by Bill Noel
I pointed at the refrigerator. “Who, when, where, how?”
“Stop sounding like a reporter,” he said, grabbed a small container of orange juice, and made himself at home. “Give me a sec.”
I had peacefully been sipping coffee when he stomped on my morning. I refilled the cup and waited.
“I was heading to the Dog for breakfast and rumors,” he began. “There were a gazillion police cars in front of the Methodist Church, two fire trucks, two television vans, and yellow crime scene tape twisted around two trees and an old Chevy Corvair.” He took a sip of juice and then continued, “Something was amiss.”
No wonder he thinks he’s a detective, I thought.
“I rushed to the tape and spotted Officer Spencer. I yelled, and he came over. I asked if Officer Ash was there. You know what my first thought was, don’t you?”
“Is she okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Spencer said she was behind the church, looking for clues. I asked him clues about what. He said there’d been another murder. Female; heard her name was Pat Rowland, but he didn’t know for sure; cause of death …”
“Crossbow arrow,” I finished his sentence.
“Bolt, not arrow … but yep. Shot in the back.” He pushed his empty glass to the center of the table and stood. “Ready to go to the Dog?”
I didn’t know I was going to the Dog but knew why Charles wanted to. What better place to get all the information, and then some?
* * *
“About time you got here,” greeted us instead of Amber’s more pleasant, typical welcome. “I’ve held your table, but couldn’t much longer.” Customers were already standing in the door, and both outdoor patios were full. Dogs were tied to the fence outside, and several were at their masters’ feet, panting and patiently waiting for scraps.
“Thanks,” I said and gave her a peck on the cheek. She blushed. “How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Simple—anytime there’s murder and mayhem, your radar comes on, and you come running. Voila, here you are.”
Soaking in nasty stares from the people waiting at the door, we took our seats, and Amber went for coffee. The smells of bacon frying arrived before the smell of steaming hot coffee. I felt at home.
“What’ve you heard?” I asked as she set the mugs in front of us.
“Not much,” she said, and then proceeded to tell us more than I’d bet the police had discovered. “Her name’s Pat Rowland—around fifty, rail-thin, attractive in a tomboy sort of way. Short cropped hair; northern accent; jogged most mornings at sunrise; wore those shiny jogging shorts, red, and usually a black T-shirt …”
“Logos?” asked Charles.
I ignored him and thought Amber would be dangerous if she found out anything about the victim.
She gave Charles a sideways look, rubbed her chin, and then said, “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, she lived at the Edge.”
My chin dropped; the coffee mug was staring up at me; I could see my startled reflection in the dark liquid. A dog barked on the patio and jarred me to attention. “I don’t suppose you know if she sang at the jamboree?” I asked, afraid of the answer.
“Don’t know,” said Amber. “I do know I’d better get back to work, or you’ll have to hire me at your gallery.”
“She didn’t,” said Charles. He was looking at Amber as she weaved her way among the tables.
“Didn’t what?” I asked.
“Didn’t sing at the jamboree. Cal told me all the singers the other night; she wasn’t one. But …” He nodded his head and looked at my coffee.
I was finally waking up, and so was my lack of patience. “But what?”
“But she was at GB’s last night.”
“Sure?”
“Think so—shiny red shorts, black graphic-T. She was sitting at the end of the bar. She kept looking at our table. I knew she must have been staring at the handsome young man with the stunning cane. That stick’s a chick-catcher, you know?”
I didn’t. “And …?” I pushed.
“I finally figured out she was looking at Cal. She was there when we left. I gave her a chance to whistle me over, but she didn’t notice my charm. I think she was arguing with GB, so that’s another reason she missed my obvious appeal.”
I vaguely remembered something about her, but couldn’t recall what. I had also missed Charles’s “obvious appeal.” Before Charles continued in his fantasy world, I saw Dude headed toward the table. He was decked out in his tie-dyed, peace-symbol-adorned, T-shirt and carried Astronomy magazine.
He looked at the chair beside Charles. “Taken?” he asked.
“Nope,” said Charles.
“We be in bow season?” asked Dude. He threw his magazine in the other vacant chair.
“Know anything about the lady?” I asked. I got Amber’s attention, and she went for Dude’s coffee.
“She be dead.”
Charles was shaking his head. “Anything we don’t already know?”
“Tough question,” said Dude. “Don’t know what you know.”
“Had you met her?”
“Sort of.”
“And …?” asked Charles. My lack of patience was contagious.
“Heard her sharing words with that washout I have working in the store,” he said. “Scrawny chick be asking if we sold sports bras. Washout told her she didn’t need one. I stepped in before she told him he’d need a splint for broken nose.” Dude sipped his coffee from the colorful ceramic mug Amber had slipped under his left arm. He then laughed. “She told washout where he could go—a lot hotter than Folly Beach, you bet—and she zipped out. Don’t think she be doing more undergarment shopping at surf shop.”
I had known Dude a year before I knew he could string together more than ten words before he would self-destruct. Now I know he can; he just doesn’t very often.
None of us had ordered, but Amber brought Charles a plate of pancakes, a breakfast burrito to Dude, and for me, a bowl of god-awful granola with a pile of fruit on the side. I pushed it aside and asked for what Charles had. She said something that sounded like, “You’re phenomenal,” but it may have been, “You’re impossible.”
What happened to the customer always being right? Although I had begun to notice that my everyday attire of faded golf shirts and khaki shorts was shrinking and getting tighter.
Dude meticulously cut his burrito into tiny chunks and took a bite. “Feared I was headed for the hoosegow yesterday,” he said between bites.
“Interplanetary police catch you?” asked Charles.
We had often teased about Dude coming from another planet, but had never said it to his face. Couldn’t say that again, I thought.
If he understood what Charles meant, he ignored it. “Nope, local fuzz, blue LSD lights and all, pulled me over by the bridge at sunrise.”
“LED lights,” interrupted Charles, the stickler for detail.
“Lights on top of car—LSD, LST, LED … whatever,” said Dude, who then turned to me. “Me tried to figure where to stash my stash until I realized I didn’t have one.” He nodded, “Deep breath—whew.”
“What did you do wrong?” I asked. He finally had my attention.
“Nada. The Sheriff’s goon squad asked if I saw anything strange the morning Arno was shot. Said they be checking all cars that zipped by around the time he be skewered. Told them asking me if I’d seen strange was like asking a shark if it seen dangerous fish.”
Dude’s regular table was on the other side of the restaurant and was being cleared.
“Other galaxies awaiting me,” he said, waved his magazine in the air, and was gone as quickly as he had arrived.
“Chris, I’ve been thinking,” said Charles.
My pancakes had arrived, along with a huff from Amber. She
tried to encourage me to eat healthy; but overcoming six decades of bad habits, coupled with my lack of desire to present her with a challenge, I predicted she wouldn’t win.
I was ready for a peaceful meal but knew once Charles began thinking, my digestion suffered. “I can hardly wait,” I said.
“It’s simple. We’ve got to find out who’s killing these folks. It’s cosmic, fate, planets aligning, the will of God, you name it …”
I interrupted. “Foolish and dangerous.”
“No, not those,” he said. “For being so smart, you often miss important stuff. Let me explain. Les was killed on your doorstep—almost; Pat was near my apartment.”
“And Arno was out by the bridge—nowhere near us.”
“My cosmic theory’s not perfect. But if you’ll stop interrupting, I’ll make it near perfectly clear.”
I nodded and ran my fingers across my lips, officially zipping them for the duration of the explanation.
He continued, “Killing people in our backyard is a sign to get involved—plain as day. Now, who is one of our best friends? Larry. Right? Don’t answer, just nod.”
I did.
“Good, now who’s his girlfriend? Cindy. Right?”
Another nod.
“Cindy lives at the Edge. Right?”
He continued without waiting for a nod.
“And so did Lester Patterson, Arno Porchini, and Pat Rowland, and even our new friend Country Cal.”
Who might be the killer, I thought, but kept my mouth zipped.
“Chris, if anything happened to Cindy, I’d never forgive myself. And then there’s Cal and Arno, both residents of you know where. This is scary. We’ve got to do something.”
“I agree …”
“I told you to keep quiet …” He hesitated and then dropped his fork, “You agree?”
CHAPTER 23
Charles and I opened the gallery, but as had been typical lately, we had way too much time to talk. Customers were as scarce as winning lottery tickets. After Charles recuperated from me agreeing with him, we rehashed what we knew—the connection to the boardinghouse, the tie to GB’s; and what we didn’t know—motive, why a crossbow, and why we thought we had the audacity to uncover the murderer when the island was crawling with cops.
What were we missing?
“Call Larry and see when Cindy gets off,” suggested Charles. “We can see what she knows about Rowland.”
Cindy had to work until 7:00 p.m., but she would get lunch at 1:00; Larry planned to meet her at the Dog. I invited Charles and me. Larry was hesitant, but when I said I’d buy, he saw the wisdom of the offer. I asked Larry if we could meet at Blu, the restaurant at the Holiday Inn, instead of the Dog. There would be fewer prying eyes and ears, and those who were there would, most likely, be vacationers who couldn’t care less.
Charles and I arrived a little before Cindy’s lunchtime. The recently renovated restaurant was less than a third full. Most vacationers staying in the hotel were soaking in sun on the beach, touring historic Charleston, or exploring the plantations and other scenic venues in the area. They certainly weren’t in the restaurant or the Landrum Gallery.
The rest of our party wasn’t there yet, so we took the last empty table by the windows that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean and the majestic Folly pier. Charles asked if we were ready to hit the hard stuff or stick with soft drinks. The afternoon wasn’t that old, so I said to go with the carbonated beverages. Larry walked through the door at exactly the designated time. He only had an hour since Brandon was manning the store and he was still busier than usual—a fiscal benefit of Hurricane Frank. I was happy for him, but felt a tinge of resentment. Cindy arrived during my mini-pity party. She did the typical police gaze around the room before heading to our table. The other customers watched as she crossed the room. I think they hoped to witness a drug bust—an objective look at Charles wouldn’t make that farfetched.
Cindy pulled up a chair, and the others in the room went back to their mundane conversations or contemplating the choice between fries or fruit.
“Any word on the chief?” Charles asked before she settled.
“Nothing.” She sounded frustrated. “Think that’s bad?”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “I’m sure someone will let us know if there’s any change.”
“Get plenty of sleep last night?” asked my subtle friend Charles.
Larry turned three-days-in-the-sun red. Cindy laughed. And Charles smiled.
“Yep,” she said.
“Anything on the murders?” I asked.
Cindy waited while drink orders were taken. “Not much,” she said. She took a small, dog-eared notebook out of her uniform pocket and flipped through a few pages. “You already know her name was Pat Rowland, don’t you?”
I nodded for all of us.
“She was around fifty,” said Cindy, “an avid runner; some witnesses told me she ran every morning and most nights. I saw her running way out at the state park early some mornings. No ID. Some of our other folks are going through her room.”
“Did you know her?” I asked.
“Not really. We lived on the same floor and said hello when we ran into each other. She asked how I liked it on Folly. I said fine … that was about it.”
“Did she work?” asked Larry.
“If she did, she didn’t say.” Cindy’s drink arrived, and we watched her take a gulp. She didn’t notice. “Funny thing, though.” Cindy paused and took a smaller sip. “She only lived there a month, but told Mrs. Klein that she had been on Folly Beach for six. She said she spent the first five months staying here.”
Charles pointed his cane at the ceiling. “Here?”
“Yeah.”
“That’d be expensive,” said Larry.
“Very,” I said. “I don’t know if they have extended-stay rates, but the rooms are more than a couple hundred bucks a night in the summer.”
“Gulp,” said Charles. For a second, I thought Dude was channeling through him.
“Does that make sense to anybody?” I asked as I looked from Charles to Larry to Cindy.
All head movement was horizontal.
Before one of us had a revelation about why someone would stay in a two-hundred-dollar-a-night hotel for five months and then move into a rundown boardinghouse, Folly Beach’s acting director of public safety entered the room and focused a laser look at our table.
“Oh, oh,” said Charles, catching him out of the corner of his eye.
Before the acting chief was within ten feet of the table, he growled, “Officer, what are you doing here?” He spat out officer like it was an overweight, four-letter word.
Cindy had grown up in a male-dominated home and community in Tennessee and had little fear of anything, but stood and came close to saluting. “Sir, I’m having lunch with friends.”
He gave a dismissive glance at us and turned his attention to Cindy. “That’s Chief King, officer. Got it?”
“Yes sir … sir, Chief King.”
Cindy bent her knees to sit and then straightened back up. Chief King, although in his sixties, was a foot taller than Cindy and loomed over her and the rest of us. He ignored her and turned to Larry.
“You’re from the hardware store, aren’t you?”
Larry, unfortunately, had spent several years under the control of law enforcement officials and knew to kowtow to their whims. “Yes, Chief King.”
“And you are?” he asked as he turned to Charles and me. I felt like I was being pulled over for speeding and getting ready to be strip-searched. We gave our names and remembered to throw in Chief King.
“Hmm. I’ve heard of you,” he said. He leaned over and was inches from our faces, coffee breath and all. “Let me say this once and only once. If I hear of you meddli
ng in police business, you will find your ample asses behind bars quicker than I can say throw away the key.” His teeth were clenched, but he still managed to add, “Is that clear?” His hands were balled into fists. An inch-long scar over his left eye pulsated as he spoke.
He stood to his full height and turned to Cindy. “Officer Ash, you’ve got a job to do. It isn’t in here. Questions?”
“No, Chief King, I was …”
He turned and lumbered from the room; he sucked the good moods out as he left. The four tables of diners closest to us had stopped their conversations and were watching the drama unfold. Cindy stood for a minute and faced the ocean, her back to everyone. She regained her composure and turned and said, “Gentlemen, I need to get to work.” She followed the chief out.
I said a silent prayer for a speedy recovery for Chief Newman.
“I’m glad you suggested we come here and not to the Dog where people would notice us,” said Larry, oozing sarcasm.
Charles whispered to me, “At least our ample asses are behind us. His is on his shoulder.”
Larry left to help Brandon.
Charles said he was going home and read a good book. I suggested he choose the Good Book. I went to my cottage and was tempted to climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. Instead, I sat at my computer and lost myself editing photos of the marsh. A late summer shower pelted the tin roof. The amateur repairs seemed to be working.
Did we really want to try to find a killer?
CHAPTER 24
I drifted in and out of sleep. The intense rain reminded me of Hurricane Frank, which had swept through a week earlier. Frank was a minor hurricane, but since it was my first, I didn’t see anything minor about it. Minor surgery is only minor if it’s happening to someone else. I shuddered at the thought of experiencing another hurricane.
Thoughts of Frank faded, and I pictured Brian Newman in a hospital bed. Would he live; would I get the chance to tell him how much I’ve enjoyed our time together; why was he there instead of me? Then I saw the image of Lester Patterson’s lifeless body—arrow sticking in his chest, blood puddle in the mud—and only a few steps from my front yard. Pat Rowland was in the same room with me two days ago at GB’s while I sat at the table talking to Arno Porchini, another target of the brutal killer. And they all lived in the same boardinghouse with Cindy. Would she be next? Was Cal a killer or potential victim? What was going on? I forced myself out of bed to check the locks on the doors. They were secure—why didn’t I feel the same?
