Ghosts

by Bill Noel

  I had been directing some of my unearned fortune to paying the bills and keeping the gallery open three days a week instead of the seven-day routine I had fallen into, for I’d realized that retirement should mean something more than working every day. Charles, to the untrained observer, was the same Charles that he was before the windfall. I saw how extravagant he had been when he bought his own camera and returned the loaner of five years to me. He had talked about having his 1988 Saab convertible repaired in order to transform it from yard art to a licensed roadworthy vehicle.

  “So what’s going on at Cal’s that he needs a bartending detective?” I asked.

  He wiped catsup off his upper lip, wadded his napkin, and dropped it on the plate. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let Heather and me buy your chow tonight. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Heather Lee was Charles’s self-anointed “main squeeze,” or his “only squeeze,” as she was known to everyone else. Charles had never bought me a meal, so I thought tonight’s event was going to be historic and the most memorable thing that would happen to me today.

  I was wrong.

  CHAPTER 2

  The thermometer hovered in the midthirties, with a brisk wind out of the northwest. That would be almost balmy in much of the country this close to Christmas, but it was well below average on Folly, and much of the populace claimed to be freezing. I had already wrapped my 185-pound body in a down-filled jacket and covered my rapidly balding head with a Tilley, my tan sailcloth fedora-style hat that I’d fallen in love with years ago. I smiled when I realized that I was overdressed for the short jaunt to the street and my new Infiniti SUV to drive three short blocks to Rita’s Restaurant. The SUV had recently replaced a dented ten-year-old Lexus.

  I had just opened the door on my way out of the house when the house phone’s ring drew me back inside. I almost ignored it but was afraid it was Charles with a change in plans.

  I should have followed my first instinct.

  “Is this Chris Landrum … the one who lived in Louisville?” asked a female voice. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  “Yes,” I said after hesitating.

  “Thank God,” she responded. Then dead air.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Chris,” she continued after another awkward pause. “This is Joan.”

  Charles, Heather, supper, and cold weather all cascaded down a snowy slope. My mind raced back decades. My heart rate accelerated; I began to sweat. It wasn’t because I was overly bundled.

  “Joan Landrum?” I barely got the words out. I didn’t remember carrying the cordless phone to the living room and sitting down, but that’s where I was, so I must have.

  “It’s Joan McCandless now, but yes.”

  The last time I had spoken to her was twenty-four years ago, when her name was Joan Landrum and she had just become my ex-wife.

  “Uh, wow … Hi. How are you?” I hoped she didn’t think I’d suffered a stroke, but I felt as if I had. Was it really her? Could Charles be playing a sick trick? No, the voice sounded familiar, and it began to come back to me. We had been married twenty years when she came home from work and tearfully told me that she wanted a divorce. She said she was tired of being married.

  She giggled. “I guess you’re surprised to hear from me.”

  You guess! I thought. “Uh, yes. I am.” I was beginning to get my bearings—sort of. “Where are you? What’s up?”

  “I’m in Gatlinburg. My husband and I moved here from California a few years ago. He’s retired.”

  “Oh,” I said, slipping back to stroke-speak. I hesitated and hoped that a tree would fall on the phone lines and cut the connection. I could probably think of more things to say to a recorded message trying to sell me storm windows than I could to say to my longtime ex-wife. I tried again. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing really,” she said. “We were married a long time, and you were a big part of my life. I googled you and found several Chris Landrums. One of them had saved an elderly lady from a hurricane a couple of years ago, and the story said that the hero was originally from Louisville. I called information and got this number and took a chance.” She hesitated. I heard “White Christmas” playing in the background. “Sorry if I startled you.”

  She had gone to a lot of trouble for “nothing really,” but I didn’t push it. I also knew that I was late for the rendezvous with Charles and Heather. Tardiness to Charles was somewhat akin to bashing baby seals with a Louisville Slugger.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I was surprised. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, fine. I know you must be busy with Christmas around the corner.” Another hesitation. “Chris, I need … Never mind,” she said. “I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas and see how you’re doing and to—”

  “To see how I’m doing?” I asked, incredulous. “We haven’t spoken in years. What do you want?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. I could hear her breathing. Did I hear a sob?

  “You still there?” I asked, a little more gently this time.

  The line went dead, and I just stood there for a long moment, staring blankly at the phone as if I expected it to start explaining the mysteries of the world, like ex-wives. I shook my head, vaguely disturbed by the ghost from Christmas past that had just blown in on the cold Atlantic wind.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was dark as I parallel parked on East Arctic Avenue in front of the entrance to the Folly Beach Fishing Pier and across the street from Rita’s. The restaurant had opened a few years ago and had quickly earned the reputation as one of the best beach restaurants in the Charleston area. It was located on perhaps Folly’s most sought-after retail spot, the center of the business district and fewer than a hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean, the Pier, and a public beach.

  A cheerful hostess greeted me at the door and nodded toward a booth on the Center Street side of the restaurant. Charles and Heather were seated on the far side of the booth with a clear view of the entrance. Charles glanced in my direction and then looked at his left wrist, shaking his head. His gesture would have been more meaningful if he owned a watch, but the significance wasn’t lost on me. I was late, but even he would have agreed that this time I had a good excuse. Heather, not nearly as time obsessed as Charles, truly seemed glad to see me—tardy or not.

  I removed my coat, threw it and my hat on the seat, and slid in the booth opposite the couple.

  “Suppose your new ride isn’t as quick as your old one,” he said. “On time ain’t what it used to be.”

  I ignored his barb, smiled at Heather, and told her she looked especially nice and seasonal. She wore a red-and-green striped blouse and dark green slacks. Most people wouldn’t have noticed anything other than the floppy bright red Santa’s hat perched on her curly brown hair. Heather was attractive and in her midforties, but she looked younger. Freckles on her nose added to her wholesome appearance.

  She was oblivious to Charles’s complaints. “Wait till you hear about Chucky’s new quote job unquote,” she said.

  I loved it when she called her bench bud Chucky. He would correct anyone else who dared call him anything other than Charles. He riled at Chuck or any close version, and Heather was the only person who dared to say Chucky in his presence. She was so cute when she said it.

  My growling stomach and the smell of frying hamburgers reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I asked Charles to hold his story until I ordered. I wasn’t certain how much I wanted to divulge about my odd call. Each of us ordered a variation of Rita’s world-renowned, or at least island-well-known, burgers, and we requested two orders of fries to share. I asked Charles if he would be ordering an exotic drink since he was now a mixologist. He said sure, a Bud Light; he told Heather that that was what she wanted too. I ordered red wine.

  Heather was on the front edge of t
he seat and beaming. “Okay, okay, Chucky. Tell him.”

  Clearly not finished berating me for being late, he frowned at Heather, but in a rare moment of wisdom, he chose to change the subject and give in to her. Charles and Heather had gone from being a lukewarm item a year or so ago to sizzling. They were made for each other. Both were quirky, outgoing, and artistic in an offbeat way. Charles’s preferred photographic subject matter consisted of discarded candy wrappers, which, in the best of times, would only appeal to the most lopsided art connoisseur. Heather’s singing talent would appeal to the deafest listener, but she plied her hobby with reckless enthusiasm and charm.

  “Cal’s having a rash of thefts,” began Charles. “Well, not actually a rash—closer, I guess, to a couple of thefts.” He looked out the window toward the Sand Dollar bar across the street, and then back at Heather, and finally at me. “How about I start at the beginning?”

  Heather nodded enthusiastically, and I said, “Please do.”

  “Cal’s not quite an experienced bar owner,” said Charles.

  That was an understatement since Cal had begun his career as a bar owner less than a year ago. His only experience in bars prior to that was as an entertainer and regular consumer of their products.

  “Move along, Chucky. Move along,” said Heather.

  He gave her another frown, but it quickly turned to a smile as he patted her knee. “Cal hasn’t mustered the subtleties of inventory control,” said Charles.

  “Means he can’t count how much stuff he’s got,” interrupted Heather.

  I grinned. “Thanks, Heather. I’m sure Charles would have got around to saying that—eventually.” I didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm by telling her that Charles had already told me part of the story.

  “Okay, okay,” said Charles. “Cal thinks that some of his expensive bottles of bourbon are disappearing.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Not sure,” said Charles. “Have you already forgotten about his inventory control issues?”

  “Then how does he know they’re missing?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Chucky, how?” said Heather as she quickly shifted her gaze back to Charles.

  He smiled at Heather and then turned and gave me a frown. “Don’t know for sure,” said Charles. “He said he keeps buying bourbon and his cash drawer doesn’t have enough money to pay for it.”

  How could an accountant have possibly said that better? I thought. “So he really doesn’t know if there’s a problem?” I said.

  “Yeah, Chucky,” chimed in Heather.

  “That’s why he hired me,” said Charles, as though nothing could be more logical. “He wants me to use my investigative skills and cipher out if there’s a thievery problem.” He raised his right hand and pointed his index finger upward. “And if there’s a problem, then solve it.”

  I nodded. Charles was my best friend, so shouldn’t I be supportive of whatever he wanted to do—regardless of how idiotic? Nah! “Charles, must I remind you again that you are not a detective? You have no experience at being a detective. In fact, you don’t have any experience as a bartender. And Cal, as great a singer and person as he is, knows as much about running a bar as a panda does about needlepoint.”

  I couldn’t tell if Charles heard most of what I had said. He was staring off into space. “Those,” he finally said, “are good points, and I appreciate you reminding me. You’re right.”

  Progress, I thought. “Good,” I said.

  “Those are great reasons why I took the job. It’ll give me valuable experience, and who wouldn’t want to be a mixologist? And it’ll be great teaching Cal more about the bar business. Thanks for being supportive.”

  Heather looked at the smiling Charles and then turned back to me. “Needlepoint ain’t that hard to pick up. I bet a panda could do it.”

  Logic continued to fly out the window; food flowed into our stomachs; and adult beverages washed the food down and common sense away. By the end of the night, I didn’t care if Charles wanted to pretend he was a bartending detective, if Heather wanted to pretend she was the next country megastar, or if she wanted to visit the zoo and teach needlepoint to the entire population, pandas et al.

  The night had belonged to Charles, so I didn’t mention my strange and disorienting phone call. Besides, I wasn’t certain that I wanted to tell anyone. I also realized that my lifelong tendency to close up and not share my innermost feelings and thoughts with those close to me was probably a major cause of my divorce.

  CHAPTER 4

  The first three days of Christmas week were busy in the gallery. I had opened only on weekends since receiving the inheritance. After Thanksgiving, I opened the doors six days a week. Charles said that I owed it to the photo-buying public, and since he was my unofficial sales manager, he wanted me to open as much as possible. I’d hinted at it at times but had never told him that the onset of winter had always been a depressing time for me; the extra hours gave me something to take my mind off the season.

  Charles had finished selling two large framed photos to a condo owner who was in town for the holidays. It was a little after four, but the sky was darkening as sunset approached. We had moved to the small office, break room, storeroom, and occasional party room behind the gallery. Charles was off work at Cal’s after putting in two, as he put it, “interesting” nights of bartending and detecting. He convinced me with minimal arm-twisting that it was “almost happy hour” and we should skip the coffee that we had been sipping most of the day and go straight to the beer, wine and cheese bar—the counter and refrigerator—and celebrate a successful day at the gallery. I laughed and reminded him that his proposed activity often occurred regardless of whether any photos had been sold. He succinctly summed it up with, “So?”

  He asked if I’d mind if he invited Heather to “our party,” and he suggested that I might want to ask Amber. Heather was fine with me, and he grabbed the phone to call her. I quietly said that I didn’t think so about asking Amber.

  Amber and I had dated for a couple of years. Charles insisted that we would get back together, but I had serious doubts. Amber was the most-tenured server at the Lost Dog Café, and I still saw her there several times a week. We were cordial, and I enjoyed talking to her.

  I’d had a few casual dates over the last several months with Karen Lawson, a detective with the Charleston County sheriff’s office and daughter of Folly’s chief of police, Brian Newman. She and I had met in the most unlikely of situations—over the body of a well-known Charleston developer. I had been on Folly for only a few days when I figuratively, and nearly literally, stumbled onto the murder victim and rapidly became the next target of the killer. I seemed to have bad luck like that at times, being in the wrong place at the wrong time and subsequently getting caught up in crime scenes. I didn’t go looking for trouble, that’s for sure, but I did somehow have a knack for letting it find me.

  I got to know Karen better when her father suffered a near-fatal heart attack two years ago. She and I had shared time with her dad in the hospital room and then time with each other over a couple of meals and drinks at a watering hole near the hospital in Charleston.

  It had been three days since I had received Joan’s call, and I was finally comfortable sharing the conversation with Charles and Heather. We were sitting around an old kitchen table in the back room. I had left the gallery lights on and the door unlocked in case any last-minute Christmas shoppers were inspired to stop in.

  “Who’s Joan?” asked Heather before I completed two sentences.

  “She’s Chris’s ex,” answered Charles for me.

  Heather jerked her head my direction. “Like ex-wife or something?” she said.

  I was wondering what “or something” meant and didn’t answer quickly enough. Charles came to the rescue. “Yep,” he said. “He married his high school sweetheart back when he was in college, sometime aroun
d the Civil War.” He examined the ceiling as if trying to figure out if I was for the North or the South, and then he took a swig of Bud Light. “Stayed hitched for two decades, and then she wised up and dumped him.”

  I would have preferred my version of the story. Unfortunately, Charles had the facts correct—except about the Civil War.

  “I never would have guessed,” said Heather.

  Not in the mood to guess what she never would have guessed, I quickly moved the story along. “She called to wish me merry Christmas and ask how I was doing,” I said.

  “You haven’t heard from her in something like three hundred years. She dumped you back in dinosaur times. Now she calls to see how you’re doing. Right?” Charles nodded and stared at me.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  “And you think that’s normal?” he said.

  “Not a bird blink of normal there,” said Heather.

  “So what do you think?” I asked. I wasn’t certain that I wanted to know, but I also knew that he was going to tell me regardless.

  “You need to start from the beginning,” responded Charles. “Tell us everything she said.”

  “Everything,” said Heather.

  The odds weren’t good that I could avoid the dynamic duo, so I stepped out of my comfort zone and shared as much of the conversation as I could remember. I left out my multiple “umms” and pauses.

  Heather tilted her head in my direction. “You know—”

  Charles aimed the palm of his right hand at Heather and interrupted. “Hold that thought.”

  He quickly pushed his chair back and headed to the small refrigerator in the corner, just as quickly returning with two more beers and the half-empty bottle of Cabernet from the counter. He handed Heather one of the beers and put the wine bottle beside my glass. “You were saying, sweetie?”

  “Thank you, Chucky,” she said with a grin.

  After “sweetie” and “Chucky,” I was thankful that Charles had brought the wine.