Missing

by Bill Noel

  “What in the hell is meddling Charles doing?” he said.

  I knew what he was talking about but shrugged.

  He sighed. “I get this call from a member of the council who will remain nameless,” he said. “Seems that he was visited by you-know-who and asked if he would support me if it came to a vote about me keeping my job.” He stared at me. “Know anything about it?”

  I looked at him and didn’t see a hint of friendliness. “I recall that Charles said something about talking to some of the council members.”

  “Recall?” he said.

  “You know we don’t want you to quit. And remember, you said that if the council supported you, you’d reconsider,” I said and shrugged again.

  “Stop him,” he said in a tone that sounded more like an order than a request.

  “May be too late,” I said and held out my hands. “Think he’s already talked to most of them. You know Charles when he’s on a mission.”

  Brian shook his head and then looked in the rearview mirror and started the ignition. He sighed. “If you can’t stop him, then thank him.”

  He accelerated, and I grabbed the armrest. “Okay,” I said.

  Two minutes later, I was back in my front yard wondering what to do now. The top suspect—my favorite suspect—had an alibi. If you can’t believe the chief of police, who can you believe? I didn’t have much time to think about it. The phone rang.

  “Hey, Sherlock Holmes, listen up,” came the gravelly voice of Bob. Words like “hello,” or “hi,” or most anything civil, were buried deep in his vocabulary. “Is your sorry mug somewhere where you can pay full attention to me? Don’t want to be interrupted by a checkout clerk.”

  I assured him that he had my full attention. He said he doubted it, but continued. “You got me thinking about Alexander, and my razor-sharp mind has been pondering the possible involvement of my young rental agent.”

  I unlocked the front door with my right hand and pushed it open. A welcome blast of cold air slapped my face. “And what wisdom did that razor-sharp mind spew?”

  “Are you being a damned smart-ass again?” he said.

  I grinned and walked to the refrigerator for a Pepsi. “Yep,” I said.

  He snorted. “Thought so.”

  “So,” I said, “you called me to discuss your mind?”

  “You’re no fun,” he said. “Okay, now here’s the thing. My sweet Aunt Louise cornered me when I came in this morning. I knew it had to be something important because she turned down the volume on her scanner.” He growled. “Sure hope there weren’t any damn juicy crimes when she had it down. It’d be my fault.”

  Bob was beginning to sound like Charles telling a story. “And she wanted?”

  “She wanted to tell me that my young protégé confided in her that he was ‘a-hankerin’ to lasso himself a girlfriend.’”

  I took my drink to the living room and plopped down in my favorite chair. I couldn’t see this story ending soon, so I might as well be comfortable.

  “I’m sure you will get around to telling me what’s so interesting about that,” I said and took a sip.

  “I’m almost there. Chill,” he said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Okay, here’s the kinky part,” he said. “Alexander told Louise that it ‘would be peachy’ if she steered his way any single women who wanted to rent on the island. He told her that he’d already checked out all the singles who lived on Folly ‘and some others’ and they were lacking ‘that certain something’ that he was looking for.”

  I hated to admit it, but Bob—with the help of Louise—did actually seem to have a point about Alexander.

  “He rented condos to two of the women,” I said.

  “There you go, Sherlock,” he said.

  “Did he tell her anything else?” I asked.

  “Not that she could recall,” said Bob. “And when it comes to crime and nosiness, Louise has the damned market cornered. If she said nothing, nothing was said. Know what she wanted me to do?”

  I didn’t, but Bob would tell me whether I asked or not. I remained silent.

  “She told me to go to the police and tell them what he’d said.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Said, damn, old lady, you want me to sidle up to a cop and give him the earth-shattering news that a red-blooded young male stud likes girls?”

  I guess that he told her no, but I knew there was more—otherwise, he wouldn’t still be on the line. “So what did you say you’d do?”

  “Tell you.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Damned if I know,” he said. “I’m handing you a big-ass clue. You figure it out.”

  The line went dead. Bob’s phone etiquette doesn’t improve with the length of the call.

  CHAPTER 49

  WHEN I WAS A TAXPAYING CONTRIBUTOR TO THE economy, I would spend hours at work scribbling notes. When confronted with a problem, I’d wade through it and eventually arrive at a solution. It wasn’t always the correct solution, but it was a solution nevertheless. I put away my notepad and pen the day I retired and have waded through most issues without major problems since.

  I realized when listening to Bob that more than anything, I was confused. I dug through the stick everything I don’t know where else to put it drawer, found a gray notepad and ballpoint pen, and then stared at the blank page. I decided that wasn’t quite enough of a plan, so I went to the refrigerator, grabbed a Diet Pepsi, returned to the blank page, and began writing what I did know. There were three deaths, and two were definitely murder; most likely, so was the third. All of the victims had rented on Folly Beach. None of their relatives or friends knew where they were. And they were all beauty-queen attractive. My best friend and a young acquaintance were in danger—serious danger. One suspect appeared to top the list. The police, in my opinion, were far from a resolution. The mayor had forced the police chief out of office. And, for some unknown reason, he hated me.

  Listing what I knew was easy. What I didn’t know, other than the most obvious—the identity of the killer—was more difficult. What was the motive? How did the killer learn about the victims? What did Charles know that had earned him two attempts on his life? And was Samuel really in danger?

  I turned the pad over and stared at the soft drink can. It didn’t take long to figure out that no great inspirations were knocking on the door. Perhaps a ride around town would help. Schools were in session, but the streets were still busy. I followed stop-and-go traffic to where Samuel saw the abduction and where Charles and I were earlier today. True, Samuel’s facts were not totally accurate, but he was certain that Kendra Corman-Eades had been taken against her will. I believed him. I didn’t know what I expected to see or find, but nothing had changed—it would have been nice for there to be a sign on the dune listing the abductor’s name. That fantasy faded, and I turned left on Arctic Avenue and drove to the spot where the traumatized backhoe operator had uncovered Felicia Gildehous. The crime scene tape was gone, and construction of the pier continued as if nothing untoward had happened.

  A Folly Beach patrol car slowly drove by as I stared at the pier under construction. I couldn’t see who was driving, but it reminded me how much I had hoped Officer O’Hara was the killer. On the way back to town, I passed Island Realty. Only two cars were in the lot—Alexander’s black Chrysler and Louise’s Oldsmobile.

  I’d taken one of the residential streets when I heard a siren blast behind me and glanced in the rearview mirror. A Folly Beach patrol car was tailgating me. I pulled over for him to pass, but the car stayed on my bumper.

  Officer O’Hara stepped out of the cruiser and swaggered to my door. I sighed, hit the down window button, and put my hands on the steering wheel.

  O’Hara looked in the open window. “License and proof of insurance, sir,” he said w
ithout a hint of recognition.

  I took the documents from my wallet. “What did I do, officer?” I asked as I handed them to him. Two can play the I don’t recognize you game.

  He took the papers, ignored my question, and said that he would be back.

  Ten minutes passed, and so did at least forty drivers who stared at me before he returned and handed me the paperwork and a citation. “You, sir,” he said, “committed a rolling stop at the stop sign back there.” He maintained eye contact and pointed toward the stop sign behind me.

  I caught myself before I let out a loud sigh. “You mean you stopped—”

  He abruptly stepped back from the door and said, “Thank you, sir. Drive safely.” He then walked back to the cruiser and pulled around me back into the flow of traffic.

  I pounded the steering wheel. A rolling stop. How many people had been ticketed for that horrific offense on Folly in the last year? My guess would be fewer than had been written up for illegal bungee jumping off city hall. Mayor Lally was a man of his word.

  I also wondered if a computer time sheet showing that O’Hara had been working when Charles was attacked really proved that he was.

  I drove down a couple more residential streets to calm my jittery nerves and then parked in the post office lot. I dialed Brian Newman’s cell to tell him about what Bob had said. He was in a meeting with two of his officers and said he’d call me “in a few.” I watched a handful of residents enter the small post office and two men empty trash cans along the street before Brian called. I shared what Bob had told me that he had learned from Louise. I was tempted to tell him about the traffic stop, but I didn’t.

  Brian laughed. It was not exactly the response I had hoped for, but it was one I understood. I asked if he was laughing at me. He said no and then, “partially.” He said that if Louise was fifty years younger, he would name her deputy chief. And then he added he would if he was still chief. Her information was weak, but he said that he would pass it along to Detective Burton. I said “whoop-de-do,” and then he said that I should remember that Detective Burton couldn’t be as bad as I thought or he never would have made detective. I asked Brian if he was trying to convince me or himself. He didn’t answer.

  I had little confidence in Detective Burton’s getting to the bottom of anything other than his pension, but I was slightly encouraged when Brian said he would talk to a few of his officers and try to see if they could establish an alibi for the rental agent for any of the times of death. I hoped he wouldn’t waste time confiding in Officer O’Hara.

  CHAPTER 50

  I WAS STILL FUMING ABOUT MY TICKET WHEN THE PHONE rang.

  “Meet us,” said Charles.

  During my fuming, I must have missed a few minor details—like when, where, and who. “Details?” I said.

  He sighed. “Now, of course. City park by the bridge.”

  I could learn the rest when I got there. “On my way,” I said.

  I pulled in the small parking lot in front of the city park and saw Charles sitting on one of the metal picnic tables under the pavilion. Melinda stood in front of the structure and stared at a six-foot-tall metal sculpture of a frog standing on its hind legs and strumming a guitar. I waved at Charles and hugged Melinda. She appeared more stooped than before, and her Walmart wardrobe had begun to sag on her shoulders.

  She pointed to the strumming amphibian. “Think all frogs are left-legged?”

  I looked at the sculpture and smiled. It was strumming the strings with its left hand—left leg. “Just Folly frogs,” I said.

  “Makes sense,” she said with a straight face.

  I could picture myself having the same nonsensical conversation with her nephew.

  “You two, get over here and out of the sun,” said Charles. “It’s beginning to fry your green hair. And your bald spot, Chris,” he added.

  Charles and Melinda sat on one side of the table, and I sat on the other. We turned to face the Folly River and the marsh. We were the only people in the small park, and there was one person on the far end of the pier that extended over the edge of the river.

  Melinda pointed at the person on the pier and asked what he was doing. Charles told her he was crabbing. She said that didn’t sound like an ounce of fun. I agreed with her. She continued to look at the pier but said, “Figured out who the killer is?”

  “Afraid not,” I said.

  “Neither has my nephew, the detective.” She punched Charles on the arm.

  “I’m surprised,” I said. “Here’s what I did learn.”

  I proceeded to tell them about Louise, Bob, and Alexander. I reluctantly shared that the murderer couldn’t be O’Hara but told them about the ticket. Melinda said, “Hmm.” Charles, chimed in with, “Mickey Mouse manure.” I could also tell that Charles was peeved that he had to hear about Alexander and O’Hara the same time that Melinda did, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Hmm,” said Melinda. “Sounds like you’ve got something there. Could be right.”

  Charles tilted his head toward her. “What’s that mean, Aunt M.?”

  She nodded. “Means I’ve got a better suspect,” she said.

  Charles and I turned to Melinda and waited. She turned to me and then to Charles and then grinned.

  “Who?” said Charles.

  “Straight Damian,” she said and then folded her arms.

  “Your hairdresser?” said Charles.

  “You know any other nongay Damians?” she asked.

  “Why him?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said. She put her elbows on the table and took a deep breath. “I went in there around noon. Wanted to ask if he thought it was too soon to change the color of my wig. He was snipping on the long, brown hair of some woman who looked like she just rolled in on a boxcar. Well anyway, I was trying to make conversation, and since I knew he wasn’t gay anymore, I asked if he’d dated any lovely lasses lately. Just trying to be polite, you know.”

  “And?” said Charles.

  “And he said, ‘A couple of fine young ladies.’”

  She hesitated too long for Charles’s taste. “And?”

  She glared at her nephew. “Patience, Charles. Anne, the affair lady, was standing behind him when he said it. She shook her head and made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. Your detective skills are rubbing off on me.” Melinda looked at Charles. “I detected that meant zero.”

  Charles held his hands out toward Melinda. “Is that it?”

  She squished her nose at him. “Now, now, Charles, I’ve only been a detective for a few days. I thought I was doing good to find out that he wasn’t gay.”

  “You have a hunch,” I said. “What makes you think it’s him?”

  She looked at Charles and then back at me. “You keep saying that the killer had a way of finding out about the girls—where they were staying, if anyone knew where they were, that kind of stuff.”

  “And you’ve said hairdressers are like bartenders with scissors,” I added.

  She nodded. “I was thinking that he asked the girls for dates.” She nodded again. “Heck, they could have pooh-poohed him and made him mad.” She nodded again. “Or, they may have said yes and then when they were out, said no when he wanted to explore their terrain, if you get my drift.”

  Charles and I nodded.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  She looked toward the river and closed her eyes. “Not yet, but if I hang around you two more, I might learn how to detect better.”

  Charles started to stand and then sat back down. “Wouldn’t Anne have known if the three women came in and if Damian had worked on their hair?”

  Good question, I thought and turned to Melinda.

  Melinda opened her eyes and looked at Charles. “Would that be the same Anne who’s having an affair with the real estate guy? The one who was gallivanting around
St. Thomas and taking off days at a time to do you-know-what with Realtor-stud?”

  “True,” conceded Charles.

  “Bigfoot could’ve come in for a trim and she would’ve missed him. She was out doing you-know-what.” She grinned. “That activity will cloud your mind—it sure will.”

  She wiped the smile off her face and said, “Her husband ought to kill her.”

  “Then how about this,” said Charles. “The guy who Samuel saw and the guy who tried to knock my block off had long, dark hair. Your not-gay hair snipper is blond.”

  “Dirty blond,” corrected Melinda.

  “Okay, dirty blond,” agreed Charles. “Short, dirty-blond hair.”

  Melinda looked at her nephew, at the river, and then back at Charles. “What color’s my hair?” she asked.

  Charles looked at her head. “Green.”

  Melinda tilted her head. “And you call yourself a detective.” She reached up and yanked on her bright-green locks. The wig came off in her hand. She shook it in Charles’s face like a feather duster. A coating of fuzzy, gray hair covered her scalp. “Did you forget that Damian was a master at dying wigs? He has more wigs in the salon than you have T-shirts.” She looked at Charles’s long-sleeved Texas Tech shirt. “Well, maybe not more, but he has a bunch.”

  She had a point, but I stayed out of the conversation—or, more accurately, family feud. Damian was also about the same size as the guy we chased at Charles’s apartment.

  “Aunt M.,” said Charles, “that’s a fine bit of detecting.” He hugged her shoulder. “Now I know where I get my hidden talents.”

  She was backlit, and I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought she blushed. She then turned toward the far end of the small pier. “Think I’d like crabbing?”

  “Don’t know,” said Charles. “Want to go sometime?”

  “Nah,” she said. “Looks boring. This detecting stuff’s more fun.”