by Bill Noel
Of all the questions, I only answered one with certainty. Today would not be the day for the perfect sunrise photograph; raindrops started bouncing off my Tilley and my delicate camera perched confidently on the tripod. I quickly covered the camera, grabbed the tripod, and headed to the Tides before the rain intensified. I was exhausted, and it was only seven a.m.
I was startled awake for the second time this morning, this time by a homemade cane, wielded by one Charles Fowler. It smacked my right knee. I had fallen asleep in the hotel’s corridor, slumped in one of the lounge chairs that overlooked the pool and the pier. It was not the first time I had snoozed there, and Charles was quick to remind me of that. It was ten minutes before our scheduled meeting with Sean Aker.
After my initial “Ouch,” I asked Charles whether Harley was there.
“No, he’s late,” said Charles.
I wasn’t worried. Any concerns I might have had were answered when I heard the low, pulsating rumble of Harley’s bike pull under the covered entrance to the hotel. I suspected it generated an early wake-up call for several guests.
The sour look on Harley’s unshaven face was enough for Charles not to mention that he was late—late in Charles Standard Time. “Where is he?” asked Harley. His voice bellowed to all corners of the modern lobby.
Charles and I stood in front of the check-in counter. Behind us were steel free-floating steps that led to the next level. Charles grinned at Harley and nodded toward the stairs. “Up there, I suppose,” he said. It was a good guess, since all the meeting rooms were on the mezzanine.
“Come on,” grumbled Harley as he walked to the sisal-covered stairs and grabbed the handrail. The stairs were not only functional, but also provided a designer highlight to the lobby. The handrails were laced with vertical, brown wooden pieces shaped like sea oats—one of the many special features of the recently renovated hotel.
We followed Harley to the wide corridor at the top of the stairs. “Well, now where?” he continued to grumble. Undoubtedly, he would rather be anywhere but here.
I wasn’t nearly the detective Charles was, but a computer-generated paper sign taped on the door of the second meeting room that read “Aker and Long, Lawyers” seemed like a clue. The note didn’t have the panache of the florescent orange surfboard that had announced the firm to anyone who walked along Center Street, but it was effective. I didn’t know whether Aker was behind the door, but was certain Mr. Long wasn’t.
Marlene greeted us with a smile and shared that not only was Mr. Long not there, but Sean also hadn’t arrived. The room was a typical hotel conference room, with tan-cushioned stack chairs slid against the back wall and two round folding banquet tables near the door but placed on opposite sides of the open space.
“When’s he getting here?” asked Harley before Marlene finished her offer to go downstairs and get us coffee.
“Any minute, I hope,” she said. She looked over at me and shrugged, a gesture I interpreted as, “What’s he so cranky about?”
I said we would wait in the large, wide corridor that all the meeting rooms opened to. Harley was more surly than usual, and I didn’t want to expose Marlene to any fits that he might feel the need to throw. He had already established that law offices were not his favorite hangout, even if they were in a beachfront resort hotel.
Harley plopped his compact body down in one of the dark-brown wicker chairs near a window opening onto a panoramic view of the ocean.
Charles grabbed another chair and moved it beside our nervous friend. “Harley,” said Charles, who was looking out at the backlit waves, “I was sorry to hear about Colleen. Were you two close?”
Charles was not only expressing sympathy but also beginning a fishing expedition. I grabbed a chair and moved it close to the two of them.
“Getting close,” he replied. “I really liked her; she was fun.” Harley followed Charles’s gaze out the window.
Charles waited as long as his impatient curiosity would let him. “Was she back on drugs? Hear she had kicked it for a while.”
I was glad that I hadn’t had time to tell him about Colleen’s other less-than-legal activity.
“Looks that way, don’t it?” he said.
It looked that way, I thought. But looks are deceiving on Folly Beach. “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“Hell, don’t know for sure,” said Harley. He looked at me and then at Charles. “Sometime before the big ol’ fire, I guess. Been out of town.”
“Where?” asked Charles.
I was afraid Harley would think we were tag-teaming him, but was anxious to hear his answer. Especially after Heather told us she had seen him outside the law office as it went up in flames.
Harley gave Charles a scowl. “Here and there,” he said.
Sean arrived before Charles could handcuff Harley to a table, point a high-powered lamp at his face, and continue the interrogation. Harley would have been seriously conflicted if he had realized that he was saved by a lawyer.
Sean mumbled an apology and waved us into his temporary office. He asked Marlene to go downstairs and get us coffee without asking if we wanted any. It struck me that he wasn’t comfortable with her hearing whatever he had to say.
I expressed condolences about the office and asked if he had heard what happened.
“Nobody’s saying,” he said. “I feel horrible but really lucky.” He paused and shook his head. “Marlene and I were lucky. We’d just left right before it started.” He shook his head again. “Lucky, really lucky.”
I glanced at Charles. His head was cocked to the left. He had caught the discrepancy between Sean’s version and Marlene’s. Marlene had said that Sean left much earlier.
I didn’t share that it was arson.
“Enough about that, fellows,” said Sean. “Let me get to the point. You must have a busy day, and I don’t want to waste your time.”
What did he know about our day that I didn’t know? Instead of asking “busy doing what?,” the three of us nodded; Harley nodded and grunted.
“I’m about ninety percent through Mrs. Klein’s paperwork,” said Sean. He shook his head. “What a mess.” He took a manila folder out of a briefcase and placed it in front of him on the banquet table. He fiddled with the tab as he talked. “I believe there are two certificates of deposit left that I haven’t quite figured out, but they’re fairly small. I can’t tell if she cashed them or they’re still out there.” He hesitated and looked at each of us and then opened the folder. “It looks like her husband had done a pretty good job of managing money. He wasn’t wealthy, but managed it well.”
“How much?” asked Harley. He leaned from side to side in his chair as if he had hemorrhoids. He stared at the folder and then at Sean.
Sean ignored the question. “I took the liberty of talking to a real estate appraiser from Charleston and then two developers who contacted me when they found out I was handling the estate. I have two cash offers.” He tapped his palm on the folder. “Now remember, Mrs. Klein still had a mortgage, so not all of the sale price would go to the estate.”
Harley pushed his elbows down on the chair arms. I thought he was going to spring out of the chair and grab either the folder or Sean’s throat. “How much?” he repeated.
Marlene opened the door behind us. She balanced three cups of coffee. As soon as she heard Harley bark, she eased back out.
“Let me get to the bottom line,” said the wise attorney. “I’ll go over the details later if you want them.”
“Good,” said Harley.
“It looks like after attorney fees, taxes, filing fees, on and on, the three of you should net about one-point-five million.”
Charles looked at Sean. His eyes bulged. “Gulp.”
I said, “Wow.”
And Harley blinked; he looked down at the fold
er and then up at Sean. “Can I get mine today?”
Sean started to laugh but masked it with a cough when he realized that Harley was serious. Harley stared at the folder like there were three checks in it for five hundred thousand each. Sean explained that the investments and savings could be made liquid in a few days, but that any proceeds from the property would have to wait until the sale closing. Harley wanted to know how quickly the closing could be scheduled. Sean did his best to explain the timeline on selling the property and Mrs. Klein’s stocks and the tedious process of closing the estate. Bottom line, it could be up to nine months before everything was settled. Harley looked at Sean like he had just keyed the side of his motorcycle.
Finally, we agreed to let Sean do whatever was necessary to speed it up and use his best judgment on the various complexities of the process. He did say he could cash the certificates of deposit and close some of the stock accounts and free up a hundred thousand dollars or so within a week. The rest would take time.
Harley brusquely responded, “Get to it.”
We shook hands all around and left the temporary office. Marlene was in the corridor in one of the chairs we had been sitting in before Sean had arrived. Three cups of coffee were getting cold beside her on the ocean-blue-and-tan-striped carpet. Harley glanced her way and then bounded down the stairs. He gave us a half-wave bye.
Charles and I walked slowly to the front door. The electric door opened, and we stepped out into the morning humidity.
“You noticed that Harley didn’t answer your question about where he had been.” I said. “We know he was at the fire; he seems to have forgotten.”
“Yeah,” said Charles. “I also noticed that Sean lied to us about when he left the office the day of the fire.”
“Marlene told us that he left at two,” I said. “Sean said they’d left together; around five if Marlene was correct.”
“So what?” asked Charles.
“So what, indeed,” I said.
Harley roared out of the parking lot and turned right on Arctic Avenue.
Charles watched the brake light on Harley’s cycle as he swerved to avoid a young boy on the way to the beach. “Forgotten, right. As President Johnson once said about Richard Nixon, ‘I may not know much, but I know chicken shit from chicken soup.’”
Charles spent just shy of a nanosecond longer talking about Harley and Sean’s misstatements before his mind and mouth catapulted to the inheritance. Had I heard what Sean said about a half million dollars for Charles? Would I repeat what Sean said to make sure Charles had heard it correctly? Charles said he was “wealthy beyond comprehension,” pondered the need for a “financial guru,” and gave out a guttural “wow” that could be heard by nearly everyone in the eastern time zone. He then remembered that he had to make a delivery for Dude and peddled away on his Schwinn. How quickly the wealthy can fall.
I tried not to think about the money. I hadn’t seen a penny and felt bad that Mrs. Klein hadn’t had any family and had to leave her legacy, and money, to three near-strangers who did what anyone would have done to save her from Hurricane Greta. Besides, I kept thinking about Harley’s reaction. Why was he so anxious to get his money and leave Folly Beach? Coupling that with his relationship with the late Colleen, I was getting a weird feeling. And why would Sean have lied about something as inconsequential as when he had left the office? Had Marlene lied to us? And could she be a suspect?
I wouldn’t have hesitated to talk to Brian Newman about Harley and maybe about Sean, but never with Acting Chief King—my death-wish wasn’t that strong. I was on less-than-positive terms with Detective Burton, the primary on the Long case, so that left Detective Lawson. I reached her on her cell and began to tell her about Harley. She interrupted and said she would rather not talk on the phone and asked if I could meet her; she was starved. I suggested we meet at Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill, a restaurant where we had met before; but she said she wouldn’t have time and suggested McDonald’s on Folly Road.
The restaurant was ten minutes from the house, so I opened the gallery with more enthusiasm than I had in months. I looked at the walls and the displayed photos and smiled. I should be able to keep it open. But did I want to? If Charles were not in the equation, what would I do?
Time nearly got away from me; fortunately, traffic headed toward Charleston was light, and the traffic lights were kind. I pulled into the McDonald’s just a couple minutes late—or in Charles Standard Time, twelve minutes late. Karen was at a small window table with a Big Mac, large fries, and soft drink spread out in front of her. She was runner-thin, so full-time detecting must burn a lot of calories. She apologized for not waiting, said that she didn’t have much time. I sat rather than heading for the growing lines at the counter; I’d eat later.
She was dressed in work garb: an off-white blouse and navy pantsuit. She had the unmistakable aura of a law enforcement official, albeit a lovely one.
“So, why do I have the pleasure of a visit? What about Harley?” she asked. She smiled and leaned back in the tiny swivel-chair; but I knew, despite the casual look, that time was our enemy.
“I hate to bother you about this,” I said. “It may not mean anything, but you’re the only one I could come to.”
I told her about Harley’s relationship with Colleen and how anxious he was to “get out of Dodge”—or in this case, Folly. I shared what I had heard about Colleen kicking drugs and how it seemed suspicious that she would overdose. And finally, how Harley had denied being around the night of the fire when Heather said she had seen him in the crowd.
I didn’t share the time discrepancy about when Sean had left the office.
Karen reminded me how I had described Heather as being a bit nutty. Would she be credible? Could she have been mistaken about seeing Harley? I told her the more I was around Heather, the less nutty she seemed.
Karen took a bite of her burger and grinned. “Knowing your friends, you have an elevated nut-tolerance.” Her grin disappeared. “Do you think Harley had something to do with Colleen’s death? Just because he was in town doesn’t mean he started the fire.”
“I have no idea,” I confessed. “It all seems strange. It’s crossed my mind that he might be connected to Long’s murder. But really, no idea.”
Karen looked around the restaurant and then at the ceiling. “It’s a big stretch to think a biker, with no ties to anyone here, would kill a lawyer, burn another lawyer’s office, and then kill his own girlfriend.”
“All true; I agree,” I said after feeling foolish for the lack of motives in my analysis. “But I saw how uncomfortable he was the first time we were in Sean’s office and then how he reacted this morning.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong; just that on the surface, it doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Now that I say it, I agree.”
“Tell you what,” she said as she began clearing the wrappers off the table, “I’ll share this with the sheriff and Detective Burton. They may scoff, but they’ll have the information.”
We stood, and I offered to walk her to the car. She smiled, said that wasn’t necessary and that I should get lunch. She asked about Amber, and I mumbled, “Fine.” Karen gave me a peck on the cheek and then headed out. Not quite the most professional exit gesture, but it felt good. I was also relieved. Even if I was terribly off-base, I had shared my concerns about Harley with the “proper authorities,” something others—mainly the “proper authorities”—had reminded me to do since I arrived on Folly Beach. I had done all I could do.
Or had I?
Before the traumatic events surrounding the fire and Colleen’s tragic death, Amber and I had planned to have supper tonight at the Sandbar Seafood and Steak Restaurant. Jason was going to spend the night with Samuel, a friend from school, and Amber looked forward to a night out.
She waited for
me on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. I was always amazed how great she looked after a long day on her feet at the Dog. She wore a turquoise short-sleeved blouse and white shorts. Her hair, tied back when she was at work, flowed over her shoulders. She hopped in the car as soon as it stopped; to delay would have resulted in a horn honk from the driver behind me. Amber usually leaned over to kiss my cheek, but this time she just patted my right thigh and pulled on her shoulder harness.
The restaurant was in the same rambling buildings that housed Charles’s small apartment. The well-known dining spot had been in and out of operation since the late 1950s and was one of the island’s few out-of-the-way restaurants and had the reputation of having one of the best menus. It also featured a panoramic view of the Folly River and sunset.
On the short ride to the Sandbar, I asked Amber about work, whether Jason was still going to be away overnight, and how he was adjusting after the trauma of the other night. She gave one- or two-word answers—not a good sign. She sat erect and silent.
The parking lot was nearly empty when we arrived. We had beaten the crowd and were rewarded with a prime table beside the large windows that faced a small pond with the Folly River in the background. Amber continued her one-person crusade to get me to eat more healthily, so I let her order. My main contribution was to request a bottle of mid-priced Chardonnay. I avoided the word broiled if fried was nearby; Amber didn’t give me a chance to utter the evil five-letter word. Broiled flounder with red rice and fat-free dressing on a house salad would be my dining fare. I didn’t argue, especially since she appeared tenser than I had seen her in years, maybe since I’d met her. I tried to lighten the mood and told her that Charles was trying to cut back on unhealthy food and the last time we were together, he’d ordered raw onions and asked if they had celery he could dip in a bowl of chocolate syrup. I thought the story deserved more than a distracted smile—not tonight.
