Lowcountry Bombshell (A Liz Talbot Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

saying she talked to all her customers was like Paula Deen saying she put a little butter in all her recipes.
    “What exactly was that look for?” Moon demanded.
    “Not a thing.” Blake dug back into his cheeseburger.
    “Michael just finished her house, down from the Pirates’ Den,” I said. Usually, if you gave Moon Unit a prompt, she’d take it and run. Her parents, John and Alma Glendawn, owned the Pirates’ Den, a popular restaurant and bar.
    “Yeah, Mamma and Daddy sold her that three acres. She gave her word it would be built to environmentally friendly standards, and, you know, they knew Michael was going to build it and they trusted him. They still have more than a hundred acres. What were they ever going to do with all that land?”
    Moon Unit, and everyone else on the island, sang a different tune if the topic was commercial development. We loved our small beach town just as it was.
    We were not in need of condos, time shares, or resorts of any kind. Land was usually a very serious topic. Several bodies had piled up in the war over protecting the land on Stella Maris back in April.
    “Moon, does she come in by herself?” I asked.
    “Always. Bless her heart, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the poor little thing with anybody else. We need to introduce her around. I don’t think she knows a soul except me, Michael, Mamma and Daddy, and Robert Pearson.”
    “Robert?” I asked.
    “Well, yeah. He handled the closing on the land. She asked me about attorneys and I gave her his name. I don’t know if he handles other business for her or not.” Moon laid a ticket on the table. “Y’all holler if you need more tea.”
       Blake flashed me a stern look. “There is not one mousey thing about the woman I met who drives a red Cadillac. What have you not told me?”
    I sat back in the booth. “When she came to see me, she looked just like Marilyn Monroe.”
    “How do you know we’re all talking about the same woman?”
    “Same name, same Cadillac.”
    “I told you she was crazy. Maybe some kind of con artist. Apparently, she has nothing better to do with her time than play dress up. She’s just trying to get attention. End of story.”
    “We’ll see.” I had a bad feeling Calista’s story was about to take an even more bizarre turn.
    As soon as I started the car after lunch, I pressed the voice command button. “Shuffle, artist, Kenny Chesney.” “Sherry’s Living in Paradise” floated through the speakers. I rolled down the windows. I could deal with the heat. Like Sherry, the salty air soothed my soul.
    FOUR

    Back at the house, I got busy building Calista’s case file. I entered everything she’d told me into the standard interview form Nate and I used.
    “The following interview was conducted by Elizabeth S. Talbot, of Talbot & Andrews Investigations, on Wednesday, July 25, 2012, at Stella Maris, SC. On this date…” 
    The form is a clone of the FBI’s FD 302, chosen for its popularity with judges and attorneys, who become familiar with the form in law school. I can’t prove it, but I hold the belief that they consider anything typed in this particular format to have a better pedigree than ordinary case notes. I printed out the form, dated and signed the page, and placed it in the folder I’d created earlier along with Calista’s contract.
    Next, I started creating electronic profiles for Calista and everyone who touched her life in any significant way. For every case, I construct a basic time line for a subject’s life, then fill in the blanks using a variety of public databases and paid subscription services. I like having the whole of a person’s life in front of me—you never know what might turn out to be important. Each fact could be a piece to the puzzle.
    Not many years ago, this step would’ve taken days and involved mailed requests for documents, trips to courthouses, and library visits. These days, in most cases, a PI could accomplish basic vetting in a few hours