04 Lowcountry Bordello(4)

“O-okay,” she said. But she didn’t move.

I got out of the car, dashed around to the driver’s side, and yanked open the door. “Will you come on, Olivia? We’ve got to see if we can help him.”

“We can’t help him. I told you. He’s dead.”

After a moment, she swung her legs around, and I pulled her out. She guarded her pocket with her left elbow.

I linked my left arm through her right and dragged her towards the street-side door. Charleston single houses were situated on a lot with the side of the house towards the street. The door in front of us would lead to the end of the front porch.

Olivia pulled out a set of keys, fumbled for a minute, then inserted a large, ornate key into the lock.

“You have keys to your great aunt’s house?”

She shuddered. “I own half of it. Great Aunt Mary Leona left it to me a few years back.”

I squinted at her. We climbed the steps to the front porch. During my extensive research into Robert and Olivia’s affairs back when Gram passed, I hadn’t uncovered anything about this property.

“Long story,” she said. We passed a pair of large windows to our left and stopped by the front door. She held a finger to her lips, then opened the door.

We crossed into a wide foyer. My eyes were adjusting to the dark. I made out a staircase on the far side.

“In here.”

Olivia nudged me left. She was shaking so hard I was afraid she was going to fall.

The parlor we entered was pitch dark. I couldn’t see a thing except large lumps I took for furniture. “This is ridiculous. Where’s the light switch?” I felt around on the wall with my left hand.

“No. Do you want to wind up dead, too?”

I pushed the dimmer switch up and light gradually flooded the room.

Olivia gasped. She covered her mouth with both hands.

The parlor doubled as a library. It was tastefully decorated in neutrals. Heavy gold and cream drapes framed the windows and pooled artfully on the heart pine floors. The furniture looked expensive but comfortable. The Christmas tree by the front window was at least twelve feet tall and appeared to be designer-decorated. Bookcases lined the wall on either side of the fireplace.

I turned to Olivia. Neither Robert, nor anyone else dead or alive, occupied the room.

“He was right there!” she whispered, pointing to a spot on an ivory and taupe rug.

I looked closer. That rug looked to me like no one had ever walked on it, much less dropped a body on it.

“Olivia, you said you knew he was dead. How could you tell?”

“I felt for a pulse, on both sides of his neck.”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t call 911 right then.”

She crossed the room to the fireplace. A large, carved wooden pineapple sat on the end. She picked it up with both hands. “This was on the floor beside his head. It had blood on it. There was blood on the rug. I am telling you, someone hit Robert with this and killed him.”

What in the name of sweet reason was going on? I studied her for a long moment. Her eyes were a bit crazed, but to be honest, that wasn’t all that unusual for Olivia.

A board creaked. Then another. Someone was coming slowly down the stairs.

Olivia froze, a terrified look on her face. Her eyes dropped to the pineapple. She returned it to the mantel and stepped away.

“Who’s they-ah?” a woman’s voice called out.

Olivia took a deep breath, seemed to compose herself. She crossed the room quickly and stood by me. “It’s me, Aunt Dean.”

“Olivia? I thought you’d left dahlin’.”

“I decided to sit a spell in the parlor. The Christmas tree is so lovely, I was just enjoying it. Have you finished your shopping?” She crossed back into the foyer, tugging me along.

I stopped at the doorway to the parlor, disentangled my arm from Olivia’s, and grabbed my iPhone from her pocket. I snapped a series of photos, making sure to get overlapping images. Then I videoed a panorama for good measure before sliding into the foyer behind Olivia.

Aunt Dean descended the last three steps slowly, holding the banister. I pegged her at mid-eighties. Her snowy hair was in a single braid that lay across her shoulder. A long, thick gold robe covered whatever she wore underneath all the way up to her chin. Her monogrammed slippers matched the robe. When she reached the floor, she looked up at us.

Olivia said, “Aunt Dean, do you remember my friend, Liz Talbot?”

“I can’t say that I do.” Aunt Dean studied me.

I could only imagine what she thought, with me in a trench coat cinched tightly over pink and grey polka dot pajamas, with lime green Crocs. But Aunt Dean was clearly a lady. Her face betrayed no dismay.

“I’m certain you’ve met,” Olivia said. “Several times, in fact. Don’t you remember chatting at the Poinsett wedding last summer?”