"We're still real married people."

I nudged Boyd. The chow moved across our laps and pressed against Pete. I started to rise.

"OK. OK." Pete held up both hands. "I poked around up at GMC today."

I settled back. "Did you talk to Herron?"

Pete shook his head. "Dropped a lot of scary words. Litigation. Mismanagement of charitable funds. Pot to piss in."

"Chilling."

"Apparently. I have an appointment with Herron on Thursday morning."

At that moment my cell phone sounded. I checked the little screen. Emma.

"Gullet tracked down an address for Cruikshank. Place is off Calhoun, not far from the MUSC complex. He dropped by, managed to pry the landlord loose from his Rocky Rocky DVD long enough to learn that Cruikshank had been a tenant for about two years, but hadn't set foot in his apartment since March. Landlord's name is Harold Parrot, a real humanitarian. When Cruikshank fell thirty days behind in the rent, Parrot stuffed his belongings into cartons, changed the locks, and recycled the unit." DVD long enough to learn that Cruikshank had been a tenant for about two years, but hadn't set foot in his apartment since March. Landlord's name is Harold Parrot, a real humanitarian. When Cruikshank fell thirty days behind in the rent, Parrot stuffed his belongings into cartons, changed the locks, and recycled the unit."

"What happened to the cartons?"

Pete raised questioning brows and mouthed the word "Cruikshank." I nodded.

"Parrot stacked them in the basement. He assumed Cruikshank had skipped town, but didn't want trouble if the guy showed up wanting his stuff. Gullet got the sense Cruikshank scared the nappies off Parrot. Gullet and I are going back in the morning, thought you might like to join us."

"Where?"

Emma read the address and I wrote it down.

"What time?"

Pete pointed a finger at his chest.

"Nine."

"Shall I meet you there?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Pete's pointing became, well, more pointed.

"Mind if Pete rides along?"

"Sounds like a stunningly more entertaining plan."

The day began badly and went downslope from there.

Emma rang shortly before eight to say she'd had a rough night. Would I mind meeting with Gullet and Parrot on my own? She'd explained to the sheriff that I was officially consulting on the case, and requested full cooperation from his office.

I heard the bitterness in Emma's voice, knew what it was costing my friend to admit that her body was failing. I assured Emma I'd be fine, and that I'd touch base as soon as I left Parrot's.

Pete was flipping shut his mobile when I entered the kitchen. He'd called Flynn. Though dismayed by the circumstances, Buck was pleased to hear that Cruikshank had been located. Buck was even more pleased over the upcoming Herron meeting and the possibility of some answers to his several questions.

Pete had also phoned a buddy at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD. The man was not surprised to learn of his former colleague's death. He'd known Cruikshank during the PI's days on the force. In his words, Cruikshank was a barrel in the mouth waiting for the pull of a trigger.

Gullet's Explorer was already at the curb when Pete and I turned from Calhoun onto a dead-end side street. Though once lush and residential, the avenue's oleander-and-elderberry-wine charm had long ago been boot-heeled by modern redevelopment. Offices and commercial buildings stood brick to petticoat with grand old belles hanging on by their Confederate nails.

Emma's address brought us to an antebellum survivor with an archetypically Charlestonian design: narrow across the front, deep down the lot, side verandas upstairs and down.

Pete and I got out and started up the walk. Though cloud cover kept the temperature down, humidity ruled the day. Within seconds my clothes felt limp against my skin.

Approaching the building, I took in more detail. Rotting wood, faded paint, more trim than Brighton's Royal Pavilion. An ornate plaque above the door said MAGNOLIA MANOR.

No magnolias. No blossoms. Side yard a tangle of kudzu-clad scrub.

The front was unlocked. Passing through the door, Pete and I stepped from syrupy warmth into slightly cooler syrupy warmth.

What was once an elegant foyer now served as a lobby, complete with bannistered staircase, sconced walls, and chandeliered ceiling. The sparse furnishings exuded all the charm of a dental office. Laminated wood sideboard. Vinyl couch. Plastic plant. Plastic runner. Plastic wastebasket filled with discarded ads.

Two rows of nameplates suggested the house had been divided into six units. Below and to the right of the buzzers, a hand-scrawled card provided the number of the resident manager.

I dialed. Parrot answered on the third ring.

I identified myself. Parrot said he and Gullet were in the basement, and directed me down the central hallway to the back of the building. The stairs were through a door on the left.

I gestured Pete to follow me.

The cellar door was located where promised. And wide open.

"Cruikshank didn't choose the old manor for its security system," I said in a low voice.

"Must have been attracted by the cutting-edge interior design," Pete said.

From below, I could hear Gullet and Parrot speaking.

"And the name," Pete added. "The name's got a certain panache."

As Pete and I clomped down wooden stairs, the temperature plummeted at least half a degree. At bottom, the air smelled of decades of mildew and mold. I was unsure whether to breathe through my nose or my mouth.

The cellar was as expected. Dirt floor. Low ceiling. Brick walls with crumbling mortar. The few concessions to the twentieth century included an ancient washer and dryer, a water heater, and low-wattage bulbs hanging from badly frayed wires.

Junk was crammed everywhere. Stacked newspapers. Wooden crates. Broken lamps. Garden tools. A brass headboard.

Gullet and Parrot were on the far side of the room, an open carton on a workbench between them. Gullet was holding a manila folder in one hand, rifling its contents with the other.

Both men turned at the sound of our footsteps.

"Seems you're becoming a regular fixture with our coroner." Gullet really did have a way with openings. "I've got no problem with that, long as everyone understands borders and terrain."

"Of course." I introduced Pete, and gave the briefest explanation of his interest in Parrot's former tenant.

"Your Mr. Cruikshank was one busy fella, Counselor."

"I'm only indirectly concerned with Cruikshank-"

Gullet cut him off. "The man killed himself in my town. That makes him my problem. You're free to tag along with the doc, here. But you get any ideas about freelancing, you keep that train in the station."

Pete said nothing.

"Miz Rousseau says you're looking for a young lady name of Helene Flynn." The usual flat tone.

"I am," Pete said.

"May I ask why, sir?"

"Helene's father is concerned because she broke off contact."

"And when you find this young lady?"

"I'll tell Daddy."

Gullet regarded Pete for so long I thought he was going to send him packing. Then, "No harm in that. My child dropped out of sight, I'd want to know why."

The sheriff closed and waggled the manila folder.

"This should make for some fascinating reading."

13.

GULLET REVERSED THE FILE SO WE COULD SEE THE HANDWRITTEN name on the tab. Flynn, Helene. The date matched the time of Buck Flynn's initial contact with Cruikshank.

Handing the folder to Pete, Gullet turned back to the carton and resumed rummaging, pulling out a folder, reading its tab, sliding it back among the others.

Pete scanned the contents of Helene Flynn's file.

I observed Parrot. He was an elderly black man with kinky hair side-parted and slicked down hard. Nat King Cole in a tank undershirt. Right now he looked jumpy as someone expecting a kidney punch.

After pulling a few more random files, Gullet turned to Parrot.

"You packed all these boxes, sir?"

"Not the files. They's exactly as Cruikshank left them. I done those uns over there." Parrot pointed to a stack of cardboard boxes.

"You did collect every last one of Mr. Cruikshank's possessions, now didn't you, Mr. Parrot? Nothing got misplaced or lost or anything along those lines?"

"'Course I did." Parrot's gaze hopped from Gullet to me, then dived to the floor. "I didn't make no list, if that's what you're asking. I just boxed the stuff."

"Uh-huh." Gullet skewered the landlord with a look.

Parrot ran a hand across the top of his head. Not a hair budged. The stuff was more glazed than a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

Seconds passed. A full minute. Somewhere out of sight, a faucet dripped.

Parrot repeated the hair thing. Folded his arms. Dropped them. The sheriff's eyes remained glued to Parrot's face.

Finally, Gullet broke the silence. "You don't mind if I take Mr. Cruikshank's things along for safekeeping, now do you, sir?"

"Don't you need a warrant or some kinda official paper?"

Not a muscle fiber flickered in Gullet's face.

Parrot's hands flew up. "OK. OK. No problem, Sheriff. I was just trying to be legal. You know. Tenants' rights and all."

There were eight boxes. I took the file carton. Pete and Gullet started with two boxes each. While the men made a second trip to the basement, I phoned Emma from the Explorer. Though she sounded better, her voice was still weak.

I reported that we were heading to the sheriff's office. Emma thanked me, and asked that I keep her informed.

Twenty minutes after leaving Magnolia Manor, Pete and I turned behind Gullet into the lot at the Charleston County Sheriff's Office, a low-rise brick and stucco affair on Pinehaven Drive in North Charleston. Two trips relocated the boxes to a small conference room.

While Gullet called the Charleston City Police, Pete and I began with Cruikshank's belongings. Pete took the Flynn file. I started with the boxes.

The first yielded bathroom towels and toiletries. Toothpaste. Plastic razors. Shaving cream. Shampoo. Foot powder.

The second contained kitchenware. Plastic cups and dishes. A few glasses. Cheap utensils.

Box three held the larder. Frosted Flakes. Froot Loops. Dried spaghetti and macaroni dinners. Cans of Campbell's soup, baked beans, Beenie Weenies.

"The guy wasn't into gourmet cooking," I said, folding in and overlapping box flaps.

Focused on the file, Pete gave a noncommittal grunt.

Box four contained an alarm clock, bed linens, and blankets.

Box five was stuffed with pillows.

Box six held clothing.

"Finding anything?" Pete asked, his attention on notes he was scribbling.