Missing

by Bill Noel

  Charles waited for her to leave the table. “That’s why Chris and I have a plan to end this madness.”

  That got my attention.

  “We’re going to catch the killer real soon-like,” he said.

  And I doubted he had a plan.

  “How?” she asked.

  “Now don’t you clutter your sweet mind with all that,” said Charles. “We’ve got it under control.”

  I should have chosen donuts.

  CHAPTER 31

  KAREN CALLED IN MIDAFTERNOON TO SAY THAT SHE was sick of the grime of the city and the lowlifes she had spent all morning running down while gathering leads on a double homicide off Meeting Street. She hinted that a picnic on the beach overlooking the Morris Island Lighthouse would be a pleasant way to wash the crime grime away. I readily took the hint and offered that if she picked up sandwiches, I’d provide the libation, transportation, and scrub brush. I asked if her hair would be the same color as it was the last time I saw her. She asked why. I said that if she was good, I’d tell her later. She asked me to define “good.” I saw a pleasant night ahead.

  “So, what’s with the question about my hair color?”

  The temperature was still mild, and it was an hour until sunset. We were walking along the paved road that had gone through the middle of the coast guard station before it had been decommissioned. Stanchions blocked motorized traffic about a quarter of a mile before the road switched to sand and led down a hill to the beach. Labor Day was still a week away, and several groups of vacationers walked toward us on their way to their cars or houses.

  I gave her an abbreviated description of Melinda’s wig metamorphosis and told her to leave her hair the color it was; it contrasted nicely with her sea-green blouse and tan shorts. She said that she was more of a tempestuous teal girl. I suggested that she hold the teal, but if she wanted to be tempestuous, I wouldn’t object. Even before we reached the shore line, she said that she felt the crime grime waning. I asked her to leave some for me to scrub off.

  “I will, but you’ll have to find it,” she said with a sultry growl.

  We spread an old blanket that I kept in the SUV for … well, for any time I needed an old blanket. It took up little space and was handy. Karen had picked up two box suppers at a neighborhood deli close to her house, and I contributed a bottle of midpriced Chardonnay from Bert’s.

  There was only a handful of people on the beach. Two women in their early twenties leaned against a row of Mini Cooper–sized boulders off to our right. They giggled and smoked something. They found humor in everything, and I suspected that their smoke of choice wasn’t tobacco. Karen glanced their way once and said, “Whatever.” A young mother with twin boys walked off to our left. The lighthouse looked lonely as water lapped its base. The roar of waves crashing on the beach provided soothing background music.

  Karen started quickly on the wine but slowed after the first refill of her plastic cup. I debated telling her about the attack and decided I’d wait until a more appropriate time. She didn’t need to hear more about crime.

  She scooted close, her shoulder touching mine. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since early this morning,” she said. “Thanks for the shoulder to lean on.” She giggled. “Regardless of how clichéd it is.”

  “I suppose you could have easily leaned on that driftwood over there.” I pointed to a large tree that had washed ashore years ago.

  “I could, but it didn’t bring wine.”

  “True,” I said. “Or a scrub brush.”

  “Guess you’ll do,” she said and elbowed my shoulder.

  The sun setting behind us lit the undersides of a flock of seagulls gracefully flying low between us and the lighthouse.

  We spent the next hour talking about absolutely nothing before noticing that the sun had disappeared and the only light was reflected off low, puffy clouds. We walked hand in hand back to civilization.

  An hour later, I had scrubbed the remaining crime grime off Karen and we sat in matching shirts, both mine, in my living room listening to a Four Seasons CD and finishing off the second bottle of Chardonnay.

  “I forgot to tell you earlier,” she said and yawned, “remember the missing girl, Chelsea Hall?”

  I winced. “Dead?”

  Karen smiled. “Far from it. She called home from Spokane, Washington. Seems that she’d decided she wanted to see the Pacific Northwest and didn’t think that anyone would care if she was gone. In a millisecond her parents went from worry, to relief, to anger, to ‘I’ll kill you if you ever do anything like that again.’”

  “It’s still good news,” I said.

  Karen nodded and then yawned again. I was about to tell her about the incident with Charles but figured sleep was more important.

  It was the first good night’s sleep I’d had since Samuel appeared on my doorstep. My back didn’t even ache. The sun had already peeked over the Atlantic when Bob jarred me out of a peaceful sleep. I grabbed the phone so it wouldn’t wake Karen but discovered that her side of the bed was empty. Bob said that he had some information and wanted me to meet him at his office. In the six-plus years that I had known him, I had been in his office once, so I was surprised and curious about his request.

  A note by the coffee pot let me know that Karen had to be in the office early. A strong cup of coffee would be critical to putting up with Bob this early in the morning. Some of our mutual friends would say that a shot of bourbon would work better.

  CHAPTER 32

  BOB’S PT CRUISER CONVERTIBLE WAS IN THE GRAVEL lot when I arrived. I smiled when I saw its top down. I recalled the first time I had met the curmudgeonly Realtor when he appeared in his convertible, top down, and he drove me around the island in the rain as we looked for a house. He had said that “come holy hell or hurricane” he was going to drive his car “as God intended,” top down—and “don’t call it purple; it’s dark plum,” he had added.

  The small lot held two other cars, Louise Carson’s quarter-of-a-century-old, rusting Oldsmobile and a relatively new, black Chrysler 300, owner unknown. Louise was the only person I saw as I opened the front door. Her left ear leaned close to the police scanner. She looked up, broke into a wide smile, and stood to greet me. I walked around the counter and gave her a hug.

  “Is you-know-who here?” I asked as I stood back and admired her dress. which looked almost identical to the one she had worn the last time I’d seen her.

  She pointed her finger toward the back. “In his luxurious office suite. Go on back. He said some worthless geezer would be in. Guess that was you.”

  “He sure makes visitors feel welcome,” I said.

  “Part of his charm,” she said and then winked.

  Bob’s luxurious office suite was an eight-by-ten room in a newer four-office addition behind the main building. To maintain the character of the original structure, the walls were covered with the same whitewashed wooden panels, a small window was high up on the wall, and Bob’s desk and bookshelf continued the outer office theme—beat-up, battleship gray surplus store rejects. Two side chairs that looked like they’d had an earlier life in a greasy-spoon diner took up most of the remaining floor space.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” growled Bob, who matched the decor. He was wedged between the desk and the wall and made no effort to stand.

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to start my day any other way,” I said and smiled.

  A corkboard behind him held a handful of fact sheets on oceanfront properties and an oval sticker that said, “Wag more, bark less.”

  “You training dogs now?” I said and pointed to the sticker.

  He turned and looked. “Damned staff gave it to me. They thought it would remind my snotty-nosed, whiney clients to be nicer to me.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. “No doubt,” I said.

  He turned back to me and then looked at his w
atch. “Didn’t ask you here to waste time. I could be selling houses, condos, horse farms, and skyscrapers.”

  I smiled again and patiently waited.

  “Got someone for you to meet,” he said and then bellowed, “Alexander, get your ass in here!”

  Thirty seconds later, a young man stood in the doorway. He was in his late twenties, trim with sharp features; his dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he looked as nervous as a goldfish at a cat show.

  “Yes, Mr. Howard.”

  I’d never heard anyone call Bob Mr. Howard.

  “Park your butt,” said Bob in his least wag more voice.

  Alexander obeyed, and his knees nearly touched mine.

  Bob pointed to the new arrival. “That’s Alexander. He’s a wet-behind-the-ears Realtor I hired last summer. Damned if I know why.” He then pointed at me. “Chris Landrum, a very good friend of mine. Damned if I know why.”

  With both of our egos boosted, I nodded to Alexander, and he returned the gesture.

  “Alexander,” said Bob, “tell my bud what you told me yesterday. Don’t leave anything out or you’ll be flipping burgers again.”

  Bob, despite his bluster, was an outstanding Realtor. If he had hired Alexander, the young man was talented and could be an asset to Island Realty. I also knew Bob enough to know that Alexander probably had reason to be nervous around the gruff Realtor.

  Alexander glanced at Bob and then turned to me. “Mr. Howard showed me the photos of the girls that have been … well, are dead.” He looked at his hands that were folded in his lap. “I recognized one of them. She—”

  “Alexander’s assigned to new renters,” interrupted Bob. “Don’t want him talking to the regulars; can’t hurt the newbies too much.” He flicked his wrist at his protégé. “Go on.”

  “Kendra Corman-Eades came in mid-July and wanted a condo for three weeks. She didn’t have a lot of money, so I knew it would have to be away from the beach. Real cute; had a great smile, but there was something behind the smile. Sad, maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Get on with it,” said Bob. “Chris here doesn’t have all day. He’s got to open his gallery and not sell any pictures.”

  Alexander turned away from Bob and rolled his eyes. I knew he was smart.

  “I rented her a condo on East Huron, a small, but neat, second-floor unit. She said it would do just fine and paid cash.”

  “She say why she was here?” I asked.

  Alexander looked at Bob like he had to get permission to speak. Bob shrugged.

  “Not really,” said Alexander as he turned back to me. “Kind of vague. I didn’t get the impression that she was just here on vacation.”

  “Isn’t it unusual for someone to pay cash, especially for three weeks?”

  “You bet your sweet checkbook,” said Bob.

  I ignored him and asked Alexander, “Did you get any identification? Credit card, anything?”

  “Umm, no, didn’t think it was necessary. I didn’t figure the cash would bounce.” He gave a tentative smile.

  He started to say something, but the roar of a leaf blower outside the one window in the office drowned him out. We sat in silence until the landscaper moved away from the building.

  “Were you going to say something else?” I asked.

  He looked at Bob again and then back to me. “Nothing other than a feeling. Most ladies her age say that I’m, umm, handsome, or at least, good to talk to, but—”

  “Holy damned Helios,” interrupted Bob. “I see McDonald’s in your future; you’ll be behind the counter, saying ‘That’ll be four ninety-five, ma’am.’”

  I ignored Bob again. I did wonder what Helios was, but I didn’t ask. “But what?”

  “I tried to be all social-like with her. You know, to make her feel welcome, asking if there’s anything I could do to make her stay more pleasant.”

  “And she kicked your charming, stuck-on-yourself ass out the door?” said Bob.

  “Nothing like that,” he said, head turned my way. “She seemed distant. She was extremely attractive, but cold, if you know what I mean.”

  Probably, I thought. “Did you see her again?”

  “Once at Bert’s and once going into Mr. John’s Beach Store. Umm, I think that’s all.”

  While Alexander was stammering and stuttering though his story, Bob pulled the rental agreement. From the dates on the reservation, her third week ended two days after Samuel had seen the woman abducted.

  “Was either of you here when she checked out?” I asked.

  “No, not even nosy Nelly out there,” said Bob. He pointed his chubby forefinger toward the reception area. “Ms. What’s-her-name dropped her key in the box outside the front door here like most of the tenants who try to beat the traffic off-island.”

  “You mean somebody dropped her key in the box,” I said.

  “Huh?” said Alexander. He leaned closer until our knees touched.

  “The key was left two days after my friend saw someone, probably her, abducted from a walkway from the beach. According to the police, there’s a chance she was already dead.”

  “Damned dead people don’t drop keys in the box,” added Bob, insensitively but accurately.

  “Oh,” said Alexander. “I never thought of that.”

  I wondered why he hadn’t. Bob had told him why I was curious. Interesting.

  I waited to see if he said anything else. He didn’t, so I asked, “Did the cleaning crew notice anything unusual when they cleaned the condo?”

  “Now let’s see,” said Bob. “There was a dead body on the couch, but they cleaned around it.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Damn, Chris, of course they didn’t find anything bad, anything suspicious.”

  “Umm,” said Alexander. I turned to him. “I inspected the condo after the cleaning crew was finished. Mr. Howard taught me to do that to make sure the unit’s ready for the next renter.” He turned toward Bob and nodded. “We had no reason to think anything was wrong … we really didn’t.”

  CHAPTER 33

  YUMMY,” SAID CINDY. “SURE YOU DON’T WANT anything?”

  I was in the Black Magic Café off Center Street watching Cindy gobble down a bagel. I had called her after leaving Island Realty. She said that she was on duty but taking a break and that I could join her if I didn’t try to steal her food.

  “I’m fascinating, and people usually line up to watch me eat bagels,” she said with a grin. “But I don’t think that’s why you’re here.”

  I agreed with her on both points. “Cindy, I’ve got a problem, and maybe you can help.”

  “Then this is on you,” she said and then raised the remaining part of the bagel and pointed it at me.

  She’d already paid, so I told her I’d get the next one if she didn’t order more than a bagel. She agreed and told me how big a spender I was, and then I gave her a brief summary of what I had learned from Bob and Alexander.

  “Now to the problem,” I said. “I’m afraid if I talk to the chief, my name would get connected with the investigation, and with the chief’s relationship with the mayor—”

  Cindy shook her head. “Hate relationship!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The mayor had already told me in clear, concise terms to butt out, or else.”

  “He’s good with that clear, concise crap,” she said. “Why not go to your girl-toy?”

  I smiled. “Because Karen would have to share it with Detective Burton, and—”

  “And he’d file it under so what, I’m retiring.”

  “You got it,” I said.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  I looked at the painting of a coffee cup and saucer on the green wall behind Cindy and then glanced at a couple at the next table. “I thought that possibly you, or your buddy Officer Spencer, could accidently run into Bob
and he would mention that Corman-Eades had stayed in one of their rentals and then you could tell the chief.”

  “Leaving you out of it?”

  I nodded.

  “And you think there’s nothing I’d like to do more than hear blustery Bob cuss, rant and rave, and grumble about how Chris Landrum can’t mind his own blankety-blank business?”

  “Yep,” I said and smiled.

  “And what reason would I have for going to see big, bad Bob in the first place? You know the chief will ask.”

  “Tell him that Bob was in your hubby’s hardware store and mentioned it. Larry told you, and then like a good cop, you went to follow up with Bob.”

  Cindy took a bite of bagel and then looked at the ceiling. “You ever thought about writing fiction?” she asked.

  I smiled. “I don’t even read fiction.”

  She shook her head. “Okay, I’ll give it a try. You owe me more than a hunk of dough.” She stuffed the last bite in her month, stood, and mumbled that she had to go serve and protect. She saluted me and left.

  I should have opened the gallery an hour ago, but I figured that Charles would be there with the door open, lights on, and no customers within a hundred yards. I ordered a Greek omelet at the counter and settled in for a hearty breakfast surrounded by the soothing aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Now that I knew that one of the dead girls had rented on Folly and that someone felt the need to try to eliminate Charles, it seemed logical that the other woman, Nicole Sallee, had also rented here. How could I find where she lived? And even if I knew, what good would it do?

  Thoughts turned to Melinda. How far along was her cancer? Did she have days, weeks, months? How would Charles take her death? They hadn’t been close for all these years, but she was the only family he had. A chill ran down my spine when I wondered what would happen if something happened to Charles—or to me. All were thoughts that ruined the taste of a Greek omelet.

  My mental meandering was interrupted. “Yo, Christer.”

  I looked up from breakfast and saw Dude headed my way. He looked like he always did. His long, gray-white hair was asunder, his tie-dyed shirt covered his scrawny chest, and his blue cargo shorts nearly slipped off his hips.