The Edge

by Bill Noel

  Amy took his order and promised a refill on the water.

  “How well’d you know Pat?” asked Charles as soon as Amy was out of earshot.

  “Not well; not well at all,” he said. He gingerly moved his arm on the table trying to get it comfortable. “She hadn’t been there long. Moved in a few weeks ago, I think.” Amy returned with a pitcher of water and left it on the table. “Nice kid,” said Arno. He watched Amy walk away.

  “Did you and Pat talk?” asked Charles.

  Arno laughed. Then his laughter turned to a grimace. “Oh, that hurt,” he said. He hesitated until the pain subsided. “You two must really think you are detectives—all these questions.” A smile returned to his face. “Found the killer yet?”

  I was afraid what Charles might say, so I jumped in. “We’re only worried about our friend Cindy Ash. The last thing we are is detectives.” Successful shopkeepers would have ranked lower, but I didn’t say it.

  Charles took any unanswered question as an attack on his being. “So, did you and Pat talk?” he repeated.

  “She’d heard me sing at the jamboree and asked me how long I’d been singing, where I was from, how I liked the boardinghouse—normal stuff like that. I never saw her that much.”

  “Where are you from?” said Charles.

  “Good question,” said Arno. He had popped some pills after he sat down. They were working their magic. His face was less taut, and he wasn’t paying as much attention to his arm. “Nowhere for long. I was born in Maryland, near DC. After I left home, I bummed around the country and picked up carpentry skills as I went; don’t think there’s a state east of Missouri that I didn’t live in.”

  “Ever married?” asked Charles. I sat back and wondered how long it would be before Arno used his good arm and punched my nosy buddy.

  Instead of resorting to violence, Arno laughed. Yes, the pills worked. “Yeah, once,” he replied. “Met her in Dayton, Ohio, got married, stayed happy three years—yeah, three years.” He looked at his good hand and extended three fingers. “I thought we were happy.” He paused and stared at a dog barking at its owner—begging for burrito bites, I surmised. “I came home from work building a house out by the river, and she was gone.”

  “Too bad,” added Charles.

  Arno shook his head, a sad, distant look peering out of his eyes, “Yeah,” said Arno, “all she took was the checkbook, the goldfish, and my heart.”

  Sounds like a fine country song, I thought.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Think Cindy should move in with Larry?”

  Jason was spending the night with his buddy Sam Perkins. Sam’s father had taken the boys to Charleston after school to the latest Disney movie if the two promised to do homework together. His father worked at the Piggly Wiggly, and Monday was the one day he could count on being off.

  Amber and I were sitting on the deck at the Charleston Crab House, our off-island restaurant-of-choice. She had been uncharacteristically quiet on the way over. Other than ordering, she had little to say, so I was pleased when she asked about Cindy.

  I sipped my Chardonnay and then hesitated. “It’s scary what’s happening at the boardinghouse,” I said. “She can take care of herself, but I don’t see how she could stop a nut with a crossbow.”

  “Why would she be a target?” asked Amber.

  “Why was Lester, why Arno, why Pat? I have no idea; until the police find a motive, she’s not safe.”

  “Who else lives there?”

  “Don’t know for sure,” I said. Good question. “I know Country Cal. He lived across from Arno. Les lived on the same floor, and I don’t know if anyone else does.” I paused and wondered if I had heard of any other guys. It seemed someone had mentioned someone with a strange name, but it didn’t come to me.

  “Who else?”

  “Of course, Pat Rowland did, but only a month. One of the other singers at the jamboree, Heather Lee, is there, too. Mrs. Klein’s the owner. She’s in her eighties, and I can see her using a cross-stitch but not a crossbow. That’s all I know about; there could be more.”

  Amber couldn’t sit still. She played with her knife, took the napkin out of her lap a couple of times, and kept looking around the patio.

  “I guess when I asked about Cindy, I wasn’t thinking as much about her living at that boardinghouse, but if she and Larry cared enough about each other to move in together.” She watched her knife twist in her hands and didn’t look up.

  With everything going on with a hurricane and a killer on the loose, I hadn’t thought about it. “Don’t know. They’ve been hanging around a lot lately, and Larry seems happier than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe so.”

  “They don’t have much in common,” she added and then giggled.

  That was the first positive sign I had seen all evening.

  She stopped giggling, looked back down at the knife, and slowly raised her eyes to mine.

  “Don’t guess we do either,” she whispered.

  The ball was in my court—hit it, swing and miss, or simply get out of the way.

  “I think stuff in common isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Larry and Cindy seem happy. What could Bob have in common with his charming wife, Betty?”

  “Good example,” she said and smiled. “What about us?”

  How long could I stay in the game without hitting the ball? Where was she going with the questions? Where did I want her to go?

  “No, we don’t have much in common,” I said. “But we have fun together. I love your sense of humor. I don’t have to tell you I think you’re beautiful. We get along well. I enjoy your company.”

  I realized how lame those reasons were. I could have said the same things about a pet Siamese cat. My floundering was interrupted when the waitress arrived with the food. I still didn’t know where Amber was going with her questions; I didn’t know where I would go with my answers.

  She took a bite, then another sip of wine, and then stared at the creek in front of us. “Sorry I was so short with you and Detective Lawson this morning,” she said. “I was surprised to see her with you.” She continued to stare at the water and didn’t speak for the longest time. “To be honest, I was annoyed with my reaction when I saw her. I was … was jealous, I think.”

  She had set the knife down, and her hand was trembling. I reached across the table and took her shaking hand. “Jealous. Why?”

  She finally made eye contact. Her head was tilted slightly, and her hair covered one eye. “I saw how she looked at you. I don’t know. Something hit me; I can’t explain it.”

  “She came over to update me on her dad. She knew we had become friends, and she wanted to let me know.” I hesitated. “That’s all.”

  Amber shook her head from side to side. “I’ve studied men and women for years—how they flirt, get angry, get bored, on and on. The Dog’s a lab for seeing it all. Ms. Lawson has her eyes on you.”

  “I could be her father. I’m what, twenty-something years older? She just wanted to let me know.”

  “Men are idiots. You can’t see what’s in front of you. Why you don’t run into walls is beyond me.” She finally smiled. “Trust me; you’re more than on that lady’s radar.”

  She took a bite and then licked the tartar sauce off her finger. She looked down at her hands and started extending each finger, one at a time. I watched the exercise but didn’t ask what she was doing.

  She looked up, nodded her head, and then said, “Unless my birth certificate’s wrong, I’m not that much older than your detective friend.”

  I tried to steer the conversation in a safer direction—even asked about her favorite topic, Jason. All to no avail. The return trip wasn’t filled with any more conversation than the ride over. I held Amber’s hand the entire way, but it didn’t feel comfortable. I pulled in front of her apartment,
and she said that she was exhausted and had to be at work early.

  My day wasn’t going to start before the crack of dawn, so I parked in front of the pier and walked halfway to the end. With a move lacking in grace, I plopped down on one of the benches.

  What a day. Arno Porchini was on the road to recovery, the chief was going to live; an attractive detective from Charleston had her eyes on me, an even-more-attractive waitress from Folly Beach was angry with me over something I didn’t understand; and I was politely reminded that I was an old geezer.

  For the first time in years, I thought about my ex-wife. We had been married for twenty years, but our split was as amicable as any could be. She had decided that she needed more excitement in her life than a staid, stable, level-headed—boring—executive could provide. I could have argued, but, truth be told, she was right. When she packed the car and left for California, we both breathed a sigh of relief. I nearly laughed out loud and wondered what she would think now of her boring, crime-fighting, risk-taking ex. For a moment, I wondered what might have become of her. We hadn’t had any contact for years. I hoped she was okay and found what she was looking for.

  I sat for an hour and reflected on everything and nothing and then decided to head home—a home that didn’t even have a goldfish for someone to take. Now I had to figure out how to get back to the car without a walker or running into a wall.

  CHAPTER 28

  All I felt after my evening of reflection was indigestion. The past wasn’t a place I enjoyed visiting. I thought about Larry and Cindy as I stretched my aging arms and prepared for the day. An early-morning trip to Pewter Hardware should bring me back to reality.

  Other than two construction workers who methodically fished through a nail bin, Brandon and Larry were the only people in the store. The smell of fresh coffee led me behind the counter to the Mr. Coffee that Larry had running full blast. He kept a handful of “borrowed” Krispy Kreme logo mugs under the counter for special visitors. Others who asked got coffee in a poster child for nonbiodegradability, a white Styrofoam cup.

  “Morning, Brandon,” I said. I’d finally reached the vaulted status of special and grabbed one of the ceramic mugs. “Is the tyrant working you to death?”

  Brandon was standing by the register, his hands flipping through invoices. His starched, light brown Pewter Hardware shirt contrasted with the T-shirt he had under it. A glow-in-the-dark, large heart decal could faintly be seen through his thin uniform shirt.

  “Nah,” he replied as he looked up from the invoices. He put a hand on the pile to mark his place and then nodded toward the rear door. “He’s been mighty antsy, though.” Brandon looked toward the door to see if Larry was coming. “He’s worried about Cindy. These killings have a lot of people worried.”

  Larry came back in and interrupted Brandon. He was carrying a large plastic trash container that was nearly as tall as he was. One of the construction workers hollered for him to come to the nail bin.

  Brandon looked at Larry but whispered to me, “Don’t tell him I said anything. He thinks if anyone knew, he’d be seen as weak.”

  I assured him Larry wouldn’t hear it from me.

  Larry and the construction workers headed to the counter. Pewter Hardware was more the dimensions of an oversize two-car garage rather than one of the big-box “home-improvement centers” off-island; I moved to the front door so Larry, Brandon, and the two customers could conduct business.

  Out the window I saw Charles peddling in the direction of Larry’s condo—not necessarily an unusual sight since Charles had become an unofficial patrol person on Folly Beach. Instead of writing tickets, he accumulated the latest rumors and had his finger on the pulse—however slow it may be—of the community.

  I had to move again so the laborers, carrying small, brown paper bags of nails, could leave. Larry and I exchanged greetings, and he asked what had brought me in. I asked if I couldn’t just come to visit a friend. He said I could, but didn’t. I smiled and said that needed to change. Brandon feigned deafness and continued to look through the invoices.

  The door opened. The hinges squeaked like they had ever since I had been on the island. I asked Larry once why the owner of a hardware store couldn’t spray some squeak-remover stuff on the hinges. He said that the squeak was cheaper than buying a bell to announce the arrival of customers.

  “Well, look who’s here,” said Charles as he entered the store and pointed his cane at me. “Morning, Brandon, Larry, Customer Chris. What brings you to the best hardware store on the island?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I said to the disheveled man standing in front of me. He wore a long-sleeve UCLA T-shirt; he leaned against his cane and put his canvas Tilley hat on the counter on top of the invoices that Brandon was trying to sort. That Charles-like move got a nasty look and “Thanks, Charles” from Brandon.

  Charles didn’t respond. I finally gave in and said, “I came to see Larry. Your turn.”

  “I was in the neighborhood and saw your car,” he said. “I figured you and Larry were powwowing, so I rode by his apartment to see if it was under police surveillance—see if any female police persons …”

  “Okay,” I interrupted. “I got it.” I was curious if Cindy had spent the night at Larry’s but wasn’t going to ask. Larry would tell when he was ready.

  Brandon looked up from the papers. “Officer Ash went on duty about an hour ago. She …”

  “Brandon,” Larry interrupted. “Why don’t you go out back and move the wooden crates? We’ll need somewhere to put the lumber this afternoon.” He gave his full-time employee the evil eye. “I’ll take care of customers and the paperwork.”

  Larry wasn’t ready to tell, but his response to Brandon told us all we needed—wanted—to know.

  I shared what I had learned yesterday about Chief Newman. Larry let out a deep sigh. The first week Larry moved to Folly Beach, he had gone to the chief and told him about his criminal past and that he knew that he would be a suspect in any crime committed on the island and not to hesitate to question him. That candid confession put Larry in good stead with the chief and led to a friendship that had grown over the years.

  I neglected to tell Charles and Larry about Amber’s thoughts about the chief’s daughter. Nothing good could come from that revelation.

  The squeaky front door drew our attention. Officer Cindy Ash, attired in full police regalia, smiled and walked to the counter. We exchanged pleasantries, and Charles asked if she had a pleasant evening. “Yep” didn’t come close to the answer he wanted, but it would have to do.

  “Glad I caught all of you,” she said. She looked around the store and seemed satisfied that we were the only ones there. “The report on Pat Rowland’s prints came to the station this morning.”

  “And …?” interrupted Charles.

  She rolled her eyes at Charles and then looked at me. “And,” she continued, “she was a private eye from Lexington, Kentucky—your neck of the woods, Chris.”

  “Hmm,” said Charles. He grabbed his cane from the counter and pointed it at me. “You know her? Holding out on us?”

  I pushed the cane out of my face. “You must know more about what presidents have said than you do about geography. We’re talking about eighty miles between my hometown and Lexington.”

  “Does that mean no?” he asked.

  “Do you know everyone on Pawleys Island?” I asked Charles. “It’s about as far from here as Louisville is from Lexington.”

  He put his forefinger and thumb on his chin and looked at the ceiling. “Well, not everyone.”

  Larry had stayed out of the conversation until now. “Anyone, Charles?”

  “Don’t reckon,” he said and pivoted toward Cindy. “This isn’t about me; what else did you learn?”

  “Unfortunately, little,” she said. “She had a successful PI busines
s—worked a lot with horse-farm owners, rich coal people, and even some Arab sheiks, whatever they are.”

  Larry gave Cindy his full attention—something he was doing more and more lately. “So why’s a PI spending six months here?”

  “Good question,” said Cindy as she leaned against the counter and eyed the Mr. Coffee. “As soon as the Sheriff’s Department found out who she was, they had someone in Lexington go by her office. She didn’t have a secretary, but someone in the office suite next to hers told them she was taking an extended vacation. Someone came every few days and checked her messages and got the mail. Funny thing is she didn’t give her real address when she stayed at the Holiday Inn; wrote down she was from Maryland and paid cash.”

  “Makes sense about the vacation, though,” said Charles. “I started my vacation twenty-four years ago.”

  I looked at my perspective-challenged friend. “What successful anything did you leave?”

  “There you go,” he said, “talking about me again. We’re trying to figure out the murders here. Focus.”

  Larry finally saw Cindy eying the coffeepot and grabbed one of the mugs for her. She must be one of the “special visitors.” “Did they learn anything else?”

  “Not really,” said Cindy. She took the mug, gave Larry a more than a thanks-for-the-coffee look, and took a sip. “They’ll get whatever legal papers they need and go in her office and search her house.”

  “Cindy, you said you didn’t know her well, but did she give you any hint why she was here?” I asked.

  She set the mug on the counter and smiled. “No, she didn’t say much—girl stuff mainly …”

  “Like who’re you sweet on?” interrupted Charles as he turned his gaze to Larry.

  Cindy lowered her head; her face turned the color of the pink sales receipts stacked on the table. “No,” she said, “more like where’s the best place to get a haircut or buy makeup.”

  “Oh,” said Charles, clearly uninterested in those topics although he could benefit from the haircut answer.