Silent Night

  Silent Night

  A Folly Beach Christmas Mystery

  Bill Noel

  Hydra Publications

  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

  Other Folly Beach Mysteries by Bill Noel

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  Silent Night, Holy Night! All is calm, all is bright, I sang as I took the early-morning, five-block walk from my house to the Lost Dog Cafe. Before you proclaim me certifiable because of my song selection, it’s two weeks before Christmas and pitch dark. The cloudless, predawn sky was speckled with stars that went on forever, and for mid-December in South Carolina, the temperature was cool although not unbearable. Yes, all is calm, and I’m thankful.

  The Lost Dog Cafe was a block off Center Street, the center of commerce and figurative center of the small, barrier island located in the shadows of Charleston. The Dog had been my favorite breakfast spot since I retired to the beach nearly a decade ago, and I was not alone in favoring the canine-centric, colorful restaurant. In season, the wait for tables could approach an hour, since it was not only the favorite breakfast locale for thousands of vacationers who arrived like swarms of locust, but also for locals who were hard-pressed to find a better alternative. The locusts, umm, vacationers, left as quickly as they had come and between Labor Day and spring, the island moved on laid-back, Folly time.

  Two other things could be counted on during the winter months in the restaurant: extended, daily visits by Jim Sloan, better known as Dude, and city council members Marc Salmon and Houston Bass. Today, Dude was seated at his usual table along the wall, but neither of the people with him answered to Houston or Marc.

  He saw me and waved his ever-present copy of Astronomy Magazine in the air and pointed to the vacant seat beside him. I took his less-than-subtle hint and headed over. Dude could have been mistaken for folk singer Arlo Guthrie with his long, stringy, graying, sun-bleached hair. Complimenting his nineteen sixties look was one of his many tie-dyed T-shirts with a psychedelic peace symbol adorning the front.

  Dude said, “Yo, Chrisster, Ho, ho, ho.”

  Dude owned Folly’s largest surf shop, had been a resident since I don’t know when, and was famous for mangling the simplest sentence. People who didn’t know him well had sworn it would take a cryptographer to understand what he was saying. Those who knew him better had gone through a steep learning curve, or had access to a translator, but I had gotten the drift of his “unique verbal styling.”

  “Ho, ho, ho, back at you,” I said, in the spirit in which it was divvied out.

  Dude, at sixty-three, was three years younger than me, and at least three decades younger than his tablemates.

  “Chrisster, amigos be Finley and Teddye.”

  The amigos looked up from their eggs and gave me a bored grin.

  I held out my hand to the female. “I’m Chris Landrum, and I assume you’re Teddye.”

  It was a slight gamble on my part since their names could have been attached to either gender.

  The attractive young woman nodded. Her long, blond hair contrasted with her black jeans, black turtleneck, and black boots. “Pleased,” she said.

  I paused waiting for more, but she must have learned verbal parsimony from Dude. I turned to the other stranger. “And you must be Finley.”

  He was also dressed in black, but his hair was bleached blond and as long as Teddye’s. He shook my hand, shrugged, and said, “Duh.”

  “Chrisster, these be surfin’ buds.” He pointed to Teddye and Finley like I wouldn’t know whom he was referring to. “We be jabbering about posers invadin’, and skimpy, hot dog budget wallets they be haulin’.”

  Posers were non-surfers acting like they could surf and I guessed hot dog budgets translated as short on cash. Regardless, I had little to add to the conversation. I didn’t have to when Dude said, “They be askin’ Dude how to rid surf of posers.”

  I glanced at Dude’s friends who stared at me like they would at a pile of pooch poop they’d stepped in. “What’d you suggest?” I asked to put the conversation back in Dude’s court.

  “Said be season of peace on Gaia—sharing, goody-good will, yada, yada, yada. Said to chill, let be.”

  “Gaia?”

  Dude pointed to the floor. “Gaia, third planet from Sun.”

  Teddye leaned forward. “He means Peace on Earth.” She rolled her eyes like she had to explain what a tree was to a forest ranger.

  My phone rang as I was wondering how I could step out of this alternative universe, skip breakfast, and get out of the restaurant as fast as my aging legs could carry me.

  I moved the phone away from my ear when it was assaulted by the ear-piercing voice of Burl Costello. “Brother Chris, my God. I’m glad I got you. Sorry for calling so early. Could you come to our crèche?”

  Burl, more-formally known as Preacher Burl Ives Costello, started First Light, Folly’s fourth and newest church, a couple of years ago. In good weather, its services were held on the beach near the Folly Pier, but when the weather didn’t cooperate, which Burl said was the Devil interceding, services were conducted in a small storefront building on Center Street.

  “When?”

  “Now!”

  I started to ask why, when he yelled, “Somebody stole Jesus!”

  First Light’s crèche, or Nativity scene, was located on a small grassy plot adjacent to Pewter Hardware and next to the Folly Beach Post Office. The slice of green space was owned by my friend Larry LaMond, a former cat burglar, current owner of the tiny hardware store, and for the last six years, husband to Cindy, Folly’s police chief.

  Preacher Burl referred to First Light’s attendees as his flock instead of members, but either way, Larry and Cindy were neither. When the preacher realized it would be impractical for the crèche to be on the beach and there wasn’t enough space on the sidewalk in front of the storefront location, Larry volunteered the plot of land. The spot wasn’t perfect since it wasn’t visible to most visitors to the island, but as Preacher Burl had pointed out, the setting for the event some two thousand years ago, which had inspired decades of Nativity scenes was far from visible or popular. He also had pointed out First Light’s scene was within a short walk from Folly’s three traditional churches, and using a little imagination, Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and the assorted bit players could see the houses of worship from the crèche.

  The Nativity was fewer than two blocks from the restaurant, and I made the trip in a couple of minutes. I noticed what normally was festive Christmas red and blue colors flashing and reflecting off the Nativity’s makeshift wooden barn and the hardware store. This morning, the colors weren’t nearly as festive since they were coming from light bars on two Folly Beach patrol cars.

  Preacher Burl was as easy to recognize as Dude. He was five-foot-five, shaped like a football, portly in polite terms, had a milk chocolate colored mustache, and a balding head inadequately covered by a sad-looking comb over. Today, his hair was even sadder. He appeared to have been awakened and had rushed to the scene without glancing in a mirror. The preacher was standing close to Chief LaMond and his arms flailed arou
nd like he was describing an attack by a flock of seagulls.

  He saw me, stopped flailing, put his hand on Cindy’s arm, and pointed in my direction. “Brother Chris, I am so pleased to see you. This is the darkest of morns for First Light. The Devil has reached up and with his evil talons, yanked our sacred symbol from yon manger. It’s thrown our ministry into darkness.” He pointed at the empty, rustic, wooden feeding trough.

  Cindy turned and faced me. “He means someone stole the replica of Jesus.”

  Burl’s conversations often slipped into preacher-speak.

  I said, “Thanks, Chief LaMond.”

  Cindy nodded toward Burl. “I was telling the preacher it was most likely kids playing a prank and we’d find, umm, Jesus somewhere around town. I’ll have my guys nose around for it.”

  Burl shook his head. “Who would steal Jesus?”

  Cindy was a couple of inches shorter than the preacher, but better built. She pulled her shoulders back, ran a hand through her dark curly hair, and frowned. “Stealing the baby from nativities is so common, it has its own name: Baby Jesus Theft. Puts them at the top of Santa’s naughty list, if you ask me.”

  Burl didn’t appreciate the chief’s humor. He mumbled, “A sad day indeed.”

  Two officers had been photographing the manger and the other parts of the set, but I couldn’t imagine them finding anything helpful. One of them came over and told the chief they had done all they could at the “scene of the crime.” Cindy told him to tell everyone else to “scour the city” for the figurine. The chief asked if I could walk her to her vehicle and said she had something to tell me. I told Burl I’d be back and followed her to her unmarked GMC Yukon.

  Cindy slipped behind the steering wheel and I leaned against the door. “Chris, for some reason the preacher is way too upset about someone absconding with a wooden statue. He tried to tell me why it was, in his words, priceless, but he was so upset I couldn’t follow the story. He insisted on calling you—heck if I know why—I suppose he trusts you. He needs reassuring. This is not a big deal; happens everywhere manger scenes are. The youngin’ will turn up.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Could you do me another favor?”

  “Depends.”

  She put her hand on my arm. “I’m saying this as your good buddy. Could you for once, not get in the middle of police business; for once, keep your weird friends from nosing in our job?”

  Since retiring to Folly after spending what seemed forever in a boring bureaucratic job with a huge healthcare company, I had been involved in several horrific events, including multiple murders. A few friends and I had stumbled, bumbled, and through tons of luck and a little skill, brought some bad guys to justice. Chief LaMond was more than familiar with the escapades and whether she would admit it or not had helped us with a few of them.

  “I can’t promise—”

  She interrupted, “I know, I know, but please try. Remember, in the words of Haven Gillespie, He knows when you are good or bad.

  “Who’s Haven Gillespie?”

  “Look it up.”

  My friend Charles Fowler had a habit of quoting U.S. Presidents and I had never looked any of them up to distinguish Charles’s fact from fantasy, so I wasn’t about to research Gillespie. “What brings you out this early anyway? Looks like your guys had things under control.”

  “Holy moly, Chris,” Cindy said in her East Tennessee twang, “Somebody stole Jesus.”

  2

  Chief LaMond and her officers had departed—the officers to scour the city and Cindy to the office to wade through “Smoky Mountains-high piles of paperwork.” I returned to Burl, who was pacing in front of the manger and shaking his head.

  I put my arm around his shoulder. “Bad morning.”

  I was surprised to see him wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. What was so important about the replica of the Baby Jesus? I understood the importance of the Nativity, but Burl seemed more concerned than should be normal.

  “Terrible.” He shook his head. “Terrible.”

  I waited for him to elaborate. The temperature was mild, although the wind had increased and the wind chill made it feel colder. To get out of the breeze, I nudged him toward the open side of the three-sided, nine-foot wide, six-foot high, wooded barn.

  He pointed to the figure of Mary. “Brother Chris, as you see, the figures are fiberglass. Through generous donations by those in our flock, we were able to buy them from a supply house I found on the Internet.”

  I wasn’t a regular at First Light although I had attended several services. I motioned for him to continue.

  “The structure was built from scrap wood donated by contractors and fashioned into a barn replica by me and others in the group. All this could easily be replaced.”

  Burl had been a carpenter before joining the ministry. “You did a great job.”

  For a moment, he didn’t say anything and then he pointed to the crib. “Baby Jesus is another story. Do you know Brother Robert Daniel?”

  “Don’t believe so.”

  “You probably don’t. Brother Robert had attended services a couple of times before falling ill to pancreatic cancer. After that, I took my ministry to his hospital bed. He is … was ninety-three years of age. He passed three weeks ago, two days after his birthday.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Burl’s shoulders slumped. “As am I. Brother Robert’s son, Robert Jr. was in the military and sustained serious wounds in the Vietnam conflict. He was sent to a hospital in Germany to recuperate, and while there, was befriended by a local family, a family of quality woodworkers as only the Germans can be. Robert Jr.’s friend, whose name I can’t remember, bequeathed upon him a hand-carved, painted replica of the Baby Jesus that had been handed down through three generations.” Burl gave a slight smile. “Of course, it was not an exact replica since no one knows what the Christ Child looked like.”

  “Why did they give Robert Jr. something that had been in their family for so long?”

  “I was never clear on the details of the political situation in their hamlet, but during World War II the family did not adhere to the radical views of Hitler, and when the Americans entered the community, our soldiers did not condemn the family and provided them with much-needed food and supplies. They told Robert Jr. they were forever indebted to the Americans, and the carved gift was a token of their appreciation.”

  “That’s touching.”

  “Robert said his son tried to decline such a significant gift, but his German friend insisted.”

  “Was Robert Jr. with his father when he died?”

  Burl stepped close to the manger and slowly rubbed his hands on the side of the wooden crib. “Robert Jr. had secured a position in finance when he returned from Germany. His dad said he was quite good at his trade and had earned a significant amount of money. He was to return to Germany to share additional thanks to his friend and his family for befriending him and honoring him with the statue. He planned to return the icon to its rightful owners.”

  “Planned to?”

  “Robert Jr. was in a meeting on the forty-third floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.” Burl bowed his head and whispered, “His remains have yet to be identified.”

  Once again, I put my arm around the preacher.

  Burl said, “May I offer a prayer?”

  He did, and we stood in silence. The wind whistled through the gaps in the walls. Typical morning life was beginning on Folly and a few cars passed in front of us.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Brother Chris, I know Chief LaMond and her officers will do what they can to find the priceless statue. They are good at their jobs. I am also wise enough to know a missing piece of carved wood can’t take as much priority as crimes against people. It will be natural for them to lose sight of their quest for Jesus.”

  “You want me to find it?”

  He nodded. “I have faith you will be able to achieve do
ing what others may find impossible. Your track record is such that it gives me confidence.”

  During my sixty-six years, I had been told by preachers I needed to find Jesus, but until this morning, two weeks before Christmas, never a wooden one.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Burl smiled. “I know you will. And Brother Chris, I wish this not to be an undue burden, but Baby Jesus must be found in time for our Christmas Eve service. It must.”

  Holy infant so tender and mild. And gone.

  3

  Burl had moved to the heated confines of his car, and I continued to stare at the manger. Other than search the backstreets and alleys and root through trash containers, what could I do the police couldn’t do to find the icon? There was a good chance the chief was right about it being taken as a prank and it would turn up. Burl had good intentions, something he was never short on, but why place the burden on me to find it?

  I was wondering what to do next when I heard heavy breathing behind me and a cane tapping pavement. The familiar voice of my best friend Charles Fowler said, “Are you delivering gold, frankincense, and myrrh? Couldn’t three wise men make the trip?”

  Charles was a few years younger than me, had lived on Folly thirty years, and for reasons no rational person could explain, we had become friends. We were as similar as a penguin was to a banana split, but there was no explaining the mysteries of the universe. I had labored most of my life in a bureaucratic office environment while Charles treated work like it was a strain of malaria. I was shy and reticent; Charles would talk to and befriend everyone he came in contact with, along with their pets. He was a voracious reader; I liked books as much as I liked ingrown toenails. Regardless, he would do anything for me, including risk his life. I knew because he had done it. I would do the same for him.

  Charles was staring at me. He had his hands on his hips. His heavy, red jacket was zipped to his neck with the logo of the University of Alaska on its front. I started to explain why I was there and ask what myrrh was when he turned and pointed his ever-present cane at the manger and shouted, “Where’s Jesus?”