by Bill Noel
After an hour switching back and forth between thinking about the killings and how to use the document against the mayor, I concluded that I was as productive as the five fishermen who leaned against the railing on the pier and stared mindlessly at their extraordinarily unsuccessful fishing rods. I wouldn’t solve either dilemma sitting here, so I slowly walked back toward the parking lot. Instead of going home, I walked by Folly Curls to see what Damian drove. It wasn’t that I doubted Melinda. To be honest, I didn’t know what else to do. The two-block walk out of my way was wasted. The only vehicle in the lot was an older Buick LeSabre. A silver and red bicycle was propped against the side of the small salon. This would be a good chance to talk to Anne about the victims without Damian being around. If she hadn’t seen them, I couldn’t figure how Damian would have talked with them.
Anne looked up from trimming a teenage girl’s hair. “Hi,” said Anne. “I’ll be with you in a minute. I’m almost done.”
I didn’t want to start talking about murder in front of the young customer, so I sat in the chair under the window and started flipping through a six-month-old issue of Glamour. I was shocked to see that not a single one of the male models resembled me in physique or hair style—or, more accurately, lack of hair style. Where was AARP: The Magazine when I needed it?
Anne interrupted my daydreaming when she said she was ready for me. The teen had pedaled away on her bike.
I put the magazine back on the table and introduced myself.
“I know,” she said.
I didn’t ask how. “Actually,” I said. “I wanted to ask if you had ever seen the women who’ve been killed.” I opened the flyer that Charles had been showing around and started to show it to Anne. I knew that Charles had already been here with it, but I thought it was a good way to broach the subject. I was again struck by how much the shop owner looked like two of the dead women.
She wiped the shears with a towel and neatly arranged the tools of her trade on the table by her chair. “Charles Fowler has already asked me about them,” she said without looking up.
“Oh,” I said, “sorry.” I shrugged. “So you haven’t seen them?”
She took a broom from the corner and swept the floor around her chair. She still didn’t make eye contact, but said, “I’ve been out a lot over the last few weeks. Umm, been to a stylists’ conference out of state, done some hair at nursing homes on James Island. It’s possible they could have been in. I didn’t see them.”
Having an affair was quite time consuming, I thought. “Think some of your other stylists would know? Doesn’t Charles’s aunt have her hair done by what’s-his-name?” I looked toward the partition separating Anne’s chair from Damian’s.
“Damian,” said the helpful shop owner. “Yeah, Melinda does, and I know Charles asked Damian about the women.”
“Isn’t there another lady here?” I asked.
“Yes, Carrie,” said Anne. She stared at the side of my head. “She’s off today, and Damian’s out for a couple of hours. Sure you don’t want a haircut?”
I smiled. “Not today.”
“Sorry I can’t help,” she said and looked at her watch as if I was taking too much of her time. We were the only two in the salon, so I didn’t feel guilty about keeping her from work.
“Charles’s number is on the bottom of the handout if you think of anything,” I said and placed my copy of the flyer on the table on top of the out-of-date issue of Glamour.
“No problem,” she said.
I faked a smile, thought about how much I hated “no problem,” the phrase du jour, and stepped out into the heat of the day. Perhaps I could have learned less at Folly Curls—I wasn’t certain how.
CHAPTER 53
THE GALLERY WAS CLOSER THAN THE HOUSE, SO I USED the computer there to search the local paper’s archives for a bio on the mayor. I skimmed the article to find the company he had founded and wasn’t surprised that it had been named Lally Unlimited. He sold it to IGS, Inc., a company I hadn’t heard of. According to its website, it was a large, international corporation specializing in software solutions for “problems big and small.” Its revenue approached nine hundred million dollars last year, so I suspected it didn’t spend much time on the solutions for small problems. Lally Unlimited, which was now named LU, was one of thirteen companies under the IGS umbrella. Lally was vice chair of the board of IGS, Inc. I didn’t know about the company’s software solutions, but their solution to company names appeared to be using acronyms. Only two of their thirteen companies had actual words in their names.
I searched news stories from around the time of the suicide that mentioned Lally. No luck. I then looked for more recent articles mentioning Lally and IGS, Inc., and found three. The most recent, dated in June, talked about how he was expected to be named chairman of the board at October’s annual meeting.
I turned the computer off, sat back in the chair, looked at the ceiling, and wondered—wondered how the revelations in the letter combined with the writer’s suicide would affect his chances of ascending to the board chairmanship. Provable or not, wouldn’t the potential scandal slow down, or possibly even halt, his rise to fame, more fortune, and, in his case, a huge dose of ego serum?
I reminded myself how Mayor Lally had treated me, how he had forced Chief Newman off the force, how he’d used his clout to harass me, and how he and his buddy Officer O’Hara had discounted Samuel’s story, which eventually resulted in two attempts on Charles’s life.
I pounded my fist on the table, cursed to the empty room, and walked to the front of the gallery to look out the window toward city hall. There was only one way to see how the letter would affect Lally, and there was no better time to find out. I scanned the document and made three copies. I hid one behind the microwave, put one in a file folder and labeled it “Lally,” put the original in an envelope and addressed it to myself, and folded the remaining copy and put it in my pocket. I briskly walked toward city hall, gathering my courage along the way.
Lally’s office was on the second floor, opened directly into the corridor, and overlooked Center Street. The door was open a crack, and I heard his voice and saw him on the phone. I waited for him to hang up. I knocked and pushed the door open. He looked up from his desk. His head jerked back. I was equally surprised to be there but didn’t let it show.
I didn’t wait to be invited in and walked across the room and stood a foot from his desk. He took a deep breath; his fists were clenched. “How may I help you, Mr. Landrum?”
I moved two binders off the chair in front of the desk and sat. “Mayor,” I said, “I have something I think you’ll be interested in.”
“Only if it’s your one-way ticket out of town,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s more about you than me.”
He looked over my shoulder toward the door like he hoped someone would appear and throw me out. Apparently there wasn’t anyone there, and he turned toward me. The look in his eyes expressed anything but warmth. “Then get on with it. I’m busy.”
I took the document out of my pocket and unfolded it before flipping it across his desk. He pushed a stack of file folders aside and picked up the paper. He put on black-framed reading glasses that had been on the desk and slowly started to read.
He stared at the paper for a minute or so and looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Where did you get this?” he said.
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” I moved my hands below the lip of the desk so he couldn’t see them shake.
He looked back at the paper for another minute without saying anything. He then turned it face down on the desk, yanked his reading glasses off, and slammed them down on the letter. That told me that the document was accurate.
He stared at me. “There’re only a couple of people who … who … never mind. It sure as hell does matter where you got it. Who, dammit?”
I retur
ned his stare. “That’s not important,” I said. “I have it, and it’s accurate.”
“You can’t prove one iota of it,” he interrupted.
“Don’t have to,” I said.
“What’s that mean?” he asked.
“Simple,” I said. “All I have to do is get this in the right hands and the damage will be done.”
“Who?” he said.
I didn’t know whether he was that stupid or just he hoped that I was. “How about the newspaper?” I said. “And then maybe the members of your council? Oh yeah, how about the board of directors at IGS, Inc.?” I smiled. “Is that enough for starters?”
“You little shit,” he said. “You think you’re man enough to get in a pissing contest with me?”
I assumed that his term of endearment and question were rhetorical, so I remained silent.
He pushed away from his desk and stood. He walked around the desk and past me to the door. He slammed it closed and then walked back to the desk and turned to the window facing Center Street. I remained seated and waited for round two.
He continued to stare out the window but said, “What do you want?”
“I haven’t decided,” I said as noncommittally as possible. I was getting way too much satisfaction out of seeing him squirm.
He paused and then said, “Newman to keep his job?”
“My understanding is that you don’t have enough support to fire him, and I’ve heard that he’s lost interest in resigning.” That might have been a slight exaggeration, but I had confidence that Charles would find the votes necessary to keep the chief.
“We’ll see about that,” he growled.
“I guess we will,” I said and stood. “You keep that copy. I have others—several others.”
I had learned all I needed to know. He was afraid of the document being made public. I knew I could keep Chief Newman on the force and wasn’t certain what else I could get from him. I decided to let him swing in the wind a few days. I also knew that he was a formidable foe and I didn’t want to back him into a corner. In an ideal world he would resign as mayor, pack his furniture and attitude, and leave Folly Beach. It has been decades since I thought this was an ideal world. I left his office with nervous sweat on my brow but a grin on my face.
CHAPTER 54
MELINDA’S APARTMENT. NOW!” SHOUTED CHARLES.
I had just settled in for a peaceful night at home and had used my entire culinary repertoire on preparing a bowl of Corn Flakes for supper. Peace had become an endangered species.
“Why?” I said, to no avail. He’d hung up.
Five minutes later I had taken two quick bites of cereal and driven to Melinda’s eyesore of an apartment building. Charles met me at the door.
He waved me into the apartment. I saw Melinda seated on the couch against the wall. “Aunt M. went to get her wig dyed breast-cancer-awareness pink.”
That would have been exciting news in some circles, but figured it wasn’t the reason for the summons. I waited.
He nodded toward Melinda. She had a big grin on her face and a bottle of Bud Light in her right hand. “Charles was about to offer me a job in his detective agency,” she said.
I sat on the couch next to Melinda. Charles moved to the folding chair opposite the couch that had seen its better days—twenty years ago or so. “And why is that?” I asked.
“Because when I was walking to the front door of the salon, I noticed a humongous clue right there in the parking lot.” She sat back on the couch and took a sip of Bud.
“Aunt M.,” said Charles, “tell the man.”
Thank you, Charles.
“Well,” she finally continued, “I looked over and guess what I didn’t see?”
I could think of many things she probably didn’t see and hoped she wouldn’t start a long list. “What?”
She nodded. “I didn’t see that little Asian car.”
I nodded back at her and then turned to Charles, who was sitting silently with his arms crossed.
“Aunt M.,” he said, “you may want to share what you did see.”
She sat her beer on the table in front of the couch. It was the fourth can in front of her. “A big, black Ford Crown Victoria. I know that’s what it was because I read it right there on the car’s butt.”
“Damian’s?” I said.
She smiled and nodded. “Yessiree. I peeked in the salon’s window and there he was, sitting there looking bored, reading a magazine.”
“Could it have belonged to a customer?” I asked.
“Not unless she was hiding under a table. I walked around the building and looked in the other two windows. Only Anne was in there with him, and her car was next to the Ford.”
“What did you do then?” I asked.
“To be honest, I didn’t know what to do, not being an experienced detective like Charles. I opened the front door and started to get my hair dyed anyway, but then I thought I needed to tell y’all about it. I said something like, ‘Hi, Damian, I was going to get my wig colored, but I forgot I had a roast in the oven. Got to go.’ I turned and walked out the door. That’s when I did my good detective work and checked out the kind of car it was. You know I can’t tell a Ford from a submarine.”
An electric shock went up my spine. “Did Damian see you look at the car?”
She rubbed her chin. “Didn’t notice. Could have, there’s a window overlooking the lot. Don’t know.”
“Learn anything else?” I asked.
“Not a lick,” she said. “I hightailed it out of there as fast as these old, cancer-ridden, arthritic legs could carry me. Got here and called Charles. Had to wait an hour until he got home.” She turned and gave Charles a dirty look. She then turned back to me. “How’s that for a clue? Told you the killer’s Damian.”
“You did good, Aunt M.,” said Charles, who then looked at me. “What should we do?”
I turned to Melinda. “Are you certain the car was Damian’s?”
She closed her eyes, opened them again, and looked at the ceiling. “Who else could it have belonged to? He could have walked to work. But who left it there?”
Residents and businesses have a problem in the summer with people parking in their lots or blocking their drives. Folly was notorious for having too few parking spaces for too many cars—vehicle inflation. The Crown Vic could have belonged to someone who walked to one of the nearby bars or restaurants.
“Charles,” I said, “we need to drive by Folly Curls.”
“And charge right in and accuse Damian of being a serial killer?” said Charles.
“Good idea,” I said sarcastically. “No. We can ride by and get the license number and have Brian or Cindy see if it’s Damian’s. I’ll call Detective Burton and let him know.”
“Burton, your nemesis?” said Charles.
I told them about the my strange visit with the detective. Charles said he’d believe it when “chickens come home to peck out a Steven King novel on your computer.”
Melinda said that didn’t make a whit of sense. I was in her corner. Despite how much sense Charles had made, he agreed to go along. Melinda said she’d get her purse, but Charles told her she’d better wait here and staff command central. If we learned anything, we could call her and then she could call the police. That didn’t make any more sense than the chicken remark, but it appeased Melinda. Another glance at the empty Bud cans in front of her told me that she was right where she needed to be.
* * *
The sun had slipped down behind the marsh when we turned off Center Street and passed the salon. Our great plan to get the license plate number hit into a major snag. The Crown Vic was gone. Anne’s Buick was the only vehicle there.
“Now what?” said Charles.
“Let’s visit Anne,” I said and pulled in beside her car.
“Oh, you came b
ack for that haircut,” she said as I walked through the door. She then saw Charles. She stopped folding towels and got a strange look on her face. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“What do I mean?” she said, looked at Charles, and sighed. “First, your aunt comes in and leaves just as quickly. Damian watches her out the window and then rushes back to his chair like the building’s on fire. He grabs his tools and charges out the door like a bat out of hell. Doesn’t say bye or anything.” She stopped and looked at the door like she was reliving his departure.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” I said.
“Yes. Not five minutes after Damian left, a rumpled detective walks in like he owns the place and starts asking questions about Damian.”
Burton had taken me seriously. “What kind of questions?”
“Like how long had he worked here? What kind of car did he drive?”
“Was that Damian’s Ford here earlier?” asked Charles.
“No,” said Anne. “It’s his sister’s. His Honda’s in the shop again. Damian borrows his sister’s car when his is being worked on. She has two.”
“What else did the detective ask?” I said.
“Wanted Damian’s address and if I knew his sister’s address or name. I told him where Damian lived and found his sister’s information. It was on his application.”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Nothing. The detective thanked me and left. What’s going on?”
“The police want to ask him some questions,” I said. “It’s nothing to worry about.”