“Since you mention it,” I said.“I need an address for Jackie Henshaw.That was her name in 2001.I’m not sure if she has a married name.She was Henry Wainwright’s nurse.”
“Give me a minute to look her up and see what I can find,” he said, and I could hear him typing through the receiver.
“Got it,” he said.“Jackie Henshaw Caldwell.4406 Cypress Point.”
“That’s only two streets over from me,” I said.“Thank you.”
“Call me again next time you miss me.”
I tucked the phone into my bag, and pulled away from the curb.Chowder let out a series of short urgent barks as we went through town, and I stopped to get him a pup cup because otherwise I’d never hear the end of it.
I decided to wait and stop by Jackie’s house on my way home, and after Chowder had finished licking the whipped cream from his nose we set off toward the park.This was also one of Chowder’s favorite places to go and I could see his excitement building.Or at least as excited as he was capable of becoming.
I wasn’t going to tell him there was another reason for our visit to the park.This was Deidre’s neighborhood, but it had also been Henry Wainwright’s.The houses here sat deeper behind their wrought-iron fences, and the live oaks made tunnels of green shade overhead that turned the afternoon light to the color of weak tea.There was a lot of old money on this street.
I parked two streets over on a side road, hooked on Chowder’s leash, and we started walking.
Henry’s old house was the Wainwright family home, a Greek Revival of pale yellow stucco that had been on the island since post-Civil War.It rose two stories to a slate roof, with six white columns running the length of a deep front porch and a second-story gallery above it that ran the same length.A pair of mature magnolias flanked a wrought-iron gate, and a crushed-shell drive curved up to a side entrance through a tunnel of live oaks.
Chowder chose that blessed moment to water one of the trees outside of the estate, and I could have kissed him for his timing.
“Imagine living in that big house all alone,” I told Chowder.Though I could imagine it because I’d lived in my big house all alone until Chowder came along.
The current owners had two small bikes laid down in the drive and a complicated-looking play yard visible through the side gate.A Range Rover was parked near the carriage house, and there was a sticker on the back window for a prestigious private school in Charleston.
I stood across the street under the shade of a live oak and let myself look.
The lot was deep.The house sat well back from the road behind a wide expanse of clipped lawn and a circular bed of camellias, and the property carried back to a stand of pines at the rear.The nearest neighbor on the right was blocked by azalea hedges and a low brick wall.The neighbor on the left was the same.
I thought about a gunshot sometime in the evening on an October night.It got dark around seven o’clock in October, and people were usually out walking in the park in the evenings, so the chances of hearing a gunshot would be greater.Which led me to think, if the killer was smart, then he’d wait until later in the evening.I also thought about the weather.We typically got a lot of rain in October.
I pulled out my phone and subtly took a few pictures of the front of Henry’s house, and then I searched theFarmers’ Almanacfor the weather the night Henry died.
“Well, look at that, Chowder,” I said.“October thirteenth and fourteenth we had quite a storm.That would help cover the sound of a gunshot, don’t you think?”
Chowder had finished watering the trees and had decided to lie down on the sidewalk.Frenchies weren’t known for their endurance.
The house directly across the street from Henry’s sat behind a low brick wall and a thick hedge of boxwood, with a pair of crape myrtles flanking the front walk.It was a Charleston single house in pale yellow brick with black shutters.It was three stories and piazzas were on all three floors.The bottom piazza had lush ferns hanging between the columns.
There was a gold placard on the brick wall to the left of a black iron gate that readThe Pruitts.The people in this neighborhood tended to be generational, and I’d remember the name when I started to do a search for any neighbors still on the island.
My eyes drifted to the upstairs window, and I saw the curtain move and the shadow of a person moving.It was also a neighborhood where someone was always watching.
I thought again about the tragedy this island had endured by having Milton as sheriff for so long.Anyone with a lick of sense and half an investigative brain could have gotten to the bottom of Henry’s death in a short amount of time if procedure had been followed.
“Come on, Chowder.Time to get up.”
We walked back to the car and Chowder hopped in, clearly spent for the day, and I turned the AC on high.
“Don’t worry, you’re going to get a nap.We’ve got one more stop to make.”
Chowder ignored me, so I started singing “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive” to give him a little boost.
He didn’t look boosted as I drove down Waterfront and neared my house, so I pulled into the driveway and let him in through the mudroom.He didn’t even look back to see if I was coming inside.He was a dog on a nap mission.
The breeze off the water felt like heaven, and there were several families across the street on the walkway that were headed down to a sandy embankment that was nice for picnics and swimming.
Cypress Point was technically on the same stretch of waterfront as my own home, but the road followed the river and the way it curved made Cypress Point its own private neighborhood.
