by Bill Noel
And then there’s Landrum Gallery. Sure, it had been a good idea, but I thought I’d be able to break even. I could survive on my savings if the gallery didn’t continue to be a drain. But it was a drain—a drain that sucked more money away each month. The current economy gave little hope that things would improve soon. I needed to have a serious talk with Charles about the future of the business. I dreaded that conversation.
I don’t know how long I spent on the pier, but I forced my thoughts back to the beautiful, sunny day on Folly Beach. The detectives must have left sometime between my pondering health, death, marriage, and business.
I must savor the moment; I was healthy, had a roof over my home, had several fantastic friends, and, even if I kicked the bucket today, I wouldn’t choose anywhere else in the world I’d rather be. Besides, I’m still in much better shape than Lester Patterson and Arno Porchini.
CHAPTER 16
Jason was spending the night with one of his classmates working on a class project, so Amber had a rare free evening. The Lost Dog Café was only open for breakfast and lunch, so it gave her time to be with Jason most afternoons after school. Since he’d reached the ripe old age of twelve, he continually said, “Mom, you don’t have to babysit me.” Like most young men that age, he was right—and wrong. He was away, so she didn’t have to debate with herself over whether she could leave him alone, and we decided to go to Charleston for supper.
“Nice character dent,” she said as I gallantly opened the passenger door for her outside her apartment. It was the first time she had seen the car since Frank remodeled the door panel.
“Thanks,” I said. “Thought you’d like it.”
She laughed. “Follyized it,” she said. “It was sort of bland before—you’re one of us now.”
She spent most every day waiting tables on Folly Beach, so she preferred that we travelled off-island. Neither of us needed a white tablecloth under our plate to enjoy the food, so we went to the family-friendly Charleston Crab House, a few miles from the beach. We arrived early enough to get a table on the deck overlooking Wappoo Creek, one of the many waterways surrounding Charleston.
Amber knew that I preferred white wine in the summer and agreed, or pretended, it was her drink of choice. She had finished a hectic day at work and was in no hurry to eat. We ordered a bottle of wine, chips, and dip.
“Heard anything about the chief?” she asked. She leaned back in the blue, fan-backed, plastic chair and put her feet on the wooden rail between the deck and the creek. Her long hair, held back with a rubber band when she’s at work, flowed over her shoulders and gently shimmered in the light breeze.
“Nothing more than what you know,” I said.
She raised her chin, pushed the hair from her face, and was catching a few rays from the setting sun. A couple of boats meandered down the creek. A Doberman was barking at us from the stern of the larger vessel. Amber waved at the dog. She swore it grinned back.
The wine, chips, and dip had arrived. “I’m going to the hospital tomorrow and check on him. His daughter seems pretty torn up.”
One of the many things I liked about Amber was that she didn’t feel the need to fill silence with words. She could carry on a conversation with anyone, and could listen to the strangest, most boring, drawn-out stories without uttering a sound—a skill she had learned after many years as a waitress. And, with me, a person prone to silence, she could sit and silently appear to enjoy my company. We had finished the bottle of wine with hardly a word spoken; her head leaned on my shoulder. She was unwinding from work, and my mind was racing with thoughts of the chief, the murder, and my financial future.
“The chief only began talking about his daughter the last year or so,” said Amber. “They weren’t close when she was growing up. He was away most of the time in the military. He said the only reason she joined the police was because he had been an MP.”
Amber had a way of getting people to open up, and she was one of the key unofficial information depositories on Folly Beach. For the second time, our waitress had politely asked us if we were ready to order. Amber giggled and said the clock was running on our table and we’d better order. Our table was prime real estate this time of day, so we agreed on fish and chips and the waitress left happy.
Amber watched her leave and then continued, “The chief is a little embarrassed that Karen—Detective Lawson—idolizes him so much.”
“She could have worse idols,” I said. “He’s a fantastic person and has given me more breaks than he should have.”
“If you’d stop meddling in police business, he wouldn’t have to give you breaks.” She laughed and then tapped me on the arm.
“I’m prone to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said. “It’s the island’s fault, you know. The only murders I ever knew about before I got here were from the media.”
“Right,” she said, “It’s all our fault.” Her smile faded, and some wrinkles—cute wrinkles, to be sure—began to appear on her brow.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Nothing.” She turned away, and I could see a tremor in her shoulders.
“Amber.” I stopped and waited.
“I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“I never met the Chris who lived in Kentucky, but I know the one who’s here.”
Our food arrived, but she ignored it.
“And …,” I said.
“And,” she continued, “let me tell you what’ll happen. Someone got himself killed just down the road from your house, and someone else nearly got himself murdered out by the bridge. Both of them made the mistake of living in the same boardinghouse—the house where Larry’s girlfriend lives. See where I’m going with this?” She spread tartar sauce on her fish and took a dainty bite.
“No, go on.”
“Okay,” she said. “Now Folly Beach is swarming with detectives from the Sheriff’s Department; cops are everywhere. The Dog was full of them today. They blend in about as well as President Obama would.”
I giggled, but her stare screamed, I’m not being funny.
She continued, “I didn’t hear everything they’re saying, but it was clear that they don’t know what’s going on.”
“What’s that have to do with me?”
“Real soon you and Charles will sit down around an unhealthy pizza, and he’ll say something like, ‘We’ve got to figure out who the killer is,’ and you’ll say something like, ‘That’s what the police are for; it’s none of our business.’ And he’ll say, ‘Of course, it’s our business; the killer was on your street, and Larry’s girlfriend could be next.’”
“Amber …”
“No, let me finish,” she said. “You two will go back and forth about why and why not get involved, but the seed will have been planted and will start to grow. I’ve known Charles for much longer than you have. He won’t leave it alone.”
I put my arm around her waist and gave a gentle squeeze. “Thanks for worrying, but it’s not going to happen. Besides, the police will have it wrapped up before Charles will make his case. They’re good at what they do.”
“Right,” she said, and turned her attention to her food.
Amber was bushed, so I declined her offer for me to join her in her apartment—more accurately, the bedroom. After letting her out, I wished I wasn’t so considerate.
I parked in front of my house. Before going in, I replayed Amber’s imaginary conversation between Charles and me. Scary as it seemed, it was accurate. Even more frightening, Charles was right.
CHAPTER 17
Morning started on a high when I yanked Bob Howard out of a pleasant dream and invited him to lunch at Al’s. It usually worked the other way around. He ranted, raved, said I’d ruined his beauty sleep, and then
asked what time? I told him ruining his beauty sleep would be impossible, he should be awake at 6:30, and lunch was at 11:30. He slammed down the receiver. I smiled; he’d be there.
I arrived at Al’s a few minutes before time and saw Bob’s dark plum—don’t call it purple—PT Cruiser in front.
I opened Al’s heavy door and went from daylight to Budweiser-neon dark and to a cheerful greeting from the owner.
“Hi, Chris; Bubba Bob’s awaiting.” Al nodded in the direction of his only booth. Roger Miller’s version of “When Two Worlds Collide” was playing on the color-blind jukebox. I glanced around the room and saw that the number of customers had just doubled.
“Well, you’ve damned well done it this time,” said Bob before I reached the booth. His stomach pushed against the table; his arms were clasped behind his thinning gray hair. A half-eaten cheeseburger was on the plate, competing for space with a three-inch-high stack of fries. He looked down at his plate, grabbed a fry, and swiped it through a pile of ketchup on a coffee saucer next to the plate. A dollop of ketchup had already landed on his green Hawaiian shirt.
“Did what?” I knew asking was a mistake; he’d tell me anyway. I played along. I sat across from him—a challenge since he had pushed the table toward my seat so he could fit his ample body in the booth. I squeezed in; maybe I wasn’t as heavy as I thought. Compared to the body on the other side of the table, I was emaciated.
“I hear you damn near started a race riot the other day. Just sashayed in here, pale white face a grinnin’, no protection from your courageous friend Bob. Damn lucky you’re still alive. Near riot I hear.” He was getting louder.
“Don’t believe a word that tub of lard jabbers,” yelled Al from behind the bar. Roger Miller tried to mask Al’s voice, but failed.
Bob’s eyes never left the fries. “Mind your own business, you old fart,” he shouted. “Where’s my next beer?”
My eyes had finally become accustomed to the light, or more accurately, dark, and I saw the grin on Al’s face as he headed to the table. He was carrying a beer for Bob, a glass of wine, and “the best cheeseburger in the United States.” Al’s arthritic seventy-plus-year-old legs slowed the trip considerably.
Al wasn’t anxious to make the trip back and slowly pulled a chair from a nearby table. “Chris,” he paused and caught his breath, and then said, “the intelligence and charm of the place increased more when you came in the other day than it ever has when your friend Flubber here arrives.”
If I didn’t know that Bob and Al had been friends for years, I’d be looking for a way out the door in one piece, or at least crawling under the table.
Al took a couple of deep breaths and put his elbows on the edge of the table. “Everybody getting back to normal after Frank?”
“Mostly,” I said.
“Anybody crossbowed over there the last twenty-four hours?” asked Bob. “Damn dangerous place. People need to move out, sell their houses—they need a good Realtor.”
That’s Bob—always thinking of the welfare of others. Al and I ignored him—not easy, but wise.
“Any idea who’s doing it?” asked Al.
“No,” I said before Bob could answer. “Not that I know. But police are everywhere. Now the media’s starting to swarm—a crossbow killer’s big news.”
Bob couldn’t stay out of a conversation. “How’s the chief?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “I’m going over when I leave here.”
“Didn’t think you came just to buy me a big lunch, five beers, dessert, and a meal to take to Betty.”
Once again, I ignored him. From the jukebox, the Statler Brothers were telling us what happened to “The Class of ’57.”
That reminded me of a question I wanted to ask the country music expert in the room. I turned to Bob. “Ever hear of a country singer called Country Cal?”
“One-hit wonder, Country Cal, ‘End of Your Story,’ early sixties?”
Al grinned, “Not Motown.”
“Nope,” said Bob, who put his head back and started singing, using the term loosely, “We changed homes, friends, and stories; you went your way as I did mine; I’ll catch you at the end of your story.…”
“That’s the one,” I said quickly to head off another verse.
I told them about talking with Cal at the country jamboree. Bob said he didn’t know much about Cal and then proceeded to tell us that Cal had drug and alcohol problems after his big, and only, hit and that he had spent years traveling around the South singing for tips. Bob was a virtual encyclopedia of country music.
Al perked up when I said that Cal lived in the same boardinghouse as the crossbow victims. Al raised his arms and gave the universal time-out signal. He slowly headed back to the bar for more drinks. Neither Bob nor I protested. When Al was gone, Bob pushed away from the table and slid several dollar bills into the jukebox. “Damn money pit,” he said and pushed the table into my ribs. “Used to only be a nickel.”
“Used to be Indians here,” I said.
“Hmm,” replied the articulate Realtor.
“Could this Cal guy be the killer?” asked Al. He put the drinks on the table and folded his tall body on the chair.
“Did you ask if he had a crossbow?” Bob interrupted.
I slapped the side of my head. “Sorry, Bob, I forgot to ask.”
Bob shook his head. “And you and your idiot buddy, Charles, think you’re detectives.”
Charles and I weren’t detectives any more than Bob was a spokesperson for Weight Watchers. A few times over the last three years, we had lucked into helping the police catch some killers—the key words being lucked into. We were poster children for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Bob knew it. He even helped catch one of the killers and will never let us forget it. In his humble opinion, he was the sole reason the bad guys were caught; he also knew he was the greatest Realtor in the free world.
“The police have it under control,” I said, looking first at Bob and then to Al. I said it with more confidence than I felt.
We each took a sip of our beverage. Al had been quiet for a couple of minutes—not that difficult with Bob around, so Bob and I looked at him when he cleared his throat.
“Chris, you and your buddies have a way of stepping in the dog shit that most of us walk around. From what you’ve said, there’re more piles of it on your island than ever.” His hands were rubbing on the label on his beer bottle; he stared at it like he had never noticed the writing before. “I’ve thought about it a lot since you were in the other day. No normal person—not even a normal killer—goes around shooting people with a crossbow. You …”
“Hell, Al, there hasn’t been a normal person on Folly Beach for ninety-seven years,” interrupted Bob.
Al didn’t skip a beat. “You need to be careful. You’re going to get involved—you always do. This time you’d better look places you wouldn’t normally look. This is a strange one.” Al looked up from the bottle. His dark, piercing eyes met mine. “Don’t assume anything.”
Bob put both elbows on the table and shifted his gaze between Al and me. “Before Al gets all teary and starts hinting for a group hug, I’m out of here. Gotta sell some overpriced condos and make money for my honey.”
Bob had been married for more years than most of the population had been alive. Betty was a saint. She was sweet and kind, and had a fantastic attitude and smile. None of it had rubbed off on her husband.
Bob pushed himself up from the booth and was out the door before hugging could commence. As usual, he stuck me with the check. Al laughed.
Don’t assume anything, I thought.
CHAPTER 18
I walked to the hospital rather than fight hospital-parking-lot-musical-chairs. Sadly, I had learned where the various departments were at the massive building. I ignored the information
desk and went directly to the CCU waiting room. Most of the chairs in the room were full. The television was still tuned to CNN, volume still muted.
Karen Lawson was sitting in the corner under the television and flipping through a dog-eared copy of Coastal Living. She was going to or coming from work. Her chestnut brown hair was tied neatly back, and she was wearing a dark blue pantsuit. Her black flats were professional but comfortable enough to chase down a fugitive. She had the unmistakable aura of law enforcement around her.
The chair beside her was vacant; no one wanted to sit next to a cop. I was already seated before she looked up from the magazine.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, her bored gaze at the magazine turning to a kind smile. “The doc came out about an hour ago and said Dad’s improving.” She reached over and gave me a hug. Her arms loosened and tightened again; she was squeezing hard. I was embarrassed, but it felt good.
She let go and leaned back toward her chair. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so happy.” She looked around the room and seemed surprised it was full, and then turned back to me. “The doc said he’d send someone out when I can go in.”
We talked about the weather and hospital parking until a young lady stepped into the room; she couldn’t have been out of her teens and had a smile on her face. “Karen Lawson?”
Karen stood and leaned down and grabbed my arm. “Come with me.”
“That’s okay,” I said, “go ahead. I’ll wait.”
“Please come,” she said and pulled my arm.
I wasn’t ready for a wrestling match with a detective in a room of witnesses. I surrendered and stood.
Karen gave a glancing look at the nurse. “We’re together,” she said in her decisive, don’t-challenge-me, voice. She took my elbow as we followed the intimidated young lady.
