The Marsh

by Bill Noel

  “You bring hurricanes, then fires, then crossbows, and then killers,” he said as he stepped back and looked me in the eye. “If locusts start swarming, don’t you come back in here. I got enough trouble just getting out of bed.” He broke into another ear-to-ear grin. “You meeting Bubba Bob or that sweet-looking little detective lady?” he asked and looked back at the door.

  I told him Bob, and he said he was sorry; he pointed to the only booth in the building and said for me to have a seat and he’d bring me a glass of his finest boxed wine. I took my usual side of the booth, saving the wider space on the other side for Bob. Al and Bob had been friends for years, although to the outsider it would have been nearly impossible to tell why. Bob had never heard the phrase “politically correct,” and if he had, he would have told whoever used it where to shove it. To him citizens of other countries were Spics, Towelheads, Japs, Wetbacks, damned this, damned that, and worse. Al told me that Bob had made progress. He said that those of the gay persuasion were now called queers and not fags. And according to Al, the greatest leap into the twenty-first century was when Bob stopped referring to Al by the N word and progressed to “Afo-rican-Americano”—which showed not only racial sensitivity, but also Bob’s fluency in near-Spanish.

  Despite their many differences, Al and Bob were close and took great pleasure in insulting each other. Al had christened his sole booth Bubba Bob’s Booth and had salted his jukebox with traditional country music to meet Bob’s musical tastes. Al’s black patrons—who constituted approximately 99 percent of his business—continually grumbled about the selections, but Al simple told them not to push the button if they didn’t want to hear George Jones, Roy Acuff, or Patsy Cline.

  “Where the hell’s my cheeseburger?” yelled the customer who just doubled the number of patrons as he squeezed his way through the door. He was six feet tall and half that wide. He wore a blue-and-white, flowery Hawaiian shirt over tattered red shorts that raveled at the bottom of each leg. His four-day-old, scruffy beard was as disheveled as his white-and-green tennis shoes. He answered to Bob Howard, the best Realtor with the second largest of the three small island realty firms on Folly Beach.

  Bob stopped as the door closed behind him, like he was waiting for applause. None was forthcoming, so he ambled toward the booth and ungracefully scooted in where the table was three feet from the bench seat. I had to push on the table to keep Bob from cutting me in half when he shoved it to get in.

  “Yo, old man,” he said and gave Al a halfhearted smile. “Two cheeseburgers and a quadruple order of fries—couple of Buds to start.” He then acted like he saw me for the first time. “My dear, sweet Aunt Louise is heartbroken over the untimely death of her friend, Margaret Klein. For some reason—only God could know why—Aunt Louise has taken a fancy to you.”

  “Smart lady,” I said.

  Bob slowly shook his head and then continued, “Whatever. She told me she couldn’t stand it if something happened to your damned scrawny ass. Now she tells me that the rumor is you’re meddling in more murders on that damned murder-a-week island where you live.” He paused and took the napkin from under the fork on the table, unfolded it, and then stuck the corner of it in his shirt collar. He straightened it out across his ample stomach and looked back at me. “Now, you hear me—if you go and get yourself killed and break my dear, sweet aunt’s one and only heart, I’ll dig you up, yank you out of your cheap coffin, and wring your damned neck.”

  I choose not to comment on his statement about an eighty-six-year-old’s death being untimely or how little I’d care about my neck after I was already in ground. I merely grinned.

  He smirked, maintained eye contact with me, and yelled, “Where the hell is my lunch? Old man, get the food out here before the guy who’s paying gets himself dead.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Al. He slowly made his way around the empty tables with a tray with Bob’s lunch—feast—and my lonely little cheeseburger. Al set the tray on the table and pulled one of the chairs from the nearby table and cautiously lowered his body into it.

  The comforting aroma of the burgers added a couple of hundred calories to my system before I took a bite. Bob’s massive plate of fries added more.

  “Where’d she hear I was chasing a killer?” I asked. Bob already had his mouth stuffed with fries, so I had to get my words in while I could.

  “How the hell would I know?” he mumbled. A piece of fry fell from the side of his mouth. “She hasn’t figured out how to work a ballpoint pen yet but knows her way around a phone and police scanner with the best of them. Doesn’t matter how she heard; it’s true, isn’t it?” He raised his right hand, stuck the palm in my face, and stuffed another fry into his mouth with his left hand. “Don’t answer. I know you are—no damned need to lie about it.”

  Al had been sitting quietly and sipping on the beer he had added to our tray of food. “So, Chris, who killed the shyster?”

  Despite Bob’s bluster, I knew he would have filled Al in on the goings-on with the death of Long, the fire, and probably the murder of Colleen.

  “The cops think it’s his partner, Sean Aker,” I said.

  Bob tapped his beer bottle on the table; he had been out of the conversation for two sentences and felt neglected. “Damn it, Chris, Al didn’t ask who the cops think it was. He knows they’re too stupid to have half a guess; them getting it right’s beyond all odds.”

  Al gave Bob a dirty look; fortunately, there weren’t any law enforcement officials in Al’s, so Al didn’t have to deny Bob’s absurd claim. “Think the Aker guy did it?”

  “I hope not,” I said. “He’s a friend of Charles and seems like a good guy.” I nodded left and then right. “But he’s the most likely suspect.”

  “Not much of a damned reason for him not to be the killer; if you ask me,” said Bob. “Who else?”

  “Harley McLowry, for one,” I said. “Don’t know why, but he’s mighty nervous around Sean, and he dated Colleen.”

  Bob had met Harley a couple of times after Hurricane Greta.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” said Bob. “Who else?”

  “A guy named Conrad Elder; rich guy who had been fighting with Long about some business deal gone south. I’d like it to be him.”

  Bob raised both arms in the air. “Well, hell’s bells, Chris,” said Bob, “that does it; he’s the one. Al, go call the cops.”

  Another customer strolled in, and Al pushed up on the table to stand and muttered, “Just when it’s getting good,” and slowly walked to the front of the bar to wait on the new arrival. He had to lean on each table along the way.

  “Damned unfair,” mumbled Bob as he watched Al’s painful walk to the front. “Damned unfair,” he repeated and shook his head.

  I nodded agreement and then said, “Got a favor to ask.”

  “Well, of course you do. You better have enough in your pocket to cover another burger and three slices of pie.”

  I nodded and then continued, “Conroy Elder apparently has boatloads of money; got a mansion out past the Washout; drives a new Bentley; made most of his money in cloud technology up in Baltimore …”

  Bob waved his hand in my face. “What the hell is cloud technology?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s Internet related.”

  “Don’t have a clue, do you?”

  “Nope,” I confessed with a smile. “Whatever it is, he made a bunch and thinks Tony Long screwed him out of more.”

  “And,” said Bob as he leaned back in the booth—no easy accomplishment considering his size—and put both arms behind his head, “you want good ol’ Bob to come in and save your frickin’ bacon—again.”

  “You don’t have to save anything; just check on his real estate holdings and see if you can find anything strange about him, either here or in Baltimore.”

  “I thought you and
that half-baked friend of yours were the big-assed detectives. What do you need me for?”

  “Will you or not?” I asked.

  “Hell, yes; I always do, don’t I?”

  “Yes, and thanks,” I said.

  “You’re more fun than selling overpriced condos I have to hawk to keep Betty in bobbles.”

  Betty is Bob’s charming wife, who has the patience of, well, anyone who would put up with Bob. In other words, she’s one of a kind.

  “While you’re at it and in such a generous mood,” I said, “my buddy Cal has a chance to become partners with Greg Brile, the guy who owns GB’s Bar. Could you check Brile’s finances? I’d heard that he was near bankruptcy when GB’s was called Greg’s: Home of Rowdy Rock. I’d hate for Cal to get messed over somehow in the deal.”

  “Damn, Chris,” said Bob, “want me to find a cure for cancer and solve the national debt while I’m at it?”

  I smiled. “If you have time … but first, check out Elder and Brile. That’ll be enough for today. I can’t afford that much food.”

  With business out of the way, Bob and I spent the rest of his feasting talking about country music, a topic we did have in common, and I listened to him tell me why I should invest my newfound wealth in real estate. And—surprise, surprise—he knew an excellent Realtor I should use. I told him I was thinking about using the money to keep Landrum Gallery open. He thought that was a “damned stupid” idea; how, he wondered, was he going to find another sucker to rent the gallery if it wasn’t vacant? Finally, he belched and said he couldn’t stuff any more of Al’s famous cheeseburgers into his stomach.

  I watched Bob walk to the door. Before he left, he swung the plastic bag holding the extra two desserts I had had to buy for Betty. It hit Al in the side. “Out of my way, old man,” he said. We all express love in different ways.

  I didn’t want Al to have to make the torturous trip back to the booth, so I took the money to the bar. As I headed out the door and back into the light, I heard Al ask, “When are you going to bring that cute lady cop back to see me again?”

  Karen and I had not been back to Al’s since her dad was released from the hospital several months ago. Good question, Al, I thought. Good question.

  The sound of Roger Miller singing “When Two Worlds Collide” filled the bar as I pushed the door and walked back into the sunshine.

  Wouldn’t it be great to only have two worlds colliding? I mused.

  “The answer man is in da house,” blurted Bob as he plowed his way though the gallery door. Words like hello, good morning, and how are you weren’t in his everyday vocabulary—neither were diet and I’ll pay. And neither was the concept of being cool—“in da house”!

  Two potential customers were flipping through a bin of matted photographs and pivoted to see who, or what, had entered. Bob grinned at them; his four-day beard was now in its fifth day, and he wore the same Hawaiian shirt from the day before. The potential customers had seen enough—enough photos and enough of the street person bellowing nonsense. They scooted out the door.

  Bob nodded to the opening that separated the gallery from the back room. “Any cheesecake back there?”

  I pointed to the front window. “The Lost Dog Café’s that way,” I said, as I stated a fact that Mr. Howard knew quite well.

  “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll let you buy brunch.”

  I had gotten so good at ignoring comments from my friends that I had been accused of going deaf. I didn’t repudiate it. I ignored Bob; practice makes perfect.

  The Realtor beat me to the back room and the refrigerator in the corner. He was surprisingly light on his feet when food was involved. Bob grabbed a Pepsi and then a bag of Doritos from the counter. “Have some,” I said after he had already helped himself to the food and drink and had plopped down in the rickety wooden chair at the table. I exhaled once he was settled and the chair was still in one piece.

  “Thanks a hell of a lot,” he said as he ripped open the chip bag. “Sending me on a wild-goose chase in Baltimore about some rain-fog-cloudy technology—whatever the hell that is.” He paused his rant and took a gulp of the drink. “I was on the phone all yesterday afternoon calling everyone I knew in Baltimore to find out about your Mr. Elder. Damned wild-goose chase.”

  “And how many people do you know in Baltimore?”

  “One—now,” he said. “Had to call a Realtor I know in Washington, who called someone he knows in Baltimore, who called someone who knew Elder, who called me—collect.” He stopped and glared at me. “He asked what I wanted to know.”

  Why did I ask? I wondered. “What did you learn?”

  “Chill, wild-goose-chase initiator. I’m getting there.” He turned to the refrigerator and pointed.

  I sighed, then went to get him another drink, a fairly low price for information—if he ever got around to giving me any.

  He mumbled something that I translated as thank you; it wasn’t, but was as close as he’d get. “First,” he said as he held his index finger in the air, “Elder is legit. He has tons of money and even pays taxes.” Bob added his middle finger to the index finger. “Second, he’s into stuff. He lives in a five-million-dollar pad in Baltimore’s ritziest area and has a fleet of exotic cars, none made in the good US of A. His cloudy company is a damned goldmine. When it rains, it pours.”

  “So, there’s nothing to suggest he’s the murderer?” I said. I didn’t hide my disappointment.

  “Didn’t say that, did I?” said Bob as he raised the third finger to stand tall beside the other two. “Third, the mystery moves back down our way. My new bud in Baltimore told me to call a friend of his in Charleston, South Carolina, and ask about Isle of Palms.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “That’s the Isle of Palms that’s less than a twenty-five-mile drive from this dingy gallery.”

  Bob was on a roll, right up there with eating as one of his most favorite activities; so I didn’t interrupt.

  “After a call, left message, returned call, left message, a return call, and yippee, talking to a real person, I learned that your Mr. Elder has a good reason to hate your marsh-murdered shyster. Anything else to eat?” Bob had finished the Doritos, held the empty bag in the air, and looked back to the counter.

  “No. So why’d Elder hate Long?”

  “Long story—hee, hee. Here’s the short version: Elder and a local partner wanted to build a big-ass condo development on Isle of Palms; zoning Nazis said hell, nein; Elder greased some palms on Isle of Palms; the local partner split with Elder.”

  “Who’s the local …”

  “In time,” he interrupted. “The local partner then found a loophole in the law and got permits for the development; Elder got the shaft—elevator not included. Long represented Elder; didn’t find the loophole but found hole in local cemetery. Rumor is the grease cost Elder nearly a mil.”

  “Yow, that’s big bucks,” I said.

  Bob stared at me until he knew I was going to shut up, and then continued, “Losing the development cost him about seven mil. I reckon, even for him, that was real money. Did Elder kill Long? No damned idea.” Bob took a deep breath. “Let’s go eat.”

  Thank goodness for the short version. I didn’t fully understand everything Bob had said, but it clearly didn’t rule Elder out. If he was as wealthy as Bob said, I didn’t see enough incentive to want Long dead.

  “Bob, who’s the local partner? Would he have any reason to want Long dead?”

  “Knew you’d get back to that,” he said. “It’s a woman. Last name was something memorable like Smith; first name just as rare—June or Jane. Could be Jan. She definitely wouldn’t have any reason to want Long dead. Hell, Long made her millions. Long was the best thing since sliced chocolate meringue pie.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “Speaking of pie, let’s go.”

  “One more thin
g,” I said as I looked at my watch; it was only ten a.m. “Learn anything about Greg Brile?”

  Bob huffed and puffed and then sat back down. “Damn, Chris. Do I look like Wock-O-Pee-De-Yoo?”

  I smiled at the Duke University graduate—a recently uncovered fact and a total shock to all who knew Mr. Howard. “So, what did you learn?”

  He smiled back at me. “Good news for your singing buddy. His soon-to-be partner is flush. Before he changed his format to country—the only kind of real music—Brile was going under. He wisely changed from a rock bar to country; took on a couple of investors; tricked enough stupid vacationers into thinking GB’s stood for Garth Brooks, and business soared. Yep, good news for Country Cal.” Bob then grabbed the edge of the table and rolled his head. “I’m about to collapse … starvation’s setting in. Now can we go eat?”

  I seriously doubted that starvation would appear on Mr. Howard’s death certificate, but rather than chance it, and so as not to have to listen to him complain more, I waved toward the door. Dog, here we come.

  Stuffed was the best word to describe how I felt after an hour in the Dog with Bob. And I only had pancakes. To Bob, brunch meant breakfast plus lunch—he squeezed in three cinnamon rolls between a double order of pancakes and society street French toast.

  I hadn’t seen Larry for a few days, and his store was only three blocks from the Dog, so I took the opportunity to walk off some of my brunch. Pewter Hardware was located in a tiny, shell-pink building near the post office. Its gravel driveway held only a handful of cars, but if it were any larger, the drivers wouldn’t fit in the store at one time. But like the five-foot-tall owner, its size was deceptive. Neither Bert’s Market nor Pewter Hardware could compete in size with the big-box groceries or home improvement stores off-island; but a rule of thumb on Folly was, if you couldn’t get it at Bert’s or Pewter, you didn’t need it.