The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  “Just like Dude’s party,” she said with a large dose of sarcasm.

  “Hard to tell the two apart,” I said.

  She stared at the fountain. “I knew Bob was successful, but you never mentioned he lived in a palace with a fountain he must have stolen from a square in Rome.”

  “If it wasn’t for someone who is the most patient woman in the world, Bob’s wife, Betty, he’d be just as content living in a three-room shack at the beach, that is if the shack had air conditioning, cable TV, and a refrigerator stocked with thirteen cases of beer.”

  Barb looked around. “Where is Saint Betty?”

  “Bob said something about it taking her longer to put on her face than it took him, and she’d be making a grand entrance at any moment.”

  “In honor of our host, I’ll refrain from commenting on Bob’s face.”

  I nodded, and Bob yelled for everyone to pay attention to what he was about to say. The violinist stopped, the smattering of conversations stopped, and all that could be heard was the fountain. Bob glared at the flowing water like it should have obeyed his command. It refused his order, he faked a smile and introduced the person the fundraiser was created to assist.

  Brian thanked Bob and stepped on a nearby stone bench. “First, let me thank Mr. and Mrs. Bob Howard for hosting such a magnificent event.” Betty had stepped out on the patio and waved acknowledgment to Brian. The rest of the guests applauded, but not as loud since most of their hands were holding food and drink. Brian gave nearly the identical speech he had shared at Dude’s house.

  He finished his remarks and Bob tried to step up on the bench and failed. He mumbled something about the bench being too high and “reminded” those gathered that there was a table near the door to the house, and there were several empty envelopes on it, and said, “As you know, our insightful, helpful lawmakers have dictated the maximum amount individuals can donate to Brian Newman’s reelection campaign is a mere thousand dollars. I know all of you carry more than that in your wallet and consider it petty cash. So, I expect—I repeat, expect—you to slip your measly thousand bucks in an envelope before you leave.”

  I wondered how many of us had that much in our pockets. I know I didn’t, but I also didn’t know the rest of Bob’s friends that well, so they could have. There was a smattering of applause, most likely because Bob was finished speaking, and the host drifted back to the couple he was talking with earlier.

  Barb and I walked around the edge of the lawn as she admired the weed-free flower beds. She asked if I knew what kind of flowers had such a pleasant aroma. I told her I knew as much about flowers—and trees for that matter—as I did about the founding of Finland. She smiled at my ignorance, something she was learning I had no shortage of, and started to say something. Bob, often oblivious to conversations not involving him, interrupted as he dragged the couple he had been talking with over to us.

  “Lovely Barb and, well, not so lovely, Chris, meet Lisa and Jeff Holthouse. They’re a husband and wife realtor team who’re always trying to steal my listings. Despite their larcenous ways, they’re not bad blokes.”

  In Bob-speak, that meant the middle-aged couple, whose last name seemed quite appropriate for realtors, who I had seen him speaking to earlier, were friends. Lisa nodded to Barb and me, and Jeff held out his hand for each of us to shake.

  “Enough bonding,” said Bob after I shook Jeff’s hand. “Jeff’s got something to tell you about the ball of crap who’s trying to knock Brian out of office. Well, don’t stand there, Jeff, tell him.”

  Who wouldn’t want to be friends with such a charming guy?

  Jeff was around six-foot three and leaned toward me and glanced around before speaking. “Lisa and I specialize in high-end properties.”

  “Try to steal them from me,” Bob interjected.

  My thought that Bob and Jeff were friends was confirmed when Jeff ignored Bob and continued, “High-end residences, of course, are slower to sell than smaller homes with a much-more palatable price point.”

  Bob interrupted again, “Cheaper.”

  “Anyway,” Jeff continued, “because they are often on the market so long and are occasionally vacant, we contract with a lawn-care company to do the routine yard work, and if the exterior needs sprucing up, the company adds additional landscaping or cheers up the tired existing landscape.”

  “We call it exterior staging,” Lisa added.

  Bob threw up both hands. “Get to the damned point before Chris and Barb fall asleep.”

  Jeff glared at Bob and turned to me. “For the last three years, we’ve contracted with Joel Hurt’s lawn service company and garden centers. He and I are graduates of the Citadel and met at a cocktail party hosted by the alumni association. Nice fellow, or so I thought.”

  “Now to the point,” Bob said, as he pointed at his watch.

  “The point is I met with him last week at a residence on Tradd Street that needed extensive exterior staging. The owners had moved to Arizona and thought their house was worth more than I had estimated it to be worth. They told me to do whatever I needed to do to bring it close to their expectations.”

  I was ready to join Bob in asking what the point was but waited for Jeff.

  Jeff put his arm around Lisa’s bare shoulder. “Lisa was with me and after we walked through the property we were cooling down on the lanai when—”

  “Cripes, Jeff, it’s a damned porch. You gotta dumb-it-down for Chris.”

  “I know what a lanai is, Bob. Jeff, you were saying.”

  “I was trying to say that Joel started talking to us about running for mayor of Folly Beach. He wanted us to donate to his campaign. But the funny thing was how he started badmouthing the current mayor.” Jeff paused and nodded his head toward Brian Newman who was standing near the fountain and talking to Betty. “You have to understand, we barely know Joel, only talked with him at the cocktail party and at six or seven work sites, and he starts mouthing off about the mayor we had never heard of. Thought it was strange and inappropriate.”

  I waited for Bob to interrupt, but he remained silent, so I said, “What kind of things was he saying?”

  Lisa moved a step closer. “Joel said everyone knew Mayor Newman was taking bribes from bar owners, so his police would look the other way about under-age drinking. He said Mayor Newman often played favorites for his friends. Even said Mayor Newman had been a suspect in some horrible murder when he was in the military police and stationed in Europe.”

  I was shocked. “Are you sure Joel was talking about Brian Newman?”

  Jeff answered for Lisa. “No doubt. He kept saying Newman.”

  I thought back to my meeting with Joel when he praised Brian for the job he had done as mayor and for his stint in the military.

  “It didn’t bother us too much,” Lisa said. “Politicians are always saying terrible things about their opponents, but what surprised me was we didn’t live on Folly, couldn’t vote in the election, had never heard of your mayor, and barely knew Joel. He wanted our money, but he didn’t have to be so, how shall I say it, umm, vile about his opponent.” She turned to Jeff.

  He took the handoff. “When our friend Bob invited us to this gathering, we wanted to come to learn more about the devil incarnate you have as mayor. Then, as Bob can often do, he screwed up everything when he told us a little about Brian and how good a guy he was. Bob said you were a friend of the mayor and an inquisitive gentleman—”

  Bob interrupted, “I said damned nosy, not inquisitive.”

  Barb didn’t say anything but put her arm around my waist.

  “Since you were the mayor’s friend and inquisitive, Bob suggested we tell you what Joel had said.”

  Lisa looked at her husband. “Jeff, tell him what Joel said about the police chief and those other council members.”

  “Joel went on to say the police chief wasn’t even from the area and the only reason the mayor had hired her as chief was because she would do anything he told her to do—legal or not. J
oel said she had to go, before she made even a bigger mockery of law enforcement over there.”

  “The other elected people,” Lisa prompted.

  “Two council people, names I don’t remember, had to go. Joel said they were nothing but puppets of the mayor.”

  “Houston and Marc?” I said.

  “Think that’s them,” Jeff said.

  Lisa nodded.

  Bob held up his empty glass. “Enough boring political talk. We need to get back to the bar. Anything else?”

  Jeff and Lisa said that that was it and repeated how unprofessional they thought it was that Joel was telling them what he thought about Brian. Bob had heard enough and herded the couple toward the bar.

  Interesting, I thought, and wondered if it had meant anything other than a politician doing what many of them do so well—lying.

  19

  The rest of the evening was a haze. The roar of water from the fountain mixed with the soothing violin music; conversations from those I didn’t know melded into the words from Betty, Bob, and Brian. I told Barb I had spent as much time socializing as I could without pulling out my remaining hair. Al and Tanesa had already departed, so I said my goodbyes to Bob and Betty, and Barb and I headed to the front of the house to ask the smiling valet to collect our vehicles.

  Barb asked if I wanted to have a drink on her balcony, I agreed and followed her back to Folly to her condo overlooking the Atlantic and the iconic Folly Pier. On the drive, I mulled over the thought that if Joel had been telling such blatant lies to people who had no interest in the election, what could he be telling people who could make a difference? I tried to push it out of my mind and focus on the lovely evening with a lovely lady.

  It was warm on the deck but the breeze off the ocean made it tolerable. Barb said for me to fix each of us a glass of wine while she changed into something more comfortable. My culinary skills were limited, but pouring wine was one of my specialties, perhaps my only one. Moments later, she returned and had changed into tan shorts and a red T-shirt with the cover of The Great Gatsby printed on the front.

  “You’re not going to start competing with Folly’s 759 stores that sell T-shirts, are you?” I asked and handed her the wine.

  She glanced down at the shirt and said, “No, but because I have a bookstore, a wholesaler from Virginia wants me to. This was a gift, bribe, to get me to carry their famous books and authors’ collection. I think Le Petit Prince would have a tough time competing with I’m not awesome; I’m awe every day!”

  I agreed and told her that when it came to selling books, she had little competition. She joked she had nearly as many books in her store as Charles had in his apartment. My friend had more books than a small-town library, so Barb wasn’t far off although she was teasing—or so I thought.

  We watched the lights from a shrimp boat gently bob in the waves a few hundred yards off shore, and three people carrying flashlights walking on the beach.

  “Changing the subject,” I said, “what do you make of what those two realtors said about Joel?”

  She turned from watching the trio on the beach and stared at me. “I think the guy running against your friend was doing what politicians have done since the beginning of democracy in Athens during the sixth century B.C.: lying about their opposition. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Sixth-century B.C. You learn that in law school?”

  “Sixth grade studying Greece. I was interested in history then slept through most things related to it in law school. What’s your take?”

  “You make a good point, but it galls me. I sat across from Joel the other day and listened to him go on and on about how nice a guy Brian Newman was. He praised his military service, his service as chief of police, and even his work as mayor. He was convincing. Now I hear what he told those realtors, the opposite of what he told me.”

  Barb nodded. “You’re taking it personally. You can’t do that with politics. Could your feelings have something to do with learning Joel had been dating Lauren? Could it be clouded because of what her roommate Katelin had said about Joel dating both of them at the same time and her anger toward him?”

  I turned my attention to the Folly Pier. “And now Lauren’s dead.”

  “And the only reason to think Joel had anything to do with her death could be because she may, and I emphasize may, have been distraught over their breakup when she killed herself.”

  “But what if her death wasn’t accidental or suicide? What if—”

  Barb jerked her head my direction and interrupted, “It wasn’t long ago that I heard your friend Bob accuse you of sticking your nose in every death over here regardless if it was caused by someone else’s hand or natural causes.” Her voice rose with each word. “I thought he was kidding, but I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “Barb, I’m only trying to see how the pieces fit together. I don’t know that they do.”

  She sighed. “You said Detective Adair was looking into Lauren’s alleged OD. You said he was good at his job. You said your friend Cindy was a good police chief and wouldn’t let go until she got to the truth. Right?”

  I knew I was being backed in a corner. “Yes, it’s in good hands. I know Lauren’s death looks like an accidental overdose or suicide. Her friend Katelin said she was using again and drinking. I know all that and so do the police.”

  “Then let them do their job.” Her voice was calmer, and she put her hand on my arm. “Chris, I don’t know where our relationship is going. I doubt you do either, and that’s okay. I’m still not over what my ex did, and it gave me a sour taste in my mouth for men, a taste that I thought would last for a long time.” She stopped talking and returned her gaze to the pier.

  I understood what she had meant and decided to wait her out and sipped my wine and stared at the pitch-black horizon.

  She lowered her voice and said, “You screwed up my plan to avoid the opposite sex. My ex was great at the law; he sucked when it came to listening to me. It took him being hauled off in cuffs for me to realize that he was as devious as hell. So I got here, avoided any interactions that would make it appear that I had any interest in a man, and then that damned body was found behind my store and you stumbled across it and shot my plans to hell.”

  I nodded.

  She continued, “I know I’m not making much sense, but what I’m trying to say is you came along and seemed about as opposite from my ex as one could be. You listened to me. God, I appreciated that.” She broke a smile. “And unless you’re a much better liar than I think, you’re as open and honest as anyone.” Her smile faded, and she squeezed my forearm. “Chris, I like you and I’m scared. Bob may have exaggerated, but you have an innate sense of right and wrong and for some reason you feel the need to right as many wrongs as you can. I don’t think it was, but if Lauren’s death was murder rather than accidental or suicidal, have you thought about what that means?”

  I nodded. “It means there’s a murderer out there.”

  “Yes, and the person sitting next to me is wondering if it could be Joel.”

  “Not really,” I said. “It’s that he might have a reason to want her out of the way.”

  “I’m no expert,” Barb said, “but murder is a huge leap from breaking up with someone.”

  “I know. What do you think I should do?”

  “At the fundraiser, you learned Joel was a liar, but that’s all you learned. If you told that to the police, and to a cop who doesn’t know you well, he would probably say, and rightly so, ‘So what? What’s that have to do with Lauren’s death?’ You and Cindy are close, so tell her. It may mean nothing, but you’d have told someone, someone in a position to do something about it.”

  “And then?”

  “And then drop it. It’s none of your business. You didn’t know Lauren.”

  She was right. In the past when I’d become involved in things that should have been left to the police, the only reason was because I had witnessed the murder or it had touched a friend of mine. La
uren’s parents were my neighbors, but I had no allegiance to Brad Burton. But I couldn’t shake the feeling something wasn’t right.

  I put my hand on Barb’s shoulder. “I’ll tell Cindy what the couple at Bob’s said about Joel.”

  “Good.”

  What I didn’t say was I would drop it.

  20

  I called Chief LaMond the next morning to share what I had heard at Bob’s house. From the voices in the background I knew she wasn’t alone.

  “Hello, Mr. Landrum, how may I be of assistance?”

  She didn’t begin with an insult, so I knew she was with someone who didn’t know about our friendship and she couldn’t speak. So, instead of getting into what I had called about, I asked if she could call me when she had a free minute.

  “Sir, I will pass that message along. Thank you for calling.”

  The mayor had been trying to get his chief to act more chiefly, as Cindy had called it. For that brief conversation, I would say Brian was succeeding. Too bad, I thought.

  Five minutes later the phone rang, and I was glad Cindy had gotten rid of whomever she had been talking with. My happiness was short lived when instead of the chief, Charles was on the other end.

  “I need to hear about the party, every detail. I’m on my way to the Dog. Will probably beat you there.” He had hung up.

  I wondered how difficult it would have been for him to ask if I could meet him; and I wondered why I had wasted my time wondering about it. Coming from my life in a boring, bureaucratic work, and truth be told, life environment, I must admit Charles’s quirks were some of his most endearing qualities. If I’d given it more than a cursory thought, the same applied to most of my friends on this enchanting island. Regardless, this was not the time to think about it, and wouldn’t dare tell any of them. Instead of going down that path, I started down the path—more accurately, road—to the Lost Dog Cafe, knowing when I arrived, my friend would scold me for being late. Maybe his quirks weren’t that endearing after all.