by Bill Noel
I patted her on the shoulder and she jerked back.
“Sorry I startled you,” I said.
“Chris, you gave my old heart a scare.”
Old wasn’t a word I would use with Amber. She was approaching fifty but still looked in her early forties. The only person I’d ever heard referring to her as old was Jason, her nineteen-year-old son; but to him, everyone over forty was about ready to kick the bucket.
“A bit jumpy this morning?”
“Brian was showing me this story about that guy who killed three members of his own family. Can you believe that?”
“Sorry. Yes, it was terrible.”
“Hmm!” interrupted Brian. “Umm, Chris, I’m here too. Remember me, I’m the person who asked you to breakfast.”
“Sure,” I said and put my arm around Amber’s waist. “But, she’s much better looking.”
“You’re still my favorite mayor,” Amber said as she leaned over and kissed the top of Brian’s head. “I’ll leave you two to your confab. Chris, coffee?”
I said, “Duh!”
Amber headed to the kitchen and past the nearly countless dog photos that dotted the walls of the restaurant like spots on a Dalmatian. Brian motioned for me to sit at the other side of the table. The tall, trim, and confident mayor leaned back in the chair and looked around to see who was nearby. With short black, but graying, hair, he oozed military which made sense since he had been in the armed forces before retiring after thirty years.
“Thanks for joining me.”
“Glad you called.”
“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here.”
I shrugged. “It did enter my mind.”
Brian looked around again. No one appeared to be paying attention to us. “Chris, I’m going to run for reelection.”
That was no surprise. He was in his early seventies but had unwavering enthusiasm for his job and the island, and although he was thrust into the position when his predecessor had slinked out of state after some untowardly information was revealed, the role fit him like a wetsuit. I was however surprised by how early he was making the decision.
“That’s great but isn’t the election next April, what, almost eight months from now?”
Amber arrived with my coffee and asked if I was ready to order. I ordered French toast, my favorite Dog breakfast item, and Amber shook her head but said she’d get it started. She had been on a one-person crusade to get me to eat better but had conceded defeat.
Brian watched her go, and said, “I know that’s a long time from now, but rumors are that there will be at least one well-financed opponent, and maybe a couple more. If I want to stay on the job, I need to get an early start.”
“Who’s running against you?”
“Do you know Joel Hurt?”
“The landscape guys?”
Brian nodded.
“I’ve seen him a couple of times at Bert’s and it seems like Hurt’s Landscape trucks are always running around town.”
Brian took a sip of coffee and said, “He has more than a landscape service. He owns the three Lowcountry Garden Centers, the one on Folly Road near the cutover to Charleston, one past Mt. Pleasant on the way to Georgetown, and one in North Charleston. He also owns a large nursery.”
“I didn’t know the garden centers were his.”
“Not many do.”
“Sounds like he’s successful.”
“Very. Not only will he throw a lot of his personal wealth to the campaign, but he’ll have the support of several well heeled locals who want to run off our more, let me say, bohemian residents, and especially the college students who flock to the beach on weekends and during the summer. Sanitize the island is a phrase I’ve heard some of his supporters are whispering about.”
“Take the folly out of Folly.”
Brian nodded, and Amber arrived with my unhealthy breakfast. I thanked her, and she rolled her eyes when she said, “Enjoy.”
“Chris, I know Folly’s not perfect. We all know in season there are many weekends, and now an increasing number of weekdays, when more and more people swarm to the beach than there’s room for their vehicles. I’m not blind to the fact that inconsiderate day-trippers flagrantly violate the law against drinking on the beach, throw their trash in yards, and don’t hesitate to share their loud opinions of most anything. Hell, when I was police chief, I dealt with it every day.”
“True.”
“I’m not defending anyone who commits a lawless act or infringes on the personal space or property of others, but I don’t want our small slice of heaven to become a Kiawah Island or a place where a visitor needs a passport and a good conduct medal to be allowed to enter. Our island has a long history of being tolerant of people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and views on life. We have always been inclusive, and I don’t want that to end.”
It sounded like a campaign speech and still didn’t tell me what he wanted me to do, so I said, “I agree.”
Brian took another sip of coffee and I took a bite of French toast. I waited for him to say something, but when he didn’t, I said, “Brian, you’re respected, have done an excellent job as mayor, and are popular. Does Joel have a chance?”
“Many will call him a dark horse candidate, but he scares me. He and his supporters have the money to make a difference. You know the local races usually don’t involve mega-bucks.” He looked down at his mug and chuckled. “In past elections, some of the council candidates have considered it obscene if they had to spend more than pocket change and they stuck a few God-awful looking yard signs in some yards, and that was it.”
“Don’t remind me of that yard clutter.”
“This is going to be different. Rumors are Joel is holding hush-hush meetings with potential supporters and getting commitments from them to use their influence to get as many people as they can to contribute to his campaign, and these people have money. Understand, I don’t have anything against Joel Hurt. In fact, I think he’s a nice guy and from what I can see, he’s sincere. I think we could be friends even though we have drastically different ideas about what’s good for Folly. Unfortunately, some of his supporters and donors have more drastic, and I believe harmful, ideas about what Folly should become.”
Brian tilted his head and stared at me like he wanted me to say something.
“So, what can I do?”
“There’s one more thing,” Brian said, sidestepping my question. “I’m not the only one with a target on his back. They’re going after Marc and Houston.”
Marc Salmon and Houston Bass were two long-term council members. They were on the council when I moved to Folly. I didn’t know Houston well, but was more familiar with Marc. The two met daily in the Dog, and I was a little surprised they weren’t here now. Marc tried to tell those who happened to ask that he met Houston to discuss city business, but from what I could tell, their main goal was to gather as much gossip as possible. Marc would pass on facts, but gossip was his forte.
“Why them?”
“The misconception that they vote for anything I tell them to.”
“Who’ll be running against them?”
“No idea, but you can be assured whomever it is will have money behind them.”
“Great.”
The Dog was full, and the sounds of happy diners seemed louder than usual. Brian looked around and again, no one appeared to be paying attention to us.
“Now to your question. One of my biggest flaws as a candidate is asking for money.” He laughed. “I suck at it. I know it’s important, but so far, I haven’t had to go far down that road. That’s changing and is the reason I’m starting my campaign early.”
I wasn’t wealthy. In fact, my failed photo gallery drained a sizable chunk of my life savings, but unless I live to reach triple digits, I should have enough money to live if not comfortably, at least adequately. Brian knew this, so I wondered what could be coming next.
“Bottom line, Chris, is I need to raise far more than I ever hav
e needed to win reelection. I’d like your help.”
“Brian, I’ll contribute what I can.”
“Thanks, you don’t know how much I appreciate that, but I’d like to ask more.”
“What?”
“To host a couple of fundraisers.”
I started to laugh, but saw he was serious. Before retiring and moving to Folly, I had attended a few political fundraisers. The events were usually held at the homes of some of the wealthiest people in my hometown. Most of those in attendance were recognizable and were some of the wealthiest leaders in the community. I was invited because I worked for one of the city’s largest employers and was expected to make contributions to candidates the company felt could help their business. I had a good salary and could contribute without cutting too far in my savings. But even then, my contributions were limited to the lower end of the amounts expected.
“Brian, you know most of my friends well enough to know they’re not rolling in dough.”
He laughed, “You mean Charles, Cal, and Mel don’t have gold bars buried in their back yards?”
“Brian, they don’t even have back yards.”
“True, but you forgot to mention your successful real estate buddy Bob Howard. And how about Barb, that lovely lady who for some strange reason has decided to date you? Then, despite outward appearances, Dude, your other good friend who has more money than probably all the rest of us combined.”
He had a good point, although I had never looked at it like that. A few of my friends could probably make significant contributions. Brian had also never asked me for anything and if I could do something, however minor, to help, I would.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m in. Let’s talk about it.”
And we did. Brian had already given it a lot of thought and we decided two distinctly different events would be best: one on Folly with my closest friends, and one in Charleston, and hopefully at Bob Howard’s house where some of the wealthier donors could be invited. All I had to do was to convince Bob. Brian agreed it would be no simple task but appreciated that I would try.
Brian relaxed after he made it through the part of running for office that he was most uncomfortable with, so I took the opportunity to get into another difficult topic. “Now that that’s out of the way, have you learned anything new about the death of Brad Burton’s daughter?”
His smile turned to a frown. “No, why?”
“Curious. Charles and I visited the Burtons and it was still on my mind.”
His eyes narrowed. “Everything points to an unfortunate drug overdose. Tragic, but it happens. Is there some reason you think it may be something more?”
“No, like I said, I was curious.”
“Yeah, right. You’re not planning on sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“Of course not. There’s no reason for me to get involved, there’s nothing to get involved with.”
Brian took the final sip of coffee and shook his head. “Chris, you need to get some business cards that say: I’m not going to get involved. On the other side: Kidding.”
7
I spent most of the time on the six-block walk from the Dog to my house trying to figure out how Brian had convinced me to organize not one but two fundraisers for his campaign coffers. The answer simply came down to friendship. Many island residents had befriended me, and I had reciprocated. Finally, I came to the realization there weren’t many things more important than true friendship. Granted, it had nearly gotten me killed on more than one occasion, but my deep bonds with a handful of people were worth it. My thoughts were transitioning from the theoretical to the tasks necessary to pull together the fundraisers when I bumped into Hazel Burton on the sidewalk in front of Mr. John’s Beach Store.
“Sorry, Hazel,” I said and stepped aside.
She looked better than the last time I saw her, but her eyes were still bloodshot and her cheeks had a slight red tone from crying.
“That’s okay, Chris. I was walking and not paying attention to where I was going.”
I smiled. “That makes two of us.”
“Thanks again for stopping by the house.”
“Sorry it was under such terrible circumstances.”
“Are you in a hurry,” she said.
“No, just had breakfast and was heading home.”
She looked in the direction I was going and turned back to me. “There’s something I wanted to tell you. Care to walk?”
Since she put it that way, even if there was somewhere I needed to be, I would have gone with her.
I moved in step beside her, wondered where she was going, but didn’t say anything. She had a need to talk and that was okay with me. I thought she was going to the Dog, but instead she turned into the small park beside the combination library and community center and led me to a bench overlooking a nicely landscaped area. The bench was shaded so the temperature was comfortable. I waited.
After an awkward silence that felt like it had lasted for hours, she looked at the Lost Dog Cafe located on the adjacent property, and said, “Nice place. Brad and I like eating there.”
I agreed and said it was where I had had breakfast. I didn’t think she brought me over here to say that, so I waited for her to continue.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked at the end of the long pause.
“Almost nine years.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, “I remember Brad telling me about meeting you. Out at the end of the island overlooking the lighthouse, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. “A bad day. I stumbled on a man who’d been shot. Detective Burton, umm, Brad, and Detective Lawson were investigating.”
Hazel looked at me and grinned. “Brad thought you were the killer.”
I told her more about my unpleasant encounter with her husband and tried to make light of a traumatic and sad occurrence. She listened but seemed distracted. I ended the story as quickly as possible and hoped she’d get to her reason for us being here.
Hazel looked at the ground. “I’m not going to tell Brad I talked to you.”
I nodded but didn’t ask why.
“To be honest, Chris, my husband doesn’t take too kindly to you.”
Duh, I thought.
She chuckled, “He thinks you’re a nosy, busybody who can’t help but stick your nose into anything bad that happens.”
I smiled. “Looking from his perspective, I see where he’s right. I have been way too involved in several situations that should have been handled by the police, but most of the time, I’d been sucked in by friends, and to be honest, the police weren’t always doing their best to solve the crimes.”
“That’s what Brad said.”
I was surprised her husband would admit the police weren’t being effective.
I started to say something about it, but she held her hand up and motioned for me to stop. “When Lauren was a little girl up through much of her teens, Brad was always working. He was trying to prove he could be a good cop and I suppose it paid off since he was promoted to detective. He missed most of her school activities. She was a cheerleader and acted in several school plays, but Brad only made it to one play, and seldom got to see her cheer.” Hazel blinked a couple of times and looked at the ground. “He feels guilty about not being there …. umm, he really does.”
“A lot of men go through the same thing,” I said. “I can’t imagine what a demanding job being a cop can be. And the family almost always suffers.”
“Lauren got hooked on pills while she was in high school. I was married to a cop, but I was sheltered from the serious stuff that goes on in the world. Chris, I didn’t know anything about her drug abuse until the school principal called me to come get her. She had been in a math class and started acting strange. She gave me a story about someone giving her one pill to take and that she didn’t know what it was. Said she’d never done anything like it before. Brad was working a double homicide and didn’t get home that night. Stupid me, I bought her story and didn’t tell
Brad the next day.”
“You wanted to believe her,” I said.
“Mistake number one,” Hazel said. “And that was only the beginning. Her use—abuse—got so bad we had to place her in an outpatient rehab program. We didn’t want to disrupt her life more than we had to. That was mistake number two. She was getting therapy, but she was still in a toxic environment with her friends. Temptations were too strong. Poor Brad kept kicking himself. Kept saying he was in the business of catching the bad guys and trying to make life safer for everyone, and in his own house he had a daughter who was using and probably laughing at him behind his back. It tore him up. It hurt his home life; screwed up his work life. I’m embarrassed to say it almost broke up our marriage.”
I remembered Chief LaMond had said Lauren had been in and out of rehab facilities, so I knew the answer to my next question but wanted to hear it from Hazel.
“What happened then?”
Hazel wiggled her hand back and forth. “We thought things were getting better. I suppose they were, but it didn’t last. She graduated from high school and was trying to take classes at the community college. She had a waitressing job and managed to rent a small apartment. A patrol officer pulled her over in the middle of the night. Her car was weaving all over the road, and … Christ, Brad would kill me if he knew I was telling you this. The cop was certain Lauren was under the influence of something, but instead of hauling her in, he called Brad who dragged himself out of bed and picked her up where the patrol officer was waiting. Brad brought her home and we got her car the next day. By now she wasn’t even trying to lie about what was going on. We got her committed to a residential facility through a contact Brad had with the director.”
“Did it help?”
“For a while. She stayed with us a few weeks after they felt she was in good enough shape to be out on her own. She said the people who were a bad influence on her were in Charleston and she persuaded us she needed to get a little farther away and had met some women who rented a house over here. It wasn’t six months later that the cycle began all over again. That’s when Brad decided to retire, and we bought the house next to yours, so we could be closer to her. To make the story a little shorter, she went back in rehab, stayed until they felt she was better, and moved back in with the girls over here.” Hazel hesitated and stared into space. A tear rolled down her face. “We thought she’d kicked it. We moved here, were able to see her every few days, and she seemed better than she had in high school before it all began. Chris, we thought she’d kicked it.”