Mayhem in Myrtle Beach

by T. Lynn Ocean

  She inhaled, started again. “Willie was eighty-two. He had no history of heart problems, so this was a really sudden thing. That came from his personal physician, who’s been Willie’s best friend since they were teenagers. I’m not exactly sure where he hailed from, but will find out.” Sherwood wasn’t even sure what the word meant. Was it where he’d been born or where he lived before moving to Norfolk?

  Sherwood shook her head to clear the fog and continued. “Willie had a lot of money. Was worth well over eighty million dollars, according to his attorney.” There was a collective murmur of surprise. “Also, it seems that our Willie was quite the eccentric. He has left the majority of his estate to several charities. He’s been generous in the past as well. For example, he gave a ranch in North Georgia to a boy’s home. He left a valuable art collection, which is currently on display at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, to a prison.”

  Not only were the assembled seniors speechless, they were motionless. She had everyone’s undivided attention for the first time during the entire trip. They weren’t breathing. Gretta had even turned off her iPhone, and slack-jawed with awe, dropped it into her handbag. At the current moment, real life was much more intriguing than world news.

  Leaning against a wall in the back, Freddie grinned and gave Sherwood a thumbs up. The smile warmed her insides. “Willie wanted to be cremated, according to his attorney, who is also the trustee. Willie’s living trust didn’t specify where the cremation was to take place, nor what was to be done with the ashes. But about a month ago he told Brad that when it was his turn, he wanted to ‘go out in style’ with a party. Not a viewing, or a funeral or a burial. A celebration of life, I think it’s called. Also that he wanted to be returned to the ocean, where he first met his wife. And get this—they met right here in Myrtle Beach!”

  Another eruption of surprise came from her group.

  “No way!” someone said.

  “Yes way. She was in town for a festival and Willie was here for a conference. They married a year later.”

  Sherwood gulped some lukewarm coffee. “Anyway, here’s what you all need to think about. Your director and I came up with an idea. We can arrange for Willie to be cremated right here in Myrtle Beach, charter a boat, and scatter his ashes in the ocean. If we do this, his attorney will handle all the details and arrange for a ceremony. He’s flying in tonight regardless. But we think that Willie would approve of this plan, since… well, he could have lived anywhere but he chose Great Wings because he thought everyone was friendly. And although he didn’t specify which ocean he wanted his ashes in, we think Myrtle Beach is fitting because that’s where he met the love of his life.”

  “So, do you as a group want to participate in scattering Willie’s ashes at sea? We can do it, and all of the legal matters will be taken care of by the attorney. Doctor Norman and Brad will also fly down to attend the ceremony.”

  There was more shuffling and murmurs. Sherwood waited until they quieted before continuing.

  “If we choose this option, we’d have to stay an extra day and Jane will take care of the additional hotel expense. Option number two is to have his body flown back to Virginia and we’ll head back home Monday morning as scheduled.”

  Sherwood wondered what they would want to do. She knew what she wished for. And, watching Freddy head out to fetch their bus, she sensed that he felt the same way she did. Overwhelmed with emotion—about the job offer and the seniors and the man whose dead body she’d found—Sherwood was grateful that Freddy was in her life. Even if it was only for a week.

  “Okay, then. That’s it. We’re late for breakfast at the Sea Captain’s House, so let’s get on the bus. Remember, today is a free day until dinner tonight at Carrabba’s and from there we go to the Carolina Opry. Meanwhile, think about my question… bottom line is do we stay an extra day and honor your neighbor by scattering his ashes, or head back to Virginia as scheduled. Take the day to think about it and let me know.”

  Sherwood felt like her body was set to autopilot mode as she strode into the lobby to await the bus. No one else moved or spoke for several long seconds.

  “Eighty million dollars!” Ethyl declared, breaking the silence. “Holy cow! How could someone so rich keep such a low profile?”

  “Rich people don’t tattoo it on their foreheads, for pete’s sake,” Gus answered. Contemplating this, Maggie studied Gus while attempting nonchalance. She was trying to guess what he was worth and couldn’t decide between flat-ass broke and one-point-six-million.

  “Damn, Maggie,” Smith said reading the look on her face. “Why don’t you just ask to see his financial statements?”

  “Ask who what?” she said innocently, fluffing orange curls.

  Gradually, the stunned group made their way outside to wait for the bus.

  Eighteen

  Willie

  Compiled, the information gathered by Great Wingers could have been enough to create an intriguing biography on Willie Candler. Between information collected from Doc Norman, Brad and Willie’s attorney, the tale grew with each new incredulous discovery about the man that had been their reclusive neighbor. Both shocking and heart-warming, individual chapters of the man’s life spread like soft butter on hot toast. And everyone wanted a piece of the savory gossip.

  Born almost exactly nine months after the annual town fair and abandoned behind the general store, baby John Doe was found inside a cardboard box, wrapped in a newly-stitched handmade quilt. The year was 1932 and the place was Louisville, Kentucky. The surprised newlyweds who discovered the baby were poor workers on a horse farm—young but very much in love. He was a farmhand, whose job was to tend to the horses. She worked as a gardener. They immersed themselves in the beautiful rolling countryside and the majestic horses. They loved their small house that was complete with its own vegetable garden and fenced yard. He’d hand-built it with permission from the landowners they worked for, and it was situated on a heavily wooded corner of the farm.

  Rather than tell anyone about finding the little baby boy, they simply took him to their tiny cottage and named him William. That same afternoon, they decided that he was a gift from God and vowed to raise the boy as their own. Sleeping that evening with the baby nestled between them, they pledged to God to be the best parents that they could be. They lay awake late into the night deciding what type of wood would be used to build his cradle, what color of yarn would be best to knit his first blankets with, and whether or not it would be wise to consult a doctor. By the next morning the pair had decided that the baby was thoroughly healthy and did not need a doctor. His cradle was built and his name was extended to William Blythe Candler.

  Even though the adoptive mother told shocked inquisitors that she had concealed her pregnancy with oversized baggy smocks, rumor around town was that the robust baby was actually born to Rachel, the unmarried daughter of Louisville’s Baptist preacher. Rachel had no comment to this rumor, although coincidentally she had been sick and house-ridden for two months, during which time she would not see visitors.

  William Blythe Candler’s parents fell in love with their new family member and paid no attention to the gossip. They did encounter the preacher’s young daughter once while attending a carnival with William in tow but she only smiled and congratulated them on the birth of their baby boy. The townspeople didn’t know quite what to believe, and eventually dismissed the rumor as ridiculous talk. They accepted baby William and his proud parents as the loving, God-fearing, hard-working family they were.

  Nineteen

  The Sea Shell Hotel

  Outdoor pool deck

  Late Saturday night

  Gathered like a flock of seagulls drawing comfort from familiarity, eleven Great Wingers sat on the hotel’s outdoor deck—all lined up, facing into the ocean breeze. Some residents had said they would go with whatever the rest of the group decided about Willie, and a larger number had offered opinions to be taken into consideration. Ultimately, though, it had been left up to this grou
p of eleven to decide what the entire group would do. They’d enjoyed dinner at Carraba’s and had immersed themselves in the glitz and glamour of the Carolina Opry. But now, while the rest of their group was stretching out in bed to watch ‘The Tonight Show’, they needed to reach an agreement about Willie.

  Even though they’d all experienced the deaths of neighbors and friends, Willie’s death was affecting them in a different way. An introspective way. Perhaps it was the timing of being on a vacation, or perhaps it was the irony that Willie was a virtual stranger. Regardless, these eleven Great Wingers had come together for a meeting and the physical closeness was comforting.

  Although it was well past ten-thirty at night, some beach-goers were out walking in the compacted sand near the water. The tide was high, and rolling surf crept nearer and nearer to the wooden walkover that cut through sand dunes to the beach. Other than generic grumbling from Gus, who was trying to get comfortable in the outdoor strapped chair, they were quiet. Eventually, Mrs. Storrey broke the silence.

  “I would like a drink,” was all she said. Instantly, Smith was on his feet, ready to retrieve one from the bar.

  “For pete’s sake, you’re a changed man,” Gus mumbled. The putter moved once in sluggish emphasis.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Burt offered. He slowly stood and shuffled into the building.

  Smith sat back down and Mrs. Storrey patted his knee, all possessive-like. “Thanks, anyway,” she told him. Burt returned minutes later with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label scotch, a stack of small hotel cups individually wrapped in crinkly clear plastic, and a bucket of crushed ice.

  “Would anyone like a scotch?” Burt asked. “This stuff is more than two hundred bucks a bottle. Very smooth. Seriously, it’s like velvet. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, and packed it in my luggage on a whim.”

  “No joke?” someone asked.

  “No joke. I can be sincere. Sometimes,” the Great Wings prankster added with mustered sincerity.

  “I’ll take one,” Mrs. Storrey said.

  “You don’t drink scotch,” Smith told her matter-of-factly as though they’d been together for years rather than just a few days.

  “I do now.”

  After five minutes of seeming confusion while drinks were poured and passed—seagulls interrupted by sudden movement—they resettled their bodies, once again facing into the ocean winds. Everyone held a sweaty scotch on ice.

  “Burt, I take back all the mean things I’ve ever said about you. You’re all right,” Jack said, meaning it. A high quality scotch was his favorite.

  “Yes,” Nell agreed. “This might even make up for that snake incident you pulled on Mrs. Storrey.”

  Smith cleared his throat. “Yes. Thank you, Burt.”

  “Smith, you’re all right,” Burt said with a grin. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you thank anyone before.”

  “That’s because he’s never been in lust before. Since we’ve know him, anyway,” Maggie said. She had poured her root beer over the wooden railing and had replaced it with the scotch. It was the first time in several years that she could remember drinking hard liquor. Her orange hair, made frizzier by the humidity, bounced as she tossed her head back to drink. The alcohol burned its way down her esophagus and its heat spread up to the tips of her ears before settling in her stomach. Her face immediately flushed and she wore a stunned expression for a few seconds before an involuntary shiver ran the length of her body. “Whew!”

  “Maggie, you’re all right,” Gus said pointing at her drink with the putter, admiring her gusto. She was his kind of gal. Not intimidated by anything, and willing to go with the flow. Plus, he liked the way her orange hair set off her hazel eyes.

  An empty cup blew off a patio table and scuttled along the deck. The putter’s end snatched it up. Gus handed the cup, still hanging on the end of the golf club, down the row to Burt.

  “Gus, you’re all right,” Smith said. “Still not sure about that damned putter, though.”

  They were quiet once again. Their thoughts were of Willie, the suddenness of his death, and their own mortality as they sipped the velvety booze. The assembled group consisted of Burt, Maggie, Gus, Smith, Mrs. Storrey, Jack, Nell, Ethyl, Mabel, Gretta, and another woman who was recognizable as one of their tour group, but most didn’t know her name. She never said much, and, like a background prop on a movie set, blended into the surroundings at any given activity. Between the eleven of them, they were going to put a nice dent in Burt’s bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label.

  “So, I guess we’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Ethyl pronounced. “I’ve already packed. Of course, since I packed lightly it was easy for me. If you roll your clothes instead of folding them, they won’t wrinkle, you know.”

  “I don’t think so, Ethyl.”

  “Yes, really. It works. That way, you don’t have to carry a travel iron,” Ethyl said expertly. “Plus, you can fit more in your suitcase.”

  “I meant that maybe we won’t be leaving tomorrow.” Jack rolled his eyes. Ethyl acted like the Martha Stewart of bus traveling. “Everyone else has left it up to us to make a decision.”

  “Oh.” Silenced, Ethyl took a hearty sip of liquor, coughed, sputtered, burped, then did an involuntary body shake as the scotch warmed her stomach. Somewhere near the end of the row, Gretta talked back to her iPhone screen. Glimmers of a flickering reflection could be seen on her bifocals. Mabel sat quietly next to her, watching rays of moonlight catch in the moving surf.

  “Let’s just wait and see what Sherwood says,” Nell spoke up. “Meanwhile, maybe we should enjoy this nice evening on the beach. After all, one of us could be next. Not to be morbid, but at our age we should savor every minute, and appreciate all the little things that every day brings. And appreciate each other, too. Pass me the scotch, Burt.”

  Bemused, Jack raised an eyebrow at his wife. She rarely drank anything more than an occasional glass of Chablis. First the champagne with orange juice and now this.

  “I’m appreciating Burt’s booze,” Smith said. “Does that count?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Storrey said, ignoring Smith’s comment, “I think we’re all feeling a bit guilty. About not knowing who Willie was. He was one of us, part of the Great Wings family and none of us ever took the time to get to know him. Like he just didn’t matter. Pass me the scotch, Nell.”

  Smith laid an arm across Mrs. Storrey’s tanned shoulders and pulled her against him in a quick hug. He cleared his throat indicating that he was about to say something, then didn’t.

  “What do you think, Smith?” Nell prompted, falling into counselor mode.

  “I, uh, do feel something like guilt, actually. But it’s because I am having such a good time.” He glanced at Mrs. Storrey and blushed beneath the rugged complexion. “And you shouldn’t be feeling so damn good after one of your neighbors just died. Even if you didn’t personally know him.”

  Mrs. Storrey reached up and smooched the side of his neck in response to his comment. He actually has a soft, almost human side, she thought. She liked having him next to her and his nearness was almost addictive. They went well together, like sweet cilantro and tart lime juice in a Southwestern recipe. She of course was the spice; he was the juice.

  “For pete’s sake! You two are disgusting!” Gus pointed his putter at the pair.

  “But he’s right, Gus,” Maggie countered, curls bouncing in agreement. “I know what he means. I’ve had more fun with you in these past few days than I’ve had in a long time. And, paradoxically, Willie’s death has made me realize that life and our enjoyment of it is precious. I don’t want to cut our trip short, but then, how would that look?” she asked rhetorically, clicking her dentures.

  “How would it look to who, for pete’s sake?” Gus asked. His near-handlebar mustache twitched with annoyance. Perspiration shone on top of his head. He looked genuinely perplexed. And annoyed.

  “To anyone. I feel guilty for not knowing who he was. For not ‘being
there’ for a neighbor. I’d feel guilty if we finished our vacation having fun. I mean, considering the circumstances, we should be mourning. Well, subdued at least. Like a show of respect?”

  “You want to mourn for a man you didn’t even know?” Gus challenged.

  “I feel guilty for not having tried to make friends with him,” Maggie explained. “Now it’s too late.”

  “Guilt does not exist anywhere except in your own mind. It is an invented, self-inflicted punishment of sorts that is totally counterproductive. It’s not your fault that the man died. And it certainly makes no sense to feel guilty about enjoying your vacation,” someone at the end of the row stated. Everyone looked toward the unfamiliar voice. It had come from a man sitting in near darkness.

  Smith cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

  “And why are you drinking my scotch?” Burt added, noting that the man held a liquor-filled plastic cup and was sipping along with the rest of them.

  “I’m a guest here. The wife’s up in bed asleep. We’re from New Jersey.”

  “You always make a habit of joining in on private conversations?” Smith questioned.

  “Oh, sorry to intrude. Really, I’m sorry. It’s just that I couldn’t sleep. The wife is always telling me to mind my own business. I’ll just go back up to our room.” With some effort, the man stood then waited for an invitation to stay.

  “No, no. You can stay,” Mrs. Storrey said. “Feel free to join us.”

  “Well, you know, it is sometimes easier to talk to strangers,” he said amiably, plopping back down with a grunt. “The wife and I do a lot of traveling. In fact, I hardly know my actual neighbors. One of them could have died and I probably wouldn’t know much more about him than you apparently do about this neighbor of yours.” He laughed at the irony of it all.