by Bill Noel
Charles reminded him that Sean didn’t practice criminal law and that he was one of the good guys. Harley dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and twisted his boot on it. He fell into step behind Charles and me as we headed up the stairs.
The second-floor door reflected the more traditional image of a law office. Three chairs were arranged around the perimeter of the small waiting area. We were greeted by Marlene Ryle, the receptionist and administrative assistant. I had met Marlene on my first visit to the office and had seen her occasionally walking around town with her shih tzu. Marlene was in her thirties, wasn’t especially attractive or unattractive, and always greeted me with a smile. She was swallowed up by the oversized secretary’s desk.
“Marlene,” I said. “Do you know Charles and Harley?” I turned and nodded toward Charles and had to step aside so she could see Harley. He stood directly behind me and reminded me of a sad-eyed bulldog that had been rescued from an abusive owner.
“Sure, I know Charles.” She grinned in Charles’s direction. “He and Sean used to jump out of perfectly good airplanes.”
Charles turned toward me. “I’ve worked a couple of jobs a while back for Aaron, Marlene’s husband,” interrupted Charles. “He has a construction company.” Charles smiled at Marlene and tipped his Tilley.
She grinned and then leaned to her left to see Harley who was still directly behind me. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Harley.”
There was a small conference room behind Marlene with two walls full of the obligatory, leather-spined law books. To the right of her desk was a door with a brass plate inscribed Tony Long, Attorney at Law. Tony was Sean’s law partner; I had only met him a couple of times at social events. He had given me the impression that his attendance was required but no one could make him enjoy the gatherings.
I didn’t have the feeling that a lengthy conversation was brewing between the two, so I got down to business. I nodded to the door to the left of her desk, the one with a wood cutout of a pie-sized parachute with Sean printed in bright red, green, and blue paint on the canopy. “Is he in? We have an appointment.”
She looked at a stapler on the desk like she hadn’t seen it before. “Umm, he was here earlier.” Her hands wrestled with a silver paperclip. The small piece of twisted metal was winning.
“Be back soon?” asked Charles.
Harley backpedaled toward the stairs.
Marlene made a strong effort but managed a weak smile. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know.”
After an awkward pause, I asked if she knew about the appointment. Silence followed.
“Where’d he go, Marlene?” asked Charles. He moved closer to her massive desk.
She looked up from her mangled paperclip. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” she said, barely audible. “Since he stood you up, you should know.” She paused and looked at each of us as if she was waiting for permission. “He got a call on his cell about a half-hour ago. I don’t know who it was for certain, but from what I heard, I’d guess it was the police. He hung up and rushed out of his office; barely looked my way. Said when you got here to apologize and tell you he’d have to reschedule.”
“Anything else?” asked Charles.
Harley already had his foot on the top step and was ready to bolt.
“Not really,” she said. “Sorry. I’ll call when I hear when he’s available.”
Not knowing what else to do, we took the safe route and headed to the stairs. Harley was already halfway to the sidewalk.
“It’s not like Sean to miss an appointment,” said Marlene to the back of our heads.
“No it’s not,” mumbled Charles to no one in particular.
I assured Harley that I’d let him know when I heard from Marlene. Charles and I watched him walk the short distance down Center Street to his motorcycle parked in front of the Sand Dollar Social Club. Instead of mounting his Harley, he entered the bright-green-painted private club, most likely to drown his traumatic visit to a lawyer’s office in Budweiser—proudly advertised by the Sand Dollar as the Home of the One-Dollar Bud Can. The abuse he had shared at the hands of law enforcement and members of the bar (lawyers, not the Sand Dollar), had a palpable impact on him. What he shared would have been traumatic, but his reaction to Sean was over the top. Could there be more to it?
Charles and I decided that the last thing we needed was the dark, cigarette-smoke-filled pool hall ambiance of the Sand Dollar, so we ventured across the street to Rita’s, one of Folly’s newer, and more popular, restaurants. Rita’s stood on the spot that years earlier had been a bowling alley, and since I moved to Folly, the restaurant had operated under three names. The new owner had completely renovated the building to the point of demolishing one section and adding outdoor seating. We entered the main door, which was surrounded by rusty corrugated steel panels, and were greeted by John, the owner. Charles nodded his Tilley at the cheerful proprietor—a habit that Charles had picked up from one of the etiquette books. I had asked him if the book had been published in the last fifty years, since hat-tipping was an art that had come and gone—thankfully. He didn’t answer but said that the photo illustrations were in black and white.
Charles stopped at two tables, tipped his hat to the three couples peacefully having a late lunch, commiserated on how hot it was, and continued to the patio, where we were fortunate to get seats at a small, bar-height table shaded by a hurricane-proof wood and steel roof. I resisted the urge to shove him along.
A waitress arrived as soon as we were seated. Before she had time to take our order, Charles said, “Heard anything about the marsh body?”
“Excuse me?” she said.
I didn’t recognize the blond, college-age waitress and didn’t know if she knew Charles. Her startled reaction answered the question for me.
“The body found in the marsh Monday,” he said in a tone like he was accusing her of killing the poor soul.
She looked at him as if he were speaking Swahili, and said, “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Never mind,” said Charles. He shook his head.
I ordered drinks for both of us before the perplexed waitress got more confused.
“Whatever happened to people being helpful?” asked Charles. He slammed his hat on the table and kicked the table leg.
“Maybe she didn’t know anything,” I said. “Or didn’t know what you were talking about?”
He didn’t reply, so I continued, “What’s wrong? You’re—”
“Nothing,” he blurted.
“I know you better than that,” I said. “What’s going on?”
The waitress was back with a beer for Charles and a glass of white wine for me. She avoided Charles and asked if I wanted water. I declined for both of us.
He took a sip and stared at the attractive, blue Tides logo on the façade of the nine-story hotel across the street. “It’s just got to me,” he said, and continued to stare at the hotel. I waited. “Standing at the grave yesterday got to me. You and I helped save her last year; she was a courageous old bird … and looking out at the marsh during the funeral, I thought how pretty everything was, and she would never see it again … never see it again.”
“She led a long—”
“Don’t interrupt,” he said. He grabbed the handle of his cane and rammed it on the concrete patio. “And Harley tells us there was a body rotting out in the same marsh the day before. And then we get stood up by a lawyer—a lawyer, for God’s sake! You know how many times in my entire life I’ve been to see a lawyer?” He still faced the hotel’s sign but held his left hand in front of my face. “Don’t guess. Today was number two, and he stood me up.”
I didn’t know what was so fascinating about the blue hotel sign, but his gaze never left it. I swore to myself I wasn’t going to interrupt if we sat here until Ju
ly. It felt nearly that long before he spoke. My curiosity about his first visit to a lawyer tempted me to ask, but he finally continued.
“Now you fire me, take away the best job I ever had.”
He chose this moment to turn his attention from the neon sign to me. Hurt seeped from every pore in his body. I felt three layers below scum.
“Guess that’s what’s bothering me,” he said and faked a smile.
My cell phone rang and drew me from of the depths of hurting. I was on the border of tearing up.
“Oh, hi, Marlene,” I said. I was surprised that I recognized her voice. “Sure, yeah, Charles is with me … I’ll let Harley know … No, I haven’t heard anything … You’re kidding … Is that where Sean went? … Wow! Are you sure … Okay.”
I punched end call, set the phone on the table, and looked at Charles. He stared at me and had his arms extended, palms up. His body language screamed, “What?”
“The body in the marsh,” I said. “It was Tony Long—Sean’s law partner.”
The school year for Amber’s son, Jason, had ended yesterday, so I had promised to take him and his mom to supper to celebrate. There was never doubt about his dining spot of choice. His favorite restaurant was Planet Follywood, a block from their tiny, second-story apartment.
Amber and I spent three hours listening to the recently-turned-thirteen-year-old’s perspective on teachers, the school curriculum, what he needed to do and read to get a head start on next school year, and why his mother should let him start surfing or learning to fly an airplane. His mother’s tan became a little less red with Jason’s last two ideas. The best thing about the night was that there was absolutely no mention of Mrs. Klein’s funeral, the mysterious discovery of Tony Long’s body, or the firing of Charles Fowler, sales manager, Landrum Gallery.
I arrived at the stairs leading to Aker and Long five minutes before the designated time. Charles and Harley were in front of the building waiting for me. Charles was decked out in a long-sleeved UCLA T-shirt, threadbare cargo shorts, and his ever-present canvas hat. He held his cane over his shoulder like a soldier preparing to march into battle. Harley puffed on a cigarette, his right foot nervously tapping to a silent beat on the sidewalk. He wore a grease-stained, short-sleeved work shirt, dark-blue work pants, and boots I wouldn’t want to be kicked by.
“Hurry up,” said Harley. He flipped the half-smoked Camel in the street. “I’ve already missed two hours of work.”
He was a plumber but only worked part-time for a couple of plumbing contractors off-island.
We traipsed up the steps in the same order as the day before. Marlene’s smile was more sincere when we entered the reception area. Sean was in. I swallowed hard when I looked at the closed door to Tony Long’s office.
Sean stepped out of his office and walked over to greet us before Marlene could properly announce our arrival. He was a couple of inches taller than me but weighed approximately fifty pounds less. Sean was well-toned and as athletic as all get out. No one would confuse the two of us. To make me feel more inadequate, he had a full head of short, curly black hair, no gray showing, and was at least two decades younger. Instead of stomping on his toe to level the playing field, I moved so he could see Harley. Sean shook Harley’s hand and told him that he was sorry about the loss of his friend, Mrs. Klein. He nodded to Charles—his skydiving buddy. Sean looked at Charles and widened his grin. “Remember the time …” He paused and looked toward his late partner’s door. “Never mind. Come in the office.”
There were two leather chairs in front of Sean’s desk, so he pulled one of the chairs from the waiting room so we could all sit. He offered coffee or water, but we declined. Harley looked at his watch, saying bye to his hourly rate, I suspected.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet yesterday,” he began. “I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient to have to reschedule.”
Charles and I said it wasn’t; Harley groaned.
Sean picked up a manila folder from a stack of several on the corner of his desk and opened it. “The reason—”
“Whoa,” said Charles. He raised his cane and held it over Sean’s hand so he couldn’t open the folder. “What happened to your partner?”
Sean moved the cane away and alternated his gaze from Charles, to Harley, to me, and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “The detectives talked to me yesterday but said they weren’t certain.” He looked toward the ceiling. “That’s what they said, anyway.”
“Okay,” said Harley. He leaned forward and looked ready to bolt. “He don’t know nothing about the dead guy. Why are we here?”
Charles turned to Harley and started to say something, but Sean held up his hand. “Let me answer that, please,” he said.
If he had his way, Charles wouldn’t let Sean stop until he had told him every word the police had uttered, what they were wearing, and the kind of aftershave they had on. He was equally curious about the contents of the file, so he let Sean continue.
“Gentlemen,” said Sean—a stretch, but we let it pass, “this is the last will and testament of Mrs. Margaret Lanier Klein.”
I heard Marlene’s phone ring for about the fifth time since we entered the office.
Harley scooted to the front of his chair; Sean had his attention.
“I’ve done legal work for her for the last nine or ten years,” continued Sean. “She was widowed in 1984 with the passing of her husband. I helped her change her will seven years ago. She didn’t have any living relatives and wanted to leave everything in an account to maintain her boardinghouse until the money ran out.”
Joseph, her husband, had built the house on the beach and made her promise that when he was gone, she would divide the large structure into small apartments. He told her he hated that only the rich could enjoy living on the beach and wanted to provide low-cost apartments for the not-so-wealthy.
“Last September’s hurricane royally screwed up her plan,” said Sean.
After Hurricane Greta, all that was left of her husband’s grand gesture, the Edge, were the foundation and two of the four concrete block walls.
“So what?” said Harley. His voice, always loud, had reached new heights. He wanted to be anywhere but in a lawyer’s office and didn’t hide it.
“So,” said Sean, “Mrs. Klein called me on Valentine’s Day and asked if I could ‘come a callin’.’ Her health was deteriorating; she really never recovered from the hurricane. I met her at her apartment. I had planned to take my wife to Charleston for a fancy dinner at Slightly North of Broad. She didn’t rightly appreciate me standing her up for another woman on Valentine’s Day—even if the other woman was in her eighties. That turned out to be a very cold February night when I got home … never mind.” Sean looked down at the double-spaced document in front of him. “Mrs. Klein wanted to change her will.” Sean paused and made eye contact with each of us. “Guys, she left her entire estate to you.”
“Shit fire,” blurted Harley. Sean now had his undivided attention.
“Huh?” said Charles.
I waited for Charles and Harley’s eloquent comments to subside and added, “Why?”
“If it weren’t for you, she wouldn’t have survived Hurricane Greta and as she told me, ‘that deity-damned, crazy-assed crossbow killer.’ You saved her life; that’s why.”
Harley focused on Sean; his need to get to work instantly fell off his priority ladder. “How much?’ he asked.
“Don’t get excited,” said Sean. “I tried to get a handle on her net worth but couldn’t get a straight answer. She told me she still owed a ‘shitpot load’ of money on the house but didn’t know how much; she thought her husband had some insurance on the property, but she didn’t know how much; she told me her dear husband had put a ‘bunch’ of money away in ‘some’ banks, savings and loans, had some gold, and some investment accounts, but d
idn’t know how much.” Sean paused and looked at the ceiling.
“How could she have gone all these years without knowing any of that?” I asked during the lull.
Sean shook his head. “She said she kept getting checks each month from several places and the rent her boarders paid took care of the rest. She stuck the monthly statements in a big freighter chest and never opened the envelopes. I was afraid to ask her about taxes.”
“Let me guess,” said Charles, “Hurricane Greta washed the chest away.”
“You got it,” said Sean. He closed the folder and tapped the pen on the desk. The phone in the outer office rang again—Marlene was earning her pay.
“Then what’s it all mean?” asked Charles.
Sean looked back down at the closed folder. “Could mean that you are rich or that you still owe a lot of money on her—your—oceanfront property.” He smiled.
“How can we be in debt over something we didn’t even know about?” asked Charles.
“Yeah,” said Harley, as he glared at Sean.
An excellent question, I thought.
Sean looked at Charles and smiled. “Really, you can’t; you’d have to sell the lot and whatever she had and pay what you could from the proceeds. If that’s the case, all you’ve inherited is a hassle.”
“How do we find out about all the other stuff?” I asked. “The accounts, gold, and the other things she mentioned.”
Sean looked down at the desk and then up at me. “We executed the new will, and I asked her to start collecting the statements she’s received since Greta. They were all coming to her post office box, so nothing went to the street address of the Edge. I haven’t been to her apartment to see what she’s accumulated. With any luck, there should be a decent trail to her wealth—or poverty. Her oceanfront land, especially with its proximity to the center of town, should be worth a lot; but I don’t know what she owed.”
