Missing

by Bill Noel

  “It’s for you,” said Charles as he lowered his body into the chair by the wooden table.

  Samuel rushed in the back room before I had time to greet him in the showroom. “Thank God you’re here,” he said.

  “Calm down,” I said. “Come in. You know Charles Fowler, don’t you?”

  Samuel noticed Charles for the first time. “Oh, hi, Mr. Fowler.”

  Charles wiggled his cane at Samuel.

  “Have you heard?” asked Samuel. He looked around the room to be sure there were no other surprise visitors.

  “Heard what?” said Charles, beating me to the question.

  Samuel paced from the gallery door to the refrigerator and to the back door. My neck was getting sore just watching him. “Have a seat. Get you something to drink?” I asked.

  He inhaled and said no, but he did sit.

  “Heard what?” Charles repeated.

  “They found another body … a lady … young.” He looked at his hand tapping on the table. “He killed another one, Mr. Landrum.”

  “Who found a body?” I asked. “When? Where?”

  “Some workers found her. They were sort of replacing an old pier behind a house over by the marsh, out near the county park.” He looked at the florescent light in the ceiling. “Hmm, not far from the first body.”

  “How’d you hear about it?” asked Charles.

  “I was in Mr. John’s Beach Store buying a new T-shirt. I was back in an aisle and heard one of the EMTs telling the man behind the counter. He was saying the body was buried real deep. Said they knew who she was, but I didn’t catch the name. Didn’t want to butt in.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “No, Mr. Landrum, but I’m really scared. What if he knows I saw him? What would he do?” His hands continued to tap on the table. “What should I do?”

  I smiled and tried to remain calm. “Don’t worry, Samuel. I don’t think he’d find out what you told the police. The police will get him.”

  “I wish I was that sure,” he said and abruptly stood. “I didn’t mean to bother you. Just thought you’d want to know.”

  I thanked him and told him again not to worry. I hoped it helped. He was calmer when he left—but not much. I wished I believed what I told him.

  Charles had my cell phone in his hand before Samuel closed the front door. He hit Karen’s number from my contacts list and handed the device to me. He was getting good at deciding whom I should call.

  “Hear they found another body,” I said.

  “I wish I had sources as good as you have,” she said. “Yeah, another woman. Hang on a second while I find some privacy.”

  I heard people speaking in the background and waited. A door slammed, and she returned.

  “How’d you hear?” asked Karen.

  “Samuel heard an EMT talking. He got some of the details, but not much.”

  “Guess it’s not a secret,” she sighed.

  “What happened?”

  “Around seven this morning, a groggy, coffee-deprived backhoe operator hit something that would ruin anyone’s day. The body was buried three feet deep. It was buried not to be found.” She hesitated. “Wait a second, let me get some notes.”

  Charles, with the patience of a fruit fly, tapped my arm and kept saying, “What?” I shooed him away as I would a fly.

  “Okay,” said Karen. “The victim was Felicia Gildehous, thirty-one, five foot two, 135, from Greenville, North Carolina.”

  The information surprised me. “How do you know all that so quick?”

  “Would you believe outstanding work on the part of Detective Burton?”

  “Umm, no,” I said.

  “Me either,” said Karen. “Her purse was buried with her. Her driver’s license and credit cards were still in it.”

  “Then the killer didn’t care if her identity was known?”

  “The spot where she was found was pretty isolated; everything’s overgrown. Somebody recently bought the property that’d been vacant for a couple of years and wanted to replace an old screened-in gazebo near the end of the walk out to the marsh. Then they decided to replace the whole wooden walkway. Otherwise the body would never have been found.”

  “How long had she been there?” I asked.

  “Don’t know, but it’s been months and not weeks.”

  “Has her family been contacted?” I asked.

  “A couple of hours ago.”

  “Hadn’t they missed her?”

  “Here’s the interesting part,” said Karen. “Her parents hadn’t heard from here in the last six months; they hadn’t expected to. They said that she had resigned from a teaching job in Greenville and said she was going to travel across the country. Her mother said that even though she was beautiful, she had almost resigned herself to a life as an old-maid schoolteacher. She said Felicia thought the travels might help her find a new lease on life.”

  “And,” I said, “now we have three deaths with one thing in common—no one knew where they were and no one expected to hear from them. What are the chances of that being a coincidence?”

  “Zero,” said Karen. “I said the same thing to Detective Burton, and he said, ‘Interesting, but it doesn’t mean anything.’”

  I huffed, “What an idiot.”

  “I won’t share that with him,” she said. “But I wouldn’t argue with it.”

  “Will you let me know if you learn anything?”

  She laughed. “I should ask you that. You seem to find out more than the cops—especially the detective on this case.”

  We agreed to share information, regardless of the source, and she said she was about ready for another good meal and an evening of working off the calories. I let my imagination run for a second and said, “Me too.”

  CHAPTER 37

  I HAVE SPENT COUNTLESS SATURDAYS IN LANDRUM Gallery alternating between twiddling my thumbs and counting the people who passed by without glancing in the large window to see what gems were for sale. Apparently the activity gods had met and decided today wasn’t to be one of those days. Eleven a.m. hadn’t yet arrived, and already Samuel had delivered the terrible news about another murder and I’d had a conversation with Karen about the details.

  To add to the already-busy morning, Bob Howard called and said that he had information he knew I would want. He said he was sure that I’d desperately want to drive to Charleston and buy him lunch at Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill. Charles griped and then said for me to get my rear in gear. He asked me to bring him back a cheeseburger.

  Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill shared a concrete-block building with a Laundromat and was located a block off Calhoun, a main east-west road across Charleston. Bob’s convertible was parked in front of the formerly white structure. Dirt, pollution, mold, and years of neglect had taken their toll on the building, and it would probably take an archeologist to determine its original color. The interior appeared nicer, but that probably was because the main source of illumination was Budweiser and Budweiser Light signs behind the bar.

  Randy Travis’s “On the Other Hand” blared at me as I opened the front door. Bob blared louder, “It’s about time!”

  Between the country crooning from the ancient jukebox and Bob’s bellowing, I almost missed the pleasant, “It’s good to see you. It’s been way too long.” It came from Al standing behind the bar. He looked as well-worn as the yard-sale table and chairs that filled the room. His hair was age-appropriate gray, his skin dark brown. He stood under the neon beer sign so I could see his wide, coffee-stained smile.

  I knew his arthritis-crippled, seventy-seven-year-old legs could barely make it around the bar, so I walked around it to give him a hug and say that I’d missed being in. He greeted me like a cousin he hadn’t seen in years.

  “Stop lollygagging with that broken-down old fart and get your scrawny butt ove
r here,” thundered Bob from his perch in Bob’s booth in the back corner near the restrooms. You wouldn’t know it from listening, but Bob and Al had been good, yet unlikely, friends for many years. The clientele at Al’s, according to Bob, is “ninety-nine percent Negro,” which is what he calls Al when he’s in his politically correct mode. Al didn’t disagree with the percentage but said it changes to fifty percent Caucasian or more when Bob’s ample body arrives.

  “Get on over there and shut the foghorn up,” whispered Al. “I’ll be over shortly to protect you.”

  Those who only drive by Al’s would rate it a half-dozen stars below a five-star restaurant, but they’d never eaten one of his cheeseburgers. Bob swears that Al’s cheeseburgers with a heaping helping of fries are the best in the universe. I’m not certain how he took his survey, but I can attest that they are definitely the best in Charleston, and that’s saying something in that food-centric city.

  I shoved the table into Bob’s stomach so I could squeeze in across from him. The restaurant was empty, and we both would have been more comfortable at one of the tables in the center of the room, but to get Bob to move from his booth would be like trying to drag Alaska down so it could be reached by bridge from San Francisco.

  “I see you haven’t got yourself killed yet,” said Bob as a way of greeting. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “And I see you haven’t eaten yourself to death yet,” I said.

  Bob stuffed a fry in his mouth, chewed once, swallowed, and said, “That’s the best you can do? I have to give you some damned insult training.”

  I smiled. “I’d be learning from the best,” I said.

  He nodded. “Enough about you. You ready to hear why you’re going to buy me two burgers, three helpings of fries, four beers, and an order to go for Betty?” Betty was Bob’s charming and uber-patient wife.

  “No desserts?” I joked.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot, two slices of apple pie.”

  Al arrived at the table carrying a tray with my cheeseburger and glass of white wine and a bottle of Bud for Bob. “Is Blubbery Bob playing his food-for-questionable information game?”

  “Give the undernourished boy his burger and park your ancient bones in that chair,” Bob said and pointed to the nearest chair. “You need to hear this.”

  Al looked back toward the door. It remained unopened, and he pulled the chair close to the booth and slowly lowered his body into it.

  Bob waited for Al to get comfortable and turned to me. “You owe me big time.”

  “Don’t I always,” I said.

  He gave a stage nod. “Good point. Now it’s bigger time. I pulled some strings with a contact at Avocet Realty. It wasn’t easy since they’re competitors. Thank goodness I’m damned good.”

  “Get on with it,” said Al. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Hell, look around, you old man. See any customers? Rest your bones.”

  Bob was only four years younger than Al, but never hesitated to point out the bar owner’s age.

  Bob huffed. “Back to my valuable information.” He glared at Al and then smiled and patted him on the knee. “My contact, whose name I promised not to divulge, says that Nicole Sallee rented an apartment from them.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Shut your damned trap and I’ll tell you.”

  Al looked at me. “Charmer, ain’t he?”

  “You too, old man,” said Bob.

  I nodded for the charmer to continue.

  “Seems that Ms. Sallee checked in a week before she took her last swim. Told the rental agent that she was here alone and needed the condo for a week. And before you ask, my contact said that her key was dropped in the after-hours box, the condo was cleaned, and nothing unusual was found.”

  “Anyone else at Avocet have contact with her?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  Al had been quietly listening and then leaned closer to the table. “One of you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’ll let Chris,” said Bob. “He’s the one in the middle of another mess who will probably get killed before it’s over.”

  Al, unlike Bob, was a great listener. I suspected it came from many years running a bar and from raising nine adopted kids. He and his late wife were saints.

  I summarized everything, including the background on the two dead women, and told him about the third body. Bob interrupted and asked when I was going to tell him about the third girl. I smiled and said, “Now.” He huffed and I continued the summary for Al and even included a little about Melinda. Al had met Charles.

  I finished and took a sip of wine.

  “Wow,” said Al. “You sure are a death magnet. I’m sorry to hear about Charles’s aunt.”

  “Me too,” said Bob, showing a glimmer of his softer side.

  Al looked at Bob and continued, “So what are the police doing?”

  I explained the relationship I had with the new mayor and also my lack of confidence in the detective on the case. He asked if Karen could help, so I explained why she couldn’t. Al knew and liked Karen. She and I had shared several meals in Al’s when her dad was in the hospital a few blocks from here.

  “So what do the two, now three, ladies have in common?” said Al.

  “They went and died on Chris’s island so I have to run in and save the day,” said Bob.

  Al exercised his many years of experience at being around Bob and ignored him, “You said all three were attractive; one was even a model, one’s mother said she was beautiful, and you saw a picture of the third.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Two were white, one black.”

  “Any of them from here?” asked Al.

  “No,” I said. “And what I find most interesting is that none of them told folks back home where they were going or when they’d be back. That’s more than a coincidence. The killer found out somehow.”

  Bob couldn’t stay out of the conversation. “And that’s where you came up with the harebrained theory that each of them told a cop, hairdresser, bartender, priest, monk, or Cherokee holy man?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Don’t forget rental agent.”

  “I was avoiding that one,” said Bob.

  Al said this was getting interesting and wanted to know if we wanted another drink.

  “One, hell,” said Bob as he held up two chubby fingers.

  Al had finally trusted me behind the bar, so I jumped up before he could push his pained body out of the chair. I got two more Buds for Bob, one for Al, and another glass of wine for myself.

  George Jones’s version of “Almost Persuaded” flowed from the jukebox.

  Al frowned at Bob and then turned to me and smiled. “Thank you, kind gentleman.”

  “Suck-up,” said Bob in my direction.

  “Now, I don’t wish to defend bartenders. Lord knows they’re many bad ones, but I’ve been in this business a long time, and—”

  “Amen to that,” interrupted Bob.

  “A long time,” continued Al without skipping a beat. “I’ve stood behind that old, rickety bar thousands of nights—yes, thousands. I’ve heard many lonely men or woman bare their soul and entire life history to someone they met minutes earlier, yes I have.” He caught his breath. “There’s something about a dark room, alcohol, and a stranger willing to listen that brings out stuff that a person wouldn’t tell her husband, his wife, or anyone close.”

  “That’s good, Al,” said Bob. “Now you’ve expanded Chris’s list of suspects to everyone who’s been in a bar on Folly Beach over the last few months.” He turned to me, “There you go. Hop in that SUV of yours and zip over to the beach and point out the killer to the cops.”

  “What else do you know, Chris?” asked Al.

  I started to answer, but Bob grabbed my cell phone from the table and punched in some numbers. “Oh hi, Louise
… of course it’s Bob … yeah, whatever. Alexander there? … Disturb him anyway … of course it’s important.” Bob took another sip and then started humming along with George Jones, who was now singing, “Even the Bad Times Are Good.”

  “Well, tell them this is more important than them finding a condo,” said Bob. I assumed he was talking to Alexander. “Put your brain in gear. Did you rent a condo to Felicia, umm—” Bob pointed to me.

  “Gildehous,” I said.

  He pointed at me. “Spell it.”

  I did, and he repeated it to Alexander.

  “Okay, hurry.” Bob started humming again. Country was the only kind of music Bob acknowledged, and he knew most every song recorded from the 1930s through the seventies.

  “You did?” His eyes widened. “When, where, for how long? Yeah … okay … you sure? Get any other information on her?” He paused. “Okay.” He punched the end call button and slid the phone across the table at me.

  “Well?” said Al.

  Bob yawned. “Wrong number.”

  “And you think my comedy act needs work?” I said.

  “It does,” he said and took another sip of beer. “You’re now three for three.”

  I knew what he meant.

  CHAPTER 38

  GENE WATSON’S “NOTHING SURE LOOKED GOOD ON You” played in the background, Al grimaced as he massaged his arthritic knee, and Bob stuffed another handful of fries in his mouth. I tried to assimilate what Bob had said about Alexander renting the condo to Gildehous. Could it simply have been a coincidence that the young rental agent rented condos to two of the three victims? Should I tell Cindy? It may mean nothing; after all, there were only three rental agencies, and few agents worked in each.

  “Chris,” said Al, “Chris.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was daydreaming.”

  “Al does that to you,” interrupted Bob.

  Al glared at Bob and turned to me. “I was curious,” he said, “if you or the budding detective, Charles, had any suspects?”

  Isn’t that what the police are supposed to be doing? I thought. “I wish I did. I’m really scared for Samuel—and Charles, of course. The guy with the rebar wasn’t kidding. Samuel doesn’t know anything, but the killer doesn’t know that.” I turned to Bob, “What does Alexander drive?”