by Bill Noel
I had been to the condo several times since his heart attack, but this was Charles’s first visit. He looked around the room and appeared surprised by the décor. The living area and dining room were furnished in high-end, light oak Scandinavian furniture. The furnishings were sparse but high-quality—a reflection of Brian’s many years in the military, when he was unable to put down roots. A fifty-five-inch Sony Bravia was on a five-foot-wide, natural wood, low stand along the far wall. Clear glass doors on the stand revealed a Sony Blu-ray disc player and sound system. I didn’t know about the television but suspected that the stand cost more than all the furniture in my living room, including my thirty-two-inch television.
Charles walked around the room like a dog deciding where to spin and light for a nap, or worse. Brian returned with a mug in each hand and pushed one on each of us. Charles looked at the recliner situated in the center of the room, about fifteen feet directly in front of the television. The chair was white leather and would have been more at home in the Starship Enterprise than in a Lowcountry condo. The chair was centered on a five-by-eight-foot area rug covered in overlapping circles of varying sizes and bright colors.
“Can that thing fly?” asked Charles as he stared at the chair’s round, steel base.
“Never tried; don’t know,” deadpanned Brian as he walked back to the kitchen to get his drink.
There were only two other chairs in the room, so Charles and I didn’t have a difficult time deciding where to sit.
“It’s a Kiri,” said Brian. He slowly sat in the contemporary recliner and swiveled toward Charles.
“That anything like a Goodwill?” responded Charles.
Brian laughed but didn’t answer, the best response to Charles most of the time.
There was a small, glass-topped table beside each of the bleached-wood chairs Charles and I occupied. The chairs were contemporary, stylish, and as comfortable as sitting on a flagpole. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a three-shelf bookcase by the entry. Charles had lost interest in the Kiri—whatever that meant—and stared at the books on the shelves.
“Got some of those myself,” he said as he continued to read and lovingly touch the spines. “Military history, war strategy, history of the US navy—fun reading.”
Truth be known, I would have been shocked if Charles didn’t have some of the books, since his apartment resembles a used book store on steroids.
Brian looked at Charles with new admiration. “I didn’t know you had an interest in the military and military history.”
Charles blew on the coffee and then took a sip and looked from the bookcase to Brian. “Oh, I don’t. Bought them for a dime each; couldn’t pass up the deal.”
I had even less interest than that, so I interrupted the “fascinating” conversation and asked how Brian felt. He said “fine” and didn’t elaborate, so I asked when he would be back on the job.
In a fit of governmental wisdom—a contradiction, I realized—Mayor Amato had hired an acting director of public safety last September. The acting chief, Clarence King, had been a long-term member of the Charleston County sheriff’s office and was nearing retirement. He had a “distinguished” career that included numerous citizen complaints, an unexplained shooting, and at least three sexual harassment charges. To make up for these shortcomings, he added anger management issues to the list. To put it mildly, Mayor Amato didn’t have to twist the sheriff’s arm too hard to let him borrow the services of Clarence King.
Before I had the pleasure of meeting the acting chief, word was being bandied around that he was a hard-ass. That proved to be a gross understatement.
The city limits of Folly Beach were now under the control of acting chief Clarence King, and the best chief the city had ever had was lounging in a Kiri, wearing glow-in-the-dark-blue shorts, and watching daytime soap operas on a television the size of a ping-pong table.
Brian glanced at Charles and turned to me. “When will I return to my job?” he said. “Good question. There’s no reason I couldn’t have been back last month. I’ve heard from a little bird at city hall that the mayor is trying to make my medical leave permanent.”
“Is the mayor still upset about traffic problems?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Brian, “like I can do something about all the people coming over here in the summer.” He abruptly stood and headed back to the Bunn machine. “Now he’s forced us to cut staff and park one of our patrol cars. Budget cuts—bunk.” He returned to his chair, but instead of sitting, Brian continued to the window and stared out. “The real problem is the wealthy newcomers. They come from wherever, buy a teardown house, and spend millions building a monument to their wealth. They move into their damned McMansions and complain about noise, traffic, trash, and the laid-back lifestyles of people who have lived here that way for decades.” He finally returned to his chair and plopped down. “They think Folly Beach should be another Kiawah, or Isle of Palms. Hell, some wing nuts have proposed we put a gate at the bridge and charge folks to visit the island.”
He took a swig of coffee, and I took the opportunity to interrupt his rant. “You still have the council’s support, don’t you?” The mayor has the upper hand in hiring and firing the director of public safety but must have the backing of the six-member council or could face the embarrassing situation of having his decision overturned.
“Barely,” said Brian. “Before the last election, they supported me five to one on most issues. Now it’s four to two; wouldn’t take much to go the other way, and with the mayor’s strong pro-growth ideas, I’m standing in his way.”
“So what’s up with the murder of Tony Long?” asked Charles, who had been sitting quietly—a condition almost worthy of a YouTube video. He had heard all he wanted to about city politics.
Brian smiled. “I wondered when you would get there,” he said as he looked at Charles. “First, they don’t even know it was murder. We’re at the beach; we have a river behind the island; there’s the marsh back there; people drown—accidents, drunks fall off boats, fools zipping around on jet skis, idiots kill themselves on purpose—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” interrupted Charles. “But I’ll bet ya my Saab against your condo that this was a murder.”
Brian laughed; finally. The only thing Charles’s car and Brian’s condo had in common was that neither had moved in years. “No bet. The odds are that it was foul play; but I don’t know anything more about it than you do. Actually, with your rumor network, you might know more.
“How would you investigate it if it was your case?” said Charles.
Now Charles’s interest in coming with me had begun to make sense—CDA was on the job.
Brian sat erect in his chair and gave Charles a fifty-watt version of his police stare. “Well, the first—the very first—thing I would do if I were you would be to say to myself, ‘Am I a duly sworn law enforcement officer?’” He intensified his stare. “And then I would answer, ‘Whoops, no! Time to butt out and leave it to the cops.’”
“So, if you weren’t me and investigating the case, what next?”
Charles was on a mission and wasn’t about to be rebuked by a mere chief of police.
Brian shook his head in mild surrender. “Charles, there’s nothing mysterious about an investigation. Nothing that the world doesn’t see every week on CSI, NCIS, and a dozen other television shows.”
“But they’re all fiction,” said Charles.
Exactly like your detective agency, I thought. I leaned back in the extraordinarily uncomfortable, but stylish, chair to watch the show.
“Okay, I give up,” said Brian. He took another sip of coffee and leaned back in the recliner. “The first thing I would do is secure the crime scene; not just where the body was, but expand to anywhere the perp may have entered or exited the area. The first responder on the scene gets a good overview of what
happened, can usually tell if it was the kill site or just the dump site. Crime scene techs from Charleston would do their thing. While the techs collected evidence, I would talk to witnesses and anyone around the area. The quicker a motive can be established, the easier the case. Some are obvious, like a store robbery gone bad; others nearly impossible—”
“Like a body in the marsh?” blurted Charles.
Brian gave Charles a sideways glance and then continued, “Then the hard work begins—talking to family and friends, co-workers, neighbors, anyone who had a connection to the victim. Motive, means, and likely suspects become part of a giant puzzle. In the real world, murders are not solved in sixty minutes, like they are on TV.” Brian giggled. “And that’s with giving the viewers the chance to learn about the latest prescription drugs for depression, allergies, and erectile dysfunction.”
“Do you know much about Tony Long?” I asked.
“Not really,” said Brian “He’s not over here that often; think he mainly works out of an office off-island, maybe in North Charleston. A few years back, a buddy of mine on the force up there told me Long was on the periphery of a mob-related investigation.”
“Good or bad periphery?” asked Charles.
“Bad. He was representing some shady characters in a money-laundering scheme. His clients had business ties—close business ties—to the bad guys.”
“That doesn’t sound like something Sean would be part of,” said Charles.
“Not the Sean I know,” said Brian. “But you never know. For what it’s worth, I’ve heard that Tony had a weakness for the fairer sex; that’s only a rumor, though.”
For Charles, a rumor-collector extraordinaire, that was all it took. He had moved to the front of his chair and was on the verge of falling off. “He was married, wasn’t he?”
Brian grinned. “Yep. Connie’s her name; met her once at the Christmas buffet at Planet Follywood. Heard she has money—inherited from her grandparents, or some relative.”
Brian’s front door opened and nearly startled me off my chair.
“Oh, sorry, Dad. I didn’t know you had company,” said the attractive, trim, almost regal Detective Karen Lawson.
Charles and I stood. Karen’s long, chestnut-brown hair was tied in back, and she was dressed in a navy pantsuit. Her look oozed professional and on-duty. She set her purse on the floor beside the door and moved quickly to Charles and gave him a brief hug and then turned to me and did likewise. She walked to Brian, who was still seated, and gave him a peck on the top of his head.
“Going or coming?” asked Brian as he looked up at his daughter. He remained seated.
“Working,” she said. “On my way to talk to a witness about a mile from here. We got an anonymous tip in a three-year-old case. Amazing what a ten-thousand-dollar reward will bring out of the woodwork. Thought I’d see how you’re doing.”
“Was doing fine until these pests arrived,” said Brian as he waved in Charles’s and my direction. He smiled as he said it.
I had met Detective Lawson my first week on Folly Beach, the same time I met Detective Burton. I had gotten to know her much better last year when Brian had his near-fatal heart attack. It was a terrible way to get to know someone, but I thoroughly enjoyed it despite the circumstances. She and I had shared a few meals together, a few drinks, several hours of conversation, and a mutual admiration and concern for her father.
Friends tried to convince me that Karen wanted to share much more with me, and truth be told, if I hadn’t felt the way I did about Amber, I would have pursued the opportunity.
“Is Long yours?” asked Charles. He wasn’t going to pass up this golden opportunity to gather information.
Karen looked at Charles and then walked over to the Bunn coffeepot. I doubted that it had received so much attention since Brian bought it. “No,” she said after taking a sip from her mug. “I tried, but the sheriff is still pushing me away from cases on or near Dad’s kingdom. Stupid, but not my call.”
Karen wouldn’t say it, but I suspected it was because of the harassment complaint she had filed against the acting chief four years ago when they were colleagues in the sheriff’s office. Before acting chief King was appointed, Karen had been assigned to every murder on Folly Beach since she had been promoted to detective. She had an excellent relationship with the law enforcement officials on Folly; she respected their insights and abilities and was extremely effective. That all changed nine months ago with King’s new job.
“Heard about it?” asked Charles. He was still standing and leaning against his cane.
“They still don’t know COD,” she said. “The body was pretty cut up, bounced around on the razor-sharp oyster shells. Eyeballs gone—probably crab food.”
“Yuck,” said the always articulate Charles. “Look like murder?”
“Again, they’re not sure. The coroner is backed up and hasn’t done the autopsy. One of the detectives on the case told me he was no expert, but he’d put money on it.”
“Enough of this cheery topic,” said Brian.
“I have to go anyway,” said Karen. “Bad guys won’t wait.” She returned her mug to the kitchen counter and gave her dad another kiss on his head. She turned and smiled at Charles and slowly walked to me and gave me a hug before turning to the door.
“Be sure and say hi to Joe for me,” I said.
She turned and gave me a radiant smile before opening the door.
Charles’s head was turned to the closing door, but his eyes were turned toward me. He knew Karen was single, and I suspected he had no idea who Joe was. It would have been easy for me to tell him that Joe was Karen’s eight-year-old cat, a cat named after Joe Friday from the old television show Dragnet. It would have been easy to tell him, but not nearly as much fun.
We stayed at Brian’s condo for another hour, letting him regale us with stories from his military days and Charles talking about his first few years on Folly Beach and how strange, iconoclastic, and in the view of some, corrupt some of the members of the local government were back in those days. Brian said that it might not be corrupt now, but “strange and iconoclastic” would still apply. He didn’t get an argument from us.
The last thing Brian said to us on our way out the door was, “Thanks for stopping by. Stay out of trouble, and don’t meddle.”
Charles only heard thanks.
The Folly Beach Arts and Crafts Guild sponsored an arts and crafts show in the Folly River Park the first Saturday of the month during the summer. I would need an outlet to sell my photos once I closed the gallery; the monthly show—dubbed First Saturday on the Edge—fit the bill. When I lived in Kentucky, I participated in a handful of juried shows throughout the region and loved the outdoor atmosphere—loved it when it wasn’t pouring rain or when the temperature didn’t shoot past ninety.
The show didn’t officially open until eleven a.m., so I had plenty of time to set up the tent and displays. The small park, on the corner of Center Street and the Folly River, was only two minutes from my house and no more than five minutes by foot from the entire commercial district of the island and the Atlantic Ocean. My gallery staff, Charles, waited for me as I backed into a parking area to unload the tent and display racks. He stared at the spot on his wrist where most mortals wore a watch. He waved his cane in my direction and informed me that it was about time I arrived. He pointed his cane toward the metal-roofed open pavilion and said our space was to the right of the crisp, beige-and-white structure and the pier over the marsh. As my luck normally goes at these shows, the space was as far as possible from where the car was parked. Newcomers to the event can’t be choosy.
I had hoped that I wouldn’t have to erect my ten-by-ten-foot Lightdome tent, but the warm front that had come through the area yesterday lingered, and there was a fifty-fifty chance of afternoon showers. The tent setup was a tedious process, an
d I had often envied the artists who worked in steel, who seldom worried about the weather and could be ready in fifteen minutes. Matted and framed photographs were not as forgiving as steel lawn birds.
The sun, coming from the direction of the ocean, peeked out over the clouds. A couple of artists had already completed their setup and stopped by to share bits of gossip and conversation about the weather. The event was not large by art and craft show standards. Fewer than fifty booths were permitted, but the quality of the art was outstanding and the venue pleasant and easy to get to. The city had completed a major overhaul of the park a few years ago and added the covered makeshift stage and new restrooms—the improvements cost a bundle but were worth it.
Despite the countless notices plastered around town listing the start time, the sidewalks that meandered through the park overflowed with visitors and potential buyers an hour earlier. Most artists were ready to take the vacationers’ money. Traffic arriving from Charleston was already backed up on the bridge to the island, and two of Folly’s finest were stationed in front of the park to keep vehicles moving. As usual, once vacation season arrived, they failed.
I sold a couple of hundred dollars of prints before the official opening, which was kicked off by a welcome from the president of the Arts and Crafts Guild, a prayer from the minister of an African-American church located just off-island, and an enthusiastic rendition of the national anthem sung by a high school senior at Charleston County School of the Arts.
I was selling a matted photo of the Folly Pier to a couple from the Sullivan’s Island when I heard Charles yell, “How’s Joe?”
I turned and was surprised to see Karen Lawson headed toward the booth. She was either off-duty or undercover. She had on a sleeveless, pink blouse and tan shorts. Her hair flowed freely and shimmered in the light breeze. Her pale, well-toned legs revealed that she had spent too much time working and not enjoying the spring sunshine.