The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  He strummed and sang, “Thaaaank you.”

  Charles returned an hour later and said he loved the sweet aroma of stale beer along the sidewalks of Broadway. Heather made her appearance and I nearly saluted her in her patriotic gown. I shared that Cal needed to get home and I was taking him. Charles and Heather protested, yet I could hear relief in their voices. The apartment was barely large enough for the two of them, and houseguests, regardless how much we tried to stay out of the way, got old fast. Heather said she had another headache and said goodbye from the apartment and Charles walked us to the car.

  Cal and I were on the Interstate headed to Folly by ten o’clock and pulled on the island a little before nine that evening. Burl had called for Cal when we were two hours out and said Mel and Caldwell were at the bar and since we were close, they’d wait for us. Cal would rather have gone home, but didn’t want to disappoint Caldwell.

  “Hallelujah, praise the Lord, I’m free at last!” Preacher Burl exclaimed as Cal and I entered Cal’s.

  I thought he was going to break into the chorus of Handel's Messiah. Instead, he rushed out from behind the bar and hugged Cal so tightly it knocked off his Stetson off. Cal and Burl exchanged a couple more pleasantries and Burl asked how Charles and Heather were. Cal told him about Kevin Starr’s death and the visit by the police.

  “Oh my.” Burl’s grin became a frown. “Why would the officials think she could have had anything to do with his graduation from this earth?”

  Cal gave a vague answer and it appeared to alleviate the preacher’s fear. Cal didn’t get in a discussion about Heather’s lack of an alibi and how angry she had been with the agent.

  The conversation was interrupted by a growl and “Umm” from someone who had moved behind Cal. If I hadn’t seen who it was, I still would've recognized the abrupt, rude interruption as coming from Mel Evans. The six-foot-one, bald, former marine wore a leather bomber jacket with its sleeves cut off even though it was in the eighties outside, camo field pants with the legs cut off below the knees, and a snarl designed to intimidate. I knew him well, so his expression was wasted on me.

  Cal turned, smiled, and said, “MM, how in grouchy-world are you?”

  “It’s about damn time you got your sorry country ass back.”

  Cal opened his mouth to respond, when Caldwell Ramsey, who had been standing beside the former marine pushed him aside. “Give the man a break, Mel. He’s been on the road all day.” He turned to Cal. “Welcome back. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “For hours,” Mel interjected.

  Cal ignored Mel, “Thanks Caldwell, it’s been a long day.”

  Caldwell was three inches taller than his partner, was several years younger, and looked in as good a condition that he had been in when he played basketball for Clemson in the 80s. Mel had described their relationship as the twenty-first century version of the odd couple. In addition to being gay, Caldwell was African-American, polite, and didn’t treat everyone he met with disdain, one of Mel’s less popular but often displayed traits.

  “Let me buy you and Chris a beer,” Caldwell said. He twisted around and looked at bartender Burl, pointed at an empty beer bottle, and turned back to Cal. “There’s something I’d like your advice on.”

  Burl said, “Go ahead, I’ll get your drinks. Might as well finish my shift.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t want my boss to think I’m slacking off.”

  Cal tipped his hat to Burl and pointed to the ceiling. “Don’t know about your boss up there, this one appreciates it. Much obliged, my holy friend.”

  Curiosity prevented me from wishing them well and heading home to a familiar bed. I joined the group at the table; one of only three with occupants. It wasn’t a hymn coming from the jukebox, but close, as Johnny Cash sang “Sunday Morning Coming Down.”

  We settled around the table, Mel brought Cal and my drinks, and what appeared to be the fourth round for Mel and the second for Caldwell.

  Cal turned to Caldwell. “What can I do for you, pard?”

  Caldwell stretched his long legs out beside the table. “Need to pick your brain.”

  “May need a shovel to find anything in it tonight.”

  “I’ve got a client who has a bar on Folly Road near Savannah Highway. Name’s SHADES. The owner’s done well with it. I’ve worked with her the last year or so finding entertainment on the weekend. The bands have been good; the crowds not so good. Most of the bands have leaned toward pop, occasional hard rock, some alternative rock. She’s wanting to shake things up, completely remodel both the inside and the outside, and repackage the place.”

  “Don’t blame her,” Cal said. “That music can cause brain cancer and retardation.”

  Caldwell smiled. “Figured you’d say something like that. She has this bee in her bonnet and wants to switch to country. She thinks she could get it kick-started by having open-mic nights one or two nights a week, and bring in better-known country acts on weekends.”

  “She have the dough to do it?” Cal asked.

  “Money’s not the problem.”

  “What do you need from me?” Cal waved his hand around the room. “Don’t think I’m the person to be asking about interior design.”

  Caldwell chuckled. “She has a designer to take care of the looks, and I can handle the acts, it’s what I do. When it comes to open-mic events, I’m a fish out of water.”

  “I’m still confused,” Cal said. “What’s there to know about open-mic nights. Tell her anyone can show up, sing, and sit down.”

  “She’s heard about places that have those kinds of nights and only terrible singers show up. It ends up like karaoke rather than a good draw. She wants an event that pulls audiences; not just relatives and friends of the singers. She’s hoping to attract others who want to hear good music.”

  “And drink,” Cal said.

  “And drink. If she’s available, can you meet me there tomorrow night so we can talk to her and see what she needs. Country’s not my strong suit.”

  Cal turned to me. “Will you go?”

  It wouldn’t have been at the top of my priority list. Cal had spent a week with me, so it was the least I could do. I nodded.

  Cal asked, “What time?”

  Caldwell told him and Cal went to the bar to ask Burl if he could cover a few more hours. The preacher agreed and Cal said his brain, or what’s left of it, and his broken-down body would be there.

  Mel said, “Now can we get out of here?” He pointed to the jukebox where George Jones was sharing the downside of whiskey. “This country music moaning-and-groaning crap’s giving me heartburn.”

  I got home a little after eleven. Other than a week’s worth of dust and a temperature higher than I would have preferred because I had turned the A/C off before leaving, everything looked the same. I thought how soothing it would have been if an enthusiastic canine greeted me with a lick on my face, or a warm female body receiving me with an even more enthusiastic kiss. It was not to be. I loved most animals, while the selfish part of me couldn’t handle their care and feeding. I lavished my animal appreciation on other people's pets.

  The warm female issue was more complicated. I had been-there, done-that with a wife, but it was many years ago. Since I had been on Folly, I had been in three relationships not counting a few dates with Amber, none of which had approached fiancé level. I had dated Karen Lawson, a former detective with the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office and daughter of Folly’s mayor, Brian Newman, for four years before she took a high-paying position handling corporate security for a company headquartered in Charlotte. I had shared a few meals with her when she was back in Charleston working with one of the company’s satellite offices, until we both had realized a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work. Yes, I could have moved to Charlotte, but hadn’t. That decision could have been one of the worst I’d ever made—or not.

  Since Karen’s been gone, I’d had three dinner dates with Barbara Deanelli, owner of Barb’s Books which was in the space that ha
d been my photo gallery for several years. Barb was close to my age, had spent much of her life as a practicing attorney in Pennsylvania, and because of illegal activities on the part of her ex-husband, she had given up law and moved to be closer to her half-brother, Dude Sloan, a good friend of mine and owner of Folly’s surf shop. Barb was fun to be with, intelligent, and easy on the eyes. I didn’t know where our relationship was headed, and neither of us appeared in a hurry to move it along.

  With that said, it would have been nice to know someone was glad I was home. After a glass of chardonnay, I realized I had no business feeling sorry for myself. I had good friends on Folly and despite its shortcomings, I considered this island my heaven on earth. Besides, I was in a much better place, physically and emotionally, than Charles and Heather, Kevin Starr, and his wife and three children. I had much for which to be thankful.

  12

  After a twelve mile drive up Folly Road, Cal and I walked across a large parking lot to an attractive, stone building with a neon sign above the door that said SHADES with under it in script “Where you’re always cool.”

  Cal said, “Stupid name.”

  I didn’t think it was that bad. A handful of vehicles were in the lot.

  The deep, thumping sounds of a bass guitar, eardrum pounding drums, and a vocalist who sounded like a cross between a screeching owl and a roaring tiger with a sore throat greeted us before we reached the entry.

  Cal yelled, “Think this is the wrong place?”

  “No such luck,” I yelled and reached for the door. The handle vibrated in time with the “music.”

  Yellow and red strobe lights were doing their thing in time with the blaring sounds from refrigerator-sized speakers. Three couples were gyrating in time to the lights and music. To these old eyes, they seemed to be in excruciating pain or being attacked by killer bees. I assumed they were having a good time. The interior décor was as opposite to Cal’s Country Bar and Burgers as a hummingbird to a Ferris wheel. The only similarity was the approximate number of customers. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen people in the bar, and that included Cal and me.

  Caldwell was standing beside the shiny, black and red-trimmed aluminum bar talking to a woman I figured to be the owner. She was tall, although a few inches shorter than Caldwell, trim, with curly-brown hair and appeared to be in her late thirties. The music promoter saw us and waved us over. Cal and I skirted the dance-floor and moved close to the two. Caldwell started to introduce us when the woman pointed to a door behind the bar and motioned for us to follow. She didn’t have to ask twice since anywhere but this sound chamber on steroids would be an improvement.

  We followed her to an office that would have been the envy of many CEOs.

  “Room’s soundproofed,” she said and closed the door. They were the first words she said that I understood. “Only thing that keeps me sane. Excuse my rudeness, I’m Olivia Anderson, owner of this cornucopia of blaring bands.”

  Cal said, “If that means ear-splitting loud, I agree.” He stuck a finger in each ear.

  Olivia laughed. “You must be Cal. I looked you up on the Internet and saw where you had a hit or two a while back.”

  Cal tipped his Stetson. “That would be one hit, and it was probably before you were hatched.”

  “Maybe.”

  Cal told her who I was and she said something like it was nice to meet me. I had never had a hit record so she didn’t seem to care about me one way or the other.

  In the better light, I would guess her age to be older than I first thought. She looked more like a corporate executive than a bar owner. Her light-gray suit looked tailored, she wore expensive shoes, and her wrists must think God created them to hold bracelets. She had four, wide, gold bracelets on her left arm and three on her right wrist. On her left ring finger, a diamond sparkled, and if real, she should have an armed escort following her around.

  She offered whatever we wanted from the bar and we declined. Her finely-appointed office had more chairs than I had in my house and we moved to the grouping on the far side of the room. Olivia excused herself to get a drink and I looked around the walls at the multiple photos of Olivia with a variety of people who I probably would have recognized if my musical tastes hadn’t stagnated three decades ago. I was also drawn to two framed diplomas beside her large mahogany desk; both from Wake Forest University.

  Olivia returned carrying a tumbler nearly overflowing with an amber liquid. “Don’t mind if I drink, do you?”

  Caldwell and I shook our heads. Cal said, “We’re in a bar.”

  “Demon Deacons,” I said and nodded toward the diplomas. I thanked Charles for that bit of trivia I’d learned from one of his college T-shirts.

  She glanced at the diplomas. “Wake Forest. Best years of my life; worst years of my life. Got a degree in Latin and one in English. Means I couldn’t get a job using either one of them, but I could read all the words on a dollar bill.” She laughed at what I suspected was the often-told joke.

  Caldwell laughed with her. He was here to get her business.

  The name on the diplomas was Mona O. Alliendre, probably her maiden name.

  “Gentlemen, why don't we get down to why you’re here. Let me give you some background. Caldwell knows most of this.”

  Her husband opened SHADES four years ago. He had been a successful businessman and wanted to “diversify his assets.” He was a few years older than Olivia, and wasn’t a fan of the hard-rock music the bar was known for, yet he was smart enough to know it was hot at the time. He died of a brain aneurism two years ago, and she was in a funk for the next year and walked through the motions without giving thought to changing anything.

  Cal said, “Sorry to hear about your husband.”

  “Thank you.” She paused and took a sip. “Sure you don’t want anything?”

  The room was soundproofed yet the thumping bass could be felt in the office. The sweet smell of a citrus candle on a mahogany credenza permeated the space. I thought how pleasant it smelled as compared to the stale beer and burgers aroma that greeted Cal’s patrons.

  We again declined.

  “About a year ago, Edwina Robinson, mentioned redoing the place to me. She’s one of the gals who sings here regularly and fills in when one of the other bands Caldwell books arrives late or is ‘under the weather’—high, in other words.”

  Caldwell shrugged. “Musicians.”

  “Edwina’s good,” Olivia continued. “She prefers country but can rock with the best of them. The gal’s going to make it big one of these days.”

  “Name sounds familiar,” Cal said. “She ever sing on Folly?”

  Olivia tilted her head toward Cal. “Don’t know. She could have. Edwina started talking to me about redoing the place, calming the music down, and going country.” She giggled. “As you can see from the crowd out there, a change couldn’t hurt.”

  Cal smiled. “Got it.”

  Olivia waited for him to say more. He didn’t. “I told Edwina it wasn’t a bad idea and started working with a consultant on the changes and the concepts. That didn’t work out, and Edwina said I should talk to Caldwell who suggested that since you were in the country bar business, he’d see if you’d share your opinion. If I can get it off the ground, I’d like to expand to other cities, and maybe to Knoxville, Nashville, and Atlanta.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m no expert on the business side.”

  Caldwell must not have told Olivia the only reason Cal now owned his bar was because he happened to be singing there when the man who owned it killed the co-owner, an action frowned on by the police. Cal took over by default and knew as much about the business end or running a bar as I did about the cholesterol level of a Jurassic dinosaur.

  “I have a handle on the business,” Olivia said. “Edwina said from what she’s seen that a good way to get the crowds in early on would be to have one or two open-mic nights during the week and let Caldwell get us well-known entertainment on weekends. Edwina said she’s played se
veral of them, not only here but in other states, and they pack the venue. She also said her agent told her it was the way to go. So, Cal, how do I get good singers to show up? I don’t want the ones who would be booed off the stage karaoke night. That won’t bring in the type of customers I’m looking for.”

  Cal nodded. “Don’t want the suckees.”

  Olivia took the final sip and grinned at him. “Couldn’t have said it better.”

  Caldwell leaned closer. “Olivia’s already scouted out a couple of open-mic venues in town.”

  The owner said, “I’ve been to the East Bay Meeting House where they have poetry and music and Parson Jack’s Cafe.”

  I hadn’t been to either. From what I knew of Cal’s approach, they were probably better and had fewer “suckees” than Cal’s attracted.

  “Tell you what, Olivia,” Caldwell said. “Let me work with Cal and I’ll get back with a plan.”

  My phone rang before I heard her response. The screen said it was Charles and I interrupted and said I had to take the call. Olivia said for me to go out the back door where I would have some privacy and not be blasted by the music.

  I would have been better off having the music burst my eardrums.

  13

  Charles screamed, “They took her!”

  It took a second to realize what he’d said. “Who took who?”

  “Cops. They took Heather. They just left. They got her. Gone, they—”

  “Slow down,” I interrupted. “Start at the beginning.”

  Charles was out of breath and struggled to breathe. I should have stayed in Nashville.

  “Give me a second. Let me sit.”

  I heard a chair scrape the floor and a calmer voice. “They came pounding on the door an hour ago. Same detectives. There were two uniformed cops with them and the older detective handed Heather a search warrant; told us it was for the apartment and the car. I hadn’t read all of it when they said for us to go downstairs while they searched the apartment.” He sighed. “Crap, they had one of the cops go with us. What’d they think, we were going to try to run? It’s horrible, Chris. Horrible.”