by Bill Noel
What are friends for? I thought.
CHAPTER 53
Charles was driving my SUV up the mountain on I-26, between Spartanburg and Asheville. The doctor had told me not to get behind the wheel unless I absolutely had to, so I handed the keys of the Infiniti to the person who hadn’t driven a motor vehicle since his Saab became a lawn ornament a couple of years back. Tractor-trailers were banished to the right lane, and Charles zipped by them as if they were at a red light. A thick layer of snow was on top of the mountain, but we were at a low enough altitude to enjoy the beauty of the white stuff without driving in it. A powerful cold front accompanied by several inches of snow was predicted for east Tennessee in three days, so I decided this would be the best time to make the long drive to Cades Cove and give Joan the burial that she had requested.
“I need one of these. This is fun!”
Charles asked if we got on I-40 at Asheville, and I was telling him to pay attention to the mechanical voice of the navigational system when my phone rang. It was Sean Aker, who said he had interesting news about Daniel’s sale of the car dealerships in California and about selling his share of Jaguar of Knoxville. Sean’s friends had accessed records of both sales. He said that I owed him a big fat juicy steak for what he was going to tell me.
Charles successfully navigated the transition in interstates, and I listened to Sean without interrupting. For fifteen minutes, he walked me through the complex financial transactions. He finished, and I asked him to dumb it down. He said that he’d try but doubted that it could be made that dumb. I gave the appropriate laugh, and he continued.
My heart was thumping so loudly when he finished that I thought we had a flat tire. I told Sean that he’d not only earned a steak, but I would buy him a bottle of Dom Perignon to guzzle before cutting into his entrée. He said he would hold me to that. I didn’t have all the details, but I had been right about Daniel and his partners.
“Charles, do you still have those photos?”
He nodded and jerked his right thumb toward the backseat.
I turned and grabbed his camera from under a lightweight jacket that he had reluctantly brought along.
My heart raced. I began scrolling through the images that he had shared with me in the middle of the night. My hand shook so badly that I kept hitting the scroll button twice and skipping photos. A handful of the people looked familiar, and I assumed that I had seen them on Folly. I stopped when I got to number thirty-seven. It was one of the slightly out-of-focus images. I tried to burn it in my mind. I closed my eyes and then opened them and examined it again.
I turned the camera off, returned it to the backseat, took a deep breath, and then looked at Charles.
“I know who killed Daniel and Joan,” I said. “And I know why.”
Charles was overly enjoying being behind the wheel. He had cruise control set on seventy-seven and said whee each time he passed a car. After I made my proclamation, he pulled into the right lane and slowed to the speed limit. “Do I have to have to guess, or are you going to tell me?”
I agreed to tell him if he stopped saying whee. He said that I drove a hard bargain, but he would try. For the next twenty miles, I shared the dumbed-down version of what Sean had shared, and how I had recognized the killer from the photographs Charles had taken. He reminded me how detectively great his idea was to photograph the strangers on Folly. I agreed that it was a good idea.
“Can you prove any of this?” he asked as we pulled off the interstate for the final leg of the trip.
“Don’t think so,” I said. “All we know is that the killer was on Folly Beach when you took his picture.”
He tapped his right hand on the steering wheel. “As a good friend of mine pointed out the other day, it’s one thing to know something, another to prove it.” He turned to me and raised his eyebrows. “So how are we going to prove it?”
“Let’s figure that out tonight,” I said. “This afternoon we’re taking Joan to join her husband.”
I made two calls before we got to Gatlinburg. Charlene was back from her cruise, and I was pleased when she answered. I apologized for the late notice and told her where we were going, asking if she wanted to be there when I spread her friend’s cremains. She said yes before I had time to tell her when. I asked if she wanted me to pick her up, but she said she knew the spot and would meet us there in three hours.
The second call was to Kevin Norton. Karen had given me his cell number, and I caught him during a lull. I again apologized for the late notice and told him the plan. He said a band of bank robbers couldn’t keep him away.
As we pulled on Parkway, the main road through Gatlinburg, Charles told me that he wouldn’t be able to ponder how to catch a killer on an empty stomach. We had a couple of hours before gathering at the cemetery, so I directed him to a public parking lot, and we walked a couple of blocks to the Pancake Pantry for a late breakfast.
The Pantry was nearly full, so we didn’t get one of the prime tables near the windows. We were seated, and for the first time I noticed that Charles had on a solid black sweatshirt—not adorned with a single college logo or name. If this wasn’t a first, it was close, and I said that to him. He looked down at his chest and said it was out of respect for Joan; he was in mourning. His sensitivity was touching.
Charles’s mouth was full of orange walnut pancakes, but he managed to murmur, “The way I see it, there are two ways we can get proof—an easy way and one that might get you killed.”
“The easy way is?” I asked, taking a bite of chocolate chip waffle.
“Duh,” he replied. “We call the cops. Let them figure it out.” He waved his fork at me. “That’s what you’d tell me to do.”
“True,” I said. “But I don’t see what they would find. At best, there’s circumstantial evidence.”
“Then we either need to get a confession or let him kill you.” Charles hesitated and waved his fork in my face again. “I suppose it would be better if he didn’t actually kill you—just tried to.”
“Thanks,” I said.
We spent the rest of breakfast talking about possible ways to get the killer to confess or get caught unsuccessfully trying to kill me. We bandied about many ideas, but nothing approaching a foolproof plan emerged.
* * *
A thick layer of puffy white snow had fallen since our last visit to the peaceful, isolated cemetery. The small parking area was covered, and there was no evidence of recent visitors. The temperature was in the low twenties, so Charles and I waited in the comfort of the car for the other two.
A silver metallic BMW 650 pulled in beside us. Charlene was behind the wheel. She smiled but remained in the car. It was ten minutes before the time I’d told everyone to be there, so I figured we would wait in heated comfort until Kevin Norton arrived. We didn’t have to wait long. A boxy older model black Ford Explorer turned in the lot and pulled up on the passenger side of my SUV. The side window of the Explorer was covered with dirt and dried slush, but as dirty as it was, I recognized Norton’s ears.
I grabbed my coat from the backseat, and Charles and I stepped in the foot of fresh snow. Charlene walked around her BMW and greeted us with a sisterly hug. She had on a long black coat. As a concession to the conditions, she wore dark green rubber boots that looked as if they would be more at home in a garden. Officer Norton was in a dress uniform like you see when police gather at a funeral of a fallen colleague. He explained that he had taken a few hours of leave. He said he would do anything for Joan. He was near tears as we exited our vehicles.
The funeral home hadn’t known what I had planned for the cremains, so they had selected a simple shoebox-shaped brass container to hold the ashes. I took it from the backseat, and the four of us created a path through the snow to the section of the cemetery where Joan had stopped on our previous visit. The top of the tombstones were covered with snow, the branches of nearby trees wer
e topped in white, and a light, powdery snow had begun to fall. We huddled close together, and for an awkward minute, none of us knew what to say. I suggested a silent prayer, and everyone nodded. I wished William had been there to sing “Amazing Grace.”
Charlene dabbed her eyes with a tissue that blended with the falling snow. Tears ran down Kevin Norton’s cheeks as he stood at attention. Charles was uncharacteristically silent. My hands shook so much that I had trouble opening the latch that held the top on the container.
My fingers were numb, and the brisk wind out of the north swirled the falling snow around the graveyard. I opened the box and fumbled with the opener on the clear plastic bag inside. Charles took the brass container so I could handle the plastic bag.
I slowly sifted the contents in an arc in front of me. The only sounds I heard were the wind moving nearby tree branches and Charlene’s sobs. Norton stared straight ahead. Charles held his Tilley over his heart and bowed in silence. I wiped tears from my cheeks with my forearm. It was all so sad.
Before she climbed into her luxury car, Charlene thanked me for inviting her and gave me a more sincere hug than she had during her initial greeting. Norton shook my hand as we reached his Explorer. His cheeks were still damp from tears. I was surprised when instead of shaking his hand, Charles asked Norton if he could meet us at the hotel. The police officer did a double take at my friend, looked at his watch, and said that he had some time before going back at work.
“Okay,” I said. Charles and I pulled back on the loop road headed out of Cades Cove. “What’s that about?”
His knuckles were red as he tightly gripped the wheel. He barely glanced my way and said, “Catching a killer.”
I was confused. “I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to tell the cops,” I said.
“We’re not,” he said. “We’re going to tell Joan’s friend.”
Who happened to be a cop. Charles shared his plan, telling me what he thought might work. I said that I hoped for something better than might work. I threw out some ideas. He gave his opinion and suggested other approaches. He said, “No way.” I said, “I think it’ll work.” By the time we reached the hotel, we had agreed on the best plan that could have been created while driving in the snow along the stark, narrow roads, in the Great Smoky Mountains.
Now all we had to do was get some assistance—life-and-death assistance—from Officer Kevin Norton. For a second, I wondered if I was wrong. What if the killer was Norton? He had the means and, I suspect, a thing for Joan.
Lord, let me be right.
CHAPTER 54
The highway department had done an admirable job of moving the five inches of newly fallen snow off the main roads. I was on mostly-clear Highway 441, between Gatlinburg and Sevierville, better known as the birthplace of Dolly Parton. This was the first time I’d driven since the wreck, and my hands were gripping the wheel so tightly that they were losing feeling. And I had only been on the road for ten miles of the thirty-five-mile drive to Jaguar of Knoxville.
Charles and I had met with Kevin Norton for an hour yesterday.
I shared with him who had killed Joan and why. Daniel had proof of the killer’s illegal activities, and had used it against him. I said that it had gotten him killed.
Speaking of proof, Kevin had asked what proof we had.
“None,” we admitted.
“So why are we here?” he’d asked.
That’s when we shared our bare-bones plan. He told us we were idiots. I didn’t totally disagree, but I reminded him of his comment that he would do anything for Joan. He thought we needed to go to the state police with our accusations, but after we walked through what we actually knew, he agreed that it probably wouldn’t be enough to make a case. He knew that if he got involved, it would jeopardize his job. I reminded him of his commitment to his friend. He thought parts of our plan were too dangerous and made some excellent suggestions about how to minimize the risks. He finally agreed to go along but warned that unless I could get the killer to fall, completely fall, for my story, the plan was doomed. If that happened, Joan’s and Daniel’s killer would get away with murder and quite possibly add me to the list of victims.
* * *
I crossed the Tennessee River and looked to the left at a layer of snow on Neyland Stadium, the University of Tennessee’s massive football shrine. I obediently followed the navigation system’s directions and headed west on Kingston Pike. I saw the oversized silver jaguar in front of the dealership and pulled in a strip center adjacent to the car lot. I wanted to rehearse my story for about the hundredth time. I told myself that’s what I was doing, but really, I had to get my rage under control. I felt tension in my shoulders. My hands gripped the wheel as if I wanted to strangle the life out of it. I was going to see a cold-blooded killer. He had murdered Daniel, and for no apparent reason, he had arranged the savage death of my ex-wife and come close to killing me.
Could I pull it off? How good would my performance be? I was out of time and was only a hundred yards from the killer. It had to work—it would work.
Remember, the devil I’ll be talking to doesn’t know me, I repeated to myself. He doesn’t know if I am a sleaze or saint, money grabber, or Gandhi in khakis. Breathe, Chris, breathe.
I took a deep breath and told myself that my act wouldn’t improve with age. I edged around a man on an orange-and-white Bobcat pushing snow off the lot and parked in the CUSTOMERS ONLY space. I had called before leaving Gatlinburg, and I knew that the person I wanted to see was there.
Bradford, the salesperson who had waited on Charles and me during our last visit, greeted me at the door. From the lack of salt on the black track-off entry mat, it was obvious that I was the first potential customer of the day, and Bradford did little to hide his disappointment when I asked to speak to Tag Humboldt rather than swooning over a new car and reaching for my checkbook.
“Let me see if he’s available,” he said. “May I say who’s asking?”
I was tempted to say yes and nothing more, but I knew this wasn’t time for levity. The poor boy was disappointed enough as it was. “You may tell him Chris Landrum. He knows who I am.”
Bradford walked through the double doors at the back of the sales room. I turned my eyes to the wall and began reading the brag pieces that I had read during my first visit. I also stared at the eight-by-ten photograph of Mr. Humboldt beside the photo of Mr. Munson, as well as the blank space where the photo of Daniel McCandless had been removed. It only took a second to confirm that Mr. Humboldt was the man in the photo that Charles had taken on Folly Beach three days before Joan’s murder.
Bradford returned from the bowels of the dealership and said that Mr. Humboldt would be with me shortly. He didn’t stop to shoot the breeze but headed back to his waiting spot by the door in hopes that a real customer would venture out on this cold, snowy January morning.
“Shortly” stretched to fifteen minutes. It crossed my mind that Humboldt may have slipped out a back door and was miles away by now. Was this a colossal mistake?
I didn’t have much time to ponder the error of my ways. Mr. Humboldt stepped through the door with a smile that would make Charles’s faux grin appear extraordinarily genuine. Humboldt was about my height but thin. I would guess he was in his forties, but his dyed-black hair could have covered a multitude of gray, and he could have been older. He wore a long-sleeved polo shirt with the Jaguar logo on the left breast pocket. I understood how Joan had described the man she had seen as average.
“Mr. Landrum,” he said. He continued to smile and extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Good start. He was already lying.
“You too,” I lied back, biting my lower lip. I wanted to slap the smile off his face.
He waved to the door to the back offices. “Shall we go to my office?” he said. “How may I be of assistance?”
I could tell fr
om his pursed lips and curiosity in his eyes that while he might not know how he could be of assistance, he undoubtedly knew who I was. I didn’t respond until we were in his office, where he offered me coffee or water. I said yes to coffee. That would buy time to calm down.
He slowly walked to a black Bunn coffeemaker on a glass and steel table in the corner. Photos of classic Jaguars in flattering settings were on the wall over the coffee machine.
He handed me coffee in the obligatory Jaguar mug. I took a sip and took slight comfort in the aroma. “Mr. Humboldt,” I said, “I don’t know if you know who I am, but I’m from Folly Beach and am the ex-husband of Joan McCandless.”
He sat in an all-black mesh Aeron chair behind a contemporary glass and steel desk that matched the coffeemaker table. His elbows rested on the desk. Other than his elbows, all that was on the desk was a miniature version of the Jaguar symbol that was in front of the dealership, a black Montblanc pen, and a gray legal pad. Humboldt would be a good poker player. He showed no emotion or recognition.
“I see,” he said. “Isn’t this a long way to come to buy a car? There are excellent Jaguar dealers between your island and Knoxville.” He grinned, artificial at best.
“Then let me explain,” I said. Here it goes; stay calm. “For some reason—God knows why—Joan called me after her husband was killed. I hadn’t heard from her in nearly twenty-five years. We had been married, and she walked out on me.” Humboldt remained impassive. “She left me in ruins—I was broke, depressed, and suicidal.”
“I see,” he said for the second time. His hands were clasped together.
“She told me her husband had died and that she wanted to give me something,” I continued with a chuckle. My eyes narrowed. “She wouldn’t say what. I figured she owed me big time. But who knows.” I shrugged and leaned forward. “Anyway, I have a small business on Folly, a business that’s sucking wind. Maybe Joan wanted to give me money—guilt money for deserting me.” I hesitated, but Humboldt remained still and silent. “What the hell, I thought, and drove over here to see if I’d hit the lottery.”
