by Bill Noel
“It won’t leave this table.”
He smiled. “Thank you. Know what’s picked me up more than anything?”
“What?”
“Cal. Watching that old crooner get so excited about Christmas. Helping him put up the trees, decorating the bar. Being part of something positive about the holiday has kept me from thinking too much about the bad ones. He’s a lifesaver.”
Before I left St. James Gate, Neil had put most of his negative thoughts behind him. I encouraged him to talk about working at Cal’s. He shared a few humorous things he’d witnessed, how interesting it was to spend time with Cal reliving his experiences with many of the country legends from fifty years ago, and a few quirky regulars who frequented the bar. Neil said he wasn’t a country music fan, but hanging around Cal, he had a new appreciation for the genre. He especially had a growing appreciation for Cal, his outlook on life, his tolerance of all people. I didn’t know how long Neil’s good mood would last since we were only a handful of days before Christmas, but when we went our separate ways, he was laughing.
I was crossing Center Street when I heard a horn, turned, and saw it was coming from a black Dodge Ram pickup. The truck, driven by Noelle, I assumed, pulled off the road in front of me. I moved to the driver’s side and was greeted by a smiling Noelle Ward.
“Good to see you, Chris. Where you headed?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Want to hop in? I could use some company.”
I walked around to the passenger door, opened it, slid in, then looked at the back seat that held a sleeping bag, a small suitcase, and three Walmart bags.
“Still driving your apartment?”
Noelle, dressed in a black sweatshirt, black jeans, and red tennis shoes, laughed, then said, “Got some new duds at Walmart. All I have to do now is figure out how to get cable TV in here.”
“Gets a little tight back there, doesn’t it?”
She laughed. “One big advantage of being short and scrawny is I fit almost anywhere.”
She waved at Ty standing in front of Bert’s, drove past my house, then proceeded to her former residence.
She shook her head, then said, “Sad looking mess. It wasn’t Shangri-La, but provided decent, almost decent housing.”
The rubble looked exactly like it had the day after the fire.
“Sad, especially for those who were displaced.”
“I have faith something will work out for all of us. After all, it’s Christmas. Time for miracles, they say.”
A blue Toyota Prius slowed, started to turn into the lot, then continued out Ashley Avenue.
Noelle watched the car slow and then leave. “That’s the landlord.”
“Have you talked to him since the fire?”
“No.”
“Hear anything else about who started it?”
“Not really, or not really anything credible. I told you before that I’m spending time walking around observing people. Vacationers act different than locals, youngsters act way different than, umm, old-timers.”
“Like me?”
She grinned. “No, not you, I mean old people.”
“Ever thought about becoming a diplomat?”
“Too much work.”
“For me, it’d be easier than writing a book.”
“Anyway, in addition to observing folks, I’ve talked to several, mainly to see how they react to a stranger. A few want to talk about the fire.” She chuckled. “It was hard getting some to stop talking about it. Besides the Christmas parade, the fire was the biggest thing that’s happened around here in a while.”
“It doesn’t take much to get folks gossiping.”
She stepped out of the truck and leaned against the hood. I joined her in front of the vehicle.
Noelle stared at the ruins then said, “One old man in the Crab Shack said he was certain the fire was started by a pyromaniac traveling from New York to Miami. The old guy said the man stopped here on his way to practice starting fires. He also said President Kennedy is living in a beach house on Kiawah.”
“He lost credibility on that one, didn’t he?”
“Did with me. Did you hear the fire started in the middle unit, first floor?”
“Yes, it was vacant, I believe.”
“Vacant several months. Another guy at the Crab Shack told me he heard the fire was started by a kid sneaking in the empty apartment to smoke. The man couldn’t explain how the kid spread gasoline around to make the fire accelerate.”
“Noelle, that probably scratches the surface of rumors going around about the fire.”
“Chris, there’s one other thing. It could be my imagination.” She smiled. “Novelists have big imaginations you know. Anyway, a couple of days before the fire, I noticed a guy standing back there.” She pointed to the back of the lot. “Seems he was staring at my apartment. The reason he got my attention was that I’d swear I saw him three other times in recent weeks. I noticed because he was always looking around like he thought he was being followed.”
“What’d he look like?”
“White dude, little older than me, long shaggy black hair.”
“What about clothes?”
“Had them on every time I saw him,” she said, then laughed.
“Cute.”
“Sorry. He looked like every other dude. Jeans, sweatshirt, backward ball cap, think it was red.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really. If I was putting him in my book, he’d be someone on the run, because of the way he kept looking around like he was worried about someone seeing him.”
“Seen him since the fire?”
She looked toward the sky, then back at me, “Don’t think so. Now you know everything I know about the guy.”
“If you would, call me if you see him again. The police chief and I are friends. I can have her check him out.”
“Deal. By the way, I was in the bookstore yesterday. The lady who owns it said you two are an item.”
“We’ve been seeing each other a while.”
“She’s really nice.”
I agreed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I was to meet Barb for supper at Loggerhead’s Beach Grill located across the street from her condo in the Charleston Oceanfront Villas. I was there fifteen minutes before the time we were to meet. The restaurant has one of the nicest outdoor decks on the island, but tonight was too cool to enjoy it. As I was walking across the parking lot, I noticed a man getting out of a blue Prius. He was middle-aged, six-foot-tall, average weight with a slight limp. I followed him up the steps and into the building where he took a stool at the bar. Most of the indoor tables were taken, so I was fortunate to get one along the wall. I wasn’t certain, but the Prius was the color of the one Noelle said belonged to Russell O’Leary.
I didn’t give the man another thought and ordered a Diet Coke while I waited for Barb. She was seldom late, but unlike Charles, she assumed on-time meant on-time, so I wasn’t surprised she wasn’t here yet. I was beginning to wonder when it was ten minutes after the time she was to arrive. I didn’t wonder long. The phone rang with her name on the screen.
“On your way?”
“Not yet. Two groups came in as I was closing. It was as if they just realized Christmas was four days away. They’re rummaging through the books trying to do all their Christmas shopping. It’ll be a little while before I can get there. Want to postpone, or am I worth waiting for?”
I’m far from the smartest person in my orbit but knew there was only one acceptable answer. “Of course you’re worth waiting for. Take your time.”
“I appreciate it.”
Three couples were at the door waiting for a table. Rather than hogging the real estate for no telling how long, I told the server I’d be at the bar. Besides, it’d give me a chance to introduce myself to the man I suspected to be the apartment building’s owner. I took the bar-height seat next to him, then realized I had no logical way of identifying myself or as
king about the fire. It didn’t help that he was gripping his beer glass with both hands and staring at the liquid it contained like his mind was a thousand miles away.
I did my Charles imitation. “Hi, I’m Chris. You live around here?”
His hands never left the glass, but his head tilted slightly in my direction. “No.”
Charles does Charles way better than I do.
“Then you probably didn’t hear about the big fire on Folly a week ago.”
This time he took one hand off the glass, then turned toward me. “Who’d you say you are again?”
“Chris Landrum.”
He reached out in a motion I assumed meant to shake my hand. I shook his wet hand as he said, “I’m Russell O’Leary. You won’t believe this, but it was my building that burned.”
“You’re kidding, that’s terrible. I hear it’s a total loss.”
He sighed. “Unfortunately.”
“What caused it?”
“They said arson.”
“I’m sorry, Russell. Who would’ve done that?”
I thought that was better than asking if he’d torched it.
He shrugged.
“Own it long?”
“Been in the family twenty-three years. Dad had it until he passed a few years ago. I got the building. Inherited it and all its problems.”
“Problems?”
He hesitated long enough for me to think my question had gone too far.
Finally, he said, “I’m a mechanic, big trucks. I didn’t know anything about maintaining a building like that. Dad got the best years out of it, I got the leaky pipes, busted air-conditioners, wiring problems, outside constantly needing paint, that’s not even counting deadbeat tenants who’d rather pay for cigarettes and cell phones than rent.”
I remembered what Bob Howard had said about Russell considering selling the building.
“Ever think about selling?”
“Only every day, and twice in the middle of the night when I’d get a call about something wrong. What’d you say your name was again?”
His glass was empty. “Chris. Let me buy you another beer.”
He glanced at his watch, then smiled, finally. “I never turn down a drink.”
I waved for the bartender, ordered a beer for Russell, said I was okay with my drink.
“If it was such a headache, how come you didn’t sell? From what I hear, the market’s strong.”
“Don’t think I didn’t come close a time or two. I’ve got two kids, guess they’re not really kids anymore. They’re eighteen and nineteen, almost grown men. Every time I said something about selling, they went bananas. Say they’re going to take over, help do all the work, want it for their inheritance. My wife is on their side.”
His second beer arrived, and he didn’t waste time taking a long pull.
“How much help are the boys?”
“Chris, you got kids?”
I shook my head.
“Then I’ll forgive you for that question. They’re worthless. I was holding it to keep peace in the family.”
“Going to rebuild?”
“Excellent question, my friend. Don’t know.”
“Were you at the fire?”
“I wasn’t even in South Carolina, was at, umm, a meeting in Atlanta. I didn’t know anything about it until the next day.”
“That had to be a shock.”
Another sip later, he said, “I probably shouldn’t say it, but I’m glad it’s gone. The insurance money will help clear some debts. With that said, I feel bad for my tenants.”
“Have they found places to live?”
“The only one I’ve seen since the fire is a kid who works at Bert’s. He said he’s living in his car.”
“That’s rough.”
“He’s young, will be okay.”
I remembered how Cindy said he’d been vague about the meeting he allegedly was attending and where he stayed in Atlanta.
“I haven’t been to Atlanta in years. All I remember is construction downtown. Traffic was always disrupted. Is it still that way?”
“Don’t know. I was a few miles from downtown.”
Hadn’t Cindy said the meeting was at a downtown hotel? I also couldn’t figure a way to ask if he torched the building. Even if I had, I didn’t get a chance. He looked at his watch for the third time since I sat down.
“Better get home. My wife will be calling out the police if I don’t show up soon. Thanks for the beer, Chris. Nice meeting you.”
He slid off the chair and was out the door before I paid his tab. I not only bought his second beer, but the first was also on me.
Barb probably passed Russell on the way down the stairs. She arrived with a smile and proclaiming that she was starved, a common occurrence, or so it seems. The crowd had thinned so we had a choice of three tables. We ordered then Barb told me about her day, the closing-time rush, then a story about a customer who wanted Barb to gift wrap a dozen books he was giving to his three children. He eventually bought the books but was disappointed she didn’t gift wrap.
I started to tell about meeting Russell O’Leary, but her body language told me she didn’t want to talk about the fire. We found much more pleasant topics to enjoy with our meal. After supper, I walked her across the street to her condo, where our pleasant topics continued.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Barb had kept my mind off the fire for several hours, but the next morning, I couldn’t shake what Russell had said about being glad the building burned, and his comment about not being in downtown Atlanta. Had I misunderstood what Cindy shared about his meeting? A phone call would be a simple way to find out.
“Morning, Chief.”
“Are you on your way to the Dog?”
“No, but I can be. Why?”
“Because if you’re not here, how can you buy me breakfast.”
“See you in a few minutes.”
“Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?” she said, then hung up.
The temperature was beginning to feel like Christmas, so I drove rather than walked. My half-hearted exercise plan would have to wait. There was a rare empty parking space in front of the restaurant, reducing my exercise by more steps.
Cindy was at a table in the center of the room. As I made my way over, she motioned for a server to bring a second cup of coffee.
“I thought you’d be home fixing bacon, eggs, hash browns, and toast for Rose, Luke, and Larry,” I said, knowing that’d be the last thing she’d be doing.
“You’ve been hanging around Noelle Ward too long. She’s the fiction writer.”
I was surprised she knew Noelle. “Why did you mention Noelle?”
“She said she knew you.”
“Where’d you meet her?”
“Did you forget there was a big-ass fire at her building?”
“No, but—”
“She stopped by the office yesterday. Said something about telling you about seeing someone nosing around the apartment. You said if she saw the guy again to call you, so you could tell me, or something like that.”
My coffee arrived. Cindy interrupted her story to tell the server what she wanted for breakfast. I exhibited as much originality as I usually do when I ordered French toast.
“Your new writer friend said instead of dragging you in the middle of something that was none of your business, she told me directly about the guy who’d creeped her out.”
I took a sip of coffee, then said, “Is that how Noelle said it?”
Cindy smiled. “I added none of your business.”
“I figured. Did she give you anything that’d help find the guy?”
“Nothing that wouldn’t describe a third of the population. I told her to call me—I repeat, call me—if she sees him again.”
“Good plan.”
“Chris, if memory serves me correct, you called me. Any particular reason other than to raise my blood pressure?”
“Didn’t you tell me Russell O’Leary
was in Atlanta the day of the fire?”
She took a small notebook out of her coat pocket, flipped through a few pages, then said, “The owner of a pile of charcoal said he was attending a get-rich-quick rip-off seminar in downtown Atlanta. He didn’t say rip-off, that’s my astute analysis of the hotel-meeting-room con-artist seminar.”
“Are you sure he said downtown Atlanta?”
She flipped another page. “Said the seminar was at the Westin Peachtree Plaza, downtown Atlanta. Why did someone see him here?”
“I met him last night at Loggerhead’s.”
She shook her head. “Let me guess, you were minding your own business nibbling on a fry when low-and-behold Russell popped up out of nowhere and introduced himself.”
“Close. I thought it was him, so I introduced myself.”
“While minding your own business, I’m sure. Moving right along, why ask about Atlanta?”
Breakfast arrived. I poured syrup on the French toast, then said, “He told me he’d stayed a few miles outside downtown Atlanta.”
“Pray tell, how did that come up in the conversation?” Cindy asked, then took a bite of toast.
“You’d told me he was in downtown Atlanta, so I said how bad construction had been the last time I was there. Asked if it was still bad.”
Cindy rolled her eyes. “Chris, have you been to Atlanta since Sherman burned it?”
“Not quite that long ago.”
“Charles must be learnin’ you private detective techniques for tricking suspects. Did he say anything else about his trip?”
“Not about the trip, but said he was glad the building burned. Insurance would let him pay off debts.”
“Suppose you would’ve already mentioned it if he told you he set the fire?”
“Chief, you would’ve been the first to know.”
“Do you think he did?”
I shrugged. “Told me he wasn’t good at maintaining the building; he hated getting called at all hours about problems; he threw out he wasn’t fond of dealing with tenants. He didn’t say it, but as you shared, he was behind on the mortgage.”
“Does that mean you think he did it?”
