Ghosts

by Bill Noel

  Considering the cast of characters who had already arrived, I suspected that the night could get interesting.

  CHAPTER 18

  Cal’s first New Year’s Eve party was in full swing. The tables were full, nine patrons crowded around the bar, and three couples waited at the door in hopes that someone would leave. I recognized most everyone. It was low season, and locals took pride in complaining about vacationers and bragging about “retaking Folly” over the winter. Of course, many of the same locals depended on those same evil interlopers for their livelihood.

  Cal had completed his first set and was behind the bar playing owner instead of his guitar. I was used to seeing the lanky, stooped, aging singer onstage in his yellowing white rhinestone-studded coat and sweat-stained Stetson, so watching him in his stage garb fiddling with the lid on the beer cooler brought a grin to my face. Charles closely watched whatever Cal did. The blind leading the blind.

  “Where’s my Chucky?”

  I recognized the voice without turning toward the door. Heather had strolled in as if she owned Cal’s. She was dressed in a bright yellow sequined blouse, a floor-length Kelly green skirt, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She wore this outfit when she was allowed to perform two songs every Tuesday during open mike night. Oh no, I thought. Please, someone, tell me that she isn’t going to screech out the old year. The only good thing the previous owner had done was limit Heather to one song per week; of course, to the discerning taste of most patrons, that was one ditty too many.

  I glanced at the bar, where Charles had been seconds earlier. He wasn’t there. Heather looked around. Having failed to see you-know-who, she spotted me and headed my way. My worst fears were realized when I saw her swinging a guitar case in her left hand.

  She gave me her best aw-shucks smile and a peck on my left cheek. “Hear you had fun in Gatlinburg,” she said, her eyes searching the room. “Enough about that. Where’s Chucky?”

  I pointed to the bar and said that’s where he had been earlier. She carefully placed her guitar case on one of the two vacant chairs and skipped toward the bar. Yes, she skipped.

  Cindy looked at the case. “Want me to steal it?” she said. Cindy knew Heather’s vocal abilities.

  “No,” I said. “She’d call the cops, and then you’d have to work.”

  “Good point.” Cindy continued to stare at the case as if it held a nuclear warhead. “Want me to stomp on it?”

  Heather returned before we could decide how to eliminate the threat. “Chucky said he’ll be taking a break soon.” She nodded at the empty chair. “I’ll save it for him.”

  Dustin, the only waiter at Cal’s, leaned over Heather and asked what she wanted to drink. He explained that Tara was slammed and had asked him to check on us—Tara told him that we were the VIP group. Dustin was in his early twenties and handsome in a cute sort of way. He had told me on an earlier visit that his goal was to become an airline steward. He said that waiting tables would be good training for serving two hundred people flying six miles above the earth in an aluminum tube. He seemed like a nice guy but was rumored to have a drinking problem. Besides, to the guys at the table, he wasn’t as attractive as Tara.

  The New Year’s Eve party officially began when two middle-aged men on the other side of the room pushed their chairs back and began shoving each other. The shorter of the two overcelebrating gentlemen yelled something about a friend of the other guy stealing his bicycle. I had trouble understanding because his words began slurring and rapidly deteriorating from there.

  Cindy started to stand, her cop instincts kicking in, but Larry reached out and lovingly took her arm. “It’s New Year’s Eve,” he said. “Chill.”

  Before she could argue, Cal had moved his tall frame between the warring celebrants. He wrapped his long arm around the neck of the loudmouth and said something to the other man. Cal had spent more of his life singing for drunken audiences in smoky country music bars than fifty other entertainers combined. I had confidence that he could diffuse the situation.

  He didn’t disappoint. The two potential troublemakers shook hands, and Cal waved for Tara to come to the table and take a free drink order. New Year’s Eve!

  Charles arrived as the minor ruckus subsided. The bartending detective wore a fire engine–red long-sleeved T-shirt with MAY YOUR TROUBLES LAST AS LONG AS YOUR NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS—JOEY ADAMS spread across three lines on the front. He dropped his rear into the empty chair so hard that I was afraid the seat would collapse.

  I closed my eyes and waited for someone to ask. They weren’t closed for more than a blink.

  “Cute shirt, Chucky,” said Heather. “Who’s Joey Adams?”

  “Probably the nickname of one of the presidents named Adams,” said Larry.

  “No clue,” said Charles. He looked back to the bar. “This bartending stuff is almost like work.”

  Charles lowered his head and swiveled it left and right. He motioned for me to come closer and then nodded in the direction of Larry and Cindy. “You tell them why I’m really here?” he asked.

  “Didn’t think you wanted anyone to know,” I said.

  “Larry’s part of my detective team. He’s one of us,” said Charles.

  One of us! I shrugged.

  Charles then motioned for his team member, Larry, and Larry’s new spouse to lean closer. Heather wasn’t asked, but she joined the rest of us in a variation of a team huddle, and Charles outlined why he “was really here.”

  Larry started to laugh, but Cindy elbowed him. She then rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything. Charles finished his CliffsNotes version of his mission and slowly and solemnly sat back in the chair. Heather broke the awkward silence. “Ain’t that something?” she said. “My Chucky’s going to break this crime wave wide-open.”

  Cindy got a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Sounds more like a crime ripple,” she said. “Charles, I’m a cop, so I’d be interested in what detecting techniques you’re using to break this case open.”

  Charles looked around again, ostensibly to see if anyone was listening. “The Race Is On” blared over the sound system, a handful of couples danced a South Carolina version of the Texas two-step on the laminate dance floor, and a few customers yawned, but most seemed to be getting excited about the arrival of the New Year. Only an hour to go. No one, except those of us at the VIP table, cared one iota about what Charles was saying. Technically, that was wrong, as the thief would have cared, but I knew that he or she wasn’t at our tables, and those seated nearby weren’t likely suspects.

  “I’m glad you asked,” said Charles. “I knew you and Larry would want to help. Thanks for offering.”

  I must have dozed during the offer.

  Charles moved his head to within six inches of Larry’s face, “Could you use your expertise as a hardware store owner to examine the locks? Give me your professional opinion on how easy it would be for someone to break in?” He winked at Larry. “I think the booze was stolen overnight; Cal’s almost sure it was here last night when he locked up.”

  Charles’s emphasis on Larry’s expertise and professional opinion wouldn’t have fooled the dimmest of lightbulbs. The wink would have tipped that group off. He sought Larry’s talents as a reformed cat burglar, not as a hardware store maven.

  “I’ll look,” said Larry.

  “What else are you doing?” said Cindy, who wouldn’t let Charles off the hook.

  “Well,” he said, “I started by throwing off the employees.” He paused again and glanced toward the bar. “Only Cal knows my mission, you know. Before we opened tonight, all the ’spects—that’s what I’m calling the other employees; they’re all suspects—were shooting the bull, jabbering on about how they spent Christmas, guessing about tonight’s tips, talking about how they were going to get drunk once they got out of this stinky dive—”

  I interrupted before Charles shared more u
seless information about the “’spects.” “Throwing them off how?”

  He frowned in my direction but answered. “I innocently said, loud enough for them to hear, ‘Hey, what happened to those two cases of Woodford Reserve that were here last night?’ I wanted to see who acted guilty.”

  “Isn’t that brilliant?” said Heather.

  Brilliant must have a different meaning to a psychic, I thought.

  Larry ignored Heather and said, “Did anyone jump up and holler, ‘You caught me; I stole them’?”

  “Not yet,” said Charles. “Dawn had a puzzled look on her face; Nick looked at Kenneth; Kenneth picked up a bar towel and twisted it.” He paused. “Oh yeah, Tara looked toward the storage room, and Kristin said, ‘What cases?’ I couldn’t see what Dustin and Beatrice did.”

  From the jukebox, Eddie Arnold pleaded for the world to go away.

  “Brilliant,” repeated Heather.

  “Who are those people?” asked Larry.

  A legitimate question, I thought, since Larry wasn’t a Cal’s regular.

  “Tara and Dustin have been waiting on you,” said Charles. “The other ’spects are the employees working tonight, except Cal and me. We’re not ’spects—yet.”

  “What did you learn from your team meeting?” I asked, partially in jest, partially in the unlikely event that he actually did learn something helpful.

  A loud noise that sounded like a tiger with a hairball came from the men’s restroom. We all turned in time to see one of the lovable—most of the time—town drunks stumble out of the room, bend over, and deposit a puddle of pureed fries, foam, and about a gallon of beer on the floor. Cindy’s loud “Yuck!” spoke for all of us at the table. Dustin had already grabbed a handful of bar towels and the mop from the back room and headed toward the mess.

  Charles turned back toward the rest of us as if nothing unusual had happened. “I learned that asking about the missing hooch was a stupid question. I need to reevaluate my strategy.”

  “Charles,” said Cindy, “are you sure none of the employees—excuse me, ’spects—know what you’re up to?”

  “Why?” asked Charles.

  “It seems Cal has plenty of bartenders,” said Cindy. She looked toward the bar, where there were already three mixologists buzzing around, nearly stumbling over each other. “Using my highly trained professional power of observation as a law enforcement officer, it appears that you know as much about bartending as I do about being ambassador to Sri Lanka.”

  “I don’t think any of them know,” said Charles.

  The waiter reappeared at the table. “Charles, Cal said to tell you that your extended break is over, two of our employees are on urp duty, and that the bar is calling your name.”

  “Hah,” said Charles as he turned to Cindy. “See, my talents are needed.” He stood and took one step toward the bar, and then turned back to Cindy. “How’s your Sinhala?”

  She said, “Huh?” I was sure the rest of us were thinking it.

  Charles tapped his cane on the floor and then half turned to the bar, and then he turned his head back toward Cindy and said, “Official language of Sri Lanka, the world’s largest producer of cinnamon.” He finally retreated.

  I noticed that Cindy wasn’t taking notes about Sri Lanka, so I asked, “Why did you ask if anyone knew?”

  She watched Charles take his place behind the bar. “People tend to underestimate bartenders and the waitstaff. They think that because they have fairly mundane jobs, they’re not bright. It’s usually the opposite. They are untrained but astute observers of human nature. They’re not easily fooled.”

  Knowing what I did about Amber and the other servers at the Dog, I knew Cindy was right. “True,” I said.

  “A couple of other things,” said Cindy. “Charles couldn’t mix water and more water, much less some of the exotic drinks some of these folks want—and he’s the bartender.” She paused and looked back at Charles. “Finally, he’s a great person and would do anything for anyone. He’s funny and liked by most people who know him—”

  “But,” I interrupted.

  “But he knows slightly less than nothing about being a private detective.” She shook her head. “He may be after a bourbon and bar cash thief, but to the thief, freedom is a pretty big thing. Charles is a threat.”

  Charles should have been here instead of behind the bar to hear Cindy’s next words—her prophetic words.

  “He needs to be careful.”

  * * *

  Other than being sleepy, the first few minutes of the New Year didn’t feel different from the minutes that had just entered the history books. Cal had begun his final set of country classics at eleven-thirty and started a countdown thirty seconds before the magical hour. He had used his 1960s’ Timex watch for the count, so we may have missed the exact stroke of midnight by a few minutes.

  The final verse of “Auld Lang Syne” wound down, as did the energy level of everyone at our table—everyone except Heather. We spread hugs around and headed home. Heather said she had cheer to burn and remained seated. “Besides,” she said, “Cal may let me sing a song or two later.”

  I wouldn’t put money on it, but I wished her well. I said good-bye to Charles, who was doing on-the-job-training as a bartender. He asked if I could come in later in the morning and help him straighten up. He said that Cal trusted him, and only him, to do the chores. My thought was that Cal didn’t want to pay his other help—the ’spects—their higher wages to be there.

  CHAPTER 19

  I couldn’t get “Auld Lang Syne” out of my mind. I started humming it in the shower even though my head hurt from staying out too late last night and—okay, I’ll admit it—too much wine. The song also brought back memories of my life with Joan—memories of how I’d put work above our relationship, how I’d not let her know about my fears, aspirations, and conflicts. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop being who I was. Maybe I could make up for some of that now, maybe. And then I remembered that I’d agreed to help Charles this morning.

  I walked through Cal’s side door at ten o’clock.

  “About time you got here,” said Charles. He said he had been on the job for an hour. From the mess I saw, I couldn’t imagine what it had looked like earlier. Crepe-paper streamers were everywhere; empty beer bottles were on the tables, and several were on the floor near the bandstand; bar napkins dotted most other surfaces. The strong smell of beer hung in the air, as did the faint smell of the traditional New Year’s Eve regurgitation.

  He thanked me for coming and said that Cal was coming in around three. He said that the night had gone smoothly after the VIP table was vacated. He laughed and said that none of the other employees were sad that Cal hadn’t asked them to work this morning.

  “Grab a broom and start there,” said Charles. He waved his arm in the direction of the front door. “I’ll start in back.” He headed off toward the small storage room.

  Seconds later, there was a crash. “Shit!” screamed Charles. Then silence.

  I dropped the broom, rushed behind the bar, and hurried into the storeroom. Charles was sprawled out on the floor. He was on his left side. His head rested against the wooden storage shelves just inside the door. His left foot was twisted at an unnatural angle. A Jekel Vineyards wine box leaned on his leg. Red wine poured out of the box and onto the cuff of his frayed jeans.

  He gritted his teeth and murmured, “Shit … shit …it hurts. Oh, shit.”

  I carefully lifted the case and checked his foot. I was afraid to move him. I said to hang on; I was going to call for help. He moaned and didn’t try to stop me, so I knew it was serious.

  I grabbed the phone behind the bar and punched 911. I told the dispatcher the address and explained what had happened. The calm, professional dispatcher said help was on the way.

  I knelt by my friend’s head. The room was small, an
d I was half in and half out the door to the back bar. “What happened?” I asked.

  He pounded the floor with his right fist but held the rest of his body motionless. “Don’t know,” he said. “I opened the door and caught a glimpse of that damned box falling from the top shelf.”

  Looking up, I couldn’t see how the large crate could have simply fallen. The shelves were deep enough to hold the box comfortably, and the other shelves were neatly arranged with nothing sticking out beyond the front lip. Strange.

  I wiggled my legs to keep from cramping. I was careful not to jar Charles. He was in enough pain without my adding more. From the angle of his foot, I had no doubt the ankle was broken. It was swollen above the top of his tennis shoe. He was in pain but thought to ask me to call Cal and tell him what had happened. He said the number was near the phone.

  Cal answered with a groggy, “Huh?”

  I told him who I was and explained what had happened.

  Cal slowly regained consciousness, followed by alertness, followed by, “Shee … I’m on my way.”

  Cal lived in a dilapidated boardinghouse six blocks away. I told him that if he didn’t get here before we were gone, to mop the wine off the floor but to try not to disturb anything else. I wanted to have a closer look at the shelf. How could a thirty-five-pound box have fallen? It didn’t compute.

  I heard a siren and told Charles not to move while I opened the front door for the EMTs. Charles gave a half grin, half grimace and said he wasn’t going anywhere.

  An orange-and-white Charleston County Emergency Medical Services ambulance was in front of Cal’s by the time I figured out how to unlock the door. Two EMTs were out and walking toward me as I gave them a twenty-second summary of the situation. I pointed toward the storeroom, and they hurried to Charles. They couldn’t both fit in the room, so the middle-aged female knelt beside Charles’s ankle and carefully moved the leg slightly to get a better look. She asked her younger partner to get the stretcher. He slipped past me on his way out. I knew Charles was trying to appear calm and act as if nothing unusual had happened. He wasn’t successful. He moaned, and I was afraid that if he clamped his jaws tighter he would need a trip to the dentist after leaving the hospital. The EMT kept repeating in a soothing voice that everything would be okay and that they would have him at the hospital soon.