Dead Center

by Bill Noel

She must have figured I was okay and wanted to start collecting information, although I didn’t give her much to talk about when I said I didn’t know nor did he look familiar.

  A couple seated at a table by the window was looking around. Amber saw them, said she needed to get to work, said my “healthy” breakfast would be up soon, and went to see what the couple needed.

  I was watching Amber laughing with the diners when a woman yanked the door open and looked around. She was my height at five-foot-ten, thin, had short black hair, and was attractive in an angular sort of way. Even if the restaurant had been full, it would have been hard not to notice her wearing a bright-red leather jacket over an attention-grabbing red blouse. I had seen her around town, but we had never met, so I was surprised when she headed my way.

  She stopped beside the booth, looked at the seat Amber had vacated. “You’re Chris Landrum?”

  “I am.”

  “May I join you?”

  Politeness and curiosity kept me from saying no, and I pointed the vacant space. “You may.”

  She threw her jacket on the other side of the bench seat, slid in the booth, and looked around for a waitress. My first thought was she was accustomed to getting her way.

  She smiled, yet her tired-looking, hazel eyes portrayed sadness. On closer inspection, she was in her sixties but looked younger.

  “I’m Barbara Deanelli. I own Barb’s Books in a space I believe you’re familiar with.”

  “Yes. I spent many hours there trying to make a go of it as a photo gallery. I hope you have better luck.”

  She looked at me. No emotion showed. “That’s what the realtor said when he showed the space. I think you know him. Bob Howard. He’s the one who tried to tell me who you were and what you looked like.”

  I chuckled. “That’s a scary thought.”

  I had known Bob since my first week on Folly. He’d helped me find a house after the one I was renting was torched with me in it. Bob had also rented me the space for the gallery. He was the antithesis of what most would expect in a Realtor. His dress was slovenly at best, he was conversant in George Carlin’s seven dirty words plus a few more, and he had never fallen for Shakespeare’s idiom, “Discretion is the better part of valor.” Despite his shortcomings, he was a good friend.

  Barb nodded. “I was beginning to wonder when he showed me the space and said, ‘Yes ma’am, I’ll be glad to rent this dump to you. The last person who had it went bust.’”

  “Welcome to the charming side of Bob Howard. I’d hate to hear how he described me.”

  She stared at me. If I didn’t know better, I would think she could see right in my brain. “Howard said you were handsome back in the day when you had hair and were a few pounds lighter. Said you’d be easy to find. All I had to do was go to the Dog and look for a guy long in the tooth wearing boring clothes and drinking coffee.” She grinned.

  I laughed. “I’d be insulted if it hadn’t come from someone who was a decade older than I am, who could seesaw with a hippo, and thinks dressing up means tying his shoestrings.”

  “Yes, we’re talking about the same Bob Howard.”

  Amber made it back to our table and asked my guest what she wanted. Barbara said she wasn’t hungry and coffee would do. I nodded at my mug and Amber gave me a thumbs-up.

  Barbara turned to me; still showed no emotion. “I was told you found the body.”

  I said yes and she continued, “I’m an early riser and walked to the store from my condo to work on inventory. I didn’t know what was happening in the alley until I opened the back door to get some air. The back room was way too hot.” She looked at me like the temperature was my fault. “A policeman stopped me from exiting and said it was a crime scene.”

  “I imagine that was a shock.”

  “A surprise. I went out the front door and walked around to the alley to see what was going on. A young officer was standing guard at the yellow tape; his name was Spence or Spencer. He said there was a body. I asked what happened and he said he couldn’t say more than that.”

  I was beginning to wonder where she was going with this. I waited for it to unravel at her pace.

  “One of the other cops said your name, so I asked Spence, or whatever his name is, if he knew you since you’d owned the gallery. He said not only did he know you, you found the unfortunate soul. I looked around and didn’t see anyone who fit your description, and asked the officer if you were still there. He said no and thought you had headed here.” She tapped the table. “So there you are, and here I am.”

  That explained how she arrived at the Dog, but not why. “Officer Spencer was correct. I found the body. How long were you in the gall—the bookstore before you opened the back door?”

  “A little while.”

  Vague, I thought. Before I could get a better timeline, Amber returned with Barbara’s coffee and my refill. The comforting aroma of bacon coming from the table beside us filled the air. It was the only thing comforting this morning.

  “Sure I can’t get you something to eat?” she asked.

  Barbara said no without looking at the waitress.

  The lady at a nearby table leaned toward us. “Bacon’s mighty good. You ought to try some.”

  “Thank you,” my tablemate said, without making eye contact with the helpful diner.

  Amber smiled at the bacon connoisseur, looked at Barb, and then at me. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Barb gave a sideways glance at the next table, watched Amber move to the other side of the room, and leaned toward me. “People here are friendly.”

  Her tone made it sound like she said they had malaria.

  “Yes, they, we are. A great place to be. Where are you from?”

  She sipped her coffee and then set the mug down. “Out of state.”

  I waited for her to elaborate. Nothing.

  “You came looking for me,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to ask why.

  She spoke in a low voice. “Did you know the deceased?”

  It reminded me of a question someone would ask at a funeral visitation. I repeated what I had told the police about it being dark and that I didn’t recognize him.

  “Could you describe him?”

  I tried. She nodded and continued not to show any reaction. The conversation, if you could call it that, was getting stranger by the sip.

  “From where the body was positioned, would you speculate he was trying to enter my space?”

  “I have no idea.” I felt like I was testifying in court.

  “Anything strike you as unusual about the circumstances of his death?”

  I didn’t think I needed to say everything was unusual about finding a man with a bullet hole in his head and a gun in his hand. I tried to picture the scene and the body. I also began to think if I had noticed something I shouldn’t tell the person sitting across from me.

  “No. Why?”

  She stared in her half-empty mug and I wondered if she had heard the question.

  She grinned. “Nothing. Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.”

  She had grinned so I hoped I could keep the mood going, and smiled. “From law to owning a bookstore.”

  She gave an abbreviated nod. “Yes.”

  Progress, I thought. “How did—”

  “Have to go,” she interrupted and grabbed her jacket. “Thank you for talking with me, Mr. Landrum.”

  She hopped up and headed to the door. I watched her leave and realized it was one of the strangest conversations I’d had in the Dog—and that was saying something.

  Barbara had barely exited when Amber was back at the table. Instead of saying something like, Would you like more coffee young, handsome gentleman? she opened with, “Was that the woman with the bookstore in your old space?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did she want? Something about the body you found?”

  “She wanted to know if I knew who it was.”

  “Why?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t know
. A little strange. What do you know about her?”

  “Not much. I think this is the first time I’ve seen her in here. Jason’s been in her store a few times and described the owner as tall, skinny, and old, so that’s why I figured it might be her.”

  Jason was Amber’s seventeen year old son. I’d known him since he was eight and he was the reason she and I had stopped dating. A few years ago, he had been exposed to a murder victim I was standing over. I had nothing to do with the death, nevertheless Amber thought it was too dangerous for him to be close to me. She’d called me a “murder magnet.” I’d regretted her decision, and occasionally wondered how things would have turned out between us if she hadn’t made it.

  “Old?” I said.

  Amber smiled. “Figured you caught that. He’s as teenager, Chris. We’re all old to him.”

  “Know anything about her; other than being old?”

  “Heard she’s all business, not easy to make friends with. She’s also a bit snobby.” Amber paused. “That’s from women. A couple of the guys, older than you, if you can believe that, said she was intriguing, that’s their word, and if they weren’t married, they’d be buying lots of books.”

  “Where did she come from?”

  Amber shrugged. “First I heard about her was when someone said a truck was unloading a bunch of shelves over there. Said some woman seemed to be in charge of the unloading. Haven’t you been in her store?”

  It would have been impossible for me not to know a bookstore had occupied my former space, but closing the gallery had been traumatic, and I hadn’t visited the new tenant. It even hurt to see Landrum Gallery painted-out over the door and replaced by Barb’s Books. I knew I was being petty, but having put my time, energy, and much of my life savings into the gallery, I felt the loss much as I would have a death in the family. Barbara Deanelli hadn’t moved to Folly at the time I’d shut the door, yet I still resented her for being in the space. Yes, I was being irrational, and did I already say petty?

  I said. “Not yet.”

  “Think she’ll make it?”

  “I hope so. From what I’ve heard, bookstores, especially small, independent ones, are almost becoming extinct. Suppose more people read books than buy photos, so she might have a chance.”

  “Jason said she’s selling used books. Takes them in trade for other books and if you’re not trading for them, she sells them for a lot less than they would cost new.”

  “That’s what I heard, and if it’s the case, she has a chance.”

  Amber said she’d better get back to work, patted me on the arm, and said she was sorry I’d found the body. I couldn’t have agreed more.

  Chapter Three

  After talking with Amber, I realized I was more curious about the bookstore than I admitted to myself. It struck me as odd how the owner had sought me out for information about the body. And, after my attempt to turn my lifelong hobby into a successful business and failed, I was curious about how successful Ms. Deanelli would be. Truth be told, not often as easy as it sounded, I was ready to move past my wounded feelings and despondency over surrendering my dream.

  It was time to turn to Charles Fowler, the one person on Folly Beach who knew more about books and rumors about newcomers than all other residents combined, and that was only a slight exaggeration. I had met him during my first few days on the island, and for reasons years of psychoanalysis might take to unravel, we had become friends, best friends, if two mid-sixty year old guys could use such a youth-centric term. We were as opposite as two people could be. I had spent my entire professional life working in the human resources department of a large health insurance company. Charles had spent his entire professional life—never mind, he had never entered the professional work force unless you count working on the line in a Ford plant in Detroit, and that was during Richard Nixon’s illustrious presidency. He—Charles, not Nixon—had retired to Folly thirty years ago at the ripe-young age of thirty-four.

  My friend has a serious aversion to W-2 forms and paychecks, yet was addicted to books. His apartment looked like a public library minus a librarian saying “shhh” to all who entered. He had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made of stacked concrete blocks and irregular pine boards along three walls in the living room, four walls in the bedroom, two walls in the kitchen, and not to be neglected, one wall in the bathroom. My unlikely friend swore he had read each tome with the exception of the cookbooks. My book collection could be counted on one hand, so needless to say, I wasn’t a fan of reading.

  His mini-library was in a small apartment building attached to the former home of the Sandbar Seafood and Steak Restaurant, and three blocks from the Dog, so I decided to walk. I could have called first, but after everything that had happened, the walk would do me good.

  Charles answered the door wearing a long-sleeve, cardinal-red T-shirt with the image of a head of an eagle dominating the front. Running second to his book collection, he had a hundred or more T-shirts, most from colleges and universities, all long-sleeve. Years ago, I had made a concerted effort to stop asking about them. That didn’t deter him from continuing to share comments that would be fodder for Jeopardy!

  Charles pointed to the logo on his chest. “It’s Big Stuff, Winthrop University’s mascot.”

  I pointed to my chest, “It’s Chris Landrum. You receiving company?”

  “You’re no fun,” He waved me in and pointed to a wicker rocking chair in the corner.

  I knew it had a wicker seat because I had seen it on previous visits. Today it was covered with two stacks of books, paperbacks with a few hardcovers mixed in. I moved them to the floor so they could keep three larger stacks of reading material company, and sat.

  Charles pointed to the books I had moved. “Barb’s Books, an answer to my prayers.”

  When Landrum Gallery was open, Charles had been there almost as often as I had been. He appointed himself executive sales manager, and without receiving a penny of pay, had served with pride in that position. He said it had given him purpose, something to do, and a positive identity, three things that he had been lacking. He was devastated when the gallery closed, and had taken months to get over the anger and frustration. Perhaps his comment about Barb’s Books signaled the end of his funk.

  “You’re in good spirits,” I said.

  “Lincoln said, ‘People are only as happy as they make up their minds to be.’”

  Spouting presidential quotes came in a close third to Charles’s penchant for accumulating books and T-shirts.

  “Jennifer Lopez said, ‘I’m Glad.’”

  He cocked his head. “You made that up.”

  I leaned back in the chair. “Look it up. Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To tell you about my walk to breakfast.”

  “Hope it was more exciting than it sounds.”

  “It was.” I shared what had happened in the alley.

  He huffed. “And when were you going to tell me?”

  Charles prided himself on knowing everything that happened on his island. One of the quickest ways to exasperate him was to fail to tell him something in a timely manner. To Charles, that meant within the hour, or sooner.

  I thought the answer was self-explanatory. “Now.”

  “And you don’t know who he was?”

  “No.” I described how he was dressed.

  “Doesn’t sound like he was from these parts. Think he was walking down the alley and got in a fight?”

  “No idea.”

  Charles looked at the ceiling and back at me. “Could he have been coming out the door from First Light or the bookstore?

  “No idea,” I repeated. “Add this to strange.” I told him about my visit from Barbara Deanelli.

  Charles looked at the stack of books on the floor and back at me. “You know she’s Dude’s sister—half-sister.”

  And I didn’t think I could be more shaken than I already had been this morning.

  �
�You’re kidding.”

  “Who’d kid about that?”

  Jim “Dude” Sloan had owned the surf shop—yes, without any upper-case letters in the name—for thirty years, had worn hippie garb for fifty years, and had been a surfer for all but the first three of his sixty-four years. I’d known him since I arrived on Folly, although knew little about his life before that. He had seldom talked about his past; seldom talked about anything.

  “Did he tell you?”

  “Nope. Got it from Rocky.”

  “Dude’s obnoxious employee?”

  “Yep. Ran into him a couple of nights ago at the Surf Bar. He’d been there a couple of hours enjoying their libations. He was so lit he almost sounded human.”

  Rocky and Stephon were Dude’s tat-covered employees who appeared to think customers were works of the devil and should be mistreated at every opportunity. Dude had told me he kept them because he didn’t have to pay them much, and they had a visceral way of communicating with fellow surfers. His actual words were: “They be hangin’ on same wave.” They had treated me, and most other baby-boom generation citizens, like we weren’t from the same ocean.

  “Why was he talking to you?”

  He held out his hands and shrugged. “What can I say. My winning, charming personality can win over the most obnoxious surf shop employee.”

  There had to be more. “And?”

  “Ever since Aunt M. befriended Dude’s employees, Rocky’s been borderline civil.”

  Charles’s Aunt Melinda had moved to Folly three years ago. She hadn’t seen him for decades and wanted to reconnect with her last living relative, and had arrived full of humor, sassiness, a love for almost everyone, and terminal cancer. She had overcome many obstacles in her life, but couldn’t beat the disease and passed away two years ago. During her brief time on Folly, she had achieved the impossible when she had been befriended by Dude’s employees.

  “What did he say about Dude and Barbara?”

  “Same pop, different mom; had seen each other only a few times in the last dozen years. Barb got divorced and Dude suggested she come to Folly.”

  “Did you know Dude had a sister, half or otherwise?”