Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I’d called the Silver Sleuths from the car on the way back from Jackie’s and told them to meet at my house. I didn’t give them details over the phone. I just said we had new information, it was important, and to bring food if they had it because it had been a long day and I was starving.
Dottie had taken that last part very seriously.
By the time Dash and I pulled up to my house on Harbor Street it was just after six, the rain had turned into a steady drizzle, and the lights were already on inside.
Dottie’s car was in the drive. Walt’s was at the curb.
Bea had taken up most of the remaining street space with a parking job that suggested we might need to look and see if her license was expired.
As soon as we opened the door smells of something aromatic surrounded me, and I inhaled deeply.
“I made a big pot of chicken stew so I brought the whole thing over,” Deidre called out from the kitchen.
“And God bless her for it,” Dash said under his breath. “I’m starving.”
Chowder met us in the entry hall in a burgundy argyle sweater vest I was fairly certain I’d never seen before. He had the talent of looking judgmental and guilty all at the same time.
“I like your sweater,” I told him to break the ice. “Very collegiate.”
He sat up a little straighter and tilted his head.
“Thank you for asking,” I said. “It’s been an eventful day. A man died. It was horrible. You made the wise decision to stay behind.”
He snorted and seemed to have a moment of condemnation for my poor judgment at not staying at the tea shop, and then he turned his back on us and trotted into the kitchen.
“That dog is unbelievable,” Dash said. “I brought him treats yesterday and I don’t even get so much as a hello.”
“Treat taxes start over at midnight,” I told him. “But he’s been out of sorts this week with me being gone so much. I might have to take him on a weekend getaway to get back in his good graces.”
We walked through the living area to the formal dining room.
Walt was at the table with his hands wrapped around a coffee mug.
Hank was hanging his jacket on the back of his chair and had a fresh glass of red in front of him.
Dottie was bringing a pan of cornbread to the table, and Bea was seated at the head of the table with a wine glass that was almost empty, wearing a deep plum caftan and matching jeweled turban so she looked like Elizabeth Taylor.
“Y’all sit down,” Deidre said, bringing in bowls of soup. “You must be worn out with everything happening today. I just can’t believe James is dead. We all saw him yesterday with not a clue it would be the last time.”
Her nervous energy was palpable, and I knew she’d probably spent the afternoon trying to stay busy after the news of James’s death came through.
I sat in the seat next to Dash and spooned up the first bite, letting the flavor and heat seep through my bones. I knew I was exhausted, but I hadn’t realized how chilled I’d become, going in and out of the rain and humidity and into the air-conditioning.
“Well,” Walt said. “You filled us in after you talked with James. What happened with Jackie? Why did he say her name? Did she confess?”
“No,” Dash said. “But we certainly got to see a different side of her.”
“Yeah, the crazy side,” I said. “I’ve seen true crime documentaries about women just like her. Total narcissist. Entitled. Used her body to get what she wanted out of life.”
“It’s a good body,” Bea said. “I looked her up online. Reminds me of myself at her age.”
I changed the trajectory of the question because I realized those descriptors fit Bea as well. She’d never been one to shy away from breaking up a marriage.
“Jackie confirmed everything that James told us,” I said.
“The affair, the extravagant spending, the house she’s living in.
She said she knew he was wealthy so never bothered to ask where the money was coming from.
But she said things changed a few months before Henry died. Extra stress and anxiety.”
“Hmmph,” Deidre said. “A guilty conscience. Rest his soul.”
“She also knew about the blackmail,” I said. “She said he received five different notes that she knew about.”
“In the same time frame as his newfound anxiety?” Dottie asked.
“Bingo,” I said. “The blackmailer sent pictures along with the demand money and a drop location. She said James had been paying it because the blackmailer threatened to send all the pictures to his wife. She said the amount went up by five thousand dollars each time.”
Dash took over. “She said the drops were always on a Saturday in Charleston and that there was a rotation of drop-off locations. Never the same place twice.”
“Ahh,” Bea said. “That’s someone who’s blackmailed people before.”
“And either the blackmailer knew Grimm Island drops would be too exposed, or they were familiar enough with Charleston that it was the most convenient location.”
“Like a surgeon who works at the hospital?” I asked, thinking of Byron Jameson.
“Possibly,” Walt said. “And a surgeon of his caliber wouldn’t be doing weekend rotations. He was a specialist.”
“Jackie said the last blackmail letter came the Friday before Henry died. Same instructions that it was to be paid the next day at a drop location. That’s apparently when James snapped.
She said James came over that night and said he was ending things between them.
That he wasn’t paying the blackmailer anymore and he was going to confess to his wife.
And that he was going over to beg Henry’s forgiveness and to pay back the money, even if he had to clear out all of his personal holdings. ”
“That tracks,” Deidre said. “I went back in the library archives for the Gazette because I remembered there were several occasions after Henry died where Edie wasn’t in pictures with him in the society column.
I told you I remembered there being a time when the two of them had separated, and if I remember correctly, and I always do, they were separated for more than a year after Henry died.
So maybe he did confess all to his wife like he’d said he was going to do. ”
“That’s a good point,” Dottie said. “Because even though his financial problems with the foundation might have been solved with Henry’s murder, he still had the blackmailer to deal with. Confession would have been the only way to prevent a scandal.”
“What did she say next?” Hank asked.
“She said he left and went to Henry’s,” I said.
“She remembered how bad the weather was, and that it was after nine o’clock.
She was angry that he’d broken up with her, and then less than half an hour later he walked back into her house and went straight for the liquor cabinet.
She said he was in shock, though I’m certainly glad she stopped nursing because I have questions about her bedside manner. ”
“Are you saying you could see her drugging someone’s drink and then shooting them in the head?” Hank asked.
“I’m saying I could definitely see her drugging someone’s drink if it meant she was getting what she wanted. But I don’t see her pulling the trigger, especially that close up.”
“Too messy,” Dash said. “I agree with you. She’s particular.
About her hair, clothes, and nails. Her body is her pride and joy.
Her house is immaculate. She’s not going to mess up the perfection by getting blood and brain matter on her.
So I believe her when she said James came back and that Henry was dead.
She said there was no blood on James, and there would have been if he’d pulled the trigger.
So she’s either lying to cover for him, or things happened exactly as James said. ”
“And why cover for a dead man,” Dottie said. “No reason to now.”
“No,” Dash agreed. “Not unless it benefitted her somehow, and I can’t see how it would. She milked all she could from James at the time, got that white elephant of a house, and ended up marrying a different wealthy man less than a year later.”
“James was a doctor,” Dottie said, exasperated. “He walks into that scene and sees his best friend dead, and he does nothing? That doesn’t play out.”
“That’s what we said too.” Dash nodded in agreement.
“Jackie said he was afraid,” I added. “That it wasn’t just seeing Henry dead, but that it was what was on his desk.”
“Spill it, Mabel,” Bea said. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“There was a blackmail note on Henry’s desk,” I told them. “Just like the ones he’d been receiving. Apparently Henry was being blackmailed too.”
Walt jumped up and went to one of the carefully organized boxes and he pulled out the crime-scene photos we had access to.
“Let me pull them up on my laptop,” I said. “They’re easier to see.”
“We’ve looked at every square inch of those photos,” Deidre said.
“But now we’re looking specifically for something we know should be there,” Walt said. “Makes a difference.”
I grabbed my laptop and went to my email, opening up the attachments Dash had sent to me, and then I blew up the photos as much as I could.
I leaned close to the screen and went through the photographs one by one.
Henry slumped at the desk. The gun. The decanter on the bookshelf where Lila Mae said it hadn’t been.
The desk surface. The pen holder. A stack of papers to the left.
“Oh,” I said, looking at the aerial view of the scene that looked down on Henry’s body. “Look right there. Next to the stack of papers. His arm is covering some of it, but you can see the block lettering because it’s in black marker.”
“What does it say?” Bea asked.
“I can’t make it out,” I said. “I see a dollar sign and what looks like a two.”
“Are there any pictures on the desk?” Deidre asked. “Jackie told you James received pictures.”
“Not that I see,” I said. “But if Milton moved the decanter we can’t be sure what else he moved to go along with his suicide theory.”
“Or maybe the killer moved them,” Walt said. “Especially if they were photos of his daughter he didn’t want to get out.”