The Pier, page 23
“That’s interesting,” said Larry—his first words since he had told the chief he was fine and the weather looked nice at the beginning of our meeting.
“You guys wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” asked the chief with a look between a scowl and grin.
“Could’ve been anyone,” said Charles in a lofty manner that wouldn’t convince any court. I chose to remain silent, having remembered one of Charles’s quotes that said something about you can’t be misquoted if you don’t say anything. I was thinking more in terms of “a lie isn’t a lie if you don’t verbalize it,” but close enough.
“I guess that covers that topic,” said the chief. “Chris, I see all these framed photos sitting back here; your showroom looks finished, so when are you opening?
I was glad he had chosen to change direction, so I spent the next few minutes repeating the word “soon.”
“He’s afraid to open,” said Charles conspiratorially. “He doesn’t think anyone will buy anything, and he’ll have to move back to Louisville—or go over to Charleston and become a Wal-Mart greeter.”
Brian continued walking, erect and formal in his starched uniform, around the room, looking at the large framed photos leaning against the wall.
“As long as a career as a private eye isn’t one of your options, I’ll buy one when you open,” said Brian. “A cheap one, that is—not one of those big-framed beauts.”
“I’m thinking about having a preopening sale for some of my more loyal potential patrons,” I said. “We’ll be able to work out a better price.”
“Sounds a lot like an attempted bribe to a local chief of police,” said Brian, smile affixed—sincere, I hoped. “I’m a closet art collector, so I think I’d qualify for the ‘loyal potential patrons’ loophole.’”
With the attempted bribery charges dropped, we said our good-byes. Brian thanked us for our stumbling into “law enforcement” and said he always welcomed the help of vigilant citizens. He was a poor liar.
After Brian left, Larry looked at his watch and said, “We gave it our best shot. That’s all we can do. Now I need to get back—the nuts and bolts are beckoning.”
“Hold on,” said Charles. “Those hardware thingies will wait. Nuts have been calling me all my life, sometimes you have to ignore them.”
“Larry’s right, you know,” I added, looking directly at Charles. “We need to leave it to the police.”
“Where have you two been?” asked Charles as he stood and began pacing around the small room. “The chief of the Folly Beach Police Department is begging us to help him solve the terrible murder of Mr. Palmer.”
“What?” Larry and I said in unison.
“How do you figure that?” I continued.
“Didn’t you hear him say he welcomed the help of vigilant citizens? Didn’t you hear him say, by not saying, that he knew we were the ones who found Mike and reported it? Didn’t you hear him not say he was upset about it?” He was pacing the entire width of the gallery, pointing his cane toward the ceiling with each “didn’t.”
“Yes,” I replied, “no, and on the last one, don’t know—couldn’t understand the question. Now please explain, for those of us who missed some of the very clear directions the chief gave us, what you’re talking about.”
Larry nodded in agreement. He remained in the swiveling secretary chair, leaving the sale of nuts and bolts to others for a few more minutes. Now we had Charles outnumbered two to one—still not a fair fight for our side, but closer.
Charles gave us his supposedly clear-as-day explanation. We listened. We gave in. If Charles didn’t leave his brain to science, the world would be a sadder place—more logical, but sadder.
The plan we devised wasn’t as complex as the invasion of Normandy but seemed as daunting. It would involve the cooperation of Amber, Bob, Chief Newman, karma, luck, prayer, greed and fear in the killer or killers, and things we hadn’t even thought of. And, in that mix, timing was critical.
No sweat!
CHAPTER 42
For sake of simplicity and our mental health, we had narrowed the most likely suspects to three; our primary suspect had plummeted off the list with the demise of Mike Hogan. Considering the population of the world, we knew our assumptions were a bit naive.
After some preliminary planning by C, C, and L, I spent most of Friday afternoon hanging the rest of the framed prints, taking another step toward opening Landrum Gallery and facing the reality of acceptance and rejection—or worse yet, apathy. Regardless of how optimistic I wanted to be, I had identified one or two ways to succeed and countless opportunities to fail.
My home-cooked supper consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Doritos, two sweet pickles, and a Diet Pepsi. I clearly hadn’t wasted time watching the food channel. My mind kept vacillating between the gallery and the semblance of a plan we devised—a plan to catch a killer. Bottom line: if I were in a casino, I wouldn’t put any money on either winning. But with the gallery, all I had to lose was a pot load of money and gain a serious deflation of my ego. The stakes were drastically higher on the killer-catching journey—up to and including death. I was concerned about that last one—especially my own.
* * * *
The weather gods had done everything possible to ensure a better mood—not only mine, but that of everyone on this laid-back barrier island. The forecasters in
Charleston had called for sunny skies with the temperature rising to the mid seventies—a treat for this time of year.
Unlike some of my South Carolina friends, I had waited for the earliest reasonable hour to call Bill and ask if he was up to visiting Amelia.
“Chris, that sounds like a great idea. I was thinking about her last night.”
Still on my politeness kick, I then called Amelia to see if she was up to visitors. She said Sandy was there but would be leaving shortly; she also told me she welcomed a visit from Jay’s friend. She didn’t say it, but I counted myself in the number of people she would welcome as well. After all, she didn’t tell me to send Bill by himself.
I called Bill back and said I’d meet him at his house, and the two of us could walk to Amelia’s. This was out of my way, since Amelia lived quite near me, so I added that I’d be near his place anyway. The walking and talking would be good for both of us.
He opened his door before I reached the front porch. I was pleased to see him rather dapperly attired and with a broad smile—a far different appearance from not that many days ago.
“Thanks for calling,” he said as he stepped onto the porch. “I’ve wanted to call Amelia since I returned but didn’t know what to say. To be honest, I had been a little embarrassed to talk to her after all the struggles she’s been facing. I know she’ll ask how I am; considering what she’s been through, I’m near perfect.”
“She’s been asking about you,” I said as we began walking toward her humble abode. “It’ll do her good to focus on something other than her problems.”
I filled Bill in on the plan Charles, Larry, and I had hatched and what his role would be. He listened without comment, then rehearsed his lines before we reached Amelia’s house. Interesting, I thought.
I was surprised when Steven answered my knock. The last I had heard, he was in jail. He didn’t appear surprised; his mom had told him we were coming.
“We’ve never met,” he began, “but unless I’ve badly mistaken, you must be Chris, and you Bill.”
He looked at the appropriate person as he said it.
“Please come in,” he continued. “Mom’s expecting you.”
I bit my tongue and didn’t ask what he was doing out of the hoosegow. He led us the short distance to the family room. Amelia was already standing and approached us with a big smile and a hug for Bill. She gave a polite hug to me, but was clearly more interested in seeing Dr. Hansel. She looked much more together than she had at our last meeting; her flattering green dress was complemented by black pumps. Slovenly did not exist in her wardrobe.
“We could come back another time,” I said. “We didn’t know you had company.”
“You most certainly will not; Sandy just left, and Steven surprised me with a visit. This is a good chance for you to spend some time with him. He doesn’t get much time to visit with his new business in Charleston.”
My tongue endured a second bite as I resisted the question “What business?” especially since Bob had found the bleak notes on the door of the Design Shop.
Bill wasn’t as hungry for tongue. “My understanding was that the police were holding you for questioning in the murder of your brother,” he said. “What happened?”
It was becoming obvious that Bill’s therapist had talked with him about the importance of honesty—honesty with himself, honesty with others, honesty with people who might kill us all.
“Would either of you like something to drink?” Amelia nervously asked, acting oblivious to Bill’s question.
We opted for iced tea—hot winter weather outside and all. Amelia played the gracious hostess and hurried to the kitchen.
“That’s a fair question, Bill.” Steven, who was seated across from us, looked Bill directly in the eyes when he responded, with no signs of defensiveness. “The police finally checked where I said I was at the time of my self-indulgent brother’s death. Why they didn’t do that before corralling me, I’ll never know. They’re convinced I wasn’t able to be on the north side of Charleston and Kiawah at the same time. It was embarrassing, but thank God it’s over.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Bill. “I know that must be a relief. Being in captivity, I’m beginning to learn, is a far more terrible experience than I could ever have imagined.”
“I’m not off the hook,” said Steven. His candor was refreshing; maybe he and Bill shared the same therapist. “The police also accused me of breaking into Mr. Palmer’s house. Regretfully, it’s true. I’ll have to face criminal charges. They allowed me to post bail.”
“Why?” I cleverly tried to sneak the question into the conversation. I hoped he would believe he was just thinking the question and reply. Occasionally, I impressed myself.
“After Mr. Palmer died, I began hearing rumors that he left a large amount of money to some lighthouse-preservation group and a woman on Folly Beach. I didn’t want to be so crass as to ask Mom about it. I knew they’d been friends for years. Was it possible she was the one?”
Hmm ... not crass enough to have asked his mother a question, but crass enough to break and enter.
Amelia had just returned with our tea. “That’s enough about such an unpleasant topic,” she said. “I’m sure Steven had his reasons and is willing to pay the consequences. Now, how are you, Bill?”
Bill gave an abbreviated version of his stay in Charleston and how he was doing so much better now—and ready to get back in front of his students.
Bill took his tea, added sugar, and continued. “Amelia, we both know that Julius wouldn’t have killed himself. Chris and some of his friends believe they have some information that’ll prove who was responsible for our dear friend’s death. From what I’ve heard, I think they’ll be able to prove who did it in the next few days. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Bill had presented the comments exactly as he’d rehearsed—the problem was Steven hearing them directly. Great—the first part of the plan that had sounded so good yesterday was already going astray. We hadn’t wanted any of the prime suspects to hear specifics this early—or directly from us.
“Is that true, Chris?” asked Amelia. “That would be so wonderful.”
“Let’s don’t get the cart before the horse,” I said. “We have suspicions, but we need proof. We have some leads and may possibly be able to prove the cause of death but may never be able to find out who did it.”
I hoped I’d said enough so Steven wouldn’t be too suspicious.
“I wish you the best of luck,” Amelia said. “And speaking of good news, Harry Lucas and I’ve talked about getting married.”
“That’s wonderful,” responded Bill.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve resisted, my health being what it is, but he insists. Says while we might not have years together, the time we do is special.” Her huge smile lit the room.
Special? That was an understatement. That announcement vaulted Mr. Lucas to the top of the list.
“Bill and I better be going,” I said, standing up. “I don’t want to interrupt the time you have with Steven.”
“You two are welcome anytime. If you don’t mind, I’d love to invite you to the wedding.”
“I’d be honored,” said Bill. “Any idea when?”
I remained silent, my best faux smile pasted under my nose.
“Not yet, but soon,” she said. “It won’t be anything fancy—just a short service at church. There won’t be formal invitations but I’ll be sure to call.”
She hugged both of us. Gracious as usual, she said she was glad Bill was doing better, even instructing him to please let her know if she could help him in any way. And she was standing there with only a few months to live. If only I had so much courage.
Steven walked us to the door and said it meant a lot to his mother that we visited. He said she told him how much she enjoyed meeting and talking to Bill, but was sorry it was under such horrible circumstances.
One (mis)step in our plan down; more to go.
CHAPTER 43
“Damn late for lunch. You ought to be glad I waited on you.”
These warm and fuzzy words from Bob resounded over the distinct slip notes of Floyd Cramer’s piano classic “Last Date.” I had just entered Bob’s Charleston hangout, Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill.
“I figured you were already here when I heard country music,” I said.
Bob was seated in his booth, his ample stomach touching the front of the table. Most likely, he had combed his hair in the last four days.
“Damn right—only kind of music,” he said. “It’s damn lucky that Al isn’t racially challenged and stocks the jukebox with white men’s blues music. He sticks in a few old jazz songs and some by the Supremes for his unenlightened brethren.”
I was impressed by how politically correct my most non-politically correct friend was being. I wondered if it had anything to do with us sitting in a dark bar surrounded by twenty or so African Americans. Bob was rude, tactless, and boor-ish—not stupid.
“At least he doesn’t have any of that rap crap on it,” Bob continued.
Whoops, I’d given him too much credit.
Fortunately, Bob moved on. “So what’s so important you made me eat late and sit in a dark room on such a lovely Saturday?” he asked between bites of what appeared to be Al’s famous cheeseburger. “I could be out getting a glowing tan riding around in my Realtormobile.”
Al came over and asked how I wanted my cheeseburger before I could answer Bob. Al had either remembered what I ordered the last time or knew the only decent food on his menu was the cheeseburger.
“Bob, I need a couple of favors.”
“Then you’re buying my lunch and two desserts—maybe more.”
“Deal. Now, when’re you meeting Harry Lucas again?”
“Early next week,” he said. “He doesn’t know it, but I have three potential buyers for his shops. Can’t bring him anyone too damn quick; if he thought it was that easy, he wouldn’t want to pay my hefty commission.” Bob stuffed one of Al’s gourmet French fries in his already full mouth and mumbled, “Why?” At least I think it was “why.” It could have been cry, pie, or fly—surely he didn’t tell me to die.
I explained what I needed. He called me a “total idiot hell-bent on self-destruction.” I agreed with him for a change.
Al delivered my cholesterol-boosting meal, and Bob and I ate in silence for a few minutes.
“I remembered what Lucas told me about the three damn gold balls on pawnshops,” Bob said. “Something about some guy in an ancient European family of moneylenders fighting a giant by smacking him with three sacks of rocks. The sacks were pretty important and were made into the family crest. The sacks were butt ugly, so they changed them into balls and made them gold—which figures. Damn money-grubbing pawn brokers.”
“Thanks for remembering; I feel my education is complete,” I said, never looking up from my fries.
“Your way with words never ceases to amaze me. You said two favors; what’s your last wish before you get yourself offed?”
“I need a place for Charles to stay for a couple of nights. Any ideas?”
“Since you know damn well that this tourist city has about a trillion fine—and not so fine—hotels and motels, I suppose you, or your worthless twerp of a friend, are too tight to spring for a room and want me to put him up. Close?”
“Bob, it’s no wonder you have such a wonderful reputation for being generous and open-minded. I think Mr. Fowler’d be honored to take advantage of your kind offer.”
“You’re becoming as daft as your Folly friends—kind offer, humph. Okay, he’s got a room as long as he needs it. Just don’t tell me why; don’t think I could handle it on top of your other damn stupid idea.”
“Don’t we all have the right to be wrong now and then?” sang Roger Miller from Al’s color blind jukebox. Please don’t let this be one of those times, I prayed.
* * * *
I felt strange as I punched the number on the phone. I’d had more than a hundred conversations with Amber, but this was the first time I’d ever called. I had kept her number, though; we did things for a reason, I suppose.
“Amber, Chris. No, nothing’s wrong. I wanted to talk to you, and the Dog was closed by the time I got back from Charleston. Could we meet somewhere? I’d rather not talk at the restaurant. Okay, that’s fine; see you in fifteen minutes.”
“You guys wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” asked the chief with a look between a scowl and grin.
“Could’ve been anyone,” said Charles in a lofty manner that wouldn’t convince any court. I chose to remain silent, having remembered one of Charles’s quotes that said something about you can’t be misquoted if you don’t say anything. I was thinking more in terms of “a lie isn’t a lie if you don’t verbalize it,” but close enough.
“I guess that covers that topic,” said the chief. “Chris, I see all these framed photos sitting back here; your showroom looks finished, so when are you opening?
I was glad he had chosen to change direction, so I spent the next few minutes repeating the word “soon.”
“He’s afraid to open,” said Charles conspiratorially. “He doesn’t think anyone will buy anything, and he’ll have to move back to Louisville—or go over to Charleston and become a Wal-Mart greeter.”
Brian continued walking, erect and formal in his starched uniform, around the room, looking at the large framed photos leaning against the wall.
“As long as a career as a private eye isn’t one of your options, I’ll buy one when you open,” said Brian. “A cheap one, that is—not one of those big-framed beauts.”
“I’m thinking about having a preopening sale for some of my more loyal potential patrons,” I said. “We’ll be able to work out a better price.”
“Sounds a lot like an attempted bribe to a local chief of police,” said Brian, smile affixed—sincere, I hoped. “I’m a closet art collector, so I think I’d qualify for the ‘loyal potential patrons’ loophole.’”
With the attempted bribery charges dropped, we said our good-byes. Brian thanked us for our stumbling into “law enforcement” and said he always welcomed the help of vigilant citizens. He was a poor liar.
After Brian left, Larry looked at his watch and said, “We gave it our best shot. That’s all we can do. Now I need to get back—the nuts and bolts are beckoning.”
“Hold on,” said Charles. “Those hardware thingies will wait. Nuts have been calling me all my life, sometimes you have to ignore them.”
“Larry’s right, you know,” I added, looking directly at Charles. “We need to leave it to the police.”
“Where have you two been?” asked Charles as he stood and began pacing around the small room. “The chief of the Folly Beach Police Department is begging us to help him solve the terrible murder of Mr. Palmer.”
“What?” Larry and I said in unison.
“How do you figure that?” I continued.
“Didn’t you hear him say he welcomed the help of vigilant citizens? Didn’t you hear him say, by not saying, that he knew we were the ones who found Mike and reported it? Didn’t you hear him not say he was upset about it?” He was pacing the entire width of the gallery, pointing his cane toward the ceiling with each “didn’t.”
“Yes,” I replied, “no, and on the last one, don’t know—couldn’t understand the question. Now please explain, for those of us who missed some of the very clear directions the chief gave us, what you’re talking about.”
Larry nodded in agreement. He remained in the swiveling secretary chair, leaving the sale of nuts and bolts to others for a few more minutes. Now we had Charles outnumbered two to one—still not a fair fight for our side, but closer.
Charles gave us his supposedly clear-as-day explanation. We listened. We gave in. If Charles didn’t leave his brain to science, the world would be a sadder place—more logical, but sadder.
The plan we devised wasn’t as complex as the invasion of Normandy but seemed as daunting. It would involve the cooperation of Amber, Bob, Chief Newman, karma, luck, prayer, greed and fear in the killer or killers, and things we hadn’t even thought of. And, in that mix, timing was critical.
No sweat!
CHAPTER 42
For sake of simplicity and our mental health, we had narrowed the most likely suspects to three; our primary suspect had plummeted off the list with the demise of Mike Hogan. Considering the population of the world, we knew our assumptions were a bit naive.
After some preliminary planning by C, C, and L, I spent most of Friday afternoon hanging the rest of the framed prints, taking another step toward opening Landrum Gallery and facing the reality of acceptance and rejection—or worse yet, apathy. Regardless of how optimistic I wanted to be, I had identified one or two ways to succeed and countless opportunities to fail.
My home-cooked supper consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Doritos, two sweet pickles, and a Diet Pepsi. I clearly hadn’t wasted time watching the food channel. My mind kept vacillating between the gallery and the semblance of a plan we devised—a plan to catch a killer. Bottom line: if I were in a casino, I wouldn’t put any money on either winning. But with the gallery, all I had to lose was a pot load of money and gain a serious deflation of my ego. The stakes were drastically higher on the killer-catching journey—up to and including death. I was concerned about that last one—especially my own.
* * * *
The weather gods had done everything possible to ensure a better mood—not only mine, but that of everyone on this laid-back barrier island. The forecasters in
Charleston had called for sunny skies with the temperature rising to the mid seventies—a treat for this time of year.
Unlike some of my South Carolina friends, I had waited for the earliest reasonable hour to call Bill and ask if he was up to visiting Amelia.
“Chris, that sounds like a great idea. I was thinking about her last night.”
Still on my politeness kick, I then called Amelia to see if she was up to visitors. She said Sandy was there but would be leaving shortly; she also told me she welcomed a visit from Jay’s friend. She didn’t say it, but I counted myself in the number of people she would welcome as well. After all, she didn’t tell me to send Bill by himself.
I called Bill back and said I’d meet him at his house, and the two of us could walk to Amelia’s. This was out of my way, since Amelia lived quite near me, so I added that I’d be near his place anyway. The walking and talking would be good for both of us.
He opened his door before I reached the front porch. I was pleased to see him rather dapperly attired and with a broad smile—a far different appearance from not that many days ago.
“Thanks for calling,” he said as he stepped onto the porch. “I’ve wanted to call Amelia since I returned but didn’t know what to say. To be honest, I had been a little embarrassed to talk to her after all the struggles she’s been facing. I know she’ll ask how I am; considering what she’s been through, I’m near perfect.”
“She’s been asking about you,” I said as we began walking toward her humble abode. “It’ll do her good to focus on something other than her problems.”
I filled Bill in on the plan Charles, Larry, and I had hatched and what his role would be. He listened without comment, then rehearsed his lines before we reached Amelia’s house. Interesting, I thought.
I was surprised when Steven answered my knock. The last I had heard, he was in jail. He didn’t appear surprised; his mom had told him we were coming.
“We’ve never met,” he began, “but unless I’ve badly mistaken, you must be Chris, and you Bill.”
He looked at the appropriate person as he said it.
“Please come in,” he continued. “Mom’s expecting you.”
I bit my tongue and didn’t ask what he was doing out of the hoosegow. He led us the short distance to the family room. Amelia was already standing and approached us with a big smile and a hug for Bill. She gave a polite hug to me, but was clearly more interested in seeing Dr. Hansel. She looked much more together than she had at our last meeting; her flattering green dress was complemented by black pumps. Slovenly did not exist in her wardrobe.
“We could come back another time,” I said. “We didn’t know you had company.”
“You most certainly will not; Sandy just left, and Steven surprised me with a visit. This is a good chance for you to spend some time with him. He doesn’t get much time to visit with his new business in Charleston.”
My tongue endured a second bite as I resisted the question “What business?” especially since Bob had found the bleak notes on the door of the Design Shop.
Bill wasn’t as hungry for tongue. “My understanding was that the police were holding you for questioning in the murder of your brother,” he said. “What happened?”
It was becoming obvious that Bill’s therapist had talked with him about the importance of honesty—honesty with himself, honesty with others, honesty with people who might kill us all.
“Would either of you like something to drink?” Amelia nervously asked, acting oblivious to Bill’s question.
We opted for iced tea—hot winter weather outside and all. Amelia played the gracious hostess and hurried to the kitchen.
“That’s a fair question, Bill.” Steven, who was seated across from us, looked Bill directly in the eyes when he responded, with no signs of defensiveness. “The police finally checked where I said I was at the time of my self-indulgent brother’s death. Why they didn’t do that before corralling me, I’ll never know. They’re convinced I wasn’t able to be on the north side of Charleston and Kiawah at the same time. It was embarrassing, but thank God it’s over.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Bill. “I know that must be a relief. Being in captivity, I’m beginning to learn, is a far more terrible experience than I could ever have imagined.”
“I’m not off the hook,” said Steven. His candor was refreshing; maybe he and Bill shared the same therapist. “The police also accused me of breaking into Mr. Palmer’s house. Regretfully, it’s true. I’ll have to face criminal charges. They allowed me to post bail.”
“Why?” I cleverly tried to sneak the question into the conversation. I hoped he would believe he was just thinking the question and reply. Occasionally, I impressed myself.
“After Mr. Palmer died, I began hearing rumors that he left a large amount of money to some lighthouse-preservation group and a woman on Folly Beach. I didn’t want to be so crass as to ask Mom about it. I knew they’d been friends for years. Was it possible she was the one?”
Hmm ... not crass enough to have asked his mother a question, but crass enough to break and enter.
Amelia had just returned with our tea. “That’s enough about such an unpleasant topic,” she said. “I’m sure Steven had his reasons and is willing to pay the consequences. Now, how are you, Bill?”
Bill gave an abbreviated version of his stay in Charleston and how he was doing so much better now—and ready to get back in front of his students.
Bill took his tea, added sugar, and continued. “Amelia, we both know that Julius wouldn’t have killed himself. Chris and some of his friends believe they have some information that’ll prove who was responsible for our dear friend’s death. From what I’ve heard, I think they’ll be able to prove who did it in the next few days. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Bill had presented the comments exactly as he’d rehearsed—the problem was Steven hearing them directly. Great—the first part of the plan that had sounded so good yesterday was already going astray. We hadn’t wanted any of the prime suspects to hear specifics this early—or directly from us.
“Is that true, Chris?” asked Amelia. “That would be so wonderful.”
“Let’s don’t get the cart before the horse,” I said. “We have suspicions, but we need proof. We have some leads and may possibly be able to prove the cause of death but may never be able to find out who did it.”
I hoped I’d said enough so Steven wouldn’t be too suspicious.
“I wish you the best of luck,” Amelia said. “And speaking of good news, Harry Lucas and I’ve talked about getting married.”
“That’s wonderful,” responded Bill.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve resisted, my health being what it is, but he insists. Says while we might not have years together, the time we do is special.” Her huge smile lit the room.
Special? That was an understatement. That announcement vaulted Mr. Lucas to the top of the list.
“Bill and I better be going,” I said, standing up. “I don’t want to interrupt the time you have with Steven.”
“You two are welcome anytime. If you don’t mind, I’d love to invite you to the wedding.”
“I’d be honored,” said Bill. “Any idea when?”
I remained silent, my best faux smile pasted under my nose.
“Not yet, but soon,” she said. “It won’t be anything fancy—just a short service at church. There won’t be formal invitations but I’ll be sure to call.”
She hugged both of us. Gracious as usual, she said she was glad Bill was doing better, even instructing him to please let her know if she could help him in any way. And she was standing there with only a few months to live. If only I had so much courage.
Steven walked us to the door and said it meant a lot to his mother that we visited. He said she told him how much she enjoyed meeting and talking to Bill, but was sorry it was under such horrible circumstances.
One (mis)step in our plan down; more to go.
CHAPTER 43
“Damn late for lunch. You ought to be glad I waited on you.”
These warm and fuzzy words from Bob resounded over the distinct slip notes of Floyd Cramer’s piano classic “Last Date.” I had just entered Bob’s Charleston hangout, Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill.
“I figured you were already here when I heard country music,” I said.
Bob was seated in his booth, his ample stomach touching the front of the table. Most likely, he had combed his hair in the last four days.
“Damn right—only kind of music,” he said. “It’s damn lucky that Al isn’t racially challenged and stocks the jukebox with white men’s blues music. He sticks in a few old jazz songs and some by the Supremes for his unenlightened brethren.”
I was impressed by how politically correct my most non-politically correct friend was being. I wondered if it had anything to do with us sitting in a dark bar surrounded by twenty or so African Americans. Bob was rude, tactless, and boor-ish—not stupid.
“At least he doesn’t have any of that rap crap on it,” Bob continued.
Whoops, I’d given him too much credit.
Fortunately, Bob moved on. “So what’s so important you made me eat late and sit in a dark room on such a lovely Saturday?” he asked between bites of what appeared to be Al’s famous cheeseburger. “I could be out getting a glowing tan riding around in my Realtormobile.”
Al came over and asked how I wanted my cheeseburger before I could answer Bob. Al had either remembered what I ordered the last time or knew the only decent food on his menu was the cheeseburger.
“Bob, I need a couple of favors.”
“Then you’re buying my lunch and two desserts—maybe more.”
“Deal. Now, when’re you meeting Harry Lucas again?”
“Early next week,” he said. “He doesn’t know it, but I have three potential buyers for his shops. Can’t bring him anyone too damn quick; if he thought it was that easy, he wouldn’t want to pay my hefty commission.” Bob stuffed one of Al’s gourmet French fries in his already full mouth and mumbled, “Why?” At least I think it was “why.” It could have been cry, pie, or fly—surely he didn’t tell me to die.
I explained what I needed. He called me a “total idiot hell-bent on self-destruction.” I agreed with him for a change.
Al delivered my cholesterol-boosting meal, and Bob and I ate in silence for a few minutes.
“I remembered what Lucas told me about the three damn gold balls on pawnshops,” Bob said. “Something about some guy in an ancient European family of moneylenders fighting a giant by smacking him with three sacks of rocks. The sacks were pretty important and were made into the family crest. The sacks were butt ugly, so they changed them into balls and made them gold—which figures. Damn money-grubbing pawn brokers.”
“Thanks for remembering; I feel my education is complete,” I said, never looking up from my fries.
“Your way with words never ceases to amaze me. You said two favors; what’s your last wish before you get yourself offed?”
“I need a place for Charles to stay for a couple of nights. Any ideas?”
“Since you know damn well that this tourist city has about a trillion fine—and not so fine—hotels and motels, I suppose you, or your worthless twerp of a friend, are too tight to spring for a room and want me to put him up. Close?”
“Bob, it’s no wonder you have such a wonderful reputation for being generous and open-minded. I think Mr. Fowler’d be honored to take advantage of your kind offer.”
“You’re becoming as daft as your Folly friends—kind offer, humph. Okay, he’s got a room as long as he needs it. Just don’t tell me why; don’t think I could handle it on top of your other damn stupid idea.”
“Don’t we all have the right to be wrong now and then?” sang Roger Miller from Al’s color blind jukebox. Please don’t let this be one of those times, I prayed.
* * * *
I felt strange as I punched the number on the phone. I’d had more than a hundred conversations with Amber, but this was the first time I’d ever called. I had kept her number, though; we did things for a reason, I suppose.
“Amber, Chris. No, nothing’s wrong. I wanted to talk to you, and the Dog was closed by the time I got back from Charleston. Could we meet somewhere? I’d rather not talk at the restaurant. Okay, that’s fine; see you in fifteen minutes.”
