Author: Sean Keefer
Publisher: Rivers Turn Press
Pages: 319
Genre: Mystery/Suspense/Legal Thriller
It should have been an otherwise uneventful Sunday morning for Charleston attorney Noah Parks. Perhaps a trip to the beach or a run with his new Australian Shepherd, Austin. But with a cryptic voicemail, everything changes.
A client has vanished, leaving nothing behind as a clue to where he may be. Neither his family, friends, nor neighbors are able to provide help.
Turning to his friend Emmett Gabriel, Charleston’s newest police detective, Parks can only watch as what started with a simple voicemail takes on a sinister life of its own.
Parks soon finds himself entangled in an affair that spans centuries, going back to the time of Charleston’s birth.
With a focus on learning his client’s fate, Parks will soon find himself facing a mystery that will not only be a test of his wits but leaves him challenged in ways he never imagined.
Facing down twists, turns, betrayals, and traditions of honor, will he break The Code?
Release Date: October 7, 2022
Publisher: Rivers Turn Press
Soft Cover: 978-0998575575; 319 pages
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3IETRpM
Rivers Turn Press: https://bit.ly/3V9725u
Chapter 1
Warm. Wet. Gone. Warm. Wet. Gone.
This sensation. I knew it. No. Wait. Did I?
Warm. Wet. Gone. Warm. Wet. Gone.
This was no good. This wasn’t sleeping. I needed to go back to sleep.
But…
Again.
Warm. Wet. Gone. Warm. Wet. Gone.
I didn’t want to wake up. It was too early on a Sunday. A late Saturday night. Friends. Did I meet anyone? No. Drinks? Yes, drinks. Not too many drinks. Maybe too many drinks.
What was this? Who was this?
Warm. Wet. Gone. Warm. Wet. Gone.
Wait.
Oh, that’s right.
Austin.
I was in bed with Austin.
Austin was demanding attention.
Immediate attention.
As the light of the pending dawn filled the room, I opened my eyes. The entirety of my vision was filled with a brown dog nose only inches from mine. Then a warm and wet dog lick.
Austin, my Australian Shepherd.
My new alarm clock.
He was a rescue, abandoned by his owners, barely old enough to be away from his mother. During the nine months, he’d been with me, he’d acclimated to his new home. And he’d grown. He’d gone from a scrawny 15 pounds to a healthy and very energetic 45. He was smart, easily trained, with a unique personality and a striking red-tri coat. He was friendly but fiercely protective of me. So much so that unless I was with him and introduced him to a new person, his interest would only be sounding the alarm that something was awry. But once he knew a person, he was their best friend.
However, another interesting habit had developed.
He didn’t like to be the only one in the house awake in the morning. When you coupled that with his being an early riser, there arose the conflict. Every morning for the last week, we’d ended up in bed near nose to nose just before sunrise. The licking would begin until he’d succeeded in waking me. He didn’t have to go outside. He wasn’t starving. He just wanted to have someone else up.
“Good morning, boy. Don’t suppose I could interest you in a bit more shut eye?”
He tilted his head slightly and gave a quiet ‘woof.’ He swatted at me gingerly with a paw.
Sitting and stretching, it was apparent the day was starting for both of us. He moved beside me and nudged my hand with his head. His way of demanding his ears be scratched, his version of early morning coffee. Looking to the nightstand, my phone flashed, indicating a new voicemail.
Picking it up, I walked out of the bedroom through the den and adjoining kitchen to the backdoor, Austin on my heels. He rushed out into the cool, crisp March morning air, slipping slightly on the morning dew that blanketed the bluestone tile of the back porch. The sun was just coming up, not a cloud in the sky. It was going to be a beautiful Charleston day. He quickly raced the length of the wooden back fence, searching for squirrels. He was going to need a larger yard soon.
“Noah, Bill, Bill Sewell here. I’m Cash Sewell’s cousin. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning, but I’m, well, we’re, we’re looking for him. For Cash. Haven’t heard from him in a couple of days, but, well, anyway, I know you’re his lawyer, and we were wondering if you might know where he is. Anything really. Give me a call if you will. Thank you.“
“That’s not good,” I said to Austin, who had returned to my side.
Why had Cash Sewell’s cousin called me so early on a Sunday? Hopefully, nothing was wrong with Cash. Cash had a tidy trust fund and wasn’t reserved about using it. Or talking about it. He was popular on the Charleston nightlife scene and had a reputation as the life of any party. Usually, parties he paid for. His biggest fault, though some would say his strongest appeal, was his liberal approach to spending his money. I’d always had a concern that he’d run into someone who wanted more from Cash than he was willing to give.
I’d first met him back in 1997, soon after I started practicing law when he hired me on a disorderly conduct charge. He’d had a few too many and decided to dance an Irish jig at a restaurant bar. His dance included kicking several glasses about the bar. Fortunately, no patrons ended up in the path of his booted projectiles. Unfortunately, the staff was less than accepting of his Irish spirit. My work was negotiating a resolution that had Cash apologize, pay for the cost of repairs, and donate to a local animal shelter. This got the charges dropped.
Cash was happy with the resolution, so he asked me to help with a couple of other matters. In the six years since he’d become a regular client, he was one of the best clients. He needed routine legal work regularly, sent new clients my way, and usually listened to my counsel. Best of all, he always paid his bills on time. Ask any attorney; those are hard qualities to find in the same client.
While we hadn’t become fast friends, we were beyond the routine attorney/client moniker. Whether meeting for drinks, dinner, parties at his home, or even randomly running into him in Charleston, we usually saw each other several times a month.
Bill Sewell, well, he was a different story, meaning I didn’t know his story. From Cash, I’d learned Bill’s family raised him after Cash’s parents died in a car crash. So, Bill’s name wasn’t unfamiliar; but beyond that, my knowledge was limited. While I knew the name, I could only remember ever speaking to him, maybe twice in person.
Hence the reason I was perplexed as to why Bill decided to call me on a Sunday morning.
~~~
“This is Bill.”
“Bill, Noah Parks.”
“Noah, thank you, thank you for calling back. Hopefully, Cash is with you?”
There was a sense of urgency in his voice but also a tone of relief.
“No, haven’t seen him in a few weeks.”
“Oh, heavens.”
If Bill was calling me looking for Cash, he was far down the phone tree, and he had to know this. Still, Cash was a friend, and if a friend’s family was looking for him, I was going to help – even if my help was little more than letting them know I didn’t know where he was.
“No, I haven’t seen him, but Bill, if you want, I’m happy to call around for him. He’s probably holed up with one of his new friends de jour.”
“Anything you could do, Noah, but to be honest, we’re at our wits end over here.”
“Have you been by his house today?”
“Um, no, I hadn’t thought about that.”
He was calling me but hadn’t thought to check his cousin’s house. That was only a bit odd.
“Happy to swing by for you if you like. Who knows, maybe he’s asleep with his phone off.”
“Could I meet you there?”
“Happy to have you do that,” I said though this was stranger still. Not sure why we both needed to be there.
“That would be wonderful. Can we say 45 minutes?”
“Certainly, we’ll see you there.”
I had no idea why Bill would want me there with him but what harm could come from it. Austin had come back inside.
“Suit up, buddy, we’ve got some work to do.”
~~~
Austin and I lived in the West Ashley section of Charleston in a single-story white brick house built following the second world war when the city had a post-war boom. Still in the city, but not the downtown Charleston most non-locals picture when they think of the Holy City, as Charleston is known. The Ashley River separates West Ashley from the downtown, but it’s a quick drive to Chase’s house near the Battery, a stretch on the Charleston Harbor lined with historic, grand, elegant homes.
Downtown Charleston is a peninsula that, at its widest, is no more than a mile. The city was founded in the late 17th century when settlers ultimately decided the arm, the harbor beyond, and conjoining rivers – the Ashley and Wando – provided ample safeguards from the roving Spanish pirates that meandered from time to time up from Florida looking to plunder and cause general mayhem. Then, the city started to grow.
But there’s a funny thing about peninsulas: there’s only so much land to go around. It didn’t take long for the peninsula’s growth to jump the Ashley River to the south towards Savannah. After I came to Charleston to start my career, I was fortunate enough to find a comfortable home on the edge of what was considered by many to be Charleston’s first suburb over the Ashley. As a result, I was central and close to my downtown office and the rest of West Ashley, and all to the south beyond.
Cash’s home, a late 19th century Charleston mansion situated on a double lot, was among the grandest and most stunning properties on Murray Boulevard, paralleling the Charleston Harbor. Many of the Murray Boulevard mansions were built so the side of the home faced the street. When they were first built, pre-air conditioning, this orientation allowed the breezes from the harbor to find their way through open windows, run the length of the home through the hallways and rooms, and better cool the house. However, Cash’s home, taking full advantage of the two lots, faced the harbor head-on in all its grandeur. Cash always said the original builder, a shipping magnate, wanted ships coming into the harbor to see his home and know his stature in the industry.
The front porch, running the entire length of the home, was granite and marble, greyed and worn smooth by the elements and the foot traffic of more than two centuries. Unlike many of the homes on Murray, Cash’s was recessed from the street, which afforded him a small but rare front yard. His porch would have offered front row seats for the first shots of the Civil War as the initial salvo had been fired from not more than 200 yards away in White Point Gardens.
The home, three stories tall, was fronted by four Corinthian columns that supported the porch roof, thus creating a balcony for the third floor. The home had off-street parking (another rarity for the city) and a formal garden in the back. There was no doubt his home took full advantage of the two lots. Even by Charleston standards, Cash’s home was grandiose. The structure nearly covered the width of both lots (leaving only a narrow path beyond the short drive on the left of the house as a passage to the backyard.) The width and height were such that one passing from the front had little by way of perspective of the depth of the lot or the actual size of the home.
A man of perhaps 40 years stood atop the steps of Cash’s home, pacing between two columns. He wore faded denim jeans, loafers without socks, and a College of Charleston sweatshirt. A South Carolina flag on one of the four columns swayed in the cool morning breeze. The man was attacking a cigarette, and a glance to the porch showed it wasn’t his first.
The absence of Cash’s car let me park beside what I assumed was Bill’s Lexus in the drive. Austin, on his leash, and I joined him on the porch. As I approached, he looked up and down Murray Boulevard repeatedly, his head near a swivel on his shoulders.
“Bill, Noah Parks. How are you?” I asked as he took my outstretched hand.
“Noah, thanks for coming. Did you hear from him? We haven’t heard a thing. Has he talked to you recently? Did he have you working on anything?”
“Happy to help, but you know I can’t talk about any work I may be doing for Cash. And no, nothing from Cash.”
He stared at me in silence for a moment.
“You weren’t working on anything for him?”
“Can’t say whether I was or wasn’t.”
“Oh,” he said as he lit another cigarette.
“Did you knock?”
“What? No, I was waiting on you. He friendly?” he said, pointing to Austin as he exhaled a plume of smoke.
“Once he knows you. Pet his head, and you’ll have a friend for life.”
Bill reached down to give Austin a scratch behind the years. Austin sniffed at his hand, then pushed at it demanding more attention.
“Don’t be pushy. On me,” I said.
Austin returned to my side and sat, his leash slack in my hand.
“Good boy,” I said. “Let’s see if he’s home.”
To the side of the black, double oversized front door, which was in keeping with the ostentatious nature of the home, was a small doorbell. I pressed it once. Then a second time.
We waited. Nothing.
A third attempt yielded the same results. Though listening carefully, I could not hear if the bell was ringing inside. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Cash had disconnected the doorbell to make guests work a bit harder to get his attention.
Each of the two large front doors was adorned with a large brass door knocker. If the bell were broken, this would be heard throughout the house. Bill jumped as the door knocker fell from my grasp and made the first contact with the brass-sounding plate. The sound echoed off the doors and around the porch.
No answer.
“He’s either not home or not answering. No idea where he is? Bill?”
He had turned away from the front door and had walked halfway down the front steps. He looked up and down the street. He said something, but the words rode the breeze and carried away from me.
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry, I’m just wondering where he is.”
“You say it’s been days since you’ve talked to him. How often do you and he speak?”
“Once or twice a week. Maybe more,” he said.
“You know, he’s got a habit of picking up and leaving town. Happens quite frequently.”
I moved to the top of the steps and glanced up and down Murray Boulevard. It was entirely in keeping with a Sunday morning. No traffic, a few joggers and walkers.
“Oh, so you think he left town?”
“Bill, I’ve really got no idea. Let me ask something, why call me? Is there not some family that may know where he is?”
Bill didn’t answer; rather he just stared up and down Murray Boulevard.
“I wish I had a key.”
“A key?”
“Yes, so we could go in and see if everything’s okay.”
Something wasn’t adding up. Sure, he was family. Sure, Cash may have been off the radar for a few days, but Bill was a little too wound up over the absence of someone who made a habit of regularly following a band or a woman or just the wind and going off-grid.
And why call me? I kept coming back to that.
“Bill, are we expecting someone else?”
He turned to look at me.
“What? No, what makes you say that?” he asked as he lit yet another cigarette.
I glanced up and down Murray Boulevard again and decided not to ask about his interest in the street.
“Let’s walk around back, Cash used to have a spare key in the back. Let’s see if it’s there, and we can stick our heads in and see if he’s okay. How’s that?”
“Spare key, you say? Yes, that would be wonderful.”
Austin and I took the lead as we headed right off the front steps. We followed the drive through a large breezeway that extended from the left of the home to allow for entry via a side door. Beyond the breezeway, the drive transitioned to a wide path that led down the length of the house. The house, beyond the breezeway, angled and widened in such a fashion as to essentially funnel the pathway from the width of the breezeway no more than four feet. At the rear corner of the house, a brick wall began that surrounded the backyard. At the path’s end, a wrought iron gate to the right afforded entry to the backyard.
~~~
We opened the wrought iron gate to Cash’s expansive backyard.
The lots on Murray Boulevard were large, some as much as an acre. And on the Charleston peninsula, that was a rarity. Their sizes were not accidental. When they were built, the owners wanted no confusion about the owner’s success and the opulent nature of their homes. When most Murray Boulevard homes had been built, it was common knowledge of the size of the lots, but what was not obvious, except to those afforded an invitation to a particular home, was what lay inside the house or what was concealed in the large backyards.
And the opulence of Cash’s home, apparent from the street, only continued in the backyard. The brick fence, 6 feet tall on the sides and 8 feet tall in the back, circled the entire lot. It kept out prying eyes.
Immediately beyond the rear of the house was an open, manicured grass area with a large stone patio to the right of the broad granite steps that lead up to the home’s rear door. There was an outdoor kitchen there as well. The stone patio adjoined the house and had the only other entrance to the backyard, which led to Cash’s private study.
The manicured yard extended from the home to the middle of the yard, where a series of tiered and manicured boxwoods began that created a funnel to a formal garden. The entry to the garden was just beyond a three-tiered fountain.
The garden was a mixture of palmettos, palms, boxwoods, azaleas, and roses, as well as various other flowers. There were also several classic sculptures. There were several benches throughout the garden. At the rear of the garden was a gazebo flanked by two grand oaks. The entire backyard was near an acre. Though I had asked, he had never really explained why he had such an elaborate backyard; perhaps it had simply come with the home.
Cash had once kept a spare key in the fountain. He’d had me come over several times in the past to pick up or drop off papers. If he wasn’t home, he liked me to leave the documents inside. I’d get the key, let myself in the back door then return it upon my departure.
“He used to keep a key over here.”
The fountain was about 7 feet tall. It had three tiers, each smaller than the one below it. A pineapple, the symbol of Southern hospitality, rather fitting for the magnanimous Cash, topped the fountain. One could reach the top tier by standing on the fountain’s base. At least someone of my height was able to. Cash had a “hide a key” box built into a rock at the water line. Feeling about, the stone was just where I remembered it. Taking it down, I opened the hidden compartment. No key.
“The key’s gone.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you missed it.”
“This is the only place I knew him to keep one.”
“Where else would he hide a key? What do you think?” Bill said. While he’d been nervous when he arrived, he was even more so now.
“Not sure what I think, but it’s been more than a year since I used it. Seems he’s moved it.”
A yelp came from the direction of the house. Austin.
“Austin, what’s wrong buddy?”
Austin appeared from behind a boxwood favoring his right front paw.
“Come here boy, let’s see what you’ve done to yourself.”
Austin hobbled over and sat, holding out his paw for me to examine. I lightly grasped it in my hand and started to explore his foot.
“Crap. Something cut my finger.”
There was a dot of blood on my index finger.
“You okay?” Bill said.
“Yeah, pricked my finger.”
I had Austin lay on his side, giving me a better look at the paw; there was a sliver of glass in one of his pads. Thankfully it came out easily and seemed to be intact. Otherwise, he seemed fine. He licked at the paw a time or two and ran off.
“Your dog okay?”
“He’s fine. Had a sliver of glass in his paw. Lord only knows how that happened.”
Austin passed us, heading in the direction of the house.
“Hold on, buddy, let me see what’s up there.”
Hooking his leash, we moved as a trio toward the rear of the house, and as my eyes focused on the rear steps, I saw they were covered with glass that spilled over into the yard. Several of the back door windowpanes have been broken. I’d completely missed that when we came into the backyard. The door was slightly ajar, and I looked at Bill.
“Damn,” he said.
“Bill, what aren’t you telling me?”
About the Author
He is also the author of Mediation in the Family Courts of South Carolina, a legal treatise on family law mediation.
He lives and writes in Charleston, South Carolina.
In addition to his writing, Sean is a recording and performing guitarist/singer/songwriter of Americana and Alt-Country music. Watch him sing Carolina Sunset which was inspired by his latest book, The Code. Listen here!
For more information about his writing and music, visit SeanKeefer.com and ADogNamedBear.com.
Follow him on Facebook @theNoahParksMysterySeries and @SeanKeeferMusic. Follow him on Instagram @NoahParksMysteries and @1ADogNamedBear1
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