Missing

by Bill Noel

  Bob swallowed another handful of fries. “Chrysler 300, big ol’ black thing. Why?”

  “Just thinking,” I said. “He has hair like Samuel described. He rented condos to two of the girls, so he would have learned things about them.”

  “Like that they were there alone and no one would miss them,” said Al.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And I could see how Samuel would have thought the Chrysler was a Ford Crown Vic in the dark. Both are large cars, and he did say it was a dark color.”

  Al turned to Bob. “What do you know about him other than that he has to be a borderline nutcase to be working for you?”

  Bob frowned. “You used to be a lot nicer, old man.”

  Al smiled. “Nope. You never shut up long enough to listen to anything I said.” He laughed. “I’ve always been a crank.”

  “Takes one to know one,” I added.

  Bob pointed a finger at each of us. “You two finished?”

  I looked at Al. He smiled and nodded. “We are,” I said. “For now.”

  “I’m on his case a lot,” said Bob, “but Alexander’s a good agent. He’s new to the area. He followed some chick here and then she left him for a lifeguard—brawn over brain. He brought some good experience with him. He worked two years at a resort in Palm Desert—that’s in California, for the geography-challenged folks in the room. You tell him I said this and I’ll key your SUV. He’s good at his job, cares for the clients, has potential. He could be with us a long time.”

  Unless he’s the killer, I thought. “Any red flags?”

  “None that I know of.” He hesitated and then smiled. “Busybody Louise says he has too many girlfriends. Think he made the mistake of telling her that he had dated two people since arriving.”

  “Anybody else?” asked Al.

  I told them about Officer O’Hara and what Dude had said about him being a “chick collector.” Al asked what color his hair was. I told him it was brown, and Bob said that so was the hair on the majority of the male population on Folly. When I told them that he had been on Folly for less than a year, I remembered how relieved he had appeared to be when Samuel told him that he probably couldn’t identify the abductor. Bob asked what kind of car O’Hara drove. I didn’t know, but it was a good question.

  Bob said he’d love to waste the rest of the day talking to two old, boring has-beens, but he had to go sell an overpriced house south of Broad to some sucker from New York, New York. He told Al that I’d take care of the check and to add a thirty-percent tip, even though he hadn’t done anything to earn it, and waddled out the door.

  Rickey Van Shelton’s version of “Don’t We All Have the Right” played from Al’s colorblind jukebox as only Al and I remained in the dark bar. We spent some time catching up without the constant interruptions and insults from Bob. Al shared the latest news from his nine kids. His wife had passed away a few years ago, so he lived through his children. I had met one, Tanesa, an emergency room doctor at Charleston Memorial Hospital. The others ranged from teachers to college students to an inmate somewhere in California.

  When Al wasn’t around, Bob bragged on him for taking on “stray kids” and because he saved seven soldiers during the Korean conflict. Al had reciprocated by salting his jukebox with many of Bob’s favorite country classics even though most of his clientele complained about the musical selections. Al also worried about Bob and shared that his doctors had told him that he needed to lose fifty pounds. He had diabetes and high blood pressure. Al said he felt guilty fixing cheeseburgers for Bob, but that if he didn’t, someone else would. He did say that Bob had actually cut back some. “Some ain’t much, but better than none,” said Al.

  Al also said that he was worried about Charles and me. He knew how much we butted into police business. I said I was worried about Charles and especially Samuel.

  On the way out, Al told me to be careful.

  I wish I’d paid attention.

  CHAPTER 39

  BY MONDAY, MORE INFORMATION EMERGED ABOUT Felicia Gildehous, the “backhoe body,” as the local wags referred to her. She had earned a degree in elementary education from East Carolina University in her hometown, Greenville, North Carolina. Her parents reported that she had been upbeat after she resigned her teaching position to take a year off to travel. A color photo of her was on her local newspaper’s website. She had an optimistic smile, blonde hair with a one-inch-wide red stripe down one side, and a colorful, patterned blouse. Her parents had to be devastated. The principal of the elementary school where she had worked said she was always outgoing and would do anything for her fourth-grade students. He said, “I thought it was a terribly sad day for the school when she resigned, but nothing could compare to the tragic news of her death. We’re in shock. Grief counselors have been brought in to meet with her former students and colleagues.”

  I had stopped by the gallery to pick up some tax forms I’d forgotten to take home over the weekend. The bell over the front door rang, and I stopped going through the folders in back to see who’d stopped by on my day off.

  “Are you Christopher Landrum?” asked a tall, hefty gentleman with a neatly groomed beard. He wore a highly starched, long-sleeved dress shirt and navy slacks. He glanced at me and then around the gallery.

  “Yes,” I said. “May I help you?”

  “I’m L. E. Edwards, code enforcement.” He looked toward the back room and made no effort to shake my hand. “I’ve received complaints about egregious code violations, and I’m here to inspect your premises.”

  “What kind of violations?”

  He looked at me. His eyes narrowed. “I’ll inspect first, and then I’ll discuss the results with you.”

  I didn’t know there was even a code enforcement person, so I clearly didn’t know the proper protocol.

  He then took a clipboard out from under his left arm and walked to the back room. He stopped in the doorway and wrote something on a form clipped to the board. I couldn’t see what he wrote, but I didn’t figure it was a commendation. He looked around and then moved to the back door and tried the knob. The door was locked with a deadbolt, the way it always was when I’m closed.

  “Where’s the key?” he said in a flat voice.

  I took the key ring out of my pocket, segregated the lock’s key, and handed him the ring. He unlocked the door and stepped outside. I waited inside. A couple of minutes later, he returned and scribbled something else on the form. I offered him a seat so he could write more comfortably. He shook his head and said that he was finished. Then he removed the multipart form from under the clip, pulled off the pink second copy, and handed it to me.

  He returned the original copy to the clipboard and looked down at it. “Mr. Landrum,” he said, again in an emotionless voice, “I have found two violations and one probable infraction.” He looked back down at the form as if he had already forgotten what they were. “The law clearly prohibits a means of egress being locked when a business is open.” He turned and pointed at the back door. “That’s a serious violation.”

  “The business is not open,” I protested. “When I—”

  He held up his right hand to stop me. “Mr. Landrum, your front door was open, and I walked in. There was nothing to indicate that you were closed. Now let me continue.”

  I clamped my jaw closed and nodded.

  “Secondly, the gas meter out back is rusting. It is required to be rust-free.” He looked back down at the sheet and then up at the four-tube florescent light fixture. Two tubes were burned out, and I had been telling myself for weeks that I needed to get to Larry’s for new ones. “That inoperative light could be an electrical issue and fire hazard. You have five work days to repair the meter and also provide my office with a notarized statement from a certified electrician indicating that the electrical system is in proper operating order. You will also be subject to increased inspections to make sure that you do not
endanger your customers by illegally blocking the rear mode of egress.”

  He started toward the front door and then abruptly stopped. “Any questions, Mr. Landrum?”

  I took a deep breath, looked down at the pink sheet, and then looked back at him. “Only one, Mr. Edwards. Who complained?”

  “Mr. Landrum, that’s confidential.” He then pivoted and left as quickly as he had arrived.

  I followed him to the door and locked it behind him. I folded the pink paper and then ripped it in half. Confidential! During my six years in the gallery, this was the first visit from any inspector. I looked down at the torn paper, carried it to the back room, unfolded it on the table, and grabbed the tape dispenser to tape it back together. The entire time, I cussed both Mr. Edwards and the person who—I would wager my entire estate on—had sicced the inspector on me: Mayor Lally.

  * * *

  It took me fifteen minutes to get over my mini-temper tantrum. Then I locked the gallery, regretted that I had gone there in the first place, and headed home. I hadn’t been in the house for an hour when Charles pounded on the door. He had on a silver, long-sleeved T-shirt with a strange wolf-looking thing on the front and “University of New Mexico” written in block letters below it, tattered shorts, and a frown. His ever-present cane was in his left hand and his Nikon strap draped over his right shoulder.

  I waved him in. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t know,” he said and grabbed a mug from the counter and poured some coffee. “Maybe it’s my imagination—don’t know.” He took a sip.

  I sat silently and waited for him to elaborate.

  “Something woke me up at four this morning,” he said. “Thought I heard a noise and then thought I imagined it. To be honest, the rebar guy’s got me spooked.”

  “Something outside or in your apartment?”

  “Think outside, just not sure. Could’ve been something as simple as a car turning around in the lot.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” I asked. “You’ve lived there for years, and you know what that sounds like.”

  “I guess. It did seem closer, like someone trying to get in. I looked out the window and didn’t see anything. Was afraid to go out.”

  Charles doesn’t get worried easily, and I can’t remember him ever being scared. He had heard something.

  He pointed his cane at the front door. “Thought you might want to walk around and take some photos.”

  We both valued the time we had spent walking around Folly and photographing whatever seemed interesting at the time. But he didn’t show up at the door unless something bothered him.

  “Let’s go to your apartment and see if we find anything.”

  “Okay,” he mumbled.

  It was still a few hours before the heat of the day, and I thought it would do both of us good to walk. He stopped to take some photos along the way, but his heart wasn’t in it. He talked about Melinda and her deteriorating condition. He didn’t handle being helpless well, and he used that word a dozen times along the way. I told him that simply being there for her helped. He said that he wanted to do more, but we both knew that wasn’t possible.

  I changed the subject and told him what I’d learned about Gildehous. He asked if I’d print her photo so he could add it to the images of the other two women that he was still showing shopkeepers and anyone else he saw. I then shared news of the visit by Mr. Edwards and the petty alleged violations.

  “Mickey Mouse manure,” said Charles. “You know it was Lally.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I can’t prove it, and even if I could, what good would it do?”

  “Mickey Mouse manure,” he repeated.

  It was hotter than I had anticipated, and by the time we reached his apartment, sweat was rolling down my back. The front of Charles’s T-shirt was soaked. His window air conditioner churned as hard as it could, but it couldn’t keep the room comfortable. I didn’t see evidence of tampering on his front door, but the door was nearly as old as the apartment’s occupant, and the lock wasn’t much younger. It had undergone much abuse over the years. Someone probably could have taken a crowbar to it and it wouldn’t have looked much worse. The front window had been painted closed before Charles moved in, and it would have taken more than a crowbar to open it.

  Charles leaned over and slowly inspected each rock, shell, and piece of trash within twenty feet of his door. He looked at everything like he expected to find a calling card reading “Murderer” with a phone number. He was finally satisfied that the trash was either his or his neighbor’s and asked if I wanted to continue our walk.

  I’m sweating, and it’s only going to get hotter and more miserable, I thought. “Why not,” I said. He needed to talk and was too upset to sit in the claustrophobic apartment.

  “I thought I saw you boys walk by,” said Melinda. She had been waiting for us on the front step of her building. “Where’re we going?”

  After what Charles had told me about her condition, I didn’t think she needed to be going anywhere but to the hospital. Charles said, “Come on, walk a spell with us. Chris here’ll buy us something to drink in town.”

  She beamed. “Think I can work it in.”

  Charles put his arm around her and helped her down the last step, and we slowly headed toward town. I was a step behind the two of them. “So,” said Melinda, “what’re we going—”

  Gunfire blasted a hole in her sentence. Charles’s Nikon exploded into hundreds of pieces. And Melinda screamed, “Shit!”

  CHAPTER 40

  CHARLES GRABBED FOR THE CAMERA. HIS HANDS flailed around, catching nothing but air. Camera fragments flew everywhere, and Melinda’s knees buckled. She collapsed as if the air had been let out of her. She hit the pavement hard.

  I looked in the direction of the shot. All I saw was a six-foot-high privacy fence at the far side of the property—no shooter, no movement.

  Charles then ignored the camera and bent over Melinda’s still body. A resident of Melinda’s building cautiously opened the front door and asked what was going on. I yelled for him to call the police and an ambulance. Charles wasn’t going to leave Melinda, so I continued to look toward the fence that divided the parking lot from a row of townhouses. Several of the fence slats had rotted, and there were gaps where a weapon could have poked through. I didn’t hear a vehicle leave. In fact, I didn’t hear anything from the other side of the fence. The residents were either used to gunfire in their backyard or weren’t home. I suspected the latter.

  “Was she hit?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so. No blood,” said Charles. He then rolled her onto her side. “Think she fainted.”

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Better than my camera. Now I’m pissed!”

  The expensive camera had been the only significant item Charles bought after his substantial inheritance a couple of years ago.

  The resident who had called for help hurried over and leaned close to Melinda. “She okay?” he said to Charles.

  Charles looked down at Melinda. She started to move her left arm and opened her right eye. “Did I hurt my new britches?” she said.

  Charles looked toward the sky and then leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Anything hurt?”

  She ignored his question and tried to sit. “What in the Sam Hill happened?” She looked around but then lowered her head. “Whoa,” she said and closed her eyes. “I’m dizzier than a termite in a yo-yo.”

  Screaming sirens filled the air. A silver City of Folly Beach patrol car skidded around the corner of Indian Avenue onto Sandbar Lane. A second police car was close behind and nearly rear-ended the first vehicle.

  Officer Spencer jumped out of the car and rushed to Melinda. Fortunately, he knew Charles and me and listened as we tried to explain what had happened. He looked toward the fence as we talked and yelled for the second officer to go
around behind the barrier and see if anyone was there. The odds were slim, but at least they were looking.

  Spencer said that an ambulance was on the way and grabbed a blanket out of the patrol car to put behind Melinda’s head. She was conscious but stared at the sky and didn’t appear to understand what had happened.

  A Folly Beach fire engine arrived next. The city’s firefighters multitasked as EMTs and were usually on the scene before an ambulance arrived from Charleston. Chief Newman pulled around the corner. The officer who had gone to the other side of the fence returned and talked briefly to the chief as they walked over to us.

  Two EMTs loomed over Melinda. They checked her vitals and asked questions to see if she knew where she was. The chief waved for us to follow him out of their way. He looked back at the pieces of the camera on the ground. “I gather someone didn’t like your pictures,” he said with a slight grin.

  Charles pointed his cane at the camera—or what was left of it. “You know how much I paid for that?” he asked. “I’m not only pissed, I’m royally pissed. They almost shot Aunt M.,” he said and then pointed to Melinda, who was now sitting and giggling at something one of the firefighters had said.

  Charles finally got it out of his system about the camera, and we shared what we could about the shooting. The chief then walked to the other side of the fence. The ambulance lumbered past the police cars, and the driver conferred with the Folly Beach EMT and then unlatched the stretcher from the emergency vehicle.

  Charles had returned to Melinda, and I stood in the middle of the parking lot wondering what to do. Charles was on his knees beside his aunt. “Yes,” he said loudly.

  “No,” replied Melinda, equally as loud.

  Charles reached down, put his hand on her shoulder, and whispered something.