by Bill Noel
Faith
A Folly Beach Christmas Mystery
Bill Noel
Copyright © 2020 by Bill Noel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photo and design by Bill Noel
Author photo by Susan Noel
* * *
ISBN: 978-1-948374-34-7
* * *
Enigma House Press
Goshen, Kentucky
www.enigmahousepress.com
Also by Bill Noel
Folly Beach Mysteries
* * *
Folly
The Pier
Washout
The Edge
The Marsh
Ghosts
Missing
Final Cut
First Light
Boneyard Beach
Silent Night
Dead Center
Discord
The Folly Beach Mystery Collection
Dark Horse
Joy
The Folly Beach Mystery Collection II
No Joke
Relic
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
Chapter One
The Folly Beach Christmas Parade is one of my favorite events of the year. Not only does it pay homage to the celebration that has a magical way of touching most of us on several levels, but it also gives my fellow residents an opportunity to show, no, to shout, their unique, quirky take on the holiday. Marching bagpipers sharing the same street with shiny waste-removal trucks, and golf carts overflowing with colorfully dressed elves. Add a UPS truck driver wearing a giant Santa’s hat, city officials and other bigwigs chauffeured in vintage convertibles, riders dressed as reindeer riding yellow mopeds, and since Folly Beach, South Carolina, is not known as the snow capital of the country, a vehicle filling the air with artificial snow. Not a glimmer of beige interrupted the colorful feast for the eyes. Today was festive for children of all ages, for adults who want to relive their days of youth, and for those who simply love to see smiles. Count me among the latter group.
Today was perfect. It was approaching mid-December, yet the temperature was hovering in the tolerable sixties, the sky a crisp blue, with the unfiltered sun reflecting off every shiny surface. My friend Charles Fowler and I were watching the festivities from the ninth-floor walkway of the Tides Hotel, Folly’s tallest building. We had a perfect, unobstructed view of the parade as it made its way four short blocks up Center Street, appropriately named since it roughly bisected the small, barrier island plus being its center of commerce. The crowd lining both sides of the street was treated to the festivities. Most of the children were waiting for the arrival of Santa, perched on one of Folly’s fire engines instead of riding in a reindeer-propelled sleigh, while their parents reveled in laughing at or laughing with many of the parade participants. Charles and I were in the later stages of our sixties, so we didn’t have young children to be sharing the sights and sounds with. We stood along the walkway’s railing savoring the enjoyment of others.
The fire apparatus carrying the man most youngsters had come to see turned on Center Street when it stopped. Two firefighters jumped from the rig then moved to the rear of the vehicle while yelling something to Santa’s helper. At the same time, the sound of laughter from paradegoers was interspersed with the high-pitched sirens of two police vehicles. A second fire engine pulled out of the combination City Hall and Department of Public Safety, a block from the parade’s starting point. Police officers on foot stopped the parade to allow the emergency vehicles to cross the line of the parade. Onlookers scampered out of the way of the emergency vehicles as they crossed Center Street then sped up East Cooper Avenue, perpendicular to the parade route.
Santa was escorted off the fire engine as his handlers commandeered a golf cart holding two colorfully attired elves. The fire apparatus then backed up to turn east on Ashley Avenue, Folly’s longest street.
Charles pointed to the police and fire vehicles moving away from the center of town. “Unless they’re heading to another parade, something big is going on,” he said, sharing one of his rare understatements.
A second parade was a nonstarter, but evicting Santa told me the emergency vehicles weren’t responding to a cat stuck in a tree. A glance to the east reinforced my suspicion. Approximately four blocks east of Center Street billowing black smoke invaded the blue sky. From our elevated vantage point, I saw reddish-orange flames under the plume of smoke.
Before I pointed it out to Charles, he grabbed my shoulder, pushed me the direction of the elevator, and said, “Let’s go.”
I followed without needing convincing. What did take time was the wait for the elevator. It wasn’t an eternity but seemed like it before the doors opened. Sure, we could’ve gone down the stairs, but don’t forget our age. We weren’t fit enough to traipse to ground level.
Center Street was lined with people enjoying the parade oblivious to what was happening a few blocks away. We weaved through the mass of people clogging the sidewalk along Center Street so we could follow the path Santa’s former ride took. The fire was at least three blocks past my cottage on the other side of Bert’s Market. Two engines from nearby James Island screamed past us. A few spectators from the parade had made their way the direction we were headed. Fires trump a parade almost every time.
I couldn’t see what was burning but didn’t doubt it was big. A couple of two-story apartment buildings were on East Ashley. From the number of emergency vehicles plus the amount of smoke filling the sky, I’d wager one of them was the subject of so much attention. The road was blocked two streets in front of us. Traffic was backed up from where it was being rerouted off Ashley. I was glad we were walking rather than stuck in the line of stopped vehicles.
We passed the first apartment building realizing the fire was in the other structure. Another fire truck pulled up behind us, siren blaring, with the added sounds of its horn attempting to get the stuck traffic to pull over so it could pass. It was having little success.
Charles tapped the handmade wooden cane he carries for no apparent reason on the pavement like it would give him extra speed. I slowed to catch my breath. The closer we got, the smell of burning wood, ashes floating in the air like leaves from a tree on a windy fall day, combined with shouts from firefighters, indicated little would be left from the burning structure still blocked from our view by two houses.
Allen Spencer, an officer with the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety I’d met when I first moved to Folly more than a decade ago, was in front of his patrol car which was diagonally parked blocking traffic. He
was furiously waving his arms to get vehicles to turn off East Ashley. When I met Allen, he was new to the department, young, trim, and moved with the grace of a surfer, which he was. Since then, he’d gained thirty pounds. While still dedicated to work, he’d acquired the cynicism adopted by many law enforcement officials after years on the job. He considered me a friend, so he shared more than he would with most civilians.
We stopped beside Allen’s patrol car where we got our first look at what was burning. The fire was, as I’d figured, in the two-story apartment building. The aging, wood-frame, six-unit structure was fully engulfed. Most of the roof had collapsed. Even though several hoses spewed water at the building, flames were still reaching out from the windows on two of the three first-floor apartments. The stairs to the second-floor walkway were barely attached to the building, appearing ready to collapse. It wouldn’t have mattered since the walkway across the front of the building leading to the apartment doors had already fallen. Allen nodded in our direction but was too busy to tell us what he knew about the fire. We passed two Ford pickup trucks, a high-end SUV, and a Harley Davidson parked adjacent to the apartment’s parking lot. Ashes rained from the sky like large, black, sinister snowflakes dotting the top of the vehicles.
Two ambulances from Charleston, seven miles from Folly, pulled up to Allen’s car. He scurried to move it so the emergency vehicles could join the large gathering of first-responder vehicles. My first thought was that if anyone was in the building during the fire, ambulances would probably not be needed.
The building was a total loss, my prayer was that no residents were.
Chapter Two
Yellow police tape was strung fifty yards each direction from the burning structure. The group of bystanders, increasing by the minute, edged close to the barrier. Many of those gathered, Charles and I included, were startled when the remaining section of the roof collapsed. Smoke rolled toward us as fingers of flames darted from around the fallen roof. It may’ve startled us, but it didn’t stop two couples from inching closer to the building, pushing the crime scene tape out of the way as they moved toward the fire.
Trula Bishop, another police officer I’d known since she moved to Folly four years ago, glared at the intruders. She yelled for them to move back as she rushed across the gravel lot to confront the trespassers. Fortunately, they obeyed. Trula saw Charles and me standing obediently behind the tape, then snarled at the offenders before coming over to us.
“Mr. Chris, Mr. Charles, should’ve known you’d be here. Something bad happens, you magically appear.” She shook her head.
Trula was a double minority in the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety. She was one of the few women wearing a badge and even more in the minority being African American. Like most of Folly’s first responders, Trula lived off-island. I knew little about her personal life but knew she was good at her job. Over the years, she’d helped me out of a couple of scrapes I’d gotten in while, along with a few of my friends, helping bring some serious criminals to justice.
That wouldn’t have been unusual if my background had been in law enforcement. It was more than unusual since my entire working career was as a human resource professional with a large healthcare company in Kentucky. The closest I’d come to law enforcement or criminals before retiring to Folly was watching TV cop shows. Some cosmic switch was thrown when I crossed the Folly River the first time. My first week here, I stumbled on a murder victim as I was photographing the iconic Morris Island Lighthouse, visible from the east end of Folly. The murderer figured I may’ve seen him, which I hadn’t by the way. His solution for silencing me was to do it permanently. I’m still around, so he clearly failed, but not by much. Oh well, that’s a story for another time. In the years since that fateful encounter, I, along with some friends, had helped the police solve a few murders, murders that had either touched me or my close acquaintances. That’s how Officer Bishop and I’d become acquainted.
I ignored her comment. “Trula, we were watching the Christmas parade from the Tides when—”
“When the jolly old man was dumped off the fire engine,” Charles interrupted. “Chris said we’d better get nosy. So, here we are.”
Not exactly how I remembered it, but it’d be a waste of words correcting him.
I said, “Trula, what happened?”
Charles interrupted, “Think someone was roasting chestnuts on an open fire and it got out of control?”
Trula stared at him.
“You know,” Charles said, “Like in ‘The Christmas Song’?”
The officer shook her head then glanced at the building, or what was left of it. Flames had died down, but black smoke still filled the air. “Chris, I don’t know. It was fully engulfed when we arrived. I doubt there was anything we could’ve done to save it.”
I followed her gaze, the one she gave after ignoring Charles’s question. “Anyone in there when it started?”
“Our guys got a quick look in the three apartments on the first floor before the roof started falling. They didn’t see anyone. The front walkway up there was already about to fall before we could get to the second floor. I hope no one was up there. If they were, well….”
“Any idea what started it?” Charles said.
Trula shook her head. “The building’s old, wood, a fire waiting to happen. With that said, it went up fast, too fast.”
I said, “Arson?”
“Mr. Chris, I’m no expert, but it wouldn’t surprise me. If she hasn’t already, The Chief will call in the Charleston Fire Department Fire Marshall Division. They’re the experts. If it was arson, they’ll figure it out. Fellas, I need to get back to playing cop.”
“One more question,” I said. “Do you know if any of the people standing around lived there?”
Trula looked at me with a slight smile. “Giving up your career as a private detective to become a fire investigator?”
I smiled. “Charles is the private detective. I’m the old, retired bureaucrat.”
Years earlier, Charles self-proclaimed he was a private detective. He’d never studied to be a detective, nor had he ever worked under a licensed pro, a requirement in South Carolina. What he’d done, or claimed to have done, was read every novel in print featuring private detectives.
Charles beamed, apparently because I’d acknowledged his self-imposed status. Note to self, make sarcastic remarks more apparent.
Charles said, “Don’t worry, Officer Bishop, I’ll remain a private detective, and my friend Chris will still be old.”
Trula sighed. “Over with Chief LaMond. The woman with the boy.”
Charles said, “Huh?”
“Mr. Charles, pay attention,” Trula said. “Chris asked if anyone hanging around lived in the building.”
“The woman with the kid lived there?”
“Mr. Charles, you are a detective after all.”
Trula was better at sarcasm than I.
I said, “Who are they?”
Before she answered, the steps to the second floor pulled loose and crumbled to the ground stirring a cloud of dust. The smoke that bellowed moments earlier, was barely visible. A couple of firefighters were moving into the lower apartments, or what was left of them. I doubted they’d find anything usable. One of the ambulances was turning to start its trip back to Charleston. The good news was it would be returning without anyone needing medical attention.
“Yeah, who?” Charles added as if my asking wasn’t enough.
Trula grinned. “Mr. Charles, I thought you knew everyone over here.”
“Only everyone with pets,” he said.
That wasn’t much of an exaggeration.
“The woman is Rosalynn Wheeler, goes by Rose. Her son’s Luke.”
The woman Trula referred to appeared in her mid-forties, about five-foot-five, average weight, with curly brown hair. Luke was nine or ten, although I’m not good at guessing ages. He was chubby and looked at the ground and not at his mother as she talked to Chief Cindy LaMond.<
br />
I’d known Chief LaMond since she arrived on Folly a year after I retired to the island. She moved up the ranks quickly, was named Chief three years ago.
“Does her name ring a bell?” Trula added.
“No,” Charles said.
I shook my head.
“Wow, Mr. Charles. I know something such an outstanding private detective as yourself doesn’t know.”
“What would that be, Trula?”
“She’s your Police Chief’s sister.”
Chapter Three
Cindy LaMond and I’d been friends going on a decade, but I knew little about her life before she arrived on Folly. She grew up near Knoxville, Tennessee, had worked for a Sheriff’s Office before coming here, yet beyond that, not much. I didn’t know she had a sibling.
I said, “Sister?”
“Don’t feel bad, Cindy is my boss, I’ve worked closely with her, almost daily, for four years. I didn’t know anything about a sister until she brought her by the station two weeks ago to introduce her.”
“When did she get here?” I asked.
“Miss Rose arrived a few days before the Chief introduced us.”
Charles said, “What else do you know about her?”
“Next to nothing. I’d guess she’s recently divorced.”
Charles glanced at Cindy, her sister, and Luke, then turned to Trula. “Did she say that?”
