Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  My uncle had left a light on in the living room. His prized surfboards leaned against one wall . . . vintage Hobies, Webers, and Nolls all waxed to perfection, unlike his car. A newer couch faced a big flatscreen TV. Two shot glasses and a tequila bottle sat on his glass-topped coffee table. Lipstick on one of the jiggers caught my attention.

  He’d always said cell phones caused cancer. The one and only instrument for his landline sat in the kitchen. A calendar hung on the wall beside it. Ms. July stared at me with all her naked beauty. I pulled out the pushpin holding it to the wall and scanned the dates. Today, my birthday, had been marked in bold black marker. The previous week had a notation for a Mutt’s Bar.

  With the calendar in hand, I walked into the bedroom. My uncle had shown me his version of a safe-deposit box, a hole in the floor covered by loose boards, when I moved to town. He peered at me with his one blue-crystal eye and his trademark grin peeking through a graying beard. “If anything happens to me, here’s some legal stuff.”

  “Uncle Reggie,” I told him, “the next hurricane will blow this whole house and all your legal stuff to Columbia. It’ll land on the front lawn of the capitol, right next to the confederate flag.”

  He said, “That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”

  I knelt beside the bed and lifted a couple flooring boards up and out of the way. In the hole I saw two bands of cash and a stack of papers on top of a moving carton. I picked up the papers and sat on the bed to read them. Nothing popped out at me other than the cash—ten grand in each band. I put the bills in my pocket and carried the carton and calendar out to my car. The police were about to get a whole lot of help to solve this murder. Probably more than they’d want. And I would make sure they found my uncle’s killer . . . dead, if I got to him first.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning I opened the front door of my bungalow to let my dog out. Shelby, my fifty-pound tan mixed-breed, headed for the bushes and afterwards roamed the yard while I made coffee. My two-bedroom house on Sullivan’s Island was tiny compared to the McMansions surrounding it. Ten miles northeast of Charleston, the location gave me a short drive downtown and the crash of the Atlantic Ocean a hundred yards away from my back door. The view of the Intracoastal Waterway from my front porch was breathtaking. Jo had always wanted a place by the water. Three years after her death, I guess I was still hoping to please her.

  Shelby looked at me, perked his ears, and barked.

  “Ready to go?” A needless question.

  He barked again, spun around, and ran into the living room to get his favorite possession, a worn tennis ball. I poured myself a large mug of coffee, snapped on his leash, and pocketed the ball. We took the long way to the water so he could sniff the Mallorys’ mailbox and confirm it was still his turf. On the beach, we found our usual spot, a vacant stretch on the south side of the island where I wasn’t likely to get a ticket for letting him rove freely. I tossed the ball a few times and he ran to retrieve it. Then I threw it in the water, he dove in after it, and we both went swimming. The warm water eased the tension from my muscles, which a sleepless night hadn’t helped. Echoes of the recent gunshots made my hands ache for the M4 assault rifle I’d carried in Afghanistan. The image of blood trickling from the corner of my uncle’s mouth parked on the edge of my sanity. I thought about the conversation I had with him on Friday, not realizing it was our last. I remembered every detail, starting with the time my cell phone vibrated and seeing his name in the caller I.D.

  “What’s up, Skipper?” I’d said. “Long time, no see.”

  “If I’m the Skipper, does that make you Gilligan?” He spoke with a deep tobacco voice, had for as long as I’d known him.

  “Not if you’re looking for some companionship on a secluded island.”

  “Got me there,” he said. “Listen, don’t make any plans for tomorrow night. You and me’s going uptown for some good grub.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “And where have you been for the past week?”

  “Don’t try and sidetrack the issue, boy. I figured you’d forget, or pretend to forget. It’s your birthday and I’m takin’ you out whether you like it or not.”

  “Can’t we just sit in the Cove and get drunk?”

  “We can always do that,” he said. “Let’s do something different for a change. Like hang out with the socialites.”

  “Only if we can throw food at them.”

  Ignoring my comment, he said, “Besides, I’ve got important things to talk to you about, my good man.”

  “Yeah, like where you’ve been hiding.”

  “Like where I’ve been hiding.”

  At the time, I’d brushed what he said off as another one of his schemes. His business thrived on them. Unsubstantiated rumors of untaxed liquor and cigarettes kept him swimming in local and tourist patronage. Everybody wanted to take a shot at shafting the government, and alcohol and tobacco tax evasion seemed to be high on the list.

  I was still running these thoughts over in my mind as Shelby and I headed home, passing the Schells’ place on our way. The screen door screeched open like the gates of Sodom and Gomorrah, and Maxine Schell stumbled out onto the porch. Long, tan, slender legs stuck out of short shorts, and a tight halter top failed to cover the rest of her. A few years younger than me, she could have posed for my uncle’s wall calendar.

  “Hey, sugar. Wanna drink?” She tipped a sweating red plastic cup to her lips while watching me. Her porch greeting had become a routine, and not a good one.

  I mentally kicked myself for forgetting to take a detour. “No thanks, Mrs. Schell.”

  Shelby wagged his tail like the dog he was.

  Mrs. Schell flipped highlighted curls out of her face. “Maxine. Call me Maxine. How many times do I have to tell you, sugar?”

  Her voice had a raspy, sensuous tone hinting at good things to come, but I’d already learned that cheap thrills only caused me to miss my wife that much more. “Sorry, Maxine. How’re you doing today?”

  “Fine. Just fine.” She took another sip of her drink, batting long lashes as she swallowed.

  “How’s Bill?”

  “Hmm. Still in Japan on business. I don’t think he’s ever coming home. Not tonight, anyway.”

  The screen door opened again and a little girl came out. “Mom? Sarah spilled her milk on the floor.”

  Maxine turned to face her. “I’ll be there in a minute, honey. Now go back inside.”

  “Look at the doggie!” the little girl cried out and took a few running steps toward Shelby.

  Maxine reacted sternly. “What did I tell you? Don’t make me count to three.”

  The girl stopped and slowly retreated, giving Shelby a wave before easing the screen door closed.

  I said, “Have a nice day, Maxine.”

  “Wait!” She held up her drink. “I saw you on the news this morning. I’m real sorry to hear about your uncle.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “And someone was around your house while you were at the beach.” She crooked her mouth. “Looked like that news girl from Channel Nine.”

  I slapped my forehead. Uncle Reggie’s ex-wife owned the station. How could I have missed it? “Did you speak to her?”

  Maxine put her free hand on a freer hip. “I tried. She got in her red convertible and drove away. Really kind of uppity, if you ask me.”

  I nodded, noting Maxine standing in front of her million-dollar house as she called someone else uppity. “Thanks, Mrs. Schell.”

  Shelby barked his goodbye and shot in front of me, taking up the slack in the leash and already sniffing for greener pastures.

  Maxine waved. “You have a nice day, sugar. Come by later if you want to talk or have a drink . . . or whatever.”

  My wife was gone. Now my uncle. Nice days were in short supply.

  I poured myself a glass of iced tea from a pitcher in the fridge and set the box from my uncle’s hiding place on my kitchen table. The lid folded back easily. In
it were photographs. Hundreds of them. I picked up a stack and flipped through them. Pictures of Uncle Reggie as a teenager. As a soldier with dolled-up Asian girls. Pictures of the Pirate’s Cove before and after Hurricane Hugo came through in eighty-nine and ripped Charleston apart with its category five winds. Uncle Reggie had pictures of me during my dirt-track racing days standing on podiums with first-place trophies. Coming across wedding photos caused me to sit in a chair at the table. Jo was so beautiful in her long white dress. She’d gotten it custom-made and had talked about the dress and the flowers nonstop.

  At the time, I’d been tired of listening to how white the material was and how pretty the flowers would be. But on this Sunday morning I would give anything to hear her tell it to me one more time. My world changed forever in the doctor’s office when he gave Jo six months to live.

  Mixed in with the other photos was a framed picture of me and Uncle Reggie taken the day I got off the plane after three years in Afghanistan, where I’d gone when Jo’s time was up. I’d wanted my time to be up next, and the Marines seemed a good way to get there.

  The bottom of the box was filled with pins from Uncle Reggie’s service years and with his service history. Honorable discharge and medical forms went into a pile of their own. A page was labeled Air America. Uncle Reggie never talked about being in it. The paper was a commendation thanking him for five years of dutiful service. Of everything in the box, two things stood out—the name C. Connors printed at the bottom of a set of official-looking papers and an old stainless steel Zippo lighter.

  At noon, I left with Shelby and drove to the Pirate’s Cove. My uncle’s dive, located on the beach on the Isle of Palms between two modern hotels, stuck out like a zit on a supermodel. The two-story wooden structure resembled a beached Spanish frigate. The first floor stood twelve feet off the sand thanks to the codes enforced after Hugo, the stilts covered by wood planks to resemble the sides of a ship. Its brown and green colors contrasted with the pinks and yellows of the other tourist traps.

  Paige, the bar’s manager, sat in my uncle’s chair behind his desk going over what I guessed were last night’s receipts. I walked in, inhaling the stale odor of my uncle’s cheap cigars and missing him terribly. Shelby followed me in. To Paige’s right hung a large Howard Pyle print depicting a pirate and his crew looking down on a bound magistrate. The bar’s mascot, a blue and red Greenwing Macaw named Bonny, sat on a perch next to the desk. She flew to me and landed on my shoulder.

  I stroked her neck feathers. “Hey, Bonny.”

  Bonny said, “What’s up, Brack? Squawk!”

  Paige’s eyes were red and she was sniffling. Her brown hair was pulled back in a plastic clip and she wore a tight T-shirt with a picture on the front of the bar’s flag. Uncle Reggie had redesigned the skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger to show the pirate wearing a bandana made from a South Carolina state flag, sporting aviator shades, and smoking a cigar. Because the bar’s air-conditioning unit was old and inefficient, Paige compensated by rolling the short sleeves of the shirt to her shoulders and knotting its hem above her stomach, which showed tan and flat. A top-forty station played on the overhead sound system. Bonny flew to her perch and I leaned against the doorway. Shelby laid his head in Paige’s lap. She scratched behind his ears, and then wiped her cheeks.

  I said, “Sorry I didn’t call last night.”

  She nodded and bent down, kissing Shelby’s head. He licked her face.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said. “I mean, it’s like he was just in here complaining about how much the price of crab went up.”

  I walked to her and put my hand on her shoulder. A few seconds passed before she gave Shelby one last pat and stood. As soon as her eyes met mine, she put a hand to her mouth. Tears streamed down her face and a wail came out from deep within. She hugged me hard, her whole body shaking as she cried for the length of the song on the radio. When her tears subsided she let go and took a few deep breaths, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “How come you aren’t crying?”

  I handed her a tissue from a box on the desk. “I’ve become comfortably numb, as the song goes.”

  Paige laughed and wiped her face again. “I’m not sure why that’s funny.”

  “Because it’s not.”

  She wadded the tissue and threw it at me. “Jerk.”

  “As soon as I find out who did this, they won’t have to worry about a trial.”

  I stood half a foot taller than Paige, but my height didn’t stop her from pushing herself off the desk and giving me a shove. “Don’t do anything stupid, Brack. He loved you. You know he wouldn’t want you going to jail for doing something you’ll regret later.”

  “First things first,” I said. “Know anyone named Ray?”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Come on, Brack. What’s going on?”

  “The police are going to ask you the same question.”

  “Why will police ask me if I know any Rays? What are you not telling me?”

  Seconds ticked by as I thought about Uncle Reggie gasping for breath.

  Paige shoved me again. “Tell me!”

  “He died in my arms. He said Ray shot him.”

  Her hands covered her mouth again and she turned away. “Couldn’t you do anything? Didn’t you try to save him?”

  “I was too late.” I pulled an envelope out of my pocket with the twenty grand I’d found under Uncle Reggie’s floorboards and held it up. “I need to put this in the safe.”

  I swung the Howard Pyle print to the right, revealing a wall safe. Besides me, only Uncle Reggie and Paige knew the combination. The safe door opened to an empty space, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked in it. I placed the twenty grand inside and closed it up.

  Paige and I deliberated opening the Pirate’s Cove for business, but both knew Uncle Reggie would not want something like his own death to interfere with the bar’s operation. It was his soul. Before long, the place became packed—mostly with locals who scared away the tourists. I leaned against the railing on the upper of two large decks overlooking the Atlantic and sipped an iced tea loaded with two shots of Absolut, trying to clear my head. My dog lay at my side. I thought about how different the bar already felt without my uncle’s presence. Someone put a hand on my shoulder, and I turned to see who it was.

  Paige said, “We sold out of T-shirts, key chains, shot glasses, and every other trinket we had. I’m afraid people are going to start stealing the decorations. They must think we’re going to close up shop.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I started selling the drink coasters and glassware. Anything with the bar’s logo on it. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “How much are you charging?”

  “Five bucks for each coaster. They have to buy a drink to get a glass for ten bucks. I sent Mariel to the Piggly Wiggly to get all the plastic cups they had. We’re going to need them.”

  Uncle Reggie promoted Paige to manager for good reason.

  “By the way,” she said, “I want to show you something.”

  She led me to the lower deck, Shelby following like the dog he was. I stopped twenty feet from the bar. People had enshrined the barstool my uncle always sat on. Taped to the stool, sitting on it, or hanging off it were a box of cheap cigars he smoked, a dive mask, a large conch shell, and other items like dollar bills with notes written on them. Some of these had already fallen and covered the floor, making a second pile. Shelby sniffed at a bronze plate leaning against one of the legs, probably something recovered from one of the shipwrecks around our harbor.

  A man stood next to me and gave a sympathetic smile, his gray hair combed back and thinning at the peaks. His untucked white-linen shirt exposed the deep tan of a local. A big gold Cartier watch adorned his left wrist.

  “People loved your uncle,” he said, his voice dripping Charlestonian brogue.

  I studied the mound. “It looks that way.”
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br />   “My name’s Chauncey Connors.”

  We shook hands.

  “Brack Pelton.”

  “Mr. Pelton, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.”

  “He was a good man and he will surely be missed by a lot of people.”

  I nodded. “I’ve seen you in here before.”

  “My wife and I live on the island. We come in here about once a month.”

  “Connors,” I said, thinking I’d seen the name before. “Your name is on some of my uncle’s papers I found.”

  He handed me a card. “I was his attorney and his friend. I know this is all sudden and I don’t want to keep you. When it’s more convenient, I’d like to talk.” We shook hands again. “In the meantime, if I can be of service, don’t hesitate to call.”

  As the man walked away I looked at the card and put it in my pocket. Connors was the first name on the list of partners.

  I went outside to get some air and encountered the same momentary vision of my wife from the night before, this time wearing a halter top, short skirt, and sandals.

  “If it isn’t Ms. Darcy Wells.”

  Shelby trotted to her and held out a paw.

  She knelt and rubbed his head. “He’s adorable.”

  I put my hands in my pockets. “I heard pets and their owners begin to look alike after a while.”

  “I hope not,” she said, “for his sake. Buy me a drink?”

  I leaned in close. “I think reporters with expense accounts can buy their own drinks. Even pretty ones probably not used to paying for anything.”

  “Okay,” she said, “how about I buy you a drink? I’d like to finish our conversation from last night.”

  “That wasn’t a conversation. That was an ambush. Tell Patricia I don’t appreciate her network’s tactics.” Like using pretty reporters who look like my wife. “My uncle, your boss’s ex-husband in case you didn’t know, is dead. I really don’t care about anything else.”

  I tried to walk away but the Channel Nine News girl kept up. “Patricia said you were a real piece of work.”