by Bill Noel
“It’s okay, Charles.” I realized it was not only a lie, but a terrible response to his pain. “Go slow. What happened next?”
“We weren’t down there a half hour. The cop got a call and escorted us back to the apartment. Chris, they tore the place apart. Our stuff was everywhere. They even flipped through my books and threw them on the floor. Thank God we don’t have much.”
“Then what?”
“They told us to stay in the apartment; left a cop at the door like we were going to, I don’t know what. They were gone a long time searching the car. Then the detectives came back with sour looks on their faces. The younger one stuck a clear plastic bag in Heather’s face. He stared at her and said, ‘Is this yours?’”
The pulsating rhythms of the sound system reverberated in the air. I waited for him to continue. After what seemed like an eternity, I said, “What was in it?”
“A gun.”
I was stunned. I’d never known Charles or Heather to have a firearm. Charles hated them and would’ve been shocked if he’d known it was in their car. “Where’d they get it?”
“It was a little thing. The detective said it was a twenty-two caliber Derringer. I’d never seen it before.”
“Was it in the car?”
“Said he found it under the registration papers in the glove box.” I heard the chair scooting around and Charles taking a drink.
“Did you know it was there?”
“No.” He paused. “Heather did.”
“Oh.”
“My honey looked at the gun, and said, ‘That’s mine.’”
The detectives stared at her. I nearly fell out of the chair. Chris, the cops hadn’t even asked before Heather said her friend Gwen sold it to her a few weeks back. Gwen told her she wasn’t in Kansas, or Folly, anymore and needed some girlie protection—it was her word, girlie. Gwen said it was more dangerous here in the big city and Heather needed something to keep her safe. Keep her safe. Now she’s in jail. How damned safe is that?”
“I’m sorry. Then what happened?”
“The older detective took a card out of his pocket and read Heather her rights, and said she was … she was under arrest for the murder of Kevin Starr. Said she’d be able to call an attorney once she was booked. They made her put her hands behind her back and slapped cuffs on her.” He hesitated. “Chris, they wouldn’t let me wipe the tears off her face before they hauled her away.”
My head began to throb in time with the music from the bar. “Charles, I’ll leave now and try to get there in the morning.”
“No. They said I could see her for a few minutes tomorrow. Let me talk to her before you come. You need to get some sleep anyway. Driving all night ain’t going to do Heather any good.”
I made him promise he’d call the second he left the jail.
I was better off not leaving for Nashville last night, but not much. I couldn’t have gotten more than three hours’ sleep, for worrying about my friend, wondering what Heather was doing with a gun, and if the gun was the murder weapon. If it was, had Heather pulled the trigger? I also wondered why the police had focused on Heather in the first place. I knew of a few, and there were probably more, people who were mad at the agent. Someone was angry enough to kill him. What had Heather done to merit a search of the apartment and the car? Did the police know ahead of time about the gun? I also knew none of these questions would be answered in the middle of the night.
By six, I had given up on sleep and shuffled to the kitchen and fired-up Mr. Coffee, filled a Roasted mug with steaming hot coffee, and moved to the screened-in front porch. I watched a steady stream of traffic head to work, both on-island and headed to Charleston. One of my secret pleasures since retiring had been watching people go to work. This morning it wasn’t the least bit pleasurable; it simply killed time waiting for Charles to call.
After three cups of coffee, a hundred or so cars passing the house, and a clock that read nine-thirty, the phone rang. Charles was calmer, but was again out of breath. I asked where he was and he said he had just left the jail and was sitting in the car. They only let him see Heather ten minutes. She looked like she hadn’t slept, and was as scared as he’d ever seen her. She’d told the detectives she didn’t think it was a good idea to talk to them without an attorney. They asked her if she had any money for a lawyer; she told them no, and they said a public defender would be assigned.
Charles hesitated. A large truck or bus moved past his car and he continued, “Chris, I have money I could give her. I don’t think it would be enough to get a good lawyer. I also hate to have her fate in the hands of a public defender. Some of them are good. How do I know hers will be? Chris, how do I know anything?” There was a long pause. “Didn’t even know she had a gun. What if it’s the one that killed him? What do I do?”
“Let me get with Sean Aker and see what he says. Maybe he knows someone over there, or is able to find out more about the public defender she’ll have.”
Sean Aker was one of four practicing attorneys on Folly. A few years back, he had been accused of killing his law partner and Charles and I had helped prove him innocent. He said he owed us big-time, and we’d withdrawn from that bank several times. He was also a friend.
It wasn’t yet ten o’clock and there was little chance he would be in. I called anyway. Marlene, his receptionist and only other employee in the one-lawyer office, answered and told me of course he wasn’t there. “Chris, haven’t you figured out after all these years, the boy doesn’t start thinking or doing legal work until afternoon?”
I knew that. “I also know he comes in early some days so he can get a peaceful mid-morning nap.”
Marlene laughed. “Yes, you do have him figured out. He’s not in his opulent office snoozing. I can tell you where he is if you need him.”
I told her that intel would be helpful.
“He’s at the Dog, probably thinking he will be having a peaceful breakfast, until you show up. Be sure and tell him I wasn’t going to tell where he was until you tortured me.”
I assured her I would and thanked her for ratting him out. I wasn’t in any mood to tease as much as I had, yet Marlene has a way of diffusing difficult clients who venture into Sean's office. She had brought a smile to my face, something I needed. Now I need to see if Sean can bring some advice to what had started as a terrible morning.
14
The Lost Dog Cafe was Folly’s most popular breakfast spot and hangout for several locals and a must-visit restaurant for the thousands of vacationers who wander the streets and beaches of the barrier island each year. I had eaten countless more meals there than I had in my kitchen and had met and talked to more locals and learned more about the character and characters of the island than anywhere else on Folly.
Most days I found an excuse to drive rather than walking the short distance. Today, with the temperature in low seventies, nary a raincloud within a hundred miles, and feeling a need to continue the walking I had started while visiting Nashville, I hoofed the ten-minute trek. It proved to be a wise choice. There wouldn’t have been a parking place near the restaurant and twenty people waited outside for a table.
Sean was at a table on the front patio. He spotted me heading his way, waved, and pointed to the empty chair across from him. I ignored the angry glare of two men in line and walked to the far end of the patio and opened the fence that led to Sean’s table.
“Marlene told you I was here, didn’t she?” said the thin, sickeningly handsome, and at age forty-six, sickeningly young attorney.
I nodded.
“Going to have to fire her.” He rolled his eyes. “Again.”
“She told me where you were. You invited me to the table.”
He pointed to my chair. “So, it’s my fault you’re here?”
I nodded again.
“Since I’m stuck with you, are you going to ruin my peaceful morning?”
Nod number three.
Before he asked how I was going to ruin his morning, Amber
appeared carrying a hot mug of coffee for me, and wearing her most endearing smile. Amber was five-foot-five, had long auburn hair tied in a pony-tail, and was a little older than Sean. She was one of the first people I’d met when I arrived on Folly and we had dated for a couple of years, and after that we’d remained friends. She was the best source of rumors, and occasional facts, on the island.
She turned her back to the glaring customers who were waiting for us to leave. “Hear you decided to become a country music star and went to visit Charles and Heather.”
I grinned. “For being such a good rumor collector, you were led astray with the star story. Yes, Cal and I were over there.”
“How’re they doing?”
This wasn’t the time and place to talk to Amber about Heather’s problem and said they were adjusting to their new home.
Amber shook her head. “Hate to hear it. I miss the crap out of him. It’s not the same without Charles clanking around with his cane, wearing those silly college T-shirts, and pestering me.”
I told her she was right—again.
“Next time you talk to him tell him to get his sorry rear end back where it belongs.”
She started to leave when Sean gently grabbed her arm and turned to me. “Is this visit going to have me doing work and not getting paid for it?”
I nodded. If the reason for my visit wasn’t so serious, this would be fun.
He let go of Amber. “Put my breakfast on his check.”
I stopped nodding as Amber headed inside.
“Spill it,” Sean said.
When he switched gears to lawyer mode, Sean was an excellent listener and was quick to assimilate what was being said. He didn’t interrupt as I gave him an abbreviated version of why Charles and Heather had moved to Nashville, the trip Cal and I had made to their new home, learning about Starr’s death, and the unsettling news that Heather had been arrested.”
Sean, like most everyone who lived or worked on Folly, knew Charles but had only met Heather a couple of times.
He shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me. How do you manage to turn a simple life of retirement into a constant stream of murder, mayhem, and madness?”
“It’s a gift.”
Sean sipped his coffee, stared at the real estate office across the street, discreetly glanced at the throng of people waiting for our table, and turned to me. “What can I do?”
“Do you know any attorneys in Nashville?”
Sean grinned. “Darnell G. Edelen, Esquire, the best criminal defense attorney in Music City. I know he’s the best because he tells me so each time I talk to him.”
“Could he help Heather? I doubt her court-appointed public defender will do the kind of job she may need.”
Sean took his phone out of his pocket and started scrolling through his contacts. “One way to find out. Darnell owes me.” He tapped in the number. A few seconds later, he said, “Mr. Edelen, please.” A short pause later. “No, but tell him his savior is calling.” Another brief pause. “Not that one. That savior wouldn’t call on the phone. Your boss will know who it is.” Sean took a sip and I heard mumbling on the phone. Sean blew at the phone, and said, “Hear the wind howling? I’m getting ready to jump and thought of you. Want to come over and step out of a plane with me?” Sean laughed. “Okay, your loss. I need a favor.”
Sean gave his friend a shorter version of what I had told him about Heather’s situation, and answered a few questions. “Need I remind you about Chattanooga?” One more pause. “Great, here’s my good friend Chris with details. Thanks, amigo.”
Sean handed me the phone and I introduced myself to Darnell.
“Sean taken you skydiving yet?”
I said, “No,” and thought it was a strange way to handle introductions.
He asked for Heather’s name, Charles’s name and phone number, name of the person she allegedly killed, and my number. He said he’d make a few calls and get with Charles. I thanked him and handed the phone to Sean who listened to something Darnell said, laughed, and ended the call.
“Sean, Heather can’t afford the best criminal defense attorney in Music City, even if he exaggerates.”
“Doesn’t have to. Won’t cost her a penny unless it goes to trial. If that happens, we’ll figure something out.”
I was stunned. “What’d you do, save his life?”
Sean smiled. “He thinks I did.”
“Want to explain?”
“We went to law school at Alabama. Couple of years back, we had a class reunion and some of our buddies decided we needed to celebrate by skydiving. It sounded like a great plan at two in the morning after a night of, shall I say, enjoying the liquid fruits of our success.”
I wasn’t surprised. Sean was an experienced skydiver as well as a scuba diver and surfer.
“I reserved a plane at a skydiving school a few miles from the hotel and when we got there, Darnell was a lima bean shade of green. I figured it was from overindulging the night before. By the time the plane reached jumping altitude of twelve thousand feet, he was petrified. If he could’ve curled up and died, he would have. The other guys were stuck on themselves and didn’t notice Darnell.” Sean took another sip.
“What happened?”
“I fiddled with his chute, acted serious, and said there was something wrong with the way it was packed and he shouldn’t jump. The other guys told him they were sorry he’d have to stay with the plane. Darnell told them he was disappointed. Lying’s a skill we learned in law school. The rest of us jumped and caught up with him on the ground.”
“He knew what you were doing?”
“When we met up after the jump, I was afraid he was going to kiss me; would’ve ruined my macho image in front of my classmates. Instead of a smooch, he said he owed me his life, the life that had a lifelong fear of heights. He thought he was over it until we got in the air. He said if I ever needed anything, he’d do it.” Sean nodded. “I just cashed in.”
I thanked him. He said he needed to get to the office before Marlene sent the police out after him, and I told him she was a good nanny. He joked I was nothing but trouble, and got serious. “Do you think she did it?”
“I’d love to say no. To be honest, I don’t know. She’s changed since moving. She was always kind, sweet to a fault, and found good in everyone. The Heather I saw in Nashville was angry, bitter, and depressed.” I paused and shook my head. “She had motive, no alibi, and if ballistic matches her gun with the bullet, there’d be a strong case against her. Sean, I don’t know.”
He said he hoped not and told me to let him know what Darnell learns. I said I would and he left to incur the wrath of Marlene, and I left so not to further incur the wrath of the line of customers drooling over the table.
Instead of heading home and pacing the floor, I stopped at Barb’s Books, located on Center Street in a retail building that for seven years had housed my ill-fated photo gallery. My fine-art photos had never reached “necessity” status along with milk, bread, gas, and lottery tickets.
I was greeted by a smile. “Good morning. What brings you out this early? I know it’s not to buy a book.”
The store’s owner, Barbara Deanelli, had short, black hair, hazel eyes, and was thin—almost too thin, although she said too thin was not possible. She had been slow to adjust to the laid-back lifestyle and friendliness of Folly’s residents. After having a few months to experience us first-hand, she had warmed.
“Thought I’d stop and see my favorite bookstore owner.”
“How many bookstore owners do you know?”
“Counting you?”
She nodded.
I held up my forefinger.
“Thought so. Interest you in coffee?”
I didn’t tell her I’d had several cups and said sure as I followed her to the backroom and her ultra-fancy, single-cup Keurig coffeemaker—a major upgrade from the Mr. Coffee machine that had provided caffeine for visitors to Landrum Gallery.
We waited for the co
ffee to brew, and killed time talking about the weather, fickle vacationers, and the high turnover in the police department. She also shared she didn’t know why she bothered to open on weekday mornings, and it seemed people who bought books stayed in bed until noon. I recounted some of my bad-old-days and said people who bought photographs must have never gotten out of bed.
She took a sip of some exotic coffee blend. “What really brings you in?”
I told her most of what I’d told Sean. Barb had been a successful attorney in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, before giving it all up and moving to Folly. She understood what I was talking about without me having to explain.
“Kevin Starr. Didn’t you say he was the reason Charles and Heather moved?”
“Yes.”
“If memory serves, she met him when he heard her singing at Cal’s.”
I told her yes and that they only met one time before she moved. He had convinced her he could get her gigs in Nashville.
“What was he doing here?”
“He was at the Tides on a retreat with record executives. Why?”
“I find it interesting that he heard her sing, got her to move, and then she killed him. I never heard her, but from what I’ve been told, Heather’s no Taylor Swift.”
“Kindly put. I have no doubt he was ripping her off.”
“Doesn’t bolster her case, does it?”
I shook my head.
“You think there are other gullible hopefuls he was ripping off?”
“Yes, I met a couple in the brief time I was in Nashville.”
“Other than Heather, any of them from around here?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“If he conned Heather into following her dream into his wallet, there may have been others from places he travelled. Just a thought.”
I told her about Sean’s friend who would be handling it and she seemed pleased it wasn’t going to be a public defender. I asked what she thought about the case against Heather.