by Bill Noel
The heater roared full tilt, and we both rubbed our hands together to get circulation back. My shoulder ached, and my knee had a sharp pain in it. Karen’s eyes were closed, and she rubbed her leg. Neither of us spoke. I knew that she was just as happy as I was to be safe in the car, not to mention walking.
It was at least ten minutes before she said, “Are you okay? Need to go to the hospital?”
“I don’t think anything’s broken,” I said. “I’m okay for now. How about you?”
She smiled. “Just fine … just fine.”
We sat for another few minutes. She finally said, “That’s where the gas line went in.” She gestured to the right side of the house.
I admired her focus. “From the damage, I’d say it was near the site of the explosion.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Look how the metal roof has melted and twisted.” She again pointed to the rear corner. “The other side of the house looks pretty good. Water and smoke ruined it.”
She unzipped her jacket and continued to stare at the ruins. “From where the power entered the house, the electric panel was probably near there too,” she said, casually rubbing her left leg. She grimaced, but she didn’t complain. I wanted to comfort her but resisted. I told her about the lights flickering when we visited, and how Joan had said that she was going to call an electrician. Wouldn’t the detonator be a logical explanation for the spark?
“It could still have been set,” I said.
“If it was, there’s a chance that the techs from Knoxville, I assume, could determine what set it off.”
“I wonder if the police will even check,” I said.
“Let’s ask Joan if she told the firefighters or the police about her suspicions. If she did, most likely they’ll investigate.”
She cringed again as she touched her leg. She still didn’t mention the injury.
“How would you proceed if you were investigating this?” I asked.
She took another glance at the house and turned in the seat to face me. “I’d consider four scenarios. First, that it was an accident—a malfunctioning gas furnace, a short in the electric system setting it off, or some other igniter. Second, Joan was the target of both the auto crash and the explosion.” She hesitated as if she had thought of something else, and then she continued. “Third, her husband was the original target, and the killer is trying to eliminate Joan because he thinks she knows something. Fourth, her husband faked his death and set the explosion. And fifth,” she paused again. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Joan killed her husband and set the explosion to throw the cops off.”
She was right. I didn’t like it.
CHAPTER 24
We met Joan at Calhoun’s, a restaurant across from the entrance to the aerial tram to Ober Gatlinburg and a block from the hotel. The restaurant was nearly empty when we arrived about fifteen minutes early. Karen had offered to stay in the room, but I asked her to come. I wanted her to get a better feel of Joan’s mental state and information she might have about the explosion or Daniel’s death.
Joan walked in at noon, spotting us near the front window. She stood erect, held her head back—she was in much better shape than she had been in last night. My ex smiled and walked to our booth. She gave me a tentative hug and nodded to Karen, who had remained seated.
Joan ordered a light lager beer; Karen and I ordered Merlot. Joan asked how our evening had been. I simply said we slept well. Neither of us mentioned the ill-fated visit to her house that morning. Joan told us that Calhoun’s had some of the best burgers on the strip. That was good enough for me. I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was queasy, and my body was beginning to ache all over. And my gut told me that there were too many coincidences. Joan was right about the events not being accidents. But that didn’t explain if she was in danger or the cause of the danger.
Joan looked around, and I assumed it was to see if anyone was close enough to hear. No one was. “Chris,” she said, “I don’t know what to do. My house is gone, and someone here is after me.”
“Have you thought about going back to California?” I asked. “Don’t you have friends there you could stay with?”
“Not really,” she said.
“You could stay with Charlene, couldn’t you?”
Her eyes again darted nervously around the room. “She offered, but I wouldn’t be comfortable staying here.” She paused and then said, “I’m moving to Folly.”
Now my stomach had reason to gyrate. “W-why?” I stammered. “When?”
She put her hands on her cheeks, lowered her head, and glanced at me with uplifted eyes. “They killed Daniel … they tried to kill me,” she said. I leaned close to hear her soft voice. “They’re here.” She looked left and then right, as if they were standing in Calhoun’s. “I have to get away—go where they won’t find me.” She hesitated, but neither Karen nor I spoke. “I thought about Folly before you got here. After I heard you talking about it last night, I knew that’s where I could go and … hide.” She gave a weak smile. “I don’t know how long I’ll be there, but I don’t have a house, and most of my stuff’s gone.”
“When?” I asked—again.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
The burgers may have been great, but after Joan’s announcement, mine tasted like catsup-covered sawdust. Joan told us that she had started packing what little was left of her belongings. One of Charlene’s husband’s clients owned a construction company and had agreed to start repairing her house even if they had to completely demolish it first. Charlene’s husband was also handling Daniel’s estate. She didn’t have to be in Gatlinburg for that.
She’s been planning this since the house exploded, I realized.
Karen asked if Joan had learned anything more about the explosion, but Joan waved her off with a slight flick of the wrist. “No.” I was no detective, but it was obvious that there was no warmth flowing in Karen’s direction.
The rest of lunch was a blur. In addition to my queasy stomach, my head throbbed. Joan asked where she could stay on Folly Beach. I told her about the Tides, the oceanfront hotel that had been completely renovated in the last few years. She said that a hotel wouldn’t meet her needs. I didn’t ask why. I then suggested that she rent a house. She said that she might, but not now. I thought about offering to let her stay with me, but fortunately I realized how terrible an idea it was before I opened my mouth.
“What about Water’s Edge Inn?” offered Karen, the first thing she had said since Joan dismissed her question about the explosion.
The Water’s Edge Inn was a relatively new upscale bed-and-breakfast on the marsh side of Folly Beach, within easy walking distance to all the retail the island had to offer.
“Not a bad idea,” I said. “It’s a bed-and-breakfast, and they also have a couple of larger villas.”
Joan nodded in my direction and then toward Karen. “That might work,” she said.
I knew the owner and said I’d call to see if anything was available. She would think about it and let me know if she wanted me to call.
Pauses grew longer among the three of us. We had run out of conversation before thinking about ordering dessert. Joan had errands to run and said that she would like to follow us to Folly in the morning. We agreed on a time, and she gave me an extended hug and a cool nod to Karen. She left Calhoun’s ahead of us.
The temperature felt twenty degrees colder on the walk back to the hotel. It also could have been Joan’s announcement that made me shiver.
“Do you know where the police department is?” asked Karen as we approached the parking lot.
“No,” I said. “Why?”
“I’d like to stop by and see what, if anything, they can tell me about the explosion—maybe meet her friend Officer Norton.”
We got directions from the office
, and she asked to borrow the car. She said it would be better if she went alone. She changed into the most detective-like attire she had with her.
I was stranded in the room with warm, pleasant thoughts about my time there with Karen, thoughts that competed with total confusion about Joan and her announcement that she was moving to Folly Beach—for a week, a month, forever. Who knew how long?
* * *
“The sergeant I talked to didn’t know much about the explosion,” said Karen. She had returned from her fact-finding visit to the Gatlinburg Police Department. “Officer Norton was most familiar with the situation, but yesterday he and his family headed to Florida on vacation. He won’t be back for a week.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“They didn’t think it was suspicious. Said it looked like there was a gas leak and it built up in the lower level. A spark from something set off the explosion.” She shook her head. “He said it wasn’t common but does happen occasionally this time of year.”
“Were they investigating?”
“Some, but it would be hard to tell if it was deliberate.”
She started to change to her more comfortable jeans and sweatshirt. She wasn’t shy about changing in front of me. I didn’t complain. A large bruise on her left calf was all the apparent damage from the near-disastrous fall. She was fortunate.
She opened the door to the small balcony and stuck her head out. The low roar of the creek provided a soothing ambiance to the room. She shut the door and said, “So, what are you going to do with your ex-wife?”
Perhaps my imagination was working overtime, but I thought she placed an emphasis on ex. Could there be a tinge of jealousy?
“Let’s discuss it tomorrow,” I said with a smile.
CHAPTER 25
Joan was maneuvering an oversized Bankers Box into the rear seat of her Jaguar as Karen and I pulled into Charlene’s drive. Her small backseat was stuffed, and Joan had to turn the box on end before it would fit through the door. She wore a fur-lined dark gray dress coat that would have looked more appropriate at the entrance to the ballet rather than loading boxes. Considering what was left of her house, she was lucky to have saved a winter coat.
She waved and said she was almost ready. I asked if I could help, and she said that there was only one more thing to load and then she’d be finished. Charlene stood in the doorway and gave Joan a hug before handing her a brown leather carry-on suitcase. Joan rolled the suitcase to the car and lifted it onto the front passenger seat. We agreed to stay in contact during the trip. She programmed Folly Beach into her navigation system and promised to call if she got lost.
I followed her out of town, and she waved for me to take the lead when we got on the interstate. The fifty-plus miles of interstate to Asheville were exceptionally curvy. Snow-covered remnants of the recent rockslides that had closed the road for weeks were visible along the way.
I was comfortable driving five miles per hour over the posted limits, but for most of the drive to Asheville, I was distracted by Joan’s Jaguar tailgating me. Clearly, her comfort level was significantly different. We stopped for lunch at the Biltmore Estate exit on the other side of Asheville. Joan hinted that since her car had a navigation system, she would be okay if I let her take the lead. I thought that was a great idea since I had no interest in participating in an interstate accident where a new Jaguar convertible rear-ended a new Infiniti SUV. I told her that the easiest spot to meet on Folly would be in the parking lot of the Tides. I said that she couldn’t miss it, that she’d understand that when she got there.
Letting Joan lead was one of the smartest decisions of the trip—in hindsight, possibly the only smart decision.
Five hours later, Karen and I pulled into the parking lot of the nine-story hotel, the tallest structure on the island. Joan’s car was parked in the unloading area under the entry canopy as if she owned the hotel. Karen and I went inside, where we were greeted by name and with a beaming smile by Jay, one of the hotel’s bellhops, who multitasked as concierge, greeter, security officer, and all-around good guy. I asked if he knew where the Jaguar’s driver was, and he nodded toward the bar.
Joan was the only person at the bar. The fur-lined coat was draped over the back of her chair, and a glass of an amber-colored liquid was in front of her.
“It’s about time,” she said as we approached.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“About an hour.” Her speech was slightly slurred. An hour would have been about three drinks in consumption time. I was never a math whiz, but if she had actually had been there that long, she must have been driving a fraction under the speed of sound.
“I think I’d like to see that breakfast and bread … I mean bed … place you talked about,” she slurred.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me see if there’s a vacancy.” I nodded to Karen and then to the empty seat on the other side of Joan.
Karen gave me a dirty look but offered to wait with Joan until I got back.
I smiled. “Thanks.”
She frowned and said feebly, “You’re welcome.”
I went to the lobby and called Paul, the owner of Water’s Edge Inn. He answered on the second ring and said both villas were rented but one would be available tomorrow. He said he would be glad to show it to my friend. I didn’t think friend quite described my relationship with Joan, but I let it go.
Jay pulled me aside on my way back to the bar. “That’s your friend’s fourth drink,” he said, gesturing toward the bar. “It’s none of my business, but I thought you should know. She doesn’t need to be behind the wheel of that Jag.” He looked toward the entry.
There was that word friend again. I thanked him, and he said there were plenty of rooms in the hotel if she needed one. I thanked him again.
I returned to the bar to Karen rolling her eyes at me and Joan with a crooked grin affixed on her face. A fresh drink was in front of her. I told them about the vacancy tomorrow at Water’s Edge and suggested that Joan get a room in the hotel for the night.
Joan glanced up from staring at her glass. “If they get me, please have me cream … cremated … and sprinkle my ashes with Daniel’s.” Her head nodded back down toward the bar. “Please.”
“Come on, Joan,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She shook her head and opened her mouth again. My phone rang before she could manage a response.
“You’re back,” said Charles. “Brought that chick detective back with you. Did y’all get hitched in one of those wedding chapels in Gatlinburg? Did Elvis sing at the wedding?”
I waited for him to take his first breath and said, “Who told you we were here?” I ignored the questions.
“Heather was walking home from work and saw your car. She rushed home and called me.” He hesitated. “Dang shame I have to hear from someone else when my best friend gets home. Why didn’t you call?”
I huffed for his benefit. “We just pulled in—I had to meet someone at the hotel.” I then grinned, knowing that would not only rankle him but lead to a herd of questions from my uber-nosy friend.
“I’m late for work—got to keep Cal’s afloat, you know. Come in later and tell me all about your wedding, and I’ll tell you about the thief striking again.”
“Didn’t the doctor tell you not to work for a couple of weeks?” I asked.
“Yeah. So?”
I sighed. “Never mind.” I then hung up—a fairly common practice for Charles, but usually he hung up on me. It felt good being on the other side of the dead line.
CHAPTER 26
Charles was behind the bar in animated conversation with Nick when I walked in. I couldn’t tell what they were debating, but Charles’s arms were flailing wildly, and he was having a difficult time balancing his crutches under his armpits. He finally put his hands on the
crutches and pushed away from the bar, coming over to greet me. It was nine o’clock, and Cal’s was one table shy of packed. The long, dark winter nights brought out more and more locals—boredom was a team sport in January.
A small table was available near the dance floor, so I headed there, Charles following. On the way, I heard someone at the next table complaining about how cold it was. I couldn’t help but smile. Folly was a balmy forty-five degrees compared to the frigid, frozen, and snow-covered place I had left this morning.
“That dumb-as-a-rotten-pear Nick’s driving me crazy,” said Charles as he arrived at the table.
I was impressed how well he had skirted around the tables on his crutches and told him so. I didn’t want to know why Nick was so dumb. Of course, what I wanted meant little to my friend.
“Yeah, yeah—practice,” he said. “Why in Pluto’s name would Nick think I could learn how to fix all those strange drinks people want? I think they make some of them up.”
“Could be because you’re a bartender,” I said.
“Hmm,” he replied, as if he hadn’t thought of that. “So far I’m about as good a bartender as I am a detective.” He shook his head. “Another case of whiskey and the night’s moola were stolen while you were gallivanting all over creation with your new squeeze toy.”
I slapped my forehead with my right hand. “Charles!”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Your friend Karen. How’s that?”
“Better,” I said. “What happened?”
“I came in yesterday morning. Cal had asked me to check the place out. He was exhausted from the holidays. He’s not used to actually working for a living, you know.” He looked back toward the bar. “Anyway, I didn’t notice the case missing at first, but I sure knew the shoebox was empty—thirteen hundred bucks gone,” said Charles. “At least I got Cal counting it at night now.”
“Doors locked?” I asked.
