by Bill Noel
“That’s what I figured. Anyway, thanks for coming out in the middle of the night. I suppose I need to get back in there to escort the guys to their rooms. I doubt anyone will go back to sleep.”
Theo walked with me to the door. The others hadn’t moved since Theo and I’d been talking.
“Chris,” Theo said as I was stepping off the porch.
I stopped and looked at him.
“You’ll figure it out, won’t you?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
The thing was, I didn’t know what I’d agreed to figure out.
Chapter Twenty-One
I grabbed a quick supper at Planet Follywood and headed home for what I hoped to be an evening without thinking of what had happened at Theo’s this morning or playing over in my mind the trauma of finding the bookie’s body. Television was no help. I watched two sitcoms touted as the best of the year. Compared to the TV shows, I began thinking that Sal and the rest of the Legends might be funnier than I’d first thought.
I turned the TV off and grabbed a copy of a photography magazine and flipped through pages until I realized that I wasn’t paying attention to what I was seeing. Regardless how hard I tried, I kept coming back to the dead bookie, Wallace’s confusion over having seen the body, plus his confusion about nearly everything, and Ray’s abrupt exit from the giant comedy club called Earth. And, why in heaven’s name did I tell Theo that I would try to figure it out, whatever it was?
The death will be ruled accidental, unless the medical examiner comes up with something to indicate otherwise. Ray was inebriated, staying in a strange house, and it was early in the morning; all factors that could contribute to him falling.
So why did I keep coming back to it? Was it because it happened close to when I discovered Michael Hardin, the death where there was no question about cause? How about because Wallace said something about seeing Michael Hardin’s body? He was also within a few feet of Ray when he fell? Were the deaths related? Or did I think it was suspicious because Ray was not liked by the others? He made fun of them. He arrived at Cal’s angry, then when something was said stormed out. Add to that, he was rude, egotistical, disrespectful. Or was my imagination working overtime?
I wanted to call Theo to see how he was doing but figured he’d be exhausted, with luck, asleep. I called Charles after I left Theo and got his answering machine. I’d left a message but hadn’t heard from him. That wasn’t unusual since he had the irritating habit of leaving his phone in his apartment then forgetting to check messages.
I tried his number again with better luck. I asked if he ever checked his messages.
He gave feeble excuses about the phone being in another pair of slacks, about the battery being dead, he never got important calls anyway. After a litany of these he got around to asking why I’d called.
I shared what happened at Theo’s. In return, I was the recipient of a thirty-second rant that could be summed up with him wanting to know why I didn’t spend every waking hour since I left Theo’s trying to find him so I could tell him about it. He was irritated with himself, taking it out on me. That’s what friends are for, or so I continued telling myself.
He calmed and said, “Do you think Ray’s death was accidental?”
“There’s nothing to indicate that it wasn’t, although, it strikes me as strange coming so close on the heels of his father claiming to see the body of the bookie, and how others in the house didn’t like Ray. That’s only a gut feeling.”
“You told Theo you would figure out what happened.”
“No, I told him I’d try.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“We?”
“You need my help.”
“I do?”
“You said Wallace drifted in and out of reality. The whole group is delusional about their success. From what I heard at Cal’s, they seem confused about how funny they are.”
I waited, but no more was forthcoming.
“So?”
“Who do you know who’s an expert on drifting in and out of reality? Who have you accused of thinking he’s funnier than he is? When you think of delusional, who comes to mind?”
“You?”
“Duh. These are my kind of people. You need me.”
I started to respond when he interrupted. “For the candle on top of the icing, on top of the chocolate cake, don’t forget, I was with you when you found Michael Hardin. I’m smack dab in the middle of being connected to the case.”
Somewhere between the icing and the cake, I took a deep breath and realized that I didn’t know about Theo, but I knew that I was exhausted. I told Charles I’d think about it and we could talk tomorrow. I hadn’t planned to think about it; I wanted to get off the phone.
The next morning, I brewed a pot of coffee instead of going next door to Bert’s for a dose of caffeine. Charles and I had agreed to meet at noon at the Dog, which meant 11:30, so I had a few hours to kill. I sat at the kitchen table and flipped through the photography magazine I’d skimmed yesterday. I had little interest in reading the reviews of the latest, greatest cameras with numerous features more than the twelve-year-old digital Nikon that’d served me well, nor did I care about the newest drone technology that gave photographers the ability to view the earth from three hundred feet. Perhaps my age was showing. I had enough trouble capturing interesting images from my five-foot-ten vantage point. What the magazine did achieve was keeping my mind off the murder, the theft, and the motives of Theo’s guests.
The more I looked at the magazine, the more I thought about my numerous walks around the island with Charles and how happy I was having someone with whom to share my interests. Photography was the excuse we often used to make the lengthy treks. We did take photos, yet the best part of the trips were our conversations. Other than an interest in photography and being retired, we had little in common.
It’d taken me a few years to realize that, while Charles was seldom without something to say, talking about his past was not among the things he dwelt on. I knew the basics: where he was born, about being raised by his grandmother, what he’d done before coming to Folly, how he’d spent his time while on the island. But, after the hundreds of hours we’d spent together, he’d never revealed why he wore long-sleeve shirts, regardless of the weather; why he carried a hand-carved, wooden cane, even though he was as mobile as anyone I knew, or, why he’d accumulated more college and university sweatshirts and T-shirts than the marsh had oysters. It wasn’t for the lack of asking, although I’d given up after the first couple of years, once I realized that the answers were as elusive as catching a rainbow.
I was with him when he met Heather. I observed their growing romantic relationship until she left a few months ago. I learned how much he loved his Aunt Melinda during her brief time with him until she succumbed to cancer.
He was getting over these heartbreaking losses, yet still had a way to go. Each time I thought he was making progress, he said something about Melinda, Heather, or acted depressed. I didn’t think it was clinical depression, but bouts of sadness and anger over them being gone. His self-proclaimed position of executive sales manager at Landrum Gallery had given him purpose and a feeling that he was accomplishing something—something that he’d felt lacking before I’d come along. It was unavoidable, yet I knew how much I’d hurt him when I closed the gallery.
I poured another cup of coffee, threw the magazine in the trash, and realized, as strange as it may seem, the happiest, most energized and self-confident I had seen my friend over the last three years was when we were up to our eyeballs in police business, things that we shouldn’t be involved with. Good or bad luck, depending upon who was telling the story, had propelled us into situations that almost cost us our lives. Falling on the side of good luck, we helped the police catch people who had killed some of our acquaintances, were out to kill someone close to us, and nearly had succeeded in ending our lives.
That realization gave me a differ
ent perspective on what I was going to say at lunch. My initial thought was to remind him that whatever had happened wasn’t our concern, that it was in the competent hands of the police. Neither of us knew the bookie. We had seen him a few times but, on an island as small as Folly, that wasn’t unusual. The death of Ray Bentley appeared to be a case of an inebriated man missing the top step and tumbling to the hereafter. Tragic, yes, and sad that it was Wallace’s son, who happened to be a friend of Sal, who happened to be Theo’s brother, who was one of our friends. It was still an accident. Yes, I’d told Theo that I would try, but we’d be better off leaving it to the authorities.
The best way to help my friend was to agree with him, do everything I could do to find out what had happened and who was responsible for Michael’s death. We may not succeed, but I’d be doing something to bring back the positive, helpful, cheery friend whom I’d come to love.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I arrived at the Dog at 11:30 to find Charles at a booth along the back wall.
He looked at his imaginary watch and nodded his head to indicate that I was on time.
I slid in opposite him and noticed his eyes were red, his eyelids at half-staff. “Rough night?” I asked.
“Trouble sleeping. So, how’re we going to catch the killer?”
Amber was quick to the table, set a mug of coffee in front of me, and asked if I knew what I wanted for lunch.
I thanked her for the coffee, although I’d had too much of the stuff, and said, “Mahi Salad.”
Amber put her hand over her heart. “Whoa. That’s almost healthy.”
I smiled. “I’ll get over it.”
“No doubt,” she said then asked if Charles needed anything else.
He told her no, and she headed to the kitchen with my almost-healthy order.
This is where I would normally argue that the police were paid to catch the killer. It was none of our business. Instead, I said, “I think we need to start by learning everything we can about Michael Hardin. Who else placed bets with him? Did anyone have stories about how he’d cheated them? Did anyone owe him a large amount of money?”
Charles’s eyes opened wider. “Really? I thought you’d tell me to butt out.”
“You said we needed to figure out what was going on. It’s a good idea.”
He sighed. “Thanks a lot. Now you’ve done gone and screwed up everything I planned on spending all day arguing with you about.”
“Like what?”
“Like you were going to say we that we didn’t know Michael Hardin, so we had no reason to stick in our noses. I was going to say that it was true, but our friend, Theo’s brother, is a friend of Wallace Bentley, Wallace said he saw the body, or said he saw a body. That made it our business. Sal’s friend got killed at the house where he was staying, the house of our friend, Theo. See?”
“You’re right.”
Charles pointed his fork at me. “You messin’ with me?”
“I’m agreeing.”
He leaned back in the booth and stared at me like I was a three-headed sloth.
Amber returned with my salad and a hot dog for Charles that he’d ordered before I arrived. She said, “What’s wrong, Charles? You look like you’ve seen the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
Charles continued to stare at me. “An alien’s done swooped down and planted itself in Chris’s brain.”
Amber smiled. “That explains the Mahi Salad.” She patted my balding head and left to see if the couple seated in the middle of the room needed anything. She didn’t appear as worried as Charles.
Charles blinked twice, took a bite of hot dog, looked around the room, then back at me. “Think I’m over the shock. How do we find out who else had reason to kill the bookie?”
I pointed to the table on the other side of the room, where Chief Cindy LaMond was lunching with two of her officers. I saw them when I came in and started thinking about Charles’s question before he asked it. “First, we need to find out who the police have eliminated as suspects.”
“And you think Cindy’s just going to waltz over here to tell us?”
I laughed. “No, she’ll say it’s not our concern. If we keep meddling in her job, she’ll shoot us before the killer does.”
“That’ll help us how?”
“I didn’t say she wouldn’t tell us. I said she’d first give us a bucket of grief.”
“How are we going to get her over here without her lunch mates?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
Before I had a chance to do much figuring, Chester Carr magically appeared beside our booth.
He nodded at Charles and said to me, “Thought I’d find you here.”
I didn’t ask why. First, because it didn’t matter. Second, because Charles was asking him to join us.
Chester slid in beside Charles. “We’re halfway through a .5 group walk. Made it all the way to the River Park, where I left the rest of the folks gasping for air.”
Chester started the .5 walking group two years ago. The name came from the half-mile distance Chester wanted the group to walk, from the end of East Ashley Avenue to Lighthouse Inlet, where we could view the iconic Morris Island Lighthouse, then trek back to East Ashley. One of the requirements to be in the group was that the member had to be sixty or older. That, along with the physical condition, or lack of condition, of most of the members made a .5 mile walk as easily attainable as hiking to the top of Pikes Peak. Regardless, the name stuck.
Charles faked surprise. “You deserted your group?”
Chester said, “Since you think you’re too good to walk with us, I couldn’t tell you what I found out if I stayed with the others.”
That perked Charles up.
I said, “What?”
“You asked me to let you know I if learned anything new about the bookie?”
“Yes.”
“After the .5 group left the Pier to head up Center Street without two of its members who’re sitting here feeding their faces—”
“Subtle,” I interrupted. “You were walking up the street, and?”
“David Darnell was talking about how busy his insurance business is recently. Most of us couldn’t care less about insurance, so we weren’t paying attention, until he said something about Horace Raque. That’s Janice’s husband, remember, the lady I told you about who was arguing with Michael Hardin?”
“I remember.”
“David was telling funny stories about things his clients say. David’s a big talker. It’s a wonder anyone has time to buy insurance with him doing all the talking.” Chester shrugged. “‘Course David’s semi-retired, so I guess it doesn’t matter if he sells anything.”
Charles took the words out of my mouth when he said, “What’d he say about Horace?”
“Horace, right. I missed the first of it. I didn’t want him to know that I wasn’t listening, so I didn’t have him start over. Horace was talking to David about car insurance then got off track and said he didn’t need more life insurance.” Chester closed his eyes, opened them, and tapped his finger on the table. “Oh, yeah, David laughed. He said that Horace told him that as mad as Janice gets, he’s afraid she’d kill him. He didn’t want to give her added incentive with a bigger policy.”
“Was Horace serious?” I asked.
Chester looked across the room at Chief LaMond’s table and turned back to me. “David thought Horace was joking. I don’t know. Remember how mad Janice was at the bookie? She has a temper. I can see her being that mad at Horace. I sure can.”
“Did Darnell say anything else?”
“Yeah, he went off on a story about one of his customers driving into a ditch. The guy swore that a fly landed on his nose and made him veer off the road.”
“Anything more about Horace?” Charles said.
“No, but I reckoned since you and Chris are detectives, you’d figure what David said was a clue.”
Every other time we’d been accused of what Charles’s imagination had created,
I denied it. Not today.
“Yes, it was,” Charles said.
Chester started to slip out of the booth before saying, “I’ll try to catch up with the crew. Shouldn’t be hard at their speed.”
I thanked him for coming to find us. As Chester walked away, Charles cleared his throat and nearly fell out of the booth leaning toward the table where Cindy and her officers had been. The two cops waved goodbye to the chief and headed to the door. Cindy looked our way. I motioned her over, and Charles pointed at the seat Chester had vacated.
Cindy looked at the seat, at Charles, then at me. “Am I going to regret this?”
Charles said, “Of course not.”
I didn’t lie to her; I smiled as she joined us. I’d wager it wasn’t her first choice.
Charles asked, “How’s your day?”
Cindy pointed to the table where she had been seated. “One of my guys told me he was quitting and moving to his wife’s hometown somewhere in the middle of God’s country in Arkansas. The other one said his doctor recommended he take a leave of absence because of job stress. Can you believe that?”
I could, but I limited my response to, “I’m sorry.”
“Now two troublemakers summon me over. So, Charles, how do you think my day’s been?”
Charles smiled. “Looks like it sucked until you joined us.”
“I assume the two of you didn’t ask me over to see what kind of day I was having. What’s up?”
“Chris wanted to know who you and the Sheriff’s Office are figurin’ as suspects in Michael Hardin’s murder.” Charles pointed his fork at me. “He thought it was one of the bookie’s disgruntled customers.”
Cindy glared at me. “He did?”
“That’s not exactly right, Cindy,” I said, although it wasn’t far off. “I was curious how the investigation was going.”
Cindy shook her head. “If I could stick you behind bars for lying to a police chief, that salad would be the last good meal you’d be getting in the next few weeks, months, maybe years.”
