The Marsh Page 10

  I couldn’t hear everything Charles and Mel were talking about but caught snatches of conversation. Something about the boat having a flat bottom … low draft of three and a half feet … eighteen-gallon fuel tank … eleven-hundred-gallon bilge pump. I watched with admiration as Charles soaked up these arcane facts; his face beamed at the opportunity to expand his trivia collection. He took photos of driftwood floating by as he talked. I had never been a boat fan, knew little or nothing about them, and had no interest in starting now.

  I took the opportunity to ask Dude how he had met Mel and if they had really been friends for two decades.

  “Saved his Marine Corps ass back in ninety-five,” said Dude, who then turned to watch the shore zip by. “One point six decades in truth; rounded to two.”

  “Saved his life?” I said. I didn’t want to confuse Dude with too many words.

  “Rip current grabbed him. Be out at Washout. He be on swift trip to dead.” Dude pantomimed a swimming motion. “He be surfing; me be surfing. Ditched my board when saw him sinking. Grabbed him and dragged him sideways, away from rip current.” Dude laughed. “He be screaming, ‘Leave me alone; everything’s fine.’ Same time he whispered, ‘You saved me, little buddy, thanks.’” Dude nodded. “Me saved Mel; Mel saved pride.” Dude began humming the Marine Corps hymn. “Surfer dude, Dude, saved the day—and saved big, burly retired United States Marine. ‘From the Halls of Montezuma,’ la, la, la.”

  I laughed. Major frowned—again. And Charles smiled.

  We were having way too much fun. Then I realized why we were out in the marsh with Dude and Major Mel.

  As quickly as Mel pushed the throttle after we left the marina, he yanked it back. We had reached the east end of Folly. His passengers were still seated, or we would have been hurled into the river.

  “Low tide’s thirty away,” said Mel. “No sense in getting to the A/O before then. I’m going to slip onto that sandbar. Hold on.” He pointed his skiff at the low, smooth, light-brown field of sand directly in front of us.

  I leaned close to Dude. “Thirty? A/O?”

  “Mad talks unnatural.”

  And that was spoken by Dude!

  Dude rolled his eyes and continued, “Thirty be minutes. A/O be area of operations. All be Marine jabber. Mad be et up with it. Me be around enough to figure some out. Don’t clutter your noggin. Not worth remembering.”

  The boat slid about six feet onto the sandbar, and Dude jumped off the bow and pulled it up another three feet. Major cut the engine, and I finally enjoyed a bit of silence. We stood on the spot I’d often photographed from an old coast guard station property on the tip of Folly across Lighthouse Inlet from where we were. The iconic Morris Island lighthouse stood directly behind us and was surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean.

  Charles’s tennis shoes had no sooner hit the sand when regurgitation of trivia began. “The Morris Island lighthouse was built in 1870 and decommissioned in 1962.” He had turned and stared at the wide-striped, faded red-and-white structure. “Thing’s 158 feet tall. And get this, when it was built, it was nearly three thousand feet inland from the shore.” He pointed away from the ocean, like I wouldn’t have known which direction inland was. “In the 1940s, it was on the shoreline, and now it’s not even near land.” Charles snapped away with his Nikon the entire time he talked. He had never been this close to the lighthouse.

  “Sucker sure moves slow,” said Dude. “When it be in England?”

  Dude stared at Charles. If I didn’t know Dude, I would have thought he was serious. Everyone who had been on Folly Beach more than a week knew the history of the lighthouse and how it had fallen victim to the changing sands, the tide’s destructive powers, and technology.

  “Damned commie pinky draft-dodger,” mumbled Mel as he opened the storage compartment beside his seat and removed a red-and-white, plastic flip-top cooler. He still had a frown on his face as he opened the cooler and took out four cans of Miller High Life and handed one to each of us. It wasn’t much after eight o’clock a.m., and I wasn’t much of a beer drinker, but I saw nothing positive to be gained by arguing with a United States Marine, retired or otherwise, who called himself Mad.

  Mel took a swig, gazed at the waves lapping against the base of the aging lighthouse, took off his Semper Fi cap, wiped his totally bald head with the back of his other hand, and explained that it was against the law for him to be drinking if this was a charter, but since we weren’t paying “a damn cent,” he’d do whatever he wanted. He then turned to Charles. “Now, friend of Dude, why in the hell are we traipsing all over the marsh?”

  “Chris and I wanted to visit the spot where they found Tony Long’s body,” said Charles as he sipped the Miller.

  “They be detectives,” said Dude.

  “Did anybody ask you? Damned commie, pinko hippy.” Mel downed the last of his beer and threw the can at Dude.

  Dude stepped out of the way of the projectile. “You be cute when you’re irritated,” he said.

  “How long have you had the business?” asked Charles. He apparently didn’t want to participate in the beer can fight or explain being a detective.

  Mel, Mad, or Major, like most business owners, liked to talk about his pride and joy and looked at Charles with new admiration. “Joined the corps in ’73—got a free trip with the Second Marine Division to sand-land in ’91.” He grinned. “I got the privilege of running that damned Hussein out of Kuwait in Operation Desert Storm; nearly didn’t make it back. I put in my twenty and got the hell out.”

  Charles soaked up the facts, but still didn’t have his question answered. “So you started the business when?”

  “You damned sure like questions,” said Mel. He was close to a smile, but not there yet. “I’m from a pissant town outside Palm Desert, California; didn’t grow up around water. I took my military training up at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina and fell in love with the area. When I mustered out, I moved to Charleston and got a job with a septic tank cleaning company and hitchhiked over here on weekends. Got into surfing—”

  “Gremmie,” interrupted Dude.

  “What the hell does that mean?” asked Mel.

  Dude folded his arms. “Sucky surfer.”

  “Damned pinko,” said Mel.

  Charles looked at Mel. “Got into surfing, and?” said Charles.

  Dude interrupted again. “And he be saved by me—hero surfer, Dude.”

  “Hell if you did,” countered Mel. “I was just fine, and …”

  “And you got the business how?” said Mr. Persistence.

  Mel ping-ponged his head back to Charles from Dude. “After the commie there screwed up my day at the beach, he felt guilty and told me about an old codger who had a marsh tour business and wanted to sell. The guy was a real dolphin-hugger, all ecology obsessed, knew everything about the fauna and flora of the marsh, what critters lived in here, salt marsh ecosystems, gee-ology, blah, blah, blah.” He pointed to the marsh, the lighthouse, the water, and then to his boat. “I didn’t know any of that crap—looks like weeds, tall grass, mud, and water to me. But I figured there were a bunch of vacationers who didn’t care either and even a bigger bunch of college students who would want to come out here in a boat, get away from the cops, and party hearty on these dunes.”

  “The rest be history, or sociology,” said Dude.

  Mel glared at Dude. “Damned dumb commie pinko hippy,” said Mel. He then turned his attention back to Charles and me. “What in the hell makes you think you’re detectives?”

  Charles had started to walk to the boat but then turned back to Mel. “We have a friend who may be in trouble,” he said. His voice was barely heard against the slow-rolling waves lapping on the sandbar. “We’ve got to help him.”

  Mel nodded and picked up the can he had thrown at Dude; he grabbed the cooler. “Why in the hell didn’t you sa
y so? Friends are priceless. Unless they’re commie hippies.” He nodded toward Dude, who was standing behind Mel and smiling. “Let’s shove off,” said Mel as he jumped up on the bow of the skiff.

  We left Lighthouse Inlet and headed northwest; the marsh got thicker and the waterway narrower. Mel slowed the craft to a more leisurely pace, and I watched a pod of four dolphins, two adults and two pups, swim alongside. The beautiful, playful, mammals didn’t appear to fear our intrusion, but several egrets were startled out of their morning rest and gracefully flew away from the noisy boat.

  We came to a T in the waterway; Mel yelled that if he had turned right, we would have gone past Cummings Point and on to Fort Sumter, a key battleground of the Civil War. He said the body had been found to the left and we would have to save the Civil War tour for another time. We made the turn, and numerous small creeks branched off the main waterway, like blood vessels as they branched off arteries, going in all directions, creating a maze of options. I was glad it was morning and the sun would be up for many more hours. I’d hate to be here after dark.

  “This is the A/O. The body was somewhere around here,” said Mel.

  I was curious how he knew that, or for that matter, knew where we were, but didn’t ask. We were going slow enough for us to stand without fear of being thrown overboard, although I watched his hand on the throttle out of the corner of my eye.

  “Now what?” asked Charles.

  Dude was closest to him. “You be the detective,” he said and waved his arms in the air. “Detect.”

  “That’s Secessionville over there,” said Mel. He pointed off to the right.

  I saw a tree line and the back of a handful of large houses, but nothing else. Charles photographed everything that looked like a building—his collection of patio furniture photos was expanding rapidly.

  “The Confederate Army built a small fort near Secessionville in 1862,” said Charles. “It was called Fort Lamar,” he continued and stared at the shore. “Yankees tried three times to take it and got whipped—about a hundred dead Yanks; fifty Confederates.” He paused, but still looked toward the shore. “What a waste.”

  The reverence was broken when Mel yelled, “There’s what you’re looking for.”

  Our heads swiveled toward Mel, who pointed to the left about fifty feet from where we were. The stream was twenty feet wide, and the marsh grasses were can’t-see-through dense on both sides. I finally saw what Mel was pointing at. The yellow crime scene tape was spread in what had once been an orderly rectangle measuring maybe fifteen by twenty-five feet. The multiple tide changes, combined with a brisk breeze over the last few days, had taken their toll on the marked-off area. One end of the tape flapped in the brisk breeze, and the corner closest to the water had pulled loose from the grasses where it had been secured and dipped into the water. The last five feet of the garish tape floated. A shelf of ragged, black oysters covered much of the area. The marsh grasses were beaten down in three spots near the tape. Deep craters dotted the soft mud. I assumed this was from the police, coroner, and crime scene techs who had secured and inspected the scene. You could see where many other craters had been eroded by the high tides.

  Mel pulled the boat as close as he safely could to the muddy bank. I heard crabs splash in the salt water and something much heavier land in the current a couple of feet behind the boat.

  The marsh cordgrass rose at least five feet above the pluff mud bank and was thicker than any we had seen since we left the marina. The marsh stink competed with a swarm of mosquitoes as major irritants. There was no way I was getting out of the boat.

  Mel leaned over the side of the skiff and tried to see into the thick grasses, but the view was blocked by the first wall of tall, green grass. “It’s a damn miracle that anyone saw the body.”

  I agreed. “Whoever did this didn’t want Long found.”

  Charles used his cane to push the grasses aside; it was a futile effort. “Whoever it was knew the body could easily have been undetected forever.”

  Mel stood on the seat along the side of the boat and looked back toward Secessionville. “Look around,” he said. “There could have been a battle of two Civil War Ironsides here, and nobody would have seen anything.” He hopped off the seat and walked to the spot closest to the tape. “This was the perfect spot to kill someone.”

  “Nope, Mad Marine,” said Dude. He had seen all he wanted to and sat on the bench with his legs stretched out in front of him. “Not be perfect.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Dude stated at the tape. “Bod found. Long be in Charleston; cops all in a fritter; and Chuckster be on the case … Nope, not be perfect killin’.”

  Mel took off his hat, wiped his sweat-covered, bald dome, and then put the hat back on. “Charles and Chris,” he said. “There is a first for everything.” He turned his constant frown to Dude. “He be right.”

  We floated around the crime scene for another thirty in Mel’s lingo before unanimously agreeing that there was nothing else to learn. Mel gunned the Evinrude, and we continued west through the marsh past Goat Island and Long Island, where Dude asked, “Manhattan be nearby?” The rest of us ignored him. We crossed under Folly Road and around the next bend, past another of Folly’s famous, and unique, landmarks, Bowen’s Island Restaurant. Mel traversed a couple of more turns and carefully guided the boat back to the dock where we had begun.

  We secured Mad Mel’s Magical Marsh Machine and slowly walked to our cars. I asked Mel if he wanted to join us for lunch and a beer. He said he had more important things to do than hang out with a commie pinko hippy and two “no chance in the world of becoming detectives.”

  We jumped out of the way as Mel’s Camaro threw gravel, shells, and dust as it peeled out of the parking lot.

  Charles took a photo of a candy wrapper in the lot and then turned to Dude. “Who’s Dale?” he asked. I had already forgotten about Mel’s tattoo.

  Dude looked down at the wrapper and then at Charles. “DADT.”

  “Surfer word?” asked Charles.

  I smiled, knowing that there was something Charles didn’t know.

  “Be Marine term,” said Dude.

  “So who is she?” Charles wasn’t about to give up.

  “Who say Dale be she?” said Dude.

  “Charles, I may not be a detective like you, but it looks like all roads, and streams, lead to Sean.”

  Many of my attempts at sarcasm are lost on Charles, but that hasn’t stopped me from trying. We had returned to the gallery after our morning in the marsh. Charles insisted that we give customers a chance to spend money; I argued that it wouldn’t make any difference. I got depressed each time I unlocked the gallery door. We sat around the table in the back room with a Diet Pepsi in front of each of us and a rapidly emptying bag of Doritos within arm’s reach. Amber had tried for two years to get me on a healthier eating regimen. She might as well have been trying to get me to flap my arms and fly.

  Charles didn’t respond. I wondered if he had heard me. I spoke louder, “Charles?”

  “I heard you. Just thinking it can’t be Sean.”

  “He has more than enough motives—money, betrayal, his alleged affair with Tony’s wife,” I said while Charles stuffed his mouth with Doritos. “He also had means; we know he has a boat that could easily navigate the marsh, and he’s lived here long enough to know his way around it. And he’s contacted a top criminal attorney.”

  “I know, I know. It looks bad,” said Charles. “But unless something more damning happens, I’m going to stick by my friend.” Charles hesitated. “Even if he’s guilty, I’ll stick by him.” He then looked toward the door leading to the gallery. “Will you help me?”

  Cute the way he slipped that into the conversation. I didn’t think there was anything we could do. I didn’t know what Charles had thought we would find in the ma
rsh today, but if I had learned anything that could possibly lead to the killer, I didn’t know what. I didn’t see what it would harm to keep our ears open, ask questions, possibly look at angles the police might miss.

  “I’ll try, but if Sean’s guilty, we have to accept it.”

  A huge grin appeared on Charles’s face. “President Lincoln once said, ‘He has the right to criticize, who has a heart to help.’ Criticize Sean all you want, but wait and see—he’s innocent.”

  Once Charles finagled a commitment from me, he said he had to run an errand for Dude and hurried out; most likely, he didn’t want to wait for me to change my mind. I wasn’t worried about being able to handle all the customers without my sales manager. In fact, that had just been lowered on my list of worries.

  Was I serious about meddling in police business? Did Charles and I have a chance at succeeding? Had I gone off the deep end—again?

  Mid-afternoon rolled around, and only three potential customers had found their way into Landrum Gallery; one actually bought something. They were followed by an hour-long lull before Charles burst through the door.

  He was out of breath and waved his cane around his head. “Just saw Sean,” he said. “He wants us to meet him on his boat tonight at seven. We’ll be there, right?”

  “Why not?” I said. Although if pushed, I could easily come up with a dozen reasons not to wade deeper into the shark pit.