Lowcountry Seaside Mystery Box Set, page 15
part #1 of Lowcountry Seaside Mystery Series
“He had dark hair,” Ida began without being asked. “Aside from the tattered blue jeans, he was easy enough on the eyes. I don’t know what color his eyes were. Like I say, it was dark. But something makes me wanna say that boy had blue eyes. You know how sometimes you can just tell things about a person? I could tell he had blue eyes.”
“All right.” Kit scribbled something in her notepad, arching her eyebrows and taking a deep breath. “Blue eyes. Maybe.”
“Not maybe, sweetheart.” Ida ran her fingertip across the rim of her glass. “You can bet your buttons on it.”
There was a sweet thickness to the air that day. But what else can be expected for mid-August in the Lowcountry? Why, it seemed even the birds were too hot to bother with flying or even chirping. A still silence filled the warm breeze as it blew in from the east, filling the small living room with the scent of freshly-made peach cobbler.
Warm cinnamon, dark caramel, and sizzling butter all melded together, slowly working their way into Ryan’s nose and mouth with each breath he took. He couldn’t help but turn and look back at the kitchen as the sound of an oven timer rang out. The cobbler was ready.
“Would you like some?” Ida asked.
“Oh,” Kit said. “That won’t be ne—”
“We’d love some!” Ryan grinned. “Thank you.”
“Not at all, dear,” she said. “It’s my pleasure. Been a while since I shared something sweet with a nice-looking man.”
“Was that old-lady innuendo?” Kit curled her lip.
“I don’t care,” Ryan answered. “I’m not going to say no to homemade peach cobbler.”
“What’s the big deal?” Kit asked. “It’s just a pie.”
“Just a pie?” It was in that moment that Ryan realized something that was at once surprising and more than a little sad. At least to a Southerner. “You’ve never eaten peach cobbler, have you?” He could have sworn he felt his breath slow.
“So?” Kit replied. “I don’t even like peaches. Every time you open the can, there’s this weird gel in there.”
“Can?” Ida asked, popping into the room with a pan of piping-hot cobbler and a bowl of vanilla ice cream. “Who eats peaches from a can? They grow on trees, sweetheart.”
“No one I know,” Ryan answered, helping the woman set the tray on the table. “Thank you so much.”
“Take yourself a big helping,” she answered. “Lord knows, I don’t need to eat this by myself.”
“By yourself?” Kit replied. “You can eat this whole pan?”
“Not all at once, dear.” Ida plopped down a ladleful of cobbler. “Now go on, it’s better when it’s hot.”
Sweet warmth filled his body, beginning in his mouth before slowly gliding down his throat and into his stomach. The taste, smell, and sensation of the dessert reminded Ryan of his mother. So many years had passed since he’d last tasted her food, but he’d never forgotten the flavors and the way they brought a smile to his once-young face.
“It reminds me of the cobbler from my childhood,” The detective said, wiping a spot of caramel from his lips.
“Your mother was a fine cook,” Ida said. “And a wonderful lady. I know this probably isn’t as good as she’d have made it, but—”
“I assure you,” Ryan said. “It’s perfectly lovely.”
“Before we go,” Kit interjected, “Is there anything else you can tell us about that night? Perhaps something you remembered after speaking to the police. Maybe a detail you left out or got wrong?”
Mrs. Taylor thought for a few minutes, slowly picking at her warm plate and staring off into the sky. For a moment, Kit thought maybe she’d actually come up with something, that there would be some sudden epiphany. There wasn’t.
“No,” Ida replied after a few minutes. “Like I told them sixteen years ago. He knocked the screen out, jumped to the ground, and ran into the woods. Though, that gator almost got a bite out of him.” A smile slowly crept across Ida’s face at the memory of her words. “But that’s what you get for landing near the marsh.”
“Gator?” Kit asked. “I don’t remember reading that in the report.”
“Neither do I,” Ryan replied, scooping up the last bit of cobbler and shoveling it into his mouth. “Thank you for the lovely dessert and for speaking with us, Mrs. Taylor.” Ryan stood to his feet.
“Please,” she replied. “Call me Ida.”
“Ida it is,” Ryan said as he and Kit left the house and got back into his car. “Sweet lady,” he said, closing the driver’s door.
“Yeah. And you were right about that cobbler. It was damn good.”
“It’s peach cobbler from an old Southern lady.” He smiled. “It has to be good. She wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter Two
“Yes, ma’am,” Ryan said into the phone’s receiver. “We’re still following leads every day. I won’t give up on looking for him.” He’d told the woman some version of the same story every other week for the last two years.
There was a piece of Charlotte Brown missing. Her son had vanished six years before, just after the Fourth of July fireworks, and not a month had gone by that she couldn’t be found walking the streets of Charleston County, talking to anyone who’d listen. She kept his picture posted in every window she could find and stapled to every electric pole she ran across. It was a hard thing to do, listening to someone’s heart break over and over every day, but that was Detective Ryan Devereux’s job.
“I know,” he said, running a hand across his forehead and giving it a squeeze. “We’ve questioned Tommy Drumming and his story hasn’t changed. But that doesn’t mean it won’t, or that the person responsible won’t be found out. Sure as the rain, I’ll keep turning over every rock I stumble across. Yes, ma’am. You have yourself a fine day, now.”
“Mrs. Brown again?” Kit asked, taking a seat next to her partner. There was a tiredness in her, or at least that’s what Ryan assumed it was, though he’d never been the best at understanding the all-too-complex emotions of the opposite sex.
“Yes. Every other week, like clockwork.”
“You gotta admire that,” Kit said, pulling a small band from her ponytail and letting her hair cascade around her face.
“You okay?” Ryan asked.
“I’ve just had a sinus headache over the last few days or something, I think. I’ll be fine,” she said, taking a sip from her steaming coffee cup. She always drank the stuff pretty dark, almost black, really, which to her partner was downright blasphemy.
In Lowcountry, most folks took their coffee with just about as much cream as they could find, saving room, of course, for a few spoonfuls of sugar. To drink the stuff black and bitter was just crazy. Why, that was nothing more than burned beans, and no one wanted that. No one below the Mason-Dixon, anyway.
“Peak weed pollen,” Ryan said, opening a large white folder. After speaking to Ida Taylor about the case, he and his partner returned to their office in the Charleston County Police Department to go over a few things before heading up to the state capital. They’d be following up on what Ryan hoped was a credible lead. Though, seeing as how it came from an inmate up in the state capital, he wasn’t holding his breath.
“What?” Kit asked, narrowing her eyes and wrinkling her brow.
“Peak weed pollen.” He looked at her. “Itchy eyes and nose, sneezing, congestion, and just feeling miserable. It happens at the tail-end of every summer. I think it helps the moss or something.”
“Well, isn’t that wonderful?” Kit said, her eyes filling with water as tried her best to hold back a sneeze. “I can look forward to this for years to come.”
“Yup.” Ryan smiled. “It’s just the magic of Lowcountry.”
Granted, the man didn’t love having his eyes and throat swell every year, but he’d come to expect it, and more than that, he’d come to see it as just something else that made his home so unique. Sure, it would have been better if that something unique were gold in the sand, but he wasn’t going to get his feathers in a ruffle over things he couldn’t change.
“I don’t see it,” Kit said, flipping through the stack of papers with one hand and holding a napkin to her nose with the other. “There was no mention of a gator or a marsh.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Ida only thinks she told them about it. You know how people’s memories can get after time.”
The detective couldn’t count the number of times he’d heard a witness’s story change with nothing more than the weight of a breeze. It just seemed that people had a hard time remembering small details, especially once they’d heard another version of a story. It never failed. A witness could be stone-cold sure of a man’s hair color or height, but once they heard it described another way, well… then they had an entirely new set of memories. It was aggravating, yes, but it was just part of the job.
“Could be,” Kit answered. “But look. What have you heard about this?” She handed Ryan a sheet of paper. It was a witness statement about a strange vehicle in the area the night of Karen Wyler’s murder.
The statement was from of a man who’d been driving home after visiting some friends. He’d noticed a small green car in the parking lot of a day-surgery center he knew to be closed. It seemed the business was only one street over from Karen’s café. There were plenty of details listed about both the car and the business where it had been seen. What there didn’t seem to be, though, was a follow-up with the witness.
“Gerard Temple,” Ryan said, looking at the paper.
“You know him?” Kit asked, taking another sip of her coffee.
“I know the Temple family. They live out by Pinelake Plantation, but I can’t say I know Gerard too well. He was a few years older than me, but I think I remember something about him dating one of the cheerleaders. But they were in high school. I was still in middle school.”
“I’m sure it won’t be hard to find him,” Kit said. “But I say we start with Daniel Mathis.”
“I could go for a drive right now,” Ryan answered, thinking about the two-hour drive up Interstate Twenty-Six. Though he hadn’t been to Columbia in a while, he thought about a little steakhouse along the way. But just as he turned to mention it to Kit, a knock came on his office door.
“Chief Evans,” Ryan said, watching his superior step into the room without saying a word. While the two men were doing their best to mend the fractured relationship between them, they still weren’t friends by anyone’s definition. Not that it mattered too much. Friendship wasn’t too important when it came to interpersonal work relationships, especially in law enforcement. More important were a strong level of trust and good instincts.
“Detective Devereux,” he replied, cutting his eyes toward Ryan’s desk. “I hear you’ve begun work on the Wyler case after this internet nonsense.”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan replied, closing up the envelope. “We received a call from a prisoner up in the capital. Says he’s got some information. Seems he saw the news too.”
“Then why are you still here?” the chief asked, a mix of frustration and contempt in his eyes.
“Just getting ourselves caught up. Wanted to make sure I had all the information before I spoke to him.” Ryan’s words were quick and studied. Both he and the chief had been in the game long enough to know protocol, to know you don’t just go marching into an interview blind when you’ve got a box full of casefiles on your desk. “Not like he’s going anywhere, anyway,” Ryan said, knowing his words would only serve to aggravate his boss.
The sound of his ringing phone cut through the tense air, causing Chief Evans to roll his eyes and leave the room. The number was one Ryan didn’t recognize right away. He clicked the screen, accepting the call. The few short words that followed caused his eyes to grow wide as he turned to Kit, his mouth falling slightly open.
“What?” She leaned in.
“Uncle Pauley,” Ryan said, placing his phone on the desk. “He had a heart attack.”
Chapter Three
It had been a couple of weeks since Ryan had last visited his uncle, and while he may not have looked great, the news that he’d had a heart attack still came as a surprise. Though with his twenty-year diet of fried fish and Corona, the more he thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed. A cool Atlantic wind wafted in from the water as he stepped onto Diver Street, a gentle reminder that the cooler days of autumn were right around the corner.
Crawtails had been around for the better part of Ryan’s life. Almost thirty years had passed since the accident with an eighteen-wheeler that had afforded his uncle the money to purchase the little place. For a while, it was pretty popular, but the aging décor and dimly-lit interior made it less attractive over the last few years. He’d tried a few times, in fact, to help his uncle spruce the place up. But that just wasn’t Pauley’s cup of tea. He was more of an it’ll hold for another year kind of guy.
Stepping through the door, Ryan heard the sound of his soles sticking to, then pulling away from, the hardwood floors. A handful of patrons sat scattered throughout the room, two at the bar and two at a table in the far corner. They were older, about the age of Pauley himself, and from the looks of them, a crystal chandelier and a fresh coat of paint wouldn’t have done much to impress them.
“He’s upstairs,” Willy said. He’d been tending the bar there for about the last ten years, showing up early and staying late. Ryan had spoken to him about it a few times, about why he chose to spend so much time around the kind of folks who hung around dark bars, drinking all day. He’d never seemed to get much in the way of information, just that it was the kind of thing Will was used to.
“Thanks,” Ryan answered, making momentary eye contact with the man. There was a gruffness in his voice, the kind of weathered tone you get after years of hard liquor and a few too many cigarettes. His face was wrinkled with time and sun, and there was an air about him that let you know he’d already seen everything he cared to see.
And just like was customary in the South, the older gentleman nodded to Ryan as he walked by, headed for the back of the bar. He ascended the stairs, a straight shot up to a small landing with only one door. A small faded sign read Office, though in truth, it was more of an apartment than anything else.
His uncle moved in straightaway, only days after buying the bar. There were days many years ago when Ryan would enter Crawtails long before he was old enough to legally drink, climb those stairs, and find an hour of comfort in the warmth of a pretty girl. Though the thought of doing such a thing now sent his upper lip curling. He was young once, though, with raging hormones and only one goal. Placing his hand on the door and turning the handle, he wondered, only for a moment, if it was really all that long ago?
“Fancy seeing you here,” Pauley said from his overstuffed recliner.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Ryan asked, instinctively cleaning up a little bit. A few loose papers, a bowl of what looked like Corn Flakes, and too many empty beer bottles sat on the table.
“And tell you what?” Pauley answered. “That I’m getting older? That my health isn’t what it used to be?” He gave a half smile, the kind that let his nephew know he was still healthy enough to throw a few jabs his way. “You’re a detective, boy. Can’t you figure nothing out yourself?”
“Funny . . .” Ryan deadpanned. “You were in the hospital. You could have called.”
“I could have, but I didn’t,” he replied. “I got to see that pretty little thing you’ve been seeing up there though.” He smiled even wider. “I made sure to press the call button when I knew she was around.”
“Please,” Ryan replied. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
It’s just the way of life. Heart attacks happen. People have strokes. Hell, once in a while, some unlucky son of a bitch gets struck by lightning or hit by a train. But it never got any easier, and Ryan never really expected it would happen to his uncle. There was just something about the man, something strong and steadfast. He’d always taken him for the kind of guy who would just die one day, very suddenly and without warning, as though his body were too tough to slow down. The thought of a heart attack, well . . . that just didn’t sit right.
“What happened?” Ryan asked.
Pauley lifted an eyebrow. “You’re asking me how heart attacks happen?”
“No,” Ryan said, throwing away the loose papers and putting the dishes in the sink. “I’m asking you what you were doing when it happened. Where were you?”
“I was in bed,” he answered.
“Asleep?”
“Oh, no.” He flashed a wicked grin. “I was awake.”
His words practically dripped innuendo, letting Ryan know everything he needed to about what his uncle had been doing when his heart decided it was too much for the old man. Not that he could blame him. He was, after all, still alive, still a red-blooded Carolina man with a drive, a lust, and a county full of Southern belles.
“Maybe take things a little slower next time.”
“What do you know about Ida Taylor?”
“Ida Taylor?” Ryan sighed. In Lowcountry, almost nothing travelled faster than gossip, and that was something everyone knew to be true. Likely, one of Mrs. Taylor’s neighbors was sitting on her front porch, just watching the day pass by, when they spotted a car pulling into Ida’s driveway and two detectives getting out.
In Charleston, that’s about all it takes to get the telephones ringing and the grapevine shaking. It was at once a blessing and a curse. It meant secrets weren’t so easy to keep, which for a detective trying to solve a cold case, might just come in handy.
“You were there.” Pauley looked at his nephew. “Stayed for about an hour, asking questions and eating cobbler, I hear tell.”
“It’s the Karen Wyler case.”
“Karen Wyler.” Pauley raised his eyes, focusing on the small dim light in the corner. “I ain’t heard that name in a long time. Fried catfish sandwiches—that was her specialty.”
“So I’ve heard. Did you ever stop by there?”
