The Pier, page 9
“Did that bother Julius?” I asked.
“Heavens, no,” she replied, a faint glimmer of a smile showing. “All he ever said was that he wanted me to be happy. He joked if I ever married Harry, I’d still have to fix supper for him every other week. I told him he could count on it.” That memory seemed to cheer her.
“What did your children think of Mr. Lucas?” Bill asked, less studious and more friendly.
“Another good question, Bill. No wonder Jay thought so highly of you. Mike couldn’t care less if I dated anyone. If it weren’t for holidays, I’d never see him—I’m not on his radar. Steven was happy for me. He said I needed someone. He said he and Lance ‘just complete each other’s lives’ and wanted me to have that kind of happiness. To be honest, I’m of the age to still have problems with my son’s—what’s the polite term for it these days?—alternative lifestyle, I suppose. But he and Lance appear happy, and that’s the important thing. Lance is like a member of the family.”
“What about Sandy?” I asked. “What does she think of your dating?”
“Sandy’s having the most trouble with it. Being the only girl, she was her daddy’s favorite. She’s never gotten over his being gone; she harbors a lot of anger. But I think she’s finally adjusting to my need to move on.”
“From what you’ve said, I doubt the boys have had much contact with Mr. Lucas,” I said, before taking another bite of a pimento cheese finger sandwich.
“That’s true, and maybe one of the reasons Sandy has been affected the most,” she said. “Harry is a few years older than I.”
After several minutes of silence that seemed like hours, Ms. Hogan began crying. She grabbed a lacy, white cloth napkin from the tray to wipe her face.
“Last month, Harry asked me to marry him .I can’t.” With both hands covering her tearstained face, it was difficult to hear her. “And now Jay’s gone .I just don’t understand how Jay would kill himself—especially now.” She mumbled something else.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hogan, I didn’t hear what you said,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry; I said Jay said he would always be here for me. It just doesn’t make sense. Two days before Christmas—my birthday—I learned I have brain cancer. They only give me six months to live.”
And I had thought the room was quiet before. All I did was look at Ms. Hogan. Bill made an audible gasp, then nothing. For a second, I thought I could hear his and Ms. Hogan’s hearts beating. I knew I heard mine.
I think I said “I’m so sorry.” God, I hope I did. Bill didn’t speak. The silence—the strongest, deepest silence I’d ever experienced—was broken when Ms. Hogan looked up and apologized for hitting us with such terrible news.
Here we were, two strangers sitting in her living room, looking for evidence to prove her identity as a murderer, and she’s apologizing to us after sitting there and telling us she most likely wouldn’t see the end of summer. I unmistakably saw what Julius had found so attractive in this lady. I knew beyond any doubt that she couldn’t have had anything to do with his death. And now I was con-vinced—truly convinced—that Julius couldn’t have killed himself.
I have little idea what any of us said after that. I remember exhausting my vocabulary of ways to say I was sorry. For the first time since I’d known him, Bill was speechless. What I do remember unmistakably was that Ms. Hogan walked us to the door, hugged both of us, and asked us to come visit anytime. We said we would.
How much longer would that be possible?
CHAPTER 20
The gallery was only a few days from being ready to open. Most of the painting was done; the floors looked as good as they were going to. My larger images were in Charleston, being framed; a dozen already framed works were ready for hanging. Nearly seventy other prints in varying sizes were attached to foam board and encased in clear plastic to sell unframed. I just needed to install spot lighting for the side walls, apply touch-up paint, clean the place up, post an announcement about the opening, prepare wine and cheese, and then wait for the art-starved throngs to arrive and buy all the photos. All but the last item were under my control. My control with the help of a few good friends.
Speaking of friends, I was still shaken by what Bill and I had learned earlier, so I called Charles and asked if he wanted to come to the shop for some food and drink. As usual, he said yes before I finished the question—immediately after the mention of food as I recall. He asked if I’d mind him inviting Larry. Why not? Being less—far less—than a gourmet chef, I’d be calling for pizza; it would feed three as well as two. I had plenty of wine and beer to add to the mix—all the ingredients for a well-rounded guy meal.
I would rather have spent a romantic Friday evening with Tammy, but that was occurring less often. Her work took more hours and energy than ever. I didn’t blame her; she had a fantastic job and did it well. I was just selfish.
Charles arrived around seven wearing a gold and black University of Wiscon-sin-Oshkosh Titans sweatshirt, his hat, and red gloves. Thank goodness we weren’t opening a clothing store. Larry arrived a few minutes later. He didn’t share Charles’s propensity for outlandish attire. He simply wore a fleece coat with the Pewter Hardware logo on the front.
“So, Chris, when are we having a grand opening?” asked Charles as he looked around the room as if he’d never seen it before. “I’m getting tired of painting and cleaning. I need to use my extraordinary retail-sales talents to sell your pictures.”
“What skills would those be?” asked Larry between bites of pepperoni pizza. “If I remember correctly, I tried to get you to work at the store, and you said you couldn’t sell anything.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you that,” said Charles. “As Calvin Coolidge said, ‘I have never been hurt by anything I didn’t say.’”
“And that has what to do with what?” I asked, looking first at Charles, then Larry.
“Well, I did tell Larry that. What I really meant was, I didn’t know anything about all that stuff you sell in the store. What’s the difference between a Phillips head screwdriver and a regular one? And while I’m on that subject, Larry, I guess the Phillips screwdriver was named after someone named Phillips. Who was the flat-headed one named for?” Charles asked in total seriousness, his arms spread as if to grab the fleeing answer. “Why isn’t his name on that handy-dandy tool? See, how could I answer that question if a customer asked? And don’t even get on the topic of nails. I walked down your nail aisle—or whatever you call it in the hardware business—and there are bins filled with millions of different kinds of nails. Beyond me ... way beyond me.” His half-empty beer bottle rapidly approached his lips.
“Back to your retail skills,” said Larry, either unwilling or unable to answer the mystery of the flat-head screwdriver. “What would those be if hardware wasn’t your forte?”
“Last fall, I almost sold my classic Saab convertible.”
“But you didn’t,” I said. “What happened?”
“This guy from the other side of Charleston was ready to buy it sight unseen; then he asked if it ran. I knew he’d get around to that, but since I was asking so little, I thought he naturally assumed it may not be quite roadworthy.”
“And .” prompted Larry, fidgeting in his chair.
“And I was completely honest. I told him it ran the last time I went anywhere in it. But that was more than a year ago. He said he wanted a classic, but preferred one he could drive home. It takes all kinds.”
“So let me understand,” I said. “Your aborted car-salesman career is the extent of your sales experience.”
“Up until now, yeah. But I’m still in the prime of my life and have many more years as a successful salesman left.”
Larry and I had at least one thing in common: we knew not to question Charles’s view.
“Back to your original question, Charles,” I said, hoping I could remember back that far. “I think we’re about a week or so away from opening. Then we’ll need a way to let folks know we’re here and ready for their visits.”
“That’ll be easy,” responded Charles. Hopefully, he was finished with his used-car-salesman story. “First, there aren’t that many people around this time of year. And you know, one of my other talents is delivering packages for some of the shops—via United Parcel Charles. All you have to do is come up with a handout, and I can deliver it door-to-door to the houses where folks are staying, and to the stores and restaurants. And don’t forget: tell Amber, and everyone else’ll know.”
“If you put it that way, we could plan for a small opening next Saturday,” I said.
“Good. While I’m thinking about it, why are we calling it Landrum Gallery?” asked Charles. As usual, I ignored his liberal use of the pronoun “we.” “Seems like it’s a store—a store that sells photos. Larry doesn’t call his store the Pewter Hardware Gallery. The Surf Shop’s a shop and not the Surf Gallery. You ought to consider Landrum Photo Store ... or maybe the Landrum/Fowler Photo Store.”
“Charles, that’s an insightful observation,” I said. “For now, I think I’ll stick with gallery.”
At least he hadn’t suggested the Fowler/Landrum Photo Store!
“Hardware Gallery doesn’t sound that bad,” commented Larry. He was sliding lower and lower in his chair. “Maybe I should change the name.”
It appeared that Larry and Charles—and possibly I—had traveled one or two drinks past sensible. Hopefully by the next day, “the Landrum Gallery” and “Pewter Hardware” would sound better than they did right then.
“Okay, enough about this place,” said Charles. “When did you plan to tell Larry and me what you found out about the Julius Palmer—killing, blood-sucking, greedy Amelia Hogan? You know that’s the real reason we’re here.”
I filled them in, as well as I could, on our visit to Ms. Hogan, even though I wasn’t sure they’d remember what I said. They weren’t very interested in Ms. Hogan’s life until she met Julius. Other than Charles calling her an “insincere ingrate” when I mentioned that she called Mr. Palmer “Jay,” they listened attentively when I told them about her description of a nonromantic relationship.
I was surprised that when I told them about her three children, Charles—the person who knew everyone and everything on the island—still couldn’t place them. He thought he remembered seeing the daughter, Sandy, going and coming from her job at the law office. He said he avoided lawyers whenever possible, so he wasn’t sure. Larry remembered Ms. Hogan coming in the store, but had never had any significant conversations with her.
“I did help her find a toilet plunger,” he said—more than we needed to know. “But she didn’t mention planning to kill anyone.”
I was sure that what I had learned about her health clouded my description. I tried to be as objective and factual as possible in describing our visit. I wanted to get their objective opinions. I left out the part out about her cancer—for the time being.
“So, what do you two think?” I asked.
Charles stood, then pointed his cane at me and Larry in turn.
“Just what we thought,” he said at a much higher decibel level than necessary. “She found out about Julius’s will, lured him out on the pier, and pushed him off. She needs money. She has herself a new boyfriend. Either the new guy doesn’t want his new beau to share the dinner table with another man, or she’s getting tired of fixing food for the antique dealer. Doesn’t matter which; she did him in—case closed.” A solid rap of his cane on the wood floor punctuated his declaration.
All this was said between sips of his fifth, sixth, or maybe fifty-sixth beer. Charles was short of many things, but opinions were not among them.
Larry remained in his seat, slouched as low as possible without melting into the fabric. Charles’s cane in his face didn’t seem to faze him.
“I really don’t know enough about it to judge,” said Larry. “But if we assume Mr. Palmer didn’t take his own life, I’m afraid Charles’s analysis makes as much sense as anything.”
“There’s one more thing you need to know,” I added, suspecting that the next fact would change a thing or two. “Two months ago, Ms. Hogan learned she has terminal cancer. She has less than six months to live.”
“Oh, damn. Shit, shit, shit,” Charles whispered before falling back into his chair, his cane falling to the floor. The analysis was not quite as articulate as usual, but got his point across.
“Did Julius know?” asked Larry. He had scooted back up from his resting place, his head higher than the back of the chair.
“Yes,” I said. “He told her he’d stick with her and take care of her and her family.”
“Shit, why didn’t you tell us this before I accused her of being everything but a dog tick?” asked Charles.
“Sorry. I didn’t want to jade your opinion before you heard about her situation, her relationship with Julius, and her family.”
“You’ve had a few more hours to think about what you learned,” said Larry. “What’s your take?”
“After hearing Ms. Hogan, I feel confident that Julius didn’t kill himself. If what she said is accurate—and there is no reason to doubt it—I can’t see him killing himself and leaving her to deal with her last months without his support.”
“Why so sure?” asked Larry.
“He told her he’d be there,” I said. “From everything Bill said, he was a man of his word—and one with a big, sympathetic heart. What’s more cruel than deserting a longtime friend in her situation?”
Getting over the initial shock, Charles added, “It seems to me that every time you hear of someone killing himself, all the loved ones and friends say he never would have done it and he would never leave them, or something like that. Why would this be any different?”
Charles never ceased to amaze me. Within a matter of an hour and a few beers, he had gone from making no sense (or less than no sense, if possible, when he described his supposedly extraordinary sales ability) to perfectly good sense (or whatever is better than perfect) with his observation about suicide survivors. Maybe his wisest and most astute comments came after some beers. Or perhaps he sounded wiser to alcohol-influenced ears.
“Good point, Charles,” I said. “To be honest, you may be one hundred percent correct. But after sitting with Ms. Hogan and hearing her story, I simply can’t see suicide.”
Then Larry, the man of few—and mostly logical words—said, “So now what?”
So far, this had been a night of very good questions. If only the answers were of equal quality. Maybe after a few more beers.
* * * *
Larry’s question wasn’t addressed for about an hour. It had been easier to move some boxes around and pretend we were readying the gallery (or store, or shop, or whatever) for the opening.
“Larry, you’ve been a model citizen and upstanding resident for several years,” said Charles.
I wasn’t certain where Charles was headed, but his use of the phrases “model citizen” and “upstanding resident” made me want to slink to the back of the room.
Charles continued, “I know you brought with you a grand career in what many would consider to be the wrong side of the law.”
“Yeah,” said Larry, “I’d guess that the police, the prosecutors, the judges, the juries, the media, and even my mother—who said she would love me no matter what—would tend to agree with you. What’s your point?”
“Simple,” said Charles. I could almost see the wheel spinning behind his shiny eyes. “As Gerald Ford, deceased United States president, said, ‘Indecision is often worse than wrong actions.’ Guys, the police believe Julius killed himself; most everyone else don’t give a warm gargle of spit about what happened; and a few of us care a great deal. Now, add Ms. Hogan to the minority who care, and care deeply. If we don’t act to find out what happened, who will? Save your breath. I’ll answer that myself: a big, solar-system-sized no one!”
“So what’re you suggesting, and what’s Larry’s ancient history have to do with it?” I asked, although I wasn’t certain I wanted to hear the answer.
“We have to find out what happened,” Charles said. “We could put a big-ass ad in Tammy’s newspaper asking the killer of one Julius Palmer of Folly Beach, South Carolina, to give our fine chief of police a call and confess. Or we could ask Amber to use her gossip-collecting talents and rumor us up the murderer. Oh, here’s even a better idea: I hear there are some mighty fine fortune-tellers in Charleston—none here, since fortune-telling’s outlawed. We could pool our limited resources and ask Madame Know-It-All who killed Mr. Palmer.”
“I assume you’ll get to your point eventually,” I said as I tried to look serious through an emerging smile.
“Yep, I’m almost there. Hang on. God gave each of us unique talents; I read that in a fortune cookie, but maybe a dead president said as much at some point. We need to use them. For example, I was given the talent of being able to live the life of a bum and not need much money or fine things, although I sure like this classy, expensive Tilley hat you gave me. I digress. I also have the talent of stumbling on things and usually come out smelling like a rose. I also hate injustice and want to do whatever possible to right wrongs.”
