by Bill Noel
I wanted to repeat “why would you think that” but didn’t and nodded for her to continue.
“I don’t know if he knew it or not, but I had gone through rehab with Lauren a couple of times.” She shook her head and frowned. “We shared some rough patches. If she told her dad about our history, he probably would’ve thought I was bad for her.” She looked up from the mug. “Chris, I wasn’t bad. Lauren was good and most of the time real clean. I was sort of between waitressing jobs a while back and we had more time to spend together. She had a good heart and was funny, not jokes funny, but said funny things about what was going on around her, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do. You said she was clean most of the time.”
Her head dipped, and she returned to staring at the coffee mug. “Umm, I hate to admit it, but over the last two months, she relapsed. She was back on H big time. It was so sad. I tried to talk to her, remind her of all the, excuse me, shit we’d gone through getting off the stuff. She wouldn’t listen.”
I thought about what Cindy had said about only one needle mark. “Are you sure she was using again?”
Katelin sighed. “Yeah, I’m certain. She was shooting up worse than ever before; shooting up right in the living room, not even trying to hide it. Drinking heavy too.”
“Do you know why?”
“She never said it, but I’d put money on her a-hole boyfriend, Joel.”
“Why?” I asked, and decided I was becoming nosy Charles.
“He’s not good for, umm, not good for Lauren. He had a way of putting her down. Condescending, I think that’s what you call it. One minute he was all lovey-dovey and the next he was saying he was ashamed of her, hinting that her drugging was going to give him a bad name.”
I also remembered how Katelin had reacted to Brian Newman’s remark about him last night and wondered if his treatment of Lauren was what precipitated her strong reaction.
“Last night I saw how you reacted when the mayor was complimenting Joel and saying he was a good guy.”
“I was afraid you might have heard me. I couldn’t help it, just blurted it out.”
“Was it because of how he acted with Lauren?”
She glanced around the room and at me. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?” I said.
Her face looked like she’d been sucking on a lemon.
“I dated him before she did.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not accurate. He dated both of us at the same time and I didn’t know about it. Joel and I were getting serious, or so I thought. I was working a lot of double shifts and wasn’t ever home.” She sighed. “Crap, I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.” She paused and looked at me like she was expecting an answer.
“It’s okay,” I said.
That seemed to satisfy her. “Anyway, Joel’s a lying two-timer. He was trying to juggle both of us. Can you believe that? We were housemates. The only reason he dumped me was I found out about him and Lauren. He blew a gasket. I was afraid he was going to hit me.” She gripped her fist so tightly I thought her fingernails were going to draw blood. “Thank God, he didn’t. He seems so sincere, even sweet, but the more I got to know him, I realized he would lie about anything. It was my good luck that he dumped me. Enough about that. I wanted to tell Mr. Burton I was sorry about Lauren, that’s all.”
“Katelin, do you think her death was accidental?”
“Sure, why? Do you think she killed herself on purpose?”
“I’m not saying anything. You knew her better than most anyone, maybe better than everyone, so I thought you might have an opinion. Just asking.”
“If she killed herself, it was over Joel. She thought they were close but was wondering more and more where he was when she thought he should be with her. That shouldn’t be reason enough to harm yourself. Should it?”
Good question. I wish I had an answer. I told her I didn’t think so and it seemed to satisfy her.
“Chris, do you think Mr. and Mrs. Burton would mind if I stopped by their house to tell them how sorry I am?”
“They would appreciate it.”
She took another sip of coffee and clunked her mug down on the table. “Think I’ll try to do that now while I’ve got my courage up.”
I told her I thought it was a good idea and said I’d pick up the tab on her coffee.
“Thank you for letting me mouth off. I hope the mayor got enough money last night to stomp Joel. If you excuse my French, he’s an asshole.”
She pushed away from the table and was gone before I had time to excuse her French.
18
I called Charles twice over the next two days. Each time, he was abrupt and said he was busy making deliveries for the surf shop and would call me when he had time. He didn’t ask if I knew anything new about Lauren’s death or Brian’s candidacy. His behavior was so un-Charles-like that I wondered if I’d gotten the wrong number. It sounded like I was talking to a stranger, and he never called back.
I hadn’t heard from Charles and the fundraiser at Bob’s house was this evening, so I called to see if he was going. When the topic of fundraisers was originally discussed, he had said nothing could keep him away, but he knew the event was tonight and hadn’t said anything about it recently.
“What?”
“Good afternoon,” I said. “Are you going—”
“No,” he interrupted.
“You don’t know the question; how can you say no?”
“You’re going to ask if I’m going to Bob’s thing.”
I hated him knowing what I was going to say before I said it. “So, you’re not going?”
“That’s what no meant,” he said, without a hint of warmth.
“Charles, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m busy, that’s all.”
“Busy?”
“Okay, not that busy. It’s just Heather says she doesn’t like to be around all those hoity-toity rich people, and she’s been in such a sour mood I don’t want to leave her tonight.” He hesitated, and said, “Sorry I’ve been short with you.”
I was surprised. “She thinks rude, obscene, politically incorrect Bob Howard is hoity-toity?”
“Okay, you got me there. Not him, but she means the kind of people Bob will invite. For reasons I can’t figure out, he does have some snooty friends. Even if he doesn’t or if none of them show up tonight, Heather thinks they are and flat out won’t go. I need to stay with her.”
There was no sense in trying to convince him otherwise, so I wished him luck with Heather and he told me to let Bob know he wasn’t there because he hated Bob’s guts. I knew that was one-hundred percent incorrect but said I would share his sentiments. On a more pleasant note, Barb had said she had to work late, but would join me at Bob’s.
On the short drive from Folly to Charleston, I realized I had never been to Bob and Betty’s new house. They’d moved about three years ago from James Island to a ritzier section of Charleston a few blocks west of King Street and three blocks north of Broad Street. My navigation system still managed to lead me to their house even though it’d also never been there. The predicted late-afternoon showers failed to appear, and the humidity was lower than usual as I pulled up to the address. I knew Bob was a successful realtor, but was still impressed by the large, two-story, Georgian style home that had Bob’s street address beside the front door. I was more impressed when a college-aged gentleman, dressed in a red blazer, and black slacks waved for me to pull to the curb between two orange cones—illegally placed there by Bob, I suspected—and said he would valet park my car.
“This is Bob Howard’s house?” I said, feeling more like I’d parked in front of the White House.
“It is the residence of Mr. Howard,” said the polite valet. “I’m not certain of his first name.”
I said I supposed it would have to do and left him with my car, and hoped he wasn’t an industrious car thief.
I took a moment gawking at the house and passed through a decorative
, traditional Charleston wrought iron gate and walked up a pea gravel path to the front steps where I was greeted by a grey-haired, older gentleman wearing a white server’s jacket, black slacks, and black shoes so highly polished that they could’ve been made of glass.
“Welcome, Sir,” he said, and honest-to-goodness, he bowed.
I was now certain I was at the wrong house, but he reassured me it was indeed the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Howard, the “fine couple who are hosting tonight’s political gathering.” I was starting to agree with Heather.
“Other ladies and gentlemen are gathered on the back patio,” said the doorman. “Please allow me to aid you in finding your way.”
I did. On the walk through the hallway I peeked in the formal living room on the right and formal dining room to my left, before we arrived in the larger, and more casual, family room. All the rooms were filled with antiques and fine furnishings that made the house look more like a museum than where real people lived. The one hint of reality was a flat screen television on the wall of the family room. The set was the size of an Interstate billboard. I suspected that was Bob’s decorative touch.
Two sets of French doors led from the family room to an expansive brick patio that sat on a more expansive manicured lawn. Twenty people were milling around a six-foot-tall version of the distinct Pineapple Fountain located in downtown Charleston’s French Quarter. Most of the attendees were all smiles with a drink in one hand while trying to balance a china plate of finger foods in the other.
Of the group, I only recognized a half dozen and was tempted to turn and leave when I heard Bob yell, “Well it’s about damned time you got here.”
He scurried—more like a slow walk for most everyone else—around a couple of the guests and headed my way. He had made major concessions to his normal attire since he had on long pants instead of shorts, and his extensive Hawaiian flowery shirt collection had given way to a yellow dress shirt. I nearly reached for my phone/camera to record Bob in sartorial splendor, truly a historic event, but he had already put his arm around my shoulder. “Where’s piss ant Charles?”
You could lead Bob to a classy event, but you couldn’t make him classy, or something like that. I explained Charles was staying with Heather and she’d been a little under the weather. I doubted he’d believed me, but he didn’t press it. A waiter arrived about the same time Bob had and offered me a glass of Champagne. I took it, thanked him, and gave Bob a sideways glance.
“All Betty’s idea. You’d better enjoy that damned drink. You know they don’t even sell that stuff in boxes?”
I told him I didn’t know that, but I thought it was classy. He told me she made him hide the beer cooler behind the shrubs that were aesthetically placed around three sides of the patio.
A second waiter magically appeared carrying a silver tray with a selection of finger foods that looked more colorful than appetizing. I took one that looked familiar and thanked the smiling waiter.
Bob waved his hand in front of me. “Don’t even think about asking me what that crap is. I can tell you it costs more than a new Dodge Dart.”
I told him that I appreciated his fiscal analysis, and turned more serious, and thanked him for the generous offer to host the event.
“Don’t thank me,” he said as he turned to look at the group gathered near the outdoor bar. “Betty said if I didn’t make this a memorable shindig I’d better have one of my builder friends start on an oversized doghouse.”
I didn’t catch everything he’d said about the doghouse; I was stuck on him having friends, builders or otherwise. I also knew he was doing little more than blowing smoke, because he would have done anything for Brian.
“It’s still kind of you. So, who are these people?”
“Most are realtors who spend all their time slinking around looking for potential clients. Free booze and little clumps of food that no normal person can recognize drew them in.” He chuckled. “They also have money and with the right twist of the arm can be convinced to give a chunk of it to the right political candidates.”
“And that would be Brian Newman?”
“Hell, Chris, they don’t have a rat’s turd idea who Brian is. They do know me, and if I suggest they donate to him, they’ll smile and take the duct tape off their checkbooks and scribble out a check for the legal maximum amount.”
I smiled. “I didn’t know you had that many good friends.”
“I don’t. Half of them work for me, and most of the others work for people who owe me favors. You’re beginning to bore me, so let’s go, I’ll introduce you to some of them.”
I was once again reminded why he didn’t have many good friends. Bob told me I wouldn’t have to remember any of the names since most of the realtors had money and since I was old and broke I wouldn’t see them again. He was wasting his words since names and I had never been on remembering terms.
He dragged me over to a couple of gray-haired men in deep conversation. Bob, being Bob, was oblivious to what they were talking about and shoved his way between them, told me the taller one was Gordon something, and the “skinny, malnourished little twerp” was Lawrence Brockman. He said they were two of his employees which apparently gave him authority to interrupt and insult to his heart’s content. Bob told them I was a good friend of tonight’s guest of honor, Brian Newman. They smiled and pretended to care who I was and probably who Brian Newman was.
I held their smile and looked around to see if the guest of honor had arrived, but he either wasn’t here yet or was hidden behind some of the other guests of lesser honor. Bob told the two realtors that he’d love to stay and talk longer but had to mingle. They didn’t appear to be sad to see us go.
A violinist, not more than a teenager, was plying her trade on the other side of the patio. Her eyes were closed and she was lost in the music. That was good because I doubted anyone could hear her because of the water splashing in the fountain and the din of several people talking over each other. The succulent smell of late-blooming flowers flowed through the air.
Bob pointed at the musician. “I wanted a fiddle and guitar, so we could have real music—country music—but Betty vetoed my brilliant idea. There’s no king at this castle. Betty rules with a firm skillet.”
Our next stop was one I did look forward to. Al and his daughter Tanesa were standing by themselves near the violinist. I realized it was only the second time I’d seen Al outside his bar/restaurant and the first time I’d seen Tanesa in something other than her medical scrubs. She wore a knee-length yellow and white sundress that contrasted nicely with her coco-brown skin and black, curly hair. She looked more like a doctor’s daughter rather than the highly skilled ER doc I knew her to be. Al had on a black dress shirt, gray slacks, and an expression that screamed I’m uncomfortable as hell.
“Well if it ain’t beauty and the damned ugly old beast. Hope none of my fine Caucasian neighbors saw you two sneaking in,” said Bob, warmly welcoming the Washingtons to his house.
Tanesa ignored Bob’s comment, smiled, and gave the burly politically incorrect realtor a kiss on the cheek. Al also smiled, his coffee-stained teeth contrasting with Tanesa’s gleaming white ones.
Bob looked at Al and took a step back. “Don’t you even think about kissing me, old man.” He looked around and waved one of the waiters over. “Get this old man some of those food clumps before he dies of starvation right on Betty’s manicured lawn.”
Bob made a few ruder remarks, hugged Al, showing a glimmer of his true feelings about his friend, and said, “Gotta spread more joy among the others, so I’ll leave so you can talk about me.”
Al and Tanesa thanked him for inviting them, Bob mumbled it wasn’t his idea, and left the three of us. Tanesa suggested her dad may want to sit on one of the stone benches along the perimeter of the yard. Al didn’t pretend to argue with her and moved toward the closest resting spot, leaning on Tanesa’s shoulder the entire way. And yes, we did spend some time talking about our host, but regardless what
Bob might think, it was all positive.
After talking about Bob and how lovely his house was, Tanesa said she wanted to get another drink and asked if I would walk with her to the bar. I didn’t want to leave her dad, but figured she wasn’t asking just to have an escort so I said “sure.”
“He’s not doing well,” she said once we were out of earshot of her dad. “You don’t know how thrilled I am that Bob bought the bar. Dad wouldn’t say it, but we all knew he was on the verge of bankruptcy. The bar means everything to him and if he lost it that way it’d kill him. I just hope—never mind, I hope he’ll be okay.”
“But you’re worried?” I said, to keep her talking.
“He needs a good checkup, he’s getting weaker. I can tell that from how much he’s having to lean on me, and how much trouble he’s having catching his breath after taking a few steps.”
“What does he say?”
“He laughs and blames it all on his arthritis and age sneaking up on him. He seems to forget he helped pay my way through medical school. His problem is much worse than age and arthritis, but it’d be easier to get Bob to lose 100 pounds than to get dad to the hospital.”
We’d reached the bar and grabbed three more drinks and headed back to Al. His eyes were closed and for a second, I thought maybe he was sick, or worse. He opened his eyes, smiled, and thanked Tanesa as she handed him his drink.
I saw Brian come through the French doors onto the patio. He was dressed in a sports coat and tie and I started to head his way, but Bob, who had been talking to and probably insulting a man and a woman I didn’t recognize, cut off their conversation and headed toward the guest of honor. I would let him handle the introductions since I still didn’t know many of the guests. Barb was next through the French doors. I wasn’t going to let anyone, especially Bob, greet her and excused myself from Al and Tanesa and walked around the fountain to meet Barb. She had on another of her red blouses but wore a white, linen jacket over it. She smiled when she saw me and gave me a hug as she looked around the patio.