Ghosts

by Bill Noel

  Joan called at least twice a day. Friday she had called to ask questions that anyone at the Water’s Edge could have answered—where she could get her hair cut, where the post office was, where she could get a good manicure. By the second and third call that day, she talked about how much she missed Daniel and her home. It wasn’t long before she was sobbing. There were long pauses when all I heard was sniffling. She was in pain, but I was clueless about what to do. the last two times she called, she hadn’t finished a thought before hanging up. Should I have gone to check on her? Should I have called back? I did neither and then spent the next hour feeling guilty.

  I decided to check on her Saturday morning. The sun hadn’t begun its slow warm-up, so I drove. During the short drive, I wondered if I should disturb her. Her car was gone, so my indecision went for naught. I returned to the gallery, and as I was pouring water in the Mr. Coffee, the phone rang.

  “Did you just call?” said Joan. She sounded jumpy.

  “No, why?” I said.

  “They’re trying to find me,” she whispered.

  “Who?” I asked.

  I heard sounds in the background; I could barely hear her. “The ones who killed Daniel. The ones who destroyed my house.”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “The grocery store—Piggly Wiggly. I’m scared.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Take a deep breath and walk to the office. It’s at the front of the store. Stand where a lot of people can see you. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I made the short trip off-island to the Pig in less than five minutes. Joan was out the door before I put the SUV in park. She was dressed more like she was going on a job interview than doing early morning shopping at a beach grocery store. She looked around the parking lot and back at the store while tightly squeezing her phone. She ran to the passenger door.

  “Let’s go somewhere … anywhere,” she said. “I’ll get my car later.”

  I hadn’t had breakfast, but I knew if I asked if she was hungry, she would say no, so I headed to a spot where I was comfortable, the Lost Dog Café. Weekends were busy at the Dog, and today was no exception. We were given the last booth, and Amber was at the table before Joan removed her coat. This was only the second time that I was aware of that she had been in the Dog, and the first time that Amber had been working. I introduced the women but left out a few minor details, like my life with Joan and my history with Amber. I figured Joan wouldn’t have known about Amber; but I would bet my left lung that Amber had already heard about Joan.

  Amber smirked when I said that Joan was someone I had known years ago. “From Louisville,” said Amber. “From high school, from college, from—”

  “Coffee, two,” I interrupted. I knew where Amber was going and didn’t think Joan, in her current state, was ready to hear about her entire background with me from a server she had just met.

  Amber knew that I knew she knew. “Sure,” she said, heading behind the counter.

  Joan’s hands were shaking, and she craned her neck to see the front door.

  “You’re okay here,” I said. “What happened?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and the low background noise from several conversations provided a calming ambiance—at least to me. “I was in the store, and the phone rang. I always look to see who’s calling before I answer. It said UNKNOWN. No one said anything. Then it went dead.”

  “Okay, and then what? Did you see them?”

  “Well, no,” she said. “I figured that it was a wrong number or that you had called from another phone, so I went about my business.” She looked back toward the door again. “Then … then it rang again … Unknown … I’m scared, Chris.” She reached across the table, clasped my hand, and squeezed. “I’m so scared.”

  Had I missed something? She had received two hang-ups. There were no threats, no words spoken. She gripped my hand as if it were going to escape. “What makes you think it was someone trying to find you? How would just calling let someone know where you were?”

  Her eyes narrowed; her grip tightened. “Because I know it’s them. They killed Daniel. They … they blew up my house to kill me, and now they’re trying to get me. It was them.”

  I saw Amber heading to the table with two mugs of coffee. She appeared to notice the tension on Joan’s brow and see how tightly she gripped my hand. Amber paused and then turned to another table.

  I was torn. I wanted to joke about wrong numbers, but I could tell that whether Joan was wrong or not, she was terrified. How could I comfort her? Were her fears real? I couldn’t say that everything would be okay. I thought it would, but …

  I stroked the top of her hand and said, “Do you remember anything else about the calls? Something scared you; help me understand.” I hesitated as I almost said there was nothing terrifying about two hang-ups.

  “There wasn’t anything.” She was nearly shouting. “I told you, Chris—there wasn’t anything.” She jerked her head around. “Where’s that waitress?” She yanked her hand away from mine. “Why is she so slow?”

  Amber had kept a respectful distance from the table, but she’d watched for a sign to return. I nodded, and she headed back.

  Joan murmured, “About time.”

  Amber gave her customer-service smile and asked what Joan would like. Joan responded, “Bacon and eggs. Don’t care how you fix them.” She then waved her away.

  I ordered oatmeal and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  Joan’s emotions swung from fear to anger in a nanosecond. Neither was attractive.

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you find so great about this damned island,” she said. She sipped her coffee. “Shopping sucks … Many of the houses—if you can call them that—are dilapidated, with weeds, grasses, and mangy-looking trees growing everywhere … Service is pitiful … Oh, never mind.” She stared down at the table and shook her head. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

  I reached for her hand, and she didn’t pull back. I squeezed gently. “Let me tell you a couple of things about Folly,” I said. “I’ve met more fantastic people here in the last five years than I knew in my first fifty-seven. Most of them would do anything for me. Also, you haven’t been here long enough to know this, but it’s the most unpretentious place I’ve ever visited. And—”

  “Okay, okay,” she interrupted. “I’m tired … and scared.” She wiped away a tear and tried to smile. “You’ve always had good judgment; truth be known, I should have paid more attention to you, but … anyway. If it’s good enough for you, I’ll give it a chance.” Her smile turned into a laugh. “Besides, I invited myself here. I’d better not make everyone mad.” She nodded toward Amber. “What’s her name again?”

  Amber returned with our food, and Joan apologized for being rude and asked how long Amber had worked here and if she had any family.

  Amber looked my way and then back to Joan. She said she’d been on the island almost fourteen years and had a fourteen-year-old son. Joan asked her what her husband did, and Amber glanced my way again. I thought Joan was doing much better, but when Amber told her that she didn’t have a husband, Joan’s smile disappeared.

  “I don’t have a husband either,” said Joan.

  “Oh,” said Amber.

  Considering the alternatives, I thought that was a good response.

  Joan’s eyes were downcast as she said, “Mine was murdered a couple of weeks ago.”

  Talk about a conversation stopper, I thought.

  CHAPTER 30

  A friend of William Hansel’s had drowned near the Folly Pier four years ago. The police had ruled it suicide, but he stubbornly maintained that his friend was terrified of the ocean and would never have killed himself that way. William couldn’t convince the police, but Charles and I knew him enough to know that if he said his friend was murde
red, someone had better take another look. Charles and I did, and to make a long story short—or shorter—William was right, and my friend and I were nearly killed proving it.

  William had suffered a nervous breakdown following the death, and he spent several days in a mental health facility. The good news was that he made a complete recovery. I held a college degree in psychology, but the last class I took was forty years ago. I had trouble remembering what I learned three days ago, so my formal education was decades past worthless. Maybe William could shed some light on Joan or recommend someone who might help.

  His small, neat one-story house was three blocks from the center of town, so I decided to walk over and see if he was home. I wore a jacket, but I’d unzipped it. The sun made it feel several degrees warmer than it was. I also realized how ironic it was that I was walking. When I had dated Amber, she’d tried to get me to eat better and exercise more. Of course, I had earned a merit badge in male stubbornness by ignoring her suggestions—her wise, accurate, and helpful suggestions. Now here I was, no longer with Amber and walking to William’s house—further proof that I hadn’t remembered anything from my college psychology classes.

  William was clearly surprised to see me on his stoop, but he invited me in and offered me a cup of hot tea. Tea was his drink of choice, seasonally adjusted in temperature so it would take a few minutes for him to boil water. I didn’t know him when his wife died, but I suspected everything in his house had remained unchanged since her passing. There were feminine touches everywhere. Cream-colored doilies topped each table. Ceramic angel figurines were placed in groupings on the coffee table and the table in the entry hall. He had an ample collection of books on two bookcases in the living room, but it paled in comparison to Charles’s book cave.

  The professor delivered the tea on a silver platter that held two china cups with holly and red berries adorning the side. They were on matching saucers, and a white sugar bowl was in the middle of the platter. I thought of the contrast from my usual party accoutrements—Styrofoam cups, napkins for plates, beer cans, and screw-top wine bottles.

  Steam ribboned from the tea as I tried to figure out how to get my finger in the cup’s tiny handle. I wondered who the miniopenings were made for; they weren’t for most guys.

  “And what brings you out on such a lovely winter day?” asked my proper host.

  “Couldn’t I simply have wanted to visit a friend?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said and rubbed his chin. “But I suspect that is not the primary reason.”

  “You caught me,” I said with a smile. “Actually, I wanted to talk about Joan.”

  “Ah,” he said. “And how is the lovely former Mrs. Landrum adjusting to our unique slice of heaven?”

  I forced my finger in the petite handle, blew across the steaming liquid, took a sip, and shook my head. “Not well. That’s what I wanted to talk about.” I hesitated. “This is a delicate subject, and I apologize ahead of time if it’s uncomfortable for you.”

  William set his cup on the table and gave me his full attention. “That certainly piques my curiosity,” he said in his powerful voice. “Apology accepted prediscomfort.”

  I shared a little about Joan’s erratic behavior and mood swings. I told him that I saw nothing unusual about the phone hang-ups and feared that her imagination was running wild. Then the delicate part. William was an extremely private person and had few friends. I was honored to be among them.

  “William,” I said reluctantly, “back when you, umm, suffered, umm—”

  “When I was hospitalized with a debilitating bout of depression,” he interrupted.

  I sighed. “Exactly.”

  “Chris,” he interrupted again, “You were there for me. It was a terrible time but one that I do not wish to conceal. I had a condition, a mental condition no different from a physical malady, and received professional treatment. You were my friend, you believed in me, and you found the evil perpetrators who took my friend’s life. I’m forever indebted. Please do not be hesitant now.”

  The formal warm and fuzzy was so William, I thought.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You said the counseling saved your life. You told me that you were not a strong believer in that kind of help before you went through it.” I took another sip and William sat silently. He knew not to interrupt. “I think Joan needs the same kind of help.”

  “I concur,” he said. “I would highly recommend the counselors at Carolina Counseling. That’s where I went after release from the hospital. They’re near my campus, two blocks from my classroom.” He walked to his bedroom and returned with the counseling center’s business card. “How do you plan to broach the subject with Mrs. McCandless?” He handed me the card.

  “Good question,” I said. “Good question.”

  “Perhaps here’s an even better one,” he said. “How do you know that there’s not someone out to harm her?”

  “I don’t. But there’s also no reason to think there is.”

  “Allow me to share my thoughts,” he said. I nodded and he continued. “In the last three weeks, Mrs. McCandless’s husband has perished in a horrible automobile crash. Perhaps it was an accident; a longer shot, murder. And then her house was destroyed—probably an accident, possibly intentional. And now she’s moved hundreds of miles from everything she was familiar with to a place that, on its best day, could be considered strange. She has contact here with only one person she has ever known, that being you, an ex-husband she hasn’t seen or talked to in decades.” He peered down into his empty teacup. “I would think that even the most mentally sound individual would be going, as Charles would say, bonkers under those circumstances.”

  William was right—in a professorial, class presentation sort of way. Still, he was right.

  “True,” I said.

  “Then does not she deserve more sympathy and understanding?” he said.

  I had to agree.

  CHAPTER 31

  After spending the day with Joan’s irrational ramblings and mood swings, and then with the overly rational logic, combined with a minor scolding, from William, I needed to find my comfort zone. Cal’s Country Bar and Burgers should meet that criterion, with an ample supply of comfort food and drink, a representative sample of the characters of Folly Beach, and good traditional country music provided by Cal and his country-infused Wurlitzer.

  I knew I had made the right choice when the first person I saw was Charles behind the bar, wearing a black long-sleeved T-shirt with DETROIT BARTENDING SCHOOL in block letters across the front. He balanced one crutch under his left arm and tossed a can of Budweiser to Dawn, his younger and much more attractive fellow barkeep.

  Cal was on the small stage, his back curved and his mouth almost touching the old-fashioned, softball-sized microphone on the stand in front of him. He was in stage garb and announced that he would be performing a set of “good ole-fashioned country classics” in an hour. “Until then, folks, I’ll set this jukebox spinnin’ some of the greatest hits from the … the … whatever number that last century was.” He walked to the jukebox in the corner and pushed a few buttons until the sound of Lefty Frizzell and “I Never Go Around Mirrors” reverberated off the walls.

  I inhaled and soaked in the aroma of stale beer and frying onions, letting the feel of Folly wash away my tension created by, as Cal would say, “a blast from the past.”

  The bar was two-thirds full, mostly with regulars. I recognized most of them, including Heather, who was at the table farthest from the stage. The chair to her right was tilted with its back rested on the table to announce that it was reserved. She had draped her yellow cloth jacket on the chair to her left. She waved me over, grabbed her jacket, and threw it on the chair on the far side of the table.

  “Charles said you’d be here. He wanted me to save you a seat,” she said.

  That was interesting since fifteen minutes ago I h
adn’t known I’d be there. “You mean Chucky?” I said. I sat beside Heather and tossed my Tilley on the chair with her coat.

  She gave me her best stage grin. “Aw-shucks, I know he favors Charles,” she said. “I call him Chucky to annoy him. Getting under his skin is so much fun.” She giggled.

  I almost grabbed my hat so I could tip it to her. I matched her grin. “More power to you,” I said.

  “How’re you and your ex getting along?” she asked.

  I knew that I’d be hearing that question so often that I should walk to Cal’s mike and share the answer with everyone. Instead, I said that we were getting along fine and hoped that would satisfy her.

  A server I’d seen a time or two magically appeared with a pink drink of unknown content and set it in front of Heather, and she surprised me with a glass of red wine. “Charles said I didn’t have to listen to you but to give you this glass,” she said with a smile.

  Heather watched her go. “That’s Beatrice. She’s a strange one,” she said.

  Coming from Heather, that was quite a comment. “How?” I asked.

  Heather kept staring at the server and said, “Well, ding-dong. Who’d want to be called Beatrice? She was named after her grandmother, you know. Said some folks try to call her Bee but she hates it.” Heather leaned closer. “She may be a witch … A full moon tonight.” Heather paused and took a not-so-dainty sip of beer.

  “A witch?” I said. I had learned a couple of years ago that Heather had no problem talking, talking, and talking, but her conversation easily drifted like an unanchored fishing boat in a storm.

  “Witch, yeah.” She seemed to be trying to refocus. “She makes handmade jewelry—cutesy bracelets, necklaces, rings.”