by Bill Noel
Wayne was fiddling with his napkin and turned to Joel. “My friend, I don’t think you’re going to win Chris over. We should let him get on his way.”
I wasn’t ready to pass up this opportunity to pump Joel for information. “That’s okay, Wayne, I’m not in a hurry, besides it’s great to be outside.”
Joel said, “I agree and even if I can’t twist your arm, it’s good getting to know you better.”
I snapped my fingers like I’d thought of something. “Have you heard about Katelin Hatchett?”
Wayne glanced at Joel who gave a slight nod and said, “Just heard about it this morning. Can’t imagine what would cause someone to end his or her own life.”
“She was one of Lauren’s housemates,” I said. “Did you know her?”
Joel rubbed the side of his nose, and said, “Umm, we’d gone out a couple of times.”
“Oh,” I said. “Before you dated Lauren?”
“Yeah,” he said and took a sip.
I didn’t think he would say that he was at the same time. Might as well go for broke. “Her housemate found her. That must’ve been horrible. Her name’s Candice something. You knew her, I hear?”
Wayne leaned toward the table. “Don’t believe I do.”
Joel mimicked Wayne’s move. “Yeah, I knew her a little. She’d worked at one of my garden centers for a while. She found a better paying job, something where she could use her degree in accounting. Why?”
“Curious,” I said. “It’s amazing how rumors get started.” I smiled.
“Rumors?” Joel asked.
“I heard that Candice had stolen money from your garden center and that she was fired, but now that you said she got a job in accounting, that couldn’t be true or she wouldn’t have gotten a good reference.”
Joel laughed, but his hands were gripping his cup so tightly that I was afraid it would break. “You’re right about rumors. No truth to that as far as I know, and since they’re my businesses, I’d know.”
I nodded like I believed him and decided to go for broke. “Speaking of rumors, I heard that Katelin’s body was found yesterday morning, and someone said it was around dusk. Do you know when it was?”
“Don’t know,” Wayne said. “Didn’t hear about it until today.”
“I don’t know for certain,” said Joel. “But it was probably late morning when we heard sirens coming from everywhere. Wayne and I were a couple of blocks from here. I was pricing the landscaping for one of Wayne’s new clients. He tore down an old shed and wants to extend his garden around the back of his house. We’d been there way longer than we should have been for the size job.”
Wayne said, “That’s probably what that racket was about.”
“Enough about death,” Joel said. “It’s too pretty a day to be talking about depressing things.”
Wayne agreed and we drifted into a benign discussion about the weather, the new restaurant on Center Street, and how much both were looking forward to fall and cooler weather. Joel said that he had to be going and we went our separate ways.
As I walked home, I thought about what I had learned. Joel had continued to lie about the depth of his relationship with Lauren, the reason that Candice had been fired, and adroitly avoided the subject of dating Lauren and Katelin at the same time. But the most significant revelation was that if it wasn’t for Wayne, Joel wouldn’t have had an alibi for the times either of the ladies had died. Interesting.
33
It’d been more than twenty-four hours since I left Charles. I hoped that he’d reach out to me, but that was not to be, so I made the first move and called. Instead of hearing his voice cheery or otherwise, I got his message: This is Charles. I won’t return your call, but if you want, leave a message in case I change my mind. I almost yearned for his pre-Nashville sojourn when he didn’t have a phone or answering machine. Should I go and knock on his door? No, if he wanted to talk, he knew how to reach me. He needed time to absorb Heather’s departure and what it had meant, and more important, how he was going to proceed from here.
It had been even longer since I’d heard from Al’s daughter, but was determined not to pester her. She’d said she would let me know if there was any change. It had also been a couple of days since I’d talked to Cindy. As chief of police, she was pulled in countless directions, her priorities changed minute by minute depending on what her department was involved in: vehicle accidents, burglaries, inappropriate actions of inebriated citizens and visitors alike, calls from irate residents, and the never-ending issues related to illegal parking. And that’s not considering the wishes and desires of the city’s elected officials. I decided to call and remind her of a couple of items I’d asked her to check into.
“No, Chris,” were the first words out of her mouth.
“No what?”
“Don’t know, but I figure whatever it is, the answer is no.”
“Couldn’t I be calling to wish you a pleasant day?”
She made a noise that sounded like a braying goat before she said, “Umm, no.”
“So, alibis: Joel for when Katelin died and Candice for when Lauren died.”
“I haven’t talked to Joel yet, but Candice says she doesn’t remember what she was doing when Lauren bit the dust.”
I knew what Joel had told me about where he was and wished Candice could have been more specific with Cindy. I was mulling that over, when she added, “But, I did talk to Detective Callahan. He caught Katelin’s case and is convinced that her death by asphyxiation was of her own doing. The coroner said the knot on the head was consistent with contact with the steering wheel and Callahan said that was good enough for him.”
Detective Callahan and I had a few encounters, of which most were negative, when he investigated the death of a member of First Light Church. Callahan was young, but proved to be competent, although a bit stuffy.
“So, he’s closing the case?”
“Yes and no,” Cindy said and paused.
“Which means?”
“I shared the same questions you’d asked when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. He agreed that having two deaths that close together, involving housemates, and with both having a history with Joel, seemed an unlikely coincidence.”
“Good,” I said.
“But, he didn’t see enough evidence to conclude anything other than Lauren’s death was either accidental or suicide, and that Katelin’s was a suicide. Before you get all huffy, he said that before he moved on to the latest crop of murders, he would talk to Joel and anybody else whose name came up. He’s doing that as a favor to me.”
I thanked her and she said that whether I believed it or not she had more to do than take calls from a bald, nosy, senior citizen. I told her to spend my tax money wisely, and she reminded me that I was retired and was taking rather than paying tax money. She giggled and then was gone.
I started to check on Bob but decided that I had already endured enough grief for the day, so instead, I walked three blocks to Cal’s for a late lunch and an earful of country music. Cal had owned the bar since taking over for its former owner who now resided in prison, the permanent address he’d earned after killing an attorney and framing my friend Sean Aker who was a law partner with the deceased attorney. Cal’s could be described as the perfect country music bar. An antique Wurlitzer juke was full of country classics, the ambience included the strong smell of stale beer and burnt burgers, and tables and chairs that had seen their better days—a decade ago. It also included another country classic, Cal Ballew, who’d had a hit record, although it was popular before most of his customers were born.
From the jukebox, Barbara Mandrell was singing about “The Midnight Oil” as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The bar was half full, or in the eyes of its owner who had to pay the bills, half empty, so I didn’t have trouble finding a table nor finding a glass of wine. Cal had my drink to the table before I looked around to see who was there.
Along with the wine came the questions: �
�How’s Al? How’s Bob? Did you hear about that gal who offed herself in the garage? How’s that neighbor you don’t like since his kid overdosed?”
I took a sip and waited for the gangly six-foot-three Texan to finish his litany of questions, and when he stopped to take a breath, said, “You forget to ask, ‘How’s Chris?’”
He smiled. “Don’t think so, so how’s Al?”
He must have figured that I was okay, so I gave him the meager update that I had been given and told him that Bob was fine. I ignored the questions about Katelin’s death and about Lauren’s parents.
“Since you’re short on news, let me tell you what happened this morning.”
Randy Travis’s voice filled the room singing about what happened in “1982,” and I nodded for Cal to tell me what happened more recently.
“When I’m in the mood to open for lunch, I come in at ten-o’clock. Figured there wouldn’t be too many people in today so I let my cook have the day off. I can fix the customers anything they want to eat as long as it’s a burger and fries. Most only want to drink beer.”
I knew he was headed somewhere with the story and I didn’t have anywhere else to be, so I let him ramble at his pace. Once again, I nodded for him to continue.
“I stuck my key in the lock when I saw Michigan by the side of the building leaning on his cane. He looked at his wrist and told me I was thirty minutes late. I asked him late for what, and he said I should’ve been here earlier.”
One of Cal’s less than endearing habits had been calling people by the name of their home state. Charles and I had been trying to break him of the habit and had come close to succeeding—but only close.
I smiled. “That sounds like Charles. What’d he want?”
“First he wanted to give me a hard time for being late. I didn’t let it take, so I asked him one more time what he wanted. He followed me in, helped me turn on the lights, and straighten up the chairs from last night’s non-interior-design-oriented customers, and said he wanted to have a party.”
“What kind of party?”
A customer two tables over called for Cal to bring him another drink.
Cal unfolded himself from the chair and said, “Hold that question, I’ll be back.”
Jim Reeves’s mellow voice was singing “He’ll Have to Go,” and Marc Salmon lowered his body in the chair previously occupied by the country crooner—Cal, not Jim Reeves.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
He was already seated so I thought the correct answer would be I didn’t mind, and said, “My pleasure.”
Cal had started back and saw Marc in his chair. He frowned and then put on his happy proprietor face and asked Marc if he could get him anything.
“Hi, Cal. How about a fish sandwich?”
Cal nodded and bit his lower lip like he was thinking, and said, “How about a hamburger?”
Marc said, “That the special of the day?”
“Only choice of the day,” Cal said.
Marc said, “Sounds good.”
Cal tipped his Stetson to the council member and headed to the grill.
Marc watched Cal go and said, “Heard any gossip about the election?”
Gossip and politics were to Marc like hydrogen and oxygen were to water.
“Nothing you don’t already know, I suspect. What’s the latest?”
He looked around the room and leaned closer like he was getting ready to divulge a state secret. “We don’t have much formal polling over here, especially this far out from an election, but I was talking to a couple of local political tongue waggers who said that unless something drastic happens between now and the election, Brian’s a shoo-in to get reelected.”
I hoped that was the case, told Marc so, and asked what his tongue waggers, if there was such a word, had to say about the council races.
“They didn’t say it, but it seems to me that if Brian wins reelection by a large margin, I should be okay. He and I don’t always agree, but on most issues we’re on the same page.”
“What’d they say about Joel?”
Marc shook his head. “The newcomer’s spreading manure about our mayor. If you listen to him, you’d think Brian’s a serial-killer, rapist, who hangs around the barnyard with amorous intentions.” Marc smiled. “Other than that, Joel thinks the world of our current leader.”
“Any talk about Joel and Lauren or Joel and Katelin?”
Marc leaned close and whispered, “Why?”
I didn’t think his question was worthy of a whisper. “Seems strange that he dated both and now they’re dead.”
“Don’t the police think your neighbor’s daughter’s death was self-inflicted? And the latest gal killed herself, right?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
Marc leaned closer. “You don’t think he had anything to do with their deaths, do you?”
I shrugged. “If you hear anything about Joel that involves them, let me know.”
“You got it,” Marc said as Cal slid a burger in front of the council member.
Cal pulled the chair out that was beside Marc and started to sit when another customer called for him.
“Hold your pony,” Cal said, huffed, and headed to the demanding customer.
Marc took a large bite out of the burger and tilted his head. “Forgot to ask, how’s your friend Al?”
There was a reason Marc had the reputation of being the biggest repository of news and gossip on the island. To my knowledge, he’d never met Al, and I wasn’t certain that he knew that he existed. I asked how he’d heard and he said something vague like word gets around. I shared what little I knew and he expressed his sympathy and wish for a speedy recovery.
Marc looked at his watch. “I’m late for a meeting at city hall.”
He looked around for Cal who was busy playing chef. I said I’d take care of the tab. Marc thanked me and rushed out, and I sat and reminded myself that everything he’d said about Joel was consistent with what I’d heard.
Cal returned mumbling something about pesky customers whittling into his fun time. He took off his Stetson, wiped his brow, and mumbled something else about chefin’s hard work. He took a deep breath and said, “Where were we?”
I said he was about to tell me about Charles’s party.
“Ah, yes. The boy said he wanted to have, let’s see, what did he call it, oh yeah, a happy journey party for Heather. Cripes, I didn’t even know that she was heading out on a journey, and he told me not only was she heading out but had done gone. I was flabbergasted.”
I agreed. “Did he say why he wanted to hold it?”
“This is where it gets sad. The poor boy said that he hadn’t done enough to keep her here, and the least he could do was to wish her the best on her journey to wherever. He told me that he didn’t know where she was headed. Ain’t that the pits?” He shook his head. “Not that I’ll miss her singing in here, but I sure as hell will miss her bubbly personality, and it didn’t take a psychiatrist to see how happy she made Charles. No, it didn’t.”
“When does he want to hold the, umm, party?”
“Saturday.”
“That’s the day after tomorrow.”
Cal held out his hand and looked at his fingers like he was counting the days. “Sure is. Seemed soon to me, but that’s what the boy said. I even asked if he didn’t think that was too soon to put together a proper party.”
“What’d he say?”
“Said he needed to do it soon before he chickened out.”
Another customer demanded Cal’s time and I called Charles, although I wasn’t optimistic that he would answer. I was right. He did have a new message: If you insist on seeing me, I’ll be hosting a big Happy Journey Party for Heather at Cal’s Saturday night. The shindig starts at eight.
George and Tammy were singing about “My Elusive Dreams” as I left Cal’s, sadder than when I arrived—and that was going some.
34
I left Charles a couple of phone messages
the next day and true to his word, he didn’t return my calls. I also knocked on his door early Friday evening in hopes that he would acknowledge my existence. His car was there so I assumed he was holed up among his books. I called Tanesa and she was at work but in clipped, hurried phrases told me that there was no change in her dad’s condition. I had no better luck when I called Bob and Betty answered and said that her more-cranky-than-usual hubby was taking a nap and if she’d learned one thing over the years it was not to awaken him unless she was ready to suffer the consequences. I told her I was calling to see how he was and she said, “Gruff, antsy, irritable, and boorish.”
“So, he’s back to normal.”
Betty laughed. “You know him way too well.”
“I share your pain. Let him sleep and if he wakes up in a good mood, tell him I called.”
I had better luck when I called Barb, Dude, and Preacher Burl to invite them to Charles’s party. Each said they’d be honored to attend—actually, Dude said, “Cool,” which I assumed meant he’d surf over to the wingding.
Charles’s message said the party was to start at eight, so I was outside Cal’s at seven-thirty under the assumption that Charles would arrive around then. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do before he made it inside. Consistent with his normal behavior, I saw my friend approaching the bar at seven-thirty on the dot. He wore a long-sleeve University of Arkansas T-shirt and cargo shorts. Instead of his crooked smile, his face was squished up in a frown that would have been appropriate at a funeral. His shoulders were bent down and he leaned on his cane more than I had seen before.
“Hello, Chris,” he said.
That ordinary by most people’s standards salutation told me that he was hurting more than he would let on. I put my arm around his shoulder and asked how he was doing. He said fine which I knew was a lie. I asked if there was anything I could do to help.
“I wish there was,” he said, and looked at the sidewalk.
His eyes were bloodshot and his hand on the cane was trembling.
