by Bill Noel
We arrived at five forty-five to find the gravel lot full even though the party didn’t begin until six. I had to park along the road. Charles was quick to point out that if I wasn’t late, we could have parked in Crosby’s lot. I was equally quick to point out that he had said what time for me to pick him up. “Harrumph,” was his articulate, clarifying response.
Not only was the lot full, but the dock was already packed and we had to stand in line to get drinks, and stand in a longer line to order supper. Charles sent Heather in search of a table, saying that she could use her charm and convince someone to move over and share the limited number of tables with us.
A thin, long-haired vocalist was under a covered portion of the dock singing “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” and accompanying himself on guitar. All the tables were full but by the time Charles and I had our food and drink, Heather had charmed two couples into sharing their table. Listening to the musician who had transitioned into “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” hearing the sounds of the festive, Friday-night crowd, and watching the fishing boats bobbing in the water had the calming effect that I’d hoped for. The terror of the shooting and my worry about Larry and Mel were drifting away and I began to enjoy my shrimp, coleslaw, and hush puppies. A plastic cup of wine didn’t hurt either.
The sounds of “Rainbow Connection” had ended and Heather noticed that the musician had taken a break and was talking to a young girl. Heather hopped up and said she needed to ask him something. She stood behind the curly-haired girl talking to the singer and Charles leaned close to me. “So, how’re we going to figure out who killed the con guy and the student?”
There went my calm evening.
I looked at Heather who was now talking to the entertainer and laughing at something that he’d said. I turned back to Charles. “I’ll call Sean Monday and see if he knows what Mel’s attorney has learned.”
“Why not talk to Mel’s new lawyer?”
“He doesn’t know me and wouldn’t be able to tell me anything anyway. Mel’s the client.”
Charles thought a second. “What about Abe?”
“That’s a tough one.”
Before I could elaborate, Heather returned sporting a huge grin.
“That’s Jerry.” She pointed at the vocalist. “Jerry Crosby, nice guy. I told him I was a singer and asked if he’d ever shared the stage with guest musicians.”
If Jerry only knew, I thought, but kept my mouth shut.
Charles didn’t. “What’d he say?”
“He said no, but he had a list of people who could sub for him if he couldn’t make the weekly gig.” She pantomimed writing on a large piece of paper and smiled even broader. “He said he would add me to the list. He was really nice.” Heather air-strummed a guitar and returned to her seat and meal.
I prayed that Jerry had a long list as he started singing “Margaritaville.”
If Charles’s question hadn’t put enough of a damper in my calming evening, a bucket of damper poured on my head when I saw Chief LaMond walking across the deck followed by two of her officers. I breathed a sigh of relief as she passed our table. She gave me a slight nod, and proceeded to the far end of the dock where some people were yelling and waving for her.
Charles dropped his fork on the plate and pushed away from the table. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
I’d had enough police contact for the week, for that matter, for a lifetime, and declined, but that didn’t stop my friend who followed Cindy and her colleagues to whatever was happening. I took a bite of shrimp but noticed that it didn’t taste as good as it did before Cindy arrived. I felt bad about not telling Detective Adair the reason that I had been to see Abe and still had the nagging feeling that Larry could be connected to his murder. Heather was telling one of the couples who had given up part of their table to us that her new friend Jerry was going to call her when he needed a fill-in. She must have forgotten the definition of list.
Charles returned more quickly than I had anticipated. “No biggie. Some drunk was seeing double and walked off the second dock that was only in his pickled mind. He’s soused and doused.”
Heather laughed and I was relieved that Cindy hadn’t been looking for me.
“Oh yeah,” Charles said after he winked at Heather. “Chief LaMond wants to talk to you before she leaves.”
There went my relief, as Jerry strummed the first notes of “Bye Bye Love.”
The police “event” had ended and Cindy’s two officers casually walked the drunk off the property; as casually as possible with a soaked, staggering, middle-aged, bald-headed gentleman being aided by two Folly Beach police officers as they inched their way through the crowd. Cindy moved to a more isolated section of the dock behind a small storage building and waved me over. I saw her motioning and she knew I saw her, so pretending that she didn’t exist wasn’t an option. Charles asked if he should go with me and I said no.
I smiled as I approached the unsmiling chief. “Have fun out there?” I pointed to where the drunk had been pulled out of the drink.
Cindy shook her head. “It’s the beginning of the weekend. It’ll only get worse.”
She took me by the elbow and moved us farther away from the crowd and music.
“Chris,” She glanced at the wood deck, “we’ve known each other since when?”
“Since the day you got here. What, seven years or so?”
“About right. You came to my wedding; you’ve had faith in me even when I didn’t; hell, you were even a big supporter and encouraged Brian Newman to appoint me chief despite the griping of a bunch of Folly-freaks.”
I nodded and wondered where she was going with the trip down memory lane.
“It’s hard to be mad at a good friend.” She continued to look down. “But Chris, you’ve done it.” She looked up at my face and shook her head. “What in holy-hell were you thinking when you lied to Detective Adair?”
I had asked myself the same thing several times. I hesitated before answering, but said, “Technically I didn’t lie. I did want to know more about reverse mortgages.”
Cindy tapped her polished shoes on the deck and took a deep breath. “Did you talk to him about the mortgages?”
“No.”
She smacked her fist on the side of the building. “Have you talked to Detective Adair since we were in his car?”
“No.”
“You never told him that Larry had asked you to talk to Abe, or that Larry knew the con artist.”
“No. I didn’t lie about it. I just didn’t bring it up.” I knew it was a pathetic argument as I said it.
She gritted her teeth, her fists were clinched. “Damn it. Why not?”
I glanced at our table and Charles was motioning for me to “invite” him over. I ignored his gyrations. Cindy was angry and I didn’t need Charles to either defend me or take Cindy’s side.
I turned back to the chief. “Because it would have implicated your husband.”
Cindy blinked, started to speak, and then looked away from me and toward the water. I waited and she turned back toward me. “Are you serious? Do you think Larry killed Pottinger?”
“Do you?”
“No.” Her fists were still clinched and she shook her head. “You think he did, don’t you?”
“Cindy, I don’t think so. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you. He’s been up front with me about everything, and we’ve been together in tight situations. He’s helped me out of a jam or two, and has even used his pre-going-straight skills to help me catch a killer. I also know he was awfully mad at Abe and worried that your career and reputation would be hurt if Abe carried through with his threat.”
“I thought I knew you better than that, Chris. There’s no way. No way.”
“You do know me that well, Cindy, but leave me out of it for a minute. Look at it like this. Does Larry have an alibi? You were working when Abe was shot.”
“Yes, but—”
“Hold it,” I interrupted. “Would he have
known how to use a rifle? Could he have hit Abe from across the street?”
Cindy looked down at the pier and mumbled, “He used to hunt deer, but … but you know he wouldn’t—”
I put my palm up to her face. “Cindy, I may know that he wouldn’t have done it, but I still have doubts. How would this sound to a detective who doesn’t know either of you? Larry had motive, a good one. He has no alibi. And as a hunter, he knew his way around guns, so he would have means.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“I’m not saying he did, but think about it. You’re a cop. What would you do if faced with a situation like this?”
“I don’t have to think about anything.” She glared at me. “Larry had nothing to do with the murder, and I damned well don’t appreciate it that you even think that he might have. Thanks a hell of a lot, friend.”
She turned and jogged off the deck.
I gazed out over the water, and listened to Jerry Crosby sing, “Help Me Make It Through the Night.”
I took a minute to calm down before returning to the table. I’d had a few minor disagreements with Cindy over the years, but nothing approached tonight’s outburst. She saw it as an attack on Larry, and to be honest, it may have been. I had doubts about his innocence, and if Cindy looked at it objectively, she would have questions. I leaned over the railing and looked at the black water below and then closed my eyes and tried to visualize the person hurrying away from the fence at the tennis court. Could it have been Larry? I had nothing to help me judge the person’s height, but my first reaction was the person wasn’t tall, so yes, it could have been him, then again it could also have been countless other people.
Heather was mouthing the lyrics to “Me and Bobby McGee” as Jerry sang it from the bandstand, Charles’s arm was draped over her shoulder, and the others at the table were enjoying the fine weather, friends, and music. I was miserable.
I returned to the table but instead of sitting, I said, “Ready to go?”
Heather looked at Charles and he looked up at me and at his wrist. “There’s an hour to go. Why—”
I interrupted, “I’ll walk home and get the car from your apartment in the morning.” The last place I wanted to be was around a bunch of people having a good time. I grabbed my keys and tossed them to Charles. I headed for the road and home.
I hadn’t walked more than a few hundred yards when my car pulled off the road in front of me.
Charles opened the driver’s door and yelled. “Old people shouldn’t be walking that far. Get in.”
I started to argue and tell him to go back to the party, but decided that it would have been to no avail and instead climbed in the back seat.
Charles said that it was getting too cold to stay at the party. It wasn’t. He said that Heather was getting tired of the music. Impossible. And as he pulled up in front of her apartment, he said that it was looking like rain and they decided to leave before a downpour arrived. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
“So, what in the pluff-mud’s going on?” Charles had returned to the car after walking Heather to the door. I had moved to the seat that Heather had vacated.
I told him about my discussion—argument—with Cindy.
“What did you expect? You were accusing her hubby of murder. That’d piss anyone off.”
“I understand, but I wanted her to look at it from an outsider’s perspective.”
“Did you miss the part about Larry being her hubby?”
We were still in the gravel lot in front of Heather’s building.
I hated it when Charles was right. “Probably.”
Charles looked at the building and then at me. “You think he could’ve done it, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Charles mumbled.
“I don’t want to believe it. My heart says he didn’t. I know Larry fairly well, but I know that if given enough motivation people are capable of things that would never enter their mind. Larry’s protective of Cindy and he saw Abe’s threats as an attack on her.”
I looked over at Charles. Miraculously, he remained silent.
“There’s more,” I said. “I know why I didn’t tell Detective Adair about my reason for meeting with Abe, but now what do I do?”
“You wanted to protect your friends. I would have done the same.”
“But now what? Cindy was angry because I didn’t tell him. But if I tell him, it’ll put Larry at the top of the suspect list.”
“What if he did it?”
A sharp pain developed behind my eyes, my legs felt heavy, and I wondered why I had moved to Folly. “Then he should be arrested,” I whispered.
“Even if Abe was a con artist, blackmailing son-of-a-scorpion?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Charles said. “Let’s don’t get the caboose before the engine. Let’s say Larry was sitting in his house figuring how many toilet seats to order when the blackmailer became dead. Who pulled the trigger?”
“If Larry’s right about Abe not changing his spots, there could be several people he’s either ripped-off or tried to rip off before he ever crossed the Folly River. Even members of .5 could have motive. We don’t know if any of them have already fallen for his reverse mortgage scheme or if Theo has invested his significant wealth in something that Abe was pushing. In addition to club members, there could be others here who feel that he took advantage of them.”
“Wouldn’t we have heard if any of the .5 group felt that he ripped them off?” Charles said.
“Probably. Those folks don’t hesitate to gripe.”
“And gripe, and gripe, and gripe.”
I smiled, for the first time in hours.
“But,” Charles continued, “would that be enough reason for one of them to shoot him?”
I nodded. “What are the two most common reasons people are murdered?”
“Love or money,” Charles said without hesitation.
I nodded again.
“Same reasons people get married,” Charles added. “Doubt Abe would have been killed for love; who could love that viper?” He hesitated and then tapped the steering wheel. “Hmm, money, yeah. But doesn’t that bring us back to Larry. Fifty-thousand smackers is a hefty amount of motive.”
“And he’d be protecting the love of his life—love and money.”
“Chris, you know how to ruin a perfectly nice evening.”
We left the parking lot and drove the short distance to Charles’s apartment. I realized that tomorrow the—our—walking group would be making another mini-excursion, and told him that instead of opening the gallery, I’d meet him at the pier.
“Good. Then we can ask which one shot Abe.”
On my way home, I decided that Charles’s direct approach would be unwise, and unproductive, but did start thinking about the possibility that one of the .5 members did it. Was it wishful thinking to get Larry off the hook? And what should I do about telling Detective Adair the truth about my fateful trip to Abe’s house? My head continued to hurt and sleep waited until three o’clock to arrive.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I met Charles at the foot of the Folly Pier. The morning was cool and there were already a dozen cars in the lot, and four men nodded to us as they pulled their fishing carts to the pier’s ramp. Charles was decked out in a long-sleeve, UNLV scarlet and gray T-shirt, gray cargo shorts, gray tennis shoes, canvas Tilley, and his cane.
“A gray day?” I said.
“Semi-mourning for Abe. Thought the group would appreciate it, but couldn’t quite go for black since he was a lying, cheating, blackmailing sleaze ball.”
I must have thought even less of Abe since I had on an orange polo shirt, unadorned with any marketing logos, my usual tan shorts, and Tilley; nothing gray except my mood.
“So,” said Charles, “now that you won’t let me ask the group who wiped out one of their members, what’s our plan?”
“Charles, you claim to be the detective, what do you think we shoul
d do?”
“Other than asking who did it?”
I nodded.
“Hmm,” He rubbed his chin. “Got it. A friend of mine, who happens to be standing in front of me, had been known to say, ‘You learn more from listening than you do by talking.’ I think he meant that we already know everything we say, but can learn from the other person.”
I nodded again. “Good. You do listen at times.”
“What?”
Charles had managed to get me to smile; the first of the day. I hoped not the last.
“What are we listening for?” he asked.
“Anything out of the norm.”
He turned and watched Chester’s Grand Marquis inch its way into the lot followed by Cal’s classic 1971 Cadillac Eldorado. “With that group, we need to listen for something that sounds normal.”
Harriet hopped out of the land yacht followed by David Darnell, Connie, and Theo. Chester slowly pulled himself out of the driver’s seat by holding on to the door.
Chester watched Cal and William exit the Cadillac. “Those two beansprouts said there weren’t enough cubic feet left in my car so they caravanned with us.”
Cal tipped his sweat-stained Stetson toward Charles and me. In addition to a Stetson, Cal wore bright-red, shiny jogging shorts, a black T-shirt with Amarillo by Morning in silver script on the front, and his cowboy boots that had to be as old as his Stetson, which dated to the 1970s. I smiled and thought about Charles’ comment about normal.
He also had a black ribbon tied around his upper arm, a ribbon identical to those worn by the other recent arrivals. Normal?
Chester held out two ribbons. “Let me tie these on you. I thought since we lost Abe, we should honor his memory and mourn the loss. He was a valued member of .5 and the first of our close-knit group to leave us.”