by Bill Noel
I could have added, and buying photos from Landrum Gallery, but in theory I couldn’t argue with his observation.
“Come on, Tommy,” said an exasperated Louis, who seemed much more interested in the cash register and what he could see out the large window overlooking Center Street than the art on display, “It’s stopped raining. Let’s go. This stuff’ll be here later.”
I bit my tongue and remembered the customer was always right as Tommy and Louis headed out the door. Charles didn’t bite anything—he simply laughed. Stuff!
Louis was correct about the weather. The sun was breaking through the clouds as if the rain had been sent before only to provide the proper atmosphere for Amelia’s funeral. I chose to believe the sun was the earthly sign of her new heavenly residence. True or not, I also chose to treat the rest of the day as though it was.
Charles and I talked to a few more customers and actually stayed late to make a big sale. Tomorrow was Independence Day. Had I known how eventful the day would be, I would have closed up and gone to bed earlier.
Chapter13
Charles burst into the gallery wearing his Tilley and a long-sleeved T-shirt from George Mason University. “Go Patriots,” his shirt declared. He held his cane—decked out in red, white, and blue streamers—triumphantly over his head like a drum major’s baton. “If anyone tells you that America’s best days are behind her, they’re looking the wrong way,” he proclaimed.
“Happy Fourth of July, Charles.” I glanced behind him to see if the rest of the marching band had followed. “Why’d you say that about America?”
“I didn’t.” He threw his hat toward the straight-backed chair in the corner. It missed. “The quote’s from George Herbert Walker Bush, nowhere near dead, United States President. I thought you needed the inspiration this glorious day.”
“Thanks for sharing,” I said, appreciating his sensitivity. He was correct—I did need a punch of optimism after yesterday’s funeral.
“No prob,” he said. “That’s why you have me. Besides, this is going to be one of the best sales days in the history of this fledgling gallery. I feel it in my bones.”
I hoped he was accurate, but questioned the psychic powers of his skeleton.
“Also, Mr. Photo Man, I took the liberty of inviting Larry to join us.” He looked at the door as though Larry would appear on cue.
I followed his eyes, but no one entered. “Isn’t he working?”
“Nope, he decided to close the hardware. Said he didn’t sell fireworks; red, white, and blue banners; or liquor, so not many people would need him. Besides, he’s still shook, but don’t tell him I told you. He said he couldn’t sleep and has lost his appetite. With Larry, that’s serious.”
“And he’ll be joining us why?” I was beginning to suspect an agenda.
“I did mention that between selling hundreds of photos, we’d figure out who’s making his life miserable.” Charles hesitated, then pointed his patriotically decorated cane toward the backroom. “How’s your stock of beer, wine, and snack stuff?”
Landrum Gallery’s First Annual Fourth of July and Murder-Solving Party had been scheduled, and no one thought to notify anyone named Landrum. Charles volunteered to take my car and my money to the Pig to reinforce the food and drink supply.
The first customer arrived as Charles exited; in fact, Charles held the door open for Dr. William Hansel, who tipped an imaginary cap at him. Charles reciprocated by tipping the real thing. William continued smiling and gave me a friendly Fourth of July greeting, his face far more positive than at the cemetery.
“I was getting ready to fix some iced tea,” I said, appealing to his known weakness, “Want a glass?”
“That sounds refreshing,” he said in a tone he might use when telling a student he’d received an excellent grade. “I wish to apologize for being so abrupt at the cemetery. I know you were offering me a kind gesture.”
“Not necessary.”
“I needed to deal with the loss of Amelia in my own way. As you are aware, my way leans toward solitude.” He followed me into the office and waited while I fixed the tea.
“Chris, you know how rude I was to her when we first met. You know how distant I can appear. You know my unfortunate history with clinical depression.” He took a sip and continued to stare into the glass. His mood had changed drastically. I dusted imaginary crumbs off the table.
“Despite all of that and a significant difference in our skin pigmentation, Amelia embraced me.”
“She was able to see through the superficial differences, William. You were lucky to find each other.”
“I trust you’re not too offended, but I didn’t come in to buy anything,” he said and paused.
“William, let the record show that I do not discriminate on gender, age, national origin, or race when it comes to people not buying anything. I’ve been rejected by all.”
His smile broke into a deep, full laugh. “Thank you, my kind gallery keeper. You have meant a great deal to me. Amelia helped me appreciate the value of true friendship.”
His laughter allowed me to maintain my composure and not tear up. Being considered a friend by William put me in a select—make that extraordinarily select group.
The bell on the front door of the gallery announced the arrival of another customer, so I left William sipping tea at the table. A sunburned young man in his twenties was looking at two of the framed images on the side. I caught a whiff of suntan oil and stale beer. He said he’d been in a couple of weeks earlier and wanted to take another look at the photos as he was trying to find the perfect birthday gift for his father. The two images he was eying were some of the highest ticket items I had. I wasn’t surprised when he said he wanted to consider them a little longer.
“See, William,” I said after the potential customer exited back into the hot July air, “there was a young white male I permitted not to buy anything—no discrimination here.”
That comment received a much smaller laugh, but William was clearly in a good mood and appeared to have a renewed interest in life. I was thrilled.
***
William thanked me again, then said he had to work on some lesson plans. He shook my hand and gave me a tentative hug, unheard of behavior from the proper professor.
I’d no more than settled back down to finish the glass of tea when the bell on the door was jarred into action. Someone had pushed the door open with more than a little enthusiasm. The positive mood William had brought to the gallery was sucked out into the street as Larry entered. His hands were shaking, his head jerking from side to side, his gaze bouncing around the room like ping-pong balls on concrete. Larry wasn’t here to buy photos.
“Chris, another note on the door, damn, again …”
“Whoa, Larry—let’s go to the office.”
He was shaking so intently, I thought I’d have to carry him back and get him into a chair. “Are you hurt?” I asked.
“No.”
“Want a drink?”
“No.”
No sooner had I settled him in the chair when the bell at the front door rang again. Larry knocked his chair over as he jumped at the sound. I’d never seen him so shaken.
“Mr. Photo Man, I’m back,” said Charles as he walked across the gallery floor and entered the office. He’d tucked his cane under his left arm so both hands could carry the plastic bags stuffed with refreshments. “Oh, Larry, glad you’re here,” he continued as he saw him in the corner. “We can start the party early.”
But Charles didn’t have to be a psychologist to tell something was wrong. He took one more look at Larry, then glanced toward me. I shared that Larry had just arrived and had something to tell us.
Charles put the beer and wine in the refrigerator and set the bags of snacks on the table. “Well then, why are we wasting time talking ab
out a party?” he said as he sat down in the chair opposite Larry.
With that, Larry seemed to calm down—perhaps he felt a sense of security in numbers. He began, “I was about to tell Chris. I’m closed today, but I promised Mrs. Ellingsworth out near the end of East Cooper that I’d deliver her a belt for her vacuum cleaner. It’s safer with her not trying to drive—she’s about a hundred years old.” He paused like he was going to tell us more about a vacuum; I hoped I was wrong.
“Never mind,” he continued. “If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have gone to the store.” He paused again, then took an envelope out of his pocket. He set it in the center of the table and stared at it.
“This is like déjà vu all over again,” said Charles. “Yogi Berra, not a dead president.” Then he asked how Larry had come into possession of the benign-appearing white envelope that I assumed contained anything but a benign message.
Like the other envelope, only a single sheet of copy paper resided inside. The message was composed of letters and three words in their entirety. I asked Charles to call Chief Newman’s cell phone to see if he was available, then I spread the sheet on the table for everyone to read: I’ve stoppeD PLAYING. RU reAdy to Die? In a selfish moment of weakness, I was thankful the note was intended for Larry rather than me, and that it was written in cutout letters rather than blood.
Charles hung up the phone at the same time the bell on the door rang signaling the arrival of a visitor. “The chief said he’d be here …”
“Before you know it,” said Brian Newman finishing Charles’s sentence as he walked into the office. “I was leaving the Dog when Charles called. What have the three of you done now?” The chief continued to walk around the room but never took his eye off the note on the table.
Larry gave Brian the abbreviated version. Brian listened, then asked Charles and me if we had anything to add. “Other than touching the note and smudging any prints it may have contained,” he lectured us.
I told him Charles hadn’t touched either the envelope or the note, and that I had been very careful when I removed the note by the edges.
“Hmm, so everyone’s a forensics expert now,” he said to no one in particular. It didn’t take much imagination to know I was his target. “It doesn’t matter,” he continued. “I’m sure whoever did this was as careful as he was with the other notes.”
By now, the chief had sat in the last remaining chair in the room and was looking less accusatory. “Guys, this is one of the busiest days of the year on our sleepy island. My officers are working quadruple overtime, if that’s possible. When you mix the hundreds of extra cars with everyone wanting to light fuses on things that go bang, blow off fingers, and start fires, the results aren’t good.”
He looked at each of us as though we should understand and sympathize, but I doubted Larry was in his most sympathetic mood.
“My point,” said Brian after he had finished venting, “is that it’ll be a day or so before I can get this to the lab.”
“We didn’t think there would be anything you could do,” I said. “But, we wanted you to have the note.”
Brian looked down at the paper once more, then turned to each of us before speaking. “Guys, let me be candid. At first, I thought the notes and blood on the floor and writing on the wall were pranks—someone who had an ax to grind with Larry and too much time on his hands. But the body of that homeless gentleman in the morgue says we are dealing with a sick puppy, not a prankster.”
He pushed away from the table and stood. His six-foot frame appeared a yard taller as he looked down at Larry in the chair, elbows still on the table. “Larry,” said the chief, “I don’t have enough troops to protect you. We can make extra runs by your house and the store, but with peak season staring us in the face, we can’t do anything else. I wish we could.”
“We understand,” I said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
“Well, I know what Charles will say you can do.” Brian smiled and moved his attention to Charles. “But don’t even think it.”
“What?” asked Charles, doing a who me imitation.
“Let’s see,” said Brian, “When I leave the gallery, you’ll turn to Chris and Larry and say something like, ‘Okay, fellows—we’ve got to find out who is doing this and turn him over to the poor, overworked, undermanned police.’ Am I close?”
“Sounds about right to me,” said Larry laughing and showing a spark of life.
I’m not sure if it had been his intention, but Brian was able to loosen up Larry and bring some sense of normalcy to the room. That I appreciated.
“Then what do you expect us to do?” asked Charles. “Larry’s our friend, and friends don’t let friends get killed, especially if the friend runs the only hardware store in town. I may need something hardwareish.”
Not bad logic, if I say so myself. “So, Brian—any suggestions?” I asked.
“In fact, yes,” he said as he sat back down.
Chapter14
The Fourth of July was barely half over, and I felt like I’d already done enough for a week. Chief Newman told us the best contribution we could make was to provide him and other duly sworn police officers (the emphasis was his) as much information as possible. Then, the police and not some well-intentioned, bungling civilians could do their job.
Logic told us that Larry had to know who was doing all of this, as these were not random acts. Revenge was the message. But, revenge for what, and more importantly, revenge by whom? Those were the big—awfully big—unanswered questions.
After the chief left, we opened a bag of Doritos to begin our party.
“Okay, Larry,” said Charles with his mouth full, “it’s your turn. The chief’s right—you must know who’s doing this. What haven’t you told us?”
As he asked the question, the ever-considerate Charles put a Bud Light in front of Larry, adding, “You don’t want a dry mouth after eating those chips.”
Larry sat straighter in the chair and took a sip. “Guys, I don’t know anything. Sure, I’ve rubbed a few people the wrong way. Who hasn’t? But my past problems are just that—in the past.”
“Why don’t we break it into categories?” I suggested, then went to the refrigerator and took out a Diet Coke. I had a shop to run and needed to see the customers, not two of each customer.
“Like what?” asked Charles.
I returned to the table. “Well,” I said, “we could have one called Before Folly and one called Disgruntled Employees, then Unhappy Customers, even Competitors …”
“Dumped Chicks,” piped up Charles, a big grin on his face as he added a topic dear to his heart.
“Sure, why not?” I added. “The task becomes less overwhelming if we break it down.”
“So, where do I begin?” Larry asked.
“With the dumped chicks, duh.” Charles grabbed a few sheets of copy paper from beside the printer. “I’ll take notes. This sounds interesting.”
“Why not approach it in chronological order?” I suggested. “I know a little about your past, Larry, but this might help me better understand.”
“Okay by me,” said Charles. “Surely there were some dumped chicks back then. Bet they were more fun, too, you wild man. Right, Larry?”
“Charles, I appreciate your interest in my love life,” said Larry. “But why don’t I start with the worst of my past—eight years in prison? Everything else will be more pleasant.”
Before Larry could begin his trip down memory lane, the bell announced the arrival of what I hoped were paying customers. I left Larry and Charles to debate chick or con, and peeked around the corner to see who’d entered. I was met with another surprise—this time, a pleasant one.
“Why, hello, Samuel,” I said, “What brings you in?” I didn’t even try to hide my delight at seeing a member of Folly’s future. Samuel was a
precocious eleven-year-old, wise beyond his years.
“It’s okay for me to come in, isn’t it?” asked my young acquaintance. He gingerly moved to the center of the gallery.
I’d met Samuel the first time I visited Folly. He’d caught me taking photos of a strange blue Christmas tree made from an old tree stump and blue beer bottles in his neighbor’s yard. Although he referred to me as “the old photographer” the couple of times we’d run into each other, I enjoyed our brief conversations.
“Of course it is,” I said. “I was a little surprised to see you here. It’s your first time in, isn’t it?”
“Yep. My dad says it’s silly for someone to be selling photographs.” Samuel was oblivious to the insult. “He said if he wanted a picture, he would take it himself.”
“Hard to argue with. Have a look around. When you’re done, there are a couple of guys I’d like you to meet.”
A big smile washed over his face as he seemed to realize he had the run of the gallery and was being treated like any other customer. While my new young friend was looking at the photos, I realized I didn’t even know his last name. Remembering names is not one of my top ten, not even one of my top thousand, good traits.
Obviously Charles couldn’t stand me being in the gallery without knowing what was going on, so he’d interrupted his discussion with Larry to join me in the larger room. “Charles,” I said while moving beside Samuel, “I’d like you to meet my friend, Samuel. He’s one of the brightest young men on Folly Beach.”
Samuel held out his hand and gave Charles his best big guy handshake.
“Sure, I’ve seen Samuel around,” said Charles. “Let’s see, was it in the bar at Planet Follywood? Or, no, maybe it was when you were drinking beer at the Holiday Inn?”
Samuel giggled “No, I’m only eleven. They don’t let me in those places.”
“Well, it’s their loss,” said Charles. “Maybe it was just walking around town. What’s your last name?”
