by Bill Noel
After Marcia left, I said, “Janice, didn’t you live in the apartment building that burned?”
“Damn, Chris, has a secret ever escaped from this island without being caught by a gaggle of people?”
“Someone was talking about the people displaced by the fire. Your name was mentioned. I remembered you from Cal’s.”
I left out the part about remembering her because she’d been a murder suspect.
“Yes, I’m one of the unlucky people who’re now homeless.”
“Found somewhere to stay?”
“Why? Want me to shack up with you?”
She definitely underestimated the number of beers she’d consumed.
I smiled. “Afraid I don’t have room.”
“Well crapola.”
I was saved when Marcia deposited Janice’s beer, then said our food would be out shortly. Janice had the new bottle to her lips before Marcia reached the kitchen. Now to move past Janice’s comment about moving in.
“I was asking because I heard the Red Cross provided housing for the fire victims.”
She held up two fingers. “Two nights, period. Did they think the apartment building would be rebuilt in two days?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh well, that’s water under the dam, or over the bridge, or, crap, whatever the saying is. I’m at the Holliday Inn a couple of weeks until I figure something out.”
The Holliday Inn, not to be confused with the national hotel chain spelled with one “l,” is a fourteen room, locally-owned hotel that’s been around since the late 1940s. It’s a block from the ocean, has reasonably priced rooms, and is one of only two hotels on the island.
“It’s good you have somewhere to go.”
“I suppose. Some are living in their cars.”
“Did you know many of the others?”
“Not really. I’ve been there a little over a year. Ever since, umm, never mind. Anyway, I know Neil pretty well. Nice guy. He’s been there as long as I have. I only know him from Cal’s. He cooks there, you know. Seldom saw him around the apartment.” She took another sip. “The young guy, the one with the red sports car, don’t know his name for certain. Something like Sly.”
“Ty,” I interrupted.
“Okay, Ty. Anyway, that’s all I know about him. Oh wait, he’s got a cat.”
“Lost,” I said.
“Lost what?”
“His cat’s named Lost.”
“Damned stupid name for a cat.”
I didn’t disagree. “What about the African-American lady?”
Janice shook her head. “All I know is she nearly ran me down with her big-ass truck.”
“What happened?”
“I got food at Bert’s and was carrying it home. I got to our parking area when she whipped out of the lot, not looking where she was going. I was lucky or I wouldn’t be here.”
“Did she see you?”
“Said she didn’t. She stopped, lowered her window, said she was sorry. It’s no wonder she almost got me. It was dark, yet she had on these big sunglasses. Did she think she was a celebrity? Anyway, now you know all I know about her.”
“What about the lady who moved in recently, the one with the young son?”
“She lived right under me. The kid kept the TV on loud. Thought about complaining. Knew it wouldn’t do any good since the building was built cheap. Doubt there was a speck of insulation in it. Everyone could hear everything going on.” Our meals arrived. Janice took a bite of salad, another sip of beer, then said, “That building was a fire waiting to happen. The damned landlord didn’t fix anything. My bathroom sink leaked from the day I moved in. Suppose it don’t leak no more.” She laughed and took another drink. “Know what O’Leary, he’s the landlord, was good at?”
“What?”
“Collecting rent. I could set my watch by the time he came knocking on the door the first of the month. I spilled the beans to everyone who asked me about renting there.”
“Did many people ask?”
“A couple. The apartment on the first floor was vacant several months, so occasionally someone would see me outside and ask. Some guy, looked like a street person to me, asked. Told me he was Jeff, maybe Jerome. Anyway, he was looking for an apartment.” She chuckled, took another sip of beer, then said, “Told him the apartment was fine unless the second floor fell on him. Chris, didn’t know I was psychic, did you?”
I shook my head.
“Good ole Jeff or Jerome stopped asking me anything after that. Then one time I was telling a woman named Kinsey or Kaycee exactly what I thought. She thanked me.”
“Where’d you meet her?”
“Opening my door, in fact, she followed me upstairs. She told me she owned a couple of rental units and had someone looking for a place to rent, but hers were full. She was a fast talker; said a bunch of other stuff I can’t remember now. I gave her the full load about how O’Leary doesn’t take care of my place. She turned and left, not as fast as Jeff or Jerome, but close. She said something about— Whoops!” Janice slipped off the chair. I grabbed her before she hit the floor.
“You okay?” I said, knowing she wasn’t.
She giggled, then finished her beer. “Sure I can’t shack up with you?”
“Afraid not,” I said and became fascinated with my fish and chips, rather than looking her in the eye.
Marcia returned to ask if the food was okay and if we wanted something else to drink. I said I was fine. Fortunately, Janice said the same—for now.
“Janice, have any idea who may’ve started the fire?”
She took another sip, played with her napkin, while she looked out the window, then back to me. “Absolutely.”
Not the answer I expected.
“Who?”
“My ex.”
“Horace?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why think it was him?”
“Don’t think, know it was.”
“How do you know?”
“You know he left me for a floozie in Mt. Pleasant.”
“I’d heard you got a divorce. Didn’t know the details.”
“Left me with nothing except his dirty underwear. I had to move out of our nice condo in Mariner’s Cay. I couldn’t afford a two-bit ambulance-chasing lawyer to go after Horace for my share of what he had. Finally found one who’d do it on contingency.” She chuckled. “He must’ve graduated last in his class. The poor fella was desperate to get a client. I told him Horace weren’t no millionaire, but the shyster said he’d take the case anyway.”
Interesting, I thought, but it didn’t get me any closer to the reason Horace would’ve set the fire.
“Janice, why would Horace torch the building?”
“My attorney might not know how to get good-paying clients or have a fancy-schmancy office in downtown Charleston, but I’ll tell you what he’s good at. He’s about driven Horace bananas harassing him for money, telling Horace’s employer how much of a deadbeat his employee is.”
I’ll give it one more chance.
“Janice, why do you think Horace burned the building?”
“Chris, I don’t know how many ways I can say it. It’s as clear as day. Can’t you see, he’s pissed at me. Wants me to know it. Clear as day.” She nodded like it was, well, clear as day, then took another drink.
It may be clear to her, although, in her current condition, I doubted anything was clear. I hadn’t had four, maybe five, maybe no telling how many beers, but nothing she’d said led me to believe Horace had set the fire. Could he have? I suppose. Someone set it.
I made a couple more efforts to see if Janice could clarify how she “knew” her ex started the fire. I would’ve been more successful if I’d asked her to conjugate the verb imbibe in Hungarian. Then, I asked if she wanted me to walk her to her hotel. She declined and said she was moving to the bar and having one more for the road. Fortunately, her hotel was close, and she wouldn’t be driving. As I walked away, she slurred one more effort t
o ask if she could shack up with me. I hoped she took my ignoring the question as no.
Chapter Fourteen
I had trouble sleeping; must’ve gone over today’s conversations with the two fire victims a dozen times. Rose was certain her ex wouldn’t have set the fire, but it still struck me as too great a coincidence that he was on Folly the day before the conflagration. He’d be near or at the top of my list of potential arsonists. On the other hand, Janice was certain her ex set it but provided nothing supporting her proclamation.
I attributed most of my sleeping problems to questions bouncing around in my head. It wasn’t necessarily the questions that kept me awake, the lack of answers was my nemesis. Tonight, now this morning was the perfect example.
After three hours sleep, I decided a brisk walk in brisk weather to the Lost Dog Cafe would be good for my health. It would wake me up, provide me with a hearty breakfast, and allow my brain to find answers to the questions that’d kept me awake. Rationalizing was one of my strengths.
The restaurant was nearly full, so I was lucky to get one of the small tables against the front wall. I was even luckier when Amber appeared, set a mug of coffee in front of me, then asked what she could do to make my day better. I told her if she joined me at the table, it would make my day better. She laughed and said she’d have to improve my day by serving, not joining me. I said I’d take what I could get. She must’ve been in a good mood because she asked if I wanted French toast rather than trying to get me to eat healthier. I said yes, she said she wondered why she wasted time asking.
Before breakfast arrived, Cindy LaMond arrived, saw me, then headed my direction.
“Going to invite me to join you?” she said, as she pulled up a chair, not waiting on an answer.
I said, “You’re always welcome to join me, Chief.”
“Weren’t you getting ready to ask if you could buy me breakfast?”
“Of course, I was,” I said, not seeing a wise alternative.
Amber was quick to the table with coffee for Cindy, who smiled at the server, and said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Amber returned the smile, and said, “How do you know—”
“French toast?”
Amber chuckled then headed to put in Cindy’s order.
Cindy blew across the mug then cautiously took a sip, before saying, “I hear you sauntered to the end of the pier with my younger sister while she deserted her poor son stuck doing manual labor for a slave driver at a local hardware store.”
“It’s no wonder why you’re Chief. You know everything that happens on your six-mile-long, half-mile-wide slice of earth.”
“It helps that my confidential informant is a lad of nine who spent two hours last night gushing about how much fun he had at his uncle’s store, while his mother gushed, not for two hours, but nevertheless gushed about how great it was talking to an adult without her son hearing every word. The only thing I disagreed with was her calling you an adult. I let her stay in her fantasy world and didn’t tell her about the true you.”
“Kind of you.”
“She was too happy for me to ruin her mood. I wish she could be that happy all the time. Since the divorce, she’s been having migraines, bouts of depression, and in general, miserable.”
“She was in a good mood yesterday.”
“She’s coming out of it some. I’m afraid her moods are affecting Luke. Rose tries to shield him from everything bad, but he’s perceptive.”
“It’s been rough on her, plus the fire didn’t help. Time will take care of many of the bad moods.”
“I hope you’re right Psychiatrist Chris.” Cindy took another sip as Amber arrived with our matching breakfasts.
We each focused for a moment on food, before I said, “Learn anything new about the fire?”
“Like who set it?”
“That’d be informative.”
She rolled her eyes. “If only that easy. I did learn something interesting about the landlord, Russell O’Leary.” She took another bite.
I waited for her to continue, hoping I wouldn’t have to ask what. I was pleased she was more open to talking about it than she’d been when she accused me of butting into her business the first time I asked about O’Leary.
She finally continued, “Don’t you want to know what?”
“Chief, what’d you learn?”
“That’s better. For starters, Mr. O’Leary is three months behind on the building’s mortgage.”
“Was it well-insured?”
“Excellent question, motive-detector Chris. Mr. O’Leary is not only a landlord, he’s psychic. Two months ago, he increased coverage on the building.”
“Making him a candidate for arsonist of the year.”
“If you weren’t so old, so very very old, I’d put you on the force.”
She could’ve left out the very very part, but I’ll let it go. “What else?”
“What else what?”
“When you mentioned he was three months behind on his mortgage, you said, ‘For starters,’ so what else did you learn?”
“Chris, I wish you’d stop listening to everything I say.”
I shrugged.
She took a bite of French toast, then a sip of coffee before continuing, “Remember I told you he said he was in Atlanta at some get-rich seminar the day of the fire?”
“I remember. Did you already forget I listen to everything you say?”
“Smartass.”
I smiled.
“He said the seminar was at the Westin Peachtree Plaza in downtown Atlanta. Said he didn’t stay there because it cost too much. He claimed to have stayed at a nearby cheaper hotel he—surprise, surprise—can’t remember the name of. Before you ask, he said he paid cash so there wouldn’t be a record of him staying there even if he could remember the name.”
“He would’ve registered under his name; probably showed ID even if he paid cash.”
“Probably, but know how many hotels there are in Atlanta? Besides, his entire story sounds off.”
“Sounds fishy, doesn’t it?”
“Ya think?”
“I do. Now what?”
“I finish my breakfast, cuss myself all the way back to the office for eating more calories than the total one-day consumption of everyone combined in a small, farming community in Tanzania, then close my office door so I can take a nap.”
“I was thinking more about what you’re going to do about Russell O’Leary.”
“Hell if I know.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Chapter Fifteen
While Cindy and I didn’t solve who set the fire, or for that matter, didn’t solve anything other than hunger, she said her plan was to learn more about Russell O’Leary’s financial situation. I said my plan was to take a nap. She told me she was jealous.
Charles was parked on my front step when I got home. His 1961 Schwinn bicycle leaned against my screened-in porch. He wore a royal blue and white sweatshirt with Sierra Nevada College under the outline of an eagle on the front, his Tilley, and in a touch of irony, tan khaki work pants, an activity he hadn’t participated in for decades.
“You’re not home,” he said as he pointed over his shoulder at the door.
“Am now. Did you run out of places to hang out?”
“Thought if we’re going to catch whoever torched the building, we should talk.”
“Who said we were going to catch the arsonist?”
“Me. Didn’t you hear me?”
Arguing with Charles is like arguing with a clump of seaweed.
“Want to come in where we can talk in a warm room?”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
I started to open the door, when Charles grabbed my arm, tilted his head toward Bert’s Market.
“Isn’t that Ty?”
The young man was standing at the corner of the building talking to a man I knew to be homeless. “Yes.”
Charles pulled me toward the store. “Look, he
wants to talk to us.”
I wasn’t certain how Ty’s talking to a homeless man meant he wanted to talk to us, but I was interested in asking if he’d heard anything new about the fire.
Ty saw us coming, told the man he had to go, then greeted Charles and me with a smile.
“Hey, Charles, you’re big into animals. Want to meet Lost?”
“You bet.”
Ty grinned like he was going to show Charles the Hope diamond. The Miata was tucked in the back of the small, sandy lot. The car was parked next to a dilapidated sailboat that looked like it hadn’t been in the water since the flood that took Noah and his boat for a ride.
The feline’s proud papa unlocked the passenger door. It opened to the scraping sound of metal against metal, followed by a meow loud enough to have come from a wildcat. The grey kitten he lifted out of the car didn’t look like it could’ve made such a loud noise, but it was the vehicle’s only occupant.
“Meet Lost,” Ty said as he handed Charles the kitten.
“Wow,” Charles said, “a polydactyl.”
That sounded like some sort of a dinosaur.
I said, “A what?”
Charles shook his head like he was having to teach a robin how to catch worms.
“Chris, you never cease to amaze me.” He pointed Lost at me then lifted the kitten’s leg in my direction. “Polydactyl. A furry little critter with six toes on one or more of its paws. See?”
The front right paw did have six toes. “Oh,” I said, indicating I didn’t have a future as a veterinarian.
“Ernest Hemingway became a big fan after someone gave him a white one. He named it Snow White. Today there are about fifty descendants of his cats at his former house in Key West.”
“Half are polydactyl,” Ty added, further reinforcing my ignorance.
Charles had run out of trivia, so he turned to Ty and asked how he got Lost, more importantly, how he’d come up with the name.
Ty proceeded to share the same story he’d told me about coming to Folly on vacation, seeing a girl named Aimee, staying here while his friends returned to Baltimore, getting the job at Bert’s. That was as far as he got when he was telling me the first time he’d talked about her, so I began paying closer attention.
