by Bill Noel
He looked at the table and then under the table and said, “You be solo?”
I grinned at the retro-looking surf shop owner. “Unless ghosts are hanging around.”
He looked under the table again. “Nope,” he said with the confidence of someone who would recognize any nearby apparition.
“Join me,” I said. He had the uncanny knack of sucking words out of the air around him. A couple of minutes with Dude and most people’s sentences shortened.
He sat and wiped away a couple of crumbs from Cindy’s bagel.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” I said, mainly to make conversation.
“Me be equal opportunity tea buyer,” he said as if that explained it. “Enough ’bout Dude’s shopping. How be Melinda?”
I wasn’t aware that he knew that Melinda existed, much less her condition.
“Seems okay,” I said. “I haven’t seen her in a couple of days.”
“Me be praying to sun gods for her,” he said reverently.
“Thank you,” I said.
If Dude had enough contacts to know about Melinda, I wondered if he had heard anything else about the two women. I asked.
“Been askin’,” he said. “No news not always good news.”
Good point, I thought. I told him what I had learned about Corman-Eades staying on Folly and that I suspected that Nicole Sallee had been also.
“All me be knowin’, she not been in surf shop.”
“Why so sure?” I asked. “Could’ve been in while you were out—like now.”
“Two tatted peeps on payroll would’ve told me. Surfing black dudette on Folly be as rare as bumblebee on Boogie Board.”
Dude’s two tatted peeps are, from what I can tell, his only employees. They have enough words tattooed on their bodies to write the US Constitution and the first three books of the Bible. Their attitude toward customers, especially the more mature—okay, old—customers, would indicate that they weren’t familiar with the Bible. A snarl was the friendliest greeting in their repertoire.
“Would they have told you if she had been in?”
“You bet,” he said. “They tell me all. More than me wants. Sure would.” He nodded and took a sip of tea. “Jabbered all yesterday about Folly being police state. Narco dicks pestering God-fearing, law-abiding surfers at Washout, yada-yada-yada.”
I shook my head in sympathy. “Of course none of the surfers had anything to do with drugs, right?”
“’Course they did,” he said. “Not the point. Should be laws about cops-a-pesterin’.”
I thought back to my conversation with the mayor and decided the law should extend to all city officials. “I agree.”
“While readin’, writin’, and removin’ laws, add one for fuzz not to try to pick up chicks by flashin’ badge.”
I held my arms out, asking for an explanation.
“Tatt Earl be bitchin’ about Fuzz O’Hara trying to pick up his chick.” He took another sip of tea, looked around the room, and then continued. “He stopped her—blue lights a-flashin’—for walking down middle of Ashley Avenue carrying surfboard.”
“Middle of the street?” I said. I was on O’Hara’s side on this one.
“She be quick. See car, jumps out of way,” he said. “Problem be, Fuzz O’Hara gave longing look at her. Asked for phone number.”
“Oh,” I said. There are advantages for being the mayor’s pet. “Sorry.”
“O’Hara be chick collector. Police state … ugh.”
I nodded, and Dude said he had to get to the store to save the surfing world from his two employees. I nodded again, and he was gone.
Officer O’Hara, the chick collector and Mayor Lally’s pet. Can anything else go wrong?
CHAPTER 34
I FINALLY MADE IT TO THE GALLERY. INSTEAD OF GIVING me the usual chiding for being late, Charles was seated in the back wearing a University of Alabama long-sleeved T-shirt and a frown. I asked if I’d missed any customers, and instead of making up a story about the hundreds of visitors to the gallery, he shook his head. I asked what was wrong. He said it was Melinda.
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t know,” he said without looking up from the table. “One minute she’s all bubbly, throwing out some of her corny sayings. The next minute, she flops down in the chair and barely has enough energy to lift her hand.”
“She say anything?”
“Yeah,” he said and looked up at me. “She gets real still and then talks so low that I have to move close to hear. Says that she doesn’t have many days left. She has this sweet grin and says that she’ll be sure to tell Jesus to keep a keen eye out for me in thirty years or so.”
“Is she serious?”
He tilted his head. “People don’t joke about this kind of thing, do they?” he said.
“Don’t suppose so,” I said and sat across from him. “Think she should go to a doctor?”
“Should, yes. Will, no. I made the mistake of saying that to her,” he said. He blinked and then grinned. “She said that if I said it again, she’d abandon her vow of no profanity and then take up nephew-whuppin’.”
“Suppose that meant no,” I said.
He nodded. “See the problem?”
I asked what he thought he should do. He said that at her age and stubbornness about not seeking medical help, he didn’t see where there was anything he could do. Before he left this morning, she’d told him she wanted to go to the Surf Bar tonight. She said it looked just like the kind of place she would have liked to hang out when she was younger—much younger, she added. Charles then looked at me and asked if I would join them. That was a no-brainer. I nodded.
Charles walked to the near-antique Mr. Coffee and refilled his mug. He looked through the door to the customer-free gallery and then stared at me. “Now, with the cheery stuff out of the way, where were you this morning, and why were you hours late for work?”
I had been way too optimistic. Elephants, bookies, and Charles never forgot. I shared my conversations with Bob and Alexander, Cindy, and Dude. He interrupted me no fewer than fifty times with insightful, critical questions like, “Did any of them ask about me?” Or, “Has Cindy dumped her hardware store husband and gotten ready to run off to Venice with me?”
There’s a fine line between ridiculous and remarkable in Charles’s questions and comments. Somewhere after one of his stupid questions and before one of his more-stupid questions, he said, “One of the girls actually stayed here, most likely the other one did, and someone tried to shut me up with a piece of rebar. Your friend Samuel didn’t see what he told you he saw, but he saw something. The killer thinks I know who he is. If I do, I don’t know it. Unless he’s caught soon, I’ll be visiting earlier than Jesus will be looking for me.” He paused and stared at me. “And Samuel is in trouble.”
Fortunately we didn’t have much time to hash and rehash what little we knew. The afternoon was filled with customers actually buying photos and visits from a couple of locals who stopped by to get out of the heat.
* * *
Charles, Melinda, and I were on the rustic patio at the Surf Bar. A large-screen television and a room full of boisterous, college-aged patrons inside convinced us that if we were going to have a conversation that our aging ears could understand, the patio was our best choice—correction, our only choice.
“Charles,” said Melinda after she took a gulp of Budweiser from the bottle, “you probably don’t know this since you were reared by your old, stuffy, librarian granny, but I spent many a night in fine establishments like this in my younger day.”
Charles sipped his beer and nodded. “Didn’t know that,” he said. “Granny did say that you had a rather active social life.” He winked at her and then grinned.
“I bet she did,” said Melinda. “The closest that dear old lady ever came to a bar was lu
nch at the Motor City Salad Bar on State Street.” She giggled. “The old biddy—sorry, dear sweet lady—never approved of anything I did. ’Course, she wasn’t always wrong.”
Melinda’s movements were slow, her words rapid. She had talked almost nonstop since I picked them up at her apartment and made the short drive to the bar. I sat back and drank house white wine from a six-ounce Ball jar as I listened to Charles and Melinda reminisce about the bad old days in Detroit.
She took a deep breath and looked at the television showing a video of a surfer wiping out under a humongous wave somewhere in Australia. “Never tried that,” she said. “Dam … danged Detroit River never did much waving.” She turned to Charles. “Think your hippy buddy, Dude, will teach me?”
“Whenever you’re ready, Aunt M.,” said Charles. He gave her a forced grin. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked her.
“You know darned well,” she said. Not quite the answer I expected. “I know my big blabbermouth nephew’s told you how he thinks I am.” She turned to Charles and frowned.
Charles shrugged. “I’m worried about you, Aunt M.”
She looked at Charles, turned to me, and then stared at the large television screen. “Let me tell you boys something.” She then finally looked back at Charles. “I’ve had a good life … maybe even better than good. I’ve had the pleasure of knowing—if you get my drift—all sorts of men. Heck, I married four of them.” She giggled.
Charles leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“In my earlier days, I birthed a bunch of babies into this world—loved each of them dearly.”
“I didn’t know you had any children,” said a clearly surprised Charles.
Melinda laughed. “Not mine. I was a midwife and gained quite a reputation around Detroit—a good one, that is.”
Charles shook his head. “I didn’t even know you ever worked.”
Melinda reached over and put her hand on his. “That’s another reason your granny didn’t approve of me. She thought all babies should be born in the sterile hospital environment with a real medical doctor there.” She hesitated and shook her head. “Don’t think she ever understood the beauty and naturalness of nature and the birth of babies.”
“Granny was mighty stuffy,” agreed Charles. “Think the only nature she appreciated was in the books she read. Don’t think she ever went outside.”
Melinda nodded and then said, “I’ve enjoyed nature. Not only helping bring precious bundles into the world but also sipping every kind of squashed grape imaginable and savoring natural hops.” She raised her beer bottle in the air and tilted it toward us to toast.
Charles lifted his bottle and I raised my Ball jar to toast her love of nature, and, I supposed, four marriages.
A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ve found the Lord,” she whispered. “He wasn’t hiding. I was. The older I got, the funnier people looked at me when I blurted a batch of four-letter words, so I’ve given up that danged cussing.”
Charles started to say something, and I nudged him. He took the hint, proving that an old dog can learn new tricks, and closed his mouth.
Melinda wiped the tear from her cheek and then grinned at Charles. “Best of all,” she said, “I’m now reunited with my favorite relative.”
Charles smiled.
Melinda set the beer bottle down and raised her right hand toward the roof. “I’m ready to leave anytime the good Lord wants me.”
“Now Melinda,” said Charles, “you know he won’t be ready for you for a long time.”
“Don’t bet your left kidney on that,” she said. “But let me tell you boys one thing. I’m not about to check out with Charles in danger.” She glared at Charles and then at me. “We’ve got to find the lady killer and Charles almost-killer—and soon.”
If only it were that easy, I thought. “We’ve shared everything we know with the police. They’ll figure it out.” I had little confidence in what I had just said, but I thought it was what Melinda needed to hear.
“Chris,” said Melinda, “Charles says you’re a fairly bright fellow, and I’ve seen glimmers of it. That was a bunch of malarkey about the police catching the bad guy. Charles says the Folly chief’s hands are tied by an idiot mayor, your girlfriend’s stuck in the middle and can’t do anything, and the detective on the case is a lot closer to retiring than he is to the killer. Did I get that all right?”
“Yes,” I said, “but—”
“Don’t go butin’ me,” she interrupted. “It’s up to us to catch him. Now let’s figure it out.”
CHAPTER 35
OUR SECOND ROUND OF DRINKS HAD ARRIVED; OUR second hour at the Surf Bar had begun, and Melinda had found her second wind.
“I’ve been thinking about the two murders,” she said.
“Now, Aunt Melinda, we only know that one of them was murder,” said Charles.
She stared at him. “Two murders. Now, as I said before being interrupted, I’ve been thinking. Doesn’t it seem strange that no one—family, friends, pets—knew where the two girls were or how long they’d be gone?”
I shared that Charles and I had discussed that.
“The poor girl in the water could mistakenly be ruled as an accident. And the other one probably would never have been found if it weren’t for that beachcomber with a metal-detecting gizmo.”
“True,” said Charles.
I suspected he wanted to say more but didn’t want to incur the wrath of Melinda.
“So, my young friends, how did the killer know that no one would be looking for the poor, dead young women?”
Charles looked at me and then at Melinda. “Umm … he—”
“Whoa,” interrupted Melinda. “Don’t confuse me with guesses. Let me continue.”
Charles wisely said, “Yes, Aunt M.”
“I figure there are two ways he could have known—the girls told him or he read about it somewhere. They’re from different places, so he would have read it here or they told him here.”
“How would he have read about them?” I asked.
“Nary a clue,” she said. “So I didn’t go down that trail. Spent the rest of the time figuring out who they might have told.” She looked at Charles. “You’ve given out those flyers to everyone and their dogs and talked to all of the shop folks. Did anyone say that they’d seen both girls?”
“No.”
“Then wouldn’t you guess the killer talked to each of them at a different time?”
“Maybe, but—”
“Let’s assume he did. So who would two, young, lovely, unattached females tell enough of their story to so he’d know they were alone and no one would miss them for a while if they woke up dead?”
“It could be several people if they were here long enough,” I added.
“It doesn’t sound like they were here long,” said Melinda. “Let’s try categories of folks.”
Before we started playing Jeopardy, I asked what she meant.
“For example,” said Melinda, “I haven’t been here long, and I’ve already visited my cute, gay wig dresser twice. Just sitting in his chair brings out my life story. Those folks are good listeners.”
“Gays or hairdressers?” asked Charles.
“Don’t know much about gays, but hairdressers hear more confessions in a day than most priests.”
“How about cops?” I said, thinking about some of the stories Cindy and Karen had shared with me.
“Add cops to the list,” said Charles. “Hey, how about what you said about Officer O’Hara trying to pick up chicks?”
“There you go. You’ve already got a suspect,” said Melinda.
Not a bad thought. I also started thinking about real estate agents. They need to know how long the renter will be around and how many people will be staying. Most people like to talk and oft
en jabber on about their lives, saying why they are here and giving other information to a friendly rental agent. Alexander had seemed unusually nervous when he was telling me about renting to Kendra Corman-Eades. I thought his jitters were because of Bob. Could it have been something else, something more sinister?
“How about rent—”
“Bartenders,” interrupted Charles. He pointed his cane toward the inside bar.
“Good,” said Melinda. “That narrows it down to, let’s see, you have about a dozen bars, five or so bartenders at each. Add about sixty more suspects. Doesn’t help much, does it?”
“No, but it’s a start,” said Charles.
“Since we’re going the wrong way with narrowing the list down,” said Melinda, “let’s add preachers and priests.”
“Might as well stick lifeguards on the list,” said Charles, “Chicks’re always hanging around the boys in red.”
Melinda started to say something, but suddenly she looked down at the table and then slowly lifted her head. Her face had gone from its regular pale, chalky white to bright white. “I think I’ve had about all the partying I can stand tonight. Think I could hitch a ride home?”
“I was getting tired myself,” said Charles the diplomat. “Besides, Chris here has to be at work on time tomorrow.”
Yes, he never forgets.
CHAPTER 36
I WAS DETERMINED TO BEAT CHARLES TO THE GALLERY and arrived at nine thirty, a half hour before opening. My determination was admirable but wasted. Charles had already opened the door, brewed coffee, and wrinkled his face into a scowl.
“Late again,” he said and looked at his watchless wrist.
I gave him my best faux-sincere smile. “And a pleasant good morning to you as well,” I said.
We alternated throwing a few good-natured darts and then Charles said, “Aunt M. made some good points last night. We need to look closer—”
The bell over the front door jingled. “Mr. Landrum, Mr. Landrum,” yelled Samuel’s familiar voice.
