The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

Barb and I made our way to the car and were savoring heat pouring out of the vents. Our jackets were damp from covering the woman and Barb’s teeth chattered.

  “What do you think happened?” she asked as she rubbed her hands together in front of the vent.

  “I don’t think she started from the County Park, so Kiawah or from a boat seem like the most logical explanation. Another possibility is that she drifted to the ocean from either the Stono or the Folly River which means she could have gone in the water from several places. I hope someone reports her missing. That’d answer most of the questions.”

  “Hypothermia can cause temporary memory loss. If the EMT is correct, there’s a good chance she could answer questions fairly soon.”

  “I hope so. One thing I’m certain of is that she didn’t decide to go surfing dressed like that. Something happened, something bad.”

  “I don’t disagree.” She hesitated, and then in a lower voice said, “Are you going to follow Cindy’s advice and leave whatever’s happened to the police?”

  Barb was aware of my knack of accidentally stepping in piles of problems, occasionally including murder. Less than a year ago, and with the aid of a few friends, I’d helped catch a killer who was seconds away from ending Barb’s life.

  “I’ll try.”

  She smiled. “Thanks for not lying and saying that you wouldn’t get involved. I’ll take an I’ll try.”

  I returned her smile and said what I wanted to do now was get her home so she could get in warm clothes and so I could do the same. I let her out at the gate to her condo complex and she left me with, “My next search for shark teeth will be at Mr. John’s Beach Store.”

  I thought it was an excellent idea.

  My best friend since I arrived on Folly, correction, my best friend ever, is Charles Fowler. We met during my first week here and it didn’t take long to learn that he and I were as different as a blue jay was to a blue whale. Charles retired to Folly at the age of thirty-four. Since then and now, as he approached his sixty-fifth birthday, he’d never held a steady job. He picked up enough money to live modestly in a tiny apartment by providing an extra set of hands for local contractors, helping restaurants clean during vacation season, and delivering packages for our friend Dude Slone, owner of the surf shop. I’d spent those same years working in boring jobs while living a boring existence. Charles has quirks too numerous to list. Despite our many differences, we overcame the law of averages, and became closer than brothers. One of his quirks should be mentioned. If I learned something he’d consider interesting, such as discovering a beached lady at the County Park and didn’t share it with him in the first seconds after learning it, I would be subjected to a glare, reprimands, and being chastised unmercifully.

  I wasn’t in the mood to be harassed and called him on my way home.

  “Charles, good morning. I just left the County Park with Barb where we found an unconscious woman on—”

  “Meet me at the Dog in fifteen minutes.”

  He’d hung up. It’d been more than a few seconds since we’d found the woman.

  3

  The Lost Dog Cafe was less than a block off Center Street, the figurative center of commerce on the half-mile-wide, six-mile-long island. I and many others consider it the best breakfast spot on Folly. My kitchen was used as often as a wood pencil in the BIC factory, so I’d spent countless mornings enjoying a warm breakfast, the company of my favorite server Amber, and conversations with various friends and acquaintances. It was named the Lost Dog Cafe, although there were approximately a zillion photos of dogs, none of them lost, attached to most every vertical surface in the restaurant. Its two outdoor patios were dog friendly and often occupied by more than one canine. Festive Christmas lights were strung around the railing around the front patio.

  “Morning, Chris,” Amber said as she met me at the door. “Your regular table?”

  Amber was the one person on Folly who I’d known longer than Charles—two days longer. She was on the verge of her fiftieth birthday, five-foot-five inches tall, with long auburn hair, often tied in a ponytail while she was at work. She’s funny, insightful, and one of Folly’s rumor-collecting-champions. She and I had dated for a while and after that remained good friends. December was one of the few times of the year when the Dog wasn’t packed and my favorite table along the back wall was vacant. I told her yes to my seating preference.

  She pointed to the table and said, “Go ahead. I’ll grab your water.”

  Two city councilmembers, Marc and Houston, were seated at their preferred table in the center of the room. They had been on the council as long as I’d been on Folly and weren’t in danger of losing their elected positions anytime soon. Another position they weren’t in danger of losing was as the town’s unofficial gossips, especially Marc. To stretch the tree falling in the forest question, if something happened on Folly and Marc didn’t know about it, did it really happen?

  I said hi to the councilmembers, received pleasant grins, and from Marc, “Hey, Chris, what’s new?”

  I wasn’t ready to throw the events from the County Park into the gossip mill. “Not much, how about you, Marc?”

  “Same old, same old.”

  I smiled and nodded at the phrase I never understood since I wouldn’t have a way of knowing what the same was with Marc, much less how the same had happened again. The smile was because I was surprised that he hasn’t heard about the woman. I didn’t have time to savor that knowledge since Charles barreled through the door and pointed at the table with his handmade wooden cane that he carries for no apparent reason. I nodded again, this time without the smile, and he made a beeline to the table.

  At five-foot-eight, Charles was a couple of inches shorter than me and unlike my balding head, his graying hair always appeared to be in search of a comb. He wore a long-sleeve, gray and crimson, Washington State University sweatshirt, jeans that were too large, a canvas Tilley hat, and three-days of unshaven stubble.

  He slid in the booth before I could get there, smiled, and said, “What took you so long to get here?”

  I didn’t take the bait but did take a sip of water from a Ball jar that Amber had slid in front of me.

  “Spill it.”

  I figured he meant the story about the woman and not the water, so in a voice low enough not to reach the gossip-gathering ears of Marc and Houston, began rehashing the trip to the County Park. As with sharing most stories with Charles, I didn’t get far before he interrupted.

  “Who was she? Did her sweatshirt have a logo on it? Is she going to be okay? Did she have a dog with her?”

  “Don’t know. No. Don’t know. No.”

  “I’m confused.”

  I’m usually the one with that feeling. “About what?”

  “Which question I asked first?”

  Amber returned with water for Charles, one of her endearing smiles, and the question, “What can I get you for breakfast?”

  I said, “French toast.”

  “Lordy, Chris. One of these days you’re going to order something different and my little-ole heart won’t be able to take the shock.”

  Charles patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry, Miss Amber, your heart’s safe. And, if you’re interested, I’ll have the Loyal Companion.”

  She ruffled his unruly hair and said that she was always interested in him, pivoted and headed to the kitchen to order my French toast and bacon and eggs for Charles, a.k.a. the Loyal Companion.

  “Okay,” Charles said, “I’ll start over. Are you sure she didn’t tell you her name?”

  I shook my head.

  “I hate calling her the woman. Let’s go with Jane Doe.”

  I nodded.

  “Could Jane have gone in the water at the Park?”

  “It’s possible, although unlikely. There was nothing nearby that indicated that she’d been there before she washed up.”

  “No one goes surfing in khakis and a sweatshirt.”

  I didn’t think that astute observati
on merited comment. I waited for him to continue.

  “If Jane fell off a boat, she wouldn’t have landed on a surfboard. Dressed like she was, it’s unlikely that she would’ve willingly stepped in the water off Kiawah or somewhere back in the river. You’re sure there was no evidence that someone smacked her in the head and dumped her in the Atlantic?”

  “Sure, no. There was nothing obvious.”

  “She could’ve been drugged.”

  “It’ll be up to the docs and the police to figure what happened.”

  “Chris, I was thinking.”

  Always scary when it came to Charles. I took a deep breath and said, “What?”

  “Luck, karma, fate, predestination, whatever led you to Jane. She could’ve died if you weren’t there. You saved her, so it’s destined that you must figure out what happened.”

  “Charles, you know—”

  He waved his hand in my face. “Here’s the best part. I’ll take time out of my busy schedule to help. Great news, right?”

  For reasons unknown to anyone, Charles had decided a few years back that he was a private detective. Did he have a law enforcement background? Not unless you count being on weed patrol when he worked for a landscaper fifty years ago in his hometown of Detroit. Did he have private detective training? Absolutely not. Was he a licensed private detective? Nope. he was, however, a voracious reader with an apartment filled with more books than a Barnes & Noble store. He’d claimed to have read every mystery novel written since Gutenberg invented the printing press. That was an exaggeration, although not by much.

  “That’s a kind offer, considering how busy you are.” I hoped he grasped my sarcasm since he didn’t work and from what I could tell, had a blank calendar.

  “Where do we begin?”

  I sighed. “Charles, we don’t know anything about her or what happened. I’m sure Chief LaMond will solve it.”

  He grinned. “See, Chris, Cindy LaMond is your friend. You found Jane. Your involvement is meant to be.” He picked my cell phone off the table and handed it to me. “Go ahead, call and see what she’s learned and tell her we’re on the case.”

  That wasn’t going to happen for more reasons that I could count. “Charles, she hasn’t had time to learn anything. I suspect Jane is still at the hospital being evaluated.”

  “You’re right again. Call me this afternoon after you talk to Cindy.”

  If I wanted to eat in peace, I knew what I had to say. “Sure.”

  Charles didn’t get a chance to pin me down on what time I’d call him. He looked up and saw Burl Iven Costello standing by our table with a smile on his face.

  “Good morning Brother Charles and Brother Chris,” said the five-foot-six-inch tall, portly man with a milk-chocolate colored mustache who was standing beside the table.

  Burl, known to most as Preacher Burl Ives Costello, arrived on Folly two years ago after founding and for several reasons closed churches in Mississippi, Florida, and Indiana. He began First Light, a non-denominational church that met most Sundays on the beach near the Folly Beach Fishing Pier. I’d become better acquainted with him when he became the prime suspect in the murder of two of his followers. Charles and I helped the police catch the killer when he tried to add Preacher Burl to his list of victims.

  “Join us Preacher,” Charles said, as he slid to the end of the seat to make room for the newcomer.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  He slid in beside Charles, not waiting to hear if we minded. He looked around the room and turned to Amber who was quick to the table to see what he needed. Charles told him to order anything he wanted because I was picking up the check. Charles was in the holiday spirit with my wallet. Burl said coffee was all since he’d had breakfast.

  “Preacher,” Charles said, “any trouble with the nativity this year?”

  First Light Church had an impressive nativity scene squeezed on a narrow piece of land between the Folly Beach Post Office and Pewter Hardware Store. Last Christmas someone stole a valuable, hand-carved baby Jesus from the display, nearly sucking the Christmas spirit out of the island. A miracle in the form of two teenagers averted a disaster by finding the missing figurine Christmas Eve.

  “Brother Charles, it’s been perfect this year. Praise the Lord.” He smiled. “Baby Jesus won’t be making an appearance until Christmas Day and will be under the watchful eyes of members of our flock.”

  “Wise move,” I said, and since he wasn’t here to eat, asked, “What brings you out this morning?”

  “Excellent question, Brother Chris. I was looking for Brother Taylor, one of my residents.”

  The residence Burl referred to was Hope House, which loosely could be described as a halfway house that the preacher had started nine months ago. A wealthy and generous member of First Light donated a six-bedroom house on East Erie Avenue under the condition that Burl would rent to people he felt needed the assist to get back to productive members of the community. Rent was based on ability to pay and ranged from zero to a few hundred dollars a month, with most residents near the zero end of the scale.

  Charles looked around the room. “Don’t suppose he’s here?”

  “No, Brother Charles.”

  “Why are you looking for him?” I asked.

  “I learned of an outstanding job that I believe his skills would make him a perfect candidate.”

  “That’s great, Preacher. How’s the house doing?”

  “Most of my prayers have been answered, although we’ve had a few challenges,” Burl said, and nodded like he was praying. He then turned to me and smiled. “Our benefactor said that the house needed a couple of cosmetic improvements. I didn’t realize a new electrical system qualified as cosmetic.” Burl chuckled. “At least when the power was off, the residents didn’t know that the air conditioner was also, how shall I put it, under the weather.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Charles asked.

  Burl looked toward the ceiling like he was checking with God for an answer. “Brother Charles, I’m leaving it in the hands of the Lord.”

  “Preacher, I don’t think—”

  “Worry not, Brother Charles, the Lord already sent an electrician and an HVAC specialist to address the issues. The Lord sent them, and Brother Edward sent a check to cover the expenses.”

  “Brother Edward?” I said.

  “Edward Bancroft, the wonderful man who donated the house.”

  “That’s great,” Charles said. “How many residents are there?”

  “Four, each is blessed with a private room although two of the rooms are so large that we could put two people in each if need be.” Burl glanced over my shoulder. “Ah, there’s my resident. I would like to stay longer but feel the necessity of sharing with him the good news about the job.” He stood, said, “May you have a blessed day,” and headed to the door to meet his resident.

  Charles watched Burl put his arm around the shoulder of the man as he escorted him to an empty table. He then turned to me and glanced at his wrist where most people wore a watch. His was bare. “Isn’t it time for you to call Cindy and find out about Jane Doe?”

  I took a sip of coffee, regretted it immediately since it had turned cold, stared at Charles, and said, “No. She hasn’t had time to learn more than she would’ve known fifteen minutes ago when I told you that I’d call her this afternoon.”

  Charles sighed. “Worth a try. You’re going to call me as soon as you hang up with the Chief?”

  “Yes, oh patient one.”

  It was two hours later, and if I didn’t call the Chief soon, Charles would be on my doorstep wondering why I hadn’t let him know what she said.

  “What took you so long to pester me about Joyce?” Cindy LaMond said when she answered the phone.

  I would have preferred something along the lines of, “Hi, Chris. How are you this afternoon? How may I help you?” I also would have preferred to be twenty pounds lighter, thirty years younger, and have a full head of hair. The odds were equal for an
y of those events happening.

  “Who’s Joyce?”

  “How quickly you forget, Mr. Senior Citizen. You found her this morning.”

  “The person we found said she didn’t know her name. Is her memory back?”

  “Nope.”

  I sighed. “How do you know her name’s Joyce?”

  “Superb detective work, an incredibly high level of training and experience, use of all of my Super Chief skills.”

  “And?”

  “And, Joyce was printed with a laundry marker pen on the label in her sweatshirt.”

  “Wow. No wonder you’re Chief.”

  “True, oh so true, Mr. Senior Citizen.”

  “Did your superpowers tell you if Joyce was her first or last name?”

  “First, I assume. Who ever heard of Joyce as a last name?”

  I wasn’t a big reader and had seldom paid attention in literature class in school, but it didn’t take a scholar to have heard of James Joyce. I shared that tidbit.

  “How about anyone with that last name in our lifetime?”

  “None I can think of.”

  “Then I’m sticking with it as her first name.”

  “Cindy, has she said anything about what happened?”

  “Very little. She thinks she remembers being on a boat, a storm, and then in the water clutching the surfboard. Her next memory is of some old geezer staring at her.”

  “Old geezer?”

  She shrugged. “I added that part. Anyway, she claims she doesn’t know anything else.”

  “Had she been injured? I didn’t see any sign of physical injury.”

  “She’s at the hospital getting a complete checkup. They’re planning on having a head-doc talk with her to see if she understood what happened. They’ll hold her overnight and if nothing pops up, release her in the morning.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’ll see if her memory is back. I’m having my guys check if there’s a missing person report matching her description.”

  “And, then what?”

  “Heck if I know.”

  “Can she have visitors?”