No Joke
Page 1
No Joke
Bill Noel
Copyright © 2019 by Bill Noel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photo by Bill Noel
Author photo by Susan Noel
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ISBN: 978-1-937979-57-7
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Enigma House Press
Goshen, Kentucky
www.enigmahousepress.com
Also by Bill Noel
Folly Beach Mysteries
Folly
The Pier
Washout
The Edge
The Marsh
Ghosts
Missing
Final Cut
First Light
Boneyard Beach
Silent Night
Dead Center
Discord
The Folly Beach Mystery Collection
Dark Horse
Joy
The Folly Beach Mystery Collection II
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
About the Author
Chapter One
Have you ever seen a stranger and knew, at first glance, that something was wrong? Could it have been the vacant look in his eyes? Or was it the long, wool coat he was wearing over red swim trunks and black patent leather shoes? Maybe it was the seven-foot-long fishing rod he was flinging around over his head like a drum major’s baton. And, oh yeah, did I mention he was standing in heavy traffic in the middle of Center Street?
I hadn’t noticed any of this until squealing tires and honking horns drew my attention away from gazing in the window of Avocet Properties to the man weaving around the stopped cars while their drivers hurled profanities at him as they came inches from running him down.
He swung the fishing rod at the closest vehicle, encouraging the exasperated driver to maneuver around the gentleman to escape the wrath of the weapon.
I looked around and didn’t see anyone moving to save the confused fisherman.
I stepped off the curb, waved for two oncoming vehicles to stop, then sidled up to the stranger. I ducked away from the flailing rod that seemed to have a mind of its own and said, “Could I be of assistance?”
A pickup truck going the other direction zoomed past. The truck’s horn blasted; the driver gave us a one-finger wave. At least he hadn’t hit us.
The five-foot six-inch tall, thin, mid-seventies rod waver looked at me, blinked twice, and lowered the weapon.
I put my arm around his bony shoulder. Instead of waiting for him to answer, I nudged him to the curb and pointed for him to sit on a rocking chair under the awning of the real estate office.
“Nice fishing rod. Could I see it?” I asked, hoping to get it out of his trembling hand.
He looked at his hand like he was seeing the piece of sporting equipment for the first time. He handed it to me and looked at the street where he’d come so close to being roadkill.
I took the rod and leaned it against the chair on the other side of the stranger.
He shook his head like he was shaking cobwebs out. “Thank you, kind sir, for retrieving me from yon street. May I have your moniker?”
During my sixty-nine years, I’d never been asked that question, yet I assumed he wanted my name.
“Chris Landrum,” I said. “And you are?”
He leaned forward then glanced at his fishing rod. “I’m Wallace, umm, Wallace Bentley.” He reached to shake my hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bentley.”
“Call me Wallace.” He chuckled. “All my friends, and strangers who save me from getting squashed, call me that.”
“Do you live on Folly?”
The temperature was in the mid-seventies, but he pulled his heavy coat around him like he was freezing. He closed his eyes. For a moment, I thought he’d fallen asleep, until his eyes shot open. “Folly … Folly Beach.” He rubbed his tongue along his front teeth. “Can’t say that I do, Mr. Landrum, Chris. I’m here with friends.”
I waited for him to continue. He didn’t, so I said, “Friends?”
He looked toward the beach. “Didn’t know ocean water was so cold this time of year.”
“Sure is. You say you’re here with friends. Who are they?”
“Guess that’s why surfers wear those skin-tight, black trash bags.”
Okay, forget the friends’ names. How to reunite him with them was becoming more important. “Wallace, where’re your friends?”
“Marvin, he goes by Pete; Salvador, who prefers Sal; Raymond, who prefers Ray. My departed wife, God rest her soul, and I call him Son.”
I was beginning to have second thoughts about having rescued the irrational, deranged, or nutty gentleman sharing the rocking chairs with me. I took a deep breath and pretended like we were having a sane conversation.
“Are those your friends?”
“There’s one more. I have trouble remembering his name. He’s not a friend. He’s Sal’s brother. That’s where we’re staying.”
I looked around, hoping someone would arrive to collect Wallace.
Several people walked past; none appeared interested.
I didn’t blame them, but I couldn’t leave him here in his confused state.
He snapped his finger and brought me out of my wish to beam myself anywhere but on this bench. “Got it.” He sat back and smiled.
“Got what?”
“Sal’s brother’s name. Something like Humidor or Thermador.” He smiled like that explained everything.
“Like the thing you keep tobacco in, or like the kitchen appliances?”
“Chris, it is Chris, right?”
I nodded.
“You’re not making a lick of sense.”
Pot calling the kettle black popped into my head. I’d run out of words to share with my new acquaintance.
Wallace said, “Sal’s brother, he’s a guy who lives down that street that has the river in its back yard.”
“Theodore Stull?”
I had retired to Folly Beach, a small, quirky, South Carolina barrier island ten years ago, where I’d received numerous lessons from my equally quirky friends on how one plus one seldom equals two.
“Bingo.”
I’d met Theodore Stull a couple of years ago when I joined his walking group. For those who think walking is healthy, I’d respond with five words: It nearly got me killed. Theo, as he preferred to be called, came closer than I had to meeting his Maker because of t
he group. But that’s a story for another time.
“Are your friends at Theo’s house?”
Please, please say yes, I thought so I could deliver him to them. Theo lived a short walk from where we were sitting.
“Hear about the dead body?”
Not the answer I was looking for. “What dead body?”
“The one at the beach.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Sal’s seventy-nine, that’s years younger than Theo. Do you know Theo?”
I wondered if anyone would notice if I smacked him with a fishing rod.
“Yes, I know Theo. What about a body at the beach?”
“Dead body.”
“Did you see a body?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, young man.”
“Where was it?” Folly Beach had six miles of ocean beachfront, so I hoped he would narrow it down.
“Hard to tell. I don’t know much about your island. Just got here a few days ago. Seeing a dead body had a distracting impression on me.”
He could say that again.
“When did you see it?”
“Sal thought Theo was losing his mind. He wanted to be here for his brother. That’s why we’re staying with him.”
One more time. “When did you see the body?”
“Must’ve been today.”
“What time did—”
“Could’ve been yesterday.”
I was ready to pull my hair out although, since I was a few hairs shy of bald, I would have to do it figuratively.
“So, you’re not certain—”
“I know.” He snapped his fingers. “It was January 20, four years ago. Remember it well. That guy, what’s-his-name, was sworn in as president. I’ll never understand why. Yes, sir, that was the day.”
Chapter Two
Seconds before I started screaming, a City of Folly Beach patrol car cruised past, and I recognized the driver. Allen Spencer was new on the force the year I’d moved from Middle America. We had numerous conversations over the years. I watched him grow from a young, green beat cop to one of Folly’s most experienced law enforcement officials.
He looked my way and nodded.
I waved for him to stop, and he pulled around the corner of the real estate building.
“Hey, Chris, wonderful day, isn’t it?” Allen said as he approached the chairs and looked at my new acquaintance.
“Great day, Officer Spencer. Have you met Wallace Bentley?”
Allen moved in front of Wallace and held out his hand. “Don’t believe I have. I’m Allen Spencer.”
Wallace didn’t make eye contact but shook Allen’s hand.
The officer focused on the fishing rod. “Going fishing, Wallace?”
Wallace looked over at the pole. “I’m a friend of Sal.”
I interrupted their disjointed conversation before it went further off the rails. “Officer Spencer, have a second? I’ve got a question about the new parking rules on East Arctic.”
He looked at me like he had no idea what I was talking about, a look well-founded. I’d made it up. Regardless, he said, “Sure.”
I stood. “Wallace, wait here. I’ll be back.”
I took Allen by the elbow and walked around the corner.
“What stray have you picked up now?”
“Allen, I didn’t want to say anything in front of him. Let me tell you what I know.”
I proceeded to tell Allen about escorting the oddly-attired man from the center of the street and who he’d said he was visiting. I shared Wallace’s story about seeing a dead body at the beach. I’d learned, over the years, that Allen listened to what I had to say, regardless how strange or farfetched it may sound.
I asked if there’d been a report of a death or missing person.
He said there was none he was aware of. Although, it didn’t mean much, since there were so many visitors to the island it could be days before someone would’ve been reported missing.
Allen fiddled with his black leather duty belt then took a deep breath. “Do you put credence in his story?”
“Hard to tell. He had me convinced until he couldn’t remember if he’d seen the body today, yesterday, or four years ago. He slipped in and out of reality.”
“Sounds like he may need a transport to the psych ward.”
“Not yet. He appears harmless. If it’s okay, I’ll walk him to Theo’s to see if his brother’s there.”
“First, let me see if I can do any better with him.”
I smiled. “Have at it.”
We returned to Wallace and to a continuation of his story which was as odd as his attire.
I told Wallace I’d shared what he’d said about seeing a body.
Wallace told Allen he had but was confused about when.
I thought it was a major understatement, since his time of the sighting ranged from three hours to the lifespan of a hedgehog.
Wallace seemed to return to the real world when he started describing where he was staying and who he was with. He laughed when Allen said something about Theo being part of a walking group started by another of my friends, Chester Carr. Members of the group called Theo ET which, instead of a comparison to the cute alien from another planet in the old movie by the same name, it meant Energizer Turtle because of Theo’s slow pace.
Wallace responded by saying, “That boy’s as slow as a turkey trottin’ to Thanksgiving dinner.”
Allen tried once more to pin down a more accurate time on when Wallace had allegedly seen a body. He was no more successful than I’d been. He looked at me and shrugged.
“Tell you what, Officer Spencer, why don’t I walk Wallace to Theo’s house? If we can get a better fix on when he saw the body, I’ll give you a call?”
Allen turned to Wallace. “That okay with you?”
It was better than him saying, “Is that okay?” or “Would you rather I take you to a padded room in nearby Charleston?”
Wallace agreed with the plan.
Before Allen headed to his patrol car, he said, “You will call me if you learn anything about a body.” It wasn’t a question.
We started the three-block walk to Theo’s. Wallace’s gait was quicker than his host, although not much.
Theo owned a large, two-story, elevated home that overlooked the marsh and the Folly River. His two-year old Mercedes was in the drive, so I assumed he was home, or hoped so. My luck continued when Theo opened the mahogany front door. He’d made a fortune after inventing a replacement-window system filled with an exotic energy-saving gas. He’d sold the business to a national window replacement company for several million dollars then moved to Folly. Instead of appearing like a multi-millionaire, most of the time Theo looked homeless. At five-foot-eight, he was a couple of inches shorter than me, had an equal amount of exposed scalp, and looked older than his mid-eighties. He wore a USS Yorktown ball cap, black knee-high support socks and blue jogging shorts. One vestige of his earlier success was his white, button-down dress shirt. The collar and cuffs were frayed, but the shirt had been custom made to fit his trim frame.
Theo looked at Wallace then at me. “Chris, good to see you. I see you met Wallace. What brings you out?”
I started to answer when he added, “Sorry, I’m being rude. Come in.”
Theo said it like there was nothing unusual about seeing Wallace standing at the door, sweat running down his cheeks from wearing a wool topcoat in seventy-degree weather, while carrying a fishing rod. We followed Theo to the great room where he had a panoramic view of the Folly River from floor to ceiling windows.
Theo looked up like he was speaking to the heavens, and yelled, “Hey, Sal. Wallace is here.”
Theo motioned for us to sit on his oversized latte-colored couch. I heard someone coming down the stairs.
“Well, well, well,” boomed the loud voice of the newcomer to the room. “My good friend, Wallace, returns.”
Theo said, “Chris, meet my brother, Salvador.”
“Call me Sal,” said the man whom Theo claimed to be his brother. I say claimed because Sal didn’t look or sound anything like Theo. The man who walked over and shook my hand was several years younger and at least five inches taller than Theo. He had long, gray hair, wore black, wide-rimmed glasses that looked like they came off the pages of a style magazine—a magazine from the 1950s. In contrast to Theo’s dress shirt, Sal had on an open collar, red and blue striped shirt that would have been at home in a lounge singer’s closet, and like the glasses, a closet in the ‘50s.
“Chris,” boomed Sal, “see you met my good buddy, Wallace.” He hesitated then chuckled. “You don’t have to make a fool out of Wallace. He does it all by himself.”
That was a line I didn’t want to touch. I didn’t have to.
“Chris,” Theo said, “Salvador is a stand-up comedian. Done it most of his adult life.”
“Adult, huh,” Wallace said.
“And so is Wallace,” Theo added. “In fact, I have four house guests. All of them make a living in the world of comedy. Wallace’s son, Raymond, and another of their friends, Marvin Peters, are somewhere on the island having—”
“Having too many beers,” Sal interrupted, “hittin’ on some of your charming Southern belle barmaids.”
“Now, Sal,” Theo said, “you don’t know that.”
Wallace looked at me. “See why I had to get out of the house?”
That was the sanest thing he’d said since I herded him out of the street.
I looked at Wallace and Sal. “How long will you be visiting?”