by Bill Noel
Next to the open shelf area were two twelve-by-twelve-inch beat-up wooden doors with rusting silver keyholes. One of the keyholes was plugged with some unknown substance; the other one was in better condition. Cal took a loose key from the pocket of his jeans and used it to open the unplugged lock.
“Credit card stuff too?” asked Charles.
“Yep. And then I lock it in,” he said. He then demonstrated the highly complex process of turning the key.
After he locked the box in the cabinet, he told us to return to the table.
“And in the morning?” asked Charles.
“Take the box out and dump the money on the bar. I count it and write down the amount. And then I fill out a deposit slip and mosey to the bank,” said Cal.
I pointed at Cal’s pocket. “Is that the only key?” I asked.
“No way, Jose,” he said with a grin. “Afraid I’d lose it and then be up a creek without a key.” He pointed back over his left shoulder. “Got one hidden back there on the top shelf under a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Another one’s hidden in the water tank behind the toilet in the gals’ restroom.”
I looked at Charles and then at Cal. “I’m surprised no one’s stolen it before,” I said.
Cal stared down at the counter. “Well, Kentucky,” he said, “it sort of has been taken.”
“How many times?” asked Charles.
“Three other times.”
Charles tapped his cane on the floor. “Thanks for sharing,” he said with a large dose of sarcasm.
Thank goodness Cal had made a career out of singing. Security consultant wouldn’t have been one of his top three thousand talents.
CHAPTER 6
Nick and Tara, two of the paid employees, dragged themselves to the bar a few ticks before noon. Cal, Charles, and I had finished decorating, started the grill, and tuned the small Sirius XM Radio receiver to one of the 24-7 Christmas music channels. We had also sighed and shaken our heads at Cal’s lax, to put it kindly, control over the bar’s revenue. Rather than being shocked by the thefts, I was amazed that Cal had any money when he went to count it in the morning.
Nick was the only “real” bartender who would be working the party. He tended bar at Cal’s and had done so for the previous two years while it was under Greg Brile’s ownership. Nick was six feet one and thin as a piece of rebar. He had the look of Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow and a mouth that comfortably emoted every profanity known to the Western world. He would have made George Carlin blush. Cal overlooked Nick’s shortcomings since he was heads above the other two paid bartenders—and heads, torso, legs, feet, and stilts above Charles in the mixology department. Besides, the other two bartenders had declined to work Christmas Day.
To counter Nick’s crudeness, Cal had asked Tara to give up her holiday to serve as his gift to the citizens of Folly Beach. She had graciously agreed, arriving with a smile and bubbly enthusiasm. She was the longest-term employee and had been serving customers—good and bad—for seven years. She knew most of their food and drink choices, laughed at their stale and occasional off-color jokes, and made everyone feel important. Her appearance was also drastically different from the dour, gnarly Nick’s. She was in her midthirties, and in the words of her husband, she was the “cutest thing that ever skipped across the bridge to Folly Beach.” She also had a refreshing sense of humor and pointed out to her husband, a tattoo artist, that she didn’t have to be too cute to be better looking than most of his clients. Cal’s regular customers, particularly the males, agreed with her husband.
Both hands of the large neon-ringed Miller Beer clock on the wall were pointing straight up, and Cal paced the floor, for the third time wiping the tops of the tables. “What if nobody comes?” he kept mumbling, more to the tables than to anyone nearby.
“They damned well better,” snarled Nick. “Sure won’t be many tips when everything’s free. Fifteen percent of nothing’s … hell, it ain’t much.”
Tara put her arm around Cal’s waist. “I think it’s a fine thing you’re doing,” she said, and then she stuck her tongue out at Nick. “Nicest thing that’s happened in this old dive since I’ve worked here.”
The front door opened before Nick could grunt at Tara, and in walked Folly’s Arlo Guthrie look-alike, Jim “Dude” Sloan.
“Here be the place?” he asked no one in particular.
“Yep,” said Cal, who then rushed to the door and put his gangly arm around Dude’s shoulder as if to keep him from backing out. Cal’s crowd went from nobody to Dude—some would say that was no change, but Cal was happy.
Dude owned the surf shop and had been on Folly Beach for the last twenty-three years. As Amber had once aptly put it, “Dude surfs to the beat of a different wave.” Charles had always contended that the short, thin sixty-year-old immigrated to Folly from another planet. Dude owned a tie-dye shirt factory or had a closet full of the colorful glow-in-the-dark holdovers from the 1960s. He took off his two-sizes-too-large corduroy coat, and his Christmas attire looked suspiciously like his other 364-days-a-year garb.
“Merry Christmas, Dude,” said Tara. “Something to drink?”
Dude’s face morphed into a smile. “Me be thrilled to have you fetch a libation,” he said.
Dude normally confined his words to an average of about a half dozen. I would say that many words in a sentence, but Dude’s words seldom achieved the common definition of a sentence. He must have been in the holiday spirit.
He perused the room. “Where’s Mad Mel and CR?”
“Not here,” responded Charles. “Or don’t think so. What’s a CR?”
Dude looked at Charles for the first time since he walked in. “Caldwell Ramsey.” His head bobbed.
Of course, I thought. Who else could it have been? “Who’s Caldwell Ramsey?” I asked.
“Mad Mel’s cohabiter,” said Dude.
Mel Evans, better known as Mad Mel, was a retired US Marine who owned a marsh tour boat—Mad Mel’s Magical Marsh Machine—and ran groups through the marsh between Folly and James Island. He would take anyone, but he specialized in college students who wanted to get away from the police and party on the sandbars that dotted the waterways around the barrier islands. I had never experienced one of his “party cruises,” but I suspected that he was a wee bit lax on checking IDs of his imbibing passengers. Dude had introduced Mel to Charles and me back in the summer.
Cal’s ears perked up when he heard Dude mention Mad Mel. “Is Mel coming?” he said.
“Said so,” said Dude.
“And will he actually bring his significant other?” said Charles.
“Said so,” repeated Dude.
The aroma of sizzling burgers on the grill got Cal’s attention, and he asked Nick if he would get some sandwiches ready. Nick mumbled a profanity and stomped to the kitchen.
The creaky door opened again, and three of Folly’s singles peeked in and asked if the bar was open. It was cold outside, yet two of them didn’t have coats and the third man had a dirt-stained army blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Cal, seeing that his crowd had swelled mightily, gave a dramatic wave and said, “Welcome.”
I didn’t know the newcomers, but Charles whispered that they were good guys, adding, “They’re a bit behind in their happy lives and overly dependent upon the good graces of their fellow men.”
“Huh?” I whispered back.
“They’re bums,” explained Charles. “Adjust.”
I didn’t know about that, but they did look like three gentlemen who needed a nice Christmas party, and that was what Cal was hosting.
Cal walked the three to the bar and made sure they got the first burgers off the grill and paper cups of fruit punch. One of the men glanced around and asked if, by chance, anything stronger was being served. “Later,” said Cal.
Red plastic bowls piled high with potato chips and Hershey Kisses we
re beside the cups of punch on the bar. A stack of red and green paper plates waited to be filled.
Brenda Lee’s “Jingle Bell Rock” filled the air.
Cal’s Christmas wish and dream was in full swing.
CHAPTER 7
Free food, drink, and human contact proved to be a winning formula. By one o’clock that afternoon, Cal’s Country Bar and Burgers looked like an airline terminal the day before Thanksgiving. Cal increased the volume twice on the radio. Nick started handing out bottles of beer in time with the cheerful music. The mood of the celebrants increased in time with the music and the beer.
I was pleasantly surprised to see my friend William Hansel. He was my height, carried less weight, and was five years younger. He was dressed in nice slacks, a white dress shirt minus a tie, and a navy blazer with brown leather arm patches. He looked like a professor getting ready to address an attentive class—not too surprising since that was what he was, a professor of hospitality and tourism at the College of Charleston. He appeared as out of place in Cal’s as a walrus in a carrot patch.
“Good afternoon and merry Christmas,” said William as I shook his outstretched hand.
William had been my neighbor for a brief period when I first arrived on Folly. He was not only out of place in Cal’s—but in most of what he did. He was an African American living on an overwhelmingly white island. He was a Republican; he hated travel and the field in which he taught; and he prided himself on being prim and proper on an island where casual and bohemian ruled.
“And merry Christmas to you as well,” I replied. Simply talking to William brought out a more formal tone. I didn’t want to be graded down for verbal slovenliness. “It’s good to see you.”
His eyes took in the room. “I kept observing the flyers posted about town promoting the generous gesture on the part of Mr. Ballew,” said William in his distinctive deep voice. “Thus I decided to take advantage of his hospitality.”
William’s wife had died of cancer a dozen years ago, and he lived in a small, neat cottage a couple of blocks from Cal’s. I walked William over so Cal could formally greet him.
Mad Mel arrived with his “cohabiter,” Caldwell, and immediately began hurling insults at Dude, his longtime friend. The barbs had been flying between Mel and Dude for nearly two decades, and a Christmas ceasefire evidently wasn’t to be. Mel was the opposite of Dude. He was a few years younger, half a foot taller, and had a few zillion fewer hairs on his head. He was bald. Dude’s friend had a constant frown on his face and looked as if he could wrestle a gorilla into submission. Mel, with his US Marine background, focused on his tasks at hand, but Dude appeared to have trouble focusing on anything.
This was the first time that I’d met Caldwell. His facial expressions were much friendlier than his partner’s were. Mel was more than six feet tall, but Caldwell towered above him. Although Caldwell was African American, his skin wasn’t much darker than Mel’s. I heard him mention to the master inquisitor, Charles, that he had played basketball at Clemson in the mideighties.
I helped Nick refill the punch bowl but mostly listened to him gripe about having to work for meager tips and tell me that he thought that Charles was the worst bartender he had ever seen. “Between you and me,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “I think the reason Cal hired Charles was because they’re friends.” He nodded toward the center of the bar. “Look over there. Charles ain’t even working; he’s talking to … well, talking to damned near everyone. Ain’t a bartender supposed to be near the bar?”
I remained silent and nodded. The good news was that Charles’s undercover detective career was still a secret—at least from Nick.
“What the hell is that damned bear doing on your shirt?” said Mel.
He was halfway across the room and staring at Charles’s sweatshirt. I was certain his booming military voice was heard by all.
“What’s the damned A stand for? Assho—”
“Whoa!” Charles interrupted. He held both hands in front of him, palms facing Mel. “Alaska, the University of Alaska.” He rolled his eyes as if to say, Who doesn’t know that? “They’re the Nanooks. It’s Eskimo for polar bear.”
“Well, excuse me,” said Mel, who then surprised me, and likely everyone nearby, when he smiled. “Merry Christmas, Charles.”
My cell phone rang before I imagined everyone breaking out into “Here Comes Santa Claus.”
“Is this Chris Landrum?” asked a female voice.
I hesitated and then said, “Yes.”
“My name is Charlene, Charlene Goode,” she said. “I’m a friend of Joan’s. She asked me to call.”
My stomach turned sour, and I was having a hard time hearing the person. “Yes,” I said. I walked to the rear of the bar, where fewer revelers were loitering.
She hesitated, but I didn’t say anything. I realized that she must have called the house and the call was forwarded to my cell phone—a feature that sounded good at the time I had it added. I was now beginning to regret the decision.
“I hate to bother you on Christmas,” she finally continued, “but Joan insisted that I call.”
“No problem,” I said.
“Her husband was killed yesterday … Joan wanted you to know, uh, and wanted to ask a favor.”
The merriment in the room faded. “What happened?” I asked.
“They say it was an accident.” She emphasized say. “Daniel was on the way over the mountain to the casino in Cherokee. His Mercedes went over the cliff. It burst into flames. He was killed instantly.”
I had moved one of the chairs to the corner and slowly lowered my body in the seat. “God, that’s terrible,” I said. “Is there anything …? What can I do?”
“Well,” she said, “that’s why Joan asked me to call.” She hesitated. “I hate to ask, but Joan wants you to come over here.”
“Why?” I said without thinking. “I mean, what can I do?”
“To be honest, I don’t know,” said Charlene. “She keeps saying that you were the logical one in the family. She said you could figure most anything out.” There was a pause. “But to tell you the truth, I tried to talk her out of having me call. I don’t know what you can do … I don’t know what she has in mind. I’m sure she’d understand if you said no.”
Is this a dream? I wondered.
“Let me have a number,” I said. I walked to the bar to get a pen. “I’ll call back. It might not be until tomorrow.”
She gave me a number where Joan could be reached, adding that she was under a doctor’s care and might not be able to talk. I wrote the number on one of the red bar napkins. “I look forward to hearing from you,” she said. “I’ll tell Joan what you said.” She hung up.
I pushed END CALL and stared at the phone.
CHAPTER 8
A dozen “strays” had ventured in and voraciously attacked the peanut butter sandwiches as well as the burgers and grilled cheese sandwiches that Nick and Tara churned out as quickly as the grill would allow. Charles had finally found his spot behind the bar and handed out beer and soft drinks. If someone requested something more complex like bourbon and Coke, Charles shrugged and said that “the boss” wouldn’t let him fix it.
I convinced the bartending detective that he could pour me a glass of Cabernet without using too much brainpower, and I took the drink and walked around the room. I met a couple of folks I had occasionally seen around but had never met. I spent some time talking to Mel and Caldwell, and I listened to Dude’s sentence-challenged version of why Christmas wasn’t a big sales day at the surf shop. Apparently, this was only the second year that he had been closed on December 25. I would have questioned him more on the logic, or illogic, of why he had ever opened on Christmas, but my mind was stuck on the phone call and the extraordinarily strange request that I come to Gatlinburg.
Charles and Nick were behind the bar. Nick shook his head a
nd then pushed Charles away from the beer cooler. Charles started to say something but backed away instead. Cal caught the action and moved behind the bar at three o’clock to give Charles a break. It was most likely motivated by hearing customers bemoan the limited drink selection and the near battle between his two barkeepers. I cornered Charles before he could begin one of his usual lengthy conversations with anyone he could corral.
“Did you see what that troublemaker did?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “What happened?”
“Don’t know,” said Charles. “He just said he thought I was worthless and gave me a shove.”
“Sorry,” I said.
He shook his head. “Yeah. Merry Christmas!”
“You’ll never guess about the phone conversation I had,” I said.
“Santa called and said that if you’re a good boy next year, he might bring you something,” he said. “Did I get it?”
He was back to normal. I shared that he wasn’t within a mile of close and then told him about the call.
“The ghost of Chris’s past!” said Charles, without an apology to the other Charles, Dickens. He shook his head. “No offense, but why does she want you? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “No idea.”
Charles examined his wrist, the spot where those who owned watches would be wearing one. Skin, hair, and the sleeve of his blue University of Alaska sweatshirt were all that he could have seen. “So,” he said, “when are we leaving?”
I started to laugh but realized he was serious. “I’m not leaving,” I blurted. “So there isn’t a we going anywhere.”
Charles cocked his head to the left and said, “Tonight or in the morning? I need time to pack.”
“What part of ‘I’m not going’ slipped by you?” I asked.
More apparently slipped by him. “Morning would be better,” he said. “I promised Cal I’d help clean after the party. Eight or nine?”