Viv, Tessa and I had been on the cusp of all that, and now as widows, we were wearing and driving the trappings of our boomer generation. Our husbands had not left us wealthy, but sufficiently endowed enough to allow us to continue on without excessive worry. It wasn’t a bad life. But I wanted more, and so did my girlfriends. I mean really, what good was paradise when you had no one to share it with?
Chapter Fourteen
Foraging at the Pelican Iwas listless the next day, running errands and just looking for something to do to keep my mind off Matt when I ran into Fred Abernethy at the Pelican Bookstore. Fred knew everyone on the plantation. He was active on several boards and had been a homeowner way before the boom. I thought maybe I could finagle an interesting tidbit about Matt out of him. Surely they had met since they both liked to golf so much.
“Hey Fred.” “Cat, how are you?” he always had the biggest, most genuine smile; you just couldn’t help smiling back.
“I’m doing fine, I just came in to get the next selection for the book club. Anything interesting going on, plantationwise, any news on the dumpster guy?”
“Nah, slow week at Town Hall. And you know as much as I do about that, The Beacon article says he was a widower from Virginia, just here on vacation.”
“Really? Wonder who he ticked off down here?”
Fred laughed, “Sometimes that’s not a very hard thing to do around here. What are ya’ll readin’ now?”
“The Sex Lives of the Cannibals by J. Maarten Troost.”
“Sounds racy and scary at the same time, is it about black widow spiders and praying mantises?”
“I think it’s a misnomer, more like A Year in Provence—Caribbean style, but it sounds like fun, it’s about a guy and his girlfriend trying to set up house on a tropical island, there’s lots of pitfalls. Hey, you know all the men in the Sea Trail Men’s Golf Association don’t you?”
“Yeah, most of ‘em, ‘cept for some of the newer members, ones who haven’t played much yet.”
“I played golf with Matt Hunter last week, do you know him?”
“Matt, hell yeah! What were you doin’ playing with him. No offense, young lady, but he’s out of your league, isn’t he? He could have gone pro out of college. I hear he’s a minus five. What were you doing playing with him?”
I blushed and he was quick to take note of it.
“Oh . . .” Then he blushed, too.
“What can you tell me about him Fred?”
“Only that he’s a great guy, likes Crown Royal, lives in a house built by Tom Coyte, has a big dog of some kind, and knows a lot about the market. That’s about all I know, that and he played in the member guest this year.”
“Really? Who was his guest?”
“Some guy from Raleigh he was doing business with. He runs with a pretty well-to-do crowd, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed. So you think he’s a good guy?”
“Don’t rightly know. But he sure can hit a golf ball. He’s a Hokie.”
“Hokie? What’s that?”
“Tech. Virginia Tech. You know, Blacksburg. Aren’t you from Virginia yourself?”
“Yeah, but I’m not much into sports.”
“I kind of get the feeling that he is.”
I remembered his running with Folsum that day, and buying the weight machine that day at Dick’s, and of course how easily he swamped me at golf. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I fear we don’t have that in common.”
“Pardon me for sayin’so, but I doubt he’s interested in you for your tennis game.”
I blushed again and he chuckled.
“Thanks, Fred. Say hi to Sherry for me.”
“You take care. I gotta go bother Pat, she looks like she’s having too much fun over there.”
We both looked over to where Pat and Ann were standing amid stacks of opened boxes, they were frantically unpacking the weekly order of books, waiting on customers and selling lottery tickets.
Troublemaker that he was, he yelled over at them, “Did the book I ordered come in yet?”
The look Pat gave him was priceless. Fred turned and winked at me. He has the sexiest wink.
Driving home, an impulse I had found hard to resist during my career as an investigator had me taking a detour and winding my way around the plantation. I was curious about that dumpster. This was a good time to check it out.
No doubt there’d be nothing for me to find as half the plantation’s residents along with many police officers would have already been there to check things out, but still . . .
I parked across the street from the house that was being built and took my time getting out of the car so I could take it all in. The house was under roof and had windows and doors but it was a long way from completion. There was one truck in the dirt driveway but no occupant, so obviously the electrician whose name was emblazoned on a magnetic sign, was inside.
I walked around the dumpster and for the first time realized how high off the ground these things were. It would have been very hard for someone to lift a body over the side. I looked around and spotted tire tracks all over the place. Well, it would have been an easy thing if one could have gotten the body up into, say, the bed of a pickup. Or even on top of the hood or trunk of a car. Facing away from the dumpster, I scanned the area. This being a new section there really wasn’t an occupied house close by. With luck and timing, as long as the workers were out, it wouldn’t have been too difficult to do the deed if one hurried.
I faced back and studied the house. I wondered if the victim had been in the house when he was killed, and if so, where his car was. I hadn’t heard that they had found one belonging to him at the crime scene, so had he walked here?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I walked over the boards that covered the area that was to be the front porch. The front door was open so I just went in.
I walked around, nodded to the electrician as if I had every right to be there, and eventually made my way to the kitchen. The house had a nice floor plan, and as I looked at the markings on the plywood floor indicating the placement of appliances, I saw something glimmer out of the corner of my eye. I bent and looked inside the dark vent opening in the floor. Something was on the curve of the aluminum vent ready to fall down to Neverland. There was a corner of what looked to be a gold charge card sticking out. I reached for it before realizing just how close it was to falling, and naturally, gave it just the impetus to do exactly that. It fell and clattered with soft thuds. I listened as it bounced and made a soft landing. Damn!
I stood up and sauntered over to the electrician. “Hey, do you know where that vent in the kitchen floor leads?” He looked up at me with a quizzical gaze so I added, “I dropped something and of course Murphy’s Law, that’s were it went.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t believe everything’s connected just yet. You could try the crawlspace. Would be right about in the center I imagine.”
“Thanks!” I walked out the way I came in and went around to the side of the house so I could find the access opening to the crawlspace. Doing a modified squat, (Nicole would be so proud of me), I made my way toward the interior of the house. Almost dead in the middle I looked down and saw the lumpy thing I had sent on its downward journey, a man’s wallet. I had to blink my eyes wide in surprise. This just couldn’t be, no murderer left this kind of thing behind. But when I opened it with just my fingernail a tiny, fuzzy picture of the victim stared back at me from his driver’s license. Clay Harmon had either dropped his wallet as I had just pretended to have dropped something, or his assailant had taken it to keep his victim’s identity hidden, and tossed it haphazardly down the chute believing it was in the bowels of the house for good.
I remembered something in the paper saying that fingerprints from old military records had finally identified the body, so maybe disposing of his wallet had postponed anyone knowing the victim’s identify for a while. Staring down at the thumbnail-sized picture of the old gentleman with the white hair an
d kind eyes, I shook my head. What were you doing here Mr. Harmon? And who came along and found you doing it?He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Had I seen him before? And if so, where?
I went back to my car and found a baggie I kept there for Gimlet’s little leavings. I turned it inside out, made my way back to the wallet, and picked it up using the plastic bag. With any luck it might have prints, but I kind of doubted it. No one was that stupid anymore.
In the car I grabbed another baggie and used it and the other as mittens so I could look through the contents of the victim’s wallet. It was an old man’s wallet for sure—fat and soft, the leather worn thin at the edges. Plastic sleeves housed an old social security card, one typed on a typewriter pre-dating even the Selectrics, a Red Cross donor card, a myriad of insurance cards and the discount cards now required to ensure the best price at drug stores and grocery stores.
Slots in the back held a Platinum Visa, a Virginia driver’s license and the card that had initially caught my eye when the wallet was in the vent, a gold P.O.A. card from Sea Trail Plantation. It had slid partway out of its designated slot and the gold edge had drawn my attention. Well, if he had a plantation owner’s association card, he must own property on the plantation, I mused. It acted as a charge card for the clubhouses and restaurants and was the key to enter the resort amenities such as the pool and workout rooms. They were highly prized and carefully doled out. You simply did not get one unless you owned property on the plantation, be it a mansion, townhouse, condo or lot. I made a mental note to check the P.O.A. directory when I got home.
Then I took the wallet to the police office and told my tale. Just another interesting day on the plantation, I thought, as I drove back through the main gates to go back home. I felt I deserved a drink and couldn’t wait to make one.
At home, drink in hand, I checked the P.O.A. directory. There was no listing for a Clay Harmon. That probably meant he had purchased his property after the directory was sent out to be printed, which was usually sometime after the first of the year. I knew that the web site was updated regularly as Lynn Wiedman was very meticulous for keeping things current. I logged on and checked the listings there—still no Harmon. Well, I’d turned the wallet in, let Lisa and her team check it out, I thought as I made myself another drink. It would certainly be easier for them to get the corresponding property from the coded number on the card than it would be for me, I reasoned.
Chapter Fifteen
Shag Is Not Just A Hairstyle Wednesday night came and I was as excited as a pubescent, pimply-faced teenager. I had a date—it was even structured similar to those of my teenybopper days. We were going to do burgers and fries, and we were going dancing! It had been so long since I had danced!
I did have a few trepidations, as the last man to swing me hither and yon had been Stephen. And there were bound to be songs that would stir memories and feelings hidden down deep. But I was going to shake them, I was determined that I was going to have a wonderful time and not feel the slightest bit guilty for it. I wasn’t even going to get stressed over the fact that this date could end far differently than my adolscent ones where I’d been left at the door after hesitant amateurish kisses.
Over the years Stephen and I had vacationed in Myrtle Beach and on many occasions we had watched couples shagging at Fat Harold’s and at Club 2001. And after watching, we’d taken lessons and joined in the fun. So I knew the look I was going for, I just hoped I had achieved it. I was wearing flowing black slacks with flared legs that would flatter with each turn, a snug, low cut sweater that showed off my nipped-in waist, and I was wearing my hair in a low, stylish ponytail held at my nape by a jeweled barrette. It was young chic, and I hoped to hell that I could carry it off. There’s nothing more of a turn off than a woman who won’t act or dress her age.
I had always put my heart and soul into my dancing, so it was never long before I glistened. I set my makeup with powder so I could keep my matte finish despite my exertions. Then I slipped my feet into my dancing slippers, special shoes bought at The Shoe Center in North Myrtle for the ease of shuffling and spinning. They had smooth leather soles and would allow me to glide on almost any type of dance floor. They had been my second pair bought with shagging in mind and they had already been broken in. I could hardly wait to dance; my blood was thrumming with excitement.
Matt rang the bell at 5:30 and I ran to the door to greet him. As soon as I opened the door I smiled; here was no novice shagger. He was wearing Italian slip-ons, without socks of course, and a beautiful dress shirt that glimmered in a theatrical way. I was reminded of Tony in West Side Story. The way his shirt spanned his wide chest and parted in the center to reveal bronzed skin and dark curling hair took my breath away. He was so tall and handsome, and with such capable and sure hands that I suddenly lost some of my confidence. There were so many beautiful women at these clubs, so many who could dance circles around me. How would I keep this magnificent specimen of masculinity all to myself? In my mind’s eye I could see the Barbie doll blondes, and the vixen redheads in their snug-fitting jeans tugging on his arms pulling him out onto the dance floor and away from me.
“Ready?” he asked as he bent to pick up the handkerchief I dropped as I was tucking it into my purse. Why all of a sudden was I so nervous around him? What was it going to take to be comfortable with a man again, I asked myself. I took a deep breath and smiled.
“For the best burger or the for dancing?” I asked, trying to get back my initial enthusiasm. I was content to stay at home now to keep him all to myself rather than watch him being seduced away from me. I had never been one to worry about holding my own, but only a fool didn’t recognize that in a resort community such as Myrtle Beach, there were many Sun Fun Festival wannabes. With each weekly wave of renters, newly tanned and toned beauties came from all over for the contests and the wet tee shirt competitions held at the local hot spots. I knew I had a pretty good shot with a wet tee shirt contest, but at forty-four, I couldn’t compete with the young things that were out and about looking for a good time during the summer season.
“Hopefully both,” he answered and waited while I locked the door and closed it behind me. I stood staring from the top steps of my front porch to the limo parked in my driveway.
“Escalade out of gas?” I murmured. He smiled and took my hand. “I just didn’t want you to worry about getting home.”
Oh, so he had plans to ditch me when the lovelies took him over.
“I have a tendency to lose count of my drinks while I’m dancing. I leave one here, I leave one there, I keep ordering fresh ones to replace them, and after a while, I’m not exactly sure just how many I’ve had. To be on the safe side, and to allow us to let our hair down and relax, I brought a driver. I want us to have a very special evening,” he leaned over and kissed me on the temple.
I felt everything go to jelly inside my core. I was afraid my legs would conform to the steps as I melted down them. This man said things that lit fires and sparked nerve endings all through my body. I wondered for a moment as I looked over at him if he knew all that. I was betting that he did.
He took my elbow and helped me down the remaining steps then led me to the limo where a driver held the rear door open for us. Oh, yeah, he knew it. The driver was an older man, proud in his uniform and direct in his gaze as he nodded and smiled at me. I had the distinct feeling he’d done this exact same thing before, and that somehow he and Matt were not exactly strangers.
Settling inside on the leather seats, the affinity they had for each other was instantly confirmed as Matt rattled off the evening’s itinerary to the driver as if he were a trusted servant. “It’s to be an evening of beach music for us Jax. We’ll dine at the fabulous, low country, West Virginia Club House, and then it’ll be on to Duck’s. I believe my partner here is an experienced shagger so there’ll be no need for lessons at Fat Harold’s this time.”
“This time?” I questioned.
“I am forever having t
o bring my sisters and their friends here for an introduction to shagging on the strand. Fat Harold’s seems to have the best beginner’s classes, but I prefer the music of some of the other clubs when it’s just me out on the town. But from what you’ve told me, you and I are far from needing lessons.”
“No, I’ve been shagging for many years. There was even a club up in Maryland that I belonged to once.”
“Ever been in any competitions?”
“No, I was never that confident.” I saw his wide grin and I knew that he had. I groaned. “So, I’m not in any danger am I, you’re getting a maniacal look in your eye. You’re not going to do one fancy turn after another are you?”
He laughed, “I promise not to make you dizzy. You’ll always know which way I’m spinning you by the way my hands turn you. And dancing with you, I’m pretty sure I’m going to prefer more of the close stuff.” His words sent a shiver through me.
We arrived at the Clubhouse and I smiled. I had passed this place at least a thousand times over the years and never really paid much attention to it, other than the fact that there was usually a beautiful dark blue Jaguar parked out front. From the outside the building didn’t look like much more than a shack. Inside it was pure honky tonk, not quite a dive, but not all that far from it either.
Matt led me to a booth across from the bar. Televisions were mounted in the corners; one just above my head—all had some sort of game on. From the sound of a bat cracking, I gathered the one above my head carried a baseball game, the one straight ahead flashed scenes from different football games, on the opposite side of the bar, a golfer was bent, lining up a putt. Sports memorabilia filled the walls, and it was clear that whoever put it up, had a penchant for West Virginia teams.
The Widows of Sea Trail (The Widows of Sea Trail Trilogy) Page 12