Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  I took the chicken and set it on the kitchen table, placed her leather jacket on a chair in the corner of the kitchen, and took a long, mushy kiss offered by the detective. I reciprocated.

  She stepped back and looked at the refrigerator. “Happen to have beer in there? This has been one gruesome week.”

  I told her I thought I could find one. She said she thought I could too since about the only things in the refrigerator would be beer, wine, and ice cream. She wasn’t far off, and I handed her a Budweiser. I poured a glass of Cabernet from a bottle on the counter and asked if she wanted to relax in the living room before digging into the “feast.”

  She smiled. “No way. I’m starved.”

  I took the hint. I smiled at the set of steak knifes Bob Howard had given me as a housewarming gift before he knew I had zero culinary skills. The chicken wouldn’t need such heavy tools, and I grabbed two of my finest paper plates and four McDonald’s napkins from the silverware—in my kitchen, plasticware—drawer.

  Karen had already torn open the bag and removed two box meals and was ready to dump the coleslaw on the plates. She took a bite of chicken before I was back at the table. Gruesome weeks brought out her appetite. Karen had been blessed with a metabolism allowed her to eat huge quantities of high calorie food without gaining an ounce. I envied it, and had learned over the years it wasn’t contagious.

  I said, “Want to talk about your week?”

  She had finished the first breast and started on the second. She took a bite of mashed potatoes and shook her head. “No. Two bodies and the usual suspects: drug deals gone bad and cheap guns.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, nothing else to say.” She took a deep breath. “My job starts after bad things happen. It’ll never change.”

  Karen has been a detective for several years and a beat cop for years before that. She was good at her job, and seldom let the dark side get her down. I was surprised, not because of the terrible circumstances she had to deal with on a regular basis, but it seemed to be getting to her more than usual.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Being here helps. It feels good to be away from the blood and gore for a few hours.” She grinned. “What’s been happening over here?”

  I wanted her take on the murdered hit man, but considering what she had said, It wasn’t a good time. Instead, I filled her in on Heather and Kevin Starr. She started to interrupt once but let me finish.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Are you talking about the Heather Lee I’ve heard sing?”

  I nodded.

  “The agent, con or deaf?”

  “Don’t know. He must be one or both.”

  “One of our detectives came over from the Metro Nashville Police Department. Want me to have him check with his buddies in Tennessee and see what they can find on Starr?”

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  “He’s new with us and should still have friends there. I’ll ask tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. Charles will appreciate it. He’d appreciate it more if the cops in Nashville would arrest Starr and stick him in jail for a hundred years.”

  Karen smiled. “I’m sure he would.”

  “Unless someone proves Starr is a mass murder and bumping off all the naïve, aspiring singers he cons into moving to Nashville, I don’t think anything can stop Heather for heading there to find fame and fortune.”

  “And if she goes, so goes Charles.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If he leaves Folly you’ll lose your best friend.”

  “That’s part of it. There’s more than that. I keep thinking how traumatized Charles was when I closed the gallery. He lost his identity, his purpose, as he called it, and the gallery was only open a few years. Charles has been here more than thirty. Folly and Charles are as close as skin on your hand, and I can’t imagine him in Nashville. For Heather, she’ll be pinning her hopes and dreams on a man she doesn’t know in a city known for chewing up and spitting out singers like mulch from a wood chipper.” I shook my head. “Nothing good can come from it. They know nothing about Nashville, and don’t have a way to get there.”

  She reached across the table and took my hand. “Don’t get the cart before the horse. Let me see what I can dig up. If it’s nothing bad, what’s the harm in them going to Nashville for a few days? Let Heather sing, or whatever that sound she makes is called, at the open-mic nights. Can you picture someone hearing her, going gaga, and signing her to a record contract?”

  I smiled at that image. “True, but I know Charles and think I have a good feel for Heather. All it will take will be for someone to say she has potential, or that she has a unique singing style, and she’ll want to stay forever.”

  “As a true friend, you can’t stand in Charles’s way.”

  “I know. If he wants to go for a few days or a few years, I’ll support him.” I smiled. “Besides, he’ll want me to take them.”

  She squeezed my hand. “That’s what friends do. Let me see what our detective finds before getting too upset.” She let go of my hand and sat back in the chair. “And speaking of friends and detectives, when were you going to tell me about finding a body?”

  I wasn’t ready for that transition. “Tonight.” It sounded weak as I said it.

  “Um, hmm. I bet.” She clinched her fists.

  “How did you hear?”

  “Give me some credit, I am a detective.” She glared at me. “Although, it didn’t take much detecting. Ken, Detective Adair, told me, and then your mayor—you know, the one who happens to be the father of the lady you’re eating chicken with—called to tell me. It would’ve been nice to tell them I knew.”

  “Sorry. It’s that—”

  “That’s a sorry I accept,” she interrupted. “Continue.”

  “I knew you were snowed under at work and I didn’t want you to worry. Besides, all I did was come across the body. I didn’t know the guy or anything about him. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “Then why did Detective Adair ask me to tell you who the guy was and where he was staying?”

  “Curious, that’s all.”

  “Chris, if I find out you’re butting in police business again, I won’t have to worry about somebody killing you. I’ll do it myself.”

  “I’m not getting involved.”

  “I’ve heard that before.” She showed no signs of softening.

  “Honest. It’s in good hands with Detective Adair. It’s none of my business. Period.”

  She made a slight nod. “So you don’t want to know who he was or where he was staying?”

  I didn’t tell her Chief LaMond had already told me. “If Detective Adair wanted you to tell me, I guess you should. Wouldn’t want him angry with you.”

  She gave me the hit man’s name and local address, and reiterated she would kill me if I got involved.

  I nodded, crossed my fingers in hopes she wouldn’t explode. “Does Adair have any leads?”

  Karen chuckled. “Glad you’re staying out of it.”

  I held my hand up, palm facing Karen. “Curious.”

  “Yeah. Adair doesn’t know anything more than the basic facts: Where the vic lived, what his wife said about what he was doing, where he stayed here, and the rumors about his past.”

  “Nothing about why he was here?”

  “Nothing.” She rolled her eyes. “So, I come over and you’re trying to get my mind off my terrible week by talking about murder.”

  I smiled. “Maybe I should try a different strategy.”

  Fortunately, she returned the smile. “I do know something you could do to get my mind off the week.”

  The next morning, she said I had succeeded. I still had a feeling something was bothering her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I watched Karen pull out of the drive a little after sunrise, and turned on the radio to hear a cheery meteorologist tell me today was to be the “pick of the week with enough sunshine to keep dermatologists in caviar
and temperatures to tempt listeners to buy Fourth of July fireworks.” Instead of going caviar and fireworks shopping, I decided a day in Charleston photographing its historic churches would be a good way to spend the day. Having my photographs displayed in a gallery was a fading memory, yet I’d been a photographer for many years and still enjoyed capturing my surroundings. Besides, it would be a welcomed distraction.

  I would have invited Charles, but knew he had to deliver packages for Dude. Charles didn’t have a working car, so he peddled around the island on his pride and joy, a classic 1961 Schwinn bicycle, and picked-up a few bucks in the process.

  On the way to Charleston, I took a chance Charles hadn’t begun his carrier route and called. He didn’t have a cell phone or an answering machine so I was pleased when he answered, and told him what my Internet search had uncovered about Kevin Starr.

  “Oh great,” he said, with dejection in his voice. “He’s for real. Heather’ll be thrilled.”

  He either hadn’t heard, or ignored, what I’d said about it seeming strange that Starr’s agency didn’t have a website, and there wasn’t anything about the singer he had been photographed with. If Cal was right about agents not listing their address, I would have thought it unusual he would’ve had a post office box.

  “When does he want her in Nashville?” I was hoping it wasn’t soon so it would give the real detective time to dig into Starr’s credibility.

  “A week, give or take. Heather’s going to ask around the salon to see if someone knows about a cheap car she can buy. She wants to be ready when Starr calls back. She’s so excited.”

  “I’m happy for her.” I hoped he didn’t hear disappointment in my voice. “Do me a favor.”

  “Okay, maybe.”

  “The next time Heather talks with Starr see if she can get names of some of the singers he represents. He should want to brag on them, being they’re stars.”

  “I’ll try. She’s mighty hopped-up about going, so I think if he said she’d be his first client, she’d still be packing.”

  “Try anyway.”

  Charles hesitated and then said, “I’m off. Surf shop customers are waiting to get their goodies from CPS.”

  Charles and his vibrant imagination had named his pedal-powered delivery service Charles Parcel Service. He’d said he hoped the “slightly larger” UPS wouldn’t feel threatened by his moniker. I’d told him they could withstand the economic impact.

  I was lucky enough to find a parking spot a block off Meeting Street and within a few hundred yards of some of the most beautiful houses of worship in the southeast. I was eleven miles from my small bohemian island, yet it didn’t take much imagination to feel I had stepped into history. Seconds later, I was standing in front of St. Michael’s, perhaps the most photographed church in Charleston. The crisp-white Anglican church’s towering steeple was visible from numerous vantage points and left no doubt about the importance and historic significance of the building that opened in 1761, the oldest church building in the city. With more than four hundred places of worship, Charleston was dubbed “The Holy City,” and St. Michael’s has been the most visible symbol of religion’s importance to the community. The front of the church with its impressive steeple is the subject of most photographers, I preferred to wander through the small, brick-walled cemetery behind the sanctuary. Sunlight filtered through a large magnolia tree and illuminated the ancient tombstones with soothing light and brought to life the importance of those who had departed a century ago.

  The temperature was still cool, yet I was able to shed my jacket as I walked from St. Michael’s to the French Protestant Church on appropriately named Church Street. The gothic-revival structure, better known as the Huguenot Church, was different in appearance than many of the other magnificent churches. Instead of being hidden behind a brick wall, its cemetery was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. I took a few shots of a tombstone framed by the fence and then sat on a Charleston Battery Bench and gazed at the wide variety of foliage growing in the well-maintained area. The differences between the two churches reminded me how much their location and buildings differed from the oceanfront services at First Light. While First Light’s services were held on the beach in good weather, the hope it offered its followers was no different than what Charleston’s magnificent churches promised.

  I understood Preacher Burl being concerned about the possibility of someone in his flock meeting an untimely demise after what had happened before with his church. What I couldn’t understand was his concern over the recent death. The body was in the alley behind a row of stores along Center Street. It wasn’t closer to First Light’s door than it was to Barb’s Books. The alley was off the beaten path, but not isolated. It was often used to get to the rear entrances of a couple of the bars, and others took the shortcut between two parallel streets. There was no evidence of anyone trying to get in First Light’s rear door. Why was the preacher concerned? Paranoia, or was there something he wasn’t telling me?

  There’s one way to find out. On my drive home, I called the preacher and after three rings, I heard, “Good day, Brother Chris, learn anything about the poor soul?”

  I detested Caller ID. “Not yet, Preacher Burl, but I’d like to meet and talk about it.”

  “I don’t.” He hesitated. “Sure. When’s good for you?”

  I told him today. He said he wasn’t available and we agreed on a time and place to meet tomorrow.

  It was getting warmer so I decided to park at the house, change into lighter clothes, grab a sandwich, if the bread hadn’t turned blue, and walk on the beach. I needed to lose a few pounds and had been trying to get more exercise—something I’m not a fan of.

  I opened the door and my day took a nosedive, I took two steps into the house when I noticed the living room looked like a tornado had touched down. A small table from the corner was on its side in the middle of the room. Photo magazines that had been on the table were scattered everywhere and one of the ceramic vases I’d bought at a yard sale to make the room look more homey had been smashed, shards everywhere. The ottoman was on its side and my flat-screen television was face down on the floor.

  I took a deep breath and started to back out of the room, when I heard a rustling behind me and turned to see the second ceramic vase hurling at my head. A sharp pain registered in my brain, I saw what looked like the finale of an Independence Day fireworks show in my eyes, followed by everything turning white, and then black. I didn’t feel anything as I hit the floor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I opened my eyes and saw the living room from ankle level. My head felt like it had been hit by a meteorite. I stared at my table lamp, bulb shattered, and cord snaked out behind it on the floor beside my leg. I didn’t move, because my head hurt too much and if the intruder was still in the house, I didn’t want him, or her, to know I was still among the living.

  A minute later, the only sounds I heard were cars passing in front of the house and blood pulsing through my aching temple. I raised my head a few inches and looked around. I blinked back a tear and pushed up to a sitting position. Still no sounds from inside the house. I glanced at the floor and didn’t see blood, a good sign. I touched my head and felt a knot the size of a basketball. Again, no blood.

  I inched the phone out of my pocket and tapped 911 and told the dispatcher what had happened. She asked if the intruder was still in the house. I said I didn’t think so, and prayed I was right. I ended the call and moved to my lounge chair which appeared to be the only thing unharmed in the room.

  My legs stopped shaking enough for me to venture farther, so I walked in the kitchen. There was little in it so there was not much that could be disturbed. Drawers by the sink were open but nothing was out of place. I moved to the second bedroom I used as an office and storage room for prints from the gallery. Whoever had invaded my privacy appeared to have spent the most time here. The four-drawer filing cabinet where I kept most every piece of paper I had, had been ransacked, and papers from
it were strewn around the room. A taped banker’s box that had held hundreds of slides dating to the pre-digital age had been ripped open and the contents flung in every direction, and my photo printer looked like the visitor had taken a sledgehammer to it. Its plastic shell was shattered and magenta ink from one of the color cartridges seeped out of the mangled machine.

  A siren from a Folly Beach patrol car disturbed my dismay as I looked at the disheveled room. I wanted to check the bedroom before anyone arrives. Dismay turned to anger as I gripped the doorframe for balance and looked in. One of my steak knives was plunged in the pillow and the sheets were shredded and lay useless on the floor. A sheet of copy paper was on the pillow beside the knife and something was printed on the paper in red ink. I stepped closer and read: LEAVE TOWN.

  If I had had food in my stomach, it would now be on the bedroom floor.

  “Mr. Landrum, sir?” came the familiar voice of Officer Bishop from the front of the house.

  “In here.” I turned to meet the officer.

  She looked left and right as she approached. “Are you okay?” She continued to look around.

  My head throbbed, my legs were still weak. I was furious, and bile was inching its way up through my throat.” Yeah, just a bump.”

  The officer stepped closer and examined my head like she was trying to identify the genus of a bug. “Doesn’t look okay to me. There’s an ambulance on the way. Why don’t we go in the living room, sit down, and tell me what happened?”

  I thought it was a terrific idea, especially the sit down part.

  Allen Spencer was next to arrive. “Are you okay, Mr. Landrum?”

  I gave him the same answer I’d given Bishop. He nodded and frowned. He knew I was lying. While Spencer went from room to room surveying the damage, Bishop asked me what had happened. I told her I came home from Charleston to find this and then someone smacked me in the head with a vase. Not insightful or detailed, but it was all I could offer.