by Bill Noel
She grinned. “Your fave, Detective Burton.”
I didn’t return her grin. “Oh great,” I said and shook my head.
Detective Brad Burton and I had met my first week on Folly. He was Karen’s partner at the time, and for some reason, he disliked me at first sight. He was now near retirement, a slovenly dresser, and just as slovenly at his job. If anyone could get to the bottom of what was going on, it wouldn’t be Detective Brad Burton.
“Have you talked with him about the deaths?” I asked.
“Yeah, sort of,” she said and took a sip of the fresh brew. “He already has a full plate of murders, five active cases.” She shook her head. “One of them is that front-page story about the jewelry store owner who shot the guy who was stealing the pendant to give to his dying mother. Half the citizens are crying for the head of the store owner for shooting the poor, loving son who was simply trying to do something nice for his mother. And then the other half are wanting to put the store owner on a pedestal and make him the NRA’s man of the year.”
“That’s not Burton’s problem, is it?” I asked. “They have the guy who killed the thief.”
Karen looked out toward the ocean and took a bite of fish. “Sounds simple, and it should be, but with all the attention, he had to make sure all the details are covered and nothing is left to chance. The last thing we need is to miss something that blows up in the face of the prosecution, and in the paper, and on television.” She looked around. “To be honest, Burton is not big on doing scut work. The sheriff’s on his back about it.”
“In other words, he’s not going to be putting much energy in whatever’s happening here,” I said.
“Unless something different slaps him in the head,” said Karen, “Ms. Sallee is an accidental drowning, and the latest victim is probably a murder, but without knowing who she is and no witnesses to whatever happened, she’s a low priority. He told me that if I was trying to tie the two together, then I had a solution looking for a problem.” She rolled her eyes. “The jerk. You didn’t hear me say that.”
“Say what?” I said and then smiled. “And you can’t stick your nose in it.”
She grinned. “Not officially.”
That grin I returned. “Then unofficially, how about taking a walk after we leave here—a walk to where Samuel saw whatever he saw?”
“That sounds so romantic,” she said. She took the last sip of beer and then raised her hand, got the waitress’s attention, pointed to her empty bottle, and asked for one more.
* * *
We left Loggerheads a little after sunset and walked west to where Samuel had reported seeing the abduction. The sun had set on the marsh side of the island, but a golden sunset still glowed off the high clouds over the ocean. I didn’t know what the weather was like when the woman was taken, but it was the same time of day. It could have been lighter or, if there was a heavy cloud cover, much darker. We could still get an idea of the visibility from Samuel’s vantage point.
“Walk me through it,” said Karen in her detective’s interrogation voice. She was focused.
We stood at the bend of the road, approximately where Samuel said he had been. The long wooden walkway to the beach was clearly visible, but it was blocked by shrubbery closer to the restroom buildings beside the sand-covered parking area. I told her that according to what Samuel had said, the girl was grabbed on the handicap ramp to the parking area. A couple of palmetto trees partially blocked the view of much of the ramp, and Karen commented on how little he could have seen if he had been standing where we were. The trees, other low vegetation, and the building combined to make it impossible to see the parking lot.
“He saw the man force her into a car?”
“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t able to see vehicles in the lot.
“And he saw the man put his hand over her mouth?”
“Yeah.”
She stared at the wooden walk. “Are you certain this is where he was?”
“He said he was where the road took the right turn,” I said. “Don’t see anywhere else that could have been.”
Karen turned and faced me. “Doesn’t seem likely that he saw what he said, does it?”
“No,” I conceded. “That’s what I thought the first time I was here, but I wanted to get your take.”
“He couldn’t have seen it unless he was somewhere else.” She pointed in the direction of where the street intersects Ashley Avenue.
She followed me to the intersection, where there was a clear line of sight to the entrance of the parking lot. “If he had been here,” I said, “he would have been able to see some of the lot. If the car was parked near the entrance, he would’ve had a clear view.”
“How certain was he when he said he was back at the bend of the road?”
“He told me twice and told Officer O’Hara the same thing,” I said, trying to think back to when he first told me what had allegedly happened. “He never hesitated when telling where he was. He was nervous when talking with O’Hara, but his story was consistent.”
“And he said it was a dark Crown Vic?” she said.
“Said it was like your dad’s unmarked car. But he wasn’t sure of the color.”
Karen looked back to where Samuel said he was standing and then turned to Ashley Avenue. “He could have seen the car after it left the lot and headed toward town. Not before.”
“True,” I said.
“His dad said he had a vivid imagination?” she said.
“Yes, even gave a couple of examples.” I shared the two stories that his father had told me.
“Yet you believe him?”
I nodded and looked back at the gravel lot. “Yes.”
She was staring at me when I looked up. “Why?” she asked.
Sweat rolled down my breastbone, and the back of my shirt was soaked. I heard a clap of thunder in the distance. I looked back at the parking area and the walk to the beach and then motioned up Ashley Avenue in the direction of the house. We started walking along the side of the road.
“Charles once said that if you can’t trust your friends, you can’t trust anyone,” I said. It sounded like a cliché and a horrible reason when I said it. “Samuel’s a friend. Besides, my gut says he saw, or knows, something terrible happened.”
Karen reached out for my hand. “That’s good enough for me.” She squeezed my hand and glanced over at me. “You may want to ask him again.”
I may indeed, I thought.
Karen rubbed the sweat from her forehead and pulled her hair up from her neck. Sweat was running down my bare legs and into my Crocs. We were at the corner of Center Street and Ashley Avenue when God apparently noticed our overheated plight and dumped buckets of rain on us. The term “scattered shower” took on added meaning when I noticed that the ground a block away at the Tides was dry.
“You sure know how to entertain a girl,” said Karen. She laughed and started jogging the last two blocks to the house.
I was pleased that she saw humor in what could have been an awkward moment, but I still had trouble keeping up with her. She had run track in high school and was in better physical condition than I had ever been. The screen door to my porch was open, so she hurried under cover of the porch roof while I was still a half block from home.
I asked if she wanted to take a shower and she said that she thought she just had. She then looked at the floor where water had puddled after dripping from her body and agreed that a controlled, non-Mother Nature–provided shower might be wise. She showed a much higher degree of wisdom when she invited me to join her.
I did.
CHAPTER 20
KAREN HAD SLIPPED OUT EARLY FOR WORK, SO I walked to the Dog. Charles and Melinda were seated at a table in the middle of the room. The restaurant was half-empty, so I was surprised Charles had chosen the center table. He normally preferred the booth along the
back wall or a table outside the stream of traffic.
“Hear you and Karen the Cop were doing a rain dance in the middle of the street last night,” said Charles.
“Where’d you hear something like that?” I said as if it were wildly inaccurate.
“His honey called,” piped in Melinda. “One of her customers at Millie’s called her with the rain dance story. Then honeybunch called Charles, and then he told me as soon as he got to my place before we walked over here. I didn’t have anybody to tell.” She stopped and held her arms out to her side. “God, I love this place. All the excitement. All the gossip. I should’ve moved here eons ago.”
Charles put his hand on Melinda’s left arm. “Now, Aunt M., let’s let Chief Rain Dance tell us all about it.”
I started telling him that Karen and I simply got caught in a shower while we were on our way to the house. He grabbed his cane from the floor and pointed it at me. “Enough, enough,” he said. “Don’t ruin the story with a bunch of factie things.”
“God, I love it,” repeated Melinda. “Oh yeah, Charles told me more about his private detective agency. Never thought he had it in him, but guess he proved me wrong.”
Charles’s private detective agency was housed in his warped imagination. We had luckily solved a few crimes over the years. Each time, Charles talked about opening a detective agency, but it never got past the talking stage once he learned that there were bureaucratic hoops he would have to jump through. The state of South Carolina even had the audacity to say that Charles would have to work for a “real” agency for several years before he could hang out a shingle. He was convinced that he had learned all he needed to know from reading crime novels and watching television.
I never thought he had it in him either, but I didn’t say so. “Yes, he’s amazed me,” I said.
She patted him on the arm again. “It was sweet of you, Chris, to help him out on some of his tough jobs. It was good that you helped, even if he did have to save your life more than once.”
Melinda and Charles had already had their breakfast, and I had to wave for Amber to take my order. I thought that would be safer than strangling my friend in front of his aunt. Amber had no sooner left the table than Charles pushed his chair back and headed to the front door.
I couldn’t turn to see who had entered, but I heard Charles say, “Good to see you … join us … meet my favorite aunt.”
Charles returned with his arm on Chester Carr’s shoulder and herded him to the empty seat to my right. I had seen Mr. Carr several times during my early years on Folly. He had worked part time at Bert’s. I got to know him better in the winter when he shared some stories about living here years ago. He had introduced me to a ghost story that played a key role in an adventure that I had barely lived through. Chester Carr was in his late eighties and chunkily built, was mostly bald, and stood about five foot six.
Melinda stood before Charles could say anything else. She straightened the front of her new, bright green Walmart blouse and extended her right hand to Chester. He took her hand and planted a kiss on the back of it.
Melinda smiled and said, “You are a spittin’ image of—what’s his name?”
Chester reciprocated with an even larger smile. “Clark Gable?” he said.
“Hee, hee,” said Melinda in a voice that sounded like a ten-year-old’s rather than an age with nearly seventy years added to that.
“Robert Redford,” said Chester.
Melinda laughed again and then snapped her fingers. “Mr. Magoo,” she said.
The table wasn’t large enough for both Charles and me to climb under, so we remained in our chairs and stared at the flatware.
Chester looked at Melinda through his bottle glasses, turned to Charles and then slowly to me, and then returned to Melinda and smiled. “My wife, Rosie, God rest her soul, used to say that. She always pinched my cheek when she said it.”
Melinda reached over and pinched Chester’s left cheek. It turned red from the pinch. His right cheek turned red on its own accord. “I always loved Mr. Magoo,” said Melinda. “I also love your glasses.”
Chester self-consciously adjusted his large, black-framed eyewear. “Thank you.”
Charles saw that Chester not only wasn’t insulted but seemed to be enjoying his brief conversation with Melinda. “As President Lincoln said, ‘Everybody likes a compliment.’”
Melinda reached over and wiggled Chester’s glasses. “It takes a real man to wear such masculine eyewear. All those new, puny glasses people wear are terrible. Heavens to Betsy, they can’t even see out of them half the time.” She pointed to a lady at the next table who was looking at the menu. “Bet she can’t read a syllable. And look at all those fake jewels on the side. They shine like a diamond up a goat’s butt.”
Charles and I returned to staring at the flatware. Chester laughed and patted Melinda’s arm. “How long will you be visiting?” he asked.
“Planning on moving here for good,” she said and touched his glasses again.
After the first couple of times I heard her answer that question, I knew anything was possible. That one surprised me.
“It’ll be mighty nice have another mature, attractive lady around,” said Chester. “All the nice ladies with a little experience on them either have kicked the bucket or are warehoused in senior citizen storage buildings in Charleston.”
“Why thank you, sir,” said Melinda. “How old are you, anyway?”
Chester looked at me as if to say, “Is she supposed to ask that?” I simply grinned, so he turned back to Melinda. “Why I’m, umm, seventy-nine.”
Apparently he forgot a decade somewhere in his calculations. Charles took a sip of water to keep from laughing. I leaned close to Charles and whispered, “Did you know Chester would be here?”
Charles got one of his mock-serious looks and said, “Who, me?”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. Now I knew why we were in the center of the room.
“I’d like to stay longer,” said Chester as he slowly pushed himself up from the table. “I’ve got to get my hair cut.”
“Where do you get your hair done?” said Melinda. “It looks so handsome.”
I thought it looked like he forgot to comb his remaining locks after getting out of bed.
“Folly Curls,” said Chester.
“Sounds like a chick place to me,” said Melinda.
“I have mine styled by a coiffeur.”
Melinda leaned back and looked at Charles. “Is that legal here?”
Charles turned to Chester, smiled, and then turned back to Melinda. “Think that’s snooty talk for barber.”
Chester ignored Charles and gave another large grin to Melinda; about half of his teeth were the color of coffee, but the intent to charm wasn’t muted. “Dear lady,” he said in a foreign accent, a poor foreign accent, “oui, it’s French for a man who is a hairdresser.”
“Just what I said,” blurted Charles.
Melinda ignored Charles. “Might I assume that Folly Curls does women’s hair too?” she asked.
Chester said that of course they did and told her where it was located. Then Melinda said she might need to check it out.
Charles reminded her that Heather worked at Millie’s and they did women’s hair. Melinda pointed out that Millie’s might be a fine salon, but she would have some trouble making the extra three-block walk, especially since her nephew didn’t have a car and she wouldn’t be caught dead riding behind him on his bicycle.
Chester, who seemed to have forgotten that he was leaving, chimed in and said that he would escort Melinda to Folly Curls whenever she wanted him to.
Melinda patted the side of her wig. “Tomorrow might be a good time,” she said.
Chester said he could work it into his busy schedule, and they set a time for him to be at her “quaint residence by the marsh.
” He then remembered that he was leaving, and the three of us watched as he slowly headed to the exit.
“That’s one sexy gent,” she said to no one in particular.
Charles nodded, and I remained neutral. I had described Chester to several people, but it had never entered my mind to use the word “sexy.”
Melinda nodded to the left and then to the right. “I’m not exactly sure that he told the entire truth about how old he is.” She turned to Charles. “Think I could hire your detective agency to investigate his age? While you’re at it, see if he’s been convicted of murder or not returning a book to the library? Can’t be too careful, you know.”
Charles told her that he would have to check his calendar to see if he would have time between ongoing cases to check on the potential age-stretcher, murderer, or book thief.
“While you’re looking for open time slots,” she said, pointing at me, “why don’t you help your friend here solve his missing person’s crime that no one thinks is a crime. Sounds right up your alley.”
She knew her nephew well. But she couldn’t have known what she was getting him into.
CHAPTER 21
SATURDAY MORNINGS IN LANDRUM GALLERY WERE fairly predictable. I’d arrive around ten. Charles would have already been there for a half hour and then complain about me being late. I’d ask him how business was; he’d say that no one had been in. I’d then ask him what I was late for. He’d mumble something about early birds catching worms. And then I’d smile and know the world was still spinning on its axis.
I should have known that the day would not be typical when I arrived at my regular time and the door was locked. I vaguely remembered Charles saying he’d be doing something in Melinda’s apartment and possibly not being in this morning. To be honest, I was still recuperating from Melinda and Chester’s teenager-like encounter and didn’t pay much attention to what Charles said he was doing today.
A middle-aged couple hauling two grandchildren constituted my total business for the first two hours. They were ready to buy a large, framed photo of a sunrise over the pier until the younger of the grandchildren started yelling, “Beach, Grandma!” The dear child then plopped down on the well-worn floor and yelled, “Now! Now! Now!”