by Bill Noel
Chapter Twenty-Three
A low cloud cover hung over the city, keeping the temperature mild for July so, instead of driving, I walked three blocks to City Hall. Chief LaMond’s door was open a couple of inches, so I could see her sipping coffee as she flipped through manila folders. She looked up when I tapped on the door.
“Unless you’ve come to confess to a murder, or give me a new car, turn around and let me see your chunky butt waddle away.”
I took that as she’d love to talk to me. I pushed the door open, stepped in the cluttered office, and smiled. “Morning, Chief. Having a good day?”
She pointed to a pile of papers on the side of the desk. “You know how many calls for service your itty-bitty, understaffed, underpaid police department got the last twelve months?”
“A lot?”
“Nearly eighteen thousand.”
“Wow.”
“Number of citations and warnings, you know, the bad kind, not for good citizenship?”
“A lot?”
“Thirty-eight hundred.”
“That is a lot.”
“Ya think! That doesn’t count more than seven thousand parking tickets.”
“Your point?” I asked, although she would tell me whether I asked, or not.
She waved a computer printout in my face. “The point of all these numbers I have to talk to the city council about next week is that I don’t have frickin’ time to waste talking to you about whatever you made the trip here for.”
“Sorry, Cindy. I didn’t mean to—”
She threw the printout in the air. “Hell, you talked me into it. Let’s walk down the street to get some good coffee, not the crap your tax dollars pay for.”
Cindy jogged down the steps to the sidewalk, like someone would catch her and tie her to her desk if she dallied.
I didn’t need to ask where we were going as she led me two blocks to the Black Magic Cafe, a coffee shop and breakfast/lunch restaurant. It was close to Cindy’s office so she could often be found sipping a drink in the popular business whenever she wanted to escape the bureaucratic burdens of her job. She grabbed one of the outdoor tables while I went for our drinks.
Five minutes later, I returned with two colorful Black Magic mugs.
“Chris, I don’t suppose you were wandering around City Hall when you happened to stumble in my office. Why did I let you buy me coffee?”
I blew across the hot liquid. “True.” I smiled. “Wandering around City Hall isn’t something I often do. You should be honored you’re the reason I was there.”
“How lucky can a girl be? Did you forget my question?”
“I was wondering if you learned anything more about the break-in at the food truck.”
“Nary a thing. I also have no idea who broke in the baby-crap-green Volkswagen minivan the night before last and stole, if you can believe this, an 8-track tape player, or who swiped two baseball bats out of the yard of a vacation rental on East Hudson last Tuesday, or—”
“Got it. You have more problems than cops to solve them. The answer is, no clues, no cameras, no witnesses, no idea who broke in.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” She took a sip of her drink. “Nothing appeared to be taken, so vandalism slips a far piece down the priority list. Sorry.”
“I knew it’d be a longshot.”
“A longshot means there’s a shot. I wouldn’t give it that good a chance.”
“Any news on Anthony Fitzsimmons’s murder?”
“Keep with the questions, and you’ll be buying me lunch, and a diamond bracelet.”
“News?”
“You’ll be pleased that I listen to you, sometimes. I casual-like talked with Captain Gant.”
“Casual-like?”
“I didn’t want him to think he was a suspect, didn’t want to get his Captain Crunch knickers in a twist. I asked if he knew about the shooting. He acted insulted I asked, said that of course, he knew about it. If he said he didn’t, I would’ve arrested him for not being a true Folly resident. Anyway, he did what he’s known for. He went on a tirade about the blankety-blank screwballs who’re digging up the past.”
“Don’t suppose he confessed during the outburst?”
Cindy chuckled. “Not even after he finished the rant when I teased him with, ‘You sound mighty angry at Mr. Fitzsimmons. You didn’t kill him, did you?’”
“What’d he say?”
“The old boy didn’t see much amusement. He snarled then growled out words that sounded like, ‘If you think I did, prove it.’ I displayed my enchanting smile and told him I didn’t think he did but, to satisfy the detective from the Sheriff’s Office, I needed to ask where he was when Fitzsimmons was killed.” She took another sip.
“What’d he say?”
“He said, ‘Asleep, asleep by myself.’ He repeated that, if I thought he shot the blankety-blank grave robber, prove it. His quote was, ‘That’s for me to know, you to find out.’ ”
“That’s all he said?”
“No, he ended our fun-filled conversation telling me to get my rear in gear, go pester someone else.”
“Anything else?”
“Not about Captain. Detective Callahan and I talked to Laurie again. I didn’t think it’d do any good. There are only so many ways she can say she didn’t see anything, or anyone, that night. She didn’t vary from her previous story, yet… never mind.”
“Yet what?”
“Something keeps tugging at my instincts. She’s not telling everything.”
“Like what?”
“Chris, instinct-tugging ain’t specific. I don’t know.” She hesitated and looked around the patio. “Lord, strike me down with lightning. I can’t believe I’m about to ask this.” She sighed. “Why don’t you and, yes, I’m saying it, Charles, make another run at her? For some logic-defying reason, she seems to trust you two.”
I told her about last night’s dinner with Laurie and her friends from Jacksonville.
“See, she’s taken a likin’ to Charles. She’ll tell him things. He has a way of nosin’ into secrets. Don’t tell him I said that.”
I said that we’d try.
She told me she had to get back to the mountain of paperwork.
I promised not to tell Charles what Cindy had said about him nosin’ into secrets.
Black Magic was three blocks from Theo’s house. I was making efforts to get more exercise, so I took a chance he’d be home and welcoming guests. The clock hadn’t reached noon, so I also hoped that, if Theo was there, Sal was asleep. No such luck. Instead of Theo answering the door, I was greeted by black, wide-rimmed glasses magnifying the sleepy eyes of Theo’s brother. I was amazed that anyone could be sleepy wearing a red, orange, and luminous green shirt, the same shirt he had on the last time I’d seen him.
Sal blinked twice, ran a hand through his long, gray hair that hadn’t touched a comb this morning, and smiled. “What do you call a sleeping bull?”
I’d transitioned from someone at the door to an audience. “What?”
“A bulldozer.” He slapped his knee and laughed.
I asked if Theo was home.
“Ah, Theo. Did you know he had to retake his driver’s test?”
Why, again, did I decide to visit Theo?
“No.”
“Yep, he got eight out of ten. The other two guys jumped out of the way.”
I faked another smile then repeated my question about Theo being home.
Sal sighed and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “You’re a tough audience. You remind me of a group of Masons I entertained back in Toledo, or was it Oshkosh? I was getting to my best material when—”
“Is Theo here?”
He stepped aside and waved me in. “Kitchen.”
I waited for another joke. Instead, Sal huffed and headed toward the great room, while I went to the kitchen. Theo was standing at the granite-covered island, slathering butter on a bagel. He wore a lightweight navy-blue robe. Red and white s
triped pajama pants stuck out the bottom.
He turned, saw me, and jumped back. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What? Hang on, let me get my hearing aids.” He left the room, and I heard him clomping up the stairs, leaving me staring at his breakfast and listening to Sal in the great room singing “Danke Schoen.” It was horrible, but at least it wasn’t a joke.
An eternity later, Theo returned. He’d changed into red jogging shorts, a T-shirt with the Nike swish on the chest, plus his signature knee-high support socks. Theo and Sal’s attire reminded me of men leaving a homeless shelter on their way to panhandle.
“Sorry I took so long,” Theo pointed to his ear. “Couldn’t find these. I try not to put them in when we’re here alone.”
Wiser words couldn’t have been spoken. I told him I was nearby and thought I’d stop to see if there was news about Grace. He thanked me then asked if I wanted a bagel. I declined but told him to go ahead and eat.
“Let me heat it then we can go out on the deck. It’s a beautiful day.” He lowered his voice as he looked toward the great room. “I don’t want Sal to hear.”
He poured us coffee while his breakfast was heating and grabbed the bagel, coffee, and headed at Theo-speed through the great room to the door to the deck. Sal was crooning his version of “Ain’t That a Shame” that’d have Fats Domino rolling over in his grave. He ignored us as we slipped through the door onto the sun-drenched deck overlooking Theo’s private pier leading to the Folly River.
After closing the door, Theo pointed toward the great room. “See why I don’t wear these around him?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“I didn’t want him to hear us discussing Grace. He doesn’t know I’m trying to get her to move in.”
We sat in two chairs shaded by a large umbrella on the corner of the deck.
“Have you talked to her since she turned you down?”
“No, the more I thought about it, the more I think her staying here is a good idea. I called yesterday afternoon, got her voicemail. I left a message asking her to call. I’d hoped she’d call last night. No such luck.”
I told him about the break-in at her food truck. He seemed shocked. He asked who’d do such a thing. I told him what little I knew. He said that he was glad the police had gotten involved but, then, I shared what Cindy had said about it being a low priority. What I didn’t share was how Grace had said that she wouldn’t stay with her father-in-law or her comment about how poorly he’d treated her.
“Chris, what should I do if she doesn’t return my call? I feel horrible about how I treated her. I want to apologize.”
“Chief LaMond told her she couldn’t stay on Folly in the truck, so you might check the Walmart lot. She may also move her truck to the space across the street from Cool Breeze Bike Rental where I found her.”
“I could try.”
I smiled. “Or you could stay here and listen to Sal’s combination concert and stand-up comedy act.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I arrived on Folly ten years ago from my hometown in Kentucky, and my life changed. Some say that it changed for the worse, most swear for the better. My existence had been uneventful before I crossed the bridge to the island the first time. I had the good fortune to be born into what in the late-40s had been considered a normal family, with two well-adjusted parents, and no siblings to fight, or compete, with.
I graduated with average grades from an average high school; attended college where I continued to earn average grades; graduated and bounced around in a few unrewarding jobs until landing with a large insurance company, where I had an average job in its human resources department. Like many in my generation, I married my high-school sweetheart; unfortunately, like many of my peers, divorced after twenty average years. I stumbled upon Folly while attending a seminar in Charleston. One visit to the island, discovering one body near the beach, and being stalked by one murderer, the concept of average was yanked out from under me.
I accumulated more friends than I had during my half century in Kentucky. By friends, I’m not talking about people whom I know casually and proclaim to be friends. I’m talking about people who would literally give their lives for me. I knew that, because on a few occasions, some almost had. As surprising as it was, I would’ve done the same for them.
Charles Fowler was at the top of the list. We met my first week on the island. Once I realized that he wasn’t your average wacko, nor was he a killer, we’d become friends. We were also as opposite as possible. I was average; Charles was anything but. I’d worked my entire adult life; Charles had spent the last thirty-two years treating work as if it was a terminal disease. I was an introvert; Charles has never met a man, woman, child, dog, or cat he didn’t want to make friends with. There are other differences, but suffice to say, we had little in common.
One thing I’d learned over the last decade was that friendships, true friendships, know no boundaries. Opposites didn’t necessarily attract, yet they didn’t stop us from becoming close. I also learned that my friendships, true friendships, were cemented when I shared traumatic experiences with others. That’s what changed my life. Well, that and becoming embroiled in murder investigations, getting shot at more than once, getting close to becoming incinerated in a house fire, moments from drowning at the hands of a murderer, and not to mention nearly getting killed in a sabotaged automobile, and on another occasion, run over by another vehicle.
I was dragged, often by Charles, more than once kicking and screaming more, into situations, deadly situations, that should have been left up to law enforcement professionals. I’d been told that, unless I acted, those committing horrific deeds would go unpunished. As the arguments went, since I knew the victims, however slightly, I “had” to get involved. After a while, I started believing it. I suppose that’s why I couldn’t shake the feeling that I shouldn’t, couldn’t, stand idly by while whoever killed Anthony Fitzsimmons remained on the loose. The question was, What could I do about it?
There were two suspects that I’d met, Laurie and Captain Gant, plus the mysterious drug dealer, or dealers, who, to my knowledge, no one I know had met. Laurie would’ve had the most obvious motive: insurance. Gant didn’t like Anthony, or for that matter, anyone who had the nerve to dig for anything from the past. He had motive, means, and hadn’t hesitated to express disdain for Anthony. Was that reason enough to kill? Possibly, although it didn’t seem strong enough. Which brings me to the drug dealer who might’ve been seen by Anthony, thus inflicting upon him a death sentence. Was it possible? Sure. What could I do about it? No clue.
With all that cluttering my brain, I pulled denial, one of my most often used tools, out of my tool box, and headed to Barb’s Books for what I hoped to be a pleasant conversation with the lady whom I found far more fascinating than Theo, or Laurie. She was unquestionably more attractive. I was forced to observe her appearance from across the room. There were six customers in the store with three vying for Barb’s attention. Two more potential customers entered while I was waiting, so I decided to return later. I left the store and came inches from bumping into Stanley Kremitz.
He stopped when he saw me, nodded toward the bookstore, and said, “Looks like books are selling like hotcakes.”
I couldn’t come up with an appropriate cliché. “Sure are.”
“Glad I saw you,” he said as he nudged me closer to the building out of the line of foot traffic. “I’ve been thinking of something I wanted to share. I learned the other day that Laurie, you know, the wife of the guy who was killed out at the end of the island.”
I nodded.
“I learned Harnell Levi was her grandpa. Did you know that?”
I nodded again.
“I knew old man, Levi, back in the day. He was a mean old bastard, yes he was. Getting along with him wasn’t a bed of roses, although somehow I managed to stay on his good side.” Stanley looked around, leaned closer, and whispe
red. “When he was, shall I say, under the weather, he didn’t have a good side.”
“Under the weather?”
Stanley mouthed, “Drunker than a skunk.”
“Was he often under the weather?”
“Yes. I didn’t know him when he was a young whippersnapper. In his twilight years, he was often drunk. I avoided him when I could, but I too had a fondness for the hops. I spent more than a few hours in local bars bending elbows with him.”
Interesting story, I suppose. Now, get to the point, Stanley. “You said you wanted to share something.”
“Tell you what, Chris. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink at Rita’s? The sidewalk isn’t the place for me to share what I know.”
I could count on one hand the number of times someone offered to buy me a drink, so it didn’t take much effort to convince me. Besides, I wanted to know what he had to say. We walked in silence two short blocks to the restaurant’s outside bar. We each ordered wine and took the first sip before Stanley spoke.
“Now to what I wanted to share. One night, I remember it clearly, Harnell and I were sipping beer, swapping tales. Other than the bartender, we were the only two in the joint. Harnell told me he knew where gold was buried on Folly. I figured it as an overdose of alcohol pickling his brain. I didn’t take him seriously. Not at first, you see. I asked him to tell me more. He started rambling about pirates hijacking a ship coming from England carrying tons of gold to the good ole’ US of A, which wasn’t the US of A at the time. I figure a rose by any other name is still a rose. Harnell said he got the information from an old sea captain he crossed paths with, said it was a fact.”
“Stanley, there’ve been stories for ages about pirates’ bounty, gold, and everything else of value, buried along the coast. What made Harnell think it was true?”
“Chris, that’s the same thing I asked him. Know what he told me?”
“What?”
“He had a map to the treasure. He said the old-timer who told him about the gold knew he didn’t have long on this earth, wasn’t able to search any longer, so he traded the map to Harnell for a few drinks. If Harnell was to be believed, the old-timer died three days later.”
