The Pier, page 26
Charles admitted for once he couldn’t think of a single appropriate presidential quote. “I need to walk home and get my head back on straight,” he said.
Doesn’t that imply it was on straight before? I thought. Regardless, I completely understood and watched him walk toward the Folly River bridge and home, the white “NYPD” on the back of his black sweatshirt decreasing in size as he walked.
It wasn’t even nine, and yet it seemed like midnight. On the drive home, I shook almost uncontrollably, both from nerves and the cool, damp air. I walked in the house on shaky legs. I had two calls to make: one I needed to, and one I wanted to.
I poured a large water glass full of cabernet, sat for a few minutes staring out the window at absolutely nothing, and then called Tammy. I caught her on her drive home from the scene of Charleston’s most recent murder. She had once told me there were fewer than thirty murders a year in the majestic city, but it felt like one a day, as busy as she was.
She was thrilled to hear the outcome of my evening’s activities. But getting to “thrilled” took some time.
“That’s about the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard,” she said in response to my good news. She was almost yelling. “What an idiot,” she added in case I’d missed the “stupid” part.
I didn’t disagree, which took some steam out of her ranting. After a few minutes, she went from a boil, to a simmer, to a cooling off, and the “thrilled” part finally surfaced. To be honest though, I couldn’t tell if she was thrilled about my safety or because she didn’t have to cover a double murder after a hard day of reporting on other mayhem.
She finally convinced me she was glad I was alive and said we needed to get together soon. Neither of us defined “soon.”
We said our good-byes, and I began, once again, to stare out the window. The glass of wine was now mysteriously empty; I couldn’t have that!
Then I made the call I’d hoped all day I’d be able to make. Bill was home; he said he was grading papers. He sounded in good spirits; I planned to elevate them more.
I gave him an abbreviated synopsis of the night’s events. He only interrupted a couple of times with “Thank God.” His voice cracked as he spoke; I couldn’t tell if he was in tears or his allergies were kicking in.
“Does Amelia know?” he asked, after composing himself (also known as wiping a runny nose).
“I don’t know, but I doubt it,” I said. “From what Sandy said tonight, I doubt she’d be the person her loving daughter would use her one call from jail on.”
Bill said he should get over to her house; someone needed to be there when she found out. He’d tell her and take her to the jail, if that was what she wanted.
“Want me to go with you?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “You’ve done more than enough—much more than enough. It’d help me more than anything to do this by myself.”
I didn’t say it, but I agreed.
I asked him to let me know if there was anything I could do. He said he would, thanked me, and then thanked me again.
I felt drained as I stood on top of the world. Another glass of wine was on my agenda.
CHAPTER 48
The next forty-eight hours were a whirlwind. I had thought retirement would bring sleep, with no need to pay attention to clocks. I would wake up when I wanted and go to bed whenever. Wrong!
Thursday morning was thrust upon me prematurely when my phone did its alarm-clock imitation, ringing at five sharp—as sharp as anything can be at five.
“Damned if you didn’t do it again,” said the pleasant, cheerful, and unmelodious voice of the best Realtor in the second biggest of the island’s three small realty firms. “Shit, Chris, get it through your thick skull. I don’t want to have to sell that shack you live in again; when in the hell are you going to stop trying to get yourself killed?”
My increasing maturity and deeper understanding of my real-estate agent stopped me from asking how he had learned about last night. I simply wished him a pleasant morning. He hesitated, perhaps disappointed I didn’t ask how he knew. That gave me some satisfaction.
“So when are you going to have that grand-opening reception of your overpriced photo gallery?” he asked, completing one of his characteristic transitions. “I’ve got to get some free food and booze out of you before you stumble on another disaster and get killed nosing in.”
“Sunday evening. You and the lovely, patient, and angelic Betty are most cordially invited—seven o’clock.” I hung up, managing another ray of satisfaction before sunrise over the beautiful Atlantic.
My pleasure quickly waned when I began thinking what needed to be done to prepare for a grand opening in three days. The rest of the morning was devoted to taking notes and making lists—food, drinks, personal invitations, and paper goods. I also cleaned, finished pricing the photos, and finalized the flyer Charles had promised to deliver to the occupied homes.
I had done everything possible—busywork, in the eyes of most—to get my mind off the previous night. Had I really risked my life to prove that someone hadn’t killed himself? Someone I’d never met? Couldn’t there have been a better, and safer, way to do it?
Creeping into my thought pattern was a feeling that maybe I made a difference in the lives of others; I had finally made a mark, however small, on the world. What a great feeling—even better than hanging up on Bob.
I was more comfortable about the grand opening when Saturday rolled around. Charles, good to his word, had delivered approximately three hundred flyers. I had accused him of throwing most in the trash once he was out of sight.
“Hell’s bells, Chris. Why would I have done that? I couldn’t get rich if no one came.”
Bill not only had been the one to tell Amelia about what happened, but had visited her three more times. While he had to deliver bittersweet news, he said he was able to comfort her. I could tell it was all the medicine he needed.
Tragically, medicine was not an option with Amelia. No one could imagine what was going on in her head. Her daughter and son-in-law had been charged with murder—not only the murder of Julius, but of her son. Her consolation was that her true friend Julius Palmer hadn’t taken his own life.
Bill said Steven visited each day and even talked about moving back to Folly.
“Lance has come with Steven most visits,” said Bill. “The two seem to be such a nice, uh ... they seem like nice acquaintances.” “Couple” was a word Bill struggled with.
Bob called each day—to see if I was still alive, I suspected. He had even offered to bring anything I needed. I didn’t want to tax his kindness. All he needed to bring was Betty. He said he could “damn well handle that,” if she’d let him.
CHAPTER 49
I was amazed at the turnout. The weather cooperated to create a nice night for a walk through the streets of Folly Beach. Not only had Bob and Betty honored me with their presence, but they also brought Louise from his office. I was surprised when Amelia walked in wearing a beautiful burgundy dress, much less somber than I’d ever seen her. It had been less than a week since one of the worst days of her life. She was escorted by Bill, looking like the distinguished professor in his dark corduroy slacks and camel-colored blazer.
I was more amazed when Charles arrived—not that he was there, but that he was wearing a white, long-sleeved sweatshirt without a single animal, mascot, or school name—or, for that matter, any ornamentation at all. And I thought I’d seen everything.
No sooner had Charles pirouetted to show his sportswear (nearly hitting two patrons with his cane) than Brian Newman entered, escorting his lovely daughter, Karen Lawson. Both were casually attired. No work for either of them tonight,—-please!, I thought.
Country crooner Tom T. Hall shared his wisdom about old dogs, children, and watermelon wine in the background. I had filled the jukebox with country songs in honor of Bob—okay, not really a jukebox, but an mp3 player—and because I liked the music as well. I’d never sat in Miami but could almost taste the whiskey and smell cleaning agent in the bar as I listened to the music. I watched Bob standing on the on the other side of the room, eyes closed, mouthing the lyrics. He’d kill me if he knew I’d noticed.
By seven thirty, Larry had arrived, followed by Cool Dude Sloan and a couple I’d met when my previous house burned last year. They were followed by two elderly couples I didn’t recognize.
“Don’t get all excited,” said Charles. “Those wobblies are here for the food.”
“And you know that how?” I asked as I watched them shuffle to the food table.
“Oh, no reason,” he said, “other than I’ve seen them at every free event on the island for the last five years.”
Did he realize that only a fellow moocher would notice such things?
I was pleased that most people—other than the free-food moochers—were actually looking at the framed works and flipping through the bins of the matted, unframed photos.
I stood in the center of the gallery, talking with Amelia and Bill about some of the Charleston photos of the historic district. She laughed at something Bill said about two of his students. It was one of the better moments of a great evening.
“Before you hear it from someone else,” said Amelia, “I wanted to tell you that I won’t be seeing Harry anymore.”
I didn’t know if I should say I was sorry or happy, so I stuck with the old standby: “Oh.”
She was standing close to me with her head turned toward Dr. Hansel. “Bill told me some of the things you learned about Harry,” she said. “I just don’t need someone like that in my life. I wanted to thank you, Bill, and your friend Bob for uncovering the true Harry.”
I hated that she wouldn’t have someone close to her during the next difficult months. Bill allayed those concerns.
“I told her I’d be there for her, for anything she needed,” said Bill, beaming with a sense of belonging.
Amelia hugged him and whispered a thank-you.
I was interrupted by Larry, who had just arrived and wanted to say hi. I thanked him for helping me stay alive and finding the killers.
“Thanks for giving me a chance to use my talents for a good cause,” he said. His physical stature grew far above his normal jockey-sized body; his eyes seemed a little less sad.
Tammy Wynette was standing by her man; Charles was trying to herd the two food-mooching couples away from his favorite finger foods; Sean Aker—a late and surprising arrival—was talking to Amelia, hopefully not about her daughter; and Amber had just guardedly walked through the door. She looked lovely in a simple, light blue dress—the first time I’d seen her in a dress. I felt butterflies in my stomach as I went to meet her.
“Tell you the truth, Chris, I’ve never been to anything like this,” she said. “I almost didn’t come.”
“You better be glad you did,” I said and gave her a hesitant hug. “If you weren’t here in the next few minutes, I was going to go to your place and drag you out.”
“Thanks, I feel better.”
“You better—besides, look around. Your friends are here.”
“Where’s Tammy?” she said as she slowly looked around the gallery.
“She had to work.”
She demurely diverted her gaze to the floor and said, “That’s too bad.”
I didn’t hear any regret in her voice. Did I want there to be?
I pointed her toward the food, and she said she’d see me later, then walked away.
Interesting .it wasn’t exactly angels singing from on high, but Roger Miller was in the background observing that with love, there were two ways to fall. Coincidence, good timing, fate, or just a great line from a great song at the wrong—or was it right—time?
* * * *
“Don’t tell Dad I told you,” said Karen Lawson, who had snuck up behind me when I was talking to Amber. “He told me he really appreciated your help with the Palmer case. He grumbles, but admires your persistence and courage to follow your convictions.”
A little taken aback, I was beginning to say thanks for sharing when Chief Newman—Brian—walked over.
He shook my hand. “What’re you two whispering about?” he asked.
“I was telling your daughter how much I appreciated your listening to my concerns and helping catch Mr. Palmer’s killer.”
“Sure you were,” he said. “Chris, what made you think it was Buddy in the first place?”
“I didn’t, for sure—that is, not until he pointed the gun at me. I suspected it when I looked back at the photos Charles took at Palmer’s funeral. Sandy and Buddy were walking behind Amelia and Steven. Tears were falling all around the two of them ... and they were dry-eyed and even appeared to be smiling. Nothing about that made sense, but it got me thinking.” I realized my glass of cabernet trembled every time I even thought of what had happened—or what might have happened. “That’s why we had to get the story about the note to both Sandy and Harry Lucas. I didn’t really know who it was then. And remember, Steven wasn’t off the hook. I didn’t eliminate him until Larry said the lock to this building had been jimmied. Steven didn’t know about the note.”
“Not bad,” said Karen.
“Oh, yeah,” I added, “I never could figure out how the driver of the pickup knew Charles and I would be out walking until I realized Charles had practically announced it in the Dog that morning. And Buddy had been there when I left. Charles said he just missed me, so I figured Mr. Miller was still there and overheard Charles’s proclamation that we were going out to take photos around the island. Buddy knew it before I did.”
“Hmm,” said Brian, with a look on his face that could have meant he didn’t believe a word I said or that I was the luckiest person in the world.
“I also wondered how they knew we were looking so hard for a killer—why we were being targeted,” I continued. “Then I remembered what a new young acquaintance, Sam, said about his friend telling him everyone was talking about us. I forget how small a community this is.”
“Maybe I should offer you a job,” Brian said. “Your track record on catching bad guys is better than that of anyone I have.”
In the unlikely event he was serious, I quickly declined. “As one of the newest citizens on your island, I’ll leave the policing to you and your force.” The three of us ran out of words at about the same time and moved our separate ways.
Bob was clearly getting irritated that he wasn’t getting sufficient attention, so he pulled Betty over to the spot vacated by Brian and said, “Well, shit, Mr. Artist. My lovely wife wants me to buy these two overpriced—way overpriced—photos. I told her I could take pictures of the same thing, and she wouldn’t have to waste my hard-earned money ... but no, she has to have these.”
“Dear,” said Betty with a halfhearted scowl on her face. “You could take pictures pointed in the direction of these lovely scenes, but your charming, chubby finger would be in front of the lens, or you would forget to put film in the camera, or something similarly stupid would happen. Why don’t you pay your friend, so we can have some good art in our house?”
My first big sale, and to Bob—would wonders never cease?
Charles, the self-proclaimed gallery manager, quickly grabbed Bob’s credit card and ushered the Howard family to the never-used register.
There was only so much to say and look at in a small room filled with photos, especially when the food trays were nearly depleted. The two mooching couples left, and I could tell Cool Dude was running short of social energy. Bob was getting in a halfhearted argument with Charles over why county music was the only true music of America. I heard Charles profess his ignorance of the musical genre and quote the long dead United States President Ulysses S. Grant. He—Grant, not Charles—said something like, “I only know two tunes; one of them is ‘Yankee Doodle,’ and the other isn’t.”
Bob kindly didn’t challenge the genesis of the quote—actually, I knew he wasn’t being kind. He just didn’t give a damn, as he would say. I wondered what Grant’s other tune had been—but not enough to ask.
Charles broke himself away from the captivating conversation with Bob and loudly spoke above the decreasing din.
“Folks,” he shouted, his right arm waving his ever-present cane in the air, his left holding a can of Bud Light over his head, “if you can break away from your jabbering a minute, please gather around.”
Since most folks were bored with the conversations, they obeyed his request.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he continued. “I propose a toast to Chris Landrum, the newest resident of our beloved and eccentric Folly Beach. May he have a long and prosperous life among the finest people on earth—and may you buy a bunch of these photos to keep this gallery open and provide me with huge commissions.”
I appreciated the sincerity of Charles’s toast—most of it. I really appreciated that he was able to get it out without being interrupted by police sirens.
Maybe there was hope yet: hope for a peaceful, pleasant, and long life among my friends.
Maybe.
Bill Noel, The Pier
