The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  “Teeter cleans beach houses for some of the frou-frou folks with more money than interest in cleaning their big houses. Heather says she’s the snootiest cleaning lady she’s ever known. Anyway, Teeter heard Lauren was friends with some of the kids of the frou-frous and their parents were always talking about how the younger generation was going to hell in a helium balloon—drugs, drink, and sniffing around things where they shouldn’t be.”

  I nodded. “Heather got all that from one massage?”

  Charles smiled. “She’s learning information gathering techniques from me. A quick study, I must say.”

  “How to be nosy?”

  “Some less-enlightened folks might say that.”

  “Did Heather know Lauren?”

  “Said she never met her.”

  “Do you know Joel?” I asked.

  “Said hey a few times but never got beyond that. He seems a little standoffish. I see his trucks around town and stopped at his garden center a couple of weeks ago.”

  Charles lived in a small apartment with no landscaping, and I don’t recall him ever mentioning growing anything other than a scruffy beard. “Why?”

  “Was driving by and saw a big orange sign out front saying SALE. Thought he might have some cheap books on gardening. There’s a big dead patch in my book collection in the gardening area.”

  I smiled at the thought of Charles buying anything related to gardening. “Have any?”

  “Not a one, well they had some, but they weren’t on sale and the ones they had cost as much as my cell phone monthly payment; you know, the cell phone you made me buy and’s breaking me with the bill.”

  I suspect Charles could roll out a president’s quote saying something like history is determined by who is telling it, but since I couldn’t care less about what old, probably dead, presidents had said, I would remind him I had never insisted he enter the current century and buy a cell phone. He and Heather had decided they would need one when they moved to Nashville. I ignored his comment.

  “Was Joel in the store?”

  “Didn’t see him. So, what does Brian want us to do?”

  I didn’t recall Brian saying anything about us but told Charles that the mayor had asked if I could hold two fundraisers. Charles asked the same question I had posed to Brian about who I knew who had any money and I gave him the same answer Brian had given me.

  “Well, what’re we waiting for? Let’s get raisin’ dough to keep Brian governin’.”

  I wanted to ask Charles if we should start raising money before or after he caught the person who had murdered a person no one thought had even been murdered. Before I could, Charles’s phone began an instrumental version of “Crazy,” Heather’s favorite song.

  “Yes, sweetie pie,” he answered and after listening for a few seconds, said, “Of course I’m on my way. Just around the corner.”

  He hit the end call icon, took a deep breath, and looked around the patio for the waitress.

  “You gotta go?”

  He rolled his eyes. “How could I have forgotten about the big toilet paper sale at Walmart?”

  “The one you promised to take Heather to?”

  He shook his head, grabbed his Tilley and cane. I said I’d get the check, something I would have had to do anyway. He thanked me and rushed out. I was thankful Charles had found someone he could rush to a toilet paper sale with and that he had finally bought a car, so I wouldn’t have to take him.

  10

  I didn’t have a sale to get to, toilet paper or otherwise, so when the waiter returned to clear the table, I ordered another glass of chardonnay and leaned back in the booth and thought about Charles’s opinion that Lauren had been murdered, all from what I’d said about Cindy’s comments that he—we—were supposed to help the police catch an alleged killer. I pondered how big a coincidence it was that Brian’s opponent had been dating Lauren. My phone rang before I was able to make sense of any of it. A glance at the screen indicated that it was Bob Howard.

  “Hello, Mr. Howard.”

  “Humph, don’t be all cheery with me, caught the killer yet?”

  “Bob, no one said anyone was—”

  “Never mind,” he interrupted. “That’s not why I’m calling. Are you going to buy me supper?”

  It would have been useless to ask why, besides, whether he would admit it or not, Bob wouldn’t have called unless it was for something important.

  “When and where?”

  “Six o’clock, Rita’s.”

  “See you there.”

  He had already hung up.

  Three hours later, I was sitting at a table on Rita’s patio. It was hot and muggy, but I would rather be outside enjoying the late summer breeze blowing off the ocean than inside. Rita’s sat on a prime piece of property and since I’d lived here, had been three different restaurants, and was previously the site of a bowling alley. It was at the corner of Center Street and Arctic Avenue, catty-corner from Tides, the nine-story oceanfront hotel; directly across Arctic from the iconic Folly Pier; while directly across Center Street from the Sand Dollar, a popular members-only bar.

  Bob didn’t share Charles’s penchant for promptness, for that matter, he didn’t have any of Charles’s proclivities, so he saw nothing wrong when he barreled onto the patio fifteen minutes late. My realtor friend was as oversized as his profane vocabulary. He stood six-foot tall but carried the weight of a seven-footer. He wore a four-day old beard, a flowery Hawaiian shirt covering his ample stomach, and bright green shorts that looked as stylish on him as a lampshade on a pig. He turned sideways to get past two tables on the way to me, bumped the chair of a man sitting at one of the tables, and mumbled something to the man that, depending on Bob’s mood, could have either been, “Sorry, my fault” or “Get the hell out of my way.” I lowered my head as if not to notice the interaction.

  “Well, well,” Bob said as he reached the table. “See nobody’s killed you yet.”

  I didn’t think I needed to confirm his observation, so I pointed to the empty chair on the other side of the table.

  He plopped down, pointed to my glass of wine, and said, “Where’s my beer?”

  I held up my wine and said, “If I’d ordered your beer when you said you’d be here, it’d be hot by now.”

  “I suppose that’s your damned subtle way of saying I’m late.”

  I smiled. “If the shoe fits.”

  “Crap, Chris, if I’d wanted a lecture on being tardy, I would’ve brought Betty.”

  Betty was Bob’s wife of nearly forty years, and in my opinion, should be a candidate for sainthood for putting up with Bob

  “What brings you to my island?” I asked.

  “Maybe I wanted to have supper with my good friend.”

  I stared at him.

  “Okay, that and I’m meeting a couple to show an overpriced house on the ocean that’s about the size of the Pentagon. There’d only be two of them living in it so they need that big of a house as much as I need shingles.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ll share your astute observation when you show it to them.”

  “Hell no. It’ll be the perfect damned casa for them. There’ll be room for each to have their private space, and with seven bedrooms, and enough bathrooms for a senior citizens’ center, the resale value will be off the charts. The perfect house.” He paused and bellowed at a waiter who was at a nearby table, “Beer!”

  The waiter, who wasn’t assigned to our table, smiled his best faux smile, and scurried away.

  Bob wiped perspiration off his forehead. “So, enough about me—for now. Who killed your neighbors’ kid?”

  “You know everything I know about what happened.”

  “I bet your street-person buddy thinks it’s murder,” Bob said as our waitress set a bottle of Coors in front of him.

  “Yes, Charles does,” I said, while Bob attacked his beer. “The cops are still looking at it, but they’re not sure if it was anything other than an accidental overdose. I don’t know
more than that.”

  Bob’s beer bottle was half empty when he said, “But I damned well bet you will find out more.”

  The waitress returned before I could deny it. Bob fanned his face with the menu and said, “Don’t confuse me with your overpriced specials, get me the biggest damned steak you have back there.” He pointed the menu at the kitchen.

  I pictured a big hit to my checkbook and ordered a burger and fries. Bob told her to add two orders of fries with his steak.

  “Takes a lot of fuel to keep this fine-tuned machine running at its peak. Especially to con—umm sell—tonight’s overpriced mansion to the sweet young, more money than sense, couple.” He fanned his face again. “Speaking of fine-tuned machine, there’s another reason I wanted to talk to you.”

  I motioned for him to continue.

  “It’s about Al.”

  Al Washington owned a small, tired, bar in Charleston. Bob and Al were as different as black and white, a fitting analogy since Al was African American and Bob was as white as snow, but not anywhere near as pure. Regardless of their cultural and upbringing differences, the two bonded years ago and had been friends forever. Bob once confided he considered Al a true hero, both of the Korean conflict where he had saved seven soldiers from certain death and because Al and his now deceased wife adopted nine children, giving them love, and a solid upbringing.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s been having health problems.”

  Al was eighty and spent most every day, and late until the evening, at his bar. Except for a part-time cook, it was a one-man show. I wasn’t surprised.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You know he’s had damned heart problems for years and his arthritis in his knees has him moving about the speed of a slug on Ambien.”

  I was aware and nodded.

  “The last time I was in there, I was surprised to see Tanesa talking to him. Think it was the first time I’d seen her in her dad’s bar. I asked her what a lovely ER doc was doing in a dump like Al’s. I think she’s got a crush on me, all my charm, good looks, and wit. Think she sees our forty-year age difference as sexy.”

  I rolled my eyes. Bob stepped out of his fantasy world, and continued, “Anyway, she walked me to my table while her dad went back to the grill to get a burger for someone. She said she was worried about him. Said because of his heart condition, the countless hours he’s in the bar, and his age, that he’s the perfect candidate for either another heart attack or blood clots that could scamper from his legs, up his veins, to his heart or lungs, or something like that. She said all of it in doc-speak, too complex for this old dullard to understand. The part I did catch was when she interjected dead into the description.”

  Bob was anything but a dullard. After knowing him for nearly four years, I had learned he held an economics degree from Duke University, in addition to being a highly successful realtor. An even bigger surprise after noticing his outward appearance and listening to him, he had a heart that was bigger than many ministers and would do anything to help people in need.

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “You’re not kidding,” Bob said and shook his head. “If he’s dead, where will I get the best cheeseburgers in the world?”

  I slowly shook my head. “That’s touching Bob, so caring.”

  “You know I’m kidding. I’d do anything for Al.”

  I did know and told him so.

  “That brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about. Al won’t admit he has a problem. He needs to hire help but can’t afford it. He’s still paying on some student loans a couple of the kids have. He’s getting later and later paying his damned rent. So, guess what?”

  I told him I had no idea what.

  “Your highly-successful realtor buddy is riding to Al’s rescue on his white elephant, or whatever animal is large enough to carry this fine-tuned body. I’m buying the bar.”

  I’m glad I didn’t try to guess. “You’re what?”

  “Crap, have you turned deaf in your senior, senile years. I said I’m buying Al’s.”

  I started to laugh, but saw that Bob was serious. “Really?”

  Our supper arrived, and Bob grabbed a steak knife and sliced into the beef. I slowly took a bite of burger and pondered what he had said.

  Bob took a bite and looked around the restaurant, before turning his attention to me. “Chris, I’m seventy-six years old. I owned my own commercial real estate firm for a quarter of a century and have had Island Realty fifteen years. Real estate has been good to me, but I’m getting damned burned out with it. I think I used up my quota of customer smiles a while back, and if you ever repeat this, I’ll deny it and break your big toe, but I feel bad about convincing folks to buy houses they can barely afford. They seem to think they need to buy the most house that some greedy bank will finance. They never think life changes and expenses go up, but their incomes usually don’t go up as much. That’s not necessarily a bad thing for realtors.” Bob smiled. “Hell, we get to sell the house again.” His smile faded. “But that’s not right.” He took another bite.

  “You’re retiring?”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Not exactly, I thought. “I understand about you retiring, but buying Al’s?”

  “Betty said I could do whatever I wanted to do, but she doesn’t want me around the house. Something about me being a pain in the ass, and if she had to put up with me more than she already does, she’d either kill me or move to Switzerland.”

  “That I can understand.”

  “Al needs me.”

  “No offense, Bob, but what do you know about running a bar and restaurant?”

  Bob pointed at his stomach. “Do I look like I should be running a fitness center? I’m the perfect shape for a bar and burger joint owner. Besides, all I need to do is hire a cheap cook and use my charm to bring in the customers.”

  And I thought Charles’s logic lacked something. Now a more delicate topic. Bob had never been known for his political correctness, and with roughly ninety-nine percent of Al’s customers being African American, I could see problems abound.

  “Do you see a problem with you buying a bar serving mostly black customers?”

  Bob sighed and shook his head. “Shit, Chris, I’ve seen some of the same customers in Al’s for years. Some even talk to me; okay, they mostly mumble about me, but they know I don’t like blacks. They also know I don’t like whites, browns, reds, and even those starchy white-faced Scandinavians. I’m an equal opportunity disliker. Hell, I can count on one big toe the people I like.” He grinned. “His customers will love me.”

  “What’s Al think about it?”

  “Are you going to let me finish my food or keep asking stupid questions?”

  “I’ve never known you not to finish your food, and everyone else’s around you, besides you brought it up.”

  “Al tried to protest, but it was feebler than his feeble body. He started with no way, but that became, are you sure, and ended with thank you. He’s deeper in debt than he’d let on.” Bob looked down at the table and in a deep voice—low for Bob—said, “He started crying and put his thin arms around me. Chris, I love that man.”

  I suspected Bob would regret showing me his kinder, gentler side, so I didn’t say anything except, “That’s great. I know you mean a lot to him, and he has to be relieved.”

  “Yeah, well shit, now you know it. So, what’s going on in your life?”

  “Hold on, you can’t leave it there. When are you taking over?” What I meant to say was who would give him a crash course in restaurant/bar management and where would he get a suit of armor big enough to protect him from being attacked by customers he would insult, irritate, and drive to violence.

  Bob said, “Sort of already have.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Do I have to spell out every damn thing to you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And everybody says you’re so smart. Okay, listen well, I as
ked Al to give me a list of his debts, the longest past due first. He did, and I wrote him a check to cover everything. Chris, please keep this confidential, but he had some bills that were a year old. The landlord had already begun eviction procedures.” Bob shook his head. “It’s no wonder why the poor man is in such bad health. Anyway, I have my lawyer working on all the damned paperwork to make the purchase official. When he finishes milking me for as many billable hours as he can, I’ll write Al another big ole check and voila, the business will be legally mine, lock, stock, and all those damned worthless tables, chairs, and a stinking grease-filled kitchen that must’ve served soldiers in the Revolutionary War.”

  The only reason Bob was buying the business was to save Al, an extraordinarily generous gesture, but one Bob would never admit to.

  “What’s Al going to do?”

  “First, the broken-down, ancient, geezer’s going to the hospital and get a bunch of God-awful expensive tests run to see if he’s about ready to croak. If he makes it though that poking and prodding, he said he’d stop by the bar each day and check on how I’m doing. He didn’t say it, but that means making sure none of his regulars have threatened me with bodily harm. He said he could sit by the door and do the Walmart greeter thing.”

  It was a clever idea and I told Bob so.

  “Guess I can waste a chair for him to plop his bony ass down on.”

  That was Bob-speak for I’d love to have him around. He’s a great guy, and I’ll need all the help I can get.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “That’s enough damn talk about that old man and his—umm, my—bar. What’s going on with you?”

  That was probably the first time he’d ever asked about me, so I knew he was embarrassed about what he had shared about Al and the bar.

  “Glad you asked,” I said as he stuffed a large bite of steak in his mouth and waved for the waitress to get another bottle of beer. “The election for Folly’s mayor is in April.”

  “That’s a half year away, and why the flying flip would I care?”

  Bob was back to normal. I proceeded to tell him about Brian’s opponent and why Brian needed to raise more money than usual to have a chance at winning.