The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  “Unless ballistics can tie her gun to the murder or someone saw her pull the trigger, a good attorney could throw enough crap at the jury to establish doubt. How much doubt will be the key.”

  I told her I hoped she was right and that the lawyer could throw whatever amount of doubt would reach the “reasonable doubt” threshold. Someone came in the front door and she started to see who it was.

  “I also wanted to see if you wanted to have supper tonight?”

  “Sure,” she said and went to wait on the latest arrival.

  15

  I called Charles before I was to meet Barb at Rita’s Seaside Grill. Good to his promise, Sean’s friend had called and Charles said he felt a glimmer of hope with a big-shot attorney representing Heather. Darnell was going to meet with her this evening and try to find someone in the district attorney’s office in the morning to see what they were basing the charge on. He had hoped my call was the attorney. I said I wouldn’t tie up the line and that I wanted to know if the attorney had contacted him and to see how he was holding up. I told him I’d head to Nashville in the morning.

  The temperature was still pleasant so I managed to commandeer the next to last vacant patio table. I wasn’t nearly as obsessed about arriving early as Charles was, yet it was still fifteen minutes before I was to meet Barb. Since I'd moved to Folly, the restaurant had had three names and even more owners. Rita’s had undergone a major remodel a few years ago, and featured one of Folly’s most attractive outdoor seating areas, and arguably the best location on the island. It faced Center Street and the Sand Dollar, Folly’s iconic bar; was directly across Arctic Avenue from the Folly Pier; and, cattycorner from the Tides, a nine-story hotel. The restaurant was often filled with conventioneers dressed in their best beachwear, sharing the patio with groups who had come directly from the nearby beach and were surf-attired in bathing suits and cover-ups.

  I felt guilty. Charles was hundreds of miles away worrying about his girlfriend sitting in a jail cell and wondering when, or if, she would ever walk the sidewalks of her dream city as a free woman, while I was sitting on the patio, sipping a chardonnay, and watching a steady stream of people strolling along the sidewalks, and waiting to have a pleasant dinner with an interesting, attractive woman.

  I saw Barb walking this way from her large condo complex on the far side of the hotel. She had on one of her trademark red blouses and tan shorts. She had gone home and changed for supper while I was sitting here in the same faded-blue polo shirt and shorts I’d worn all day.

  I opened the patio gate so Barb wouldn’t have to walk through the restaurant. She thanked me with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thanks for the invite,” she said, as she sat and looked for the server. “I wasn’t looking forward to cooking tonight. Today’s been a bear.”

  “Grizzly or Teddy?”

  She chuckled. “Folks talk strange here. Whatever bear it is when I’ve been as busy as a ticket-taker at a Bruce Springsteen concert.”

  “And you think we talk strange,” I joked. “That’d be a black bear.”

  “I’ll add that to my Folly vocab.” Her smile faded. “Any news on Heather?”

  I shared my conversation with Charles. She said she was glad the attorney was on it, and we glanced at the menu before Barb ordered the seafood Cobb salad, which explained her thinness; I ordered a burger, which by one look at me said it was my favorite food at Rita’s.

  “Speaking of Folly vocab,” I said.

  “Is that what we were speaking about?”

  “Before food ordering got in the way. Have you seen Dude lately?”

  Dude is Barb’s half-brother and was as opposite of her as a duck was to a dandelion. He owned the surf shop, one of the island’s most successful businesses. They had little contact during her years practicing law and had come back in her life when he suggested she move to Folly where she could escape her past. He had been wrong about that. It nearly got her killed a few months ago, when she crossed paths with her past. The best thing that had come from the traumatic events was Barb had reconnected with Dude and I got to know her.

  “He stops in the store occasionally. I love him to death, but we don’t have much in common, and as you know, his conversational skills are only exceeded by his ability to flap his arms and fly.”

  Dude was known to murder, mangle, and shred the English language, or as Charles had said, “The old surfer had never met a sentence he couldn’t screw up.” To Dude’s credit, he would also never use twelve words ten words when one would do—almost. Understanding him was an acquired skill.

  Barb was in a cheerful mood, one that was appreciated after what I had been dealing with. After what seemed like only minutes, I realized the sun had set and most of the tables around us had changed occupants. It was Tuesday and open-mic night at Cal’s so I asked Barb if she wanted to go. She said she’d never been in Cal’s, which didn’t surprise me, and that she’d love to, which was a surprise.

  The good thing about Folly’s main business, restaurant, and bar district was it would fit inside the Georgia Dome with room left over for a cattle ranch. Barb and I walked two blocks to Cal’s and were greeted by the smell of fries and sounds of a long-haired, tat-covered, forty-year old standing behind an antique mike on the stage singing a passable version of John Anderson’s “Would You Catch a Falling Star.”

  Cal’s wasn’t nearly as crowded as Rita’s, and we had no trouble grabbing a table against the wall.

  Barb looked around. “Retro.”

  I waved toward the furnishings. “Yard sale.”

  Cal arrived at the table at the same time, tipped his sweat-stained Stetson at Barb. “Chris, I see you managed to lasso the most fetching bookstore owner on Folly for a night of good singing and hospitality.” He smiled and tipped his hat again in case Barb missed it the first time. “Welcome Miss Barb. First drink’s on the house.”

  Barb returned his smile. The singer belted out “Okie from Muskogee,” and Barb said, “Only bookstore owner.”

  “You’d still be fetching even if there were fifty bookstores. What’s your medicine?”

  “Got Corona?”

  “Miss Barb, I’m from Texas. We fought a war many moons ago so we wouldn’t have to be drinking Mexican beers. How about a Bud?”

  Barb grinned. “My second choice.”

  “Good, because it’s all I got. Gotta introduce a girl singer. Be back in a jiff.”

  Cal headed to the mike and Barb turned to me. “A character, isn’t he?”

  I watched Cal thank the singer for sharing his talents and called for the next in line to head to the stage.

  “Never heard him call anyone fetching. You must’ve charmed the crooner.”

  “He’s been in three times asking if I have songbooks. Gave him the same answer each time. Seems like a nice fellow.”

  “One of the best.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Cal’s Texas accent blared through the sound system. “Put your hands together and welcome one of the finest gal singers around. Edwina.”

  The bar was about one-third full so the applause for the newest aspiring star didn’t quite reach deafening proportions. It didn’t stop her from covering Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man.”

  Cal returned with Barb’s second-choice beer and a chardonnay for me.

  Barb looked at the stage and leaned close to Cal. “Is she really one of the finest singers around? She sounds okay, not great.”

  “She’s not bad,” Cal faced the stage and said. “She’s only been in once or twice and is far better than most. I say they’re all fine singers when I introduce them. It’s the only good thing most of them ever hear about their singing coming from someone other than tone-deaf relatives. It takes guts standing up there and a good word won’t hurt any of them.” He turned back to Barb. “What’re you doing out with this old codger?”

  Asked Cal, who was four years older than this old codger, and Barb was only a couple of years younger than I.

 
; She punched Cal in the forearm. “Figured he needed someone to lean on after the long walk over. You know how old folks are.”

  Cal saw more humor in it than I did.

  The Tammy Wynette imitator finished “Stand by Your Man,” and moved right into Lea Ann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance.”

  Cal leaned over and put his arm on Barb’s hand. “Better drink it up quick and get another one.”

  “Why?”

  “Next guy up. Good country songs are played with only a few chords. He’s so bad, I call him discord; not to his face, of course. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She patted his hand. “Think I’ll have another Bud.”

  “Wise decision, Miss Barb.”

  Barb watched Cal head to the cooler and leaned against my shoulder. “Bet he was a charmer back in his day.”

  “He thinks his day’s still here.”

  She squeezed my arm. “Don’t think so.”

  “At least he was right about you being fetching.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and “Thank you,” the singer said, after Cal introduced him as David, “one of the finest guy singers around.” He went into his version of “Behind Closed Doors.” He will never be confused with Charlie Rich, nor will he get rich from his singing.

  Cal returned with our drinks and we listened to David struggle through two songs, before Barb said it had been a long day and she had listened all the finest singers she could stomach.

  I walked her to her condo. She thanked me for the escort home, gave me a lingering hug, a kiss on the cheek, and said we needed to do it again. I said I’d like that.

  My phone rang while I was on my way down the stairs. I stumped my toe on the next step as I glanced at the screen and saw it was Charles.

  “So, here’s the story,” he said. There was no one around and I sat on the last step leading to the parking area under the condos.

  For several years, I had been on a futile campaign to encourage my friends to start phone conversations with openings like, “Hello,” or “Hi, Chris.” I might as well have been trying to teach them how to build a nuclear reactor with LEGOS.

  “Let’s have it,” I said, in the spirit of his opening statement.

  “The whole thing sucks.”

  “Okay.” Clarification would follow—I hoped.

  “I talked with the attorney?”

  “Public defender or Sean’s friend?”

  “Darnell G. Edelen, Sean’s friend, thank God. He met with Heather and talked to the district attorney. It sucks, Chris.”

  “What did he learn?”

  “Heather’s gun killed him.”

  “You’re right, that sucks.”

  Charles sighed. “There’s more. They have a witness who saw her arguing with Starr the night he was killed.”

  “Is the witness positive?”

  “Almost. The cops showed him photos of several women, including some of Starr’s clients, and he picked Heather.”

  “Where were they arguing?”

  “In a bar in an old warehouse a couple of blocks from the action on Broadway. The witness tends bar there. Edelen says he doesn’t think he has a chance at getting her bail, something about Heather being a flight risk, not being in Nashville long, and her record.” He hesitated. “Chris, she’s not going to get out.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Come back. Please.”

  I reminded him I was leaving in the morning.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, and then dead air.

  I detoured from my path home and returned to Cal’s to see if he wanted to go with me. He was on stage introducing another fine singer.

  “Come back to pick up another chick? One’s not enough?” Cal said as he waved to the near empty room. “Past bedtime for old gals who’d be attracted to you.”

  “Funny.” I told him about Charles’s call and asked if he wanted to return to Nashville.

  He said he would, but didn’t want to ask Burl to man the bar again. He said the preacher had done a good job, although he didn’t bring quite the country flavor the bar needed. Cal said he was afraid some of his “serious sinners” stayed away because of having to buy beer from a preacher and they were his “biggest booze buyers.” He made me promise to call every day with the lowdown.

  16

  The distance from Folly Beach to Nashville was identical whether Cal was in the car or not, yet with only my satellite radio to entertain me, it felt about seven thousand miles farther. It didn’t help that I was awake most of the night. I saw too many hours on my clock as I tossed, turned, and wondered if Heather was guilty. And if she wasn’t, how was her gun, the gun that none of us knew she had, the murder weapon? All I concluded was that trying to think at three in the morning was futile.

  Somewhere on the west side of Asheville, I remembered something that could have explained her gun being the murder weapon. When we had been outside the Bluebird, someone had loaned Heather a guitar. She told the man to put it in Charles’s car and he wouldn’t need a key because the lock was broken. I suppose someone could have taken her gun, shot Starr, and returned the weapon to the unlocked car. If true, how would the killer have known about the gun and broken lock?

  A hundred miles later, my mind wandered from the road and the radio, and I rehashed my overnight thoughts about someone identifying Heather arguing with Starr. If they’d been arguing, it still didn’t prove she’d killed him, yet Heather had denied seeing Starr that night. If she argued with him, wouldn’t she have admitted it? Could the bartender have been mistaken? Could Charles and I find the bartender and see how sure he was?

  To say I was exhausted when I knocked on Charles’s door would be an understatement. I was tired, my eyes felt like if they had to look at another Interstate sign they would beg for cataracts, and my arthritic hands ached from gripping the steering wheel. I thought I was in bad shape until I saw Charles. His long-sleeve, gray Vanderbilt T-shirt had a pancake-sized mustard stain on the front and his shorts looked as though he’d slept in them. His hair, never poised for a model shoot, looked like a mouse had taken up residence. His eyes were red and his expression would have made a Basset Hound look gleeful.

  I wrapped my arms around my friend and felt his body go limp. I helped him to the couch. He sat, put his head down, and tears rolled down his cheeks. I moved beside him and didn’t say anything. I felt helpless. He sat motionless for fifteen minutes. The sounds of traffic three stories below and someone walking in the apartment directly above us, broke the silence.

  “Chris, she killed him.” He didn’t raise his head.

  “You can’t be certain.”

  He glanced at me. “She did it.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  He slowly stood and walked to the window. “She’s not the Heather I fell in love with.”

  “In what way?”

  “You know she’s always been as strange as a drunken, red-eyed tree frog. She was always a loveable goofball, and as sweet as a Hershey bar floating in a bowl of maple syrup.” He paused. “No more.”

  I had no idea how strange a red-eyed tree frog was much less a drunken one. I was aware of Heather’s loveable quirks, and knew when Cal and I were here, she was moody and angry. Was that all he was talking about? Moody and angry don’t equal murder.

  “How so?”

  He continued to stare out the window. “You know how depressed she was when you were here, and she was being good because she had company. Before you got here and after you left she was in a funk. She seldom slept and was up all hours.”

  That was still nothing that would make her a killer. “Anything else?”

  Charles returned to the couch and looked everywhere but at me. “She left the apartment several times and was gone for hours. Day and night. Never knew where she went, and when I asked, she stomped around and wouldn’t say. I also heard her on the phone with her friends, the ones who were supposed to be represented by Starr. I couldn’t hear what the other person was saying, but
Heather moaned, groaned, and bemoaned how Starr had screwed them. How he was the incarnate of evil.” He faced me. “I heard her telling one of the friends, I’m not sure which one, that something needed to be done. She was furious.”

  “You think she meant killing him?”

  He hesitated and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “You know her better than I do. We know she was angry with Starr. Doing something about it doesn’t mean shooting him. She could've meant going to the Better Business Bureau or reporting him to some agency that regulates what he does. When we get mad we often say things we don’t mean.”

  “You didn’t hear the way she was talking. You didn’t see the hate in her eyes. She did it, Chris.”

  After the long drive, I needed to stretch my legs and thought it would do Charles good to get out of the apartment. I suggested a walk.

  He looked around the room like he had something to do there. He finally said it might help. He grabbed his cane, smoothed his hair back with his fingers. “Where are we going?”

  I said nowhere in particular and suggested we get some fresh air.

  He whispered, “Whatever.”

  The neon lights from the downtown bars gave the appearance of an amusement park rather than a city street. The sounds of country music ranging from traditional country, bluegrass, and contemporary country, which sounded more like rock, leaked out of the bars and restaurants and often melded into conflicting beats. Charles, the consummate observer of people, began to relax as he watched the steady stream of tourists jamming the sidewalks.

  We’d walked three blocks when I remembered that Charles said the witness who claimed to have seen Heather arguing with Starr worked in a bar a couple of blocks off Broadway.

  “Charles, do you remember where the bar was where someone saw Heather with Starr?”

  He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and a man carrying a guitar case stepped on his heel. Charles said, “Sorry,” and the musician said the same and went on his way. He reminded me of Heather doing the same thing on her quest for stardom. I hoped the man had better luck.