by Bill Noel
Johnny Cash was singing “Ring of Fire” and Cal looked at the jukebox, turned to Charles, and back to me. “I’m from Texas.”
I nodded.
“They’re more guns per-square-foot there than in Cabela’s. You know what state stomps Texas in percentage of gun-owners?”
“Nary a clue,” Charles said.
“Montana,” I said.
“Really?” my trivia-collecting friend said.
Cal said, “You can bet your Remington on it.”
Charles looked at me. “How’d you know?”
“Guessed. That’s where Harriet’s from, so I figured Cal was making the point that she’d know how to handle a rifle.”
“You figured right,” Cal said. “And she was raised on a ranch. Shooting would’ve been as normal to her as teasing her hair. What do the cops think?”
“They’re focused on Larry,” I said.
Cal shook his head. “You’re pulling my spurs.”
“He’s serious,” Charles said.
“I’d heard rumors, but why?”
Cal was one of the few on Folly who knew about Larry’s checkered past, so I shared a little about what Larry had told me and the chain of events leading to the murder.
“You don’t think he did it, do you?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be trying to figure out why Harriet said what she did.”
“Then you’ve got to talk to that detective and get him straightened out,” Cal said.
Easier said than done, I thought. I didn’t tell Cal about my last conversation with Detective Adair, but did say that he was right and that I’d tell Adair what I was thinking.
“Good,” Cal said. “Larry’s my little bud, can’t have anything bad happening to him. And speaking of detectives, heard anything else about Mel? I can’t believe they think he killed that kid.”
I told Cal that I hadn’t heard anything new other than Mel was still in jail.
“They must think they’ve got a heaping-good case against him,” Cal said.
I told him about the bloody rag in Mel’s garage, Mel being at the gay bar in Charleston that the student frequented, and the other student who claimed to be an eyewitness to Mel being near where the kid was killed while the others were getting drunk at another part of Boneyard Beach.
“That’s one saddlebag full of coincidences. Someone’s framing my Magical Marsh Machine’s man.”
“I agree,” I said, and thought, how can I prove it?
And Ricky Van Shelton was singing “Somebody Lied” as I left Cal’s.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cal had persuaded Charles to stay and help clean before Cal’s opened for the late-afternoon drinkers, so I left him and walked down Center Street looking for reasons to not call Detective Adair and share my suspicions about Harriet. I had come up with five extraordinarily inane excuses for not calling before realizing that I might as well get it over with. I was closer to the gallery than home so I went in, left the front lights off, moved to the back room, and called the detective’s cell.
“Yes, Mr. Landrum, what can I do for you,” came the steel-cold voice.
I would have preferred hello or good afternoon, but forwent telling him that and said I’d like to talk about Abe’s murder. He said that he would be on Folly in an hour and offered to meet me at the gallery. I took a deep breath and lied. “Sounds good.”
My five inane excuses had begun to sound better, but it was too late.
As I sat and waited for Adair, the musty smell in the room coupled with the cold air blowing out of the air conditioner, brought back memories from years in this space. Most of the memories were good and the more I thought about them, the more I wondered if I should reconsider closing.
Adair’s arrival interrupted whether I should remain open.
“So what’s so all-out important?” he asked as I greeted him at the door.
I offered him water or a soft drink, figuring I wouldn’t make a friend by offering him a beer or a glass of wine. He brusquely declined and repeated, “What’s so important?”
I pointed him to a chair at the table. He looked around and sat and I took one on the opposite side of the table.
He folded his arms and stared at me. I took a deep breath and shared my observation that Harriet had been paying more than a friendly interest in Theo, a member of the walking group, and that Theo had agreed to give Abe a significant amount of money to invest in a stock that he had been touting. Adair interrupted and asked more about Theo. To the detective’s credit, he took notes.
I shared that I believed that Harriet didn’t want Abe to get to Theo’s money and that she shot him to prevent it from happening.
Adair asked for a physical description of Harriet, and I told him about her age and petite size. He didn’t say anything, but from his skeptical look, I figured that hadn’t helped my argument. I added that she had lived on a ranch in Montana, and my belief that marksmanship would probably have been a part of her past. I doubted that he was convinced.
The detective shut his notebook, returned it to his coat pocket, sighed, and gave me a police glare. “Mr. Landrum, what evidence do you have that Ms. Grindstone had anything to do with Mr. Pottinger’s death?”
I wanted to slap him with his notebook and scream, Isn’t that your job? Instead, I said that what I had told him was only speculation, but that it made sense. More sense than accusing my friend Larry, remained unsaid. To bolster my case, I told him that Charles Fowler and Chester Carr also felt the same way.
He appeared unimpressed and glared at me. “That’s it?”
I nodded.
“Let me throw my speculation at you,” He leaned both elbows on the table. “Larry LaMond is a friend of yours. I’ve heard it from several people—”
“Yes, but.”
“But nothing. Let me finish.”
I closed my mouth.
“He’s your friend, I get that, but, he’s your friend who had a lengthy criminal past. He’s a friend who never hesitated to break in houses and steal valuables from innocent homeowners, often while they were asleep in the same room. He’s a friend whose past came back to haunt him when Mr. Pottinger showed up. How am I doing so far?”
I wanted to argue that Larry had been a model citizen for way more years than he had lived outside the law, and how he had established a stellar reputation on Folly Beach. Instead, I said, “Go ahead.”
“Not only did Pottinger come to Folly, but I learned, from you, I might add, that he had threatened Mr. LaMond. He threatened to tell everyone about Larry’s past which not only could have ruined Larry’s reputation and business, but would have made a laughingstock out of his wife, your police chief.”
“Larry had already planned to tell everyone about his past,” I said, realizing it sounded defensive.
“So you say.”
“Didn’t Larry tell you the same thing?”
Adair balled his hand into a fist. “What else would he have said?”
I leaned back in the chair, doing my best to not let him intimidate me. “I also said that I had volunteered to tell Abe that Larry was going to tell everyone about his past, and that he had no way to pay the extortion money, even if he wanted to. I told you that I had met with Pottinger with that message.”
“Yes.” He shook his head. “I believe that’s the story you forgot to tell me the night of the shooting.”
I didn’t have a good response, so I continued, “I was leaving Pottinger’s house after talking to him about Larry.”
“That we agree on.”
I held my hand up, palm facing him. “And that was when he was shot.” Adair nodded. “Would Larry have murdered Pottinger before hearing the outcome of the meeting? Why would he have shot Pottinger when in your words, Larry’s friend was only inches from a deadly bullet?” I leaned forward and stared at the detective. “Why?”
He met my stare and upped it. “Let me tell you two things I do know, Mr. Landrum. I’ve been a cop for a long time, much of
it investigating what seems like countless murders. First, I know that logic, making sense, and intelligence seldom prevail when people are killed. And second, I know that your friend has no alibi for when Pottinger was gunned down; your friend has one heck of a good motive for shutting Pottinger up. Not a thing you’ve said has convinced me otherwise.”
Nothing like an open mind, I thought. “You don’t know him, but Larry’s one of the most honest, aboveboard, and trustworthy people I’ve ever known. He may not have an alibi, but I doubt that most people over here who know Pottinger have one, and I’ve given you a motive for Harriet Grindstone. Why don’t you check it out? And now that I think about it, you searched Larry’s home, truck, and hardware store, did you find anything to indicate that he was the shooter?”
Since Larry was still free and since I was convinced that he was innocent, I knew what the answer had to be.
“Anything?” I repeated.
I was surprised when he grinned.
“Mr. Landrum, you know I’m not going to answer that. What I can tell you is that I know that Larry LaMond shot Abe Pottinger. It’s only a matter of time before I prove it.”
Adair didn’t storm out of the gallery, but didn’t waste any time letting me know that our meeting was over and exited before I could respond.
I was convinced of two things: Larry was in more trouble than I had anticipated, and I hadn’t helped him any. And, while I was still convinced that my friend had nothing to do with Pottinger’s death, I knew where the detective was coming from. He had far more reason to suspect Larry than I had to accuse Harriet.
It was also clear that Adair wasn’t going to be doing anything but focus on Larry. If anyone was going to pursue other possible suspects, it had to be me. Theo had said that he didn’t have any paperwork on the stock he was going to fork over a million dollars on so that was a dead end. He wasn’t a candidate for a reverse mortgage, but Alexander Lifetime Security Inc. was the company selling the product. I did a Google search and turned up two companies named Alexander Security, but both provided private security services for companies, and there were no listings for Alexander Lifetime Security, Inc. While I was on the computer, I looked for references about Harriet Grindstone and found only four people with that name. Unfortunately, none of them had been arrested for shooting someone, and none had lived in Montana. Wishful thinking was simply that. I knew Harriet had been married and wasn’t sure if Grindstone was her maiden name or her husband’s name.
What I was certain about was that if Abe was as good a con artist as Larry had portrayed him to be, he wouldn’t have let anyone, much less someone he was conning, see that he was afraid of anything. Harriet had been lying. I was certain that she had grown up in Montana, and almost as certain that she’d know her way around rifles. From what Cal had said, she was protective of Theo and probably was out to “hook” him, which would have put Abe in her sights if she felt he was trying to rip him off; in her sights only hours before Theo was going to hand Abe a million dollars.
How was I going to prove it? A simple question, but one with no simple answer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next .5 walk started almost identical to previous outings. Charles and I were at the pier early. Chester pulled his station wagon into the lot at the starting time, followed by Cal in his Caddy with William by his side. Harriet complained about everything else, including, her ankle, the weather, the bugs, and Chester’s erratic driving. David Darnell defended Chester saying that it wasn’t his fault that the “hippie on the bicycle” pulled in front of Chester so he had no choice but to drive up the sidewalk.
What was different was that there was less debate about the route. Chester made it clear that he was in charge and that the path to be taken was his to choose. Even Harriet, the consummate complainer, seemed to acquiesce to Chester’s leadership. Chester began by offering a silent prayer in memory of Abe Pottinger, and then said we were going to “head up Center Street, hang a left at West Erie, and rest our weary legs while we sip Joe at Black Magic Café.”
It was only three short blocks to West Erie, and the locally-owned café was fewer than fifty Theo-paces from the corner of Center Street. From what I had heard, and from the walks Charles and I had been on with the group, this would be one of the shortest walks; I doubted that Theo would have objected, even if he’d heard where we were going.
If there had been any question about Harriet’s intention about Theo, it was answered before the group hiked a block. She had her arm around his sleeveless T-shirt and kept whispering, “You can make it, sweetie.” Of course, for Theo to hear, Harriet’s whisper was heard by everyone.
After what seemed like three months later, but closer to a half hour, we gathered around two round tables on the café’s outdoor deck, and William and Cal went inside to get coffee for all of us except William who’d requested hot tea. Harriet still had her arm around Theo and fanned his face with his USS Yorktown ball cap. Chester told David that he had a special announcement to make when Cal and William returned with the drinks. And Charles and I sat at the second table and watched the others acting like they had just completed a mini-marathon, or in Chester’s parlance, a 12.1.
“See what we have to look forward to?” Charles said.
I reluctantly agreed.
Cal and William began distributing drinks to the rightful owners. Considering the several thousand coffee and ingredient combinations available, I was impressed that it only took a few minutes to get the drinks sorted out. Charles said it was because Cal ran a bar and had figured out how to get the right drink to the right customer—something that had taken him three years to master.
Chester took a sip and tapped the side of his mug with a spoon. “Listen up.”
Everyone quieted except Theo before Harriet nudged him and put her index finger to her lips and then pointed to Chester. Theo smiled and turned to face the leader.
“I have great news,” Chester said. “Some of you know Connie’s brother, Robbie. He owns a marsh tour business. Well, Connie talked to him and he agreed to take us to Boneyard Beach.”
Theo said, “In a bus?”
“No,” Chester shouted, “in his boat. It’ll hold all of us and he’s giving us a real good deal.” Chester turned to Connie. “Thank you, Connie.”
“When’ll we float out there?” Cal asked.
“Day after tomorrow,” said Chester.
“How much?” Theo asked, the person who had more money than the rest of us combined.
Chester held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Only ten bucks a head. That’s a great deal. Thanks again, Connie.”
She smiled.
“I hear that the police know that Larry from the hardware store killed Abe,” Theo said, like it was the most logical comment to make after Connie was praised for getting a good deal on the trip to Boneyard Beach.
“I don’t believe it,” Cal said, who turned to me. “Larry’s a friend of ours.”
Instead of wondering how we had transitioned from the boat ride to Larry, I said, “Yes, he has been for years.”
“From my limited contact with the store’s proprietor,” William added, “he appears to be a fine, upstanding gentleman.”
Cal was now fanning his face with his Stetson. “Well I can tell you this, my friend here will find out who the killer is.” He sat his hat in front of him and pointed at me.
All eyes turned my direction.
Before I could say that ten dollars sounded like a good deal, Cal continued, “Yes sir, my friend, with the occasional help from Charles, has solved several murders that stumped the cops. A couple of you know how he saved me from getting killed by that deranged guy who owned the bar before I got it.” He gave a stage nod. “Yes sir, Chris will figure out who killed Abe.” Cal picked up his hat and waved it in a semi-circle. “Right, Chris?”
“It’s in good hands with the police.” I hoped that Cal would let it go.
“I believe my friend, Chris, is correct,” Will
iam said. “It’s a matter for the proper law enforcement authorities. Shall we offer a round of applause for Chester and Connie for collaboratively finding a solution to achieve our goal of reaching Boneyard Beach?”
Thanks, William, I thought and raised my coffee mug to Chester and Connie. Everyone else offered polite applause.
We stayed on the patio for as long it would take to recuperate from open-heart surgery, before Chester said it was time to head back. David was in deep conversation with William about long-term care insurance as they led the group off the patio. The rest of us followed Chester, the unlikely leader of a band of walkers.
“Chris, Charles,” William said after we had walked turned off Center Street toward Chester’s cottage. “Could I perhaps commandeer a few moments of your time in private at the conclusion of our excursion?”
I translated that to mean that he wanted to talk to us without the nosy ears of the others, and said, “Of course.”
Charles said, “Okay by me.”
We had in Chester’s words our “traditional post-walk refreshments” at his house before going different ways. Connie had cornered me to ask what Cal had been talking about when he said that Charles and I had caught some killers. I skimmed over the incidents and she didn’t press for details. Theo, with the aid of Harriet, had moved over to my side of the porch and asked me what we were talking about. Fortunately Harriet yelled for him not to worry about it and he dropped the subject. Since we had overloaded our bladders with coffee, little time was spent drinking lemonade and chit-chatting.
Cal asked William if he was ready to leave and the professor told him that it was such a pretty day that he’d walk home. Cal said his ado’s, tipped his Stetson at his fellow walkers, and moseyed out.
William looked over at me and tilted his head toward the door. I told the group that I was leaving, Charles said he was as well, and William said that he would walk us out. I felt like I was in the middle of a spy movie and William was going to pass us coded messages in fortune cookies. And I thought how unlikely William would be at espionage; and then again, perhaps that would make him the perfect spy.
