The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  I took a deep breath, motioned for Charles to join me on the porch, knocked, and prayed Brad wasn’t home.

  Hazel opened the door and smiled. Her smile appeared sincere, but her bloodshot eyes told a different story. She was a few years younger than her husband, but the shock of the last twenty-four hours had aged her. She wore a black blouse and a dark gray skirt.

  “Hi, Chris,” She didn’t appear to know what to do next. She added, “Umm, come in.”

  I reached out and gave her a hug. “I’m so sorry about Lauren.”

  She mumbled, “Thanks.”

  “Do you know my friend Charles Fowler?”

  Charles stepped to my side and held out the vase.

  Hazel glanced at the flowers and up at Charles. “Umm, we’ve not met. I have seen you around town.

  Charles handed Hazel the flowers and looked like he didn’t know if he should try to hug her or shake her hand. It was one of the few times I’d seen my friend indecisive. He said hello and expressed his sympathy.

  Hazel smiled. “Gosh, I’m being rude. Please come in. Can I offer you something to drink, or perhaps something to eat? God knows we have more food in here than we could ever use. People are so sweet.”

  That was a sentiment I doubted her husband had ever uttered. I declined and said we didn’t want to interrupt anything and wanted to say how sorry we were.

  Charles looked at me and at Hazel. “A glass of something cold would be nice.”

  I gave him a dirty look as Hazel headed to the kitchen. I realized I had already forgotten his second reason for wanting to visit. As we waited for Hazel to return I looked around. The floors were a highly-polished, light colored hardwood and there were two colorful nautical-patterned area rugs covering much of the floor. The furniture was even a shade or two lighter than the floors. Two whitewashed chairs had bright blue and green cushions and a large side table had two large, pink and white conch shells in the center. The furnishings looked more like a high-end condo package rather than the furniture in a retired couple’s house. A 56-inch flat-screen television sat on a chrome stand against the far wall. It was oversized for the room. Everything was neat, cheery, and nothing reminiscent of the rumpled, poorly attired detective I had come to dislike. In addition to the two conch shells, there were two photos in silver frames on the table. One was of a smiling couple with a young girl probably no more than six years old, the other of the same girl playing on a swing. I looked around and didn’t see other pictures.

  I heard Hazel saying something, and Brad responding in a louder voice. Hazel interrupted him and a moment later appeared in the doorway. “Chris, Charles, come on in. Brad would like to say hi.”

  I knew things were going too well. Charles said, “Sure,” smiled and followed Hazel to the kitchen. I followed.

  The blinds were closed and although the sun was shining, only filtered rays penetrated the room. If it wasn’t for an overhead light, the room would have been dark. I was able to see new stainless appliances. On the granite counter there were three small cakes, a basket of fruit, two plastic bowls covered with aluminum foil, and a bundle of flowers in the sink. Hazel had been right about the kindness of people. A coffee pot was on the back of the counter and the aroma of day-old coffee lingered.

  Hazel saw me staring at the flowers. “Several of Brad’s former colleagues have already visited and brought the flowers and food. Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?”

  The kitchen was tiny for the size of the house and Brad was seated at a small, glass-top table within inches of us. He hadn’t looked up or spoken.

  We again declined food as Hazel handed Charles a Coke and offered me one. I said yes, mainly so I wouldn’t appear rude.

  I felt strange being this close to the retired detective without acknowledging his existence, and said, “Hi, Brad.”

  He gripped a coffee mug like it was trying to escape. He had always looked old to me but appeared much older today. His shoulders slumped, his hair, always unruly, was a mess, and his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, and raveled at the cuffs. I felt sorry for him, until he spoke.

  He pointed his mug at me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Hazel interrupted, “Now sweetie.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Chris and Charles were kind enough to stop by to express condolences. And look, they brought flowers.” She held the vase in front of her husband who was still seated.

  “Crap, Hazel, just what we need, more damn flowers. Our daughter’s gone, and we get flowers.”

  Hazel squeezed Brad’s shoulder, I wanted to bolt out of the house, and Charles said, “You have a lovely house Mr. and Mrs. Burton.”

  Hazel smiled, and Brad looked at Charles like he wanted to put a bullet in his head.

  “Brad,” I said, “we’re neighbors and when I heard the young lady who … umm, was found dead was your daughter, I was heartbroken. Charles and I wanted to say how sorry we were.”

  Brad tightened his grip on the mug and twisted around to stare at me. “You mean the woman who offed herself with a drug overdose. You probably think it’s funny. The old cop who spent his life putting bad people in jail has … umm, had a damn kid who kills herself doing something her law-and-order dad hated, despised.” He looked down at the table. “The kid who’s been in and out of drug rehab facilities. The kid who … oh shit, please get the hell out of here. Leave me alone.”

  Hazel let go of Brad’s shoulder. She moved toward the door and motioned for Charles and me to follow. I wanted to say something else to the grieving father but knew this wasn’t the time. We followed Hazel to the living room.

  She shook her head. “Gentlemen, I apologize for my husband. Brad’s grieving, or the best he can do. He’s torn up. He’s never handled emotions well. And when it comes … came to Lauren, he ... well, you saw how he is.”

  “We understand,” Charles said.

  Hazel looked toward the kitchen. “The minute Brad retired, we sold our house in North Charleston and moved to Folly because Lauren lived here. Brad thought if we were closer we may be able to help her. She’d just got out of a horrible marriage from Sebastian Craft and was a mess.” She looked at the ground and then up at me. “At first we thought we were helping. With the drugs, and everything. We thought we were helping.” She faked a smile. “Anyway, Brad didn’t mean anything personal in there.”

  I doubted that, but said, “That’s okay, Hazel. We understand. Thanks for the drinks and again, we are so sorry. Let me know if there is anything you need.”

  She said she would and saw us out.

  On the way to the house, Charles said, “Well, that went well.”

  That wouldn’t have been my take, but I didn’t say anything. Charles said he had a date with Heather and I was glad to hear it was at a barbecue restaurant on Folly Road about five miles from the island. Until Charles and Heather moved to Nashville earlier this year, neither had a vehicle that used anything other than pedal power. Before they moved, Charles bought a used Toyota Venza and now that they had returned to the island they should have never left, he had rediscovered the world of restaurants, shops, and sights off island; locations to which I had previously been his primary chauffeur. I encouraged him to explore without me. I was glad he didn’t ask if I wanted to go since I had planned to meet Barb when she got off work and knew she would be exhausted and wouldn’t want to go anywhere off island. Before he left, he told me I’d better call if I learned anything about Lauren’s death. He held up his cell phone as if I wouldn’t know how to let him know.

  5

  I’d met Barbara Deanelli six months ago under less than ideal circumstances. I happened to stumble on a body splayed out in the alley near the back door to Barb’s Books. Things tumbled downhill from there. First, Barb moved her used bookstore into the space I had rented for several years while trying to make a go of Landrum Gallery, a shop featuring my photographs. As hard as I found it to comprehend, the fine citizens of Folly and the thousands of vacationers the
island attracted each year failed to appreciate the fine artistic images that I had for sale. Oh sure, many said they liked the photos and some bought a few, but overall, they decided they would rather spend their hard-earned money on luxuries like rent, gas, electric, taxes, cell phones, and the latest iWhatever. Go figure.

  Even though I had closed the business before Barb came to town, I resented her from before we’d even talked. And when we met I found her aloof and appearing, for lack of a better term, snooty. Add to that the fact many suspected her to be the murderer. As is the case with many things on Folly, appearances don’t tell the whole story. After several conversations leaning toward the cold side, either she had begun to warm toward me, owing to my charm, I hoped; more likely, it was because I’d saved her life and managed to catch the person who was willing to stop at nothing to kill her. Regardless, we started seeing each other on a semi-regular basis. We enjoyed each other’s company, and if I was honest with myself, it was great to be able to enjoy time with someone other than Charles.

  I met Barb for supper at the Folly Beach Crab Shack, one of several popular restaurants on Center Street, the island’s six-block long primary commercial district. Charles’s time obsession had rubbed off on me. I arrived at the colorfully painted Crab Shack fifteen minutes before Barb said she could get there. I was seated at the last vacant table on the deck overlooking the street and the variety of pedestrians taking in the sights and sounds of the island.

  Barb spotted me as she turned the corner to the restaurant’s entrance and headed my way. She wore tan shorts and one of her trademark red blouses. She weaved her way through the restaurant and out the door to the patio. Her hazel eyes gleamed as she pointed to the container of peanuts I put in front of her chair. I envied her metabolism. It seemed like she could eat all she wanted and remain thin. She was my height at five-foot-ten and looked younger than her sixty-four years. Her short black hair was also in contrast to my rapidly balding, blond turning gray head.

  I stood and pecked her on the cheek; she grabbed a peanut and looked around for someone to order a drink. Elizabeth, one of the restaurant’s personable employees, was nearby and Barb ordered a beer.

  “Rough day in the book selling business?” I asked as Barb cracked open the peanut shell.

  “You know how much I can’t stand romance novels.”

  I nodded.

  “About 11,000 customers stomped in today and ‘just had to have’ something by Danielle Steel, Barbara Taylor Bradford, Nora Roberts, or blah, blah, blah. My head started thumping by three o’clock.”

  I laughed. “You’re complaining to the wrong person about 11,000 customers. I would have been thrilled if eleven customers had ever graced the door in one day during the time your building housed Landrum Gallery.”

  She reached across the table and petted my hand. “That’s probably because you didn’t have photos of Danielle Steel.”

  “True,” I said as the waitress set a bottle of Budweiser in front of Barb. It didn’t stay on the table long.

  “Enough about my day. What’s happening in your world?”

  “Glad you asked,” I said. “Did you hear about the body they found near the county park?”

  “Between requests for Judith McNaught and Julia Quinn gooey romances, someone mentioned it. Something about a drug overdose.” She flipped a peanut shell in a blue pail in the center of the table. “Why?”

  I explained about who she was and who her father was.

  “You’ve mentioned him. You’re not his biggest fan, right?”

  “That’s an understatement,” I said, and proceeded to share some of my history with the retired detective.

  Barb was an attorney but had given up a lucrative practice in Pennsylvania and a husband that went with it when he was arrested for bribing state officials. She didn’t know anything about his illegal activities and was exonerated of any wrongdoing but felt the need to leave that world behind and moved to Folly. She used the listening and questioning skills she had learned in law school and had honed through her practice. She interrupted a couple of times with questions, but listened, something I wasn’t used to from my other friends.

  I shared much of today’s conversation with Brad.

  “Not the kind of reception you would have liked, I suppose.”

  “Hazel was as sweet as could be, considering the circumstances. Brad was an ass. I thought since he was retired and my next-door neighbor, he’d have mellowed.”

  Barb grabbed another peanut, deposited the shell in the bucket, and started to pop the peanut in her mouth, but hesitated and pointed the nut at me. “Did you ever think he was angry at the world and not only at you? People close to suicide or drug overdose victims often feel guilty. They think there must have been something they could have done to prevent it. He could also be embarrassed about what happened. He’d been a cop, yet he couldn’t prevent whatever happened to his daughter.”

  “I suppose that’s …”

  Barb interrupted. “One more thing. While he lashed out at you, it may not have been personal. You were a handy target for his emotions.”

  “Barb, those are good points, and I would like to give him the benefit of the doubt, but with our fractured, and often hostile, history, it’s hard to do.”

  Barb smiled. “Give the man a chance. You never know.”

  I returned her smile. “Okay.”

  “Now with that out of the way, are we going to order food or are you going to sit there and watch me shrivel up and blow away?”

  There was little chance of that happening, especially if there was an unlimited supply of peanuts, but I got the waitress’s attention and we each ordered a fried fish basket and another drink.

  I realized my stomach was still in knots from thinking about my history with Brad Burton and how my recent conversation with him had dredged up the memories I had mostly put out of my mind. Time to change the subject.

  “Heard from Dude lately?” I asked.

  Jim “Dude” Sloan was Barb’s younger stepbrother, and owned the surf shop, one of Folly’s stores catering to the significant population of surfers and surfer wannabes. He was a long-time resident of Folly and had encouraged Barb to move here after her divorce.

  “He called a couple of nights ago. Said he was wondering if I was still doing okay, of course he didn’t use those words. I think his quote was, “Fractional-sis be OK?”

  Dude was as opposite from Barb as a magnolia tree was to poison ivy. Both were living things, but that was about it. Dude had never met a sentence he couldn’t mangle. He treated words as if they were gold and shared as few of them as he could. Charles had sworn—partly in jest—that Dude had come to Earth from another planet, and I think he was disappointed when Barb confirmed Dude, in fact, was from Earth, more accurately Altoona, Pennsylvania.

  “Did you tell him that you be good?”

  She rolled her eyes—a motion of endearment, or so I wanted to believe. “Sort of.”

  “He say anything else?”

  “After I said I was fine, he said something in surfer talk that I think meant good and hung up.”

  Our food arrived, preceded by the strong aroma of frying fish. Barb had taken a bite before I reached for my fork. Eleven-thousand customers heightened her appetite.

  “I know you don’t want to talk more about Brad and the death of his daughter,” Barb said between bites, “but let me ask you one more question. Is there a possibility the death could have been more than an accidental overdose or suicide?”

  I was surprised by her question. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. From my experience, most deaths like this one are treated as if there could be more than the obvious. I know you have connections with the police and would probably know how they were looking at it.”

  “Cindy, Chief LaMond, told me it looked like an overdose, but wouldn’t know more until she had the coroner’s report. I’ll let you know when I hear anything.”

  Barb cocked her head. “You don
’t talk like you’re convinced it was accidental.”

  I gave a slight nod. “It probably was, considering her history with drugs. Besides, the police will figure it out. It’s none of my business.”

  She looked up from her plate. “Um hum.”

  Honest, I thought.

  I walked Barb to her condo in the Oceanfront Villas complex and slowly walked home. I stepped in my living room when my cell rang. I was surprised to see Brian Newman’s name on the screen.

  “Good evening, Brian.”

  “I’m beginning to see why you hate caller ID,” he said.

  I started with something polite and appropriate, not like most of my friends who feel they must start phone conversations with … oh well, never mind. “To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice?”

  “I wish more of your fellow citizens had your attitude. You know how many bitchy, complaining, irritated calls I receive?’

  “Mr. Mayor, you want me to guess?”

  “No, but it’s a bunch. When I was police chief, I had a staff to hand off most of the complaints to. As mayor, the buck stops here.”

  “Public service,” I said, still not knowing why the mayor had called. But I also knew him well enough to not push.

  “Listen,” he said, “I hate to call so late. It’s almost your bed time but wanted to know if you could meet me in the morning for breakfast.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Where and when?”

  “The Dog, 7:00 o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He said thanks and was gone. And I still had no idea why he had called. What I did know was that it was important.

  6

  The Lost Dog Cafe is a block off Center Street and most days it was the epicenter of early-morning activity on Folly Beach. It was cool for August, so the mayor was inside. His hands were wrapped around a coffee mug as he was reading today’s newspaper. Amber, my favorite waitress, had her back to me and was leaning over Brian’s shoulder and looking at the page he was holding. I had known Amber since my first week on the island and we dated for a time. After we stopped dating, she remained a good friend and one of the best sources of information—fact and fiction—about most anything Folly.