“We need your keys. Nate will pass you on the street just after you get out of the limo. He’ll bump into you and apologize. In case anyone is watching, act like you don’t know him. Slip him the keys.”
“Got it.”
“And we need your written request that we set up security surveillance and monitoring over the entire property. I’m emailing you the document. Just sign it and send it back. Do you know the first names of the men involved?” I switched gears quickly so as not to allow her too much time to ponder the words “security surveillance.”
Best not to call her attention to the fact she would also be on camera if she went inside. If she behaved differently, it might give us away.
“No. Aunt Dean keeps the business end of things very close to the vest. She’s given me bits and pieces over time. Some things I’ve figured out for myself. It’s like she wants to gradually initiate me. I imagine she thought it would be less of a shock that way.”
“Is there any chance whatsoever your Aunt Dean doesn’t know what really goes on there?”
“None. But no one could ever prove it.”
“Then why on earth are you so worried about this coming out? If no one could prove it’s anything but a boardinghouse, run by a sweet little old lady trying to hang on to her family home?”
“Because no one has to prove a damn thing to ruin all of our reputations. All the talk will do that. We’ll never live it down.”
Just then I was thinking how with a dead politician involved, this was likely going to be national news. I couldn’t think of any scenario that would prevent that from happening. “All right, look. Just email me the names you have. And get everyone out of the house by noon.” I ended the call.
Nate nodded towards the park.
“Clock’s ticking.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw Sonny emerge from the tent. He was talking to another detective, not looking our way.
Nate started the car. He negotiated the Explorer into traffic, which was moving at a crawl.
I said, “The first question on my mind is what exactly was Thurston Middleton doing inside 12 Church Street last night?”
“Hold on now. I thought your theory for the events of last evening involved Olivia hallucinating the body in the parlor.”
“That’s true,” I said, “but I’m trying to be fair here. Give you a chance to prove your theory, all the while proving how I’m right.”
“So you’re planning to prove a negative.”
“Exactly.”
Finally, Nate turned left on East Bay. “You go to the liquor store to buy liquor. There’s no other logical reason to open the door and walk inside. Same principle holds, regardless of the product.”
“But you heard Olivia. There is no Middleton room. If he isn’t a patron, what was his business there? He’s a politician. You’d think he’d avoid going anywhere near the place.”
“Well, Slugger, this is South Carolina. We’re heavy into redemption here. All you have to do is confess your sins publicly and ask for forgiveness. Mark Sanford survived the Argentinian mistress scandal.”
“If Middleton was trying to get the place shut down, he’d go in broad daylight, with protesters and the media. I need to dig deeper on Thurston Middleton’s background, first thing.”
“Just because there’s no Middleton room currently doesn’t mean there never was one.”
“Good point,” I said. “He may have been somehow trying to cover his tracks before he formally launches his campaign.”
“Makes sense. So, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover—a tall order for so little time. Where do you want to set up shop? It’s nine thirty. We’ve got two and a half hours until we can get inside the house.”
“We can’t be running back and forth to Stella Maris, that’s for sure. And we can’t park on Church Street to watch who goes in and out after the ladies get back from their spa day.” I did a quick search of local bed and breakfasts on my iPad. “I thought so. The house diagonally across the street, number 15, is a B and B. And they have third floor rooms. If we can get the room on the front of the house, we can see most of what we need to see without being seen.”
Nate grinned. “We’re going to get an unsavory reputation among local inns if we’re not careful.”
“We didn’t even give our names at John Rutledge House Inn.” I grinned at the memory of a pretext from a case back in the fall as I tapped in the phone number. Moments later we had a reservation for the Rose Room at fifteen Church Street, The Phillips-Yates-Snowden house.