by Bill Noel
“That’s possible, but I’d put him low on my list.”
“Okay, moving along, who would’ve wanted to burn Rose and Luke’s apartment out from under them?”
I hadn’t shared what Rose told me about her ex being on Folly the day before the fire. I took another sip knowing I’d need it once Charles started haranguing me for not telling him sooner. I took a deep breath then shared what Rose had told me.
Charles had started to take a drink, instead, he set the bottle on the table, more accurately, pounded the bottle on the table. “You didn’t think that was important enough … never mind. Rose’s hubby sounds too stupid to be a bank vice president if he thought she’d come crawling back to him if her apartment went up in smoke.”
“I agree. I mentioned him because we know he was here the day before the fire. Don’t you think that’s a big coincidence?”
“Do we know if he was here the day of the fire?”
“No.”
Charles pointed in the direction of the ocean. “I’ll nose around the Tides. My innocent-looking face makes people tell me stuff they shouldn’t.”
His countless questions didn’t hurt him getting information either. “Good idea, although there are many other places he could’ve stayed.”
“Nick Matthews,” Charles said.
“Aimee’s fiancée?”
“He could’ve done it. Didn’t Ty tell us he mumbled something like you’ll get yours?”
“Yes.”
“There you go. Suspect number one.”
“How’re we going to find out more about him?” I said out loud, although talking more to myself.
Charles picked my phone off the table, pointed it at me. “Call Cindy. Maybe Nick has a record or is known by the local cops for burning buildings.”
“I’ll call her later.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let you forget.”
Cal returned to the table. “Get you boys anything else to drink?”
Charles looked at his bottle. “Not yet. What if we want something to eat?”
“I’ll point you to some good restaurants,” Cal said, then pushed his Stetson back on his head. “Neil ain’t here, and I’m not in the mood for fixin’ food.”
“Speaking of Neil,” Charles said, “know if he pissed off anyone enough to torch his building?”
“Don’t know about him, but if it had a trio of damned chipmunks living there, I would’ve torched it myself.”
Fifty years later, Alvin and his compatriots were still under Cal’s skin.
“What about Neil?” I said to bring him back to the twenty-first century.
“I asked him. He said it could’ve been his old boss. Seems Neil turned the cheatin’, thievin’ crook’s name over to the IRS. The feds came down on him like a pile of manure.”
Neil had told Charles and me the same thing.
“That’d be a strong motive,” Charles said.
I said, “He also mentioned something about a man he threw out of the bar.”
“Don’t remember that,” Cal said.
“No,” Charles said, “the bar in Charleston where he’s a bouncer.”
Cal said, “I’d stick with the IRS busted boss. Guys get thrown out of bars all the time. They bitch and groan, threaten everyone around, then sober up, before starting all over again. No biggie.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “Has Neil found a place to live?”
“Far as I know, he’s still at the Holliday Inn. Says it costs him nearly everything he makes.”
“It’d be nice, Christmaslike, if someone would take him in until he finds a cheaper place, wouldn’t it?” Charles said, glancing at me out the corner of his eye.
One of the men at the bar called for another beer. Cal left to meet the need, and Hank Locklin broke the string of Christmas songs from the jukebox with “Please Help Me, I’m Falling.”
“That brings us to Noelle,” I said to move away from Neil’s housing plight. “Let me tell you what she said yesterday.”
“Is it like what you learned from Janice and didn’t think it was important enough to tell me?”
“Charles, give me a chance, I’ll tell you.”
Charles held up his empty beer bottle. “Yo, Cal, I need another one of those. Chris is driving me to drink.”
I told him about my encounter with Noelle after I saw her casing the Post Office. He was relatively calm until I got to the part about the note on her truck.
“You thought that clue wasn’t important enough to lead this discussion with?”
Cal set a second Budweiser on the table then asked if I needed another glass of wine. I declined. Charles said he may need it before I drove him crazy.
Cal added, “Crazier,” then headed to the bar.
“I don’t know what we can do with that information,” I said.
“You can add it to the list of things to talk to Cindy about.”
“I’ll do that. Let me tell you what Barb said about arsonists.”
“Is it something else you should’ve told me before today?”
“No,” I said, more defensively than I had intended. “Learned it last night.”
I proceeded to tell him about Barb’s research about arsonists, how it appeared whoever burned the apartment building probably wouldn’t be considered a serial arsonist, but someone who burned it for a specific purpose. The most likely suspect would be the building’s owner Russell O’Leary.”
“Insurance?”
“Probably.”
“He has money trouble?” Charles asked.
“Three months behind on the mortgage.”
“Does Cindy know?”
“That’s who told me. She’s already looking into it. He also told her he was at a meeting in Atlanta, but the story was weak. He didn’t remember where he stayed, paid cash, lots of wiggle room in his alibi.”
Charles took a sip of the second beer, started peeling the label off the bottle, then said, “What do we do now?”
“Enjoy looking at Cal’s Christmas decorations, his beautiful trees, then think how lucky we are to have a place to live.”
Merle Haggard sang “If We Make It Through December.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I called Cindy after Charles and I had gone our separate ways.
“What now?” she said then sighed.
As strange as it seems, I was happier to hear that rude response than her trying to be friendly. Cindy was being Cindy.
“Have you talked to Noelle Ward about the fire?”
“You mean Imani Marshall?”
“Yes.”
“She want to confess starting it?”
“Don’t believe so, but if you say pretty please, she’ll tell you about a note slipped under her windshield wiper a week before the fire.”
“Did the person who wrote it say he or she was going to incinerate the building, then sign the note?”
“Noelle didn’t mention it. It told her to get off the island or something like that.”
“Was your new buddy Noelle ever going to share this with the police?”
“I asked. She said it wouldn’t do any good.” I didn’t tell Cindy that Noelle wasn’t going to law enforcement because her novel’s protagonist wouldn’t.
“I’d like her to tell me that. Do you know where she’s staying?”
“In her truck. I bet your crack police force could find one big Dodge Ram pickup without much trouble.”
“You have more faith in them then I have. Would you happen to have Ms. Ward/Marshall’s phone number?”
I not only told her I did but gave it to her.
“Cindy, now that you’re on the phone, I have another question.”
“Of course, you do, Charles in waiting.”
“Do you know Nick Matthews?”
“No. Who’s he?”
“How about Aimee Mason?”
“Chris, there are two thousand residents on Folly Beach. Are you planning on asking about each of them until
I admit knowing someone?”
I chuckled. “No.”
“So, who are Nick and Aimee?”
I shared what little I knew about them, omitting any mention of Lost, Ty’s cat.
“Let me see if I have this straight. Ty was hitting on Aimee who happens to be Nick’s fiancée. Nick didn’t take kindly to it and maybe-kind-of-sort-of threatened Ty. How am I doing?”
“Perfect. No wonder you’re Chief.”
“Your theory is Nick thought Ty failed to grasp the importance of his maybe-kind-of-sort-of threat and burned an entire apartment building to communicate more strongly his objection to Ty’s advances on his gal?”
“You’ve got it.”
“That sounds like a stretch.”
“Yes, but—”
Cindy interrupted, “Hold the but, the one with one T. Because you’re such a friend, a pain in the butt with two Ts friend, I’ll see if I can find Nick and have a pleasant talk. You don’t happen to have his number, do you?”
“Sorry, no. By the way, how are Rose and Luke doing?”
“Luke’s pestering Larry for a raise. Says he wants the extra money to buy his mom a nice Christmas present. Rose is trying to use some of her highfalutin education on me. Can you imagine her learnin’ me proper grammar? I told her I’m dumber than a pretzel compared to her college students. I think she’s figurin’ that out.”
Cindy is one of the smartest people I know. Her grammar may not always live up to textbook standards, but she’s an effective communicator. She’s also one of the most stubborn people I’ve run across. Rose will have her hands full. I wanted to ask if Rose told her about her ex’s visit the day before the fire, but honored Rose’s request that I not share it.
“Has she said much about the fire?”
“More about how rough it’s been losing everything except the clothes on her back. She knows how lucky she and Luke were. The arson investigator figured the fire started in the apartment next to theirs, so they would’ve been close to the origination point if they’d been home.”
“Does she think it had anything to do with them?”
“Why would it? She just moved here. They didn’t know anybody, didn’t even know others who lived in the building.”
Which means Rose hadn’t said anything about her ex’s visit.
“Just curious.”
Cindy laughed. “More than anything, Rose and Luke are putting their energy into decorating the house. Larry and I’ve never done anything more than put a wreath on the front door. No tree, no wrapped presents, no stockings hung by the chimney with care. Crap, we don’t even have a chimney. By the time Christmas rolls around, Larry is shuffling around like an elf zombie. Tell him I said that, and you’ll be hung by a rope by somebody’s chimney.”
I chuckled. “Your term of endearment is safe.”
“Rose said our house shouldn’t be decorated for Christmas the same way it is for Groundhog Day. She found an artificial tree in the attic, must’ve come with the place. They cleared a century of dust off it, plopped it down in the family room. Then Luke convinced Larry to give him strands of lights from the store so he and his mom could string them around the tree. Then Santa’s little helpers went to Harris Teeter, bought wrapping paper, and candy canes. Now they’re hanging on nearly everything you can hook a cane on.”
“That’s great, Cindy.”
“I’ll admit, it looks good. I put my foot down when she suggested I bake Christmas cookies. Luke said not to worry, he and his mom will bake them. I hope Larry will have enough energy left in his petite body to enjoy everything. Hell, I may even buy him a Christmas present. What man doesn’t want a snow globe?”
“That’s what we live for, Cindy.”
“Perfect. I’ll be sure to tell Larry you said that.”
I hoped she was kidding. “Ho, Ho, Ho! Anything I can do to help?”
“Come to the house after Christmas to take down all the stuff Rose and Luke used to transform our humble abode into a Christmas village.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, I’d love to spend more time talking about Christmas but I have to see if I can find Noelle, or whatever her name is, living in a pickup truck; Nick, the jealous fiancée; plus any other person who may’ve been on Folly in the last week who might’ve started the fire.”
“That should keep you busy for a few minutes.”
“I wish.”
“One more thing before you go to solve the mystery. Don’t forget Cal’s annual Christmas bash.”
“Gee, Chris, how could I forget, he only does it every Christmas. I’m not old like you. I don’t have to be reminded to get up every morning.”
“I was thinking you and Larry might want to bring Rose and Luke by to meet some others on Folly.”
“Good thought. I’ll talk to them about it. Larry, of course, will sleep all day after he drags his tiny butt in from working ninety-four hours a day at the store.”
“In addition to Rose teaching you proper grammar, you may see if she can refresh your knowledge of math.”
I’m certain she was going to thank me for the suggestion, but the phone went dead before she had a chance.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The most likely person with a reason to burn the apartment building was its owner, Russell O’Leary. He was three months behind on his mortgage, one of the apartment units had been vacant for several months which would’ve made it more difficult to cover the mortgage. He claimed to have been in Atlanta at a meeting on the day of the fire but told Cindy he didn’t stay at the hotel where the event was held. He said he’d rented a room at a nearby hotel whose name he couldn’t remember. A feeble alibi at best. So, how do I prove it?
I didn’t know Russell but knew someone who might. Bob Howard, a friend, and former Realtor who’d handled countless sales in the Charleston area.
“Good afternoon, Bob,” I said after he answered on the third ring.
“Well if it isn’t my worthless acquaintance who thinks he’s too good to spend time with his good buddy.”
Despite having had a successful career in real estate, Bob had the personality of a hippopotamus and nearly the same weight, yet, for reason’s unknown, we’d become friends after he helped me find my cottage on Folly, the space I’d rented for Landrum Gallery, plus sharing information over the years allowing me to catch a couple of bad guys.
I ignored his comment, a wise decision when spending time around Bob. “Do you know Russell O’Leary?”
“Yes.”
I waited for more. It was a waste of time.
“What do you know about him?”
“Chris, I figure the CIA, KGB, NCAA, or one of those other evil agencies has this phone bugged. Suppose you’ll need to come over to hear it in person. Oh yeah, while you’re here, you can buy a cheeseburger, double order of fries to share with me, plus some of that nasty red wine you sip in the winter.”
“Will you be there in an hour?”
“Hell yes, damned slave-driver Al won’t let me leave.”
I hung up on him. It felt good.
When Bob retired from selling real estate, he bought Al’s Bar near downtown Charleston. While it’s too long a story to relay here, suffice to say Bob knew as much about running a bar as a jumbo shrimp knows about needlepoint. He bought it because his long-time friend Al Washington, the previous owner, was suffering serious health issues after running the bar for decades while raising nine adopted kids, much of that time as a single dad. Bob couldn’t stand seeing Al suffer.
Forty-five minutes later, I was pulling in a rare empty parking space a half-block from Al’s in an area of town near two hospital complexes. Other than the often-expanding health care facilities, much of the residential area would be considered pre-gentrification. If you’d called Al’s Bar a hole in the wall, you’d be giving it too much credit. It was in a concrete-block building it shared with a Laundromat. The building hadn’t been clothed in fresh paint since the Vietnam War. Regardless of its physic
al condition, I was certain Al’s cheeseburgers were the best in the state. Bob claimed they were the best in the country. He could be right.
I stepped from late-afternoon daylight into cave-like darkness to be greeted by Al, who since Bob purchased the bar, served as the business’s Walmart greeter.
“Praise the Lord, you’re here,” he said, gave me a warm, extended hug, then whispered, “Blubber Bob’s been asking every two minutes if you were here yet.”
The only illumination in the room came from a Budweiser and Budweiser Light neon signs behind the aging bar, but Bob was seated close enough to see each time the door opened. In other words, he had no reason to pester Al about my arrival.
Al was eighty-two-years-old, with short, gray hair, coffee-stained teeth, with skin the color somewhere between dark brown and light black. He looked as well-worn as the room’s yard-sale tables and chairs.
“Old man,” came a bellowing voice from the rear of the room, “stop hugging on the damned scrawny honkie so he can get over here and spend money. How in the hell am I going to pay your astronomical salary if you don’t let customers blow their cash in here?”
That was Bob at his best. Al had the good sense not to remind Bob he was working free. Two men were seated at a table near the large plate-glass window, the lower-half painted black to provide privacy for the diners. They were sipping beer and playing cards. A pile of wooden matches was in front of each of them which I suspected had value other than for starting fires.
Other than the cardplayers, the bar was empty except for Al, Bob, and me. Al said he’d throw my cheeseburger on the grill if I promised to keep Bob quiet. I told him I’d do my best. During busy times, which were fewer and fewer, a part-time cook fixed the food. I hated that Al had to move around that much but knew that the chance of Bob manning the grill was about the same as him being named Pope.
“About time you got here,” Bob said as I squeezed in my side of the booth, a space barely wide enough for me since Bob had taken up twice the normal space on the other side of the table. “Nosing in police business again?”
