The Pier, page 24
I met Amber at Planet Follywood, a small restaurant that promoted itself as a “beach bar”—whatever that meant. It was within easy walking distance for each of us, just up Center Street from her apartment and two blocks from my house. It had some large windows, so it was brighter on the inside than Al’s, but the atmosphere was similar—casual, very laid-back, and convenient.
Amber was seated when I got there. Other than looking tired after a full day of work, she looked great; she hadn’t left her radiant smile in the Dog. In deference to the competing restaurant, she’d changed out of her logo-bearing polo shirt into a nice white blouse. I gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder as I sat opposite her.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, “I ordered some jalapeño poppers, a beer for me, and red wine for you.”
“Perfect,”
“Jason had play practice again after school, so I’m free until five. It’s good he’s getting into these after-school activities—not only for him, but for me. I’d forgotten how good free time can be.”
We discussed Jason’s expanding extracurricular schedule and the exceptionally nice weather before curiosity got the best of her.
“Okay, this isn’t a social call,” she said as she eyed me suspiciously, “not that I’d mind. So, what’s up?”
“It’s a little of both,” I told her, wondering where that had come from.
I explained what Charles, Larry, and I had decided. I shared the complete, gory details of our plan and what needed to happen for it to work. She said it sounded complicated; I agreed. She said she didn’t think it had a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding. I was more optimistic—but only slightly. She said she would do everything I asked. I couldn’t have hoped for more.
With the scary stuff out of the way, our conversation turned lighter.
She asked about Tammy; I said she was fine. I didn’t think it would be wise to share my frustrations about Tammy’s work schedule and what appeared to be her inability to find time to spend with me—inability, or lack of desire.
A second drink and an order of nachos had provided us the energy to talk about some of her more ... let’s say ... amorous customers and their top ten pickup lines; the latest gossip from the local city council members and their sense of inflated importance; and some of the thoughts the Canadian tourists had about the United States. Amber was disarmingly funny and a deceptively intelligent young lady. She was much more fun to be with in a darkened bar than Bob. That was not necessarily a big compliment, but it was intended to be.
* * * *
I had had a busy day, especially for a retired person. I had filled the daylight hours with Amelia and Steven, Bob, and Amber. My stomach was trying to decide whether jalapeno poppers and nachos mixed as I sat at home staring out the window at the midwinter darkness. I remembered I still had the memory card from Charles’s camera beside the computer. He had taken photos of everyone present at Mr. Palmer’s funeral. I remembered him saying he was doing it because that was what police did; murderers attended the funeral of their victims, or something like that.
I downloaded the images into my computer and began reviewing his work. The photos were more interesting now that I’d met many of the mourners. I realized now that the entire Hogan family had been strangers to me that day. Most of the others I hadn’t seen since, supporting my initial thought that they were antiques-shop owners or others from King Street businesses. I had no idea what I was looking for, but there wasn’t anything good on television. I didn’t have anything better to do.
Maybe it was just my slightly depressed mood or a little fatigue, but something didn’t feel right as I studied the photos.
CHAPTER 44
I was awake at six—not the result of the alarm, not the phone ringing, or even someone rudely knocking on the door. Somewhere between my subconscious sleep and semiconscious waking, it struck me what had bothered me about the funeral images—and something my young friend Sam had said.
I waited patiently until six thirty to call Charles; after all, he would have shown me the same courtesy! We had a brief conversation, and he agreed to call Larry and wait for me to pick him up at ten. Hopefully, Larry would be available; this was his only day off.
Charles was waiting outside his less-than-palatial apartment, and we drove the short distance to pick up Larry at his small rented house on East Indian, within sight of Pewter Hardware. We took the five-minute ride across the Folly River and turned left just past Mariner’s Cay, the gated, upscale development of con-dos, pools, tennis courts, and deep-water marina.
A hand-painted, wooden sign announcing “Folly View Marina, Private Property” was nailed to stanchions made of sawed-off telephone poles. Folly View stood in deep contrast to its neighbor—not that different from many inadequately zone-restricted, beach-area developments. Beyond the rusting chain “securing” the marina from the outside world was a tire-rutted parking lot covered with a mixture of crushed shells, gravel, and dirt. The lot could hold fifteen vehicles, maximum; the spaces were unmarked, so it was hard to judge the exact number. There was barely room between Folly Road and the chained entrance for two vehicles to pull off. The entrance to Mariner’s Cay was watched over by a uniformed guard; the only living thing we saw at Folly View was a hearty cricket that had managed to survive the winter. We took one of the spaces and stepped over the nonthreatening security chain. No silent alarms were visible; the cricket watched.
The small parking lot was bordered on two sides by large decorative grasses proudly exhibiting their end-of-season wheat-brown plumes—an inexpensive way to ensure privacy for the property. Two cars were in the lot, but both were covered. From the dust on the canvas, they had been there quite a while. One was small and could have been a sports car, the other was an enormous 1960s auto. At the back left side of the parking area was a wooden bridge approximately twenty feet long bridging terra firma and the floating pier that provided access to no more than twenty slips for small and midsized boats. Half the slips were vacant.
We walked to the rear of the lot and looked toward the Folly River and the floating dock. From there we had a clear view of the River Café on the other side of the stream. The wooden bridge and floating dock were old but sturdily built; the boats ranged from the smallest johnboat to a couple that were easily seaworthy.
“I can get you a list of who owns the slips,” said Larry. “Won’t be able to get it until tomorrow, though.” His hands were in his pockets, and he kept slowly turning his head from side to side, his eyes looking for any unusual movement.
“That’d be great,” I said, not asking his source. I doubted it would take a list to tell the owner of the boat named Fish Pawn—a feeble attempt at pawnshop humor. Cool Dude’s Bayliner, Throw a Wave!, rocked slowly in its slip, a handwritten “For Sail” sign taped to its front rail. The parentage of Folly’s Folly and Your Inheritance would be more difficult. The smaller boats would rather be a number than a name.
We didn’t find any murder weapons sitting on the dock or a note confessing to the murders of Julius or Mike, so we headed to the Dog for brunch.
“So what did we learn from that little journey?” asked Larry. He slid into a booth near the front of the restaurant.
Charles pushed in beside Larry. “Mariner’s Cay and Folly View Marina don’t pay the same amount of taxes,” he brilliantly deduced, “but that’s about it.”
“Cool Dude Sloan can’t spell ‘sale,’” contributed Larry.
“We’ll know more about what we learned after you get the property-owner list,” I said. “We’re pretty sure Harry Lucas has a boat there, and I’d almost bet a couple of the no-name boats belonged to Sandy Miller and Steven Hogan.”
“And the other boats probably belong to members of Preserve the Past,” said Charles. “So what?”
I skipped his question and said, “We now know the layout of the marina, how many boats are there, the level of security, and how the marina is easily accessed by most anyone without much risk of being seen. We know enough for now.”
Charles and Larry ordered large meals, knowing I’d be picking up the tab. We shared pleasantries with Amber and Mayor Amato, one of the regulars.
“Let’s talk about what we’ll need before Wednesday,” I said. “Charles, you’ll have a cell phone by then, right?”
“Yep, if I can take it back next week. I hate those darn things—never wanted one; can’t afford one.”
“No problem,” I said. “Just get one without a service agreement. I wouldn’t want to ruin your way of life. Now, Larry, didn’t you say you could get night-vision goggles?”
“They’ve been in storage for several years, but they should still work. I haven’t used them in a long time—an arrangement I made with some law-enforcement folks in Georgia.”
Just talking about it raised red splotches around his collar.
“Good, I’ll pick up the small recorder. Anything else?” I asked.
“Yeah, how about a Bible, the Koran, a Talmud, and the Avesta?” asked Charles, counting the books off on his fingers.
“Think we’ll need all those?” asked Larry, sporting a half smile.
“Sure wouldn’t hurt—might as well cover all bases,” answered Charles.
“Okay, Charles, what’s an Avesta?” I asked.
“Chris, Chris, Chris. Your ignorance never ceases to amaze me. The Avesta—of course—is the holy book of Zoroastrianism.”
I looked to Larry for support, but he was quickly becoming fascinated with his fork and didn’t look up.
“And I’d know that why?” I asked.
“Remember those three wise men in the Bible—you’ve heard of the Bible, haven’t you? Got one in every hotel room.”
“Yes and yes,” I said, hoping he would move along.
“Many biblical scholars believe those three cats who came to visit baby Jesus in the manger were members of the Zoroastrianism religion. But, yea or nay, there are tons of Iranians and Indians following the Zoroastrianism faith. Though you would have known that.”
I confessed—a good thing in most religions, though I wasn’t sure about Zoro-astrianism—that I had never heard of them and asked Larry if he had.
He maintained his fascination with his fork, although his knife was now getting added attention. He looked up and said, “Sure, who hasn’t? They can have a bunch of wives, right?”
Charles stared at both of us as if we were hopelessly religion-challenged; he may have been right.
“Okay, Charles,” I said. “You’re in charge of your cell phone and all the holy books you believe we’ll need. Besides, you probably have all of them in that library you call home.”
I wasn’t the least surprised when they had two desserts each before I managed to get the check from Amber—the check, and an “I don’t know what you three have been jabbering about over here, but good luck with it” speech, and a warm, strong hug.
Assignments were delved out, and we went our separate ways. I don’t know what Charles and Larry did, but I spent Sunday evening making a couple of phone calls to other players in our grand plan. The rest of the time I spent worrying and wondering if I could have ever foreseen the odd twists of my retirement.
CHAPTER 45
A light drizzle filled the air; daylight had barely broken over the Folly pier. I was in no mood to see anyone, so I feasted on a healthy breakfast of Hostess Twinkies and orange juice; after all, breakfast was the most important meal of the day.
Just before noon, Bill appeared on my front step.
“Chris, I just left the home of the charming and sweet Amelia Hogan. Steven was there, helping her go through boxes she had stored for years. She said they needed to get rid of some stuff. I was afraid she’d be sad, but she acted pleased to be ‘putting her house in order,’ as she called it.”
Steven’s being there to hear Bill’s story about what was to happen had been an added bonus. I’d been afraid Amelia might not have passed along the important points to her son. I invited Bill in; the cool, damp air made for an uncomfortable stand.
“Great, Bill. How’d it go?”
He broke into a large grin, stood erect, and said in his best bass voice, “I’ve never taken much pride in my creative storytelling skills, but I amazed myself.”
“Good! Have some coffee and tell me about it,” I said.
He poured of mug of steaming coffee, gave a nasty look at the empty Hostess Twinkies wrapper, and sat at the kitchen table.
“Amelia was pleased to see me. We were talking about what her life had been like without Julius as part of it. I told her, with Steven within earshot, that I heard that you and Charles were going to prove who killed Mr. Palmer. I told her Charles was out of town until Wednesday afternoon, and the two of you were meeting then to pick up the evidence.”
“How’d she take it?” I asked and refilled his mug.
“She was surprised but said she was thrilled that someone knew he didn’t kill himself. She wondered what kind of evidence you had. I told her I had no idea, but that you were going to be meeting around seven at some marina. She asked if the police were involved and what marina.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“Just what you told me to,” he said, as he scowled at my apparent distrust. “I didn’t know what marina. I told her you were upset that the police didn’t believe he was murdered. I said you called the police—blithering idiots that they are. I ad-libbed that part, but thought it sounded good. Regardless, she sounded excited and told me to wish you luck.”
“Anything else?” I asked, pleased that the conversation had gone the way he described.
He took a sip and unzipped his jacket.
“No,” he said. “I thought I’d better get out of there before I said something wrong.”
“Good job. Want something for lunch?” I asked. I didn’t know what I had to eat but would find something.
“No, thanks,” he said. “It’s a little early.”
I suspect he was afraid my menu might not be to his liking—who could not like a Hershey bar for lunch?
“I have tuna salad at home,” he continued. “Let me know if I can do anything else. It’s great knowing something is being done to get the stigma of suicide off Julius’s back.”
Bill left with a spring in his step—something I hadn’t seen for weeks. I wish I had his confidence.
* * * *
“Bob, did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked once I was sure it was him on the phone and not his machine, which answered with a warm and inviting “What?”
“Almost always a bad time,” Bob answered, “but I’m good enough to handle your interruptions.”
“How’s your houseguest?” I asked.
“Chris, you got to get this over quick. It’s worse than having seven monkeys loose in the house. At least the monkeys wouldn’t be quoting Chester Arthur, and damn few of them would be wearing a Drexel Dragons sweatshirt with a damn dragon spewing fire on it. In case you’re wondering—and you better damn well be—Mario’s the name of the damn dragon.”
“Thanks for sharing,” I said, trying to hold back laughter. “Believe it or not, I was not aware of Mario’s allegiances.”
“So, are we ready to catch a damn killer?”
“Depends on how good an actor you are,” I said.
“Then lock him up!”
“Are you still on to meet with Lucas tomorrow?”
“Yep, nine thirty. I’m going to moan and bemoan how difficult it’ll be to sell his properties, how much time I’ll have to spend prospecting for potential buyers, how he’s underpaying me for all the work, and more Realtor bullshit.”
“And all the time, you have buyers waiting,” I marveled. “What a wonderful business you’re in.”
“Don’t have to tell him everything,” he explained. “He’s getting my umpteen years of experience and wisdom—priceless, you know. Besides, he’s a damn pawn broker. I doubt honesty’s part of his makeup.”
I knew all pawn brokers weren’t dishonest, but didn’t waste my breath while Bob was on a roll. Besides, I wasn’t ready to vouch for Lucas’s ability to tell the truth.
“I hope you can take him for all he’s worth on the real-estate stuff,” I said. “Now, walk through our part of the meeting.”
“Okay, first I’ll tell him I know a couple of damn nutty people over on Folly who’ve been playing detective. These idiots decided that Julius Palmer didn’t kill himself, and they’re going to find the killer. I thought Lucas’d be interested, because he knows Amelia Hogan, who knew the deceased. How am I doing so far?”
“A little heavy on the nutty people and idiots part, but it’ll work,” I said.
“The stranger and more ridiculous I make you sound, the more I’ll be able to laugh it off when I’m telling Lucas. Trust me; I can play with these guys.”
“I’ll need to know when to call,” I said.
“I’ll call you just before I meet him; wait fifteen minutes, then call. When I get your call, I’ll write myself a note—just happen to do it where he can see read it. Don’t worry, I’ve got it—Charles out of town, the note, the meeting, the big finish.”
Being insecure when it came to risking my own neck, I had him go over the details again before feeling confident in Bob’s part of the plan.
“Chris, I still think you’re a damn fool for doing this, but good luck. Remember, I get to list your house if you get killed.”
Two parts of the plan were in place; now I was off to lunch—and another piece of the puzzle.
Amber was sitting at one of the wooden tables in the rear of the near-empty Dog when I arrived. Much of the luncheon regulars had headed back to their job or respite.
