Lowcountry Book Club Excerpt
© 2016 Susan M. Boyer
ONE
The dead are not abundantly sympathetic to their own. My best friend, Colleen, passed through the veil and into the great mystery eighteen years ago next month. She shed no tears over Shelby Scott Poinsett Gerhardt.
The photos of Shelby sprawled lifeless as a rag doll in the brick courtyard of her Tradd Street home would haunt me. I passed them to Nate, who was seated on my right in Fraser Rutledge’s office. Fraser was a senior partner at Rutledge & Radcliffe, a prestigious Charleston law firm.
“She’ll be much happier now.” Colleen’s tone rang casual to my ear. She should be ashamed of herself.
Colleen read my mind, literally.
“What?” Her jade green eyes telegraphed impatience. “Shelby was taken before her time. She’ll be back with a mission soon enough. I hear tell helping others is what this woman lived for. Leaving this life is not the tragedy you mortals think it is. It’s true what they say. She’s in a better place.”
I closed my eyes in an effort to shut her out. She was a distraction in her blue polka dot sundress, a wide-brimmed hat atop her long red curls, perched as she was on the corner of Fraser Alston Rutledge III’s heirloom desk. Of course only Nate and I could see or hear her.
Nate cleared his throat, muttered something.
I made out the words “control” and “ghost.”
I gave my head a little shake. As if. Nate was still coming to terms with Colleen. Right up until we’d said our “I do’s” in December, he’d been blissfully unaware of her presence in our lives. It was early May, and he still had a ways to go.
“Am I somehow failing to hold your interest?” Fraser elongated each syllable, his honeyed drawl spiked with irritation.
My eyes popped open. I felt at a disadvantage. We sat on the other side of his desk in his elegantly appointed Broad Street law office. Everything about the man and his surroundings, from the oil painting—of him with two Brittany spaniels—hanging on the cypress-paneled wall, to the black-and-white striped bow tie he wore with his grey seersucker suit, testified that his bona fides were in order, his Charleston heritage long and storied.
Fraser studied me.
“Quite to the contrary.” Nate’s easy tone sought to defuse Fraser’s pique. “We’ll hold our questions for when you’ve finished outlining the case against your client. We’re eager to help, if we can.”
“Please continue,” I said.
“You appear somewhat distracted.” Fraser looked from me to Nate. “We cannot afford to piss away any more time. Our former investigator twiddled his Johnson for four months, billed us a sultan’s ransom, and found not one solitary shred of information we can use. Jury selection begins in two weeks.”
I looked past Colleen directly into Fraser’s eyes. They were tiger eyes, gold and speckled with brown. “You were telling us about your client.”
“Clint Gerhardt.” Eli Radcliffe didn’t quite spit the name out of his mouth, but he managed to convey his disapproval of Clint Gerhardt and all his ancestors. Eli, Fraser’s partner, sat to my left in one of four deep leather visitor chairs. “Naturally, we want to be as prepared as possible.”
“He doesn’t believe Clint Gerhardt is innocent.” Sometimes Colleen could read other minds besides mine. “He’s mad as blazes at his partner.”
You think? I threw the sarcasm-laced thought in her direction. Apparently, the message was also inscribed on my face.
Fraser caught my expression. He drew back, his visage washed in incredulity.
Let him interpret that look however he pleased. I was exhausted from listening to him talk. Why was Eli so mad at Fraser?
