SIXTEEN

Julia Nance and her friends understandably held a low opinion of Trina Lynn Causby. But based on the traffic gridlock in the Old Village of Mt. Pleasant, she was well-loved. The Causby family had been in Mt. Pleasant for generations, so naturally everyone knew them. Then there was Trina Lynn’s WCSC family and all the people her stories had touched over the years.

St. Andrews Church occupied the corner of Whilden and Venning, three blocks from Charleston Harbor. The historic church, which dated back to 1857 and was now used primarily as a chapel, fronted Whilden Street. The large, contemporary-style ministry center, where Trina Lynn’s service was no doubt being held, faced Venning. Live oaks along both streets wept Spanish moss, adding to the somber mood of the afternoon.

When I arrived in the neighborhood at 2:15, police officers stood watch outside the church, relieved from the duty of directing traffic by virtue of the fact that everyone who’d come for the funeral was already inside. The parking lot was packed to overflowing, and every available spot on the surrounding streets was taken. So many cars were illegally parked, the police would’ve been hard pressed to tow them all. This was a blessing for me. I’d blend in just fine.

Across Venning Street was the church parking lot, and behind it ran a private drive that provided access to a newer row of homes tucked in behind the homes on Morrison Street. I drove around the block once, then rolled down Morrison Street and parked in front of a small painted brick building that was once probably a store of some sort, but was now, according to the sign, New Ebenezer Baptist Church. I banked on the church’s goodwill in light of the large funeral going on a block away.

I opened the lift gate, grabbed my good camera out of the back, and put it in a small, lightweight backpack. Then I slid into a lightweight utility jacket. Flipping through a box of identification, I selected a fake press ID that claimed affiliation with no news outlet in particular, but looked official enough for casual observers. I pulled together a few other items I might need—my pick set, Wi-Fi jammer, and gloves—added them to the backpack, then secured it snugly to my back.

If I walked around the block and down the private drive, I risked being spotted by someone who knew I didn’t belong, or perhaps one of the police officers on guard at the front of the church. I scanned the homes across Morrison, looking for one with no cars out front and a deserted feel, then walked confidently down the driveway of the cream-colored house directly across the street.

As soon as the six-foot privacy fence in back registered, I started running. I charged it, jumped, put my hands on the top, and hoisted myself up. My right foot found purchase and I pushed myself the rest of the way over, landing in a low crouch. I stayed low, prayed no one was home at the two-story house I was looking up at. For a couple minutes, I watched. There were no signs of life. What I was about to do was all kinds of risky.

According to the sticker on the window, the security system on this house was the same as Trina Lynn’s. I reached for my signal jammer, then stopped. This house was elevated, like many this close to the harbor. How high was the front porch?

I walked around the side of the house, scanned the area, and climbed the steps. This would work well. From here, I could see across the parking lot. I couldn’t make out much, but my camera lens would take me much closer. The line of trees between the parking lot screened me from view. I raised my camera, looked for the door of the church and zoomed in. Perfect.

I settled into a rocking chair and waited. The service would just now be starting. Just in case, I popped in my earbuds, and slipped my phone into a utility pocket. I mulled Julia Nance and her Seashell Sisterhood. Sonny and Jenkins likely had no idea there were two people with motives just as strong as Darius’s. The problem was, once they’d made an arrest they stopped looking at alternate theories. They’d probably stopped looking the minute ballistics came back on that gun. It was hard to blame them. At 3:00, I heard the church doors open. Using the camera as a monocular, I scanned the faces coming out of the church and started snapping.

First came pallbearers with the casket, followed by the family. Billy Ray Causby was holding Georgia upright. Without his strong arms, she no doubt would have crumbled into a heap. Sawyer and his wife and sons came next. Sawyer was stoic, with a rigid look about him. Laura Beth and her husband and children followed. Tears streamed down her face as her husband tried to comfort her. I had no right to be here observing their raw grief.

Into my frame came three-year-old Marci, my cousin. No, of course that was Sara Catherine. But the resemblance took my breath away like a gut punch.

Staff from J. Henry Stuhr’s funeral home helped the family into limousines and they pulled away from the curb. Then the ushers stepped back and the remaining mourners streamed out of the church.

The first face I recognized was Walker Nance. He must’ve been sitting near the back. He looked serious, but not particularly affected. If he was grieving, his was a private grief. Someone spoke to him and he smiled his million-dollar smile. I kept on snapping.

There were many faces I didn’t recognize, but I recorded as many as I could. After a few minutes, Grey Hamilton came out with some of the other WCSC team members. His eyes were red and he had a pallor. I’d bet plenty of people there didn’t recognize their nightly news anchor.

Not far behind Grey came a wild-eyed man clutching his hair and openly crying. He appeared somewhere in the neighborhood of forty, and was dressed simply in a plaid shirt and jeans. I snapped several photos of him, wishing I could get license plates from here. But there was no possible perch from which I could get faces and tags.

A long stream of people came out before Auggie’s face came into the frame. He was with the brunette I’d seen getting off the elevator at his apartment. I widened the shot a bit. There was the redhead. Camille, he’d called her. And two blondes. Auggie had what looked like a harem. They all seemed to be jockeying for position to hold onto him, comfort him. Auggie. Why hadn’t he told me about Trina Lynn and Walker Nance? He knew all of Trina Lynn’s other secrets. Surely he knew about her affair with the realtor.

And then there was Nate in my frame. Nate and one of the most gorgeous women I’d ever seen in my life. She was nearly as tall as him, runway thin, with platinum hair styled in a messy look that probably took a stylist to achieve. Her tailored black suit contrasted perfectly with her pale skin and red lipstick I bet her mamma never had to remind her to put on.

If I hadn’t already profiled her and knew exactly who this woman was, I’d have been fit to be tied at the way she clung to my husband—the way he allowed it. But that was Arianna English, a model and brand ambassador, wealthy in her own right. She was Darius Baker’s first ex-wife.

My phone rang, startled me. “Call from Mamma,” Siri announced.

I pressed the button on my earbuds to answer. “Hey, Mamma.” I was distracted, still busy watching a super model with her hands on Nate. Mamma can read me well.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Mamma. Is everything all right? How’s Daddy?”

“Your father is fine. I’m losing my ever-loving mind. He was entertained by being waited on hand and foot for about two days. Now he’s bored with being stuck in the house. He says he’s feeling up to company. We didn’t have family dinner last night. It’s the first Wednesday we’ve missed in a while. Can you and Nate come this evening?”

“Sure. Six o’clock?”

“Earlier if you can make it. I—”.

Arianna ran her hand up Nate’s arm. “Mamma, I have to go.” I ended the call.

“Call Nate,” I ordered Siri.

I watched him extricate himself from her grasp to answer the phone.

“Please tell that high-dollar floozie that if she’d like to keep her hands, she’d best keep them off you.”

“Liz.”

I watched his eyes search the tree line, trying to find where I was. He scanned past me, then backed up, looked straight at me, though he couldn’t possibly have seen me. “I’m just leaving the funeral now. Ms. English needs a ride back to the Belmond. I’m going to drop her off, then I’ll meet you at the office.”

“Best not take too long,” I said brightly. “We’re having dinner at Mamma and Daddy’s at 6:00.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” I could hear the grin in his voice. He was enjoying how I had noticed Arianna pawing him.

I’d remind him of that later.