The Marsh

by Bill Noel

  He brought the coffee to the table and sat on the opposite side from me. He stared at the pig logo on the cup and then took a sip.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he began. I hoped it was a long one, and I nodded. “Until nine years ago, I was an accountant—a good accountant, a danged good one. I had a lucrative practice up north.”

  It took me a moment for what he said to soak in. Of all the things I’d imagined he would say, that was somewhere below the bottom. He took another sip and stared at me—more like stared through me.

  “One problem,” he continued. “One big problem. I only had one client, the mob. How I got involved is a long story; I won’t bore you with it; suffice to say, I got deeper and deeper in places where I shouldn’t have been.”

  I hadn’t gotten my hands around what he said but began to feel that today might not be my last day on Folly Beach. The Harley who was speaking didn’t sound like the Harley I had known for the last eight months—words like lucrative and suffice weren’t words that I had heard from his lips.

  “How did you go from an accountant to a plumber?”

  “About nine years ago, I was enjoying a round of golf at a private club I belonged to; beautiful day, nice, warm sunshine. Then I was struck by lightning—actually, something worse. I had been paired with a guy I hadn’t seen before; we had just finished putting on the fifteenth green …” Harley smiled, “I was two up on him.” He hesitated again and shook his head. “And then the guy reached in his pocket, and instead of pulling out a tee, he flashed a badge, identified himself as a special agent for the FBI, and said he had an offer I shouldn’t refuse.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I offered him more coffee. I was surprised when he said he’d get it and slowly walked back to the Mr. Coffee.

  “The guy said he needed my help and offered me something he thought I’d value—freedom. He said he had enough on me—tapes, video and audio, computer printouts, and photos—to put me away for the rest of my life. I knew he wasn’t bluffing.”

  “And he wanted you to testify against your colleagues?” I asked.

  “Affirmative,” said Harley.

  “And you did, and let me guess, you’re now a fine, upstanding member of the elite Witness Protection Program.”

  Harley grinned. “Technically, it’s the Witness Security Program; but yes, that is what I am.”

  “And you’re telling me this because?” I asked. My breathing came more regularly, and I regained hope that I would survive.

  “Chris, I’ve watched you closely ever since we spent time in Hurricane Greta; I watched you when we saved poor Mrs. Klein and me and how you handled the overbearing cops after that. I know your reputation of helping friends and, through skill or dumb luck, catching killers. I’ve seen how you watched me when I was in the attorney’s office; you think I killed that damned lawyer and … and Colleen … my girlfriend.” He lowered his head; he was hurting, and I waited for him to continue.

  He finally did. “The guys I helped put away have long memories and short fuses. It’s not that I don’t trust the feds; I do. But when I heard that that damned lawyer, Long, had mob connections, I knew there was a chance someone would recognize me. Sure, my name’s different, accountant to plumber is a big leap, but I’m still the same old, big, burly, ugly guy I always was.”

  “No wonder you didn’t want your photo taken for the Folly Current after you saved Mrs. Klein,” I said.

  “Yeah, and then you go dragging me to the damned lawyer’s office about her will, making me sit in the same waiting room where the mob could be checking to see who knew their crooked lawyer. All I want to do is hide, and here you are, parading me in front of all sorts of people. Hell, Chris, why not just send a photo of me with an invitation to my coming-out party to my old mailing list?”

  Harley stood and walked to the front of the gallery and unlocked the door. I followed him, but instead of him leaving, he slowly walked around the room and looked at the framed photos. “Not bad,” he said. “If I wasn’t a poor plumber, I might buy a couple.”

  I elected not to mention that he was no longer poor; Mrs. Klein had seen to that. I knew what he meant.

  I snapped my fingers. “The story about being arrested in a bar fight. Was that true?”

  His face erupted in a wide grin. “Nah,” he said and raised both arms into the air. “Made it up. Good story, I thought.”

  “Why?”

  He continued to smile. “Sounded like something a guy named Harley would do, and it explained my reluctance to be around lawyers.”

  I returned his smile. “Good job,” I conceded.

  I had new admiration for his creativity—especially from an accountant.

  He abruptly turned back to the door and stopped smiling. “Please, please don’t tell anyone about this conversation—not even Charles. My life’s in your hands.”

  He was out the door before I could respond.

  I had no reason to doubt his story, but in the back of my mind, I wondered. So what? He could still have killed Long and Colleen. If he had known about Long’s mob ties, that could have been the motive I couldn’t figure out.

  My head hurt—after the last two days, a well-deserved headache.

  Greg Brile had been completely off my radar as a suspect until Mel told me about the conversation he had had with his friend. I wasn’t aware of any connection between the cheerful bar owner and Long; Colleen had worked for Brile, but so had many others.

  I grabbed a yellow legal pad from the counter next to the Mr. Coffee and began a list of suspects. Seeing it in writing might jar something loose. Despite my misgivings, the number one suspect was still Sean Aker. He had motive, means, and a temper. He had a boat to transport the body into the marsh; his law partner had stolen from him; he was having an affair with Long’s wife; there was a history of bad blood between the two; and the police had focused in on him from the beginning. On the left side of the paper, I outlined the reasons he would be the killer. On the right, I listed the reasons he wouldn’t. There were only three for innocent, and one of them worthless—Charles’s and my hope that he didn’t do it. I still couldn’t figure out why he would torch his own office, since he already had access and could have removed whatever he didn’t want found. And he was familiar with the rise and fall of the tides enough to make sure the body wasn’t able to wash to the stream and be found as quickly as it was. But if I were the police, I’d be at his door with handcuffs out.

  I shook my head and wondered why I needed to continue the exercise; I slowly walked to the refrigerator, got out a Diet Pepsi, and continued anyway.

  I flipped Sean’s guilt-ridden page over and started the next sheet with Conrad Elder and listed why he would be guilty; but other than his fight with Long and lying to Charles and me, there wasn’t much I could add to the blank page. Sure, with his wealth, he would have access to any boat he wanted, and he definitely had a grudge against Long. But there were more questions than facts. Did he even know Colleen, had he ever been in GB’s, and most importantly, with so much money, would he have had sufficient motivation to kill? I didn’t spend much time on his page.

  That brought me to Connie, Long’s wife. A motive would have been pure speculation. Perhaps she wanted a way to permanently eliminate her husband and live happily ever after with Sean; perhaps she just wanted to eliminate her husband—not the first wife to act on that wish. From what Marc Salmon had told Charles, she would have had the means, having been raised around fishing, hunting, marshes, and glades. I wondered if she would have had the strength to lift her husband’s dead weight enough to carry him into the debilitating pluff mud and dump the body, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. Besides, she could have conned him into the boat ride and killed him where the body was found; no hard lifting required. Her lack of strength would have been a good reason why he was dumped so close to the stre
am. I put the pen down and stared at the ceiling. Instead of some divine inspiration or insight, all I saw was a burned-out bulb in the overhead florescent fixture.

  I sighed, flipped the page, and wrote “Harley McLowry” at the top. Until two hours ago, I would have been more confident with listing the plusses below his name. He had been more than distressed at the Aker and Long offices; he had dated Colleen; without doubt, he could have killed anyone he wanted to—quickly and efficiently—and dumped the body in the marsh; he had no background on record. What he didn’t have was a motive for Long’s murder.

  Since the early-morning visit, the visit that almost sent me to the funeral home, he had dropped near the bottom of my suspects—not completely fallen off the list, just slipped to the bottom.

  Dillon, the drunk at GB’s Tuesday, seemed to have known Colleen and according to Greg, had begun coming around about the time Long was killed. But even if there was a tenuous connection to Colleen, did he know Long?

  Now to the name that jumped to the top of the list with a bullet: Greg Brile. Before my conversation with Mel last night, I had never thought of Brile. But even after having learned that the late Tony Long was allegedly a silent partner in GB’s, what else pointed to him as the murderer? Once again, I looked to the burned-out florescent bulb for inspiration; once again, it failed to illuminate. My fall-back plan for inspiration was to grab a new bag of Doritos and stuff two chips in my mouth.

  What did I really know about Greg Brile? Very little. If Long was his silent partner, there could be obvious avenues of discord between the two. Brile, like bar owners in resort areas everywhere, often had to serve as a bouncer—wimps need not apply. I remembered how Greg had handled Dillon the other night; he had smiled, but had a death grip on the back of the drunk’s shirt. I didn’t know if Brile had a boat, but he would have had easy access to several if he didn’t own one.

  Then the Doritos memory-refresher kicked in. Something had bounced around in my unconscious the other day about our visit to GB’s. It was something Greg had said, but I couldn’t remember what—until now.

  He had jumped on Heather for singing two songs during open-mike night the day of the law office fire. He said that he “heard you sung two songs …” Greg hadn’t been in the bar when Heather massacred twice as many songs as she was permitted. The bar was nearly full, and I remembered that Gregory was in earlier and after Heather’s debasement of two great songs. I assumed he was there the entire time. I doubted anyone could swear that he wasn’t; GB’s was packed, as usual. He had a perfect alibi. And since Colleen worked there, it wouldn’t have been too suspicious for him to show up at her apartment. I assumed she had learned something bad from a customer; now I realized it could have been from her boss—his motive for killing her.

  I flipped the pages back in the yellow pad and slapped it on the table. What do I do now? If Charles were here, he’d say we should “stomp over to GB’s, find the murdering, two-faced, egg-sucking sleaze-ball, and beat a confession out of him.”

  I was more subtle, but still didn’t have an answer. There was no way that I would talk to Acting Chief King about my suspicions. If I shared them with Cindy Ash, she would be obligated to go to King. Detective Braden with the Charleston County sheriff’s office was investigating the murders, but he had me pegged as a butting-in trouble-maker; hardly the opening I would have liked. That left Karen Lawson. It wasn’t her case, but she trusted me.

  I caught myself pacing back and forth in the small back room. I stopped and looked down at the legal pad, took a deep breath, grabbed my cell phone from the table, and punched in her number from the speed-dial menu.

  Karen answered on the second ring with a cheerful, “Hi, Chris.”

  I was glad that she sounded so happy to hear from me, but proceeded to try to ruin her day. I told her what I had learned from Mel, what I had remembered about Greg’s conversation at open mike night, and why I thought he had killed Colleen. My explanations were rambling and not in the best order. She listened carefully and asked me to repeat parts of it two and three times. Karen had years of experience listening to witnesses ramble and drift off on tangents, so she understood what I was trying to say.

  Finally, she told me not to do anything—said it twice—and that she would take care of it. She ended the conversation with “See you soon.” Interesting, I thought; I doubted that was something she told all her witnesses.

  Most of the time, I didn’t have trouble doing nothing. After all, I had spent most of my life working in a less-than-exciting job, contributing less-than-anything-significant to society. Now I was retired, supposed to enjoy the twilight years—whatever that meant—and doing nothing. Other than stumbling upon a few dangerous glitches since moving here, I had succeeded.

  Today wasn’t to be one of those days. I was relieved to have handed the Brile situation off to Karen Lawson, but still had a sour feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t do anything about the murder, but I couldn’t stand back and let Amber walk off into the sunset. It was a little after three, so she should be home from work. Do I show up at her apartment or call? I didn’t want to inflame the already tense situation by showing up, Tilley in hand. I called.

  Her stilted response after hearing who it was was followed by silence; I feared she would hang up. I asked—more accurately, begged—her to meet me for drinks. She finally agreed to meet me on the patio at Rita’s. I thanked her and got off the phone before she changed her mind.

  I still hadn’t heard from Charles and finally remembered that he would be “running an anthill full of errands for the surf shop” and wouldn’t be in. He hadn’t enlightened me on how many errands were in an anthill, but it should be a lot, I would think.

  I had met Amber many times in the last couple of years, but had never been more nervous. I knew it wouldn’t be the last time to see her, but could easily be the last opportunity for me to plead my case. Rather than continue to deepen the shoe-worn paths in the gallery’s wooden floor, I headed to Rita’s and arrived at four-thirty, a half hour before our meeting. The patio was full, and I stood at the outside bar until one of the tables opened. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I silently thanked the owner for adding the permanent roof over the patio. Amber walked through the restaurant on her way outside as the waitress brought my glass of wine. I pointed to the glass, and Amber nodded before she got to the table. I ordered one for her.

  Her face contrasted with the crispness of her peach-colored shorts and off-white golf shirt. She looked tired, and her eyes reflected a sleepless night; her shoulders slumped, and her smile was forced.

  I had rehearsed what I wanted to say on my walk over, and ran through it again while I waited for a table. Now that I was sitting in front of Amber, I was struck with stage fright, with cue cards nowhere in sight.

  I tried to apologize and then realized that I didn’t even know what I was apologizing for. I started to tell her that Jason wasn’t in any danger and then realized I couldn’t honestly say that. I almost told her what I had learned about Greg and then remembered that my meddling in a murder was at the root of her fears. Her drink arrived, but she ignored the glass. The waitress asked if we wanted anything to eat, and Amber shook her head. I heard the laughter of little kids but didn’t turn my head to see where it was coming from.

  I finally looked her in the eyes, shook my head slowly, and said, “I love you, and have for a long time; I don’t blame you for what you’re doing.” I hesitated. “Jason must be your priority. I don’t think he’s in danger, but I can’t promise that. Colleen’s murder a few feet from your apartment brought the horror home to you—I understand. I … I … Never mind. Thanks for hearing me out.” I looked down at my glass but didn’t see anything.

  Amber put both hands over mine on the table and smiled. “Chris, you know I love you too—have almost since I first saw you in the Dog. I know nothing is permanent—God knows, I know that … bu
t I’m scared … I’m scared for Jason … scared for me … scared for you. I couldn’t take it if something happened to you, and I know you can’t back off when a friend’s in trouble. To me, that’s one of your best traits—and your worst. Maybe … maybe when things calm down …”

  The ring tone of my cell phone startled both of us. We stared at the phone bouncing in vibrate and ring mode on the table. It reminded me of a cobra preparing to strike. I didn’t realize how accurate the analogy was. I shrugged, and Amber’s eyes penetrated my skull like a laser beam through a marshmallow.

  “Get to Heather’s place quick,” yelled Charles. He sounded out of breath and desperate.

  “Can it wait?” I said and looked at Amber. “How about an hour?”

  “How about five minutes?” said Charles. I didn’t detect any negotiating in his tone.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Strange,” he said. “Something about Greg Brile and Cal.”

  Amber’s eyes hadn’t left my face. I could almost see hope slipping from her body. “Okay,” I said to Charles. If he hadn’t mentioned Brile, I would have said no. Charles didn’t know the latest about the bar owner.

  I pushed the end call button and saw a flicker of sunlight reflected in a tear under Amber’s left eye.

  She wiped it away and motioned for me to leave. “Go,” she said and then sniffled. “I’ll be fine. Go.”