The Pier, page 14
“Actually, none. My curiosity got the best of me, and I drove by it. Thought maybe the ex wanted to sell; I didn’t ring the damn bell but will give her a call. Now, do you want to hear what else I learned or quiz me about my driving habits?”
After I assured him I wanted to hear the rest of the valuable information and wasn’t concerned about whose house he cased, he continued.
“After the divorce was finalized, Lucas transferred his portion of the house to her,” said Bob. “He had to refinance and borrow an additional 1.5 million to pay her off. Apparently, there wasn’t a large amount of equity; he’d taken second mortgages a couple of times to put money into his pawnshops. I called a broker friend last night. Believe it or not, I do have friends ... sort of.”
“Law of averages,” I interrupted. “Meet enough people, and someone’ll be desperate enough to call you a friend.”
“He told me Lucas was one of the more shady characters in Mount Pleasant,” he said, ignoring my comment. “The pawnshops are in financial trouble, and there’d even been rumors of drugs being sold out of two of them. Nobody was accusing Lucas directly, but everyone suspected he had knowledge about it.”
Bob’s breakfast pie arrived, and he spent all of thirty seconds devouring it before continuing. Correction: devouring, belching, and then continuing!
“Lucas moved to a small condo with a large mortgage beside the bridge to Charleston. My friend—okay, you win, my acquaintance—said the hot gossip during the Lucas divorce case was who would get possession of his two pride-and-joy boats, a forty-five-foot classic Chris-Craft and a thirty-foot speedboat. Eventually, Harry got the damn boats, since his ex got the mansion.”
I told him I remembered seeing the photos of the Spoleto party Lucas had had on the Chris-Craft. Bob waxed philosophically and told me Charleston and the surrounding wealthy communities were saturated with the most smiling, unhappy people in the universe. I didn’t ask how he conducted his survey—especially the universe part—and before I could ask anything else, he said he couldn’t keep his paying clients waiting and got up. As he walked away, Bob called over his shoulder that he would talk to some more acquaintances and see if anyone could shed light on the less-than-stellar citizen Harry Lucas. I didn’t have time to tell him about the previous night; I’m not sure I would have anyway. If I didn’t talk about it, maybe it didn’t happen.
I finished breakfast, said a few words to two city council members, and walked across the street to the gallery and site of my near demise.
* * * *
I stood in the center of the room and stared at the empty walls, walked around the near-empty space, and realized that hanging photos was the only task left. I decided it was time to finally address reality. The only thing slowing me down was fear. And if Charles were here, he would quote one of his long-dead presidents with something like, “The only thing to fear is fear itself.” I didn’t totally agree. I had a fear of falling off a cliff. It seemed that the fear wasn’t of fear itself, but of falling and the abrupt and quite fatal encounter with the ground. Regardless, Charles would tell me to get on with it, overcome my fear of possible failure, and get the gallery opened. It was even more scary to be guided by the WWCD system: What Would Charles Do!
I also realized we weren’t getting closer to a leading candidate for the murder of Palmer. To the contrary: the list was increasing. Steven Hogan, someone from the Preserve the Past gang, and now Harry Lucas. At least Amelia Hogan’s name had been removed, I supposed.
Was last night really an attempt on our lives? I wondered. Is my headache real or imagined? I hung two photos and headed home.
CHAPTER 28
The next day began as a mirror image of the one before it, with an early morning call from Tammy.
This time, she reported on another of Amelia Hogan’s children, Mike. It seemed Mr. Hogan, thirty-three, was single and considered himself God’s gift to women. And as he gallivanted around in the social circles as a successful stockbroker, he allowed many women the opportunity of getting to know him. According to Tammy, his good looks, sharp features, slicked-back black hair, tall thin frame, and impeccable attire attracted a bevy of beauties.
“The interesting thing about Mike,” said Tammy, “is he appears to be living over his head—way over his head. He definitely considers himself successful, but he hasn’t been in the business long enough to accumulate the kind of wealth needed to join the expensive clubs in Charleston, play golf regularly on his home course at Kiawah, and drive a new Jaguar XK convertible. I hear that baby starts at more than eighty grand. Mr. Hogan’s headed for a collision with the debt collectors.”
“Sounds like we have another suspect,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Now that you ask, yes. I thought I’d save the best for last. I was told by someone who attended two parties at Mike’s condo that his rooms are chock full of antiques. My friend knows antiques, so she asked Mike where he found such . . . „ exquisite pieces.”
“From Julius Palmer,” I guessed.
“You got it.”
Amazing coincidence.
“Your information gets more and more interesting,” I said. “Anything else about Steven?”
“Chris, I do have a job. I can’t spend time helping you and your friends chase wild geese.”
I was pressing my luck. “No, of course not. You’ve already been helpful.”
I resisted the temptation to ask if either of the Hogan boys were experienced in furnace repair.
“Any idea when you’ll have some free time?” I asked. I regretted it before I finished, but once I had started, I couldn’t stop. “When you do, I’ll come over. We can do whatever ... whatever you have time for.”
“I really don’t know,” she replied after a noticeable hesitation that reinforced a couple of recent discussions—more accurately, mild arguments—we had had about her job interfering with us spending time together. “Got to run,” she continued. “If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.”
The recently forming hole in my stomach—or maybe in my heart—was beginning to grow.
Fully awake and in need of positive reinforcement, I headed to breakfast.
“Morning, Chris. Temple tells me you and your lovable, crude, loud Realtor friend were in yesterday,” said Amber before I could be seated.
“If you mean Bob Howard, you’re correct. We missed you.”
More mindless small talk and good food filled my stomach and distracted me from the uneasy feelings I had about the state of my relationship.
“I heard a couple of things you might be interested in,” Amber said between serving other customers. “Another one of our Canadian friends with a condo said he was looking for a designer to help with spiffing up his unit. Said he couldn’t even pick out a tie to go with his coat, so he was clueless about fabrics and that other designer stuff. He asked me, of all people, if I could suggest someone. Can you picture me knowing many interior designers? Everything in my apartment came from Target, K-Mart, or Goodwill.”
I was already zero for two in telling my friends about the “accidental” gas leak. Amber broke the streak. She listened patiently as I blurted out the story, right in the middle of whatever she was trying to tell me. I wouldn’t have gone into so much detail if she had told me that she had already heard the story from two police officers, one city council member, and Cool Dude Sloan. Clearly, I had suffered a mental lapse about where I was and who I was talking to.
“So why didn’t you tell me that before I told you the whole story?” I asked.
“Wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth—your version wasn’t as exciting as most of the others,” she said. “Speaking of parts of a horse, you’re now the other end for not telling me sooner. I’ve been mad at you for two days, and I wasn’t even here yesterday.”
She finally smiled, gave me an awkward hug, and said she was glad I was okay. I reminded her she was telling me something about a Canadian.
“Oh, yeah,” she continued. “He said he heard about one guy who was good, but someone said the designer had worked on another house, and some jewelry turned up missing afterward. No one could prove the designer was responsible, but who knows? I asked him if he could remember the name of the designer. He said no, but that he was obviously gay. Sounds like that Hogan guy to me.”
I asked if she’d have a chance to talk to him again. She doubted it—thought he had gone back to Toronto over the weekend.
I changed the subject. “So, what did you do on your day off?”
I was surprised when she said she went to Charleston and walked through the historic market.
“I don’t get out much,” Amber explained, “and wonder about all the stuff my customers are talking about. Working six days a week and being with Jason after school doesn’t give me much free time. I had a nice lunch at a cute little restaurant and just enjoyed being by myself. You know what I really liked?”
I shrugged.
“Having someone wait on me,” she continued.
That glimmer of insight made me feel even better about Amber, and I had already been firmly ensconced in her camp to begin with. Before I left, she gave me another hug and said to take care of myself. I agreed that would be a good—very good—idea.
* * * *
Some piddling around the gallery, hanging a few more framed images, and walking over to the Folly pier to see if there were any winter photo opportunities had left me with the need for some human interaction. In my search for a couple of brackets to help manage my computer cables, I walked the few short blocks to Pewter Hardware. Larry’s orange, late-model Ford pickup truck, with the Pewter Hardware logo proudly adorning the driver’s door, was the only vehicle in the small, shell-covered parking lot.
“Hi, Chris. What can I do for you this afternoon?”
It was a nice feeling, being greeted by name in so many shops and restaurants. I kept thinking how often that happened in Louisville—less than once was my best estimate. I told Larry what I needed, and he showed me two options. I also asked if he’d seen Charles lately.
“No, but interesting you should ask,” he said as he took my cash. “I expect him here any minute. We’re going to order pizza, share a beer or two, and shoot the breeze about all the goings-on on Folly. This time of year, that’ll be tough. Basically, nothing’s going on. My business is nearly dead, at least until the middle of next month. You’re welcome to join us. I don’t close until six; Charles is bringing the pizza a little earlier. Have you got that furnace checked yet?”
I confessed I hadn’t.
“Well, you should,” he said emphatically. I agreed.
It was nearly five, so I couldn’t come up with a single good reason not to participate in their party. I didn’t try too hard.
Two hours later, it was dark along the eastern seaboard; Pewter Hardware had been closed for business; and Charles, Larry, and I were feasting on a second pep-peroni pizza, the fifth or sixth bottle of beer, and the second half of a bottle of Cabernet. We had solved all the local governmental issues (throw out all the incumbents), listened to Charles’s solution for bringing more tourists to the island in the dead of winter (open a Presidential Library for all the forgotten and ineffective dead United States presidents), and how to decrease the nation’s dependence on cell phones (okay, we didn’t solve that one).
The conversation turned more serious. Larry asked if we had made any progress on identifying who might have killed Palmer and tried to do Charles and me in.
“Larry,” said Charles, “you’re the expert on the criminal mind in this group. What do you think?”
“Thanks, Charles,” he said. “I’m glad you keep reminding me of my ancient past.”
“Not so ancient, if my memory serves me correctly,” interrupted Charles, as he pointed his cane roughly in the direction of the Palmer house.
“Whatever,” responded Larry. “From my limited—thank you, Lord—experience with convicted killers, they’re not the brightest rats in the cage. While your tax dollars were providing my living quarters, I knew three of them. All three said—or tried to say, I guess, because I couldn’t understand what they were saying most of the time—that they killed simply because it sounded like a good idea. No premeditation, no well-thought-out plan, and not even much interest in not getting caught.”
“That’s not the case with Palmer,” I mused. “Someone knew his routines, knew enough not to be captured on the surveillance cameras at the bank when he made his daily deposit, knew how to make it appear to be suicide, and even knew enough about his fear of the water not to just take him to the end of the pier and push him off. Palmer would have resisted mightily and been in worse shape when they found his body.”
“So the killer ranks somewhere between the putty-brains Larry shared living quarters with and a Rhodes scholar,” said Charles after deep thought.
“Who are the most likely suspects?” asked Larry.
“Of course, Amelia would have been the top choice, if it weren’t for her health,” I said. “She claims she didn’t know about the will, but we don’t know that for sure.”
“She wouldn’t have had much to gain by killing him,” added Charles. “Her days are numbered. Mr. Palmer promised to take care of her. And besides, she’s a nice lady.”
“Then her children have to be considered,” I said. “Sandy has the most contact with her mother. She could easily have known about the will before anyone else; she works in the law office that drew it up. I don’t guess any of us know much about her.”
“There’s gay Steven,” said Charles. “Most likely, he’d been inside Palmer’s house on more than one occasion, where he’d have easy access to the will. He may be the designer who is tied to the rumor about stolen jewelry. Not a ringing endorsement of his character.”
“And we can’t forget Mike,” I added. “From what Tammy said this morning, he’s living over his head and had been in Palmer’s store. Again, someone with access to the will.”
“In other words,” said Larry, “we can’t rule out any of the children.”
“Add two more suspects to the entire Hogan family,” I said.
“I suppose you mean Harry Lucas,” said Charles. “He seems slimy enough to be the killer.”
“Yes, that’s one. I wouldn’t think the entire case could hinge on his sliminess, but when you couple that with his budding relationship with Amelia and his seemingly dire financial straits, he moves to the top,” I said and looked at Larry for his thoughts.
“Let me guess the other candidate,” my new friend said. “The entire membership of Preserve the Past. They inherit more than three million dollars.”
“That’s who I meant ... but who would directly benefit?” I asked. “They get the money, but no one person will have access to it, and it seems unlikely the entire group would be involved.”
“You say unlikely, but I say between likely and improbable,” said Charles.
That sounded like something one of his dead presidents would have said .or someone in Peanuts.
“Those Preserve the Past folks occasionally act like tree huggers on water,” he explained. “They’re against development and most anything new, so I wouldn’t exactly trust them to always do the right thing.”
“I’ll ask around some and see if any of my customers can tell me anything about the group; some are in it,” said Larry. “But before we put the suspects in a lineup and convict one, there’s another possibility that hasn’t been mentioned. Over the years, I was in prison with hundreds of convicted felons. All but about ten said they were innocent—swore it almost daily. Assuming about two percent of those professing innocence were telling the truth—the first time for many of them—that meant there were five or so guilty people running around loose—”
“And your point?” interrupted Charles.
“My point is there’s just as good a chance it was someone that we don’t know a whit about. That’s more likely. There are seventeen zillion people it could be, and we’ve only identified a few.”
Mathematically, Larry was correct. But since we couldn’t talk about each of those seventeen zillion people, we needed to concentrate on those we knew.
“Larry,” said Charles. “I think you need to be an honorary member of the C&C Detective Agency. Your thinking as a criminal—retired, mostly—will give us a heads-up on the others, especially the police.”
“I know you meant that as a compliment, but it didn’t sound like it,” said Larry.
The pizza was gone, and we’d dissected the suspects about as much as we could.
“Charles,” I said, “I’m going to Charleston in the morning to pick up the framed photos. Want to go?”
“Sure. I think my calendar’s got a hole in it,” he said.
I thought his calendar through next February was one large hole; maybe he knew something he wasn’t telling.
“I’ll pick you up at nine. Now, gentlemen, I think we’re all about three drinks beyond being able to solve this tonight.”
CHAPTER 29
The mild weather continued. In fact, the forecast predicted unseasonably warm temperatures in the upper sixties, along with plenty of sunshine. As usual, Charles was ready and waiting for me outside his small, weather-beaten apartment. For someone who didn’t wear a watch, he was always prompt—a trait I appreciated.
“So, what’s our agenda?” Charles asked. “Looks like a great day. How about skydiving, or perhaps scuba diving, or maybe just visiting some dives?”
“Charles, did I forget something I said? I believe my offer was to go to Charleston and pick up some framed photos. I don’t recall using the words ‘diving’ or ‘dives.’ I take it you want to do something other than play delivery person for Landrum Gallery.”
