Southern Heat by David Burnsworth

Author:David Burnsworth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gale, Cengage Learning
Published: 2014-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Darcy turned into the entrance to McAllister’s house on John’s Island. Posts holding iron gates flanked a driveway half-mooning to the front of the home. The large McMansion stood on twelve-foot stilts covered by lattice. As we swung around the drive, I saw the open garage doors. Taillights from a low-slung sports car peeked out at me in one of the three open bays. The red beauty with white racing stripes brought a whistle of admiration from me.

Darcy pulled us to a stop. “What?”

I pointed. “He’s got a ZR1.”

Darcy rolled her eyes and opened her door to get out. “So?”

“It’s the fastest production Corvette,” I said.

Too much like Jo, Darcy ignored my fascination with cars. “I did some checking. Our Mr. McAllister has another home in Mount Pleasant—ocean view. And a helicopter, a McDonnell Douglas 500E five-seater.”

Environmental cleanup must be a boom industry.

McAllister answered his own door wearing shorts, a knit shirt with a sports logo on the sleeve, and tennis shoes.

“Glad to see y’all,” he said. “I was ready to head to the courts.”

A black tennis racket case leaned against a black gym bag on the hardwood floor in front of a carved wooden entrance table. We stepped around the bags and McAllister led us past a great room with a high ceiling to a bar in front of the kitchen counter. He motioned for us to take seats at two tall chairs.

He said, “Can I get you anything? Coffee, OJ?”

“Black coffee,” I said.

Darcy passed.

McAllister poured my coffee and refilled his own.

I noticed the logo printed on the cups. “What’s Ashley River Recovery?”

“Oh, a business I’m working with,” he said. “We’re cleaning a site on the river. So, what’s up? You sounded a little concerned on the phone.”

Darcy flipped open the paper on the counter and turned it so McAllister could read the headline.

He took a drink from his coffee mug. “I saw that this morning.”

“He knew my uncle.”

McAllister raised his eyebrows. “The accountant did?”

Darcy said, “Did you know him?”

“I use the firm he works—worked for—to handle my taxes.”

“Galston used them too,” I said.

McAllister set his cup on the counter. “I’m not surprised. It’s the best in Charleston. At least the one with the best pedigree.”

The same could be said about how people were measured in Charleston. Either you had status or you had to buy it, but it was always there, around the corner of the next question, tucked in a few layers behind an insinuation. I was fortunate enough to carry the double negative of not from around here and not enough money. Darcy, on the other hand . . .

She hooked an arm over the back of her chair. “You know anyone there who would talk to you about what happened? Maybe what he was working on?”

McAllister said, “Being a pretty Channel Nine reporter, you ought to be able to get what you want without my help.”

“Maybe,” she said to him, “but I always work as many angles as I can.”

“Be careful those angles don’t have any sharp edges.

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