Relic

by Bill Noel

  Cindy glanced at the MINI then bent down and looked in the window of Bishop’s patrol car.

  “Crocodile crap,” Cindy said, unchieflike. “When was the last time I rolled up on a crime scene without having to look at the two of you with your scraggly, wrinkled, Cheshire-cat-grinning faces, ready to ruin my day?”

  “Good morning, Chief LaMond,” I said. “Nice to see you this morning.”

  Cindy rubbed her lower back. “Get out of the car. My aching back doesn’t take kindly to being bent like this.”

  The three of us exited and stood beside Cindy facing the MINI. “Okay, let’s hear it?”

  Bishop gave a police-speak version of what she knew. The chief turned to me to ask if that summed it up.

  I said that it did as I watched the EMTs load Laurie Fitzsimmons in the ambulance.

  Cindy walked over and looked in the MINI.

  The rest of us followed.

  “Okay,” she said, “here’s my question. How could whatever her name is, and her husband, get that lost back there?” She nodded toward the entry to the old Coast Guard property. “Hell, it’s not that big.”

  “Eighty acres,” added my trivia-collecting friend Charles.

  Cindy glared at him then continued, “As I was saying, if you walk one direction, you hit the marsh, another, and you’re staring at the lighthouse, head another way, and you’re tippy- toeing in the Atlantic Ocean. Go the fourth direction and, voila, you’re here at that god-awful orange car.”

  Charles pointed his cane at the MINI. “Volcanic orange.”

  Cindy lowered her head. “Charles, sayeth I in all sincerity, who gives a crap about the color’s name? Can anyone answer my geography question?”

  I glanced at Charles, waiting for him to give a more detailed answer than anyone would have wanted. He didn’t say anything, nor did Officer Bishop. I offered, “It’s unlikely any of us would get lost, but she told us they were new here, it was storming, dark, plus it was their first visit out there. It’s possible.”

  “So, was Mr. umm,” Cindy looked at Bishop.

  Bishop said, “Anthony Fitzsimmons.”

  Cindy nodded. “Was he with her, or not?”

  “She told us he was,” I replied.

  Bishop added, “And told the EMT he wasn’t.”

  It was nearly 8:00, the lingering clouds from last night’s storm were offshore. Bishop said, since it was lighter, she’d walk around the MINI to see if she could find evidence that anyone else had been there.

  Cindy called dispatch, requesting that more members of the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety join her at the end of the island. She leaned against Bishop’s patrol car and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

  I said, “Cindy, you okay?”

  “Sure, umm… no. Chris, I’m three officers short. I have no business being out here fighting mosquitos, listening to you two blabbering, when I have a pile of paperwork taller than Mt. Rainier in the office.” She pointed at the stanchion leading to the Preserve. “Now, we have Mr. Fitzsimmons missing, or not, depending on which mood his wife is in.”

  A City of Folly Beach SUV parked behind the second fire truck. Three men and one woman exited then gathered around their boss. She told them to grab the guys who were already here, spread out, and start a grid search for the missing spouse.

  “Do we have a description?” said one of the officers I hadn’t seen before.

  Cindy closed her eyes then slammed her hand on the hood of Bishop’s car. “Tell you what, officer. Round up every man you find out there, bring him in, and we’ll figure out if he’s Mr. Fitzsimmons.” Under her breath, she uttered, “Idiot.”

  No, she was not okay.

  The search party spread out and started their slow canvass of the eighty-acre Preserve. Cindy said that, if she didn’t get back up to full staffing soon, she’d reduce the force by one more with her resignation. Charles said he and I were going to continue toward the lighthouse to do what we came to do, although we were too late to capture images of the sunrise casting its glow on the lighthouse.

  Cindy said, “If you think I’m dumb enough to believe that crock, then I don’t need to be chief of anything.”

  She knew Charles well. The last thing on his and, to be honest, my mind was to take photos. I had no idea what happened overnight. Laurie’s confusion about Anthony being with her, or not, muddied the story even more. What was clear was there was a chance that Anthony was somewhere on the property, so Charles and I wanted to be nearby when he was found. Charles’s nosy gene had invaded my system.

  The distance from where we found Laurie to the beach overlooking the Morris Island Lighthouse was paved, all but the last hundred yards. The road, built to serve the Coast Guard, bisects the wooded area between the ocean to our right, and the marsh to the left.

  “More than fifty kinds of birds have been seen back here,” Charles said as we walked along the road.

  “You tell me that each time we’re here.”

  In addition to collecting long-sleeve T-shirts, Charles collected books; enough to stock his apartment with nearly as many books as are housed in the Folly Beach Branch of the Charleston County Library. He also collected trivia and quotes from United States presidents, and was generous with spewing trivia and quotes at anyone who’ll listen. In my case, I had given up listening five years ago. It hadn’t stopped him from sharing.

  “I know. I also know your memory ain’t what it was when you were a young whippersnapper. I’ve got to keep telling you.”

  “If you say so.”

  I normally didn’t mind his banter. Walking along this path reminded me of my first time here some ten years ago, when I had looked forward to a peaceful morning photographing the lighthouse. Instead, I happened upon a murder. That fateful discovery catapulted me into a nightmare that nearly got me killed, not quite a chamber of commerce preferred introduction to Folly Beach. That walk also allowed me to meet Charles, plus a handful of Folly folks who’ve become my friends.

  We reached the spot where the paved road ended. Then, a sandy path led the way to the beach. I was startled from reliving the past when one of the police officers to my right yelled, “Over here!”

  Charles stopped, pointed his cane the direction of the sound. “He’s calling us.”

  He wasn’t directing his comment at us, yet it didn’t stop Charles from nudging me in the direction of the voice. The wind-swept trees and shrubs along the right side of the path made it impossible to see who’d called, plus there wasn’t a path in that direction. Two officers emerged from the less-densely foliaged area on the other side of the path, shoved their way between the prickly shrubs, then maneuvered toward the sound of the officer who’d repeated his call. A City of Folly Beach ATV parked beside us. Its driver joined the two officers into the shrub-filled space.

  Charles and I followed. Between the mushy sand, standing water from the overnight storm, and prickly underbrush, it was slow going. The officers in front of us had created a semblance of a path for us to reach the spot where the police were gathered. It didn’t take a devotee of TV crime shows, or a coroner, to determine three things: The person they were staring at was male. The man splayed out in the sand had taken his last breath. And, if I could find anyone dumb enough to bet with, I’d wager my life savings on the unfortunate soul being Anthony, the late husband of Laurie Fitzsimmons.

  Chief LaMond was next to arrive. She waved her officers away from the body, took in the surroundings, told two of her guys to tape off the scene, then glared at Charles and me.

  She shook her head, pointed her finger at the two of us before pointing the direction of the road.

  “Get the hell out of my crime scene!”

  Told you she wasn’t okay.

  Chapter Three

  Charles was surprisingly quiet on the drive to town after we’d been evicted from the crime scene. His only comment was that he was scheduled to make a delivery for our friend, Dude Sloan, owner of the surf shop. Charles picked up a few do
llars making on-island deliveries for Dude, helping restaurants clean after busy weekends and, until recently, when he’d started complaining about debilitating arthritis in his hands, provided help for contractors who needed extra hands on projects. None of these jobs had burdened Charles with reported income, withholding taxes, or those burdensome IRS regulations. His expenses were minimal, so little more than petty cash was needed to meet his standard of living. I dropped him in front of the surf shop then continued to the Lost Dog Cafe for an early lunch.

  The Dog, located a half-block off Center Street, Folly’s center of commerce, was my favorite breakfast, and lunch spot. The kitchen in my cottage is used about as often as a Wiccan priest attends services at the Baptist church, so I was in the restaurant more often than many of its servers. As usual, the popular restaurant was packed, the closest parking spot two blocks away. The hostess told me that there would be a fifteen-minute wait. I was on my way outside to wait for a table when I heard a familiar voice call my name. I turned to find Theodore Stoll, pointing to an empty chair beside his brother, Salvadore. I must’ve been distracted by the morning’s discovery to miss seeing them when I came in. Theo had on an orange T-shirt; Sal wore a red, orange, and florescent green striped shirt that looked like it belonged in a 1960s lounge singer’s closet.

  I joined the men, and Theo said, “What’s this I hear about you finding a body at the old Coast Guard station?”

  Sal didn’t give me a chance to answer. He removed his black, wide-rimmed glasses that looked like he’d had them since the 1950s and said, “Is it a full, or a part-time job, you have bebopping around Folly finding bodies?”

  Theo followed with, “Who was it? Who killed him?”

  I held up my hand. “Whoa. Good morning, guys.”

  Theo pointed his fork at me. “Okay, let’s try again. Good morning, Chris.”

  “Better.”

  I’d met Theo a couple years ago when Charles and I joined a senior walking group at the behest of Larry LaMond, a friend of mine who’s Chief LaMond’s husband, to find anything we could about another member of the group who’d been suspected of trying to blackmail Larry. It hadn’t entered my mind that a benign senior walking group could nearly cost the lives of so many people. Anyway, that’s a story for another time.

  Theo was the butt of jokes by others in the group, who’d nicknamed him ET for Energizer Turtle, rather than for the lovable alien from the movie ET. For the group to call Theo slow was hypocritical since the average walking speed of the others in the group was the speed of an earthworm. Sal, at age seventy-nine, was nine years younger than his brother. He’d moved in with Theo earlier this year. He was a stand-up comedian who’d spent many years on the road before giving up the nomadic life to live comfortably in Theo’s McMansion.

  Sal said, “With the polite stuff finished, answer Theo’s question.”

  I wanted to ask which of Theo’s three questions he wanted me to answer. Instead, I told him that, yes, I was at the Preserve when a body was found. I asked how he’d heard about it.

  “Amber,” he said, like it was all I needed to know.

  It was. I’d known Amber Lewis since I moved to Folly. She was the longest-tenured server at the Dog, was also the go-to person if you’re in need of a friendly, warm, smiling face, or the latest gossip.

  As if on cue, she arrived at the table, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “Good morning, trouble magnet. Did finding another body stir up your appetite?”

  “How’d you hear about it?” I thought it was a legitimate question since the lifeless Anthony Fitzsimmons was discovered less than two hours ago.

  Amber nodded toward the counter, where three diners were in deep conversation. One wore a police uniform, so I knew the answer before Amber said anything.

  “Officer Timmons told me. He said the guy had been shot. He didn’t know who did it. Sad, so sad. I told Theo, since you’re friends.”

  “Enough gibberish,” interrupted Sal. “I need more tea.”

  Amber frowned at him. “You’ll get more as soon as I get done talking to Chris and seeing if he wants anything to eat.” She turned back to me. “Are you okay?”

  Amber and I had dated my first couple of years on Folly. We had remained friends since then. I could count on her being concerned.

  “I suppose so. Did you know Anthony and Laurie Fitzsimmons?”

  “A smidgen. They’d been in a couple of times. They’re retired teachers, bought an old house, are fixing it up.” She chuckled. “Laurie was fascinated by the dog photos on the walls. She kept asking if all of them had been here. I told her that a few had. Although, since there are a couple of hundred photos, many were given to us by people long after they left. Some had never set a paw on our dog-friendly patios.”

  Sal waved his hand in Amber’s face. “You think talking about these damn dogs is more important than my tea?”

  Amber gave him her best faux smile. “Of course not, Theo’s rude brother. I’ll stop being nice to customers and scamper over there to get you your tea because you are certainly the most important person in the building.”

  Sal smiled. “Miss Amber, I spent a half century around comedians. You’re going to have to do better than that to insult me.”

  She rubbed her hand in his long, gray hair. “I love a challenge.” She headed behind the counter to get Sal’s tea.

  I said to Theo, “Did you know Anthony and Laurie?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me, either,” said Sal. “What’s a dog kennel?”

  I started to ask why he wanted to know.

  He held up his hand. “A barking lot.”

  I grinned.

  Theo said, “I’m trying to housebreak my brother’s habit of telling jokes.

  “You’re failing,” I said.

  Theo sighed as he shook his head.

  Sal said, “You two old farts have no sense of humor. Enough about the dead guy I didn’t know. Theo, tell Chris about the call.”

  Theo twisted his napkin as he looked at his half-eaten chicken salad croissant. “He doesn’t care about—”

  “Doesn’t care about what?” Amber interrupted then set a fresh glass of tea in front of Sal.

  “Nothing,” Theo said. “Chris, were you going to order?”

  Amber turned my way until I ordered a Mahi salad.”

  She put her hand over her heart. “Lordy, Lordy, Chris ordering something healthy. Not sure my heart can take it.”

  Theo leaned closer to Sal and whispered, “Amber’s been trying to get Chris to eat healthier since forever.”

  Amber was good at many things, succeeding with that task wasn’t one of them. She was right, although knowing and doing were two different things. I was a few pounds overweight, which I rationalized as a byproduct of aging. Rationalizing was one of my strengths.

  “I owe it all to you, Amber.”

  She winked. “Yeah, right,” then headed over to the kitchen.

  I turned to Theo. “What call?”

  Another of my strengths was listening. I never thought it was a strength until I observed many others who only want to hear what they have to say and appear oblivious to the thoughts, feelings, and words of those around them. Besides, Charles’s nosiness was rubbing off on me.

  “Okay. You know my son died a year or so ago. He—”

  My turn to interrupt. “Son? Theo, I didn’t know you had children.”

  “Oh. I thought I must’ve told you.”

  I shook my head.

  Theo turned to Sal. “Why’d you have to bring it up?”

  Sal held his hands out to his side in a who me motion.

  “Yes, Chris,” Theo said, “Theodore Jr, he went by Teddy. Probably my biggest failure. It’s hard to talk about. We were never close. I spent all my time working. Eunice had to raise him nearly by herself. Teddy went out west to college, where he stayed. The only time we saw him was when he came home for the holidays.” He shook his head. “He didn’t do that often. Eunice and I tried to
stay in touch, but he wouldn’t return our calls. He was a chef, worked all the time. He said that he couldn’t come to see us and discouraged us from visiting. He opened his own restaurant. Poor Eunice and I never saw it.” He sighed. “I was a terrible dad.”

  “Not so great a brother, either,” Sal added.

  I supposed that was a joke. If it was, Sal was joking with the wrong audience.

  I said, “Go on, Theo.”

  He stared at his plate, like he was studying his chicken salad. I didn’t think he was going to respond, until he said, “He got married. Know how I found out? Got an invitation in the mail, an invitation postmarked a week after the wedding.”

  “I’m sorry, Theo.”

  He looked down at his plate, sipped his water, closed his eyes. Sal, for once, didn’t crack a joke. I waited for Theo to continue.

  He didn’t get a chance. Charles stormed in the door, looked around, and made a beeline for our table.

  “Guess who I just talked to. Guess what he said.”

  Sal looked at my out-of-breath friend, and said, “Big Bird. He squawked that you’re a lunatic.”

  Charles opened his mouth, stared at Sal, then shut his mouth.

  “It was a joke, Charles,” I said. “Theo was saying something important. Can it wait?”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  I asked Charles to have a seat. He judiciously did and remained quiet, a near miracle.

  I turned to Theo. “You were saying?”

  “Not now, Chris. I can’t.” He stood as he waved to Amber for their check. He leaned close to me. “Later.” He dropped money on the table then told Sal that they were leaving. It was as quick as I’d ever seen Theo move. His green jogging shorts swished as he headed to the exit. Sal followed two-steps behind him.

  Charles watched them go. “What’d I interrupt?”

  “Nothing,” I said, not wanting to get in an extended conversation about Theo’s son and whatever he wanted to tell me, reluctantly tell me. “Who’d you run into?”

  “You know old man Gant?”

  “Abraham Gant?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I didn’t know much about him, other than he’d lived on Folly most of his life and retired from the South Carolina Highway Patrol.