place from the outside, you’d have never guessed it. Miles off the main thoroughfare but only a stone’s throw from the ocean, the bar quickly became a favorite among local Charlestonians. While you’d mainly find fishermen, shrimpers, and often a few businessmen looking to blow off steam, every few weeks, a group of new adults would pop in, quickly decide the crowd was a little ‘too old’ for them, and head back out the door after a drink or two.
Ryan could only hope news of the man’s sister hadn’t made it to him yet, though with no positive ID, he doubted much gossip could spread about the find over at the Waverly Plantation. The evening sun was beginning its slow dive into the endless blue water, casting shadows over the small backroads leading to Kingfish. It was truly a beautiful sight, though he didn’t really take time to look.
It seemed no matter which road he drove, which corner he turned, or which house he passed, Ryan Devereux managed to find memories along the way. What else is to be expected, though, when you’ve spent your entire life in a place? Especially one like Charleston County, with its endless array of beaches, swamps, and slow-talking Southerners.
The unmistakable sound of crushing gravel under his tires bellowed up from the soft country ground. It was still early enough that there were only a handful of cars in the parking lot, most of them pickup trucks or late-model, often rusted coupes. There was just something about the Lowcountry that made folks care a little less about the cars they drove.
Sure, in other places, a new car could be seen as a sign of something—money, success, and even privilege. But in Charleston, it just seemed like another thing to have to clean when it came time for thunderstorms with dirt roads. Besides, most folks around there probably weren’t going too far anyway. After all, South Carolina Lowcountry was best seen by way of slow, easy strolls around town. Everyone knew that.
Stepping out on the gravel and slamming the door to his silver Chrysler, the detective thought about Haley King, about how much she’d once meant to him. He remembered the way his heart fluttered and skipped at the thought of asking her to prom and how excited he’d gotten when she said yes. He could even still hear her voice telling him everything would be okay after his momma died during his junior year.
There’d always been a wonderful sweetness to the girl, an easiness he’d once found so much comfort and joy in having by his side. It just seemed those days were over in a flash, coming to an end so suddenly. He’d spent a long while wondering if they’d even been real.
“Not often I see you.” Foggy said, wiping down the bar in front of him. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
Foggy was six foot two inches of pure Southern country boy, with sandy-brown hair, a tan that looked like he enjoyed the outdoors a little more than indoors, and a thick Carolina twang in his words. A grey Henley shirt wrapped his thick upper body and a silver crucifix hung from his neck as he stood behind the high wooden bar.
“I’ve been a little busy,” the detective answered. “And no, you haven’t broken any law. At least none I’m aware of.”
Ever since the disappearance of Foggy’s little sister twenty years ago, the men couldn’t help but feel tied together in a way that most others wouldn’t understand, though with their tumultuous relationship, they’d had little contact over the last few years. It was Foggy who’d first come to Ryan’s house, insisting his sister had vanished after leaving for prom. Then in a move he’d spent years feeling guilty over, Ryan had sent the young man away.
It’s hard, though, when you’re young. Even the smallest heartbreak can feel like the biggest thing in the world. That was especially true for Ryan, a young man in love. When the girl he’d cared so much for canceled their date only hours before the big night, Ryan swore to himself he wouldn’t call her again, he wouldn’t look at her, and he wouldn’t give her his tears. But like many times after, he was about as wrong as a sinner in church.
“How have you been?” Ryan asked.
“Well enough, I guess.” Foggy slid an icy-cold Corona across the bar. “Finally got that old truck fixed up.”
“The Chevy?”
“Yes.” Foggy adjusted his navy baseball cap. “I was out front washing her down and a guy stopped by, made me an offer.”
“You gonna sell?” Ryan asked, taking a sip.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Was the offer good?” he asked, placing the cold bottle back on the wooden bar, watching as cool beads of condensation rolled down the white and gold label.
“Oh, yeah. It was fine offer. He even offered more when I didn’t agree right away. I just wasn’t expecting it so fast. Tell me why you’re here. What do you want?”
“To tell you something,” Ryan replied, thinking back to the hot summer days of his childhood, remembering the hell Foggy’s daddy raised after he stole that truck and smashed it into the guard rail off Route Seven.
“And what is that?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Haley.”
Just as they had ever since the night his sister vanished, Foggy’s eyes shifted at the mention of her name, though with each passing year, that shift moved a little slower, with a little more hesitation than it once had. But hope is a finite thing. It dwindles with each new dawn, stepping a little farther away from us.
“We don’t have to keep hashing this out, man. Let’s just remember her the way—”
“We found her,” Ryan said, not looking up from his Corona. “This morning.”
A quiet stillness fell across the air, turning the small space between the two men into a cavernous void of discomfort and painful memories. There’d been a time, very early on, when the mention of his sister’s name would have inspired a sense of reserved hope in him, but now, twenty years later, the bartender had seen enough disappointment to know better.
