Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  I thought it was cute, and said, “It must have scooted in when the door was open. I don’t think there’re any openings; at least none large enough for a mouse, much less a rat.”

  “I’ll get a trap.”

  And that was important enough for her to call. To offer a bad, although timely, pun, I smell a rat.

  “While you’re here, I have another question.” Barb looked around the empty store. “Let me show you.”

  She led me back to the office and to the back door. She unlocked the door and twisted the deadbolt.

  “I’m having trouble with the lock.” She gave it another twist. “It gets stuck and I wondered if there was a trick to working it.”

  She stepped aside and I pulled the door to and twisted the knob. It was tight but it wasn’t any different than what I had remembered.

  “I’m worried about it not being locked. I’m here alone so much and worry about safety after what happened …” She stopped, looked at the door, and at me.

  The squeaky front door opened before she could continue, and I followed her to the front. A man had entered and walked to the mystery section. He was my height, a few years younger, wore a black polo shirt, khaki slacks, and a red Chicago Bulls ball cap.

  I leaned on the counter and Barb sat in the chair. I said, “Back to your question, the lock’s may be a little more difficult to turn. If you’re concerned, you may want to call Pewter Hardware and ask for Larry. He’d be glad to come over and replace the mechanism. He’s a good guy and will treat you right.”

  Barb watched the customer as he came around the shelves and down the next aisle. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  “Just browsing.”

  Barb continued to focus on the browser, and said to me, “That’s a good idea. I’ll call.” She jotted Larry’s name on a notecard.

  The man pulled a couple of books off the shelf, flipped through them, and seemed to tire of browsing and left. He was gone, and Barb continued to stare at the door.

  “Do you know him?” Her fingers tapped on the counter.

  “I don’t recall seeing him before. Could be a vacationer killing time while his wife’s in Charleston shopping. Why?”

  “This is the third time he’s been in since yesterday morning. He gives me the willies.”

  Three times in that short a time was unusual, but why the willies?

  “Has he bought anything?”

  Her fingers continued to tap on the counter. “No.”

  “What bothers you about him?”

  She turned away from the door and back to me. “Want more coffee?”

  I declined and wondered if she’d heard my question.

  “I haven’t had the store long, although long enough to learn to tell the difference between buyer and browser. I may be paranoid. It seems more like he’s casing the store rather than browsing. Does that make sense?”

  “Elaborate?”

  She looked toward the bookcases. “I hate to admit it, and it wouldn’t hold up in court, I ran into a lot of men like him when I was practicing law. I didn’t do criminal law, but some of the white collar crooks had that look in their face. There’s an arrogance about them.” She pointed to the door. “That guy took a few books from the shelves, like that was what he was supposed to do and each time he looked around like he was taking everything in. I can’t explain it. Seemed creepy?”

  From other things she’d said, the man killed behind her store had bothered her, bothered her more than the tragedy of someone being killed there.

  “The police chief’s a friend. If you want, I’ll ask her to check around and see if her people—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “No big deal; I’m being melodramatic. Sorry I said anything. Besides, I can handle any trouble that comes this way.” She leaned down and touched something under the counter.

  “You sure? I’d be glad to.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sure. I know the chief’s your friend. Has she said anything else about the guy who was killed?”

  “No.” Not the whole truth, but all I was willing to share.

  She sighed and asked again if I wanted more coffee.

  She wanted to talk so I said yes and we headed back to the latest-greatest way to brew coffee. I still had the feeling she had called for another reason other than to ask about rats and a sticking lock.

  Barb brewed two more cups, pointed to the desk, moved her chair to where she had a view to the front door.

  “Rumor is on this isle of gossip, you’re someone who keeps your mouth shut when you learn something rather than spreading it around.” She cocked her head to the left.

  I smiled. “Where’d you hear that?”

  She returned my smile. “If I told you, I’d be spreading gossip.”

  “If it’s true, it isn’t gossip.”

  She shrugged. “I was in Jimmy’s—Dude’s—surf shop yesterday; had gone over to ask him if he was having trouble with his phone system. Mine’s been dropping calls and I wondered if it was a system problem or mine.”

  I waited.

  “Anyway, he’d run out to pick up lunch and I was stuck talking to Stephon and Rocky.” She giggled. “It was more like me listening to the surly employees complaining about stupid customers, wimpy waves, cold weather, and how some people like to tell tall-tales about Dude being retarded.”

  I smiled. “Customer service isn’t their forte.”

  “True. I’ll tell you one thing, those guys are more loyal than a hound dog would be to my brother. In another canine reference, they’re like two pit bulls protecting him from what, I don’t know. That makes me like them despite their attitude.”

  “They grow on you.”

  “If I’d had people around me as loyal as those two, I wouldn’t be here. Anyway, my brother returned with a sack of food, and gave Stephon and Rocky lunch and took me to his cluttered office.”

  I may have imagined it, but I thought she cringed when she said office. I wouldn’t have been surprised since hers was 180 degrees opposite of Dude’s clutter-filled, disorganized work space.

  I waved my hand around the room. “Looks like this one.”

  Barb laughed. Her hazel eyes sparkled and this was the first time I’d seen her relax. “I bet the city dump’s neater.” She turned serious. “After we figured out the credit card problem was in the system, I was telling Dude you came in the store for the first time the other day, and he started telling me about the escapades you had been involved in and how he helped you catch a murderer a few years back. He also said if you learned anything that was none of anyone else’s business, it stopped with you. That’s what I meant about gossip.” Her smile returned. “He also told me about giving you surfing lessons.”

  “One lesson, and he be talkin’ too much,” I said in my best Dude voice.

  She laughed again. “Dad used to tease that I got all the words and Dude got all the trouble.”

  “Don’t know about trouble, although he was right about words. Dude doesn’t waste many.”

  Someone came in the door. Barb said she’d be back. I once again looked around and continued to be amazed how different the room looked. I also wondered where she was going with her stories. I didn’t wait long. She returned to her seat and luke-warm coffee.

  “Two books lighter.”

  “Two more than photos I sold this early.”

  She turned her coffee cup around a couple of times and stared in it like she expected to see something more interesting than coffee. “My husband, ex-husband, and I started our law firm in Harrisburg.”

  I already knew this from Dude who wasn’t as good at keeping secrets as I was. I nodded.

  “I did most of the legal work, mainly defending executives accused of white-collar crimes, and Karl, my husband, carved out a niche lobbying for corporations that dealt with state government. To be honest, we were successful beyond our wildest dreams, especially Karl’s area. Don’t know if you know much about it, but influencing the rig
ht legislators could mean millions, crap, hundreds of millions of dollars to companies that either deal directly with the government, or can use their government connections to get jobs or make sales outside the public realm.”

  “Made more than from selling two books?” I may be good at keeping secrets, but I wasn’t as good at not being a smart aleck.

  She giggled. “Slightly.”

  “So, you two were tearing up the world.” I motioned for her to continue.

  “Then the proverbial shit hit the fan.” She frowned and gazed in her coffee cup. “A dozen law enforcement officials from every agency known to man stormed in our exquisitely-appointed offices, threw search warrants around like confetti, escorted Karl, our receptionist, our befuddled paralegal, and me into the corridor, and proceeded to turn the place upside down. It would have made my brother’s office look like an ad in a design magazine. They hauled out computers, files, and my self-esteem.”

  Barb blinked and closed her eyes. I remained silent and hoped no customers would come in and distract her.

  “Chris, I was my high school valedictorian; I was in the top five in my law school class; my IQ’s in the top quartile, or so the records say. I’m not stupid. You have to believe me. I had no clue about what was going on with Karl. None.”

  I took her cup, poured out the cold coffee, and fixed her another one. She sat and stared at the wall.

  “What was going on?”

  “Long story short.” She took a sip. “Karl was bribing legislators and regulatory officials, bureaucrats in charge of projects affecting his clients. He was bribing them to switch votes, bribing them to sweep reports under the rug that reflected negatively on actions his clients wanted, or to overlook roadblocks to the client getting his way. All that time, I was going about my business of defending crooks, doing the time-honored, within the law, job of defending clients.” She shook her head. “No clue, Chris. I had no clue.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That makes two of us.” She looked up from her coffee. “Before it hit the fan, our marriage was, shall I say rocky, but when everything broke, my only option was to leave.” She forced a smile. “And now I’m here.”

  “What happened with the…the legal problems?”

  “I was interviewed—interrogated—by numerous cops, my bank records received more scrutiny than the Affordable Health Care act, and despite their best efforts, they found nothing which would indicate I knew about his activities. Of course there are those who think I know more than I do. When it hit, some of the corporate officials who were involved scattered like cockroaches when the light’s turned on. One was caught trying to sneak over the border to Canada in the trunk of his Mercedes.” She smiled, more sincere this time. “I’ve heard a couple are hiding in Florida under assumed names and a couple more are still on pins and needles thinking I could send them to prison if I told what I know—which is nothing.”

  I’d heard Dude’s version and asked, “What happened to Karl?”

  “It’s remarkable what high-powered lawyers can do. Karl had a few,” air quotes, “bucks stashed away the feds didn’t get their hands on, and hired the best of the best. Instead of spending time playing Scrabble with other white-collar crooks in a country-club prison, he got off with disbarment and time served, a whopping three months. He moved to New Jersey and if you can believe tax records is making minimum-wage. He’s not practicing law, but writing briefs for large law firms.”

  “Why tell me?” I shouldn’t have said it. I had to admit some of Charles had rubbed off on me.

  She smiled and nodded. “To be honest, I don’t know. I had, no, wanted to tell someone. Telling Dude would have been like telling that Keurig machine. I don’t know anyone else enough to confide in. I don’t want it spread around. And, Lawrence Panella.” She hesitated and looked at the back door.

  “What about him?”

  “He was here to kill me.”

  Barb’s declaration was followed by two families arriving in search of beach reads. There may have been a worse time to end a conversation, but I couldn’t think of any. I waited at her desk while she played the part of helpful shop owner and ran several scenarios through my head. Was she right? If she was, how could she have known? Why was she telling me instead of going to the police? And, the most intriguing question, who hit the hit man?

  Fifteen minutes later, I heard another customer enter. I was thinking there were more visitors than were ever in my gallery at any one time when Barb stuck her head in the doorway.

  She was in customer mode and smiling. I was impressed how she could go from talking about a hit man out to kill her to helpful owner. She shrugged and pointed toward the group of customers. “Sorry, Chris, I’ll get back to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I left Barb with her customers and my stomach growled a reminder I hadn’t eaten. I walked to the Dog and was almost run down by a pick-up truck while my body was in the middle of Center Street while my mind was in the alley behind Barb’s Books rehashing my introduction to Lawrence Panella. A horn blast stunned me back to reality. I waved an apology and continued to the restaurant. It was chilly and no one sat outside so I hoped I wouldn’t have a long wait for a table.

  The restaurant was full and after what Barb had said, I was too nervous to stand and wait for someone to leave. I turned to go back outside where I could walk around the nearby community park and wait for a table.

  I started to push the door open when I heard, “Brother Chris.”

  Preacher Burl was seated at the table behind the hostess stand and waved me over. If I had known who was with him, I would have pretended not to hear him. Douglas Garfield, or whatever his real name was, glared at me. He had no interest in seeing me and didn’t hide it.

  Burl said, “Join us, Brother Chris.”

  If he was aware of Douglas’s glower, he ignored it.

  “Thanks, Preacher,” I said while Garfield’s glare lasered through me. “I don’t want to interrupt. I’ll wait for a table.”

  “No interruption. We’d love for you to join us.”

  Douglas didn’t say anything. His scowl said he was not part of we. I took the chair beside Douglas so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him.

  Amber was at the table before I was settled. “Yogurt?” She knew I had never ordered it nor ever would.

  I smiled. “Not today. How about french toast?”

  “What a surprise,” she said and started to leave, but instead stopped behind Douglas, tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at him, and mouthed, “Douglas Garfield.”

  She’d remembered I had asked about him and I nodded. Preacher Burl looked to see if anyone was within earshot and leaned closer to Douglas and me. “Brother Douglas and I were talking about what I shared with you the other day.”

  “Preacher,” Douglas interrupted, “I was drunk and never should have told you. If I wanted people to know, I would have told them.” He pointed his thumb at me. “I don’t know this guy from Adam. It’s none of his damn business. We’re talking about my life.”

  “Brother Douglas, Brother Chris is a friend and can be trusted. God has worked through him to help solve several difficult situations. He’s on our side.”

  I’d never considered God had a hand in me stumbling into bad situations, although have had several occasions to thank him for helping me survive them. Plus, I had no idea what their side was.

  Douglas exhaled, looked at his half-eaten pancakes, then at Preacher Burl. “I don’t like it. I don’t like him.” He pointed his thumb at me once more. “Your big mouth could get me killed.”

  “Douglas,” I said. “I don’t know what you and Preacher Burl were talking about and I don’t know why you’re in such a precarious situation. I assure you I understand the delicate nature of the, umm, program, and would never do anything to endanger someone in it.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that crock because a complete stranger said it?”

  “Yes,” Burl said. “You
’ve shared some thoughts with me and I don’t have either the wherewithal or influence to provide assistance. Brother Chris does and I would recommend you give him a chance.”

  I regretted not leaving when Burl first called my name. Douglas Garfield was obnoxious, rude, and had said nothing to make me want to even talk to him, much less help. Instead of excusing myself and walking as far as I could away from him, I took a page out of Charles’s playbook.

  “Douglas, what were you and Preacher Burl talking about?”

  Douglas was gripping his fork like he was afraid it would jump out of his hand and stick him in the eye. He glowered at Preacher Burl. “You tell him.”

  One of Burl’s talents, and one I suspected had helped him through some of the bad times that had plagued his life, was his ability to look past insults and attacks on his church and find the good in everyone. If he couldn’t sleep at night, it wasn’t because he harbored resentment or took mean-spirited attacks personally.

  Burl gave Douglas a calming smile and turned to me. “Brother Douglas believes Mr. Panella, the gentleman murdered behind First Light’s foul-weather sanctuary, was sent to Folly Beach to end his life.”

  “The damned piece of…never mind. He was scum and here to kill me.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  He stared at me like I’d asked him how he knew the ocean had water in it. “The people the damned Marshals Service are hiding me from found out where I was and want me dead.”

  “How would they have found you, and again, why think that’s why Panella was here?”

  “Can’t you see?” Douglas growled.

  Burl moved his hand toward Douglas’s face. “Allow me to contribute.”

  Douglas looked like he was going to slap Burl’s hand away. Instead, he took another deep breath, and went back to stabbing his pancakes.

  “Chris,” Burl said, “Brother Douglas has long had a fear the federal protection program was susceptible to leaks—”

  “Like a damned sieve,” Douglas interrupted.

  “He believes,” Burl continued as if Douglas hadn’t said anything, “word has reached those for whom he was responsible for, shall we say, having their freedom removed, are now seeking retaliation by contracting with the late Panella to murder him.”