by Bill Noel
“Sure,” I lied.
Pete stood, straightened his shorts, and leaned on the railing and looked toward the Tides. “Enough about poor Wallace, how long have you been here?”
I gave him an abbreviated history of discovering Folly, retiring here, owning a gallery.
He listened without interrupting, something I wasn’t accustomed to.
“Theo tells me you’re some sort of detective that helps the police catch bad guys. That’s got to be fascinating.”
I told him that I had been lucky a couple of times, although I wasn’t anything more than a retired bureaucrat living his last years on Folly Beach.
“Theo said you saved his life.”
I told him that Theo was the hero and how he’d given me information that helped catch the killer.
Pete said Theo didn’t take any of the credit. That’s why he admired him so much.
I agreed with Pete then asked him, one more time, if he would be willing to go to the police. One more time, he said no.
I didn’t tell him that I would.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Barb told me that if I picked up a pizza at Woody’s she’d provide drinks so we could enjoy supper from her fourth-floor balcony overlooking the Atlantic and the Folly Beach Fishing Pier. She didn’t have to say it twice. I arrived sharing a smile, a kiss, and a large pizza.
The weather was perfect, as was the company. Over the first slice of the Woody specialty pizza, I shared my strange conversation with Pete. Barb asked if I believed what he said Wallace had told him.
“Good question. You know about most of my conversations with Wallace. If you’d asked me after the first couple of times I talked with him, I’d say he was so far outside the realm of reality, that I wouldn’t believe anything he said.”
Barb poured a second glass of wine and said, “You’ve changed your mind?”
“Theo said he thought Wallace might be faking some of his problems; said he seems to use confusion when it’s convenient. At open-mic night Wallace gave a flawless performance. He didn’t miss a punchline, he remembered all the jokes. He was in total control.”
Barb took a sip and said, “Mel Tillis.”
She’d been around my friends too long.
“Mel Tillis what?”
She smiled. “And you claim to be a country music fan.”
“I am, so?”
“Mel Tillis was a chronic stutterer—”
“Except when he was singing,” I interrupted.
“His speech disfluency disappeared when he performed.”
“You think that’s what happened when Wallace was behind the microphone?”
“Possibly.”
“I would agree except, the first time I saw the Legends perform, Wallace was all over the map. Coherent one moment, out of it the next.”
“Let’s say Theo is right. Wallace uses his problem when it’s in his best interest. The first time he performed was close to the time he claimed to have seen a body. Maybe he wanted to confuse everyone about his mental state. That would support his absurd statement to the police that the bookie was killed with, what did you say?”
“A candlestick in the library.”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “It’s all confusing.”
“Perhaps Wallace wants it to be.”
“Why did he say anything in the first place? Granted, his behavior was anything but normal when I pulled him out of the street, but why bring up a body?”
“You said before that he could’ve feared that someone saw him near the body. He wanted to give himself a reasonable explanation for seeing it while not being the killer.”
“Yes.”
“Makes sense.”
She plopped a second slice of pizza on my plate, added another one to hers, and I said, “But why did he tell me that he saw a body, tell Pete that he saw a body, and told Theo he killed the person, then told the police the fantasy about a candlestick?”
“Chris, I’m a bookstore owner and former lawyer for the wealthy. I’m not a psychiatrist. It sounds like you’d need one to understand Wallace.”
“No argument there. Let me add something else. Both Amber at the Dog and Cal told me one of their customers, Janice Raque, was angry at the bookie for not placing a bet she thought he should have. She owed him several thousand dollars. The bet would’ve paid him off with money to spare. They also told me Janice has a temper and blew up at a waitress in the Dog and at her husband in Cal’s.”
“Another suspect.”
“Yes, and it gets stranger. At open-mic night, I saw Janice at a table by herself and invited her to join the group. Wallace asked about her after she left, and Pete told me that, when Wallace was talking to him about finding the body, he said that there was a woman nearby.”
“You think it was Janice?”
I shrugged.
“That supposition wouldn’t get you far in court.” She held her hand up, palm facing me. “Don’t say it, I know we’re not in court. That is an interesting coincidence.”
“I asked Pete if he would tell the police what he shared about Wallace.”
“He said no.”
“Correct.”
“Why would he? Why would he want to get his friend in trouble? Wallace didn’t tell him that he killed the bookie. Wallace had already been interviewed by the police. What could he have said to them?”
“The police think that Wallace is a kook, but they don’t know about the money.”
“What money?”
I told her about what Pete had said about Wallace paying for the stage outfits and the bar tab.
“Didn’t Theo tell you that someone stole a statue and money from his house? It was probably one of his houseguests, right?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t that explain where Wallace got money?”
“Yes, but what if the murder and the theft from the house were unrelated?”
“Wallace could’ve stolen the stuff from Theo’s, and Janice killed the bookie.”
I nodded.
Barb smiled. “Wallace could’ve seen Janice near the body and still be right about seeing the bookie without being the killer.”
“Even if Pete didn’t want to share what he told me with the police, I need to tell them, at least tell Cindy. She can share it with the Sheriff’s Office.”
“I agree,” Barb said, “If you allow me to slip on my old attorney hat for a minute, I don’t see a shred of admissible evidence in what you’ve said.”
“I didn’t think there was. It might give them a kickstart to the investigation that doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.”
She waved her hand toward the ocean. “Is this a fantastic evening, or what?”
It was Barb’s way of saying that our depressing conversation about murder was over.
I told her that it was fantastic.
And so was the rest of the evening.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The next morning, I thought about walking to Bert’s for coffee, thought about driving to the Dog for breakfast, and thought about what Barb had said about looking at the theft at Theo’s and the murder of Michael Hardin being unrelated.
After more thought than I could handle, I fixed coffee at home, ate stale coffee cake for breakfast, and spent the rest of the time trying to figure out what I knew and didn’t know about the offenses. The obvious thing I didn’t know was who committed them, and that was only the beginning of the list. What was Wallace’s true state of mind? Could Janice or Neil have killed Michael? And could Ray’s tumble down the stairs have been something other than an accident? What I did know was that, regardless if he wanted me to or not, I had to tell Cindy about what Pete shared. The sooner the better.
She answered with, “What now?”
“I learned something yesterday from one of Theo’s houseguests I think you need to know.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She was gone. No insults, no interrogation, no smart-aleck remark. What had happened to the Cindy LaMond I’d come to love?
She pulled her pickup truck in the drive, and I met her on the front porch. She walked past me into the living room and said, “Coffee?”
I led her into the kitchen and poured her some in my cleanest dirty mug.
She took a sip then plopped down on a kitchen chair.
“You okay?” I asked.
She held up the cup of coffee. “Working on it.”
It didn’t appear that she was succeeding. “What’s wrong?”
“Tired.”
It was more than that, so I played Charles. “Why?”
She looked at me, took another sip, and sighed. “I didn’t get home last night, correction, this morning until two something. College students, a busload of them, were on the beach, acting like infants playing in a sandbox. Their Pablum had a high alcoholic content. They were raising such a ruckus that it woke up two families from Tennessee renting a beach house.
“Three of my guys and I had to pretend that we were adults and put a stop to the horsing around. We didn’t haul any of the students away, although it took longer than it should have to round them up and herd them on their bus. The driver was sober, so he could get them off the island and out of our hair.” She took another sip and shrugged.
It didn’t sound like something that would put her in a foul mood. “And?”
“Larry decided that three this morning was the perfect time to express extreme displeasure about me being out. He was pissed, pissed on hormones. He dredged up every time in the last year he thought I should’ve been home rather than serving and protecting the citizens of this fine island. I wasn’t in the best mood and blew a gasket. No blows were thrown but every profanity known in the Western World bounced off the walls.”
Cindy and Larry were two of my favorite people and I hated to hear about their early morning fight. They were stubborn, opinionated, and madly in love with each other.
“What happened?”
“Not much. Neither of us wanted to act like things were normal, so neither of us slept in the bed. Larry spread out on the couch; I slept in the truck.” She stopped and stared at me. “If I hear that you tell anybody about this, you’ll be sleeping in a coffin.”
“It doesn’t leave this room.”
“So, what in the hell did you drag me over here for?”
Instead of answering, I gave it one last try. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Of course, we are, I hope. I’m heading to the hardware store as soon as I leave here to give the little squirt a big hug, tell him I’ll try to get home earlier, and see what happens. If that doesn’t work, I’m moving in with you. Did you forget why you wanted to talk to me?”
I squeezed her shoulder.
Again, she asked why she was here.
I told her everything that Wallace had said to Pete about seeing a body and a woman. I also told her how Wallace reacted to Janice at the open-mic night, plus what Pete said about Wallace paying for drinks and their new stage clothes.
She asked if Pete thought Wallace had been making sense or was in one of his back-to-the-past moods.
I said I thought he was making sense.
She asked if he mentioned a candlestick beating in the library.
I shook my head.
“Why was Pete telling you?”
“He’s worried about Wallace. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t afraid that Wallace might break and kill someone else.”
“The best I can do is talk to Wallace again. I didn’t know about him paying for drinks and their costumes, so that’s a reason to reintroduce myself. Thanks for letting me know.”
I wished her luck.
“I’ll need it. Also, thanks for letting me dump on you about Larry. We’ll be fine.”
Cindy left, and I had second thoughts about what I’d shared. Regardless, the police now know as much as I do. With luck and their resources, they should be able to get to the bottom of it. If Wallace hadn’t killed Michael Hardin, there was still a good chance he’d stolen Theo’s money and figurine.
As the old saying goes, Man cannot live on stale coffee cake alone. Okay, I made that up. Anyway, I was still hungry and decided to walk to Snapper Jack’s for lunch. The colorful, multi-level restaurant faced the island’s only traffic light and was popular with residents and vacationers. The eatery was crowded for early in the week.
Instead of taking up a table, I sat at the bar and faced a bank of flat-screen televisions and a college-aged bartender wearing a black Snapper Jack’s T-shirt. She asked what I needed. I said a glass of wine and a menu. She smiled and said she thought she could handle it.
I was staring at one of ESPN’s 300 channels on the set in front of me when I was startled by a tap on the shoulder. I turned to see Neil Wilson smiling at me.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked as he pointed to the empty chair beside me.
I told him, “No.”
He sat, looked at the television, and said, “You a sports fan?”
“Not particularly. I was daydreaming more than watching.”
The bartender set my wine and a menu in front of me.
I asked Neil if I could buy him a drink.
He said yes before I got the question out and told the bartender he wanted Corona.
“How’s your job search?”
“Remember the other day when I told you the cops came to my job and questioned me about that dead guy?”
“Yes.”
“Know what my boss did yesterday?”
I said I didn’t.
“Fired me.”
The bartender slipped a Corona in front of Neil.
“Why?”
“Get this, he said it was bad for the image of his company to have cops interrogating his security guard about a murder. Can you believe that? It’s a damned plastic fabrication plant. They make toys, for God’s sake. You would’ve thought they built freakin’ computer chips for the Pentagon.”
I didn’t tell him, but agreed that it seemed drastic.
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, and he threw up an old arrest from years ago that found its way on my background search when I was hired. He told me when he hired me that since the arrest was more than ten years old, he was willing to take a chance on me. The chance lasted until I was doing my civic duty and answering the cop’s questions.” He took a long draw on his beer and repeated, “Can you believe that?”
I didn’t know what to believe, but wondered if there was something about the firing that he hadn’t told me. He was here and seemed open to talking, so this would be a good chance to see what he would say about his relationship with Michael Hardin.
“Want some lunch?” I slid a menu in front of him.
“You buying?”
“Yes.”
He waved for the bartender. He ordered fish tacos. I went with a chicken finger basket, and he added another Corona.
“I know the police learned you were working when Michael Hardin was killed. You’d bet with him, so I wondered if you could think of anyone who would’ve wanted him dead.” I didn’t mention there was a big hole in his alibi and that I was aware that he owed the bookie a significant amount of money.
“He was a nice guy. I can’t imagine anyone would kill him.”
Other than to wiggle out of paying off a huge debt, I thought. I also wondered how Wallace, who had been on the island for a few short days, could’ve known the bookie.
“I’d seen Michael around town a few times, but never talked to him. Did he take bets from anyone?”
Neil smiled for the first time. “Bookmaking is illegal, you know. Over the years, I’ve known a few bookies. You could say gambling is one of my hobbies.” He pointed to one of the TVs playing highlights from last night’s NBA games. “Won some, lost some. Most bookies are careful about who they deal with. Not just anybody could go to them. Most new clients are referrals from
someone the bookie trusts. Understandable, don’t you think?”
I agreed.
“Not Neil. What got him so much business was that he’d take bets from anyone. Well, not anyone. If he thought someone was an undercover cop, he’d act like he didn’t know what the person was talking about.”
No one would confuse seventy-five-year-old Wallace Bentley for an undercover cop.
Our food arrived, and Neil inhaled a large chunk of fish taco.
“Let me ask you something else,” I said.
His mouth was full. He mumbled, “You’re playing cop, trying to catch the person who killed Michael.”
I didn’t deny it. “I’m curious. Someone I know may’ve had something to do with the death. I was wondering if anyone else had information that would help the police.”
“What’s the question?”
“Did Michael carry a lot of money?”
“One reason Michael was so popular was that he paid winnings right away. Some guys make you wait a day before shelling out. Most betters I know need the money, need it now.”
“So, he would’ve carried a substantial amount of cash?”
“Depends on what events were being bet on that day but, yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d be pocketing hundreds, even thousands some days.”
Yet no money was on him when I found his body.
Time for a little white lie. “I hear he would carry some customers.”
Neil swallowed another bite and smiled. “Yeah, he trusted a few of us. I owed him a little. He wasn’t pressuring me to pay, knew I was good for it.”
Other than asking if he killed Michael Hardin, I didn’t see how I could get more from him.
“He sounds like a nice guy.”
“Yes. It’s my turn to ask something.”
“What?”
“Are you sure you don’t know anyone hiring? I was stretched thin before the idiot fired me. I’ve got one low-paying, part-time gig and no money.”
“I don’t, Neil. But I’ll ask around. You’ll be the first if I hear anything.”
We finished lunch with minimal conversation. He wanted to talk about the pro basketball games guys on television were jabbering about. I had little, if any, interest and limited my comments to, “Hmm” and “Yeah.” Dude would have been proud of my vocabulary.