Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  I understood, but still hadn’t heard anything to substantiate his claim.

  “Did you see Panella?”

  “No,” Douglas said.

  “Had you heard someone might be out to get you?”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone from the witness protection program contacted you about a leak?”

  “No,” he said, continuing Dude-like responses.

  I was beginning to understand why someone would want him dead, and I didn’t know anything about his background.

  “Help me understand. I get how the people you helped the government convict would want revenge, but I still wonder how you know he was sent for you.”

  He looked up from his food, his eyes squinted. “Preacher Burl said you were a bright fellow and someone who could help me out of this situation. All I see you doing is asking stupid questions and sounding like you don’t think I know what I’m talking about. It was a foolish mistake telling the preacher about my past. It’ll get me killed. And you’re as idiotic as he is.” He pushed away from the table and stood. “Forget it, and forget you ever saw me. I’ve taken care of myself pretty damn well.”

  He stormed out of the restaurant and nearly barreled over a toddler at the door.

  Burl watched him go and cringed when Douglas grazed past the kid. “That went well, don’t you think?”

  “Couldn’t have said it better,” I smiled at the preacher. I appreciated his humor and composure during the difficult conversation.

  Burl looked toward the door and down at his empty plate. “He’s scared.”

  “Has a funny way of showing it.”

  Burl shrugged. “He’s all plugged up with the past, the life he had to leave, fear that his secrets will follow him here, and a bit of paranoia thinking everyone is out to get him. He uses anger and obnoxiousness as a wall to keep people out.”

  “He’s good at it. Did he tell you he was afraid?”

  “Didn’t have to. Despite his attitude, he’s got a sensitive side.”

  “He hides it well.”

  Burl smiled. “That he does. He acts like he hates everyone, yet he’s at our service most Sundays. He doesn’t say much. He sings the hymns, and nods his head when I say something profound. Yes, Chris, on occasion I say something important. Anyway, he knows what’s going on and seems to benefit from church.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. What do you think I can do if he doesn’t want to talk?”

  “I don’t know. I have faith you’ll figure something out.”

  If only I was that confident. I opened the door to something that was going through my mind the entire time Douglas was talking.

  “Got a question, Preacher.” I hesitated, and continued, “Do you think he could’ve killed Panella?”

  Burl looked at me and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Chris, I’ve got to tell you, my calling is to find the good in people; to help lead them down the path toward salvation; to give benefit of the doubt when no one else will. I must confess, Brother Douglas has caused me to reevaluate my position.” He hesitated, took a sip of tea, and continued, “I would not be shocked to learn he’s responsible.”

  That wasn’t what I’d expected.

  “Preacher, I don’t know Douglas. He does seem capable of taking a life. If he found out about Panella, it wouldn’t take much imagination to see him killing him before it was the other way around.”

  “I don’t disagree, yet I still want to think he’s not guilty. Please do whatever you can to determine that once and for all.”

  I said I’d try, and Burl said he had to go.

  He left the Dog and I picked at my french toast and realized in a matter of a few short hours, both Barbara Deanelli and Douglas Garfield said they were convinced Lawrence Panella had been contracted to kill them. One or both were wrong. If either was correct, did he or she kill Panella? During times like this I would get with Charles, discuss it, come to some horrible conclusions, say something that made sense, and decide what, if anything, there was we could do. I missed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I left the restaurant and stuck my head in Barb’s Books hoping to hear why she thought Panella had been on Folly to kill her. To her benefit, and a tinge of jealousy on my part as former owner of a failed shop in the same space, she had her hands full with customers browsing, asking about books, buying books, and fighting for Barb’s attention. Instead of waiting, I decided to visit her half-brother.

  The surf shop wasn’t as busy as Barb’s, nonetheless, I still had to get past Dude’s gatekeepers to get to his tiny office.

  Stephon frowned at me before the front door had even closed. “What?” he said.

  “Want to see Dude.”

  “Don’t know if he’s here. Yo, Rocky, boss man here?”

  Rocky was in the middle of the store fiddling with surf-board stuff with names and purposes alien to me. “Who wants to know?”

  “Old man Chris,” said Stephon, taking customer un-service to new heights and throwing it off the roof.

  “I’ll see if he’s taking unexpected visitors,” said Rocky, who had his customer service training from the person who’d trained Stephon.

  Stephon proceeded to ignore me while I waited for the verdict from Rocky.

  “Chrisster!” Dude yelled from the office.

  I looked toward the back and Dude waved for me. Rocky didn’t growl when I passed him, it just felt that way. Dude’s surf-product, decal-covered door was another sign that the owner believed in using every square inch of wall and floor space to stick ads and logos of surf paraphernalia, or fill with items the ads promoted.

  Dude slid a stack of wetsuits off the extra chair in the room and motioned for me to sit.

  “I was lucky to make it past your bodyguards.”

  “They be protective. Charmers be not.”

  Be understatement, I thought. “That’s a good thing. And, they’re so good with customers.” I smiled.

  Dude waved his left hand and then his right. “Keep um, kill um, be daily dilemma. Hear Chuckster and main-squeezette boogied to surfless music town.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wipeout. Be sad for Folly and canines.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Bummer.” Dude looked out the door. “You be here to visit my peeps?”

  “Stopped by to see you. Seeing them was an added treat.”

  “Lucky you.” Dude smiled. “Here me be.”

  “I was talking to your sister a little while ago and she mentioned you so I thought I’d stop to see how you were.”

  “Fractional-sis.”

  I nodded.

  Dude walked around me, stepped over the wetsuits, and closed the door. “She share worry about killer man?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Dude held up his thumb. “Dead guy be carrying gun,” stuck out his index finger, “reputation as never-caught hit man,” and added his middle finger to the count, “fractional-sis knowing stuff shouldn’t know.”

  Dude’s lengthy—lengthy for Dude—multi-media presentation threw me. He didn’t extend another finger, so I said, “She did share the thought that Panella was on Folly to kill her. What do you know about it?”

  “She don’t tell me more than ripple. Me be seeing fear in fractional-sis face. When we were home as tiny pup and puppette, she fearin’ nothing. Scary strong.”

  “Do you think she has something to be afraid of?”

  Dude looked at the closed door and fiddled with a ring of keys on the desk. He nodded. “Someone sent never-caught hit man, hitter be hit, bad guy be sending more.” He frowned. “Fractional-sis be good gal, me do anything to keep her safe.”

  I changed the subject. “Why do you think the hit man was killed?”

  Dude waved his arms around the room. “Folly folks fight with each other—yell, scream, give finger, bite finger. Outsider mess with us, be enemy of us all. Fractional-sis now be Folly gal.”

  I knew what Dude had meant. It didn’t answers th
e most important questions.

  “Dude, if Panella was supposed to kill Barb, how would someone here have known?”

  Dude opened a desk drawer, pulled out a wrinkled five-dollar bill, and waved it at me. “Dude pay o-pressive taxes to fuzz to figure out killing.”

  I couldn’t disagree. Dude is often underestimated because of his clipped and nonsensical speech pattern, but he’s brighter than many give him credit for, and sees things in a much different light, a perspective that is missed by more, shall I say, traditional observers. I still wanted his take.

  “True, so what’s your opinion?”

  “Me no detective, be store owner on way to geezerhood. Someone from her history wants her extinct; someone from her current wants her alive. Hit man stand in way of current want and got bullet. There it be.”

  It was a summary I couldn’t find fault with, although still shy of answers. “Who?”

  “How be easy, who be hard. Hit man ready to break in fractional-sis’s store. Hit man hitter strolled up and put lead in head.”

  Two thoughts came to me. First, the most logical candidate would be Barb. Second, the other most logical suspect would be talking to me.

  “Who here would know her well enough to have learned about her past to know what’s happening, much less find out about a contract killer and kill him?”

  “Barb say she talked to you about history.” He hesitated and looked at the ceiling. “Me be knowin’ most of it.” He slid the five-dollar bill back in the drawer and looked at me. “That be it.”

  A pounding on the door interrupted us. “Boss, get your ass out here,” yelled the pleasant voice of Stephon. “Some bill collector says he needs to talk to you. Talk to you now.”

  Dude rolled his eyes. “Fans beck in.”

  I followed him to the front of the store, patted him on the back, and left him with a fan.

  I thought about going home and trying to forget everything. Instead, I weathered the cold breeze, pulled my jacket tight, pulled my Tilley down as far as I could over my balding head, and walked to the end of the pier where I did my best thinking.

  If Barb was Panella’s intended victim, both she and Dude were the most-likely suspects. From what she had told me, Dude could be right. I doubted she had told anyone other than me enough to figure it out, and I didn’t kill him. She would have had the most to gain from his death. It would make sense that she would have known what had transpired to make someone want her out of the way. I watched a flock of seagulls circle a section of beach, and kept coming back to my initial reason for thinking she wasn’t the killer. Why would she have approached me the morning I found the body to ask what he looked like? It didn’t make sense, and then it struck me. What if she had been fishing to see if I saw anyone else on my ill-fated walk? Her, for example. It still didn’t feel right, but it was a reason that made sense.

  That left Dude. Their relationship didn’t appear to be close, but it seemed he would have been the one other person on the island who would have known her well enough to know she was in trouble. He could have learned about Panella and killed him before he could harm her. I had never heard Dude talking about guns, but remembered he had kidded—or I thought he was kidding—about blasting his two employees with his AK-47. If he owned that powerful weapon, it would be nothing for him to have a handgun. Dude was protective of Barb, and I didn’t doubt he would do whatever he could to shield her. Hadn’t Dude asked me to see if I could help Barb from the beginning? Why would he have done that if he was guilty?

  The seagulls flew to another dining spot on the beach and a young couple walked a large Greyhound under the pier. And, my mind wandered to my earlier conversation with Preacher Burl about Douglas Garfield who was convinced the hit man was on Folly for him. While I suppose it was human nature, I wanted Garfield to be the intended victim. I was beginning to like Barbara and didn’t want her to be involved in Panella’s reason for being here or for his death. I couldn’t find anything likable about Douglas and felt sorry for Preacher Burl who had become involved in his problem.

  I wished Charles was still here so we could talk about the situation. The fact was, he’s gone. Someone broke in my house twice and I suspected it was related to Panella’s death and me finding the body. And most importantly, two people I consider to be friends have asked me to help solve the crime. At this point in my life, friends are the most important thing I have.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I answered the phone after the third ring.

  “Did I wake you?” Barb asked.

  She had. It was a little after ten o’clock and I was asleep after an exhausting day meeting with potential killers and bemoaning Charles’s departure. She didn’t know me well enough to know that unless it was a major emergency, along the lines of a nuclear attack, my phone and door were disturbance-free zones when the evening hours reached double digits.

  Of course I lied. “No, I was awake.”

  “Good. I felt bad about how I left this morning’s discussion. I apologize for not finishing our conversation.”

  “Never apologize for too many customers,” I said, describing a condition I seldom had experienced.

  “Thanks. Anyway, I’d like to make it up to you. Could I buy you breakfast tomorrow?”

  I was often the one doing the buying when it came to my friends. I said sure and we agreed to meet at the Dog at seven-thirty to beat the church crowd and other Sunday regulars.

  I turned over in bed and wondered how it would feel to be having breakfast with a possible killer. I smiled when I realized it wouldn’t be my first time. I didn’t wonder or smile long, sleep returned.

  We had been wise to meet early. When I met Barb at the door, the Dog was almost full. Once again, she was wearing a red blouse, this time under a heavy, pleated, black Patagonia hooded jacket. I wondered if she had as many red blouses as Charles had college T-shirts. She also wore black, “skinny” stretch jeans and black-leather calf-high boots. It was in the forties, but she was dressed for Pennsylvania winters.

  My favorite booth was taken and we were seated at a table against the wall. I took the chair facing the room and Barb sat facing a kennel-full of canine photos. She was quick to shed her jacket and Amber was as quick to welcome us to the Dog and ask what we wanted to drink. We said coffee and Amber started to the kitchen and stopped behind Barb and gave me the kind of look that only women could muster. It was a cross between “shame on you,” and “you sly dog.” Men’s facial muscles weren’t sophisticated enough to send mixed messages with a single glance.

  Nearby tables were full and Barb leaned closer. “I left you yesterday with a strong, albeit unsubstantiated accusation.”

  Strong, was an understatement if she was referring to her accusation Lawrence Panella was there to kill her.

  “About Panella?”

  She nodded.

  “Why do you think you were the target?”

  “I can’t prove it, but I believe it as much as I believe anything. After my divorce and before I decided to leave Pennsylvania, I received several calls. Anonymous, disguised voice, unknown number. Each with the variation on the theme: We know you know about us. Tell anyone and you’re dead. Don’t think about running. We’ll find you and we don’t have to tell you what’ll happen then.”

  “Do you know what they were talking about?”

  “It had to be about Karl. Like I told you, the magnitude of corruption he was involved in was never revealed. Millions were never recovered. There were enough skeletons left in closets to equip every anatomy lab in the country.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “And tell them what?” She paused when Amber returned to take our order. Amber smiled. From years of observing her many customer expressions, I knew it was forced.

  “Tell them about the calls,” I said after Amber had moved on.

  “Calls from unknown numbers. Calls cryptically implying I knew something. And calls telling me not to run. What would the police have done with t
hat?”

  “Good point.”

  Barb looked at her coffee. “Besides,” she was barely audible, “I don’t know anything about what was going on. I wish I did so I could tell the cops, Truly, I don’t know anything.”

  I didn’t want to argue, but pointed out, “You said the magnitude of the corruption was much greater than known and there were millions never recovered, and something about skeletons.”

  “I figured out most of it from Karl’s court proceedings and from the little I knew about who he had dealt with before getting caught. I have no proof and not enough information to help the police put together a case against anyone.”

  “Yet if you’re right about Panella, someone thinks you do. Someone thinks you have enough to put him away, and enough that he wants you dead.”

  “I wish I did know something,” she repeated. “Honest to God, I do.”

  Our food arrived and Barb took a bite. She closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  “If I were the police and knew about Karl’s troubles in Pennsylvania, I know I’d have a suspect.”

  I pointed to my tablemate.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Have they talked to you?”

  “Not yet. It’s a matter of time before they learn about Karl and come knocking.”

  “What’ll you tell them?”

  “The truth.”

  I assumed the truth wouldn’t be a confession. “Could it have been one of your friends who didn’t want you hurt, someone trying to protect you?”

  She chuckled. “Let’s see. In Pennsylvania I had two friends, both women, both attorneys, both happily married with kids, and who wouldn’t be able to find Folly Beach, much less a gun and shoot someone in the head.”

  “And here?”

  “If you don’t count Jim, umm, Dude, my extended friends list would include Stephon and Rocky at the surf shop who almost speak civilly to me because I’m related to their boss, and you.”