by Bill Noel
I agreed. “Did Abe send Larry e-mails?”
“Don’t know. The times I knew about them communicating, it was by phone or in person.” She lowered her head. “Chris, I’m scared.”
And had good reason to be, I thought, but said, “Larry’s right, if he didn’t have anything to do with it, they can’t find convincing evidence that he did.”
“I guess.”
“Cindy, don’t shoot me for asking this, but—”
“Bad choice of words.”
“True, so don’t get mad, but is there a chance that he did it?”
We’d covered this ground before, but I needed to keep going back to it. I wanted to push her to be as objective as possible.
I was expecting a blow-up or at least a nasty look. Instead, she whispered, “A powerful case could be put together that he did. But, I don’t think so, I really don’t.” She looked up and shook her head. “Let me ask you something.”
I nodded.
“You’ve known him for eight years, gone through a few tense times together, and spend a bunch of time with him. Has he ever lied to you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Me either,” she said, and smiled. “He’s the most honest crook I’ve ever known.”
I knew what she’d meant and returned the smile.
“I really don’t think he did it, Chris.”
“So, if Larry didn’t, who did?”
“One whale of a good question.”
I remembered yesterday’s conversation with members of the .5 group and how Harriet and Cal had hinted that Abe had been worried that someone from Georgia may have followed him. I mentioned it to Cindy.
My distraught friend looked at the river and turned back to me. “Abe was a con artist, a blasted good one according to Larry.”
“Did Larry ever mention anyone who might have followed Abe to Folly, someone from his past who may have killed him?”
Cindy looked at the floor and then back at me. “He never mentioned anyone, but sure, someone could have. As they say back home, where’s there’s a big pile of manure, there’s sure to be a large critter nearby and a flock of flies. A con artist leaves a string of unhappy campers in his wake and has a bunch of acquaintances on the wrong side of the law. I suspect some of them would have been pleased to have the opportunity to deposit a bullet in him.”
“Why don’t you ask a couple of officers you trust to ask around and see if they hear of any strangers in town or any vehicles with Georgia plates from the counties near Atlanta? Other than sand in his shoes, Detective Adair probably doesn’t have any evidence. I’m sure he’s checking with the police in Georgia and getting what, if anything, they have on Abe. I suspect he’d appreciate anything your officers turn up that may help with his investigation.”
“Won’t it look like I’m only trying to help Larry?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Again, if Larry didn’t do it, someone did, and Adair could use the extra eyes. Besides, you can say that one of your folks uncovered the evidence, you didn’t. Isn’t that what the police are supposed to do?”
“Yes, but. . .”
“No but, you’re the chief doing your job.”
“Even if there is someone, there’s no reason to think he’s staying on Folly. Could be anywhere and now that the scumbag is dead, whoever shot him could be long gone.”
“True,” I said. “But it’s all you can do.
“I reckon,” she said, with little conviction.
I pulled out of the drive, and repeated to myself, if not Larry, who? I also had the nagging feeling that something that was said on the group’s walk yesterday was bothering me, but what?
I stopped at Charles’s apartment and caught him as he was heading out the door. He said that he had been cooped up in the apartment all morning and needed fresh air. We walked around the side of his building to the front that had housed the Sandbar Seafood and Steak Restaurant, and sat on a bench overlooking the Folly River and the Mariner’s Cay marina and condo complex on the other side of the waterway.
“Why the visit?” Charles said. He removed his Tilley and set it on the bench.
I shared my conversation with Cindy. He asked if I thought it was possible that Larry could have shot Abe. I rehashed what I’d told him before when I said I didn’t think so. He said that he wouldn’t bet the farm that Larry was innocent, although he’d be surprised if he did it.
I didn’t ask him what farm he wouldn’t bet, but instead asked, “Why?”
“Larry’s past is a sore spot with him. We talked about it several years ago, probably before you arrived. He didn’t want everyone here to know about it, but if it had to come out, he’d have mixed feelings. Said he would be relieved and would find a way to weather whatever storm followed.”
“He’d also said that to me.”
“But it was BC.”
“Before Cindy,” I said.
Charles nodded and said, “He’s protective of her—overly protective.”
I agreed.
“Now that she’s chief, it’d kill him of something from his past caused her any hurt or threatened her job. The boy may be short, but he’s got a spine of steel. I wouldn’t want to mess with him if I said anything bad about his woman.”
“So you think he may have done it?” I said.
“No,” Charles said. “But if I carried a badge and a gun, I’d be on him like spit on a cowlick.”
I hoped he was right about the first part.
We sat in silence watching absolutely nothing happening on the river.
Charles looked across the stream at the marina. “I’m glad Chester decided a boat’s the best way to get to Boneyard Beach. Think if I had to hear Harriet gripe about one more thing and Theo walk at the speed of the Washington Monument, I’d be searching for a gun to send them chasing after Abe. Those two are made for each other.”
“What do you mean?”
“You see the way Harriet’s been doting on Theo? If they were younger, she’d be accused of stalking.”
I had noticed how she had helped him yesterday and spent most of the time serving as his human hearing aid. “Think she’s after his money?”
“According to Chester, she’s sweet on him. Don’t know if she’s after his money or his winning smile and sex appeal.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh wait, he doesn’t have a smile, winning or otherwise, and if he ever had sex appeal he used it all up around the time Truman was camping out in the White House.” He leaned back on the bench and gazed over at me. “It’s the money.”
My analysis would have been a bit different, but I couldn’t argue with his conclusion. It also reminded me what was bothering me about yesterday’s walk.
“Remember yesterday when Cal and Harriet were talking about what Abe had said about someone following him?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Cindy and Larry are crystal clear that Abe was a con artist, a good one.”
“So?” Charles repeated.
“If he was working a con on Harriet and Cal, why would he tell them anything about someone following him unless it would help him with the con?”
“And telling them about someone following him wouldn’t benefit him.”
“Not that I can figure.”
“I didn’t hear everything Cal and Harriet were talking about,” Charles said, “but they weren’t clear about what Abe had told them. Now with them knowing he was murdered, it might have clouded their recollections and made them read more into it than Abe had meant.”
“True, but look at it this way. What if one of them had killed Abe and made up the story about someone following him to deflect attention away and pass the blame on someone else?”
“You’re kidding!” Charles picked up his cane from the ground and pointed it toward town. “You think little ole’ scrawny, complaining Harriet or our bud Cal shot Abe with a hunting rifle from across the street?”
“Why not? It’s just as likely as Larry doing it?”
“Don’t think so,” Charles said. “Larry had a motive. What motive would Harriet or Cal have?”
“You just told me Harriet’s motive.”
“I did?”
“Didn’t Theo tell us that he was going to hand Abe a million dollars? Didn’t you imply that Harriet was after Theo’s money?”
“That little gal can’t weigh a hundred pounds. How could she handle the size gun used to take out Abe?”
“She grew up on a ranch in Montana,” I said. “I’d be surprised if she didn’t spend time hunting, and if not, she probably would’ve been around guns most of her life.”
Charles rubbed his chin. “Think she said they took care of each other back there. Bet that included killing any predator that threatened their livestock.”
I nodded.
Charles returned his cane to the ground. “If Harriet pulled the trigger, why would Cal have said what he did about Abe seeming afraid?”
“Let’s ask him.”
Charles slapped his Tilley back on his head, grabbed his cane again, and stood. “You’re sounding more like me every day. There’s hope for you yet.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was noon but Cal didn’t open his bar for lunch unless the mood struck him. The front door was locked so I assumed the aging country crooner wasn’t in the mood to entertain diners or early drinkers. Charles and I went to the unlocked side door and were greeted by the smell of stale beer, George Jones belted out “The Race Is On” from an antique Wurlitzer jukebox, and Cal, live and in person, sang harmony as he swept under the tables. He saw us and went to the jukebox, reached behind it, and turned the volume down. “Welcome to the George and Cal show, one performance only, standing room only.”
Chairs were on top of the tables so he could clean the floor, and I smiled at his joke and he tipped his Stetson in my direction. Charles said, “What’s for lunch?”
Cal looked toward the tiny kitchen and back at Charles. “Cold hot dogs, frozen french fries, and cold beer. The grille ain’t fired up, and I’m not turning it on for you.”
“Cold beer sounds good,” Charles said. “Got any chardonnay for my wine-snob friend?” He pointed to mem although Cal probably knew who Charles was talking about. “He’s too good for beer.”
“Think I can find some.” He walked behind the bar and turned on the neon Corona Extra beer sign that a movie crew left behind last year after they filmed a movie using Cal’s as one of the sets. They’d renamed Cal’s The Bar and thought the Corona sign looked better than his Bud Light sign. The movie turned out to be a disaster, both during shooting, and in the box office. Removing the Bud Light sign was not the reason.
“You’re about nine hours early for my set and from the piss-poor crowds I’ve attracted lately, I don’t think you needed to get here just yet to claim a table.” He waved toward the bandstand and the tables. “Reckon there’s another reason for the visit.”
Charles took a sip of Budweiser and said, “You reckon right. Lay it out, Chris.”
Cal lifted three chairs off the nearest table. “Park your butts.”
We did and I told him that we had been rehashing the conversation concerning Abe from the other day on the walk, and that we were confused about something Cal had said.
Cal looked at Charles and back at me. “What’d I say?”
Not a good sign, I thought. “Harriet was saying that Abe told her that he was worried about someone following him to Folly, someone from his past that he was afraid of.”
Cal removed his Stetson, laid it on the table beside his beer, rubbed his hand through his long, gray hair, and nodded. “I remember. Believe she said Abe was antsy about someone.”
“Yes. After that, didn’t you say he told you something like that?”
Cal took a long drag on his beer and looked at the water-stained ceiling tiles. “Sort of.”
Charles leaned closer to the bar owner. “Sort of said it or you sort of remember what he said?”
“Abe was jabbering about the greatest stock deal since Apple and using all sorts of words that I’d need nine years of college to figure out, so I was only half paying attention. He mentioned being from A-Town. I remembered that because I played a few shows there in the seventies and got stiffed by a scumbag promoter. Atlanta may be high in the alphabet, but it’s at the bottom of my list of places to entertain. You see—”
Charles interrupted. “What’d Abe say?”
Cal looked at Charles like he would at a drunk heckling his singing, but returned to the track. “He said he’d sold stock there and his clients did real good.”
If there was anything in there about being afraid of someone I missed it.
“And?” Charles asked.
“And all I remember was that he seemed nervous when he was talking about it.”
“He didn’t say anything about someone following him?” I said.
Cal Smith sang “County Bumpkin” in the background, Cal Ballew stared at the jukebox, and said, “Not that I heard. Why?”
Cal had rented an apartment ever since he’d been here, so I knew he wasn’t a mark for Abe’s reverse mortgages, excuse me, jumbo reverse mortgages, so I asked, “Did Abe convince you to buy stock he was peddling?”
Cal chuckled. “Even if I wanted to, which I didn’t, I would’ve had to sell my car, bar, and guitar to scrape together seventy-three dollars. Doubt the late Abe would’ve considered my wealth a big chunk of his retirement nest egg.”
If there wasn’t a country song in there somewhere, I’ll eat Cal’s Stetson. I also couldn’t think of a reason Cal would have for killing Abe. He didn’t have a story about Abe being followed so he wasn’t trying to misdirect blame. He hadn’t given Abe any money; didn’t have any to give. There wasn’t a financial reason to kill him. And besides, I had always known Cal to be honest, honest to the point of harming himself on occasion. To be sure, I tried one more question.
“Cal, you were here when Abe was killed, weren’t you?” I hoped it didn’t sound too much like I was fishing for an alibi.
“Sure was, pard. I was standing right over there when old Roger stormed in and said there’d been a killing. He didn’t know who but said there were a slew of cop cars and an ambulance out by the tennis court.”
Cal got us another drink and plopped back down in his chair. “Fellas, if I was the suspicious type, I’d think you’re looking for Abe’s killer and that I was near the top of the chart with a bullet.”
So much for subtlety. I looked at Charles, he gave me a slight nod, and I turned back to Cal. “Not really, Cal. The other day it sounded like you thought Abe was saying that he was worried about someone from back home. That didn’t make sense. If a con artist was trying to screw you, he’d show confidence in whatever he was selling so you’d fall for it. He’d be good enough not to let his feelings muddle up the conversation.”
“Guys,” Cal said, “in my fifty-something years travelling the country, I’ve seen more con artists than the Better Business Bureau. Abraham Pottinger was one of the best.” He raised an empty bottle in the air. “I wouldn’t let him invest this bottle, much less any of my hard-earned petty cash.”
Charles raised his near-full beer bottle and tapped Cal’s. “You’re a wise man, Cal.”
“Tell us what you know about Harriet Grindstone,” I said, as the bottle-clinking ended, and Randy Travis sang “On the Other Hand.”
“Wow,” Cal said. He twisted his head to the left. “That’s a whiplash transition. Where’d that come from?”
“We’re curious,” Charles said.
Cal chuckled. “Yeah, right. Suppose you’ll tell me when you get good and ready.”
I nodded which seemed to satisfy Cal.
Cal leaned one elbow on the table and put his hand under his chin. “She’s a tough old bird.”
Interesting choice of words since she and Cal were the same age.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“She’s come in here a few times and threw back more
than her share of brews. Told me that she reared three kids and kicked them and her husband out of the house about twenty years back. Said she’s now, ‘living happily ever after.’”
“What about her and Theo?” Charles asked.
Cal grinned and pointed his bottle at Charles. “Can’t slip anything by you. She’d like to be on him like a mosquito on a baby’s butt.”
“Have they been in together?” I asked.
“Nah, don’t think Theo gets out much other than his every-other-day crawl. If cancer spread as quick as Theo walks, we’d all die of boredom at 153.”
Charles said, “How do you know she’s out to reel him in?”
Cal pointed to the raised bandstand. “I’ve stood up there and on stages, truck beds, hay bales, and anything else I can stand on and performed for way too many decades and behind that bar for going on three years.” He hesitated and pointed to the bar. “Know what I’ve learned after all those years?”
“What?” Charles asked.
“Learned, a thousand country songs, about as many ways men can look stupid trying to dance, how beer kills brain cells, and a few hundred pick-up lines and flirtin’ looks.”
“So?” Charles said.
“So, Harriet’s used most of those looks on Theo while she’s trying to catch him in her web. Heck, when we’re on our .5 shuffles, she can’t walk down the street with him without him tripping over her flirts.”
“Think she shot Abe?” Charles asked.
Cal stared at Charles, started to speak, hesitated, and finally said, “Didn’t see that coming. Why would she?”
“Abe was after Theo’s money,” Charles said. “Harriet was after Theo. She could have been after him for love, you’ve said how she doted over him; but the biggest reason was for his money.”
“I can see that. So you think she shot Abe to keep him from getting the dough.”
“Just a thought,” I said. “The problem I have with it is why she would shoot him from across the street. She’s strong for her size and could have handled the rifle, but it seems like it would have been much easier and less risky to do it from close-up.”
