Ghosts
Page 8
We were on our second glass of wine and had traveled to the large stone and granite salad bar and talked about a storm that was expected to deliver a foot of snow tomorrow evening—all before she mentioned Daniel and his tragic death. I was far from qualified to answer what she asked. “Who would have wanted him dead?” she said.
I filled her glass. “I have no idea. Who do you think?”
“I was awake most of the night trying to answer that,” she said. She pushed the lettuce around on her salad plate and then took a small bite. “He wasn’t a big gambler—I don’t think he owed anyone money. I don’t know all the details, but it looks like our bank and brokerage accounts are quite healthy.” She took another bite and watched the slowly moving river with ice islands near the center. It was illuminated by spotlights in nearby trees. “He had a large insurance policy: something like two million dollars and double for accidental death.” She turned toward me. “If the police didn’t think it was an accident, I’d be their top suspect.”
She was right. So where did I fit in? She hadn’t invited me to Gatlinburg and to dinner without Charles and William simply to introduce me to the Peddler’s filet mignon. “What can I do?” I asked.
A waiter crossed the room to deliver two plates of sizzling steaks to one of the other tables. The smell of the still-broiling filets trailed behind.
“I can’t turn back the clock,” she said. “No one can. But I’ve looked back many times over the years. I thought back to Louisville and my decision to bail on you. I was convinced it was the right thing to do; I really was.”
“I know,” I said. “It tore me up, but you may have been right. I was getting tired of me too, but I couldn’t figure how to leave myself.” I grinned and hoped she saw the humor.
She smiled. “Regardless, that’s water under the bridge. I was wrong. I realized that what I thought was boring or uneventful was your careful, analytical, understated approach.”
“Sounds like boring to me,” I said. Humor had always been my first line of defense against fear and situations in which I felt uncomfortable.
She asked if I’d remarried, and I said no. She said, “Oh,” and she then took a sip of wine. Finally, she turned toward me. “I loved Daniel. I guess I still cared about you and wanted to know if you were okay. If …”
The waiter magically appeared tableside and interrupted Joan’s thoughts. He said our food would arrive shortly and asked if we wanted another bottle of wine. I said, “Not yet,” but I wanted to shout, “Yes!”
“I actually called directory assistance twice and asked for your number,” she said. “Either it wasn’t listed or you weren’t in Louisville anymore. I … I knew you had your own life and I wasn’t a part of it, so I didn’t try to find you.”
I explained that I had an unlisted number. I’d had to deal enough with employees at the office and didn’t want to take my job home.
“Oh,” she said again. “Well, when the strange calls started coming and the scary men appeared around town, I thought about calling my friend Kevin but didn’t have anything to tell him—thought he’d think I was crazy.” She looked down at her barely touched salad and whispered, “Maybe I am.”
Our steaks arrived, and I didn’t have to respond—thank God.
We commented on how great the steaks looked, and I took the opportunity to order another bottle of Kendall Jackson.
“That’s when I googled you. I was surprised but not shocked to learn from a newspaper article how you had helped the police. You were always so analytical and logical. You never met a puzzle you didn’t like; I knew you could help. I wanted to tell you more when I called before Christmas, but I didn’t know what to say … I really didn’t.”
She had kept up a strong front all evening, but tears had begun to gather in the corners of her eyes. “And then … and then … he was gone.”
I didn’t know what I could do to help find the person she insisted had killed her husband. I had serious doubts that it was murder. Nothing she had said had led me to think anything was suspicious. When we were married, I had entertained thoughts that she may have been clinically depressed and paranoid. Had anything changed? And I had never met her husband. Her only friend that I’d met was Charlene.
I felt sorry for Joan. I knew she was hurting and was convinced Daniel’s death wasn’t an accident. I got all that, but how could I help? Wasn’t it police business? Even if I stayed longer, I didn’t see what I could do.
Like all good self-respecting cowards, I used an excuse to avoid an awkward situation. For me, it was the pending snowstorm. I told her we were leaving in the morning so we wouldn’t get stuck in the storm. I said that William needed to get to work. I didn’t mention that he didn’t have to be in class for another week. I didn’t want to leave her without hope, and I said that I would think about what she’d said and would talk to some police friends at home and get their take. I saw disappointment in her eyes and felt bad about deserting her. I tried to rationalize it by telling myself that she had deserted me.
After taking her home, I walked her to her front door and said that I’d call in a few days to talk about what I could do. She hugged me and then stepped toward the door. I started to turn, and she stepped back and hugged me again—this time so tightly my ribs hurt.
She finally let go and said that she would look forward to hearing from me. I figured I’d wait a week or so and then call to say that I couldn’t think of anything to do. I figured that would be the end of a very strange chapter in my adult life.
I figured wrong—way wrong.
CHAPTER 14
The heaviest snow was to blanket eastern Tennessee around noon, and I wanted to be over the mountains and on the down side of Asheville before the bad weather hit. Charles grumbled, and William showed dignified displeasure when I told them that we didn’t have time to stop at Pancake Pantry.
“Let’s see if I have this right,” said Charles as we pulled out of the hotel parking lot. “You had a delicious steak dinner with a beautiful lady at a nice restaurant overlooking a babbling brook after you dumped William and me at a hotel without a restaurant, and we had to trudge through snow and freezing cold to get a sub sandwich and a watered-down soft drink and then trudge back to the hotel and watch reruns of Cold Case.” He took a deep breath, his first since starting the monologue. “And,” he continued, “now you’re depriving us of a decent breakfast.” He turned to his trudging partner in the backseat. “Is that what he’s doing?”
William smiled and showed no evidence of contempt. “I could not have said it better. More succinctly … but not better,” he added.
I started to laugh but held it. After all, there was a kernel of truth in Charles’s rant. Rather than listen to him gripe each mile of the trip, I promised that I’d stop for breakfast once we got near Asheville.
“Second best is better than no best,” he said.
Whatever, I thought.
He wasn’t done. “Since we were shut out of the fun last night, it’s time you tell us what you learned. And why are we leaving? Shouldn’t we stay and help?”
William, who was born with a fraction of the nosy genes that Charles had inherited, leaned forward to hear my answer.
I shared as much as I could, considering that Joan and I had killed two bottles of Merlot. I told them that she undoubtedly believed that her husband was murdered—but when I pressed about why she was sure, she didn’t offer anything that sounded remotely plausible.
“Okay,” said Charles. “Even if she doesn’t know more than what she said, think about the wreck.” He pointed straight ahead at the interstate. “There was a long straight stretch before the curve. There were several warning signs. And didn’t she say that he’d driven the road a couple hundred times? Surely he saw the curve.”
I turned to Charles. “I don’t—”
“I think he was killed,” interrupted Charles. �
��You should have stayed.”
“And done what?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” conceded Charles.
William had been following the conversation, and he tapped Charles on the shoulder. “I have driven Folly Road several days a week for many years,” said a deep voice from the rear seat. “I know that road like, pardon the cliché, the back of my hand.”
“That’s my point,” interrupted Charles.
“Hmm,” said William. “My friend, that is not my point. May I finish?”
“Okay, okay,” said Charles.
“My point,” said William as he nodded toward Charles. “As a result of knowing the route so well, I occasionally catch myself daydreaming, thinking of what I need to do when I get to the classroom or what I need to purchase at the grocery store on the way home. I am not paying the appropriate amount of attention to driving and my environs. I dislike admitting it, but it seems appropriate. I have come perilously close to hitting another car or missing a turn. Not because I am not familiar with the roadway, but because I’m too familiar with it.”
“Good point—I guess,” said Charles. “But did either of you notice any effort he made to stop as he approached the curve? I didn’t see any skid marks, did you?”
We shook our heads.
“Then,” continued Charles, “that’s a good reason to think his car was sabotaged—or even that he committed suicide.”
“Did Joan happen to mention if Daniel had consumed alcoholic beverages before he left home?” asked William. “Or did he have health concerns? He could have had a heart attack and possibly been incapacitated or died prior to heading over the cliff. Was he depressed?”
“Yeah, Chris,” interrupted Charles. “He was several years older than your ex, and she’s your age, so he was an old geezer.”
I told them that she hadn’t mentioned either his drinking or health, physical or mental, but that I agreed. It could have been exactly what the police had concluded—an accident, a tragic accident. My thoughts were clouded by my history with Joan.
We were on the outskirts of Asheville when Charles suggested that we stop talking about the “murder” so the driver could concentrate on finding somewhere to stop.
Flurries had morphed to snow showers and then turned heavy by the time we hit the Asheville exits. I said that all we had time to do was grab a bag of doughnuts and some coffee at a convenience store. Charles grumbled but agreed that he didn’t want to be stuck with William and me in a dinky motel along the road. I let Charles run in the store and get whatever he wanted. That appeased him some, enough so he wouldn’t complain the entire way down I-26 toward Columbia, Charleston, and best of all, Folly Beach.
We talked and talked about Joan’s situation until there was nothing left to say. William frowned as he chewed and swallowed a bite of stale doughnut. “Exactly what does it require to become a private investigator?” he asked. “I would think that there are rules governing the profession.”
I was equally interested in his response since, to my knowledge, he had avoided my suggestions over the last six months that he check with the state about regulations. I waited for his answer.
Charles glared at me. “Did Chris tell you to ask that?”
“No,” said William. “It simply stimulated my interest.”
“Good question,” said Charles. He then put an entire minidoughnut in his mouth and chewed as if nothing had been said.
“Thank you,” said William. “Perhaps you have an equally good answer?”
I smiled inwardly and nodded toward Charles.
“There are laws,” responded Charles, “but they don’t apply to me.”
Charles had an inherent belief that most laws didn’t apply to him. I was curious as to why he felt he was outside the jurisdiction of the private investigator laws. “Why is that?”
He looked over at me and then turned back to William. “Gee,” he said, “you two never give up. To be a private investigator in South Carolina, one must accept employment for his or her services. If one does, he or she must have three years of experience working under a licensed investigator and apply to—get this—SLED. Isn’t that the dumbest name you’ve ever heard? I think it means South Carolina Law Enforcement Division. Dumb, dumb, and dumb.”
When I heard Charles use “his or her” and “he or she” in two consecutive sentences, I knew he was quoting something. If William had said it, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.
William tilted his head in Charles’s direction. “But isn’t Mr. Ballew paying you to find out who’s stealing from him?”
“Of course not,” said Charles. “He hired me to tend bar. If I happen to discover who is absconding with his stuff, it will be merely a coincidence.”
“More like a miracle,” I mumbled.
“What?” said Charles.
“Nothing,” I said.
Charles had deflected the questions about his private investigative efforts. William grinned throughout the discussion; Charles failed to see the humor. He did what I would have done—he changed the subject.
“Chris, what’s the latest on your love life?”
I enjoyed Charles’s explanations of why he wasn’t a detective more than his new line of questioning. William unwittingly jumped from my side to Charles’s when he asked, “Oh, is there something incongruous with your relationship with Amber? She’s a lovely young lady, and I thought you two were, as my students say, hooking up.”
“I believe a more accurate term would be unhooked,” said Charles.
I wouldn’t have put it quite so harsh, but the bottom line was that Charles was right.
“Sorry,” said William. “Consequently, are you presently dating anyone?”
“I’ve been out a few times with Chief Newman’s daughter, Karen—”
“Seven,” interrupted Charles. He held five fingers from his left hand and two from his right hand in the air. “Seven dates. They went to Charleston for supper three times; once to a brainless chick flick; she took him kayaking, if you can believe that; and twice I haven’t found out what they did. But don’t worry, Professor—I’m working on it.”
“Pray tell, we must be exact,” I said, shaking my head. I hadn’t been counting, so I didn’t know if he was accurate. “She and I’ve been friends for a few years but only started dating this summer.”
“I warned him,” said Charles. “Karen and her dad carry guns. Seems like nothing good could come from making either of them mad.”
“I’ve had limited contact with Karen,” said William. “But I have great admiration for her father; she seems nice as well.”
The chief and William had been acquaintances for years but became closer four years ago, when a friend of William’s was murdered. Struggling with the death, William had suffered a nervous breakdown that required hospitalization for several days. Both the chief and I had regularly checked on him.
We were a few miles from Columbia and out of the higher elevations. The snow had stopped. Temperatures were supposed to be in the sixties at home, and I would be glad to stick my coat in the closet—hopefully its final resting place.
I thought William’s comment about Karen and her father, Brian, was a good note on which to end the dating discussion. I asked William about his teaching schedule, if he looked forward to getting back into his garden in the spring, and if he had plans for New Year’s Eve. Charles couldn’t have cared less about those questions, and his chin came to rest on his chest. I had successfully bored him to sleep.
CHAPTER 15
“Gatlinburg got its foot of snow,” said Charles as he entered the gallery, where I had been peacefully drinking a cup of coffee. He wore a College of Charleston long-sleeved sweatshirt and his Tilley. He tapped his cane three times on the well-worn wooden floor to officially announce his arrival. He was too cheery for my mood after the last few days.
He pulled a chair from the table in the back room and sat. “What’s your problem?” he asked. “You know, ‘Things are more like they are now than they have ever been.’”
“So what?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “President Gerald Ford said it, and it seemed appropriate. You’d be in a better mood if you had breakfast yesterday at the Pancake Pantry.”
That brought a smile to my face, albeit a faint one.
“Last night Heather and I were ciphering about your ex,” he said.
Oh, great, I thought, a sucky-singing scatterbrained psychic and the world’s newest, and probably least qualified, private detective bartender ciphering, whatever that means.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
Charles watched the door to make sure no customers were arriving. “We pondered the death of Joan’s non-Chris husband for an hour, and then we … Never mind. I’m not a math whiz like your ex, and neither is Heather, but according to our calculations, one of four things happened. Number one—and the leading candidate according to the police—an accident, a terrible accident. Number two, he was offed by someone. Three, suicide.” He stopped and took a drink of coffee before looking my way again.
“Four?” I reminded him, holding up four fingers—after all, he’d said he wasn’t a math whiz.
“That was a dramatic pause,” he said. “I’m waiting for your full attention. It deserves a drumroll, but I can’t have everything.”
“Four?” I repeated before he called for a drum and bugle corps.
“Four was Heather’s idea. I’m amazed that we didn’t think of it.” He pointed at me and at his face. “Suppose it needed a fresh pair of adorable eyes to see what was staring at our faces.”