by Bill Noel
Dead Center
A Folly Beach Mystery
Bill Noel
Hydra Publications
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Also by Bill Noel
About the Author
Chapter One
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, or so they say. Whoever they are would probably say french toast slathered with maple syrup was not their idea of what the most important meal of the day should be. They were not with me as I took a shortcut from the house to the Lost Dog Cafe, a path through the alley behind a couple of bars, the foul-weather sanctuary of First Light Church, and the site of my former photo gallery.
The February sun had slept in on Folly Beach, a small barrier island a handful of miles from beautiful and historic Charleston, South Carolina. Fog enveloped the island like a fluffy, gray, cotton comforter, and was so thick I imagined having to part it with my hands. It was still dark and I took advantage of the illumination from three security lights on nearby poles as I made my way to the restaurant. I coveted the smell of fresh coffee greeting me as I thought about a peaceful morning enjoying breakfast while celebrating another day in my retirement paradise.
I felt a tinge of regret as I passed the back door of what used to be Landrum Gallery, my lifelong dream. As with many dreams, reality had slapped it down. I had kept the never-successful business open for eight years, but expenses exceeded income tenfold, and locking the doors had become the sane choice. Six months ago, I hauled the last framed photo to my car; sad, and also a relief knowing it was something I didn’t have to continue to struggle with. I had experienced my share of battles during my sixty-six years, most I had no control over. This one I did.
I was distracted from reliving the demise of the gallery when I caught a glimmer of what at first glance looked like a large laundry bag veiled in the deep shadows of a trash dumpster between First Light and the former gallery’s back doors. I hesitated and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark and inched closer to the mass. Thoughts of a peaceful breakfast evaporated. The object on the ground was folded in a fetal position and from appearances, dead.
I blinked to be sure I wasn’t imagining the body, held my breath, and turned to see if anyone was nearby. I heard a car traveling up Center Street, Folly’s main drag in front of the buildings, and a dog barking for its most important meal of the day. I didn’t see anyone.
I inched closer. The body was a man in his late fifties, wearing a dark-green polo shirt, tan slacks, boat shoes, and an Atlanta Braves ball cap cocked sideways on his head, knocked that way from the fall to the gravel alley. He was well-dressed for the laid-back, casual beach community and didn’t look like he’d been homeless. There appeared to be a puddle of blood that had oozed from under the ball cap. I stooped and touched the left arm which was twisted at a right angle to his torso. It was cold. The man had eaten his last meal, regardless how important it may have been. His right hand had a death grip on a gun.
I stepped back and tapped 911 in my phone, something I had done more times than a former small business owner should have ever done, and told the emergency operator who I was, where I was, and why I had called. I assured her I would stay where I was, and she, in a well-modulated, professional voice, said the police had been dispatched. Folly Beach was a half-mile wide and six-miles long, and its downtown was condensed into a six block area. The combination city hall, fire and police station was fewer than three blocks from where I was standing, so I wasn’t surprised to hear the high-pitched wail of a patrol car as it left the station seconds after I’d ended the call.
The siren was followed by the distinct sound of the city’s fire and rescue truck and a second patrol car coming from the other direction. I took a deep breath and lowered myself to the concrete step leading to my former business.
Officer Bishop hopped out of her patrol car and scanned the area before moving in my direction. Her hand hovered over her holstered firearm. She gave a slight nod, said, “Mr. Landrum,” and continued to peruse the area before focusing on the body.
I had met the officer two years ago when she was new to the department and I was stuck in the middle of a murder investigation. She was pleasant, competent, one of the few female members of the Folly Beach police department, and half of the city’s African-American cops.
“Officer Bishop,” I said, and realized that although I’d known her for a while, I didn’t know her first name. I also thought it was strange that that had popped in my mind as I sat, hands trembling, and traumatized by what should have been a pleasant early-morning, fog-shrouded walk.
She pointed a black Maglite at the corpse, and leaned down and touched his arm. She discovered there was nothing medics could do for him.
A second patrol car pulled in the alley behind Bishop’s vehicle, and someone whose first name I did know, rushed to the body. I had known Allen Spencer since I had arrived on Folly a decade ago. Bishop asked him to make sure there wasn’t anyone in the vicinity and to secure the scene. He nodded and pointed his light at me. I shielded my eyes.
“Sorry, Mr. Landrum. Didn’t recognize you. What happened?”
“I don’t know, Allen. I was—”
“Officer Spencer,” Bishop interrupted, “please make sure the area’s secure.”
Please was said with more force and irritation than politeness. Bishop was worried the killer might be nearby. It was possible, although with two cops here and more first responders on the way, I doubted whoever was responsible was hanging around. Officer Spencer didn’t wait for the rest of my answer and began circling the area near the alley.
The city’s fire and rescue vehicle was next to arrive, followed by a fire engine. Two EMTs moved to the body and Officer Bishop lowered herself onto the step beside me.
“Are you okay?”
I sighed. “Think so.”
“What happened?”
I shared my morning from when I left home to finding the corpse. I left out my breakfast choice.
She pointed her flashlight at the group surrounding the body. “Know who he is?”
“I didn’t get a good look, since the only light was the one on the pole. I didn’t recognize him.”
Chief Cindy LaMond arrived and moved beside Officer Bishop and put her hand on the office’s shoulder. The chief was in her fifties, five-foot three inches in stature, with curly hair and a quick smile.
Bishop looked at her boss. “Morning, Chief, Mr. Landrum was telling me what he found.”
Chief LaMond and I had been friends since she’d moved to the island from East Tennessee eight years ago. She’d been promoted to chief a couple of years back after the previous long-time chief, Brian Newman, had been elected mayor.
Cindy nodded at Bis
hop and turned to me. “Chris, don’t tell me you’ve stumbled on another murder.”
Officer Bishop stood. “If it’s okay, Chief, I’ll help the guys secure the scene.”
LaMond nodded and Bishop left to join her colleagues.
“Cindy, I was walking to breakfast, minding my own business.”
She shook her head. “How do you do it, Chris?”
I knew what she meant, but still asked, “What?”
“Manage to stumble on every dead body within twenty miles; stumble on it before anyone else; manage to get in the middle of police investigations; manage to stay alive while surrounded by dead people and murderers.” She rubbed her chin. “Oh yeah, and manage to piss off every law enforcement official from here to Timbuktu. Is that enough what I meants?”
I smiled. “It’s a gift.”
Cindy, God love her, had a way of dredging up smart-aleck remark in me while calming me even in the most serious situation. Besides, much of what she’d said was true.
She shook her head. “I suppose it is a mere coincidence your latest find happened to be behind the building that was your gallery for what, eight years?”
I nodded and said I was sure it had been a coincidence, and that I hadn’t stepped foot in the building since shutting down the business.
Spencer moved to Cindy’s side and waited for a break in our conversation. She turned to him. “What?”
Spencer glanced at me and looked at the chief. “Umm, I have something.” He again looked at me.
“Want me to leave?” I asked.
“No,” she said, and turned to her officer. “Go ahead Officer Spencer. Hell, Chris’ll find out soon enough. Might as well get it over with.”
Spencer gave me a nod and turned to Cindy. “No ID on the body.”
I wondered what was so confidential about that.
He continued, “I did find this.”
He moved his hand from behind his back and showed the chief the small, matte-blue, semi-automatic pistol I’d seen in the man’s hand. Spencer held it with his ballpoint pen through the trigger guard.
Cindy said, “I saw it.”
“Doesn’t smell like it’s been fired,” Spencer said.
Cindy looked at the gun, and then toward the body. “Don’t suppose he shot himself in the head and cleaned the gun.”
Spencer said, “Unlikely.”
A colossal understatement, I thought.
“Crap,” the chief said. “Don’t go anywhere, Chris. Suppose I’d better call the sheriff.”
Folly Beach had its own police force, although major crimes were handed to the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office. Cindy had never been happy with the arrangement, but knew her department didn’t have the resources to investigate serious crimes. The relationship between the two departments was cooperative, yet often strained.
Cindy walked to her unmarked SUV, leaned against the hood, and made the call. Spencer stayed with me and looked around like he was at a party but didn’t have anyone to talk to. The temperature was in the mid-forties, above average for early-February, but I was shivering and Spencer offered to let me wait in his patrol car. He didn’t have to ask twice.
The chief returned and said a detective would be here in a half hour and turned to Spencer. “Bullet wound?”
Spencer nodded and amped up the patrol car’s heat.
The chief rolled her eyes. “Where?”
Spencer pointed his finger at his forehead. “Dead center.”
Sheriff’s Office Detective Kenneth Adair stepped out of his unmarked car. He was six-foot-one, in his mid-thirties, and sported a military-style buzz cut. I had met him a year ago when he had investigated a murder and one of my friends happened to be the prime suspect.
Adair nodded to the chief, Spencer, and me as we got out of the vehicle. He passed by us and moved to the group huddled around the corpse, so we returned to the comfort of the car. The detective looked like he had modeled for a high-end clothing store ad in his navy blazer, light gray slacks with a sharp crease, a starched white shirt, and polished shoes. After sharing a few words with one of the EMTs and bending down to get a closer look at the deceased, Adair came over to Spencer’s vehicle.
“Chief, officer, Mr. Landrum.” He slipped into the back seat beside me. “Who wants to begin?”
It’s satisfying to be recognized, although much of the luster is dulled when the recognition comes from a frowning police detective.
Chief LaMond twisted around from the front seat and looked at me and told Adair I had been walking to breakfast and found the body. She said there was no ID, and they found a handgun with him. She tilted her head toward Spencer who handed Adair a clear evidence bag that now held the weapon.
Adair asked Spencer to turn on the interior lights and held the bag up and inspected it like it contained a piece of fine sculpture. “Browning 1911-22,” he said more to himself than to us. “Interesting.”
Cindy looked at the bag. “Why?”
“Oh,” Adair said, like he hadn’t meant to say interesting out loud. “Nothing, it’s a common firearm, sold everywhere.”
Nothing in that made it sound interesting. It wasn’t my place to ask why.
“Anyone recognize him?” Adair asked, back on track.
“No,” Cindy said.
Adair turned to me and pointed to the door where Cindy and I had been sitting. “Isn’t that the back of your shop?”
I hadn’t seen the detective since closing the gallery. “Used to be. I closed in September.”
“Oh, sorry. What’s there now?”
“Used bookstore,” Cindy said. “Barb’s Books opened four months ago.”
Adair pointed to the door on the other side of the body. “And there?”
Spencer said, “First Light Church. They hold services there when the weather’s too bad on the beach.”
Adair nodded. “I remember. It’s been around a couple of years.”
“A little more than that,” Spencer said.
Adair jotted something in a small notebook. “Give me a few minutes. Don’t leave.”
I assumed he meant me since I doubted either the chief or Spencer would be going anywhere.
The detective walked fifty yards down the alley and then retraced his steps and strolled behind the police and fire vehicles. He was on the phone when he returned to the car.
He ended the call and said, “Crime scene techs are on the way. Now, Mr. Landrum, let’s hear your version.”
It was identical to what the chief had told him. Adair jotted some notes as I recounted what I’d found.
“Why did you take the alley instead of Center Street?”
“Short cut.”
“Wouldn’t it have been safer along the well-lighted main street?”
“I didn’t think about it since I’d gone this way hundreds of times. Could do it blindfolded. In fact, with the dense fog, I felt like I was blindfolded.”
“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts before finding the body?”
I felt a knot in my stomach. “I was home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain you don’t recognize him?”
“It was dark when I got here, but I don’t think I do.”
“That’s it for now, Mr. Landrum. Let me have your number in case I have more questions.” He jotted my number in his book, handed me a card, and told me to call if I thought of anything else.
I was no longer hungry, but knew I needed to eat and continued my tragically-delayed walk to breakfast. This time, I took Center Street.
Chapter Two
The Lost Dog Cafe was a block off the main drag, within easy walking distance to anywhere near the center of town, and my favorite breakfast spot. Fortunate for the restaurant, although not always convenient for me, I was not alone in singing the praises of the Dog. Most of the year, its dining room, with walls covered with photos of dogs of all shapes, sizes, breeds, and poses, was packed and groups gathered outside
waiting for a table. The restaurant’s two patios were canine hospitable, and there were often as many dogs waiting as there were children. February was not the busiest time and despite the traumatic delay, I was able to get a table.
The warm, inviting décor was complimented by a helpful, cheery waitstaff. After what I had been through, a kind voice was as important as food, and I was pleased to see Amber Lewis headed my way with a mug of coffee. She was my favorite waitress, and we had been an item when I first arrived on Folly. It had been years since we had dated, yet she remained one of my best friends.
“Granola and yogurt?” she asked as she set a mug in front of me.
She knew I was as prone to order granola and yogurt as I was to ask for a chocolate-covered paper clip.
“French toast,” I said, sharper than I had intended.
Amber cocked her head, her long amber hair tied in a ponytail flipped to the side, and her eyes narrowed. “Got up on the wrong side of the bed, did we?”
“Sorry. Bad morning.”
That was all it took. She looked around, didn’t see anyone demanding her attention, and slid in the other side of the booth. Amber was in her late-forties, had been on Folly for eighteen years, and had worked at the Dog since it opened fourteen years ago. The restaurant and its staff epitomized the character of the island. The Dog was also Folly’s epicenter of rumors, gossip, and occasional facts, so, for obvious reasons, it was a hangout for locals as well as a destination spot for vacationers.
She gave me a few seconds to sip the coffee before saying, “Spill it?”
She hadn’t meant the coffee, and I gave her the rundown on my morning walk.
She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. “You okay?”
I assured her I was getting there.
She put her finger in the air. “Hold that thought.” She headed to the kitchen with my order.
I was thinking that thought wasn’t something I wanted to hold when she returned and slipped her trim, well-proportioned, five-foot-five inch frame in the booth.
“Who was it?”
