by Bill Noel
“Chief,” Charles said, “before you haul Chris’s pasty white rear end off to the hoosegow, do you have any good suspects?”
“There’s room for both of you,” Cindy said, looked to see if anyone was nearby, and sighed. “I was on the phone with Detective Callahan before my department was reduced by two. He’d taken the bookie’s notebook as evidence and has a detective following up on the names in it. The word most of Michael’s clients shared was that he was a stand-up guy, honored his losses. If there was such a place, they’d nominate him for the Bookie Hall of Fame.”
“Not everyone believed that,” I said.
Cindy looked around, got Amber’s attention, and ordered a Diet Coke. I took it as a sign that she wasn’t going to rush out.
“Chris, there’s nothing to indicate that his death was related to his bookmaking. It could be anything. Someone could have hated that damned hat with a feather in it. Who knows?”
I nodded. “Anything to say he was reverting to his drug-pushing career?”
“None that’s come out.”
“What about Janice Raque?”
“What about her?”
“How solid is her alibi?”
“She claimed to be visiting friends, but there’re holes in the timeframe. Two women she’d visited live on opposite sides of Charleston and there was a significant gap between when they saw her. Have you heard anything more about her?”
“Chester Carr was in here a little while. Said that while he was with his walking group this morning—”
Cindy interrupted, “Crawling group.”
She’d told me a couple of months ago that when Chester’s group gets to some of Folly’s intersections, one of her cops often stopped traffic to let them cross like a raft of ducks.
“Okay, crawling group. Anyway, David Darnell was telling him something that Horace, Janice’s husband, told David.”
“Do I need a subpoena to get it out of you?”
I told her what Horace had said about Janice getting so mad that he was afraid she’d kill him, and she didn’t need an additional incentive by having more life insurance.
Cindy looked down at the table. “Chris, you’re single, so I’ll forgive your ignorance. We married chicks are always telling our husbands that we’re going to kill them. Crap, some of the time we mean it. But you know how many of us do it?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“How many?” asked trivia collector Charles.
“Don’t know,” Cindy said. “It ain’t many, otherwise there wouldn’t be any married women left. They’d all be in jail, which thinking about it, doesn’t sound bad. Three square meals a day; we don’t have to cook. No nagging husbands.” She looked off into space.
“Janice Raque still a suspect?” I said to bring Cindy back from dreaming about an idyllic life in prison.
“Detective Callahan is trying to pin down her alibi. She may be.”
“What about Neil Wilson? The last time we talked, you didn’t know if anyone had questioned him.”
“He was on Callahan’s list. Neil was at work in Charleston around the time the bookie was killed. Like Janice, there’s a gap in his alibi since the ME can’t pin down the time of death as accurately as I’d like.” She sipped her Diet Coke and looked at her watch. “Guys, I’d love to stay and let you tell me who killed Michael, but I’ve got a budget committee meeting at City Hall. I can’t tell you how excited I am about it.”
“One more question,” I said. “Is there anything suspicious about Raymond Bentley’s death?”
“Chris, is there a possibility, even a teeny-weeny, remote possibility that somewhere in your circuit-shorted brain that could entertain the thought that a person could die of something other than being murdered?”
“Yes.”
Charles waved his hand in front of Cindy. “What about Ray?”
Cindy shook her head. “I’m beginning to look forward to my meeting in City Hall. No, no, and no, there’s nothing to indicate that anything other than a damned drunk man fell down the steps and prematurely ended his career in comedy. Is that clear enough?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
Charles watched her go and said, “So, which of Theo’s guests shoved Ray down the steps?”
We discussed the possibilities for twenty minutes before deciding two things. First, when it came to people who may’ve killed Michael, we had no idea, although, we could identify two possible suspects, but acknowledged that considering Michael’s profession, that number could swell dramatically. Second, we decided that our lunch was outstanding, even if the Mahi Salad was healthy.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I called Theo late that afternoon to see how he and his houseguests were doing.
His voice cracked as he spoke, yet insisted he was okay. He shared that, earlier in the afternoon, Pete had taken Wallace to the funeral home in Charleston to make arrangements once Ray’s body was released from the coroner’s office.
I asked if he’d heard anything from the police. He said that Detective Callahan had returned to ask more questions, saying that they were “routine” and to “follow up” from his middle of the night visit. I doubted there was anything routine about them. Theo was still traumatized, so I didn’t share my thoughts. Callahan hadn’t said anything new about what the coroner found, although he told Theo that he was still investigating the death.
“Has Wallace said anything about funeral plans?”
Theo hesitated before saying, “He’s the only family they have left, and Ray didn’t have close friends. His son wanted to be cremated with no funeral. Wallace tried to make a joke out of it by saying that they would be able to carry Ray’s ashes to gigs. To be honest, I’m not sure it’d been discussed and would venture to guess the decision was because Wallace didn’t have money for a funeral.”
“You still think they’re broke?”
“Wallace asked if I could lend him the money for the funeral home. He fabricated some far-flung story about CDs not maturing until November. I gave him my credit card.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I know broke when I see it. Besides, Wallace first said his CDs were maturing in June, changed it to early next year, now November. I can’t tell if he thinks I don’t remember what he told me, or if he doesn’t remember.”
“How’s he taking the death?”
“Don’t know. He’d been in his room until he left with Pete.”
“Is he still getting confused?”
“I suppose.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I hate to say anything, because I don’t know him like his pals do. Like I mentioned before, it seems his confusion comes at the most opportune times.”
“You still think he’s faking it?”
“Honest to God, I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right about it. Again, I don’t know him enough to tell.”
Have you asked Sal?”
“I tried. He kept changing the subject.”
“Are they sticking to the story that no one saw what happened?”
“Funny thing is, none of them are saying anything. They’re acting like nothing happened.”
“They could be in shock.”
“I know I am. I don’t know what to say or do around them. I’m sick about what happened, yet, well, I’m sick.”
Theo was leaving words on the table, so in the spirit of Charles, I said, “What aren’t you saying?”
“I hate saying this. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand company. Sal’s my brother, but we’re not close. I’ve gotten comfortable being in the house by myself.”
“I understand and feel the same way. Have they said anything about leaving?”
“Nothing. My gut says they don’t intend to go anywhere. They haven’t mentioned scheduled appearances outside the area. With the tragic death of Ray, this wasn’t time to broach the subject.”
I told him to call if he needed anything. He asked if I knew
of any good comedian exterminators. If it hadn’t been so close to the tragic death in his house, it would’ve been funny. I wished him a peaceful evening.
The Chamber of Commerce perfectly described the next day. The temperature was in the low seventies, a breeze was blowing out of the west, with not a cloud to be seen. I decided to walk two blocks to the ocean and stroll along the beach. After yesterday’s healthy Mahi salad, and now a walk in the sand, I could picture pounds falling off my slightly overweight frame, my cholesterol sinking to acceptable levels, and contemplating running in a mini-marathon. I wondered how different I was than reality-challenged Wallace. I started to laugh at the comparison, when I saw Pete Marvin sitting in the sand with his bare feet touching the water as each wave inched ashore. No one was nearby, and he was staring at the horizon like he was watching for his ship to come in.
Pete was so focused that I hesitated to approach then figured, if I wanted to learn as much as possible about Ray’s death, this would be my chance. I said, “Hi.”
He looked up and for a second didn’t appear to recognize me.
A smile appeared on his face. “Oh, hi, Chris, you startled me. Have a seat. Wiggle your toes in my kiddie pool.”
I lowered my body to the sand, keeping my feet back from the water lapping over his feet.
“A terrible thing about Ray,” I said as I scooted my deck shoes in the sand. “Are you okay?”
He shook his head. “It could’ve been any of us. We had too much to drink. Theo’s steps are steep.” He shook his head again. “You never know. It could as easily have been me.”
“Were you and Ray close?”
“Not really. I’ve been friends with Wallace since Columbus sailed the ocean blue. I’ve known Ray since before he was born. Don’t get me wrong, I liked him as Wallace’s son.” He hesitated and chuckled. “He was easier to like when he was a kid. The older he got, the harder it was to be around him. He’d diss his dad, as well as the rest of us. The other day he told Sal that Sal’s IQ came back negative. He called us old farts, said we were as funny as a toadstool. The only time he showed a sense of humor, or for that matter, humility, was when he was on stage. He could be funny standing behind a microphone. When the spotlight was turned off, so was his sense of humor.”
I’d heard that many comedians weren’t that funny when not preforming. Pete had more experience with them than I had, so I said, “Is that unusual for comedians?”
“There are more like that than you might think. Still, most of them, most of us, aren’t always hostile. Some of us even like other people, something Ray lacked.”
“Have you always been a stand-up comic?”
“Wanted to be a boxer when I was young. After entering a few amateur bouts and getting the snot knocked out of me, I decided on something less dangerous.”
I pointed to his tree-trunk-sized arms. “Looks like you would’ve been good at boxing.”
He laughed. “After I kept getting whipped, I started weightlifting.” He patted his left forearm. “These things used to be all muscle back in the day. I bulked up then got tired of exercising, watched them turn to flab. That’s when I turned to comedy. I hung out in some bars. When the bartenders got bored, they asked me to tell a few jokes. Wasn’t long after that when I met Sal.”
“Guess it was safer than boxing.”
“Safer, no less brutal. I was decent at it. I figured I wouldn’t be good enough to do it for a living, not a successful living. For a few years, I switched to the management side of comedy. I got to know a lot of the guys on the tour. A couple of them asked if I wanted to be their manager, booking gigs, helping them with their money, stuff like that. That’s when I learned that most were nice guys. Oh, sure, some had problems, drink, drugs, anger, paranoia, but most were okay.”
“Do you manage any now?”
His laugh came easily, and he shared another one with me. “Can’t seem to manage myself. Nah. Gave up managing a decade ago and re-hitched up with Sal, and with his buddy Wallace. We’ve been together ever since.”
“When did Ray start traveling with you?”
“A year ago. He kept telling everybody that he’s between big TV deals. If you ask me, it’s bullshit. He’s worked more than the rest of us, although, I think TV deals were in his imagination. It doesn’t matter now.” He looked out to sea, then back at me. “Ray was a prick. His dad’s a good guy. For that reason, I hated to see anything bad happen to Ray. It could’ve been any of us.”
“Where’re the rest of the guys?”
“They’re torn up about the accident. Sal was heading upstairs to see if he could get some sleep. None of us got much after it happened. Poor Wallace said he needed to get away and took the Lincoln to Charleston. He made up some story about buying new stage duds. I think he wanted to get out of the house. I hope he makes it okay.”
“Is there a reason he might not?”
“He lost his son. His memory is on the fritz. And, he’s driving around in a strange town in a car the size of the Queen Mary. What do you think?”
“He does seem confused at times,” I said, stating the obvious.
“I suppose. I’d better get back.” Pete hopped up, brushed sand off his feet, and slipped his shoes on. “Good talking to you.”
I watched him go and repeated what he had said about Wallace’s confusion: “I suppose.” Something about the way he’d said it didn’t feel right.
Chapter Twenty-Four
On the way home, I stopped at Bert’s to grab a sandwich. Ty, one of the clerks, was kneeling and in a deep conversation with a mid-sized dog that appeared to be a pure-bred mongrel. The clerk was conversing with the dog; the dog was waiting for Ty to give it a treat.
The pooch, person conversation ended, the dog gobbled down the treat, Ty looked up at me, and said, “Want a treat?”
I declined, so Ty stood and wiped off his knees, before asking, “Hear about that funny guy falling down the stairs at Theo Stoll’s house?”
I told him that I had.
“Don’t know why I bother telling you anything. I’m beginning to think you know about terrible things before they happen. And I thought Charles’s ex-gal Heather was the psychic.”
I thought about how much truth there was in his comment. “Theo’s a friend. He called me after it happened. Tragic.”
“Speaking of tragic,” Ty said, “you figured out who killed the bookie?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s in good hands with the police.”
“You’re one of the best I’ve run in to for not answering a question while the person asking thinks you did.”
“Thanks, I think.”
Ty held his head back and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” someone said from behind me.
I turned to see Neil Wilson. He wouldn’t have been easy to miss as his six-foot-three, former college football player frame towered over me. He wore black slacks and a light-weight, black jacket with a generic red, white, and blue shield-shaped patch on the arm. SECURITY was printed in the middle of the patch. He was holding a six-pack of Budweiser and looking over my head at Ty.
“I was asking Chris if he’d figured out who killed Michael Hardin. He was avoiding answering me.”
I stepped out of the way of their conversation.
Neil looked at the clerk but nodded toward me. “Why would he figure it out?”
Ty smiled. “Chris gets in the middle of every murder. He claims to be a simple, retired bureaucrat, but there’re rumors he’s like one of those superheroes you see in the movies. He’s got a tight-fitting, stretchy body suit under that red golf shirt.”
Neil turned to me like he was waiting for me to pull my shirt off and bend steel barehanded.
“Ty’s teasing. He knows I’ve lucked into helping the police a couple of times.”
Neil seemed unconvinced and I was in a hurry to change the subject. “Had any luck finding a job?”
Neil set the six-pack on the table beside us and started to answer.
<
br /> Ty interrupted and said he needed to get back to work.
Neil crossed his arms. “Not yet. Hear of anything?”
I told him that I hadn’t but still had his number in case anything came up.
“So, you’re trying to help the cops catch the guy who killed Hardin?”
“No,” I said. This was the last conversation I wanted to have with the giant of a man who I considered a suspect.
“Anyway, I hope the cops hurry up and catch whoever did it. Would you believe one of them came to my work, pulled me in the office, and started asking questions?”
I did believe it since Cindy had already told me. “What kind of questions?”
“Where I was when he was killed. Word was that I owed Michael a few dollars. I guess the cops thought I was a suspect.”
“You had an alibi, didn’t you?”
His eyes narrowed as he smiled. “You playing superhero?”
I’d hoped Neil had forgotten Ty’s comment. I smiled. “Do I look like a superhero? The police chief, Cindy LaMond, is a friend. The other day we were talking. She said they’d interviewed several people who may’ve had a motive. She told me that they all had alibis, so I figured you might’ve been one of them.”
“They asked about a four-hour block. I figured that’s when he was killed. I told them I was working about that time. I think they verified it with my boss. That was the end of it.”
“Good.”
Neil picked up the six-pack. “Better get this home before it gets warm. Don’t forget, you said you’d let me know if you hear of work. Don’t have to be security. I’ve also done some cooking in my day.”
As he left, I couldn’t help remembering that Cindy had said that his alibi was for only some of the hours, then how he’d lied to me about feeling bad about Michael’s death.
I got home and chewed on my sandwich and on what Neil had said. I didn’t know what the police were thinking. To me, the security guard was a prime suspect. I called Cindy and was rewarded with her voicemail. It was late, so I told her I didn’t need anything important. I asked her to call in the morning.