Relic

  Relic

  A Folly Beach Mystery

  Bill Noel

  Copyright © 2020 by Bill Noel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover photo and design by Bill Noel

  Author photo by Susan Noel

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  ISBN: 978-1-937979-83-6

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  Enigma House Press

  Goshen, Kentucky

  www.enigmahousepress.com

  Also by Bill Noel

  Folly Beach Mysteries

  Folly

  The Pier

  Washout

  The Edge

  The Marsh

  Ghosts

  Missing

  Final Cut

  First Light

  Boneyard Beach

  Silent Night

  Dead Center

  Discord

  The Folly Beach Mystery Collection

  Dark Horse

  Joy

  The Folly Beach Mystery Collection II

  No Joke

  Chapter One

  A disestablished Coast Guard station, now known as Lighthouse Inlet Heritage Preserve, anchors the east end of Folly Beach, a tiny, barrier island located fewer than a dozen miles from downtown Charleston, South Carolina. This morning, I knew it as the place where Charles Fowler and I planned to shoot sunrise photos of the iconic Morris Island Lighthouse, precariously perched on the deteriorating Morris Island, visible from the Preserve. Tumultuous, early-July thunderstorms had rolled through overnight, jarring me awake three times, the final time a little after 5:00 a.m. I hoped that Charles would have seen the wisdom of postponing our photo shoot for another day.

  Wisdom and Charles seldom appear in the same breath, so I wasn’t surprised when his fist pounded on my door, with his annoyed voice saying, “Chris, we’re late.”

  I shook my head, opened the door, and stood face-to-face with my best friend. Charles was a year younger than I. Although, this morning, my body felt like it was a decade older than my sixty-eight years. True, I’ve never been a decade older, so am guessing what it would feel like. Regardless, I wasn’t ready to slosh through soaked sand and prickly sandspurs to listen to Charles pontificate on things in which I had no interest. After spending hundreds of hours with him since I’d moved to Folly, I knew it’d be a waste of words to point out the obvious reasons to not venture out.

  Twenty minutes later, I finished dressing, grabbed my camera, and mumbled words that meant stupid, moronic idea, all while listening to Charles share how excited he was to be going on another photo adventure. We drove three miles to the end of East Ashley Avenue, the entrance to the Preserve.

  Most days, street parking was at a premium since this was the entry to one of the most popular spots on the island. Today, there was one other vehicle parked on the sandy berm along the dead-end road, no surprise since it was still fifteen minutes until sunrise. To get to the best view of the lighthouse, we’d have to walk a quarter of a mile, much of it on what was once the road through the Coast Guard property, then the rest of the way over deep sand descending to the inlet.

  I parked about a hundred feet from the stanchion, blocking all but emergency vehicles from entering the property, and was grabbing my camera from the back seat when Charles pointed to the other vehicle parked off the road between us and the stanchion. “Fitzsimmons.”

  “Strange name for a car,” I said, to irritate the man who dragged me out of the house before sunrise.

  “No, dummy. It’s Anthony and Laurie Fitzsimmons’ car.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You know other Volcanic Orange MINI Cooper convertibles?”

  I didn’t even know that one. One of Charles’s goals was to get to know every human on Folly, probably each human in South Carolina, plus their pets.

  “Who’re the Fitzsimmons?”

  He pointed his hand-carved wooden cane at the MINI. “Met them in town last week. I was walking down Center Street, minding my own business, when they stopped me, asked if I went to Jacksonville University.”

  He almost lost me on minding his own business, an activity I’d never witnessed. Instead, I recovered. “Why’d they ask that?”

  “Suppose because I was wearing a Jacksonville University T-shirt with Nellie on it.”

  “Who, or what, is Nellie?”

  He sighed, unbelieving that someone wouldn’t know Nellie. “The mascot, a dolphin.”

  In addition to Charles carrying a cane for no apparent reason, his torso was usually covered by a college, or university, T-shirt in summer, sweatshirt in winter, always long-sleeved. I don’t ask why. It would be another waste of words.

  “Again, why’d they ask about Jacksonville University?”

  “They’re from there, the city, not the university. Anthony was a high school math teacher; Laurie taught drama.”

  “Vacationers?”

  “Retired last month to move here.”

  Lightning lit the sky off to the east; thunder rumbled in the distance. The weatherman said that the rain was out of the area, but I began to wonder. It didn’t stop Charles from tapping his cane on the pavement while heading to the entrance.

  I followed. “They buy a house?”

  “Chris, give me a break. I didn’t have time to get their life history, bank statements, Social Security numbers, blood types.” He shrugged. “Anthony said they were late for something. They had to go.”

  Which meant my uber-nosy friend may not have their blood types, yet it wouldn’t have stopped him from interrogating them at a level that would make the CIA drool.

  “Wonder why their car’s here?” Charles said, more to himself than to me.

  “Maybe that’s their house.” I pointed to a cottage near the car. There were five houses within a stone’s throw from where we were standing. No lights were on in any of them, so they were either vacant vacation rentals, or the residents were still asleep, making them wiser than the two of us.

  “Could be,” Charles said with little conviction. He veered off the path to the Preserve to approach the MINI. He leaned close to the driver’s side window then jumped back like he’d seen a ghost. He stumbled then regained his balance.

  “What is it?”

  He put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Laurie’s in there.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Hope so.”

  The MINI’s door swung open, startling both of us.

  Charles said, “Not asleep now.”

  “Crap! You scared me to death,” said the car’s occupant. She stepped out of the vehicle, twisted her shoulders around, like she was loosening a strained muscle. She stared at us, before saying, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Laurie, it’s me, Charles. We met in town the other day. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Laurie stood five-foot-three, petite, with short, dark hair, and a bewildered look on her face. “We met in town?”

  That was a blow to Charles’s everyone knows me ego. He reminded her where they’d met.

  Her look softened. “Oh, I remember. You’re the guy with the long-sleeved Jacksonville University shirt standing in the blazing sun.”

  The sky began to lighten. Laurie’s hair was matted; her tan slacks wet from the knees down. I stepped closer and told her I was Chris Landrum, Charles’s friend, that we were on our way to the end of the island to photograph the lighthouse. I added that we were sorry to startle her.

  Today’s temperature was to reach the mid-80s, although the gusty breeze off the ocean, and the lack of sunshine, had the temperature currently hovering in
the low 70s. Laurie wrapped her arms around her chest. She was shivering.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Umm, yes.”

  Charles stepped closer to her. “Where’s Anthony?” He looked around, like he expected to see Laurie’s husband pop up from behind the car.

  Laurie looked down at the sandy berm, glanced back at her car, then turned to Charles. “He’s… well, supposed to be with me. Umm, he’s.”

  I waited for her to continue. She looked at Charles, at me, back at the ground, then said nothing.

  “Laurie, you’re shivering,” I said. “Why don’t we get in your car, where we can turn on the heat?”

  “Good idea,” Charles said before Laurie could respond. He was already on the way to the passenger side of the vehicle.

  “Okay,” Laurie said, barely above a whisper.

  I held the door open while she climbed in and turned on the ignition. Charles opened the passenger door, moved a flashlight off the seat, pushed the front passenger seat up, and squeezed his five-foot eight, one hundred fifty-pound frame in the back seat. I walked around to the front passenger’s seat. In the glow of the interior light, I saw gray roots from Laurie’s brown hair. Even with her hair in disarray and wrinkled clothing she was attractive. She stared out the windshield and continued her silence. I was determined to wait for her to tell us what was going on.

  Charles, a stranger to patience, leaned forward while pushing aside a four-foot long metal detector behind him on the seat. “Where’s Anthony?” He said it like he hadn’t already asked.

  Laurie rested her arms on the steering wheel and leaned against her forearm. “He’s … I don’t know where he is.”

  “Help us understand,” I said as calmly as possible.

  She turned to Charles then back to me. “We were in whatever that’s called out there.” She pointed to the Preserve.

  Charles, a stickler for details, said, “Lighthouse Inlet Heritage Preserve.”

  Laurie said, “Whatever.”

  I agreed with her. “Go on.”

  “We got here around seven… umm, last night now. We got caught up in, umm, our activities, didn’t notice how dark it was getting.”

  “Activities?” Charles interrupted.

  Laurie jerked her head toward Charles then glanced at the metal detector beside him. “Are you cops?”

  It was a strange question. Before I answered, Charles said, “I’m a private detective, my friend here and I help the police occasionally.”

  Charles, who hasn’t had a steady job since moving to Folly some thirty-two years ago, popped out of bed one morning, deciding that he wanted to be a private detective. He’d never studied the profession, nor apprenticed under a licensed private investigator, a requirement in South Carolina. He hadn’t let those troublesome barriers stand in the way of self-proclaiming what he was, if only in his mind. When pressed, he’d said he read enough novels about private investigators to be “more than qualified,” whatever that meant.

  “Laurie,” I said, “we’re not police. Why?”

  Charles said. “Humph.”

  She started to say something, hesitated, before continuing, “We were looking for Civil War relics in the woods when it started pouring. It was the first time that we’d, umm, explored that area. We got turned around.”

  The question about us being the police was beginning to make sense. It was illegal to use metal detectors, or to remove artifacts from the Preserve, owned by Charleston County.

  Charles said, “What happened?”

  “Before we knew it, we couldn’t see five feet in front of us. The rain got harder. Lightning everywhere, thunder deafening. We were lost. Thank God we had flashlights.” She took a deep breath. “We knew there was a trail somewhere. Umm, yes, we were on a sandy trail, maybe off it a little.” She closed her eyes, her head vibrated like a tuning fork.

  Charles said, “Then what?”

  Laurie opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times. “Where was I?”

  “On a trail,” I said.

  “We were? Oh, I guess so. Did I say we were lost?”

  I nodded.

  “It was really, really dark. Anthony told me to stay where I was. He’d find the way to the car.” She hesitated, her hands trembled. “I told him we should stick together. He said no, for me to wait. I kept waiting for him to come back. I was huddled down under the densest tree cover I could find, anywhere to stay dry. It didn’t work. God, the rain kept getting harder, thunder boomed, lightning turned the sky to daylight. I was so scared.”

  “What time was that?” Charles pushed, “What happened next?”

  “Time, I don’t know. Like I said, it was after dark. Maybe ten, or eleven. I waited and waited. It seemed like hours. The rain eased, so I couldn’t just sit there. I started walking in the direction of the ocean. At least, I thought that was the direction I was going. It was cloudy, but I could see a glimmer of moonlight when I broke through the woods. I saw the ocean, saw the beach. I figured that, if I turned right and started walking, I’d get to the houses near where we parked. Those over there.”

  She pointed to the structures adjacent the Preserve. “I saw the houses, so I had an idea where I was. Guys, I was so happy. Anthony would be in the car, waiting until the rain died down, to come get me. I knew he would.” She turned, looked out the side window, then whispered, “He wasn’t here. Why did I let him go? Why?”

  Charles and I remained silent.

  Laurie smacked her hand on the steering wheel. “If we’d gone together, I’d know where he was.” She leaned forward. “Now I don’t.”

  Then, she fainted.

  Chapter Two

  Other than Laurie being wet, exhausted, confused, and passed out, I had no idea what else might be wrong. I called 9-1-1 and told the dispatcher that help was needed at the east end of Ashley.

  You’d have thought there was a three-alarm fire at the Preserve. In addition to the longest street on the island, next to Runway 15/33 at the Charleston International airport, Ashley Avenue is one of the straightest paved areas nearby. If it weren’t for traffic, a twenty-five mile-per-hour speed limit, and regular police patrols, it’d be a perfect dragstrip. I saw strobing emergency lights, heard sirens from two patrol cars and two fire trucks long before they arrived.

  The first responders earned their reputation. They were hitting their brakes five minutes after I called. Officer Trula Bishop was the first to arrive. Charles moved to the front seat of the MINI while I met Bishop behind the orange car.

  “Mr. Chris, was that you who called?”

  I nodded then gave her an abbreviated version of what’d happened. She told me not to run off then moved to the passenger side of the MINI to motion for Charles to get out so she could check on the distressed driver. Most Folly Beach Public Service Officers were cross-trained as EMTs and firefighters. This allows the small force to respond to not only police situations, but also to fight fires and stabilize those in medical distress until an ambulance arrives from Charleston.

  The first fire engine squealed to a halt. Two firefighter/paramedics were next to the MINI. Officer Bishop let them do their thing and returned to me. Charles was close behind her as she suggested we might be more comfortable in her vehicle. I’d known Bishop since she joined the force three years ago. She was an outstanding officer, also one of the few females on the force. I also knew her suggestion to join her in her car was closer akin to a command. I got to the patrol car first and climbed in the back seat.

  “Okay, Mr. Chris, what have you and your buddy got yourself into now?”

  Charles answered before I could. “We were going for an early-morning saunter to take pictures of the lighthouse.”

  Bishop put her hand up, palm facing my friend’s face. “Charles, is Chris a ventriloquist, or are you answering for him?”

  I told you that she was outstanding. I smiled then took over for Charles giving her the unabridged version of what’d happened.

  “She was asl
eep in her car with wet clothes,” Bishop said, like she was trying to wrap her head around what we’d found. “How long was she asleep? When did she get back to the car? How could she fall asleep with her husband missing?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t know. She fainted before we learned more than what I told you.”

  “Were there other vehicles here when you found her?”

  “Only her volcanic orange MINI Cooper,” Charles said, providing Bishop more than she needed to know about the car.

  Bishop pointed to the nearby houses. “Any lights?”

  “No,” I said. “No sign of life.”

  One of the EMTs tapped on the driver’s side window. Bishop lowered the window, and the medic whispered something. She responded with, “Okay, keep me posted.”

  The EMT returned to the MINI when Charles said, “What?”

  “Two things,” Bishop said. “The ambulance is five minutes out.”

  “And?” Charles interrupted.

  Officer Bishop glared at Charles then turned to me. “His patient is mumbling something about her husband should have come relic hunting with her tonight instead of…”

  “Instead of what?” Charles asked.

  “She didn’t say. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she was out again.”

  Charles twisted in the seat to look at the MINI. “Does that mean Anthony wasn’t with her? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “All I know, Charles, is what my guy said. You talked to her. Did she say anything that would make you think she was alone?”

  “No, the opposite,” Charles said.

  A Charleston County EMS ambulance pulled up behind the MINI, followed by a silver Ford F-150 pickup truck occupied by Cindy LaMond, the island’s director of public safety, aka police chief. Two EMTs from the ambulance rushed to the MINI, while Chief LaMond walked to where we were seated. She was in her early fifties, five-foot-three, well built with curly dark hair. She was also a close friend whom I’d known since she moved to Folly nine years ago.