FOUR

  

Our meeting with Fraser was brief. Nate and I were exhausted, but up to speed. We had no questions for Fraser at that juncture and weren’t ready to share any observations. Fraser was thankfully due in court. He called Clint Gerhardt and asked if I could come by. From Fraser’s end of the conversation, Clint was unenthusiastic. But he agreed and asked that I get it over with.

I kissed Nate goodbye, and he set out for One80Place. Because the Gerhardt home was only a five-minute walk from Rutledge and Radcliffe, I left my car parked on Broad and headed towards the Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon. Across East Bay, the massive yellow stone building seemed to stand guard over the foot of Broad Street. It was hard to walk past it without recalling that the Declaration of Independence had been presented to citizens from the steps. Walking through Charleston was like stepping back in time, if you ignored all the cars.

I turned right on East Bay, enjoying the bright blue sky and the Cooper River peeking at me between buildings on my left. As soon as I crossed Elliott, a horse-drawn carriage full of tourists pulled to a stop at the curb, the guide explaining the history of Rainbow Row. This cheerful line of historic houses painted Caribbean pink, yellow, blue, and green with their wrought iron balconies and window boxes spilling over with flowers always made me smile.

I crossed Tradd, then turned right and walked up its left-hand sidewalk, against traffic. Most of Tradd Street, including this end, was a one-way street by car. It was a narrow lane crowded with street parking on my right. Several times I had to thread myself between window boxes and crepe myrtle trees planted in sidewalk cutouts. On both sides of the street, I caught glimpses over courtyards and through garden gates.

I slowed my pace as I approached the Gerhardt home. You could always get a better perspective on things by foot, especially walking in a direction you couldn’t drive. It was a three-story brick townhouse, flush with the stucco house to the right—the Izard home. A short brick driveway on the left ended just past the side entrance where the house, which at first appeared rectangular, bumped out into an L-shape. A wrought iron gate allowed access to a pathway, but the gnarled branches of a live oak obscured anything beyond. The courtyard must’ve been behind the house.

The neighbors’ house to the left sat back from the street, with a courtyard out front. The Venning driveway ran adjacent to the Gerhardt driveway, leaving space between the houses. Many of the homes on Tradd Street dated to the late 1700s. Like quite a few of the others, the Gerhardt home was so close to the street the front door was virtually on the sidewalk.

I rang the bell and waited in front of the recessed, glossy black door with a fanlight above. A runner approached from my right. Dressed in high-end running shoes and togs, electric blue Oakley sunglasses with what looked like wings on the frames, a fitness watch, and an arm band for his smartphone, he could’ve been taping a commercial for one of several advertisers in Running World or some such publication.

He stopped next door, nodded at me, and slipped a key into the lock. Mr. Izard, I presumed.

The door in front of me opened and I got my first glimpse of Clint Gerhardt. Tall and solid, he had close-cropped reddish brown hair, agitated blue eyes, and enough facial scruff that I couldn’t be sure if he’d forgotten to shave for a few days or if this was his look. His jeans and button-down shirt were pressed. “Liz Talbot?” he asked.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gerhardt.”

“The name’s Clint.” He stepped back to let me in. Multiple dogs barked from somewhere upstairs. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. You want coffee?”

“Sure, thanks.” This wouldn’t be an easy conversation. Something to fiddle with would be good for both of us.

I followed him down the side hall towards the back of the house. From what I could see, the home had been tastefully decorated and beautifully maintained. Soft ivory walls, gleaming heart of pine floors, and traditional furnishings greeted me. I caught a glimpse of a large portrait of Shelby over the fireplace as we passed the living room.

The kitchen had been recently modernized, with white custom cabinets, marble counters, and all new appliances. It was spotless. Not what I’d expected, given he was living alone under house arrest.

“Have a seat.” Clint nodded towards a table in front of a set of french doors that led to the brick-walled courtyard.

Oh dear Heaven. We were going to chat while looking at the very spot Shelby had died.

“You take cream and sugar?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” It was a lovely courtyard. Plants burst from the built-in beds and ivy covered one of the walls. A swimming pool sat against the far side with a fountain spilling into it from the wall.

The kitchen table was round with four chairs. I took the one facing the courtyard. Clint brought me a mug of coffee, then sat across the table from me.

“Thank you,” I said. “You have a lovely home.”

“Shelby,” he said by way of explanation.

I nodded and sipped my coffee. Strong and rich with plenty of cream and sugar. “This is delicious.”

He waited silently for me to get to the task at hand. For a moment I kept quiet too. Sometimes silence made guilty people uncomfortable, gave them the impulse to fill it with chatter. Was Clint guilty, or was he another victim of someone else’s crime?

After a few minutes of a strange version of quiet chicken, I said, “I know this must be difficult for you. I apologize for asking you to talk about it again.”

“Difficult.” He looked at me squarely, his grief a palpable thing, an aura emitted through his eyes from the core of his soul. His tone was soft, matter of fact. “Shelby was my whole world. I don’t even know how to get through the day.”

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I give you my word I will do everything in my power to find out who killed Shelby and why.”

“That won’t bring her back.”

“No,” I said. “It won’t. But it will keep you out of prison, or worse.”

“Trust me, worse is here. It doesn’t get worse from Shelby being dead.”

I held his gaze. In that quiet moment, I knew in my bones he hadn’t killed his wife. It was more than the pain he wore. Killers often missed their victims. But Clint Gerhardt impressed me as that rare creature completely without artifice, an upright man, a squared-away soldier.

My resolve to find out the truth of what had happened here hardened.

“Mr. Gerhardt—Clint, I’ve read the file. I’ve learned a thing or two about your wife. And I have a husband who I adore myself. I can tell you this for absolute certain: Shelby would not want you to go to prison. She wouldn’t want you to stand trial. She would want you to live a full and happy life. And as remote as that possibility must seem to you right now, the best way to honor her is to try to do what you know she would want.”

He looked away for a moment, then nodded.

“Is it all right with you if I record our conversation? I can focus and take fewer notes.”

“Sure.”

I tapped the Voice Memo app, then the record button, and laid my phone on the table. I pulled out my notebook and a pen just in case I thought of something I wanted to remember to follow up on later.

“I have it on good authority that your wife was crazy about you. Can you tell me what in the name of sweet reason made you think she was having an affair?”

He winced, looked at the ceiling, then shook his head. “Part of me could never believe she picked me. Eighteen years of marriage. She was a perfect wife. So much more than I ever deserved. But I grew up poor. Our worlds couldn’t be more different. Sometimes she’d be out working at One80Place—she spent a lot of time there—or at the Library Society, wherever. I’d start thinking about men she grew up with who maybe volunteered there too. She never gave me a reason. But this feeling I’d never be good enough for her, it ate at me. Once in a while I’d get a wild hair. Think maybe she was seeing someone. Then she’d talk me down and we’d be all right. It was a cycle.”

“And you were in one of these—cycles?”

He nodded.

“And you decided it was prudent to share this with Charleston PD?”

“I was in shock. I wasn’t thinking it could make me look guilty. I was thinking I wanted them to find who killed Shelby.”

“Anything out of the ordinary that triggered your recent suspicions?”

“Not really. She was spending a lot of time at the shelter. Working with homeless women and children.” He drew a slow breath, stared at his coffee mug. “We weren’t able to have children. Shelby…the doctors said we could’ve tried fertility treatments, procedures. They had a long list of things they were eager to do to her. But Shelby said no. If God didn’t choose to give us children, He had a perfectly good reason, and maybe she was supposed to love other children who needed extra.

“We talked about adopting, but to be blunt, I wasn’t as convinced as Shelby that I was parent material. My role models were far from ideal. Shelby found other outlets for her maternal instincts. Lately, there was one little girl she talked about a lot. Her and her mother. The father was abusive.”

“Do you recall the little girl’s name?” If Shelby had wound up in the middle of a domestic violence case, that could easily have gotten her killed.

“Kelly. Her mother’s name is Sonya.”

“Did you ever volunteer at One80Place?”

He drew a long breath, then blew it out and shook his head. “I’m an idiot. I didn’t want her to think I didn’t trust her. Didn’t want to be too clingy, smother her. She wanted me to be happy, to do whatever I was interested in. It would’ve made her happy, if I’d’ve gone.”

“So what do you do?”

“I build houses.” A fat orange tabby sashayed up and rubbed against Clint’s legs. Absently, Clint reached down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

“What a pretty kitty. My grandmother had one who looked just like him. His name was Roscoe.”

“This is Socrates.”

“He clearly loves you.”

“Ah, he just wants a treat.” He continued to pet the cat, who rolled over and assumed the universal “I want a tummy rub” position.

“Where were we?...You went into construction when you got out of the Army?”

“You could say that, I guess. I doubt anyone would pay me, but I’m dependable. I work with Habitat for Humanity. In my spare time I’ve been working on fixing up a sailboat I have docked over at Charleston Harbor.”

“Tell me about the day Shelby died.”

He recounted exactly what Nate and I had been over the night before from his last Sunday with Shelby.

“Was it typical for you to spend evenings in separate rooms?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Occasionally. Shelby had book club business she needed to work on.”

“Book club?”

“Yeah, aside from One80Place and family, that took most of her time. Shelby was a reader. Loved books. The ladies around here…I don’t know how book clubs normally work. But these women take their book club seriously. Shelby was president. They have a treasurer, a secretary, the whole bit.”

This didn’t sound anything like my book club, which was more of a social group where we drank wine, ate hors d’oeuvres, and chatted about a great many things, including the book of the month. “Sounds formal.”

“It is. Most of Shelby’s close friends are in it. It’s like…more than a hundred years old. You have to be invited to join.” His face announced his disdain.

“So she had book club business and was in the library on the second floor?”

“That’s right. Just above where we’re sitting.”

“And you were listening to music on the third floor?”

“Yeah. I have a vinyl collection in my study.”

“Did you have on headphones?”

“No. But I closed the door. The acoustics are better with the door closed.” He swallowed, took on a sick look. “It’s an acoustic door. It’s designed to keep noise out.”

“Did anyone have a key to your house aside from you and Shelby? A maid, any other staff?”

“No one. I’m very security conscious. We’ve got the best deadbolts made. Only Shelby and I had keys. There’s a spare set hidden in each of our cars, and one in the safe deposit box.”

“With respect, even the best deadbolt locks can easily be picked by anyone who Googles how. There’re YouTube videos demonstrating how it’s done.”

“That’s why the locks are backed up by floor-mounted door barricades when we’re home. And of course we have a security system, which was armed in ‘stay’ mode when I went upstairs. No one could’ve opened either door except Shelby.”

“Who set the alarm? You, or Shelby?” I asked.

“I did.”

“Would it be in Shelby’s character to let someone in the house she didn’t know well? Someone new at the shelter?”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Shelby had a heart of gold, but she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t have opened the door for someone she didn’t know. We had an incident a few years back. Someone showed up begging at the door. Shelby was here by herself. She called me and I came home and got the guy a cab to the shelter.”

“But what if it was someone she knew from the shelter?”

“A client?”

“Yes.” Or her client’s husband.

“She wouldn’t let them in. We talked though all of that. We had protocols.”

“So by process of elimination, Shelby was killed by a friend or family member.” I looked at him directly.

“So it would seem.” His words came out bitter.

“Any thoughts on that?”

“None. Everyone we knew loved Shelby. It’s impossible for me to imagine any of them would hurt her under any circumstances.”

“Something unimaginable happened here,” I said. “I need the names of everyone you can think of who Shelby would’ve let in the front door.”

“All right…well, her parents. Williams and Tallulah.”

“Did she get along well with them? Do you?”

“Yeah. They’re great people, warm, down-to-earth. Like Shelby. She was close to them. So am I. We had dinner there most Sundays.”

“That Sunday?”

“No. Tallulah had a cold. She missed church. Seems like they had a church dinner planned that night anyway.”

“You all attended church together?”

“Well, we’re all members of the same church—St. Michael’s. And we typically sit together, so I guess, yeah.”

“What about Shelby’s brother, Thomas?”

“She wasn’t close to him. He’s all about power, position, money. He lives in San Francisco. Hasn’t been home in years. Until the funeral.”

“Are the family financial arrangements such that he would benefit from Shelby’s death?”

“No. They both have trusts. Shelby and I jointly owned hers. I’m the only one who benefits financially.”

“Who established the trusts originally?”

“Shelby’s parents. Hers was modified after we were married.”

“What about their estate?”

He took a long swig of coffee, then set his mug down, raised an eyebrow. “They’re both in good health. But when they pass, a chunk of the estate goes to various charities. The remainder is owned by a trust. Shelby and Thomas were beneficiaries. But Shelby’s share…I don’t see that going to Thomas. They’ll probably divert that to charities important to Shelby—One80Place. The church. Charleston Library Society. Animal Rescue.”

“Any other family?”

“Shelby’s grandparents are at Bishop Gadsden retirement home—her mom’s parents. Her dad’s parents passed five years ago.”

“That’s it?”

“She has a few cousins in Atlanta. Aunts, uncles. But they don’t stay in touch.”

“None of them ever asked her for money?” Family that didn’t stay in touch might reach out if they needed something.

“They all have plenty of their own.”

“There are no deep dark family secrets? I’m not going to find out that Shelby had a dramatic childhood incident with an uncle—nothing like that?”

“Oh God, no.”

“So in your opinion, no one in Shelby’s family had a motive to kill her?”

“I’d bet my life on it.”

I looked at him for a long time. I didn’t have to tell him that was exactly what he was doing. “What about your family?” I’d already profiled Clint and his family. But I wanted to hear what he had to say.

“What about them?” He took a long drink of coffee.

“Are they still in California?”

“My parents are. I have a brother, Cliff. He’s stationed at Fort Benning.”

“Are the two of you close?”

“Yeah. He has a wife and two daughters. They were all crazy about Shelby.”

“Did you see them at Christmas?”

“They were here for a week. Santa came here to see the kids.”

“You didn’t see your parents during the holidays, neither you nor your brother?” I asked.

“No.” His face went hard. “Shelby made damn sure my parents were taken care of. Against my wishes. But they aren’t much on family.” Clint’s parents, Bill and Brenda Gerhardt, had both been to prison on drug-related charges. He and his brother had been in and out of foster care growing up. I knew this. It was in the file.

“Any chance they would show up here looking to be taken care of better?”

He was quiet for a long moment. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“What about friends?”

“Shelby’s best friend is—was—Jane Kinloch.”

“Kinloch? She married to Charles Kinloch?”

“That’s right.” He looked away.

“Any idea where Paul Baker got the idea Shelby was having an affair with Charles?”

“That would’ve been me.” A pained look crept across his face. “They had coffee together a lot. And he had a way of watching her I didn’t care for. We had dinner with them about once a week.”

“He was in London when Shelby died. If he had anything to do with it, he would’ve had to’ve had an accomplice or hired it out. That doesn’t feel right to me. Do you disagree? Is there any reason I should give him a closer look?”

“No more or less than anyone else we knew,” he said.

“You socialize with Fraser Rutledge and his wife as well?”

“Yeah. Shelby and Fraser were tight since the schoolyard. His wife, Constance, I’m not sure she was happy about that, how close they were.”

“She the jealous type?”

Clint made a face. “I don’t know. Maybe. Fraser’s all talk. He acts like he’s always chasing something, but my take is he’s a family man. They have five kids. She would destroy him in a divorce. No one knows that better than Fraser.”

“Who were Shelby’s other friends?”

“Delta Tisdale. She’s the secretary of the book club. Mariel Camp, Anne Spence, Erin Guidici, Liz Bell, and Mary Bernard. They’re in the book club too. So’s the lady next door—Evelyn Izard. She and Shelby weren’t close, though. Evelyn is a notorious lush. The other women in that club I don’t know. Jane or Delta could tell you.”

“What about your neighbors on the other side?”

“The Vennings? Nick and Margaret. We don’t—we didn’t—spend much time with them.”

“Some of the neighbors told the police detectives they’d heard you and Shelby arguing.”

“Fraser mentioned that. Honestly, I don’t know what they were talking about. Maybe they heard the TV. Shelby and I didn’t yell at each other—ever. And the Izards…it’s as likely as anything the Vennings heard the Izards fighting and thought it was us. But who knows? The most likely way any of us could overhear any of the others would be outside in the courtyards.”

I mulled that for a minute. “Does your courtyard back up to the lot behind you?”

“Yeah. There’s an old carriage house on the other side of our courtyard wall. I don’t think anyone’s living there.”

I made myself a note to follow up to be sure. “Any other friends you can think of?” Had he known Shelby was close to Sonny?

He shook his head slowly. “That’s it. The staff at One80Place—that’s all online. Shelby talked about most of them at one time or another.”

“How about folks she knew at church?”

“There’s overlap there. Jane and several of the book club ladies go to our church. Shelby had so many friends. But the one she spent most of her time with, that would be Jane.”

“Was Shelby a member of a gym?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Was she a part of any other group that you can think of? Did she stay in touch with friends from college?”

Skepticism twisted Clint’s face into a scowl. “Not really. She exchanged Christmas and birthday cards with a few of them. Emails, an occasional phone call. But for one of them to show up here, that would really be out of the blue.”

“But possible?”

“Highly improbable, but possible, I suppose.”

“I need every name you can recall.”

“Her roommate was Lark Littleton. The other names are in her address book. I’ll get it for you before you leave.”

“What about friends from Georgia? Your Army buddies?”

“We were close with the guys in my unit and their wives. But I’ve been out for nearly eight years. We see them all once or twice a year.” He shook his head, drew back his lips in something that approached a sneer. “No. Just, no.”

“Are they still active duty?”

“Two of them are.”

“May I please have their names, phone numbers, and current cities just so I can eliminate them?” Military records—recent ones—were virtually impossible for me to access legally. I had no inclination to access them illegally.

“It’s pointless, but fine.” He called out five names, looked up the phone numbers in his phone. I took everything down.

“Can you think of anyone else Shelby would’ve opened the door to without coming to get you?”

He was silent for a long time, stared at nothing over my right shoulder. “No. That’s it. But you’ll never convince me one of our friends or someone in our family killed her.”

“I really hope you’re wrong about that. Let’s switch channels for a moment. Why would she’ve had the french doors open in December, do you suppose?”

“It had been a warm day—in the low seventies. Shelby’s hot natured. She was always opening those doors to let in fresh air,” he said.

“Are the library doors not tied into the alarm system?”

“Yeah,” he said. “She punched in her code and bypassed them.”

“Is it possible she just turned the alarm off before she opened the doors?” I asked.

“No. Every time one of us types in a code, it’s recorded at the alarm company. She bypassed the library doors right after I went upstairs. She disarmed the system at 8:55 to let someone in.”

“I know this is obvious, but I have to make sure I’m asking the right questions, which means I need to ask them all. Was Shelby having trouble with anyone?”

He looked at his coffee, shook his head. “No. Nothing serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m about to step into it, I know. Women…you get a group of them together, and there’s always squabbles.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“You know exactly what I mean.” He sounded exasperated.

I did know what he meant. “Okay, so who was squabbling?”

“The book club ladies. Minor stuff. You’ll have to ask Jane.”

“Do you have her cell number?”

He pulled out his phone, looked it up, and rattled it off.

“What about you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Were you having trouble with anyone? Is there anyone from your past who might have a grudge? I know this is far-fetched, but is there anyone who might bear you animosity from your time in the military?”

“Plenty of people. But they’re on other continents and don’t know my name or how to find me.”

“How about from California? People you knew years ago?”

“No,” he said. “No one. But it doesn’t matter. Because these are folks Shelby never laid eyes on. She wouldn’t have disarmed the alarm system, released the floor barricade, and opened the door. She would’ve come straight upstairs to get me.”

“Okay. I think I have what I need, except I’d like to take a look around if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. I’ll give you the tour. You came in through the front.” He stood and headed through the butler’s pantry and into the dining room. It was furnished with what I’d bet were expensive antiques, but like the living room beyond, nothing about it was ostentatious. The rooms were uncluttered, with only framed family photos on the occasional chest or table.

I followed him to the third floor. On the front of the house overlooking the street, his study was all dark woods and leather, with a sofa floated near the center of the room, its back to the door. A desk in front of the window faced the sofa, and shelving for countless vinyl record albums lined the walls. Beside the desk was a stout-looking metal stand which held a turntable the likes of which I’d never seen. It appeared both futuristic and antique, retro shiny metal with a glossy wood-grained top and an actual spinning platform that looked at least four inches thick. I must’ve been staring at it.

“It’s a Continuum Audio Labs Caliburn,” he said. “Shelby bought it for me for Christmas years ago. It was unlike her, the extravagance. That system probably cost a hundred grand. She’d never spend that on herself for something purely for entertainment.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

He almost smiled. “It is that.”

His study, like the rest of the house, was immaculate. “Is someone coming to clean for you? Cook?” We moved down the hall.

“Nah. I don’t mind cleaning. Gives me something to do. The women from the church keep my freezer stocked. Two or three of them are by here every week to check on me. Tallulah too. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

One of the guest rooms was open. I peeked in as he passed towards the closed door at the back of the house. The dogs barked louder.

“Do you want to meet the dogs?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and opened the door. Five dogs, one small, three medium, and one very large, all of mixed breeds, rushed Clint. The small one, who likely had some Yorkshire terrier in her, ran around Clint in a circle. Two others jumped up and put their front paws on his legs. The large dog, which might have been part English Mastiff, part St. Bernard, sat with his tongue hanging out and watched the others.

Clint ruffled heads, patted sides. “Hey buddies. Good boy. Good girl. This is Scooter, Gertie, Gladys, Blue, and Bear.”

The Jack Russell Terrier mix sprang from the floor straight up in the air repeatedly, like a bouncing ball.

“Scooter, you rascal. You’ll get to go outside soon.” For the first time that day, Clint smiled.

Bear woofed once. He wanted attention too.

They were all so happy to see Clint, they barely noticed me.

Finally, a shepherd mix cocked his head at me as if to say, “Who are you?” Then they all came to say hello.

“Okay now, don’t jump on her.”

“They’re fine.” I laughed, patted heads, and scratched them behind their ears. Bear lumbered over and pushed his way through the crowd. “Sweet puppies.”

After a few moments, Clint gentled them back into the bedroom and closed the door.

“Someone come to walk the dogs?” I doubted his ankle monitor allowed him to do that.

“I hired a service.”

We went back to the second floor. I followed him into the master suite. Done in shades of white, ivory, and taupe, it was luxurious and restful. Scattered across Shelby’s skirted dressing table were things she likely held precious: framed photos, perfume bottles, a silver ring holder with a pair of diamond earrings, a pressed flower. On the tufted chair was a sleeping striped cat that might’ve been a Maine Coon.

“That’s Plato,” said Clint.

The Gerhardts each had a walk-in closet.

“Have you gone through her things?” I asked. “For any clue as to someone who might have meant her harm?”

“That’s all I’ve done. There’s nothing here.”

I pondered that. If other leads didn’t materialize, I would come back and repeat the search.

We stopped at the door to the library. “You don’t have to come in here,” I said.

“I don’t mind. I feel close to Shelby in here. This was her space. Her books, her things.” He sat in a buttery leather chair by the fireplace and put his feet up on a matching ottoman. “This was her reading spot.”

Built-in bookcases lined the walls from floor to ceiling, wrapping over the doors. A large writing desk sat several feet inside the french doors, facing the room. The space had the feel of a traditional library, but with feminine touches. Fresh-cut yellow tulips in a crystal vase brightened the corner of the desk.

“Yellow tulips were her favorite,” he said. “They’ve delivered them once a week ever since we settled here permanently after I got out of the army. I can’t bring myself to stop the delivery.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Where were the dogs?”

“With me. They like jazz. They were sprawled all over the rug.”

“Was anything in here disturbed?”

“Only one thing I could find.”

I turned towards him.

“Her desk calendar. The page for that Sunday was torn out.”

“That seems important. She didn’t mention she was expecting anyone?”

“No. But just that one page was gone.”

“Did the police follow up on that?”

“Honestly, I think they would’ve if they’d thought of a way. They seem like decent guys. But things looked cut and dried from their perspective. Can’t say I blame them. In the end, they said I probably destroyed it in an attempt to throw suspicion somewhere else. I did not.”

“Did she keep an electronic calendar?”

“No. Shelby led an unplugged life. She had an iPhone for safety because I insisted. She would’ve carried the simplest model of phone you can still buy. She didn’t use her phone for email. She didn’t use social media at all. But I wanted her to have access to directions when she needed them. And the Find My Friends app so I could locate her. Shelby habited parts of town that could be dangerous. I wanted to keep her safe.”

“And keep tabs on her?”

He scowled. “No.”

“But you did, didn’t you? When you were in one of your cycles? It would’ve been very tempting.”

“Okay, so maybe I did.” His voice was soft, sounded like regret. “But that’s not why I wanted her to have the phone.”

“Did you ever find her somewhere other than where she said she was going to be?”

He stared at his hands. “Yes, I did.”

“More than once?”

He nodded.

“Where was she?”

“Several different restaurants around town. And Market Pavilion Hotel.”

I absorbed that for a moment. “They have a restaurant there. And two bars.”

“They do.”

“Where did she say she was?”

“She’d be somewhere else, and then on the way home she’d make a stop she forgot to mention.”

“Did you ever ask her about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because in all the years I knew her, I never knew Shelby to lie. I was afraid I might not want to hear the truth.” His voice was tight with pain.

I gave him a moment. Shelby’s calendar was still open on her desk. The police hadn’t even taken it. I flipped through the pages. “Can I take this?”

He cleared his throat. “Sure. Her address book is in the top desk drawer. I think you needed that.”

I reached for the drawer handles, confirming permission with an asking glance.

He nodded.

I slid open the drawer and pulled the leather-bound address book that matched the calendar out. “I’ll get this back to you.”

“No rush.”

I stepped over to the french doors. The bookcases framed them, recessing them from the room. There was no balcony, only a window ledge and a wrought iron rail that came up to my waist. I tried hard to imagine how someone might accidentally fall out the doors and over the sturdy barrier. My imagination failed me.

“How tall was Shelby?” I asked.

“Five-seven. Not quite as tall as you, but almost.”

“Could we walk outside?” I asked.

“Of course.” He seemed to steel himself.

We went down the stairs, back through the kitchen, and into the courtyard. The pool was the focal point. A variety of green plants thrived in deep planters in each corner. Water splashing from the fountain into the pool made a soothing sound. Such a peaceful oasis. Such a horrible thing happened here.

The front end of the walled garden was grass. A wooden doghouse sat under a canvas sun shade.

“Only one doghouse?” I asked, thinking that could lead to fights.

“That’s Annabelle’s. All the pets sleep inside. But Annabelle needs more time outdoors during the day than the others.”

“Annabelle? You have another dog?”

“Belly isn’t a dog.” On cue, a large, black-and-white potbellied pig appeared from behind the house. “She’s dug a spot in the yard behind the house where she likes to sit during the day.”

I’m an animal lover from way back. But I took a moment to process two cats, five dogs, and a pot-bellied pig in a townhouse. Fraser was right. It was a petting zoo.

Belly meandered in our direction.

“She can be territorial where I’m concerned.” Clint took a step away from me. “She won’t bite you.”

Belly laid down in front of Clint and rolled over for a tummy rub, just like Socrates had done earlier in the kitchen. Clint knelt to oblige the pig. “Belly’s a sweet girl.”

“It’s good you have company.” I kept both eyes on Belly, who very likely outweighed me. “I’m just going to look around. Is there access from outside?”

“Yes.” He pointed to the kitchen corner of the house. “There’s a pathway around back that leads to the driveway. You can’t see it until you’re right in front of it.”

I took in the six-foot brick wall. If someone had come down to either verify that Shelby was dead or try to help her, they’d come through the kitchen or down the path. I walked over and peered behind the house. The space was only wide enough for the walkway. I meandered back towards Clint, scanned the courtyard again

“I’ve troubled you enough for one day,” I said. “May I call you if I have questions?”

“Of course.” He gave Belly a final pat and stood. He called out his number, and I typed it into my phone and added a contact. Then I gave him my number and Nate’s so he’d know who was calling and answer the phone.

He escorted me back to the front door and opened it.

I said, “For what it’s worth, you’ve got yourself one more believer.”

He met my gaze. “I appreciate that.”

I couldn’t get it out of my head how odd it was he hadn’t mentioned Sonny. One of Shelby’s friends—Delta Tisdale—gave his name to Paul Baker because Shelby talked about Sonny a lot. I was out the front door. In a moment Clint would close it behind me. I had to ask while I could see his face.

“One more thing,” I said. “Do you recall Shelby ever mentioning Sonny Ravenel?”

He pressed his lips together, shook his head. “The name is vaguely familiar. But he’s not one of Shelby’s friends far as I know. Why?” If he wasn’t being candid, he was a superb liar.

“He’s a friend of mine who volunteers at One80Place. I thought maybe they knew each other.” Sonny’s name would be familiar to many folks in Charleston from crime coverage in the news.

“She never mentioned him. Most people who volunteer serve meals in the community kitchen. I bet that’s what your friend does. Shelby was a long-term volunteer. She spent most of her time at the women and children’s shelter.”

I smiled. “That explains it.”

Except it didn’t. Why wouldn’t Shelby mention Sonny to her husband if he was her friend? Who all else had she failed to mention? What kind of secrets did Shelby have?