The Edge Read online

  Also by Bill Noel

  Folly

  The Pier

  Washout

  THE EDGE

  A Folly Beach Mystery

  Bill Noel

  iUniverse, Inc.

  Bloomington

  The Edge

  A Folly Beach Mystery

  Copyright © 2011 by Bill Noel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  iUniverse Star

  an iUniverse, Inc. imprint

  iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  iUniverse

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  Bloomington, IN 47403

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  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-936236-38-1 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-936236-39-8 (ebk)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010917730

  Printed in the United States of America

  iUniverse rev. date: 1/3/2011

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 1

  The monsoon-like rain snuck between seams in the tin roof and cascaded into the two garbage pails I’d placed in the living room. The floor vibrated; the tall, ceramic lamp rocked precariously on the edge of the table. One-hundred-mile-per-hour winds ripped three of the six screen panes from the enclosed front porch. My ears ached from the wind’s roar combined with the whistle of air pushing effortlessly through the gaps in the window frame. Water seeped under the front door. I was losing the battle against Mother Nature. Frank had come to visit—Hurricane Frank.

  For most people, Frank would be filler on the morning news, sandwiched between a cat being rescued from a tree and the escalating price of gas. My retirement cottage was two blocks from the Atlantic Ocean. Frank trumped felines and petroleum.

  I had watched television coverage throughout the night until the electricity succumbed to the storm’s intensity around 9:00 a.m. Frank was expected to hit land somewhere between Kiawah and Savannah in the next couple of hours. I distinctly remembered the confident weather forecaster saying not to worry because Charleston was on the northern edge of Frank’s coming ashore. He also kept reminding his viewers that Frank was “only” a Category 2 hurricane. On the scale of five, Frank was small, with evacuation optional. Winds could cause damage to doors, windows, and roofs. I laughed when he said that mobile homes could suffer damage. With airtime to fill, dumb things slip out.

  I was standing in my rustic cottage, fewer than ten miles southeast of Charleston. My legs were shaking as much as the lamp. I pressed my palms against my ears but failed to block the screeching sounds of the tin roof peeling back. Water was everywhere; there was no electricity. My mind raced. I stared at the leaking ceiling and then at the walls. “You’ve survived worse storms over the decades!” I yelled. “Tell me you’ll pull me through this one.” My hands were balled into fists like I was ready to strike out at the wind.

  The walls didn’t answer. Maybe I should have promised them a fresh coat of paint.

  If this was a small hurricane and I was on the northernmost edge, God help those in the midst of its fury. The saving grace was that I was two rows of houses and numerous trees from the beach—enough, I thought, to protect my domicile from the brunt of the storm. I was thankful that I wasn’t in a mobile home.

  I paced from room to room, surveyed the increasing damage, and prayed.

  For my first six decades, hurricanes were things I experienced secondhand from television reporters leaning into the wind, palm branches and roofs blowing past in the background, and humongous waves dwarfing nearby piers. Tornadoes were the natural disasters that threatened my previous home in Louisville, Kentucky.

  I’ll mark September 4 as my first experience on Folly Beach with an angry Mother Nature. That is, if my house is still standing and I can find my calendar after Frank moves inland.

  * * *

  The deluge stopped as quickly as it had begun. The winds slowed to thunderstorm intensity. My well-worn hardwood floor was covered with water, but it had pooled in the center of the living room and kitchen; sagging floors did have a virtue. The water hadn’t ponded around the edges, and thus, the drywall was spared. Water from the ceiling had dwindled from a steady pour to a continuous drip. Every towel, washcloth, sheet, and sweatshirt I owned was scattered around the house; and doubled-up at the front door to stem the literal and figurative tide of rainwater coming from the porch.

  I took a deep breath and sat in one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table. My hands shook, my head throbbed, and my heart bounced off my rib cage. I was terrified.

  It took an hour for my heartbeat to return to normal. I heard less of the howling wind and more sirens from the Folly Beach police and fire vehicles as they crisscrossed the small barrier island to aid residents and vacationers. Dogs crawled out from whatever shelter they had huddled under and barked for food and attention—or simply rejoiced in being able to howl.

  The house was tiny so it didn’t take long to survey the damage. The computer and television appeared unaffected, although I wouldn’t know for s
ure until power returned. Most of the furniture was dry; only one chair felt the wrath of the initial roof leak. I had pushed the chair aside and slid a trash can in its place, but its future looked short-lived. I didn’t have any antiques or family heirlooms, so it didn’t matter. I was thankful to be alive.

  I cautiously pulled the trash containers to the back door and emptied them into the yard. The rain had stopped. It was going to get hot, and steam was already curling up from standing water. I squeegeed as much out as I could and propped the door open so the brisk wind could evaporate the rest.

  I slipped into my retirement clothes of choice—a short-sleeve, faded, red golf shirt, cargo shorts, well-worn deck shoes, and my canvas Tilley hat—and followed the pails into the yard. I had a better view of the roof from the side yard and was surprised to see how little damage there was to the tin roof. There were three spots where the wind had peeled the tin back. With some luck and a couple of dry days, I could bend it back in place, drive a few roofing nails into the durable, metal covering, and caulk around the edges. I had never been on the roof and hoped I wasn’t overly optimistic about my roofing skills. A good friend, Larry LaMond, owned Folly Beach’s only hardware store and could tell me the error of my optimism.

  I wasn’t as optimistic when I got to the front of the faded blue, weatherboard cottage. Three wooden frames holding the front porch screen had been ripped off and were leaning against the front door, twisted with the wood shattered—far beyond my carpentry abilities. The screen door was torn from one of its hinges and dangled precariously by the intact hinge. No brilliant repair plan came to mind, so I turned my attention to my seven-year-old Lexus parked at the curb. A large branch had blown across the street from a neighbor’s oak and bashed in the passenger door. The dent was deep, but the door opened with only a groan.

  Railroad tie-sized branches and uprooted trees were everywhere; my street was blocked at both ends. I was only two blocks from Center Street, the main street of commerce and the only street connecting Folly Beach with the rest of the United States. The police and fire sirens brought more howls from the island’s substantial canine population as the vehicles weaved around limbs, ponding water, and debris. Residents began surveying the damage, first in their yards and then venturing farther from home.

  Folly Beach was returning to normal. Or so I thought.

  CHAPTER 2

  My professional life had centered around an international health-care company in Louisville; the last few years before retiring, I was stuck in its human resources department. My true passion had been photography. I opened a small photo gallery in the main business district when I moved here three years ago. Business had never been great, and with the slipping economy, sales had declined to a notch slightly north of nonexistent. A couple of successful real estate ventures, an early retirement package, and a lot of luck allowed me to financially handle retirement, but I wasn’t flush enough to keep subsidizing Landrum Gallery, creatively named after yours truly.

  The gallery was in a row of old—some have noted ancient—stucco and concrete buildings on Center Street. It was farther from the beach than my house, so I doubted Hurricane Frank had caused significant damage; but I wanted to check. I chose to drive the relatively short distance. Besides, I wanted to check on a couple of friends, and cell-phone coverage was as dead as the electricity.

  The two-block drive to Center Street was like navigating a massive maze. I moved a half block before having to drag a branch out of the way. Bert’s Market was in the same block as my house. Everyone who had ever been on the half-mile-wide, six-mile-long island for more than fifteen minutes had frequented Bert’s, a local landmark.

  Good to its slogan, “We may doze but we never close,” the store was open. A rippling, windswept puddle covered the few parking spaces in front of the store, but the door was propped open with a concrete block. The interior was illuminated with lanterns, and the beams from flashlights were visible as they weaved through the narrow aisles. I love stability, so Bert’s warmed my innards.

  My innards continued to be warmed when I found my gallery nearly untouched by Frank. I swept the small amount of water that had burrowed under the front door to the sidewalk. Shops on either side of me had suffered significantly more water damage. I credited the new front door for sparing the gallery—the door I had to buy after the police splintered its predecessor last year. I couldn’t blame them since they were nabbing a killer at the time and saved the building from exploding—with me inside. The door was an excellent investment.

  Friday was traditionally a good sales day, but I suspected Frank would keep the vacationers out of a photo-buying mood. Instead of opening, I drove my newly remodeled car to Charles Fowler’s apartment.

  Charles was one of the first people I’d met when I arrived on Folly Beach. We’re as opposite as two humans can be; he’s as quirky as they come, and that’s saying something on Folly Beach. I had met him just after I had found a body in a desolate area of the small, unique island. He started following me around, and for a couple of weeks, I had suspected that he was a killer and was out to erase me from the earth. He’s now my best friend. He’s also my unpaid sales manager, confidant, chronicler of everything important and irrelevant, and self-anointed partner in our unofficial, unregistered, and unapproved C&C Detective Agency that occasionally rears its naïve head.

  “Hey, Mr. Photo Man,” Charles yelled the familiar moniker he had used with me since the day we met. He was in front of his small apartment as I walked across the ground-up seashells and gravel covering his parking area. “Enjoy the shower?”

  He was sweeping water out his front door, so I assumed the “shower” had visited his apartment. Charles lived on the marsh side of the island on Sandbar Lane and was as far from the coast as possible and still be on the island.

  “Yeah,” I said as I peeked around him to see how much damage there was in his apartment. “I have four showers in my house—three aren’t over the tub. Everything here okay?”

  “Just water,” he replied and kept sweeping. “A few wet books; nothing bad.”

  Charles’s entire wall space and most of his floors were covered with books. The interior of the tiny, first-floor apartment took on the appearance of a book-cave; books of every genre, shape, size, topic, and several languages, lined the walls from floor to ceiling. He claimed he had read all but the cookbooks. I doubted it, especially the books in other languages, but couldn’t prove or disprove his proclamation. Besides, I didn’t care.

  “If you’re here to move in, we’ve got a problem,” he said.

  “Why?” I replied. “If you moved those three hundred and fifty-seven books from the couch, I’d have plenty of room to sleep.”

  “Not going to happen,” he said and continued to push the water from the living room. “Any damage other than extra showers?”

  “The front porch has been rearranged a little, but I’m lucky.” I pushed past him to see what I could do to help make his apartment less waterlogged. “It doesn’t look bad in here,” I continued. “You were lucky.”

  “I didn’t expect things to turn out well—seldom disappointed that way. As your good buddy, George W. Bush, once said, ‘I’m the master of low expectations.’”

  Charles has the uncanny, sometimes irritating, and often entertaining habit of quoting U.S. presidents.

  “Heard anything about other damage?” I asked.

  “The power’s out, the phone don’t work, I’m standing in my living room, and not a single carrier pigeon has arrived. How would I know about damage?” He sighed and pointed his broom out the door and moved it around like he was blessing Folly Beach.

  “Hmm,” I said, “I figured you knew everything about your island.”

  “Good point.” He leaned the broom against one of the cinder blocks and pine-board bookcases. He grabbed his ever-present, handmade cane, tapped it on the floor twic
e, and said, “What are we waiting for? Let’s check it out.”

  Charles had lighted on Folly Beach twenty-four years ago after “retiring” from the world of work at the ripe old age of thirty-four. Before I had arrived, he worked off-the-books, odd jobs. There was always a construction company looking for day labor or a restaurant wanting him to help clean up after hours. He even made deliveries on Folly Beach for the local surf shop and restaurants that catered to shut-ins. His main mode of transportation was an immaculately-maintained 1961 Schwinn bicycle. He had a twenty-year-old Saab convertible, but it spent most of its time sitting in front of his apartment while the tires dry-rotted.

  What Charles lacked in an eight-to-five job, he made up for as the consummate collector of gossip and trivia.

  He closed the door, said something about the mess would be there when he returned, and walked to the parking lot. Despite the rising temperature, he wore a long-sleeve University of Colorado T-shirt and cutoff shorts. A Tilley hat I’d given him after he had lusted after mine covered his thinning, gray hair.

  To the left of his gravel parking lot, I noticed several moored small boats slowly bobbing on the Folly River. I grinned at the serene sight.

  “So,” he said, “want to hop on the bike or take your car?”

  The first no-brainer of the morning. I grinned and headed to the car. Very little was beyond walking distance on Folly Beach, but given the choice of walking or riding, I’d be the first to the car. Experience had convinced me that exercise was two, four-letter words.

  Lack of sleep and the constant drumming of the overnight rain on my roof were taking their toll. My head throbbed, and my muscles screamed for a rest. But I knew if I was with Charles, I would have to work through it.

  “Where to?” I asked as I slowly slalomed around branches and puddles in his parking lot.

  “Larry’s. I’d say he’s already at the store and left any damage at home for later.”