Free Lowcountry Boneyard by Susan M. Boyer

hovered over the keypad. Words that would make things right between us wouldn’t come.
    By the time I’d forwarded Ansley’s email, the sign on the gallery door had been flipped to “open.” It was eight o’clock. I climbed out of the car and walked across the street. Soothing tones announced my arrival as I walked through the door—very Zen. I took in the man sauntering gracefully towards me. He reminded me a bit of Nate: six foot two, give or take, blond curling hair, very blue eyes, tanned and toned, early to mid-thirties. But this looker had softer features, an angelic vibe. His jeans were worn and the tail of his yellow button-down shirt hung loose. A puka shell necklace peeked out at the open collar.
    “You must be Liz Talbot.” His voice called to mind the door chimes—soothing.
    I smiled. “And you must be Evan Ingle.”
    He nodded with a slight bow.
    Oh, thank heaven, there would be no hand shaking. I returned his nod with gratitude.
    “Would you like some tea?” he asked. “I have a pot of Roastaroma brewing. It has a bit of gluten, I’m afraid.”
    With considerable effort, I kept my left eyebrow in place. I was unaccustomed to hearing men discuss gluten, not that there was anything wrong with it. “Thank you so much, but I just finished my second cup of coffee.”
    He gestured to a conversation area in the back left corner of the showroom. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab a cup and be right with you.”
    I chose one of a pair of gold chenille wingbacks. Two paisley Duncan Phyfe sofas and another pair of wingbacks completed the seating area. An oversized leather ottoman sat in the middle of the group. Mismatched end tables and mosaic tea stands provided a place to set drinks. A bit traditional, a bit whimsical, it was a homey space.
    Evan reappeared. He stepped lightly across the gallery, placed his teacup on a table, and settled at the end of the Duncan Phyfe across from me. He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Have you been through the gallery before?”
    “I have. I’m a fan.” This was a bit of a stretch, but I did admire the colors in the pieces on display.
    His smile was genuinely appreciative, a bit humble. “You flatter me. I enjoy my work. However, my technique has a way to go. You wanted to speak with me about Kent. Is there any news?”
    It crossed my mind that the price tags on his paintings didn’t reflect his opinion that his technique needed work. “I’m afraid not.” I handed him my card. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’ve been retained by the family to attempt to locate her. I wondered if you might tell me about the evening she disappeared.”
    He glanced at my card, then laid it on the table by his tea. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
    I pulled out my iPhone. “May I record our conversation? It helps me remember everything.”
    He sipped his tea, set the cup in the saucer. “Certainly.”
    I tapped record, and pulled out my pad and pen. “Let’s start with how you met Kent.”
    “She came into the gallery a while back—in the spring. Said she’d seen one of my paintings in a friend’s house. She browsed. We struck up a conversation. She mentioned she was a painter as well. I invited her to bring me a sample of her work. I had in mind to offer her pointers—give back, as it were.” His eyes widened and he shook his head.
    “That didn’t work out?”
    “Oh, she brought in several paintings. They were magnificent. Frankly, I didn’t anticipate she would have that sort of natural talent. I was amazed. There was little I could do but encourage her to focus on her gift.”
    “I’ve seen some of her work. It’s quite impressive.” Her father’s dismissal of her “hobby” irked me to no end.
    “Such a waste. Her gift is too rare to be discarded for a career in advertising.”
    “Agreed. So, you became friends?”
    “Yes, well, I suppose we were moving in that direction. I invited her to a party