Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  “That’s too bad. What’s next?”

  “She has a meeting—whoops, takin’ a meeting—with him tomorrow.”

  I still didn’t like the way it was going with Starr. Hadn’t he told her to call the Bluebird to make an appointment? Now Charles said that wasn’t the way to sign up for open-mic night. And, I didn’t trust him after what Cal had said and because I knew how little singing talent was crammed into Heather’s adorable body. Charles was sharp enough to know this, so there was no need to remind him.

  “You’re going with her, aren’t you?”

  “I want to. It’s up to her.”

  “It’d be best if you went. She could use the moral support and you’d get to hear what he has to say.”

  “I know.” He told me how excited she was in case I’d forgotten, and said, “Caught the killer?”

  I told him about Preacher Burl’s suspicions about Douglas Garfield, and about Douglas leaving town and Cindy putting an APB out on him.

  Charles didn’t respond immediately. He finally said, “When were you going to tell me?”

  He was miffed. I told him Burl had told me in confidence and I wasn’t comfortable telling anyone. Charles pointed out he wasn’t anyone. I agreed and halfheartedly apologized.

  “I know Douglas,” Charles said after letting me sulk in my apology.

  “I didn’t know that,” I refrained from asking when he was going to tell me.

  “You would if you told me earlier. The boy’s bitter, he’s rude, he doesn’t have anything approaching a friend on Folly. Overall, he’s unbearable.”

  That’s Douglas Garfield. “True.”

  “Chris, there’s one thing he’s not.”

  “What?”

  “The person who shot Panella.”

  “How do you know?”

  “In addition to all those things about Douglas, you can add addicted to hops.”

  “He’s a drunk.”

  “Crude translation, but true. Woodrow Wilson said, ‘Never murder a man when he’s busy committing suicide.’ Douglas is busy drinking himself to death. I had a civil, not quite so rude, conversation with him a month ago when he was semi-soused. He told me some things about his childhood. Did you know he had a baby sister named Gail.”

  “No, so?”

  “Let me finish. When he was seven and Gail was five she found one of their daddy’s guns. She thought it was a toy and started slinging it around like a Roy Rogers toy cap gun that Douglas had. It went off and shot Gail in the arm. The wound wouldn’t have been so bad but Douglas didn’t know what to do and there wasn’t anyone around. Gail bled to death.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah, for both of them. Douglas said he was sent to all sorts of doctors to help get over what had happened and the guilt he felt. Therapy helped him some, yet he never got over seeing her laughing and playing with the gun, and then dying while he held her hand and not knowing what to do to save her.” Charles paused and whispered, “Chris, Douglas told me he had done many bad things in his life. The one thing he never did after that was touch another gun, and he never would.”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t—”

  “I know. It’s still possible he shot the guy. I’d bet my car he didn’t.”

  “So, wonderful detective from afar, who killed him? Who was Panella here to kill? Who thinks my house is a steppingstone to bigger and better burglaries? And—”

  “Slow down. Too many questions. It’s five o’clock.”

  “You called me.”

  “To spread Heather’s glee, not to solve a murder, a puzzle, and whatever else you asked.”

  “Fair enough. I’m happy for Heather. Bye.”

  “Whoa, slam on the brakes. I’m awake now. Let’s take one question at a time.”

  Leaving unanswered questions dangling in front of Charles was like waving a Starbucks’ mocha latte in front of a yuppie.

  “Question one,” I said. “If Douglas didn’t kill Panella, who did?”

  “The person he was here—there—to kill.”

  “Or someone else,” I said.

  “Gee, that helps.”

  “Hear me out. At first, I thought it had to be the person he was hired to kill, but if he was good at his trade, and since he had been on the radar of cops in New Jersey for years and they couldn’t get anything on him, he was good, he wouldn’t have tipped his hat to whoever he was after.”

  “You made my argument it wasn’t Douglas.”

  I agreed, although it didn’t eliminate him from being the target.

  “So, who shot him?” Charles asked.

  “That’s my question.”

  “Okay, how about this. What if it doesn’t have anything to do with why he was there? He was strolling through the alley humming a tune and someone came up behind him—maybe to rob him, or to say howdy. It was dark and foggy and considering Panella’s career, he would’ve grabbed his gun. The robber or howdy person saw Panella’s gun and pulled out one of his own and shot the hit man before the hit man shot him?”

  I took a sip of coffee that had brewed quicker than I had awakened. “What are the odds on that happening?”

  “Better chance of me getting elected president. You have a better idea?”

  “Let’s skip the random act of stupidity theory. If it wasn’t the person he was here to kill, that leaves someone who found out who Panella was and why he was here.”

  “And that person is, who, or whom, whatever?”

  “You said Douglas didn’t have friends, so I don’t see anyone killing Panella to save him.”

  “True.”

  I said, “I suppose Panella could have been here to kill most anyone, although I don’t think so.”

  “Was who or whom in there somewhere?”

  For reasons I would have a hard time explaining, these were the kind of conversations I missed the most. I hated we were having it via phone.

  “Not yet,” I said. “I think the intended victim was Barbara Deanelli.”

  “Why?”

  “The first time I met her was the morning I found the body. If I had learned moments earlier a body was found behind my store, I’d be shocked. It was in a public alley, a shortcut between two streets, near the back door to the bookstore, yet just as close to First Light. I wouldn’t know what to think.”

  “Me either, so?”

  “So, she heard I’d found the body; she asked the police about me; was told where I might be; and came to the Dog to find me. We’d never met. She comes in, shares a couple of pleasantries and insults about Bob Howard, and asked if I knew the dead guy.”

  “Did I miss why she was the intended hitee?”

  “Not yet. Then, of all the things she could have said, she asked me to describe him. Doesn’t that seem odd? It was almost like she had expected someone and wanted to know if Panella was that person.”

  “Following your dusty, wiggly path, why would Panella have wanted to kill Barb?”

  I realized I hadn’t told Charles about my recent conversations with her.

  “Barb told me her husband had been part of illegal activities that involved bribes to politicians and bureaucrats in state government. It involved millions of dollars. She claims she didn’t know details, but it was the main reason for her divorce and move to Folly.”

  “I suppose you forgot to tell me all of that.”

  I told him it happened when he was in the process of moving and had other things on his mind. He groused, blew out his breath, and said, “You think she either is lying to you and knows more than she’s saying, or she doesn’t know anything but someone thinks she does.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think she’s lying about everything. I also think she knows more than she told me. Someone’s afraid of what Barb may know and sent Panella.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve told Chief LaMond, Detective Adair, or Karen your theory.”

  “What’s to tell? I don’t know anything for certain.”

  And, I didn’t wan
t to get into the situation with Karen. I wasn’t ready to discuss it, and I didn’t know how Charles would react on the heels of his leaving.

  “Do you think Barb killed him?”

  “No. If she had, she wouldn’t have asked me to describe him.”

  “Do you think someone knew about the hit and came to Folly to stop it?”

  “Could be. I hope that’s the case, otherwise it would be someone here, and that leaves one suspect. It could—”

  Charles interrupted, “I told you it wasn’t Dude.”

  I heard Heather in the background ask who Charles was talking to. It sounded like a chair being dragged across the floor and Charles told her it was me. Heather squealed, and said, “Is he excited for me?” Charles told her of course I was. She said something about needing to celebrate her resounding success.

  Charles said, “Time to go. I’ll leave you with four words: It was not Dude.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I stared at the phone and reheated my coffee in the microwave. Panella’s death may not have anything to do with Barb. He could have been here for someone else. What I was certain of was he wasn’t here selling heavy farm machinery. I had taken the first sip when the phone rang—again. I expected to hear Charles calling with more reasons Dude couldn’t be the killer.

  “He was in again.” Barb said.

  She may be new to Folly, but had caught on to the nontraditional conversation starters.

  “Morning, Barb. How are you?” I was trying to bring civility to phone conversations.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Who was in again?”

  “The man who came in when you were here.”

  “The one who gives you the willies?”

  “The same. Listen, I feel like a fish out of water. Back home I could do this myself, but … well, you’re the one person I know, other than Dude, I trust enough to ask, and I don’t think it’d be good to ask him.”

  “What do you need?”

  “He bought three books this time; two on Early American history and a mystery by Robert B. Parker. He paid by credit card, and his name’s Sylvester Lopp.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He asked if I had read Parker’s books. I told him I didn’t read mysteries. He hemmed-and-hawed like he wanted to say something else, but gave me his credit card and left.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I thought you could ask the chief if she could find anything about him. I had enough contacts back home to get it done, yet here, well, you know. I Googled him and didn’t find anything. He could be in a police data base. I know it’s not normal procedure. I’m afraid of the guy and maybe since the chief is your friend, she could check. There’s been one person sent to kill me. What if that’s why Lopp’s here?”

  I doubted if he was a hit man would come in the store four or five times, buy books, and give a credit card, nevertheless, she was afraid. I said I’d call Cindy.

  “Thank you, and please don’t tell Dude. He worries too much about me and I don’t want him to do anything stupid.”

  I prayed he hadn’t already. “I won’t.”

  I wished it had been Charles calling.

  It was before eight o’clock but I knew Cindy was out and about, so I might as well get the lecture over about butting in police business. She answered with, “What trouble are you going to cause me now?”

  “No trouble, Chief. Good morning.”

  “No matter how you try to sugarcoat it, you’re going to ruin my morning.”

  Not the good mood I had hoped for. I told her I had a favor to ask and it was police business, and I didn’t see how it could ruin her morning.

  “You underestimate yourself. What now?”

  I told her and she said I’d asked for worse. She also said she liked Barb because she brought a strong, female presence to Cindy’s male-dominated world, and the island needed an estrogen fix. I remained silent and let her continue giving me grief. It was less than I’d expected, and it’s the price I pay to get anything from her. She said she would see what she could find and told me to try to stay out of trouble and not invite any uninvited guests into my house until she got back to me.

  I re-reheated the coffee and was determined to enjoy a full cup before another distraction. Twenty minutes later and thinking about the events of the last few days, I realized the main reason I was having trouble getting a handle on what was going on was because there were two distinct, but related, mysteries: the murder of Panella and the reason the hit man was on Folly Beach including who hired him. If Barb was correct, it solved part of the second one, but was she right? Charles had made a reasonable case why Douglas Garfield hadn’t killed Panella. He could still have been the target. If he was, who had killed Panella and why?

  As much as Preacher Burl had tried to convince me Douglas Garfield was the intended victim, my gut said it was Barb. And, I could only think of three people who would have been concerned about her enough to kill Panella. It was time to talk to one of them.

  The surf shop wouldn’t be open for another fifteen minutes, so I walked around downtown. I passed the bookstore and wondered how things would be different if my photo gallery had succeeded. I suppose Barb’s Books would have opened somewhere else. I peeked in the window of First Light and revisited my thought that Douglas Garfield wasn’t in danger, at least not from a hit man. Then I remembered something Rocky said Panella had told him during his visit to the surf shop. If it was true, it gave me a different view of Panella and who may have hired him. Dude almost ran into me when I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to think through Rocky’s conversation.

  “Yo, Chrisster, be imitating light pole?” said the articulate hippie.

  “Sorry, Dude. I was thinking.”

  “Heavy thinking?”

  “Believe it or not, I was thinking about asking you something and had a question for Rocky.”

  “Rude Rocky?”

  “Yes.”

  “That be first.”

  I smiled.

  Dude said, “Q and A here?” He pointed to the sidewalk, and at the surf shop. “In shop?”

  “Inside.”

  “Boogie with me.” He walked, skipped, toward the store.

  My boogieing could better be called a slow walk, and Dude had unlocked the door and turned on the lights before I got there.

  Stephon and Rocky followed me up the steps. If I didn’t know who they were, I would have taken one look at their all-black attire, matching black watch caps, tattered leather jackets and scowls which would intimidate most anyone, and would have feared for my life. I didn’t waste time talking to them and followed Dude to his office.

  “Rocky?” Dude said.

  “Let’s talk first.”

  “Your party. Talk on.”

  I charged on. “How long have they worked for you?” I nodded in the direction of his employees.

  Dude followed my head nod. “That be question not expectin’. Stephon, plus-minus sixty full moons. Rocky, ninety-seven fms. Why?”

  For those who don’t know Dudespeak, and it took me three years to learn to translate his full-moon calendar, that’s about five years for Stephon and seven for Rocky. In either language, it was a long time for retail store employees.

  I ignored his question. “Suppose you know them pretty well.”

  “Better than know Adele. Not as good as know Pluto—pupster Pluto, not the faux-planet. Why?”

  “Know much about their background?”

  “Had okay drivers’ license, tax paperwork not flagged by CIA, FBI, or ASPCA. Okay by me. Why, times three?”

  “One more question and I’ll answer you.”

  “Getting old waitin’.”

  “Could you see either of them killing Panella?”

  “Whoa! You be flingin’ from left field.”

  The door was open and I heard surfboards being moved around in the store. I got up and pushed the door closed.

  “Could you?” I repeated.

>   Dude looked at a colorful PREY FOR SURF poster taped on the back of the door and then at the floor, before turning to me. “Not be friendliest clerks.” He squinted and nervously stroked his long, gray hair. “They suck at selling. Prey to Sun God, pupster Pluto be as loyal as they be.”

  I waited but Dude had finished talking. “Could you see them killing him?”

  Dude glanced at the poster and held up three fingers. “Chrisster, chill. Be asked you one, plus one, plus one time why you askin’. Answer ain’t cookin’ at me yet. I be getting there.”

  I smiled. “Fair enough.”

  He blinked twice and tapped his fingers on the cluttered desk. “Here be answer. If swearin’ on Bible-book and asked question.” He mimed putting his hand on a Bible and raised his other hand like he was testifying in court. “I’d say yep. Sorry, yep.”

  I wasn’t surprised but asked why.

  Dude shook his head. “Don’t know why. They be loyal rude. If thought Dudester in trouble, they’d help. If thought Dudester’s fractional-sis be in trouble, they do same. Blood be thicker than surf.”

  “Dude, this is an unfair question since they’re your employees, and, I agree, they’re loyal to a fault, has either one said anything that would lead you to believe he was guilty?”

  He closed his eyes, his head gyrated left and right and then up and down, and he bit his lip. “No.”

  I was at the end of the line talking to Dude. I thanked him, told him I appreciated his candor, and asked him not to say anything to them.

  He patted his lips with his forefinger. “Be Super Glued.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Instead of talking to Rocky as I’d planned, I left through the back door. I was close to figuring out part of the mystery, and had to think through what I knew and what to do with it.

  I got home and took a pad of lined paper and wrote down what I knew, and what I felt I was almost certain of. I was convinced Barb was the person Panella was hired to kill. If she’d killed him she wouldn’t have sought me out to ask what he looked like. She knew more than she was saying; she knew she was in danger. She acted frightened, both to me and to Dude. I was almost certain Dude hadn’t shot him. So that left the two people who would do anything for their boss, and for Barb as an extension of Dude: Rocky, Stephon, or both.