When It's Time for Leaving

by Ang Pompano

  I knew. That had been my plan, but the GPS had a mind of its own. “I didn’t want to waste time. Besides, I don’t have a problem with the bridge.”

  “I wish you had asked me to go along. I love Hilton Head. It’s so artsy.”

  “I don’t need an entourage.” Oops. That didn’t come out right.

  “Okay. You’re in a mood. I’ll let you work.” The Bluetooth went silent.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  23

  HILTON HEAD IS A “PERFECT” tourist destination with perfect little shops and perfect restaurants, in case you have any energy or money left after a day on a perfect golf course or a perfect beach. It seemed a little overdeveloped to me compared to Savannah. But I’m the guy who wants to head out to L.A. so, what do I know?

  I spotted a place called the Happy Crab Cafe, and we stopped in for a cup of coffee to settle my nerves after dealing with the drive over, which took less than an hour, but with my father riding shotgun, seemed like several days.

  While I was at it we tried the crab cakes: The best this side of Maryland. The waiter told me the Bantam Gallery was a block down the street.

  We left the truck parked in front of the Happy Crab and walked. The shop, which dealt in antiques and art, was in a well-manicured “village” off Main Street. As we walked in, I smelled the typical antique store scent of dust, mildew, mothballs, and furniture polish.

  “I’m looking for Roscoe Hicks,” I told the woman at the shabby chic desk. She was dressed in a dashiki and had purple streaks in her long platinum hair.

  “He’s not hard to find. He’s right over there,” she said.

  I turned to see a guy, who seemed to be a little over forty, by the plate glass window talking to my old man. Big Al was showing him the alligator handle on his walking stick. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but for all I knew, Big Al was trying to sell him the cane.

  When the younger man saw me approach, he seemed to speak more loudly for my benefit. “You should come up again for the Village Art Walk. It takes place twice a month.”

  My father seemed to have told Hicks that he was interested in art. If he was, it was news to me, but then I’d been finding out that there was a lot I didn’t know about him.

  My father gave me a sheepish grin. “This is Hicks. He’s my son-in-law.” And to Hicks he said, “This is my friend. He’s a detective.”

  So, Hicks was his son-in-law and I was his detective friend. What a damned crazy disease he had. Hicks and I looked at each other. I shrugged my shoulders as if to tell him the old guy was out of it.

  Hicks took it in stride as he addressed me.

  “Mr. DeSantis, I’ve been expecting you. I imagine you want to ask me questions about my wife,” he said.

  He was a reed of a guy standing no more than 5’9’’ with a high forehead and long jet-black hair covering his ears. His unibrow and goatee looked like he had dyed them with pitch, and they contrasted sharply with skin so white you would have thought he slept in a coffin.

  “You’re Roscoe Hicks?”

  He had a cocky smile. “You were expecting Salvador Dalí?”

  “More like Harry Houdini. What’s with the disappearing act?”

  He chuckled. “Sorry about the cat-and-mouse game. I couldn’t resist leaving the note at the condo.”

  “And what about the notes on the car? Kind of childish to be hounding me, no?

  Hicks had a blank look on his face. “What are you talking about? You are the one who is hounding me.”

  “Am I?”

  “You were snooping in my file on the computer where I used to work. Walt Sampson is mellowing out as he gets old. There was a time when he would have shot you and then asked what you were doing.”

  If that was a threat, it didn’t impress me.

  “It would have been a lot easier if you had contacted me if you knew I was looking for you. You seem to move frequently.”

  “I don’t think so. The house Jill and I shared was underwater and we had to get out before the bank took it over. We rented the duplex on the Island from my mother but after my wife...” He choked up for a second. “After my wife had her accident, I didn’t like staying there, so Miss Wharton took me in for a while. When my sister gave me this job, I moved up here, eventually found my own place, and moved my stuff out of the duplex.”

  Something about the guy’s story didn’t add up. There are only two reasons why someone moves around like that. Either it’s that they are avoiding the law or they’re afraid of something. Which was it?

  “You still sound like a man on the run,” I said.

  “So, now you found me. Go ahead, ask me about my wife. I know her crazy mother thinks she’s alive. She went to my old address and asked Mr. Roman a bunch of questions. He tells me someone else came nosing around, too. I’m guessing it was you.”

  “Afraid so. Is your wife dead or not? Mrs. Brewer tells me someone sent her money. She seems to think her daughter is trying to contact her.”

  “The woman is delusional,” he said.

  On that point, I had to agree with him. Every indication pointed to the fact that Jill was dead.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “She knows her daughter died when her car crashed into the canal. I gave her the ashes. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “Did you also give her money?”

  “Ha! I’m a starving clerk in an antique store. Where would I get money to send to her? And, why would I?”

  “Maybe out of guilt. Why didn’t you keep your mother-in-law in the loop?”

  “She knew as much as what was good for her,” he said.

  Was his opinion of Estelle to think he knew best what she should know? “You seem to have some sort of hold over your mother-in-law.”

  “What makes you think anyone can have a hold over Estelle?”

  “Well, someone scared her into dropping my investigation.”

  “It wasn’t me,” he said.

  “How do you explain a key from her hotel being at the house you lived in on Ava Island?”

  “All right. I did contact her after I moved out. I told her to go to the place and pick up some mementos of Jill that I thought she might want. I was trying to be nice. Maybe she dropped her key.”

  I’d have to check that out with Estelle. For the moment, I took it on face value. “Ever hear of Andy Keller?”

  “I don’t recall. Should I have?” He kept taking a sideways glance out of the window.

  “You accused your wife of having an affair with him.”

  Hicks took a step forward. “I don’t know how that is any of your business.”

  “It’s my business when the body of the accused ends up at my dock.”

  “Keller?”

  “Yep,” I said.

  Hicks seemed visibly stunned and solemn, a pained look on his face.

  “Dead? Can’t be.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t think I killed him? I may have had reason to, but I didn’t.”

  “Well, someone sure as hell killed him last week.”

  “He died last week?” He gave a sigh of relief. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. DeSantis. I was on a buying trip in Key West for the shop. Ask my sister. She can show you the receipts I turned in.”

  I looked toward his sister who was standing at the desk. She held up a folder which I would have suspected contained blank papers had it not been for her confident smile. Meanwhile, Hicks picked up a pad from one of the tables and sketched out two pictures.

  “What’s that?”

  “The tattoo on the man you should be looking for. He has a bullet hole tattoo on his shin and an exit wound tat on his calf. Part of the exit wound is still in outline and has to be inked.”

  I looked down at the tattoo that circl
ed my left ring finger. Kim and I thought it would be a good idea to get commitment tattoos. She got little hearts and I got little x’s with a band on each side because it was manlier. Turned out the x’s were appropriate.

  “A tattoo on his leg isn’t much to go on. He could cover that with long pants. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know his name. But you’ll know him when you see him. He’s real tall and he’s got these weird eyes. The right one is brown and the left one is blue. But if you get close enough to notice you’d better watch out.”

  “What makes you think he killed Keller?”

  “One afternoon, I came home and he was on our patio talking with Jill and Keller. As I walked up, I heard him call Keller a hack. He said he should have known he couldn’t count on him; he said Keller would be sorry. I told both men to get out.”

  “That was the first time you saw them?” I asked.

  “The guy with the stupid tattoo, yeah. Keller had been around a few times before. And yes, I was suspicious something was going on.”

  “Did you talk to your wife about it?”

  “I asked Jill why Keller was hanging around so much. She denied having an affair and made up a bullshit story about Keller doing a blog. She said she couldn’t tell me anything else, but when it was all over we’d be sitting pretty. Her accident happened the next day.”

  I swear Hicks had tears in his eyes.

  “What did she mean by ‘sitting pretty’?” I asked. “Were you having money troubles?”

  Hicks scoffed at my remark. “You tell me who doesn’t have money troubles these days. I told you our first house was financially underwater. It was those damned crooked bankers.”

  I couldn’t help but notice he had a forlorn look which changed to a flicker of recognition when he looked out of the window.

  “Listen, you’re going to have to go. I’m busy right now,” he said.

  I tried to see what he was looking at.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. Fine,” he said.

  That’s when I noticed my father was missing.

  I looked around the shop but he wasn’t in the place.

  “Did you see where the old guy went?” I asked Hicks’ sister.

  She shook her head.

  I couldn’t let him wander in a strange town.

  “This isn’t over. I’m coming back,” I said to Hicks.

  He walked me out, stopping at the sidewalk by the door.

  “No. This conversation is ended.”

  24

  I DIDN’T HAVE TIME TO ARGUE. All I could imagine was my father on the 6:00 news.

  Have you seen this man? Police report an elderly man with dementia missing in Hilton Head miles away from his home. Authorities blame his negligent son.

  Muttering every swear word the nuns taught me not to use, I hurried up the street ducking into every shop to find him. Finally, I spotted a cop in an SUV making a rolling stop at a sign a couple of blocks up from the gallery.

  “Yo,” I called out.

  He came to a full halt.

  “My father has dementia and he’s lost. Can you help me out?” I asked.

  “I’m responding to a call. Go down to the station to give them the information.”

  The cop took off in a hurry. Big help. I didn’t even know where the station was. I worked my way down the other side of the street looking into every shop on that side with no luck. As I approached the Bantam Gallery again, I noticed a small crowd of people on the sidewalk with the same cop I had talked to two blocks up the street. Someone was on the ground.

  Was big Al hurt? My heart started to race. As I ran across the street, there were sirens, and then an ambulance and two more patrol SUVs pulled up.

  *****

  Hicks couldn’t have been more right about our conversation being over if he had been a mind reader. He was laying inside the open doorway. I could see a red spot spread across his shirt and small bubbles of blood dancing at the corners of his mouth. His sister was hysterical. I tried to go in but the cop I had talked to earlier blocked my way.

  “I have to get in there,” I said.

  “You’re not a witness,” he said. “You should go to the station to report your missing father.”

  He was right. I still had to find the old man. Maybe it was just as well that I didn’t get involved in this. As I started across the street, I spotted Big Al leaning against a building and eating an ice cream cone.

  *****

  Talk about a role reversal. I felt like a father who had just found his lost son safe and sound. I was glad to see him but pissed all the same. “Where were you?”

  “My son-in-law told me they had good ice cream a few streets over. I went to get one. Want some?”

  It was like babysitting a child. “I’m good, thanks.”

  For the first time, he seemed to have noticed the commotion at the Gallery.

  “What’s going on over there?”

  “Someone got hurt. It’s nothing for us to get concerned about. Let’s go.”

  All I needed was for him to get involved in what obviously was a murder. I wondered if we had missed a robbery. This might have turned out differently if I hadn’t left to find Big Al. Poor Hicks. I don’t know why, but I had the feeling that in spite of the background on him that Greenleaf had dug up, he was an okay guy.

  “Hold on, I’m going to say good-bye to my son-in-law.”

  “You can’t,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Hicks has left the building.”

  *****

  I spotted the note on the windshield as we walked back to the truck. I snatched it from under the wiper, ripping it as I did so. Surprise, surprise the note said: Some detective you are.

  I scanned the area but saw no one. This meant only one thing. Whoever was leaving these notes had followed me to Hilton Head.

  I looked at my father eating his cone, melting ice cream dripping down his hands.

  “Do you know anything about this?”

  He took a big sloppy lick of the ice cream. “What is it?”

  “Never mind. Get in the truck.”

  I helped him put his seat belt on. Then I got a pen out of the center console. The best I could do for paper was a part of an envelope. I held them out to Big Al.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?” he said.

  “Write on it.”

  “What?”

  I threw the pen and envelope back into the console. In spite of the fact that he had been missing in action for a while, it was ridiculous to think the note was written by my father.

  “Forget it.”

  And unless he’d risen from the dead, Hicks didn’t write it. This was getting old.

  25

  BETWEEN HICKS’ MURDER, my father wandering off, and another taunting note, I hoped that I had enough adrenalin going to propel me back over the big bridge without losing it.

  I purposely waited until we approached the bridge before I started to grill my father so I’d have a distraction. Sometimes distractions are good, even when driving. I rationalized that talking would keep my mind off the span and the water below.

  “Why did you wander off?” I asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “You can’t do that. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you’re going to help me, I have to know where you are. I don’t have time to go looking for you.”

  “I quit,” he said.

  “You quit. What do you quit?”

  “Working for you. You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father.”

  At least the “president” of the agency didn’t pull rank on me.

  “No, I’m not. You’re my father. Do you get that?”

  “You’re
my father?” he asked.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was breaking stones.

  “No, I said you. You are my father.”

  “Ha! You’re full of shit. You’re older than me. Look at you.”

  “You never were much of a father. I’ll give you that.”

  There. I said it. It didn’t feel as good as I thought it would, but at least it was out on the table.

  “Stop this thing, I’m getting out.” Al had his hand on the door.

  “I can’t stop the truck on the bridge. I told you that on the way up.”

  “Are you taking me back to that jail?”

  “You got it.”

  I thought better of that tack. I was better off if I dealt with him in his own reality. “I’m kidding. I meant to say I’m taking you to the station. You’ve got to report to the chief.”

  “Oh.”

  I knew it wasn’t right to lie to my old man, but it got us both safely over the bridge. I breathed a sigh of relief when the truck was back on solid ground.

  *****

  For the rest of the ride, we listened to the oldies station. I’d listen to anything as long as it kept Big Al quiet.

  I needed time to mull over Hicks’ murder. I kept thinking about how he seemed distracted by something or somebody that was out on the street. I wondered if he knew he was in danger and that was why he cut off our conversation. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Hicks wasn’t the victim of a hold up, but he was targeted for murder.

  When we got back to The Palms, one of my biggest fears became a reality.

  Big Al gazed at the building through the windshield. “I’m not going in there.”

  This had the potential to become a big scene. It was getting late and one of the nurses had told me that he was at his most difficult later in the day when he was tired. She called it sundowning and said late-day confusion was common in people with dementia.

  Speaking of nurses, I knew that I was going to have to deal with Maryann. Even though she had asked me to take him out this time, while they had their important visitors, I was going to get shit from her. I knew she’d complain that I should never have taken my father out that first time.