by Bill Noel
Hadn’t he accused me of the same thing days earlier? I saw concern on his face, ignored his slightly exaggerated analysis of the crime, and apologized for making him work so hard.
“How did you know?” I asked as we slowly walked to the car. My arm didn’t feel pain, but it also didn’t feel anything.
“The first hint was when I heard your suitcase slam the wall between our rooms. After all, I am a detective, and I detected that something was amiss. Then I put my ear to the wall and heard two voices,” he said. “Knew you weren’t a ventriloquist and detected that there was more than one person in there. One of you was extremely unhappy.” He grinned and gazed at my patched-up arm. “Is that enough of an explanation, or do you want more?”
I offered a doped-up smile and said that would do.
“Good,” he said. “Then I won’t tell you that I detected that a television smashing against the wall wasn’t a good sign.”
Even in my drugged state, I’d heard enough foolishness. “You said you’d been helping the police. What’s happened?”
“Glad you asked. Officer Norton arrived on a white steed, or perhaps it was his Explorer. He told his colleagues who the good guys were and who weren’t—that’s why there isn’t a cop here to haul you away.” He looked both ways and then eased the SUV on the road back to Gatlinburg and the hotel. “I told them about your half-assed plan to catch the bad guys.”
“Our plan,” I corrected for no worthwhile reason.
“Yeah,” he said. “Here’s the kicker. Kevin and I told the other cops that there was a good chance that Humboldt’s partner in Jag-o-Knox, the guy with the stupid name, Alil Bunson or Munson, is as involved as Humboldt.”
“It’s Munson. And?” I said. I was exhausted. I would be beyond sore once the meds wore off, not to mention slightly confused about the entire chain of events. Get to the point! I screamed in my head.
“And, impatient one, the cops hooked up with the fuzz in Knoxville and made a late night visit to Mr. Munson. He got real vague about the mileage scam, falsifying documents, and money laundering, but he told the detectives that he knew his business partner had been on Folly Beach for a week or so.” He tapped the horn. “Idiot,” he mumbled toward a yellow Chevy Malibu that pulled out in front of us. He shook his head. “Where was I? Oh yeah. Munson even confessed that he overheard Tag talking to one of the service techs who had installed an imitation LoJack contraption on Joan’s Jag when she bought it.”
“Imitation LoJack contraption?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” said Charles. “It’s something that lets a car’s owner track it if it’s stolen.” He shrugged. “The cop said it uses GPS to tell where the car is. And don’t ask me anything about it. I still don’t know how a radio works. I’m just saying the cops said that’s how he tracked Joan to Folly.”
“That answers one big question,” I said. “Okay, back to your story.”
“About time,” he said. “Of course, Munson didn’t know who Tag was talking about. He also said he suspected good ole Tag of having something to do with the demise of Joan’s hubby.” Charles lifted both hands from the wheel and waved toward the windshield. “But of course, he knew nothing for sure, and that’s why he didn’t tell the police.” Charles rolled his eyes and said, “Right!”
“So that’s it?” I said.
“One more thing; you’ll like this. I suggested to Kevin that he might ask his detectives to fib a bit to Munson. They told him that they had a witness who saw a car waiting in the pull-off area near where Joan’s poor hubby went over the cliff about the time of the accident. And amazing as it might seem, the imaginary witness may be able to identify the person who was sitting in the car. Pretty smart on my part, don’t you think?”
“Depends,” I said. “What happened?”
Charles nodded with a huge smile. “The cops said that the sleazy car dealer lawyered up before they could finish the sentence. I think his mileage scam will be the least of his worries—I sure do.”
“Great,” I said to my full-of-himself friend. Maybe it was over. Finally over.
Charles wasn’t done. “I also told my new best friend Kevin Norton what Sean told you about the overpayment to Daniel, and how Sean speculated that it was because Daniel knew too much about the scam and they tried to buy him off.” Charles yawned. “Kevin was going to have a detective contact Sean.” He punched me on the knee—one of my few good appendages—and smiled. “Of course, you could clear it all up.”
“How?”
“Give them the envelope with all the proof.”
If only I had one, I thought.
CHAPTER 59
The next day zapped most of the energy I had left. A pain in my left arm woke me about six in the morning. I took another pain pill but was too awake when it kicked in to go back to sleep. Charles had offered to stay in my room, but I declined. I told him that if I needed anything, I’d throw the television against the wall.
Karen would be at work, and I called to let her know what had happened. She feigned anger, calling me brain-dead for what I’d done. I told her it was all Charles’s idea, and she said, “Uh-huh, sure.” Then she asked when we would be home.
“Tonight,” I replied.
“Please hurry,” she said. “Call when you’re near.”
I took that as a good sign.
We were at the police station at nine o’clock and had to tell our story two more times—once to the Gatlinburg police and again to two detectives from Knoxville. They followed Karen’s lead and called us brain-dead but in more polite terms. They also said that Officer Norton had violated a slew of procedures by helping, but since it resulted in catching the killer of one of the city’s more prominent citizens, he would save his job and only have a reprimand put in his file. He told them it was worth it.
By noon, I was exhausted but famished. Unbeknown to me, Charles, my after-catching-a-murderer event coordinator, had arranged for Charlene to meet us at the Pancake Pantry for a congratulatory and going-away luncheon.
She approached me for a hug but couldn’t figure out where to squeeze. I said it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Of course, I could have been wrong since I was still medicated. She thanked us, and then thanked us again, for figuring out the tragic murders of her friends. Daniel’s and Joan’s killer would have lived happily ever after if it weren’t for us, she said. She also told me how happy Joan was the night before she left for Folly Beach. Joan had told her that she might be able to right something that she had wronged eons ago.
Drugged or not, I couldn’t hold back tears. Charles took the conversation from there and took it to a lighter conclusion—something I would thank him for later.
We said good-bye to both Charlene and Gatlinburg.
* * *
We were on I-26, on the Charleston side of Columbia. The snow was now behind us. The allure of Folly Beach, sand, the ocean, and good friends was ahead.
“Something’s wrong with this picture,” said Charles.
I looked over at him behind the wheel. He was seated erectly in the driver’s seat and carefully keeping his eyes on the road. “Wrong?” I said. “What picture?”
He continued to gaze straight ahead but pointed his right forefinger at me. “There is Chris Landrum, owner of a tiny photo gallery at the beach. He solves two murders and an explosion.” He then pointed his finger at his right ear. “And here’s Charles Fowler, owner and sole employee of the Charles Detective Agency. All he sort of solves is the theft of some firewater by a passel of ghosts led by Frank Fontana, a poor guy who died trying to save two little girls in 1957. As President Bill Clinton once said, ‘It was not my best hour. It was not even my best hour and a half.’”
“Could be that Frank Fontana finally saved someone,” I said.
“Dawn?” he said.
I nodded. Charles then glanced away from the road and toward me. “Know w
hat she told me before she left?”
“What?”
“Said that she stole the money and whiskey.”
Not quite breaking news, I thought. “So?”
We passed a semi, and then Charles looked my way again. “Said she didn’t prop that case on the shelf that fell on me. Didn’t cut the electric cord either.”
“You believe her?” I asked.
“Want to,” he said.
Good nonanswer. “Then who did?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Ghosts.”
He put both hands back on the wheel and rammed his foot on the accelerator. We raced past a classic white Ford Mustang. “Whee!” said Charles.
Whee, indeed.
