The Marsh

by Bill Noel

  “I’m losing hundreds of dollars a week now,” I said. “Do you really think selling your prized possessions would help much?”

  He looked down at the ground. “Maybe … could … oh crap, not really.” He looked up and finally made eye contact. “Just thought it might help. You’re right.”

  “You’ll never know how much I appreciate the offer.” I turned away and hoped that he thought the water running down my cheek was perspiration. “I don’t have a choice.”

  Charles smiled, “Maybe we’ll inherit a zillion dollars from good ol’ Mrs. Klein, and then we can open a chain of Landrum-Fowler Galleries across the United States, Canada, and Alabama. And … drum roll, please … the Charles’s Detective Agency could have a branch office in each gallery.”

  “And then you can wake up from your dream and help me take down the tent, pack up these photos, lug it all to the car and gallery, and let me buy you supper.”

  “Inside, with air conditioning?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “So who killed Mr. Long, Esquire?” asked Charles in one of his typical atypical segues.

  “The police’ll figure it out,” I said. “From what little we know, it doesn’t look good for Sean. You know him much better than I do, but he seems to have a good motive.”

  “He couldn’t have done it,” said Charles with the confidence only he can muster—more confidence than he expressed the other day. “We’re not close, but I’ve known him for years; we’ve skydived together; we’ve shared a few adult beverages together. He’s as honest as June 21.” He glanced out the tent and up at the sky. “Sean didn’t kill Tony Long—period!”

  “He also said Tony stole seventy-five thousand dollars,” I said. “And according to Marlene, he and Tony had been fighting. If the police don’t already know that, they will. Sean will be at the top of their list.”

  “They’ll also know that Tony had one very wealthy enemy,” said Charles. “They’ll also know Tony worked for the Mafia—not quite a Sunday-school-teaching, pope, preacher, prophet group of guys. And …” Charles stopped; he looked over my shoulder toward the sidewalk, and his mouth broke out in a wide grin.

  It had to be something important to stop him in the middle of lecturing me. It was.

  Since I’ve known Charles, his total number of love interests has peaked at one. Amber once told me that with the exception of a couple of dates he had with her, she was unaware of anyone he had dated in the last decade. In fact, the widespread rumor was that he was gay. He embarrassingly confided in me the first year I knew him that this wasn’t true; he simply couldn’t afford to “court the ladies.”

  That changed nine months ago, when he met Heather Lee, the lady headed to our tent. She was smiling from crystal earring to crystal earring.

  Heather and Folly Beach were perfect companions—both were quirky, bohemian, conflicted about an identity, easy to love, and charming beyond belief. During the day, Heather plied her trade as a massage therapist at several local spas and occasionally went divining along the beach for whatever people divined for. By night, she was an amateur psychic and country music singer. I had no way to determine how good she was at divining, or as a psychic, but I did know in no uncertain terms that her singing sucked. That was not my opinion alone. Everyone, with the exception of Charles, who had heard her sing was in total agreement. Before she and Charles started dating, he had agreed with the rest of the universe, but lately he leaned to a more generous analysis of the quality of her crooning. His reevaluated position is that she might just have some untapped potential. A lump of coal also has untapped potential to become a diamond—a transformation that will occur long before Heather taps her potential. But music is in the ear of the behearer. If Charles is happy, I’m happy.

  “Just got off work from Milli’s,” she said. She was in her daytime work clothes, an off-white outfit that looked like a cross between medical scrubs and a karate keilogi. Milli’s was a local spa and salon that met most of the beauty needs of the locals and many visitors. “There’s only so many massages I can give to old, sunburnt vacationers and wrinkled local biddies. Thought I’d give a couple of old locals a hand with this tent and stuff.” She laughed and pointed to Charles and me.

  Charles thought being called old was hilarious. I wasn’t nearly as enamored but was pleased it got us some help with the tent and him off the topics of murder and keeping the gallery open. Her “aw-shucks” smile and tilt of the head brought a smile to my face. She gave Charles such a powerful bear hug that it knocked her wide-brimmed straw hat off when the brim met his forehead. She wore the distinct hat most everywhere.

  Normally, it would have taken Charles and me more than an hour to huff and puff and take the tent down and load the photos in boxes and haul it all to the car. Heather was nearly twenty years younger than either of us, radiated enough enthusiasm for five people, and had powerful hands and upper body strength conditioned by kneading, probing, and punching “old, sunburnt vacationers and wrinkled local biddies.” We managed to complete the task in a record thirty minutes. And best of all, Heather only broke into song twice.

  Restaurants had come and gone as often as some vacationers during my four years on Folly Beach. Lazo’s was the fourth iteration of restaurant in an attractive, large building on the main drag. The building was originally a grocery before it began playing musical restaurants.

  There was a waiting line of hungry patrons on the sidewalk in front by the time Charles, Heather, and I arrived. Being a Saturday in-season, we knew it would be the same at every restaurant on the island. Charles had worked on the remodel for the manager and walked around to the back entrance to see if he could move us up on the waiting list. Five minutes later, he peeked around the corner and motioned for us to follow. There was one booth being cleared, and the manager waved for us to have a seat.

  “Charles the connected,” cooed Heather. She squeezed his arm.

  “What’d that cost you?” I asked Charles as we both removed our Tilleys and set them on the empty space beside me. Heather topped both hats with her wide-brimmed straw one.

  “You don’t want to know,” he said. “But dessert’s on you.”

  “Charles tells me you two are going to find poor Mr. Long’s killer,” said Heather after she had wolfed down her organic shrimp salad.

  I gave Charles my best dirty look and turned back to Heather. “I’m sure he misunderstood,” I said and smiled. “That’s for the police.”

  Heather returned my smile, watt for watt. “Nope—I don’t think so. I know how good you two are at solving murders—you saved Mrs. Klein and Harley last year. No, Charles was pretty certain you would solve this one too.” She continued to smile but wrapped her arms around Charles’s left arm and squeezed.

  Heather, along with Country Cal, Harley, Cindy Ash, and four less fortunate souls who didn’t survive the crossbow killer escapade had lived in Mrs. Klein’s boardinghouse. After Hurricane Greta flattened the building, my friend and Realtor, Bob Howard, commandeered low-rent housing for the survivors at Mariner’s Breeze Bed and Breakfast, an over-the-hill business on the marsh side of the island. The B&B was teetering on bankruptcy and saw little chance of recovery after Water’s Edge Inn, a new, upscale competitor, opened three years ago less than a half mile away.

  I looked at the two lovebirds and smiled.

  Heather shrugged and apparently channeled Charles’s talent for un-smooth transitions. “Saw Cal when I was on the way to work,” she said. “Said he got to sing at the art show.”

  “Yeah,” said Charles, “sounded better than that rock band that blew out the power.”

  Heather took the last bite of her roasted vegetable Napoleon and looked down at her empty plate. “Suppose they would have asked me to sing if I didn’t have to work,” she said.

  “No doubt,” said Charles; a love-biased truth, or a whopper of
a lie.

  I didn’t think when the Folly River freezes over would have been the best thing to say after Heather had helped take down the tent. I continued to smile.

  “Oh yeah,” said Heather as she snapped her fingers. “Greg said he might let me sing two songs Tuesday at open mike night. You need to be there.”

  Greg Brile owned GB’s Bar, formerly called Greg’s: Home of Rowdy Rock, until the bankers and tax collectors were on his doorstep. He had realized that if he wanted to stay in business, a change to country music was his only hope. Charles and I had become semi-regulars at GB’s and hadn’t seen a single banker or IRS agent grace the premises; the transition must have worked.

  GB’s open mike night rules were simple. If you had ever released a record—or CD, or download—you were allowed three songs. If Greg thought you had a glimmer of hope, you were awarded two opportunities; and if you were a nobody and talent-wise, destined to stay that way, one song was your maximum. Greg figured his patrons could hold their ears for one tune. Over the last couple of years, during which she had appeared almost every Tuesday, Heather had worked her way up to one song.

  “You can count on us being there,” said Charles.

  He had the irritating habit of speaking for me.

  Heather shook her head. “Don’t put too much money on me getting two songs. He probably isn’t good at his word.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” she said, her voice turning serious. “He’s got an aura of unpleasantness. Demonic sparks fly around him sometimes.”

  Or, I thought, he has two good ears and knows how Heather sounds behind a guitar.

  “Hmm,” said Charles. That said it all.

  Good to his word, Charles ordered the last two slices of key lime pie and an oversized bowl of ice cream for Heather and made sure the waitress put it on my tab. I was exhausted and looked forward to bed rather than dessert. I think I stayed awake while they savored their sweets, but wasn’t certain.

  What a day, I thought as my head hit the pillow. Marlene had shared more than she should have, Karen had shared that Long was murdered, Charles had shared with anyone who would listen that we were going to solve the murder, and possibly worst of all, Heather had shared that she might get to massacre two songs on Tuesday.

  I hadn’t paid enough attention in school to know how many muscles there were in my body, but I could unequivocally say that every one of them hurt as I slowly and carefully rolled out of bed. A “quick shower” took a half-hour, and bending to put on my slacks took on the appearance of an aerobic exercise. I reconsidered having a booth at the park, even if it was only one day a month.

  I was running late to meet Charles at the Dog, a condition totally unacceptable to Charles, who considered himself late if he arrived five minutes early. He would have to adjust. Despite being late, I knew that walking would be the best thing I could do. I was not a fan of exercise, but it would loosen my aching joints; and besides, there wouldn’t be a parking space near the Dog on Sunday morning.

  Charles’s Schwinn leaned precariously against a tree beside the restaurant. Dude Sloan’s light-green, rusting, classic 1970 Chevrolet El Camino was parked in one of the few spaces directly in front of the patio. He was either lucky or had been there since the Dog opened.

  According to local lore, the first surfboard arrived on Folly Beach in 1966. The war began within days between the evil, iconoclastic surfers and the saintly, law-abiding fishermen and swimmers. Four and a half decades and several restrictive laws later, the battle has subsided into minor skirmishes, but it hasn’t gone away. Jim “Dude” Sloan arrived twenty-two years after the first surfboard and bought the surf shop—proof that things beyond most people’s imagination could happen. In an age of business plans, profit-and-loss statements, and committees in faraway cities making lending decisions, Dude’s explanation of how he purchased the shop would be a textbook example of how not to get a loan. He once told me that he “Needed job; liked the area. Couldn’t cook; didn’t have any skills. Saw ad in the paper; went to bank. They made dumb decision and lent me the money. Rest be history.” I still have not learned why he didn’t capitalize the first letters in the name of his store—surf shop. Dude epitomized the folly in Folly Beach.

  I was surprised to see the surf shop owner in my regular seat opposite Charles. Charles saw me enter, looked at his watchless left wrist, and stared at me until I was at the table.

  “Well, look who finally decided to roll out of bed,” he said with nary a smile. He turned to Dude. “Beauty sleep didn’t help him, did it?”

  “Beauty be in retina of beviewer,” said Dude.

  Dude was leaned back in the booth. He wore a faded, multiple shades of green, tie-dyed T-shirt with a florescent orange peace symbol on the front. If you were looking to cast a character in a movie about an aging, long-curly-haired hippy who looked like Arlo Guthrie, the search would end at Dude. If you wanted the actor to speak in long, flowing, comprehensible sentences, the search would need to continue.

  I ignored Charles’s rebuke and Dude’s philosophic analysis of beauty and slid into the booth beside the surf shop owner. Amber nearly beat me to the table and had a mug of hot coffee in front of me as I moved Dude’s latest issue of Astronomy magazine out of the way. Charles had often speculated that Dude was from another planet and his interest in astronomy was so he could learn more about his homeland. I occasionally agreed with Charles but most of the time thought that Freud would conclude that Dude’s interest in astronomy was simply an interest in astronomy.

  “The Chuckster say you two be finding aggro idiot who kilt Long,” said Dude.

  I thought I understood but looked at Charles for help.

  “Aggro means pissed off,” translated Charles. He still hadn’t cracked a smile. Tardiness made Charles aggro.

  I didn’t waste time with a denial. “Did you know Long?” I asked.

  Dude held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Un poco. Know the Seanster better—he be good guy; Long be ungood.” Dude stopped and took a sip of hot tea.

  Most people who met Dude for the first time thought he had smoked too many illegal substances or had way too many encounters between his head and a surfboard. I was no different, but after spending several nonsensical and sentence-challenged hours with him, I had come to realize that he was extremely bright—by earth standards—and had a good feel for the goings-on on Folly Beach.

  “Why ungood?” asked Charles.

  “Never helped wobbly chicks across street; never bought from surf shop; hung with shady, pinstripe-suit goons from Chi-town; drove Mercedes; cheated on wife—ungood. Clear as day. But hey, you two be the detectives.”

  The first two reasons would apply to me, but I got his drift.

  “Dude,” said Charles, “know anyone who could take us to where they found the body?”

  Oh no, I thought.

  “Know latitude and longitude?” asked Dude.

  “What’s that got to do with finding someone?” asked Charles.

  “Nada,” said Dude. “Just like saying it—cool words.”

  Charles pointed his fork at Dude. “The man was found in the marsh,” said Charles. “Don’t know where, but we can find out if we can find someone to take us there—latitude and longitude to be determined.”

  “Piglet waves in marsh,” said Dude. “No fun surfing. But this be your lucky day.” He stopped and took a bite of his cheese grits and then looked around the full restaurant. The comforting smell of bacon wafted up from his plate.

  Marc Salmon approached the table. He was one of two city council members who spent a couple of hours most mornings at local eateries consuming food and rumors, and sharing “wisdom.” He reminded me of a bee flitting from bloom to bloom, leaving bits of what it had picked up from the previous plant. “Did you hear that Tony Long was murder
ed?” he asked.

  He leaned into our space like he was confiding in us with the salacious information; he would proceed to share this with everyone else he encountered the rest of the day. He was a talker and never passed up an opportunity to spread rumors like melted butter on toast. He even shared facts if they were juicy enough.

  “Old news,” responded Charles.

  “Oh,” said Marc, clearly disappointed that he wasn’t the first to break the news. “Hear his wife’s going to take the body back to Chicago for burial.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Charles.

  I suspected that was news, but Charles didn’t want Marc to know he had told us something new.

  “Okay, gotta go,” said Marc. He wheeled and walked toward the door and stopped at the last table before the exit and began telling the occupants about the murder.

  Dude watched him go. “Connie be sticking Long’s bod in ground far from here … good plan.”

  “Real good plan,” said Charles. “A funeral we can miss. I’m funeraled out.”

  “Amen to that,” I said.

  “I’ll try again, Dude,” said Charles. “Know anybody who could take us to where they found Tony?”

  “Sure,” said Dude.

  Charles sighed. “And you couldn’t tell us that twenty minutes ago?” he said.

  “Could—didn’t,” clarified Dude. “Chuckster, you be fun to twiddle with.”

  I liked Dude more each day.

  Charles grabbed his cane from the floor and pointed it at Dude. “Who?”

  Dude had been on the pointed end of Charles’s cane before and slowly reached out, wrapped his hand around the tip, and pushed it toward the wall. “Good bud of mine. Mad Mel—Mel Evans.”

  I tried to hide my shock that Dude actually had a bud, much less a good bud, and asked, “Who’s he?”