FOUR

After Sonny left, Nate and I decided to divide and conquer. Because we hadn’t spoken directly to any of the people involved, it felt like we knew less about this case at the outset than any we’d ever undertaken, and we needed to catch up fast—before Poppy Oliver ended up in the county detention center. So far, we only knew of three parties connected to Phillip Drayton: his wife, his brother, and Poppy Oliver. Both women had been in the immediate vicinity when Phillip died.

Later, when we were back at our desks, we’d profile the victim, his brother, and both women. No doubt this would provide additional avenues of investigation. But for now, we’d start with Anne Frances Drayton and Poppy Oliver. Because Poppy had seen me with Sonny that very morning, Nate set out to find and surveil her. It was 3:45 and she would likely soon be finished with her route for the day.

I’d parked my Escape in a metered spot on Broad Street near State. I opened the lift gate and pulled out the duffle where I kept wardrobe options. It wasn’t uncommon for me to swap out shoes, jackets, hats, shirts—even entire outfits—especially if I was running surveillance. I traded my Kate Spade sandals for cross trainers and no-show socks, tucked my hair under a pink Life is Good cap, and donned my biggest sunglasses.

Thankfully, I’d dressed in lightweight capris and a tank with a blouse over it. I slipped off the blouse and smoothed on a layer of sunscreen. From a file box, I grabbed a colorful tourist map of Charleston and stuck it in the back pocket of my capris. Then I closed the lift gate, climbed into the driver’s seat, and pulled into traffic, heading west on Broad Street.

Downtown Charleston—the part most people think of when they think of the Holy City—occupies a peninsula bordered by the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. White Point Garden sits on the point of the peninsula, where the rivers converge and spill into Charleston Harbor. South of Broad, the residential neighborhood where I was headed, was made up of a mix of modern streets and cobblestone and brick lanes. Pastel, rich-hued, and brick homes, in a variety of architectural styles spanning every period of American history, lined the streets.

I made a left on Meeting and followed it to where it dead-ended at South Battery, across from White Point Garden. The Drayton home sat in the adjacent block, on the corner of Murray and Lenwood, with South Battery and King Street forming the other two sides of the block. I made a right on South Battery and street-parked a few houses past the King Street intersection. Without a residential permit, I was flirting with a parking ticket. It wouldn’t be my first.

I climbed out of the car, grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler behind the driver’s seat, and walked back to the intersection of South Battery and King. Across the street, a mix of young mothers with small children, folks walking dogs, girls’ weekenders, and old men swapping tall tales sheltered from the August sun in the sprawling canopy of White Point Garden’s live oaks. A handful of oiled sun worshipers courted melanoma on brightly colored blankets and beach towels.

I turned right on King Street, quickly covered the block to Murray, then crossed over to join the stream of people strolling along the Lower Battery promenade. On my right, a row of parked cars stretched along Murray Boulevard as if to fortify the Battery. A young man waited as a pretty brunette unbuckled a little girl from a car seat in back of a Hyundai. Alone in a grey Honda with windows rolled down, a blonde stared across the water.

To my left, the water sparkled in the afternoon sun. Sailboats glided and powerboats plowed in and out of the mouth of the Ashley River, heading between the City Marina and Charleston Harbor. A happy couple on board a Catalina waved and I waved back.

As I approached the Drayton home, I slowed my pace. It was a two-story red brick house with black shutters. Dual sets of curved steps swept up from the front walk to a semi-circular covered stoop with white columns. While the architecture had Georgian elements, the raised first floor was all Lowcountry. It was a lovely home, large and solid. Situated where it was, no doubt it was worth multiple millions of dollars. But it wasn’t a historic property, perhaps mid-twentieth century. I meandered down the walkway, taking in the lovely wrought iron fence and meticulous landscaping just like any tourist might do. This was Charleston, after all. Everyone stared at homes here.

Was Mrs. Drayton home? I wasn’t planning to disturb her—I wanted a lot more information before I sat down to chat with her. I just wanted to get a look at where Phillip Drayton had met his untimely end. And I was hoping for inspiration. What on earth had happened here?

I made a right turn, crossing Murray Boulevard and heading up Lenwood. A row of palm trees lined the street on the outer edge of the sidewalk. Cars with residential permits were street parked on the right side of Lenwood. Two car-lengths from the corner, the Drayton’s driveway intersected the sidewalk and led to a two-car garage underneath the house. I stood at the end of the driveway and studied the street. This was where it had happened.

Whoever had hit Phillip Drayton, their vision had very likely been impeded by cars parked along the street—and the rain. But why had he been out here at nearly ten at night in a rainstorm? He must’ve been running, or he would’ve seen the car in time to stop. Wait. The pepper spray. His vision would’ve been impaired, but surely he would’ve still seen headlights. What—or who—was he running from? Was he running away from his home, or seeking refuge there?

I continued down the sidewalk as I mulled. The backyard of the Drayton home was enclosed in an ivy-covered brick courtyard wall. A wrought-iron gate led from the driveway to the backyard. The only access to the house from the driveway was through the garage. A keypad was mounted on the doorframe.

When Sonny rang the doorbell Thursday night, Mrs. Drayton had heard it and answered. There was no way she’d slept through the kind of ruckus that involved Tasers and pepper spray inside her house, then been awakened by a doorbell. Plus, there’d been no evidence of that kind of struggle in the Drayton home. Where did all that go down?

I made my way around the block. None of the neighbors had heard anything, Sonny said. But what if one of them was involved? Phillip had been attacked somewhere. Was it inside one of these homes? He hadn’t driven anywhere. But someone could have picked him up and dropped him off. He was unaccounted for between 8:00 and 9:42 p.m. Theoretically, he could’ve been attacked anywhere in the county. I kept walking, looking, and mulling.

After I’d circumnavigated the block once, instead of crossing Murray to walk along the Battery, I stayed on the sidewalk that ran right in front of the house for a closer look. The third time around, I went down another block to Limehouse, then turned around and approached from the west to get another perspective before heading back down Lenwood.

On my fifth lap around the block, just as I rounded the corner of Murray and Lenwood, I caught the faint sound of a garage door motor. As I passed by the driveway, the left garage door eased up. Hmm. It was unlikely anyone aside from Mrs. Drayton would be parked inside the garage. I walked ahead a few steps, then stopped under a palm tree and set my water bottle on the hood of a handy Volvo. I pulled the tourist map out of my pocket, flicked it open, and peeked out from behind the corner.

A silver Lexus sedan with South Carolina plates backed out of the driveway and into the street, turning towards Murray. I made a quick note of the tag number, grabbed my water bottle, then jogged in the opposite direction, towards South Battery. As soon as I made the corner, I broke into a sprint.

I hopped into the car, cranked the engine, darted back down South Battery, and made a left on Lenwood. Naturally, the Lexus was no longer at the intersection of Lenwood and Murray, but I had a better-than-even chance of getting this right. King Street was one-way. Anyone turning left on Murray would have to drive around the point of the peninsula, past White Point Garden. If I were Mrs. Drayton, I’d turn away from the tourist traffic, away from the row of iconic antebellum mansions along East Battery. I made a right onto Murray Boulevard.

From here things would be dicier. Where was she was headed? I glanced up Limehouse as I drove by. No sign of the Lexus. None up Council, either. Rutledge was a one-way street, so I zipped by it. If I stayed on Murray past Ashley, I’d make the switchback turn at the Coast Guard Station, and then be backtracking on Tradd. I made a right on Ashley and accelerated.

I crossed South Battery, then came to a full stop at Tradd. Was that her in front of the Malibu? I continued up Ashley, passing Horse Lot Park on my left. At the intersection of Ashley and Broad, the Malibu in front of me pulled into the left turn lane. I came to a stop behind the silver Lexus. When the light changed, I followed it as it continued up Ashley Avenue, past Colonial Lake, and all the way up to Calhoun Street.

The Lexus turned right on Calhoun, took it to the other side of downtown, and made a right on East Bay. Wherever she was headed, we apparently weren’t leaving the peninsula. Eight blocks and two turns later I followed her into the garage at Cumberland and Concord. She climbed to the third level before finding a spot. I snagged one two spots away, which was fortunate since I still had no idea what the woman I was following looked like. I could no doubt google her and see what she looked like at a benefit ball or some such thing. But she likely appeared very different on a Saturday afternoon, two days after her husband was killed.

I pulled off my hat and fluffed my hair. She probably hadn’t seen me back on Lenwood, but why take the chance? I swapped out my sunglasses for some sporty, reflective wrap-arounds. When I heard her car door close, I got out of the car and eased mine shut. A willowy brunette with her hair in a loose knot at her neck, wearing white linen slacks, a matching blouse, and a sand-colored scarf walked towards the stairs. I waited a five count and followed, thankful that she wasn’t of a mind to take the elevator. This early in the case, I didn’t want to be in such close proximity to her for the length of an elevator ride with nothing but mirrored sunglasses as a disguise.

At street level, she went right towards the Cooper River, then turned left at the corner and headed up Concord. A few steps later, she walked into Buxton Books. She wanted reading material? People grieved in different ways. Perhaps she needed a distraction. The space also housed Tour Charleston, one of the city’s premier tour companies. One of their more popular tours was a ghost tour. She surely hadn’t come for that—or maybe she had. Was she into mediums and the like? Looking for someone to help her communicate with her dead husband? Polly and Julian Buxton weren’t conducting séances, as far as I knew. Charleston natives, they owned both the bookshop and the tour company.

Colleen was going to love this.

“Are you going inside or what?”

“Ooh!” My heart seized. “Are you trying to scare me to death?”

Colleen had popped in behind me. “Not really. Though it would be fun for us to be on the same side of the veil again.” She sighed. “You’ve got work yet to do. I repeat. Are you going inside?”

“Do not leave until I’ve had the chance to talk to you.” I pulled the red wooden door open and walked inside. Colleen followed.

The space was light and airy with pale hardwood floors, soft grey walls, and white wainscoting. A Pat Conroy quote was painted above a bookcase on the back wall. I’d been here several times, but it had been a while. It was somewhat unusual, as bookstores go. While the walls were lined with assorted furniture—a desk with a hutch, a secretary, and various tables and bookcases—all housing books, instead of aisles of additional bookcases that filled the space, there were a few tables, some with lovely table skirts, scattered about the room. It was an open concept bookshop, the vibe warm and inviting.

“I haven’t read a book since I crossed over.” Colleen made a beeline for the display of The Ghosts of Charleston by Julian Buxton.

Anne Frances Drayton wasn’t in the main room. I glanced to the smaller room to my right. There. She browsed a shelf on the far side of the room.

I recognized Polly Buxton, the attractive brunette behind the cash wrap desk. “Hello,” she said. “Is there something in particular I can help you find?” The most striking thing about Polly was her smile, warm and open. She was one of those women whose age was hard to pinpoint. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have. I’m surprised you remember me. You must meet an awfully lot of people,” I said.

“I have a good memory for faces,” she said.

Ordinarily, I would’ve introduced myself and chatted a moment. But I didn’t want Mrs. Drayton to catch my name. “I’m just going to browse a bit, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. Let me know if I can help you,” said Polly.

I turned around and scanned the shelves across from the cash wrap desk. This allowed me to keep an eye on when Anne Frances left the corner room. She and I were the only two customers at that particular moment, unless…A silver-haired woman had been standing at the corner of the cash wrap desk. Her skirt suit and low heels told me she wasn’t a tourist. The hairdo looked like the variety that involved weekly blowouts at a high-end salon. Behind me, she spoke to Polly in hushed tones. Was she a customer or did she work here?

I moved deeper into the store, positioned myself at the end of an oblong table display. From here I could see all of the main room and the door to the smaller room. I let my eyes slide over the titles, then picked up a book and pretended to read the back cover.

Anne Frances stepped into the main room and moved to the desk and hutch just inside the front door. She picked up a book, studied it, flipped through the pages, then replaced it on the shelf. This was similar to how I shopped for books. If the title and cover caught my eye, I read the inside jacket or the back cover. If that seemed interesting, I’d read the first page. Mrs. Drayton seemed to be reading random samples. She moved in Colleen’s direction.

“I wonder if he’s going to do a volume two?” said Colleen. “I could introduce him to a ton more lingering spirits.”

That sounds like the kind of thing that falls outside your mission. You’re not supposed to be in Charleston following me around on surveillance anyway. I raised an eyebrow at her.

“Spoilsport,” she said. “Can we go on the ghost tour? I could have some fun with that. Really get them to show out.”

I just shook my head.

After perusing half a dozen or so books, Mrs. Drayton had worked her way to the secretary underneath the sign that read “Come Walk With Us.” The books on display included The Ghosts of Charleston and books by and about Edgar Allan Poe, who was stationed at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island while in the Army. A lot of people around here believed that Poe’s poem, “Annabel Lee,” was written about Anna Ravenel, a young woman from a wealthy local family.

The Ravenel family tree has many branches. If I traced one of them far enough back, I might well find that the object of Poe’s desire was Sonny’s great-great-great aunt or some such thing. But he refuses to discuss any connection whatsoever to our former state treasurer turned reality TV star.

Legend has it that Edgar Allan Poe and Anna Ravenel were desperately in love, but her father deemed him an unsuitable suitor and refused to allow them to see each other. A man of considerable means and influence, he arranged to have Poe transferred to keep them apart. Not long after, she died from either yellow fever or a broken heart, or perhaps some combination of the two. Her spiteful father hid her exact burial place in the Unitarian graveyard by erecting multiple tombstones to prevent the heartbroken Poe from visiting her grave.

Is it true? I threw the thought at Colleen.

“I don’t know. I haven’t run into either of them so far. But the Lady in White isn’t Anna Ravenel—that’s Mary Whitridge.” The Lady in White was one of Charleston’s more active spirits.

I meandered over to the corner shelf, to Mrs. Drayton’s left. She was oblivious to the fact that she was rubbing shoulders with a guardian spirit.

Colleen held her ground, studied Anne Frances closely. Anne Frances picked up a copy of The Ghosts of Charleston. After skimming a few pages, she slipped it back onto the shelf. Abruptly, she turned towards me. Her eyes were a pale grey/blue. They seemed hard and hollow at the same time. She had the high cheekbones and flawless skin of a model. I flashed her a friendly smile. She slid her sunglasses from the top of her head over her eyes without the faintest upturn of her lips. Her husband had just died. She got a pass on the Southern friendly thing.

Anne Frances walked past me and left the store without buying anything. I didn’t dare follow her. She’d surely notice me. I didn’t have much to show for the afternoon’s work, but at least I’d gotten a good look at her.

Colleen stared after her, but didn’t say a word, which was very un-Colleen.

What do you think? I asked Colleen.

“I can’t read her at all. Her head is all murky.”

That usually means someone is dark inside, right? Not a good person.

“Not necessarily. Not always. I’ve told you before. Not all minds are open to me,” said Colleen.

If you say so. But my memory of the folks Colleen couldn’t read was that most of them were up to no good. Before I could ask her if she’d prodded someone into hiring Rutledge & Ratcliffe, she disappeared into thin air.

Dammit, Colleen. Typical.

I browsed for a few more minutes, smiled and waved to Polly and her friend, and made my way back to my car. Mrs. Drayton’s Lexus was gone. I called Nate.

“Where are you?” I asked when he answered.

“Wentworth Street. Between Rutledge and Ashley.”

“Is Poppy home now?” I asked.

“Unless she climbed over the fence. I followed her here from the post office on East Bay after she finished her route. She’s been home about thirty minutes.”

“What’s she driving?” Charleston PD still had her car.

“A yellow beach cruiser with a basket on the front,” he said.

“I bet that was a fun tail.”

“Piece of cake. Between the carriage tour and the pedicab I got behind, we were moving at about the same pace. Anyway, it was only a mile and a half.”

“Does it seem strange to you that she can afford to live in Harleston Village on a postal carrier’s salary?” I asked.

“Studio over a garage? Maybe. Could be something that needs too much work to compete in the short-term rental market.”

“Eh—or maybe her landlady prefers one long-term tenant to an endless stream of folks coming for a couple nights. Even still…it seems like the rent would be steep.”

“Fair point,” said Nate.

“We should talk to her as soon as possible, get her unfiltered version of what happened.”

“Agreed. But it may be best if you do that by yourself. Your cover is already blown.”

“You want to listen in?” I asked.

“Naturally.”