by Bill Noel
The next thing I heard was the thump-thump sound of the props on a Coast Guard helicopter swooping down on us from the east. From the opposite direction, I saw a Jet Ranger helicopter from the City of Charleston police department. When Karen said she would take care of the police, she meant it. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and a Boy Scout troop march through the marsh coming to our aid.
Brian waved at the Coast Guard’s distinct orange chopper, and a rescue swimmer appeared on a rope being lowered from the air-sea rescue helicopter. The chopper was directly over us, and the turbulence from the rotor pushed me away from the boat. The life vest had earned its pay, and I was in no hurry to swim anywhere. I lay back in the water and watched the show.
Charles had Greg by the neck and roughly jerked him aboard with the help of Mel, who treaded water and pushed the bar owner. Brian helped the corpsman secure King in the basket to lift him to the chopper and medical care—if it wasn’t too late. Karen maneuvered the boat to keep it stable. And Cal stood knee-deep in the marsh mud and applauded. Blood dripped from his oyster-shell-sliced arm, but he didn’t seem too notice. His smile was as wide as his face would allow without cosmetic surgery.
“Fellas,” said Cal. He had a huge a smile of relief on his face. “Here’s what happened.”
Cal, Charles, Heather, Mel, Dude, Harley, Sean, and I were gathered in my living room. Space was tight, but as Charles had pointed out when he organized the let’s-celebrate-being-alive party, my place was larger than the residences of the other invitees, with the exception of Sean’s condo, but the lawyer wasn’t terribly welcome at home. In fact, my humble abode was larger than Charles’s, Heather’s, and Harley’s combined. Charles basked in his recent entry into the world of wealth and bought three large Woody’s pizzas; Mel brought enough beer to host a homecoming frat party; and Cal brought his guitar to, as he put it, “liven the party if y’all start blabbering about that murder stuff.” I chose not to mention that he would be the subject of the murder-stuff blabber.
Cal started to reach for his guitar at his feet but hesitated. “I was considering going into business with Greg. My good friend here, Chris—my good friend who almost got me killed—said I should find out as much about the business as I could before giving Greg an answer.” He glared at me and then winked. “Said I needed to learn important stuff like if GB’s could afford me or if he wanted to use me to sing free and then screw me, and other stuff I already forgot.” He paused again and looked around to be sure he had our attention.
Dude’s mouth was stuffed with pizza as he read the side of the Budweiser can, but everyone else stared at Cal. We were anxious to hear his story.
Cal nodded satisfaction with the almost-undivided attention and continued, “I’d learned from my detective friend, Charles, that the best way to detect was to be nosy—nosy and meddle in stuff that wasn’t quite any of my business.”
“Not exactly right,” said Charles. “Close,” he conceded.
“Not exactly legal either,” added the only attorney present.
“Whatever,” said Cal. “Well, the other day, Greg had gone to the post office to mail a box to Arkansas; so, I took the opportunity to commence detecting.”
Mel belched and interrupted Cal’s flow. Cal gave him a scornful look and continued. “The office door was open, and this old army surplus file cabinet was just sitting there behind the makeshift desk. Heck, it almost asked me to open the drawers.”
“Makes sense,” said Charles.
“Well, anyway, there were four or five folders in the top drawer, right in front.” He smiled. “A bottle of Jim Beam was behind the files.”
“Sip any?” asked Dude.
Cal didn’t look at the surf shop owner. “I pulled the files out, put them on the desk, and started going through them. I didn’t see anything but old invoices in the first three, but there was a red file folder with TL scribbled on the tab. I figured they were initials but I didn’t think I knew anyone whose name they could be until I opened it and saw a note on letterhead with Aker and Long on the top. ’Course, I didn’t really know Tony Long but heard of him. The note said something that I translated as ‘I want out, and out now!’ After that, there was some legal mumbo-jumbo; didn’t mean a whit of spit to me.”
“Wanted out of what?” asked Mel.
Cal rubbed his heavily bandaged and overly disinfected arm. “Well, Mr. United States Marine and saver of a country singer, under the note was a piece of paper that said something about Long footing the bill to keep the bar from going broke but if Mr. Brile ever screwed over the shyster, he would give the cops proof that Gregory was in deep porcupine poop with the law. He’s wanted in Lincoln, Nebraska, for fraud and suspicion of murder.”
“You be hanging with bad buds,” added Dude. He was in stiff competition with Charles for being the master of the obvious.
Cal shrugged and then turned to Heather. He turned on his often-used stage smile. “Miss Heather, about the time I was thinking that I should possibly reconsider my business relationship with Greg, he bopped through the door and saw the folders on the desk. Since I use a bunch of fake smiles myself, I recognized his grin being more sin than sincere.”
Harley hadn’t said anything and fidgeted with his pizza slice. He wanted to get in the action. “What happened?”
Cal focused on the biker. “Well, Harley, I started fumbling with words—not a good thing for a singer-songwriter, I concede. Anyway, I made up something about looking for information about beer and food purchases to learn more about the business. I told him I wanted it so I could be a better partner. Heck, I wasn’t believing it myself and knew Brile wouldn’t.” He held out his arms and looked around the room. “I didn’t know what to do. My detective training hadn’t covered how to get out of that kind of mess. I slid the folders together and muttered that I was late for a meeting and asked him if he wanted me to put the folders back.”
“Did he see you with the red one?” asked Sean.
“Don’t think so; when I slipped them together, the lawyer folder was on the bottom.”
“It wouldn’t take him long to figure it out,” added Mel.
“Nope,” said Cal. “Didn’t have much time to think about it; I got out of there as fast as these lanky legs could carry me.” He raised his right leg in the air like we wouldn’t have known which were his lanky legs. “I hoped he would forget about it.”
“Aikona!” said Dude.
All heads turned his direction.
“What the hell does that mean, you damned commie-hippy-draft-dodger?” said Mel.
“Means no way, ain’t going to happen,” said Charles before Dude responded to Mel’s polite question.
I grinned, and everyone else took the wise route and didn’t ask Charles how he had known.
“He sure didn’t forget,” added Cal. He jumped out of the chair and started pacing the room on his lanky legs. “I thought you were the killer, Harley.”
“Hmm,” snarled Harley.
Cal stopped in front of Harley and looked down on the surprised biker. “It hadn’t drifted by my mind that it could have been Greg. Even after I read the file, I wasn’t sure. Flat out didn’t know who to tell.” He started pacing again. “Two knocks on my door yesterday nearly became the beginning of the end for me. Took away any doubt. You all know the rest, right?”
We each nodded as Cal moved his gaze around the room to each of us and then returned to his seat.
“I apologize, Harley, for thinking it was you.”
Harley’s gruff look softened. “No problem, Cal,” he said, “I’ve been out of sorts a bit lately.”
“Amen to that,” interrupted Heather.
Harley looked at her and shrugged. “I miss Colleen. Sorry, guess there’s a lot on my mind.” He looked my way, but for only a second.
; “Speaking of Colleen,” said Heather, “why’d he kill her?”
Cal grinned, this time a real one. “Well, I have an answer for that one too,” he said.
Harley gave him his undivided attention.
Cal made sure everyone was looking his way before he continued. “When Greg was taking me on our pleasant tour of the marsh, he kept mumbling about ‘that biker bitch.’ I figured he meant Colleen.” He hesitated and looked at Harley. “Sorry Har, but that’s what he called her.”
Harley nodded but didn’t say anything.
“You should have heard what he called me,” said Cal. “Said he had committed the perfect murder when he shot Long and wasn’t going to let me screw it up.”
“Not perfect,” interjected Dude.
“Anyway, I knew why he killed Long but had to ask him about Colleen. Didn’t figure I had much to lose. He said that the biker bit—Colleen came to him the night of the fire and said that she had heard Greg arguing with Long a couple of weeks earlier. She didn’t know what it was about. She was outside GB’s taking a smoke the night of the fire and saw Greg slinking back across the street from the direction of the law office.”
“Smoking be deadly,” interjected Dude.
Harley gave him a dirty look, and Cal barely broke stride. He knew how to work a crowd.
“Greg said … said Colleen cornered him and said that her mind would go blank if her bank account jumped by five grand.”
Harley held his head down with a hand over each ear. “Shit,” he whispered. “Why, Colleen, why?”
Cal stopped, took a swig of beer, and looked around the room.
“Umm, then what?” asked Charles, who, I’m sure spoke for everyone in the room except Cal.
Cal looked at Harley, blinked twice, and then lowered his head. “All he said was, ‘That damned stupid bitch.’ Sorry Harley.”
“That’s all?” said Charles.
“He repeated it,” said Cal. “Then we got to the spot where you found us.”
I looked around the room. Harley glared at Cal. Charles was about to ask something else and stir up no telling what. Tension was as thick as the humidity outside.
“My guess is that Greg told Colleen that he would pay her the five thousand dollars,” I said. “He had already torched the law office and any evidence that Long may have had there. He would’ve told Colleen he was bringing the money to her apartment, so she would have been glad to let him in. Then … then he killed her and tried to make it look like an accidental overdose.”
Harley leaned forward, put his head between his hands, and looked at the floor. The room was silent; not even Charles spoke.
Harley finally looked up and around the room. “She never said anything,” he said. “Not a word. I would have told her how big a mistake she was making. It wasn’t worth it.”
He looked at me when he finished. I gave a slight nod to let him know I understood.
I turned to Sean. “I own you an apology. I’m afraid I thought you did it.” Charles nodded his head in agreement.
I continued, “Why’d you lie to us about being in your office until five the day of the fire?”
“Sorry,” said Sean. “My wife and I had a counseling session. I left early for that.” He looked around the room. “It’s a little embarrassing, so I sort of left it out.”
The room was silent. Then Cal stood and walked to the front window and looked out toward the street, and then turned back to the group. “I’ve been so bent out of shape about myself, I forgot to ask—any word on the police chief?”
“Acting Chief,” clarified Charles.
“Karen Lawson called before you all got here,” I said. “She said he was expected to make a full recovery.”
“I hear he would have drowned if it wasn’t for you,” said Heather.
“Yeah,” said Charles, “Chris screwed up again.”
I ignored Charles and continued. “She also said that Acting Chief King told the mayor that he didn’t want the job back; he had enough of the nuts over here and was retiring for good.”
“Newman be back?” asked Dude.
“Starting next week,” I said and smiled. I knew that breaking the news before Charles knew about it would drive him crazy—if he could go any further in that direction. “I propose a toast to peace, and a peace officer, being restored to Folly Beach.”
We each took a sip—or two.
Mel set his beer on the table and looked at me. “What’s the deal with you and that lady detective?” he asked.
“Whoa, good ques!” said Dude.
I had rapidly become the unwanted center of attention in the room.
Good ques, indeed, I thought.
Charles pointed his cane at me. “Chris, as President Coolidge once said, ‘I have noticed that nothing I never said ever did me any harm.’”
Finally, a presidential quote that made sense.