by Bill Noel
Charles evidently decided the pause was too long for his liking. “Did he?”
Norton turned to Charles. “Yeah,” he said. “The next day, I got a call from—get this—the Carmel-by-the-Sea Police Department. That’s really the name of the city.”
Charles reached for his pocket. I’d bet money that he was looking for a pen to write Carmel-by-the-Sea—another piece of useless trivia. He evidently couldn’t find a pen, and he resumed listening instead.
“A sergeant called and told me that he was a good friend of my cousin’s or he wouldn’t have called. He didn’t know Daniel, but a few of his guys had talked about him over the years.” Norton looked at his watch and smiled. “Apparently, Daniel’s right foot weighed more than his left. He averaged a half dozen speeding tickets a year. The sergeant said the reason Daniel still had his license was because he was a big donor to police charities and other big causes out there. Daniel was known for throwing money around. Any group with a need and a sad story hit on him. Know what I mean?”
“Sounds like a nice guy,” I said.
Norton frowned. “I was beginning to think so until the sergeant started whispering. He said everyone who knew Daniel was shocked when he sold the businesses. It happened almost overnight. Rumors were that the buyer had mob ties and Daniel was somehow caught up in something, but no one knew what. Understand now—these were only rumors.”
“Did Joan say why they left California?” I asked.
“Only that Daniel wanted to retire and move,” said Norton.
He asked what we planned to do while we were in town. I told him that we wanted to visit Charlene. He said that we’d better hurry since she and her husband were leaving in the morning on a Caribbean cruise and wouldn’t be back for a week. Charles looked at me as if to say, Good planning. I then told Norton that we were going to visit Jaguar of Knoxville and asked for directions. Charles added that he might buy a Jag while we were there.
“Must be nice,” said Norton who then gave us directions and checked his watch again. “I’ve got to go guys. Sorry I couldn’t help.”
“We’ll walk you out,” volunteered Charles.
Norton stopped before he opened the door of the Chevy patrol car. “One other thing never made sense to me,” he said. “Joan said they moved here so Daniel could retire, and what does he go and do but become a partner in the Jag dealership.” He shook his head. “That didn’t compute. But he almost single-handedly made it a success. The clowns he went into business with had no idea how to run a luxury lot. They were good at selling volume cars like Kias and Nissans. Selling high-ticket rides is another ball game, know what I mean?” He shook his head. “It bothered her so much that she never even visited the Jag lot. She thought retired should mean retired.”
He was clearly in a hurry, and it was cold. I didn’t ask anything else.
“I really like Joan,” said Norton before closing the door. “Call if you need anything. Oh yeah,” he said as he winked, “be sure to say hi to Detective Lawson for me. Know what I mean?”
I believed I did.
CHAPTER 42
We were exhausted after the drive and meeting with Officer Norton so we vegged out at the becoming-all-too-familiar Hampton Inn and headed to the car dealership just after it opened the next morning. I called Charlene on the way to the dealership and put the phone on speakerphone. She said she was glad to hear from me. I told her about the wreck on Folly, and she wanted to know all the details. She seemed sincerely shocked.
“Regardless what may have happened over the years, I don’t think Joan’s being paranoid,” I said. Charles leaned close to the phone. “Is there anything you can add to help me find out what’s going on?”
She hesitated, and then I heard her tell her husband that she’d be right there. “Umm,” she said, “I hate saying this, but I never trusted Daniel.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Can’t put my finger on it,” she said, and then she paused again. “He was too slick, too smooth. To be honest, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was involved in something illegal.”
“Any idea what?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said, “but it must have something to do with the car lot.” I heard someone say something in the background. “Sorry, Chris. I really have to go. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
I agreed that I would and then wished her a wonderful cruise.
We stopped at a red light about a half block from Jaguar of Knoxville. A larger-than-life silver likeness of a jaguar—the animal, not the car—sat atop what appeared to be a marble pedestal, and a lot full of shiny new luxury cars greeted us as we pulled into a CUSTOMERS ONLY space in front of the space-age contemporary structure. To the right of the Jaguar of Knoxville building was its multiacre used vehicle lot.
“No lizards yet,” said Charles as he looked around.
My cell rang before I opened the door. It was Heather. “Charles’s answering service,” I answered.
“Hee-hee,” she said. “Is you-know-who with you?”
Instead of telling her, I simply held the phone out for him. “Are you ever going to get one of these?” I asked.
He shrugged and took the phone.
“At your service,” he said to the receiver. “Uh-huh … not yet.” He paused to listen, tapping the fingers on his left hand on the center console. “Really … No, I’m sure you saw the ghost … Of course … Tell Cal I’ll catch it when we get back … You bet … You too.”
I looked at the door to the dealership and then at Charles.
“Heather saw the ghost of Frank Fontana in Cal’s last night.”
“Oh,” I said. “Anyone else see it?”
“Don’t think so,” he said. “She sort of sees things that no one else does.”
This was the last conversation I wanted to be having now. “Guess you’ll be catching the ghost when we get back?”
He shook his head, but said, “You know it.”
I reminded him why we were here. He was to act interested in buying a luxury car, and I was to nose around. He asked me again what we expected to find; I once again told him that I had no idea. He murmured something like, “Well thought out,” and we entered the double doors at the front of the curved entry.
There may not have been a lounge of lizards waiting for us outside, but the front door had barely opened before we were approached by a tall gentleman with a muscular build. He couldn’t have been out of his twenties, but he carried himself like a fifty-year-old. He held his head high, had his shoulders raked back, and wore a smile that could have melted a snowball.
“May I help you?” he said as he rubbed his left hand across his temple. His hair was shiny black with a small patch of gray over each ear. I would wager that the gray was added for credibility. “I’m Bradford.”
I would also wager that if he worked at the Kia lot, he would be Brad. I introduced myself, and Charles stepped to the foreground, gave his name, and told the hungry salesman that he was interested in a new Jaguar.
“My friend, you’ve come to the right place,” said Bradford. His full attention was now focused on Charles and the burgundy Southwestern College sweatshirt with a black jaguar on the front. I was off his radar, and that was good. Bradford grabbed two brochures from a rack near the front door and asked if Charles would be so kind as to join him in his office. Charles was that kind and followed Bradford to a small office in the back of the showroom. I did not follow.
The front half of the large room was shaped in a semicircle, and five sparkling new Jaguars were symmetrically arranged on the polished granite floor like spokes on a wheel. In the center of the circle was a red version of Joan’s convertible. Its top was retracted, and the sleek car was ready to drive off in the snow. Two of the other vehicles had huge red bows on the hoods—or were they the bonnets in Jaguar-speak? Elevator music filled th
e showroom.
I saw Charles and Bradford through the glass windows that divided the sales floor from the office. The young salesman was slowly turning the pages of a brochure, which Charles studied intently. I dreaded the ride home since I would have to listen to hundreds of bits of trivia about Jaguars.
Bradford was the only salesperson on duty, so I was able to wander around unbothered. Every wall in the salesroom except one was a huge window that either opened to the lot or the sales offices in the rear. The lone nonglass wall was dark blue and held a dozen attractively framed items. There were nine letters from “happy,” “thrilled,” or “elated” customers gushing over their “marvelous” new Jaguar—or the salesperson or service department. A Jaguar of Knoxville mission statement held a prominent place on the brag wall and reassured customers that the dealership looked out for their best interests and was dedicated to providing quality, ethical service, and attention. The other two frames featured professionally matted studio photos of men who appeared to be in their forties. An engraved one-by-three-inch silver plaque under the photo on the left read TAG HUMBOLDT. Alil Munson’s name appeared under the other frame. To the right of Munson’s frame, in the size and shape of a third frame, the paint was much brighter. I assumed that a photo of Daniel McCandless had been displayed there until he severed his relationship.
“Handsome fellows,” came a voice from behind me.
I jumped as if I’d been caught checking out the Playboy centerfold.
“Sorry to startle you,” said a smiling Alil Munson, an older version of the Photoshop-improved photo on the wall. He shook my hand and gripped my forearm with his left hand. I introduced myself.
He motioned toward my SUV. “Nice Infiniti,” he said. “I’m guessing you’re not here to buy yourself a new car. Perhaps a New Year’s present for the missus?”
“No, actually I’m here with a friend. He’s with Bradford,” I said.
“Then he’s in good hands,” said Alil. “Anyway, it was nice meeting you. Remember, nothing says love more than a new Jaguar.”
Alil walked away as quickly as he had appeared. I wiped my hands on my slacks and willed myself to forget his comment about love. Other than learning that a wall needed repainting and an owner was too vain to display an accurate, recent photo of himself, I wondered what I had thought we could determine about the death of Daniel and the explosion at Joan’s house by visiting Jaguar of Knoxville.
Charles miraculously resisted Bradford’s polished sales presentation, and we left with two glossy brochures proudly proclaiming “Sporty Luxury at its Finest.”
“Learn anything?” I asked the budding detective as we pulled on the road to Gatlinburg.
Charles looked back toward the building. “Think I’ll buy a golf cart to tool around Folly. Those cars are too powerful for our little island.”
I had hoped for information that was more relevant. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” said Charles. “Bradford goes by Brad, except when he’s at work. His mother’s originally from North Dakota; dad’s from Alcoa—that’s somewhere around here. He lives at home and drives a ninety-four Mustang with rust in the wheel wells. And—”
I waved my hand in front of his face. “Charles! Did you learn anything about Daniel?”
“Uh … no,” said Charles. “Bradford said that he was a nice guy, but he didn’t deal with him much. He did say that things changed after Daniel left. Sales dropped, and they let three salesmen go. They even eliminated two jobs in the service department—almost started a revolt with the remaining service techs because of the extra work they had to do. The vast majority of the dealer’s sales are from the used-car lot, and those cars always need work.”
“Charles.”
“Oh yeah, he said he sure wished I was going to buy a car. He needed the money. I told him that I would have to wait a couple of months until some CDs matured. He started to jabber about easy finance terms. I stopped him and said that I only pay cash for my new cars.” He turned to me. “That’s the truth, you know. I’ve never bought a new car, but if I do, I’ll pay cash.”
On the way back to Gatlinburg, we decided that there was no reason to hang around the mountain resort, so we stopped at the hotel and checked out. Charles insisted that we stop for a pound of fudge before leaving town. I thought it was his best ideas in months.
The ride home would be more productive than anything we had learned in Gatlinburg.
CHAPTER 43
Charles unplugged my phone from the charger and called Cal to tell him he would be able to work tonight. He put it on speakerphone, so I was able to listen. I learned that Cal would be thrilled if Charles could make it in and close. His other employees were getting tired, cranky, and irritated by low tips. Cal also shared that no bourbon had been missing since Charles had left town.
Charles set the phone on the console and stared at it. “President Rutherford Hayes was wrong when he said, ‘An amazing invention—but who would ever want to use one?’ This phone thing is handy-dandy. I should get one.”
He had stubbornly refused to get a cell phone, although he was using mine more often. Charles believed that stubbornness was next to timeliness, which bordered on godliness.
I shook my head and then took a turn with the phone. I called Sean Aker, a friend and attorney on Folly. Charles and I had helped prove his innocence last year when he was accused of killing his law partner. A relieved Sean had said that he owed us several favors and to call if we ever needed anything. I briefly told him about Daniel and how he had sold his businesses in California and then his share of Jaguar of Knoxville. I told him my suspicions about Daniel and asked if he could access public records and find anything about the sales, especially anything unusual. He said he’d do better. He had a fraternity brother who was a big-shot lawyer in Knoxville who should be able to find more than what was in the public records. He also knew someone in Carmel and would see if he could get anything from her.
The phone beeped three different times while I was talking to Sean. When I hung up, I saw that I’d missed a call from Joan. I returned her call, but she didn’t answer. I left a message.
Charles was quiet for nearly fifty miles—a minor miracle—before he said, “I have a hunch who’s stealing the stuff.”
“Who?” I said.
He stared straight ahead at the interstate. “I’m fairly sure it’s Nick,” he said.
“Why?”
“Nothing concrete,” said Charles, who glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “The cash he keeps throwing around—and how he’s always trying to blame it on outsiders.”
“That’s not much,” I said.
“I know … I know. It’s a feeling.” He turned back to the road and didn’t say anything for several miles.
“So,” I said, “how are you going to prove it?”
“Good question,” he said. “Think there’s an online course in confession wrangling?”
“I doubt it,” I said with a straight face. “I wouldn’t count on getting him to confess.”
“Then I’ll catch him,” he said with a nod.
Here we go again. I was glad he’d said I’ll instead of we’ll catch him. I wasn’t ready to spend another candlelit night in Cal’s, chasing rats, ghosts, or Nick.
We were thirty miles shy of Columbia. Charles was getting ready to share his master plan on how he was going to catch Nick, and I was soon to learn that President Hayes was right about the phone being an amazing invention.
The phone rang. It was Joan. “Thank God I got you this time,” she said. She sounded out of breath, as if she had been running. “I saw him again. He’s still here.”
“Where are you, and where was he?” I asked. We were more than two hours from Folly.
“I’m home … God, I’m scared … He was … he was at the light by Snapper Jack’s … He was in a silver Camry this time.”
“Did he see you?”
“Don’t think so … He was going toward the beach. I was walking.” She hesitated. “Where are you?”
I told her and said I’d try to get Cindy to stay with her until I got back.
“Hurry,” she said, ending the call.
Cindy was off duty and at the Pig when she answered. She was checking out and said she’d drop the groceries at home and then go to Water’s Edge until I got there. After I told her about the mystery man being in a different vehicle, she asked if Joan could have imagined seeing him. I said that anything was possible.
I took Charles to his apartment and drove two blocks to Water’s Edge. Cindy’s car was in front, and she answered Joan’s door. She held her service revolver behind her back until she saw that it was me. Joan had been at the top of the stairs, and she rushed to hug me before Cindy closed the door.
Her arms were tight around my waist, and I heard sobbing. Cindy stood in the entry. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back.
Joan finally moved back a step. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Cindy grabbed her heavy jacket from the entry table and slipped the Glock in its holster. “I’ll ride around a while and see if I can find the Camry. I’ll call if I learn anything.”
Joan hugged Cindy and thanked her for coming.
The next hour was discomforting at best. Joan offered me a drink and then something to eat. I declined. She then told me exactly two times what she had shared on the phone about seeing the Camry. She paced the living area and then flopped down on the couch. She kept asking, “Why?” I never had a satisfactory answer, and most of the times I didn’t respond. There was nothing I could say that hadn’t been said countless times.
I shared what Charles and I had done in Gatlinburg. Joan was irritated that we hadn’t taken her with us, but then she seemed relieved that we had left her behind. She asked what her home looked like and then held her hand in front of my face to stop me before I could answer. She said she didn’t want to know.
