Washout

by Bill Noel

  “Table waiting, see ya,” said Dude. He picked up the magazine and headed to his waiting table.

  Amber arrived with my breakfast burrito when Dude interrupted. “Forgot, almost. Tony something—thinks he’s big cool surfer. Ain’t. Worked for Larry a while back, no love lost. Adios.”

  “See you and your new best friend had another marathon conversation,” said Amber, followed by a muted laugh.

  “Yep, we be cool,” I said, “What’s with astronomy?”

  “He’s never said. My guess is he’s trying to learn about his home planet.” She paused and spread her arms toward the ceiling. “He’s got to be from somewhere far, far away. No chance he’s from earth.”

  Amber’s sense of humor and innate intelligence are two of her more appealing—and surprising to some—charms.

  “Know anything about this ‘Tony something’ Dude mentioned?” I asked.

  “Not much.” She watched three customers enter and get escorted to a table outside her area. “He’s been in here a few times—poor tipper, a little gruff for my liking, and has a high sleaze rating. He worked at the hardware for about a year, but hasn’t been there for six months or so.”

  Now with two conversations behind me and breakfast in front of me, it was time to eat and catch up on the news from the Post and Courier, Charleston’s daily paper. I didn’t pay much attention to what was going on in the world since I’d retired, but I didn’t want to miss a major declaration of war or an asteroid coming in the next few days that would destroy all life.

  I also had a more personal interest in the paper because my “main squeeze,” as Charles put it, was one of the reporters. Tammy and I had met under unpleasant circumstances. She was covering the murder of a prominent Charleston developer. Of all the people on the planet, and taking Dude into consideration, from who knows where, I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and discovered the body. Tammy had wrangled a couple of benign quotes from me about finding the developer and did a follow-up human interest story about the accidental tourist stumbling on a body. She also gave me a walking tour of her beautiful city of Charleston.

  We were both single, but she was a dozen years younger than I, and we shared few interests. Regardless, we began sharing each other. She was one of the main reasons I’d deserted my plans to remain in Louisville and spend time between there and a beach home on Folly. We’d talked regularly the few months it took me to retire, saw each other three times during that transition, and started dating on an irregular basis once I’d moved. Now we lived only ten miles from each other, but her work continued to be a stumbling block in our relationship. However, I still see her whenever she’s available and looked for her byline each day.

  Today, I wish I hadn’t. The headline jumped out at me like a rattlesnake:

  “Man Found Brutally Murdered in Charleston County” by Tammy Rogers.

  It caught my eye, not because a murder in Charleston County was that rare, as tragically, it wasn’t. It was hidden in the metro section, bottom of the page, not more than two inches of coverage. If it hadn’t been written by Tammy, I wouldn’t have read it. The article was less about the heinous crime and more of a request for assistance from anyone who could identify the deceased who didn’t have any identification on him. According to the story, the victim, a white male in his early twenties, had been found in an alley behind a homeless shelter on the outskirts of North Charleston. He’d received numerous wounds from a sharp object. He wore tattered shorts and a dirty T-shirt with the Nike swoosh on the front.

  But it was the last line that struck me harder than if it had been the front page headline: “The victim wore a ball cap with a Pewter Hardware logo.”

  Chapter9

  I barely remembered leaving the Dog and walking to the gallery. I unlocked the door, left the lights off in the front room, and went to the office. The last thing I needed was customers—something I’d never thought I’d think.

  I called Tammy, hoping to get more information. I caught her on her way to interview the director of the homeless shelter who she said had been unavailable to the press yesterday.

  “They think the victim was stabbed near the shelter and dragged on a heavy plastic tarp to the alley behind the dumpsters. He wasn’t found right away,” she told me. “They’re not saying much, but they believe it happened yesterday morning. There were numerous stab wounds. The weapon was something extremely sharp, more than a regular knife—something like a box cutter. Some of the residents at the shelter remembered seeing him around but didn’t know his name or anything about him.”

  “What about the cap?” I asked.

  “Figured that’s why you called,” she said.

  Tammy had gotten to know Larry through me and knew he owned Pewter Hardware. I had never told her about his shady ancient history. To my knowledge, the chief, Charles, and I were the only Folly Beach residents who knew more than that Larry owned the hardware store.

  “Funny thing,” she said, “while some of the regulars had seen the victim around, none of them remembered ever seeing him in a cap. In fact, two swore he never had a cap on.”

  “Anything else?” I asked. I had the feeling she was rushing the conversation.

  “Detective Lawson caught the case, so it’s in good hands.”

  I was familiar with and admired Karen Lawson, a Charleston County Sheriff’s Department detective. She had been lead detective on two murders I was way too familiar with. And, by the strangest of coincidences and surprise to many Folly residents, she was Brian Newman’s daughter.

  “At the shelter—got to go,” said Tammy. “Talk later.”

  “While I’ve got you, can you come to the fireworks on Saturday?” I asked. I was afraid I already knew the answer.

  “Sorry, don’t think so.”

  The lack of an explanation said it all.

  ***

  Some day I’ll learn never to say that things can’t get worse. No sooner had I gotten off the phone from the painfully brief conversation than it rang. “Oh, Chris, I’m glad I caught you. I tried your house and got no answer. This is William.”

  The deep voice on the other end of the line needed no identification. Doctor William Hansel, a distinguished professor in the Hospitality and Tourism department at the College of Charleston, is another of the unique (a term I use when being generous) friends I’ve accumulated on Folly Beach.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, knowing he wouldn’t have been calling this early unless there was a problem.

  “I regret to have to tell you that our dear friend, Amelia, passed away at three fifteen this morning.”

  I know it’s incorrect to say “more unique,” but if it weren’t, the phrase would apply to William. He’s African American, Republican, and prefers living in the much less diverse environment of Folly Beach than in Charleston where he works. He hated the bureaucracy of the college but loved his students—someone who made “prim and proper” sound slovenly when he speaks.

  William had met Amelia a year ago when he’d decided she’d killed a buddy of his—not the best way to make friends. Fortunately, he was wrong, and they’d gotten to know each other. In fact, William and one of Amelia’s children had been her constant companion the last few months, catering to her increasing needs as cancer ravaged her body. There’s no doubt that Amelia was better off today than any time during her last year, and I had no doubt about her final destination.

  “William, I’m sorry. Are you home or in Charleston?” I knew Ameila had been taken to the hospital in Charleston earlier in the week when her breathing became more difficult.

  “I’m back,” he said. “I already called the funeral home. Amelia and I worked out her arrangements a month ago. Everything is taken care of.”

  Knowing them, that was no surprise.

  “Anything I can do?”

 
“No, I just felt you would want to know. She specifically requested that I call you and asked that you contact Charles.”

  William’s voice sounded strong, but I knew how he internalized his emotions and how much he was suffering. He’s in his midfifties, and Amelia was a decade older, but that hadn’t kept them from becoming the closest of friends. William was slow to make friends, and I knew how much he’d miss her.

  We talked about funeral arrangements, and I assured him I would do whatever he needed.

  Few people on Folly Beach knew Amelia Hogan—it was their loss. My heart was breaking for William, but the tears running down my face were for me. Now the loss was ours.

  ***

  Charles, who regularly scolded me for not showing up for work on time (whatever that meant) hadn’t yet arrived, but I wanted to talk to Larry. Instead of opening the gallery, I put a sign in the window that read “Open When I’m Here, Closed When I’m Not” and headed for the hardware.

  I didn’t see Larry, so I asked Brandon where he was. He said he’d been in earlier and gotten a call from the Sheriff’s Department. “He told me he’d be more comfortable talking to them at home, so he left an hour ago.”

  I’d hoped to get to him first, but knowing Detective Lawson, that was unlikely. As I’d come this far, I hiked the additional half block to Larry’s house.

  He still had company. Parked in front of house was a dark blue Crown Victoria, Detective Lawson’s mode of transportation. Caught between having to walk back to the gallery or barging in where I knew I wouldn’t be wanted, I chose the least energy-intensive route and sat on his front step. My choice was rewarded when Larry’s storm door opened, almost hitting me in the back. “Well, lookie who’s here,” said a gentleman.

  It was Detective Braden, Brad Braden if my memory served me correctly. He was dressed in a wrinkled white shirt with a tie that appeared older than the Holiday Inn, dress slacks, and black dress shoes in desperate need of polish.

  “What brings you here?” he asked as he hinted for me to move over so he could sit.

  Detective Braden had been Detective Lawson’s partner when we’d met at the scene of the developer’s murder two years ago. He’d been assigned the task of following me home and taking my clothes as evidence—not quite the Chamber of Commerce’s idea of a positive welcome for a vacationer.

  “To be honest,” I said, deciding this was the best policy when talking to a detective, “I read in the paper about a body and a Pewter Hardware hat. I wanted to ask Larry about it. I saw your car and was waiting for you to leave.”

  “Hmm,” said the sixty-something, graying detective. He sounded skeptical. “Don’t guess you know anything about it? Never mind—you wouldn’t tell me if you did. Detective Lawson will be out in a minute; Mr. LaMond’s all yours then.”

  My reputation was spreading.

  “Hi, Chris, just visiting?” Detective Lawson asked as she opened the door and saw me with her partner. Karen Lawson was prettier than Braden and friendlier. She’s also about thirty years younger and today was much better dressed in her pressed dark pantsuit. Acting every bit the professional, she shook my hand. Hers was smooth and supple, but her grip was hard. She knew how much I admired her dad and how I’d even helped him out of a couple of difficult situations.

  I told her the same thing I’d shared with Braden. She said she was glad I was there as she figured Larry needed a friend about now. Then she added that she was glad to see me. At that, Braden shrugged and huffed off to the car. They made a U-turn and headed off the island.

  Sweat was rolling down my neck. I tried my best to blame it on the oppressive heat, but I knew fear was a contributing factor—a jumbo-sized contributing factor.

  Chapter10

  Larry was sitting in the rocking chair and staring at the floor. He glanced up when I entered but didn’t stand. I went into the kitchen and got two Diet Pepsis, then came back and handed him one. He mumbled thanks. I sat in the Morris chair in the other corner and waited.

  Larry slowly tilted his head toward the kitchen door. “Chris, the blood on the wall was his. It wasn’t from a cow, and it’s not a sick prank—it was from the body they found. Some freakin’ sick bastard killed a man to spread a message on my wall.”

  Larry set the drink on the floor and put his head between his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, a pose I was growing accustomed to seeing. He paused as the grandfather clock chimed mournfully.

  “Larry, I’m sorry. I was afraid that was what happened when I saw the story in the paper this morning.”

  “What’s going on? I haven’t seen it. Did it say anything about one of my caps being on the body?”

  “Yeah, it mentioned a Pewter Hardware cap, but nothing more,” I said.

  “They … they kept asking me about the cap. I told them I don’t know about the cap. They wanted to know where I had been the last forty-eight hours. I don’t know! How does anyone remember things like that? I can’t. I don’t know if they believed me or not.”

  “I’m sure they did, Larry.” I wasn’t sure I felt as confident as I sounded. “They know you couldn’t have anything to do with the murder. What’s the deal with the cap? I’ve seen yours—were there others?”

  “Chris, I didn’t kill him, but I’m the reason he’s dead, aren’t I?”

  I wasn’t sure he’d heard the question.

  “No, Larry, whoever killed him is responsible—not you, not anyone else. You’ve got to believe that.”

  Larry continued to look at the floor. Finally, he picked up the drink and took a sip. A good sign, I thought.

  “Yes, there are more caps,” he said, finally answering my question. “I had this brilliant idea five years ago that since Pewter was the only hardware on the beach, everyone would want to have one. You know, a unique souvenir of their vacation.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah, right.” He looked up from the floor and came close to smiling—but just close. “I bought two hundred of them. Gave one to each of my employees over the years—that used up ten or so. I have one in the truck, one at the office, and one here. I gave a dozen as door prizes in a drawing the city had last year at the park. That leaves about 175. I bet if you call Brandon at the store, he could count 150 piled on top of each other back by the grass seed bins—150 really dusty caps. Brilliant idea!”

  “In other words, anyone could have stolen one,” I said.

  “Had to—he sure as hell didn’t buy it.”

  ***

  “Well, it’s about time you showed up,” Charles said as I returned to the gallery. I’d spent another hour with Larry, and he was calmer when I left.

  “Let’s lock up and go to the Dog for an early lunch,” I said as I reached to turn off the lights.

  “No wonder you’re going broke. Do you expect people to break in, pick a picture, and leave the cash by the register?” Charles was standing with his left hand on his hip, cane in his right hand as he pointed at the cash register. He wore a Trinity Christian College long-sleeved T-shirt with the image of a god awful-looking troll on the front. I refused to ask about it. He tried to act disgusted. I laughed, and we went to the Dog.

  “What can I get ya, hon?” asked Amber as Charles and I took the last available table.

  I laughed when she got to hon. So did Amber. Charles stared at the two of us.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked. He glanced at me, but focused his stare at Amber, the Southern belle.

  “Why nothing, Charles,” she said.

  “Yeah, right,” he replied and pretended to look at the menu. He and I put our matching Tilleys on the vacant chair.

  Acknowledging I wasn’t going to say more about what we found humorous, he asked why I wanted to have lunch. I filled him in on my busy morning. He knew Amelia and was visibly touched by her passing. He hadn’t read
the paper, so he knew nothing about the murder and the Pewter Hardware cap.

  To look at Charles, the untrained observer would think he was seeing someone just one step above a street person, a former addict of some sort—definitely someone you wouldn’t want dating your daughter. If I’ve learned one thing during my two short years at Folly, it was that nothing was as it appeared, as appearances were more than deceptive, and kindness was found where you never would expect it. Charles was a textbook example. He cared deeply for others, particularly the underdog; he would sacrifice his life—and had almost—to help a friend. But about dating a daughter, I still had reservations.

  “Chris, you know that Larry knows something about what’s going on. He may not know he knows it, but he does. He has to. Blood, dead, revenge, ready to be even, now murder. Chris—Larry knows.”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  Before Charles could remind me that he was right more often than not, Officers Spencer and Ash stopped by the table.

  “Mr. Landrum, Charles,” said Spencer. “Officer Ash wanted to ask you something, Charles. She’s new on the force, so wasn’t sure how to put it nicely—you being a fine, upstanding citizen and all.”

  I could see Cindy Ash wishing to make herself invisible behind her “superior” officer.

  “She wanted to know what that ugly, animal-like thing was doing on your shirt.”

  Embarrassing the new recruit must be part of the indoctrination program for new officers, and Charles was up to the task.

  “Well, Officer Spencer,” said Charles in his most serious tone. “Please tell Officer Ash that the handsome green creature with the shiny white teeth portrayed on my shirt is a troll, the mascot of Trinity Christian College, a fine Christian institution in Palos Heights, Illinois.”

  “Thank you for the enlightenment, Charles,” said Spencer, gagging on a giggle.

  “Please tell Officer Ash that if she has further questions about my sartorial ambiance, she shouldn’t hesitate to ask.”