The Edge

by Bill Noel

  “Any idea who’d want him dead?” I asked.

  Dude grinned, “Les would say Lee Harvey Oswald or John Wilkes Booth or some green man from the other side of Mars.” He then leaned toward us like he was about to impart a deep, dark secret. “Don’t think they be his problem. Know what I mean?”

  Before we could clarify what he meant, Dude said he had to go. “Surfers a-waitin’!” He bounded from the chair and almost skipped to the door.

  Charles watched him weave through the tables, nearly bumping into two kids headed to the restroom. “He be out of words,” Charles speculated.

  Dude almost ran headlong into Cindy Ash, who had pulled the door open as our strange friend exited. She stepped out of the line of fire and looked around the restaurant until her gaze paused on our table. She headed toward us; there was no doubt, we were her target.

  She took the chair Dude had occupied, ignored the ghosts, sat, and nodded for us to lean closer. “There’s been another crossbow shooting.” She glanced around to make sure no one had heard her. I gasped. Charles whispered, “Who? When? Where …?”

  “Arno Porchini …”

  Charles inhaled, “My God. Arno’s a friend … what …”

  Cindy interrupted, “He’s not dead. He’s damn lucky.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Just after sunrise, Mr. Porchini was fishing off his small boat near the bridge. Said he didn’t hear anything; the arrow slammed into his left arm and spun him around.” She looked around the room. “He was lucky he didn’t fall out and drown. Said next thing he knew, he was coming to on the bottom of the boat, blood all around, and his arm feeling on fire.”

  “Anybody around?” said Charles.

  “Not a soul. Porchini said he was afraid to sit up, afraid the killer was waiting for his head to appear above the side. He thought the shot came from the road. He wasn’t more than seventy feet from shore.”

  “And he never saw anybody or a car?” I asked.

  “No,” said Ash. “He has no idea how long he was out, and when he came to, he waited a long time before moving. He wrapped his arm with his T-shirt. If he hadn’t, he would’ve bled out. Said all he could do was lie there shivering and looking at the arrow in his arm.”

  Charles waved for Amber to bring Cindy coffee. “Who found him?” he asked.

  “Mr. Porchini heard traffic pick up and figured whoever did it was long gone—too much risk. He got the motor started, yanked it with his right arm, and powered his boat to shore at the road at the far side of the bridge over the river. Somehow he managed to climb the hill to the road. A truck driver saw the blood all over the T-shirt and then the arrow, dialed 911, and went to help.”

  Amber slipped the mug under Cindy’s arm and left without a word.

  Cindy took a sip and thanked Charles for getting it for her.

  He waited for her to set the mug down. “They think he’ll be okay?”

  “Don’t know,” she said. “Officer Spencer and I got there about the same time. I think we got to him in time. He lost a lot of blood and was lucky to bring his boat directly to the road. He wouldn’t have made it to the dock. It was gross—blood everywhere in the boat.”

  “Lucky,” said Charles.

  “You bet,” she said. “Charles, you’re his friend, so you know he lives at the Edge.”

  “The same place Lester Patterson lived?” I asked.

  Charles nodded and looked at Cindy, “And where you live?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered. She took another sip of coffee. “He lives on the second floor over Mrs. Klein. We haven’t said more than twenty words to each other. He’s real quiet, not rude, just never says much.”

  “Do I know him, Charles?” I asked.

  “No reason to,” said Charles. “You may have seen him in Bert’s, but he won’t speak unless you talk first. He’s about forty, sandy hair, little taller than us, muscular, not like us; overall, nothing special.”

  “How do you know him?” asked Cindy.

  Charles leaned closer. The Dog was packed, and it was easier to hear what was said at the closest tables than the other side of ours. “Arno and I worked construction together. He’s a carpenter, bright, appreciates my outstanding qualities—what’s not to like about him?”

  I didn’t ask what qualities.

  “He from here?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so,” said Charles, “but I don’t know anything else; been here off and on around three years. Like I said, he’s pretty quiet, except on Tuesdays when he sings at the Country Jamboree at GB’s Bar.”

  “Didn’t Dude say Patterson sang there?” I asked.

  Charles nodded again.

  Cindy had her back to the room and kept turning her head to see who was coming and going. Her hands were shaking. I doubted she heard a word we had said.

  “This is way too spooky,” she said to both of us, or neither of us. She shook her head and focused on Charles. “I’m from east Tennessee. Been around hunters all my life; rifle and bow and arrow. I thought I’d seen it all but … but a crossbow? And both of them live in my building. Guys, there’s only eight of us renting there and old Mrs. Klein.”

  Charles gently touched her arm. “Maybe you should stay with Larry for a while. I don’t think he’d mind.” He cocked his head in my direction. “Do you?”

  She and Larry had been dating for nearly a year, so I didn’t think his house would be a foreign land to her, but I’d kept my meddling to a minimum to counter Charles who had perfected the fine art of butting in. “Something to think about.”

  “How would it look if one of Folly’s crime-stopping, criminal-catching police officers ran to her boyfriend’s house at the first sign of trouble?” she asked.

  I thought it beat an arrow through the heart, but shrugged.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Cindy called the station to see if there was an update on Porchini. He was in stable condition, but they were going to keep him at the hospital overnight. That was the best news we had all morning. Amber was standing about ten feet from the table and dying to know what we were talking about but stayed away. I motioned her over and asked if she could get some oatmeal for Cindy and whispered that I’d fill her in later. That soothed her curiosity—temporarily.

  The customers at a nearby table had headed to the beach and took much of the noise with them. It was easier to hear. I told Charles and Cindy what Al had said about the killer using a bow and arrow—in this case, a crossbow. It could be for stealth, could be a hunter, could be symbolic. What we did know for sure was that something terrible, terrible and deadly, was happening on our island, and it was hitting close to home.

  Would there be more?

  CHAPTER 13

  Labor Day was a holiday and I was sort of retired, but I still wanted to open the Gallery. The island crawled with vacationers and long-weekenders, my bread and butter. If I didn’t sell photos today, I should lock the doors for good—something I may need to do anyway.

  Charles, my unofficial sales manager and staff optimist, joined me to welcome the crowds and, with some luck, wear out the cash register. It turned out to be a busy day, but the cash register was far from overused. Gaps in business exceeded the busy moments, so we had plenty of time to talk about the disastrous last few days. There were countless adventurers and risk-takers who led an event-filled existence. But to a slightly overweight, out-of-shape, retired desk jockey from Kentucky, one hurricane, one friend’s heart attack, one murder, and one attempted murder in three days exceeded anything I had experienced in my sixty years (742 full moons in Dude-speak). Charles had led a more adventurous life, but after a few minutes of contemplative thought, agreed that this was at the top—or bottom, depending upon perspective—of his this is the pits list.

  By late afternoon, we decided that some
liquid libation and pizza would help us gain a better perspective on the events of the holiday weekend. A phone call to Larry turned our couple of guys sharing a pizza and drinks into a Labor Day party of three. Larry said he’d stop at Woody’s Pizza and pick up the well-rounded meal, and Charles agreed to stop at Bert’s for the liquid portion. Cindy had to work, and Amber’s son, Jason, was running a fever and she needed to stay home. I promised to call later with what we had been talking about at the Dog.

  The comforting aroma of the Woody, the restaurant’s eighteen-inch specialty, beat Larry in the door. Both Larry and Charles were prompt, nearly to a fault, so Charles was only a few steps behind the hardware maven/pizza delivery person.

  Charles wore a long-sleeve University of Toledo T-shirt and panted as he hurried up the steps. “Sorry I’m so late,” he said as he gasped for air. “I couldn’t get out of Bert’s. Everyone wanted to talk about the crossbow killer. Why do people think I know all that stuff?”

  He Frisbeed his hat across the room toward the chair, a well-practiced move. He missed—the usual result.

  Larry returned from the kitchen table, where he had deposited our supper. “About time you got here.” He made a stage gesture of looking at his watch. “Hmm. Seven, eight seconds late.”

  A prosperous day at Pewter Hardware extracted humor from our petite friend. I wished another day of abysmal sales at a specific local gallery could cheer me. I counted on Charles, Larry, Amber, and a few other left-of-quirky friends to liven my days.

  “Better late than Lester,” Charles replied.

  That silenced Larry as Charles carried his assignment to the kitchen. He put the twelve-pack of Bud in the refrigerator and the two bottles of low-priced Chardonnay on the rack in the door. Brain surgery, nanotechnology, and cooking were three subjects I had never cluttered my brain with, so there was plenty of room in the refrigerator. It could have held another 153 bottles, with room to spare.

  I couldn’t accurately describe the smells from the pepperoni, sausage, meatball, and other ingredients from Woody’s finest, but I was drawn to them more than a human should be. The three of us remembered that we hadn’t had lunch, which was extra incentive to devour the doughy delight. All but two slices of the Woody were gone before any real conversation began.

  Larry unsuccessfully held back a burp and followed it with a gulp of beer. “Charles, what did you tell the people at Bert’s?”

  “Huh?” said Charles. He had finished eating and leaned back in the chair contemplating the ceiling.

  “You said they kept asking about the crossbow killer—is that what they’re calling him?”

  “I said that an hour ago. And yes, that’s now his official moniker.”

  Larry pointed to the pizza remains. “We’ve been busy. So, what did you tell them?”

  “The truth. I had no idea,” said Charles.

  Charles wasn’t going to let the subject go, so I ventured where I knew he would tread next, “What do we know about Les Patterson and Arno Porchini?”

  Charles decided he wasn’t finished after all and had stuffed one more bite in his mouth, so Larry answered, “Not much. I know both by sight; they’re in the store on a regular basis. Les worked in HVAC and Arno’s in construction—a carpenter, I think.” He paused, shrugged his shoulders. “That’s it, I guess.”

  Uncharacteristically, Charles had waited for Larry to finish. “Yeah, we know that. I like Arno. He’s quiet and knows what he’s doing with a hammer and saw. When I help on the construction jobs, I’m an extra set of hands—‘carry this,’ ‘carry that,’ ‘help hold the lumber,’ —but he always treated me well. That’s rare for a skilled tradesman. Les was fun to goad. When he started talking about flying saucers, I’d ask if he had met any of the occupants, or if they’d taken him for a ride, or other silly questions. He’d answer like I was a reporter for the New York Times—all serious and sincere. On weekends, his answers were slurred; think it had to do with his blood alcohol level.” Charles took another sip. “He was a nice guy.”

  “They were both in construction,” I said. “Did they work together?”

  “Could have,” said Charles. “I never saw Les on any jobs I worked, but I only helped out occasionally. I think most of his company’s work was off-island.”

  Larry said, “No idea.”

  “What else did they have in common?” I asked.

  “Both lived at the boardinghouse—their rooms were across from each other,” said Charles. He looked toward the front of my house. From my porch I could see a corner of the Edge even though it was more than a block away.

  “You know,” said Larry. He looked at Charles and then back at me. “So does Cindy.”

  Charles and I nodded.

  “She’s working until three,” said Larry. “I’ve asked her to stay with me tonight. Don’t know if she will; said she’d think about it. She’s scared but won’t admit it.”

  Charles went to the refrigerator and got another beer for Larry. “I don’t see how this could have anything to do with her,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”

  I hoped he was right but knew he had no solid reason to believe it. “They both sing at the Country Jamboree,” I said as I searched for anything they had in common other than the boardinghouse.

  “Yeah,” said Charles. “They had to know each other. I don’t suppose we know if they knew anyone with a crossbow.”

  That sent me for another glass of wine, and Larry for a change of subject. He started telling customer stories in the aftermath of Hurricane Frank. A handful of houses had portions of their roofs damaged, so he had a run on tarps. He only carried the blue plastic tarps, but one customer demanded a red one. Larry said he tried to explain that blue would keep the rain out as well as any other color, but the guy left, saying he would just have to go to Home Depot. Larry wished him well. One man asked if he carried alligator traps; he’d heard that the storm ran the gators out of the marsh into yards. Larry told him he had a pair of alligator shoes, but the man just stared at him. Larry finally told him that he didn’t think there were alligator traps and recommended that if he saw an alligator in his back yard, he should call 911.

  Charles had listened patiently—not his strength—but finally interrupted, “Did anyone ask if you sold crossbows?”

  Larry’s lack of response told me that our Labor Day party was over.

  No sooner than Charles had time to walk home, he called, “Want to go to a bar tomorrow night?”

  “Maybe, where?” I responded. I didn’t want to commit until I knew what he had in mind.

  “GB’s—the Country Jamboree.”

  “Sure.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Several years ago, a group of bluegrass music aficionados organized a weekly “get-together” on Folly Beach. Each Thursday, bluegrass musicians from Charleston and the surrounding area gathered at the Roadhouse Cafe for an evening of picking, strumming, singing, and all-around good times. The musical quality ranged from great to “good try,” but the enthusiasm and camaraderie of the musicians, their families, and fans was always outstanding. The Bluegrass Society thrived.

  There might not be a discernable difference between bluegrass and country music to the uninformed, but to country musicians and fans, the differences were huge. Not to be outdone, a smaller group of country pickers decided that they needed a similar forum and convinced Gregory Brile, the owner of a small, neighborhood bar just off Center Street, to give them a night and to switch his theme from contemporary rock to country. It wasn’t hard to convince Brile to change; he was in the fast lane to bankruptcy. So, Greg’s: Home of Rowdy Rock became GB’s. A local wag had convinced him that if he used his initials as the name, the “ignorant vacationers” would think the bar was owned by Garth Brooks and would bring him more business than he could handle—all music (country music) to Greg’s ears.

 
* * *

  “I’ll catch you at the end of your story;

  I’ll be there when life starts to fall.

  I’ll catch you at the end of your story;

  and we’ll be together through it all.”

  The sounds of the slow, sad tune greeted us as we walked though the door of GB’s. The music came from a small, raised wooden bandstand at the far end of the building. Its lone occupant was a lanky singer, with a look out of the 1950s. He was at least six foot three and looked taller with his cream-colored Stetson riding high on his head. His spine curved toward the mike, and his rhinestone-studded jacket sparkled from the sole spotlight illuminating the stage. He strummed an old acoustic guitar with a four-inch-square piece of plywood covering what I assumed to be a hole on the front. The instrument had never visited a professional repair shop.

  Despite the bar’s name, Garth Brooks had never set foot in the building, but his song “Friends in Low Places” would be a perfect description of the patrons. I would describe GB’s as beach-bar-bohemian. The walls were painted dark green; a beat-up dark wooden bar sat on the right side with a tiny kitchen behind it. The smell of stale beer and onions frying on the grill was almost as sad as the song.

  The room was packed. There were a dozen tables—a combination of four-tops and barstool-height two-tops. Four stools at the bar were taken. Two tables were unoccupied, but purses were on them and three guitar cases leaned against the chairs. A twelve-by-twenty-foot dance floor made of laminate flooring squares was in front of the small stage. Four couples were swaying to the melodic sounds of pure country. Two women stood inside the door waiting for a table.

  The song finished; the singer bowed and was greeted by enthusiastic applause.

  Two men from the table closest to the door slipped a twenty under an empty beer bottle and walked past us and out the door. The two women rushed to the table before it could be cleaned. One stared at Charles like she was afraid he would arm wrestle her for the piece of valuable real estate. She outweighed Charles by about a ton—it would have been no contest. He smiled and tipped his Tilley to her; she quickly turned away.