Washout

by Bill Noel

  Sartorial ambiance? I knew there was a reason I hadn’t asked about the stupid shirt earlier.

  However, for a moment, Charles’s sartorial soliloquy had taken my mind off Larry and his frightening situation.

  Chapter11

  The jangle of my cell phone jarred me out of a deep sleep. Charles. He wanted to meet me at the Dog before opening the gallery. At least, I thought that’s what he mumbled. I glanced at the time and groaned. Why was he calling at four fifteen to make breakfast plans? It was easier to say yes than to ask. I’d learn soon enough, and at a time I’d be awake.

  “Okay, Charles, I’m here,” I said as I joined him at our usual table. “Now, what was important enough to disturb my beauty sleep?”

  Amber brought coffee. “Thank goodness you’re here, Chris.” She pointed at Charles. “He’s been pestering me for the last fifteen minutes wondering where you were. No idea wasn’t the right answer.”

  “I almost called at two, but thought you might be asleep.” Charles was clearly not listening to what he was saying. “I couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking of Larry’s problem.”

  “Thanks for waiting until later to call. Mighty kind of you to let me sleep in.” My sarcasm seemed lost on him. “What about Larry’s problem?”

  “Why can’t you and I get to the bottom of it? Huh? Tell me why.”

  “Let me help,” I said. “How about that it’s a murder investigation? Or, how about that we have no idea what’s going on, and don’t have anywhere to start? Oh yeah, how about this one—it’s a matter for the police. Remember: crimes committed, murder, Detective Lawson, Chief Newman, sworn law enforcement officials, professionals, getting paid to solve crimes.” I pushed aside some sort of fruit and veggie-looking meal Amber had sneaked in front of me and asked her to bring me a stack of pancakes with extra syrup. “How about those ideas for starters?”

  “Yep,” said Charles. His mouth was full of breakfast burrito. “See what I mean? There’s not a single good reason for the C & C detective agency not to hop in. Hop in and find the killer.”

  I’d used up my best reasons for us to stay out of it, so I decided to try to distract him by changing the subject. However, Charles and I shared an apathy for sports, so I knew anything like, “How about those Vols, or Braves, or a million other college or pro nicknames?” would fall on deaf ears. I decided on a topic I knew he had trouble with—the opposite sex.

  “Charles, it seemed like Officer Ash had her eyes on you.” I took a bite of pancake, then nodded my head. “Yes, sir, that’s how it looked to me.”

  “You think so?” he asked, showing more interest than I’d expected. “She’s cute, but I believe she was only interested in the troll on my shirt.”

  “Yeah, that troll is definitely a chick magnet.” I looked across the room to Amber. “Let’s ask Amber. She’s a great judge of trolls.”

  “Speaking of Amber,” Charles said, catching my gaze, “how come you don’t ask her out? You know she thinks you’re smart and funny and a good-looking guy—something only women can see.”

  An unexpected detour in my diversion strategy. “Charles, you know Tammy and I have been dating.”

  “Shoot, you hardly ever see the woman—you said that yourself. What’s that tell you?” Charles turned his head back toward Amber who was standing by the front door. “Look at her, Chris. Don’t miss what you might trip over.”

  Charles had dated Amber before I moved to Folly, but she’d decided they would be better friends than lovers, and fortunately, my best friend had agreed. I had mixed feelings. I enjoyed Tammy, and we had great times together, but Charles was right: there were fewer and fewer of them. Amber had flirted heavily with me when we met, and when she’d learned about Tammy, she was hurt. Despite that, we’d managed to maintain our friendship.

  Another issue was Jason, Amber’s son. I was seriously stuck in my ways and had been for years; truth be known, for decades. I’d been divorced from my high school sweetheart and childless most of my adult life. Could I adjust to an eleven-year-old in my life, the life where sixty years on earth was looking me in the face? And, Amber and I were nearly two decades apart in age.

  “Charles to Chris, Charles to Chris. Come in, Chris.”

  Charles’s cane hitting the back of my chair brought me back to reality. “Didn’t mean to zonk out,” I said.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

  “Sure, but repeat it to make sure you remember.”

  Charles rolled his eyes. “Now that we decided you were going to ask Amber out, we need to figure out what we’re going to do about Larry.”

  We continued to go back and forth on why we had no business getting involved in police business (my position) and why we had absolutely no choice but to get involved (his logic at work). Somewhere between my calling Charles an idiot and him calling me a wimpy coward leaning on the local police to save the day, Dude ambled over. “Guys, what’re you arguing about?” he said, shocking both of out of our fitful state with a full sentence—short, but full. “Take it outside. Get dueling pistols—liven it up around here.”

  “Just talking,” said Charles. Apparently he didn’t want Dude to cast the deciding vote in our debate. “How come you’re here instead of selling surf stuff?”

  Dude continued to surprise us by grabbing one of the chairs from a nearby table and moving it beside Charles. “Too many fakies. Too many grommets. Got me a long leash, good help, had to get out of store,” he said. Perhaps Amber had been right about Dude’s planet of origin.

  “I think he means wannabe surfers and young surfers,” Charles translated as he turned to me and shrugged. He looked back at Dude. “Sounds like you’re busy. Send some over to the gallery. Chris here needs all the help he can get.”

  “Thanks, Charles,” I said. “You instill nothing but confidence.”

  Our nonsensical conversation was interrupted when two of the Dog’s regulars, members of the city council and self-proclaimed experts on everything, stopped at the table to share morning greetings. They asked Dude if he was lost since he wasn’t at his regular table. “Nope, me be networking,” he replied. The two legislators looked at Charles and me like, what have you done to our Dude? We both grinned, and Charles began singing Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’.”

  Although Charles’s singing skills exceed Dylan’s, his wit was far better than both, so I was pleased when he stopped, as were the two beagles on the patio looking in the window who appeared to be clearing their throats to break into harmony with him. Moments like these have me conflicted: do I duck under the table and hope no one had seen me, or praise the Lord for bringing me to one of the greatest places on earth?

  Dude helped me decide. He looked at the two lawmakers and deadpanned, “Don’t think twice, it’s all right.” I was impressed, first, because he didn’t try to sing the song, and second, because the line made sense. I loved this place.

  After more bantering, the two legislators headed to their regular table. Dude decided he’d had enough networking and took his dog-eared copy of Astronomy magazine to his normal perch to read, meditate, and eat in solitude. Or possibly phone home.

  Charles watched Dude walk away, then glanced at the two members of the council getting settled in their regular spot. “‘The truth is,’ he said, ‘that all men having power ought to be mistrusted,’ James Madison.” He then turned back to his now-cold burrito.

  Bringing together some of the greatest minds on Folly Beach (and stirring in the additional wisdom of Bob Dylan, James Madison, and two unidentified canines) should have brought clarification to the to get involved or not get involved question. But if they did, I missed it.

  Chapter12

  A surprise early morning rain brought a welcome break in the drought. It was appropriate as Amelia was to be buried today, the day before our nation’s birthday, the celeb
ration of what’s good in our country, but now the day one of Folly’s bright spots would be put to rest. I’m no minister, but if I had to choose an appropriate passage from the Good Book, it would begin with, “To everything, there is a season …”

  On the short drive to Charles’s tiny apartment on Sandbar Lane, I reflected on the two funerals I’d attended during my brief time on Folly Beach. Neither of the honored guests was a person I’d known, but rather friends or family members of my new acquaintances. I’d gladly given most of my dress clothes to a thrift store before making the move and realized I was on my last funeral tie. Hopefully, it would be the last one I’d need, as I prayed that Larry’s situation didn’t interfere. I should also tell Charles that when my time comes, I don’t want to be buried in a tie.

  Charles’s apartment faces catty-corner to the marsh; if it weren’t for some newer condos and a large live oak, he would be able to see the boats on the Folly River. His aging 1988 Saab convertible sat in front of the first floor apartment. It had the look of a classic automobile but the roadworthiness of a Civil War monument. I’d become his chauffeur of choice and necessity.

  “Morning, Mr. Photo Man—perfect day for a funeral,” he said as he looked toward the rainy sky, his Tilley covering most of his thinning hair. He opened the passenger door of my aging Lexus sedan and settled into the leather-covered seat. “Where’s William?” he asked, buckling up.

  “He said he’d rather drive,” I replied. “And I quote, ‘I need to stay in touch with my emotions and remember Amelia through unfiltered thoughts.’ He thanked me for offering him a ride, but it was like he was choking back tears.”

  “That sounds so William.” Charles turned the air-conditioning to maximum. He was wearing the same heavy wool plaid sport coat he wore to the last funeral we’d attended. Snow had swirled around the casket that day. “Amelia gave him something to live for. He’ll miss her. We need to be there for him.”

  And that sounded so Charles.

  We drove north on Folly Road past the Piggly Wiggly, the closest chain grocery to Folly Beach.

  “Seeing the Pig reminds me,” said Charles, “I haven’t seen Bob lately. What’s up with him?”

  Bob Howard had been my Realtor on both my house and gallery. Bob’s in his midsixties, six feet tall carrying the weight of a seven footer, who appears to forget to shave on a regular basis. He’s also cranky, gruff, and sarcastic. “I get the association, Charles,” I said and giggled, “but I suggest you don’t let Bob know seeing the Pig reminded you of him.”

  Bob had become my favorite curmudgeon. Under his gruff, rough exterior, he has a heart of gold, or at least silver. Most professional Realtors would question some of his quirks but envy his success.

  “Don’t worry,” said Charles, “I didn’t mean just the Pig—most any pig would remind me of him. Besides, he wouldn’t pay attention anyway. But hey, if he’s your friend, he’s mine. Besides, when I’m near him, I look thinner, better dressed, and even wiser—no simple task.”

  “If you say so. I haven’t heard from him in a couple of weeks. I need to give him a call—maybe we can have lunch with him.”

  “No, I’ll man the gallery; you two can break bread.”

  We bypassed the historic districts in downtown Charleston and headed to North Charleston. Amelia was to be buried in a family plot her late husband had purchased years ago. The cemetery was in one of the poorer areas of Charleston County. We drove past large industrial buildings and old warehouses, keeping silent most of the precipitation-filled trip. I was familiar with the cemetery as I’d already attended one funeral there.

  Garner Cemetery was at the end of a gravel and dirt drive behind a small, traditional-looking Baptist church. The white paint peeled on the church eaves. Old tombstones, many leaning at varying angles from erosion and age, and ugly concrete benches dotted the less-than-pristine grounds. Amelia’s husband would turn over in his grave if he could see the deteriorating condition of the gravesite he’d so lovingly bought for his family.

  ***

  William’s Buick was parked with two wheels on the gravel drive a short distance from the funeral home tent. I was pleased and surprised to see Tammy’s yellow and black Mini Cooper behind the Buick. An older model hearse was parked closest to the tent, and the coffin was already on the cloth-covered stanchions under the canopy. The unmarked Crown Vic requisitioned to Brian Newman was next in line. Three or four other vehicles were in front of the hearse.

  The rain forced the handful of mourners under the covered area. We parked and hurried the short distance. Tammy was talking to Brian about how she’d met Amelia after her friend, Julius Parker, was murdered. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I kept moving. Amelia’s son, Steven, and his significant other, Lance, were already seated on the white folding chairs directly in front of the casket. Their heads were bowed. A rotund minister, whom I’d met at one of the other funerals, was pointing to the chairs and trying to get everyone seated so he could begin. Room was not a problem. The only other person present was Sean Aker, at attorney with one of Folly’s two law offices. One of Charles’s skydiving buddies, he’d helped me with the legal paperwork to get the gallery opened.

  I didn’t know much about the minister’s preaching abilities or how well he ministered to his flock, but I did admire one thing about him: he kept funerals brief, at least the two I’d attended. Both had been conducted graveside rather than at the funeral home or church. This was not typical in the South, but I thought it was more meaningful to have the service there at the symbolic home of the deceased where family members will visit to remember their loved one. I don’t know anyone who’d ever returned to the funeral home to remember and honor the departed.

  During the brief time I’d known her, Amelia Hogan had secured a large piece of real estate in my heart. She’d endured great turbulence in her later years and had been known by only a few on an island where most everyone knows most everyone. Yet, when she’d met William, Charles, and me under terrible circumstances, she’d been kind beyond belief and treated us like long-lost family. Imagine, her best friend had been murdered, and simply because William had known him, she accepted us with open arms.

  Afterward I didn’t remember a word the minister said, didn’t even hear the soothing, inspirational music coming from the cheap plastic boom box beside the casket, and couldn’t tell if it was still raining, snowing, or the sky was falling. My eyes were closed as my mind wandered to where I hoped Amelia was now. I could picture her with a plate of freshly baked warm cookies, my parents smiling at her and taking one, and me standing behind my dad, waiting my turn. My turn for a cookie, my turn to …

  Charles’s elbow in my side returned me to the wet, dreary graveyard. The minister was shaking hands with Steven, Sean Aker was walking to his car, and William was walking toward me. “Charles, Chris—thank you for coming.” His deep voice cracked. “Amelia would have been pleased.”

  “We wouldn’t have been anywhere else,” I said. “Want to get some tea?”

  “No, but thank you,” he said, regaining some of his voice. “I believe I need to be alone for a while. I have a class in a couple of hours, and I should give my appropriate condolences to Steven.” William looked over his shoulder at the coffin, then turned his attention to Steven and Lance who were walking toward their car.

  Charles told him to call if he needed anything. I looked for Tammy, but she was already in the Cooper and pulling out of the lot. My interpretation of her rapid exit may not have been accurate, but I suspected it was.

  ***

  I preferred to go directly home, climb in bed, and pull the covers over my head, but I knew I’d regret it. Amelia and even my departed parents would have been disappointed with me. In their own special ways, they would say: get on with your life—you can’t live in the past.

  Charles acted as their proxy by saying, “Let me out at the apart
ment; I’ll change clothes and meet you at the gallery in fifteen minutes.”

  What choice did I have when Charles spoke?

  Two of the Three Musketeers, the high school students who’d wandered into the gallery earlier in the week, came in while I was in the office unceremoniously yanking the tie from around my neck—for the last time ever, I hoped.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Landrum,” said the one who’d been interested in the photos. “I’m Tommy. I was in Tuesday.”

  “Sure, I remember,” I said, surprised to see them again. “Where’s the other guy who was with you?”

  Tommy headed to the large bin of photos that had caught his interest earlier. “Parker?” he asked. “I guess he’s out getting into trouble. As my dad’s always saying, Parker’s from the wrong side of the tracks.” Tommy giggled and continued, “Of course, my dad, the best neurosurgeon in Georgia according to the Atlanta magazine, thinks everyone of lesser economic status is from the wrong side of the tracks.”

  “Tommy,” interrupted his friend, “are we going to be here long? You know we’re supposed to meet Parker at the Washout.”

  “Chill, Louis.” Tommy gave his traveling companion a dirty look. “The chicks will still be there waiting for you, drooling over your every move on the board.”

  “Where are the chicks drooling over me?” Charles barged through the door, cane-tapped his way over to us, and jumped into the middle of a conversation in which he had no idea of the topic.

  Tommy, showing wisdom beyond his years, chose to ignore Charles. He told me he’d met Parker two summers ago when Parker had been vacationing on Folly. Tommy’s father owned one of the few McMansions facing the marsh on the western end of the island near the Folly Beach County Park.

  “All Parker and I have in common is surfing,” said Tommy. “Dad’s actually right about him. He spent a year in juvenile detention. Lucky him, huh?” He continued to pick up one after another of the photos and stare at them like a photographer is prone to do. “But, hey, Parker is fun—isn’t that what vacation’s supposed to be about?”