Boneyard Beach

by Bill Noel

  “Nathan,” Mel said, establishing that he wasn’t a friend, “has an old beat up fishing boat and cons people into hiring him to take them on e-co-logical, natural, environmental, blah-blah-blah trips to the hinterlands. Throws out all sort of highfalutin’ words to prove that he earned his PhD in eco-crap. Impresses the hell out of librarians and AARP wobblies.”

  Nathan smiled and pointed his bottle at Mel. “Jealousy rears its ugly head, again.”

  Note to self, I thought. Don’t invite myself to any of these happy, cheerful meetings.

  Before I could figure out something to say, Timothy snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. You two caught that killer a while back; the one who had something to do with the beach church.”

  Robbie piped in, “Yeah. Mel said he may be in a bind with the cops about a kid getting himself killed last week. Said you’re helping him.”

  I looked at Mel. He shrugged.

  Robbie continued, “Think you’ll catch the killer like you did the church guy?”

  Charles sat back in his chair.

  I flinched.

  A college-aged waitress bounced up to the table and announced that she was “Randi with an I,” and took a second round of drink order from the captains and a second beer for Charles and chardonnay for me.

  “If the boss man comes around, y’all be sure and tell him how good a job I’m doing,” she said and winked at Mel. “He’s already chewed my ass for being late.”

  Her wink was wasted on Mel, but he fended a smile from his underused smile muscles and Randi, with an I, headed inside.

  Mel turned to Robbie. “I don’t need no damned help. Didn’t do anything wrong and don’t know nothing about that dead kid.”

  Robbie looked at Nemo and then at Timothy before turning back to Mel. “You said the cops talked to you and asked if you’d been to that queer bar in Charleston. Mel, you know we’ve got your back, but you’re gay and it sounds like the dead guy was too. It’s your business, not mine, but it sounds like you need all the help you can get.”

  Charles cleared his throat. “Ronald Reagan said, ‘We can’t help everyone, but everyone can help someone.’”

  The captains turned to my friend. Robbie nodded; Timothy tilted his head and looked at Charles like he was a warthog; and, Nemo’s face mutated into a snarl.

  Mel pounded his hand on the table knocking over an empty bottle in front of him. “Told you I don’t need any damned help. Period!”

  “Doesn’t sound that way to me,” Nemo said.

  “It’s none of our business,” Robbie said. “Mel will do what he has to do.”

  Timothy leaned against the table. “It sure as heck is our business. If someone gets killed on one of our charters, it’ll hurt us all.” He paused and looked around the table. “Whether you admit it or not, business sucks. There’s too many of us doing the same thing. I don’t know about you, but Samantha and I need all the money we can pull together to get off to a good life.”

  Nemo said, “I agree with Timothy. No offense Mel, but with you running college students out in the middle of nowhere to get drunk, that sure as hell don’t bode well for the environmental tours the rest of us are doing.”

  I would hate to hear what it would sound like if Nemo meant to offend Mel. I gripped the edge of the table and waited for Mel to explode.

  Randi returned before Mel could use his military training and break every bone in Nemo’s body. She set the drinks on the table, told us how delighted she was to be waiting on us, and was oblivious to the increasing tension between Mel and Nemo.

  Randi left to spread her charm to other customers and Robbie said, “Come on, Nemo, there’s enough room for all of us. The economy’s in a lull but I hear it’s picking up. We need to support our friend. We know Mel didn’t have anything to do with the kid’s death.”

  “Do we?” Nemo said.

  Mel took a deep breath, flung a five dollar bill on the table, stood and stormed off the patio. I hated to see him go, but considering the alternatives, his departure could have saved him from being arrested for assaulting a marsh tour captain, or two, or three.

  Charles watched Mel leave and stared at three hand-painted wooden signs near the exit. Each had an arrow and one said, Hawaii 5,550 miles, another read, Baja, California 1,854 miles, and the third, Folly Beach 2 blocks.

  “Think that’s as a crow flies or as a car drives?” he said.

  Over the years, Charles had been accused of being a nut, a fruitcake with too much whiskey in it, and as flaky as a croissant. Granted, these were accurate, but he was a master at saying or doing something outlandish to diffuse a difficult situation.

  “Hell if I know,” Nemo said.

  Robbie said, “Better be a crow. You’d have a hard time driving to Hawaii.”

  Timothy shrugged and took a long draw on his beer.

  And I silently repeated what Nemo had said when Robbie proclaimed that we knew that Mel hadn’t killed the college student. “Do we?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Heather passed Timothy, Nemo, and Robbie as they left through the same outdoor exit that Mel had huffed and puffed through. Timothy whispered something to her and patted her shoulder as they passed in the doorway; the other captains ignored Charles’s girlfriend.

  Charles glanced at his watch-less wrist as Heather arrived at the table.

  “Don’t give me that I’m-late-if-I’m-not-early look, Chucky,” Heather said as she gave him a peck on the cheek and shook her head at the same time. Charles detested being called anything but Charles. Only Heather could get away with calling him Chucky; further proof that love was blind, or deaf. She pulled out a chair and moving one of his empty beer bottles to his side of the table and looked at me. “What’s up with you two and Timothy?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Heather pointed to where she and Timothy had spoken. “He said something about y’all wading in deep trouble.” She frowned. “Said if Chucky here drowns, Timothy’d have a shoulder for me to cry on.” She held her nose. “Ewe!”

  Charles asked, “Do you know Timothy?”

  Can’t slip anything by my friend, I thought.

  “Not really,” she said. “Know Samantha better. She’s his fiancé, you know.”

  We didn’t an hour ago, but Charles sat back and said with much confidence. “Sure, we knew that. How do you know them?”

  “Samantha’s a regular at Millie’s, comes in each week.” Heather rolled her eyes. “She spends every penny she makes waitressing on her locks, her fingernails, her toenails, and for me, massages. Yeah! Timothy’s been in a few times to fetch her after her remodeling. Not sure about him.”

  Randi, with an I, noticed the addition to our table and came to get Heather’s order. “Better lay menus on us,” Heather said. “I’m starved. You joining us, Chris?”

  I glanced over at Charles and he shrugged, so I said, “Sure.”

  Heather held three fingers in the air. “Three menus, and I suppose these boys’ll want more giggle-juice.”

  “On the way,” Randi said without asking for a translation.

  Charles watched the waitress walk away and turned to Heather. “Why aren’t you sure about Timothy?”

  I knew he wouldn’t forget. Charles is a dry sponge for rumors; he’ll suck up more of them than the nearest two competitors combined.

  “Samantha’s having second thoughts about tying the knot.”

  “Why?” Charles repeated.

  “She didn’t say, but I think it has something to do with him being closed-minded.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  Randi returned with Heather’s Budweiser and three menus. Heather asked her to come back in a few minutes so she could catch up with our drinking. She took a gulp and turned to me.

  “Think maybe her fella’s a bit shy on tolerance for those who’re different,” Heather said. She then took another drink.

  “For example?” I asked and figured if I asked the same question as many ways as possible,
we’d get an answer.

  Heather looked around. The table the captains had occupied was empty and no one was within fifteen feet. “I didn’t want to say it out loud, but Samantha told me that Timothy said he couldn’t stand fags, A-rabs, and blacks, but he didn’t say blacks, you know.”

  I suspected that we did. “Samantha had trouble with that?” I asked.

  Heather continued to look around. “One of her best friends from high school is black and that she was planning to invite her to the wedding but was afraid Timothy would say something that’d cause a ruckus.”

  “Sounds like he’s more than a bit intolerant,” I said. “Think she’ll call off the wedding?”

  “Probably not, but she’s also worried about money. Said Timothy’s business ain’t quite paying the bills and he’s always complaining about it. Said there’re too many boats chasing too few customers, or something like that. Said the bank’s ready to come a callin’.”

  “She say anything else?” Charles asked.

  “Gee, Chucky, do I look like a psycho-chiatrist or a reporter?”

  Randi returned and asked if we were ready to order. Heather said she didn’t know about the “two old men” but she was. Fish sandwiches all around plus an extra order of fries, and more beer and wine, seemed to satisfy Randi’s quest.

  “Who’s the bald one?” Heather asked before Charles tried to pump more information about Samantha. “He looks familiar.”

  Charles acted like he’d known him forever. “Robbie.”

  “Has he got an older sister?” Heather asked.

  “Don’t know. We just met him. Why?”

  Heather closed her eyes and wiggled her freckled nose. It was like she was conjuring up an image. “He looks like a younger, taller, and balder version of one of Millie’s clients. Her name’s Connie DeWalt. Thought that may be why he looked familiar. Connie’s always bragging about her brother, how he’s a self-made, successful entrepreneur, but I don’t recall her saying what he did to be so successful. I’m often working in another room and don’t hear everything Millie’s clients say.”

  “Is she attractive, in her mid-sixties but looks younger?” I asked.

  “Sounds like her.”

  “We met her at Chester Carr’s house,” I said. “She’s in his walking group.”

  Heather nodded. “Think I heard her say something about being around a bunch of geezers.”

  Charles leaned forward in his chair and pointed his finger at Heather. “You’re looking at two of those geezers, so watch what you’re saying.”

  “It’s a walking group that Chester started,” I said. “He credits Melinda for getting him started down the road to health, and Charles and I think it would be good for us. Besides, it would support Chester.”

  Heather turned to Charles and grinned. “Now Chucky, don’t get yourself hurt out jogging.”

  “Walking, Heather.”

  “Whatever, just don’t get hurt.” She pointed at the table that had been occupied by the captains. “Who else was in that group?”

  “Mel was, but left before the others,” I said.

  “Rumor around the salon is that the dead college student was on Mel’s boat and that a cop was talking to him about it—talking to Mel, not the dead college student. Could he have something to do with it?”

  Charles and I both said no.

  “And the other guy?” Heather asked.

  She was falling under Charles’s nosy spell.

  “Nemo,” Charles said.

  Heather grinned. “The missing clownfish in that old movie?”

  “Don’t believe it’s the same one,” said Charles, as if Heather would have confused the two. “Nemo’s Latin for nobody or no one, you know.”

  Now that one I didn’t know, and wondered why Charles did.

  Heather said, “Oh.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Free parking near the pier was always at a premium, so most of the group parked at Chester’s and then he drove them the whopping two blocks to the foot of the pier where the walks began. I said we would meet them there. The “early morning” trips began at nine o’clock so Charles, of course, expected me to be there at eight thirty. I had the completed two-page application and had slipped my passport in my pocket in case Chester was serious about seeing proof that I had been around more than sixty years.

  It was a cool day with a low cloud cover. Charles greeted me in the pier’s parking lot wearing tan shorts, a green and gold long-sleeve T-shirt with a large T and Arkansas Tech in smaller print underneath.

  He pointed his cane toward Charleston. “Ready to stroll to the Battery?”

  Charleston’s historic Battery was eleven miles away and the longest walk that Chester had mentioned was about the length of seven football fields so I assumed my hyperbole-prone friend was teasing.

  “If you are, I am,” I said and sat on the bottom step to await the arrival of the group.

  A half hour later, Chester rolled in the lot and seven people rolled-out of his thirty-year-old, baby blue Mercury Grand Marquis land yacht. Chester maneuvered himself around the group, flailed his arms, and herded everyone over to Charles and me. He would have made a sheep dog proud.

  “A near-record crowd today,” Chester said with a big smile on his face. He was proud of his creation.

  The near-record group included Theo, William, Harriet, David, Honest Abe Pottinger, Connie DeWalt, the group leader Chester, and the two soon-to-be newest members, Charles and me.

  Chester held out one hand at me and the other at Charles. “Applications?”

  Charles had folded his application to the size of a postcard and handed it to Chester while I unfolded mine and handed it over. Chester read our responses and asked for proof of age—honest, he did.

  Harriet was standing behind Chester and mumbled, “Oh Christ-on-a-stick, Chester. Can’t you see they’re way over sixty?”

  I wasn’t happy about her description, and it did nothing to speed Chester’s review of the documents. He scanned my passport and Charles’s original birth certificate, looked at me—probably to see if my face was the one on the document—and said, “Can’t be too careful.”

  A terrorist crossing the border from Mexico carrying an AK-47 would have received less scrutiny, but this was Chester’s club and rules.

  “Can we got on with it?” Harriet asked.

  David asked, “Where to today?”

  Chester looked at each member of the group. “Thought we’d head up Arctic then over to Bert’s before heading to the house.”

  “How about down Arctic?” David said.

  “Think we need to go up Center Street; maybe make all the way to Woody’s,” Harriet added.

  Chester rolled his eyes, a magnified sight behind the bottle-thick glasses. He leaned close to me. “This is a debate we have only every other day.”

  Chester raised his hand above his head and pointed up Arctic Avenue. “It’s my group. That way.”

  “Dictator,” Harriet mumbled.

  David said, “You win.”

  Chester moved a foot from Theo’s ear and screamed the destination.

  “That far?” Theo yelled as if Chester couldn’t hear any better than he could.

  Chester’s proposed route was no more than five long blocks and I figured even Theo could make it.

  “Guess the Battery’s safe from this group today,” Charles whispered, even though a whisper wasn’t necessary.

  Chester gave another herding motion and we slowly, I emphasize slowly, headed east on Arctic Avenue.

  After thirty yards, Abe was already ten paces ahead of the rest of us, revealing that he was not accustomed to being in a walking group. He looked at a street address on one of the small condo buildings on the ocean side of the road and said, “How come it’s called Arctic Avenue? Shouldn’t that be in iceberg country?”

  It was a fair question and one that I had naively asked my first week on the island. I gave him the same answer I had been given. “Heck if I know?�
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  Abe looked at Charles who shrugged. And, he was the one who had known what nemo meant in Latin. The rest of the group was struggling to make the “exhausting” walk, as Harriet bemoaned, and hadn’t heard the question.

  We were half way up the block when Theo yelled from the back of the pack, “Where are we going, Chester?”

  Chester was fifteen or so strides in front of Theo and stopped and walked back to the man bringing up the rear. Chester put his arm around him, leaned close to his ear, and repeated our flight plan. Harriet had also slowed to let Theo catch up with her. She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek and said something like she was glad he was with us.

  Chester moved beside Charles and me. “Theo’s getting worse.”

  “Memory?” Charles asked.

  “Afraid the guy’s losing his mind, like really losing his mind,” Chester said. “Alzheimer’s I suspect but he won’t see a doc about it.”

  Charles looked back to Harriet and Theo. “What’s his story?”

  “Sad one,” Chester said. “He invented a replacement-window system that uses a highfalutin gas between the glass panes that keeps cold air out in the winter, scorching heat out in the summer, and noise out all the time. Started his own company and sold it three years ago to that humongous window company that I can never remember the name of. He pocketed several million dollars. He and his wife moved here and she up and died six months after moving into their dream house on the marsh. They’d been married fifty-two years. Sad.”

  I looked back at Theo and Harriet. “Looks like she’s taken him under her wing.”

  “She really has,” Chester said. “Some of the others make fun of him behind his back because he’s so slow. He thinks they call him ET as a compliment. It means Energizer Turtle. He keeps on going, going, going, but at a speed that would take time-lapse photography to detect movement.” Chester looked toward Abe leading the group and said that he’d better catch up with the leaders so they didn’t miss the turn to Bert’s.

  Charles looked at the frontrunners—walkers—and then back at the rest of the group. “This bunch is almost as much fun as the boat captains.”