by Bill Noel
He spotted me in my customary spot against the opposite wall and headed my way. “Yo, Chrisster, get hot chocolate at candy melt?” he asked as he pulled up a chair and dropped his magazine on the table.
I went out on a limb and guessed that he referred to the fire over the candy store. Pain shot down my left leg at the thought of the flaming door tumbling toward Charles and me. I forced a smile and said, “Nope. Were you there?”
He waved his right arm in the air. “Flat-out fine flames. Smoke signals.” He moved his arm back and forth in front of him. “Folly’s finest fire fighters fighting fires.” He hesitated, lowered his hand, and rested his elbows on the table. “Who could miss it?”
That was one of the longest statements I had heard him make—and to a yes-or-no question. I laughed. Amber wasn’t nearly as concerned about Dude’s weight and delivered an order of French toast with extra butter along with a cup of hot tea—his favorites. The inviting smell of the French toast tempted me to steal a bite when Dude, and especially Amber, weren’t looking.
“So what do you think happened?” I asked as he attacked his French toast with abandon.
“First thought be Martians,” he mumbled. “But not—they flew out Sunday.” He took another bite. “Must be cat that kilt lawyer. Must be other barrister—Sean.”
“Why Sean?”
“See him at bonfire?” asked Dude.
“No, did you?”
“Negative.”
“So why him?”
“Your gallery be blazing; you be there. Be biting nails, pacing, de-straught. Right?” He continued before I could figure out if there was a question to answer. “Barrister not there.” He held out his hands and tilted his head. “See, he be flamethrower.”
Dude could be right, flawed logic aside. It seemed that all clues pointed to Sean. I didn’t want it to be him; but wanting meant zip. I wished Dude had made a better case for the Martians. And then I leaned back in my chair, looked at the granola in front of me, listened to the rumors swirl around the room, and watched Dude attack his French toast like he hadn’t eaten since arriving on this planet. This was surreal.
At the time, I didn’t realize how quickly I would move from surreal to breath-catching, terrifying, real.
The rest of the day was anticlimactic after breakfast with Dude at the rumor mill. Charles had left a note in the gallery saying that he had a real, paying job for the day with Marlene’s husband. It was a relief knowing that he could make some money; hopefully it would soften his transition from sales manager at the gallery to … whatever. Local residents, and even a few vacationers, came in to share stories about the fire; the cash register sat untouched in the corner. I wondered if Sean knew more about Mrs. Klein’s estate, but I felt bad about his tribulations and didn’t want to ask.
Amber wanted me to go with her to her son’s Babe Ruth League baseball game. It wasn’t my idea of fun, but I couldn’t come up with a good reason not to go. It could be a welcome diversion after the fire.
I arrived a little before six. She lived on the second floor in a building that faced Center Street. She was in the second of six small, identical apartments. The view wasn’t spectacular, but the location was in easy walking distance of her work and every business on the island.
Jason was decked out in his uniform; the number seven was stenciled on back of the white shirt and “Tigers” proudly displayed on the front. His red-and-white cap was cocked sideways on his head. He was walking along the narrow, wooden walkway in front of the apartments.
“Looks like you’re ready,” I said.
Talking to a teenager for me was about as simple as carrying on a coherent conversation with Dude.
“Yeah,” he said. “Mom’ll be out in a minute. She’s primping.” He walked toward me and stopped. “Mr. Landrum, I have a question.” He hesitated and then walked back to the far end of the walk and stopped in front of the last apartment.
I followed. When I got near the door, I heard a television blaring and felt the walkway vibrate from the thunderous volume.
Jason looked down at the walk and back up to me. His hands nervously played with his cap and then his belt. “Mom tells me not to be nosy,” he said. I barely heard his words. The television continued to blare. He nodded toward the door and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Television’s been that loud all day.” He nodded toward the room. “The lady who lives there is always real quiet.” He hesitated again. He looked around; his eyes darted from me to the railing overlooking the building and back to the door. “I never hear anything from there. I come up these steps all the time.”
There was a set of stairs at each end of the walkway. The stairs closest to Amber’s apartment were the most convenient to Center Street, but the back stairs led directly to the parking lot.
“Have you seen her today?” I asked.
“Umm … no, just heard the television.”
Jason was clearly concerned, and I didn’t want to simply tell him not to worry about it. I asked myself WWCD—What Would Charles Do? For him, it would be a no-brainer. I knocked on the door. I didn’t get a response to my first knock; no surprise, considering the decibels that blared out of the television. I knocked harder.
The door wasn’t latched and opened about an inch the second time my fist struck it. The sound of the television doubled. The intense noise didn’t bother me nearly as much as a pungent odor, a smell I had encountered way too often since moving to Folly Beach—the distinct, nauseating smell of death.
I stepped back, took a deep breath to regain my composure, and turned to Jason, who was inches behind me. “Go to your apartment and call the police. Tell them where I am and stay with your mom until I get there.”
He glanced at the slightly opened door and then back to me. He didn’t say a word and charged down the walk like he was trying to outrun a throw to first base.
I raised my elbow and slowly pushed the door with it enough to see in. The floor lamp sitting by a gray vinyl couch was on, and there was a small television in the corner. A local weather-person was talking about the chance of overnight storms. I peeked behind the door and didn’t see anything. Amber’s nearly identical apartment was always immaculate, or as much as it could be with a teenager living in it. This one was a disaster. Newspapers were strewn over the couch and on the floor; a pair of tennis shoes was on a small, plastic table by the couch, and it looked like the carpet hadn’t been cleaned since Jimmy Carter was president.
I yelled “Hello?” over the blaring television. No answer. I slowly walked toward the back, and I wondered how I would explain being there if the resident stepped out of the shower and hadn’t heard me. From the smell, I knew I was kidding myself.
I reluctantly looked in the bedroom; my worst fears were confirmed. I wouldn’t have to worry how the resident would react.
She was dead. And it wasn’t just any she; it was Colleen, the waitress from GB’s.
Bile rose from the pit of my stomach. I turned to see how close I was to the bathroom toilet if I needed it. I pinched my nose and took a deep breath through my mouth; I calmed slightly, but the smell of human excrement made matters worse.
Colleen was lying diagonally across the unmade bed. Her head was cocked toward me and off the pillow. She had on the same slacks I remembered her wearing at GB’s last night. Her black shirt with the GB’s logo was on the floor beside the bed; a black, no-frills bra contrasted dramatically with her ivory, lifeless body. Her flat, rubber-soled, black work shoes were still on her feet. A frayed, lightweight, pink robe was neatly draped over a chair in the corner.
A hypodermic needle protruded from her left arm.
I stepped back and tried to catch my breath. I had nearly succeeded when a bloodcurdling scream filled the putrid air. I tripped on the corner of the bed and caught myself before landing on the deadly syringe.
&nbs
p; Jason was in the bedroom doorway; his hands were clasped on his cheeks. He was as white as the sheets on the bed. Tears filled his eyes. He wouldn’t have been trembling more if he had been standing on an iceberg.
I moved from the bed and hugged him as tightly as I could.
“I’m … I’m sorry, Mr. Landrum,” he mumbled through his tears. “I just wanted to see what was going on—I’m sorry.”
I continued to squeeze him. His tears continued to fall.
I looked back over my shoulder at the bed. There was nothing I could do for Colleen. I didn’t believe I had touched anything, but was so shaken that I wasn’t certain. I carefully nudged Jason through the living room to the front door. He had regained some composure and was shaking less by the time we reached his apartment door. Amber met us at the door and took one look at her son and stepped back. I gave her a twenty-second overview and asked her to take Jason and to call the police.
She didn’t ask any questions and ushered her son toward the couch. I headed back to Colleen’s apartment to wait for the police. I didn’t have to wait long. I heard a siren burst and heard a Folly Beach cruiser skid to a halt in the gravel lot behind the building. It was fewer than five minutes since I left Amber’s apartment. I was relieved to see Officer Spencer; I was afraid it would be Acting Chief King—the one person who could make my nightmarish evening worse.
I gave Spencer a summary of what little I knew. He asked me to stay on the walkway as he went in the apartment. Cindy Ash was next to arrive; my luck was holding. I repeated my story and she followed Spencer into the building.
I looked over the balcony and noticed that a small crowd had gathered. Snapper Jack’s Restaurant was nearby, and patrons on the rooftop bar had a clear view of the apartment and the arrival of the police. A handful of people stood in the gravel lot below and stared up at me.
Cindy came out first and was talking on her hand-held radio. She nudged me in the direction of Amber’s apartment. “You may want to go in with Amber,” she said in a tone that wasn’t a suggestion. “King is on his way. It might not be good if you’re the first person he sees. I’ll have someone come over and take your statement.”
My legs wobbled, and I grabbed the wooden railing on the short walk to Amber’s. She had been watching out the window and opened the door before I knocked.
Jason was on the couch; his head rested on a pillow. Amber backpedaled and sat beside him after opening the door. I went to the kitchen and got a glass of water; my mouth was dry, but I was afraid to drink anything stronger—eating was the last thing on my mind.
I repeated to Amber what I had found, although I knew Jason would have told her most of it. My breathing was back to normal, but I couldn’t get the smell, real or imagined, from my mind. I told them that Colleen had waited on us last night. Amber said she didn’t know her well and that about the only time she saw her was at GB’s. Colleen worked late and didn’t get in until Amber was asleep. Jason said she always spoke to him and “seemed friendly.”
The door shook as a fist pounded on it. I nearly fell off the couch; my nerves were shot. Amber jumped but only stared at the door. Jason asked if she wanted him to get it. She said no and told him to go to his room. He didn’t argue. It could never be good news with someone knocking that hard; I reluctantly opened it.
“Where’s the kid?” bellowed Chief King. His face was red, and his hands balled into fists. If looks could kill, my funeral would be in three days. “Get him in here. Now!”
Amber was holding the back of my shirt. “Why do you want Jason, Chief King?” she asked. She smiled, but her eyes didn’t get with the program. She was livid.
“No problem, Amber,” said the chief. “I just have a couple of questions for him.”
Amber had waited on the chief many times and was on fairly good terms with him—at least civil terms; more than I could say for most people.
Jason had moved from his room to the center of the living room. King saw him. “Could you step outside a couple of minutes, young man?” asked the chief. He stepped out of the way so Jason could exit.
“Do I need a lawyer, Mom?” he asked. He shifted his gaze between Amber and the chief.
“No, hon. I’m going with you,” she said. “The chief just wants to ask what you found.” She turned and stared at the chief. “Isn’t that right?”
He gave a paltry smile and nodded.
Jason and Amber weren’t gone for more than five minutes. Jason tiptoed back into the apartment; his mom stood between him and the chief. King stuck his head around the corner and looked at me. His scowl was as big as ever.
“The kid saved your ass,” he growled. “Buy him some ice cream.” He moved back and then slammed the door.
Jason decided his team could survive the game without him. Amber suggested that we stay right where we were and call out for a pizza. I agreed, since I wasn’t sure I was calm enough to drive. Jason shared that the chief wanted to know what had made me knock on Colleen’s door and whether I had been there before Jason. He said he had told the chief, “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Amber nodded agreement and hugged her courageous son.
That was the last we spoke of what had occurred fewer than fifty feet from where we sat. I did notice that Jason was never more than a couple of inches away from his mom and the security of the couch the entire time. I caught him staring at the front door several times; fear was evident in his eyes. The sight of poor Colleen lying on her bed, needle in her arm, stayed with me much longer.
Conversation the next morning at the Dog was equally divided between the locals, who hashed, and rehashed, the fire and Colleen’s death, and the vacationers, who, from their perspective, debated an equally serious topic: what time to go to the beach. Once again, I was the first to arrive at my table of choice. Amber quickly arrived with my coffee. Her eyes were red, so I asked if she was okay. She mumbled about not getting any sleep and added that Jason had been up most of the night. She headed to another table, and it struck me that the redness might be from tears. I hoped I was wrong.
I was accustomed to seeing Charles or Dude or occasionally Larry walk through the door and head to my table, but I was surprised to see Country Cal, someone who seldom frequented the Dog. I was more surprised when he looked around the room and then headed toward me. He wasn’t wearing his stage garb—an aging, rhinestone coat and an off-white, hair-wax-grease-stained, classic Stetson—but new jeans and a red polo shirt. His spine was slightly curved from spending nearly fifty years leaning over a mike stand made for someone shorter than Cal’s six-foot-three frame. He had already celebrated his sixty-sixth birthday, but years on the road living out of an old Cadillac Eldorado had taken their toll—he looked older.
Cal stopped about a foot from the table and gave me his big, toothy stage smile. “Mind if I join ya?”
I pointed to the empty seat. I liked Cal. We had met last year when he was suspected of killing several people from the boardinghouse where he lived. Charles and I had spent a great deal of time with him and even took a trip to Kentucky and learned way more than we wanted to about every venue along the route in which he had performed.
Cal folded his trim body into the seat and reached toward his head and then quickly pulled his hand back when he realized that his Stetson wasn’t on its normal resting spot. He then raised his right hand and turned to the center of the restaurant. I had seen the maneuver several times; it was effective in bars when Cal wanted a beer but was wasted in the Dog. He lowered his hand but kept his stage smile aimed toward Amber, who finally noticed him and returned to the table.
He turned to me after she left with his order. “Hear about poor, ol’ Colleen?”
I told him that not only had I heard, but I had also found the body.
“Oh geez,” he said. “That had to be terrible. She was such a nice kid.”<
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To Cal, anyone under the Social Security Administration’s retirement age was a kid. “Was she into drugs?” I asked. I remembered how Cindy had speculated about Colleen’s drug use when we talked about how thin—more accurately, emaciated—she was and how nervous she appeared.
Cal looked down at the table and then slowly looked my way. “Yeah. She went down the same road that I did a zillion years ago.” He hesitated. “She knew about my past and told me about a month ago that she’d finally kicked the habit. She was happier than I’d seen her.” Cal smiled. “She attributed it to love.” He leaned back in the chair. “Guess who she was in love with?”
“Harley,” I guessed. At least, that’s who she had shared a motorcycle with the other night.
Cal tapped his hand on the table. “Oh,” said Cal. “Should have known you’d know that, with you being a detective and all.”
I ignored his detective comment. “Do you think she was off drugs?”
“For a while, maybe,” he said. “Took me a couple of years to boot the devil out. My parents were alcoholics, and they tried year after year to stop drinking—never did. Not saying Colleen didn’t succeed; it’s a lot harder than people think.”
“I know she was at work until the fire started,” I said. “What about the rest of the night?”
“Let me think,” said Cal. He rubbed his chin. “It was hectic after the fire. Most of the singers—using that term loosely—left, and I filled in with a few more songs. Good old Greg didn’t want to deprive any of his customers of music to drink by. Sadder the song, more tears in the beer, and more beer. Yeah, I remember her there until it closed at twoish; she had to clean up after that. Why?”
“Just curious. Think she left with Harley?”
