Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  I told her each had a kinder side and I shared the story of them participating in Charles’s aunt’s funeral. Barb said she was surprised; I told her I would have been shocked if she wasn’t.

  “You live in that house next to Bert’s.”

  “Yes.” I tried to hide my surprise she knew. “How’d you know?”

  She hesitated and then said, “I saw you coming from there one day as I was leaving the store.

  “Yeah, I’ve been there most of my time here.”

  “Cute house.” She walked to the sink and refilled my water glass.

  The front door squeaked open as she set the glass on the desk. “I’ll be back.”

  I took a sip, stared at the door leading to the store, and thought maybe Barb wasn’t as bad as I had thought. We were having a pleasant conversation and she seemed more comfortable. Then another thought struck me. Was she the person who’d broken in my house and smacked me in the head with the vase? Did I think that because she knew where I lived? That didn’t make sense; it was no secret and many people knew about it. And, what possible reason could she have. I barely knew her and couldn’t imagine a motive. Then why had it occurred to me?

  She returned before I overanalyzed it.

  She sighed and pulled another Perrier out of the refrigerator. “I hate romance novels.”

  “Oh,” I said, not knowing a better response.

  “Doesn’t matter what I like. They outsell every other fiction genre two to one, especially in used books.”

  I wasn’t much of a reader and doubted I’d ever touched a romance novel, much less read one. I moved to more familiar territory and shared how some of my least favorite photos were my best sellers and had to keep reprinting them. She seemed interested and added that mystery novels were her second best seller.

  “Speaking of mystery,” she said. “Have you learned more about the man in the alley?”

  Why did she keep coming back to that? I told her what the police had learned about his background, his alleged career, and that they didn’t know why he was here.

  “Think the killer’s the person who broke in your house and conked you in the head?”

  Now it was my turn to be surprised. “How’d you hear about that?”

  She smiled. “As someone told me a few moments ago, it’s a small town.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Someone. Are you okay?”

  “Only a headache left.” I grinned. “You didn’t do it, did you?”

  She tilted her head, started to say something, paused, and said, “Why, Mr. Landrum, would I do that?” She gave me another smile. “Did you have the secret to operating the thermostat hidden there?”

  “Is that no?”

  “What do you think?” She continued to smile.

  So far she sounded like an attorney with a sense of humor; not giving a direct answer, and humorously not answering it.

  I returned her smile. “I think you’re avoiding the question.”

  She looked at the door to the shop and then at me. “Sorry. I’ve spent too many years deflecting questions both at work and well, elsewhere. Of course I didn’t break into your house. Why would I? I am sorry you were hurt.”

  To believe or not to believe? That was the question; one I couldn’t get a handle on. I doubted she was going to help. More than anything, I wanted to see her reaction.

  “I can’t think why you would.” I said, although there was one huge reason she may have: She killed the hit man.

  “Are you working with the police on finding the killer?”

  “No, all I did was stumble on his body.”

  “You’ve helped in the past.” She glanced at me and then at the door, either a nervous habit, or wishful thinking someone would come in and end our conversation.

  I shrugged. “Ancient history.” Once again it popped in my mind about the possibility she had been the person in my house. I wasn’t about to tell her Preacher Burl had asked me to look into the murder.

  “Interesting. I’d better get back to running a bookstore. Thank you for your assistance with the thermostat.”

  She stood and motioned to the door. I was being dismissed.

  Why interesting? I wondered as I closed the door on the way out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I was on my way to bed when the phone rang. It was a little after ten and I couldn’t recall ever receiving a call bringing good news that late. I was pleased to see the caller ID indicated it was Karen.

  “I’m a couple of miles off-island wrapping up an interview. Have a few minutes for me to swing by?”

  I said of course. There had been nothing in her voice to indicate my streak of bad evening calls was about to be broken.

  “I hope it’s not too late to bother you,” she said as she came in. Her eyes were red and her usual confident gait was absent.

  I said it was fine and asked if she wanted something to drink. She said beer as we moved to the kitchen.

  I handed her a Budweiser and sat beside her at the table. “Rough night?”

  “Yeah,” she said and took a long draw. “Tracking down a suspect in that high-profile murder on East Bay the other night.”

  “The tourist from Arizona?”

  She nodded. “It was a wasted trip. The guy has an alibi. I’ll verify it tomorrow, and if it holds, I’m back to square one.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “That’s not why I wanted to come by.”

  She took another drink and I waited for what was coming. I feared it nevertheless.

  “I wanted to talk about it the other night, but … to be honest, I didn’t have the nerve. Then you started about Charles and Heather leaving, and I chickened out.” She exhaled. “I’ve been a cop my entire adult life, and I’m pretty good at it. I rose through the ranks quicker than most, and with an exception of one or two, I have the respect of my colleagues.”

  I agreed.

  She stared out the window and said, “I’m thinking of quitting.”

  I was shocked, and as calmly as I could asked, “Why?”

  She shrugged. “A mid-life crisis, or maybe I’m sick of seeing society’s underbelly. Crap, I could be worn out.” She looked at the ceiling and back at me. “Or, a combination.”

  Karen thrived on her work. According to her colleagues, she was one of the best, and from what I could tell, seldom let it get to her.

  “What would you do?”

  “That’s a great question. If I had the answer I wouldn’t be struggling with this as much.”

  “Options?”

  She smiled; her eyes screamed anything but happiness. “I could live off my savings, tap out my 401k, pay a bunch of penalties and taxes. That’d carry me a year.”

  “Not the best option.”

  She looked down at the table and then at me, yet didn’t make direct eye contact. “There are two possibilities.” She paused. “I’ve been approached by a large company that has two corporate security openings. I met one of their big-wigs in November, after he and his wife were witnesses in a fatal hit-and-run I was investigating. One of the jobs is in Charleston. It doesn’t pay near what I’m making. It’s convenient.” She rubbed her hand through her shoulder-length hair and bit her upper lip.

  “The other one?”

  “It’s at the corporate headquarters. A VP position and would be over security at seventeen locations, looking into corporate espionage, theft management, and other stuff I know enough about to get by.” She grinned. “The pay’s twice my salary.”

  “It sounds great.” I tried to appear enthusiastic, although felt there was a but coming.

  “It is.” She paused. “But, it’s in Charlotte.”

  More than two hundred miles from Charleston.

  “Oh.”

  She glanced at me. “Yeah, oh.”

  “What company?”

  “They asked me not to divulge their name unless I take it.”

  “They’ve made an offer?”

  She nodded.

  �
�Is it what you want?”

  She looked at the floor. “I’m leaning that way.”

  “The job in Charlotte?”

  “Yeah,” She mumbled and continued looking down.

  After spending umpteen years in human resources with much of that time conducting exit interviews and negotiating contracts with employees who were being hired or promoted. I’d learned to ask one telling question when someone was talking about changing jobs.

  “Are you considering it because you’re running to something you want, or away from something you’re tired of or frustrated with?”

  “When I was lying in the hospital bed, gosh, two years ago now, I gave a lot of thought to why I was a cop. I’ve suppressed a lot of fear since then. I can’t shake the feeling I’m not ready to get killed for a paycheck.”

  Karen almost died from two gunshot wounds sustained while trying to stop a restaurant robbery. It was touch-and-go and the doctors had all but given up on her. She was young and in excellent shape, both things contributed to her recovery. She was off-duty at the time and stopping at the restaurant to get supper.

  I thought about reminding her that since she wasn’t working when she was shot, it could have happened to her regardless what her job was. I kept those thoughts to myself. “I suppose it would be safer chasing corporate crooks.”

  She nodded.

  “When do you have to let them know?”

  “They want to know now, but I’ve bought a few days.” She scooted back from the table and went for another beer.

  I stared off in space. She returned and I said, “Have you talked to your dad about it?”

  She smiled. “Sort of.”

  Before becoming mayor, Brian Newman had been Folly’s chief law enforcement official and before that had been a military cop.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Before or after the steam stopped rolling out his ears?”

  “After.”

  “He said he didn’t like it; said I wasn’t cut out to be a paper-pushing, pseudo-cop; said I’d be bored out of my gourd. He then said he knew where I was coming from and he’d support me either way. He wasn’t happy. After grousing about it, he put on a smiley-face and hugged me.”

  “Back to my question, running from or to something?”

  “I wish you didn’t have such a good memory. It’s both. I’m tired and frustrated with the job, tired of the sadness, tired of the increasing politics that’s seeping in, tired of being tired. Then again, the thought of new challenges is appealing and I feel young enough to take them on with enthusiasm.”

  That was more of a non-answer than I was hoping for, although it led to the real issue for me. It wasn’t many hours ago when Karen was telling me if Charles was Heather’s true friend, he wouldn’t stand in her way of chasing her dream in Nashville. Was I more selfish? Could I leave Folly and move to Charlotte? Could I give up my dream home, at my dream location? Was I too old to make the drastic change?

  “That brings up the big question: you and me?” I said. “Charlotte’s hours away.”

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought, Chris, and I don’t know if you’ll like what I have to say.” She looked me in the eye. “If I take the job, I don’t want you to leave Folly. I know how much it means to you.”

  “Karen.”

  She held up her hand. “Wait, please. We’ve dated what, five years? Our relationship isn’t much different than it was in the beginning. Doesn’t that tell us something?”

  I started to interrupt. Instead, I bit my lip and remained silent.

  “Would I like us to be married?” She nodded. “I think so, yet after this long, I’m not certain. You don’t have to say anything. I believe it’s the same with you. Besides, if we’re destined to be together, whatever that means, we’ll find a way to make it work. The good thing about the position is it has regular hours, five days a week. After what I’m used to, it’ll be like a part-time job.”

  She was right. You would think after dating that long, I would have been ready to settle down. There was no one else in my life, and as much as I hated to admit it, I wasn’t getting younger. We had a relationship based on I suppose love and convenience. There was a good chance of that changing—changing dramatically.

  “Separating the new job out of the equation, if that’s possible, do you want to give up your job? Is it that bad?”

  She sipped her beer. “If I had to make a decision tonight, I’d say yes. Have I thought about it enough to feel I’d be making the right choice? Maybe not, I don’t know. That’s why I asked for a few more days.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Listening helps. I’ve still got to think about it, and,” she chuckled. “I need to get some sleep to look at it clearly.”

  I said she could stay the night. She said she’d feel better at home. I walked her to the door, gave her a lingering hug and tried to hide the tears that were beginning to roll down my cheek. She left the porch and didn’t look back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I had never fallen victim to migraines, but knew they were debilitating. Perhaps it was from the blow to my head, although I knew that may have been a small part of it, my head was experiencing a migraines’ evil cousin. The pain, feeling like a chainsaw ripping off the top of my skull, kept me awake three hours. I stared at my bedside clock for forty-five minutes after Karen had left. That was after I’d spent the first fifteen minutes trying to wrap my mind around what she’d said. I’d spent the next fifteen minutes feeling sorry for myself; a condition I detest, but one that slips in more as I get older. In the last few days, my best friend was considering moving away, my significant other, or whatever others would refer to Karen as, may be leaving, and I, out of everyone on Folly, had to be the one who stumbled on a body.

  Has it only been ten minutes since I looked at the clock? Sleep, where are you?

  Is there anything I can do to stop any of these things from happening? The simple answer was no when it came to the body. It gets more complicated from there. Charles will make up his own mind. As a good friend, and if he asks, I’ll do whatever I can to help him make the best decision and if it’s to follow Heather, I’ll step out of his way and support his decision. That would be much easier if I felt Heather had a snowball’s chance in a microwave of becoming the star she so dearly covets.

  Then there’s Karen. She’s a good cop; she loves Charleston; she loves her work; and she may, or may not, love me. Is the job in Charlotte something she wants? Is she running to it, or is there something more? Could that something be me?

  Love was a four letter word we’d seldom spoken. On a few occasions she had said she loved me; I’d done the same. But, we had never talked about taking our relationship to the alter. I suppose I knew before tonight it was something she would have wanted.

  Five more minutes. Come on clock, either speed up or let me go to sleep. Do I have anything to take for a headache? No. I could go next door to Bert’s, the headache cure headquarters on Folly. Never mind. Try to fall asleep—again.

  I closed my eyes but instead of sleep I realized I was the problem. I’ve been single for a quarter of a century. My marriage ended poorly and while on occasion I appeared to be a glutton for punishment, I wasn’t ready to give the sacred institution another chance. Why not? I’m more mature, or think I am. I’ve learned many lessons about relationships over the last few decades; most were positive. What am I afraid of? I’m set in my ways and look askance at change. Does that make me selfish? Possibly—okay, probably. Could I find anyone I could like more than Karen? Therein lays the problem; why did I think like instead of love? Was it poor word choice or intentional? I confess, I’m not certain what love means. Am I trying to overanalyze it? And even if I said I wanted to get married and Karen took the job out of state, was I willing to leave the one place where I feel more at home than anywhere ever; the place where I had more friends than I had accumulated in my first six decades?

  The answer didn’t come, but
sleep had.

  The chainsaw in my head was out of gas. The excruciating pain had mellowed to a dull ache. Two things popped into my mind. I hadn’t solved a thing during the three hours of pre-sleep misery, and I was starved. Did I feel good enough to walk to the Dog? Would food calm my head and help me find answers to the questions that seemed so acute in the middle of the night?

  I concluded no to both questions, so I ran water over my face, and drove to the Lost Dog Cafe. The restaurant had just opened but Dude was already at a table sipping on a mug of tea. He was dressed in his ever-present Day-Glo, tie-dyed T-shirt with a peace symbol on the front.

  He pointed to the chair facing him. “Yo, Christer, two for tea.”

  I had hoped to have a quiet breakfast and not have to talk to anyone, and decided eating with Dude would be the next best thing to silence. Besides, I didn’t want to be rude beings that we were the only two customers. I smiled—yes, it hurt—and joined him. He waved a current copy of Astronomy Magazine in front of me.

  “Wanna gander?”

  The cover had something that looked like a zillion stars, or planets, or space gnats on it. I declined.

  He set the magazine on the chair beside him. “Your loss.”

  During the winter, Dude spent most mornings in the Dog, and by most mornings, I meant five or six days a week in two or three hour blocks. Much of that time was spent with him pondered the solar system, and why the surf shop wasn’t as busy as it was in the summer. Years ago I had stopped reminding him about the definition of off-season, and now when he asked, I limited my answer to don’t know. He made enough money the rest of the year to support his tea-drinking habit. You couldn’t tell it looking at him, but Dude was one of the most successful business owners on the island.

  “Be out early?” he said.

  I nodded and didn’t burden him with he reason.