by Bill Noel
“So, back to my flying-flip question. Why would I care?”
Bob liked Brian and in the last election had supported him with the maximum individual donation allowed. “Because Brian would like you to host a fundraiser?”
I gripped the side of the table and readied myself for a flurry of expletives.
Bob took a sip of his new beer, stared at me, and nodded, “Okay. Where and when?”
I pictured a gaggle of aliens taking over Bob’s body and sucking out all his hate brain cells. I was shocked, but slowly regained my composure as he took another bite.
“Your house and as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” he repeated.
We discussed some details and he started naming realtor friends he could invite and some of his best customers over the years and joked he could have his new gourmet restaurant cater the event. I assumed he was joking. He said, “Anything else? I’ve got to meet the rich suckers.”
“One more thing,” I said. “I don’t think it’s related to the mayoral race, but I heard Joel Hurt had been dating Lauren Craft.”
Bob raised his eyebrow. “The dirt-digging, landscape guy turned mayoral candidate, and your best-bud, Brad Burton’s dead daughter. And you, the person who doesn’t believe in coincidences, don’t think that’s related?”
“I don’t see how.”
“Hmm.”
Bob pushed away from the table and on his way to the door told the waitress I was getting his check and to be sure and add a humongous tip.
That was more like the Bob I knew, I thought, and looked out the window. Could Bob be right in thinking Lauren’s death may have something to do with Joel?
11
I stopped at Burt’s on the way home to grab something for breakfast. It was one of the store’s prime beer-buying hours and several customers were milling around. Three men I had seen in the store many times were in deep conversation in front of the beer cooler. An elderly woman I only knew as Mary was at the counter holding the collar of her large collie and talking to Eric. I smiled when the dog jumped and placed its front paws on the counter hoping Eric would give it a treat.
I weaved my way to the side of the store, grabbed a cinnamon Danish and turned to head to the cash register when I nearly ran into Brad Burton. I barely recognized him. I thought he’d looked bad when Charles and I visited his house to offer my condolences, but compared to now, he’d looked like a television star that day. His brown eyes were sunken, and he had on the same wrinkled white dress shirt he’d worn during our visit but with added food stains on the front. He was carrying a loaf of bread and his hand trembled and I was concerned he would drop the bread.
“Landrum,” he said and gave a slight nod.
“Burton,” I responded and gave a weak smile.
“I see you’re shopping,” he said and nodded toward the Danish.
I started to make one of my patented smart-aleck comments like, “I see why you were a detective,” but first, I had learned years ago he didn’t appear to have a sense of humor, and second, I was feeling something I had never thought possible: sympathy. I limited my response to, “Breakfast.”
Our awkward conversation was interrupted by Chester Carr who patted Brad on the back and said, “Brad, I was sorry to hear about your loss.”
I had known Chester for several years and got to know him much better a couple of years ago when he had dated Charles’s aunt who had spent her last few months on Folly before succumbing to cancer.
Brad turned to the newcomer and thanked him for his concern. I took the opportunity to move away from Brad. Chester stopped me. “Hey Chris, see you and Brad here are becoming friends. Glad to see it, you being neighbors and all.”
“Good to see you, Chester. I was sharing my condolences with Brad. How are you?”
Chester smiled, said, “Good,” and looked at the carton of milk he was holding. “Better be going. Need to get this home.” He glanced back at Brad, said he was again sorry for his loss, and headed to the cash register, leaving Brad and me staring at each other in awkward silence.
I was saved by Eric who apparently had to go to the shelf behind us to find something for a customer. He handed the small jar of pickles to the appreciative woman and turned to Brad and me.
“How are my favorite detectives?”
Clearly, Eric hadn’t heard as much about Burton and my ongoing disagreements as had Chester.
I was surprised when Brad chuckled rather than going into a rant about how terrible I was. He patted Eric’s shoulder and said, “You’ve got that wrong. I’m a has-been detective.” He tilted his head toward me. “And he never was one.”
Eric stroked his long beard. I smiled and said, “Brad’s right about me, but he may be retired but was a top-notch detective for years.”
Brad gave me a sideways glance, probably because he knew I was lying about what I thought of his skills. I would have looked at me that way too and was surprised I had said it.
“Anyway,” Eric said, “it’s nice to see you neighbors gabbing, and Brad, I’m terribly sorry about Lauren. She seemed to be a nice gal.”
Brad nodded and Eric said he had to run. “Got to help keep our fine citizens lubricated.”
Brad remained at my side and twisted the tie on the bread wrapper.
What do I say now? No words were necessary. Brad looked at the concrete floor and muttered, “I did appreciate you and your friend stopping by the house. I know I treated you badly when you were there. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. It must have been terrible on you and Hazel. If there is anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
He looked at me. “That’s kind. You have no idea how horrible this has been on Hazel.”
I didn’t know about him, but it felt strange for the two of us to be carrying on a civil conversation in the middle of the busy store after years of such an acrimonious relationship. It seemed like he wanted to talk, so I said, “You walking home?”
He looked toward the register and said he was. I followed him to pay and walked beside him as he went out into the humid night air.
“We moved here to be closer to Lauren and somehow try to help her,” Brad said as we reached my yard.
Hazel had told me that, but since she’d requested I not let Brad know she had talked to me, I didn’t let on I’d already heard it.
“I’m sorry you weren’t able to help.” I pointed to my front step. “Want to sit?”
He glanced next door to his house and at my step. “Okay.”
We sat on the concrete step and shared another awkward silence.
Brad took a deep breath and said, “I was never there for her when she was a kid. Don’t try to deny it because I know you think I was a horrible detective.” He paused, and I quickly decided silence was my best response. “When Lauren was little, I was a great cop. Before I got promoted to detective, I ran rings around the other beat cops. I wasn’t the smartest guy on the force, but I wanted to make a difference and the only way I knew how was to put in as many hours as possible.” He hesitated and smiled. “Some of the guys swore I was bucking to be police chief. I wasn’t, but I did want to be the best I could be. What I became was the worst dad in the world. I can count on one hand the total number of concerts, plays, games, activities, and whatever my little girl participated in that I attended. And Chris, she was in everything. She played the violin in the school orchestra, acted in every play, was cheerleader for both football and basketball, and still found time to get straight A’s in class. Her mom was there for everything; I let the damned job dominate my life.”
I knew that wasn’t unusual at the time when Brad was raising a family, but I also didn’t think Brad needed me to tell him so.
“I’m sure she knew you loved her.”
He looked over at me. “I’m not.”
I waited for him to continue.
Brad stared as two trucks sped past the house, and he said to me, “During her junior year of high school, she got
mixed up with the wrong crowd. Alcohol and pot. I didn’t learn about it until months later. Me, the big-time cop who was always out catching criminals, and helping others, couldn’t even see that my own kid…. If I had spent more time looking out for my little girl instead of being gone and worrying about everyone else, things … things could have been different. Chris, she would still be with us.”
“Brad, you don’t know that. Over the years, I’ve known several parents who were perfect with their kids, did everything with them, doted over them, and did whatever possible to keep them away from bad influences. Despite those efforts, some of their kids ended up being the kind of people you spent years catching.”
“I know that, but I still failed her. You know what’s so strange? The last year I thought she’d turned her life around.” He glanced at his house again. “We had her over to eat several times. She seemed fine. She had a job. She was dating a successful, well-liked guy. Sure, she still had bouts of depression, but nothing like how it had been when she was a regular at rehab.” I followed Brad’s gaze as he looked down at his hand. It was shaking, and he grabbed his knee to stop the shake. “I know the ME is still futzing around with the cause of death, but I know it was an overdose. It had to be.”
“Brad, you said she still had bouts of depression. Is it possible she had, umm, intentionally overdosed?”
He let go of his knee and his hand balled into a fist. “Suicide?”
I nodded.
He unclasped his fist and sighed. “If I saw it once, I saw it a thousand times. When I was a cop, some guy would be found in his room hanging from the ceiling, or someone in a bathtub with her wrists slit. Obvious suicides, but the family swore it couldn’t be. They’d say maybe it was an accident, or someone murdered the poor soul to make it look like suicide. Basically, the relatives couldn’t handle the guilt associated with their loved ones killing themselves. I’ve thought about it every waking moment since it happened, could I be doing the same thing and wanting it to be accidental for the same reason.” He paused and shook his head. “Chris, it was a damned, horrible accident. She’d been off heroin for a while and somehow overdosed when she got back into it. It was; it had to be.”
Perhaps it was, but I couldn’t shake how strange it was that there were no prints on the passenger side door. I was feeling uncomfortable with Brad’s deteriorating mood and wanted to change the subject.
“Brad, you mentioned she had been dating someone. Was it Joel Hurt?”
His head jerked toward me. “How’d you know?”
“I heard it somewhere around town. Have you talked with him since, umm, her passing?”
“He stopped by the house to bring us food and a plant. I don’t know him well, but from what Lauren says, said, he was a nice guy and seemed good for her. Hazel likes him. Why?”
“Nothing. I heard he was going to run for mayor.”
Brad seemed surprised. “Against Brian Newman?”
“Yes.”
“That’s news to me. Brian’s a good mayor. For someone who had been a cop most of his life, he’s maybe a tad too soft against vagrants and some of the other bums who hang around Folly. Brian’s popular so I don’t see how anyone could beat him.” Brad looked at his watch. “Better get home. Hazel will start worrying. She knows I’m not handling this too good and is afraid of what I might do.”
He thanked me for listening, stood, and headed home without turning back.
12
Since the first day I’d met Brad Burton some eight years ago on that hot, sandy path to the beach overlooking the Morris Island Lighthouse, he’d been a pain in my side, and I suppose, I to his. I still think he’d only been going through the motions his later years as a detective, but I suppose he was honest about how he’d done his job at first. When he had moved next door, I doubted we’d ever have a pleasant conversation, and for his first year there, my doubts had been confirmed. Now I didn’t know what to think. Sure, I knew he was torn up about the death of their only child, and could understand how that might alter his behavior; but I couldn’t get over how much he felt comfortable confiding during our strange conversation on the porch.
I awakened the next morning thinking about it; not only thinking about how funny it felt to have had a real, and emotional, conversation with Brad, but how I couldn’t shake my uneasiness about the missing prints on the car door. I had reached for my phone to call Chief LaMond to see if there was anything new with the case when the phone rang.
“Chris,” came a vaguely familiar voice through the speaker, “this is Wayne Swan.”
Wayne was a successful contractor specializing in home remodels. It’s rare to drive more than a few blocks on Folly without seeing one of his job signs. He had a reputation for quality work, on time, and at reasonable prices—all rare qualities in today’s construction industry.
I had known him five years, since he was one of my regular—unfortunately, one of only a few regular—customers when I had owned my photo gallery. I couldn’t keep the shop open with only a few, a very few, regular customers, and truth be told, not that many irregular ones as well, and was forced to close it a year ago. In addition to buying prints, he had an interest in photography and would stop in to talk cameras. I enjoyed our conversations. He also invited me to a couple preview parties he held upon completion of major projects. He’d paid for the events which were hosted by the happy homeowners who were anxious to show off their remodeled spaces.
“Morning, Wayne. Inviting me to a party—I hope?”
He chuckled. “Not this time. Have you heard Joel Hurt is planning to run for mayor?”
“Think I heard something about it,” I said. I avoided telling him I hated the idea.
“Good. He’s asked me to be his campaign manager and I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Congratulations, I suppose.”
Wayne’s chuckle turned into a laugh. “Condolences would be more appropriate. Kidding aside, I’d like you to meet with Joel.”
“Wayne, if you don’t already know, I’m a good friend of Brian Newman and will be supporting him in the election. Why would Joel want to meet with me?”
“Yes, I know about your connections with the mayor, but Joel said he didn’t know you other than in passing, and since you’re a well-respected member of the community, he wanted to at least share his vision with you.” He laughed, again. “We’re not asking you to wear a Hurt for Mayor button or stick a sign in your yard, just to give my candidate a chance to share his ideas. How about it?”
I was still absorbing that someone thought I was a well-respected member of the community. “Let me think about it and get back with you.”
Wayne hesitated, and said, “I go way back with him, Chris. I think you’ll like Joel. He’s a great guy with some progressive ideas for your island.”
“Got a question, Wayne. Do campaign managers ever say anything negative about their candidates?”
“Hmm, give me a sec.” Another chuckle. “Got it, Joel chews his fingernails.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good. And get back to me soon. Joel wants to talk to as many community leaders as he can before officially announcing.”
I said I would, hung up, and thought community leaders!
What was Joel’s real reason for wanting to meet with me? I had been on Folly for several years and had been thrust into notoriety because of a few horrific events, but I didn’t for a second believe the community leader and well-respected member of the community baloney. And if he thought he could win me over, there wasn’t a chance in Vegas for me making a significant donation to his campaign. And, if I did meet with him, would it look like I was being disloyal to Brian?
Instead of spending time pondering these unanswerable questions, I called Charles.
“Caught the killer yet?” Charles said, instead of a common courtesy.
I told him there wasn’t a killer so I couldn’t have caught him.
“If you say so. Anyway, guess where I am?”
“Getting a facial.”
“Yuck. Try again, never mind, I’m at Office Depot looking at computers.”
Charles had never owned a computer, not surprising knowing that he didn’t have a cell phone or an answering machine until a few months ago. When I had the gallery, he considered the computer there as his.
“Why?”
“The times they are a changin’. I might need to look something up, and besides, Heather says she can use it to watch videos of her favorite singers. Think about it. If she’s using my computer, she’ll need to be at my apartment. If she’s at my apartment we can—”
“Got it,” I interrupted. “Want to know why I called?”
“Thought you wanted to know where I was, what I was doing, and what Heather and I would be doing while she was at my apartment.”
“That too, but figured you’d be interested in knowing who I got off the phone with.” I told him about my conversation with Wayne. Charles was being unusually attentive, and not interrupting, until I told him what Wayne had said about me being a community leader.
Charles laughed so loud that I held the phone away from my ear. “He said you were what?”
I repeated it, and Charles said he’d heard me the first time, but couldn’t imagine anyone uttering those words when referring to me. I assured him Wayne had.
“A politician couldn’t find the truth if it squawked in his ear and bit him on the nose.”
“Did a president say that?”
“Why?”
“No reason other than you’re always quoting presidents.”
“Nope, this time it’d be little ole me being profound. So, when are you going to meet him?”
“Don’t know that I am. I think it’d look bad since I’m supporting Brian.”
“Wrong,” said Charles. “Of course, you are. You have to.”
“Why?”
“Data gathering, spying, reconnoitering, surveilling; come on Chris, get with the program. Look how helpful this will be to Brian. Oh yeah, make him buy you a meal, order two desserts, and bring me one.”