by Bill Noel
“Did they think it was serious enough to be connected to his death?”
“They didn’t know, but they were surprised that he would have missed that curve. All of them said he was a good driver.”
Karen and I talked more about Daniel’s situation, and she said that Officer Norton seemed interested in digging further and said he’d keep her apprised. “He told me to say hi to Joan.”
We talked about a couple of her more difficult cases, how her father was doing now that he was back as chief after suffering two heart attacks; about her cat, Joe; and how beautiful the Smoky Mountains had looked during our brief visit. Something was bothering her, and she covered it with small talk.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
She took a bite and after a moment said to me, “You do know that Joan has her heart set on getting you back, don’t you?”
My mind flashed back to my first few months on Folly, when some of my new acquaintances had said almost the same thing about Amber. I had only talked to her at the Dog, and I knew that Amber had flirted, but I had seen her doing that with other customers, and she even hinted that there could be more with me. I couldn’t imagine that it was true. My friends were right; now some of them were saying this about Joan. Was I wrong again?
“Come on Karen,” I said. “She’s lost her husband. Her house exploded. She’s in an alien environment. I’m the only person she knows here.”
She gave me her skeptical detective stare and nodded.
I shook my head. “We have a history, but it ended decades ago. I haven’t heard from her in all these years. She needs a familiar face to give her some semblance of order, that’s all. There’s … nothing there.”
“Then why do I hear that she’s asking about your love life? Who you’ve been dating? If you are in a serious relationship? Where she can find a good beautician? If anyone knows of a good Realtor she can talk to about buying a house?”
Good questions, Ms. Detective, I thought. Good questions.
CHAPTER 40
I was half daydreaming as Dude rambled on in small bursts of Dude-speak about three galaxies that I had never heard of nor cared about. We were in the Dog minutes after it opened. While Dude expounded on astronomy, I was thinking about Karen’s comment after I’d walked her to her car last night. “Chris, for someone who’s fairly bright, you’re an idiot when it comes to women.” She then firmly planted her lips on mine so I couldn’t ask her to explain. Actually, at that point, I didn’t care.
“Yo—wipeout!” said Dude.
Dude jolted me out of my daydream. I turned toward the door to see who he was looking at. Charles hobbled toward us. He had a two-inch square flesh-colored bandage stuck to his forehead below the brim of his hat.
“Log smack you?” said Dude.
Charles set his cane on the floor and dropped his hat on top of it. “Nope. I wasn’t hit by a surfboard.” He turned his back on Dude, and I was sure it was to find someone to bring coffee.
“Then what happened?” I asked, needlessly of course. He would tell us even if we had begged him not to.
“Detecting,” he said, waving for Amber.
“Detectin’ a tree trunk?” said Dude.
“Coffee first, story second,” said Charles. His mood reflected a blow to the head.
Amber brought a cup of steaming coffee to the table, noticed Charles’s bandage, and leaned over and gently kissed it.
“See,” said Charles. “That’s the way to treat the handicapped. Thank you, Amber. It feels better now.”
“Me not be smoochin’ Chuckster,” said Dude as he leaned away from Charles and the table.
“Charles,” I said, sounding slightly more frustrated than I was. “What happened?”
He blew across his coffee and took a sip. “Okay, if you insist.”
Dude and I nodded—the nods were closer to curious rather than to insisting.
“I thought I’d figured out how the thief was getting the bourbon out of Cal’s,” he said. “I can’t see how it’s done when the bar’s closed, so it must be when it’s open. I figured that he had to be sneaking the whiskey cases in trash boxes and then taking them to the Dumpster. There’s nothing strange about someone taking trash to the Dumpster.”
Dude and I nodded again.
“After I closed last night, I got my trusty detective flashlight. Actually, it’s Heather’s ghost-catching flashlight. I hadn’t given it back to her—”
“Story?” interrupted Dude.
“Anyway,” continued Charles—finally. “I stood on one of those old wooden crates that Cal saves for some reason. I leaned over the Dumpster to find the stolen bourbon. Then I sort of leaned too far. Next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the Dumpster, stepping on boxes, moldy hamburger buns, and something that smelled like a dead duck-billed platypus.”
There was no way I was going to ask how he knew that. Fortunately, neither did Dude, so Charles continued.
“I looked around using the trusty detective flashlight and noticed spots of red on a box in front of me. My eyes, and then a pain on my noggin, told me it was blood—my blood.”
“Go to docville?” asked Dude.
“If that means hospital,” said Charles, “no.” He pointed to his forehead as if we would have forgotten where he was injured. “Not too bad; went home and dabbed some of that stingy stuff on it to kill germs and tiny varmints. Had this bandage in the bathroom since Y2K—don’t remember why.”
“Find firewater?” asked Dude.
Charles shook his head. “Nope.”
“Bummer,” said Dude.
I held back a laugh and echoed Dude. “Bummer.”
Charles took another sip. “If you think that’s a bummer, catch this. I went by Cal’s to get a daylight view of what was dead in the Dumpster and then went inside to see how much cleanup I’d have to do later.” He hesitated and then shook his head.
“Another card game?” I asked.
“Yep. Another card game. Dirty glasses on four tables, three chairs tipped over, three tables rearranged, and—you guessed it—another case of our finest bourbon gone.”
“That be boss ghost party,” said Dude.
I couldn’t argue with that. But I wasn’t ready to buy into the ghost theory. “I assume all the doors were locked?”
“As always,” he said.
“Is it possible for someone to exit the building and the doors lock by themselves without a key?”
“They’re deadbolted; need the key to get out. Larry made sure of that.”
“So that eliminates the doors,” I said.
“Guess so.”
“So we’re back to how they get in and out,” I said.
Dude listened attentively, switching his gaze from Charles to me and then back to Charles.
“Inside job,” said Dude.
“Why?” I asked.
“Know firewater there … know best hooch to steal … know where cash stashed … had time to figure how in and out. Be inside job.”
“You still think so, Charles?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Last night Nick told me he knew I was there to catch a thief. He said again that it had to be an outside job. It could be him. He’s working too hard to direct me outside instead of looking at the employees. I don’t trust him.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I think he’s shorting the cash drawer,” said Charles. “I can’t prove it, but he’s mighty secretive around the register—just a feeling. Besides, it seems like we should be doing better than we are, and he keeps flashing around money.” Charles shook his head. “Cal said that if this continued, he’d be broke and the bar history.”
“Is Dawn still on your list?” I asked as Amber poured more coffee and gave Dude a fresh cup of tea.
“She borrowed a twenty from me last
night,” he said as a nonanswer. “She needed it to pay her electric bill. I don’t know if she could be doing it, but she needs money.”
“What about Kenneth?” I asked. “Didn’t you say Greg hadn’t checked him out?”
Dude waved his right hand in the air. “Mullet man?” he asked.
Charles looked at Dude. “Kenneth has a mullet. Why?” said Charles.
“Mullet man moved here last sizzling season,” said Dude. “Asked Dudester for job. Mullet filled out application. Dudester did due diligence, called references. All fake. The employers never heard of mullet man—faux.”
I didn’t know if I was more surprised that Dude checked references or that he knew what due diligence meant.
Charles was more interested in Kenneth’s fake credentials. “He never worked at bars in Baltimore?”
“Not a ticktock,” said Dude. “If I was a great detective like Chuckster, be flipping mullet man to top of bad guy list.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Charles. “Not a bad idea.”
Dude flipped his hand in the air again. “That’s enough detectin’ today.” He grabbed his Astronomy magazine and headed for the exit.
Charles watched Dude leave and then turned back to me. “Between this knot on my head and the thefts, all I have is a headache.” He closed his eyes and gently touched the bandage. “I thought I could really do this. Thought I could be a detective. I’m as big a fake as Kenneth.” He shook his head. “Let’s talk about something else.”
I felt for Charles. I felt his frustration but didn’t know how to help. I also had no idea about Kenneth, but having worked in a human resources department for years, I knew the importance of checking references and the backgrounds of potential employees. I also realized that I knew very little about Joan’s husband. Could something in his background have started the ball rolling downhill and the string of disasters and near disasters? One thing was sure: he had never set foot on Folly Beach, so there wasn’t anything I could learn here.
“Charles,” I said, “ready to take another trip to the mountains?”
“No,” he said, grabbing my phone off the table. He punched in a number and after a few seconds said, “Cal, got a family emergency, gotta be away for …” He held three fingers up to me. I nodded. “Three days … okay, thanks.” He pushed the END CALL button, set the phone back on the table, and said, “I’m ready now.”
CHAPTER 41
Charles had been unusually silent for the first half of the drive. We were now on the Tennessee side of Asheville, on a curvy stretch of I-40. The temperatures were in the upper thirties, and the the snow-covered peaks of the mountain chain were directly in front of us. It was cloudy, and the sky was gray on gray. I couldn’t tell the mountaintop from the gray sky. It was as if winter had sucked the color out of the hills. The look matched my mood and, apparently, Charles’s as well.
“What’re we going to learn?” asked Charles.
“It would be nice to learn who killed Daniel,” I said—a response that seemed more than obvious. “But I’ll take whatever we find.”
We were on the stretch of road that occasionally suffered rock slides and had been closed for months in recent years. Mesh screening that looked like steel shrimp nets was draped on the side of the more unpredictable slopes to catch boulders instead of swimming crustaceans.
I focused on the treacherous stretch of highway but glanced at my passenger. “Joan’s telling the truth about someone trying to kill her. She’s in danger. A very real person rammed us off the road.”
“That’s good enough for me,” he said. “But again, what do you expect to learn? Who’s going to tell us anything?”
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing that I didn’t know. “First, we need to visit Jaguar of Knoxville and snoop around some. And then—”
“Whoa,” he said. “You mean we get to ride seven hours so we can be swarmed on by a lounge of lot lizards?”
“Lounge?” I said.
“Sure,” said Charles. “That’s what they call a bunch of lizards.”
“Whatever,” I said. “There’s a higher level of reptile at Jaguar dealers. Yes, we’ll check it out. You’ll be in the market for a new car.”
“No prob,” he said. “Remember, I am a detective.”
“How could I forget?” I said.
Charles was getting excited about faux-buying a new car as we passed a handful of white-water rafting billboards and then took our exit. I thought we should also visit Joan’s cop friend and talk to Charlene.
The Gatlinburg Police Department was on our way to town, so I took a chance and pulled in the lot. I saw what Karen meant about black trucks. There were five trucks in the small police lot—three were black. Officer Norton was on duty but on patrol, so I told the person at the desk that I was a friend of Joan’s and wanted to talk to Norton. He radioed him, and Norton agreed to meet us. He was at Ober Gatlinburg, taking statements from a couple whose car had been vandalized, and he said we could meet him there.
Charles was shocked as we drove by the ruins of the huge home that he had visited not that many days ago. I cringed when I thought of how close Karen came to falling through the floor to the concrete basement floor twelve feet below. The contractors had begun demolition and had taped large sheets of plastic on the remaining windows and stretched blue heavy-duty tarps on the portion of the roof still standing. Charles whistled. “Joan was lucky—very lucky,” he said, looking back at the ruined structure.
We rounded the curve and pulled into Ober Gatlinburg’s large parking lot. A City of Gatlinburg patrol car was parked in a yellow striped NO PARKING space near the entrance to the lodge. Exhaust poured from the tailpipe. I pulled in behind the car, and a trim middle-aged police officer about my height got out and waved for me to park behind him in the restricted area. His face was still tan from his Florida vacation. He greeted me with a strong handshake and a cautious grin; he was handsome in a rough-hewn way. If it weren’t for ears that would put Dumbo’s to shame, he would have been a striking authority figure. I introduced Charles, and Norton suggested that we go in the lodge and get warm.
The interior of the large building looked like an oversized ski lodge. The large dining area had a massive cathedral ceiling with a view of a large wood-burning fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked ski runs snaking down the hill toward the lodge. A steady stream of skiers in brightly colored jackets and hats followed each other down the slope. A few weren’t as successful and were sprawled in the snow—skis strewn in one direction, bodies and arms in another.
The tables near the windows were full, so we commandeered one by the railing beside the indoor skating rink. “What interest do you have in Joan?” asked the officer as we sat down. His hands were pressed against the table. His smile faded.
I would have been more comfortable with a few more courtesy comments before rushing to the meat of the visit. I started to explain that Joan and I had been married many years ago and that we had not had any contact for years, until the week before Christmas.
Norton raised his right hand and aimed it at me as he would at a car that he wanted to stop. “I got that,” he said. He gave me a penetrating stare. “Detective Lawson told me your history with Mrs. McCandless.” His hand returned to pressing the tabletop. “I’m talking about now. Why are you involved?”
“Her friend Charlene called after Daniel was killed,” I said, skirting around the question. “Joan says she trusts me and believes that she’s in danger.”
He remained in a defensive pose, but his shoulders slackened slightly. He took his eyes off me and looked up at the colorful banners located around the edge of the ski rink. “She’s a nice lady. She really is,” he said.
It struck me as I watched him daydream that there was really no reason to trust the cop. I didn’t know what was going on, and he was someone she knew fairly well. Did he
like her as more than a friend? How much should I tell him about the person Joan saw on Folly?
Norton leaned closer. “Joan trusts you, so I’ll try to trust you.” He gazed around the dining area. “I met Joan and Daniel through church shortly after they moved here. She was all friendly like, volunteered to teach Sunday school, helped in the kitchen, and did whatever was needed. Know what I mean? Now …” He paused and studied his hands. “I don’t like to speak unkindly about the dead, but Daniel was different.”
“How?” asked Charles.
Norton looked at Charles and then back to me. “Don’t get me wrong. Daniel was nice and friendly, but there was something about him. He tried too hard. Know what I mean?”
I nodded but wasn’t sure.
“And then he was closemouthed about his business,” continued Norton. “Joan told me that he had some car lots in California. I’m a car buff, but every time I asked him about cars or auto dealers, he clammed up … like he was hiding something.” He looked back at the banners. “He would put on that car salesman smile and say some nice words—nice words without saying anything. Know what I mean?”
Charles and I both nodded this time.
Norton also nodded. “I didn’t trust him—just didn’t.” He hesitated. “Not like I trust Joan.”
“Did he give you reason not to trust him? Learn anything about him?” I asked.
The side of his mouth worked its way into a smile. “This is bad,” he said. “I’m almost embarrassed to tell you.” He paused, fortunately not too long or Charles would have jumped in. “I have a cousin who lives in California and works security at the Monterey airport. Daniel told me they’d lived near Carmel, and I knew Monterey was near there. I called him to see if he’d heard of Mr. McCandless. My cousin hadn’t, but he said he would have a friend of his, a cop with the Carmel police, call me.” He paused again.
