Missing

by Bill Noel

  I was tempted to take a nap and then call, but clearly he was agitated about something, and I didn’t know if the note had been there three minutes or three hours. Besides, curiosity got the better of me. I punched in the number on my phone.

  “Oh, Mr. Landrum!” Caller ID, one of the contributing factors in the deterioration of society, I thought. Samuel was nearly yelling. I heard voices in the background and then a loud vehicle as it passed close to the phone.

  I heard heavy breathing, but no one spoke. “Samuel, is that you?”

  I quickly learned why when there was a loud knock on the door. Samuel pushed it open and stuck his head in.

  “Can I come in?” he asked. He put his hand on his knee and bent over.

  He was already in the entry, so I didn’t see a wide range of choices. I waved him in and hit the end call button with my other hand. “Are you okay?” I said. “Where were you?”

  He tried to catch his breath. “At Bert’s waiting for you to call. Sat on the step a while but got too hot.” He pointed to the front step.

  I offered him a drink but he said he already had four Cokes at Bert’s. He said he felt bad about hanging around there for two hours without buying anything.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Have you heard?’ he said.

  “What?”

  “They found her. They found the lady I saw. She’s dead.”

  Samuel was having trouble breathing, so I had him sit. I sat on the stool in front of him.

  “I haven’t heard anything,” I said.

  He took a deep breath, looked down at the floor, and then looked up at me. “This morning around eleven, I was over by the Oceanfront Villas just hanging out.”

  I smiled. “Looking for the cute girl?”

  “Sort of,” said Samuel. “Anyway, I heard the sirens from two of the fire trucks. They were going west on Ashley. I heard them for a long time so I figured they were going far out the road.”

  Ashley Avenue is the longest street on Folly Beach and runs nearly the entire length of the six-mile-long island.

  “I didn’t think any more of it until I started back home. One of those orange and white ambulances whizzed past me on Center Street and then turned on Ashley. I sort of knew something bad happened. Then I really knew it when I saw that big Live5News van going the same way the ambulance did.”

  “What happened?” I wanted to move the story along.

  “I figured that whatever happened was too far away for me to walk, so I did what my dad said everyone did if they wanted to find out the scoop on things. I went to the Lost Dog Café and sidled up to the counter and ordered a Coke.”

  “Good plan,” I said. That’s what I would have done.

  “I didn’t think I was ever going to hear anything, but then that city councilman who’s always in there came in. You know, the one who’s always talking.”

  Only one person immediately came to mind. “Mr. Salmon—Marc Salmon?”

  “Wow, you’re good,” said Samuel. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  I didn’t tell Samuel that I didn’t have to stretch my brain on that one.

  “What happened?” I tried again.

  “He was telling some guy I didn’t know that a body of a woman had washed up on the beach out at the Folly Beach County Park. Life guards pulled her out of the surf.”

  The county park was a public beach on the far west end of the island and stood between the Atlantic and the Folly River. It had been closed for a few years because of beach erosion but recently reopened. It’s a popular spot for day-trippers because of its beach and nearby parking, in which are in short supply in season.

  “Why do you think it’s who you saw?” I asked. “Couldn’t it have been someone that drowned today? Could be someone who got caught in a rip current?”

  “No,” he said emphatically. “It’s her.” He shivered and shook his head. “I know it’s her. Mr. Salmon said the body was all bloated and chopped up by sea stuff. She had regular clothes on, not a bathing suit.” He shook his head. “She didn’t die today. It’s her, Mr. Landrum.”

  If the body had been in the water a while, it could be the person Samuel saw. It also went through my mind again that Samuel’s imagination could be running wild.

  “I think I need to go to the police,” said Samuel. “Need to tell them about the lady, sort of what she looked like, when I saw her being taken. I’m sort of scared.” He paused and tilted his head in my direction. “Will you go with me?”

  Doing nothing was clearly not an option as far as Samuel was concerned. I had already told Chief Newman what Samuel had allegedly seen but didn’t give the chief details—didn’t know them, so I really couldn’t have.

  Thoughts of a nap were long gone, and Samuel needed support if he was going to the police station.

  “Of course I will,” I said. Besides, my curiosity was in high gear.

  * * *

  Samuel and I headed to the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety, located on the second floor of city hall. The large, coral-colored building was at the corner of Center Street, fewer than three blocks from the house. It was still steaming hot, but also Sunday, which meant I wouldn’t have found a nearby parking place. We decided to walk. My shirt was soaked when we arrived. I would have kicked myself for walking, but it would have taken too much energy.

  “Chief Newman’s not in,” said a young officer who opened the door after I hesitantly knocked. “I’m Officer O’Hara. May I help you?”

  O’Hara was trim, five foot five or so, and handsome with almost feminine features. I introduced myself and my young companion and said that I didn’t recall seeing the officer before. He said he had been on the force for less than a year—which could have been eleven minutes or eleven months, thirty days. He also said that he was certain that he could help us. A bit cocky, I thought. I looked toward the door as a hint to be invited in. I didn’t want to share Samuel’s story in the corridor.

  O’Hara invited us to the small conference room in the bowels of the remodeled offices. City hall also housed the fire department, which had recently been expanded to hold the island’s growing fleet of firefighting equipment. Samuel was clearly ill at ease and kept looking around as if someone was going to throw him in a cell.

  “There’s no jail here,” I joked, hoping to calm my nervous friend.

  “Oh,” he said. “Then where are all the bad guys?”

  “I arrest them and haul them off to jail in Charleston,” said O’Hara, showing nary a glint of humor.

  I thought his choice of “I” was interesting. Maybe he was more than a bit cocky.

  O’Hara waited for Samuel and me to sit in two of the four old metal chairs situated around a small wooden table before he lowered himself into one of the remaining two chairs.

  He leaned back in his chair. “What’s so important?” he snapped.

  I looked at Samuel and then to O’Hara. “My friend has something to tell you that may have something to do with the body that was found today.”

  O’Hara glanced at Samuel, who was sitting erect with his hands resting together on the table, and then turned back to me. “What?”

  I wanted to tell the overbearing cop that we’d wait to talk to either Chief Newman or Officer Cindy LaMond—two people who would actually have cared—instead of wasting our time with him. We were here and Samuel was already fidgeting, so I refrained and politely asked Samuel to tell the officer what he had seen.

  Samuel looked at me and then turned to O’Hara. He sat up even straighter in his chair. “I saw a lady kidnapped, or as Mr. Landrum here likes to say, abducted,” said Samuel.

  For the first time, O’Hara focused on Samuel. He leaned close to the table and was no farther than three feet from my friend’s face. “When? Where?”

  Samuel took a deep breath and then told his story, near
ly word for word the same as he’d shared with me. He described what she was wearing and what kind of car the abductor drove. He left out the part about being at the Oceanfront Villas to see a girl, but there wasn’t any need to clutter the story with that excellent teenager reason for being there.

  O’Hara began taking notes once he figured that Samuel might actually have seen something. Samuel had left out when he had seen the alleged abduction, and when O’Hara asked again, Samuel shared that it was last Wednesday.

  “Are you sure?” asked O’Hara. He looked up from his notepad and tapped his pen on the table.

  Samuel said he was. Officer O’Hara wrote the date down and underlined it twice. He seemed relieved and asked Samuel two more times if he could recognize either person if he saw them again. Samuel said that he didn’t know. At this point, O’Hara looked bored, and didn’t hide his efforts to dismiss us. He said he was glad we came in and that he would tell the chief. I’d wager that he had no intention of telling anyone. I didn’t share that the chief and I were friends and that I’d be reporting my meeting with one of the chief’s public servants, using the term rather loosely. Brian wouldn’t be pleased.

  Samuel and I left the cool but unwelcoming police station and stepped out into the heat of the day.

  “That guy’s got that puny-guy disease, don’t he?”

  I laughed. Samuel meant small-man syndrome, and he had hit the short nail on the head. “He thinks a bit too much about himself,” I said, trying to be as polite as possible. “He’s just doing his job.”

  “Not very good,” said Samuel.

  Not very good, indeed, I thought and nodded.

  “Think he believed me?” asked Samuel. “He sort of wrote the stuff down, but didn’t care about anything other than if I was sure when I saw the kidna … the abduction.”

  “He may not have been polite,” I said, “but he got all the details. He also said he’d tell the chief.”

  We walked side by side down Center Street toward the ocean until we reached the island’s sole traffic light. At the corner I told him that I was heading home, and he said that he would go the opposite direction and walk by the Oceanfront Villas a few times. He didn’t say it, but I knew that meant he was hoping to see the vacationer of his dreams. He also started to say something else but couldn’t quite get it out.

  “What?” I asked as we stood in the shade of the nearby restaurant.

  “I know a lady was taken. She didn’t want to go. They weren’t horsing around,” he said and then turned in the direction of the alleged abduction. “What can we do, Mr. Landrum?”

  I wasn’t pleased with the brush-off we had received at the police station but wanted to shelter Samuel as much as possible.

  “There’s nothing else you can or should do,” I said. “You took your story to the police, and they got what information you had. They know where to reach you if they want to talk again or show you pictures of either the lady or the man.”

  Samuel jerked back like I’d slapped his face. “You don’t think they’re going to show me pictures of the puffy, chopped-up lady from the park, do you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I’d sort of throw up if they did.” He hesitated and shook his head. He reminded me of a dog shaking water off its fur. “It really is her. I know it is.” He stared me in the eyes. “It really is her.”

  My naive wish for a nap was long gone, so the second thing I did when I got to the air-conditioned comfort of my cottage was to call Charles. The first thing was to take off my sweat-soaked golf shirt and hang it on a kitchen chair. Charles had talked recently about buying a cell phone, but despite his significant inheritance, he hadn’t taken that major leap into the current century. An answering machine was another piece of electronic gadgetry that he had stubbornly resisted. After five rings, I knew that I wouldn’t be getting an update on what he was doing with Aunt Melinda and turned my attention to which gourmet delicacy I would prepare for supper. Bologna won out over peanut butter, and I had a quiet meal. I tried to put Samuel’s situation out of my mind.

  I failed.

  CHAPTER 14

  HOW WAS YOUR ROOM?” I ASKED.

  “Fit for a queen,” said Melinda. “Weren’t any queens there, so they let me stay.” She laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever said. I hoped it wasn’t.

  Charles, Melinda, and I were sitting at my favorite booth at the Dog. Charles had called and asked if I wanted to pick him up, gather Melinda from the hotel, and then take them to a late breakfast. Charles was generous like that. Since I was curious about how they were getting along and especially interested in what her plans were, I agreed to play chauffeur.

  Melinda wore a bright red blouse that was so wrinkled it looked more like linen than polyester. The second button was missing, and her white shorts had a purple stain on the right leg. Her bird-thin legs, somewhere between light gray and the hue of milk, reflected life in the north. Her eyes had lost the bloodshot look that greeted us when she walked off the bus yesterday. She looked refreshed.

  Amber was quick to the table with menus, Ball jars full of water, and unconstrained curiosity. Charles introduced Melinda to Amber and shared that Amber was the greatest, kindest, sweetest, and most attractive waitress south of Barrow, Alaska. He told Amber that Melinda was by far his most favorite relative and that even if they hadn’t been related, she’d be his most favorite old person, next to “old Chris here.”

  I smiled and hoped Amber had other tables to wait on. She did, and she said she’d give Melinda a chance to look over the menu.

  Melinda selected the breakfast burrito and then looked around the restaurant and scratched her left arm. “Think I’m getting fleas.”

  Charles looked around. Each wall was covered with photos of dogs: dogs of customers, dogs as customers, dogs of the world, and dogs of every shape, size, and socioeconomic strata. He smiled. “Now, Aunt M., they’re only photos. There aren’t any fleas in here.”

  She reached over, scratched Charles’s left arm, and then smiled. “Bet there’s a picture of a flea.” She paused and looked around the room again. “Glad it’s not named the Cobra Café.”

  More evidence that Charles and Melinda were related. As fascinating as the discussion was, I wondered what plans they had made about her stay. Charles’s apartment was too small to accommodate her. Even though her room at the Tides was fit for a queen, neither Charles nor, I suspected, Melinda had the resources to afford a stay of months, could be a year.

  “Did you decide where Melinda will be hanging her hat?” I asked.

  “Don’t know about my hat,” she said and continued to look around at the canine images, “but Charles said he knew the perfect place to park my wig.” She looked at Charles and patted his arm instead of scratching it again. “I’ve never mistaken my nephew for perfect, so I took his suggestion with a grain of sea salt.”

  “Now, Aunt M., I said I’d take care of you.” Charles squeezed her hand and turned toward me. “I thought Mariner’s Breeze would be nice. What do you think?”

  I thought, thanks for putting me on the spot but said, “Sounds great.”

  Mariner’s Breeze had seen great times, a thriving bed-and-breakfast business, and popularity that had spanned several states. Unfortunately, that had been some thirty years ago. It was now a large two-story building with paint peeling in chunks from its formerly white exterior. Occasionally, an unsuspecting vacationer would find an old brochure that touted the bed-and-breakfast and be politely told that yes, rooms could be rented for the night, but the breakfast part of B&B was served off-site, which was hospitality-speak for “find breakfast wherever you want to eat, just not here.” After the new, attractive, upscale Water’s Edge Inn bed-and-breakfast opened a few years ago, most of Mariner’s Breeze’s rooms and suites were converted to long-term, low-cost rentals.

  Despite its shortcomings, and there we
re many, Mariner’s Breeze was located on premium real estate. It backed up to the marsh and the Folly River and had a fantastic sunset view. “Perfect” would not have been a word I would have used to describe Charles’s choice of lodging, but the rooms were clean, it was less than a half block from Charles’s apartment, and Heather, his main squeeze, lived there.

  “Good,” said Melinda. She looked around again. “Got to go to the pups’ powder room.” She pointed her finger in the direction of the kitchen, and then the outside patio, and then behind our booth.

  Charles told her that the restroom, the one for people, was around the corner in front of the T-shirt display. She slowly pushed herself from the table and headed in that direction.

  I leaned closer to Charles. “Can she afford Mariner’s Breeze?” I whispered.

  “She’s got money,” said Charles. “Maybe a lot. I asked her if she needed help with the rent. She held her chin up high and said, ‘I’ve got a few dollars, thank you.’”

  Charles looked at the next table and commented on the weather to a young couple having a peaceful breakfast. They smiled, mumbled something about it being hot, and then returned to their food.

  I patiently waited for him to turn his attention back to our table. “Learn more about her health?” I asked.

  Charles started to answer but looked over my right shoulder and smiled. “Welcome back, Aunt M.”

  “There’re even dogs in there,” she said, shook her head, and pointed toward the restroom.

  “Hmm,” said Charles, clearly not interested in any further discussion about four-legged creatures.

  Amber returned with our food, and Melinda told her that they needed to get together sometime. Melinda said she wanted to catch up on the gossip about her favorite relative and that good-looking other gentleman sitting at the table. She looked at me and said, “The one who seems to like Charles for no apparent reason.” Amber told her she doubted that Melinda had enough time to hear everything.