by Bill Noel
“Huh?” asked Charles.
“Cindy, Chief, Charles, Harley,” I said and looked at each of them. “Why a crossbow?” I had their undivided attention. “That’s bothered me from the beginning.” I turned to Mrs. Klein. “You gave me one huge clue, and I missed it,” I said. “Misdirection—in the circus, in magicians. Give us something to believe what we already want to believe.”
“Explain!” barked the chief. He had begun to listen, though. He leaned back in his chair, and his eyes followed my movement around the room.
“Okay,” I said. “It shouldn’t be hard to prove.”
Charles smiled; everyone else stared at me. “Arno was a carpenter on a big house remodel in Lexington, Kentucky. Somehow during the job, he found a stash of passports, money, maybe some jewelry, other paintings, valuables, no telling what else, and stole it. What he didn’t know was that the house belonged to a crook—an art forger and thief who runs a legitimate business. The forger, Stewart Barlow, couldn’t go to the police with the truth since the passports weren’t real, but they were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to Barlow. I suspect he bought, stole, and laundered using the other names.” I took a breath and looked at Mrs. Klein. “Remember when you told me how valuable forged passports were to the circus performers?”
“Sure do,” she said and smiled.
“The three names we found in Pat Rowland’s papers?” asked Charles.
“Yep,” I said, “all forgeries.”
“Go on,” said King.
“So Barlow hired Pat Rowland to find the thief. He knew that whoever stole the stuff could use it against him, possibly blackmailing him or sending it to the police—trouble either way.” I looked around the room. “Arno may never have done anything, but Barlow couldn’t take that chance.”
“And she tracked him down?” asked Cindy.
“Unfortunate for her, she was a good detective. She tracked him down, but it took her looking in several cities and spending thousands of Barlow’s dollars. Somehow she found out he was on Folly Beach, and when she finally suspected the thief was one of the guys living at Mrs. Klein’s place, she rented a room.”
“Such a sweet girl … sad, sad,” said Mrs. Klein.
The rain continued to pelt down on the tin roof.
“How’d she find him?” asked the chief.
“Great question,” I said. “Don’t know for sure, but suspect it was at the Tuesday night jamboree at GB’s. He was there every week, but so was Country Cal, and occasionally Harley, and Lester Patterson. She began attending shortly after arriving and narrowed it down but didn’t know for sure. Remember, Les, Arno, and Harley were in construction, and Cal had a history of being nearly everywhere in the country. And then it got dicey.” My headache was worsening, and I slowly lowered myself to the floor.
“Arno figured out she’d moved into the Edge for more than being closer to his charms?” asked Charles.
I looked directly at the chief and said, “How does Porchini kill Rowland without drawing suspicion to himself? Everyone else who lived there would be a suspect, and intense digging into his past could point suspicion to Porchini. Remember, he didn’t have any idea how much she knew or had documented.”
Chief King stared at his hands leaned against the table, and said, “So you shoot yourself to lead suspicion away.”
I looked at him. “No gunshot residue; no way to tell how far the alleged killer was from Porchini. Al, a friend of mine, threw out another clue I missed. He said that our military actually trained soldiers in the use of the crossbow for that reason. With no sound, the enemy couldn’t tell how far, or near, the enemy was. It could be six inches or sixty yards.”
“Hmm,” said King. He looked at Charles and then back to me.
I continued, “Instead of a suspect, Porchini became a lucky—a very lucky—sympathetic victim of a crazed killer. All he had to do was rig something to hold a crossbow near his arm, shoot the bolt into the flesh where he knew it wouldn’t be fatal, collect his own blood to smear in the boat, and head out to the marsh where he could pull near the road and yell for help.”
“And,” added Charles, “put the crossbow under Cal’s bed and call the police. Case solved!”
“All that Lester Patterson and Travis Green did wrong was be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said. “They were tools of misdirection. I think Arno even covered Travis’s Volvo so you’d think he was the killer and split; again, more misdirection.” I paused when another thought popped into my head. “And it would give him time to skip. He told us he was thinking about leaving the other night at GB’s. Harley, he said you were leaving, too. That way, if he had to get rid of you, you’d be the likely suspect.”
“I never said I was leaving,” said a clearly agitated biker.
Mrs. Klein was silently shaking her head. She looked smaller in my robe than her already petite frame. “Why … why my house?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
“I’m afraid Pat Rowland drew attention when she moved in,” I said. “Porchini could have framed Harley instead of Cal.”
Harley finally spoke. “I screwed up that plan when I took the lie detector test. I passed, didn’t I, Chief?”
“Yeah,” he said and turned back to me. “You found the crossbow stand he used to brace it to shoot himself, didn’t you?” asked the chief.
“That’s what I saw in his room,” I said. “I thought that was what it was, but I was intent on finding Mrs. Klein. There wasn’t time to think about it … and, and I just remembered there was a receipt from Folly Road Self Storage on his workbench. It seemed strange, since he didn’t own much of anything.”
Chief King stood and looked out the backdoor. “We’ll check it out. Anything else?” he asked without turning back to us.
“Yeah,” said Charles. “Spring Cal.”
“Get us off this island,” said Harley.
“Get me a cigarette and build me a new house,” said Mrs. Klein. She laughed—not a giggle, but a full-throated laugh.
I had gained new respect for one of Folly’s oldest residents—without doubt, one of its most stubborn residents.
“One more thing, Acting Chief,” said Mrs. Klein, “these here men are heroes. They saved my life and solved your crimes. Get that poker out of your behind and thank them.”
Before King responded, or shot her, Charles butted in, one of his great strengths. “Once upon a time, someone asked President John Kennedy how he became a hero. Kennedy responded, ‘It was involuntary. They sank my boat.’”
CHAPTER 60
The Monday issue of the Charleston Post and Courier reported that the bridge to Folly Beach was opened late Sunday for residents to return. No one else would be permitted to enter the island devastated by Hurricane Greta until most of the cleanup was done and the utilities restored. Several homes along the beach were completely destroyed, and many others suffered serious damage. But the most serious damage occurred north of Charleston County.
The front page of the local section said the Folly Beach police had recovered the body of Arno Porchini, the alleged crossbow killer. The police, citing self-defense, were not pressing charges against the person responsible for Mr. Porchini’s death, Mr. Chris Landrum, of Folly Beach.
The national section of the paper reported that in Lexington, Kentucky, an art dealer was arrested for forgery, international money laundering, and a handful of lesser charges. The acting chief of police of the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety was credited with developing tips that led to the arrest and finding forged documents and paintings in a storage locker.
In even smaller print, the paper announced that Gregory Brile, owner of GB’s Bar, was hosting a special Tuesday night edition of his weekly country music jamboree. He was quoted as saying, “The lights ain’t back on, but we have candles; we’ll open the door, and, if I w
ork it just right, the insurance company will pay for the beer—now don’t quote me on that last part.”
* * *
I didn’t know who was paying, but since it wasn’t me, I didn’t care. The beer was flowing freely by the time 9:00 p.m. rolled around at GB’s. Our attention was turned to the bandstand as we listened to the last couple of verses from Country Cal’s greatest hit.
“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.”
“Thank you, thank you,” he said as he finished his set. His mouth was inches from the silver microphone even though it was still out with the rest of the power in the bar. “As some of you know, I just finished a limited engagement in the Charleston County Pokey. Am I glad to be back home!”
The reference to the pokey was greeted by applause.
He nodded toward the four tables in the back corner we had commandeered. “I especially want to thank a few folks. First, my new best buddy, Bob Howard, for finding me—and the rest of the residents of Mrs. Klein’s place—a fine, cheap, place to hang my Stetson. Meals are not included like they were where I just came from, but I’m not complaining. Thank you, Bob.”
Bob and Betty were on the other side of the table, and he stood and took a bow. Bob also waved a Bob Howard, Realtor, Island Realty card in the air—subtle, my friend, subtle. Bob’s aunt, Louise, was sitting next to her friend, Mrs. Klein. Both were sipping on some pink drink GB had concocted for them.
GB kept looking at his watch, but Cal wasn’t about to give up the dead mike. “And a big GB’s thanks to Officer Cindy Ash for hightailing it over to the jail in the middle of Greta to break me out.”
Larry was next to Cindy and gave her a hug for all to see. She was off duty and hugged back.
Cal had taken his Stetson off and carefully placed it on the floor. “Before I close,” he said, “I’d like us to all stand and join in a moment of silent prayer for Lester Patterson, Travis Green, and Pat Rowland—ya’ll know why.”
GB’s was quieter than any moment the bar had been open. My head was bowed, but I still glanced around the room. I wondered if anyone was praying for Arno Porchini.
Cal broke the silence with the first verse of “Just As I Am.” Before he finished, tears were rolling down my cheeks—tears of relief, sorrow, and joy. Mine weren’t the only tears in GB’s.
Cal finished and simply walked from the stage. No faux encore; all his thanks had been given.
Cal worked his way to our table as GB encouraged us to give a big hand for “a cute, little, girl singer, Miss Heather Lee.” She had been sitting beside Charles and waiting her turn to “entertain.” Cal let her borrow his guitar since hers was washed away with the rest of the Edge. She jumped from her seat, and wearing her trademark straw hat and big smile, bounded toward the stage. Charles stood and began applauding. Taking the cue, a couple at the bar joined in.
Amber was sitting to my right. Her apartment on the second floor was barely touched by Greta, and Jason was spending the night with Samuel to help clean his house that didn’t fare as well. I offered to get her another drink when I saw Karen Lawson come in the door. She was followed by Chief Brian Newman. This was the first time I had seen him out since his heart attack. He walked slowly, but with confidence. His back was straight, and his head held high. I walked over to greet them; Karen gave me a tentative hug, and Brian shared a weak handshake.
There was only one extra chair at our tables, so Charles—the consummate party planner—surveyed the room and spotted one unattended table. He nodded to Cal, and they quickly grabbed the vacant table and carried it over to our grouping.
Karen took the seat closest to Amber, and they began talking in whispered tones. Brian walked around the tables and hugged the ladies, much to the delight of Mrs. Klein and Louise, and shook hands with the guys before he settled down in the chair beside his daughter. He took a deep breath. I took their drink order and headed to the bar.
Heather had conned GB into letting her sing a second song and was finishing it as I walked back to the table, a beer in each hand. Bob tilted his head toward the stage and stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes like he was gagging. I think—hoped—I was the only person at the table to notice his review of Heather’s unique vocal styling.
The table was full of empty bottles, so I judged the evening to be a success. Heather returned to our table of liars and was complimented on her fine singing. Honest Bob grinned at her.
Amber and Karen were still whispering and patting each other on the arm. Occasionally one would laugh or roll her eyes and then the other. I was curious what they were talking about but didn’t ask. At least they weren’t throwing knives at each other—or at me.
We were in no hurry to leave GB’s insurance-company-reimbursed party since none of us had electricity at home.
Somewhere around midnight, we had another visitor. Acting Chief Clarence King strolled through the door, took a professional police gaze around the room, and then walked toward us. Charles and I saw him coming; I considered slithering under the table, but didn’t. In fact, we had one vacant seat at our grouping of tables, so I stood and offered it to our visitor. To the surprise of most of us, he accepted. He was off work and figured we would be at GB’s. His chair was between Bob and Amber. The real chief was sitting behind him.
He pulled the chair to the table and looked at me. “Mr. Landrum,” he began, “I hope I never have to see you again professionally, and if you ever meddle in police business, I may shoot you myself.” His stare was frightening. “Oh yeah, one more thing, thank you.” He then broke into the closest thing I’d seen to a grin from his stoneface.
Brian Newman had been taking in the conversation, and added, “Chief, you’re wasting your breath about Landrum and meddling. Drink up.”
“Amen to meddling,” came the strong voice of Mrs. Klein.
Larry, Charles, Louise, and Bob all stood, and raised their bottles in my direction.
“Amen!”
