“Today, we received the medical examiner’s report regarding the cause of death of Parrish Helen Eddings, age twenty-one, recently of St. Cecelia Island, whose body was discovered in a wooded area on the Saint property, at approximately twoP.M. last Sunday.”
The sheriff stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to the clicking cameras and jostle of television camera operators aiming boom mikes in his direction.
“The autopsy revealed a large amount of alcohol in Miss Eddings’s bloodstream, as well as marijuana and the synthetic opioid fentanyl. To that end, the medical examiner has declared the manner of death to be a drug overdose, believed to have been caused by an ingestion of fentanyl.”
Traci forced herself to mimic the sheriff, eyes forward, face expressionless, although her gut was roiling.
“Our office is investigating this death as a homicide, and we’ll have no further comments until our investigation has uncovered substantial new information.” Coyle tugged at the collar of his shirt and stepped back from the microphone.
Reporters began calling out questions, but the sheriff, stony-faced, stood his ground. “I’m going to ask Mrs. Eddings to make a few comments,” he said.
Traci stepped up to the mike to fill the void.
“Thank you, Sheriff. As you can imagine, the Eddings family and the staff and our longtime members and guests are deeply grieving the loss of my beloved niece Parrish, who started working here at the Saint as a young teenager, and who’d come back to work here this summer, after completing most of her college coursework with a major in hospitality.”
Traci took a deep breath and continued. “We have given law enforcement our fullest cooperation in this investigation, and total access to any witnesses or evidence they might uncover as they work to solve this horrendous crime.”
A reporter wearing a polo shirt with the logo of the Jacksonville FOX affiliate shouted a question. “Do your guests feel safe? Is this the start of a crime wave at your resort?”
Coyle grimaced. “I’ll take that question. As far as we’re concerned, this is a completely isolated incident. We’ve seen no evidence to suggest that any guests at this resort are in danger.”
Traci gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, Sheriff. To add to your response, I’ll say that the Saint’s private security team has stepped up patrols on the property, because the safety of our staff, guests, and members is of paramount importance to me and this company, and of course, they will alert local law enforcement to any suspicious activities on our property.”
She gave a meaningful nod to the sheriff, who picked up his cue. “The Saint management has generously authorized our office to offer a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the apprehension and conviction of the party or parties responsible for the murder of Parrish Eddings. All information will be held in the strictest confidence. Anyone with information can call our hotline.” He announced the number, repeated it, and then repeated it again.
A reporter from the Savannah NBC affiliate shoved his way to the area in front of the makeshift stage. “Mrs. Eddings? Is it true that illegal drug use is rampant among your employees?”
Traci bristled at the suggestion. “I have no reason to believe that’s true. Our employees submit to drug testing as part of their jobapplication process, and they understand that a condition of their continued employment is voluntarily submitting to random drug testing. That said, realistically, many of our younger, college-age staffers regard casual use of marijuana, which is legal in some states, although not Georgia, as a noncriminal offense. Still, we have made it clear to all our employees that drug use on company property is a firing offense.”
Andy Plankenhorn gave her a subtle elbow nudge, and she noted his horrified expression.
Another reporter, a tall, intense white guy whose mike had the logo of the Atlanta CBS affiliate, stepped forward.
“Any truth to the rumor that Parrish Eddings had been sexually assaulted?”
Traci flinched as though she’d been slapped in the face.
Coyle leaned into the mike. “I can answer that. There was absolutely no sign of trauma, either sexual or physical, to the victim’s body, which was fully clothed when it was discovered.”
Traci found herself shaking uncontrollably when her lawyer whispered into her ear. She nodded and took another breath.
“That’ll be all for today. Also, I would appreciate it if, in return for our willingness to communicate with the press, you would refrain from harassing or otherwise infringing on our members’ and guests’ privacy. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 41
Whelan was on his hands and knees, ripping out a bed of faded annuals near the resort gatehouse, when he saw the news vans arriving.
Within an hour, they’d erected a small village, with pop-up tents, folding chairs, generators, and coolers.
Traci Eddings and an older man—her lawyer, he surmised—showed up at the scene within an hour, where they were met by two police cruisers from the sheriff’s office.
His curiosity got the better of him, so he went to the landscaping truck, pulled on a clean T-shirt, and casually joined the knot of reporters gathering around for what looked like an impromptu press conference.
Whelan marveled at Traci’s composure—even while she was discussing the loss of her niece, her voice stayed calm and steady. She was an impressive woman. He’d seen that already.
The night before, after he’d returned to his apartment, he’d gone online and done a deep dive on the background of the Saint’s president—and his new boss.
It seemed she’d met her future husband, Hoke, at nineteen, working as a lifeguard at the resort, the same summer, ironically, Hudson had drowned in the Saint’s pool.
