by Bill Noel
“Me?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll go with you.”
Before I could list thirty reasons it’d be a bad idea, the phone rang.
“Okay, troublemaker, what’d you want?” said the less-than-gleeful Cindy LaMond.
“I was talking with Barb at supper about the fire.”
Cindy interrupted, “Cheery dinner talk. You sure know how to warm a woman’s heart. Get it, fire, warm?”
“Yes, Cindy. Barb was talking about an arson suspect she’d defended. She said there were certain characteristics of most arsonists but was mainly talking about serial arsonists. Her client allegedly set fire to an office building he owned for the insurance.”
She interrupted again, “Think you can get to the reason for pestering me before I retire?”
Charles waved for me to put the phone on speaker. Instead of having to repeat everything the Chief said, I hit the speaker icon.
“If the person who set the fire did it because he simply liked to start fires, it may not have anything to do with the residents or the building’s owner.”
Charles couldn’t stand being left out of the conversation. “That makes sense, doesn’t it, Chief?”
I heard an audible sigh on the other end of the line. “Chris, did you get a damned talking parrot, or was that your half-wit friend?”
“Cindy, you know the answer.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Did I miss the point of your call somewhere in all that?”
“It’s a simple question. Have there been other suspicious fires in the Charleston area?”
“I’m sure there were some in the 1800s. Suppose they were caused by the Yanks, or was it Rebels? Civil War history gets me confused. Charles, you were around then, which was it?”
I smiled and turned to Charles, who said, “Chief, I think Chris means something more recent.”
She said, “No.”
“No what?” Charles said.
She sighed again. “Did you forget the question? No suspicious fires in the last year or so.”
I said, “You sure?”
“Yes, that’s what the arson investigator told me when I asked the same question the day he told me it was arson. That means you can throw out the profile for the typical serial arsonist. You know, the profile you and that lovely lady discussed. The same lady who, for reasons beyond anything I can understand, enjoys spending time with you.”
I was thinking of a humorous retort, although it would’ve been wasted. She’d hung up.
Chapter Twenty
Martha’s house was four long blocks from the Tides, so I suggested we drive. Charles said it was a great idea, which, I suppose, wasn’t as good as his “brilliant” idea that Martha would take Ty, the stray. Her house was a large, two-story, relatively new structure that backed up to the ocean. Martha met us with a look she probably would’ve given a Mormon missionary. She was no more than five-foot-two, slightly overweight, with dark black hair pulled in a bun. She opened the door a crack.
“Young men, I don’t want any.”
It was hard to understand what she’d said for the barking dogs nudging the door.
Charles, who didn’t accept the concept of rejection, stepped forward, tipped his Tilley, then said, “Martha, I’m Charles Fowler. We met last year when we came looking for Pluto, Dude Sloan’s dog. We’ve also talked in church a time or two.”
I hadn’t remembered, but Martha was a member of First Light where Charles was a regular.
Martha leaned on her cane, smiled, then said, “Oh, I remember. Sorry, I thought you were some of those church kids going door-to-door, or worse, traveling salesmen. Give me a second to put my killer dogs in another room.” She chuckled as she said it. It was at least two minutes before the door opened all the way. “Come in.”
“Martha,” Charles said as we followed her in the door. “You remember my friend, Chris Landrum, don’t you?”
“Sure,” she said, in a tone that failed to sound sincere. “Shall we retire to the sitting room?”
The room looked the same as it had a year ago, resembling an animal playhouse more than a sitting room. A three-foot-high, triple deck, carpeted cat tower occupied one corner. On a small table beside the cat tower, there was an oak cabinet like one I remembered from my childhood that contained a record player, or turntable, as they’re called today. Assorted animal toys were scattered around. My eyes immediately went to the large aquarium beside one of the three wingback chairs. I was relieved to see the aquarium occupied, relieved because it held a boa constrictor that had to be a mile long. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. On a previous visit, Martha shared she often let Squeezy—no, I’m not making that up—roam around the room. She’d said roam, I translated it to mean slither. I took the chair farthest from the aquarium.
Martha had already taken the second farthest chair from Squeezy, so Charles slowly lowered himself in the dog and cat hair infested remaining seat.
“Charles, want to hold Squeezy?”
“Perhaps another time, Martha. Speaking of pets, how many do you have now?”
Instead of answering, she popped up from the chair. “Fellas, want a hot toddy?”
One of the things I’d remembered about our visits last year, was her fondness for the drink, regardless of the time of day.
“No thank you, Martha,” Charles said, and repeated, “Perhaps another time.”
She lifted the top of the oak cabinet, fiddled with the record player, then said, “Then you can’t say no to music of the season.”
Neither Charles nor I had time to say, “Perhaps another time,” before Alvin and the Chipmunks began their version of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” I prayed the volume control wasn’t broken since between the scratches on the record and the less-than-appealing voices of the three animated anthropomorphic chipmunks, a Boeing 757’s engine would’ve been quieter.
Martha screamed, “My animals love the Chipmunks. I’ve got both of their Christmas albums.”
Or, I thought that’s what she said. The last part was drowned out by Alvin.
“Martha,” I yelled, “don’t you think it’s a little loud?”
She tilted her head my direction, cupped her hand behind her ear, then reached in the cabinet. The volume lowered to bar-conversation levels.
“Sorry, want to repeat that, Chris? Couldn’t hear you.”
Now that my ears stopped ringing, I didn’t feel the need to repeat what I’d said. Instead, I repeated Charles’s question. “How many pets do you have?”
She returned to her chair, rubbed her chin, before saying, “Let’s see. It’s hard to keep up, you know.” She looked toward the door where she’d herded her dogs when we arrived. “Four dogs: Pooch, Lady, Bowser, Ink Spot. No, it’s five. I keep forgetting Little Dog. Still have three cats. I’m sure of that. There’s Cat One, Cat Two, and Crazy.” She shook her head. “Then, got to count Paul.”
Charles said, “Your parrot?”
She nodded. “Still got to keep him upstairs, you know. His language would make a sailor blush. Danged hard to teach an old parrot new tricks, or words.”
“Know what you mean,” Charles said as he glanced my way.
I didn’t know, didn’t want to know if he wanted reinforcement, or was calling me old. “Martha,” I said, “you still have Davy Crockett?”
She lowered her head, glanced around the room like someone was hiding behind one of the chairs, then said, “You know it’s illegal to have a pet raccoon?”
I didn’t know for certain, but she’d told us that before. I nodded.
“So, I can’t count Davy,” she said, winked, then whispered, “He’s still around.”
I nodded a second time.
Charles looked at the aquarium. “Don’t forget Squeezy.”
“Never, Charles, never.” She smiled. “Sure you don’t want to hold him?”
“Not this time, Martha.”
Alvin and the Chipmunks were now butchering “Silver Bells.” Time to move along.
“Martha, we stopped by to—”
She sat up straight in her chair. “I didn’t do it.”
“Do what?” I asked, figuring it was a reasonable question.
“Whatever you’re here to accuse me of, young man.”
“Martha, we’re not here to accuse you of anything other than being a wonderful lady with some great pets,” said Charles the suck-up.
“Oh. The last time you showed up at my door uninvited you accused me of dognapping, stealing that weird hippie’s adorable Australian Terrier. Figured you had me on your suspect list if anything bad happens to critters.”
“Now Martha,” I said, “we know you were doing the right thing with Pluto. He didn’t have a collar, he was hungry, you took him in.”
“A good deed,” Charles added. “Taking in strays is admirable. I’ve told everyone I know how kind you were to little Pluto.”
Told you he was a suck-up. Before Charles pulled out a violin, started singing more praise for Martha, in stark contrast to Alvin trying to sing “Jingle Bells,” I’d better refocus the conversation.
“Martha, did you hear about the big, apartment building fire?”
“Lordy, Chris, how could I miss it? It was a block over. Smoke everywhere, sirens blaring. Made my dogs howl nearly as good as Alvin’s singing.”
“Do you know Ty Striker?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“He’s in his early twenties, thin with long black hair, wears it a ponytail. Works at Bert’s.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. What about him? Isn’t missing, is he?”
Charles piped up, “Not missing, but he’s missing a place to live. He was one of the residents of the building that ain’t there no more.”
The record player groaned, then clanked, dropping another record on the turntable. Different record, same “performers.” The Chipmunks started singing “Jingle Bell Rock.”
A high-pitched howl came from the other room.
Martha smiled and nodded toward the room holding her dogs. “Bowser loves this song.” She turned to Charles. “Where were we?”
“We were telling you about Ty. He has an adorable kitten, it’s got six toes on one of its front paws.”
Martha beamed. “A Polydactyl. Just like Hemingway’s in Key West.”
Charles nodded and I wondered if I was the only person in the country who didn’t know about the six-pawed felines.
“Exactly,” Charles said.
“What’s its name?”
“Lost.”
“Oh my, Ty’s kitten’s lost like that weird hippie’s pup.”
“No, Martha, Ty’s cat is named Lost.”
“Oh my, that’s a ridiculous name for a cat.”
That coming from someone who has cats named Cat One, Cat Two, and a dog named Little Dog.
“It’s unusual,” I said. “Charles, you want to tell Martha what you were thinking about Ty?”
“That’s okay, Chris. You go ahead.”
Thanks, coward.
“Martha, we were thinking.” I generously didn’t say Charles was thinking. “You love animals and have this wonderful large house. It had to be hard to lose your husband a few years back. I bet occasionally things need repairing or there are other things that could use a man’s touch.”
“You can say that again.”
This was going better than expected, I thought.
“We were thinking you could let Ty move in one of your spare rooms until he finds somewhere permanently. He’s sleeping in his tiny car.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. It may’ve been my imagination, but her face seemed to turn white, snow-white in the vernacular of the season.
“Heavens to Betsy, no way, young man.” Her hand left her face and gripped the arm of her chair. “What would Tommy and Dixie think? Me shacking up with a man. Lordy, no.”
Tommy was her late husband, Dixie was her friend who lived across the street.
Alvin was singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” but it was doing nothing to make my season bright, my heart feel light, or my troubles out of sight.
Charles appeared to wait for me to continue my sales pitch. I didn’t.
“Martha,” he said, “I’m certain Dixie would understand. She knows how you like to take in strays. You could consider Ty another stray.”
“Young man, I’ve had a wonderful, long life. I’m not going out of it being accused of being a cougar.”
From my limited understanding, Martha would be thirty years or so outside the range of cougars, women seeking younger men.
“Martha, I understand.” I didn’t. “Charles and I wanted to ask because we knew how kind and caring you were. We don’t want to take more of your valuable time.”
I stood to leave, when she said, “Now if that Ty fellow wants to bring Lost—I still can’t believe he named a cat that—by to visit, that’d be fine. Cat One, Cat Two, and Crazy might like a visitor every now and then.”
I said I’d share that information with Ty.
Alvin had stopped singing, Bowser had stopped barking harmony, and I felt anything but in the Christmas spirit as we left Martha leaning on her cane waving bye.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I need a hot toddy after that,” Charles said as we got in the car.
“How about a beer at Cal’s?”
“A close second.”
It was early afternoon when we entered Cal’s. The tables were vacant, but three men were seated at the bar drinking lunch. Loretta Lynn was singing “Silver Bells” from the jukebox that would’ve given Martha’s record player a run for being the oldest music machine on the island. Cal was delivering a beer to one of the men. He saw us enter, nodded, then pointed around the room, his way of saying sit anywhere.
We chose a table close to the bar so Cal wouldn’t have to go far to serve us. He seldom complained, but his knees were on their last legs, pun intended. Instead of asking what we wanted, he arrived at the table with a Budweiser for Charles, a glass of Cabernet for me.
“Hey, Cal,” Charles said, “got anything by Alvin and the Chipmunks on the jukebox?”
Cal plopped down in a chair then squinted at Charles. “Pard, you lost your mind?”
“Don’t think so, why?”
“Christmas is my favorite time of year. It’s plum near here. This room’s decorated, all cheery, festive, ready for that wonderful holiday. Then you come in and suck all the cheer out of me.”
“Cal,” I said, “what’re you talking about?”
Cal looked at the bar to see if any customers needed anything, then back to us. “Back in the day when I was a fledgling country star, eighteen years old, with my first hit ‘End of the Story,’ I was traveling all over the South singing anywhere that’d have me.” He looked at the ceiling. “Ah, those were the days. Anyway, was 1962, lord, I played a lot of bars. Not paying gigs, but tips weren’t bad. They also let me sell my records. Most had jukeboxes like mine.” He pointed to his ears. “Know what I had to subject these here listening devices to?”
It was beginning to make sense. “Alvin and the Chipmunks?”
“Those damned, fake, striped rodents, singing ‘The Alvin Twist.’ That horrible song, if you can call it a song, came out the same year my hit flew up the charts.” He shook his head. “Can still hear ‘If you wanna be smart, if you wanna be wise, take up your fun and exercise. Everybody, do the Alvin Twist.’ Know why I can still hear it?”
Charles, of course, had to know. “Why?”
“Because those damned rodents were singing it on every jukebox in every bar I went in. Over and over, over and over. It got worse after that. Those freakin’ rodents came out with their first Christmas album the same year. Talk about kicking Christmas in the head. Why in holy vinyl are you asking about those damned rodents?”
Charles smiled. “So, you don’t have any of their Christmas songs on the jukebox?”
Elvis, not Alvin, began singing “Blue Christmas,” and I was beginning to th
ink we would have a blue one with Cal and his memories.
“It’s not important, Cal,” I said. “We wanted to stop to see if there’s anything we can do to help you get ready for your party?”
Charles looked at me like, “We were?”
“I appreciate it, boys. Think everything’s on schedule. My decorations are up. I got some volunteers coming to help with the food and drinks. Don’t know how many folks have told me they’re going to be here, but it’s a bunch. Thanks for offering.”
A customer whistled for Cal. The owner said he’d better earn his keep then headed to the bar.
Charles watched him go. “Think I ought to invite Martha to the Christmas party? She could bring her Chipmunks Christmas albums.”
That didn’t deserve an answer. I took a sip of wine before saying, “Think we need to talk about who might’ve set the fire.”
“Whoa,” Charles said, “you an alien that’s done invaded Chris’s body? I’m the guy who always wants to butt in police business. Chris always tells me it’s none of my concern, that I need to leave it to the cops. What’d you do with my friend?”
“You’re right. I know—”
“Of course, I’m right. Umm, remind me why?”
“Charles, I know each of the building’s residents. Don’t know them well, but it seems that I, we, might know more about them than the police know. It’s worth discussing.”
“Talk on,” he said then took a long draw on his beer.
“Janice Raque is convinced her husband set the fire.”
“Why would he? They’re divorced, he’s moved on with some floozy in Mt. Pleasant, Janice ain’t around to fight with him every time they’re in here, or wherever else they’re butting heads.”
“She thinks it’s because her lawyer is on Horace’s case to get her more support.”
Charles said, “You buy that?”
“No, mainly because like you said, the fire was set during the day when there was little chance anyone would’ve been in the building, little chance anyone would’ve been hurt.”
“Could’ve been to send a message. Leave me alone or I’ll get you. A blazing building would be a powerful way to deliver a message.”