EIGHTEEN

  

Saturday morning, we got in our run, then scarfed down yogurt parfaits. It took Nate fifteen minutes to shower and dress. When I had to dry my hair, my record shower-dress-and-primp time was an hour. I hit that while he checked our tool and supply inventory in the back of the Explorer. I kept essentials in the Escape, but the bulk of our toy chest was in Nate’s car.

We took both vehicles into Charleston for flexibility. Nate would talk to the Vennings, then try to catch up with Sonny. I was headed back to Market Pavilion Hotel. It was likely they had security cameras, but beyond unlikely they were going to let me see footage of guests. No crime had been committed in the hotel, and I wasn’t a police officer with a warrant. But I had a backup plan.

I settled into a plush wingback between the lobby bar and the registration desk, against the wall and out of view of the desk staff. I pulled out my laptop. So many tools have been developed for private investigators over the last ten years. The technology Nate and I own is mind boggling. But one of the best tools in our arsenal is free.

It never ceases to amaze me what people will post on Facebook.

I opened the site. It detected where I was and offered to show me what other people were saying about Market Pavilion Hotel. Oh, please do. This would’ve worked equally well from home. All I had to do was search inside Facebook for the hotel’s name. But I couldn’t follow up from home.

I clicked on the gear icon. First, I saw the hotel’s page, with reviews. Then came what my friends were saying—oh, look at that. Tomorrow night was not Sonny’s first date with Moon Unit. She’d posted a photo of them here two weeks ago.

Next came public posts. Here is where people get stupid. So many people have no idea what privacy settings are, or how best to use them. And it made my job so much easier. Still, sometimes it took a while to find what I was looking for. Sometimes I didn’t find it at all.

I scrolled through strangers’ girls’ night out parties, check-ins, a video of a proposal taken inside one of the guest rooms, parents visiting college students, photos of champagne buckets, the ornate fixtures in the bathrooms…and many, many candid shots taken all around the property.

The posts were from total strangers, but that didn’t matter. I was looking at who was in the background, the people who had no idea they’d been photographed, much less posted to social media.

Rehearsal dinners, anniversaries, someone having a large birthday cocktail on video. Tons of photos of the view from the rooftop. And Nitrotinis, a trademarked—literally—martini chilled with nitrogen. There were lots of photos of those. Vacation photos that belonged to people all over the world.

I scrolled to the end, then started over. I’d been scrolling through other people’s precious moments for more than three hours when I found what I was looking for. A crowded lobby. A photo of friends sitting at the lobby bar. And in the background, Shelby.

With Eli Radcliffe.

Holy shit.

I stared at it long and hard. There was a crowd, and they weren’t looking at the camera. But it was them.

The picture had been taken in October. Angela had seen Shelby in the same lobby with a tall, handsome, black man in early December. I right-clicked and saved the photo, zoomed in on Shelby and Eli, and cropped it.

I finished scrolling and scanning to see if there were more, but no such luck.

One was enough.

I pondered my best play. I knew I’d get nowhere with the front desk, concierge, or management. Guest privacy would be a critical component of their customer service playbook. The rooftop bar wasn’t open yet. I couldn’t show the photo to the bartender until later.

I was overthinking this. Ditzy blonde or shy blonde? I’d go with shy. I packed away my laptop, pulled out a pair of fake cat-eye glasses, put my hair in a clip and pulled several stands loose. I hunched my shoulders forward a bit and approached the front desk. There was a possibility the desk clerk, like the bartender, would remember Shelby by name and know she’d been killed. But maybe she wouldn’t.

I waited until no one else was standing at the desk and approached.

“Hello, may I help you?” The bright-faced young woman oozed hospitality.

I dipped my chin and smiled nervously at her from under my eyelashes. “Well, I hope you can.”

“I’ll do my best.” She was so eager.

“My sister and her boyfriend come here a lot. It’s just hard for them to get quiet time alone. What with her three kids, and his four…anyway. They’ve had a tough time. And I really wanted to do something nice for them. A surprise, for next time they come in.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe a bottle of champagne and some strawberries…” I lowered my voice, as if to utter something slightly naughty, “…maybe dipped in chocolate.”

“I’m sure we can arrange that,” she said. “What’s your sister’s name?”

“Well, she’s Shelby…I’m not sure if they register in her name or his. Maybe sometimes one, sometimes the other.”

The clerk tapped on her computer. “Last name?”

I gambled. “Poinsett.” Surely she wouldn’t give her married name. The bartender upstairs had referred to her as Shelby Poinsett and I hadn’t thought a thing about it. Because she was a Poinsett, and this was Charleston. Her people were Poinsetts. Clint Gerhardt was from off. I’d bet good money she still had credit cards in her maiden name. But the bartender had mentioned Shelby came there with her husband.

“Okay,” said the desk clerk. “It looks like they were coming in on Tuesdays. But it doesn’t look like they’ve been in for a while. Did you want me to try the other name?”

“Eli Radcliffe.”

More tapping. “I’m afraid I don’t see that name. I could take your order and flag your sister in the system. We won’t charge your card until they come in.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that so much.” I dug in my purse, pretending to look for my wallet. “Oh no. I’m positively mortified. I left my wallet at home. How long will you be here today?”

“Until five.”

“Would it be all right if I go get my wallet and come straight back?”

“Sure. I’m Jocelyn, but anyone can help you.”

“Thank you so much.” I pulled my arms in to my body, hunched just a little, like a very shy, socially awkward person might do, and hurried out.