Faith

by Bill Noel

“Yes. Got a decent day job so I can buy clothes, food, other stuff. I’ll be fine.”

  “Where do you work?”

  I realized I was sounding like Charles with all the questions.

  “Ad agency in downtown Charleston.”

  “Then I suppose writing comes easy.”

  She chuckled. “Yes and no. I have a degree in English, so I know how to string words together. Trouble is I’m good at writing copy for an ad or a television commercial where the word count can often be counted on my fingers plus toes. For my novel, I’ll have to fill three hundred pages with words.”

  I couldn’t imagine even writing enough to fill the television commercial.

  “Sounds like a challenge, Noelle.”

  “You’re telling me.” She laughed. “Actually, my real name’s Imani Marshall. Noelle’s my pen name. With my background in advertising, I assure you, fewer people would buy a book written by Imani than Noelle.”

  Something was bothering me, so I figured that since she was more relaxed than when she got out of the truck, I could ask. “That makes sense. Got one more question. A little while ago when we were talking about when you learned of the fire, you said something like can’t say I wasn’t warned. What’d you mean?”

  Her pleasant expression disappeared. “It’s nothing important.”

  I didn’t believe it but didn’t know her enough to push for an explanation. “Okay. I’d better let you get on your way. I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Again, I’m sorry about your apartment.”

  Her smile returned, but not with the wattage from earlier.

  “You too, Mr. Landrum.”

  She gave me her number. I promised to let her know if I heard about an apartment for rent.

  She returned to her truck, slowly pulled out of the lot, then turned toward town. I watched her go, with one large unanswered question nagging me. What did she mean when she said she’d been warned?

  Chapter Eight

  After talking with two people who lost near everything and were spending nights in their vehicle, I began wondering about the others. Rose and Luke had somewhere to go, but what about Neil and Janice? I called Chief LaMond on the walk home.

  “This better be good. This is my day off. Lo and behold, the wonderful, thoughtful, love of my life, brilliant hubby took me to brunch at Poogan’s Porch. He—”

  I interrupted, “He’s listening, right?”

  “Duh,” Cindy said, answering my question. “He said it’d be a good way for me to get out of Dodge, or Folly, so I could enjoy a peaceful Sunday meal without being distracted by some idiot determined to ruin my day. Did I mention this is my day off—like in day to not work?”

  “Sweetie,” I heard Larry say in the background, “you may want to let him tell you why he called.”

  Cindy sighed. “Okay, Mr. Pest, what did I do to deserve a call on my day off?”

  I didn’t want to tell her after listening to her rant, I’d almost forgotten why I called.

  “Chief, a couple of things. First, I was at the site of the fire where I ran into the lady who owned the Dodge pickup that was in the lot during the fire. Did you get a chance to talk to her?”

  “Mr. Nosy Citizen, I also have a couple of things. First, why in hell were you at the site of the fire? In addition to nosing in police business and bumbling around catching killers, are you adding catching arsonists to your resume?”

  “Chief, of course not. I can’t add that to my resume until I catch one.”

  Cindy made a noise reminding me of a braying horse, then said, “Larry, order me another beer. I’m going to need it. Okay, Chris, the second thing is no, I haven’t talked to the owner of the Dodge. What did you learn from her?”

  Regardless of how hard a time Cindy gives me, she listens to what I say. I shared my conversation with Imani enlightening Cindy about Imani’s pen name. I also gave her Noelle’s number in case she wanted to contact her. I didn’t share Noelle’s comment about being warned since I didn’t know what she’d meant. Cindy asked me to repeat Imani’s pen name, saying her secretary, aka Larry, was better at running a hardware store than taking notes. I repeated it then added what Noelle said about writing a murder mystery.

  “Chris, if you pester me again on my day off, Noelle will have a real murder to write about.”

  I took the subtle hint, apologized for calling, then said I hoped she enjoyed the rest of her brunch.

  “Whoa, Mr. Senior Citizen, you said there were a couple of reasons you called on, in case I haven’t mentioned it, my day off. What’s number two?”

  Told you she listened.

  “I know where Rose and Luke are staying, but I was worried about the others. Any idea what’s happening to them?”

  “I told all of them they could stay at your house. I warned them not to expect a bed and breakfast. A bed, maybe. Breakfast, not a chance.”

  “Funny. Seriously, know anything about their plans?”

  “I called the Red Cross yesterday; talked with a nice man in their disaster relief and recovery program. They’ll provide money for food and will put the displaced residents up for two nights in one of three Charleston hotels. I’ve already told Neil Wilson, Janice Raque, and Ty Striker. Rose and Luke won’t need help. Now that some busybody gave me the name of the other person on my day off, I’ll contact her.”

  “Good. While I’m thinking about it, did you ever get in touch with the building’s owner?”

  “That’s three things,” she said before hanging up.

  Must be her day off.

  The next morning, I called Burl Costello, a friend who’s pastor of First Light Church, Folly’s newest house of worship; or more accurately, place of worship, since most of First Light’s services are held on the beach. My call wasn’t related to the church, but to Hope House, a halfway house Preacher Burl started two years ago. The large house was donated by a wealthy member of First Light under the condition Burl rents its rooms to people whom he felt needed the assist to get back to being productive members of the community. I asked Burl if he could spare a few minutes. He said he could but only if I shared a cup of coffee with him. He drove a hard bargain, but I relented.

  Thirty minutes later, I was standing on the porch of the large, fifty-plus-year-old, wood-frame house on East Erie Avenue. White Christmas lights were strung around the door frame, giving it a holiday feel although the house had seen better days.

  “Welcome, Brother Chris,” Burl said as he waved me in. “Coffee’s brewing.”

  Burl was in his mid-fifties, no more than five-foot-five, shaped like a football sitting on a kicking tee, topped by a face covered with a milk-chocolate colored mustache and balding head.

  I followed him through the long center hallway to the large country-style kitchen.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Burl said, as he poured my coffee and refilled his mug. “I’ve missed you at church.”

  At best, I was an irregular attendee at First Light.

  “Sorry,” I said with little enthusiasm.

  “No need to apologize to me, Brother Chris. I’m not the one keeping score.”

  Time to move along.

  “Burl, I’m sure you heard about the apartment building fire on East Ashley.”

  “It would’ve been hard to live on Folly without hearing of the conflagration. We had a prayer yesterday and a special offering to give to the survivors most in need. Brother Bernard is taking the love offering to the fire department this morning so they can distribute it to those displaced.”

  Bernard Prine was one of the Hope House residents I’d known for a couple of years. He’s a military veteran suffering from PTSD, more recently called PTSI, post-traumatic stress injury, to lessen the stigma associated with the word disorder. Regardless of its name, Bernard had been kicked out of several homeless shelters for fighting before Burl worked his magic, making him feel like an important part of Hope House.

  “Speaking of people in need, Preacher, do you have vacancies? I know two of the resi
dents who’re sleeping in their vehicles. There are two others I don’t know about.”

  He took a sip, shook his head, and said, “Brother Chris, I’m saddened to say all six of my rooms are occupied. Two rooms that had been vacant were filled last week. Unless something unexpected occurs, I don’t know any residents who’ve found other accommodations.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Preacher.”

  “Sorry to have to convey that news. But, Brother Chris, you know I’m an optimist. I have faith God, possibly working in strange and mysterious ways, will look over them to provide suitable accommodations.”

  “Preacher, I wish I had that much faith.”

  Burl smiled. “Ah, Brother Chris, we talk about things like faith on Sunday mornings. Perhaps a refresher would be helpful.”

  I mimicked his smile. “Subtle, Preacher Burl.”

  His smile turned to a laugh. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks, Brother Chris.” He turned serious. “I will keep the displaced residents in my prayers, but if that isn’t enough by itself, I will enquire with others to see if there are alternatives we currently are unaware of.”

  “Thank you, Preacher. And, thanks for the coffee.”

  “Brother Chris, my coffee pot is always available to you.”

  Before I reached the car, the phone rang. Cindy’s name appeared on the screen.

  “Good morning, Chief.”

  “Did I tell you yesterday was my day off? Larry took me to Poogan’s Porch where I had Chicken and Waffles.”

  I chuckled. “I believe you mentioned it.”

  “It was fantastic except for an exasperating call from one of Folly’s nosiest residents. Can you believe he interrupted my scrumptious brunch to ask if I’d gotten ahold of the owner of the building that disappeared the other day?”

  “A Chief’s work is never done.”

  “You can say that again. In case you’re interested, the answer is not yet.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Could be swimming in the Mediterranean Sea, skydiving over the Grand Canyon, hell, for all I know he could be floating around in the International Space Station. What I know is he’s not answering the number he’d given Rose.”

  “So, what now?”

  “I’ll tell you the other bit of trivia I called for, then hang up so I can go to a budget meeting with the Mayor, a dream come true.”

  “The bit of trivia is?”

  “The fire was arson. Don’t ask, I don’t know who set it.”

  Chapter Nine

  One of Charles’s numerous quirks was if I learned something he didn’t know and didn’t tell him in, oh, let’s say, three flaps of a hummingbird’s wing, a bucket of grief would follow. I’d exceeded that timeframe since meeting Noelle, so a call was overdue.

  He was wheezing as he answered the phone.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Jogging around the island.”

  I could count on fewer than one finger the number of times Charles had been jogging.

  “Jogging?”

  “Okay, maybe a brisk walk. Why?”

  He took a brisk walk slightly more often than he jogged, but I let it go. “Where are you?”

  “Getting ready to plop my rear on the picnic table at the Folly River Park.”

  Folly River Park is a small park bordered by the Folly River, Center Street, and East Indian Avenue. It’s the site of art fairs throughout the year, but shines, figuratively and literally, during the holiday season as the location of Folly’s official Christmas tree surrounded by large, colorfully lit seasonal displays.

  “Plop down. I’ll join you in about fifteen minutes.”

  Ten minutes later, I spotted him on the picnic table. He would’ve been hard to overlook wearing a cardinal red, long-sleeve sweatshirt with Arkansas Razorbacks and a fierce-looking hog on the front. He also wore a Tilley hat with nothing written on it, jeans, and tennis shoes that looked like they could’ve jogged hundreds of miles, although not on Charles’s feet.

  I nudged him to move over then scooted beside him on the table.

  He stared at the Christmas tree, then said, “Why do bad things always happen at Christmas?”

  “Bad things happen all the time. They seem worse this time of year.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yes, but look at all the good things happening, especially during the Christmas season.”

  He glanced at the tree, then turned to me. “I thought I was the half-full kind of guy. You going to tell those folks who lived in the apartment building good things are happening?”

  My friend had always been that half-full guy. In the last couple of years, he’d experienced some personal losses that jaded his outlook.

  “Charles, I agree. Losing most everything was terrible. On the other hand, no one was injured. Cindy confirmed the fire was set which made it spread faster than would’ve been normal. They were lucky not to be home.”

  “When did the Chief tell you that?”

  “Right before I called you.”

  I hoped that would get me off the hook, that is until I tell him about meeting the writer yesterday.

  “If it was arson, why?”

  I resisted the temptation to tell him to burn the building. Instead, I said, “What do you mean?”

  “Whoever set it did it during the day when the odds were great its residents wouldn’t be home or would’ve been awake enough to get out once they knew the building was ablaze. If the arsonist wanted to hurt or kill someone, wouldn’t he or she have set it in the middle of the night when the intended victim was asleep?” He glanced at the tree again before turning back to me. “So, why set the fire?”

  That reminded me of what Noelle shared about being warned.

  “What if the arsonist wanted to scare one of the residents, not hurt him or her?”

  “It would’ve scared the heebie-jeebies out of me if I’d seen everything I owned go up in smoke.”

  “Cindy also said she couldn’t find the building’s owner. What—”

  “Whoa,” he interrupted, “when did she say that?”

  Don’t say I didn’t warn you about his quirk.

  “Same time she confirmed it was arson. May I finish?”

  He harrumphed then motioned me to continue.

  I said, “What if the landlord torched his building?”

  “Insurance?”

  “Yes. It would’ve been a good time to do it when fewer tenants were at risk.”

  “How are we going to find out?”

  “Charles, the police are looking at all possibilities. They’ll figure it out.”

  “They can’t even find the landlord. How do you think they’ll prove he started the fire?”

  “They’ll find him. I didn’t say it was the landlord, but it’s my best guess.”

  “What about one of the tenants starting it?”

  “Why?”

  “Get out of paying rent. One of them may’ve been behind, figuring he or she wouldn’t have to pay if the apartment wasn’t there.”

  “That’s a possibility,” I said but thought it unlikely since they’d be homeless as a result.

  A man walking a boxer passed us on the paved path through the park. Charles, who could never let a dog pass without a brief conversation, hopped off the table then knelt to say a few words to the canine. He apparently ran out of canine-Charles conversation. The man and his dog continued around the park; Charles returned to the table.

  “Where were the tenants when the fire started?” he asked as he watched the dog walk away.

  “Ty was at Bert’s. Rose and her son were watching the parade.” I took a deep breath, preparing for an explosion, and said, “Noelle was walking on the beach. We don’t—”

  Charles’s hand flew in front of my face. “Stop! Noelle?”

  “I was walking by the site of the fire yesterday afternoon and saw the pickup truck that was there during the fire. The driver was looking at the ruins. Her name is Noelle Ward, actually, her name i
s Imani Marshall, but she goes by Noelle.”

  I paused anticipating Charles interrupting.

  “Well, go on,” he said, hinting he’s not always predictable.

  I gave him a brief bio on Noelle, including why she was using a pen name. Charles interrupted me twice to make sure she didn’t already have published novels. Said if she did, he would’ve read them. I exhausted everything I knew about Noelle, repeated it twice before Charles felt he had enough information.

  “Okay,” he said, “what about Neil. Where was he?”

  I told him I didn’t know, then gave him the same answer when he asked if I knew where Janice was during the fire.

  “Wonder how we’re going to find out where they were?”

  “Suppose we could use one of your well-honed detective skills. We could ask them.”

  Charles grabbed his phone and punched in a number.

  “Yo, Cal, this is Charles, yeah, Charles Fowler. What other Charles do you know? Right. Is Neil there?”

  Apparently, he was talking to our friend, Cal Ballew, at his bar where Neil was a part-time cook. Charles tapped his finger on the table while Cal said something. I could tell from the intensity of his tapping it wasn’t to Charles’s liking.

  “Okay, thanks anyway.”

  He returned the phone to his pocket and shook his head. “Off today. Comes in at three tomorrow. You have Neil’s number?”

  “Why didn’t you ask that before calling Cal’s?”

  “Well, do you?”

  I scrolled through my contacts, tapped on Neil’s number, then handed the phone to Charles. He didn’t have as much luck as he had with Cal. He handed the phone back to me saying there was no answer.

  Charles smiled and asked if I had Janice’s number. I told him no before he proclaimed the day a total failure. His half-empty mood was back.

  It went more downhill after he asked where the tenants would live.

  “Rose and Luke will be fine,” I said. “Cindy said the Red Cross was putting the others up for a couple of nights in a Charleston hotel.”

  “They think the landlord will wiggle his nose and a new building will rise from the ashes before two nights in a motel are used up?”