The Marsh

by Bill Noel

  “Can you meet me in about a half hour?” she asked and looked back down the aisle to make sure her dad hadn’t seen her.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “How about Kronic Coffee?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She nodded and grabbed a bottle of wine and rushed to the front of the store. The coffee shop was in the opposite direction from home, so I put my chilled bottle of wine back in the cooler and wandered around the store—more accurately, wandered and wondered. What could Karen possibly want that she didn’t want her dad to hear?

  Kronic Coffee was a locally owned shop located in a tiny strip center on Folly Road a few miles from the beach. The attractive, yellow, teal-trimmed building had become a popular hangout for locals and provided wireless Internet access and comfortable leather seating inside and a couple of outdoor tables for good-weather coffee sipping and conversation. A large, green-white-and-red-striped Italian flag with the word espresso printed diagonally across it was proudly displayed on the porch.

  Karen’s car wasn’t in the lot, so I ordered coffee and then grabbed the table under the flag before someone else took it. No sooner had I taken my first sip when the dark-blue, unmarked detective’s car turned in and parked on the opposite side of the property. Her long, confident gait as she crossed the parking lot made her look like the athlete I knew she had been.

  “Hmm, started drinking without me,” she said. A sly grin alleviated any doubts about the seriousness of her comment. She removed her pantsuit jacket, carefully draped it on the back of a chair, and strolled inside to get a drink.

  “How do you think Dad’s doing?” she asked when she returned.

  “Looked great to me,” I said. What I really thought was that there was absolutely no reason he shouldn’t be back on the job.

  “He’s still a little weak, but blames it on age,” she said. “Not being able to go to work is eating at him more than anything; I think that’s why his energy is low—just sitting, sitting and pouting.” She paused and smiled at a little girl trying to open the door. The child’s mother stood back to let her daughter open it by herself. “Doing nothing will wear you out more than work.”

  I nodded, but still wondered why she wanted to meet me. I doubted it was to talk about Brian’s recovery and his frustrations. I didn’t have to wait much longer.

  “There’re a couple of things I wanted to let you know about,” she said and then took a long sip of iced coffee. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Dad—you know he doesn’t want you nosing in the case.”

  He had made that perfectly clear, and I assumed his daughter, the detective, felt the same way. “You agree with him?” I asked.

  She stared at me and then looked down into her coffee cup. “Yeah, well, of course.” She looked back up at me and grinned. “I should. But I know you. It doesn’t matter what cops think; you’re involved. Besides,” she paused and giggled, “you have a better record than us at solving murders.”

  I returned her smile. “You also know those were pure luck: being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I have no interest in treading on police business.”

  She shook her head but continued to smile. “Whatever,” she said. “The point is, a friend of yours is close to being arrested for murdering his law partner. There’s no way to keep you out of it.”

  “But,” I said.

  Karen raised her cup toward my face. “I have no idea if Aker killed Long, didn’t know either other than by sight. It’s not my case, but let me put it this way: if it was my case, I wouldn’t rifle in on one suspect like our guys are. I told the sheriff what you said about Harley; he told me he’d ‘take it under advisement,’ sheriff-speak for he’ll ignore it.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “To be honest, that pissed me off. I also know the sheriff is leaning on his former deputy, your acting chief. So, an idiot’s running the show—you didn’t hear that.” She gripped her drink so tightly that if the cup had been made out of Styrofoam, it would have been in pieces all over the table and I’d have been running for towels to clean the coffee up.

  “Are they going to arrest Sean?”

  “The only reason they haven’t is his hot-shot attorney.”

  “Abe Fox?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Sean’s on a short leash, and if my source is correct, he’s under constant surveillance.” Karen looked at the other table, where the young mother and her daughter talked about not being able to go to the beach until the dad got off work; they weren’t paying attention to our conversation. Karen continued, “On top of liking Sean for his partner’s death, the medical examiner says Colleen’s death is suspicious.”

  “Why?” I asked. I suspected something, but it was only a suspicion.

  “They found bruising on her upper arm that didn’t have anything to do with the overdose. Speculation is that she may have been held down and then injected.”

  “Her death, accidental or otherwise, couldn’t have anything to do with Long, could it?” I asked. Now I was really confused.

  “I don’t see a connection, but again, I’m not involved in the case and haven’t seen the file. But there is something strange … Shee, Chris, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  I gave her my best you-can-trust-me smile and remained silent.

  “Okay, here’s what’s strange.” She looked up at the Italian flag and then back at me. “I ran all the databases for anything on your buddy Harley McLowry, and nothing negative appeared.”

  “Isn’t that good?”

  “It would be if he existed.”

  “Huh?” I asked, far less than articulately.

  “About four years ago, he popped up having a plumber’s license, driver’s license, a couple of speeding tickets, even a DUI a couple of years ago. But before then, there’s nothing, zip, zilch. It’s like he arrived here from some other planet.”

  “Maybe the one Dude’s from.”

  “Not funny, Chris, not funny.”

  Another common reaction lately.

  “So what’s it mean?” I asked.

  “Don’t know, but at best, it’s strange. I’m still digging.”

  “What about Long’s wife? Weren’t there rumors about her having an affair with Sean?”

  “Verified,” said Karen. “In the sheriff’s mind, that’s another nail in his proverbial coffin.”

  “What about her doing it?” I asked. “Sean may not know about it. Where was she the night of the fire?”

  Karen swirled the coffee around in the mug. “Good question. Better than the dicks on the case have asked. I’ll check.”

  “Thought you weren’t on the case,” I said.

  “I’m not. Enough murder talk; been back to Al’s lately?”

  Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill was a hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the hospital in Charleston. I had introduced Karen to the best hamburger in the universe when Brian was in the critical care unit last year. She and I ran into each other several times when I was visiting my favorite police chief and she was visiting her dad. It was during these meals over burgers, fries, beer, and wine that I got to know the softer side of the tough, hard-nosed detective. I was glad to be there for her to lean on during her traumas.

  We talked some about Al and his hamburgers and joked about my friend Bob Howard, another frequent patron of Al’s and the person who had introduced me to the out-of-the-way hidden gem.

  She then asked about Amber. I was tempted to tell her about the apprehension and distress that Amber was having about my looking at the death of Long and how upset she had been after I found Colleen’s body, but hesitated when Karen looked at her watch. She said time had slipped away and she was late for a meeting. Before she left, she walked around the table and kissed me on the forehead and reached for my right hand and gave it a
squeeze. “Be careful, and please don’t tell anyone we had this conversation.”

  I sighed, leaned back in the green, metal chair, and watched her pull out of the parking lot and turn toward Charleston.

  I haven’t visited all the cities in the country, but have been to my fair share. Charleston is, without doubt, one of the most beautiful. It’s a perfect combination of being relatively small, having more drop-dead gorgeous gardens on both private and public properties per capita than most anywhere, and boasting more stately mansions per block than any city I’d visited. It made a walk through its historic areas a delight most anytime. Sunday morning in the early summer was, for my money, the best walk to take. A slow saunter along the Battery and up and down the narrow streets south of Broad Street had always provided me with fantastic views and an opportunity to stop, watch, and think without anyone thinking anything unusual about it. Hordes of tourists lugged cameras, backpacks, and usually a small child or two and were everywhere. They snooped into back yards of the gentry, admired the multicolored doors that fronted many of the houses, and suffered from mansion-envy.

  I found a rare empty parking space along the Battery wall near White Point Gardens, the stunning public area at the southern tip of Charleston. It was one of the few places where the city fathers hadn’t managed to stick parking meters or signs reminding visitors that parking was limited to residents and short-term opportunities. I grabbed my camera and climbed eight steps to the elevated, concrete walkway that overlooked the bay. I gazed out on the fog-shrouded, Charleston Harbor and could barely see Fort Sumter, the historic location of the first shots fired during the Civil War. The ubiquitous tour busses and carriages that crisscrossed the lower portion of the city had not yet begun their daily rounds, and only a handful of locals were on the walkway.

  A couple of dogs yapped on the other side of East Battery Street, and one dog-walker commanded his canine to “poo-poo so we can get home-zee.” I smiled and wondered if the dog was fluent in traditional American cute-speak.

  A border collie brushed against my leg. It was dragging its octogenarian owner behind it. The dog was on the trail of a squirrel but took time to allow me to pet it. Dogs, unlike cats, can be kind like that.

  The owner gave me a nod of appreciation for slowing his rambunctious canine and commented on how great a morning it was turning out to be. “Beautiful mornings around here are about as predictable at the rise and fall of the tides,” he added.

  I told him I agreed. The dog soon lost interest in its owner’s mundane discussion with me and pulled on its leash. The squirrel had a head start, but that wasn’t going to stop the one-track-mind collie.

  The early-morning philosopher caught his breath and slowly shuffled away, pulled by his much-younger and enthusiastic dog. His comment about the predictable tides rattled something loose from the back of my mind, something that had bothered me since our visit to the marsh near Secessionville. There was no doubt that the person who dumped Long’s body had been familiar with the streams through the marsh; it would have been difficult for a stranger to have found the secluded spot. But on the other hand, the killer had not intended for the body to be found—or if it was found, it would have been so long after the crime that the natural elements, or the scavengers of the marsh, would have made the body unrecognizable.

  The killer had either left the body too close to the shore or dumped it at low tide so that when the first high tide rolled in, the body floated toward the stream. High tide could be some six feet higher than low tide. Someone intimately familiar with the tides would not have made that mistake, would have been more careful to ensure that Tony’s body wouldn’t have floated so close to the waterline that the unsuspecting family from New Jersey had their day, and possibly entire vacation, ruined. In other words, the killer messed up.

  Sean Aker owned two boats and spent most of his spare time on the one that was anchored in the Folly River. He knew the idiosyncrasies of the area waterways, marshes, and tides. If Sean didn’t want a body found, it wouldn’t have been.

  I couldn’t take it to the bank, or especially to the witness stand, but in my mind, Sean was off the hook.

  So, if not Sean, who? And if Colleen had been murdered, who killed her? And why? Could it have a connection to Long’s murder?

  Murder had a way of screwing up what should have been a pleasant walk through the opulent streets in one of America’s most beautiful cities. I headed home with no photos and a camera bag full of unanswered questions.

  Charles was determined to spend some of his newfound wealth and planned to take Heather, Amber, and me to supper Tuesday at Bowen’s Island Restaurant and then to GB’s for open-mike night. I was touched by his generosity, even though I knew he hadn’t received any of inheritance and I would have to pick up the tab. Charles would call it a loan. And since his only working mode of transportation was a bicycle, I would also get to drive us to the restaurant, which was located off Folly Beach. It was the thought that counted, and Charles was never short on thoughts. Occasionally, one made sense.

  Amber was her usual prompt self and met me on the sidewalk in front of her building when I pulled to the curb five minutes early. She slid into the front seat and looked my way and asked how I was. She wasn’t smiling. We exchanged some small talk, and when I reached over to take her hand, she pulled it away. Charles’s apartment was only a minute from Amber’s, but on the short ride filled with silence, it seemed like thirty.

  Heather stood patiently by the stairs at the bed and breakfast; Charles paced in front of the building.

  “Late,” he said.

  Not the kind of welcome I needed after the silent treatment from Amber. “Early!” I grumbled. “Hop in.”

  Charles knew that it was still a few minutes before the time he had told me to be here, but expected me to be early. He lowered his head and gave me a quizzical look from under the brim of his hat. I knew he wondered where I had left my good mood. I wasn’t about to discuss it with him now. Heather, the eternal optimist, radiated a huge grin and was oblivious to tension in the car. She asked if I’d pop the trunk so she could stow her guitar case.

  “Don’t want to have to come back here to get it on the way to GB’s—can’t be late for my gig,” she said.

  How many prayers would be answered if Heather didn’t make it to GB’s? I wondered.

  I pulled out of Sandbar Lane, peeked in the rearview mirror, and smiled—my first since I had left Amber’s apartment. Charles wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt with a cow skull and “Charlie Daniels Band” on the front, his hat cocked to the left so it wouldn’t hit Heather’s large straw hat, and his right arm around her shoulder.

  Heather carried the conversation for the two-mile drive up Folly Road to the turn-off to Bowen’s Island Road. In fact, Heather was the only one who spoke during the uncomfortable ride.

  The road to Bowen’s Island Restaurant began beside the early phases of a condo development and on paved roadway, which quickly gave way to a gravel road, then to a mixed gravel-shell-and-dirt, pothole-marked adventure. The restaurant was at the end of the three-quarters-of-a-mile-long lane. First-time visitors were often convinced that they had taken a wrong turn somewhere. The restaurant has a storied history and was about four years older than me. If not for a devastating fire a few years ago, that past would be readily apparent. Waist-high, rolling hills of oyster shells surrounded the parking area, and the surface was shell-covered. If there were such a thing as an oyster factory, we would have been standing in the middle of it.

  We beat most of the crowd and parked in the lot closest to the building and entered the newest structure on the sprawling complex of buildings, docks, and oyster shell mini-mountains, which was the wooden dining room that replaced the rustic structure that had burned. The building was new, but the furnishings were anything but. Mismatched tables and chairs were haphazardly spread throughout the dining room.
We commandeered one of the large communal tables in the center of the room and left Amber and Heather to hold it for us, and Charles and I walked back downstairs and stood in line to order from the limited fish menu. We returned to the table with a large hole in the center with a bucket underneath to throw the oyster shells in. Since oysters were out of season, the hole remained unused. We sat at one end of the long table, knowing that we would have to share it with anyone who wanted to be friendly. The freshest fish to be found anywhere and the opportunity to talk to total strangers were the two reasons Charles had chosen the steeped-in-character restaurant. Fish was not my favorite food and talking to strangers low on my priority list, so these were the same reasons I had never joined the Bowen’s Island fan club.

  Amber sat on the other side of Heather and began a conversation about Heather’s hat and how hard it was for her to find “just the right one.” Charles was fascinated by a father and his two young boys dangling fishing poles off the small pier behind the building and wondered out loud if the kids would grow up to be firemen or nuclear physicists.

  I looked at him and said, “Firemen.”

  Charles nodded and with an equally straight face said, “That’s what I thought.”

  It reminded me of my early conversations with my quirky friend. I also realized it was his way of helping me get my mind off Amber and the tension that had permeated the ride over.

  The parking lot quickly filled, and the restaurant was nearly full. The locals knew about the outstanding meals, and vacationers returned year after year. Many felt they hadn’t had their vacation until they had spent an evening experiencing the culinary fare and rustic ambiance of the unique restaurant.

  Charles interrupted his fortune-telling about the young fishermen and elbowed me in the ribs. “Umm,” he said and then nodded toward a couple who had zeroed in on the other end of our table. He then leaned closer and whispered, “That’s Conroy Elder.”