The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  She must have pointed toward the kitchen. Cal and Charles nodded when she told the detectives where she was.

  “When did you leave the Bluebird?” Lawrence asked.

  “Let’s see, it was going on nine o’clock. Why?”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Oh yeah, I hitched up with one of my singing buddies and came downtown for a couple of brews. We were celebrating our performances.”

  Rogers asked, “Who was your singing buddy?”

  Heather told them Jessica Sayre, the detectives had her spell it, and asked where they went. Heather gave them the name of a lower Broadway bar.

  “What time did you leave the bar?”

  “Ten-thirty or so. Jess got a call and said she had to meet up with someone, her boyfriend. I’m guessing it was him; she didn’t tell me.”

  “Then where’d you go?”

  “Why?”

  Rogers said, “Answer, please.”

  “Okay, okay. I was still hyped from singing and walked around downtown a couple of hours or so. Not certain exactly how long. Everyone was asleep when I got back here.”

  “Anybody see you during that time?”

  “Why sure. There were a bunch of people out and about.”

  Lawrence said, “Anybody who was able to vouch for where you were?”

  There was a long pause before Heather said, “Don’t reckon. I didn’t talk to anyone. I stopped in a couple of the bars but spent most of the time walking around. I love this city, don’t you?”

  Lawrence asked, “Do you know Kevin Starr?”

  “Sure. He’s my agent.”

  “Did you see him Monday night?”

  “No sir. He was supposed to be at my performance but didn’t show. Are you looking for him too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Me and my friends went out to his house yesterday looking for him. Talked to Sandy, that’s his wife, a cute little gal. Did you know she’s a blacksmith? Can you believe that? Sandy said he’d been gone for a few days and didn’t know where he was. Guess she told you. Whew, I’m glad y’all are looking for him.”

  There were a few seconds of silence and finally Rogers said, “When was the last time you saw Mr. Starr?”

  “Must’ve been a week. Met him at Starbucks.”

  “You haven’t seen him since?” Rogers said.

  Charles was tapping his fingers on the table, Cal was leaning toward the door to hear everything, and I was getting a bad feeling.

  “No sir. Any good leads on where he’s gone to?”

  “Your friends in there were with you at the Bluebird but not later, and they were with you at Mr. Starr’s house yesterday?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  A few seconds later, Detective Lawrence stepped in the kitchen and asked us to join him in the living room. There was only room for one of us to sit so Charles and I deferred to age and motioned for Cal to take the chair. Lawrence waited for us to get situated and asked about Monday night, rehashing all the details he had covered with Heather. We acted like we hadn’t heard their conversation and acted surprised by the questions. He asked about out trip to Starr’s house. Charles did most of the talking and talked way more than the detectives wanted to hear about the kiln, the building behind the house, and Sandy’s clients. Heather interrupted once to tell Charles to make sure he tells about the hotdog stand.

  Detective Lawrence maintained eye contact but his partner kept looking around the room and appeared like he would be happier being somewhere else. Charles’s trivia-infused conversations can have that effect on people.

  “One more question,” Lawrence said after Charles paused for a breath. “Whose idea was it to go to Starr’s house?”

  Strange, I thought, and turned to Charles who told the detectives it was his idea.

  Cal pointed at the lead detective. “Now, Mr. Detective, I think we’ve answered all your questions. How about answering one for us?”

  “What?”

  “Where do you think Starr’s gone? Seems strange his wife didn’t know.”

  Lawrence glanced over at his partner and turned back to Cal. “I’m afraid he didn’t go anywhere. Mr. Starr’s dead.”

  “Oh, my God!” Heather shrieked. She started to stand and fell back on the couch.

  “When? What happened?” I asked. “Car accident?”

  “Afraid not, sir,” Lawrence said. “Mr. Starr was murdered.”

  “Oh, my God!” Heather repeated.

  The detectives stood and Lawrence handed Heather his card. “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, please call. And, please don’t leave town.”

  Heather took the card and tilted her head toward Lawrence. “Am I a—”

  Lawrence cut her off. “Again, thank you for your time.”

  And they were gone, sucking all the air out of the room with them.

  10

  “Oh, my God,” Heather repeated for the tenth time after the detectives ruined our morning. “Do they think I had something to do with…with his murder?” she asked no one in particular.

  From the line of questioning she was without doubt a suspect, if not the prime suspect. Instead of reminding her of the obvious, I said they were talking to anyone who had a connection to Starr, and that had to be many people.

  “Especially if he was a con man,” Cal added.

  A tear rolled down Heather’s cheek. “But he was my agent. He was going to make me a star. He was going to … now he’s dead.”

  It was clear Mr. Starr had met his demise sometime Monday evening after Heather had left the Bluebird with Jessica. Since his wife didn’t know anything about it during our visit, he must not have been found until yesterday. His death could have been mentioned in today’s paper, on television, or the radio.

  “Charles, where can I get a newspaper?”

  He thought there was a stand by the coffee shop in the next block, and I asked if anyone wanted to go with me. My question was met with blank stares.

  I found the stand and grabbed a paper. A perusal of the Local section of the Tennessean made me realize we were probably the only people in town who didn’t know about Kevin Starr’s demise. The headline read: “Music Executive Murdered.” I skimmed the article before taking it back to the apartment where I knew I’d be battling the others over it. The article revealed Starr was found yesterday morning in an industrial trash dumpster a block east of lower Broadway, no more than three blocks from the apartment. The body was found through luck and a habit of the worker emptying the dumpster. The truck driver said he had seen a television story a couple of years ago where a body was found in a dumpster. Since then, he’d been careful to watch the contents of the dumpsters he’d emptied into his truck. He said he couldn’t live knowing he may have dumped someone without knowing it. The reporter speculated if it wasn’t for an obsessed employee, Mr. Starr would have never been found. The article went on to tell about Starr’s business and his wife and three children. My stomach sank when the article said the coroner revealed his death was caused by a gunshot wound and placed the time of death between late Monday evening and Tuesday sunrise. Much of that time Heather was with Jessica or walking around Nashville by herself. She'd told the detectives that she’d not been seen by anyone who would remember her.

  All eyes were glued to the paper when I entered the apartment. I folded it so the article was on top and dropped it on the table. Cal, Charles, and Heather surrounded the table and started reading.

  A couple of profanities later, and Cal saying something about excrement hitting a fan, Heather said, “I feel terrible about poor Sandy and those three chillins. What’ll they do?”

  Charles reassured her the Starr family would be okay, Cal said being stuffed in a dumpster was a terrible way to leave this world, and I wondered if everyone in the room—particularly Heather—realized the aspiring singer could be the prime suspect. A suspect with motive and no alibi.

  Heather moved to the living room and ploppe
d down on the couch and Charles sat beside her. Cal stayed in the kitchen and continued reading, and I moved to the window and stared at the parking lot three floors below. Charles had his arm around Heather and I heard him saying she hadn’t done anything wrong and had nothing to fear from the police. I had known the psychic/massage therapist/country crooner since the day she and Charles had met seven years ago. She was as quirky as a one-armed, albino, one-man-band, as friendly as an Irish setter, and from everything I had seen, as harmless as a lady bug.

  Then again, there had been a marked change in her demeanor since she’d arrived in Nashville. She was moody, shown an explosive temper I hadn’t seen before, and while she masked it in front of Cal and me, was irate at Kevin Starr. Was she capable of putting a bullet in him and stuffing him in a dumpster? Capable, I suppose; likely, I honestly didn’t know. What I did know was Charles was in no position to assure her she had nothing to worry about.

  Cal was still in the kitchen when Heather grabbed Charles’s phone and punched in some numbers. She waited a few seconds, and rolled her eyes, “Gwen, this is Heather. Listen, some cops just left. Did you hear someone killed our agent? Umm, there’s more, call me when you get this.”

  She slammed the phone on the table. “Danged answering machines. The devil’s gift to people who want to irritate other people.”

  Charles said, “You’ve got that right, sweetie.”

  She went in the bedroom, returned with a scrap piece of paper, and called the number on it.

  “Hey, Jess, this is Heather … yeah. Did you hear about Kevin Starr?” There was a long pause and Heather flopped down on the couch. “Yeah, okay, the cops were here and said it happened after we left the Bluebird.” Another pause. “Yes, it could have been after we split. Where did you say you were going after I left you?” A longer pause. “Oh, that’s too bad. Seen him since then?” This time a shorter pause. “Sorry. What’d the cops ask?” A long pause. “Me too. Wasn’t it scary when they told you not to leave town?” By now Charles was pointing to the phone and imitating someone talking into a megaphone; Charles-speak for put it on speaker. Heather ignored him. “They didn’t.” Another pause. “Oh, okay, talk to ya later.”

  She ended the call and flipped the phone in Charles’s lap. “Shit.”

  I wasn’t a psychic like Heather. I had heard enough to figure out Jessie had already talked to the police and was warned to not leave town. Not a good sign. I also didn’t know what her alibi was, since from what I’d heard earlier, she was as unhappy with Starr as Heather was.

  I asked, “Where did she say she went after you parted company?”

  “Her boyfriend called and asked her to meet him at the Wildhorse Saloon but he wasn’t there when she got there. Said she didn’t wait and went home.”

  Charles said, “Isn’t it weird he calls and asks her to meet him and doesn’t show?”

  “Not really. Her fella’s kind of erratic. I think she ought to dump him.” She sighed. “You know how blind love is.”

  If he wasn’t there, I wondered what Jessica’s alibi was for the time Starr was killed. “She live by herself?”

  “She’s got a cat. Cute little calico named Kitty.”

  I doubted her cat would be much of an alibi. “Anybody live with her?”

  “Nah.”

  On the surface, Jessica would have had as much reason to kill Starr as Heather had. What if the call she received was from Starr and not her boyfriend and she left Heather to meet the agent?

  Cal asked, “Was the Jessica gal pissed enough at Starr to shoot him?”

  Heather bowed her head and tapped her foot on the floor. She whispered, “Don’t know, she was pretty angry. He was about all we talked about the other night. Could have, I suppose.”

  If that’s the case, I wondered why the police hadn’t told her not to leave town. Or did they?

  My phone rang.

  “Good morning, Brother Chris. Is this a bad time?”

  The reference to Brother Chris and the polite way he asked if it was a bad time, told me it was Preacher Burl. I lied and said it was a good time.

  “Good. Is Brother Cal in the vicinity? I’d like to speak with him.”

  I said he was five feet away and started to hand him the phone. Burl said I could listen if I wanted to, and he joked he wasn’t going to say anything horrible about me. I tapped the speaker icon and told Burl that Cal was listening. So was nosy Charles, but I didn’t mention that.

  Cal said, “Hey, Preacher Burl. Is everything okay at the bar?”

  “Fine. I tried your number—”

  “Dead battery; forgot to charge it. Sorry. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s busy. I—”

  Cal held up his hand, and interrupted, “Not trying to convert my pickled patrons, are you?”

  “Heavens no,” Burl said, with an emphasis on heavens. “Everyone in last night said they were coming to the service Sunday and starting a choir. I think it was because they were reading the Bibles I put on each table, or maybe because I switched out all your old country songs in the jukebox with hymns.”

  “What?” Cal shouted.

  I covered a smile with my palm.

  “Kidding, Brother Cal. Preachers can have a sense of humor.”

  “Thank Go—goodness. You made my heart upchuck.”

  “Yes. Your customers don’t have to listen to hymns. I turn the jukebox off during each evening’s prayer meeting.”

  “Amen,” Charles said.

  “Hi, Brother Charles,” Burl said. “I figured you'd be nearby. Is Sister Heather there as well?”

  “I’m here.” She smiled for the first time this morning.

  Cal said, “Preacher Burl, you didn’t call to stop my heart, did you?”

  The preacher chuckled. “No, but doing so brought a touch of joy to my soul.”

  “Well?” Cal said.

  “Brother Caldwell was in last night and wanted to know when you will be returning.”

  Caldwell Ramsey was my friend Mel Evan’s significant other. I had known Mel, the owner of Mad Mel’s Magical Marsh Machine, a marsh tour boat, for several years. He was a retired marine who found a niche in the tour business by taking groups of college students on excursions with the objective of his customers hiding out in the marsh and consuming alcoholic beverages. I didn’t know Caldwell as well as I did Mel, but he seemed like a great person, somehow put up with Mel’s rough edges, which encompassed most of his edges, and was a concert promoter in Charleston who worked with small venues and lesser-known bands.

  Cal said, “Not certain when I’ll be back. What’s Caldwell want?”

  “He didn’t give me details but it has something to do with someone wanting to convert a failing bar to a country music location. Brother Caldwell said he wants to pick your brain about what would work best.”

  Cal said, “Hope the bar ain’t on Folly.”

  “It’s in Charleston. I don’t picture it interfering with my nightly prayer meetings in Cal’s.”

  “Funny. Tell him I don’t know when I’ll be back. It’ll be in a few days, and I’ll call him when I get there, and after I run the Holy Spirit out of Cal’s.”

  “Funny,” Burl said, with more enthusiasm than Cal had. “One more thing. This bartending, cleaning, opening and closing, and using my limited bouncer skills are taking a toll on this old, chubby body. The sooner you return the better.”

  “I’m working on it Preacher.”

  “Much obliged. I’ll pray for your safe return during tonight’s free beer and preaching at Cal’s.”

  He ended the call, but it didn’t stop Cal from mumbling, “Funny.”

  11

  I woke the next morning to Cal strumming his much-travelled guitar and singing, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” I yawned, opened the door and looked around the living room and only saw Cal. Heather and Charles’s door was closed. Cal stopped strumming and asked if his singing was the reason I was up. I said no and asked if anyone else was mov
ing around. The country crooner reported Heather was “sawing logs” and her Chuckie was “strollin’ around Music City.”

  Cal looked at the closed bedroom door and waved for me to join him on the couch. “I do my best thinking when I’m singing songs that I’ve sung a few thousand times. My mind wanders out past the words to where they don’t get in the way.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  He glanced again at the bedroom door and leaned closer to me. “Think Heather’s in a cow pie field full of trouble.”

  Cal must be as psychic as Heather, and I wondered why it took singing to figure out she was in trouble. I also wondered what he was referring to, so I asked.

  Cal leaned his guitar against the couch. “Let’s see, first, she’s got a pent-up load of anger at that so-called agent. Second, she thinks he ripped her off on the demo and the stupid-ass PR package. Third, out of all the nights she’s finagled her way to the stage at the Bluebird, he’s managed to show up zero times. And cripes, it almost slipped my mind, fourth, two cops showed up giving her the third degree.” He looked at her door, lowered his head. “Chris, her alibi’s holds as much water as a tennis racket.”

  “You think she killed him?”

  “Don’t matter a termite turd what I think. I ain’t the police, judge, or jury.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “Don’t seem like Heather, but these old bloodshot eyes have seen stranger things. Tell you what I do know.”

  He paused. I figured I wouldn’t have to ask.

  “We’ve been here going on a week and I can’t continue to impose on the good preacher to keep running the bar. I need to mosey back.”

  I hated to leave Charles with everything going on, but couldn’t think of anything I could do to help. I offered to head home today if Cal was ready. He told me I didn’t need to go and he could take a bus or hitchhike. I told him those were two of the dumbest ideas I’d heard from him, and said we’d leave once Charles returned and we could say bye to Heather.