"Mr. Winborne, I-"

"Breaking news! I think I may wet myself."

Winborne's cackling set my nerves on edge.

"I would simply like to know what you learned about Lonnie Aikman."

"Why?"

"The information may be relevant to a death investigation." Through barely parted teeth.

"Whose?"

"I can't tell you that."

"How's Cruikshank fit in?"

"What?"

"The PI found swinging in the Francis Marion. How's he fit in?"

"You reported that Aikman's mother lives in Mount Pleasant, yet I can't find a listing."

"Cruikshank?"

This was going nowhere. I had to give him something.

"Noble Cruikshank's death is being viewed as a probable suicide."

"Probable?"

"The coroner's investigation is ongoing."

"What was he looking at?"

"Cruikshank specialized in missing persons."

"Like Lonnie Aikman?"

"I have no reason to suspect that Cruikshank's death is connected to the disappearance of Lonnie Aikman. Now I'm itching, Mr. Win-borne."

"Fair enough. Susie Ruth Aikman remarried. Phone's in her new husband's name."

"May I have the number?"

"Doc, you know better. Giving that out would be violating a confidence, exposing an informant to who knows what."

All my molars were now tightly clamped. "Would you call Mrs. Aikman and ask her to phone me?"

"Sure, Doc. This is going well, don't you think?"

Twenty minutes later he phoned back.

"Four days ago a car was hauled from a creek bed off Highway 176, northwest of Goose Creek. A woman was behind the wheel."

Winborne sounded shaken.

"Susie Ruth Aikman is dead."

27

"COPS ON THE SCENE FOUND NO SIGNS OF FOUL PLAY, FIGURED Susie Ruth fell asleep or konked out and veered off the road."

"How old was she?"

"Seventy-two." All jollity had left Winborne's voice.

"Was she ill? Heart problems? Dementia?"

"Not that anyone knew."

My mind was racing. An unexplained traffic fatality would normally call for a coroner's investigation. Susie Ruth Aikman's body was found on Tuesday. Emma and I had spent that whole day together. Why hadn't she mentioned the old woman's death? She was too ill? Forgot? Didn't see the relevance?

"Look, I wasn't bucking at the bit to crash your dig. That was my editor's brilliant idea. But when you found those bones…" Winborne hesitated, as though weighing how much to reveal, how much to hold back. "I've been poking at something for a couple months now."

I waited out another, longer pause.

"I don't want to do this over the phone. Meet me tomorrow."

"Tell me when and where."

"Unitarian Church, corner of Clifford and Archdale. Follow the brick walkway to the path connecting to King. I'll be there at nine. I'll wait ten minutes."

"Do I come solo and dress in black?"

"Yeah, come alone. Wear what you want."

I was treated to another dial tone. Lately that was happening a lot. While preparing for bed, I told Ryan about my upcoming rendezvous with Winborne.

"Hang a flag on the balcony?"

"Oh, yeah," I agreed. "Very Deep Throat."

Ryan removed my panties and draped them on the deck.

At nine the next morning I was passing through the Unitarian churchyard gates. Ryan was next door at St. John's Lutheran. Bells were gonging at the cathedral, First Baptist, Emmanuel A.M.E., Bethel United Methodist, St. Michael's Episcopal, and First Scots Presbyterian. Really. It's no fluke Charleston's nicknamed the Holy City.

The Unitarian churchyard was like a hothouse gone feral. Lush trees ruled the path. Crepe myrtles, lantana, and daylilies held sway at the cemetery.

Winborne was at the spot he'd described, five-o'clock shadow making his face resemble an unwashed ashtray. My guess? Plankton looked unshaven long before stubble was cool.

Winborne watched me approach, a guarded smile on his lips.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," I replied. This better be good, I held back.

"Look, I know we got off on the wrong foo-"

"I appreciate your holding the Cruikshank story."

"My editor killed the piece."

I should have known. "What is it you have to tell me?"

"I've been digging into something."

"So you said last night."

Winborne glanced over his shoulder. "Something's rotten in this town."

Did the little twerp really say "rotten in this town"?

"What is it you've been investigating, Mr. Winborne?"

"I'm looking at Cruikshank. I already told you that. What I didn't tell you is that March's story on Lonnie Aikman wasn't my first. I did a piece when the guy first went missing in 2004. Cruikshank dug it up and tracked me down."

"You met with Cruikshank? When?" I wanted to ask how he'd learned of the Cruikshank ID, but put that off until later.

"Last March. Cruikshank came asking about Lonnie Aikman. You know me, first thing, I gotta know why. Cruikshank wouldn't give, so I had to use my powers of persuasion."

"Itchy and scratchy."

"Name of the game. And I got a nose." Winborne tapped a finger to one nostril. "I see a PI bird-dogging a lead, I figure maybe there's a story. So I start sniffing down the same hole."

An old man shuffled up the path, grunted hello as he passed. We both nodded. Winborne watched the man's retreat, looking as relaxed as a vegan in a stockyard.

"Cruikshank tells me he's looking for some church lady or clinic worker or something went missing last fall, thinks she may have known Aikman. So I tell him about Lonnie, but I'm suspicious, see. Lonnie vanished in 2004. How could this chick have known him? So I follow him, and sure enough, Cruikshank doesn't go places a nun would be hanging."

"Meaning?"

"One night, he parks in a tavern on King's. Real sleaze joint. Second night he's cruising the titty bars, schmoozing the working girls, if you take my meaning."

That made no sense. Cruikshank was hired to find Helene Flynn. Was he doing that? Or sliding into a binge?

"How do you know Cruikshank was on the job?" I asked.

Winborne shrugged.

"Did you confront him?"

Winborne's eyes slid to his shoes, came back to a spot somewhere over my shoulder. "Third night out he spotted my tail."

I could picture that scene, Winborne with his Nikon, Cruikshank threatening to make liver mush of him.

"I played it cool, told him I thought he was feeding me a line, said I'd keep on him until he came clean."

"Cruikshank told you to scram or he'd beat the crap out of you," I interpreted.

"OK. I backed off. So what? You ever meet the dude?"

I'd seen Cruikshank's photo, and had to confess. Though not big, the guy looked wiry and mean. He'd have frightened me, too.

"When was this?"

"March nineteenth."

"What did you tell Cruikshank about Lonnie Aikman?" I asked.

"What his mother told me. Guy was weird, thought government agents had implanted some kind of device in his brain. Used to e-mail everyone from the dog catcher right up to George W. Thirty-four years old, unemployed, lived with his mom. Nice lady, by the way."

"In your article you described Aikman as schizophrenic. Did he take medication?"

"On and off, you know how that goes."

"Do you know where he was treated?"

"Subject never came up."

"You didn't ask?"

"Didn't seem important." Winborne crossed hairy arms over an ample chest. "Susie Ruth worked her whole life for some tailoring service. Maybe she had insurance that she was able to keep him on because of his disability."

"Was she employed at the time Lonnie went missing?"

"She'd been retired for years." Digging into a back pocket, Win-borne unfolded a copy of his 2004 article and handed it to me. "Mama Aikman's little boy."