by Bill Noel
Sean lived in Mariner’s Cay, a gated community a short walk off-island, just past the bridge that separated Folly Beach from the rest of the country. Sean had given Charles the code for the punch-in keypad at the entrance. Rather than meeting us at his condo, Sean asked us to meet him on the marina dock. The development was U-shaped, with the condos around the perimeter. A pool, two tennis courts, and a clubhouse were at the center of the complex.
The marina entrance was halfway down the left side of the U. The floating dock was shaped like a fork; the walkway to the dock was the handle, and four docks protruded over the Folly River. I could see Charles’s small apartment building and the adjacent Sandbar Seafood and Steak Restaurant directly across the river.
Sean had been waiting for us on the dock. He was leaning against the retractable handle on a large, white cooler and waved as we turned the corner. He smiled, but looked behind us. His body language screamed tense.
There were slips to hold seventy or so boats, and most were occupied. The upscale marina held about a zillion more dollars’ worth of watercraft than were in the workingman’s Folly View Marina, Mad Mel’s base of operation, located only a couple hundred yards away.
I had known Sean had a boat, but had no idea what kind. He waved us to a ten-foot-long, aluminum johnboat that bounced in the wake from a boat that had just sped by. To put it kindly, it was far less than what I had expected.
Charles leaned toward me and whispered, “Told you he had a yacht.”
Sean shook my hand and gave Charles a weak man-hug; the entire time, he looked back toward the condos. He held the tiny, bobbing vessel steady while Charles and I carefully climbed aboard. Charles then helped Sean with the cooler.
“Thanks for coming,” said Sean as he untied his “yacht” and started the electric trolling motor.
Our trip in the johnboat lasted a couple of minutes at most. We pulled alongside a Chris-Craft that was anchored close to the Folly Beach side of the river within a hundred yards of the bridge and the Folly Beach boat ramp.
“Welcome to my doghouse,” said Sean as he tied the johnboat to the side of the much larger craft.
“It’s a beaut,” said Charles.
Charles must have been looking at another vessel. The Chris-Craft was in dire need of work—much work. The stain on the wood trim was peeling, and the hull paint followed suit. If it had been a house, it would euphemistically have been called a fixer-upper. Once we stepped aboard, I realized that the view from the johnboat was its best. The teak flooring was rough, badly in need of sanding and stain; the glass-paneled door opening to the pilothouse from the rear deck was off its rusted hinges. Two fire extinguishers sat on a ledge at the stern; not a comforting sight.
Sean moved four wooden panels he had been sanding on so we could sit on the only empty horizontal surface. He laughed at Charles’s comment. “Beaut—not quite. It’s a 1968 forty-five-foot Constellation; an almost-classic. A client paid his bill with it a couple of years ago.”
“Does it run?” asked Charles.
“Nah,” said Sean. “It’ll take thousands to get it moving on its own. It’s my therapy. I have a twenty-four-foot runabout when I really want to go somewhere. Best thing about this one is it’s a place for me to think and bunk; it’s got a full queen-sized bed in the aft cabin.” He looked at Charles and giggled. “Lately it’s been more bunking than thinking.”
“Sara Faye kick you out?” asked Charles. Subtle!
Sean opened the cooler and handed Charles a Bud Light before fishing through the ice and pulling out an airline-sized bottle of white wine and a plastic wine glass and handing them to me. Finally, he pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey and a green plastic cup with “Folly Beach” in script on the side. I was impressed.
“Kicked me out … no,” said Sean after he took he took a swig of his Jack Daniel’s. “Let’s just say that the condo is mighty cold, even with the A/C off. Folly’s a small place. Rumors spread like fleas and bite harder.” He hesitated for another swig. “Sara Faye is in her store every day and hears everything. The coffee pot—the rumor pot, I call it—is nearly as popular as the romance section.”
Sean’s wife owned, and was the sole employee of, Readers’ Roost, a small used bookstore off Folly Road a couple of miles from the beach. Charles, with his ravenous reading habit, is a regular customer—regular when I take him. The only time I would even think about going in a bookstore would be to drag Charles out and bring him home.
Continuing in his not-so-subtle ways, Charles asked, “Rumors about what?”
“Oh, this and that.”
I didn’t think “this and that” would get Sean banished to his floating doghouse and knew it was only a matter of time before Charles would home in on it. Sean tried to deflect the coming questions by talking more about his pet renovation project: something about new Italian light fixtures in the cabins, new four-blade props, strut bearings, a new 2500 Trace Inverter, and a 300-hp 6V turbocharger. I tried to look interested, but he lost me with light fixtures.
“This and that what?” said Charles.
Sean didn’t have a chance. He looked down into the green cup and swirled it in his left hand. “She heard that I was having an affair with Tony’s wife.” He continued to stare into the cup.
To Charles’s credit, he remained silent.
Sean slammed his cup down on a small wooden box beside him; whiskey sloshed out on the deck. He grabbed the top of the cooler; yanked out another beer, and tossed it to Charles. Then, more cautiously, he took out another mini-wine bottle and handed to me. The weather was gorgeous; the sun was leaning toward the west and would be setting behind the marsh in less than an hour. A couple of large sailboats gracefully floated by, and a nice breeze kept the hot temperatures tolerable. And tumultuous storms raged inside Sean.
He closed the cooler and looked over at a sailboat floating near his fixer-upper. “Guys,” he said without taking his eyes off the billowing, white-and-blue-striped sail, “I think I’m in big trouble—and not just over there.” Sean sighed and nodded toward the condo complex. “Tony and I met in law school at the University of Alabama. He was from Chicago; never did learn why he really ended up in Alabama—he made it clear that he never wanted to go back there. We were never close; our partnership was more of convenience than anything else. He brought some family money to the table to get us started. We didn’t talk about much of anything, much less our cases.”
Sean finally looked toward Charles and me and kicked one of the boards that leaned against the side of the boat.
“Crap,” he snarled. “Tony’s been a skirt-chaser forever; hell, in college he spent more time in the Crimson Motel than in the law library. And I’m being castigated about Connie and me.” He slammed down his fist on the table. “He steals seventy-five thousand dollars, and people are looking at me like I’m the criminal. And the drugs—yeah, drugs—that he was getting into were a hell of a lot stronger than this.” He held up his green cup and then turned away from us and flung his empty Folly Beach cup against the sidewall. “He takes on all sorts of nefarious clients; I try to stick to boring wills, estates, real estate transactions—business to pay the bills. What the hell does it get me … what does it get me? What does trying to be good get me?” He paused and took a deep breath.
Charles leaned forward and set his beer bottle on the table next to the bottle of whiskey. “You’re alive; Tony’s dead,” said Charles.
Sean looked at Charles and gave a slight nod. “Good point.”
“What do you want us to do?” asked Charles. He pointed his cane at me as he said it.
“First, believe me,” he said. “I didn’t kill Tony. If I were the police, I would have me as the prime suspect. Shoot, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I did it. Keep your ears and eyes open. I know you’ve helped the police before … Guys, I didn’t do it.”
Morning was my favorite time of the day, especially in the summer. The temperatures were at their moderate best; traffic in front of my cottage was light; the irritations of the day hadn’t developed; and most of the vacationers were still snoring in their rentals.
Today was an exception. Yesterday’s marsh tour and troubling meeting with Sean weighed heavily on me. I tossed and turned throughout the night and finally gave up on sleep at five a.m. I walked aimlessly around the house for an hour and then decided to venture three blocks to the Tides. The massive hotel had been remodeled a couple of years ago and featured, without doubt, the most attractive interior of any commercial building on the island. More importantly to me, it had the most pleasant, friendly staff of any hotel I had visited.
I stopped at Bert’s along the way to get a cup of coffee. When the Tides had flown the Holiday Inn flag, it had a complimentary coffee bar for its guests. I had expanded the definition of guests to include residents who lived nearby and was a frequent visitor to the coffee bar, a tradition I had started during my first visit to Folly Beach years earlier. Probably because of freeloaders like me, the hotel had realized that free coffee didn’t have a very high profit margin, so it ended the tradition.
I walked through the front door and said hi to Diane, the night clerk. She had just started in her job during my first visit and always had a good thing to say to all who entered her domain. She was in her mid-twenties, with a great personality and a warm smile accentuated by an overbite. She was attractive even with her less-than-trim figure. She had a way of cheering up the most fatigued and cranky guests who arrived after a long drive or a night on the town.
We shared early-morning pleasantries, and I moved around the corner to one of the seats along the corridor that faced the pool. The sun lifted its head over the horizon, the Atlantic, and the pier.
I either was deep in thought or drifted off to sleep, because I didn’t know anyone was near until a hand rested on the shoulder. I fumbled my Styrofoam cup and nearly spilled coffee in my lap.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the pleasant voice of Cindy Ash.
She stood at my side in her Folly Beach Department of Public Safety uniform.
“Guess I was drifting,” I said and looked up at her. “On duty?”
“No.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I come over here every few days to wash my uniform in the pool. Jump in with it on; flail around for a while.” She pirouetted. “Think it looks good, don’t you?”
“Clean and dripped dry,” I said and laughed. Larry was a lucky man; he could stand more humor in his life. “How’s the wedding planning?”
Cindy looked around as she lowered herself into the chair facing me. “Slow as chilled molasses,” she said and shook her head. “Can you get all your good citizens to stop needing nails, saws, and paint? I can’t get Larry out of his danged store long enough to plan and go shopping.”
Smart man, I thought and then nodded. “Don’t think I have that much influence with the other residents, but I promise not to need to nail, saw, or paint anything until after the wedding.”
“Thanks—that’s one small step for weddingkind. Speaking of weddings, when are you and Amber getting hitched?”
That was a question I had heard more and more lately. The question was asked frequently, but the answer was still elusive. I had been single for the last quarter of a century; had led—until moving to Folly—a quiet, some would say boring, existence. I was set in my ways and had always been uncomfortable around kids. Sure, I had more fun with Amber than since I don’t know when; I cared about her deeply. But she was nearly twenty years my junior and had a son who was younger than many of my shoes. Did I love her? Could I adjust? Could …
“Hmm, hmm … Chris, I didn’t mean to fling you into a stupor,” said Cindy as she nudged my leg with her foot. “Was an easy question. Let me help; the answer could range from ‘this afternoon’ to ‘February twenty-ninth next leap year’ to ‘never.’”
I smiled. “How about no idea—if ever?” Under the smile was a mass of truth.
“Not much of a limb you climbed out on,” she said. “Knowing you, that’s all I’m going to get. You do know that you’re the only one of you two who has cold feet?”
I continued to smile and gave her a tiny nod. “Anything new on the murder?” Changing the subject was one of my most utilized tools of deflection.
Cindy laughed. “Guess our chick-talk is over,” she said. The smile waned. “Your buddy Sean looks good for it. I hear he and Long had a couple of near knock-down arguments the week before Long bit the marsh. Sean has quite a temper, I’m told. The stolen money gives him a strong motive. Yeah, and there’s the hanky-panky with Long’s wife.” Cindy looked up and down the corridor. “Add to that, do you know he has a boat that would have provided easy transportation to the marsh?”
I nodded, since Charles and I had learned about his fleet last evening. “Think he’ll be arrested?”
“Ah, good question—there’s the problem. We have nothing to tie him to the murder; nothing forensic; no weapon; we can’t pin down the time of death to within the lifecycle of a mosquito, so there’s no way to prove or disprove an alibi. We’ll need more to put the cuffs on him.”
“Are you and the sheriff’s office working any better together?” I asked.
There had historically been friction between the Charleston County sheriff’s office and the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety. Homicides were investigated by detectives from the sheriff’s office. The local department was seasonally understaffed and did not have the budget for an investigative arm, but it had a good feel for the pulse of the community and could provide invaluable information in the investigative process. Prior to Brian Newman’s near-fatal heart attack, the relationship between the two departments was at a high point. Additionally, Detective Lawson had been assigned to murders that occurred on the island. She had taken full advantage of the eyes and ears of the local police.
“Sure,” said Cindy. “We’re as tight as Osama Bin Laden and Barack Obama.”
“Guess Chief King’s helping too,” I said. My tongue rattled around in my cheek.
“Yeah right. We find Mr. Long in our marsh, and you know what our Acting Chief King talks, and talks, and talks about in all our meetings?”
“What?”
“Public inebriation, speeding—speeding to him means two miles an hour over the limit, and the crime that must be far worse than beheading kittens.”
“That being?”
She yanked on her left ear. “Noise!”
“Why are these heinous crimes so important now?”
“Simple,” she said and looked over my shoulder and out at the Folly pier. “Trickle down. Those new yuppies on the island, or whatever the new rich twits who are buying and building all the mansions are called nowadays, are screaming about a little trash or people actually having fun on the beach near their Taj Mahals. They dump on Mayor Amato; the mayor craps on Acting Chief King; he shares the bowel movement with us lowly officers; and guess who we poop on?” Cindy paused, looked up and down the corridor again, and giggled. “We’re out there giving tickets for loud farts!”
I laughed and offered to get her coffee from the restaurant. She nodded, and I stretched and walked to Blu, the hotel’s upscale eatery. She was still staring at the pier when I returned; she thanked me and said she was on patrol and then leaned back in the chair. Flagrant farters were safe for a few more minutes.
“Is that why the mayor wants to force out Chief Newman?”
“You got it,” she said. “Newman’s a great chief because he knows what’s important and lets us have discretion to do what’s right. Are we too lenient? Sure, at times, but doesn’t it make more sense to help one of our citizens, or vacationers, home rather than haul him off to jail if he wobbles a little while walking do
wn the street—not driving, not endangering anyone? Acting Chief King wants those ‘hardened criminals’ in jail, and probably in front of a firing squad.”
“Think the mayor’ll succeed?”
“Don’t know,” she said. “I do know that every member of the department hopes not—every member except Acting Chief King.” She stood, straightened the crease in her uniform slacks, and said she needed to get back to work.
I thanked her for stopping. “Before you go,” I said, “do you think Sean Aker killed Tony Long?”
She slowly shook her head. “I have no idea. What I do know is someone did. If it wasn’t Sean, then who?”
Who indeed? I thought.
It was still early, and the sun hadn’t heated the air to an intolerable level. I waved to Diane, who was at the desk with a big yawn on her face, and walked to the east end of the hotel and across a small parking area to the pier. Along with the Morris Island lighthouse, the Edwin S. Taylor Fishing Pier held the distinction of being one of the iconic signature features of Folly Beach. Charles’s penchant for useless trivia was wearing off on me, since I remembered that the pier was more than a thousand feet long and twenty-five feet wide and extended out over the Atlantic at twenty-three feet above sea level. Regardless of its no-reason-to-remember vital statistics, the pier held special meaning for me; it was where I went when I needed to relax, think through issues, or get a unique, panoramic view of Folly Beach. I had taken hundreds of photographs from the impressive structure over the years, but could never quite capture a marketable image. It didn’t stop me from trying. Several early-morning fishermen stood along the wooden railings. The pungent smell of bait and freshly caught fish filled the air as I walked to the Atlantic end of the landmark.
I sat on one of the stationary wooden benches that dotted the walkway and took a deep breath. I looked back toward the Tides and watched three little girls laugh and scream as they separated from their parents and high-stepped in the rolling surf, twenty-three feet below. The parents followed at a much slower pace and carried aluminum beach chairs and umbrellas in their left hands and Styrofoam coffee cups in their right.