by Bill Noel
“They almost did.”
“Yeah, until you started waving red flags and the cops found the note in her room with your name on it. They started after you but I knew they couldn’t make anything stick.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“County cops are in here all the time and one of them knew Edwina had been a regular. Didn’t take many drinks for him to tell me—hush, hush, he said.”
“How did you—”
She smiled. “Enough. I think my short version of a long story has gone long enough. Now if you’d please stand, you need to head to the restroom. I’d hate to mess up my office.”
I didn’t know what’d happened to Cindy, but couldn’t wait. I started to stand and flipped the leather blotter up at Olivia’s as she started to stand. The pistol jerked up as she pulled the trigger. A bullet burrowed into the ceiling.
She grabbed the edge of the blotter and flung it out of the way and lowered her gun hand. I dove sideways and reached for the letter tray. If I could get to it, I could throw it at her.
She fired another round. The bullet ripped through my sleeve but missed my arm. I lunged at her. My stomach rammed the desk. I gasped for breath.
Olivia stared at me, a bemused look on her face. And again, she pointed the weapon at me. I grabbed for it.
Olivia yanked it out of my reach and tripped over the chair. She fell backwards. Her head slammed the credenza. Her eyes rolled up and she slumped to the floor. At the same time, the door leading to the bar exploded inward and Cindy stumbled through the shattered door and tripped. Her knee hit the floor and she screamed a profanity.
Olivia didn’t hear her. She was out cold.
I pushed backwards and slid off the desk and collapsed in the chair I had been sitting in. Cindy regained her balance and pointed her service weapon at Olivia who hadn’t moved.
“Are you okay?” the chief asked, as Larry came in the room.
I nodded, caught my breath, and said, “What took you so long?”
“Don’t go there,” She was rubbing her knee and taking deep breaths. “Is she okay?”
“Don’t know, better call an ambulance.”
Cindy looked around and spotted her phone that had been jarred out of her pocket when she slammed into the door. She dialed and muttered some police-speak into it and turned back to me. I was still in the chair. “We’ve been here several minutes. Both doors were locked. Didn’t figure knocking would be a good idea. The lock on the front door must have been made by a high-school shop student, one who should’ve flunked. Thank God. Larry had it picked in seconds. I figured you were in here, and I put my ear up to the door.” She pointed to the door she had stormed through. “Couldn’t hear anything.”
“She soundproofed the room so she didn’t have to listen to the music from the bar.”
“Sound proofers would’ve earned an A in their shop class. Couldn’t hear a damned thing. That changed when a gun went off. That’s when I decided a quick entry might be wise. And as your buddy Dude would say, ‘Rest be history.’”
With the soundproof door in pieces, we heard sirens. Cindy kept her gun drawn, gave me a quick hug, mumbled something about being pleased I was okay, and flopped down in one of the other chairs where she could see the unmoving Olivia. Larry seconded it and went to welcome the troops.
37
Cindy still had her handgun drawn and another gun was on the floor beside the supine murderer. The first officers to arrive took a moment to evaluate the situation before deciding what to do. It wasn’t made any simpler when they asked if the unconscious female had been shot and Cindy said no that she had been attacked by a leather desk blotter and a mahogany credenza. One of the officers asked if the chief would hand him her weapon. Cindy smiled, handed it over, and made another call. The officer smelled the barrel to determine if it had been fired, waited for Cindy to finish her call and returned her service weapon.
The next officer to arrive recognized Cindy and put her on the side of the angels. The first officer to arrive had bent over Olivia and after feeling for a pulse, announced she was alive. Neither cop paid much attention to Larry or me since we were sitting motionless with no weapons in sight.
An ambulance arrived and two paramedics peeked in the shattered doorway before entering. They decided it was safe and headed to Olivia. Cindy rubbed her knee and watched the medics do their thing. She wouldn’t admit it, but I knew she was in pain and reeling from her encounter with the door.
The medics were wheeling Olivia out on a stretcher with a police escort when Detective Grolier strolled in, looked at the totaled door, and gazed around the room.
“Chief,” he said, and looked at me. “Mr. Landrum.” Only four of us were left in the room and Grolier asked Cindy what had happened. She introduced Larry and started to tell the detective what had happened, hesitated, turned to me, and said, “Chris, from the beginning?”
And I did. Nine thousand questions later, I finished my story that started when my best friend followed his girlfriend to Nashville to find fame and fortune and ended with Olivia Anderson confessing to two murders—one that Heather was currently being incarcerated for, and the other where I had been the prime suspect.
Because of those connections, my story would have had little credibility. That was until Detective Grolier called in the crime techs who thoroughly searched Olivia’s office. Fortunate for both Heather and me, Olivia was a packrat and had kept copies of the partnership agreement between her and Kevin Starr, and in her business folder, copies of gas receipts that showed she bought gas in Nashville the same day Starr was killed, along with restaurant and hotel receipts showing where she had eaten and stayed, again around the date of the murder.
The receipts and agreement didn’t prove that she had killed Starr, but they were enough for the police to go to the DA in Nashville and get Heather a new bail hearing scheduled for next week.
From the hospital and with her hand cuffed to the bed, under advice from her attorney, Olivia refused to talk to the police. She wasn’t stupid.
Three days later, the police searched Olivia’s boat and discovered blood in a corner of the deck. It would still be several more days before a definitive DNA match could be made, but since it was Edwina’s blood type, all bets were on it being hers.
On the same day, Rod, the bartender at the Top Ten Bar, was shown two photos of Olivia and said he may have been mistaken about Heather and that Olivia, “Sure looks like the gal with Starr the night before he got himself kilt.”
A week after my near-fatal visit to SHADES, I was on the road to Music City USA. Charges had been dropped against Heather and she and Charles had walked hand and hand out of the jail. Charles begged me to come over so the three of us could celebrate with a night on the town.
Heather opened the apartment door and greeted me with a lingering hug and “thank you.” She wasn’t as enthusiastic as she had been on my first visit to their apartment, but she had to be exhausted. She was pale and had lost weight, but smiled, something I hadn’t seen in quite a while. Charles was behind her and stepped forward to give me an equally long hug.
I threw my overnight bag on the couch and followed them in the kitchen where there was two unopened beers and a bottle of white wine beside a plastic wine glass. The wine bottle was sitting on a square hat box with a red top with STETSON on the side and a rendering of a cowboy herding cattle. The bottle was anchoring a blue string attached to a red balloon floating above the table. It said CONGRATULATIONS!
Heather pointed at the balloon. “That’s from Chucky.”
Charles popped open the beers. “It’s a new hat for Cal. It’s an old hat, but hardly been worn and it’ll be new to Cal. Found it in a consignment store.”
“He’ll be thrilled,” I said and unscrewed the top on the chardonnay.
Heather said, “Best screwed up bottle of wine seven bucks can buy.”
We sat around the table sipping and telling each other how great it was Heather was here and
not having supper with thirty-seven women, all dressed alike. Charles asked how everyone was on Folly.
Heather said, “Later. Let’s go eat.”
“Where?” I asked.
Heather stood and straightened her yellow blouse. “Don’t know. I know where we ain’t going. Ain’t going anywhere there’s singing or strummin’.”
Next to Charles buying Cal a hat, the biggest surprise came when Charles said we were eating at The Capitol Grille, one of the city’s most expensive restaurants, and that he was paying.
After a terrific supper, I saw the bill and told Charles he didn’t have to pay. I’d pick up the tab.
“No way, Chris. Heck, I’m flush. I figure I saved a million dollars by not having to bail my sweetie out of the pokey.”
It was great hearing Charles joking after what he and Heather had been through.
Heather raised her hand like she wanted to ask a question. “Something else I wanted to say. Think your friend William can give me the name of his, umm, counselor?”
William Hansel had suffered a nervous breakdown a few years ago, and since then had regular counseling sessions and had been pleased with the results.
“I’m sure his counselor could recommend someone over here.”
Heather giggled. “Well that’s the thing.” She turned to Charles. “You tell him, Chucky.”
Charles patted her on the hand and turned to me. “Sweetie’s decided she’d rather be a big fish in a small pond instead of a minnow in the ocean. Nashville’s a wonderful place, got a lot of good stuff going for it.”
I held my breath as Charles paused.
“Cept it ain’t got an ocean; ain’t got our friends. We’re moving back to Folly.”
I stood, waved the server over, and said, “I’m buying the champagne.”
Dark Horse
1
I was enjoying a sandwich for lunch and halfheartedly watching a Live 5 newscaster ramble on about what was going on in the Charleston, South Carolina, viewing area. The talking head’s report of multiple shark sightings off nearby Sullivan’s Island was sound clutter, until I heard her mention a dead body and Folly Beach, my retirement home for a decade, in the same sentence. My sandwich took second place to me staring at a young reporter standing outside the entrance to the Folly Beach County Park, with the lights of three police cars alternating between red and blue in the background.
I didn’t catch the beginning of the story but the reporter now had my attention as he said, “I’ve been told a body of a female was discovered in a gray mid-sized sedan you can see behind me.” He dramatically turned his head and faced the gathering of police vehicles behind him and turned back to the camera and continued. “The body was found at approximately ten-thirty this morning by a Folly resident who was walking to the end of the island with a metal detector in search of elusive valuables lodged in the sand. Instead, he found something far worse—the body of the woman in the car.”
The station cut to a taped interview with Folly’s Director of Public Safety, better known as Police Chief Cindy LaMond, who said, “The body of a white female in her early forties was found in a gray Chevrolet Malibu with South Carolina plates this morning along West Ashley Avenue near the entrance to the Folly Beach County Park.” Cindy paused.
Reggie, the interviewer, filled the void, “Do you know her identity and cause of death?”
Cindy nodded. “We know who she is but won’t be releasing more information until next of kin has been notified.”
Reggie interrupted, “Cause of death?”
The chief sighed. “It is being treated as a death investigation and there is nothing else to be said at this time. Thank you.” She turned and walked away from the camera.
Cindy and I had become good friends after she moved to Folly from east Tennessee eight years ago and joined the city’s small police force. She had been appointed chief a few years later, by the former chief who was now the mayor. Cindy was funny, excelled at her job, and had no use for reporters of any ilk.
The tape ended and Reggie started to say something but paused as he waited for the talking head in the studio to ask him a question. She didn’t disappoint. “What else can you tell us?”
Reggie did disappoint, “That’s all we know at this time.”
Enlightening, I thought.
“To repeat,” the newscaster said. “A body was found this morning in a car parked along the street outside the Folly Beach County Park. We will bring you updates as they become available.” She went on to say we should check with the Channel 5 website for more information and to read all the latest news we should download the Channel 5 app to our smartphone and tablet. In other words, she stuck a commercial for her station in the middle of the newscast. One more reason I’m not a big TV watcher.
Folly Beach is an island located in the shadows of Charleston. It’s small, only six miles long and a half mile wide, with the Folly Beach County Park anchoring the west end of the barrier island. News of anything happening on the island was big news to its roughly two thousand residents, so I wasn’t surprised when the phone rang before the newscaster could say more than it was going to be a late August scorcher and to get the sunscreen ready.
“Hear about the dead bod at the County Park?” Charles Fowler said before I got to the “o” in hello.
Charles was one of the first people I met when I moved to Folly. For reasons unknown to anyone with a sense of logic, we became best friends. I worked most of my professional life in the human resource department of a large Midwestern healthcare company; Charles retired from his life of paychecks at the ripe young age of thirty-four and hadn’t received a payroll check in the last thirty-one plus years. He was single, his financial needs minimal, and he met them by providing an extra set of hands to contractors, cleaning restaurants during busy season, and delivering packages for our friend Dude’s surf shop. His picture can also be found in the dictionary beside the word “nosy.” Don’t look it up; that was an exaggeration, but only a slight one.
I said, “Just saw it on the news.”
“Who was she and what happened?”
I told you he was nosy.
“How would I know?”
“You mean you haven’t called Cindy yet?”
“Charles, what part of just saw it on the news don’t you get?”
“So, you’re going to call her now?”
The wise thing to do was to say yes, hang up, and call the chief. When it comes to Charles, I don’t always do the right thing, so instead of agreeing, I said, “You have a phone. Why didn’t you call her?”
“The poor, misguided police chief thinks you are smarter and more sensible than yours truly. She’ll tell you more than she’ll tell me. Go figure.”
“Charles, if I was all those things, I’d have better sense than to call the chief who’s probably still at the park.”
“See,” Charles said, “I know none of those things are true, so that’s why you should call her now. Besides, if she’s still with the body, she’ll be able to tell you more.”
I once again asked myself why I didn’t do the wise thing in the beginning. I told him I give up and hung up.
“Chris Landrum, what in the hell took you so long to butt into police business?” Chief LaMond said.
I hated caller ID. “Good morning, Cindy.”
“Don’t give me that morning cheery voice. My day went to hell before I had my second cup of coffee. I’m standing in the middle of a sandstorm. I’ve got a dead lass sitting in a car about ten feet from me. And now I must take time from my underpaid, overworked job to talk to one of my city’s biggest nosy nellies.”
I heard several voices in the background and the sound of a heavy truck engine. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Cindy laughed. “Really? You really asked that? What do you think?”
She hung up before I could respond. The answer to my question was yes.
Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again. Gee, give me a break, Cha
rles.
I was wrong, it wasn’t Charles but someone who started with, “I saw this big hair, little brain news chick on TV jabbering about a death on your island. Who was she? What happened?”
For years, I had unsuccessfully tried to get friends to start phone conversations with pleasantries like “good morning” or with their name. Bob Howard was the perfect example of you can’t teach old dogs new tricks. During his more than seven decades on this earth, the successful realtor had perfected rudeness, overbearingness, obnoxiousness, and most every profanity. Despite his drawbacks, almost too numerous to mention, he was a friend.
“Good afternoon, Bob. What do I owe the honor of this call?”
“Crap, Chris. You make sugar taste sour. Now answer my questions.”
“How would I know who she was and what happened?”
“Shit, because you butt in anything weird that happens over there. Figured you’d have your nosy nose in the middle of this.”
Before moving to Folly, my life could best have been described as staid, solid, and yes, boring. I went to work in a large, bureaucratic company, lived in a middle-class house in a middle-class subdivision, drove a middle-class car, had married my high-school sweetheart and we had stayed together for twenty years, childless, but had participated in most middle-class activities. Somehow when I moved across the Folly River to the city I now call home, my life turned upside down. Through luck, mostly bad, and being at the wrong place at the wrong time, I had stumbled into the middle of a murder, helped catch the killer, and while accumulating a cadre of characters, had helped the police solve several other unnatural deaths since then. In fact, Bob Howard had aided me more than once in bringing a killer to justice.
“Bob, all I know is what I saw on television; the same thing you saw. It has nothing to do with me. I’m not involved.”
Bob cackled. “Not yet!”
