Washout

by Bill Noel

  With visions of dollar signs still dancing in my head, the surf and customers receded and Charles and I, or more accurately Charles, continued the conversation initiated by Dude. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  That opening line had caused me a lot of grief—and near death—over the last couple of years. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “You don’t know Larry that well,” Charles continued. “But he’s a great guy. He’s gone the straight and narrow since his years in prison, but the more I thought about what you asked about his past, the more it makes sense.”

  “Charles, the only thing that makes sense is for Larry to tell the police about the note and cake. Regardless of the proclamation from the all-knowing Dude, we need to stay out of it and leave it to the experts.”

  “Sure,” Charles said as he headed out to run errands—or more likely, to run around and collect rumors.

  I learned long ago that to Charles, sure meant anything but.

  ***

  “Afternoon, Brian,” I said as the chief confidently strolled through the door, making one of his infrequent visits to the gallery.

  “All alone this afternoon?” he said while doing his policeman’s gaze around the room. “Where’s your sidekick?”

  “Out running around town, bringing peace and joy to those he encounters.”

  That brought a smile from Brian—sincere, I believed. “I just came from talking to Larry,” he said, sounding more serious. “Thought you’d want to know the blood wasn’t human. Most likely bovine, the lab said.”

  “That’s a relief. I’ve been worried, and I know it shook Larry.”

  “Chris, Larry also told me about the note and cake. He said he’d shared that with you and Charles, your budding detective friend. For some reason, the three of you forgot to tell the police.”

  Brian seemed ill at ease in the gallery and herded me to the office. He turned one of the old wooden side chairs around, sat, and crossed his arms over the back. I’d come to recognize his intense, official-like but not-quite-ready-to-shoot-you pose. Silence was the best response.

  “The little dummy said he didn’t keep the cake. Threw away the package it came in. At least he saved the letter,” said Brian, maintaining eye contact. “Of course, the envelope and note were touched by a couple of dozen or so hands—impossible to get any decent prints.”

  “Brian, you know Larry’s history. He’s had an unblemished record since he’s been here. He was scared and didn’t know what to do. He didn’t tell us about it until Charles nearly twisted his arm off. Don’t be too hard on him.”

  “I know, I know.” Brian’s shoulders slumped; his gaze lightened. “I don’t know how to help him. Don’t tell him I said it, but he’s one of my favorite folks. I admire him for coming to me when he arrived to share everything about his past. He’s been nothing but a perfect citizen.” He hesitated. “Except for getting mixed up with you and Charles.”

  Brian doesn’t know everything about how we had corrupted Larry last year. He wouldn’t have appreciated the extent of our assistance even though it helped him solve a murder. But, as Charles had pointed out repeatedly, Mr. Palmer had been murdered and the police didn’t believe it, so we had to find the killer.

  “If there’s anything I can do, let me know,” I said.

  “Be his friend, and try not to break too many laws,” he said, with a welcomed smile. “Got to go solve more crimes.”

  ***

  On the heels of Chief Newman leaving, three men, probably in their late teens, sauntered in.

  “These your photos?” asked the tallest and most clean-cut of the three. He’d walked over to a bin containing twenty or so large prints.

  “Yep,” I replied, the influence of Dude rubbing off.

  “Cool,” he said, then began thumbing through the images. His two friends wandered around the room, oblivious to the photos.

  “Come on, Tommy,” said the middle-sized one. He was dressed in surfer shorts and tank top and had greasy hair. As he kept flexing his muscles in a like-I-care way, he oozed boredom.

  “Hang on, Parker—I’ll be ready in a minute.” Tommy turned back to me. “I’m interested in photography. I’ve taken a couple of classes back home. Digital’s okay, but I prefer black and white.”

  “I haven’t done much black and white lately,” I replied, at the same time watching the Third Musketeer, who looked in the office, then fiddled with the thermostat on the wall.

  He caught me catching him and said, “Tommy, let’s go—there aren’t any chicks here.”

  Turning a little red, hopefully from embarrassment, Tommy gave me a what can I do? look. “They don’t appreciate art. The only photos Louis gawks at are in Playboy,” he said as he returned the matted photos to their rightful place in the bin.

  Parker and Louis almost pushed Tommy out the door. I was glad I didn’t have to stake my retirement on them.

  Not fifteen minutes later, a couple of newlyweds (as they proudly proclaimed) strolled in. They held hands like they were sinking on the Titanic. The proud husband introduced himself as Ron and his “blushing bride” as Sandra. He then proceeded to tell me that his in-laws had given them a condo in the Charleston Oceanfront Villas for a wedding gift. I was familiar with the complex as I’d looked at buying one of the units in the recently renovated structure, but couldn’t afford it.

  “The condo is furnished,” said Ron, “but we want to add something reflecting our personality. Sandra’s dad gave us his credit card and said buy whatever we wanted.”

  It was possible my retirement could improve after all. “Take your time and look around.”

  “We’ll be here a couple of weeks,” said Sandra as she eyed the door. “So, we’ll come back and look more. Ron, we also need to look in the galleries in Charleston.”

  Whoops, the retirement income backslid. History has taught me the be backs forget saying it as soon as they’re out the door.

  The rest of the day continued to be one of my busiest. Visitors to the gallery enter with a multitude of priorities, and the trick is to know who are in the market to actually spend money. Some are getting out of the heat. Others, usually newcomers to Folly, learn it doesn’t take long to visit each shop and restaurant, so they come more than once to extend their shopping experience. Today I had the high school students with mixed interests and the luckiest newlyweds within a zillion miles. What a dilemma: how to put things on Dad’s unlimited credit card to furnish their free condo.

  The shop had been busy, the visit by Brian Newman unsettling, and I had a nagging feeling that Charles and I should do something to help Larry. But I had no clue what.

  Chapter7

  Charles returned from his errands and gossip-collecting in late afternoon. “Did you sell a bunch while I was hard at work marketing our gallery?” he asked.

  “Sales slid after you left, but I planted a couple of seeds, and had a nice conversation with the director of the Folly Beach Public Safety Department.”

  “Who’s Brian trying to fool?” Charles asked, sounding slightly irritated. “He’s my police chief, period. Besides, how do you direct public safety? When my public safety gets in a twit, I’ll call the police. Dang bureaucratic title expanders.”

  I knew this was one subject that would annoy my normally laid-back friend.

  “Regardless, your chief law enforcement officer visited,” I said. “If you’re ready to come back to calm, I’ll tell you what he said.”

  For the next half hour, I filled Charles in on the in-gallery activities, and he shared the latest gossip from his sources—usually waitresses, bartenders, delivery truck drivers, and store clerks.

  “Chris, I sort of saved the worst for last,” he said. “I spent most of my time at Bert’s talking to Mari Jon.” Bert’s Supermarket is Folly’s iconic, unpretentious “if
you can’t find it there, it doesn’t exist” grocery frequented by everyone who visited or lived on Folly.

  “She said Amelia Hogan was taken back to the hospital this morning, and she’s not expected to make it through the day. Sorry.”

  Amelia Hogan was a wonderful, caring, fantastic lady Charles and I had met last year when we were thrown in the middle of a murder (due to no fault of our own, of course). Around that time, she’d been diagnosed with cancer and was given only five or six months to live. With the help of one of her children and my friend William Hansel, she was able to remain in her small house rather than being shipped off to a hospital for these last few torturous months.

  “I need to call William and see if there’s anything I can do.” I’d expected this, but nevertheless it hit me in the gut.

  “You mean we, don’t you?” Charles asked.

  I was reaching for the phone when it startled me by ringing. Considering Charles’s information about Amelia, I had a premonition it was bad news.

  I was right, but it wasn’t for the reason I’d anticipated.

  ***

  “Chris, this is Larry. Could you come to the house?”

  Hearing the hitch in his voice, I said, “Charles is with me—can he come too?”

  “If he doesn’t mind.”

  It took us only five minutes to make the short walk to Larry’s as he lives less than a block from Pewter Hardware on the marsh side of East Indian Avenue. On the outside, his house is as nondescript as many of the old wood siding cottage-sized structures on Folly. However, the flashing police lights didn’t add to the ambience.

  Officer Cindy Ash was heading from the house to the cruiser as we turned up Larry’s walk. She said she was getting a fingerprint kit and asked us not to touch anything, but we could go in with Larry. She added that she’d suggested he call us as he was so shaken. I appreciated her thoughtfulness.

  This was the first time I’d been in Larry’s house, and I was surprised by its neatness and the quality of its furnishings. The walls were painted an attractive, soothing Williamsburg tan that reflected the pleasant afternoon coastal sun throughout the room. Larry was sitting inside the front door in a cherrywood Mission-style rocker with a dark brown leather seat and back. His small frame slumped so low in the chair that he looked like a large doll. He gripped a can of Diet Pepsi so tightly I was afraid it would crumble.

  In another corner, there was a classic Mission-style Morris chair with a matching footstool. The hardwood floor had a neatly centered and subtle flower-patterned thick rug as a focal point. Over a stone fireplace he’d hung one of the photos he’d bought from me: a sunset view of the Charleston Battery. A high quality round end table sat next to a small love seat. A wooden lamp with an art glass shade was on the table beside a well-worn Bible. I smelled a hint of vanilla, which must have come from the large pillar candle burning on the mantle.

  The room was eerily quiet. Other than the murmurs of the police officers, the only other sound was the steady tock, tock, tock of a grandfather clock close to Larry’s chair. I was impressed—impressed and jealous.

  “You okay?” asked Charles.

  Larry looked up from his drink and pointed to the kitchen.

  The part of the kitchen we could see was as neat as the living room, but Charles and I brilliantly deduced that something awful awaited us. We considered flipping a coin to see who would go last. However, as Charles seldom feared to tread where most of us avoid, he walked in.

  To be honest, I was expecting a body, but that wasn’t to be. Thank God. However, RU reAdy TO be even—DeaD? was neatly printed on the pristine white wall beside the stove. On the floor just below the lettering was a tin container the size of a tobacco can from days gone by. Near the can was a small paintbrush. The message would have been difficult to miss—it was written in blood. Bile rose up from my stomach and lodged in my throat.

  The back door had been pried open, similar to the door in the hardware store. Nothing else had been harmed.

  Charles and I were standing about six feet from the wall when Officer Ash returned with her fingerprint kit and asked us to go into the living room with Larry. “Chief Newman will be here shortly,” she told us. That I didn’t doubt.

  I pulled the footstool over to Larry and sat while Charles paced. “You sure you’re okay?” I asked.

  “Guess so … I guess so,” Larry replied with little emotion. He stared at the floor with both hands supporting his head. His drink sat on the floor.

  “What happened?” Charles pointed his cane toward the kitchen.

  “Don’t know,” said Larry. “I closed the store at seven. I came in as usual and headed to the kitchen to get a drink.” He paused as though he were trying to remember every detail. “Beelined it to the fridge, took out a Pepsi, turned to come back in here, and saw it.” He paused. “I was so tired, I didn’t notice before that the back door was open and that damn writing was on the wall.”

  He said it like he’d done something wrong. I was tempted to put my arm around him, but knew that wouldn’t have been right for Larry.

  The storm door opened, interrupting him, although I suspected there wasn’t anything more to say.

  “Everybody okay in here?” asked Chief Newman as he walked past the three of us, paused, and headed to the kitchen. Charles followed him and answered his question.

  The rest of the evening was a blur. The chief asked the same questions as at the hardware when we’d found the blood on the floor. Larry’s answers were the same. Officer Ash took digital photos of the wall, can, and brush. Larry was told he could clean it up and that the chief would get back with him with any information about the blood.

  Charles and I stayed with Larry for a couple of hours after he traded his soft drink for vodka, a drink I was unaccustomed to seeing in Larry’s hand. Larry continued to shake his head back and forth. Charles’s pacing finally petered out, and he sat on the footstool. I kept asking why. The only response was a hollow tock, tock, tock.

  Chapter8

  The weather forecasters predicted July would begin as June had ended—hot and dry. A minor drought had enveloped the Eastern seaboard despite a few early evening pop-up showers typical along the coast. Coupled with temperatures in the low nineties, farmers were worried about their crops, several area water companies were worried about being able to meet the increasing demand, and fire departments were beginning to worry about grass fires.

  Vacationers had none of these fears. In fact, they were thrilled. Many of them had prayed all year for a week of vacation without rain, and high temperatures meant little when one was spending hours in the ocean or swimming pool. To many landlubbers, July 1 marked the beginning of an unwritten, calendar-imposed vacation season. Folly Beach was feeling the impact.

  The locals, as I now referred to myself, had to adjust to a rash of vacationers. Rash was probably the best word to describe the irritating but necessary influx of people and their much-needed dollars.

  One adjustment we made was to arrive at the Dog earlier, the closer to opening the better. Getting sunburned, eating too much, talking too loud, and sleeping late are to vacationers like water is to the beach. I should use that line on Charles and tell him some dead U.S. vice-president had said it.

  “Good morning, Chris,” said the charming, smiling Amber. I arrived fewer than five minutes after the doors were unlocked. “I will be doing everything to make your breakfast experience as positive as possible.”

  “Amber, are you practicing your long-version greeting this morning?”

  “Sort of,” she replied. She leaned toward my chair and whispered, “I’ve been getting a little lazy and saying ‘What can I get ya, hon?’ to too many folks. Wouldn’t want to sound like all the other waitresses in the South. Tips are better if I leave a good impression.”

  I couldn’t figure out why she was whi
spering, as the restaurant was empty. But I enjoyed her proximity, as she smelled fresh and feminine. The canine on the “Lost Dog Café” logo on her black T-shirt even smiled at me. Ah, life was grand.

  “Amber, you don’t have to worry a whit about customers not remembering you. Forgetting you would be a much more difficult.”

  “Aw, shucks,” she said with a mock Southern belle lilt. She laughed and headed to the kitchen to get one of my usual orders.

  Before she could return and practice more of her waitress charms, Dude arrived, wearing a tie-dyed shirt with a giant yellow peace symbol that made sure he wouldn’t be missed. He had a copy of Astronomy magazine under his arm. Generally he sat away from most diners, but he’d warmed some to me and occasionally would stop by for a brief conversation.

  Today he pulled up a chair. “Chris.”

  “Dude.”

  “Hot one.”

  “Yep.”

  “Stick sales’ll soar.”

  I assumed that was a desirable thing. “Good.”

  “Foamies too.”

  I had no idea what that meant, so I changed the subject, “Dude, you’ve been here for a long time. You’ve probably known Larry most of it. Does he have any enemies?”

  Dude looked at the menu. I waited—and waited. “Everybody stoked about him,” he finally said.

  I didn’t know if “stoked” was surfer lingo or Dude-speak. The answer was important, so I asked him to translate.

  “Everybody happy with him. Yep, happy,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I was speaking my best shorthand.

  “Teach you surfing sometime,” he offered.

  I didn’t know where that came from, and caught off guard, I said, “Sure.”