Faith

by Bill Noel

  “That’s great, Noelle.”

  “Thank you. Now all I need to do is finish writing it, write the second book in the series, and collect my Nobel Prize in Literature.” She laughed and tapped my leg.

  I laughed with her, then said, “Is a Post Office in your book?”

  “Sorry, I drifted a little from telling you what I was doing.”

  “It was interesting.”

  “Interesting enough for you to read it when it comes out?”

  “I’ll not only read it, I’ll write a letter to the Nobel Prize committee telling them they could stop looking. Your book is the winner.”

  She chuckled. “You make up stuff better than I do.”

  “The Post Office?”

  “Research. Like I told you, the city where Shonda Black works is like Folly Beach. Small town, beach community, full of quirky characters. Most small towns are populated by people who are more similar than different, but I grew up in Missouri, no ocean nearby. Up until I decided to write the next Great American Novel, I wasn’t good at observing people, how they dress, how they act, how they talk. I moved into the apartment that’s now charcoal because it’s like the place Shonda lives. Heck, I even bought the Dodge Ram 1500 pickup because it seemed like the kind Shonda would drive.”

  “You were researching people leaving the Post Office?”

  “Yes. I’ve spent most every hour I’m not working watching people. Watching how they eat, how close they sit to each other, how some lean over when talking to someone else, how others speak loud not caring if their voice irritates others around them. I’m studying how they shop, how they move over so others can pass them in aisles, or on the sidewalks, all sorts of scenarios.” She held up her phone. “I’m also taking videos so I can study people later.”

  “You’re taking this seriously.”

  “I’m good at my day job, enjoy writing ad copy. If I want to be a good novelist, I have to study all phases of the process. One thing we do in the ad agency is to use focus groups to observe how people react to our various ads. For lack of better terms, Folly Beach is my large focus group.”

  “I’m not the person to ask about writing a novel, but it appears you know what you need to do.”

  “Time will tell, Chris.”

  “Changing the subject, have you found somewhere to live?”

  “My Dodge condo.”

  “I was thinking somewhere without wheels.”

  “Not yet. I’m making the most of it. Think I’ll add that Shonda’s apartment gets burned by the bank robbers, so she has to live in her truck.”

  “That’s turning lemons into lemonade.”

  She laughed, “Hmm, turning lemons into lemonade. I need to put that in an ad someday.” She turned serious. “Did I give you my number the other day?”

  I patted my phone. “Right here.”

  “Living in a truck is good for research, not so good for my back. You’ll let me know if you hear of any apartments?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She started to rise.

  “Noelle, one more thing. When we met and were talking about the fire, you said something about being warned. What’d you mean?”

  “Oh, it was nothing.”

  She’d already used that line on me. Time to press. Charles would be proud of me.

  “Noelle, it wasn’t nothing or you wouldn’t have said it. Please tell me what you meant?”

  Her hand gripped the bottom of the picnic table’s seat. I was afraid she wasn’t going to respond until she said, “Two weeks before the fire, I found a note under the windshield wiper. It was printed on that kind of paper with all the little squares.”

  “Graph paper?”

  “Yeah. It said, this is paraphrasing, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll pack up and get off Folly.”

  “Was that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an idea who it may’ve been from?”

  “Wish I did.”

  “Had you angered anyone?”

  “Not that I know of.” She removed her sunglasses and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Not anyone.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “My first thought was someone put it there by mistake. It’s not the only black Dodge Ram in town.”

  “Why did you change your mind?”

  “Mine’s the only truck like it at the apartment or at nearby houses. How could someone get it confused? I then thought it could’ve been from someone who saw me nosing around, watching people, shooting video. They could’ve been doing something wrong and thought I caught them. Something like that. Or it simply could’ve been someone who doesn’t like black folk.”

  “Do you still have the note?”

  She shook her head then shrugged. “It was in the apartment.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “No. It’d be like Gabriel in my book going to the police. Nothing could be learned from a note on a piece of scrap paper. Unlike Gabriel, I’m trying to forget it.”

  “Do you think the person who left it started the fire?”

  She stood a second time. “Chris, I don’t know what to think,” she hesitated, then added, “these are nice Christmas decorations.”

  That appeared to be her way of ending talk about the note. “They are nice.”

  “I’d better be going,” she said, reached out and shook my hand. “Nice talking to you.”

  I agreed with her.

  She left leaving me with more questions than when I arrived.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Barb and I were to meet at Wiki Wiki Sandbar, one of Folly’s newest, and undoubtedly largest restaurants, located a block from my cottage. I was standing outside the multi-level, tiki-themed restaurant ten minutes before our scheduled rendezvous. Barb, unlike Charles who considered thirty-minutes early to be on time, arrived five minutes later. She wore a lightweight tan jacket over a red blouse, black slacks, and a smile that brightened the early-evening darkness.

  “Been waiting long?” she said then kissed my cheek.

  “A couple of minutes. Hungry?”

  She put her arm behind my back and nudged me toward the entry. “Starved. This is my first time here. How about you?”

  “Once, but only to the bar. It’s interesting.”

  She pointed to the other side of the L shaped structure. “One of my customers told me the style is mid-century modern, said there are five distinct rooms.”

  Before I could get a more-detailed architectural description of the building, a bubbly hostess escorted us to what she called the Wave Room where we were seated under a sculpture featuring hundreds of glass balls anchored to the ceiling. We were handed menus and told Karen would be our server.

  I looked around the modern-looking room, mid-century or otherwise, while Barb focused on the menu. As promised, Karen appeared at the table before I’d finished gazing around the room. She asked if we wanted something to drink. Barb, who’d already studied the drink choices, said she’d have an Aloha from the Edge, which a quick peek at the menu told me was vodka and passionfruit. I didn’t want Barb to have to wait while I agonized over the menu trying to figure out what each drink was, so I said a glass of Cabernet. Karen headed to the bar while Barb continued studying the menu. I envied her metabolism. She could eat like a sumo wrestler yet never gain an ounce. She pointed at my menu and told me to stop looking around and decide what to order.

  The server returned with our drinks as I made my decision, thank goodness. Barb ordered a Korean short rib, I went with the pork ribs, mainly because I was more familiar with the ribs than some of the other items.

  With the pressure of ordering at a new restaurant out of the way, Barb asked what I’d been doing since I left the store earlier today. She added, what I was doing while she was hard at work.

  I told her about my chance meeting with Noelle and what she’d said about the note on her truck.

  “Think she was clueless about who put it there or why?”

  I n
odded. “Sounded convincing. I had to push to get her to tell me about it. I don’t know if she was worried about it or thought it was so inconsequential it wasn’t important enough to mention.”

  “Next time she’s in, I’ll see if I can get her to talk about it. Does she know we’re dating?”

  “Don’t know. Why?”

  “If she does, it’d give me a better entrée into the discussion about the note since you could’ve shared the information with me.”

  “True.”

  This was the first time Barb hadn’t tried to discourage me from getting involved in something that clearly was none of my business, something best left to the police. I wanted to point out the historic moment but thought it wouldn’t be wise, besides, Karen was at the table with our food. Little could keep my companion from grabbing a fork and digging in.

  A few bites later, I said, “If you get a chance, check with some of your customers to see if they know of an apartment for Noelle. She’s looking for what she calls a dump, something in line with where she was. She wants to stay in character with the protagonist in her novel.”

  Barb smiled. “So, you want me to ask customers if they know a dump for rent?”

  “You could say it more lawyerly, something like a budget-priced rental unit.”

  Two bites later, she said, “Did Noelle think the fire was set because she didn’t take the note’s advice?”

  “She didn’t say. It seems more than a coincidence, although from what I’ve heard, she’s not the only resident who’d upset someone enough to set the fire.”

  “Chris, remember I told you I defended an arsonist in my previous life?”

  “Yes.”

  “To give him a proper defense, I researched arsonists. The consensus of experts profiled most as young males.”

  “That narrows it down to a few hundred folks over here.”

  “Chris, there’s more, if you’ll let me finish.”

  “Please do,” I said before taking a sip of wine.

  “In addition to being young guys, more than seventy-five percent were Caucasian.”

  I wanted to say that didn’t eliminate many of Folly’s young males. A dollop of wisdom made me nod instead of speaking.

  “They also score relatively low on intelligence tests.”

  “Did that profile help with your client?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s Caucasian, a graduate of one of the nation’s top business schools, plus, is in his late fifties. The profile of an arsonist typically refers to a serial arsonist, someone who’s obsessed with starting fires. My client was accused of being a one-off arsonist. He allegedly set the fire for money, not kicks. There was no history of him starting others.”

  “So how did the profile sort of help in his defense?”

  “Reasonable doubt. If I cluttered the defense with other possibilities, regardless of how remote, jurors’ minds could be influenced.”

  “Were they?”

  “I told you, he was found not guilty.”

  I smiled. “Not necessarily innocent.”

  She returned the smile.

  “How does this relate to the apartment fire?”

  “Are the police looking for a serial arsonist or someone who set the fire for a reason other than seeing a massive fire? Have there been other unexplained fires on Folly or in the area in recent days, weeks, months?”

  “If there’ve been others, the apartment fire may’ve had nothing to do with Noelle or other residents. The motivation of the person starting it was to create a fire.”

  “You’re catching on. Want dessert?”

  A change of subject, a hint. Barb was motioning for the server before I could say yes.

  Dessert was ordered, which led to more pleasant discussions, overall, a pleasant evening. On my way home after escorting Barb to her condo, I decided to call Chief LaMond in the morning to ask if she had any update on the fire. Additionally, I could ask if she was aware of other recent unsolved fires.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Chief answered with, “Good morning, Chief LaMond speaking. How may I be of assistance?”

  Her salutation couldn’t have been clearer than if she’d said, “I can’t talk. If you don’t hang up, I’ll have you arrested for pissing me off.”

  “Call when you get a chance.”

  “Of course.”

  I didn’t expect to hear from her soon, so in quest of healthy exercise, I walked next door to Bert’s for a heart-unhealthy cinnamon Danish plus coffee. I didn’t realize until I was out the door that the weather had tanked overnight. The unseasonably warm December temperatures were gone, replaced by what must’ve been the mid-forties. To someone from the North, it would’ve felt mild, but to Lowcountry residents, it felt like the deep freeze. It was easier to keep heading to the store than return home for a jacket. In addition to getting breakfast, I also wanted to see how Ty was doing.

  I succeeded in getting the Danish and coffee, but Ty was nowhere to be seen. According to Caroline, another of Bert’s helpful employees, Ty had the day off.

  I was heading to the register, then home to eat my Danish in peace, when I heard a familiar voice coming from behind the nearby shelf.

  “Morning, Mr. Photo Man. I see you’re eating healthy as usual.”

  It’s been a while since Charles greeted me with the Mr. Photo Man moniker. On a strange level, it was refreshing to hear. He wore a heavy gold sweatshirt with Wyoming Cowboys in brown letters on the front. No, I wasn’t going to ask about the sweatshirt.

  “Got to keep my energy level up,” I said, “What’re you doing on this side of town?”

  Charles lived about seven blocks past Bert’s but seldom frequented the store.

  “Exercise. Teddy Roosevelt said, ‘Let us rather run the risk of wearing out than rusting out.’”

  Another of Charles’s quirks is quoting United States Presidents. He says reading what they said keeps his mind active. I’ve attributed it to him wanting to be different, something he was without quoting anyone.

  “There’s little chance of you rusting.” His hands were empty, so I added, “You getting something or working on wearing out.”

  “Out for a walk, but now that I see you, let me tell you about a brilliant idea I had in the middle of the night.”

  “Tell me, then I’ll decide if it’s brilliant.”

  “I’ll go with you to your house where you can leave your breakfast, then we can saunter around town while you’re listening to my brilliant idea.”

  I had nothing better to do, besides, I could get a jacket if we were going to saunter around. Charles said he’d get coffee while I paid. Five minutes later, I’d upgraded my wardrobe, took a bite of Danish, then headed toward the Folly Pier with my friend.

  I was beginning to question the wisdom of walking on the pier. The stiff ocean breeze made it feel colder than the upper-forties. Why couldn’t Charles tell me his brilliant idea in a restaurant or my cottage? We’d walked halfway to the end of the pier, when he said, “Got another idea.”

  “Is it as brilliant as the one you haven’t shared yet?”

  “Brilliant, no. Warmer, yes. Why don’t we go to the hotel’s lobby?”

  I didn’t know what his other idea was, but to my shivering body, his latest sounded brilliant.

  Christmas decorations were scattered throughout the lobby of the oceanfront hotel. Jay, a friend who’s worked at the hotel for years, greeted us with, “Merry Christmas, gentlemen. You two spreading tidings of comfort and joy?”

  “Always,” Charles said.

  I wasn’t as confident, so I shook Jay’s hand and said it was nice seeing him before telling him we were getting out of the cold.

  “You’re always welcome here. Let me know if there’s anything you need,” Jay said and left us in the seating area off the lobby.

  “Okay, Charles, let’s hear your idea.”

  He warmed his hands by rubbing them together, gazed around the
empty area, then said, “Brilliant idea. Ty has a cat, cute little thing.” He stopped and nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “Who else do you know with a cat?”

  I wasn’t ready for a quiz and took too long to answer.

  “Well, who?”

  “I’ve got it. Good old Mr. Sarnaw. He used to walk that big black cat with a leash down the sidewalk. First time I’d seen someone walking a cat.”

  Charles shook his head. “That would’ve been a good guess, except Mr. Sarnaw died in July. Don’t worry, his neighbor took the cat to a friendly shelter where it was adopted. Don’t know if the leash was part of the deal.”

  “Who are you talking about with a cat?”

  “I’ll give you one more guess. Here’s another clue. Who do you know who has a pet snake?”

  “Martha Wright,” I said, feeling stupid not thinking of her first.

  Charles and I met Martha a year ago when Dude Sloan’s love of his life Pluto disappeared. After an island-wide search by numerous people, we discovered Martha had taken him in to join her menagerie which included some dozen animals. Martha gladly returned Pluto, apologized for inadvertently thinking he was a stray, and left a lasting impression on me, primarily because of her pet boa constrictor.

  “Good guess.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s got cats, Ty has a cat. Martha has a big house, Ty’s living in a tiny-tiny four-wheel apartment. Now, the brilliant part. Martha takes in strays. Ty’s a stray. Brilliant, right?”

  “You think Martha will let Ty move in with her because she takes in strays?”

  “How could she not?”

  Truth be told, it wasn’t a horrible idea. Far from brilliant, but not horrible.

  “Why would she?”

  “She’s an eighty-year-old widow; her poor hubby bit the dust four years ago; she’s living in that big house by herself. That lady needs a man around. Ty’s almost a man, will do in a pinch. All you have to do is ask her.”