Washout

by Bill Noel

  During my first visit to this spot some two years ago, I’d stumbled upon a murder within a few feet of where we now stood. However, the passage of time, and being with Amber, blocked much of the memory from that early spring day.

  I carried the picnic basket while Amber threw the blanket over her shoulder. We walked down the first paved, then sand-covered path past concrete building foundations, remnants of the Coast Guard’s presence. The foundations were covered with graffiti with weeds growing around all sides. Various grasses and scrubby trees, growth stunted by the strong sea breezes and storms over the years, lined each side of the walkway.

  The path began a gradual decline, and the sand of the beach interspersed with huge boulders came into sight. About three hundred yards off the coast was the remnant of something else whose usefulness had waned, the Morris Island Lighthouse. The historic structure had guided ships into the Charleston harbor for years, but a new lighthouse on nearby Sullivan’s Island and modern technology had left the Morris Island one without work. My friend William was a member of Preserve the Past, a group that adopted the lighthouse and raised funds to restore the proud structure. Their challenges were immense as the lighthouse, which had once been hundreds of yards inland, was now surrounded by seawater—the result of constant beach erosion.

  When we reached the shoreline, Amber and I climbed over a row of boulders and walked to the least populated area of the beach. The weather was perfect and numerous vacationers were taking advantage of the lighthouse view, sand and surf.

  “So, you’ve made me traipse for miles out here. I’m starved and my feet hurt.” Amber’s smile said she wasn’t in as much misery as her words conveyed. “There better be mighty good food in that basket.”

  I told her time would tell, and we agreed on a spot to spread the blanket.

  “I considered all my chef skills, then picked up a little something from the Terrapin Cafe,” I said as I opened the basket.

  She sat cross-legged on the blanket close to the basket. “My stomach thanks you.”

  By the time I had opened the cheese platter and uncorked the first bottle of Chardonnay, most of the others who’d been standing close to our blanket figured out we were there for a while and drifted farther from us. The whiff of suntan lotion waned and my nose was able to enjoy the rich smell of apples from the wine while my eyes took in the beauty of the light dancing off the waves. Neither successfully competed with the graceful beauty of my date.

  Amber threw her head back and pushed her long hair out of her face. “This is almost better than standing for hours, bussing filthy tables, and listening to dirty old men asking if I’m on the menu.”

  I took a sip of wine and laughed. “Almost better,” I said. “That’s mighty stiff competition. What can I do to make this humongously better?”

  “Let’s see,” she said. She rubbed her chin with her right hand. “First, you could give me more of that wine; then you could tell me how much you’re enjoying being here with me. Then all these people could decide to head back to town and give us an empty beach, and, oh yeah, you could tell me I just won a hundred million dollars in the lottery. That’d be a good start.”

  I was enjoying the day more by the minute. “The best I can do is two of the four,” I said as I leaned toward her and poured more wine in her plastic glass. “I’m delighted to be here with you.”

  “Two out of four is better than my average.” We laughed.

  Then we talked about her favorite topic, Jason. He would be getting home tomorrow evening. Amber was excited about his return, but hesitantly admitted she’d also enjoyed the freedom of his being away.

  “It’s amazing,” she said, “how much more today’s eleven-year-olds know than I did when I was that age. Jason talks about computers, bits and bytes, and chat rooms. I talked about recess and how much I looked forward to fish squares for lunch.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” I told her. “I had to worry about the dinosaurs devouring the teacher and how I would do my homework on stone tablets. Do you know how heavy it is to carry those things to school in a backpack?”

  “Wow,” she said between giggles, “since that was before the wheel was invented, you couldn’t even roll them to school.”

  That was the most serious discussion we’d had about our significant age difference. But if we could laugh about it, maybe it wasn’t an issue.

  With the first bottle of wine as empty as the Morris Island lighthouse, it was time for the second bottle to make a public appearance. I maneuvered the corkscrew while Amber took the chicken sandwiches out of the basket. The strong smell of fresh dill added to the pleasant environment.

  “Anything new on the Larry situation?” she asked.

  Of course, she’d been nearby when Tony had visited us at the Dog and heard a dozen versions of exactly what had happened.

  “Not really. Tony appears to have it in for Larry, but he’s so hotheaded, I don’t see how he could carry off all that’s happened.”

  “If you mean he’s not bright enough, I agree.” Amber began to laugh. “I was glad to see the three of you guys saved by big, macho Cindy Ash.”

  “Come on,” I said in mock exasperation, “Larry was getting ready to climb on Charles’s shoulder and knock the snot out of Tony the Terrible.”

  “Hmm,” she said, “that wasn’t what I heard. Speaking of Charles, I hear he’s sweet on Officer Ash.”

  “Yeah, both Larry and Charles commented on how good it was to have her on the force. Charles said later that she’s sort of cute, in a police-y sort of way.”

  “That sounds like something he would say. How long will he be manning the store?”

  “He said he didn’t have any work to do until tomorrow; something about having to make some deliveries for the surf shop. He told me I was deplenishing his capital with my overly underpaid job, so he had to take on a paying gig every once in a while.”

  Amber cocked her head and looked down at her gourmet plastic wine glass. “So,” she said in a low voice, “want to go to my place for dessert?”

  “Let’s see: beautiful day, beautiful lighthouse, soothing ocean breezes versus dessert at your viewless apartment. Hmm—I guess viewless wins.”

  We tossed the trash in the basket and grabbed the blanket.

  She laughed, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  We were still laughing as we hurried to the car. Tourists were walking past us to the water. A couple of locals were being dragged by their dogs toward the beach. All were thinking they were in heaven. All were going the wrong way.

  An hour later, I could say, without reservation, that Amber’s apartment had a spectacular view, and that dessert was sumptuous.

  Chapter36

  Sunday morning is one of my favorite times at the beach. The regular weekly routine is broken by the sounds of church bells; the full-timers are dressed less casually than the other six days, and be it real or my imagination, everyone appears to be on better behavior. Today was no exception. Sunrise is a great time to take photos, and I hadn’t done as much as I’d wanted since moving. I lugged my camera and hated tripod through the Holiday Inn lobby to the complimentary coffee table, then juggled the camera, tripod, and cup as I walked past the Charleston Oceanfront Villas, the route Amber and I had taken the Fourth of July. I went toward the surf on the public beach crossover and angled the tripod so the camera faced the pier and rapidly approaching sunrise.

  Predawn orange rays began to reflect off scattered puffy clouds. I let the briny air fill my nostrils. The pier was silhouetted against the lighter background. I could barely see the backlit images of two fishermen beginning the day with the optimism all fishermen shared. The only sounds I heard came from the surf eroding the ever-changing beach. I didn’t know if it was because it was Sunday, my watching the sands slowly shifting, or my drastic transition from a contributing memb
er of society to a retired senior citizen rushing down the homestretch of life, but I couldn’t escape the powerful realization that nothing was permanent. My life in another city and world was now ancient history, while my friendships with people who’d been strangers just a few months ago were deeper than I could ever have imagined.

  Also my relationship with Tammy was finished, but what had gone wrong? My feelings for Tammy were being replaced by deepening thoughts of a young waitress at the Lost Dog Café. Was there a future for me there? Sure, life had calmed down since I’d moved here. I might be kidding myself, but I believed I was as emotionally stable as I ever had been (Charles would say too stable).

  I hadn’t realized how much I was lost in these dilemmas until I noticed that the sun had already moved far above the black outline of the pier. I’d missed the photos I’d traipsed out here for, further proof that nothing stays the same.

  It was still early, so I lugged the tripod home, deposited it on the front porch, and continued my walk sans its weight. I’d missed the photo of a lifetime at the beach, or so I told myself, so I wandered up Center Street toward what I called Church Corner. With a little maneuvering, I could stand in one spot near the corner of Center and Indian and see Folly’s three major houses of worship—or more accurately, two sanctuaries and the sign in front of the Methodist Church. On Sunday morning the Catholics, Baptists, and Methodists gathered within a few hundred yards of each other to sing praise to the same God. As Charles would have said, only brand differences separated the groups. During my first visit to Folly Beach, I’d wondered if the proximity of the three churches was designed so God wouldn’t have to go too far to favor all the worshipers. Regardless, standing near the three houses of God brought me peace.

  Unfortunately, the feeling of calm wouldn’t take. Each time my mind wandered, I pictured Larry lying in a pool of blood with a robed shadow looming over him holding the longest dagger I’d ever seen. The robed person was turned the other way, so I couldn’t see a face. That would have been too simple.

  The harmonious ringing of church bells kindly separated me from the nightmare—perhaps God does work in strange and mysterious ways. The sound also made me think of Larry’s former cell mate, Hugh Arch. I wondered how many Assembly of God churches were in El Paso. I doubted that God would share that information with me, so I decided to use the more conventional means of the Internet and research the church population of the West Texas town. If there weren’t many, I’d call them tomorrow and see if any were led by the Reverend Mr. Hugh Arch. It was a long shot, and I doubted it would solve anything, but a long shot was better than no shot at all. Besides, if the good reverend actually was preaching in Texas, we could eliminate a suspect.

  ***

  It was past noon and a frustratingly slow Sunday at the gallery. I was surprised and pleased when William appeared.

  “I was taking a leisurely stroll home from church,” he said in his distinct, deep voice. “I thought I would drop in, my friend.”

  I asked if he wanted a soft drink, apologizing for not having any iced tea. He declined but did join me at the table in the office.

  William sat back and sighed. “I just came from church and was deep in thought about Amelia. I know she’s in a better place, but I certainly miss her.”

  I didn’t think it was necessary to speak. William sat and stared at the blank wall.

  “With my proclivity for few human relationships, thoughts of Amelia made me realize that I should savor the moments with those with whom I do enjoy spending time,” he said.

  I’d told him several times that if he would stop talking like a graduate level textbook, his human relationships would improve dramatically. But that wouldn’t have been William.

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” I said. “How’s your garden?” I wanted to turn the conversation back to something more upbeat.

  The mention of gardening brought out the down-to-earth William. His face broke into a wide smile, and he told me about all that was growing, how the weeds were winning the war, and how much he enjoyed getting away from work by spending time each day with his hoe in hand. He didn’t use the word proclivity once while describing the great weed war.

  “Chris, speaking of wars, my students appear to be in more and more battles with life. When I started teaching, many a year ago I might add, there were always a few who brought problems from home to class. There was an occasional divorce mentioned, and in those days, the phrase unwed mother carried a stigma. But you wouldn’t believe what it’s like now.” He paused, then said he would take the soft drink after all.

  “For example?” I asked as I got him a Pepsi.

  “Every day they’re challenged by coming from a broken home, by being a single mother, or by having been adopted and all the baggage that comes with that. And then many are the product of a mixed racial marriage or relationship. Add to that, they have no patience—none. Technology is overstimulating their already overloaded brains. They’re constantly on the cell phone, text messaging who knows whom, and have those tiny ear things on listening to their alleged music on MP3 players.” He took a deep breath and sipped his drink. “They seem so resentful, and to be honest, if I’d gone through all they are experiencing, I might be as well.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” I said. “How are you able to teach when they come to class with all that behind them?”

  “Some days I wonder if I’m teaching them anything,” he said. “I think some have chosen travel and tourism as a major so they can figure out how to escape from their trouble-filled world. They don’t care about the travel industry—they just want to find out how to get a job on a cruise ship and sail the seas to exotic venues. To top it off, they seem angry at everyone. So angry.” He shook his head and repeated, “So angry.”

  The William I’d known for two years was one of the most positive people I’d ever encountered. The more he talked, the more I realized he was still suffering remnants of the depression he’d experienced after the death of a friend earlier in the year, and now the expected yet terrible loss of Amelia. I shared some of what had been happening with Larry. The two knew each other slightly, and William appeared interested in learning about the various suspects. William didn’t know Tony; a blessing, we concluded. He’d also never heard of Ben or his small engine repair shop. Apparently, hoes don’t need their spark plugs changed.

  I shared what little I knew about the Reverend Mr. Hugh Arch. William, of course, didn’t know him, but said that he’d known many ministers over the years and had concluded that not all were as godly as advertised. “Don’t trust everyone who holds a Bible,” he advised.

  Chapter37

  Sunday evening ended as beautifully as it had begun. The sun was sinking over the marsh on the west end of the island. I had invited Charles and Larry to the house after the gallery closed. Charles, never shy about showing up when food and drink were on the agenda, nearly beat me home. Larry would be arriving later after making a delivery to two of his regulars who lived on one of the streets near the Washout.

  Charles had been running a couple of errands, and I hadn’t seen him since Saturday. He reminded me he wouldn’t be able to retire on the meager un-salary I paid, so he still made deliveries on his trusty Schwinn bicycle for a couple of the local restaurants.

  “So,” he said as he ripped open a new bag of Cheetos from the health food section of the cupboard, “what are we doing to find the scum-sucking lizard who’s trying to eradicate Larry?”

  “All we’re done is add suspects,” I said. “Besides, it’s not our job. Remember, the police get paid for doing that sort of thing?”

  His mouth was full of those food-group-unknown, crunchy yellow orange things, so I had the upper hand—a position I seldom do with Charles. “The best we can do is ask questions and share whatever we find with Chief Newman,” I told him, hoping this time my argument would succeed. />
  He washed the Cheetos down with Bud Light. “So, I repeat, what are you doing to find the killer?”

  “I’m trying. We’re all trying, but …”

  “You know,” he interrupted. “C and C is the best detective agency on Folly Beach. If we can’t figure this out, not only is it not going to be solved, but Larry’ll end up dead.”

  C and C wasn’t found in the phone book, and it existed only in Charles’s imagination. To him, perception was reality and the first C stood for Charles, or possibly Chris, depending upon his mood. However, his idea that we were a real detective agency was one that could get us killed.

  Larry’s arrival in his orange pickup interrupted our conversation before Charles could broach the topic of us incorporating (and who knows, even franchising) the agency. I could picture it now: C and C International Detective Agency. Then we could add Dude and go Intergalactic.

  “We’ll continue this later,” Charles concluded. “Now can we order food? I’m starved.” The last thing Larry needed was an extended conversation about his dilemma, and I needed to lighten the evening.

  My detecting skills determined that Larry was equally hungry when he carried two pizzas through the door and rushed to the kitchen. He threw his hat and ring of keys on the counter and grabbed a beer.

  “It took me a half hour to get to the Washout,” he said between sips. “East Ashley was almost like a parking lot with the wannabe surfers and vacationers clogging the street. It’s no wonder Dude doesn’t have to do anything in the winter but sit in the Dog. He’s got to be a zillionaire off those kids.”

  As if on cue, in the background the Beach Boys began singing about surfer girls. Our party had begun.