Ghosts

by Bill Noel

  “Exactly,” he said, and then he lowered his voice. “But get this. See those four tables over there?” He pointed one of his crutches to the side of the room. I nodded. “The night before the heist, they were where they are now. I straightened the room myself. It only took me a zillion times longer than usual.” He pointed one crutch at the ceiling. “Yesterday morning two of the tables were in the center of the room. One of the other two had a deck of playing cards on the corner and four hands of cards, facedown, around the table—like someone had dealt them. There were two empty beer bottles on the table. Two chairs were on their sides on the floor, and another beer bottle was broken on the floor.” He raised his right hand. “I swear to God that’s what I found. If I didn’t have these—” he indicated his crutches “—I would have gone home for my camera and I’d be showing you pictures.” He exhaled deeply.

  “So,” I said, “four people came in through locked doors, played cards, drank beer, and then walked out with a case of whiskey and the money?”

  “Yeah. See why you can’t leave town?”

  “Did you call the police?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “I called Chief Newman myself; didn’t want one of his officers to think I was nuts.”

  He didn’t mind if the chief thought he was off his rocker, I thought.

  “Did he find anything?” I asked.

  Charles sighed heavily. “No, nary a thing. Said it was a mystery to him—doors were locked and no evidence of a break-in. Said there was no reason to print the furniture since everyone in town except small children and Baptists would have their prints on them. The bottles had smudged prints, and the cards didn’t have any.”

  “What about the keys hidden around here?”

  “Cal had Larry change the locks New Year’s Day. Now there are only two sets—Cal has one, and I have the other.” He tapped his pants pocket. “I thought that would solve the problem; now this.”

  “Sounds like a mystery,” I said.

  “Half the solution is admitting there’s a problem,” said Charles.

  “Did a president say that?”

  “Maybe,” said Charles, “but I heard it from Larry—don’t think he’s been president of anything except his cell block.”

  “What are you thinking?” I asked, as seriously as I could.

  “You know old Mr. Carr? Used to work at Bert’s.”

  I remembered him from the island’s grocery store but more recently from the story he had told me back on Halloween about the pavilion fire in the fifties. He’d said that the ghost of Frank Fontana still haunts the bars where he spent most of his years on Folly Beach, not to mention the Tides hotel, which sits on the site of the long-forgotten Folly Pavilion. According to Mr. Carr, Frank was furious with the good citizens who ignored his pleas to help the two girls on that tragic night many years ago.

  I nodded and wondered what that had to do with Charles’s theory of what happened.

  “He was in last night. The old feller shouldn’t have quit Bert’s. He’s eighty-seven and bored stiff. He hangs out here; we ought to get him a job—”

  “Charles.”

  “Okay. He was telling me that there’s been a bar on this site since before Adam and Eve fooled around in the garden—”

  “Charles!” I tried again.

  “Maybe he said since the early nineteen thirties. Anyway, Mr. Carr was a young pup a decade or so after that and remembered his granddad talking about how there had been two illegal gambling parlors on the island. One of the hot spots was over near my apartment, and the other one was right smack-dab here.” He tapped the floor twice with his left crutch.

  “So,” I said, “your theory is that the other night, four centenarians snuck in through a crack in the wall and played poker for old times’ sake—and then took a case of whiskey and a bag of modern currency on their way out.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course not. That’s absurd.” Charles shook his head. “It was their ghosts.”

  CHAPTER 27

  A balmy fifty-five-degree day at the beach sounded good after a few days in the snow. I was looking forward to it until I had my first cup of coffee and remembered that Charles was chasing ghosts who had allegedly had a poker game and then robbed Cal’s of whiskey and loot, and that a ghost from my past was moving to my island and waiting for me at the Tides to take her to a villa. It also struck me that after all those years of feeling guilty about the divorce, I could do something to make up for part of it. But what? I wondered. I’m certain the New Year could have begun worse than it had, but after only one cup of coffee, I couldn’t imagine how.

  “Is there somewhere on this dinky island where I can get shoes?”

  That was a question that had never been posed to me, but I wasn’t surprised when the phone rang, and after an obligatory greeting, Joan got to the meat of the call. It seemed that she had saved “only” five pairs of shoes and “desperately” needed a new pair of flats for the trip to the Water’s Edge. I told her that I didn’t think she could find anything here dressier than flip-flops or tennis shoes with glitter hearts. That wouldn’t do, so I agreed to go with her to Charleston before our trip to the bed-and-breakfast.

  I waved to the night clerk who was getting off duty and then walked across the attractive lobby to Joan, who was sitting in one of several seating areas that overlooked the Atlantic.

  She smiled when she saw me; her shoes looked fine. Joan may have thought that I was grinning at her, but I was thinking that this would be the first time a prospective renter went shoe shopping to meet the owner of a bed-and-breakfast on Folly Beach. They must do things differently in Gatlinburg.

  She had a cup of coffee and seemed more together than she’d been when we helped her to her room last night. She stood—her shoes appeared to hold her up quite well—and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I know I’m being a pain,” she said, wrapping her arm around my waist. “I’m really nervous.” She squeezed my waist. “And scared.”

  Shoe shopping was a strange way to express fear, but I could see fear in her eyes. It also entered my mind that if someone did want her dead, he could have followed her here. I didn’t want to reinforce her fear by trying to hide her in the inn. If I was with her, I could help protect her from whatever danger may lurk.

  Some of my irritation melted, and we headed to her Jaguar, which was still in front of the hotel. Jay winked at me as I passed him. I slapped him on the arm and frowned.

  “Sure you don’t want me to drive?” I said as she walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Got to learn my way around,” she said and opened the door. “Might as well start now.”

  Joan cautiously pulled out of the Tides’ parking lot and then gunned the Jag up Center Street, the main street and most direct way off the island. If it had been vacation season, we would have rear-ended at least three cars and flattened a couple of jaywalkers. Fortunately, Folly’s only stop light was green, no cars dallied up the street, and all the prospective jaywalkers were in bed. We were going fifty when we crossed the bridge off the island.

  The FASTEN SEAT BELT light on the dash flashed several times, and an audio reminder chimed and then finally gave up. Joan had told me decades ago that she didn’t believe in wearing the “stupid” seat belt—something about not wanting to drown after getting trapped in the car if it fell off a bridge and in a river. I wondered if her husband had been wearing his seat belt when his car barreled off the road.

  A Piggly Wiggly was on our left, and she asked if that was where she should do her grocery shopping. I said it was if she needed more than an item or two, and that Bert’s, the small family-owned store a block from the ocean, was the convenience store of choice on-island. She kept grunting in agreement, but I doubted she’d remember. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel. We were going sixty-something in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone, so I also pointed to a condo complex
across from the Pig, telling her it was where Folly’s chief of police lived. That got her attention. She slowed, but only momentarily.

  I directed her to King Street, Charleston’s ritzy shopping area, where, like a laser-guided missile, Joan zeroed in on two designer shoe stores within a hundred yards of each other. Parking wasn’t quite as easy, and we had to circle the block twice before a space opened on the one-way street. I groused while stuffing eight quarters in the parking meter. Meanwhile, Joan headed across the street to the stores.

  An hour later, and Joan’s credit card a few hundred dollars lighter, we sped along Folly Road and to our appointment at Water’s Edge Inn.

  “Oh, crap,” she said as she looked in the rearview mirror. “Crap, crap.” Her palm pounded the steering wheel.

  We were on a two-lane stretch of road before the bridge to the island. She was followed, I thought. Then I was relieved to see the reflection of blue flashing LED lights in the mirror. She slammed on the brakes and pulled over on the berm, reaching for the glove box. This was obviously not a new experience for my ex. The patrol car pulled in behind her.

  “May I see your license and proof of insurance please, ma’am?” said the polite and familiar voice of Officer Cindy LaMond. She dipped her head down and saw me next to Joan. “Oh, hi, Chris,” she said with a confused expression on her face.

  Joan turned toward me while at the same time handing her license and registration out the window. “Do you know everybody?” she murmured.

  Cindy looked at the license. “Ma’am, Ms. McCandless, I clocked you at seventy-five in a forty-five zone. I also notice that you do not have your safety belt fastened. South Carolina law requires it.”

  “Why for heaven’s sake would that flat, straight stretch be forty-five?” said Joan.

  Cindy, who could stand toe-to-toe with the biggest bruiser while maintaining her calm, cheerful, and humorous demeanor, smiled at Joan. “Ma’am, I didn’t write the law or stick that ole sign up there,” she said. “They just ask me to enforce it.”

  “Oh, never mind,” said Joan. She drummed her hand on the steering wheel. “Just give me the ticket.”

  “Ma’am,” said Cindy, “I see you’re not from these parts, so I should tell you that not only were you speeding, but I should cite you for reckless driving.” Cindy bent farther down and looked at me. “Today we’ll stick to speeding.” She turned and walked back to her cruiser to write the ticket.

  Joan had calmed down and almost appeared gracious by the time Cindy returned with the ticket and told her to have a nice day. Cindy told Joan that she was also from Tennessee. Joan grinned and said, “That’s nice.” I silently thanked Cindy for not hauling Joan off to jail. But I knew the sun would not set without my getting a call from Officer LaMond, asking me all about the irritating, rude, and all-around obnoxious Ms. McCandless. I ventured to guess that she would be the first in a long line of inquisitive residents.

  The day turned brighter, literally and figuratively, when Paul, the owner of Water’s Edge Inn, greeted us at the car. We were a few minutes early, so he must have been watching for us. He showed Joan the large three-bedroom, three-bath villa. The dark hardwood floors contrasted nicely with the off-white kitchen cabinets and the traditional white beds. The villa was larger than my house, cheerful and as attractive as the nicest homes on the island. Joan’s enthusiasm increased with each room we toured. I think she was already sold, but when he told her that cocktails were served each day, the deal was sealed.

  Joan registered as Jane Mitchell and said she would be paying cash. Paul glanced at the register and said, “I’m sorry—I thought your first name was Joan.”

  Joan looked at me, and I gave a slight nod. She then told him an abbreviated version about being concerned that someone might come looking for her—someone she wanted to avoid.

  “No problem,” said the astute innkeeper, who then asked how long she would need the room. He was interested in her answer. But he wasn’t nearly as curious as I was.

  “Let’s start with two months,” she said as she continued to look around. I saw the reflection of dollar signs in Paul’s eyes. I felt burning acid rising in my esophagus.

  CHAPTER 28

  “It was no accident that the box fell,” Charles said between bites of pizza.

  It was Thursday night, and I hadn’t seen Charles most of the week. The island was nearly deserted of vacationers, although a hardy group of season-pushers from Toronto had stopped in the gallery—more out of boredom rather than to buy anything. Charles had worked each night at Cal’s and rested his ankle during the day. I’d locked the gallery door an hour earlier, and Charles arrived with the pizza. We were in the small multifunctional room behind the sales gallery. The refrigerator was well stocked with beer, a few soft drinks, and in the summer, a couple of bottles of white wine.

  “What makes you say that?” I said, taking a sip of Cabernet to wash down the doughy delight.

  “Cal’s crew is finally talking to me,” he said. “They’re learning that while I’m slightly older than any of them, I’m not totally worthless.”

  “Slightly older?” I said.

  He rolled his eyes. “They call me gramps behind my back—nary a molecule of respect for their elders, you know.”

  I held back a laugh and said, “They said you’re becoming a good bartender?”

  “Didn’t say that. They just realize that I’m not worthless.” He hesitated and shook his head. “They think I’m funny—’cept I’m not trying to be.”

  “So what are you doing that’s not totally worthless?” I asked. This was fun.

  “I’m not breaking as many glasses,” he said. “I’m not really the bartending type.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “It’s like golf,” he said, swinging one of his crutches like a five iron. “As president Woodrow Wilson said, ‘Golf is a game in which one endeavors to control a ball with implements ill adapted for the purpose.’” He finished his quote and feebly attempted a golf swing before he set the crutch beside the table. “I don’t have the tools for bartending. Detecting’s more up my fairway.”

  I bit my lower lip to avoid laughing. Instead, I raised my eyebrow. “So … they’re talking to you … and …?” I hoped he would get back on track—or at least out of the rough.

  “They’re acting like I’m one of them. Anyway, Kenneth told me that he was certain he put the case on the bottom shelf the day before. Said he put it there so the ‘more feeble’ employees could move it. It fell from the top shelf.”

  “Who’s Kenneth? Is he sure where he put it?”

  “The bartender with the mullet. He’s got huge arms; he’s a weightlifter. Moved here in July from Baltimore. Doesn’t talk much. Drives an old Dodge Dart and—”

  Before Charles told me even more than I wanted to know, I interrupted and asked again, “Is he sure about where he put the box?”

  “Says so.” Charles got up to get another beer. “I didn’t have a lie detector with me so I couldn’t test him.”

  “So who moved it?” I asked.

  “Don’t know but it sure was fixed to fall when I opened the door. I was lucky it only broke my ankle.”

  “Who knew you were cleaning the next morning?” I asked.

  “Good question,” he said. “I might let you work in my detective agency—just might.”

  He had said that, or something similar, several times over the last three years. I had consistently ignored him. I saw no reason to break that streak.

  Charles studied his Bud Light before finally answering my question. “Who knew? Let’s see. It was busy. All the bartenders and wait folks would have known. The schedule was behind the bar, but anyone could see it. Customers who weren’t enjoying listening to themselves talk could have heard it mentioned.”

  “Doesn’t narrow it down much,” I said.

  “Nope,�
�� he said. “Enough about this detecting stuff. What’s the deal with the former Mrs. Landrum?” He reached down for one of his crutches and tapped it on the table leg. “And before I forget, I’m royally pissed at you.”

  Should I ask? What the heck—he was going to tell me anyway. “Why?”

  “Why? Are you serious? Who was your best friend who was stranded here while you took a young, hot, smart chick with a gun to Tennessee?”

  “You weren’t in any condition to travel,” I said defensively.

  “I know that,” he said. “But you were supposed to ask me so I could tell you that I didn’t feel like going.”

  I grinned. “What would you have said if I’d asked?”

  “What time are you picking me up?” he replied, oblivious to what he had said about not being able to travel.

  I shook my head. “I rest my case.”

  “Enough of you being right,” he said. “How long will she be here? Are you getting back together?”

  I tilted my head toward him.

  “Okay,” he said. “Then … how’s your sex life? With Karen? Or with your ex? Is Karen going to shoot your ex?” He paused for a breath.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” I said.

  “Know what?”

  “The answer,” I said. Since he’d asked a half dozen or so questions, I thought that should confuse him for the rest of his beer. He was due at Cal’s in twenty minutes, so he wouldn’t have time to pester me further.

  “I’m sure you were getting ready to answer each one, but I have to get to work. Tell me next time.”

  “You know it,” I said.

  “Sure you will,” he said. He finished the beer, grabbed his crutches from the floor, and headed to the door.

  “Gotta go catch a thief,” he said as he exited the gallery.

  If he was right about the case being a booby trap, someone thought he was getting close and wanted to scare him off.

  I hoped scare was all.

  CHAPTER 29

  The next three days were a blur. We had unseasonably warm temperatures, and several condo owners who would normally be happy in their homes in Atlanta or Columbia ventured to the beach to walk on the cool sand, eat in local restaurants, and go home to rub in their neighbors’ faces how they had spent a few days at the beach. Some even bought photos.