Chapter 40
On Thursday morning, Ray Bierbower poked his head inside Traci’s office door.
He placed a key fob on her desktop. “One of your landscapers dropped this off at the front desk earlier, and I told the new girl I’d get it to you.”
“Thanks.” She looked up from her computer, where she’d been staring at the latest depressing booking figures. Cancellations had been dribbling in since the news of Parrish’s death had broken.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, actually there is something else.” He sat in the chair opposite her desk, and for the first time she noted his grim expression. Her stomach clenched.
“What is it?”
“I just got off the phone with the sheriff’s office. They’re about to release Parrish’s cause of death and he called to tip me off, as a favor.”
“Go on,” Traci said, steeling herself.
“They found traces of alcohol, which is no surprise. Plus, marijuana and fentanyl. The official cause of death will be drug overdose.”
“Fentanyl?” She’d read all the headlines over the past few years about the growing number of deaths and accidental drug overdoses attributed to the synthetic opioid.
“How is that possible? Parrish wasn’t some cokehead or pill popper. If there was fentanyl in her system, someone intentionally did that—to harm her.”
“That’s what the sheriff thinks too,” Bierbower said. “So, now this is officially a homicide investigation.”
She nodded, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak.
“Does Ric know?”
“Yeah. I just came from his place.”
“And he still blames me,” Traci said bluntly.
“We didn’t get into that,” he said. “The sheriff’s investigators are headed back out here, now that it’s officially a homicide investigation. He wanted me to let you know. I’ll have a couple of my guys ‘assisting’ them, just to make sure they don’t, you know, alarm the guests and members.”
“Okay,” she said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“They want to talk to you again. I think it might be a good idea for you to have your lawyer sit in on any interview.”
“Jesus, Ray. Am I a suspect?”
“He didn’t say that, and I don’t think he has any reason to suspect that you were involved in any way in your niece’s death. I just think, out of an abundance of caution…”
She felt numb. “When are they coming?”
He glanced at his watch. “They’re on their way here now.”
Traci reached for the phone. “I’ll call Andy Plankenhorn and ask him to meet me here.”
“This could get really ugly, you know?”
“How is that possible?”
“Someone must have tipped off the news media. There’s television vans from Savannah, Jacksonville, and Atlanta camped outside the main gate. My guys, of course, have been instructed not to allow them on the property, under any circumstances. But it looks like they’re set up for the long haul.”
She closed her eyes and envisioned the circus atmosphere that would greet guests arriving at the Saint’s entry, and could already anticipate the avalanche of alarmed phone calls, texts, and emails—and more cancellations.
“And there’s no way we can make them leave, right?”
“They’re on public property, so no.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m gonna call the restaurant and have them send up a cooler full of sandwiches and cold drinks for the reporters.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You’re gonna feed those jackals?”
“I’m gonna kill ’em with kindness. Not treat them as adversaries. In fact, as soon as Andy gets here, I’m gonna go up there and give them a statement.”
“That’s a terrible idea, Traci. The press are like cockroaches. You throw them some crumbs, they’re never gonna leave.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t have anything to hide, and I don’t want anybody thinking we’re covering up a crime here.”
Bierbower rolled his eyes. “Okay, you’re the boss.”
“Yes. I am.”
“That’s a terrible idea, Traci,” Andy Plankenhorn told her, when she informed him of her intentions. “I think you should call the agency that handles the Saint’s PR and ask them to take care of this. Crisis management, damage control, whatever you call it.”
“There’s no way to spin this or minimize it, Andy. Something terrible happened here Saturday night. Hiding it or denying it only makes it worse.”
He was sitting in the same chair Ray Bierbower had vacated only an hour earlier. His silvery-gray hair flopped over his eyes. The lenses of his thick horn-rimmed glasses were smudged, and his short-sleeved dress shirt had seen better days. Still, he was the best, wisest lawyer she’d ever met.
“Traci, you need to understand how folks around here feel about the Saint. Ever since Fred put up those gates out on the causeway, people think you and everyone connected to the Eddings family are just a bunch of uppity, rich, entitled billionaires. And some, not all of ’em, get a morbid thrill, thinking about how some poor little rich girl got her comeuppance.”
“That’s… that’s sick. Parrish never did anything to deserve what happened to her.”
“You know it and I know it, but we also know why the locals talk about ‘Saints’ and ‘Ain’ts.’ It’s the haves and have-nots,” Plankenhorn said. “And it’s only gotten worse over the past few years. Folks see all these big houses over here, lining the waterfront, they see the rich kids in town, raisin’ hell and acting the fool, and it pisses ’em off.”
“Andy, I used to be an Ain’t,” Traci protested. “But in the years since Hoke took over, and I took over from him, we’ve done so much good in this community. We’re the biggest corporate contributor to United Way, we fund literacy programs, sponsor job training fairs, and donate excess banquet food to the food pantry…”
“All noble acts of charity. But some folks resent charity. They see the Eddings family as the Gotrocks, and your misery is their comfort,” the lawyer said.
“Understood. But I still think the best way to handle this is to address it head on, now.” Traci opened her laptop and turned to Plankenhorn. “Help me draft a statement, will you? And then let’s call the sheriff and tell him we’d like to have an impromptu press conference when he gets here.”
By the time she and Andy Plankenhorn made it to the Saint’s entry gates, the number of reporters had swelled to roughly a dozen, with television news crews from three different network affiliates as well as CNN, plus print reporters from newspapers around the southeast. True to Ray Bierbower’s description, they’d set up canopy tents to provide shade from the afternoon sun, and most sat around in folding soccer chairs, talking on their phones.
At roughly the same time the Saint’s management arrived, two sheriff’s cruisers arrived too, lights flashing, but sirens off.
Traci had sent Livvy as an advance team, to alert the media about the upcoming announcement, and to set up a wireless mike stand. When Traci arrived, Livvy quickly showed her the makeshift staging area she’d arranged.
Flanked by the sheriff on one side and her lawyer on the other side, Traci stepped up to the mike and gave each man a nervous, sideways glance.
“Hello. I’m Traci Eddings, the CEO and president of the Saint Cecelia resort.” She turned to the lawman on her right. “This, as you may know, is Bonaventure County sheriff Wynnton Coyle. He’s agreed to give you an update on his ongoing investigation into the death last week of Parrish Eddings, which occurred here on the resort property.”
Coyle, hands clasped at the waist, spine rigid, looking distinctly uncomfortable, gave a perfunctory nod, and then stepped up to the microphone.
“Today, we received the medical examiner’s report regarding the cause of death of Parrish Helen Eddings, age twenty-one, recently of St. Cecelia Island, whose body was discovered in a wooded area on the Saint property, at approximately two P.M. last Sunday.”
The sheriff stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to the clicking cameras and jostle of television camera operators aiming boom mikes in his direction.
“The autopsy revealed a large amount of alcohol in Miss Eddings’s bloodstream, as well as marijuana and the synthetic opioid fentanyl. To that end, the medical examiner has declared the manner of death to be a drug overdose, believed to have been caused by an ingestion of fentanyl.”
Traci forced herself to mimic the sheriff, eyes forward, face expressionless, although her gut was roiling.
“Our office is investigating this death as a homicide, and we’ll have no further comments until our investigation has uncovered substantial new information.” Coyle tugged at the collar of his shirt and stepped back from the microphone.
Reporters began calling out questions, but the sheriff, stony-faced, stood his ground. “I’m going to ask Mrs. Eddings to make a few comments,” he said.
Traci stepped up to the mike to fill the void.
“Thank you, Sheriff. As you can imagine, the Eddings family and the staff and our longtime members and guests are deeply grieving the loss of my beloved niece Parrish, who started working here at the Saint as a young teenager, and who’d come back to work here this summer, after completing most of her college coursework with a major in hospitality.”
Traci took a deep breath and continued. “We have given law enforcement our fullest cooperation in this investigation, and total access to any witnesses or evidence they might uncover as they work to solve this horrendous crime.”
A reporter wearing a polo shirt with the logo of the Jacksonville FOX affiliate shouted a question. “Do your guests feel safe? Is this the start of a crime wave at your resort?”
Coyle grimaced. “I’ll take that question. As far as we’re concerned, this is a completely isolated incident. We’ve seen no evidence to suggest that any guests at this resort are in danger.”
Traci gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, Sheriff. To add to your response, I’ll say that the Saint’s private security team has stepped up patrols on the property, because the safety of our staff, guests, and members is of paramount importance to me and this company, and of course, they will alert local law enforcement to any suspicious activities on our property.”
She gave a meaningful nod to the sheriff, who picked up his cue. “The Saint management has generously authorized our office to offer a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the apprehension and conviction of the party or parties responsible for the murder of Parrish Eddings. All information will be held in the strictest confidence. Anyone with information can call our hotline.” He announced the number, repeated it, and then repeated it again.
A reporter from the Savannah NBC affiliate shoved his way to the area in front of the makeshift stage. “Mrs. Eddings? Is it true that illegal drug use is rampant among your employees?”
Traci bristled at the suggestion. “I have no reason to believe that’s true. Our employees submit to drug testing as part of their job application process, and they understand that a condition of their continued employment is voluntarily submitting to random drug testing. That said, realistically, many of our younger, college-age staffers regard casual use of marijuana, which is legal in some states, although not Georgia, as a noncriminal offense. Still, we have made it clear to all our employees that drug use on company property is a firing offense.”
Andy Plankenhorn gave her a subtle elbow nudge, and she noted his horrified expression.
Another reporter, a tall, intense white guy whose mike had the logo of the Atlanta CBS affiliate, stepped forward.
“Any truth to the rumor that Parrish Eddings had been sexually assaulted?”
Traci flinched as though she’d been slapped in the face.
Coyle leaned into the mike. “I can answer that. There was absolutely no sign of trauma, either sexual or physical, to the victim’s body, which was fully clothed when it was discovered.”
Traci found herself shaking uncontrollably when her lawyer whispered into her ear. She nodded and took another breath.
“That’ll be all for today. Also, I would appreciate it if, in return for our willingness to communicate with the press, you would refrain from harassing or otherwise infringing on our members’ and guests’ privacy. Thank you.”