by Bill Noel
“Before we go over there,” said the chief as he stopped Charles, “I’ll warn you—it’s not a pretty sight. The vic, a Caucasian male in his early twenties, has cuts all over his body. From the blood, this appears to be the kill site. He’s not familiar, but that doesn’t mean much with so many vacationers. Could have been dead a couple of days. I’d like you to take a look, especially you, Larry—see if you recognize him. Think you’re ready?”
We nodded without enthusiasm. The strong, putrid smell of death was apparent before we saw the body. The two young techs from the coroner’s office stepped aside as we approached. The only sounds I heard were the crickets being irritated with us for disturbing them.
The sight of anything dead bothered me, and I still wasn’t over Lassie in Larry’s tub. I nearly lost it when I took one quick look at the subject of attention. The victim was on his back, his lifeless eyes staring into oblivion. For some reason, his face had been spared the deadly slicing of a knife that had cut to shards his shirt and shorts. His shirt was soaked with blood and blended with the drying blood under his body.
I didn’t recognize him, and I moved away as quickly as my shaking legs would carry me. Larry and Charles stayed longer, but only slightly.
Chief Newman followed us back to the road. We stood side by side, facing the Folly River and away from the gruesome spectacle. “Any of you recognize him?” Newman asked softly.
“Nope,” “No,” and a head shake were the responses he got.
“Chief, what makes you think this had anything to do with Larry?” Charles asked.
Newman didn’t say anything. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small clear evidence bag and handed it to Larry. “Recognize this?”
I could see Larry’s face go from pale to chalk white. Charles was closer and caught him before he collapsed.
Charles slowly walked Larry to the nearest cruiser and helped him climb in the passenger seat. Larry had dropped the bag. I picked it up and could see a key ring with a rectangular brass plate the size of a military dog tag. One side was covered with blood; the other partially covered, and showing through were the words Pewter Hardware.
The chief asked if we could go to the gallery to talk. He said he didn’t want to go to the police station and definitely didn’t want to go to Larry’s house. I said that was fine, and we piled into his unmarked car. Larry rode shotgun. Charles and I had the privilege of riding in the back.
***
“Tell me about the key chain,” said the chief. We were sitting around the wooden loose-legged table in my office. I hadn’t turned the lights on in the gallery, and I’d left the Closed sign in the window.
“Three years ago, the wholesaler who sold me emergency generators offered to get me some promotional items to use as giveaways. He had those little eyeglasses repair kits, mini-flashlights, and the key chains. I took two hundred of each. The repair kits and flashlights went like hotcakes. I ran out, but people kept asking for more. As they were free to the customer, I didn’t see much profit in reordering.” Larry stopped again, and then laughed. “I asked a few customers if they would buy one if I had more. I remember Mr. Bridges from over on Huron saying, ‘Why hell no—why would I pay good money for that junk?’”
“What about the key chains?” asked the chief.
“Let’s see—at first I gave a bunch away. They were on the counter next to the register,” said Larry. “I figured I could make more money if I put candy bars in that spot instead. I had a small tin box with about fifty in it. Moved it over by the key-making machine and put a dollar price ticket on them. I know a few are left, but don’t know how many.”
“So anyone and his second cousin could have snatched one?” interjected Charles, who couldn’t bear to keep quiet.
“Yeah,” said Larry.
“Great,” said the chief. He obviously didn’t mean it. “I don’t suppose you remember selling any in the last couple of weeks?”
“Sorry, chief—no, I don’t remember the last time anyone bought one. Let me call Brandon and see if he remembers any.”
While Larry called, I fixed coffee for us.
Brandon told Larry he didn’t remember anyone buying a key chain since he’d worked there. The chief asked Larry again if he had any more ideas on who might be doing this. Larry’s answer was unchanged. The chief said he was sorry for the entire affair. The three of us agreed, and the chief left.
The retail gods were looking favorably upon Larry. Shortly after Brian left, Brandon called Larry and said he hated to bother him, but the store had more customers than he could handle. Larry told us he was glad for the distraction and headed for the door. Mother Hen Charles made up a lame excuse why he had to go to the post office, coincidentally adjacent to Pewter Hardware, and offered to walk with Larry. Larry didn’t object.
My stomach was still too queasy to think about eating, and I tried to imagine what must be going on in Larry’s head. Someone, or possibly even more than one person, was killing people to either frame Larry for murder or scare him to death. What possible motive could drive someone to that extreme? If someone hated Larry so much, why didn’t he—or she—kill him instead? Why didn’t Larry have a clue who might be so bitter or have such a strong grudge against him?
The longer this went on, the number of questions only increased.
Chapter26
Not only were the retail gods looking favorably on Larry, they also made a visit to Landrum Gallery in the form of three groups of vacationers. The sale of four large framed photos and a dozen note cards followed. I, like Larry, welcomed the distraction and especially the influx of cash.
My appetite had come back by noon, and I was glad to see the rest of my employees (i.e., Charles) return from his bodyguard duties with Larry and no telling what else. He agreed to man the shop while I headed to the Dog for lunch.
The air-conditioned inside seating was full, but one table was coming open on the wooden patio at the side of the restaurant. The table was more secluded than the seating in the front and overlooked a small pocket park between the Dog and the community center/library. Amber must have seen me look inside for a seat as she followed me to the table on the deck.
“I hear you and the guys had a terrible morning,” she said as she cleaned the table for me.
“Not nearly as bad as it was for some other guy,” I told her, not the least surprised that she already knew. “How’d you hear?”
“Duh—think something like that would stay a secret?”
She was right to hand me the big Duh.
“Let’s see,” she continued, “Officer Spencer told me, Officer Ash told me, Mayor Amato told me, Tony Anderson told me, and then there was Dude, the mailman, and a guy on vacation I’d never seen before.”
“Okay, okay, Amber—I get the point. So who killed the gentleman?” I thought it was worth a try.
“Don’t have a clue.” She took my order, smiled, then left.
I saw Brian Newman’s unmarked Crown Vic slow and then pull off the road onto the gravel berm. He got out and came to my table. Clearly he wasn’t here for lunch.
“Chris, I was headed to the gallery and saw you,” he said. My table wasn’t as isolated as I’d thought. “Detective Lawson called and said the blood from the plate in Larry’s bathroom was the same blood type from the body we found today. No doubt it’s from the same guy. Just wanted you to know.”
My breakfast appetite had been ruined by Chief Newman four hours earlier, and now he was working on my lunch. I needed to shed a few pounds, but this wasn’t how I preferred to do it.
“Can you and Charles still keep an eye on Larry?” he asked. “We’ll do all we can, but you know we’re limited.”
“Sure,” I said. “Any idea who the guy was?”
“No, he didn’t have any ID, and unless we’re lucky, his prints won�
��t tell us anything for days, if ever. There aren’t any missing person reports within two hundred miles that fit the description. If he was homeless like the other one, we may never know.”
Amber had arrived with my lunch. After she and the chief shared some pleasantries, he left. My lunch remained uneaten. Two large dogs that allowed their master to eat on the patio kept me distracted from this morning’s events and my realization that Larry was the reason for two murders. The dogs were more interested in the smell of my deck shoes than the water bowl on the patio. I loved most any animal, as long as it wasn’t mine, so I had fun petting them and wasn’t bothered by their slobber on my hands and shoes.
I was surprised when Amber returned to the table and sat in the chair opposite me.
“I told the boss I needed a break,” she said. “We’re overstaffed today anyway.”
“Good,” I said. “It’s nice to look at you from eye level rather than up at you.”
“There are several things I could say to that,” she said. Her gleaming white teeth lit the morning. “But I won’t.”
I could feel my face getting warmer and hoped I wasn’t as red as I felt. “Anyway, thanks for joining me.”
“What happened at Larry’s last night?” she asked.
We talked about the events and terrible scene in Larry’s bathroom. She listened without interrupting, and I felt my tension fade. As I munched on French fries, I realized my appetite had returned. We fussed over the dogs. Amber said one of them looked like one of the council members. “A little, but the dog’s shorter,” I replied.
“Chris,” she said. “I don’t remember the last time I had as good a time as I did the Fourth.”
I hesitated to see if there was more. “Me too. And Jason didn’t appear too miserable.”
“He had a great time, especially after hitching up with Samuel.” Amber turned to me. The dogs appeared to have their feelings hurt, but, being dogs, they recovered and scampered to the next table for new attention. “He told me he thought you were cool—high praise from Jason.”
I was honored.
“Chris,” she continued, “be careful. You and Charles are getting more and more involved in whatever’s going on with Larry.”
“We’re just trying to keep an eye on him,” I said. But even I recognized my defensiveness.
“No, let me finish. You and Charles won’t let go until you know what’s going on. You’ll say you’ll tell the chief anything you find and stay clear of trouble. You’ll say, ‘don’t worry.’” She hesitated, looked down at my hands on the table, and then turned her sparkling eyes to mine. “You know what I say to that?”
I suspected it was a rhetorical question and remained silent.
“In the words of your boorish Realtor friend, bullhockey!”
I knew she meant it, but I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Stop that,” she said, then grabbed my hands and squeezed. “I’m serious. I couldn’t stand anything happening to you, or even happening to Charles.”
I returned the squeeze, stopped laughing, and said a simple thank you.
As he was prone to do, Charles appeared at the table, breaking the heavy silence between Amber and me. “And when were you going to bring me some food?” he asked, then grabbed one of the vacant chairs from the adjacent table and scooted up to the table between Amber and me. “I’m starved.”
“Did you leave a gallery full of customers to come over?” I asked.
“Yep,” he replied. He took his hat and hung it on the back of the chair. “Just told them to pick whatever they wanted and leave the money on the table by the cash register. We should be rich by now.”
That was a nice thought, but I took it to mean that there wasn’t a customer to be found.
“Break’s over,” Amber announced. She rubbed her hand on Charles’s head, further disturbing the thinning, graying locks, leaned over and kissed my cheek, then headed inside.
Charles feigned innocence: “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”
Dude came around the corner before I could answer one of Charles’s more inane questions. He occupied the chair Amber just left. “Join you?”
“Yep,” said Charles.
“Hear bod mullered this a.m.,” said Dude.
I looked at Charles.
“Suspect he means dead body wiped out this morning,” responded my surf lingo translator.
“Yep,” I said.
“Bad for business,” said Dude. “Got an ID?”
“Nope,” said Charles.
“Back to selling foamies to the newbies.” Dude stood, pushed his chair under the table, then left as quickly as he had arrived.
“I don’t guess we need any foamies, do we?” I asked Charles.
Chapter27
Like most beach businesses in the summer, the customer stream was heavier in the afternoon. Sleeping in was a major activity of vacationers, and the locals had more important things to do in the mornings such as sleeping off hangovers or being walked by their dogs.
Today was no exception. Shortly after Charles and I returned to the gallery, the bell on the front door started getting a good workout. Next to the sound of the cash register, that was my favorite ringing sound.
In between customers, he and I discussed ways to take a closer look at the suspects we’d identified. Charles volunteered to take his Saab soft-top to the service station where Tony worked and pretend his rare classic was making strange noises. Not much of a stretch, I thought.
“I could tell Tony I missed seeing him at the hardware and ask why he left,” said Charles. “That’ll loosen his lips.”
It wasn’t a great plan, but it beat any I had.
“I could get him to change the oil. I think it was last changed in 1996, so it may need it.”
After the next happy customer left, I asked, “What about Ben? He may seem harmless to Larry, but still he’s a potential competitor. Money makes people do weird things.”
“I don’t know much about him,” said Charles. “How can we find out more?”
“I’ll try to get with Bob,” I said. “He could check the tax records to see if there’s anything about Ben’s financing that looks strange. If he’s going to expand into the old auto parts space, he’ll need money to remodel or buy the building.”
Our deliberations were interrupted again when Parker, Tommy, and Louis entered. Each was attired in colorful swim trunks that ended below the knees and baggy T-shirts advertising surf equipment. Parker, trailing his buddies, scowled and averted his eyes, making no effort to hide his disdain.
“Happy birthday, Parker,” said Charles.
Both Tommy and Louis turned to Parker. “Where’d you hear that?” asked Parker. He looked at Charles like he’d never seen him before. “What’s it to you?”
“Chill, my friend,” said Charles. He pointed his cane at Parker’s chest, then shrugged. “Birthday’s are good things—you want to have as many as you can. Mr. Sloan at the surf shop told me about it.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Parker turned away from Charles. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Ignore him,” said Tommy. “My shrink says guys like Parker are just out for attention.” He began thumbing through the matted prints in the bin. “Besides, he’s pissed because the cops gave him a ticket for surfing near the pier.”
“Dumbass law,” said Parker. “Who ever heard of it being against the law to surf near that big freakin’ pile of logs? Don’t the government around here have nothing better to do than make stupid dumbass laws?”
Charles had lowered his cane and moved closer to Parker. “‘Government, in its last analysis, is organized force,’ United States President …”
“Woodrow Wilson,” interrupted Tommy. He was still looking at the photos in the bin. Charles had begun to speak, but Tomm
y cut him off again. “No big deal—my high school specializes in international studies. I’m learning all sorts of worthless stuff.”
I knew if I hung around him long enough, someone would best Charles with his quotes. I was delighted to hear it coming from a student. “Thanks, Tommy,” I said. “You don’t know how good it was to hear that.”
“Come on, Tommy.” Parker seemed agitated as he continued to circle the gallery like a lion on the prowl.
“You and Louis go ahead,” said Tommy, still studying the prints. “I’ll catch up.”
Parker and Louis didn’t need to hear the offer twice. They almost knocked each other down scurrying out the door.
“Sorry about those guys.” Tommy had stopped studying the prints and walked closer to the framed images displayed on the back wall. “They’re clueless about art … and most everything else except girls.”
Tommy turned the conversation to the masters of photography. We discussed the world’s most famous nature photographer, Ansel Adams. Then he wanted to talk about the documentary photography of Walker Evans and the rise to fame of Alfred Eisenstaedt, the father of photojournalism. Charles grew bored and went back to the office once he learned Ansel Adams wasn’t related to the presidents Adams.
“I don’t know why I have anything to do with Parker,” said Tommy after defending the glories of black and white versus color and film versus digital. “He almost got into a fistfight with the police over the pier ticket. It’s not the first time he’s been trouble, you know.”
I hadn’t known, but found it interesting.
“He says he’s spent time in a juvenile center from blowing up mailboxes of some of his teachers,” Tommy added. “I wouldn’t put it past him. This summer he keeps running off; says he’s at the Washout, but never is. Louis’s okay though.”
We talked a few more minutes about photography before he said he had to go and catch up with his friends. It was enjoyable talking about my passion with someone who knew that photography was more than taking photos of smashed beer cans and Snicker wrappers.