by Bill Noel
Joan’s Jaguar was parked in the back of the drive. I was pleased, in a perverse way, to see that the car had a light gray covering of slushy snow, ice, and salt—a complete contrast to the last time I had seen it. It wasn’t immune to the elements. We parked, got out of the car, and rang the doorbell.
A tall, distinguished-looking gentleman greeted us with a strong handshake for me and a practiced smile for Karen. I introduced Karen and myself, and then Charlene’s husband, Roland, waved us into the richly appointed entry and said that the ladies were in back and we should follow him. The interior looked like we were in the middle of a blizzard. The walls were snow white, and the floor was white marble. The few pieces of furniture were contemporary, leather trimmed, expensive, and white. Fortunately, Roland wore a black turtleneck so we were able to follow him through the maze of whiteness. Classical music from a high-end sound system seemed to follow us as we trailed behind Charlene’s husband.
A family room about the size of a small village shared the color of the rest of the interior. Charlene and Joan were seated on a, you guessed it, white oversized sofa. Each held a glass of what appeared to be bourbon. Joan saw me; she set her drink on the coffee table and rushed across the room. She wrapped her arms around my waist.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice barely audible. She had on a burgundy sweater, cream-colored slacks, and a double string of pearls. She looked all dressed up with nowhere to go. Charlene, by contrast, appeared comfortable in pink sweats.
Roland said, “I shall leave you to your conversation.”
He and William could carry on a grammatically correct, and extraordinarily boring, conversation.
Joan stepped back and thanked me again. I noticed the bright blue eyes that I was attracted to so many years ago. Her head abruptly turned toward Karen, who had remained in the doorway. Joan had just noticed her.
“Oh,” said Joan.
I took the slightly awkward moment to introduce Karen to Joan and Charlene. I simply said that Karen was a friend who had some time off and offered to make the trip. I also explained what had happened to Charles and said that William was back at work and couldn’t come.
Charlene played the good hostess and got us each a glass of Cabernet as Karen and I sat in two leather chairs that faced Joan. A massive wood-burning stone fireplace was to our backs, and the heat and crackling of the fiery logs made the house feel like a mountain lodge.
“Chris,” said Joan after a lengthy, awkward pause, “you should see it. It’s ruined. They tried to kill me. Why … why?” Her hands tightly gripped the sturdy glass that held her amber-colored drink. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick, a habit that she apparently had maintained since we were in college.
I glanced at Charlene, who gave me a barely noticeable shrug.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“It was sheer luck that I wasn’t there,” she said. “I spent the night here. This would be my funeral if I’d been home.”
That hadn’t answered my question, but I didn’t pursue it.
“Mrs. McCandless,” said Karen, “who would have wanted to kill you?”
Joan turned to Karen and acted surprised that she had spoken. The surprised expression turned to a quick smile. “Please call me Joan, dearie.” Her smile hardened. “I have no idea. It had to be the people who murdered my husband.” She shook her head. “I don’t know who … or why.”
She turned to me as if she had dismissed Karen. “They’ve been following me, you know,” she said.
“Did you see them?”
Joan peered into her glass. “Umm, yes. I think so,” she said. “I could feel them staring.”
“What did they look like?” asked Karen.
Joan abruptly turned to Charlene. Her drink sloshed around; a small amount splashed on her wrist. “Char, you saw them. You saw the guys watching us. Tell them.”
Charlene studied Joan, Karen, and finally me. “I thought I saw two men watching us yesterday when we were at the grocery store, but … I’m not certain.”
“Can you describe them?” asked Karen. Her training wasn’t going to waste.
Charlene sheepishly said, “I really couldn’t tell for sure. They were bundled up in heavy coats, and I think they wore hats.” She turned toward Karen and tilted her head. “They could have been shopping. I just don’t know.”
“Oh,” said Joan. Her shoulders slumped as she listened to Charlene’s recant.
“I just don’t know,” repeated Charlene.
Joan turned away from Charlene and stared at the hearth. “Tell me about Folly Beach,” she said. “I’d never heard of it before I learned you were there.”
Where did that come from? Charlene nodded at me ever so slightly. I wasn’t nearly the detective Karen was—or, for that matter, Charles—but I knew it was a hint to change topics. I wasn’t sure why Joan wanted me here, but I figured she would get around to telling me when she was ready.
I told her that I hadn’t heard of it either until I went there on vacation a few years ago. I gave the short version of how I had discovered the quirky island, why it was such a great location being directly on the ocean yet only a few minutes from one of the most beautiful and historic cities in the country, how I had made so many friends in such a short time, and why I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“How about you, Karen?” said Charlene.
“My dad lives near Folly and works on the island,” she began. “I don’t live on Folly but nearby.” She paused and then added, “I work in Charleston.”
“What do you do?” asked Joan.
“I work for the government and so does Dad,” she said. Then she held out her empty wineglass. “May I have a little more?”
Charlene started to get up, but Karen waved her off. “I’ll get it,” said Karen.
Karen walked toward the kitchen, stopping about ten feet from the couches. “I love your decor,” she said. “The white seems so appropriate for the mountains and the snow; it seems so bright and cheerful.”
“Thank you,” said Charlene.
Karen had done an admirable job of deflecting the question about her occupation and then changing the subject. I was impressed.
I made another run at Joan. “Tell me again why you’re so sure someone is trying to kill you.”
“Damn, Chris,” she said, “aren’t you paying any attention? They killed my husband. They blew my house to hell. And you wonder if someone is trying to kill me.” She sighed heavily.
“And the police said both the wreck and the explosion were accidents. Right?”
She put her arms down to her side and glared at me. “They’re trying to kill me. Period.”
We’d reached an impasse. I looked over at Karen, and she gave a slight nod. Nothing good would come from pursuing it further. So we spent the next half hour talking about everything imaginable, except the explosion, the alleged threats to Joan’s life, Folly Beach, Karen’s occupation, and why Joan wanted me to make the long trip.
“I know you must be tired and want to get a good night’s sleep,” said Joan. She looked at me when she said it, but she glanced at Karen as well. “Could we get together tomorrow for lunch?”
I told her that was fine. She named a restaurant in town, and we agreed to meet at noon. She grinned, and I noticed that her face appeared to have more wrinkles than it had a few days earlier. Her eyes were shadowed with dark rings underneath.
She hugged me at the door and whispered, “Chris, I’m scared.”
Does she have reason to be? I wondered.
CHAPTER 23
My nerves had been on end when I’d pulled into Charlene’s drive, but nothing compared to how I felt when we stopped in front of the room at the hotel. Big flakes of snow were falling when we’d left Charlene’s, and Karen thought I had been driving slowly to avoid slick roads. I was actually in no hu
rry to get to the hotel and share one room, one bed, with Karen.
Nervous, scared, and anxious would all describe how I felt. What did she expect? What did she want? What did I want? I hadn’t been with anyone since Amber and I had parted ways. I still had feelings for Amber and held out some hope that she would eventually want to see me again. Was that realistic? Probably not. I needed to move on.
Karen had said one room. It couldn’t have been to save money. Or was it? Then I did something that I would never tell Charles about. I did what Charles would have told me to do. He would have either hurled some obscure quote from a US president at me or simply said, “Get your butt in the room and find out!”
So I did; and we did. Karen headed to the far corner of the room before the door was closed. She turned on the gas fireplace and opened the door that led to the small balcony, looking toward the brook that meandered behind the hotel. I had started to unpack, and she pulled the earth-toned drapes closed. The fire was beginning to heat the room.
I asked what she thought of Joan’s story.
She said, “Tomorrow.” She then turned toward the knotty pine headboard on the king-size bed, pulling her sweater over her head.
I could wait until tomorrow.
* * *
The clock’s green LED numerals revealed that it was three thirty—the middle of the night. I turned to my right and saw Karen hugging the far edge of the bed. I grinned, thinking about all the movies that had a bedroom scene after a couple had sex. They’d fall asleep in each other’s arms, body parts intertwined, wrapped together, sheets and blankets thrown asunder, and with a full orchestra playing in the background.
In the real world, four hours ago, I was too hot, and Karen was cold. I threw the covers off, and she pulled the sheet and blanket around her neck. I accidentally kicked her when she was almost asleep. And then I tripped on the corner of the bed as I tried to find my way to the bathroom in the dark, unfamiliar room. Reality would make a slightly humorous but unromantic movie.
My eyes popped open at six fifteen, but there was nothing to see. It was still dark. The glimmer of the parking lot lights seeped under the tightly closed drapery. Last night’s visit with Joan and Charlene replayed in my head. How could I help? Sure, I knew she was scared, but did she have reason to be? Charlene hadn’t supported Joan’s story about being watched.
“What’re you thinking about?”
I jumped. I had tried to be quiet, and it was still well before seven o’clock.
“Sorry,” I said. “Did I wake you?”
She laughed. “No, this is late for me. I’ve been awake for an hour. I tried not to bother you.”
Someone after my early morning heart, I thought.
“I’ve been awake and didn’t want to move and wake you.”
“Good,” she said. “I’m starved. What’s for breakfast?”
“I was thinking the Pancake Pantry, about a quarter mile back down the main street.”
She threw the blankets and sheets off and was out of bed before I could ask if that was okay. “So what’re we waiting for?” she said.
We were in front of the Pancake Pantry when they unlocked the door at seven. Karen had decided that we needed to walk instead of drive and wasn’t deterred by my arguments that it was cold, and a long walk, and the sidewalks could be slick, and that we could get attacked by a hungry bear along the way. So far this morning, I had learned that Karen was an early riser and enjoyed a brisk walk in subfreezing temperatures. By now, I was starving.
We were the first customers, so we had our choice of tables. Karen selected one by the front window.
Karen scanned the menu and quickly ordered a chocolate chip waffle—another plus for the lovely young woman—and I stuck with the traditional Belgian waffle.
“So what’s your take on Joan and her idea that someone’s trying to kill her?” I asked while we waited for our food.
Karen stared out at the small shopping area and the candy store beside the restaurant. She took a sip of coffee and then turned back to me. “She’s scared. I thought she was going to squeeze her glass into shards, and her hands trembled the whole time we were there.”
I nodded.
Karen continued. “Other than the trauma of losing her husband and her house exploding, I don’t know if there is a threat. Her description of someone spying on her was vague. And her friend was less certain about seeing someone. I’ve gotten better descriptions out of a dachshund.”
Our food arrived, and Karen stuffed the first bite in her mouth before I could pour syrup on mine.
I shared more about how I had suspected that Joan was paranoid. To my knowledge, though, she had never been treated for emotional problems. “She thought I was having an affair for more than a year,” I said.
“Oh,” replied Karen.
I shook my head. “Work was my mistress. I felt bad about it but never could convince her.”
“Because she may be paranoid,” said Karen between bites, “doesn’t mean that someone’s not out to get her. Let’s go to the house. I’m no expert, but maybe I can tell something from what’s left.”
We ate in silence for a short time, with me basking in the warmth of the restaurant, the wonderful odors of breakfast, and the savory taste of the coffee. We finished eating, and I paid the check. The walk back to the Hampton Inn was fast. It was if we were both suddenly on more of a mission than before, though that was nonsense. Nothing much had changed, except that we wanted to get on with finding out about any possible threats to Joan. I put the heat on as soon as the engine warmed up, and we headed over to Joan’s place. Snow was still piled a couple of feet deep along the side of the road, but the main routes were mostly clear. Tourism was critical to the economy of the area, and the powers that be did whatever it took to keep the streets passable.
Slowly navigating the winding road toward Ober Gatlinburg and Joan’s residence, I got my first glimpse of the shell of what had been a beautiful mountain home. The left half of the structure was standing, but the right side had collapsed on itself. The green metal roof had completely fallen, and icicles clung to every exposed horizontal surface. Yellow police tape was stretched tight around the exterior, and water that had ponded from the firefighters’ efforts had frozen. It was heartbreaking.
I was barely able to pull into the circular drive enough to get out of the path of traffic. The supple and very expensive leather sectional that Joan had lounged on during our visit had been dragged out the front door and blocked most of the drive. The firefighters had made an effort to save it, but it had gone for naught. One corner was smoke-blackened from the blast and the resulting fire. There was an inch of ice on the cushions. The smell of water-soaked furniture and charred wood hung over the property. And parts of the roof and insulation were strewn on both sides of the road.
“Crap,” said Karen as she saw the couch and then the front—or what was left of the front—of the house. “That couch probably cost more than my house.”
An exaggeration, but not by much, I thought.
Karen ducked under the warning tape and proclaimed, “It’s okay. I’m a cop.”
“Be careful,” I said. “You’re a cop but not Superwoman. It’s slick.”
I followed. The massive entry door had been ripped off its hinges and was propped against the door frame. Karen held my arm and tried to move the door, but the ice held it tight. She then grabbed the door frame and gingerly stepped on a piece of the log wall that had fallen across the foundation and was supported by a blackened floor joist.
The wood groaned under her weight but held, and she stepped on the floor joist and leaned left to move toward what used to be the family room.
“Come on,” she said, turning back toward the center of the house. She held her arm back for me to grab. The explosion had torn up some of the floorboards, and a couple more had burned through. I could see thro
ugh to a finished lower level some twelve feet below.
“Hold on to me,” I said, reaching for her hand. Her foot slipped on ice, and the floor gave way.
“Oh, shit!” she yelled.
Her left leg disappeared with it. I gripped the door frame and stretched as far as I could toward her. Her left leg was through the floor. I grabbed her wrist and pulled. Her hand slipped a couple of inches, and I squeezed as hard as I could. I thought I was going to pull my shoulder out of its socket, but I wasn’t about to let go.
She was inches from safety when I heard a loud crack. Three boards that I was standing on gave way. I still held her wrist, but I was losing footing. I wrapped my right arm around the door frame, but my left leg was dangling between the two floors. If I let go, Karen would plummet a dozen feet to the lower level. If I didn’t let go, both of us would take the disastrous fall.
I pulled on the door frame with all my strength, but it didn’t help. I swung my right leg up and managed to get it over a floor joist. I took a deep breath and got enough leverage to pull my body back to floor level. Karen swung her free hand up and was able to reach my left leg. My torso was on the stable joist, and I was able to pull myself over to the solid floorboards. Karen remained calm, something I didn’t think I could do if I were dangling in midair.
Once I reached the solid flooring, I was able to pull her back to floor level. She flopped down beside me and let out a low moan. I was looking up to where the roof had been a day earlier. It was a beautiful sunny day in the mountains. For a second, I thought it was the most beautiful day ever.
She wrapped her left arm around my waist. Her arm shook, and she gasped for air. “Thanks,” she muttered.
We inched our way out of the house and back to the solid porch. She leaned against the frozen door frame and caught her breath. I pulled her close. Neither of our coats was made for subfreezing temperatures, and I slowly and carefully walked her to the car.