by Bill Noel
She shook her head. He nodded. She shook her head again.
The EMT leaned down between Charles and Melinda and said something I couldn’t hear. She grinned, patted him on the knee, and shook her head.
I got the gist of the conversation and would put money on Melinda. I stepped closer, and she turned to the second EMT and said, “You bet your sweet posterior I’ll sign it.”
Two police officers, one chief of police, two firefighters doubling as EMTs, two EMTs from Charleston, and one nephew were no match for one sweet little old lady with terminal cancer sitting gracefully in the middle of the street as if she sat there on a regular basis. Melinda was not going anywhere in an ambulance. That was final.
I stood back and watched the battle of wills. I then realized how close it had come to Charles being loaded into the back of the ambulance. Or a coroner’s wagon.
CHAPTER 41
MONDAY MORNING SHOOTINGS WEREN’T REGULAR happenings on Folly Beach. By now a dozen neighbors and a car full of vacationers, apparently from Tennessee since each of them wore an orange T-shirt with “Go Vols!” on the front, had gathered about thirty feet from the action. One of the helpful neighbors set a green and white lawn chair on the side of the road, and the two EMTs carefully helped Melinda out of the street. With the signed Refusal to Transport form in hand, they wished her well and were off. The helpful neighbor also handed Melinda an umbrella to block the blazing sun. Nothing was humorous, but I couldn’t help smiling at Melinda casually sitting in a colorful lawn chair at the side of the road while holding a light blue umbrella with the Aflac duck logo on top.
The fire engine slowly backed out of Sandbar Lane, and three officers were sent to canvass the neighborhood to see if anyone had heard or seen anything. I didn’t expect much from the effort. Charles hovered over Melinda, and I picked up the pieces of the ruined camera. Chief Newman helped with the impossible task of gathering the remains.
“Suppose you think it was the person who killed the women?” said the chief.
“Who else?” I said, stating the obvious.
He threw pieces of the shattered lens to the side of the road. “You’re certain you didn’t see anyone?” he asked.
“Didn’t see anyone and didn’t hear a car after the shot. He was on foot.”
“You and Charles walked from your house, so he must have followed. I doubt he’d been waiting here long. Too many people in the townhouses could have seen him.” He pointed toward the fence and then looked back toward Indian Avenue. “He must have used a handgun; it would be way too conspicuous for him to carry a rifle around town. From that distance, he would have had to be an expert marksman to hit any of you.”
“What now?” I asked. Charles had walked Melinda to her apartment, and the responders had gone their separate ways.
“I’ll call Detective Burton,” he said. “He’ll probably deny it, but we all know this is related to Charles’s butting in the investigation. Your friend’s stirred up a powerful nest of hornets.”
I smiled. “We do what we’re good at,” I said.
The chief shook his head.
By the time I got to Melinda’s apartment, she was asleep. Charles was seated in her living room with his feet up on a gray fabric-covered ottoman with a dark stain on the top. His Tilley was on the floor beside the chair, and the Nikon camera strap, sans camera, sat lonely on top of the hat.
I nodded toward the bedroom. “She okay?”
“Poor thing puts on a good front, but she’s shaken, weak, and confused about what happened.” He looked toward the front door. “So am I.”
“Stop talking about me out there,” came a weak voice from the bedroom. “I ain’t in a coffin.”
Charles rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He looked at me and then got up and walked toward the bedroom. Melinda almost ran into him. She was out of the bed and on her way to see what we were talking about.
She slowly lowered herself into the chair Charles had vacated. “So, who tried to bump off my favorite living relative?”
“It was most likely an accident,” said Charles. “A stray bullet from someone shooting—could’ve even been from off-island.”
Melinda looked at me, gave an exasperated sigh, and then gazed at Charles. “My dear nephew,” she said, “I may be old, I may be dying, and I may have the stupidest nephew in these here United States, Mexico, and Canada if he thinks I believe it was an accident.”
“Aunt M.,” said Charles, “I don’t want you to worry. Everything’ll be fine.”
“Charles,” she said and put her hand on the top of the ottoman, “when you were no taller than this, you’d scamper around the house on all fours saying that you were a collie. Heck, you even barked like one.”
This sounded interesting. I had been standing in the corner of the room but moved closer.
“Your granny kept telling you to stop acting like a nut,” continued Melinda. “I’d call you over and say I wanted to pet the prettiest collie I’d ever seen. All your granny ever wanted to do was stifle your creativity. I wanted to encourage it.”
Charles patted her foot. “Other than to embarrass me in front of Chris, what’s your point?”
She reached down and squeezed his hand. “Two points, my dear nephew. First, I can tell the difference between fact and fantasy even though I pretended that you were a dog.” She let go of his hand and then slapped it. “Someone just tried to kill you, sure as I’m sitting here. That’s a fact. And second, you’ve still got more creativity in you all these years later than all the cops in South Carolina. So get your rear end out of this building and figure out who’s killing those women.”
“Aunt M.,” said Charles, “the police are on it.”
“Brian’s going to call Detective Burton,” I added. “He’ll probably be contacting us later today.”
“Great, that’s a conversation I’m looking forward to,” said Charles.
“Am I supposed to be comforted by that?” asked Melinda. “You’ve already said he’s an idiot dressed in imbecile’s clothing.”
“Now, Aunt M., we have to let him do his job. There’s nothing to worry about; he can take care of it.”
I looked at Charles—two lies in one sentence.
“Perhaps I was a bit vague,” said Melinda. She glared at Charles. “And Lord forgive me for making an exception to my no-profanity rule. Charles, you take Chris here and get your wrinkly, old ass out of here and find the freakin’ shit-eater who’s killing those sweet ladies. And do it before he kills you.”
I thought her message was quite clear as Charles and I left Melinda’s apartment.
What wasn’t clear was how we were going to catch a killer.
CHAPTER 42
HEAR PICTURE TAKIN’ CONTRAPTION WIPED OUT,” SAID Dude before he reached our table at the Lost Dog Café.
Charles had still been too shaken to return to his claustrophobic apartment, so we had walked to the restaurant. A light mist filled the air, and the temperature had cooled slightly, so we sat on the covered patio.
Charles was surprised that Dude knew, but I would have been more surprised if he hadn’t. After all, it had been a couple hours since the “picture takin’ contraption” had been vaporized. Dude nodded at the empty seat. Charles took the hint and asked him to join us.
“Hear fuzz found zero shooters,” Dude added.
That was one hundred percent accurate. I asked if he’d heard anything else.
He took a sip of water from the jar that Amber had placed in front of him. “Not about the Chuckster’s rough surfin’ this a.m.”
Charles tilted his head and looked at Dude. “About something else?”
“Hear bulldozed chick be hanging out at Crab Shack,” said Dude. “She been all gussied up, hair shiny blonde with red streak, attracting dudes.”
I assumed he meant before she was killed. “Hear
about her paying attention to anyone in particular?”
“Me not Entertainment Tonight,” said Dude.
My phone rang before I could find out what else Dude didn’t know. The caller ID read, “CCS.” If I were quicker, I would have realized it was the Charleston County Sheriff’s office and not answered. Too late, so I got to hear the crotchety voice of Detective Brad Burton. “I wanted to talk to the alleged victim first, but your friend’s apparently too cheap to have an answering machine. You were next in line.”
I was tempted, sorely tempted, to hand the phone to Charles, but instead I asked what I could do for Detective Grumpy.
“Just got off the phone with Chief Newman, and he filled me in on what happened. Is Mrs. Beale okay?”
That’s Burton. Charles was almost killed, and he asked about Melinda. “Yes, and so is Charles.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “And you didn’t see anything? No idea who it was?”
“It’s obvious that it’s the person who’s killed those women and who tried to kill Charles a few days ago,” I said. “Detective, Charles has been asking questions, and a killer thinks he’s getting too close.”
There was a pause. “You may be right,” he said.
That surprised me, so I tried to take advantage of the slight concession. “Any leads on the murders?”
“None that I’ll tell you about,” he said, back to his gruff self. “Have Charles call me.” He gave me his number and hung up.
Dude took another sip of water and said, “Fuzz?”
I nodded.
“Burton?” asked Charles.
“Yes. He wants you to call him,” I said.
Charles looked out at the mist and then at me. “It’s cool out here, but not cold enough for hell to freeze over. He’ll have to wait.”
Before I could encourage Charles to give Burton the benefit of the doubt, the door from the patio to the dining room opened, and Marc Salmon peeked around the corner. The soothing smell of frying hamburgers followed him out.
“Thought I saw you walk through,” he said in our direction. “I was in a deep political discussion with Houston and didn’t get to tell you the news.”
Instead of commenting on the deep political discussion, which probably was something like how they could get more comfortable chairs in the council chamber, I said, “What news?”
Marc looked around to see who else was on the patio and then walked to the table. Only two tables were occupied, and a large Great Dane at one of the tables got more attention than the three of us. Dude stood and said something about being too close to government. He bent over for the huge dog to lick his cheek and then slipped out the side exit.
Marc watched Dude and the dog, said “Yuck,” looked around again, and then sat in the chair that Dude had vacated. “I hear your friend, Chief Newman, handed his resignation to Mayor Lally.”
I was shocked. “Are you sure? When?”
“Not certain,” said Marc. “But a source close to the police department told me. She’s usually accurate. Said it happened yesterday.” He sat back in the chair and basked in knowing something about my friend that I didn’t know.
“We saw him a little while ago,” said Charles. “He didn’t say anything.”
“He was busy trying to figure out who was trying to kill you,” I said. I thought it sounded like a reasonable explanation, but I was still disappointed.
Marc put his elbows on the metal table and leaned closer to Charles and me. “I also hear the mayor is still determined to run you out of town. You’d better watch your p’s, q’s, and permits.”
I flashed back to the visit from code enforcement but didn’t tell Marc. There was already enough fuel on the fire without my adding more gas.
“Don’t suppose you’d divulge your source?” asked Charles.
Marc smiled. “Nope. But here’s a hint: mayor’s pet cop.”
“O’Hara,” I said.
He smiled again. “Didn’t hear that from me.”
That reminded me. When I was talking to Bob at Al’s, I wondered what kind of car O’Hara drove. What better source?
I turned to Marc. “What’s the mayor’s pet cop drive?” I asked, as nonchalant as possible.
Marc tilted his head in my direction. “Cop car.”
I sighed. “When he’s not working?”
“That’s what I’m talking about. He drives an old cop car,” said Marc. “Ten-year-old Crown Vic. He brags about it all the time. Says he got it at auction for fifteen hundred bucks.”
Charles perked up. “Color?”
“Dark gray,” said Marc. “Big white primer spots on the driver’s side door where they sprayed out the markings. Looks terrible to me, but O’Hara treats it like it’s his baby.” He hesitated and then said, “Why?”
“Just curious,” I said and changed the subject. “What important city business were you and Houston talking about?”
“Oh, nothing controversial,” he said.
Charles had been quiet for too long. “As President Kennedy said, ‘My experience in government is that when things are noncontroversial, beautifully coordinated and all the rest, it must be because there is not much going on.’”
Marc looked at Charles like he couldn’t figure out if he’d been insulted and then said. “Kennedy was never on the Folly Beach City Council.”
Charles and I nodded. Marc took the moment of silence to announce his departure. “City’s business is waiting.”
Charles and I nodded again, and Marc headed inside to discuss more of the city’s important business with Houston. As soon as the council member was out of sight, Charles scooped up my phone from the table, scrolled through the contacts, hit dial, and then handed the phone to me. I was ready to tell him how much his new maneuver irritated me but instead looked at the screen and saw that it was calling Brian Newman.
“Did someone try to kill you or Charles again, or has some blabbermouth been talking about my job?”
I renewed my hatred for caller ID. “Charles and I are just fine, thanks for asking.”
“Cut the BS,” interrupted the chief. “Where are you?”
I told him.
“Be there in five.” The phone went dead.
CHAPTER 43
SO WHAT BUSYBODY TOLD YOU?” CHIEF NEWMAN HAD made the five-minute trip in two and took the seat formerly occupied by Dude and Marc Salmon. He would have been quicker, but he stopped and fawned over the Great Dane.
I didn’t want to get Marc in trouble and said we had heard it through the grapevine.
“Is it true?” asked Charles.
Brian sat military straight and sipped the iced tea that Amber handed him before he arrived at the table. “Yes. I’ve been in this job eighteen years. I spent thirty in the military, most in law enforcement.” He hesitated and smiled. “My hair was black when I arrived on Folly.” His short military cut was mostly gray. “This is a young man’s game, and I’m sixty-eight.”
“Brian,” I said, “you’re the youngest sixty-eight-year-old I’ve known, and you know more about Folly than anyone. Do you really want to retire?”
He looked over at the dog and then toward the street. “The mayor wants me out. The majority of the council probably agrees. Why fight it?”
“That’s not what Chris asked,” said Charles.
“I know,” said Brian. He took a sip of tea and turned to Charles. “How’s your aunt?”
Charles nodded. “Good try. That’s the topic after the next commercial break. Now, back to Chris’s question.”
Brian blinked twice and turned back to me. “I’d rather not. What would I do? You’re right. I feel great, still have lots of energy, and still think I can contribute.” He hesitated and then smiled. “I have some good friends here.” He looked at Charles and then at me. “Other than a couple of troublemakers who keep
butting into my business, most of my friends are good folks.”
Charles didn’t ask who the troublemakers were but asked, “Are you sure most of the council members want you out?”
“No, but I can’t go around asking them. The mayor says he has what he needs to get rid of me. That’s why I resigned instead of being fired.”
Charles aimed the brim of his hat at Brian. “If most of the council members wanted you to stay, would you rescind your resignation?”
“I’ve—”
“Yes or no?” said Charles.
Brian shook his head and turned to me for support. I pointed at Charles.
“Yes,” said Brian.
“Then don’t pack your bags for an around-the-world cruise,” said Charles, who then tapped the metal table. “Now about Melinda. I think she’s okay—as okay as she can be in her condition. There is one thing that she said would make her better.”
“What?” asked Brian.
“She said that you needed to find the killer—and find him fast.” Charles pointed his right index finger at the chief. “Tell you what, Brian, you don’t want to disappoint my dear, sweet aunt.”
Amber brought drink refills and told the chief she’d missed him the last couple of times he’d been in. She also glanced at me and opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something but instead waved to the three of us and headed inside.
Brian sipped his refreshed drink and then shared that the mayor had hinted that he wanted the local police to stay out of the investigation. The mayor had confidence in the detectives in the sheriff’s office to find the killer. He also said that the mayor didn’t specifically say “cover-up,” but he made it clear that he didn’t want any undue attention to anything bad that happened on Folly. It was bad for vacationers and upstanding citizens—those wealthy newcomers that strongly supported the mayor.
“What do you know about Officer O’Hara?” I asked the chief after he had run out of steam complaining about the mayor.
He looked at me and around the patio to see who was near. “You mean other than that he’s a cocky, connected prick?”
