by Bill Noel
Praise for Bill Noel and his Folly Beach Mystery Series
Five Stars (out of Five) “Noel writes with a fast-paced, easily read style, with plenty of humorous asides to characterize Chris’ bemused, sarcastic point of view. As Chris and his friends make connections and form plans based on intuition, intelligence, and the occasional stupid risk-taking, the plot runs believably for the unofficial gumshoes: The characters are neither smart enough to solve everything right away, nor stupid enough to walk right into the murderer’s schemes. With his smarts nicely calibrated at the average reader’s level, Chris provides a good-humored, engaging entry into the world of Folly Beach.
A well-written mystery novel and portrait of a small town, The Pier should appeal to readers who like a scenic whodunit with plenty of character development and local color.” ForeWord CLARION Reviews
“Bill Noel, himself a seasoned photographer, has followed his debut offering, Folly, with The Pier, another engaging Folly Beach Mystery. Armed with a gift for creating ultra-quirky yet believable characters, Noel shows how a healthy dose of cynicism—even among untrained, nonprofessional types—can lead to solving a murder mystery that the police had initially decided wasn’t even a homicide.” Kentucky Monthly
“For those who enjoy reading local fiction, or just want a beach read with a bit of a twist, Folly should be right up you alley.” Grand Strand Magazine
“… better than most …at devising a well-crafted tale. Noel knows how much information to give his readers, how to make his characters realistic and interesting, and how to carry the plot along to a satisfying conclusion. And although there is a murder at the center of The Pier, he has a light enough touch to add bits of humor to the dialogue and narrative.” The Voice-Tribune
“Bill Noel…fills the bill in Folly, an intriguing murder mystery set on Folly Beach. Try Folly if you’re a fan of the area or familiar with the strange characters and customs of small-town life.” The Sun News
Washout
A Folly Beach Mystery
Bill Noel
iUniverse, Inc.
New York Bloomington
Chapter1
Beads of sweat rolled into my eyes, jerking me awake. The predawn heat of June had overcome what previously had been air-conditioned comfort in my cozy cottage on Folly Beach, South Carolina.
The air conditioner was already a decade past its natural life expectancy when I’d purchased the well-aged cottage, but I hadn’t had the foresight to put it out of its misery. I thought it only fair to let it live: a decision I might now regret. From my sleep-fogged memory, I knew today’s high was expected to push triple digits. I needed that air conditioner. How would I explain the heat to my ever-hungry friends who might stop by—or the Queen of England if she happened to be in the neighborhood?
I flipped the lamp switch. The light came on, and I breathed out the hot air in relief: I had electricity. I shuffled to the kitchen over to the gunmetal gray fuse box on the wall beside the refrigerator. I knew absolutely nothing about the air conditioner, so staring at it would have been a waste, but the fuse box was another story—I’d figured out that gizmo long ago.
I opened the door, peered inside, and instantly saw the little broken wire inside one of the fuses. The optimist in me said great—all I needed was a fuse to solve my most pressing problem.
My optimism would prove to be misplaced.
***
Since moving from Kentucky to South Carolina two years ago, I’d been fortunate enough to accumulate a handful of good friends. One of them, Larry LaMond, owned Pewter Hardware, the only hardware store on our small barrier island. I wanted to be there when it opened at seven as Saturday in peak season was always a busy day.
Most everything was close on Folly Beach, and Larry’s store was only four blocks from my home. The walk would do me good. I was in my late fifties, no longer as spry as my younger self, but I figured the weight of a fuse wouldn’t create too much excess baggage.
The heat slapped my face before I’d walked a block to Center Street, the north-south dividing line and figurative center of commerce for the six-mile-long, mile-wide island. By the time I reached the crushed stone and shell surface of Larry’s parking lot, I regretted my decision to walk. I leaned against the Pepsi machine to catch my breath. My former desk job as a health-care executive was telling on me, but I resisted—make that hated—exercise.
“Chris, what brings you out so early?” The question startled me out of my sweat-induced stupor. I whirled to see Larry jogging toward me.
“I wanted to beat the rush,” I said as Larry stopped beside me to take a key out of the faux-leather bank moneybag in his hand.
He looked up at me. “Why? What’s up?” I’m an unremarkable five foot nine, but a casual observer might wonder if Larry was a jockey. He was no more than five foot three, and while he says he’s getting fat, he weighs only a hundred pounds, more or less. His equinophobia had severely restricted jockeying as his career choice.
“My AC died,” I said as I nodded to his store. “I pray you have a fuse that’ll work.”
“Hmm, my prayer would be to sell you a new air conditioner,” he said as he unlocked the door. “It’ll take more than a fuse a day to keep my creditors at bay.”
Before I could comment on his poetry, he pulled the door open, switched on the overhead fluorescent lights, gasped, and cried very unpoetically, “Oh, damn! Damn! Damn!”
I caught Larry as he tripped on the threshold and stumbled backward into me. His face, illuminated by the harsh light over the door, was as white as the crumbled shells on the parking lot. I had no idea what had caused his outburst, but I was certain it wasn’t his opening routine.
He regained his balance, but his gaze never moved from the door. I nudged him aside so I could get a better view.
His reaction had been understated. He had gone from a life is grand to a life sucks moment without pausing for a comma.
Less than a foot inside the door was what even the most untrained observer would recognize as a puddle of blood. Or in fast-food restaurant lingo: a jumbo, supersized puddle of blood.
Chapter2
Larry composed himself—outwardly, anyway—and moved beside me. The mass was beginning to turn a dark brown on the well-worn concrete floor as it dried around the edges. It was oval and about the size of a large welcome mat, though nothing about it said welcome. The rancid smell reminded me of sour milk and hit me nearly as hard as the sight of the puddle. A handful of flies circled the nauseating sight. The only consolation was that I didn’t see a lifeless body sprawled in the pool.
“Chris,” Larry said straight-faced, “I think you’ll have to wait for your fuse.”
I’d already speed dialed a number on my cell phone—one few people ever have need to call, much less have programmed in. I identified myself to the dispatcher at the Folly Beach Public Safety Department and gave a Reader’s Digest version of what I knew. The dispatcher said someone would be over shortly, which was nearly as big an understatement as Larry’s.
I heard screaming sirens coming from two directions. The combination city hall, fire department, and police station sat three blocks from where we stood. One of the emergency vehicles was coming from there; another cruiser must have been off-island as it was approaching us from the marsh side.
The first white Crown Victoria slid on the loose-surfaced lot and stopped five feet from Larry’s left leg. Early morning excitement for Folly’s finest. The familiar face of Officer Allen Spencer exited the driver’s side; someone I hadn’t seen before came bounding from the passenger side.
“Good morning, Mr. LaMond, Mr. Landrum,” said Spencer. “What’s th
e problem?”
Larry pointed to the building without speaking. Spencer, who was much younger than my ancient air conditioner, gave Larry a confused look and walked to the open door. He unsnapped his holster and rested his hand on the grip of his firearm as he walked.
The other person, who introduced herself as Officer Cindy Ash, seemed more interested in shaking our hands than following Spencer. She was in her midforties: full-figured, with an attractive round face, curly brown hair, and quick smile. She looked Larry in the eyes, so I guessed her height at five foot three.
“Officer Ash, please join me,” Spencer told her, sounding slightly impatient. He was one of the first people I’d met when I arrived on Folly Beach. Then he’d been the rookie cop on the force; now he was happily asserting his seniority over Officer Ash.
She was walking toward Spencer when the second official vehicle, an unmarked Crown Vic, pulled into the lot at a much more casual pace than its predecessor. “Morning, Larry, Chris,” Chief Brian Newman greeted us as he gazed at his two officers looking in the front door, then back to us. “What trouble have you brought to our peaceful island this time?”
I’d become acquainted with nearly every member of the Folly Beach Public Safety Department when a series of unfortunate murders over the last few years made themselves the center of my universe. Since then, Chief Newman had accused me of being responsible for everything bad on his island, including robberies, traffic accidents, and dog bites. Still, we’d become friends.
Larry shared what little he knew, and the tall, trim, and confident chief left to check on his officers. Ash was still looking in the front door, but Spencer had gone around the back.
This vacationers’ paradise, located fewer than ten miles from historic Charleston, was beginning to yawn and stretch its wings. A couple of surfboard-carrying teens on bicycles stopped across the street to check on the action. They smiled at us as we stood beside the two police vehicles, the flashing lights reflecting off the store. Three early morning dog walkers stopped briefly to take in the excitement before continuing their daily constitutional. One of the year-round residents pulled into the lot in his pre-1963 Volkswagen Beetle. Larry told him he’d have to come back later. He said he would. My guess is that instead he’d drive to one of the big box hardware superstores off-island.
When they didn’t get to see a shoot-out or some other disaster, the two on bicycles got bored and peddled on their way. Officer Spencer made his way from the back of the store and told the chief and Ash that the rear door had been pried open. We couldn’t go in the front door without stepping in the blood, so we walked around to the rear. “Pried open” was putting it mildly. The heavy wooden door looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.
“See how much good it does to put in a high-end lock?” Larry remarked to no one in particular. His hands shook as he pulled the splintered wood away from the lock set.
“Yeah, but your lock held,” I said in a feeble attempt at humor.
Chief Newman led the way into the store and asked Larry, “What time did you leave last night?”
“Around nine thirty or ten, I guess.” His glance darted from one corner of the small store to the next. “It was a busy day, and I had to stay late to restock.”
“Nothing looks out of place,” the chief commented.
“So, it wasn’t a robbery?” Larry asked.
The chief shook his head. “Not a robbery, and there’s no body, so it’s not a murder.”
“Then, what?”
The chief shrugged. “Beats me. Far as I can tell, it’s just a pool of blood. Larry, it probably isn’t even human.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” Larry said sarcastically.
“Have a look yourself,” said the chief. “We could take prints, but it wouldn’t do any good. Everyone in town’s been in there.”
I followed Larry uninvited, but no one objected. The chief was right: everything appeared normal. No damage, no effort to break into the cash register, and no body lying in the lightbulb aisle. I thought a slammed-in rear door and Labrador retriever-sized puddle of blood would qualify as unusual, but guessed he meant other than the obvious. Larry gave Officer Spencer a small plastic container to collect a sample of the blood while Ash and the chief continued to check each aisle, nook, and cranny.
“Larry, as it looks as though the blood was poured, you can go ahead and clean up,” the chief told him. “Any idea who would have done this?”
Larry said no. Too quickly, I thought. Larry was high-strung and always a little jumpy, but he was more so now.
“To be honest,” the chief continued, “it looks like just a prank—a sick prank. There’s no note, nothing damaged or missing, and no reason that you know of, true?”
Larry hesitated, turned his gaze to the floor. “I guess.”
The chief eyed Larry carefully. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I … I’m sure.”
The chief paused. “Okay, I’ll have someone take the sample to the lab in Charleston. I’ll let you know what I hear.”
Larry went to the rear of the store to get a mop, disinfectant, and bucket of water to begin cleaning up the mess. I followed the chief to his car.
“Chris, do you know anything about this?” he asked almost in a whisper as he surveyed the parking lot.
Newman had retired from the military after thirty years as an MP and Special Services. He’d been chief for a dozen years. He was not new to police work, but rather someone who’d seen it all during his career. If being totally unflappable were possible, Brian Newman would be the poster boy.
“Nope,” I said. “I got here when Larry did.”
“I’ve known Larry a long time.” The chief opened his car door. “He’s always a little jittery, but this is bothering him more than usual.” He slid behind the wheel of his Crown Vic and squinted up at me, then said flatly. “Larry knows something he’s not telling. Keep an eye on him, will you? I wouldn’t want anything to happen.”
So I wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Interesting.
Chapter3
The “hardware store bloodbath” was the topic of the morning at the Lost Dog Café. Ten years old and in its second location, the Dog had gained a reputation for great food, unique atmosphere, world-class gossip, and characters—man and canine—of all shapes and sizes. It’s also the workplace of Amber Lewis, my favorite waitress on the island.
My cooking skills were limited to … well, to nothing. The Dog was my kitchen by default. Most mornings, Amber had my steaming coffee on the table and my order in the kitchen before I found my way to my favorite spot overlooking the patio along the front wall.
“Chris, what happened yesterday?” Amber asked before I even sat down.
Before answering, I removed my summer Tilley hat, tossed it on a nearby chair, patted down my thinning blond (truthfully, nearly gray) hair, and took a deep breath, savoring the seductive aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and frying bacon. Then I sat down. “Great news. The fuse worked—my air is back on,” I said. Surely that was more important than a puddle of blood.
“First, who cares about your fuse? Second, you know what I mean,” she said as she gingerly placed the mug in front of me.
“And I thought my welfare came first,” I said in mock anguish. “But if you don’t care …”
“You know I do, but today the blood’s a bigger story.”
“Then any word on where the blood was from?” I asked.
“Mayor Amato said it’s from his ex-wife who’s already bled him dry. Old Wynn Stamper said he’d heard it was from a beached whale over on Sullivan’s Island. And, oh let’s see, a guy staying at the Holiday Inn said he hoped it was from his mother-in-law. I wish everyone’d stop making jokes—someone could be dead. Chris, it came from somewhere.”
I took it that Amber had no idea. If she wa
sn’t so attractive, cheerful, and upbeat, I would have stopped listening after “Mayor Amato.” However, I admired her concern for the donor, something I’d thought about all night.
My favorite meal at the Dog, a Belgium waffle, arrived along with another endearing smile from Amber. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my best friend, Charles Fowler, waving to me as he entered the café. “Hey, Mister Photo Man,” Charles said as he zeroed in on my table, his ever-present cane tapping the painted concrete floor. “I hear you found a swimming pool full of blood at Larry’s bolts-and-nut house.”
“Morning,” I said, looking up from my first bite of the crisp, hot waffle. “Forget the blood—the new fuse saved my life. My air-conditioning is working again.”
“Yeah, yeah, now tell me about the blood. Who died?”
Charles and I had met when I’d visited Folly Beach a couple of years ago. I’d been on a restful, month-long vacation trying to escape the grind and find a new direction. Instead, I’d stumbled upon a murder, became a threat to the murderer, and had to find the killer to save my own life. In the process, I’d acquired a few strange (make that extraordinarily strange) friends, none the least of which was Charles “don’t you dare call him Charlie” Fowler. We were opposites in most ways. I’d worked all my adult life, while Charles worked hard not to work, and had succeeded. I’d led—at least until meeting Charles, that is—a staid, predictable, some-may-call-it-boring life.
Charles wasn’t familiar with the word boring. What we shared was a love of photography. Shortly after meeting Charles, I knew he was either a mad, raving killer out to eliminate me from the earth or someone I could count on as a friend to the death. Fortunately for me and my life insurance company, it was the latter.
I started to give Charles the literally bloody details and tell him I didn’t know anything about the donor when I glanced out the window and saw Larry walking our way. The hardware was closed Sundays, so I was surprised to see him. He stopped, reached over the patio railing carved to look like a series of dog bones, and patted the slobbering, smiling faces of Jose and Ramon, two border collies enjoying the attention while their owner, Carlos something or other, ate his granola and enjoyed the outdoor seating. Many days, the ratio of canines to Homo sapiens was one-to-one on the outdoor decks.
