by Bill Noel
The white-capped waves provided all the amusement the children needed. The hypnotic rhythms and sounds of the powerful waves as they slapped against the beach met the relaxation needs of adults.
The area directly to the left of the pier was always the most densely populated spot on the expansive, wide beach. The nine-story hotel and its neighbor to the west, the Charleston Oceanfront Villas, a large, four-story, modern condo complex, ensured that the beach in front of them always had plenty of vacationers.
I wasn’t interested in capturing the perfect photograph today; I needed to decide if I was really committed to going down the path with Charles. What made him think he could find a killer if the police couldn’t? For that matter, what made him think he could be a detective? I had told him that I would help; but what did that mean? Why should I get involved? My life was not in danger, and neither was that of anyone else I knew. I was an acquaintance of Sean; by no stretch would I consider him a close friend.
Then there was the most frightening option—that Sean had murdered his law partner. He definitely had motive. I had seen his temper first-hand last night; and he was only talking about Tony. He had easy access to the marsh, owned a boat that would easily navigate the watery maze. He was comfortable on the water and had lived here long enough to know his way around the mysterious, winding tidal creeks. Had Charles’s friendship with Sean clouded his objectivity? And if Sean was the killer, how would he react if we got close? Were we in danger?
I spent most of my adult life working for a large, international health care company that prided itself on making logical, well-thought-out, prudent decisions. I fit in well with that corporate culture. Every nerve in me told me that not only should I refuse to get involved, but I should also do whatever possible to ensure that Charles didn’t either. So why was I here trying to figure out how we could find out more about the crime and what we could do to solve it?
I was reluctant to admit it, but the answer was simple. Charles Fowler was my friend; he had helped me overcome my boring life and to look at the world with new glasses—rose-colored at times, but new nonetheless. He had helped me to be befriended by folks I never would have met in my previous life even if they were my next-door neighbors. Now he had asked for my help, and come hell or high homicide, he would get it. Besides, I might be able to keep him from getting killed in the process.
With that decision out of the way, I made the mistake of thinking about Cindy’s question about Amber and me. I pondered the options; all I concluded was that I needed three aspirins. My head throbbed.
“About time you showed up,” said Charles. He was leaning on the gallery wall closest to the back room. His cane pointed at my face, and an orange beaver stared at me from his white, long-sleeved T-shirt. “California Institute of Technology” was written above the goofy-looking water rodent.
I had learned years ago not to comment on his T-shirt collection. My silence about his near-endless supply of sportswear irritated him, but that was preferable to hearing about his shirts if I commented. Unfortunately, others were slow to learn the lesson, so I had to put up with his narrative on each mascot when someone asked.
I looked around the empty room. “Have you been able to handle the crowds without me?”
“That’s not the point,” he said. The cane was still aimed at my head. “Have a question for you.”
I cocked my head to the right, took off my Tilley, and took it to the back room. Asking him what the question was would have been wasted words.
He followed me back, tapping his cane on the worn, wooden floors as he walked. “Who do I need to ask about getting my detective’s license, or whatever I need to detect?”
I looked at him and shook my head. “If you had a therapist, I would suggest you ask her—find out where you and reality parted company.”
“Cute,” he said and tapped the floor harder. “I’m serious.”
“Really, Charles, what makes you think you could be a P.I.?”
“I know almost everything there is to know,” he said. “I’ve read all about Kinsey Millhone, Stephanie Plum, Alex Cross, Spenser, and that pipe-smoking guy Sherlock Holmes … know all their techniques, how they solve crimes …”
I held the palm of my right hand in his face. “They’re all fictional characters, Charles. They’re not real.”
“Yeah, so?”
I tried to frown, but couldn’t help but smile. “So, never mind. I give up. I don’t know, but would guess that there are some state regulations or a licensing process. You could check with Brian Newman; he might know. Or Google it.” I shook my head. “Shouldn’t a detective be able to find out something like that—hint, hint? I still think you should start with therapy.”
The bell over the front door interrupted our less-than-sane conversation.
“Yo, be anyone here?” came a familiar voice from the other room.
“Dude interruptus,” said Charles. He then went to the refrigerator and took out a root beer we kept for the rare appearances of the aging surfer. “Back here, Dude.”
Dude walked through the door to the back room and then turned back to the gallery. “Where be peeps?”
Charles handed Dude his drink. “Flew the coop, Dude; flew the coop,” said Charles.
“Left the pictures,” said Dude. He still looked around the gallery.
“Don’t remind me,” I said.
“Not here to inventory,” said Dude. “Marsh voyage give you big-time detectives clues?”
“See?” said Charles. “Dude knows a detective when he sees one.”
He doesn’t know a complete sentence when he sees one, much less a detective, I thought.
Charles explained that the trip had been helpful, but there weren’t any glaring clues or smoking guns, and that we did enjoy meeting Mel.
“So after you saved Mel’s life, how did you become friends?” asked Charles.
“Opposites extract, something like that; cause and effect,” said Dude. “Think it’s Karmann Ghia—Hindu, you know.”
Charles impressed me by not interrupting Dude’s flow with a detailed explanation about what Dude was trying to say. I thought about the first Volkswagen I had owned and how much I had wished it were a Karmann Ghia and not a faded, rusting bug. It wasn’t to be.
Dude plopped down in the one of the wooden chairs beside the table, waved for us to sit, and continued, “Mad Man Melster and the Dudester rendezvous each full moon at Loggerhead’s Beach Grill. Have a beer or seventeen; he cuss Dudester; Dudester diss Mad Man.” He paused and took a sip of root beer. “Enough about Mad Mel. Who offed the shyster?”
“Haven’t quite figured it out,” said Charles. He put his right foot in the chair, leaned his elbows across the elevated knee, and looked at Dude like he was going to impart great wisdom. “But I don’t think it was Sean.”
“Don’t think or don’t want to think it be he?” said Dude as he looked at Charles’s foot in the chair.
Wisdom was in the air, but not emanating from Charles.
Dude waited for an answer, but when Charles was slow to respond, he continued. “Law Partner S be Barnieing with Partner T, right?”
I looked at Charles for a translation. He returned my gaze and shrugged. “What’s that mean, Dude?” I finally asked.
He turned to me with a look of amazement. “‘Barnie’ be get in fight with someone; duh.”
Surely I wasn’t the dumbest person he had ever talked with; he just acted like I was.
“Yes, Dude, Partner S, Sean, did have a few fights with Partner T, Tony,” said Charles. “But they were just business disagreements.”
Dude slowly stood and walked back to the door leading to the gallery, looked around the room, and then turned his attention back to the Charles and me. “Sean not off Tony, the corpse. Okay, who did?”
I definite
ly understood that question and looked at Charles for an answer and not a translation. After all, he had read Robert Parker and Janet Evanovich.
Charles walked to the door to see what Dude had been looking at in the gallery, shook his head, and mumbled something like “Nothing from this planet” and then picked up his cane. He put the cane on the table and sat back down.
“My list, not in alphabetical or any other order, would be Mrs. Long, Connie, for getting fed up with the jerk or to have Sean all to herself; Conroy Elder, the guy who Tony done wrong; the Mafia, always good candidates; and if Tony would steal from his own partner, there had to be others; we just haven’t detected who they are yet.”
Dude shook his head. “’Bout got it wrapped up, seems like.” He headed for the door and turned and gave Charles the peace sign.
“Whoa,” said Charles. He followed Dude to the door. “Is Mel gay?”
“DADT,” said Dude.
Amber had to take Jason to a baseball game on James Island and wouldn’t be back until late. She and I, along with a growing batch of friends, had become regulars at the open mike night at GB’s Bar. Country Cal was the featured entertainer most weekends, and GB’s country-stocked jukebox provided a continuous flow of country gems the rest of the week, except Tuesdays.
I liked Tuesdays’ atmosphere the best; it was for the same reason some people go to NASCAR races—to see wrecks. About a dozen “singers” paraded across the stage each week to sing their hearts and dreams out. The quality of the performers ranged from Cal, who actually had a hit record, although it was popular nearly a half-century ago, to a couple of guys who had the talent but who hadn’t gotten their big break, to a half-dozen or so whose biggest break came once a week at GB’s, to Heather, who crammed more off-key notes into a song than there are atoms in a pound of plutonium. GB’s weekly event was a microcosm of Folly Beach. It was varied, quirky, artistic, and hopeful, with a layer of gritty sand around the edges.
Humidity was still over the top, and I was anxious to enter the air-conditioned comfort of the country music bar. GB’s was less than a block off Center Street, across the street from the recently expanded fire department, and no more than four blocks from home. I stepped inside the door to catch my breath and let my eyes get accustomed to the dimly lit building; most of the illumination came from neon beer signs over the bar that dominated the right side of the structure. I pulled my shirt away from my sweaty back.
“Hey, Chris. Welcome,” said a baby-faced, rotund man who came out from the behind the bar to greet me. With his stooped shoulders and grease-slicked, muddy-gray hair, Greg Brile looked in his fifties but was several years younger. “Your friends are already over there.” He nodded toward a round table on the other side of the room. “White wine?”
There was something comforting in knowing that the owner of the bar knew my drink of choice; I also wondered, in weaker moments, if the comfort masked a journey toward Alcoholics Anonymous. With the self-diagnosis out of the way, I headed to the table that Charles had commandeered.
Beach-bar-bohemian would describe GB’s. The smell of frying onions and stale beer permeated the atmosphere; the onion smell was fresh, while the stale beer aroma was deeply embedded in the cheap, dark-brown, threadbare carpet. Southern Baptists could hold a two-week revival in GB’s and the smell would be just as strong after the last amen.
All dozen tables were occupied, and the four stools at the chest-high bar were holding more weight than their small, round seats were designed for. Beer bottles in various stages of full dotted the tabletops.
Charles, as usual, bemoaned the fact that I hadn’t arrived earlier; as usual, I ignored him and grabbed the chair he had saved for me. Heather was on the other side of him and leaning on his shoulder. She was decked out in her Tuesday night stage outfit: a bright-yellow, sequined blouse, a floor-length, kelly-green skirt, and her signature wide-brimmed straw hat. I didn’t have any firsthand knowledge about her undergarments, but knew the same outerwear had appeared each Tuesday evening on GB’s stage for the last nine months. Her highly inadequate singing voice accompanied her as well.
Greg arrived at the table with my drink before I had a chance to see who was performing. He set the glass in front of me and then looked at Heather and held up his index finger. “One, sweet lady,” he said and then turned his attention to the couples at the table behind us.
Heather’s smile vanished. “You said maybe … never mind.” She looked at the ceiling. Greg was already out of earshot.
Charles reached over and covered her trembling right hand.
“He told me he might let me sing two songs tonight,” she said loud enough for Charles and me to hear. “Curses on him.”
She leaned closer to Charles and said something, but I couldn’t hear what it was. Her words were drowned out by a guitar riff coming from two near-antique speakers on the small, raised wooden stage at the far end of the room. A singer who looked to be to be in his early twenties followed the riff with the first verse of “All My Exes Live in Texas,” the George Strait hit. The kid was no George Strait, but he wasn’t a Heather either, so most of the patrons paid attention, and two couples sauntered to the twelve-by-twenty-foot, laminate-covered dance floor in front of the stage.
Charles waved his cane in the air and got the attention of Colleen, the waitress who had shared a Harley with Harley the other night. She hurried to the table—more to stop Charles from poking someone’s eye out with the cane than to provide outstanding service. Charles ordered a couple more beers, and Colleen headed toward the bar. Her hands visibly shook.
“She’s in a cranky mood tonight,” said Charles as he watched her walk away. “More nervous than usual.”
I was surprised. Colleen was my favorite waitress at GB’s. She was always jittery and looked like she didn’t have enough muscles in her body to keep her upright, but was friendly and seemed to know what we wanted before we ordered.
“Cranky, shaky, bad chi,” said Heather. “Gregory’ll do that to you.” She pushed away from Charles and grabbed her new guitar from the case that leaned against the dark green wall beside the table. “Think I’ll sing a second song and see what Mr. GB has to say about that.” She grabbed her guitar and headed toward the stage.
I was equally concerned what the customers might think of it, especially the ones with beer bottles and seated within throwing distance of the stage.
The George Strait want-to-be finished and thanked his “fans” as Heather bounded up onto the small stage. Before he could get his guitar in its case on the corner of the stage, Heather began her rendition Patsy Cline’s “Sweet Dreams.”
My friend and iconoclastic Realtor, Bob Howard, had once called Heather’s version of “Sweet Dreams” “Sour Nightmares.” Fortunately for both of them, she was warbling onstage at the time and didn’t hear him.
Charles’s first serious exposure to country music had come within the last year, and he still had little positive to say about the indigenous American genre. Heather’s voice fit about every stereotype he had, but because of their growing relationship, he spent most of the time while she was onstage gritting his teeth; it appeared to be a smile to Heather. He looked over at me during her third verse. “Heather has a unique vocal style,” he said.
Dude couldn’t have said it better.
Heather finished her song with a flourish and a stage bow. Another “girl singer,” as Greg called the female entertainers, stood stage left and waited to replace Heather at the mike. Instead of walking offstage, Heather strummed her guitar and began her “unique vocal style” on “Coal Miner’s Daughter.”
I grimaced and looked for Greg; I could picture him with a shepherd’s hook reaching for her neck to yank her offstage. It was Heather’s lucky night; the bar owner wasn’t attacking the stage with his hook. He was probably afraid to come out of the kitchen for fear that he might strangle Charles�
��s favorite “girl singer.”
The instant she finished the song, Heather rushed offstage—no bow, hardly a wide grin. Perhaps she hoped that Greg couldn’t count to two. What Heather lacked in the vocal department, she made up for with her enthusiasm and love for life. She beamed as she returned to the table. Charles stood, applauded, and then pulled the chair out for her.
Colleen arrived at the table with another round of beers and a wine for me as soon as Heather had settled. “Seen Harley lately?” asked Charles.
Colleen looked at him and frowned. “No,” she said and put a beer in front of Charles. She turned to Heather. “Two songs; good for you, baby girl.” She rushed from the table without saying anything else.
Heather elbowed Charles and tilted her head toward the bar. “Strong, macho Charles,” she said. “Will you protect me if ol’ Gregory comes over to whoop-up on me?”
Charles looked toward the bar, where Cal and Greg were in deep conversation. “No problem,” said Charles, “Chris’ll take care of Greg; I’ll escort you out.”
I was ready to tell Charles that if there was any fighting, he would be the one with bruised fists, when the ear-splitting noise of wailing sirens from one of the fire engines across the street bounced off GB’s dark green walls. When the second engine added to the sound pollution, I knew it was for more than a dog caught in the surf.
I didn’t realize how much more at the time.
Country Cal settled in behind the baseball-sized, silver mike and strummed the first few notes of his first, and only, hit, “The End of Her Story.” No one listened. Three couples at the tables closest to the door rushed out to the sidewalk. I heard muffled shouts from outside. Someone yelled for one truck to set up on Center Street, the other to go around to the side of the building.