Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  “You think since you’ve had horrific experiences with your churches there could be a connection with this recent death?”

  “Possibly.” He didn’t make eye contact.

  I didn’t have to be an expert on body language to know he wasn’t telling me everything. If he wanted my help, whatever that might be, he had to level with me.

  “Preacher, please don’t take this wrong. There’s more than you’re telling me.”

  He looked at me and grinned. “Heaven’s Brother Chris, how could I take offense from you calling me a liar?”

  “That’s not what—”

  “Brother Chris” he interrupted, “no need to explain. I was teasing. The reason I asked you in the first place was because you have a gift of sorting through the, shall I say, excrement, most others slip and slide in and never get past. I know you have no law enforcement training, but returning to my belief about the mysterious ways God works, He has allowed you to see what others fail to get a glimmer of.”

  Those were some of the best suck-up lines I’d heard. “Preacher.”

  He waved a peanut in my face. “Brother Chris, allow me to finish.”

  I closed my mouth and stared at him.

  “I have lied to you.” He tilted his head to one side and the other. “Not a lie, but more failing to share additional information that may be helpful in your quest for answers.” He cracked open a peanut and continued, “I’m conflicted. You see, one of my flock confided something I believe is tied to the incident in the alley.”

  “What?”

  He sighed. “I take seriously my duties as a minister for the Lord. People of all ilk share with me their darkest secrets. To serve both the Lord and my flock, I must hold their words tight to my bosom. You understand, don’t you?”

  I did, and thought he could use a lesson in brevity from Dude.

  “Hence my conflict,” Burl said looking at his plate. “The individual who shared his secret did so while he was under the influence of the devil’s juice. Now don’t get me wrong. on occasion I will consume an adult beverage and once upon a time made ends meet by tending bar. Excess is a tool of the devil. Plastered, you might say, was the condition of the gentleman to whom I am referring.” He looked up. “Under more sober circumstances, there is no question what my actions would be. His words would not be shared with anyone.” Burl hesitated and looked around the nearly empty room and back at me. “I believe the gentleman is in danger; his life may lie in the balance. I feel I have to tell you.”

  “If that’s true, you need to tell the police.”

  “That was my first reaction. I have no more than suspicions. The man didn’t indicate there was an immediate threat. And, to be honest, I promised him I wouldn’t tell the authorities. That word I can keep by telling you.”

  I wasn’t up on the ethical or legal constraints between a preacher and a drunk, and still thought Burl should tell the police, but I was curious enough to not let it go with what he’d said, or hasn’t said.

  “I understand.” I waved for him to continue.

  Burl closed his eyes. “Lord, please reassure me that this is the right thing to do.”

  I couldn’t help with that and remained silent.

  He sighed. “I received a call from a bartender on James Island with whom I have been counseling on issues I will not divulge. He said one of my flock was in his establishment and had consumed an inordinate quantity of alcoholic beverages. Unbeknownst to the bartender, someone had been buying the man drinks, and if the bartender had known, he would have cut him off. Regardless, I was asked if I could collect the gentleman. I, of course, said I would.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  “It is my duty as his spiritual leader. I rushed over and with aid of the bartender, was able to load him in my car. I knew where he lived and was headed there when he said.” Burl stopped and put his hands on the table. “Lord, should I continue?”

  I waited and Preacher Burl must have received an affirmative answer.

  “The gentleman said his name wasn’t Douglas Garfield, the name I know him by, and that he was Harlan Powers. Said he had been placed in the ‘wit pro pro,’ which I looked up and learned was the US Witness Security Program. He didn’t confide what he had done to be assigned to the program or where he had come from. I didn’t ask.” Burl looked at me for a response.

  I had known someone else on Folly who had been in the witness protection program. Someone once joked Folly wasn’t dubbed the Edge of America for nothing.

  “When was this, Preacher?”

  “The night you found the body at our door.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Brother Douglas, or Harlan, was both fragile and piano-wire strung at the same time. He kept looking around like someone was following us and when I got to his apartment it took me a long time to get him inside. I tried to assist him to the bedroom. He flopped on the couch and I didn’t possess the strength to move him. One second he was cursing and saying things like ‘the nerve of them,’ and ‘I’m a dead man,’ and then he passed out. I’m not naïve to the ways of the world or to those under the influence, yet to be honest, I didn’t know what to do. I left him on the couch.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Nothing coherent.”

  “Are you thinking he thought someone from his past found out where he was and hired the man in the alley to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen him since that night?”

  “Two days later. I stopped by his apartment to see if he, umm, had recuperated.”

  “Had he?”

  “He was sober, although I wouldn’t say he was okay. We were in front of his building. His head flicked back and forth like a sparrow at a large bird feeder.”

  “He say anything about the body?”

  “No. I felt so sorry for him and told him I wasn’t going to the police, but I had a friend who might be able to find out what was going on.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Funny. I thought he’d be relieved seeing he was so upset before. Instead he stared at me and shook his head, and made some excuse about needing to get back to doing something in the apartment.”

  Great, I thought. “Did you tell him who I was?”

  “I may have mentioned your name. I didn’t tell him anything else. Will you please help?”

  I nodded that I would.

  Burl returned the nod. “It might be helpful to know Brother Douglas might come across as a bit obnoxious.”

  “Might?”

  Burl smiled. “In the spirit of candor, Brother Douglas is obnoxious. He’s rude, only interested in himself, and is hard to converse with in a positive nature.”

  Who wouldn’t want to meet Douglas, I thought. I also wondered if it had entered Burl’s mind Douglas Garfield could be the person who killed Lawrence Panella if he thought Panella was on Folly to kill him? I also wondered if it had entered Burl’s mind that he told the potential killer I was looking into the murder. My head began to ache again. This time, it wasn’t from contact with a vase, a vase Douglas may have shattered on my skull.

  Burl asked the waitress for a water refill, took a sip, and tilted his head. “Brother Chris, I’m not prone to meddle. I can’t help but observe that something seems to be bothering you. Care to share?”

  Let’s see, I find a body; and then someone ransacks my house, before the ran sacker uses my head as a vase catcher; and with good intentions, a local minister fingers me to the possible murderer as the person who will try to find out who murdered the man in the alley. Add to that, my best friend may be leaving Folly; my business goes bust; and I’m on the downward side of my life. Why would it appear something’s bothering me?

  “I’m tired, Preacher.” Why not compound everything with lying to a man of the cloth?

  “You sure, Brother Chris?”

  I needed to work on my lying. This wasn’t the time to seek pastoral counseling. It was time to change the subject. “Y
es. By the way, what do you know about Barbara Deanelli?”

  Burl tilted his head down and his eyes rolled up to stare at me. “You saved my life last year and I owe you big time. I’m here if you ever need to talk.” He paused and took another sip of water. “Sister Barbara, the lady with the bookstore?”

  I told him yes.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. She attended our seaside service three consecutive weeks, and then stopped coming.”

  “When was this?”

  “About the time she opened the store. I may be underestimating the lady’s spiritual quest, although I had the impression she was there to promote her new business. As far as I know, she may be visiting each church on the island on weeks thereafter to get better known. Marketing, you know.”

  “Did she seem to spend more time with anyone more than with others before or after your services?”

  “Good question. To be honest, as preachers are prone to be.” He hesitated and smiled.

  I returned his smile, more to keep him talking rather than seeing humor or truth in his statement.

  “I said I suspected she was there to promote her store, yet she didn’t appear good at it. You’ve partaken in our pre-service sharing of fellowship, lemonade, and coffee, so you know it’s an opportune time to catch up on what’s happening with the others.”

  “That it is.”

  “Well, Sister Barbara was in physical attendance, and shared what I perceived to be a forced smile with those nearby. From what I could tell, she never spoke to anyone to say more than hello. Granted, I was often enveloped in conversation and didn’t observe all of Sister Barbara’s interactions, yet it struck me that she wanted to market her store, and perhaps herself, but because of shyness, distrust, or not enjoying communicating with others, she was not successful. Chris, I observed her three times at the most, so please don’t take this as gospel. I could be off base.”

  Burl’s observations were consistent with my impressions of the store owner and I told him so.

  One more question. The other day you told me you didn’t think you knew the man who was killed.”

  Burl nodded. “Correct. I’ve given additional thought to it and I still hold to that conclusion. If he was looking to find Brother Douglas, or whatever his birth name was, he didn’t seek him out at a First Light service. Of that I am certain.”

  My phone rang before I could respond. I would have let it go to voicemail and not interrupt our conversation but I didn’t recognize the number and thought I’d better answer.

  A familiar female voice said, “Mr. Landrum, this is Barbara Deanelli. I hate to bother you. Is it possible for you to stop by the store in the next day or so. It’s about this confounded thermostat.”

  I looked at Burl and said. “I’m nearby and could be there shortly.”

  “Perfect, thank you.” The phone went dead.

  “I appreciate you breaking bread with me,” Burl said. “I’ll get the check if you need to go.”

  I almost asked the waitress to take a photo of this historic moment: someone offering to buy my lunch. God does work in mysterious ways.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Barb’s Books was fewer than a hundred feet from the Crab Shack so including a sidewalk conversation with Jamie about this week’s performance of the Folly Beach Bluegrass Society, I was at the bookstore five minutes after leaving Preacher Burl gobbling down peanuts for dessert.

  Barb was the only person in the store. She wore black slacks and the third red blouse I’d seen her in. She smiled and asked if I could follow her to the backroom where I could explain the fickle thermostat. When Landrum Gallery had occupied the space, the backroom was a hodgepodge of mismatched, yard-sale and clearance items. The refrigerator had been discarded from a nearby house being remodeled; Mr. Coffee had come from the clearance shelf at Walmart; and, the distressed table that had been the center of social, and occasional work, activities, had been surrounded by four chairs that would have looked at home in a condemned trailer park.

  Night-and-day popped in mind as I looked around. The sole similarity between then and now was the four-foot-long florescent light fixture in the ceiling. My refrigerator had been replaced by an apartment size, shiny black model. The space where my battered table and chairs had resided now held a glass-top rectangular desk with black, steel legs. On the desk was what I assumed to be the latest iSomething laptop, and a portable Bose sound-system was playing an orchestral arrangement being broadcast from satellite radio’s Classical Snob channel. An expensive oriental rug was centered on the foot-worn wooden floor.

  Despite feeling I was in a parallel universe, I was impressed and shared the impression with Barb.

  Her smile widened. “Thank you.” She pointed at the thermostat.

  Having spent countless hours in the space, I knew what the problem was and had previously told her my solution was to block the vents in the office. She didn’t think that was the best plan and said she wanted to make sure the “gadget on the wall” was operating as it was designed to before she blocked the vents. I stared at it like a mystical cure would appear, and wiggled the toggle that set the temperature, before saying, “It’s doing the best it can.”

  “That’s what I feared. Can you recommend a reputable repairman?”

  She said it like finding someone reputable would be a rarity. I offered her two company names I had heard good things about. She entered them in her laptop, looked at the thermostat, and then at me. “Would you like some water?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Tap or sparkling?”

  Many things had been said by my friends and even a foe during the years I’d occupied the room, yet I was certain that was one question that had never been voiced.

  “Tap, please.”

  She got two glasses—another first for the space—out of the cabinet, the distinct green bottle of Perrier Mineral Water from the refrigerator, filled each glass with ice and poured the Perrier in one and pedestrian tap water in the other. She set both glasses on the table and moved to the door leading to the gallery, whoops, bookstore, to see if potential customers had wandered in. Like the hundreds of times I had made a similar move, the store was quiet.

  I took one of the seats and after she realized she was customer-free, lowered herself in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  “How do you like Folly?” I asked.

  She sipped her Perrier and tilted her head left and then right. “Seems pleasant. I like the mild winter compared to what I’m used to.”

  Ah, a door into her life had opened. “Where was that?”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  Okay, that’s a slight crack in the door.

  “Always live there?”

  She looked at her glass. “Yes.”

  The history lesson was over. “Like anything else about Folly other than the mild winter?”

  She looked at me like I had asked her bra size. Had I pushed my questioning to its limits?

  She paused, and said, “I find Charleston fascinating. Its history, architecture, waterways, thriving art community, all outstanding.”

  I couldn’t disagree, although she still hadn’t said anything about Folly. “I’ve been here going on nine years. I think the people are wonderful and I love the laid-back atmosphere on the island.”

  Priming the pump might help get her talking about where we were.

  “My brother, biological half-brother, told me the same thing before I moved.”

  “Dude?”

  She glared at me. “How do you know that?”

  “Small island, few secrets,” I said and was surprised because she’d acknowledged being his relative during my first visit. “I think it’s great. Dude’s a friend and I think the world of him. I didn’t know he had any relatives until I heard about you.”

  “You may have noticed we have little in common.”

  I’d been thinking nothing in common. “I’ve noticed.”

  She smiled—the crack widened. “I hear y
ou have a strange way of helping the police.”

  “An exaggeration, I’m sure. Rumors are never in short supply.”

  “Rumors and friendliness.” She continued to smile. “Folly folks could friendly a body to death.”

  “Over the top is an alien concept to some residents. Folly is chock full of passionate people: passionate about their independence, passionate about keeping Folly Folly, and passionate about their friends.” I stopped and looked at Barb, hoping she would comment. She gave a slight nod, nothing more. “Anyway,” I said, “newcomers tend to either love it or hate it, not many in-between.”

  “You’ve been here a long time. I assume you’re in the love it category. I know Jimmy does.”

  It took me a second to realize Jimmy was Dude. I nodded, and didn’t want to interrupt her first extended comment.

  She looked at me like it was my turn to speak.

  “Dude’s one of the people I think everyone would hold up as a perfect example of what Folly is.”

  “I hope his two employees aren’t good examples. I don’t know what Jimmy, Dude, sees in them.”

  I grinned. “You mean other than being insolent, obnoxious, and rude?”

  “Those would be the two. The taller one, Rocky I believe, tried to be nice, but fell short. When I met him he said something like, ‘Oh, chick, you’re Dude’s snooty sister. He’s stoked you’re here.’”

  I laughed. “Rocky’s a charmer.”

  Barb chuckled. “Steven, the other one, turned his back on me.”

  “Stephon,” I said. Charles’s propensity for correcting others’ mistakes was rubbing off. “His ignoring you could be a blessing. It’s neck-and-neck to who’s the rudest. Back to your question about what your brother sees in them, it’s loyalty, and many of his customers identify with them. They’re protective of Dude. They’d do anything for him, well maybe not anything, I doubt they’d be polite if he asked them to. Anything else, probably.”

  “Yes, I noticed how Stephon hovered on each of Dude’s truncated words. I’d as soon stay far away from him.” She closed her eyes. “I ran into him in Bert’s Market, and he was trying to be polite by asking me how I was doing, if everything was okay.” She looked at me. “It was like he’d never spoken the words before. He’s weird.”