Boneyard Beach

by Bill Noel

  “Of course,” I said.

  Chester said, “Let’s go in where it’s cooler.”

  Chester’s front door opened to a small living room with two oversized, dark-green, velour recliners facing a large-screen television that was the size of bank vault. Chester hadn’t entered the world of flat-screen televisions, but also hadn’t deprived himself of the largest screen I’d ever seen in a floor-model set. Two lamps provided the room’s illumination and everything was neat and uncluttered. A window air conditioner was loud, but the cool air felt good.

  “How about something a bit stronger to sip on?” he said as he weaved his way around the recliners and television and stood in the kitchen doorway. “Got whiskey, wine, and beer. No dancing girls or peanuts.”

  I said wine and Charles said, “Beer. Sure there’re no dancing girls?”

  Chester laughed and went to get our drinks.

  Charles pointed to a photo beside an old-fashioned, clunky, black telephone, perched on a small table under the window. In stark contrast to the phone, there was a high-tech digital answering machine. The photo was sepia and from the clothing, I would guess it had been taken in the 1940s. Chester returned with our drinks and caught me looking at the picture.

  “Wedding day, June 3, 1944,” he said and handed me a glass of white wine. “That’s my blushing bride Rosie. An angel, a true angel.”

  Charles took the Budweiser from Chester. “You were quite a fetching couple.”

  I wouldn’t have been that generous. Chester’s glasses in the photograph were smaller than those he wore today, and he had more hair, but I can say that his appearance has improved with age. Rosie’s nose was pinched and out of proportion to her face; and if she had a chin, it was well hidden. They had big grins and appeared happy, and that’s what mattered.

  “Thanks. She’s been gone eleven years and until your aunt came along, I had never thought of another woman. Charles, I do miss Melinda.”

  Charles was seldom at a loss for words, but this was one of those moments. He smiled. I suspected that a trip down memory lane wasn’t the reason for Chester asking us to stay.

  “What’s up, Chester?” I asked.

  He had lowered himself on the vacant recliner and took a sip of beer. “This is kind of hard for me to talk about. I don’t know anything for sure. I’m guessing. Gee, I don’t know, maybe …”

  Charles interrupted. “Spit it out.”

  Chester looked down at his bottle and then up at Charles. “Since you’re a detective, I thought I’d talk to you about this.”

  I started to debunk Chester’s assumption about Charles being a detective, but had come to realize that it would be useless. Charles thought he was, some others actually believed him, and truth be known, he and I had solved some crimes, enough to lend a touch of credence to Charles’s claim.

  The impatient, alleged detective, said, “About what?”

  “It’s about Abraham Pottinger, you know, from .5.”

  We had just walked roughly .2 with him and spent an hour on Chester’s porch talking to him, so I was pretty certain I knew which Abraham Pottinger Chester was referring to.

  “There’s something fishy about him,” Chester continued. “He sort of drifted into the group. Hadn’t been here long.”

  I asked, “Who brought him in?”

  “That’s the funny thing. I was in Mr. John’s Beach Store talking to Paul, the owner, you know? I wanted to get one of the new Folly Beach T-shirts with the big red FB on the front, think they’re cool looking. Anyway, he came up and introduced himself, said he was new to the beach and had heard about my group. He said he needed some exercise and wondered how he could join. He was dressed all formal like and looked out of place.”

  Chester paused. A mistake around Charles. William had once said that Charles had horror vacui. I had no idea what it meant so I used Charles trivia-collecting technique and asked. William said it was Latin for fear of empty spaces; said it usually referred to visual space, but could also describe Charles’s inordinate need for words to fill silence. I had said, “Whatever.”

  “What happened?” Charles asked.

  “First, he didn’t look like he met our stringent age requirement, so I asked to see his drivers’ license. Low and behold, he was over sixty, sixty-one in fact. I gave him an application, always carry a few extras around with me, and told him where and when we meet. He showed up the next day with his completed application in hand and joined us for our walk up Center Street.”

  “What’s fishy about him?” I asked.

  “Now I could be one-hundred percent wrong, so don’t take this as gospel, but I’m beginning to think his motives are not pure and he’s not that interested in exercise.”

  “Why?” Charles asked.

  “The way he’s latched on the gals in the group. Don’t think it’s a hanky-panky thing, although they’re mighty attractive. Anyway, my hearing’s not the best, but I am able to catch smidgens of his conversations and he’s always talking about ways they can make oodles of money.”

  “Reverse mortgages?” Charles said.

  Chester smiled. “See, I knew you’d figure it out. Did you catch all that today?”

  Charles reached over his shoulder and patted himself on the back. “Sure did.”

  I asked, “What do you think’s wrong with him talking to them about reverse mortgages?”

  Chester looked back down at his bottle and then nodded. “I know there’s such a thing, but he’s always talking about how he can offer such a better deal than other companies. How’s that possible? Just seems fishy.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Charles asked.

  A great question, I thought.

  “Hold on, Charles,” Chester said. “There’s more.”

  “And?” Charles asked.

  “It’s about my buddy Theo.” Chester shook his head. “Don’t know if you noticed, but he’s, how shall I say it, he’s in declining mental health. Probably Alzheimer’s, he’s forgetting things. The other day he forgot where he lived.”

  I was beginning to wonder about Chester’s “mental health” since he’d told us the same thing about Theo the other day, but I let him continue.

  “I’m afraid Theo is low-hanging fruit for scam artists. We old folks are more susceptible for that kind of thing. I read in a magazine where there’s something in the brain that gets a bit scrambled as we get older. It’s not only folks with Alzheimer’s, but all of us. I think it said we believe more of the scams than we would’ve when we were younger. Scary. Want more to drink?”

  We declined.

  “Think Abe is running a scam on Theo?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. That’s what I want you to figure out.”

  Charles said, “Why do you think he might be?”

  “Theo’s old, Theo’s rich, Theo’s losing his mind. And, oh yeah, Abe’s been huddling up with him more each walk and before you got here today, Abe asked Theo to lunch tomorrow. Fishy.”

  And so it seems, particularly after what Larry had told me. Chester said that was all he had, so I asked him if he wanted us to walk with him to the pier so he could get his car. He said no, that he’d get it after a nap.

  “Why didn’t you tell Chester about Abe and Larry?” Charles asked after we had left the cottage. Charles had to make a delivery for the surf shop and I told him that I’d walk there with him.

  “I couldn’t think how to tell him without divulging more than he knows about Larry’s past. Plus, I didn’t want Chester’s feelings of ‘fishy’ to be clouded by Larry’s suspicions.”

  “Good point.” We’d reached Folly’s only stop light. “What’s your take on what Chester said?”

  “I didn’t hear all of it at Bert’s, but Abe was pushing his reverse mortgage idea on Connie and Harriet. Theo’s wealthy so he wouldn’t have interest in it.”

  Traffic stopped and we headed across Center Street. “Theo’d be a lot bigger fish to fry if Larry’s suspicions are accurate,” Charles said
as we reached the sidewalk.

  “You can say that again,” I said. We were now at the steps in front of the surf shop.

  Charles paused on the first step. “So what are we going to do . . .”

  My cell phone interrupted the rest of his rather predictable question. The screen read Mad Mel.

  “Morning Mel,” I said.

  “Damned caller ID!”

  I agreed.

  “What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?” he asked.

  Mel’s normal voice was about as loud as a drill instructor so Charles didn’t have to lean close to hear.

  Abe hadn’t invited me to his lunch with Theo, so I said, “Nothing, why?”

  “Meet me at the Crab House, eleven hundred hours.”

  Charles moved a step back and pointed his index finger at his chest.

  “Can Charles come?”

  “Could I stop him?”

  “Probably not,” I said.

  “Then why in the hell did you ask?”

  “Being polite.”

  “You failed!” Mel blurted.

  “We’ll be there.”

  “On time?”

  With Charles, there’s no other way, so I said, “You bet.”

  The line went dead.

  Charles seemed to forget his trip to the surf shop and ushered me to a patch of shade around the side of the building. “What’s that about?”

  “Don’t know. You heard as much as I did.”

  Charles leaned against his cane. “Mel doesn’t invite people to lunch unless he’s got a powerful reason. And why drive to the Crab House when it would’ve been easier to meet us on Folly.”

  “He’s embarrassed to be seen with you,” I said.

  “Funny. He said Crab House before you asked him if I could come.”

  “We’ll have to wait and find out. Speaking of waiting, isn’t Dude waiting for you to deliver a package?”

  Charles nodded and pointed his cane at the surf shop. “United Parcel Charles to the rescue.” He waved bye as he scampered up the steps.

  Despite the comment by one of the walkers that he was having a sunstroke, the temperature was mild for May, so I decided to walk to the end of the pier instead of heading home. Folly’s iconic pier was more than a thousand feet long and stuck out into the Atlantic and served as the figurative center of the island’s coastline. I often ventured to the far end of the structure when I needed to think, or when I wanted to have a good view of the beach, or if I wanted to take a nap in the shade under the diamond-shaped, elevated second deck. This would be a good time for all three.

  A dozen or so fishermen were spread out along the rail, a flock of seagulls circled overhead, and the smell of filleted fish filled the air. The vacation season wasn’t in full swing so the beach wasn’t as crowded as it would be in a few more weeks, and the end of the pier was deserted so I had my choice of benches.

  Instead of falling asleep, my mind wandered and tried to assimilate everything that’d been happening the last few days. The death of the college student was tragic, and even though he’d been on Mel’s charter, it was difficult to believe that he had anything to do with it. So, why had the rumors of his involvement been spread so quickly? Granted, Mel was gay and apparently so was the student. But so are many others, here on Folly and elsewhere. Was the bias against gays so strong that people automatically jumped to conclusions? And then there’s Abe Pottinger. Was Larry right about Abe’s less-than-stellar reason for being here? Or, since Larry knew Abe and his sordid past, was my friend biased against him? How did that differ from how people viewed Mel?

  Chester didn’t know anything about Abe and Larry’s relationship, and yet he thought something was fishy about the newcomer. How much credence could I put into Chester’s suspicions?

  And now both Larry and Chester want Charles and me to see what we can learn about Abe. How are we supposed to do that? Add to all that, Mel wants to meet me—and of course Charles—for lunch. Something told me that he didn’t just crave our company.

  And then I fell asleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Charleston Crab House was eight miles from home and on Wappoo Creek, a waterway that branches off the Ashley River on the west side of the city. We arrived on-time by Charles’s Standard Time, or thirty minutes before Mel had said, and were ushered to a table on the outdoor patio overlooking the scenic waterway. While we waited for Mel we were treated to a float-by from two small sailboats and three dolphins frolicking near the dock. So far, the day was perfect.

  Mel headed our way and I doubted that the day would stay perfect. His normal sour expression seemed festive compared to the look on his face, and I suspected that a storm was nearing. The former Marine didn’t disappoint.

  “They’re out to get me,” Mel groused as he yanked the chair out from under the table and plopped down.

  Charles glanced toward the door; probably to see if he meant it literally.

  “Who?” I asked, assuming that the time for civil greetings had passed.

  Mel glared at Charles and then at me. “Damned if I know.”

  It was time for me to keep my mouth shut and let Mel tell us whatever it was.

  Charles, to no surprise, didn’t adhere to that philosophy. “How do you know?”

  Mel took a deep breath. “I’ve taken fire in combat. I’ve been in more bar fights than I can count. And, I’m pretty good at catching people bad mouthing me behind my back. I can damned sure tell when someone’s got me in their scope.”

  “Humor us and say why you think you’ve been targeted,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Charles said. “I haven’t been shot at, I know I haven’t been in many—okay, no—bar fights and would bet money that Chris hasn’t either. We’re not as good as you at knowing when someone’s out to get us.”

  Mel stared at Charles and then waved for the waitress who had been talking to three customers at the next table. She looked over and Mel shouted for her to bring him the “strongest brew in there.” He pointed toward the bar so she’d know where they kept the brews.

  Mel glanced at a passing sailboat and turned to me. “That detective called yesterday.”

  “Adair?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Said he had some ‘routine’ follow-up questions, and all casual-like said, ‘Remind me how often you visited LeBar.’ Well, I reminded him that I’d said a couple of times with Caldwell and maybe a couple of times by myself.”

  Charles rubbed his three-day-old beard stubble. “So?”

  Mel picked at his paper napkin and leaned back in his chair when the waitress brought his drink and asked us what we wanted. Charles said a beer and that he didn’t care how strong it was, and I ordered wine. The waitress left and Mel leaned forward and put his elbows on the table.

  “I sort of underestimated the number.”

  “Sort of?” Charles said.

  “Yeah, more like a dozen times by myself. Never counted because I didn’t see any damned reason to. Who knew somebody’d be keeping score.”

  “And you didn’t tell Adair anything different than you did the first time?” I asked.

  “No. Stupid not to, but no.”

  I would agree it was stupid to not tell the detective the number of visits, but I was having a hard time seeing why that made Mel think someone was out to get him. Again, I waited to let Mel’s story unfold at his pace.

  The waitress returned with Charles and my drink and, to his credit, Charles sipped his beer and didn’t ask Mel what he’d meant.

  “It gets worse,” Mel mumbled. “Adair asked me if I was sure that I didn’t know the dead kid. I said no, I didn’t remember him.”

  “But?” Charles said.

  Mel glared at him. “A few times I was there I may have gotten a bit snookered. LeBar’s small and often it’s ass-to-ass, steppin’-on-toes packed. Every once in a while, a lost straight person stumbled in, but it’s rare. The regulars have the queer factor in common, but they’re varied after that: tall, short, bi, trans, black
, white, old, and young, like college students.”

  A light was coming through the cracks in Mel’s story. “College students like Drew Casey?”

  “Adair asked if I met Drew Casey in LeBar.”

  I wanted to scream, “Did you?” but waited.

  “I told him no, but to be honest, I could have.”

  Charles said, “Could have?”

  “I was a few generations older than some of the folks in there, and with my handsome looks and charming smile, several of them recognized me.” Mel grinned to let us know he was kidding about the looks and smile. “Anyway, I was a conversation piece, maybe even some kind of challenge to a few of them, and they sort of flirted.”

  I prayed that I was wrong about where this seemed to be headed, but asked anyway. “Was Casey one of the college students?”

  “I don’t know, I really don’t.” Mel shook his head and looked down at the table. “There was always a bunch of them, it’s dark, and I seldom had a shortage of beers. Guys, he could have been.”

  “What about the kid who rented the boat and who blew the whistle on you?” Charles asked.

  “Charles, did you miss the part where I said I was pickled, in the dark, and packed in like sand in concrete? I don’t freakin’ know!”

  “Did you leave the bar with any of them?” asked fearless Charles.

  “Shit no!” Mel slammed his fist down on the metal table. “Why would you even ask that? Caldwell and I are committed to each other, have been for years, always will be. You know that!”

  Charles held up both hands, palms facing Mel. “Didn’t mean to insult you. You know cops’ll come at you with that.”

  “Have you told Sean any of this?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a meeting with him this afternoon. Wanted to see what you thought before spilling my guts to an attorney.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what the police have or if someone’s trying to frame you, but from Adair’s questions, he thinks you’re more involved than taking the group to the beach.”

  Charles picked his cane off the deck and pointed it at Mel. “Don’t know what Sean will say, but my unprofessional, untrained legal advice would be for you to keep your trap shut and let your lawyer do the talking.”