by Bill Noel
“What now?”
“He said he would check her phone records and search her condo to see if anything seems amiss.”
Before Charles knocked me in the street trying to get closer, I hit speaker so he could hear. “What about her car?”
“They found it a quarter of a mile from where she washed up. The door was unlocked and her keys were under the floor mat. It’s not unusual for surfers to leave them there.”
“Surfboard?”
“Nope. But like I told you before, it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Still—”
“Listen Chris, I’m doing what I can.”
I wondered if she had been taking lessons from Heather’s attorney.
“What now?”
“I made the strongest case possible the death should be investigated as a homicide. The detective said he would follow up. That’s it.”
We didn’t hear from anyone the rest of the day. No news could be good news. You couldn’t prove it today. Charles continued to mope, wander around the apartment, and glance at his phone like he could make it ring. My only relief came when he decided he needed another walk and said he’d rather be alone. It was fine with me.
He didn’t return until ten o’clock, which had given me several hours to go over everything I knew about Starr, his murder, Edwina, her alleged accidental drowning, and the hours I had spent with Heather over the years. The simplest explanation for everything was Heather, in a moment of anger, pulled the trigger. It would explain her gun being the murder weapon, her not having an alibi for the time of his death, and for her attempted suicide.
After Charles returned, his conversation bounced from topic to topic. He avoided mentioning Heather. He shared trivia about the history of some of the lower Broadway bars, gushed about the singer in one of them, shared every detail about a conversation he had with a family from Ohio who had stopped him to ask directions to the Hall of Fame, and several other things I forgot the instant he told me. He finally wound down and we managed to be asleep by midnight.
The next morning started like a carbon copy of yesterday. I found Charles at the kitchen table staring at his phone. I chose not to remind him the attorney said he would call today, but only specified it would be when he heard from the police. Common sense told me it probably wouldn’t be until late morning at the earliest. Other than both common sense and Charles beginning with the letter C, the two had little in common.
After two hours with Charles in the tiny apartment that felt like two of the hours from yesterday, the gods smiled down on us, and Darnell Edelen called. He said if Charles was at the hospital at one o’clock he could see Heather for fifteen minutes and not a second longer.
32
Charles, being Charles, insisted we arrive at the hospital no later than twelve fifteen for his one o’clock visit. He had driven, saying that since he lived here, he would know the way better than I. His navigation system knew the way better than either of us and because of its excellent directions and light traffic, we were in the hospital’s parking lot a little after noon. I was surprised when Charles suggested we wait in the car until it was closer to the time.
His hands tapped on the steering wheel, he fiddled with the radio dial, and he kept twisting the air-conditioner vent. “Chris,” he said as he wiped dust off the dash, “would you go with me?”
“Of course, although I doubt they’ll let me.” I didn’t say Heather was a prisoner and Charles was fortunate to get to visit.
He continued to wipe the dash and rubbed his chin. “They may if you were her brother.”
“You want me to lie to the police?”
He lowered his head. “Chris, I need you. I’m scared and don’t know what to say to her.” He looked at me. “Please.”
We bypassed the information kiosk and took the elevator to the fourth floor. No one met us at the elevator door like they had during our first visit. A corrections officer was seated outside Heather’s door. We approached and he stood and gave us an intimidating stare.
Charles smiled. “Hi, officer. I’m Heather Lee’s fiancé and was told I could see her.”
The guard glanced at his watch. “Yes, in five minutes, and for a visit not to exceed fifteen.”
The five-minute comment was anal. Charles didn’t argue and said we would wait.
The officer looked at me. “Who are you, sir?”
Charles stepped in front of me. “He’s her brother.”
I didn’t lie.
The officer looked at me and glanced at the door to Heather’s room. “I was told only her fiancé would be visiting.”
Neither Charles nor I said anything.
He shrugged. “Okay. Do either of you have any weapons on you?”
“No,” we said, as I visualized us storming the room with guns blazing as we “sprung” Heather from the hospital.
The officer looked at his watch. “Okay, remember fifteen minutes tops. I will be watching through the window so don’t try anything.”
Heather was in the bed, her eyes closed, and her right hand cuffed to the bed rail. Her face was as white as the bandage on her wrist.
Charles tiptoed to the side of the bed. “Heather, it’s me. You awake?”
Her eyes fluttered open and she quickly closed them. “Light. Bright.”
Charles leaned close to and ran his hand through her curly brown hair. “How’re you doing?”
Considering the circumstances, I thought it was a horrible question.
Her eyes opened and she squinted at her fiancé. “Chucky, I’m sorry. I’m so confused.”
Charles continued to stroke her hair. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
I stayed back from the bed.
Heather’s eyes had adjusted to the light and she looked around. “Hi, Chris. Didn’t know you were here.”
Charles leaned close to Heather’s ear. “If the guard asks, he’s your brother.”
Heather blinked, looked at me, and at Charles. “He is?”
Charles whispered he had to say that so I could visit.
Heather smiled for the first time. “That’s sweet.” She exhaled, frowned, and repeated. “Chucky, I’m confused.”
Charles glanced at me. I stepped closer. “You’ll be fine.”
She blinked twice and whispered something I couldn’t understand. Charles leaned closer and asked her to repeat it.
“I killed him.”
He leaned back like she’d punched him in the nose, and closed his eyes and moved closer to Heather. “Of course, you didn’t. Why would you say something like that?”
“I don’t remember what happened that night. It was my gun. I hated him.” She paused. “Chucky, I saw me do it. I don’t know if I was dreaming it or it’s my psychic powers dragging me through it, helping me remember. I killed him … I must have.”
Charles turned to me. His eyes screamed “Help!”
I stepped closer to the bed. “Heather, we believe we know a couple of people who may have killed Starr. You didn’t do it. You could help us find who did.”
Her eyes sprung open. “Really?”
“Really,” I said and realized our fifteen minutes were almost over. “Are you up to a couple of questions?”
“Guess so.”
“How well do you know Edwina Robinson?”
“How well? Don’t know. Suppose better than some of Starr’s singers. You know I even met her on Folly at Cal’s. She said Starr sold her the same bill of goods he laid on me. We talked some at the Bluebird and had coffee once, maybe twice. We bitched about Starr. Why?”
“Was she giving him more money than what you’d given him?”
“Let me think. God, it’s so confusing. Yeah, she said something about giving him a bundle, whatever that meant. Edwina has lots of money.” Heather hesitated. “Whoa, do you think she killed him?”
“Yes,” Charles said.
Heather closed her eyes. I thought she was asleep, but she opened her eyes and said, “What about her friend?”
Charles looked over at me, and at Heather. “What friend?”
“Her friend was putting up bigger bucks than Edwina. Something about him going in partnership with Starr. Big plans. Could be confused about some of it. Could be—”
The door opened and the officer firmly said. “Time’s up.”
I ignored him. “Heather, who was Edwina’s friend?”
“She never said, but—”
“Now,” the guard barked and stepped between the two of us and Heather.
Now meant now, so Charles and I left Heather’s side, thanked the officer for letting us see her. We left the building with more questions about the identity of the killer, and about Heather’s mental state.
33
Charles had been too nervous to eat before we went to the hospital, so we stopped at a Subway. Charles said he wasn’t hungry, but I convinced him he wouldn’t be doing Heather any good if he starved. He soon forgot he wasn’t hungry as he scoffed down a foot-long chicken sub and repeated, nearly word for word, Heather’s disjointed conversation.
Charles swallowed the last bite of the sandwich. “Do you think she really doesn’t know if she killed him?”
“She’s confused. She was depressed enough to try to kill herself. She’s still on meds, and look where she is, not to mention being cuffed to the bed. How would you be under those circumstances?”
“I’d know if I killed someone.”
“I’m not certain. She’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. Dreams and reality get muddled together, then when you add the trauma of being arrested, plus the suicide attempt, she must be confused. Give her benefit of the doubt.”
“I suppose.”
“Charles, I don’t think she killed him. Edwina is tied up in it. She either killed him or knew who did. Edwina said "we" went to Nashville, and now Heather said Edwina had a friend with her. We need to find out who he is.”
“How?”
An excellent question, and one I didn’t have an answer to. My phone rang.
“Well, well,” Cindy said by way of introduction. “You fire your secretary?”
“I remembered the phone.”
“Good, I didn’t want to talk to Charles again.”
“You didn’t call to tell me that.”
“How quick can you get here?”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you when you get back. Can you be here tomorrow?”
Strange. “Let me talk to Charles and call you back.”
“Fifteen minutes, no longer.”
“Cindy?” Charles asked.
I told him yes and what she asked.
“Why?”
“You know all I know. I don’t want to leave you and Heather in her condition.”
Charles looked out the large window overlooking the street. He took a sip of soft drink and turned to me. “No offense, but I doubt the chief misses your warm personality so much she’s begging you to come home. Don’t it make sense that whatever reason she has, has something to do with Starr or Edwina?”
“Yes.”
“So, go. I need to stay here in case they’ll let me see her.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I called Cindy, waited while she asked what took me so long to call, and said I’d be there by sunset tomorrow.
I was pleased when I got up the next morning and did not find Charles at the kitchen table staring at his phone. His bedroom door was closed and I hoped he was getting much-needed sleep. I was on the road before rush hour, and on the Interstate headed to South Carolina before the sun had peeked above the tree-lined roadway.
Seven hours, four coffee stops, one meal stop, and three restroom stops later, I called Cindy to tell her I’d be home in two hours and asked for a hint about why she needed to talk to me. She said it could wait and to meet her at her office. Other than having my curiosity on high alert, I didn’t know more than I did when I talked to her yesterday.
I parked a block from City Hall and headed up the steps to Cindy’s second-floor office. I had visited her there several times. This was the first time I’d knocked on her door and she wasn’t alone. She stood, gave me what seemed like a forced smile, and introduced me to Detective Marshall Grolier, Charleston County Sheriff’s Office.
The detective was a few years younger and a few inches shorter than me, had a military buzz cut, and wore a black suit. He reminded me of a mortician. He shook my hand. His expression gave nothing away.
“Chris, Detective Grolier has a few questions. I’ll leave you two to talk."
Grolier directed me to one of the chairs in the corner of the room, and he took a seat opposite me. Our knees touched. A notebook appeared from his inside coat pocket, and he flipped through a few pages. “Mr. Landrum, may I call you Chris?”
I nodded.
“Chris, I’m looking into the circumstances surrounding Edwina Robinson’s death. I believe you are aware her body was found on the beach.”
“Yes, it wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“Let me ask the questions, Chris.” He scooted to where our knees didn’t touch. “How well did you know Ms. Robinson?”
“A little. I only met her a few times. She was a friend of a friend of mine, Heather Lee, and I saw her singing once at Cal’s, at Rubino’s in Charleston, and maybe at the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville.”
“That’s all?”
“Are you thinking she killed Kevin Starr?”
Grolier ignored my question. “Chief LaMond tells me you believe Ms. Robinson had something to do with the murder of Starr and you’re, umm, nosing in police business.”
“Not nosing, asking questions.”
“Are you familiar with Olivia Anderson?”
I hesitated. “Yes."
“Have you been to her place questioning her about Edwina Robinson?”
I started wiggling in the chair. I saw darkness enveloping the island outside the chief’s large windows that overlooked the Surf Bar. Was it my imagination that it seemed to be getting darker in the office as well? “I did ask if she knew if Edwina had appeared in Nashville.”
“And you only had a few conversations with Ms. Robinson, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you think she had something to do with Starr’s death?”
“This may be a bit convoluted, but I know Heather Lee wouldn’t have killed him, so I was trying to figure out who might have. Starr had ripped off several aspiring singers and I figured one of them could have done it.”
“What ties it to Folly Beach? He was killed in Nashville and from what the police there tell me, he had several enemies. Why here?”
I recounted what Starr had told Heather and Edwina Robinson about why he was on Folly. I shared how he hadn’t been at the hotel where he had said he was; how he had lied to his wife about being here.
He put up his hand for me to stop. “You talked to Starr’s wife?”
I told him about the meeting at her house and the discussion at the funeral home. The detective jotted a note and told me to continue. I finally told him it appeared to me that someone had framed Heather—another Folly connection. The detective listened. Again, I couldn’t tell from his expression if I was making headway.
“Can you explain why she had a note in her apartment that said, Meet Chris Landrum. Time?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Edwina Robinson.”
I found it hard to swallow. My mouth was dry, but I managed to say, “No.”
“Were you supposed to meet her?”
“No.”
“What do you think the note meant?”
“I don’t know. Could be she wanted to talk about me seeing her perform again.”
The detective nodded and wrote something in his book. He touched the pen to his lower lip, paused, and pointed the writing instrument at me. “Where were you the afternoon she died?”
It took me a minute to absorb the question, and a few more seconds to try to reme
mber the answer. “I’m not certain.”
“Try.”
I looked at my hands griping the armrest, and at the detective. “I was here. The next day I want back to Nashville. I may have gone to the store—really, I don’t know.”
“Is there anyone who could vouch for your whereabouts?”
My stomach was now in knots. I mumbled, “No.”
“Do you have a boat, Chris?”
That I knew the answer to. “No.”
“Have you used anyone else’s boat lately or have access to one?”
I shook my head. “I suppose I could borrow my friend Sean Aker’s boat if I wanted to. I’ve never asked. Why?”
He was staring at me. “And you’re sure you weren’t with anyone that afternoon?”
I nodded.
He closed the notebook and stood. “That’s all—for now. One more thing, Chris. Don’t leave the area.”
34
I was numb as I walked down the stairs and gripped the handrail. I was afraid my legs might give way.
Did he think I killed Edwina? I was the only person who was raising a red flag about her death. Why would he think I’d do that if I had killed her?
Cindy was on the sidewalk and motioned me to follow her across the street to the Surf Bar. It wasn’t crowed, but the customers were spread out enough so there wasn’t a vacant spot where we could be assured of privacy. She pointed to the door leading to the patio. There was one vacant table and I grabbed the chair facing the street. Cindy sat opposite me and we were joined by a college-age server who told us she was Lizzy and would be taking care of us. Cindy told her that her friend wanted a chardonnay and shrugged and said that she was on duty and ordered sweet tea.
Lizzy had gone and Cindy looked around to make sure there was no one close enough to hear. “What did he want?”
I shared Grolier’s questions and how it seemed that he was accusing me of killing Edwina.
Cindy lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Chris. I had no choice. He came by yesterday and asked if I knew where you were. He knows we’re friends. I told him that when I started pushing for him to start looking at the death as murder and not a simple accident. I told him I wasn’t sure where you were and that I’d call you.” She pointed across the street to her building. “He was there when I called, so I couldn’t say anything. After I hung up he told me he had some routine questions and didn’t want you to know ahead of time. He didn’t beat around the bush about ordering me not to tell you he wanted to meet. I doubted his questions were routine. I knew you didn’t have anything to do with Edwina’s death, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt for him to talk to you cold. Sorry.”
