Missing

by Bill Noel

  “Hope so,” I said, optimistically. “We have a herd of them available, and with an executive sales manager now on staff, I expect miracles.”

  “Then I’ve come to the rescue,” said Charles. “Speaking of rescue, a little bird told me that you’re trying to find a missing person.”

  Charles had always amazed me with his sources, but this one threw me. I hadn’t told anyone other than Karen and the chief. Neither of them would have said anything to him.

  “Little bird have a name?” I said.

  “Yep,” said Charles, who then took his cane to the office in back and threw his hat on the table that served as a dining area, work area, argument area, and, most days after six, bar at Landrum Gallery.

  I followed. “Could you tell me who it is?”

  He grinned. “Yep.”

  Charles and I were extraordinarily unlikely best friends. This was one of the moments I wondered why.

  “Who was it?” I asked, as directly as possible.

  “Dude,” said Charles.

  “Where did he hear it?” I said, choosing my words carefully. Jim “Dude” Sloan was the owner of the surf shop, an aging hippy who came to the beach more than a quarter of a century ago, and, as he said, “forgot to leave.”

  Charles went to the small refrigerator in the corner, took out two Diet Pepsi’s, and handed me one. “Got to tell you everything, don’t I?”

  “Yep,” I said and smiled.

  “Dude said he was in the Pig ‘fetchin’ a butt roast and talkin’ a spell’ with Jacob Perkins.”

  “And Jacob told Dude that I told him that Samuel told me about a kidnapping,” I said.

  “Yep,” said Charles.

  “Why would Jacob tell Dude?” I asked and pulled the tab on the Pepsi.

  “Dude strikes folks like a cute puppy,” said Charles. “They take one look at his scrawny bod and his Arlo Guthrie look-alike hairdo and want to rub his scraggly, beardy chin and tell him things. Go figure.”

  Telling Dude things beat waiting for him to say anything that was longer than a half-dozen words. He seldom got out a complete sentence. He fit in on Folly like lawyers at a car wreck.

  “Did he say anything else?” I said.

  “Forget what Dude may have tried to say,” said Charles. “What’s up with the missing person? Found her yet?”

  I proceeded to tell Charles about my conversation with Samuel and then what his dad had to say about his son’s stories.

  “Believe Samuel or his dad?” he asked.

  “Not sure,” I said and leaned back in the wobbly, wooden chair. “I don’t know what Samuel saw, but I know whatever it was scared him. He wasn’t making it up.”

  “It still could have been exaggerated a tad. If his dad’s right, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I agreed with Charles but still couldn’t get past Samuel’s fear.

  CHAPTER 9

  I WAS HAVING LUNCH IN THE LOST DOG CAFÉ WHILE Charles performed his executive sales manager duties at the gallery.

  “Remember Constance Garvin, the missing grad student from Columbia?” said Chief Brian Newman without preamble. He towered over me as he stood at the table.

  “Sure,” I said. “Was it her?”

  He reached for the notebook in his breast pocket of his blue, flowery Hawaiian shirt but pulled his hand away. “No, sorry.” He looked at the seat on the opposite side of my favorite table. “Join you?”

  “Sure.”

  Amber set a Mason jar of tea in front of the chief before he noticed her. She was in her midforties and as attractive as she had been the first time I’d seen her in the Dog six years ago. Her auburn hair was pulled back and held in place with a rubber band. She and the dog in the restaurant’s logo on her T-shirt smiled at Brian. He ordered a Folly mahi salad and gave my half-eaten hot dog piled with cheese and onions a nasty look. I wasn’t nearly as concerned about my diet as both Amber and Brian were about what I ate.

  “What’s the story?” I said.

  “It appears that little Miss Garvin took off a couple of days after her spat with her boyfriend and ended up in Destin, Florida. She pouted, felt sorry for herself, frequented the area bars for a week, got a sunburn on parts of her body that shouldn’t have seen the light of day, and then called her parents.”

  “So we’re back to zero on missing persons,” I said.

  “Afraid so,” said Brian, “I checked before coming over. There’s only one new report, and it’s a guy.”

  “So that’s all we can do?” I said.

  He rubbed his chin, stirred a packet of real sugar into his tea, took a sip, and then said, “There are a few scattered missing person databases in surrounding states, but I don’t have access. Unless something comes up, all we have is the word of a teenager who saw something in the dark.”

  * * *

  The bleak economy, my bleak outlook, and knowing that Charles would take care of the rare customer who wandered in contributed to my overall lack of enthusiasm for opening the gallery. Business had never been good. Before moving to my island heaven, I had sold my photos at art shows across middle America. Owning a gallery had been my dream, so when I retired early, I needed to find out if I could make it work. For reasons I will never understand, Charles had latched on to me and cheerfully thrown himself into the project. Income had never approached expenses, but the first two years were manageable. Then the economy tanked, and, as hard as it was to believe, vacationers didn’t put wall art on the same level as food and shelter. Go figure.

  If it hadn’t been for an unexpected inheritance from a near stranger, I would have closed Landrum Gallery two years ago. I now kept it open more for something to do than the belief that I would ever sell enough to cover expenses. Since the death of my ex six months ago, the distractions of the gallery and a few close friends were all that kept me sane.

  Saturdays were the only days where enthusiasm overcame my apathy for opening. Occasionally, an influx of photo buyers required me to help Charles. I popped out of bed earlier than usual and looked forward to picking up a cup of coffee from Bert’s and walking the few blocks to the gallery before the sweltering August heat enveloped the island. I opened the front door and came within inches of stepping on Samuel’s left hand. He was sitting on the step and leaning back; both hands rested on the ledge near the screen door.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Landrum,” he said and jumped up. He brushed off the seat of his plaid shorts and moved away from the door so I could get out.

  I smiled at the awkward teen. “Selling encyclopedias?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  I realized that my reference was lost on Samuel. If he knew what an encyclopedia was, he would be referring to an online version. To think that someone would actually go door-to-door selling a multivolume, heavy set of books would have been a totally foreign concept to the youth of America.

  “Never mind,” I said. “What brings you out this early?” I pointed toward Bert’s. “I’m going over for coffee and then to the gallery. Want to tag along?”

  “Umm, okay, part of the way,” he said and walked in step with me across the yard to the grocery’s property.

  “How long were you there?”

  “About an hour,” he said as if his actions were normal. “It was early, and I didn’t want to bother you. Didn’t want to wake you up. I sort of figured you’d come out sometime.”

  We reached the double-door entry to Bert’s. I was greeted by Eric, one of the long-term employees and typical characters who either worked at or frequented the grocery. Eric was behind the counter and holding a dog treat for one of the island’s many canine residents. Samuel and I walked past the counter to the coffee urn along the side wall.

  Samuel moved closer and whispered, “Dad told me that you two talked about me. Said you talked about what I saw.”

  I nodded.
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br />   “He told you that I just thought I saw the lady being taken—abducted or kidnapped, or whatever, or …” He paused and looked toward the ceiling like he was trying to come up with another word to describe what he saw. “I might have sort of only thought I saw some other things in the past, like a submarine. Dad thinks I make stuff up.”

  No use pretending otherwise. “He did say something like that.”

  “I had to tell you that I really did see, you know, the lady getting taken. I … I’m grateful about how you treat me … like an adult. I know what Dad thinks.” He nodded. “He may be right about some of it.”

  I nodded again and filled my coffee cup.

  “Dad’s wrong this time, Mr. Landrum. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Samuel,” I said. “I do believe you saw something happen. I don’t think you made it up.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Landrum.” Samuel looked over at Eric and down at the second dog that led its owner through the store on a leash. He kept his eyes on the dog but said, “What can we do about it?”

  Good question, I thought.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t,” I said. “Let me think about it.”

  He looked at me. His eyes were sadder than the basset hound’s that had just entered with one of the cooks from Planet Follywood. He was counting on me to do what?

  “So,” I said hoping to change the subject, “seen that girl again? The one you were looking for at the Oceanfront Villas?”

  He looked at the dog and then back to me. “You do remember stuff, don’t you?”

  I shrugged.

  He smiled. “Yeah, saw her yesterday by the pool at her condo. I was outside the fence and pretended like I was looking for a friend at the pool. Stood there for ten minutes before she saw me.”

  “Did you sweep her off her feet?”

  Samuel blushed and looked at the concrete floor. “You’re funny, Mr. Landrum. She did say hi and walked over. I told her I was looking for Jason. She said she hoped I found him and that she was going to be here another week and maybe we’d see each other again. Then her pesky younger brother came over and pulled her arm and said she needed to get back in the pool with him.”

  “Don’t guess Jason was at the pool?” I said and smiled.

  “You’re funny,” said Samuel. He gave me a big grin.

  I had succeeded with getting his mind off whatever he saw—or thought he saw. Now, how could I get my mind off it?

  CHAPTER 10

  THE DISTANCE FROM BERT’S TO THE GALLERY WAS fewer than a handful of blocks, but I was in no hurry to get there. My thoughts kept going back to how positive Samuel was about witnessing a crime and the trouble he had gone to this morning to walk to my house and sit on the steps for more than an hour so he wouldn’t wake me, all to convince me that he was telling the truth. I looked across Center Street at city hall. It not only was the seat of government for the tiny community but also served as the police and fire station. I had taken Samuel’s story to the chief; what else could I do?

  “About time you got here,” said Charles before I’d closed the door to the gallery. He looked at his bare wrist, the spot where most people wore a watch. Charles, being Charles, didn’t own a timepiece, but the gesture wasn’t lost on me. Timeliness in his world was either next to godliness or slightly above it.

  “Able to handle all the customers?” I asked. It was fifteen minutes before the gallery’s usual ten o’clock opening.

  He wore a white, long-sleeved T-shirt with what appeared to be the head of a bulldog in front of the letter T. I was not going to ask him about the shirt.

  He exhaled like he had been snowed under working the cash register. “Barely,” he said.

  “Glad I made it in time to save you,” I said as I looked around the customer-less gallery. “Who do you want me to help next?”

  “Funny,” he said, the second person this morning to make that astute observation. “Truman State University.” He pointed to the creature on his chest.

  I ignored him and walked to the back to see if he’d already started the coffee. He said something about bulldogs and Missouri, but I kept walking. He followed me and, fortunately, changed the topic.

  “Remember Aunt Melinda?” he asked.

  I poured out the lukewarm coffee from Bert’s and filled the cup from the old, but still operational, coffeemaker.

  “Who?”

  He sighed. “My aunt, Melinda. Remember? I told you about her.”

  I didn’t remember. “When?”

  “You know, back when we met?”

  “Oh,” I said. Did I need to remind him that was several years ago? “Guess I forgot?”

  “I keep forgetting about you old people’s memory.” He moved to the table and sat in the chair where he could see if anyone entered the gallery.

  I also chose not to remind him that he was only three years younger—presenile, he would say.

  “Aunt Melinda’s my mom’s sister. She was my role model when I was a pup.”

  I did remember that Charles was raised by his grandmother. His parents had died when he was younger than Samuel.

  Charles smiled. “I remember how she taught me to avoid work.”

  “Good teacher,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Charles, who thought it was a compliment. “She also taught me to cuss. That was big since I was growing up in a home with my nunnish, librarian grandmother who refused to check books out to anyone under the age of thirty if there was a cuss word between the covers.”

  Charles gazed at the door to the gallery but his mind was back in Detroit and in his youth. “Aunt Melinda also taught me to drink.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, she was too good at that. Grandma said that Aunt M. was an alcoholic. I didn’t know what that meant then, but I guess it was true.”

  “Did something happen to her?”

  He shook his head. “I called her when I landed on Folly.” He looked at the ceiling. “Then she called me, oh, it must have been fifteen years back to see if I was still here.”

  Charles reached in his pocket, pulled out a wrinkled envelope, and handed it to me.

  It was addressed in shaky, block letters to:

  Charles Fowler, Somewhere on Folly Beach

  Post Office, FIND HIM!!

  Folly Beach, South Carolina

  In the upper left corner, the return address read:

  Aunt Melinda

  Don’t You Dare Send This Back. Find Charles!

  I looked up at Charles and said that I was impressed with the United States Postal Service for getting the envelope to him. He leaned back in the chair and said, “They didn’t want to get on her bad side. That’s my Aunt Melinda.”

  I was almost afraid to open the envelope, but I did anyway. Inside was a baby blue sheet of paper the size of a note card. It had a border on two sides that looked like a climbing rosebush and in the middle in the same shaky block lettering that was on the envelope:

  Greyhound Station, North Charleston, wherever that is

  Sunday, August 18, 2:05 Afternoon

  Coming from Asheville

  See ya. You’ll recognize me—I’ll be the chick getting off a big ole bus.

  Aunt M.

  I looked back at the envelope. It was postmarked in Detroit three days ago.

  I double-checked the date. “That’s tomorrow,” I said.

  “Think I don’t know it?” said Charles. He picked up his cane from the table and waved it toward the door to the gallery. “What am I going to do?”

  I pointed the envelope at him. “This is the first you’ve heard from her in fifteen years?”

  He nodded.

  “Guess we’re going to the Greyhound station tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

  “No,” he said and shook his head. “You don’t have to go. You’ve got a gallery to ru
n.” He shook his head again. “Why’s she coming? What am I going to say? Hells bells, what are we going to do? How long will she be here?”

  I said exactly what Charles would have said if the tables had been turned. “What time are we leaving for the station?”

  He glared at me and started to say something. Then he hesitated and said, “One.”

  The bell over the front door rang before we could talk about his other excellent questions.

  “Yoo-hoo, Chris. Yoo-hoo, Chuckster. Anybody here?”

  The unmistakable voice of Heather Lee was followed by her peeking around the corner into our hangout. Heather was in her late forties, wholesomely attractive, with curly brown hair and, in Charles’s words, a cute-as-a-button freckled nose. She was also his girlfriend. “Made for each other,” was the phrase most people who knew both of them resorted with when describing their relationship. Heather prided herself in two things. She thought that she was a good country music singer and a psychic. Her psychic powers had never been completely refuted, but there was absolutely no disputing her ability to carry a tune, country or otherwise. She couldn’t—period.

  What everyone did agree on was her persistence. Every week, come hell or hurricane, she participated in open-mike night at Cal’s Country Bar and Burgers and was permitted to sing, using the term loosely, two songs. Cal, in a display of great wisdom, scheduled her performance for later in the night to allow his patrons to imbibe enough adult beverages not to care what the alleged singer warbled from the bandstand.

  Despite her vocal shortcomings, Heather had brought happiness, companionship, and a sense of control to Charles since they started dating three years ago. For that, I had become one of her biggest fans.

  Charles jumped up to greet his main squeeze. She was in work clothes, an off-white outfit that looked like a cross between medical scrubs and a karate uniform. Heather was a freelance massage therapist but worked primarily at Millie’s Salon, Folly’s premiere salon located in an old house less than a block off Center Street. Luckily for Heather’s economic outlook, she was a much better massage therapist than singer or psychic.