THIRTEEN

Charleston is blessed with so many wonderful culinary experiences. Often on date night, Nate and I try one of the newer restaurants that have sprung up over the last few years. But Poogan’s Porch is one of a few restaurants that is nearly as familiar as Mamma’s dining room. Housed in a charming yellow Victorian built in 1888, it feels like home. The menu, heavy on Southern comfort food artfully prepared, never disappoints.

We were seated in the far corner of the back dining room, next to a wall of windows overlooking the courtyard. Nate took a quick look at the wine list while the waiter filled our water glasses.

“We’d like a bottle of the Sass Willamette Valley Pinot Noir,” said Nate. “And if you would, go ahead and get us some of the mac and cheese, fried green tomatoes, and ribs and pickles started.”

When the waiter stepped away, I said, “Thank you for not making me choose between the mac and cheese and the fried green tomatoes.” Nate loved the ribs.

“You said you were famished. When your wife is famished, a smart man feeds her as expeditiously as possible, preferably with her favorite foods.”

“You are a very smart man.”

“You know we’ll never eat all of that and our entrees.”

“I very well could tonight.” I studied my menu. “I think I’ll have the filet mignon, but with asparagus instead of the broccolini.”

Nate grinned. “You’re going to eat the steak and the blue cheese and ricotta dumplings.”

“I might get to some of the asparagus,” I said.

The waiter returned with our wine and went through the presentation efficiently. When he’d filled our glasses and moved away, Nate raised his glass. “To the prettiest lady I know.”

“You are too kind, sir.”

“Nonsense. I’m simply making an observation.”

We both sipped our wine.

“Yum,” I said.

“Hard to beat a Willamette Valley pinot noir,” said Nate. “You’ll never believe who one of Phillip Drayton’s pall bearers was.”

I smiled sweetly, tilted my head. “James Huger?”

He drew his eyebrows together, looked around. “Where is she?”

“Colleen? I haven’t seen her today, which is odd, come to think of it. She promised me we’d talk.” I mentally pushed the dream away with both hands.

“How did you know about Huger?”

“I actually spoke with him this afternoon.” I brought Nate up to speed on the couple at the bookshop, the episode with the limo, The Planter’s Club, and our invitation to visit.

“So, these women, they communicate via bookmark,” said Nate.

“Exactly.”

“Why use a bookshop at all? Why not have women pop into the resale shop on King Street and leave a message they need help?”

“My guess is because it’s common knowledge that proceeds from that store support victims of domestic violence. Often those victims have limited freedom. If their abusers saw them going into that store, that could make it harder to escape.”

“Okay, so they leave a bookmark in a specific book that is guaranteed to always be in stock. And that tells these women what?”

“It’s a request for pickup. Like manually ordering a rescue Uber. They communicate locations that way. I’m not sure about the time. The woman on Meeting Street was picked up at two o’clock, but Jacynthe and Sofia met at the Unitarian graveyard around eleven a.m.”

We both mulled that for a moment. A server delivered our appetizers. I slid the ribs over to Nate and left the mac and cheese and fried green tomatoes in the middle of the table. Then I scooped some of each onto my small plate. I savored the first bite of smoked gouda, country ham, and pasta. “Ummm.” I closed my eyes.

“You sure you don’t want some of the ribs?” asked Nate.

“No, thank you. I’m eating strategically.”

The waiter returned to take our dinner order.

Nate said, “The lady would like the filet mignon, medium rare. Please substitute asparagus for the broccolini. And I’d like the pan roasted scallops.”

“Very good,” said the waiter. “I’ll get those started.”

“Slugger, I hate to keep flogging this poor horse, but we still haven’t tied Anne Frances Drayton to Tess Hathaway and her…associates. Do you really think it’s worth our time to investigate this club?”

“Honestly, I’m convinced Tess Hathaway is our client. Poppy has a very limited support system. Tess’s conversation with Poppy’s landlord, Aida Butler, proves she’s looking out for Poppy.”

“I’d agree that’s likely,” said Nate. “But I don’t think it necessarily follows that Anne Frances was one of her clients—that Mrs. Hathaway knows anything whatsoever about what actually happened to Phillip Drayton. I think it’s just like Fraser and Eli told us—she wants to help her friend, Poppy, who’s in trouble. I think it’s as simple as that.”

“You don’t think she was the woman who made the second call to 911. From the burner phone? The woman Sonny described as regal? A local matron whose extracurricular actives explain why a woman in her position would have a burner phone to begin with?”

Nate winced. “I’ll grant you it’s possible. But we have no evidence to support that theory.”

“Agreed. Which is why we need to keep investigating these women until we have enough on them that they have no choice but to tell us everything they know. I think they’re smart enough that there is no evidence. We have to make them talk.”

“That’s a tall order,” said Nate. “My impression is, women dedicated to a cause like that, it will take a lot to get them to violate a confidence, endanger their operation.”

I sighed. “I have no desire to endanger their operation. They’re clearly providing a service to women who need help.” I sliced off a bite of fried green tomato.

“But what if, in the process of solving our case, we uncover information that incriminates one or more of these women? It’s possible one of them accidentally hit Phillip Drayton, panicked and left the scene. Are you going to be able to live with it if the unintended consequence of solving this case is that one of these women providing a necessary service to the vulnerable ends up in jail?”

I sighed, pondered that. “I pray we don’t end up there. But I think we have to follow the evidence wherever it leads—to the truth, no matter how painful. We know Tess Hathaway has good attorneys and knows how to use them.”

“That’s a fact.”

After we’d eaten half of our appetizers, I put down my fork. “I want to be able to enjoy my steak.”

“What say I ask the waiter to box these up? You may feel peckish later.”

I smiled. “Indeed, I might.”

Nate signaled the waiter, and in short order the appetizers were cleared, and our entrees arrived. After we’d each had a bite of our own food and each other’s, Nate asked, “You talk to your mamma today?”

“I called her this morning while I was on the ferry. She was on a tear about the goats.”

“But the goats are gone. They’re someone else’s problem now.”

“She’s still dealing with the aftermath. Apparently in addition to the considerable issues in the backyard, and the neighbors’ yards, the goats feasted on Mamma’s hostas, among other things in the front yard.”

Nate swirled the wine in his glass, watched it. “I hope you don’t feel neglected.”

“Neglected? In what way?” I squinted at him, gave him a little grin over the top of my wine glass.

“I don’t go to the same extravagant lengths to get your attention that you’re accustomed to observing your daddy employ in order to keep your mamma’s.”

“Oh please. You do an excellent job of keeping my attention, and you well know it. And if you ever bring home farm animals, I won’t hesitate to send you straight over to Merry’s house.”

“Noted.” He forked a bite of scallops, grinned at me. A wayward lock of hair had curled onto his forehead, the way it often did right before he got it cut.

I resisted the urge to brush it back, just for the pleasure of touching him. I rather liked that blond curl, and if I called attention to it, he’d make sure to have his hair cut the next day.

We ate inside our own little bubble for a few moments. Neither of us said anything, but the electric current that flowed between us was a palpable thing. My heart raced, my breathing went shallow.

After a few minutes he said, “It’s a shame we have work to do yet this evening. I can think of much better ways to pass the time.”

I smiled. “As can I.”

The waiter refilled our wine glasses, asked if he could get us anything.

“We’re good, thank you.” Nate didn’t take his eyes off me. “I was serious about taking some time off. Once we wrap this case up, let’s get away for a while. We can go to Greenville, or anywhere you like.”

“Greenville maybe,” I said. “But I don’t think we should spend the money on a vacation right now. There’s too much we need to do at home.” I wouldn’t trade our beach house for anything. But upkeep on oceanfront property was expensive, especially when the home was more than fifty years old.

“Greenville then,” said Nate. “It’ll be a little cooler there, maybe.”

I knew what he was thinking. Maybe I’d sleep better away from the coast. “Anything else interesting happen at the funeral?” I asked. “Besides James Huger being a pall bearer?”

“Mallory—the redhead from last night—was demonstrably upset.”

“Was Daniel comforting her?”

“Not at all,” said Nate. “She steered well clear of the family. The thin blonde woman, long straight hair, you put her picture on the board this morning along with Jacynthe’s, Mallory’s, and Sofia’s. She was at the funeral.”

“Emma Williams. The woman in the older Honda. Software developer. I’m not sure what her connection to any of this is. Could be she simply knew Phillip somehow, could be a number of ways. The only odd thing was the first—possibly second—time I saw her, she was staring at Poppy and me out the window of her car.”

Nate shrugged. “Poppy have her hair up in those pigtails?”

I grinned, nodded. “Yeah. She did. It could be as simple as that. Any of Anne Frances’s family turn up at the funeral?”

“If they did, they didn’t sit with her in the church, or accompany her and Daniel to the gravesite. Very small crowd there. The minister, the pall bearers, Anne Frances, and Daniel.”

“How did they act towards each other?” I asked. “Anne Frances and Daniel?”

“They were civil, I’d say. Certainly not leaning on each other for comfort or anything like that. About the same as at the funeral home.”

I sipped my wine. “Do you think she knows that he told Sonny he suspects her of killing his brother? Surely if there’s that much animosity between them she isn’t oblivious to it.”

“I’d say at least she knows he suspects her. She’s likely thinking if he hasn’t told the police that he will at some point.”

“Speaking of Sonny, did you talk to him today?” I asked.

“Yeah, he came to the funeral. We watched the graveside service together from my car. Parked a safe distance away at Magnolia and used the binoculars.”

“He have anything new?”

“No, and I’m afraid he’s going to go with the simplest explanation if another one doesn’t surface soon. The simplest thing being that Poppy hit Phillip Drayton by accident due to poor visibility and then she was afraid to admit it. I’m not saying he believes that. I think he suspects Poppy of something much more sinister, but realizes he may be unable to prove it.”

“Do you get the sense he’s going to arrest her soon?”

Nate rolled his lips in and out. “He isn’t exploring alternative theories. Forensics has nearly exhausted what they can do with the car. He’s close. I asked him for more time.”

“What did he say?”

“Because he doesn’t see Poppy as a danger to others, or a flight risk, and because I assured him we were keeping a close eye on her, he agreed to one week, but he was very clear that would be the end of it.”

“Good thing we work well under pressure.”