by Bill Noel
“I’m sorry.”
She wiped the tear away and tried to smile. “Sorry to dump this on you. All I wanted to do was apologize about the way Brad treated you when you came to visit. The thing is, he feels responsible, he feels guilty, he’s angry with himself, and took it out on you. It wasn’t anything personal. I want you to know that.”
I understood how Brad must be feeling and didn’t doubt it was taking a toll on him, but I thought she was wrong about me. It was personal, but I didn’t see any benefit of getting into it.
“I understand and again, I’m terribly sorry about what both of you are having to deal with.”
She reached over and gently touched my arm. “Thank you. You’re easy to talk to; I didn’t mean to spill this on you. Thank you for listening.”
“No need to thank me. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“I will.”
“Would you like me to walk you home?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m going to walk around some more before I head home. There is one thing you could do. Please don’t let Brad know we had this talk.”
You can bet on that, I thought, and said I wouldn’t.
8
I hadn’t given much thought to the Burtons or their daughter’s untimely death since my conversation with Hazel three days ago. The routine chores of life had taken much of my time. I had written my check for homeowners’ insurance and went through my annual rant about how it was three times more than I had ever paid in Kentucky. I spent an additional hour praising myself for the wise decision to move to the ocean, or as some would say, my rationalization for the excessive cost of insurance. I also remembered how thankful I had been to have insurance when a hurricane had nearly ripped my home off its foundation a few years ago. Then there was grocery shopping, an exhausting event that I do at least once a month, whether I needed to or not. That ate up a couple more hours. Finally cleaning the inside of my cottage, something I don’t do as often as I go grocery shopping, took up another half day. The total of hours I spent on these activities didn’t add up to three days, but it seemed like it. If I admitted it to myself, reaching the latter stages of my sixties added more hours of rest and naps to fill the time I had to do other things during earlier years. Many of those hours had been taken up with my career, so regardless how I look at it, I’d chosen retirement and aging, naps, and exhaustion came with it.
I realized after I had wasted three days with the mundane chores of life, that the autopsy results from Lauren Burton should be available, and I hadn’t heard from Chief LaMond. I put my broom in the closet, told it I’d see it again in a month or so, and punched Cindy’s number in my phone.
“Thought you were dead,” the chief said as way of a pleasant greeting.
“Don’t think so.”
‘It’s been three days since you’ve pestered me about Lauren Craft’s death. You already cost me the ten bucks I won from Larry. I went double or nothing with him that you would’ve been on my case two days ago. You owe me big time.”
I smiled thinking how great it was to have friends like Cindy. “Okay, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee the next time I see you. It should—”
“Cup of coffee?” she interrupted. “You mean a meal.”
“Okay, so have you—”
“With dessert.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Good. Now if you’re interested, I have the autopsy results.”
I waited for her to continue.
“Aren’t you going to ask what they are?”
“Didn’t think I had to.”
“You better be glad I’m in a good mood, Mr. Nosy Citizen. You can thank Larry for that, and no, it’s none of your danged business why.” She chuckled. “You do know nowhere in my job description does it say I have to give confidential information to you?”
“An obvious oversight.”
She sighed. “You want to hear what I know or pretend that you’re back being an overpaid HR bigwig writing job descriptions?”
“I’d love to hear what you learned, Chief LaMond.”
“That’s better.” I heard papers rustling and Cindy continued, “Ms. Craft has joined Janis Joplin, River Phoenix, John Belushi, and Philip Seymour Hoffman with a common mode of demise, an overdose of heroin. She also had enough alcohol in her blood stream to pickle a bull elephant.”
“No surprise there,” I said, more to myself than to Cindy.
“No, but while that’s the official cause of death, it still doesn’t answer how or why.”
“Doesn’t a needle found on the floorboard answer how?”
“Sort of,” Cindy said. “The OD was administered with that needle, but did she squeeze it into her vein willingly? Was it an accident or did she know what she was doing? Was she so drunk she only vaguely knew what was going on.”
“Suicide?”
“Possibly.”
“What’s that mean?”
Cindy said, “Could someone else have injected her or made her inject herself?”
I was confused. “Were her prints on the needle?”
“Good question. Yes.”
I was still confused. “Why would there be any question about her doing it?”
“A couple of things. Want to guess what, Mr. Faux Detective?”
“That’s Charles, not me.”
“If you say so. Guess anyway.”
“Where her car was found isn’t near where she lived. Do we know if she drove to where she was found?” I asked.
“Excellent question. We think she did.”
“Were her prints on the steering wheel or the door handle?”
“Even better questions. The answers are yes and yes.”
I was beginning to feel like I was on a quiz show and about to lose a zillion dollars because I didn’t know the right questions to ask. What was I missing? There had to be something or Cindy wouldn’t be playing 20 questions.
“Were there prints on the passenger side door?”
“Bingo!” the chief said.
“No prints.”
“Clean as, as … umm, something really clean.”
“So, no prints?”
“There were some smudges, but no clear prints, no dirt, hell, no bird crap, no nothing,” she said.
“Was the rest of the car clean?”
“Not dirty, probably had been washed recently, but there was dust on it.” Cindy paused. “You can’t park where it was in the sandy berm without some grimy ocean crap landing on it.”
“So, you think it was wiped clean which would mean someone may have been with her when she died and skedaddled before she was found?”
“No way to prove that. It’s possible the EMTs rubbed their hands on it when entering the car.”
“If they did, would it have been as clean as you found it?” I asked.
“Don’t think so, but it’s possible since they wore those cute blue gloves. It’s also possible someone may have stumbled on the car, looked inside, saw the highly deceased Ms. Craft, panicked and wiped the handle clean, before hightailing it so he, or to be politically correct, she could avoid being questioned. That seems unlikely to me.”
“Are you thinking she was killed and someone wanted it to look like an overdose?”
“That’s a possibility, but it could also mean someone was shooting up with her and when she accidentally overdosed didn’t want to get caught. We coppers look askance at our fine citizens shooting heroin along a city street, especially if they’re found sitting beside one of our former fine citizens.”
“True. You said there were two things that raised questions.”
“The other thing might not mean anything, but it strikes me as odd. Lauren had apparently been in and out of rehab facilities several times, all for heroin use.”
“So, her death shouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I agree, but the medical examiner said the fatal needle mark was the only recent mark on her. It’d been a long time since she’d used, or at least i
njected.”
“Couldn’t she still have misjudged the strength and taken a fatal dose?”
“Yes, but from my experience with addicts, they have to be mighty high to make that mistake. All I’m saying, Chris, is that it seems strange.”
“What happens next?”
“It’s in the hands of the Sheriff’s Office. They’ll be conducting an investigation, if there is one.”
Folly Beach is in Charleston County, and the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office is charged with investigating major crimes on the island. Cindy’s staff is limited in size and experience in dealing with most deaths but handles most other infractions and the daunting task of traffic, particularly during vacation season.
“Do they agree it seems strange?”
“They’re giving lip service to it, but their plate is full, and I wonder how much actual investigating they’ll be doing. It’s still an open case and Detective Ken Adair is working it.”
I knew Detective Adair from another death I got stuck in the middle of. He considered my friend Mel Evans as the prime suspect in a murder, but Charles and I stuck our noses in the case enough to prove Mel wasn’t guilty. I almost got killed in the process, but that’s another story. Other than that error in the detective’s judgment, he appeared to be a good cop. But, I also knew his workload, as it was for all detectives with the office, was overwhelming.
“So, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Keeping my eyes open, talking to everyone who knew her here, and praying.”
9
I also hadn’t heard from Charles the last three days. Since he has a mode of transportation that didn’t depend on pedal power, he had spent hours exploring the many sights of interest in and around Charleston. I know because he felt the need to tell me about every place he visited, including its location, historical significance, and mound of trivia surrounding it.
He answered on the third ring.
“Well, well,” he said. “Have you returned from the dead?”
“You been talking to Cindy?”
“No. Why?”
“Never mind. Available for lunch?”
“Depends.”
“On what?” I said and realized I had nearly forgotten why I’d called.
“Where you’re buying.”
“Yogurt, Kangaroo Express.”
“Shucks, Chris, my calendar’s crammed full.”
“Fish sandwich, the Grill.”
“Whoa, look here, a spot just opened up. Noon. Bye.”
That meant eleven-thirty and I surprised myself when I arrived at the Grill and Island Bar five minutes before Charles-time. The Grill was on Center Street and was one of the small island’s largest restaurants. I was a regular at its Thursday evening performances by the Folly Beach Bluegrass Society, a collection of talented bluegrass musicians who converge on the restaurant to share their love for traditional bluegrass music with enthusiastic audiences. There was no live entertainment today, but the smell of fried flounder greeted me and made me realize I hadn’t eaten.
I was seated on the patio overlooking Folly’s main drag when Charles rounded the corner from his apartment three blocks away. He wore a gold, long-sleeve T-shirt with the outline of a buffalo and UC in the center.
“See you’re on time for a change,” he said, making me wonder about the wisdom of inviting him to lunch in the first place. He continued, “It’s Ralphie, University of Colorado’s mascot. Most think it looks like a dude buffalo but it’s a chick.”
“Fascinating,” I said.
“Thought you’d think so. I love learning new stuff,” he said, not catching or simply ignoring my sarcasm. “John Quincy Adams said, ‘Old minds are like horses; you must exercise them if you wish to keep them in working order.’”
Another of Charles’s quirks was quoting U.S. Presidents, or he claimed they’re actual quotes. Of all my priorities, verifying the source would be at the bottom of my list next to doing the backstroke in boiling motor oil.
“Good to see you, Charles,” I said, trying to interject civility into the conversation.
“Guess where I was this morning?” he asked as he threw his Tilley hat on the bench seat beside him and carefully placed his cane on the concrete floor.
“Lisbon, North Dakota.”
Charles tilted his head and gave a slight nod. “Close. Went to check out Charles Towne Landing. Neat place.”
I didn’t want to tell him that even though I’d lived here for years I’d never been to the historic landing.
“Did Heather go with you?”
“She had to work, but that’s okay. She’s not much into history stuff. She says all of it’s old. Can you believe that?”
I could, since I wasn’t into it either, but again, I didn’t want to remind him. A waiter appeared before I had time to respond. We each ordered grilled tuna sandwiches, Charles ordered a Budweiser and I chose the house chardonnay.
Charles watched the waiter leave and pointed his index finger at me. “So, why the lunch invite?”
I smiled. “Maybe I’ve missed you the last few days.”
Charles shook his head. “Of course, you have, but that’s not why we’re here.”
“You’re right.”
“Of course,” he interrupted.
“I talked to Cindy this morning and wanted to let you know what she’d found about the death.”
“What’s stopping you?”
Nothing, so I shared the information. My sharing was only interrupted about seventeen times. Charles had to know every detail, most I didn’t know, but that didn’t stop him from asking.
After I’d finally finished, and the waiter had delivered our lunch, Charles took a bite and mumbled through a mouthful of food, “What do you think?”
“Everything points to an accidental overdose. She was drunk and didn’t know she was shooting too much heroin. She had a long history of drug abuse, and other than the passenger door handle being clean, nothing points to anything other than an overdose.”
Charles watched two SUVs slowly roll past us on Center Street, gazed at the three other tables of diners on the patio, and turned to me.
“No offense, but that’s a crock of bull hockey.”
Charles may lack many things but opinions were not among them. “Why?”
“Didn’t you hear Cindy? She said poor Ms. Craft’s death was murder.”
“Charles, I must have missed that. Refresh my memory, what exactly did she say that meant murder?”
“I have to explain everything, don’t I?”
I shrugged.
“First, she said Lauren had kicked the drug habit, so an overdose of something she wasn’t doing would be impossible. Then she said someone wiped fingerprints off the passenger door and was trying not to leave any evidence of being there. And, the most important thing was when she said she was praying. Don’t you see, she’s praying for us to get involved and help her solve the terrible murder.” He slammed his hand on the table. “So there.”
That may have been how Charles loosely translated what I said, but I’d learned over the years, his reality often doesn’t mesh with the real world. I also learned that arguing with him was as big a waste of time as trying to teach a turtle to type.
“I don’t think that’s exactly how she meant what she said.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Chris, oh Chris, when am I going to teach you how to read between the lines. Of course, that’s what she meant. And the cherry on top of the hot-fudge sundae was when she said it was still an open case and Detective Adair was working it. They don’t have detectives working things that aren’t crimes. I rest my case.”
“It’s something to think about,” I said as insincerely as possible and knew it was time to change the subject. “Brian Newman met with me the other day.”
I knew Charles wouldn’t leave his opinions about the death on the table, but his insatiable desire to know what was going on would delay more murder talk until he learned what there was
to know about my talk with the mayor.
“Without me?” he said, like me meeting with the mayor without my sidekick was one of the most ridiculous things he’d heard.
I nodded.
“Let’s hear it.”
I shared that Brian was concerned about a heated race for the office and there were big money citizens lining up behind the potential opponent. I was surprised when Charles asked who the opponent was. With his ear to the gossip of the community, it seemed unlikely he wouldn’t have already known.
“Joel Hurt. You know him?”
“You’re kidding. Joel, the landscape, garden center guy?”
Charles was already shaking his head when I said yes.
“Crap,” Charles said.
“I know. I hate anyone running against Brian.”
Charles shook his head faster and said, “That’s not what the crap was about.”
I shrugged.
“Guess who Joel Hurt was dating?”
From the look on Charles’s face, it wasn’t much of a leap when I said, “Lauren Craft.”
“Yep.”
“How do you know?”
“Heather heard about Lauren’s death when she was giving a massage to Mrs. Teeter. Heather said that Old-Bitty Teeter—Heather’s not one of her fans—rambled on about how sad it was about Lauren being a druggie and how rough her death must be on her wonderful, handsome, charming boyfriend, Joel Hurt.”
“Did Old Bitt … Mrs. Teeter say how she knew Lauren?”