by Bill Noel
Brandon, Larry’s only full-time employee, greeted me and said that Larry was out back but should be in soon. Brandon had worked for Larry for a couple of years and knew that the odds of me needing something from a hardware store were slim to nonexistent. I was there to see the owner.
“Looking for a whatchamacallit to fix your doohickey?” said Larry as he came in the back door. He knew that I was as hardware-store-product-challenged as a dust mite. He looked around the empty store and then asked me to help him out front; roughly translated, he wanted to tell me something and didn’t want his entire staff of one to hear.
Larry grabbed a case of Cokes from near the back door and nodded for me to get the second one. I picked it up and followed him out the front door to the vending machine.
He unlocked the front of the machine and swung the door open. It was larger than Larry. “I hear Amber’s royally pissed at you,” he said as he started loading the machine.
“I think it’s fear more than anger,” I said, more defensively than I had intended. “She’s afraid for Jason. I don’t blame her. She says he hasn’t slept since seeing Colleen’s body. I see the hurt and fear in her eyes.”
“So what are you doing about it?”
“I’ve tried to reassure her that they’re not in danger …”
He slammed a Coke into the machine. “You can’t say that. You don’t know who’s in danger and who’s not. Look at Colleen; what’d she do? Now she’s dead.”
I knew Larry was right but didn’t know what do about it.
Larry filled the last empty slot in the machine and carefully closed and locked the door. “I know you think the cops are incompetent; if it wasn’t for Cindy, I’d agree with you; but it’s their job to get this sorted out. Why not let them do it?”
“I don’t think they’re incompetent,” I said. “We’re looking at this from different angles. They seem intent on sticking it to Sean; I’m not sure they’re right; and truth be known, I’m not sure Chief King knows his head from more southerly parts of his body. Detective Burton is just going through the motions.”
“You can see where Amber’s coming from, can’t you?” said Larry.
I nodded.
“Chris, you know she loves you; give her time. She’s afraid and doesn’t know what to do. She’s lost a lot over her short lifetime; she doesn’t want the hurt of losing you. Give her some distance until this is resolved.”
It was scary getting love advice from Larry. Until he met Cindy, I didn’t know if he even knew what a female was. Before I had to swear on a Coke that I’d give Amber room, Cal walked across the lot. He carried his beat-up, black guitar case, wore a bright-yellow golf shirt over his stooped shoulders, and covered his long, gray hair with his sweat-stained Stetson. He was a sight for all eyes, sore or not.
“Caught you breaking in the Coke machine. Put them up, partner,” he said as he stopped and pointed his guitar case at us like a rifle.
Cal didn’t know about Larry’s checkered past and hadn’t hit it off well with him when they had met last year. Their attitude toward each other had improved, but comments like this one only helped rile my vertically-challenged friend.
“Wrong again, Pops,” said Larry. His smile barely covered his irritation.
“Glad you’re here, Cal,” I said, not only because I was glad, but also to try to defuse the rapidly deteriorating conversation. “I learned a couple of things you’ll be interested in.”
Larry held his shallow smile and said he had work to do inside, picked up the empty Coke boxes, and left us standing in the lot. He didn’t say “Bye,” or “See you later,” but considering the other options, Cal was better off without further comments.
“What’s under his saddle?” asked Cal as he watched Larry enter the store.
I put my hand on Cal’s elbow and slowly led him away from the front door. “Just tired, I think. Let’s get in the shade.” We walked across the street and up a mulch-covered path that lead to the small Folly River Park that faced Center Street and the Folly River. It seemed forlorn and empty when it wasn’t hosting the monthly art fair. Cal walked toward Center Street and folded his lanky frame on the top concrete step. He delicately set his guitar case on the brick and concrete sides of the three steps. We watched a half-dozen vehicles drive by before either of us spoke.
I told Cal what Bob had learned about the financial stability of GB’s. I expected him to be happy about the news, but he frowned. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
Cal stared at the road like he was getting paid to take a vehicle count. “Nothing,” he uttered.
Even the small lizard that scampered across the step in front of Cal’s boot wouldn’t have believed him. “What?”
Cal yanked his foot back like he thought the killer five-inch-long lizard was going to bite it off. “Promise you won’t tell the cops you heard it from me?”
“Not unless they attach electrodes to my tongue and pour battery acid up my nose,” I said. “Or unless I have to,” I continued, in a much lower voice.
“Snail spit,” said Cal, “I shouldn’t be telling you this … I promised … I don’t know what to do …”
“What’s it about?”
“Shee, don’t know for sure … maybe Colleen’s death … maybe Long … maybe nothing. I promised.” He hesitated and finally looked away from the road. He did an owl impression with his head and finally rested his gaze at me.
“Promised who?” I said. If I took it one bite at a time, I could possibly get the story—eventually.
“Just someone who works at GB’s.” He rolled his eyes up toward the bill of his Stetson and then looked at the Baptist Church across the street like he’d never seen it before. “Someone that I’m sort of getting close to, if you catch the flow.”
I assumed that I did and didn’t push. I waited.
Cal hesitated again before giving in to my powerful interrogation techniques. “You didn’t hear it from me, okay?” he said.
I nodded, knowing that if push came to shove, I couldn’t honor the promise.
“Okay, well, my friend, I’ll call her Sally Lou—not really her name, mind you. Last night—okay, maybe it was sometime early this morning—Sally Lou told me that Colleen told her that she had learned something about Long, the lawyer, that could cause some real trouble for someone.” Cal took the Stetson off his head and wiped his brow.
I waited for him to continue, but I had learned over the last year that wiping his brow was a punctuation mark slightly shy of an exclamation point. He was done. I tried to assimilate what he had said and was confused over which her and she had heard what and who could be in trouble. I asked him to repeat the story.
He looked at me like, How much clearer could I have made it? But he finally surrendered to my charm and clarified that Sally Lou, or whoever she was, hadn’t done anything except repeat the story to Cal and that Sally Lou had no idea who might be in trouble. He did say that Sally Lou thought that whatever Colleen had learned had come from someone under the influence of hops. According to Cal, the crooner and lyricist, “You know how a few extra sips make customers spill their beer, their guts, and their inhibitions.”
I had no idea what the information meant, but it showed a connection between Colleen and Tony Long. I then remembered the encounter the other night with the drunk at GB’s.
Cal fidgeted with the torn, aged, leather handle on his guitar case and then renewed his traffic count.
“Chris,” he said, “I don’t know what to do about Greg’s offer. Judy—I mean Sally Lou—thinks I need to stay away from the snake-bit bar. But hell, I could use the money, and it would give me a nice, permanent place to hang my hat.” He tapped the bill of his Stetson. “And there are always new audiences; just like being in Branson, Missouri—the star stays put and the tourists come to him. Beats the snot out of the other way
around.”
“I don’t see where you’d be in any danger at GB’s,” I said. “You’ve been in there singing most weekends and Tuesdays. Did you ever see Long?”
“A few times, but it could have been more,” he said. “I didn’t know who he was at first, so I didn’t pay attention.”
“Was he there with his wife?” I asked.
“Don’t think so. I don’t know who his wife is, but he was always alone; sat at the bar, threw back a few beers, and then left.”
Cal was finally talking, so I’d better get everything I could from him. “How often was Harley there?”
“He usually came in around closing—at first to hit on Colleen, and then after his hits took, he came to take her home, or somewhere else.” He refocused on the church but didn’t speak.
“What?” I asked.
Cal grinned and then paused and snapped his fingers. “I did see Harley almost get in a knock-down with Chief King once. Don’t know what it was about. Think that’s a clue?”
I smiled. “Not to me. Was Acting Chief King in often?”
“Fairly regularly,” said Cal. “I think he was buds with Gregory—if that’s possible. I personally think he was in for the free food and beer.” He grinned. “Cop comps, Sally Lou called it.”
Cal jumped to his feet so fast I looked around for another killer lizard. “Gotta head out, pard. Thanks for the advice.”
He was headed down Center Street before it struck me. What advice?
Some of the most enjoyable times I had had on Folly were spent walking around the island with Charles and taking photos. Walking, I admit, is not my favorite activity—I’d put it slightly ahead of a colonoscopy—but when I had a camera in hand and someone to distract me from thinking about the exercise part, it was fun. If nothing else, Charles was a powerful distraction. The extra hole I had recently augured in the end of my belt told me I needed to get back into my earlier routine. After I had imparted phantom advice to Cal, I returned to the gallery, where Charles was anxious to talk about the murder. I told him that was a good idea but he would have to grab his camera and cane and walk with me.
“It’s about time,” he said and then started looking for his camera.
We locked the door and headed toward the Tides. Other than sharing near-identical headwear, Charles and I would appear to most of the people we encountered as the odd couple. His scruffy beard was about three days behind Bob Howard’s; I couldn’t stand going a day without shaving. Charles wore a long-sleeved University of Wisconsin T-shirt and raggedy shorts that would be called short-shorts in some circles. I had on a logo-free, dark-green golf shirt and shorts with cuffs that hit just above my knee. Neither of us would have been a candidate for bachelor on any of the mindless reality television shows, but we had been called “decent looking” by some, and “cute as a button” by our biased significant others.
“So, did Harley do it?” he asked. We had reached the corner of Center Street and Arctic Avenue and stood on the sidewalk outside Rita’s patio. Charles abruptly stopped, and I almost stepped on his heel. He pointed his camera at an empty Milk Duds box lodged between the sidewalk and gutter. The subject of many of his photographs mirrored his quirky outlook on things. He snapped the shutter and looked up at me for my response.
“Don’t know,” I said. “He would have had opportunity with Colleen—access to her apartment, she would have trusted him, and he’s strong enough to restrain her to inject drugs. But what’s his motive for killing Long?”
“Remember how nervous he was when we went to see Sean?” said Charles. He had photographed the mangled candy box from every angle and moved down Arctic, away from downtown. “’Taint normal.”
“Harley doesn’t strike me as someone who would be comfortable in a lawyer’s office. You’re right about him being embarrassingly uncomfortable.”
“You bet I am.”
“But so what? What’s the motive?” I stopped and waited.
“He’s hiding something. He’s a plumber but hardly ever works; disappears for days at a time; and talks about his past about as much as you do. Not only hiding something, but unhealthy … I say unhealthy.” Charles nodded at me and looked across the road. He waited for an electrician’s panel truck with a surfboard on top to pass and then skipped across the street to the beach side. His cane tapped the pavement as he went.
The smell of the salty surf in the humid air and the low roar of the rolling waves gave me a sense of security and peace, a feeling I knew was deceptive. We had walked a couple of blocks before stopping in a vacant lot that held remnants of a concrete foundation and partial floor of the hurricane-demolished boardinghouse, the Edge—the house where Mrs. Klein had lorded over a generally dysfunctional group of tenants that included Harley, Cal, Heather, and even Cindy Ash.
Charles grinned and hopped on a large piece of concrete and started looking around. His photographic eye and point of view saw photo ops in every direction—trash was everywhere: newspapers, a rubber inner tube, a deflated, colorful, striped beach ball, and beer cans. So many photos, so little time, for my artistic friend.
I apparently didn’t have Charles’s flair for art, so I headed to the wooden steps that led to the public beach walkway, wiped sand off a step, and sat. There were several sunbathers on the beach, and a dozen or so kids splashed in the waves; the nearest person to us was thirty yards away.
“What about Conroy Elder?” yelled Charles. His eyes were on the unique subject matter, but his mind was still in detective mode.
“If Marlene was right about how angry he was with Long, he lied to us about his fish story,” I said. “Long may have messed him over and cost him a lot of money, but if he’s as rich as Bob says, I can’t see him killing his attorney.”
“I think I want him to be guilty because of his reptile shoes, inhumane amount of wealth, and … and I just don’t like him.”
“I think the cops will need more than that to hold him,” I said.
“Okay,” said Charles. He flung the camera strap over his shoulder and came to the steps. “How about Long’s wife, Connie?” He held up his right palm toward me. “Before you answer, get this: I ran into council member Marc Salmon in front of Planet Follywood this morning. I was doing some detecting, and Marc is a good source of information; the law of averages says that some of it’s accurate.” He waved his cane in the air; my interpretation was that when it waved one direction, the information was true; the opposite direction, false. Or he could have been practicing to be a drum major.
“Well,” he continued, “the conversation got around to the untimely death of Tony Long and then leapt to a discussion about Tony’s wife. Marc tried about seven ways to tell me that Connie was having an affair with Sean, without using the word affair. I pretended I didn’t know anything about it—course, if that was true, I’d be the only person in town who didn’t. Anyway, Marc told me that he suspected Connie.”
“Anything other than the obvious?” I asked.
“Glad you asked. Marc said that Connie’s dad was a US Park Service ranger, and for several years before Connie ran off with Tony Long, she lived with her dad at Everglades National Park. Marc said she was a tomboy and good with boats, guns, and other outdoor stuff.”
“Like hunting down a lawyer, killing him, and then taking him out in the marsh and dumping him for the marsh-critters to feast on?”
“Like, yeah,” said Charles. He leaned his cane on the rail beside me, fanned his head with his hat, and then sighed. “Now to the biggie. What about the five-hundred-pound shark in the fishbowl?”
“Referring to Sean?”
“Like, yeah,” he said for the second time in thirty seconds. “He had motive, or motives: the seventy-five grand Tony stole … their business conflicts … the affair with Connie.” Charles paused and looked toward Folly Pier which majestically stood a few hund
red yards to our right. “He had means; we know he has that little dinghy and two real boats—the small real boat could have easily been used to haul Tony into the marsh. And using our tax dollars, the military gave him the skills to kill.”
With the amount of tax dollars Charles had paid in his lifetime, the military wouldn’t have had enough money to train Sean to peel a potato, much less kill someone, but I let it slide. And he lied to us about when he left his office the night of the fire, I thought.
“Charles, you know him better than I do. Do you think he did it?”
Charles picked up a small shell from the sand near the dune and threw it toward the surf. He turned back toward me. “Chris, I don’t want it to be Sean. I’ve known him for a long time and really like him. I didn’t think it was at first, I really didn’t, and … well, I didn’t. But now, yeah, I sort of think he did. I keep remembering his little temper tantrums and keep rolling over in my head the stuff I just mentioned, plus he lied to us. You know, the police think he did; they can’t always be wrong. Can they?”
“If they were sure, they’d have him in jail,” I said. No sooner had the words left my mouth than I realized how weak a defense it was; not quite as weak as Charles saying the police couldn’t always be wrong, but still weak.
Charles shrugged. “I think his hot-shot lawyer is the reason Sean’s not in the hoosegow.”
I still had doubts, but they were based on little things. Wouldn’t Sean have known enough about the tides in the marsh not to have thrown the body where it would be washed into the channel and found that quickly? What motive would he have had to torch his own office, since he had access to everything in it?
I shared with Charles what Cal had learned from his new lady-friend, Sally Lou, about a possible motive for Colleen’s murder and how it could be tied to Long’s demise.
He patiently listened to my monologue and then shook his head. “Of all the names in the universe, Cal used Sally Lou for an alias?”