The Edge

by Bill Noel

  Charles was sitting at a small table farthest from Cal. He shared the table with two large cups from Wendy’s, empty wrappers from McDonalds and Taco Bell, and a large box from Pizza Hut—the remnants of my forty dollars.

  Cal nodded in my direction but kept singing, so I walked to Charles’s table. I shrugged my shoulders and pointed at Cal. Charles grinned and said, “By popular demand.”

  “Popular demand?”

  “Yep,” said Charles. He looked toward the table with the two hotel employees. “They asked Cal if he was a singer, and one thing led to another—you just missed four construction workers—big George Jones fans, if you’re interested.”

  “Why’d they ask if Cal was a singer?”

  “He was sitting in here strumming his guitar. Guess they eliminated ballet dancer.”

  As Kenny Rogers would have said, “You’ve got to know when to hold them, know when to fold them …” I took a deep breath, sat back in the chair, and enjoyed the miniconcert.

  Cal had “established rapport” with his audience. He began regaling stories of meeting Porter Wagoner, having drinks with Billy Walker, arguing with Jim Reeves, and teaching Don Gibson the words to “End of Your Story.” Cal was clearly more comfortable drifting back to 1962.

  The lull in the strumming gave me a chance to whisper to Charles what I had learned about Barlow. I spared him the update on Steve’s bunions.

  Charles raised his chin and smirked. “See, I told you so,” he said. “Barlow’s the killer or knows who is.”

  I wasn’t certain about that but couldn’t dispute what he said, so I was almost relieved when Cal began Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces.” I smiled to myself and wondered what Steve Dewrite would have thought if he could see me now.

  Cal finished the classic and leaned the guitar against the breakfast bar to the right of the “stage.” He turned serious, or perhaps sad, and began telling his new fans about being at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge in 1961 when he heard about the serious automobile accident his “good friend” Patsy Cline had been in. “The wreck was terrible, but nothing like how I felt when Patsy and the others were killed in the plane crash in ’63.” He nodded his head. “So sad, so terribly sad.” He was almost whispering. After his moment of silence, he looked at the two ladies and smiled. “I knew Hawkshaw pretty good but only met Cowboy Copas once.” He was still smiling but shook his head. “Sure don’t know when your time’s up, do you?” He paused so the “crowd” could put their hands around his story, and then put his guitar back on his knee and slowly strummed “Sweet Dreams.”

  Tears were running down the cheeks of one of the ladies. The skeptical me wondered how many times Cal had told that story to audiences, both big and small. And how many female fans felt the need to comfort him after hearing his heartbreaking remembrances from events that happened more than forty-six years and God knows how many cities ago.

  The applause had died down—at least, as much applause as four hands could make (the teenage boy had snuck out when Cal started talking about people who had died years before his parents were born)—and Cal looked at the wall opposite his temporary stage. “I see the clock on the wall telling me it’s time to go. Thank you.” He reached up to tip his Stetson, the one resting more than five hundred miles away, and bowed.

  I wondered if Cal and I were the only people in the room to notice that there wasn’t a clock.

  CHAPTER 45

  The Bluegrass Gallery was in an old building on Main Street between the Lexington-Fayette County Courthouse and, according to Lexington residents, the world’s epicenter of basketball, Rupp Arena, the home of the University of Kentucky Wildcats. The gallery’s storefront was a cross between a charming, historic structure and a not-so-gracefully aging edifice in need of expensive repairs.

  Charles and I had adjourned to my room after Cal’s miniconcert and discussed how we would get anything helpful out of the gallery owner/thief/forger. Cal had said he “might be in a tad later,” something about having to discuss the history of the Nashville Sound with some fans. Charles told him, “Whatever.” The history lesson must have been quite detailed; he never showed.

  On the walk from the parking garage around the corner from the gallery, we tried to remember how we were going to approach Barlow. Cal made it clear not to ask him since he was occupied with other interests and missed our brilliant planning session. Charles stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and held his cane horizontally out to his side, blocking Cal and me from proceeding. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll do the detecting here; follow my lead.”

  “Don’t worry,” hah!

  Saturday might be a busy day at the Bluegrass Gallery; but if so, the customers slept late. The gallery was empty, as a subtle chime beside the door announced our arrival. I could identify with an empty gallery. The morning sunshine hadn’t made it into the gallery, but the interior was illuminated by a series of daylight-balanced spots suspended from tracks from the ceiling. The walls were painted snow-white and proudly displayed large, elaborately framed art. Charles drifted to the wall on our right and glanced at the tag, inconspicuously attached beside a large painting of three horsemen chasing a fox through a richly-detailed, plush meadow. He gave a muted gasp, turned to me, and mouthed “thirty-seven thousand.”

  The similarities between Landrum Gallery and the Bluegrass Gallery ended with each having four walls, a ceiling, a floor, and a door opening to the sidewalk and street.

  A male voice from the back of the gallery startled Charles out of sticker shock. “Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?”

  We turned toward an extraordinarily well-attired, middle-aged man. He looked like he had stepped out of a Brooks Brothers’ catalog—he was trim, about five feet eleven inches tall, had razor-cut, gray-flecked black hair, and his smile revealed teeth out of a toothpaste ad. His charcoal gray suit had subtle light-gray pinstripes. His shoes were polished so well that a speck of dust would have been embarrassed to land on them.

  Charles, good at his word, stepped forward, put his cane under his left arm, and extended his right hand to the “GQ” model. Our front man’s detecting immediately discovered that he was shaking hands with Stewart Barlow, the proprietor of the Bluegrass Gallery. Mr. Barlow—the proprietor, not the owner, or “Hi, I’m Stew”—pronounced his first name in a manner that I could only describe as snooty and old-money, and it was THE Bluegrass Gallery.

  I cringed, thinking that Charles was going to introduce me as proprietor of THE Landrum Gallery, or Cal as THE Country Cal. I exhaled when Charles simply said I was Chris and my tall, thin friend, Cal.

  After one formal and three Follylike introductions, Stewart returned to his original question. “And how may I help you?” He left out “gentlemen.”

  Charles was still directly in front of the proprietor. “We arrived last night from Charleston, South Carolina,” he said in his best stuffy voice. “Chris is from Louisville, and we’re on a business-pleasure trip to the Derby City.”

  Stewart nodded like that made sense—he was a good salesman—and said, “Yes.”

  “And,” continued Charles, “a close friend of ours is the police chief of a small town near Charleston—Folly Beach. Have you heard of it?”

  Stewart raised his eyes to the ceiling, studied the question, and said, “Believe so. Go on.”

  “Well,” said Charles, “our friend is investigating a series of strange deaths and, completely by accident, came across your name and the Bluegrass Gallery’s address in some papers of one of the victims. Our friend didn’t think it had anything to do with the killing but thought that since we were heading this way, we might stop and ask if you knew anything about the poor victim.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Stewart. “Who was the unlucky person?”

  “Her name was Pat Rowland; she …”

  “Oh, my God,” said Stewart.
This was the first real emotion I’d seen from the plastic proprietor.

  He looked like his knees were going to buckle and slowly walked to a black leather chair in the corner. He slowly lowered himself onto the heavily padded seat. Charles and I moved closer to him. Cal remained across the room. Detecting didn’t appear to be his thing. I felt awkward looming over Stewart but, other than sitting on the floor, we didn’t have any choice.

  “You knew Ms. Rowland?” asked Charles, an understatement after Stewart’s reaction.

  “Yes … yes,” Stewart replied. “She’s a private detective—a good one, I’ve heard. I hired her a year ago.”

  “Mind telling us why?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a house out Paris Pike,” he said and waved his hand toward the northeast. “Last year I had it remodeled—had to rent another house to live in because of the mess. Well, after the work was completed, I discovered that some things were missing. There were a dozen contractors working on the house—men in and out all day. No way to know who took my property.”

  “What’d they get?” asked Charles.

  “Some valuable family pieces and some cash.”

  We waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

  “What’d the police say?” I asked.

  “Hah,” he smirked. “Nothing useful. Sure, they took all the information down and said they would contact pawnshops. None of the items had serial numbers, so they doubted anything would come of it.”

  “So that’s why you hired Ms. Rowland?” asked Charles.

  “Yes. At least she would try.”

  By this time, Cal had moved closer to the action.

  “Did she find out who it was?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so. She gave me regular reports, sent me a bunch of invoices. Traveled all over the South following leads. The last six months or so, she said she was on the island you mentioned, Folly Beach.”

  “Did she report from there?” I asked.

  “She said she had a good lead. She moved out of a hotel into a fleabag rooming house, but didn’t say why. Said she had to find out more before she’d tell me.”

  I was surprised to hear Cal’s voice from behind me. “When was that?”

  Stewart appeared surprised, too. He looked over my shoulder at Cal. It was as if he had forgotten Cal was there.

  “Two or three weeks ago—on a Sunday. She called me at home; that was unusual.”

  That was around the time the murders started, I thought. “No other hint?” I asked.

  “Not really; she was hyper, said not to get my hopes up.”

  “Any ideas?” I asked.

  “Not a one.” He smiled. “She did say that if I ever wanted to get away from the real world, she would highly recommend Folly Beach.”

  “So, you’ve never been there?” asked Cal.

  Stewart looked around the gallery. “I haven’t been out of here since I got back from France last Wednesday.”

  “Buying trip?” asked Charles.

  “Selling trip. I had some pieces I recently acquired and had a potential buyer in Deauville.”

  “That sounds exciting,” I said. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the chief wanted me to ask you if you know Timothy Bussy, Peter Loy …”

  His face turned a lighter shade of white than the gallery walls. He interrupted, “Uh … no, no, I don’t think so.” He hesitated and regained his composure; he looked at me suspiciously. “Who’re they?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Just asking.”

  We talked a few more minutes and realized that if he knew anything, he wasn’t going to tell three strangers. Charles said we would tell the chief what we had learned and that he might be getting in touch with Stewart.

  We were heading to the door when Cal stopped and turned to Stewart. “How valuable was the stuff that was stolen?”

  Why hadn’t I asked that?

  Stewart hesitated. “Oh, not real valuable. Maybe, oh, twenty-five, thirty thousand. Some of it had sentimental value.”

  CHAPTER 46

  “Charles,” I said, “thanks for not asking if the paintings were forged.”

  “Or if he had a crossbow,” added Cal.

  “Would have, but figured he wouldn’t fess-up,” said Charles as he snatched a fry from Cal’s plate. “Did almost ask if a proprietor was anything like a snooty owner.”

  We were sitting in a small restaurant a couple of blocks from the Bluegrass Gallery. Charles said all that detecting had made him hungry, and especially thirsty—beer-thirsty.

  Cal slapped Charles’s hand as he reached for another fry. “I’m new to this detecting business, but I’ve spent all my life around words—writing them, singing them, being cussed out by them, trying to figure out the best ones to use in songs.” He offered his best stage smile to summon the waitress. “Miss, could you get my friend here an order of his own fries? Much obliged.” He turned back to me. “What I heard him say was: ‘some things’ were missing, ‘took my property,’ ‘some valuable family pieces,’ ‘items,’ and ‘some cash.’”

  “And …?” asked Charles.

  “And,” Cal replied, “the only thing I understood was cash.”

  He looked to me and back to Charles. “Wouldn’t a normal, forthcoming, honest person have said something like, ‘some of my grandmother’s antique, porcelain bird figurines,’ or ‘a valuable painting by the French impressionist Frou-Frou,’ or even ‘fifty thousand dollars and some bank CDs’?” Cal nodded. “The boy’s lying through his capped teeth; he’s hiding something.”

  “Cal’s right,” I said. “Let me tell you something that’s bothering me. Rowland had racked up bills and fees that we know exceeded thirty-five grand, and I’d bet much more. That’s to find some items that were worth ‘twenty-five, thirty thousand dollars’ according to Barlow.”

  Charles was watching the television in the corner, ignored what I was saying, and pointed his cane at the set. The sound was off, but the images were of heavy rains and wind sweeping boats out of the water and across nearby, narrow roads. The closed captions said something about Hurricane Greta and Guadeloupe.

  “That’s what we need,” said Charles. “Another hurricane.”

  “I don’t know where Guadeloupe is,” said Cal as he turned to the screen. “Never sang there, but pretty sure it’s not near Folly Beach.”

  True. We went back to dissecting Stewart Barlow.

  Cal tapped his fingers on the table. “You know,” he said, “if Barlow was in France last week, he couldn’t have killed Rowland.”

  “And why,” asked Charles, “should we believe an art thief and forger about where he was?”

  “Good point,” I said. “But it’ll be easy for the police to check.”

  Cal continued to tap his fingers on the table. “Okay … okay, I’m confused,” he said. He stopped the tapping and turned to Charles and then to me. “We know Barlow hired Pat Rowland. She was supposed to find out who stole some stuff from his house.”

  We nodded.

  “So she bops across several states following people who worked on his house and may have absconded with his stuff?”

  “I think so,” said Charles.

  I nodded again.

  “So,” said Cal, “she tracks someone to Folly Beach and gets herself killed for the effort. Follow?”

  I was beginning to get lost, but nodded my head again.

  Cal looked at his empty fry plate, then at Charles’s empty beer bottle, and then to me. “Now remember, boys, I’m not the detective here, but I’m confused. Why would Barlow have anything to do with killing Rowland if she was working for him? And what’s with a crossbow? And … and this one really confuses me, why shoot Lester and Arno, and what’s happened to Travis?”

  “Cal,” said Charles, “buy me another beer
, and I’ll give you my theory … maybe more than one.”

  “More than one beer or more than one theory?” I asked. This was getting interesting.

  “Not sure,” said Charles.

  Cal’s high-wattage smile worked again on the waitress. Two beers and one glass of wine were cheerfully delivered.

  “Theory uno,” said Charles after a long swig from the bottle, “Barlow’s behind the killings. Something much more valuable than a few things were stolen from his house. He hired Rowland, paid her a bunch of money to find the thief. Then …”

  “How would …” interrupted Cal.

  Charles put his right index finger to his lower lip. “Shhh. Let me finish.”

  “Sorry,” said Cal.

  “Rowland finally caught up with the thief on Folly. It took her five months to find him, and when she did, she moved to where he lived—your building, Cal.”

  I could tell that Cal wanted to say something, but wasn’t ready for another “Shhh.” I knew to let Charles talk himself out.

  “Rowland told Barlow who the thief was, and since Barlow is a dirty, rotten, forging, stealing scoundrel, he knew that she knew too much about his business and what was really stolen. He had someone kill the thief and Rowland to keep her quiet. Did you see his reaction when Timothy Bussy and Peter Loy’s names were mentioned?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I was afraid to bring up the other name we found—afraid he was going to have a stroke after the first two.”

  Charles nodded and didn’t scold me for interrupting. He continued, “He’s responsible for the killings; that’s theory one.” He picked up his cane from the floor and pointed it at Cal and then me. “Don’t say anything. Let me spit out theory two before I forget.”

  The pointing worked; Cal and I remained mute.

  “Theory dos. Starts the same as uno: Barlow hires Rowland to find the thief. She finds him, and the thief figures out that’s why she moved into his building. The thief kills her; end of theory.”