The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  I waited in awkward silence.

  “I thought I could handle anything, but Chris, I was wrong, damned wrong.” He hesitated again. “Lauren was such a sweet little kid. When I came home from work before she knew or could understand what I did for a living, she’d ask me how my day was. I’d smile, hoped she didn’t smell death on my clothes, and told her I was great now. Those days became fewer and fewer. I was working all hours, but even then, and after she knew what my job entailed, she would still break out in a big smile, and ask about my day.” He shook his head. “Most of the time I lied and said, ‘great.’ She was so sweet.”

  “It’s got to be terrible for you and Hazel.”

  “My heart pained for her when she married Sebastian Craft. She was looking for someone who could be there when she needed him; something I couldn’t do for her. I knew it was a mistake. I never felt good about him, but Lauren couldn’t see it. I hold him responsible for her spiral into drink and drugs.” He shook his head. “I’m just as responsible. Anyway, she ended the abysmal marriage, but couldn’t end the debilitating habits that came with it. Chris, I thought we could help her by moving here. I thought we had. God, I was wrong, horribly wrong.”

  “You did what you could.”

  “I tried, and so did her roommates.”

  “How well do you know Katelin and Candice?”

  “I only met them a couple of times when Lauren was … before her death. She spoke highly of them and they seemed like nice gals. Yesterday I went to the house they rented to pick up Lauren’s possessions.” He put his head down and put a hand on each side of his head. I waited silently. “Umm, Katelin was there and talked a lot about Lauren. She didn’t say it, she talked around it, but I had the impression Katelin knew Lauren was back on drugs. I didn’t want to press her.”

  “Did you find anything in Lauren’s things to give you that impression?”

  He raised his head and turned to me. “Chris, I’ve spent countless hours rooting through people’s stuff, both at murder scenes and when searching houses of suspects. I know where to look and what to look for. There wasn’t anything there, not a thing. But, that doesn’t mean much.” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you what I did find. There were copies of online job applications from several stores in Charleston, and a couple of handwritten ones for places over here. They were recent, two were filled out the day before she … left us. She was hot and heavy on a job search.” He looked at me, but with the such intensity that he was staring through me. “I can’t fathom how she turned from hope to hopelessness that quick.”

  “How well did you know her boyfriend, Joel Hurt?”

  “Hardly at all. He seemed a lot nicer than that shithead she was married to.” Brad bit his lower lip and wiped perspiration off his brow. “I only met him once. I ran into him and Lauren in Bert’s. He seemed okay and told me that meeting Lauren was the best thing that’d happened to him since he moved here.”

  I knew what I’d learned on the Internet, and wondered what Brad knew about his past. “Did he say where he’d moved here from?”

  “No. I asked him, and he laughed and said something like, ‘Somewhere that’s not as nice as Folly.’ I started to push him, but Lauren said they had to get going, they were late to something, and rushed out.”

  A motorcycle roared past and we watched it speed toward the Washout. Now would be as good a time as any to broach a delicate topic. “Brad, is it possible Lauren didn’t take her own life?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Simply curious.”

  “Chris, there’s nothing that makes me think that. And remember, I’m a retired homicide cop.” He hesitated and stared at the road where the motorcycle had been seconds earlier. “Sorry, I can’t go down that path. It’s over. My little girl died … died of an accidental overdose.”

  Brad looked around, patted his knee, and said he’d better be getting inside. Our relationship was so precarious that I wasn’t comfortable pushing him somewhere he didn’t want to go. I told him it was nice talking to him, that again I was sorry about Lauren. I told him to let me know if he needed anything. I knew he wouldn’t.

  22

  The next morning began as a cool wave passed through the Lowcountry. The temperatures were still going to be in the eighties, but the humidity levels dropped. Over the years, I made halfhearted attempts to get in better shape, and while most failed, I convinced myself that walking was my best route to success. Anything more strenuous seemed like work, misery, and for me, unsustainable. Walking without direction also struck me as nonproductive, so most of my walks occurred on my way to or from restaurants where I usually defeated the benefits of walking by eating unhealthy foods. I’d convinced myself that the walks counteracted the evils of my diet. Exercise was one of my greatest weaknesses; the art of rationalizing was near the top of my strengths.

  I was thinking about what to order and nearly ran into Dude who was dressed, well, dressed like Dude, carrying the latest issue of Astronomy magazine, and standing in front of the surf shop.

  “Whoa, Chrisster. Where be daydreamin’ off to?”

  “The Dog.”

  “Boss! Birds of a feather, think like together. Me boogie with you.”

  Correcting Dude’s expression would be as productive as trying to teach his dog Pluto to learn Konkahi, so I said, “I’d be honored.”

  He pointed the magazine toward the restaurant and skipped along beside me. On the three block walk he shared the latest updates about Dude’s other favorite Pluto, the dwarf planet, from an article he’d read in the magazine, and about the latest tricks that his much smaller, and a zillion miles closer Pluto had learned. We reached the restaurant, and I thought how Dude was the perfect companion for me to get my mind off Brad and Lauren.

  Amber was standing on the patio and asked if we wanted to sit outside or inside. Dude said, “Wherever the Amberster say.”

  The Amberst…., umm, Amber, pointed to a table she had finished cleaning and Dude and I moved to the vacant table.

  Amber pet Dude on his long, stringy hair, and said, “How come you brought this old dog with you. Where’s Pluto, the cute one?”

  Dude shook his head, sat down, and glanced at me on the other side of the table. “Stray. Felt sorry. So, here he be.”

  Maybe I would have been better off thinking about Brad and Lauren. I smiled and told Amber it was good to see her too. She kissed the top of my balding head and said she would return with menus.

  Dude watched Amber head inside and turned to me. “You be jabberin’ with Kategal?”

  “Katelin, Lauren’s housemate?”

  “That’s what me said.”

  Close, and said, “Not recently. Why?”

  “Thought you be detectin’. Fishin’ for clues.”

  “Charles is the detective, remember?”

  “Okeedokee, me not report what the Kategal said.”

  “You win. What did Katelin say?”

  Dude grinned. “See, you be detectin’.” He nodded like he’d discovered the secret of removing wrinkles. “The Kategal likes to gander in surf shop—not buy, just gander. She be in last daytime.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “What me said. She be rantin’ about her dead roomie. She be pissed.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “Details not clear. Something about always discord in house. Temper tantrums. Two chicks pullin’ at dirt guy’s arms.”

  Where was Charles my Dude Translator when I needed him? So, I had to resort to guesses. “Lauren and Katelin were fighting about Joel Hurt?”

  He nodded and probably wanted to say, What me said, but instead said, “The dirt guy dumped Kategal like load of monkey manure. He be Superglued to dead gal before Kategal knew she be dumpee.”

  Amber returned with menus and we quickly glanced at them and ordered Chicken salad croissants. Amber mumbled something about my order almost being healthy. I told her I’d get over it, and she left smiling.

  “Dude, did
Katelin say anything else about Lauren or Joel?”

  Dude rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Squawked some about drugs, but drug words go in one auditory organ and wiggle out other.” He patted his left ear, so I would know which auditory organ he was referring to.

  As far as I could tell, much of Dude’s past was filled with voids. If I were a wagering person, I’d lay a few bucks on him having more than a passing encounter with the drug culture of the 1960s. During the time I’d known him, he had the reputation as someone who could bridge the gap between the bohemian residents, surfers, and the more well-heeled citizens and law enforcement.

  “Do you know the third housemate, Candice Richardson?”

  “She be petite Barbie.” Dude pointed at his eyes and out the door. “She be with other two once, she and me never shared words.” He hesitated and rubbed his chin. “Heard something from Kategal. She—Kategal, not Candygirl—say third roomer never at house. Kategal say that’s why Candygirl be good housemate. Three pay rent, two share air.”

  “Did Katelin ever say anything about Lauren being depressed or being back on drugs?”

  “Not recallin’ anything.”

  “Know anything about Joel Hurt?”

  “Other than two-timing two chicks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got more faces than Lernaean Hydra.”

  “The Greek water monster with many heads?” At some point, I must have paid attention in school.

  Dude rolled his eyes. “How many other Hydras you know?”

  “Good point. Do you say that because of some of his comments about our mayor or about Lauren and Katelin?”

  “All.”

  “Is that everything you know about Joel?”

  “He and his waterfowl friend moved here mucho full-moons ago.”

  Wayne Swan was the first waterfowl that came to mind, mainly because I had remembered that Joel had said he and Wayne went way back. “Wayne Swan, his campaign manager?”

  “You know more waterfowl than you know Hydras?”

  Some comments deserve nothing more than being ignored. Our food arrived, and Dude took two bites and started telling me something about the next solar eclipse. He was finished talking about dead citizens, politicians, waterfowl, and multi-faced mythical creatures. I also had stopped listening until he said that the third roommate, Candice Richardson, Candygirl in Dudespeak, had worked for Joel and had been fired from one of Joel’s garden centers. At least that was my understanding of what Dude had said. He used fewer than half that many words, so something could have been lost in translation.

  “Anyone say she was fired?”

  “Official reason, stealin’.”

  My understanding was she now worked for a real estate office in Charleston. If that was the reason for her termination, I was surprised she got the new job.

  “Dude, you said official reason. Do you know that it was for something else?”

  He nodded. “Rumor.”

  I nodded. “What?”

  “Story spread like PB & Jelly on bread that she caught dirt man plantin’ bod part where not belong, if you get my drift.”

  I did, and if true, could be how she got a positive reference for her next job. I doubted Joel, the dirt man, would have shared the real reason with someone asking for a reference. It also struck me that if mayoral candidate Joel Hurt was sincere about getting elected, he would have a reason for all three of the women to be silenced—one way or the other.

  Instead of elaborating, Dude started talking about the dwarf planet Pluto, a topic he spent more time on than the rest of the Folly’s citizens combined. I doubted he could shed more light on Lauren’s death, but before I could ask him, the phone rang.

  Bob Howard’s voice bellowed out of the speaker. “Here’s your deal of a lifetime. Be at Al’s at one thirty tomorrow afternoon and I—yes I—will buy you lunch. And, don’t call the television stations to tell them about this historic event. If they show up, I’ll say me buy, shit no! Where’d you hear that damned rumor?”

  Bob’s offer to buy was historic. I didn’t need Heather’s psychic powers, or Charles’s detective skills to know that there was no such thing as a free lunch waiting for me at Al’s.

  23

  I found a vacant parking spot much closer than on my last visit and stepped from blinding sunlight into blinding dark with minimal illumination coming from rays of sun sneaking over the top half of the front window. The lower half was painted black to keep nosy eyes from staring in the building. Budweiser neon signs provided a bit more light and a jukebox that appeared as old as the eighty-year-old proprietor, added a glimmer of colorful light to the corner. The lunch crowd had either come and gone or hadn’t come at all. The bar was two diners shy of empty, and I was one of the two.

  My first surprise was when I saw Al beside the front door sitting in a chair that belonged to the nearest dining table. He saw me enter, grinned, and leaned forward and used his hands to push himself out of the chair. Other than his visits to our table when the bar had few or no other patrons, I had never seen Al seated. And, even in the poor lighting, he looked worse than he had at the fundraiser. From the jukebox Jerry Lee Lewis was wailing about someone shaking his nerves and rattling his brain, so it was difficult to hear what Al had said, but words weren’t needed as he wrapped his emaciated arms around me and squeezed.

  I told him it was good to see him and started to say you’re looking good, but he would have known I was lying. He looked horrible.

  He leaned closer, so I could hear and said, “Thank the good lord you’re here. Fatso’s been asking every five minutes why you weren’t here yet.”

  I glanced at Bob—Fatso—and leaned closer to Al. “He told me to come at one-thirty. Has he been talking to my buddy Charles?”

  Al smiled. His coffee-stained teeth were illuminated by the neon signs. “Charles, the thirty minutes early to be on time, buddy?”

  I said, “Good memory,” and patted him on the back.

  “Get on over there to shut him up,” Al said. “If I had any customers he’d be running them off.”

  Jerry Lee Lewis finished his piano riff, but Bob’s voice would have been heard over it if it was still playing, “Welcome fine customer! Come join me.”

  “Extreme Mouth Makeover,” Al said as he shook his head and lowered himself back in the chair. “Bob says his charm will bring in the customers by the boatload.”

  Lawrence, Al’s part-time cook, laughed and asked if I wanted a cheeseburger. I told him of course and headed to the table. Bob was stuffed into his side of the booth, a normal sight, but what was not normal was a two-by-four-inch brass plate screwed into the top of the table facing the room and Bob holding a screwdriver—the tool, not the drink.

  “What are you screwing up now?” I said before I was close enough to read what had been inscribed on the brass addition.

  Bob said, “My first action to add a touch of class to this dump.”

  I slid into the other side of the table, no simple task because Bob’s ample stomach had pushed the table to my side of the booth. I looked down at the shiny plate and read: BOB’S BOOTH. WARNING: Sit at your own risk.

  I smiled. “Class?”

  Bob followed my eyes. “You’re not making fun of the person who’s buying your lunch, are you?”

  I continued to smile. “Of course, I am, Bob. I didn’t think you were going to be here until later.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he said. “Was supposed to show a frou-frou couple a three-million-dollar shanty south of Broad.” Some of Charleston’s most majestic homes were in the area between Broad Street and the Battery. “They called a little while ago and said they were going to ‘reassign their resources to other opportunities,’ whatever the hell that meant. If you ask me, which I’m sure you were about to do, they couldn’t afford the house and probably had to reassign their resources to buying food to feed their two gigantic Mastiffs.”

  I stifled a smile and said, “Sorry.”

  “Th
ey damned sure are.” Bob turned toward the grill. “Where in the hell’s this damned ingrate’s food? Snap, snap!”

  Tanya Tucker’s “Delta Dawn” drowned out normal conversation, but the cook uttered what appeared to be a string of profanities.

  To try to prevent an employee revolt, I said, “So what’s up?”

  Bob harrumphed in the direction of the cook and turned to me. “Why can’t I invite a friend to lunch? Why does it always have to be something?”

  “Could be because in the eight years I’ve known you, you’ve never offered to buy me lunch, or anything else, for that matter.”

  Bob shrugged. “To quote that song written in 1964—which happened to be the last year any good music was written—by Bobby Dylan, “The Times They Are a-Changin’.”

  Bobby Dylan, I thought, and showing more maturity than I possessed, I repeated, “So what’s up?”

  Bob pointed his thumb at Al who was slumped down in the chair by the door. “Anything look normal about that?”

  “I was surprised to see him there when I came in. Is he okay?”

  Lawrence, who was a couple of decades younger than Al, delivered my cheeseburger and glass of chardonnay and asked “Mr. Howard” if he needed anything. Bob told him he was Bob and not Mr. Howard and not to forget it. He also requested—demanded—another beer. Lawrence faked a smile at his new boss and scooted away.

  Bob watched me take a bite and said, “Al called last night to talk about bar business, something about ordering from another vendor and an electrical issue with that doohickey that cooks the fries.”

  And I thought Bob wasn’t an expert on owning a bar. “And?”

  “Then he started repeating himself, but before that, he asked me something I had answered a few seconds earlier. The old man tried to laugh it off and said that he was testing to see if I remembered what I had told him. Chris, he laughed, but there wasn’t a damned thing funny about it.” Bob glanced back toward Al. “He lost his train of thought; not once, but several times. He started talking about something that happened in here in 1957 like it was last week, and he—”