Lowcountry Boneyard by Susan M. Boyer

speaking with my daughter, we felt this would be the most expeditious way to move forward, don’t you agree?”
    I’d been ambushed. Hell no, I didn’t agree. I offered her my brightest smile, crossed the room, and extended a hand. I would never get away with bowing and nodding in this crowd. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bounetheau.”
    She took my hand and gave it a firm shake. “And you as well.” She looked to her right and nodded. The two women seated on a second, matching cream sofa stood. “These are my daughters. Virginia is Kent’s mother, of course. I’m sure you understand how much she needs her family beside her at this difficult time.”
    “Of course. Mrs. Heyward.” I extended a hand to the middle-aged, well-maintained version of Kent.
    She slipped hers in, then out of mine. “Pleased to meet you.” Her voice was cultured, but wispy. The elsewhere vibe she gave off screamed heavily medicated. Bless her heart, she likely needed a little something to help her get by. She had a missing child, after all. Mrs. Heyward’s St. John skirt suit was a darker shade than her mother’s, more of a taupe.
    Abigail Bounetheau continued. “And this is her older sister, Charlotte.”
    Charlotte made eye contact as she extended a hand. “Thank you for coming.” She neatly flipped the dynamics. This was their meeting, not mine. Charlotte’s hair was a shorter bob than Virginia’s and Abigail’s. But the family resemblance was unmistakable. No St. John suit for her—Charlotte wore a classic navy sheath. I didn’t recognize the designer, but the fabric and fit signified high-end. 
    Abigail gestured to her left. “My sons, Peter and Peyton.”
    Peter and Peyton looked nothing like the women in the room. The gentlemen had blond hair, cut very short, with a touch of wave. The only common denominator seemed to be blue eyes. The twins were trim and slightly built. They wore identical navy suits. We said hello, shook hands, and the family sat back down. Two occasional chairs with cameo backs sat at the end of the conversation area nearest the door, across from the fireplace. “Please,” the matriarch gestured, “make yourself comfortable.”
    What would make me comfortable was to get out my hand sanitizer. I didn’t dare. “Thank you for seeing me this afternoon.” I took the seat closest to the sisters and pulled my pad and pen out of my bag. If I read Abigail Bounetheau right, she would resist me recording the conversation, and might use it as an excuse to cancel the meeting. “I need a bit more background information. I’m sure Mrs. Heyward can help me.” I smiled at Virginia. “I hope you’re feeling better today.”
    She looked at something over my left shoulder. “I am, thank you.”
    “Tell us, Miss Talbot.” Abigail Bounetheau’s regal tone commanded everyone’s attention. She was not about to let me take control of the conversation. “How do you believe you can help us find our Kent?”
    “I’m a private investigator, Mrs. Bounetheau. I have a great many tools at my disposal to assist in missing persons cases.”
    “Tools which the police do not have access to?” Frost formed on her voice.
    “Ma’am, as I explained to Mr. Heyward, I have great faith in the Charleston Police Department. Likely, things are precisely as they suspect. Kent chose to leave and chose not to tell anyone where she is. I hope to contact her and verify her safety.”
    “I see.” Mrs. Bounetheau looked down her patrician nose at me. Clearly, she did not approve of me nor any of my ancestors.
    I took the opening. “Mrs. Heyward, are you aware of any prescription medications Kent was taking?”
    Mrs. Heyward looked at her mother.
    Mrs. Bounetheau arched an elegant eyebrow as if to say, go ahead and answer, but this is a complete and utter waste of time.
    Virginia Heyward looked directly at me for the first time, her expression demure, deferential. “She wasn’t taking anything as far as I know. Kent