by Bill Noel
“No wonder you’re the detective. In case that brilliant strategy doesn’t work, what’s Plan B?”
He twisted his head toward the Preserve. “We amble about, walk up and down the paths, spend time near where they found Anthony, and hope to see someone acting suspicious.”
“Other than us?”
“You have a better idea?”
I shook my head, slid the seat back, and lowered the back. A family of five strolled toward the Preserve’s entrance as an elderly couple walked arm-in-arm the other direction. The old Coast Guard property was one of Folly’s most popular sites. During summer months, there were often traffic jams near the entrance. If nothing else, we would get a chance to people watch.
Charles was unusually quiet and had leaned back. I asked if he’d heard about the fire at Hot Diggity Dog!”
He sat up straight, jerking his head toward me. “Fire?”
I told him about going to supper with Theo and Grace then what’d happened while we were gone.
He growled, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
I explained it was late when it happened. Besides, I was telling him now.
“Are you certain it was arson?”
“Certain, no. Cindy thought so, but was waiting until she got a report from the arson investigator.”
He pulled a phone from his pocket and punched in a number. A few seconds later, he said, “Please hold, chief. Chris Landrum has a question.” He thrust the phone at me.
“What did I do to deserve to have my peaceful supper with Larry interrupted by a call from your secretary?”
I chuckled. “I’ll tell my secretary you were upset.”
Charles leaned back in the seat like I’d smacked him.
Cindy said, “Good.”
“Have you heard from the arson investigator?”
“Yes.”
The phone went dead.
I handed the phone to Charles as I relayed Cindy’s one-word answer.
He tapped redial.
This time, Larry answered. “Chief LaMond’s secretary speaking. Who may I ask is calling?”
I laughed, irritating Charles, but getting a chuckle from Larry. “You may tell her it’s Nosy Charles with his young, handsome friend Chris.”
Larry’s chuckle turned to a laugh before he said, “The chief wanted me to tell you the fire was intentionally set. If you call one more time tonight, she’ll issue warrants for both of you, the charge being first degree pissing off a police chief.”
The phone went dead a second time.
I relayed the longer message to Charles, adding that, if he called a third time, not to hand me the phone.
He wisely chose not to call. Instead, he said, “Who’d want to torch a food truck? Who’d possibly have a problem with Grace? She’s only been here a few days, open for business one day.”
I told him those were the same questions Grace, Theo, and even Sal had asked, with no good answers forthcoming.
“Know any hot dog hating pyromaniacs?”
“I don’t know any pyromaniacs who hate any of the food groups,” I said. “Besides, the first two break ins happened before Grace sold a single hot dog here.”
“Could someone with a grudge have followed her from California?”
“That’s possible, although it’s a long way to come to ruin her business. If there was anyone out there, he would’ve done something before she headed to South Carolina. I don’t know of—”
His arm flailed. “Whoa. Hold that thought. Isn’t that Stanley Cliché Kremitz?”
He pointed to a lone walker heading to the stanchion guarding the Preserve.
Stanley was heading toward the entrance to the Preserve. Instead of a treasure map, or a shovel, he carried a walking stick with binoculars strapped around his neck. “Doesn’t look like he’s ready to look for buried treasure.”
Charles looked at me like I was a blue chipmunk. “Gee, Chris, don’t you know a disguise when you see one?”
I thought the definition of a disguise was something you didn’t recognize when you saw it. Instead of sharing that, I said, “If it is, it’s a good one. Think he’ll dig up the treasure with binoculars?”
“Don’t know. Let’s find out.”
I had to admit it. I didn’t have a better plan, so we began following Stanley. We grabbed our cameras so, if he saw us, we’d have a logical reason for being there. He was walking down the paved road that bisected the property so, if he looked back, he couldn’t miss us.
Stanley stopped a third of the way shy of where the pavement ended, and a thick, sandy path continued to the beach. He looked at his phone then turned off the paved area where he moved down a narrow path toward the ocean.
We followed at a safe distance. When we reached the point where he left the road, I motioned for Charles to stop. The path that Stanley had taken was barely visible from the road as it weaved through a heavily wooded area. Windswept oaks and shrubs of all sizes were intertwined, blocking easy movement through the area unless you stayed on the sandy path. “If we follow him, there’s a good chance he’ll spot us.”
Charles said, “What’s our plan?”
I didn’t point out that there was no “our” plan since it was his idea to be here.
“There’s another path a hundred feet or so up the road. I think it meets this one near the beach. There’s less chance of getting caught if we go that way.”
“I knew you’d have a plan.” Charles said, as he started walking.
We reached the second path as three men emerged. Their faces were covered with sweat, their white dress shirts soaked in perspiration, their black wingtips sand-covered.
I nodded.
One of them asked if it was always this hot.
A second man said, “Knew we should’ve gone to the afternoon’s meeting.”
The third one said, “It wasn’t my idea to leave the pavement, to wander through brambles.”
We wished them well, watched them reach the pavement, then laughed at their inappropriate dress before we continued in the direction that Stanley had taken.
The methodical sound of waves crashing against the shore told me that we were near the spot where the narrow path reached the foliage facing the beach. I thought that was where the path Stanley had taken merged with our trail. I motioned for Charles to stop so we could listen for anything that’d indicate Stanley’s location.
We didn’t have long to wait. Mixed with the sounds of the water slapping the shore, I heard laughter coming from more than one person; at least one male, possibly two females.
Charles leaned close and whispered, “Doesn’t sound like a treasure-hunting party.”
We moved a few yards closer to the sounds when I saw two men and two women. Stanley, the only one I recognized, put his forefinger to his mouth, a sign to silence the group, as he pointed toward the top of a nearby tree. The others stopped talking and raised binoculars to face the tree Stanley was motioning toward. I couldn’t see what was so fascinating.
“Oh, great,” Charles said. “We’ve caught a bevy of bird-watchers.”
I smiled. “Maybe the pirates hid the gold in the top of that tree.”
“Funny, Sal.”
That hurt.
“Do you know any of them, other than Stanley?”
He shook his head. “No, just a group of bird-watchers.”
“Birds of a feather flock together,” I said with my best, albeit lousy, Stanley imitation.
Charles smacked my arm, pivoted, and started back toward the paved road. I didn’t blame him.
Instead of heading to the car, we decided that, while we were here, we should walk the rest of the way to the beach overlooking the lighthouse. It was worth the walk. Sunset was approaching so that the low sun behind us illuminated the lighthouse. The tide was out. The remnants of Morris Island and sandbars closer to us were exposed, appearing golden brown in the fading sun.
We took several photos of the lighthouse, the subject of countless imag
es over the years and, since sunset was close, I suggested that we return to the car. On the way, we passed the path that led to where the lifeless body of Anthony was discovered.
Charles said that it might be a good idea to start our next casing of the Preserve closer to that spot. He figured that, since Anthony was searching in the vicinity, the map must’ve shown him something to pick this spot. I agreed, since I didn’t have a better suggestion. When we got to the car, there were three vehicles in the area as opposed to the dozen or so when we arrived. Lights were on in two of the eight houses closest to our car, so I assumed the vehicles belonged to the residents. If my assumption was accurate, all the visitors to the Preserve, including the bird-watchers, were gone.
“Same time, same place, tomorrow?” Charles said as he dropped me off at the house.
Same time, same place, same result, I thought.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The phone jolted me awake. I blinked twice to focus my eyes then saw that it was after 11:00 p.m. I’d been asleep for an hour and nearly fell out of bed, reaching for the buzzing, exasperating piece of technology that woke me. It portended either a wrong number or a disaster. Everyone who knew me understood calling after ten o’clock was tantamount to a declaration of war.
I managed to hit the answer button. “Hello.”
The cheery, wide-awake voice of someone I would’ve put last on the list of people I expected to call, said, “Chris, this is your good buddy, Sal. Didn’t wake you, did I? Hey, did you know that a professor is someone who walks, umm, I mean talks in someone else’s sleep?”
I held the phone away from my ear, shook my head awake. “Okay, yes, no.”
“Huh?” Sal said, further proof that he not only ignores what others say, but he doesn’t even listen to himself.
“Never mind. Other than waking me, what’s up?”
“Cranky in your old age, aren’t you?”
I heard voices and music in the background. “What is it, Sal?”
“I heard something I thought you might be interested in. Remember I told you about a guy at the Crab Shack who had a couple of businesses that flatlined?”
“What about him?”
“Ran into him tonight at, umm,” he said. I heard him ask someone, “What’s the name of this joint?” He returned. “The Washout, yeah, that’s where I am. Umm, didn’t wake you, did I?”
For the second time, I thought Yes, wondered how long Sal had been in the bar, and said, “The man with the businesses?”
“Oh, yeah. When I got here, two or it could’ve been three hours ago, he was spoused, umm, soused. The old boy was soused, plus plastered when he left, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
I had the strong suspicion that Sal was well on his way to soused plus plastered. “What about the man, Sal?”
“Marember, umm, remember, I told you he had two busted businesses?”
“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Guess what he told me they were?”
I was close to hanging up, yet he called for a reason. During years of putting up with Charles’s quirks, not to mention the idiosyncrasies of several other friends, I’d acquired a tolerance for thinking that was not only outside the box, but so far outside that you couldn’t see the box.
“Sal, why don’t you tell me?”
“You’re no fun. Okay, here goes, one was a miniature golf course, can you believe that?”
That bit of trivia couldn’t wait until the morning?
“Interesting,” I said, with total insincerity.
“The other one was a food truck.”
That got my attention. “Why was he telling you this?”
“Suppose because I’m a nice guy, someone folks can easily talk to, a good listener.” Sal laughed. “Kidding. Remember the soused part of my story? He was talking to me because I was sitting beside him at the bar. He could’ve been talking to the column that’s holding up the roof on this here patio. Now that I think about it, that’s what he was talking to when I sat down.”
“Sal, what did he say that made you call?”
I heard him take a gulp of something, most likely beer, most likely his seventy-third of the night. “His golf course was in nowhere Ohio. His food truck was,” Sal hesitated, and chuckled, “anywhere its wheels took it. It was a truck, get it?”
“Your point, Sal?”
“Has anyone told you you’re no fun?”
“Many times.”
“Okay, here’s the skinny. He told me the reason his golf course went bust was because the only time anyone played miniature golf was in the slumber, umm, summer. Said even if the balls were orange, playing in the snow turned golfers off.”
“Who would’ve guessed that?”
“The food truck hit the skids, figuratively speaking, I think, when the blankety, blank permit people harassed him so much, he couldn’t stay open. A closed food truck don’t sell much food.”
He hesitated again, the music in the background got louder, and he continued, “My point is the guy told me ever since the blankety, blankety permit people shut him down, he’s hated food trucks. They remind him of failing. Right before he fell off the bar stool, had to be led, or more like, carried out by two guys I didn’t know, he slurred that if he had his way, all food trucks would be nuked.”
“Sal, what’s the man’s name?”
“I’m not good with names. It’s one of those Bible names. Like Matthew, or Mark, don’t think it’s puke, umm, Luke. Wait, something’s coming to me. Got it. I know it’s not John.”
“Did he say anything about Grace’s truck?”
“Yes, sir, he did. Want to know what?”
Sal should be glad that I’m talking to him on the phone. If I was at The Washout, my hands would be around his neck.
“Yes, Sal.”
“Thought so. He said, and this is a direct quote, ‘Hot Diggity Dog! Best damned fire I’ve ever seen.’ Think that’s a flew, umm, clue?”
“Sal, are you certain he said best fire he’d ever seen? Could it have been set instead of seen?”
I had to move the phone away from my ear when Sal shouted, “Barkeep, another brewski!” I heard a bottle hitting the bar and someone in the background talking about a baseball score before Sal returned to our conversation.
“What was the question again?”
I repeated it.
“Chris, I’ve had a couple of beers. My mind’s not razor sharp, like it usually is. Give me a minute to ponder it.”
From what I’ve observed, in the best of times, Sal’s mind was as sharp as a tennis ball, so I wasn’t optimistic about his recollections.
Apparently, the barkeep returned with Sal’s drink. My near-soused “good buddy” mumbled, “Thanks.” After what sounded like him taking a drink, he said, “Okay, think I’ve got the answer. You asked if he said set instead of seen, right?”
“Yes.”
“Drum roll, please,” he said. I heard his hand pounding on the bar. “The answer is maybe.”
I closed my eyes, opened them, and stared at the phone. “Maybe?”
“Yes, sir, that’s my best recollection. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. Think that’s another clue?”
Maybe, I thought, then realized the odds of me getting anything useful out of Sal in his current condition was as likely as me measuring the circumference of the earth with a yardstick. I thanked him for calling. He said that he thought I’d called him.
The phone went dead.
I fell back on the bed, wondered, no hoped, that I’d dreamed the conversation with Sal, realized I was awake, and it really was my new, good “good buddy” on the phone. I decided that I’d sleep on what Sal had said then call Chief LaMond in the morning to share what he’d almost said.
By 8:00, I grasped my wish to sleep on Sal’s message had been elusive. I’d watched the clock pass each hour and pushed myself out of bed to head to the shower. Twenty minutes later, I felt as refreshed as I could after counting my sleep in minutes rather
than hours. I punched Cindy’s number into my phone.
She answered with a loud sigh before saying, “Unless you’re dead, staring at a dead body, your house is on fire, or you want to give me a yacht, this is a recording. My office hours start at nine o’clock.”
Not quite the mood I’d hoped to find her in, although it was encouraging that she hadn’t already hung up.
“Good morning, chief. It’s going to be a wonderful day.”
I hadn’t looked out the window, so I had no idea if it was true. Even if I had, my tired, watery eyes wouldn’t have been able to see what kind of day it was.
“Yeah, yeah, Sugarmouth. What?”
I told her about my conversation with my “good buddy,” Sal. Cindy either listened patiently without interrupting, or she had fallen asleep. I finished and said, “You still there?”
She chuckled. “Afraid so. Theo’s not-funny brother was talking about Joseph Tannery.”
“How do you get that from Matthew, or Mark? Oh, I get it, Joseph is a Biblical name.”
“Chris, I’m many things. A Bible scholar ain’t one of them. The miniature golf course gave it away.”
“Huh?”
“Remember a couple of years after you moved here, somebody opened a miniature golf course on Center Street? It wasn’t there long. Our guys had to arrest Joseph Tannery three times for disturbing the peace. The old boy would get drunk, stand near the entrance of the course, where he’d yell at customers not to waste money playing.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Chris, in addition to not being a Biblical scholar, I’m not a head shrink. I don’t know what screws in his head came unthreaded. He told the cops he had a miniature golf course somewhere in the North. It went bust. He’d rant on that if he couldn’t make it with kids hitting colorful golf balls through windmills and other stupid crap, the course on Folly shouldn’t be able to.”
“Who’s Joseph Tannery?”
“Squatty-bodied guy, mid-fifties, jittery-like, harmless when sober. He was a big-time pain in our collective law-enforcement butts a few years back until some wise head doc suggested Mr. Tannery spend quality time in the nut house. He was gone a few years, returned a year ago, I haven’t heard any negative reports on him since then.”