Boneyard Beach

by Bill Noel

  Mel and I started tag-teaming Sean with everything we knew about the death of Drew Casey, Mel’s fateful excursion to Boneyard Beach, the call Mel had received about a missing member of the group, a detailed description of Detective Adair’s two visits to Mel’s house, Mel and my visit to the spot on the beach where the party took place, and the detective’s visit to my house and his questions.

  During our recitation, Sean jotted notes that looked like a cross between the lost art of shorthand and a two-year-old writing the Gettysburg Address. Mel and I had gotten to the point where I suggested that he contact an attorney, when Sean dropped the pen and said, “Duh!”

  Mel looked at me and turned to Sean. He leaned forward and put his ample elbows on Sean’s desk. “Sean, Chris, I didn’t kill anybody, especially not some college squirt. I didn’t do anything wrong except take a bunch of drunk college kids to the beach and let them party and let off steam.”

  Sean leaned toward Mel. “Mel, I don’t doubt you, but does the word irrelevant mean anything to you?”

  “Sure, so what?”

  “It means that it doesn’t matter one atom, or one whatever-is-smaller than an atom, if you killed that kid. If the police believe that you did, you’re in, and here’s a legal phrase for you, deep Dalmatian dung.”

  Mel shook his head. “What do I do?” he asked in a low voice.

  “First,” Sean said, “give me a buck, and I’m your lawyer.”

  Mel reached for his wallet. “Didn’t know lawyers came that cheap.”

  “We don’t. That’s the retainer. The comma and extra zeros come later.”

  Mel looked down at the desk. “All I’ve got is a boat and a Camaro, both upside down. Sean, I can’t pay—”

  Sean held his hand, palm toward Mel. “Mel, I owe you my life. We’re okay for now. If you’re charged with murder, I’ll need to bring in someone who handles that level of defense and we’ll have to figure something out.”

  “I didn’t do it, Sean.”

  “Remember irrelevant?”

  Mel shook his head, flipped a dollar bill on the desk, and said, “What now?”

  “If the cops contact you, do three things.” Sean pulled open a desk drawer, took out a card, and handed it to Mel. “First, say these six words, ‘I need to call my lawyer,’ second, dial my cell phone, and third, don’t say another word until I get there. I mean it, Mel, not a word.”

  Mel looked at Sean, over at me, then at the parachute in the corner. “Crap, maybe I could go with you this afternoon and jump without one of those things.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea.

  Chapter Nine

  On the walk to Mel’s car I tried to reassure him that he had nothing to worry about; a poor attempt at best. From what the tour guide had told me combined with the type of questions that Detective Adair had asked, Mel was more than a blip on police radar.

  Instead of going in the house and worrying, I drove off-island to the Harris Teeter to do some irregular grocery shopping. My grocery list was short and I could walk next door from the house to Bert’s and pick up what I needed, but I had realized that my cupboard was one bag of Cheetos from bare and I needed a major grocery trip.

  “Ah, Mr. Landrum,” came the deep voice of William Hansel from behind me. “I see you’ve found it necessary to increase your stock of canned goods and cleaning supplies.”

  Only William, a tenured professor of hospitality and tourism, could describe a grocery cart holding two cans of sliced peaches and a can of Comet Cleanser in a way that could sound like a master’s thesis on American consumerism. Regardless of his professorial way with words, he was one of my favorite people and I had spent many summer days sitting beside his garden enjoying ice tea that he had insisted on delivering on a silver platter and discussing the various issues of the day and his frustrations with the staid world of academia.

  “And you as well,” I said and peeked in his cart containing three boxes of tea, and four ears of corn.

  “Did you hear about the college student who tragically lost his life on the far end of our island?” he asked.

  I pulled my cart out of the center of the aisle. “Drew Casey,” I remembered that he was a student at William’s college. “Did you know him?”

  William moved his cart behind mine and out of the traffic pattern. He was my height, lighter in weight, much darker in color, and as usual, well-dressed. William shook his head. “Not only was I aware of who he was, Mr. Casey was a student in two of my classes. His demise was tragic.”

  “Do you know much about him?”

  He sighed. “Unlike many of my colleagues who feel that they must befriend their charges to effectively communicate classroom material, I espouse a more detached pedagogical paradigm. I present the prescribed material, explain and repeat where necessary, and trust it to the students to assimilate the information. I choose to not share laughs, libations, or personal histories as means of inculcating classroom information into the brains of my impressionable charges.”

  No would have sufficed, but that would have been too Dude like. I would have been wrong.

  William continued, “But I must say, Mr. Casey provided a different construct.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You have been well-enough acquainted with me over the years to know that I harbor no biases or prejudices against anyone based on physical or mental differences.”

  That was true. He had never spoken negatively about anyone since I had known him. Being African American, he had a ringside seat to racial tensions; he had experienced an emotional breakdown four years ago; and on a less-serious level, I had watched him stuffily navigate the more laid-back vocabulary of many Lowcountry residents. He could have been called the master of differences.

  “I agree.”

  He looked around the aisle to see if anyone was close enough to hear. No one was. “Mr. Casey was a homosexual. I, you understand, am not making judgments. Some of the finest and most creative people throughout history were reported to have shared that proclivity: Lord Byron, Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, Leonard Bernstein, Michelangelo, my heavens, even Leonardo Da Vinci. You do understand I am sharing what Mr. Casey had shared with me.”

  I nodded and thought that he was gay should have covered it; but again, William was William.

  He tapped the handles on his cart. “Mr. Casey chose not to wear his sexual inclination on his sleeve. Even though I had given no signs of being interested in his life outside my classroom, he had a way of pulling one in. I must confess that while I had no interest in his lifestyle choices, he, in a quiet and endearing manner, shared with me his estrangement from his family. He kept to himself and didn’t appear to take up friendships with his classmates. He seemed to be a kind and gentle young man.”

  “Did he say why he was estranged from his family?”

  “He never shared that fact or supposition.”

  “Did he have enemies?”

  “I was not able to detect anyone who would have harbored ill will toward him. Then again, I wasn’t able to observe any of his interactions outside the lecture hall or my office.”

  “Do you think his murder had anything to do with him being gay?” I was reaching for straws.

  “I would have no way of knowing, but if I was forced to speculate, I would have to believe it could have been a contributing factor.”

  “Did you know the other students on the outing?”

  “I have not seen a list of the participants, so it is possible, but no one has said anything about being with the group.” He shrugged, “I have no further knowledge of the situation.”

  “Changing the subject,” I said, after realizing that William couldn’t shed additional light on Drew Casey, “I hear you’re in Chester’s walking group.”

  William smiled. “That would be accurate. My teaching is continuing to keep my mental faculties clear, and buoyantly sharp. But since I surpassed the three score mark three years ago, my physical limitations are escalating.”

&nb
sp; I assumed he meant that he was getting old and out of shape and said, “Me too, although my mental faculties have never been as clear as yours.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, you underestimate yourself. Nevertheless, I felt that joining Chester’s group would provide me with the incentive to work on improving my physical condition without resorting to joining a physical improvement facility or embracing yoga.” He chuckled again at what I guessed was the thought of a sixty-three year old, male college professor twisting his body in the shape of a pretzel in front of a room full of trim, youthful soccer moms.

  “Isn’t Abe Pottinger in the group?”

  “That would be correct. Why?”

  “Nothing really,” I said—more accurately, lied. “I met him at Chester’s yesterday and heard he was new here. Just curious about your take on him.”

  “He and I have only walked three or four times together. I had a doctor’s appointment and missed yesterday’s stroll.”

  “What’s your first impression?”

  “Mr. Pottinger appears nice enough. He comes with a sales background. He is curious and asks questions about each of the members. He hadn’t attempted to sell me anything, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that changed at some point.”

  “What does he sell?”

  “I have no idea.” William gave me a sideways glance. “I am curious about your line of questioning. Please don’t get angry for me saying this, but your interest appears on a deeper level than mere curiosity.”

  “Not really,” I lied again. “I believe he’s someone Larry LaMond knew years ago in Atlanta and was wondering why he was here. I’ll ask the next time I see him.”

  “I would think that would be an expedient way of soothing your curiosity.”

  Not really.

  Chapter Ten

  It had been months since I had opened the gallery on weekdays, but I still stopped by a couple of times during the week to make sure the ancient air conditioner was still working and that no one had broken in and stolen anything. Deep down I believed that my photos had exceptional worth and a thief with good taste and an eye for outstanding art would find it hard to pass up stealing them. I also believed that one day I’d get a metal detector and find a zillion dollars’ worth of doubloons in front of the Tides Hotel. We all have fantasies, or so I told myself.

  It was a couple of hours after my visit with William when the bell over the front door jingled and Charles yelled, “You open to handle the rush?”

  I was in the back room and realized that I wasn’t the only one with fantasies.

  “Dream on,” I said and waited for him to come around the corner.

  He tapped his cane on the wood floor in rhythm with his steps as he came through the gallery and into the back room. He wore a long-sleeve, orange Buffalo State College T-shirt, ratty cargo pants that he wore nearly as often as the sun had come up, his Tilley, and a larger-than-usual smile.

  “Why so cheerful?” I asked as he walked to the small refrigerator and grabbed a Diet Pepsi.

  “I’m meeting Heather at the Surf Bar at seven.”

  Heather Lee and Charles had dated for four years and had been engaged for a short time last year. Everyone who knew them was convinced that they were destined for each other, but Charles had confided that he doubted that he was the “marrying kind.” He was probably right. The reason that he had proposed was to honor the dying wish of his aunt. Though Heather and Charles had not been joined in holy matrimony, they were joined in similar interests, potent feeling for each other, and quirkiness.

  It was a little after five so I didn’t think he answered my question, but knew that if he did it would be on his terms and timeframe.

  Charles looked at his bare wrist. “Got two hours before I’m meeting Heather. Want to go over with me? I’ll let you buy me a beer, or two.”

  How could I refuse such a generous offer? The Surf Bar was less than a block off Center Street and across the street from the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety. It was also fewer than a hundred yards from the gallery so we walked. Two surf boards, one red, the other yellow, were attached to the fascia over the door of the faded blue bar. The inside dining area was packed with a smattering of what appeared to be college students bemoaning how hot it had been on the beach; two tables of construction workers were in mismatched chairs at the mismatched tables who could have told the college students what it was really like to be hot; and five vacationers were taking in the ambiance of the surf memorabilia that dotted the walls, ceiling, and bar.

  It was loud so I pointed toward the patio and Charles followed me outside where there were three tables that hadn’t been invaded by diners and drinkers. We grabbed one in the corner as far away from the noise as possible. A large-screen television adorned one wall and was playing a video of surfers maneuvering waves of a size that had never been seen at Folly. Luckily, the sound was muted.

  A harried bartender rushed over and took our order while telling us that two waitresses were late and if we needed anything else to come inside and yell. He left and I asked Charles if there was anything special about tonight since it was rare for him to take Heather out. She was a massage therapist and plied her trade at Millie’s, a popular Folly Beach salon. About the only time Charles and Heather frequented eating establishments was when she attended open-mic night at Cal’s Country Bar and Grill and occasionally charmed her way into the weekly gathering of the Folly Beach Bluegrass Society. In addition to her paying gig as a massage therapist, Heather prided herself as being a psychic and a rising, country-music star. Her psychic skills were questionable, but there was no question about her singing ability—she had none. That had never stopped her. If she hadn’t doted over Charles and brought such joy to his life, and was fun to be around, I would have strangled her long ago, in the middle of her nearly-unrecognizable rendition of “Crazy.”

  The bartender brought our drinks and set them down so hard that chardonnay sloshed out of the Ball jar and Charles’s beer nearly tipped over. It appeared that the waitresses still hadn’t arrived. Our silence came to a halt when four men arrived and grabbed the table nearest us. Mel was one of the four and saw me, smiled, as much as Mel ever smiled, and moved around to take the chair closest to our table. The other three chairs filled and the occupants started looking for a server.

  I leaned back and told Mel that they were short on help and if they wanted drinks before sunrise, someone would need to go inside. He passed the information along to the man sitting to his right, who jumped up and headed to the bar. The two men on the other side of the table were in deep conversation about pollutants in the marsh and something about wanting to find a lawyer to sue someone. Mel ignored them and put his hand to his mouth and whispered, “Marsh tour captains. I’ll introduce you when Robbie gets back with the real reason we’re here. Beer. Oh yeah, we’re also celebrating Timothy’s announcement that he’s tying the damn knot with his better, much-better, half.”

  Charles nearly fell out of his chair leaning to hear what Mel had said. I nodded to Mel and shared with Charles who the group was and why they were here.

  Robbie returned with his hands wrapped around four bottles of Miller High Life and set them on the center of the table. The others grabbed the bottles as if they were winning lottery tickets.

  Each captain took a quick sip and then Mel stood and pointed to our table. “Guys, want you to meet my friends.” He pointed at Charles. “The one with the stupid shirt’s Charles Fowler.” He turned to me. “The boring looking one’s Chris Landrum, he owns that photo store on Center Street. Don’t know what the hell Charles does except get in trouble.”

  I was disappointed that none of Mel’s colleagues asked what kind of trouble; I’d have been interested in hearing Mel’s version. They didn’t pretend to be interested in who or what we were.

  Mel continued, “Chris, Charles, this here’s Folly’s leading, and damned near all of its, marsh tour boat captains.” Mel hesitated and looked around the patio. “We get together ever
y month to talk about how cheap vacationers are, bitch about government regulations, talk about stupid things that happen on our charters, share what we’ve scheduled, and to fix prices. Today we’re celebrating Timothy’s announcement that he’s committing single suicide, ending his forty-three years of freedom, happiness, and all that other crap that goes with being unhitched.” Mel took a sip and pointed to the chunky, long-stringy-haired man who looked like the stereotypical boat captain.

  Timothy chuckled and held his bottle in the air. “At least I’m marrying a woman.”

  Mel frowned and I thought he was going to leap across the table and grab Timothy’s throat but instead he faked a smile. “Right. Anyway, he’s marrying above his raisin’. Y’all might know her, Samantha, she waits tables at Loggerheads.”

  The name wasn’t familiar so I smiled at Timothy and said, “Congratulations.”

  “Robbie’s the ugly cuss stuck sitting next to Timothy,” Mel said. “He owns the company that has those god-awful, glow-in-the-dark kayaks you see flitting around the river like water bugs. He’s got a shiny-new boat like mine, and’s big in that ecological bullshit people talk about in the marsh.”

  Robbie stood, all six foot two of him, with his shaved head covered with a FB ball cap, and held his bottle up to Charles and me. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “If you ever want the best tour of the marsh or to rent a kayak, I’m your man.”

  Mel waved his hand in front of Robbie’s face. “Down Robbie. This ain’t no damned marketing meetin’.”

  Robbie smiled and sat.

  Mel put his hand on the shoulder of the person sitting next to him. “Little twerp’s Nathan.”

  I remembered him from Mel’s dock the day we went to Boneyard Beach.

  “Friends call me Nemo,” the little twerp said as he looked up from his bottle and managed a hint of a smile. He had on a Hard Rock Café, Toronto T-shirt, and his long, black hair was pulled in a ponytail and held with a child’s, multi-colored rubber band with a plastic blue butterfly attached.