When Patricia and Darcy followed Shelby and me past the entrance to the kitchen, Paige came out the swinging double doors. I stopped her and said I’d be in the office if she needed me.
Paige whispered, “What’s Patricia doing here?”
“Not sure,” I whispered back. “I’ll let you know.”
Shelby led us to the ten-by-twelve back room, Uncle Reggie’s home away from home. The desk where Paige had been reviewing receipts earlier today was the first thing seen from the door. Neat stacks of paperwork told me she had spent time organizing things. Uncle Reggie would have left one big mess.
Patricia and Darcy sat on a couch taking up the other side of the room. After closing the door, I turned the desk chair to face them and sat. Shelby jumped on the couch between the women.
“All right, Patricia,” I said. “Who’s Ray?”
“What do you mean?”
“He said Ray shot him. Who is Ray?”
Patricia’s eyes went to an old bookshelf in the corner, its shelves sagging from the weight of the Patrick O’Brian and Mickey Spillane novels crammed on them. She arranged her features to give the impression that she was thinking hard. “I’m sure I don’t know any Ray. At least not any who would shoot Reggie.”
I scratched the stubble under my chin. “The police will be coming by to ask so if I were you I’d have a list ready for them.”
In addition to the TV station, Patricia owned the Palmetto Pulse, one of Charleston’s daily newspapers. Both the station and the paper were big enough to make a tidy profit but small enough not to be considered too seriously. Thanks to hordes of unnamed sources, Patricia, the daughter of one of Charleston’s exclusive Huguenot families, had the dirt on everyone in town. I wished Uncle Reggie had taken her for everything she was worth during the divorce, but he didn’t. Couldn’t, was more like it. He’d still loved her. I had to remember that.
Patricia said, “I’m not the one who’s got to worry about being a suspect.”
Before I could get a word out, Darcy said, “Okay. Truce.”
Patricia said, “Did Reggie say anything to you about what he was involved in?”
I exhaled a long breath. “I was going to ask you the same thing. I hadn’t seen him around in a week. My hunch is he was spending time with you again.”
If Patricia sensed frustration in my voice, she let it pass. “He was, but he didn’t tell me much. He came over at night and was gone by morning.”
“The police are saying he was killed in a robbery attempt,” Darcy said. “They couldn’t find his wallet or I.D.”
Patricia and I spoke in unison. “He didn’t carry a wallet.”
I asked Darcy, “Did the police find his necklace?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but I’ll check it out. If he didn’t carry a wallet, what did he carry?”
Patricia said, “He had a money clip and a small pouch for change.”
Monday morning, I woke after four hours of sleep on the couch in my uncle’s office. Combined with no sleep the night before, I felt rough. Shelby nudged my arm, cocked an ear sideways, and opened his mouth, showing me his smile. He gave me a loud bark, kick-starting the hangover bulldozers in my head. They began to plow deep ruts, like giving me a lobotomy without anesthesia.
I rolled over and tried to catch a few more minutes of sleep, but the worn-out couch reeked of cigar smoke and felt as comfortable as cheap toilet paper. After staring at a large canvas sheet pinned to the ceiling with my uncle’s interpretation of the Jolly Roger, I got up and let Shelby out.
The Pirate’s Cove should have been trashed considering how many people had shown up, how much business we’d done, and how much alcohol we drank. But Paige had the staff stay late and help clean up. We filled the dumpster out back and had a truckload of plastic and glass in bags and boxes ready for recycling. Shelby and I reached my car. I spread his towel out on the rear seat and let him in before opening the driver’s side door. An envelope stuck beneath the windshield wiper. The letter inside said:
Your uncle and I were working on something and it got him killed. I could be next. Meet me at Folly Pier today, 10 AM. I’ll wait at the ocean end. Come alone. If I see anyone else, I will leave.
It was unsigned. I checked my watch. Five after nine. I had enough time to drop Shelby off at the bungalow, take a quick shower, and still make it to the pier at ten.
Folly was the runt of the nearby beaches. It faced the Atlantic from the south side of Charleston where the upper class hadn’t yet come in with their stiff codes and big bank accounts. I parked and scanned the area. Nothing appeared out of place. Phish-Heads and surfers wandered the sidewalks. I got out of my car. The heat and humidity hit me like a warm, wet sponge. At a crosswalk, a black Chrysler with dark-tinted windows stopped and let me cross. Five Harleys idling nearby drowned out the sound of the surf.
By the time I made it up the steps to the wooden deck that extended a thousand feet out into the ocean, my clothes were soaked with sweat. At one of the shops, I bought the latest copy of the Palmetto Pulse because my uncle’s picture was on the front page. The article was written by Ms. Darcy Wells, herself. I folded the paper and stuck it under my arm. Three black men fished over the railing, tackle boxes and catch coolers at their feet. An old couple sat on a bench watching the tide and holding hands. I walked the distance to the small pavilion at the end of the pier. Tourists were in full bloom, most of them wearing clothing with Charleston or local bars they had visited written across their chests. A lot of ball caps and wicker hats and bright bags.
Someone said, “Excuse me.”
I turned and saw a man half a foot shorter than me wearing a white Charleston ball cap and a T-shirt with the logo of the biggest tourist trap in the city, the one the locals avoided. He looked to be a few years younger than me, maybe thirty.
I said, “Yeah?”
“My wife’s shopping in one of the stores,” he said. “I was wondering if you could take my picture. The sun’s reflection on the water is perfect. By the time she gets out here, it may be too late.”
“Um,” I said. “Sure.”
He came closer and handed me the camera.
I asked, “Where y’all from?”
“Right here,” he said in a low voice. “I left the note on your car. Thanks for coming.”
I stared at him a few seconds. Under the ball cap I saw a face partially hidden by glasses with clip-on sunshades.
“This will do,” he said, louder, resting a hand on the railing. Behind him was the ocean. “Go ahead, take the picture.”
I raised the camera and centered the man in the viewing window. He was sweating. I snapped the shutter.
“Good,” he said. “Take a few more.”
I did as he asked.
“Thanks,” he said. When he approached me, he knocked the newspaper out from under my arm.
“Sorry.” He bent down and picked it up, handing me the paper and another envelope, smaller than the one he left on my windshield. “Thanks for taking the pictures. I think I just spotted my wife.” In a lower voice, he added, “Don’t follow me.”
I watched him walk up the pier and lost him in the crowd at the shops. After I returned to the car and started it to get the AC going, I looked at the envelope. It had a phone number written on it with instructions to call at five PM. Inside I found a jump drive. I placed the envelope and jump drive in the Mustang’s glove box and headed downtown.