Charged with the murders of Reggie Sails, David Fisher, and Detective Rogers, along with kidnapping and fraud, McAllister lawyered up faster than a mosquito on a Yankee tourist. Based on documentation found by investigating officers, he was also revealed as the silent partner pushing to purchase Sumter Point. Galston had lied when he said he wanted to preserve the land and use offset credits to make an eco-friendly neighborhood. Sumter Point would itself be the ultimate offset credit, which would have preserved it at the expense of somewhere else in the state. And he would have made millions.
The senior partners in the accounting firm McAllister and Galston used—David Fisher’s employers—were indicted for cooking the books and getting rich.
McAllister’s aunt, Mrs. Calhoun, wanted my uncle out of the picture so she could bulldoze the Cove. Apparently murder was an acceptable solution to her distaste for seedy bars. The police could not establish whether or not she had been involved in planning the scheme, but the connection ruined her reputation. As the saying went, “There’s a mighty big turd in the punch-bowl.”
Darcy had recognized McAllister’s ZR1 from when I pointed it out to her. No one else in Charleston had a red one. She spotted it at the Chinese brothel but McAllister caught her entering, realized she could expose the whole operation, and told the Madame who she really was.
Darcy’s mother set up a trust to take care of the fourteen-year-old prostitute who came forward in the brothel and helped Patricia and me find Darcy. The trust provided for her care and included a provision for college if she wanted to go.
The District Attorney called Darcy and Shorty as star witnesses. Shorty had neglected to tell me McAllister put him up to trashing my car after I blew his Chrysler to smithereens. Chauncey was the one to share that tidbit. I decided since the little freak was cooperating, I wouldn’t pursue it. That’s what my insurance company and the police were for.
After the doctors stitched up my arm, they prescribed an antibiotic, had me changing bandages daily, and recommended physical therapy. For a little while, Darcy and I wore matching slings.
Chauncey’s wife cried when I came to get Shelby. I think my dog didn’t want to leave Trish’s constant presence and attention. On our way out of the driveway, she flagged us down and handed me the purple leash she’d gotten him, along with a fragranced spray. She told me I needed to put it on him every night.
Yeah, right. I threw it on the passenger side floorboard and sped away.
Constance Hagan and the Charleston Conservation Society held several events and raised money to buy Sumter Point. I was positive Constance fronted most of the money, which was okay with me. I received a cool million for the land and the commitment to preserve it forever, as my uncle had wanted.
After I paid the taxes and received the money the police finally unfroze from my uncle’s accounts, I cleared the note on the bar and still had a lot left over. The Pirate’s Cove was doing well under Paige’s management and I would make sure she had everything she needed to run it and be secure for her and her boy. Uncle Reggie would come back to haunt me if I sold it, though that’s what I did with Sumter Point to the C.C.S. I decided I wanted him to be resting in peace.
The Church of Redemption found an anonymous cash donation on its doorstep—just under two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars in fresh crisp bricks of hundreds. The same amount Darcy, Patricia, and I had found in the crab pots, minus a few expenses. When Chauncey determined the money couldn’t be traced and gave legal council about how to handle it, Brother Thomas had no excuse but to accept it.
The church also found it had two new attendees—me and Mutt. We looked like a rough version of Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder singing a gospel rendering of “Ebony and Ivory,” but the congregation didn’t seem to mind.
Ever concerned about my mental state, Paige handed over a letter from Justine Fisher, who’d sent it to the bar. Paige held onto it for two days before coming clean. Justine wanted me to know she and the kids were adapting well in Virginia. Her closing paragraph contained a surprise—an open invitation to visit.
I considered it for all of two seconds. One thing I definitely learned: leave the past where it is.
On Uncle Reggie’s birthday, a month after he was killed, we held a small memorial service at the surf below the Pirate’s Cove. Chauncey and Trish, Paige and Simon, Patricia, Darcy, Mutt, the former Detective Wilson, Shelby, and I listened as Brother Thomas spoke about life and death and salvation. Afterwards, the group watched as I carried the urn into knee-high water, with Shelby following behind. Patricia kicked off her shoes and waded out in what looked like an expensive black dress. I handed her the top of the canister.
“Brother said you were in a better place.” My eyes watered and my voice broke.
Patricia put her arm around me.
“You always loved the water, Uncle Reggie,” I said. “Now you can ride the waves all you want.” I tilted the container and let the ashes pour out. Patricia rested her head on my shoulder. Shelby paddled around the ashes, whimpering, as if he knew what was going on.