The Pier, page 10
“And?” I said, feebly attempting to keep him on track—wherever that led.
“And,” he continued. “You have a talent for logical thinking, courage to do what you believe is right, and most importantly, a knack for choosing friends—with me as a prime example. You’ve only been here a few weeks, and you’ve accumulated a group of friends that includes Larry, Bob, Amber, Tammy, and even the chief of police. We all see something special in you ... although it’s hard to figure out what sometimes.”
“And?” I tried again.
Larry nodded his sad-faced head in agreement.
“And Larry has the God-given talent for breaking into and entering some of the finest, and most secure, homes and businesses in these great United States. It’s time we use our talents to solve this murder.”
I had known I wasn’t going to like the track Charles was heading down. I doubted Charles or Larry would remember much of this evening in the morning, so rather than running home and avoiding Charles for a few days, I asked him what he had in mind.
He then outlined one of the worst, most ridiculous, and most stupid plans I’ve ever heard.
Lord, please let him forget it before you give us another day, I silently prayed after they left.
CHAPTER 21
The weekend, not unlike the previous few days, was cold, windy, and damp. I had been assured by the natives that not all winter days were this miserable; I hoped they were right.
It wasn’t the perfect day for a stroll on the beach, so I headed to the Dog for a beverage, some banter, and a little breakfast. There I was greeted by the smiling, pretty face of Amber.
“Chris,” she said, “check out the board. Cute, huh?”
I surveyed the latest Amberism: “If a dog could talk, it would take a lot of fun out of owning one.”
I giggled appropriately and agreed it was cute. Before reaching my booth, I stopped to speak to the Arlo Guthrie look-alike, Cool Dude Sloan, from the surf shop. He asked if I thought the weather would keep the surfboard-buying public away. This was the second time he’d asked, or mentioned, the lack of customers in February. It was also the most he had said beyond a couple of words in all the times we’d exchanged waves and smiles. A breakthrough?
I asked how long he had owned the shop. I assumed it had been years but didn’t know. He nodded toward the chair across the table. I interpreted that as an invitation to sit.
“Bought it in eighty-eight, you can do the math,” he said. “Had surfed for many years. Didn’t know anything about the business end of the wave.”
“So why’d you do it?” I asked.
“Needed a job; liked the area. Couldn’t cook; didn’t have any skills. Saw ad in the Charleston paper, went to the bank. They made a dumb decision and lent me the money. Rest is history.” This very efficient manner of speaking didn’t even require a breath in the middle.
Doesn’t believe in full sentences either, I thought.
“So, Jim, after all these years owning the store, has February ever been a busy time—good weather or bad?”
“Nope. Just thought I’d ask to see if you’d get it right,” he said. “Did I?”
“Yep,” he said before looking back down to his newspaper.
“Oh, by the way, Jim, do you know Amelia Hogan?”
“Nope,” he said. No surprise; no one else seemed to either.
“I know her son, Mike,” he added. “Why?”
Now, I was surprised. Finally, I had found someone who knew the family existed. Progress, I thought. I asked what he knew, telling him I’d run across the name and was curious.
“Mike’s an a-hole—seriously stuck on himself. Can’t surf, but thinks he can. Acts rich, don’t know if he is or not. Lives on hoity-toity Kiawah. Don’t come around much ... glad of it. That’s it.”
Amber had my coffee on my table by the time I finished my highly enlightening, sentence-challenged—and by far, longest—conversation with Cool Dude. When she returned to take my order, she was laughing.
“He likes you, Chris. That’s one of the longest conversations he’s had with anyone.”
“He seems nice enough; I’ve never been in his shop.”
“Dude serfs to the beat of a different wave,” said Amber. Despite the baffling mental picture, I understood what she meant. “I’ve heard he does a killing in the summer and has socked away tons of money. All he does in the winter is sit here for hours, then open the shop and read books on astronomy while he wonders where all the shoppers are. Rough life.”
“Amber, is there anyone here who doesn’t ... surf to the beat of a different wave, as you put it?”
“Yep. Law of averages says there is. I just don’t know who,” she said and turned, with my order for a Belgian waffle committed to memory.
* * * *
I didn’t remember everything Charles, Larry, and I had talked about, but vaguely recalled that we were supposed to meet at the shop at five. Beyond that, all I remembered about Charles’s grand plan was that it could result in incarceration. That should’ve been enough to make me realize it couldn’t have been the best plan ever created.
“Do you remember what we’re supposed to do tonight?” asked Larry as he opened the door just before the designated hour.
Regretfully, I told him that the previous night’s wine had erased some of my memory. Larry nodded all too sympathetically. We decided that if Charles failed to bring the details with him, we would spend a couple of hours talking about nothing and go our separate ways. To be honest, that had to be the best plan.
Just as I was completing that thought, Charles bounded through the door. If I had a cuckoo clock in the shop, it would have been crowing five times. He was dressed in a blue and gold University of Delaware Fighting Blue Hens sweatshirt; a black, logo-free, ball cap; black jeans; and black tennis shoes. If it weren’t for the signature cane, a little gold on his shirt, his red gloves, and his pasty white face, I would have missed him.
“Well, guys, are you ready?” he said.
Larry looked at me; I stared at Charles.
“Ready for what, exactly?” said Larry. “We were having trouble remembering the details.”
I thought Larry was being exceedingly generous; we were missing a lot more than the details.
“Simple,” said Charles. “We’re just going to take a nice winter walk.”
“And?” I asked, performing my usual tooth-pulling dentistry.
“And then we’ll visit Julius Palmer’s house. And then, since I seriously doubt he’ll answer the door, we’ll have to invite ourselves in, using one of Larry’s many talents. And then, since we’re already in the house, we’ll look for evidence about who killed him. And then .”
“And then, we’ll go directly to jail, without passing go,” I said.
I was pleased to see Larry slowly moving closer to me. Two against one, I hoped.
“Guys, come on. Unless we grab the bull by the balls, we’ll never solve this crime. We agreed last night—now let’s go,” said Charles.
And I had always thought you were supposed to grab that sucker somewhere else; live and learn.
“Charles,” said Larry, breaking the awkward silence, “assuming we go along with this harebrained plan, why do you think we’ll be able to find anything about the killing? Especially after his house was already broken into.”
“See, Larry, that’s the reason we need to do this,” said Charles. “How else’ll we know what’s there? Besides, we’re much smarter than the average killer; we’ll find what he missed. Doesn’t that make sense?”
Not knowing which part Charles was referring to, I simply said sure. That’s was the only response he would hear anyway.
“Okay, let’s hurry,” said Charles, pointing his cane at me. “We want to get there just before sunset, so you can stay outside and be the lookout. If anyone comes by, you say you’re taking pictures in the area with your big camera while giving them your innocent look. Everyone will believe that. Larry and I can go through the house, and when we find something, we can either borrow it, or I can take its picture.”
* * * *
The three of us, collars pulled tight around our necks to block the cold winds swirling around the island, traipsed six blocks to Palmer’s house. I was in my warmest, down-filled coat and Tilley; Charles, dressed in almost all black with his camera strap over his shoulder, looked as if he were headed to a Halloween party at the University of Delaware; and bundled-up Larry looked like a jockey who had lost his mount in a snowdrift. No one would mistake the three of us for the three wise men headed to Bethlehem—especially the wise part. I was also burdened with my heavy tripod and camera. Most wouldn’t have noticed, but I wouldn’t be able to convince a knowledgeable photographer that I was taking photos without the aid of a tripod in this light—or more accurately, lack of light.
Palmer’s house had been built in the 1930s. No stranger to hurricanes, it had been beaten down by weather and age. The color was a faded pink—not an uncommon color in older resort areas along the coast. Thick wooden legs held it above the high tides that accompanied most tropical storms. I knew it was deceptively sturdy, despite its outward appearance, and would stand up to most extremes that Mother Nature threw its way.
“Here we are, crew,” said Charles. “Are we ready to execute our well-thought-out and brilliant plan?”
Clearly, I had forgotten a great deal of last night’s planning; my foggy recollections seemed far from brilliant.
“Charles, this better be worth it,” said Larry. “I’ve stayed on the right side of the law for many years. I’m about ten seconds from backing out now.”
“I understand, Larry,” said Charles as he took off his red gloves. “If this weren’t so important to my friend Chris, we wouldn’t be here. He’ll make sure we don’t get caught.”
Yep, I had forgotten more than I thought.
I found a rotting fence post framed by a stand of decorative grasses in the corner of Palmer’s front yard nearest the road. The winter brown of the grasses contrasted nicely with the white paint peeling off the decommissioned post. I set the tripod in plain sight and prepared to photograph the post and its surroundings while performing my chief task as lookout. If necessary, I could communicate with the “inside crew” via Larry’s cell phone. Charles said cell phones were the work of the devil and refused to entertain the thought of getting one. Most likely, cost was the reason.
The lack of vehicles in the neighbors’ drives or lights in any of the windows reinforced our belief that there were no prying eyes close enough to notice the odd couple climbing the stairs to the wraparound porch on Palmer’s home. The cat burglars, pro and amateur, were in the house before I had a chance to look around. I saw how Larry made a successful living in his pre—hardware store, pre-incarceration days.
The good thing about most of the roads on Folly was unless you were going to a house on them, there was no reason for much drive-by traffic. And in February, there were seldom reasons to drive down the more remote roads. West Ashley Avenue wasn’t that remote, but it would have been surprising to see traffic. Besides, I had a good, legitimate reason for staring at the rotting fence pole. In fact, I was doing such a good job photographing it, I didn’t notice at first that I had company.
The distinct sound of a car door closing jarred me out of my concentration. From my peripheral vision, I noticed the sound came from a white Ford Crown Victoria. That jarred me more, especially since this particular Crown Vic had a blue light bar on top and the distinct logo of the City of Folly Beach, Department of Public Safety on the side. Off the top of my head, I couldn’t think of a vehicle I wanted to see less.
“Officer Spencer, good evening,” I said, as I tried to keep my voice sounding opposite of how I felt.
“Hi, Mr. Landrum. I see you’re at it again. What’re you shooting this time?” asked the young member to the department.
Good beginning. “Oh, this time of year, around sunset, you get a unique quality of light; it reflects the weather, cold and lonely. This old fence post e that feeling for me. It’s one of many mundane landmarks on the island I like photographing.”
I hoped that explanation sounded mundane enough so he would decide quickly to move on—surely there was crime on the island he could pursue. Other than the one being committed a mere few feet away.
“Did you know that’s Mr. Palmer’s house?” he said as he closely scrutinized the exterior of the house currently inhabited by my two felonious friends.
“I knew he lived around here. Speaking of Mr. Palmer, someone was talking about you the day after he died,” I said, redirecting the topic and his gaze.
“Who?”
“Diane, the desk clerk at the Holiday Inn. She said you were there early that morning. Said you were the cute officer.”
“She’s a real sweet kid,” he said. “She’d be even more attractive if she’d lose a little weight.”
The real sweet kid in question was, most likely, older than Officer Spencer, but that was the way police officers talked. At least he was talking about her instead of wondering who might be in the closest house.
Spencer was facing me and looking away from the late Julius Palmer’s house when the door opened, and Charles started out. Larry, digging deep into his years of experience, was more astute about exiting a house where he had not been invited and looked around first, then grabbed Charles by his belt and dragged him back in the house. I took a breath; it had been a while since I had one. It was sorely needed.
“I’d better get back on patrol,” said Spencer. “Have a good evening, Mr. Landrum.”
I didn‘t tell him my evening was getting better by the second. After he turned the cruiser and headed back toward town, my two friends scampered down the stairs and toward me. I removed my camera from the tripod in record time and rapidly walked with Larry and Charles the same direction Spencer took.
“Chris,” said Charles. “Have we got a passel of stuff to ponder.”
Charles shared this insight within shouting distance of the crime. The sun had just sunk below our vision, but I suspected it was going to be a long, interesting night.
CHAPTER 22
Charles and Larry were in stiff competition to see who could tell me the most about their adventure. By the time we entered the gallery, I had had enough of the contest and finally yelled “Time out!” More calmly, I then asked if they wanted something to drink—hot or cold. The introduction of drink into the conversation slowed them momentarily. But it didn’t take long for them to say “beer, a bunch of them” before moving back to whatever they had been trying to say in unison.
Charles was pacing back and forth, his mouth moving as quickly as his cane. The ancient furnace churned out warm, dry air. It felt great.
“Chris,” he said, “that was one spooky casa. Palmer had to be the newest thing in there—when he was in it, that is. Everything, and I mean everything, was ancient. He had more antiques in his house than some of the larger stores in Charleston—hell, more than the antique mall. And, that doesn’t even count the stuffed parrot and something that looked like a stuffed beaver, and ...”
“Don’t forget to tell about the man who attacked you,” said Larry, sporting a huge grin. He was leaning against the side wall, watching Charles pace.
“He . it . didn’t attack me. I went around the corner into the living room and was surprised to see a suit of armor standing there.”
“Is that why you yelled ‘Larry, run, before he catches you’?”
“I just said ‘Larry, run.’ I was startled. You don’t often see one of those huge sardine-can people in a dark room. Besides, I was looking out for you and trying to save your life. Is this how you repay me?”
“I wish I had been the one holding Charles’s camera,” said Larry, still leaning against the wall. “He did stand up to that silent, completely motionless attacker.”
“Enough about that,” said Charles. “I’ve got photos I need to download. I think I found some interesting stuff but didn’t have time to read it all. Besides, it was dark.”
The three of us moved to the back room and the computer that was on an old card table in the corner. There were only two chairs, so I stood while Charles took the memory card from the camera and attached it to the computer. He rapidly downloaded thirty-four images.
“The first bunch is just an overview of the house,” said Charles. “I didn’t know what I was looking for, so I shot everything.”
He was right: the rooms were filled with antiques. I was surprised there was enough space to walk around, particularly in the dining room and what I guess was an extra bedroom. Most of the pieces appeared European, and though I didn’t know much about antiques, they looked expensive. The kitchen was the neatest room in the house. I could picture Julius cooking supper for his dinner guest, Amelia. What I couldn’t picture was them wandering through the rest of the house without bruising their legs on the corners of the highly experienced furnishings.
“The office is a mess,” said Charles as he pointed to the image on the screen. “I understand why the police said they couldn’t tell if this is how he usually left things or someone went through the papers and left them like that.”
“What’re these?” I asked as he clicked on a half dozen images of what looked like handwritten notes and bank statements.
“These are what’s going to tell us who killed pack-rat Palmer,” Charles proudly proclaimed.
The first photo was of a copy of a cancelled check made out for five thousand dollars to Amelia Hogan.
“I found three bank statements beginning with November,” he said. “I didn’t go through each cancelled check—Larry told me not to dally, and he’s the expert on break-in etiquette. Each showed a five-thousand-dollar debit around the tenth of the month. Since the last one was made out to Ms. Hogan, I assumed the others were too.”
