by Bill Noel
“Well duh,” said Dude. “Everyone knows about Mad Mel’s Magical Marsh Machine—Tours, Etc.”
Two of the three of us at the table didn’t, and one of us, Charles, prided himself on knowing everything about almost everyone on Folly Beach. Dude went on to explain, the best I could translate, that Mad Mel operated a marsh tour business based out of the Folly View Marina, just off-island behind the Mariner’s Cay condo complex and marina. He specialized in taking college groups on non-traditional marsh tours that often led to moonlight parties on the sandbars that were uncovered at low tide. Dude hinted that large quantities of adult beverages just might be part of these enlightening tours. He’d talk to Mel about taking us to the scene.
Then for some reason Dude began to tell us, in great detail, about tides and how they were influenced by events in some faraway galaxies, and how meteor dust and the moon controlled everything, from the mating habits of sea turtles to lightning bugs to Amway salespeople.
I lost interest once he mentioned galaxies; it returned when he was getting up to leave and I heard Charles say, “No problem; we’ll catch the killer.”
“When are you padlocking the door?” asked Charles. “When are you throwing me out on the street?”
I had felt guilty about hogging the booth at the Dog, so Charles and I had moved our conversation to the gallery, less than a block away. Dude said he had to check on the tattoo-toters at the surf shop. I assumed he meant his two surfer-looking, tattoo-covered, rude-most-of-the-time employees. From what I had observed on my infrequent visits to the surf shop, I didn’t blame him.
“The end of the month,” I said. “The rent’s paid until then; I called the landlord before Memorial Day and told him.”
Charles rubbed his chin. “Try this idea out,” he said. “What if we kept it open until we know what happens with Mrs. Klein? I’ll give you my share to help pay expenses.”
He gave me a hopeful grin but didn’t maintain eye contact. I had considered that option, but hadn’t said anything to Charles. I didn’t want to lift his hopes and have to dash them again. I was clueless as to what I had done to have such a loyal friend. I turned and walked to the refrigerator so he wouldn’t see tears. I was surprised he didn’t ask why it took me so long to find two Diet Pepsis. It wasn’t as if the shelves were cluttered with stuff like food.
I regained my composure, and the two of us settled around the table in the back room. “We don’t know if we’ll have anything after the dust settles with Mrs. Klein’s estate,” I said. “Besides, what about your detective agency? That’ll take money.”
“I’ll do both,” said Charles. He tapped his fingers on the table like he was counting. “I figure the North American office of the CDA won’t take a coven of cash. I don’t have any highfalutin’ diplomas, so I won’t need a wall to hang them on; I’ll have to give in to modern technology and get a cell phone; I can use the computer here for Internet clue-collecting, maybe subscribe to a newspaper to learn about all the latest tomfoolery so I can troll for clients.” He paused and looked toward the ceiling. “That should be about all, shouldn’t it?”
I smiled. “You may need a good lawyer on retainer to bail you out of jail for the times you’ll be arrested for meddling, trespassing, stalking, and—”
“Speaking of a good lawyer,” he interrupted. “It seems to me that unless we can do something, the cops will be arresting you-know-who.”
“Charles, you think he didn’t do it; but he could have. You do know that, don’t you?”
“My gut says no. Sean’s a big donor to all the local charities; he cares about others; he even calls me a friend; how generous is that?”
I didn’t want to argue with Charles but couldn’t help thinking that some of the most bizarre and high-profile murders have been committed by society page regulars.
“He has motive,” I continued. “Long stole a lot of money from him. They’ve been fighting over things for a while, and that’s before Sean knew about the money. We know Sean has a temper. He would have easy access to a boat that could have taken the body into the marsh.”
“But,” said Charles, “from what Marlene said, it seems like there’s a passel of good suspects: the Mafia; or rich man, Conroy Elder; then there’s Long’s wife, Connie; heck, maybe the husband of one of the women Long was sneaking around with.” Charles held out both arms, palms up. “And that’s only what we learned in the last day; there could be others.”
There was no stopping Charles from the path he was beginning to head down. “So what do we do?” I asked.
“Now you’re talking,” he said. “First, remember what Chief Newman said. We have to visit where they found the body. Then I don’t know what from there.”
“The body’s been gone for five days; tide’s gone in and out twice a day; the police have already combed the scene; what could we possibly find?”
“Don’t know—haven’t been there yet.”
A flurry of customers interrupted Charles’s detective planning. The vacationers were welcomed for their business and also as a distraction from the path I didn’t want to go down with my staff. I had been thinking about what William had said to Charles yesterday: I was long overdue for a visit. Charles agreed to sacrifice all his afternoon plans and man the gallery while I visited William. I was absolved of any remorse when he told me his plans included counting the number of dog breeds crossing Center Street on their way to beg for treats at Bert’s. The life of the leisurely poor.
William Hansel lived in a small, neat, clapboard house two blocks from the beach on West Cooper Avenue. It was within walking distance of the center of the town, but I drove.
“Ah, my guilt trip worked,” bellowed the powerful, bass voice of Dr. William Hansel before I was out of the car.
I smiled.
He was in his side yard, hoe in hand; sweat rolled down his forehead. His twelve-by-thirty-foot garden covered most of the yard and was his summer activity of choice.
He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his forearm. His short-sleeved College of Charleston T-shirt and work denims with a hole in the left knee were his summer gardening uniform of choice. William was in his late fifties, a widower, about my height, and rail-thin, a weight I envied. “Well, my friend, would you like to share some ice tea?” he asked. Regardless of his slovenly attire, his words were always prim, proper, and often professorial.
Sure, I thought, but said, “I would be honored.” I didn’t want my grade lowered for inappropriate grammar.
William had been battling weeds too long; he quickly leaned the hoe against the house and headed for our drinks. He was back before I had time to sit in one of the two small metal chairs beside a round table that he had strategically placed in the shade of a large bay tree in the back corner of the yard.
He returned with a large, blue, plastic tray with a matching pitcher in the middle and two tall ice tea glasses that also matched the color of the tray.
“The new house appears quite attractive,” he said as he set the pitcher on the table and looked at the recently completed, two-story, elevated house next door.
“Not the same character,” I said. “Bet it even has a shower in the bathroom.”
William laughed. “I’m certain of that.”
The new house was built on the lot where an old cottage had stood for many years. In fact, it had withstood all the wrath Hurricane Hugo had brought when it destroyed approximately 80 percent of the homes on Folly Beach in 1989. What the old house couldn’t withstand were the flames after being torched by a murderer determined to kill me. The quaint cottage became a pile of charcoal in a matter of minutes, the most frightening minutes of my life—my life up until that time.
The experience was horrific, but William’s concern and assistance, along with those of numerous other residents, solidified my belief that Folly Beach was a magical place and wher
e I wanted to spend the rest of my life.
“How is the world of a college professor?” I asked after my first taste of the refreshing brew.
That question opened a floodgate of thoughts, complaints, and humorous stories. I knew it would. He had little interest in the travel and tourism industry and had little actual travel experience himself. He was far from a fan of the academic bureaucracy that stifled most institutions of higher education. What he did love was his students. William was a dinosaur in a world of iPhones, iPads, Blackberries, MP3 players, text messaging, IMs, GPS systems, tweets, twerps, and electronic stuff beyond me even knowing what to call it. He didn’t own a cell phone, only carried basic cable on his television, spelled words in their entirety, and spoke in complete sentences—a bit stilted, but complete sentences nevertheless. Regardless, he was able to connect with many students because he listened to them. He, as a minority, could understand when they felt isolated. His wife had died of cancer in 1999, and he understood the students when they talked about loneliness. He had talked about getting out of the “academic torture chamber,” but he was still relatively young and needed the income. Besides, he would miss his students too much to walk away.
His rants about deans, department heads, and the over-air-conditioned classrooms were finally winding down. He took a deep breath and poured each of us more tea. “I’ve a question to ask, if I may,” he said.
I nodded that he might. How else could I respond?
“When you moved over there,” he said and nodded toward the new house, “I was unable to detect a strong indication that you were a strongly adventurous person. You seemed a bit stuffy, if I might say. No offense taken, I hope.”
I laughed and took another sip before responding. “None taken. You summed me up quite well.” Well, but a bit pedantically, I thought.
“So, what has occurred since then?” he asked. “You, and some of your nonconforming friends, appear to be a crime-solving gathering of citizens without law-enforcement authorization or training.” He shook his head. “My level of fear increases when I watch a police show on television. Why do you needlessly risk your life?”
Fantastic question, Professor, I thought. In fact, it is such a good question I’ve asked it to myself hundreds of times since I moved to this side of the Folly River.
“I wish I knew,” I said. “I’ve thought about it myself.”
“And you have concluded?”
“Concluded,” I said and then giggled. “Sometimes I conclude that I’m an idiot; sometimes that I have lost touch with reality; sometimes that I have a death wish; sometimes that I must be atoning for all those years of boredom in sales and HR in my former work life; sometimes …”
William raised his forefinger to his lips in the international symbol for silence. “This is where I would stop my student and say, ‘Let me clarify.’ In other words, I’ve heard enough.”
“Yes. Dr. Hansel,” I said and smiled.
“Remember a couple of years back when my good friend Julius was murdered and I was hospitalized for depression?”
How could I have forgotten? Charles and I were almost killed trying to prove that William’s friend Julius was the victim of a murder and had not committed suicide like the police had concluded.
“Sure,” I said.
“You had become my friend—for reasons I cannot understand—and when I told you that Julius could not have killed himself, you took it upon yourself to seek the truth. And then last year, you and Charles were compelled to seek out that horrific crossbow killer rather than letting the duly sworn police officers do their job.” He paused.
“Of course I remember. Almost got killed in the process.”
“You got involved—foolishly got involved—because some of your friends were in danger. Is that not correct?”
“Yeah, but …”
“But nothing,” said William. “I believe you can stop asking yourself why you get involved. I, of course, am not a professor of psychology. I know very little about that soft science, but it is abundantly clear that you have an extremely strong, possibly latent, gene about friendship. Except for the time you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and were almost incinerated”—he once again nodded toward the lot where my former residence stood— “friendships were why you acted—acted foolishly, but still took action.”
“I don’t know anything about strong or weak genes,” I said, “but you’re right about friends. I’ve made more good friends in the last few years than I had accumulated in my life.”
He smiled. “Folly Beach does that to people,” he said. “Don’t ask me why; it just does.”
The smile left his face, and he shook his head. “I fear that you’re going to be in danger once again. Your friend Charles told me Saturday that the two of you are looking into the untimely death of Mr. Long.”
“Not really,” I said. “Besides, Long wasn’t a friend of mine. Why would I care?”
“Charles is your friend; he said that Sean Aker is a friend of his and is a suspect, perhaps the only suspect. Don’t forget, you had never met Julius before he was killed, but you got involved because of me.”
“That’s different … that’s different,” I said and changed the subject. “Are you still active in Preserve the Past?”
William let me off the hook and didn’t ask how it was different. “I am. We are finally making significant headway on saving the lighthouse. Sean Aker, the attorney everyone is talking about, is a major contributor to the cause. He doesn’t make it public, but he’s very generous to the group. You should join us sometime.”
“I will.”
The primary focus of Preserve the Past was to raise funds and awareness to the plight of the historic, but deserted and deteriorating, Morris Island Lighthouse, just off the eastern end of Folly Beach. It was interesting that Sean’s generosity had been mentioned twice today.
William bragged about his garden and a couple of his students who had won prestigious scholarships to study in Italy over the summer before I said I needed to be going. He said to stop by any time; I knew he meant it.
I left William’s house and drove off-island to the small cemetery where Mrs. Klein had been buried less than a week ago. I offered a silent prayer at the recently disturbed, dirt-covered resting spot of her empty shell. I didn’t spend much time at the grave; my memories of Mrs. Klein were of her in life, not in the concrete vault below my feet.
I walked to the edge of the cemetery, the spot where the well-groomed meadow dropped into the salt marsh. It was a couple of hours past low tide, and the water level was beginning to rise in the low-lying troughs. Three blue herons were majestically perched along the shore, patiently waiting for lunch. A handful of fiddler crabs scampered to safety when they sensed my presence. The distinct marsh smell filled my nostrils. Newcomers often believed the smell, reminiscent of rotting eggs, was sewage; but my walking encyclopedia, Charles, enlightened all who would listen, explaining that it was hydrogen sulfide caused by decaying bacteria. The temperature must have been in the low nineties, but a westerly breeze made it tolerable.
I was certain that I couldn’t see the spot where Tony Long’s body had been discovered, but the surroundings would have been nearly identical. The marsh between Folly Beach and much of the coastal areas had as much personality as the ocean; I often preferred it to the ocean side. The marsh was ever-changing; the seasons were defined by the color of the active marsh grasses. It had its own beauty and mystery.
William’s analysis of my behavior was also shrouded in mystery. Was he right? Sure, I thoroughly enjoyed the friends I had accumulated in the last few years and knew I would do almost anything for them. But would I put my life in danger? Would I risk gracefully fading off into the sunset? If anyone had asked me four years ago, I would have shouted, No! Had I changed that much? Could it be that I realized that I did
n’t have that long left? Other than a few photographs, and memories in the hearts of those who knew me, what had I contributed to the world? If I were honest, I’d conclude I’d not made any meaningful contribution. I had no children to carry their memory of me, or lessons learned; no wife to remember me as no other could.
If my professorial friend was right and friendships were that important to me, perhaps my legacy would be through helping my friends. What better way than helping them stay alive and out of trouble?
My cell phone ringtone interrupted my solving the nature of man and my place in the galaxy. Larry LaMond, former cat burglar and current owner of Folly’s only hardware store, Pewter Hardware, called to ask if I could join him, Cindy Ash, his main squeeze in Charles’s chatter, Heather, and Charles that night at Rita’s Restaurant. He wanted me to see if Amber could join the group. Larry was one of my new friends and had participated in several of our impromptu parties over the years but to my recollection, had never initiated one. Something was up. I said I’d be there and would call Amber.
I overcame a minor twinge of guilt about making calls from a cemetery and punched in Amber’s number. She was still at work and couldn’t talk long, but said that Jason was spending the night with a school buddy and she would meet us at Rita’s.
“Guess the rumors are true,” she said and rang off.
“What rumors?” I asked the dead phone.
Larry and Cindy were already at the restaurant and had commandeered two tables pulled together in the center of the patio. I met Amber at her second-story apartment on Center Street, and we walked hand-in-hand two blocks to the restaurant. I was surprised that Charles wasn’t there; after all, I was ten minutes early. Larry speculated that Heather might have corrupted my always-early friend. Fat chance, I thought.
The waitress brought two glasses of white wine to the table before Amber and I had a chance to settle in our bar-height chairs.
“It’s on us,” said Cindy. One empty and two full beer bottles were in front of the smiling couple.
