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AND NOT A PENNY MORE — A Bay Tanner Mystery
Second in the series
Author: Kathryn R. Wall
Reissue Edition
5.5"x8.5" Trade Paperback
$14.95US; 296pp

ISBN 1-933523-15-8

Chapter 1

"Damn it, Bay, you're not concentrating! Get your arm up and aim at the center of the target. You're not trying to shoot the guy in the kneecap!"
     "Why not? I thought the idea was to stop him. Taking a bullet in the leg would definitely slow someone down."
     My brother-in-law, Sergeant Redmond Tanner of the Beaufort County Sheriff's Department, ran a hand through his straight brown hair and scowled at me in frustration.
     The truth was, I didn't want to be there, and I wasn't doing a very good job of disguising the fact. Learning to shoot a handgun and thereby obtaining a concealed weapon carry permit was not the top item on my list of things to do that day. I had been badgered into it by Red and by my father, retired Judge Talbot Simpson. An avid sportsman, the Judge would have been the logical one to introduce me to the joys of armed combat. But a series of strokes had left him wheelchair-bound, his legs and left arm virtually useless. His iron will, however, had survived intact.
     So there I stood, on a perfect mid-September morning with the sun just beginning to radiate the heat that would send the temperature well into the eighties by afternoon, sighting down the barrel of a Glock 9-millimeter pistol at an imaginary assailant.
     "Look, you know why we're here." Red's patience, along with my own, had started to fray a little around the edges. "You agreed this was necessary, so quit wisecracking and pay attention. I'm trying to help you stay alive here, okay? And you're not going to do that by aiming at the guy's legs."
     I raised my hands in surrender, pulled the ear protectors back onto my head, and picked up the weapon. I had been surprised at how heavy it was when Red first slapped the clip into the handle and passed the dull gray handgun over to me.
     "Okay, now take your stance," he mouthed.
     I planted my feet slightly apart, gripped the Glock, and folded my left hand around my right, the way he'd shown me. I resisted the urge to close one eye, a mistake I'd made the first time I'd stepped up to the firing line.
     "Now don't 'pull' the trigger. Squeeze it. Gently. That's it . . . squeeze . . ."
     The sharp report, muffled by the ear protectors, startled me nonetheless. My hand jerked upward, and the bullet whizzed by the target, barely nicking the upper right-hand corner.
     "Now you're overcompensating, aiming too high."
     I slipped the orange plastic earmuffs down around my neck, popped the clip and the chambered round, and handed Red the gun, butt first as I'd been instructed. I turned and stalked back into the shade. The chilled bottle of iced tea I'd brought along had reached the temperature of bath water, but I gulped it down anyway. Beside me, Red silently unscrewed the top of his Thermos and drank.
     I stared out over the target range, amazed at the number of people who were learning—or perfecting—how to blow away their fellow citizens. Not that I have a problem with the bad guys getting theirs, especially not after everything I'd been through in the past year.
     "If you could duplicate that scowl on your face, you wouldn't need a gun. People would just die of fright."
     Like his older brother, Red had an uncanny knack for making me laugh when I really didn't want to. Shorter than Rob, but still a couple of inches over my five-foot ten, Red had my dead husband's slightly crooked smile and boyish good looks.
     "Go to hell," I responded cheerfully, then sobered. "Here's the problem, Red. Every time I pick that thing up, I remember what it was like being on the other end. Hearing the bullets smash into the wall over my head, knowing that in a split-second my brains could be splattered all over the woodwork. I'm not sure I could do that to another human being, so what's the point of all this?"
     "The point is you never know what you're capable of until the situation presents itself."
     We both turned toward the deep, booming voice.
     "Hey, Matt," I said as the compact, heavily muscled homicide cop stepped up to us, "how's it going?"
     Detective Matt Gibson and I had gone to grade school together thirty years ago and had recently become reacquainted under circumstances I was trying hard to put behind me. "Fine, just fine, thanks," he replied. "More importantly, how are you? You're lookin' good, all things considered. I like your hair."
     "Thanks." My hand went automatically to where my red-tinted, dark brown hair lay softly around my ears. I still felt naked without the mass of curls hanging on my shoulders, but it couldn't be helped. They'd had to cut it off in the Emergency Room.
     "Didn't mean to butt in on your lesson, Sergeant." Matt mopped his nearly bald, black head with a bright red bandanna. "Couldn't help overhearin', though. Miss Lydia givin' you trouble?"
     "Nothing I can't handle." Red grinned at Matt's use of my hated first name.
     Lydia Baynard Simpson. I was seven when I shortened it to "Bay." The Tanner came later, a couple of years after I'd set up practice in Charleston with two other CPAs. My life had been idyllic for the next fourteen years—until the day just over a year ago when I'd stood on the tarmac of a tiny country airstrip and watched Rob's plane disintegrate before my eyes. As always, when thoughts of that horror managed to force their way past my mental defenses, my hand went to my left shoulder. Struck by a burning piece of metal after the explosion, I would carry the scars for the rest of my life.
     "Have fun, boys," I said, hefting my oversized tote bag onto my good shoulder. "I'm heading for the showers."
     The army-green, epauletted shirt and khaki shorts I had donned that morning, along with heavy boots and socks, were sweat-soaked and plastered to my skin. At the time, the outfit had seemed appropriate for learning survival skills. But now I felt a little ridiculous, like some sort of Safari Jane out of an old Tarzan movie. All I lacked was a pith helmet.
     "What about your next lesson?" Red called as I waved at Matt and clomped down the wooden walkway that led to the parking lot.
     "I'll call you," I yelled back, not sure if I could be heard above the crack of gunfire and not really caring all that much if I couldn't. I had a lot of thinking to do about whether or not I wanted to pursue becoming armed and dangerous-possibly to myself as well as to others.
     I'd left the top down on my sea green BMW convertible. When I'd unexpectedly found myself in need of a new car, I'd fallen in love with the little Z3 two-seater and now couldn't imagine being without her. Parked under the spreading limbs of one of the largest—and probably oldest—live oaks I'd ever seen, the cream leather seats felt only marginally like a griddle as I slid behind the wheel.
     I eased down the rutted dirt track that serviced the target range and turned right onto Route 17. Had I gone left, another fifteen minutes would have found me approaching the Savannah River bridge and the lovely antebellum city that the greatly reviled General William Tecumseh Sherman had so graciously spared as a Christmas gift for President Lincoln. Instead I was headed for another jewel on the southeast Atlantic coast, Hilton Head Island.
     Free of the hordes of tourists that clogged the highways from May to early September, the drive down nearly deserted, two-lane roads overhung with oaks, sweet gums, and the ever-present Spanish moss brought a welcome relief from the stifling heat and noise of the shooting range. I had only recently come to a fuller appreciation of the simpler joys: of salt-scented wind blowing through my cropped hair, of the gentle warmth of the South Carolina sun on my face. Of just being alive.
     For months after Rob's death and my recuperation from my injuries, I had hidden out at the beach house, wallowing in my grief and pain. Being dragged from my safe cocoon against my will had been terrifying, but strangely liberating as well.
     Get a life, they used to say.
     Well, I was trying to get mine back.

An hour later, showered and dressed in a white, sleeveless float and strapped sandals, I opened the door of the Carolina Café to a rush of blessedly cold air. Tucked into a corner of the luxurious Westin Hotel, its understated elegance and extensive seafood menu made it a local favorite. Beneath softly whirring ceiling fans, I spotted a thin arm waving in my direction. I made my way through the maze of seafoam green covered tables to where my best friend of thirty-three years sat fidgeting in her high-backed chair.
     "Bay, honey, where have you been? It's almost five past one. I thought you were never gonna get here!"
     Elizabeth Quintard Elliott—Bitsy because of her five-foot, three-inch frame—is a blonde, blue-eyed bundle of nervous energy who eats everything in sight and still remains a perfect size six. As I bent to touch her tanned cheek with my own, I noticed she had already made a considerable dent in the basket of sweet potato biscuits on the table.
     "Am I that late?" I asked, seating myself and draping the soft napkin across my lap. "I thought we were meeting at one."
     "Well, we were, but you're always early, you know you are. I was countin' on havin' a few minutes to talk to you first."
     A waiter appeared, and I ordered iced tea as he handed me an oversized menu. Bitsy rooted in her bag while I lit a cigarette and studied the choices.
     "I thought you were givin' those up," she drawled without looking up from her digging.
     "I am. Eventually. This is only my third one today," I snapped. "How about you?"
     "Cold turkey, two weeks ago." She tried to keep the superiority out of her voice and failed. "I figured what with all the trouble with the kids, I should set a good example."
     Two of Bitsy's four children—the teenagers—had become entangled with drugs, one directly, the other only peripherally, but it had scared the hell out of all of us. The family was working through their problems now with the help of my old college roommate, child psychologist Dr. Nedra Halloran.
     I adjusted my attitude. "Good for you. Just give me time. I'll get there."
     "I know you will, honey, but cuttin' down is not the way."
     I was still staring straight at the top of Bitsy's head bent over her handbag. "What in God's name are you looking for in there?"
     "Here it is," she announced triumphantly and thrust a crumpled newspaper clipping at me. "Hurry up and read that. I'll order. Crab salad okay?"
     "Sure," I replied, smoothing the clipping out on the table and staring quizzically at my friend. "But what . . . ?"
     "Just read it, okay? It'll save time."
     I concentrated on stubbing out my cigarette, avoiding the sharp black letters on the crinkled paper. The last time I had been directed to a seemingly innocuous article in the Island Packet it had unleashed a chain of events that nearly cost me my life. With a sigh of resignation, I picked it up.

WIDOW OF LOCAL BUSINESSMAN FOUND DEAD IN HOTEL ROOM

Rio de Janeiro, Sept. 5. Leslie Mayne Herrington, 68, wife of the late John T. "Jack" Herrington II, founder of the Bi-Rite hardware stores and local Civic leader and philanthropist, was found dead last night in her suite at the exclusive Rio Palace Hotel in this South American city. While local authorities have yet to rule officially, preliminary indications are that death was from natural causes.
     Mrs. Herrington, who had resided in her native Natchez, Mississippi, since the death of her husband six years ago, was apparently traveling alone when she was stricken. There was no evidence of foul play, according to unnamed sources in the Rio de Janeiro police department, and the presence of a large amount of cash and jewelry among Mrs. Herrington's effects tends to support this theory.
     Mrs. Herrington is survived by two sons, John T., III, of Los Angeles, and Justin of Dallas, and one daughter, Jordan Mayne von Brandt of Atlanta and Geneva, Switzerland.
     Mrs. Herrington was preceded in death by her husband and by her parents, Franklin and Elizabeth Boothe Mayne.
     A brief memorial service will be held tomorrow at 10:00 AM at St. Helena's Episcopal Church in Beaufort, with interment in Riverdale Cemetery immediately following. The graveside service will be private. Memorial contributions may be made to the Beaufort County Historical Society.

I finished reading the lengthy obituary just as the waiter approached with our salads.
     "And some more of these yummy rolls," Bitsy announced, handing the empty basket to him with a generous smile. "Thanks so much. Well?"
     "Well what?" I asked.
     "Don't you remember them? The Herringtons?"
     "No. Should I?"
     "Oh, Bay, of course you do! Jack T. built all those hardware stores? You can't drive five miles without runnin' across one of them. And Leslie and your mama were in the Historical Society together. And surely you can't have forgotten Jordan?"
     Bitsy attacked her plate then as if someone would take it away from her. Wiping a drop of creamy dill mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth, she swallowed and plunged back in.
     "Jordan Herrington. Tall, black hair, gorgeous? Sort of exotic looking? She got boobs before any of the rest of us. You two got kicked out of school for smoking our freshman year. There was heavy bettin' as to who would raise a bigger stink with the school board, her daddy or your mama."
     Jordan. I had her now. Exotic was an accurate description. A sharp widow's peak and slightly almond-shaped eyes, as if there might have been a drop or two of oriental blood somewhere generations back. Which was ridiculous, of course. Both sides of her family, all the Maynes, the Boothes, and the Herringtons, were of pure, well-documented Anglo-Saxon stock. My mother would not have tolerated them otherwise.
     "Yes, I remember her now. Didn't she leave school early?"
     "Middle of the year," Bitsy said, nodding. "Seems to me there was some scandal, hushed up, at least in front of our tender ears. Her daddy shipped her off to boarding school in Europe, and she never came back."
     "So what's this all about? Why the urgency? I mean, I'm sorry about her mother, but these things happen. I'll send a check to the Historical Society."
     "Sshhh! There she is!"
     Bitsy rose from her chair and waved toward the doorway. I turned, as did most of the male occupants of the restaurant, and a murmur of appreciation rippled across the room.
     Jordan Mayne Herrington von Brandt paused dramatically just inside the entrance. Her short, jet black hair lay plastered against her beautifully shaped head, a style that accentuated her widow's peak and dark green, uptilted eyes. The black silk suit was obviously hand-tailored, probably in an exclusive little shop on the Rue de Faubourg
     St-Honoré, and clung to her tall, willowy frame like a second skin. Full, copper-colored lips parted over even white teeth as she spotted Bitsy. Her progress to our table was slow, unhurried, like a model slinking down the runway at a Paris couturier's.
     "What is this all about, Bits?" I whispered, mesmerized like everyone else by the gorgeous creature approaching.
     "She wants to talk to you, honey. That's why she's here."
     "Me? What on earth for?"
     "She thinks somebody murdered her mama."

"A deft blend of Lowcountry intrigue, romance, and manners, propelled by a high-speed plot and a strong-willed and sexy heroine."
—Les Standiford

"Compelling mystery captures the Lowcountry…not only a good Hilton Head novel, but a good novel, period."
—Island Packet (Hilton Head Island)

"…rife with intriguing characters, rippling with surprise revelations, laced with wit and humor, anchored by a strong, fascinating heroine…"
—Lowcountry Weekly (Beaufort, SC)

About the Author:

Kathryn R. Wall wrote her first story at the age of six, then decided to take a few decades off. She grew up in a small town in northeastern Ohio and attended college in both Ohio and Pennsylvania. For twenty-five years she practiced her profession as an accountant in both public and private practice. In 1994 she and her husband Norman retired to Hilton Head Island.
     Wall is Treasurer of the Southeast Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and is National Publicity Chair of Sisters in Crime. She is also a founding member of the Island Writers' Network.
     She is the author of six Bay Tanner mysteries: In For a Penny, And Not a Penny More, Perdition House, Judas Island, Resurrection Road, and Bishop's Reach. All the novels have achieved both commercial and critical success, and all take place in and around Hilton Head Island and the surrounding South Carolina Lowcountry.

visit Kathryn online at: www.kathrynwall.com

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