The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  Other than learning he liked to party, dress well, give to charities, and share the special events with various women, I didn’t learn anything significant. I was about to turn the computer off when I noticed the cutline on one of the earlier photos that read: Joel Hurt, and his date Samantha Forest. Mr. Hurt recently moved to South Carolina from Lafayette, Louisiana. I had assumed Joel was a native South Carolinian. Out of boredom and my continuing lack of desire to go outside, I added Lafayette, Louisiana, to my Google search criteria, and a half-dozen references to Joel Hurt popped up. Two were about a Joel Hurt who had died at age eighty-four after a long bout with cancer, the other four were about a young landscaper who had bought a well-established garden center from the owner who was retiring after fifty years in the business. A head and shoulder photo of the landscaper showed a younger version of the Joel Hurt running for mayor.

  I quickly forgot the other articles when I found the last mention of Joel Hurt. It was in an extensive obituary for the daughter of a prominent Lafayette attorney. According to the article, the daughter was a junior at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette and had “succumbed to an accidental overdose.” A sentence at the end of the obituary read: At the time of her tragic death, she was engaged to Mr. Joel Hurt.

  I stared at Joel’s name and reread the obituary. The only mention of cause of death was the benign succumbed to statement which didn’t indicate an overdose of what, most likely the wording dictated by her father, the influential attorney. Joel was mentioned briefly, but that was enough. It didn’t take much imagination to see the similarities between the death in Louisiana and that of Lauren. A coincidence, possibly, but to me, a highly suspicious one.

  I grabbed the phone and punched in Cindy’s number.

  “You saved me a call,” the chief said before I could say anything. “Just got the ruling on Ms. Craft’s death.”

  “Murder?” I said and crossed my fingers.

  “Was that a guess or are you psychic?” Cindy said.

  “Guess. Why?”

  “Then you’re a sucky guesser. The coroner determined it was an accidental overdose of heroin.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish, sucky guesser. He said there were no signs of a struggle and her blood alcohol level was almost off the charts. She was drunk and misjudged the dose. Tragic, but accidental. Now you can add but.”

  I sighed. “But what about the lack of prints on the passenger door handle? And, wait until I tell you what I found this morning.”

  “Hang on. I’m from the hills so you know I can’t multitask. Let me answer your question first.”

  Despite Cindy’s self-deprecating comments about where she was from, she was one of the brightest people I knew. “Yes, Chief, answer away.”

  “Detective Adair speculates one of the EMTs grabbed the handle and since he wore gloves, it wiped off any prints that may have been there. And before you ask, yes, the detective did talk with the EMTs and one of them said he did open that door to get a better angle on Ms. Craft, and that he could have rubbed the door handle. It could have also happened if someone saw the car, grabbed the handle to bend down and look inside, saw the late Miss Burton, panicked, wiped the handle clean so no one would tie him or her to the scene, and ran like … like someone running fast.”

  “Do you agree with him?”

  “Seems unusual but does make sense.”

  That didn’t answer my question, but thought it was time to tell her what I’d learned and that might help make up her mind.

  “Ready to hear why I called?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  I told her about my Internet search and what I’d learned about Joel’s fiancé.

  “Chris, right up there with piss-poor insurance reimbursements, and damned medicine commercials on television, do you know what doctors complain about the most?”

  “No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

  “It’s their competitor: Dr. Google. Seems most of their patients come to their office certain they know what’s wrong with them. They’ve looked up some of their symptoms on the Internet and are ready, willing, and able to tell the docs who have wasted all those years in medical school when all they had to do was look it up and write a prescription for whatever Dr. Google said they needed.”

  “You made that up,” I said.

  “Gee, give me some credit, Mr. Citizen. I read it in that highly respected medical journal, People Magazine.”

  I smiled but didn’t let Cindy know I found it amusing. “So, what’s that have to do with Joel?”

  “So, you’re going to take an accidental death, stir in a little ancient history off the Internet about some chick from somewhere in Louisiana, and leap to the conclusion Ms. Craft’s death—her accidental death—had something to do with Joel Hurt. Oh yeah, did I mention accidental death?”

  “Cindy, all I’m saying is it seems like a large coincidence. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to hang up, go to a meeting with our mayor that I’m five minutes late for, say ‘Yes sir, yes sir, whatever you say sir,’ leave the meeting, and call Detective Adair and share your harebrained coincidence. Then when he says it’s absurd and asks what idiot came up with it, I’m going to tell him it was you, and hang up on him before he calls me names.”

  “Thank you,” I said before she could hang up on me.

  It may not have sounded like it to anyone who may have been listening to our conversation, but I knew Cindy had heard me, was taking it seriously, and would follow through with Detective Adair. What I didn’t know was how seriously he would take it.

  15

  I barely had time to ponder if the Charleston detective would take my information seriously when the phone rang.

  “Good,” said Bob Howard. “Glad I caught you alive. Meet me at Al’s at noon.”

  Sorry Bob, I’m busy. Why, Bob? Good morning, Bob. How are you today? All were responses I would have liked to share with the realtor, but I couldn’t because he’d already hung up.

  Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill was located a block off Calhoun Street, a main road that crisscrossed downtown Charleston, and three blocks from the hospital district. It was in a section of town Realtor Bob referred to as being in its pre-gentrification period. After three beers one night, he’d revised his terminology and classified the houses surrounding Al’s as being slummy dumps still standing because termites were afraid to live there. It shared a dilapidated, concrete-block building with a Laundromat.

  Bob was already in the bar, and probably had been for some time since his deteriorating dark-plum colored PT Cruiser was parked in front of the door. Bob had been driving the convertible ever since I had known him. It looked more like the vehicle an underpaid short-order cook would be driving than a successful realtor. Bob had once told me he drove it, so his clients would know he was only out for their best interests rather than making money off them. I didn’t agree but trying to argue with Bob was like trying to convince a rhinoceros to play Scrabble.

  I was greeted by near total darkness as I stepped from the sunlight into the bar. I was also greeted by Al who looked as worn as the exterior of the building and the yard-sale tables and chairs that filled the room. His skin, somewhere between deep brown and light black, appeared paler than usual and his handshake weaker than I had remembered. What hadn’t changed was his high-wattage smile as he hugged me.

  “It’s great to see you, Chris. It’s been too long.”

  Bob had told me about Al’s declining health, and it’d only been a few weeks since I was in, but the change in his appearance was distressing. The Four Tops were belting out “Reach Out I’ll Be There” from the jukebox, but not loud enough to mask Bob’s voice coming from a booth near the back of the bar, “Dammit old man, stop huggin’ on the boy. Let him get over here and buy me lunch!”
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  Three tables of diners stopped their conversations and glanced at Bob who was spread out on one side of the booth he had staked a claim to years ago and grumbled if anyone else had the nerve to sit in it. They turned to Al to see how he would react to the burly, bag of hot air.

  Al pointed at Bob, smiled, and said, “Shut up and stick a fry in your face.”

  Bob and I were the only Caucasians in the room, so Al’s generous smile had probably prevented a race riot. Two of the diners whose ages approached Al’s clapped and some of the others in the room laughed and hoisted their beer bottles to Al.

  Ray Charles was singing “Hit the Road Jack” and I wondered if I should follow his advice, but instead I told Al I was glad to see him and weaved my way through the tables and squeezed into the seat opposite Bob.

  He waved his hand around and said, “See, they love me.”

  Not exactly my interpretation, but I let it go, and said, “Al is looking bad.”

  “Isn’t that what I already told you?”

  I said it was but didn’t realize how bad until now. I glanced back and noticed Al was leaning heavily on a chair and appeared to be breathing heavily.

  The music from the jukebox had switched from R&B to Connie Smith singing the country classic Once a Day. As a concession to his friendship with Bob, Al, to the consternation of many of his regular customers, had salted his jukebox with several country music tunes, which Bob had often and loudly proclaimed to be the only kind of real music.

  “Thank God, my ears will stop bleeding now,” Bob said, loud enough for all to hear.

  I leaned closer to the table and said, in a voice I didn’t want anyone other than Bob to hear, “Does everyone know about you buying the bar?”

  “You talking about everyone, like all the monks in Tibet and whoever those short people are who live in Australia, or are you limiting it to Al’s customers?”

  I stared at Bob.

  “No,” he finally said, “Al wants to wait until the damned lawyers get all the I’s dotted and Q’s sliced before announcing it.” He tilted his head toward the door. “And speaking about the damned old codger, look who’s here?”

  Al was three feet from the table and leaning on a rickety chair.

  “Park your bony ass, old man,” Bob said.

  Al moved from leaning on the chair to the space beside me and said, “How could I pass on such a nice invitation. Chris, I went ahead and told my cook to fix you a cheeseburger and to bring you a glass of white wine. Hope that’s okay.”

  I told him it was perfect but was surprised that he was having the cook bring the burger and wine to the table. Al had always taken pride in delivering the food.

  Al took a deep breath. “Heard about the big corporate takeover?”

  “Yes, if you mean your buddy here purchasing the best cheeseburger restaurant in South Carolina.”

  Al chuckled. “That’s the one. Tubby here said he was going to keep the name of the place Al’s. He said—”

  Bob interrupted. “Thought about changing it to Bob’s Burgers but figured that was too classy a name for this dump and that Al’s had just the right dumpy ring to it.”

  I ignored Bob, a talent one must acquire to be able to spend time around him. “I hear you’ve agreed to help him.”

  Al shook his head. “I’ll stick around, but don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

  Willie Nelson crooned “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys,” my cheeseburger and wine arrived, and Bob said, “He’ll always be welcome and is a tremendous help.”

  I was pleased by Bob’s admission. I knew he felt that way about Al but figured it would take a mule train to pull it out of him with Al close enough to hear.

  Al waited for me to bite into my cheeseburger, and said, “Blubber Bob here told me the other day that you’re sticking your nose into another strange death on your island. He said you were suspicioning that it may be more than an accident, something about lack of prints or something.”

  “Not really,” I said. “The police are saying it was an accidental heroin overdose. There wasn’t any evidence it was forced. I took an interest because the woman’s parents live next door to me.”

  Al slowly nodded. “Yes sir, I hear that. Her dad’s that detective you called lazy and incompetent.”

  “A worthless sack of dog dung,” Bob added.

  Al’s physical health may be fading, but there was nothing wrong with his memory. It had been a year or more since I’d said anything to him about Detective Burton.

  Al rolled his eyes at Bob and said, “I was telling Tanesa about it. She said she’s seen way too many ODs in the emergency room. I asked her if someone could force another person into sticking themselves and squirting enough H into the system to kill them. She said if the person had enough to drink, it’d be possible.”

  Cindy had said Lauren had been drunk. “That’s true I suppose, but I think there’s bigger news around here than what’s happening on Folly. Al, I’m glad you’ll be getting help with the bar. I know—”

  Bob interrupted, “Bar and Grill. This ain’t only a drinkin’ dive. It serves the best cheeseburgers in the civilized world. I see great things happening when I sprinkle my dining-extraordinaire marketing talents to the business. This fine establishment will be reeling in five-star reviews. I can picture the Food Channel broadcasting live from here and that famous chef who goes around the country getting stomped by local chefs and chefettes when he tries to fix their specialties.” Bob tapped his forefinger against his temple. “Before you know it, that TV channel will want to pay me, I mean us, a zillion dollars to host a series on their soon to be famous network.”

  Al laughed. “I can picture it too, Bob. You’ll stand out front and when anyone sees your ample stomach they’ll figure you must be an expert on cheeseburgers. Then you’ll slop on the charm you’re famous for and look at the potential customers—umm, excuse me, Food Channel audience—and woo them with something like, ‘Get your damn ass in here and eat one of these famous burgers, or get out of my face.’ Yes sir, I can see it now.”

  I leaned back in the booth, gazed at Bob as his face turned red, and ramped-up my admiration for Al another hundred percent.

  Instead of exploding in a patented Bob rant, he grinned and leaned his ample stomach against the table to get close enough to reach Al’s hand. Bob patted the thin, bony hand and said, “Great idea, former owner, and soon-to-be official greeter.”

  Bob and Al continued to exchange brilliant marketing ideas, I enjoyed the rest of my cheeseburger and especially my wine, and from the jukebox, Freddy Fender’s accented voice reminded us what would happen “Before the Next Teardrop Falls.”

  16

  Over the last few days, I’d noticed Brad Burton walking past the house on his way to or from Bert’s. I suppose he had made the walk many times, but I had never paid attention to him until the tragic death of his daughter. I had been tempted to step outside and say something to him but knew there wasn’t anything to say. He was devastated and there was nothing I could say that would lessen his misery.

  Who I talked to several times in the last forty-eight hours leading to tonight’s fundraiser was Dude. We had more telephone conversations than during the entire eight years I’d known him. A week ago, I shared with him the idea of him hosting a fundraiser for Brian. After listening to him vacillate between laughter and fear about hosting the event, he finally said, “Okee-dokee. Dude be kingmaker.”

  The closer we got to the event, panic had overcome any enthusiasm my surfer friend had for the fundraiser. One of his nonnegotiable conditions for holding the event was that it must be catered by Cal’s. I hadn’t argued, but having the singing cowboy cater anything was like having Bob as the keynote speaker at a Weight Watchers convention. Regardless, Dude asked me to negotiate the catering with Cal who had reluctantly agreed to have his staff of fine culinarians—one underpaid short-order cook—prepare hors d'oeuvres, which when he said it, sounded like horse nerves, under the condition he
would be able to sing a few songs. He’d reminded me that, “Political types always have music at their shindigs.”

  I thought it was a small price to pay for having fine culinarians catering the event.

  I picked Charles up and headed to his girlfriend’s apartment building a short distance away. Charles told me to keep driving and that Heather wasn’t going. I was surprised since they had been nearly inseparable over the last couple of years.

  “Is she feeling bad?”

  Charles stared out the windshield and I wondered if he’d heard my question.

  “Charles?”

  “I heard you,” he mumbled. “She’s been down, up, and down, since we got back from Nashville. More downs than ups. I’ve tried everything, but she seems immune to being cheered up.”

  I knew she had been depressed and while in Tennessee had attempted to take her own life after being arrested for a murder that she hadn’t committed. I had been with the two of them three or four times since they had returned from chasing her dreams in Nashville but hadn’t seen evidence of continued depression.

  When they returned, I shared the name of a counselor who had helped William Hansel, another of my friends after he’d suffered depression. “Has she met with the counselor William recommended?”

  Charles turned toward me. “Don’t think so. She keeps saying she’s going to make an appointment, but I’m not sure she means it.”

  I asked if there was anything I could do to help. He said he wished there was but didn’t know what it could be. He returned to staring out the windshield as we approached Dude’s small, elevated house located a couple of blocks east of Center Street. It would’ve been hard to miss. His light-green, rusting, 1970 Chevrolet El Camino was parked in the front yard. A four-foot by four-foot sheet of plywood was propped up between two concrete blocks in the vehicle’s bed. The plywood was painted white and hand lettering said BRIAN’S CASH BASH in fluorescent red paint with a red arrow pointed at the house.