by Bill Noel
Charles suggested we move out of the shadows of the large trees on two sides of the lot and move to where the sun was peeking through so we could stay warm. Ty and I followed him to the side of the dumpster where Charles leaned on the large, industrial-sized waste container, petting Lost the entire time.
“After Aimee and I talked a few times, I wanted to give her something. You know, something to bond our love.”
Charles said, “Love?”
Ty lowered his head. “Well, not love exactly. I liked her. A guy I met in the store told me he had three kittens he was trying to find homes. I went to see them. Lo and behold, this little one was the cutest. Just seeing it made me think of Aimee. How could I not take it? Gave it to Aimee a few days later.” He stopped, shook his head, then continued, “Fellas, how could I know she was allergic to cats?”
“That’s too bad,” Charles said.
“That wasn’t the baddest part,” Ty said. “She was engaged. She didn’t have a diamond ring on her finger, so how was I to know?”
Charles repeated, “That’s too bad.”
“You can say that again. I figured I could overcome the fiancée, but not the cat allergy. That’s how I ended up with this little one. Also, how it got its name. I got the cat, lost the girl, so I named it Lost.”
Charles said, “Sounds like the right name.”
I thought it would’ve been a much shorter story if he’d named it Six Toes.
I realized we’d been standing outside for a fairly long time. So, I said, “Ty, are we keeping you from work?”
“No, I’m off. I worked most of the night. Going to head to the Walmart parking lot so I can curl up in the car to get some sleep.”
Charles handed Lost back to Ty, then said, “Before you go, have any idea who burned your building?”
Unlike many people who talk to Charles, Ty didn’t appear thrown by the change of directions
“Wish I knew. If I did, I’d make him sleep in my car a few nights. That’s punishment for putting all of us out of our homes.”
Charles nodded. “So, no idea?”
“Not for certain, but if I was a betting man, I’d put a few bucks on Nick Matthews.”
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Aimee’s fiancée.”
Charles said, “Why him?”
Lost began meowing so Ty put him back in the car, said he’d be with him in a minute, then scraped his feet on the sandy parking lot surface. “Well, you know how I said I figured I could overcome the fiancée but not Aimee’s allergy?”
Charles nodded.
“Well, I didn’t give up easily. I think Aimee told Nick how I was showing interest. I heard he had a temper, beat up another guy who’d been sniffing around his gal. Now, he never said anything to me at first, but I saw him in the store a few times after Aimee quit to take a waitressing job at Planet Follywood. He gave me the evil eye. The last time I saw him, he walked close to where I was stocking the bread shelf, and said something like, “You’ll get yours.”
Charles said, “You think he torched your building because of that comment?”
“Like I said, I’d put money on it, on it. Not a lot, though.”
Ty yawned and Lost made a moaning sound from the car. I figured our conversation was over. I thanked him for telling us about Lost.
Chapter Sixteen
Charles had to deliver a wetsuit from the surf shop to a man from Seattle renting a house on West Ashley Avenue. We walked to my house where he straddled his bike, pedaled off, leaving me standing in the yard realizing I had nowhere to be, nor anything to do. After spending what seemed like a zillion years experiencing the daily grind working in a large healthcare company, it was a good feeling. Something else that made me feel good was spending time with Barbara Deanelli, owner of Barb’s Books, a small, used bookstore on Center Street. We’ve dated for a couple of years. I hadn’t seen her in more than a week, so it was time to rectify that situation. While Charles was delivering a wetsuit, I could get some much-needed exercise walking to her store. The bookstore was housed in the same space that had previously been Landrum Gallery, a photo gallery I’d owned until it became clear that losing thousands of dollars a year wasn’t the wisest use of my limited retirement savings. Residents and vacationers could live without my photographic prints, so I swallowed my pride and closed the business.
Two customers were browsing rows of books as I entered. Barb had strung multi-colored Christmas lights across the top of the shelves facing the entry. On a small table at the front of one of the aisles, she’d arranged books with colorful dust jackets in a shape intended to resemble a Christmas tree. Three boxes the size that’d hold jewelry were wrapped and set beside the book tree. It looked more like a pyramid-shaped pile of books than a Christmas tree, but I’d keep that observation to myself. The store’s decorations fell far short of Cal’s display, but the overall impression should put visitors in the spirit of the season.
One of the customers moved to the counter and handed Barb a credit card. Barb was in her mid-sixties, looked younger, stood my height at five-foot-ten, but much thinner. She had short black hair, hazel eyes, and a captivating smile currently being used on her customer.
She didn’t notice me standing in the entry until she’d finished bagging the purchase. She used another of her captivating smiles on me. The remaining customer was still flipping through books, so Barb came around to me, gave me a kiss on the cheek, pointed to the door leading to the small office in the back of the store, then asked if I wanted coffee. I nodded. She said for me to fix each of us one, that she’d join me once the customer leaves.
When I’d had a business in the space, the room she called her office served more as a hangout for my friends, where a few of us could goof off, sip on a beverage, and discuss the latest happenings on the island. In other words, share gossip and good company. Barb had transformed the space to look more like a law office rather than a backroom in a retail business. She’d been a successful attorney in Pennsylvania before moving to Folly, so the law office motif was understandable.
I brewed two mugs of coffee in the Keurig, then settled in a comfortable chrome and black leather chair to wait. I began thinking of what Ty shared about who he thought started the fire. I didn’t know anything about Aimee’s fiancée other than what Ty had said, so I had no way of knowing if he was capable of such a drastic move to, umm, to what? Was the fire intended to harm Ty? If so, wouldn’t the boyfriend have been able to see if Ty was working when he started it? If he only wanted to scare Ty away from Aimee, was he evil or reckless enough to burn a building, possibly harming other residents? Did Nick even make the comment Ty thought he’d made, or was Ty’s imagination or guilt over trying to steal Nick’s fiancée working overtime?
“Chris, are you asleep, or is your head somewhere else?” Barb said.
She was reaching for the coffee.
“Sorry, guess I was daydreaming.”
Seasonal sounds from the Trans-Siberian Orchestra flowed from a Bose sound system on the desk.
“Were visions of sugar plums dancing in your head?” she asked, as she rolled her desk chair closer to the door so she could see if anyone entered the store.
I didn’t know what a sugar plum was but didn’t share my ignorance. “Nothing that jolly. How’s business?”
“Excellent. I’m surprised. There aren’t many vacationers this time of year, but the locals have been fantastic. Seems there’s an uptick in book sales, not only here, but in stores everywhere.”
That wasn’t something I ever said about photographs when I had the gallery.
“Fantastic. Thought I’d stop to see if you wanted to grab supper this evening.”
She smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
We set a time and location, then she said, “I suppose you heard about the fire out past your house.”
“Charles and I walked out there while they were fighting it.”
“You chose a fire over the Christmas Parade. I’m
shocked.” She laughed, then added, “Not.”
“We figured it was big when we saw Santa kicked off the fire engine.”
“Did you know any of the residents?”
“I knew three before the fire. Didn’t know them well but had talked with each a few times.”
Barb’s eyes narrowed as she stared at me. “Three before the fire. Now how many do you know?”
I told her about meeting Rose Wheeler, her son Luke, and their relationship to Chief LaMond.
“One of my customers told me yesterday the Chief had a sister and her apartment was in the building. Did you know about the sister before meeting her?”
“No, Cindy doesn’t share much about her past.”
Barb agreed then said, “Do you know Noelle Ward?”
I was surprised she mentioned the name. “Met her in the apartment’s parking lot after the fire. Why?”
“She’s one of my better customers. Came in a few times when she moved here, but in the last few months, she’s been in several times a week. If you’ve talked to her, you probably know she’s writing a novel. She’s bought several mysteries, says for research.” Barb chuckled. “First time in, she was in the mystery section, then noticed me nearby. She looked at me, or I think she did, I couldn’t tell for sure since she had on sunglasses. She looked in my direction and said, I remember it almost verbatim, ‘One day my book will be right here, someone will’ve read it, sold it to you, to be read again.’ She seemed both confident and naïve at the same time. I like that gal.”
“She told me she was writing a novel but didn’t say much about it other than it’s set on an island like Folly. The main character is a female private detective.”
“I’m surprised she said that much. She’s not loquacious. I haven’t seen her since the fire.”
“She’s living out of her truck, so I imagine she has a lot on her mind.”
“That’s too bad. Have the others found places to live?”
“Rose and her son have temporarily moved in with Cindy and Larry. Janice Raque is staying at the Holliday Inn. I don’t think the others have found anything.”
Barb took a sip of coffee, then said, “What about Hope House?”
“It’s full. I talked to Burl the day after the fire. He’s looking for other options.”
“That’s too bad. I hear it was arson. Does Cindy know who set it?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“You mean you’re not pestering her daily to find out what she knows?”
“Why would you say that?”
She looked in her coffee mug, then smiled. “Because that’s what you do.”
“She doesn’t know,” I said. “It started in a vacant apartment on the first floor, so there’s no way of knowing intent.”
“I suppose she’s taking a hard look at the landlord. That’s where I’d start.”
“Cindy’s checking. Do you know him?”
“What’s his name?”
“Russell O’Leary.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. What’s his financial situation?”
“Three months behind on the mortgage. Spends near nothing on maintenance.”
“In my other life, our firm represented a guy accused of torching his five-story office building.”
“Did he do it?”
“Jury didn’t think so.”
“What did you think?”
“My gut said he did, but like a good defense attorney, I never asked. He had more debt than Portugal. Are you and Charles trying to find out?”
“We’re more interested in helping the displaced residents find housing.”
“Good. Arsonists are dangerous. They can look like anyone, can be part of society like everyone else. In other words, they don’t look or act like crooks, don’t wave guns around announcing their intentions.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Any luck finding living arrangements for the displaced residents?”
I shook my head.
Barb jumped up from the chair, said she was needed in front, but before she left, said, “Chris, I have faith you’ll be able to help them.”
I wish I shared her confidence.
Chapter Seventeen
It was four hours before I was to meet Barb. The unseasonably warm weather was still hanging around, so I decided to continue my off and on effort to walk wherever I needed to go around town. One of the New Year resolutions I’d been considering was to eat healthier combined with exercise, which in my dictionary meant walking, not other activities they torture people with in gyms. Why wait until January to begin?
I walked across the bridge heading off Folly then continued past where Center Street morphs into Folly Road. I turned on Mariner’s Cay Drive and past the guardhouse with a gate that’d keep out unauthorized vehicles but did nothing to stop foot traffic. Over the years, I had known a few people who lived in Mariner’s Cay, including Janice Raque. The large development consisted of a handful of residential buildings plus a marina. Several condos displayed colorful strands of Christmas lights around the perimeter of the screened-in patios, and on three balconies there were popular blow-up cartoon characters wearing Santa hats. I didn’t walk through the development often, but it provided a different view than I was used to on my wanders around Folly.
I leaned against the rail on the walkway to the marina to watch several docked mid-size boats gently sway to the movement of the Folly River. I didn’t know which building Janice had lived in or if they had a boat but being here gave me a chance to think more about her theory that Horace started the fire. I’d seen Horace a couple of times when they’d been in Cal’s but had never spoken to him. From what I’d heard, he and Janice were in a rocky relationship. They’d often argue while at Cal’s so I could only imagine how they’d gotten along in the privacy of their condo. Janice had a temper and according to an acquaintance who’s a member of the Folly Beach City Council, she attended council meetings and wasn’t shy about sharing opinions. What I didn’t know was if Horace had built enough resentment to burn her building, nor did any significant revelations come to me as I watched the water flow by.
I crossed the bridge on my return to Folly then detoured on my walk home to stop by the Post Office to pick up what normally consisted of a “once in a lifetime” opportunity to get hearing aids at “unbelievable” low prices, a chance to consolidate all my credit cards into one so I could save thousands of dollars a year, or countless other “fantastic” offers for senior citizens.
I deposited the two “amazing” offers du jour in the trash receptacle the Post Office wisely placed near the exit. I thought about walking next door to Pewter Hardware to see Larry but rejected the idea after noticing his lot full and spaces along the road filled with vehicles. Cindy wasn’t kidding when she said this was his busiest time of year.
Across the street, on a hill that led to the Folly River Park, Noelle Ward was seated in the shade. She was staring at her phone pointed toward the Post Office. At least, I assumed that’s where her eyes were directed since I couldn’t tell for sure. She wore her oversized sunglasses, a black sweatshirt, black jeans, and a dark gray jacket. I waved and she gave a tentative return wave as I walked over.
“Planning on robbing the Post Office?” I said, hoping to solicit a smile.
“They don’t carry enough cash,” she said, then laughed.
“Good point. I’m Chris, by the way. What brings you out here?”
She looked around, stood, and brushed off the back of her jeans. “I remember your name from the other day. I’m Noelle. It’s getting cool in the shade. Want to move up there in the sun?”
“Lead on,” I said.
She moved to the edge of the street, then fifty or so yards toward Center Street, before following the paved footpath into the park. The center of the small park was in full sun, so we sat at one of the picnic tables overlooking the city’s Christmas tree.
She stretched her arms over her head, then turned to me. “Bet yo
u’re wondering what I was doing back there?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“When we met, I told you I was writing a novel. Want to hear what it’s about?”
That didn’t answer why she was staring at the Post Office, but I was curious about her book. “Sure. You said it was a murder mystery. You were living here for research.”
She smiled. “Good memory for someone who doesn’t read.”
I was surprised she remembered, especially since I told her while we were staring at her burned-out apartment building.
“You’re the first author I’ve met, so I’m intrigued.”
“My protagonist is a thirty-year-old, single, African-American female who’s a fledgling private detective in a small, predominantly white town in Georgia.”
“Sounds a lot like someone I know.”
“Except for the private detective and Georgia part.”
“Suppose that’s why it’s a novel and not non-fiction.”
She smiled, which I was beginning to see as one of her most attractive and often-used traits.
“Shonda Black, the protagonist, opened a detective agency several months earlier and hasn’t attracted any clients. She’s depressed, on the verge of giving up, when a fifteen-year-old black teenager walks into her office. He came to her because she’s the only black private eye in town.” She hesitated, then said, “Let me back up a little. There’d been a bank robbery a week earlier in the next town over. Now to the kid walking in. He tells Shonda he saw the robbers in town when they were in a small grocery. It’s a lot like Bert’s Market. The boy, I call him Gabriel, tells Shonda he went to the police about seeing the bad guys. They laughed at him, told him he was seeing things, that the robbers had fled the state. That was why he was at her door. As you can probably guess, Gabriel doesn’t have money to pay Shonda. She figured if she could catch the robbers the publicity would attract clients, the paying kind. I don’t need to tell you more for you to guess Shonda catches the robbers. The end. My dream, only a dream at this point, is to make it the first book in a Shonda Black Mystery Series.”
