by Bill Noel
Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. Cindy must’ve missed talking to me so much that she couldn’t wait until the morning. I was wrong, something that was happening far more often than I liked.
In a barely-audible voice, I heard, “Chris, this is Theo.”
“Hi, Theo. Is everything okay?”
“Umm, yes.”
“Why’re you whispering?” I asked, hoping he didn’t want me to come to his house.
“I’m in the kitchen. Can’t talk. Sal and Wallace are in the other room.”
I heard glasses clanking. Theo yelled, “I’m on my way, guys.” He went back to whispering. Can you meet me at the Dog in the morning?”
“What time?”
“Seven, if you can make it. Not a creature will be stirring around here that early. No one will miss me.”
“I’ll be there. What’s going—”
The phone went dead.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Theo was easy to recognize when he entered the Dog. He wore his USS Yorktown ball cap, an oversized, white T-shirt, Carolina-blue jogging shorts, and knee-length black support socks. He’s always looked older than mid-eighties. Today, he looked like he could be starring in a zombie movie. His eyes were blood-red from what I could see of them. They were half closed. I worried that he wouldn’t make it to the booth.
Amber arrived at the same time and asked if Theo wanted coffee. He perked up, lowered himself onto the bench seat with great effort and a groan, and told her, “Yes, lots.”
“Rough night?” I asked.
He bowed his head like he was praying and mumbled something that I couldn’t understand. I asked him to repeat it.
“I’m scared. Don’t know what to do. Chris, I’m at wits’ end.”
I leaned closer to my distraught friend. “What’s going on?”
Amber set coffee in front of Theo.
He didn’t look up, so I thanked her.
She shrugged, and I told her I’d wave if we needed anything.
Theo put his hands around the mug but didn’t lift it. “Wallace and Pete spent a lot of time yesterday talking about their trip to the funeral home. I was in and out of the room. I swear to God, Wallace told Pete a thousand times what the funeral director said. Pete listened, listened, and listened. If Wallace had repeated himself that many times, I would’ve walked away. Anyway, that’s not why I’m upset.”
“You think Wallace kept forgetting he’d told Pete, or was nervous and kept repeating it?”
“Hard to tell. It’s what he told me later that made me call you.”
Theo blew across the coffee and took a sip. I wanted to ask if Wallace and Pete had learned anything else about Ray’s death yet didn’t want to interrupt whatever Theo wanted to share.
He set the coffee down. I motioned for him to continue.
“Pete must’ve gotten tired of listening to Wallace, said he had to do something in his room. I was coming out of the kitchen when Wallace asked me to walk out back with him. I followed him to the deck. He stretched out in a chair, I sat next to him, and he told me.” Theo sighed and looked in his mug like his next words would appear on the surface of the liquid. “You know what he told me?”
Of course, I didn’t, so I remained silent.
“Said he killed the bookie. Wallace said it to me right there on my deck.” He shook his head. “What should I do?”
“Was he serious?”
“Sounded like it.”
“Remember, he told me that he’d seen the body, yet was confused about when it was. You told me that he seemed to drift in and out of reality.”
“You weren’t there, Chris. The man looked me in the eye, said he smacked the bookie in the head and left him in the weeds.”
“I find it hard to believe he knew Michael Hardin. Did he say why?”
“I was so taken back that I couldn’t speak, much less ask questions. What should I do?”
“You need to tell the police.”
He took a deep breath then looked down. “I know … I know. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. They’re my houseguests.”
“Theo, I understand, but the police need to know.”
“What if poor Wallace was hallucinating, or confused? He could’ve made it all up?”
“That’s possible. The police will figure it out.”
“I hate to impose, but would you go with me?”
That wouldn’t have been in the top one-hundred items on my to-do list, but Theo was a friend.
“Of course. Let me call Chief LaMond to see if she can meet us at her office.”
She answered on the second ring. “Crap, Chris. I just got your message from last night. Is there a reason why you couldn’t wait until I got coffee in my bloodstream before pestering me again? I was going to call, scout’s honor.”
“That’s not why I’m calling. Theo Stoll and I are at the Dog. He has something to tell you. Could we stop by your office in a few minutes?”
“I’ll do one better. Where do you think I was going to get my caffeine fix? Don’t answer, I’m pulling in front of the Dog. I’ll be there before you can say, ‘Cindy LaMond, you’re the best police chief in the world.’”
She wasn’t far off. She was standing at our booth, motioning for Theo to move over before I finished telling him she was on her way.
Cindy smiled. “Who said cops are never there when you need them?”
She was too cheerful for Theo. He didn’t return her smile, and I would rather have had our conversation in the privacy of the chief’s office. That wasn’t in the cards.
Amber was quick to the booth with Cindy’s coffee and asked if Theo and I needed anything.
I deferred to Theo, who said he was fine. I said the same.
Cindy took a sip, exhaled, and said, “So, what’d you call about last night?”
“It can wait. Theo has something to tell you.” I motioned to him.
Three false starts later, he told her about his conversation with Wallace.
She asked the same question I posed. “Was he serious?”
Theo gave the same response.
Cindy turned to me. “What do you think?”
“I wasn’t there. From my conversations with Wallace, it could’ve been something out of his fantasy world.”
Theo interrupted. “You’re right, you weren’t there. I’m no expert on warped minds, but I think he was serious.”
Cindy said, “Where is he now?”
“My houseguests operate on three time zones west of here. They were asleep when I left the house. They’re sawing logs in their, in my beds.”
Cindy looked at her watch. “Tell you what, Theo. Mosey on home, I’ll come-a-callin’ in a couple of hours.”
Theo nodded. “Are you going to tell him where you heard it?”
“Did he tell anyone else?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’ll know, unless he told other folks. I won’t mention you unless I have to.”
Theo nodded. “Will you arrest him?”
“Theo, I’ll start by talking to him and play it by ear. That’s all I can promise.” She glanced at her watch. “Head on home. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
Theo had looked beaten down when he came in; he looked like he’d been run over by the comedians’ Lincoln when he shuffled out.
Cindy shook her head as she watched Theo leave. “What’s your take, Chris?”
“Wallace is a mystery. There’s no doubt he confuses reality on a regular basis, yet I keep getting the feeling that it may be more fake than real. Theo said the same thing.”
“What makes you and Theo believe that?”
“Gut feelings. It appears that Wallace’s at his worst when it suits his need, if that makes sense.”
“Not much. I’ll take your word. What doesn’t make sense is that, after you dragged him out of the middle of Center Street, he felt the need to tell you he’d seen a body. I never would’ve made a connection between Theo’s visitor and th
e death of a bookie.”
I caught Amber’s eye. I motioned her over, ordered French toast, then asked if Cindy wanted anything to eat. She said that she didn’t want to be rude and sit there and watch me eat, so she told Amber to double the order.
“If Wallace was having trouble with reality, he could’ve stumbled on the body, was confused about when he’d seen it. If the comedian was faking mental problems, and killed the bookie, he might have seen someone notice him near the body. Acting confused and claiming to see it, would explain why he was there.”
Cindy looked at the ceiling and said, “Why would he confess to Theo?”
“Great question. That’ll be up to Folly’s best police chief in the world and the detectives from the Sheriff’s Office to figure out.”
“Thanks.”
I smiled. “Glad I could help.”
“So, what’d you call about last night?”
I told her about my conversation with Neil Wilson and asked if she had learned anything more about his alibi or if Detective Callahan had made progress. I told her about Neil asking if I was playing a superhero.
She laughed until coffee spouted out the side of her mouth.
I told her I didn’t think it was that funny.
She said she agreed. It wasn’t funny, it was hilarious.
Our food arrived and I said, “Callahan learn anything?”
“Don’t guess it matters. It seems we’ve got a confessor bunking at Theo’s.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cindy called as I was sitting down for a supper feast of Velveeta on rye. “Didn’t disturb anything important, did I?”
“No, the Food Channel just left after filming me fixing supper.”
She laughed. “And you think Wallace has problems with reality.”
“Speaking of Wallace, did you catch up with him?”
“I did. At eleven-hundred today, I knocked on the door of one Theodore Stoll and was greeted by the homeowner, who looked more like he wanted to slam the door in my face than welcome me to his far-from-humble abode.”
I interrupted, “Chief, are you auditioning for a movie role as a stuffy cop? You sound like you’re reading a poorly written script.”
“The mayor’s been on my ass, umm, excuse me, on my case—again—to start acting and sounding like a professional law enforcement official. I’m practicing.”
The mayor, Brian Newman, had been the city’s police chief for many years before being elected mayor three years ago.
“He’s failing.”
“Affirmative. Now, if I may continue. Against his wishes and better judgment, Theo let me in. He headed upstairs to get Wallace. Half past an eternity later, Theo inched his way down the stairs with Wallace following. The old comic was dressed in black and looked like Theo’s shadow as they made it to the great room where I’d been twiddling my thumbs.”
I took a bite of sandwich instead of twiddling my thumbs while waiting for the Cindy to get to the reason for the call.
“Theo made an inane excuse why he had to go back upstairs, and left Wallace with me. I told the funny guy that I’d heard that he had confided in some people that he’d killed Michael Hardin. When I told Theo later, he was pleased that Wallace didn’t ask who.”
“What did Wallace say?”
“He looked at me like someone would look at the devil walking down the street while wiggling his bony finger for the person to follow him. Wallace’s body shook like he was exorcising bad memories. He said, ‘I did? When did I say that?’”
“Cindy, that’s what I meant about him drifting out of reality at opportune times.”
“Hang on, Food Channel star, it gets weirder.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Let me get my notes.” Papers rustled in the background. “I’m back. Wallace looked at me and said, ‘I found a shell on the beach. Luckily, it didn’t explode.’”
“He told a joke?”
“I’ll say yes if you add stupid in front of joke.”
“What’d he say next?”
“Let me get the exact quote. Here it is, he said, ‘Ha, ha, ha.’”
I sighed. “After that?”
“He said, ‘Speaking of the beach, did you say I killed someone out there?’ He pointed toward the ocean. I repeated what I told him when I first came in, to which he said, ‘Oh yeah, I remember.’ I thought we were getting somewhere. I was wrong, way wrong. I asked him what he remembered. The poor boy looked around the room. He put his finger to his lips like he was trying to hush me. He slipped four steps under reality and said that he, and this is a quote, ‘Conked a man with a candlestick in the library.’”
“Was that another joke?”
Cindy hesitated and then continued, “Chris, my professional opinion is that Mr. Wallace Bentley is, in official police lingo, wacko. After he described the murder, he grinned and held out his hands like he wanted me to slap on handcuffs.”
“What’d you do?”
“Pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t. I asked if he knew where he was, what day it was, if he knew who he was staying with, even his name. I wanted to see how far from reality he’d drifted.”
“What’d he say?”
“Funny thing, he knew the answers, even told me that he was at the funeral home yesterday making arrangements for his son’s cremation. He knew the name of the funeral director, how much the cremation cost, where he and Pete had gone to eat after leaving the mortuary.” Cindy hesitated and said, “He put his head down and started crying and saying how much he was going to miss Ray and how horrible a father he’d been to his only child. It was an awkward ten minutes before he wiped his eyes and asked if I had more questions.”
“Did you?”
“I asked him to tell me again about the body on the beach. He cocked his head and frowned before saying, ‘Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ That’s all he said.”
“What are you doing with him?”
“I told him I didn’t have anything else to ask and for him to go upstairs and send Theo down. Wallace left, Theo returned. I wanted to see if he could remember exactly what Wallace told him about killing someone. Maybe he knew something specific that would help determine if Wallace killed Michael. He didn’t. Wallace hadn’t told him when he killed him, or where. All he said was he smacked him in the head. Theo didn’t know about the candlestick in the library.”
“Now what?”
“My hands are tied. Wallace didn’t say anything that led me to believe the crime he’d committed had been anywhere other than in his warped head. Michael’s murder was committed by a one-inch thick oak branch, not a candlestick, nowhere near a library. What was I to do? He didn’t appear to be an immediate threat to himself, or others so, when he came back downstairs, I smiled, thanked him for his time and for sharing his flight into fantasy.”
On that note, she said she needed to help her husband clean out a closet and invited me to help.
I declined the generous offer.
She wasn’t surprised.
Cindy was right about Wallace not giving her anything to implicate him in Michael’s death, and I couldn’t think of anything that would tie him to the bookie. Wallace and his friends were new to Folly so, most likely, he wouldn’t have known that Michael existed. So why did I have such an uneasy feeling about Wallace’s sojourns in and out of reality?
Neil Wilson struck me as a better suspect. He owed the bookie a bundle and had lied about liking Michael. He had size and strength to send Michael to the great bookmaking joint in the sky with a blow to the head; his alibi had a hole in it. I would also add Janice Raque to the suspect pool. Her alibi had as many holes in it, as did Neil’s; she had a quick temper and had been seen arguing with Michael.
I finished my sandwich, used my culinary talents to unwrap a Hershey bar for dessert, and wondered what I could do to unwrap the truth about Michael Hardin’s death.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next two days
were taken up with the type of hassles that come from owning an older home in a humidity-rich beach community. I got an expensive respite from thinking about Michael Hardin, his two customers, and the comedians, when the air conditioner decided to take time off.
After I’d called the AC repair shop, stared at my watch for four hours waiting for someone to fix it, a tech arrived, rolled up his sleeves, and stuck his head in the unit’s innards. He fiddled with the mechanism and said, “Hmm” and “That’s what I was afraid of,” which I translated as expensive, before he said that a blown electronic something-or-other in the unit needed to be replaced.
He didn’t have what it needed, so he had to go to the parts house to get one. While I waited for his return, the power in the kitchen kicked off, apparently, a sympathy strike for the silent air conditioner. A call to an electrician was next, followed by laughter from the lady who answered the phone when I asked if someone could come to the house today.
The first half of the next day was spent waiting for an electrician, but at least a working air conditioner made the wait tolerable. I knew as much about the AC unit and the house electrical system serving the kitchen as I knew about the Huli Wigmen tribe in Papua, New Guinea. My contribution to both technicians was to point to the electrical box and the air conditioner.
Cindy called while I was listening to the electrician ramble on at an extraordinary high hourly rate about why I needed five hundred dollars’ worth of repairs.
I asked if I could call her back.
She said I could and, if I was lucky, she’d answer.
My checkbook was one more check and several hundred dollars lighter when I returned her call.
She answered with, “What are you pestering me about now?”
I reminded her that I was returning her call.
“Whatever. The coroner’s office called this morning with the autopsy results on Ray Bentley.”
I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t say anything.
“Well?”
“Hold your palomino, I’m trying to find it. Okay, got it. Let’s see, he says in all sorts of words I don’t understand, but I think they mean Ray is still dead. Wait, there’s more. In laymen’s terms, Ray died of a broken neck.”