Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  “I’m not sure. But Sails was going to expose him.”

  “Galston?”

  “Yes.”

  Shelby swam in circles as the waves charged the shore.

  I said, “If you had the evidence, why was my uncle going to expose him? Why weren’t you?”

  “Because I can’t afford to lose my job. It’s where the information’s coming from.”

  “So it’s stolen. Great.”

  “You think information like that is available to the general public?”

  I took out a cigar, clipped the end, and lit it with my uncle’s Zippo. The lighter snapped shut with a loud metallic click. After two long pulls on the cigar, I said, “I don’t know much about the IRS, but something tells me they won’t use illegally obtained information.”

  “Yeah, but the EPA will. All they need to do is send someone there—look at what’s not getting done. Call it a surprise audit or whatever. Then the fines start. You don’t mess with the IRS and you don’t mess with the EPA. They’ve shut corporations down for less.”

  “Why didn’t my uncle report what he had?”

  “Because what we were digging up would be so much more damaging. Think about it—defrauding the government of millions and taking a tax deduction on it. Michael Galston’s a thief who should be in jail for what he’s been getting away with.”

  Said the one selling confidential information.

  “If he killed my uncle, he won’t make it that far.”

  “That file has copies of all the receipts. My fingerprints aren’t on them.” He put the money in his briefcase.

  I flipped through the papers, folded the file and stuck it in my waistband next to my gun, and held out my hand. “Brack Pelton.”

  He hesitated, looking at my hand as if it belonged to a portal leading to a whole new dimension, before he took it. “My name is David Fisher.”

  “I’ve got some people you need to meet,” I said.

  Fisher shook his head. “Patricia Voyels and her news girl? No thanks. I’ve seen you with them already and I don’t want my face on TV or in the paper.”

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  “Only to you, and the price goes up to a hundred thousand. What you do with what I tell you is your business. If my name gets out, I’ll know exactly who did it and, rest assured, you won’t survive either.”

  I stepped closer and grinned at the small bald man. “We all think we’re tough until someone starts shooting. I know I can handle it. The question is, can you?”

  Fisher poked me in the chest with his right index finger. “If you keep your mouth closed, I won’t have to find out.”

  I grabbed his finger and wrenched it up. He squealed like a little girl and tried to pry my hold loose with his free hand. His desk job didn’t do him any favors in the strength department.

  “How did the murdering bastard find out about my uncle?”

  “I-I’m not sure. Let go you—”

  I bent his hand a little more. “What did you give him that gave him away?”

  “N-not much more than what you have, okay? Now let go!”

  I released my grip. “How did my uncle find you, anyway?”

  He rubbed his hand. “I found him. I knew Galston wanted the Sumter property and I knew your uncle was having trouble paying the taxes on it.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Galston has his fingers in a lot of pies. He knows what’s going on everywhere. You think your ex-aunt has dirt on people? Galston is like J. Edgar Hoover. Only thing missing is the lipstick and boyfriends. He’s probably got something on you, too.”

  “Nothing to get. What did he have on my uncle besides the taxes?”

  Fisher shook his head. “Zilch as far as I know. Your uncle mortgaged the bar and I assumed he was going to pay the taxes. Galston will probably use his clout to force you to do the same. Why was your uncle so adamant about keeping the Sumter property, anyway?”

  Shelby came out of the water and ran to me. I checked my pocket and realized I’d forgotten his ball. He whined and shook water and sand all over Fisher.

  “Ahh!” Fisher tried to move away and tripped and fell over a tree limb that had washed up on the beach. “Stupid dog!”

  Shelby licked Fisher’s face, getting his glasses wet in the process. Fisher got to his feet and tried to wipe his glasses with his shirt, grumbling. When he put them back on, he looked down at himself and saw he was coated with sand. He scowled and brushed himself off. “All I’m saying is to be ready. It’s coming.” He grabbed the handle of his briefcase and walked unsteadily on the loose sand path to where our vehicles were parked. Halfway up the trail, he stopped and turned toward me. “Remember, it’s a hundred thousand.”

  On the way to my Folly Beach hideout, Shelby and I stopped and picked up breakfast at McDonald’s. As we sat eating on the back porch of the beach rental, my cell phone vibrated. I looked at the caller I.D. before I answered. “Hey, Chauncey.”

  “Good morning, Brack. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Already up. But I was thinking of going back to bed.”

  “I see,” he said. “The reason I’m calling is I’ve got some not-so-good news from a reliable source.”

  “I’m being forced to settle the issue of the back taxes.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess?” I forked the last of the Big Breakfast eggs into my mouth.

  “It would take a lot more than luck to nail that one.”

  Steam escaped from the large coffee once I popped the lid off. I thumbed my nose at the “Contents very hot” warning, took a gulp, and rinsed the breakfast residue from my teeth before swallowing. “I’m getting some help.”

  Chauncey’s voice lost all lightness when he said, “Nothing illegal, I hope.”

  “Not as far as you know.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  I decided not to ask if he meant for me to stay away from anything illegal or to just keep him from knowing about it.

  Shelby and I drove to the Palmetto Pulse. Patricia and Darcy hovered over the antique desk and flipped through the file Fisher had given me. My dog slept in the corner, still damp from the shower I’d given him to get the rest of the sand out of his fur before we’d left.

  Patricia said, “How did you say you came by this?”

  Exhausted, I stretched out on the floor next to Shelby and closed my eyes. “I didn’t.”

  Darcy said, “Army boy’s got skills.”

  I crossed an ankle over the other. “Very funny. And it’s Marine.”

  “You might make a reporter, yet,” Patricia said.

  “Strictly off-camera, I hope,” Darcy said.

  “Are you going to read the file or am I here for your entertainment?”

  “Seeing your busted-up face on the news was funny enough,” Darcy replied.

  “Thanks to you.”

  “This is good stuff, Brack,” Patricia said. “I think we can use it.”

  I said, “Without receiving any collateral damage?”

  “That’s the idea.” Patricia drank some of her coffee. “First, we have to flush him out a little bit.”

  I said, “What did you have in mind?”

  She said, “How quickly can you get a tux?”

  The Ford dealer called and said the Mustang was ready. On a Saturday, even. I left Shelby at the Cove with Paige, parked the Jeep at my house on Sullivan’s Island, and took a cab to get my car. The gun was tucked in my waistband under my shirt.

  The dealer had detailed my Mustang and the new paint was brilliant. Almost made the five-thousand-dollar bill worth it. Almost. Like the difference between losing three fingers instead of the whole hand. Luckily, the insurance company was footing the extremities. Everything but the deductible.

  When I walked out of the service department, a black Chrysler 300 with tinted windows faced me from across the busy five-lane of Charleston’s motor mile. Galston’s goon squad. Just great. I opened the door to my
car, got in, and pulled the forty-five, keeping it below the window line. The warm metal felt slick from sweat as I laid it on my lap.

  The Mustang’s starter made the familiar whir before the engine turned over. I sat there and goosed the gas. The motor roared in anticipation. The Hurst gearshift I’d installed slid smoothly into first. The rear tires chirped as the clutch engaged and shot the car onto the street ahead of traffic. I caught second and third gears, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror as I ran two yellow lights before getting stopped by a red a mile up the road. No black 300s in sight.

  At a men’s store downtown, I found a forty-four long Armani tux on a discount rack. With shoes and all the accessories, I still had to fork over a thousand bucks, plus another fifty to a local seamstress to get the pants hemmed on the spot.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The reason I needed the tux, Patricia informed me, was for a fundraiser being held that night in the Old Exchange Building. Located at the corner of East Bay and Broad Streets, the structure had been constructed in the late eighteenth century. The price of admission to the event was a tax-deductible fifteen-hundred bucks per couple. Patricia could have gotten me in free and clear, but I decided the Pirate’s Cove needed a presence in Charleston high society. Its members might view the bar’s attendance as they would a skid mark on a pair of tighty-whities, but I didn’t care. I had Paige cut a business check from a new account established from my now rapidly diminishing personal funds to the Preservation Society, the organizers of the shindig.

  Darcy answered the door to her condo in a slinky black cocktail dress. Jo had worn something similar to get a rise out of me. Both succeeded.

  “You clean up nicely,” she said. “Give me a couple more minutes and I’ll be ready.”

  She vanished down a hallway, leaving me to close the door. Her condo overlooked the Cooper River. The shades were open and I enjoyed watching the water flow by, making its way to the harbor and out to sea. I turned and took in the small room decorated with a lot of glass and chrome. A medium-sized flatscreen hung on one wall flanked by several journalism and broadcasting awards. A minibar stood against the other wall with nothing but top-shelf spirits. The rest of the vertical surfaces were windows. A couch and coffee table occupied the center of the room, with the kitchen to the right. I guessed her bedroom lay to the left. Aside from the awards, I saw nothing personal. No framed pictures of family or friends. No paintings or prints.

  The Old Exchange was a five-minute walk from her place. Darcy went barefoot, carrying her heels. The heat forced me to remove my jacket, making me glad to have left the gun in the car’s glove box. We each donned sunglasses. The only thing missing was Shelby, who’d curled up on the couch at the Folly Beach rental when I left.

  Patricia, also wearing black, met us at the entrance escorted by her ninety-year-old father, Mr. Gordon Voyels. As soon as he learned I’d been in Afghanistan, Mr. Voyels became my new best friend. Patricia and Darcy, the local celebrities, worked the crowd. Mr. Voyels and I found a table near the windows and I helped the elderly World War Two veteran into a chair.

  He said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Patricia must have told him my rank. I took a guess at his. “My pleasure, Captain.”

  He nodded. I had guessed right. We traded stories through most of the hors d’oeuvres.

  Galston appeared at our table, his round head gleaming. “I thought I saw your name on the guest list.”

  Mr. Voyels said, “What are you tearing up now, Michael?”

  Galston feigned insult. “Why, ol’ Gordo, despite what your daughter prints about me, rest assured I’ve got this city’s best interest at heart.”

  Mr. Voyels said, “The only thing I ever heard your father say you got was a good case of crabs. And he didn’t say which sailor you got ’em from.”

  Galston’s face turned red but he kept his composure. “Indeed. Well, I was wondering if I might have a private word with Mr. Pelton.”

  “It’s a free country,” Mr. Voyels said, “despite what yahoos like you are trying to do with it.”

  I excused myself from Mr. Voyels and followed Galston to the bar, where he ordered a double scotch. I had the bartender refill my tonic and give me a fresh lime.

  Galston said, “I was wondering if you’d thought about my offer.”

  “I did and I to have to pass. I’ll let you know if I need my house redecorated or another paint job on my car.”

  He put his drink to his mouth and took a pull, smacking his lips slightly. Without looking at me, he said, “I’ve got a lot riding on this project. To help you reconsider, I’ll double my offer. That should cover any inconveniences.”

  Four million dollars. I think I blinked, but I couldn’t say for sure.

  “There are things in motion I would like to keep in motion. Any delay could jeopardize my plans.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll have my lawyer contact yours.”

  A man approached us, slapping Galston on the shoulder. “How’s it going, Mike?”

  Against my better judgment, I said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” He turned his attention to the other man.

  I made my way toward the restrooms, passing Patricia who was talking to two women. She called me over.

  “Brack,” Patricia said, “I’d like you to meet Muffie Cromwell and her sister, Jackie.”

  I smiled, not sure if I should offer a hand or not. A closer inspection of the women told me they’d had alterations. Compared to Patricia, who held onto her beauty naturally, the faces of these women looked a little too tight. They nodded, probably afraid any facial expression would undo the work their plastic surgeons charged a small fortune for.

  “Sorry to hear about your uncle,” Muffie said.

  “It was just awful,” Jackie said. “I didn’t think crime was that bad here. I mean, it isn’t as if we live in New York City.”

  Exactly what I told Fisher.

  Muffie asked, “Have the police found who did it?”

  “No,” I said.

  “They’ve closed the case,” Patricia said. “Can you believe it?”

  “Closed the case?” Jackie said. “Can they do that?”

  Patricia nodded. “They’re saying it was a random mugging. They’re not even going to look for the man who did it.”

  A couple from across the room waved at Muffie and her sister. They waved back.

  “We must speak with the Andersons.” Jackie squeezed my arm. “It was nice meeting you, Brack.”

  Muffie touched Patricia’s shoulder. “Let’s do lunch tomorrow.”

  I watched the two women walk away.

  Patricia signaled a man carrying a tray of wine glasses and took one.

  I asked her, “Who exactly are they?”

  She swirled the red wine in the glass. “Muffie is married to the mayor’s brother.”

  “Not bad,” I said. “And the other one?”

  “She married into a family that owns hotels.”

  I thought for a moment. “So neither of them would want a story getting out of a crazy mugger killing people in our fair city?”

  Patricia said, “I’ll bet the chief of police gets a call tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “By the way,” Patricia said, “you and Darcy look good together.”

  I slipped my wallet from my back pocket, opened it, and took out a weathered photo, a wedding portrait. Jo’s smile really was out of this world. I handed the picture to Patricia. “Notice anything familiar?”

  She looked at it. “I didn’t see the similarity before. They do look a lot alike. Did you show this to Darcy?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  She returned the picture. “Don’t.”

  I felt Patricia’s eyes on me as I replaced the photo in my wallet.

  She said, “I would have sent someone else if I’d realized.”

  “It’s okay. I like being reminded of her. Pretty disturbing, huh?”

  My aunt brus
hed her hand gently across my cheek.

  After the fundraiser, Darcy and I walked to one of the downtown bars and took a table outside. A waiter came over. Darcy ordered wine and I got a Coke.

  When we were alone, I asked her, “How is it you can spend all your time on this story?”

  She crossed her legs. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend or a fiancé, or . . . something?”

  “I have a cat. And an automatic feeder.”

  “He must have been hiding when I was there,” I said.

  “Must have been.”

  Our drinks arrived. When we were alone again, I continued. “No boyfriend?”

  “Fiancé. He’s at Emory in Atlanta,” she said. “PhD program. I don’t wear my ring when I’m working.”

  “He’s probably named Thurston Howell the third,” I said and took a drink of my Coke, crunching ice.

  Darcy teased a strand of curls. “Actually, his name is Roger. I’ve known him forever. Our families are close friends.”

  Of course they were.

  “He doesn’t care if you go out with strange men to fundraisers?”

  “Not as long as it’s work-related.”

  Which is what this had to be because she didn’t have the ring on.

  The next morning, Sunday—a full week from my uncle’s murder—the Tom Petty ringtone I’d programmed into my cell rescued me from a nightmare. Two dimwits in a Chrysler were chasing me and gaining. With my eyes still closed I answered.

  “Mornin’,” said a familiar voice.

  “Darcy?” I forced open my eyes, let them focus, and reached for my watch from the night table. The little hand was on the eight and the big hand on the twelve. A simple calculation told me five hours had passed since I’d walked her back to her condo. “You don’t sleep, do you?”

  “Get dressed,” she said. “No tux required this time.”

  When I walked out the door thirty minutes later, Shelby gave me a look telling me how he felt about being left behind again. With my freshly painted Mustang hiding under a car cover behind the beach rental, Darcy picked me up in the convertible. She drove and I rode shotgun. Top down, sun shining, and so hot my thighs stuck to the leather. I reclined the seat and stretched out, the forty-five in the waistband of my shorts jabbed into my side.