by Bill Noel
“We knew it was Cal or Travis. Remember?”
“Suspected.”
“Chris, you know Cal. He’s managed to hobo around this country for more than forty years; lived by his wits; made a few bucks when he needed to; knew how to do what he had to do. See?”
“Yes.”
“Does he strike you as stupid?”
I was getting a little tired of playing twenty questions. “No—so?”
“So,” he said, “I’ll tell you so what. Cal’s smart and has street smarts to boot—he’s too danged smart to leave the murder weapon under his bed. Come on, I could show you a zillion places on Folly Beach to hide it and never get caught. And, get real, an anonymous tip from an untraceable phone? I’ll bet my Saab that they don’t find prints on the crossbow. And when they don’t find prints, does it sound like Cal to wipe the prints off the weapon and then put it under his bed for the crossbow fairy to find?” He stood and pointed his cane toward the Edge. “What more proof do you need? Cal didn’t do it.”
I’d hate for Charles to be Cal’s lawyer, but he was right.
CHAPTER 53
“Hi, Mrs. Klein,” yelled Charles. He and I were walking along the dune line between the boardinghouse and the beach. “Remember us? I’m Charles, and this is Chris.” Once she noticed us, Charles veered away from the beach and to the steel steps that led to her terraced yard.
“Of course I do, young man.” She leaned on the shovel she was holding and gave Charles a stern look. “I’m old, not senile. And don’t ask, I’m still not going to rent to you boys.”
“We’ve already found a place, Mrs. Klein. We were just walking down the beach and saw you and wanted to say hello.”
Just walking down the beach, I thought. Charles made me sit on the pier for the last hour waiting for Mrs. Klein to appear. I told him she had probably evacuated. When he saw her come around the corner, he did a Ray Charles bob with his head and said, “See?”
“Sorry, boys,” she said. “I’m a little cranky. Up all night; police stomping all over the place; arrested one of my tenants.”
“We’d heard something about that,” said Charles. “Terrible.”
“Come sit a spell,” she said. “I recall you two are a bit wimpy and have to be in the shade.” She slowly headed to the table where we had gathered on our first visit. She wore the same faded, print dress.
“Ready to head inland?” I asked.
“Lordy, boys,” she said and looked toward the high, puffy clouds on the horizon. “Joseph and I sat right in this house during Hurricane David in ’79; Joseph’s spirit and I welcomed Hugo in ’89; others came and went through the years; and wasn’t it just the other day that Frank came a-calling?” In a move that must have given Charles a thrill, she lifted her shovel and jabbed the business end in the air to the east. “It’ll take more than a damned old wind to get me out of this house—put money on it!”
I looked at the cracks in the wall that she had pointed out during our first visit and would have sworn that the entire second floor leaned toward us.
Charles asked if she had someone to take her off the island in case she decided to leave.
“Didn’t you hear me, boy?” she yelled, her normal voice. “Let me tell a story.”
She dropped the shovel beside the table and lifted her head toward the sun. She took a cigarette from a pack that was already on the table, lit it, and took a long draw.
“My dear husband, Joseph, worked for the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus from ’36 to ’41.” She had told us that more than once, but I didn’t interrupt. “Back around ’38 or ’39, can’t remember which, the circus was playing small towns in northern Florida; ocean side, not the gulf. Yep, Atlantic. Well, a humongous old hurricane was supposed to hit smack-dab where they had their big tent. The weather experts told them they had less than twelve hours to head-em-up and move-em-out.” She took another puff and stared off to the horizon. “In those days, most of the performers were foreign—especially the high-wire acts and the fellows with the big cats. Names and countries I couldn’t pronounce. Well, with the threat of wars and problem with all the countries, a lot of them snuck into the good old US of A on forged passports. Seems the government was looser then. Government—now don’t get me off on that subject.”
“We’ll try not to,” shouted Charles. “Go on.”
“Joseph said those fake passports were worth more than any amount of gold; said until his dying day that illegals could do anything they wanted with those fake documents. Well, it backfired. They got the train loaded and moving, and along came the hurricane—some man’s name. I can’t remember what.” She hesitated. “No, can’t remember its name. Anyway, two of the cars were blown off the tracks just as the train was crossing a bridge. Joseph always said it was meant to be. Well, fifteen of those illegals were killed when their train car was trapped under the bridge. They drowned.” She hesitated again and stared at the ocean. “Terrible, terrible.”
“That’s horrible,” I said. “Was Joseph okay?”
“Yeah, he was in the front car; didn’t know anything had happened until the train jerked to a stop.”
“How did the fake passports backfire?” asked Charles.
“No one ever found out who the men were—all their names were wrong.” She shook her head. “They buried the entire group in a rundown cemetery in Florida, smack-dab in the middle of nowhere. The golden passports became fool’s gold. So sad.” She looked up from her memories and looked at her house. “Safer to stay, boys. Mark my words, safer to stay.”
“Be careful, Mrs. Klein,” said Charles. “We don’t want anything happening to you.”
“Worst thing that’d happen is I’d end up dead,” she said as she pulled another cigarette out. “Lordy, it’s about my time anyway—maybe past time. Not like what’s happening to my tenants.” She lit the cigarette and started playing with the polished chrome Zippo lighter. “You boys don’t think Cal did it, do you?”
“No,” said Charles.
“Good. He thinks the world of you two. Told me your trip to Kentucky was the best time he’d had in decades. He didn’t do it.”
“Who then?” I asked.
“Hope it’s Travis Green—he’s done split. I thought he was a nice young man, but you never know.” She took another puff. “No, you never know. Don’t look past Harley. He smokes, you know. One thing my dear husband, Joseph, always said was, you can’t believe what’s right in front of your eyes. He learned that from the con men in the circus; he always kept talking about misdirection, deception, all circus and magic tricks. To be honest, boys, I never really understood what he meant, but it didn’t stop him from saying it, over and over, and over.”
She flicked the cigarette butt toward the surf, pulled herself up using the shovel for support, and grinned. “Time for a nap. Watch out for stray hurricanes.” She laughed until she coughed.
* * *
I walked to the gallery, and Charles headed off to retrieve his bike from the hotel. He asked if I needed help, and I told him no. I didn’t expect customers with Greta looming but wanted to make sure everything was off the floor and secure in case wind or water found their way in.
The phone was ringing as I unlocked the door. I picked it up and made the mistake of holding it near my ear.
“When in the hell were you going to answer? The cows have already come home to roost.”
“Hi, Bob, want to buy a photo?”
“You know damned well I don’t. Since you’re being a smart-ass and not a recording, I’m deducing you’re still in the middle of Hurricaneville.”
“Where are you?” I asked, still trying to sound like a professional shopkeeper.
“My wonderful and wise wife has me handcuffed to the front seat of the car as she drives to a wonderful, luxurious hotel in Asheville, North Carolina—the Grove Par
k Inn or something like that.”
I could hear Betty laughing. I was constantly amazed that Bob had found someone who appreciated him and even thought he was humorous.
“A vacation?” I asked.
“Why, hell no,” he sounded exasperated. “She told me I didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain, much less a hurricane, and she’s dragging me off for a few days of sun, sumptuous sweets, and sultry sex.”
“Ha!” Betty exclaimed in the background.
“Before she sticks a gag in my mouth, here’s why I called. I’ve got a client who has an old, four-bedroom farmhouse just north of Prosperity—you’ve had trouble finding prosperity, so this one’s about thirty-something miles west of Columbia, just off I-26. Anyway, he called and said the house was empty and asked if I wanted to wait out Greta there. Betty already had her salacious plans, so I thought of you.”
Another “Ha!” in the background.
It was irritating when Bob did something nice—screwed up his chi and made it harder to stay mad at him.
“I may take you up on that,” I said. “Sounds like it’ll get scary here.”
Between yelling at Betty for driving too slow and then too fast—not like he would drive—he finally told me exactly where to find the gift house and key.
“Smart move,” he said. “You shouldn’t look a gift house in the mouth.”
I thanked him and let him go, so he could keep Betty from getting them killed—or so Bob thought.
CHAPTER 54
“Did you know Hurricane Hugo was the biggest hurricane ever to hit the United States Atlantic coast above Florida?”
I was sitting in the Planet Follywood with Amber, Jason, and Samuel, listening to Jason share his newly acquired knowledge. I vaguely remembered when I was in school, we had tornado drills; I suppose coastal kids learned about hurricanes, sharks, and riptides. Planet Follywood was Jason’s favorite restaurant. It was the night before the mandatory evacuation, and the restaurant was nearly empty. Most of the residents had headed west, not in wagon trains as their ancestors did, but in minivans, Dodge Ram pickups, and a dying breed, things called cars. Vacationers had wanted to get in every minute at the beach before being run out, so they were still at water’s edge or in their condos and houses packing for the trip home from an abbreviated vacation.
“Yeah,” added Samuel, “weirdest thing; it started over a zillion miles away near Africa. Can you believe that?”
I had met Samuel on my first trip to Folly Beach. He was a bright, inquisitive young man who had provided a key clue to solving a murder last year. Additionally, he was in Jason’s class, and the two of them set the academic bar sky-high for their fellow classmates.
“Chris,” said Amber, “the old-timers still talk about the big Atlantic House restaurant that sat out over the beach near where the hotel is now. Hugo wiped it off the map.”
Hurricane trivia was a good diversion for the boys; strangely enough, it took their mind off the arrival of Greta. It wasn’t working as well for me. During my short time on Folly Beach, I had heard story after story about the devastation Hugo brought to the area. Bob had told me that 80 percent of the homes on Folly Beach had been destroyed—a boon to Realtors and builders, although they had to pretend being distraught. The tides that had reached more than twenty feet above normal flooded areas that weren’t destroyed by the 160-mile-per-hour winds. Greta wasn’t expected to be nearly as big. I was still scared. I looked around the restaurant and wondered how high we were above sea level; my gallery was about the same elevation; my humble cottage was even closer to the ocean and sea level. It had survived Hugo; I prayed it would laugh at Greta.
With Bob’s offer of a house, I had called Charles and formulated our evacuation plan—a plan that grew along with the intensity of the storm. I had invited Amber and Jason, who quickly accepted. Charles’s invitation list was more complicated. Larry agreed to come but would drive separately so he could get back to his store as soon as possible. Then, in a moment of who knows what, Charles invited Heather. He hadn’t told her she couldn’t bring her guitar, but I wouldn’t be disappointed if it was left behind. Finally, in the spirit of love, concern, good vibrations, brotherhood, and stupidity, Heather invited Arno and Harley. Harley had accepted if he could drive his hog. Space was already at a premium, so Charles agreed to his “demand.” Cindy was forced to decline—Acting Chief King told his officers that come “hell, high water, or hurricane” they were going to stay on Folly Beach. After hearing King’s latest failure to “win friends and influence people,” I called Brian Newman to make sure he had an escape plan. Karen answered and seemed genuinely pleased that I had called. She was taking the next few days off and was moving her dad to a hotel about seventy miles inland. She wanted him to be closer to the hospital in Charleston if something happened. She said I was welcome to join them, and I mumbled something about having to help some others and thanked her for the offer. “Please call each day to let me know how you’re doing,” she said, and then rang off.
Samuel's family was leaving at sunrise for the safe confines of his aunt’s house in Columbia, so he needed to get home early; early translated as no dessert. Jason, the gentleman he was, escorted Samuel four blocks to his home. I, still working on my skills as a gentleman, walked Amber to her apartment, gave, and received, a warm, extended hug, and said I’d see her in the morning.
I went to the pier instead of going home. The sun had already set, but I could still hear the eerie, sharp, pounding sounds of hammers and nail guns filling the air. They were attaching plywood sheets over windows and other glass surfaces. The pier, like Planet Follywood, was nearly deserted. The temperature must have been in the mid-eighties, with the humidity out the roof. I walked far enough out the pier to where I could see the infamous boardinghouse and then sat on the nearest wooden bench.
What would Folly Beach look like when I returned? Would my house and gallery still be standing? Was Travis Green the killer? If not Green, who? Harley? Why not Heather? Were Charles and I wrong about Cal? What was so valuable to kill several people over? When would Chief Newman return to work? If my house survived, was I ready to ask Amber to move in with me; was I ready for an instant son? What’s with Charles and Heather? What’s with Karen and me?
CHAPTER 55
Our unlikely band of evacuees began gathering at 9:00 a.m. the day before Greta was expected to change the Lowcountry landscape. I opened the front door and found Charles sitting on the step wearing a University of Tulsa Golden Hurricanes long-sleeve T-shirt, black shorts, old tennis shoes, and his hat. His handmade cane leaned against a tattered, olive drab, Army surplus backpack.
He remained seated and looked back over his shoulder at me. “About time,” he said. “Only ten minutes early.”
I looked at him, groaned, and carried my suitcase past him to the car. He followed. We had agreed that we would get Amber and Jason and then head to the Edge for the rest of the herd. Amber was always prompt, so I wasn’t surprised to see her and Jason waiting at the top of the steps at their second-story apartment.
The group at the boardinghouse didn’t share Charles and Amber’s promptness gene. Charles muttered something about needing to cattle-prod someone, buy them watches, and getting on the stick—all said before he got out of the car and headed to the door. Five minutes later, he came out lugging a bright orange suitcase and Heather’s straw hat. Heather followed a step behind and was rubbing her eyes. There was no guitar case, proving prayers could be answered. Larry pulled around the corner in his new red Chevy pickup, the Pewter Hardware logo prominently displayed on the driver’s door. Arno appeared next. His arm was still in the sling, and he grimaced as he lifted his old valise into the back of Larry’s truck. Harley was the last out. His evacuee possessions were in a cloth bag with an uncanny resemblance to a pillowcase. He threw the bag in the back of the truck without the glimmer of a grimace. I
suspected he could have thrown Arno in with as much ease—a reminder why I wouldn’t want to tangle with Harley.
We were ready to pull out when a City of Folly Beach cruiser blocked the entrance. It was Cindy, and she was alone. Harley had already mounted his namesake, and the distinct, deep rumble of the engine drowned out all conversation. Cindy nodded her head toward the front of the building, and Charles, Larry, and I followed her away from the bike.
“I wanted to tell you before you headed out,” she said as she scanned the area. “We found Travis Green around midnight. He …”
“Dead or alive?” interrupted Charles.
“Dead; arrow in the chest.”
“Bolt,” said Charles.
“Whatever,” said Cindy.
“Where?” I asked.
“At the end of East Huron, down over a bank. From the looks of it, he’s been there for days.”
“Who found him?” chimed in Larry.
“A guy out there; don’t remember his name; his dog had been barking up a storm, and he finally let it off the leash and followed it. He’s pretty shook.”
Who wouldn’t be, I thought. “What about Travis’s car?”
“Good question,” said Cindy. “It was in the carport three houses from where the body was.”
“Hadn’t you been looking for it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Yeah—we blew it,” she said. “It was backed into the carport so far you wouldn’t normally notice it; it was under an old vinyl car cover. It looked like it belonged to the owner of the house—a couple from Maine. They’re only here in the winter.
Heather skipped around the corner and looked at the four of us gathered in a tight group. “Are we going or what?” she asked.
Cindy smiled at her and turned back to us. “That’s all I know; I’ll call Larry if I hear anything.” She looked around one more time, decided that the entire population of Folly Beach wasn’t looking, and gave Larry a hug and a long sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Take care,” she whispered, and then turned to the rest of us. “You, too.”