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  “Yes, went to get a drink.”

  Charles stood on his tiptoes to see out the top half of the window, and said all he could see from that angle was the top of the trees in the adjacent lot.

  Laurie’s hands began to shake, so I suggested that we return to the kitchen.

  This time, Gail refilled our cups while Laurie put her elbows on the table, her head between her hands.

  In a couple of minutes, her breathing returned to normal, and her hands stopped shaking.

  Charles said, “Is there anything we can do?”

  Instead of answering, she said, “I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know how I’ll live, how I’ll afford it.”

  Gail returned to the table. “Now, dear, the insurance will keep you from having to worry.”

  “Insurance?” Charles said, never fearing to tread where no man should go.

  Laurie moved her hands from her face, glared at Gail, and turned to Charles. “When we retired, Anthony insisted we take out a large insurance policy. I argued it was morbid, that we shouldn’t do it. He said it was his way to show his love for me. He never wanted to leave me wanting.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Once again, Gail put her hand on Laurie’s arm. She shook it off and rushed to the bathroom.

  Gail watched her go. “Anthony was a wise man. Laurie will need that money. All she has is her teachers’ pension, and a house that needs more work than they expected. Dean and I tried to talk them out of buying this place.” She glanced at the closed bathroom door. “I think she was sure they’d find a buried treasure, not have to worry about money.”

  “What made them so sure?” I asked.

  “Her grandfather gave them—”

  Laurie opened the bathroom door, Gail stopped mid-sentence.

  “Chris, Charles,” Laurie said, “I hate to run you off. I need to lie down.”

  We stood, and Laurie gave me a hug and thanked me for coming. She moved to Charles, squeezed him, whispered something, then escorted us to the door.

  Charles didn’t say anything until we were in the car with the air-conditioning blowing full blast. “Chris, how many times did Laurie say she’d been in her bedroom then went to the kitchen when she heard the window shatter?”

  “Twice that I recall. No need to say it. Laurie told Cindy she was in the bedroom when the bullet hit.”

  “Good old Abe Lincoln said, ‘Be sure to put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.’ Seems that Laurie had to do some fancy footwork to be in two places at the same time.”

  “A red flag, yes. It’s also possible she was traumatized, confused when she talked to Cindy.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Don’t know. Either way, we need to tell the chief. She can follow up.”

  Charles looked back at the house. “You bet we do. And how about the insurance policy that Laurie argued against buying? Sounds fishy.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Without a psychic, it’s going to be hard to ask Anthony.” He adjusted the air flow. “Why did she latch on us?”

  “Latched onto you. I was along because you invited me.”

  “Strange,” Charles said. “I didn’t think she was going to let go once she got her arms around me.”

  “What’d she whisper when we were leaving?”

  “Don’t be a stranger.”

  “Oh.”

  “ ‘Oh,’ is right.”

  I deposited Charles at his apartment and went home to called Chief LaMond to tell her what we’d learned.

  “Why were you and your nosy friend there?”

  I told her I was there because my nosy friend invited me. He was there because Laurie called him.

  “Why did she call Charles?”

  I thought about how happy she’d been to see him. I’d wondered the same thing. Instead of going into the hugging and whispering, I said, “Don’t know. He’s one of the few people she knows here.”

  After a moment of silence, Cindy said, “With those non-answers out of the way, why are you calling?”

  I shared the discrepancy between what Laurie had told the police about where she was when the shot was fired opposed to what she’d told us.

  Cindy said that it was interesting, although, in the grand scheme of things, considering the amount of stress that Laurie had been under when she’d told her version to the police, it wasn’t that unusual. She went on a mini tirade about how many of the witnesses she interviewed over the years told stories that proved to be nowhere near what happened. She pointed out that they weren’t intentionally lying, their stories were “royally screwed up” by shock, selective memory, other “psychological gibberish” that the “ignorant police chief from the hills of Tennessee” wasn’t bright enough to understand.

  I wasn’t going to argue, although she’s one of the smartest people I know. She proved it when she ended by saying she’d talk to Laurie again.

  In a rare concession, she thanked me for calling. Of course, she ended the call on a more familiar note. “Oh, yeah, if I find out you two are sticking your snotty noses where they don’t belong, I’ll throw both of you in jail, charge you with driving a police chief coocoo.”

  She hung up before I could say, “I love you, too.”

  The phone rang, so I thought she was going to give me another chance.

  No such luck.

  “Chris, this is Theo. Could I buy you a drink?”

  I’d never heard those words from Theo. “Yes.”

  “Good, could you meet me at The Washout. It’s a nice night, I’d like to walk. I’ll leave now, be there in a half hour.”

  The Washout was a ten-minute walk from Theo’s house, so thirty minutes sounded about right for the man who moves slower than the Lincoln Memorial.

  I live three times as far from the restaurant, as does Theo, so I made the trek and was sitting at the outside bar fifteen minutes after hanging up. A conversation with the bartender about the hot weather, and the rash of vacationers on the island, and twenty minutes later, an out-of-breath Theo limped up to the bar.

  He wiped sweat off his forehead, took the seat beside me, and said, “Whew. You would think all the walking I do would have me in better shape for these long excursions.”

  His white T-shirt was gray from sweat. I was afraid, instead of ordering him a drink, I’d have to order an ambulance. Theo took a gulp of water from the glass the observant bartender set in front of him, then said, “I hope I didn’t take you away from anything important.”

  I didn’t tell him that my other options had been to ponder a solution for world peace, wonder if climate change was real, or fixing a peanut butter sandwich for supper. I stuck with, “I wasn’t busy.”

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to meet me.”

  “It crossed my mind.” I left out, about fifty times.

  He took another gulp. “I would’ve invited you to the house, except Sal was there. Don’t get me wrong, my brother’s wonderful. It’s great getting to know him, again, after all the years he was on the road. It’s nice having family nearby. It’s been lonely since I lost Eunice.” He hesitated and looked at his glass. “Did you know that we’d been married fifty-two years?”

  He’d told me several times. “That’s a long time, Theo. You must miss her terribly.”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Anyway, it’s good that Sal is living with me.”

  He sighed, as I waited for “but.” I didn’t have long to wait.

  “But my brother is driving me crazy. Chris, not a day goes by, correct that, not an hour goes by without him telling a joke. The old boy’s got a million of them. They must’ve been funny forty years ago, when he shared them with a room full of drunks at a smoky comedy club in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Occasionally, one of them strikes my funny bone. By occasionally, I mean one in a hundred. The old boy’s going to joke me to death.”

  “Have you said anything to him?”

  “I’ve tried. He nods like he’s listening.”


  “And?”

  “He cracks a joke. Anyway, that’s not your problem, not the reason I wanted us to share a drink.”

  The bartender returned to give us the chance to order drinks, something other than water. We each asked for a glass of white wine, the bartender said, “No problem,” a phrase which, in my opinion, had no place in the vocabulary of any server or bartender. He left to get our drinks.

  “Chris, was I too hard on Grace?”

  I wasn’t ready for the transition from Sal to Grace. When in doubt, I turn the question around, something that’ll never work with Charles. “Do you think you were?”

  Our drinks arrived, Theo took a sip before saying, “She took me by surprise. I didn’t know what to think, what to expect. When she stepped off the elevator, I didn’t know what to do.” He shook his head. “I blew it.”

  “Theo, I can’t imagine what must’ve been going through your mind. It’d been years since you had contact with your son. Then, you learned he was gone. Now there was a stranger saying that she’s your daughter-in-law. I don’t know how I would’ve reacted.”

  “Chris, it’s not her fault Teddy is dead. Why did I take it out on her?”

  “You were shocked. You didn’t know her. You didn’t know what to expect. You didn’t know why she came across the country. All reasons to be skeptical.”

  “Not a reason to be rude. For heaven’s sake, she’s my daughter-in-law.”

  “You could’ve handled it better. That’s easy to say now. If I were in your shoes, I’m not sure I would’ve done anything differently. What’re you thinking?”

  “She said she was going to live out of her food truck. That tells me she doesn’t have much money. She asked about moving her truck to Folly. That means she wants to be here. She didn’t ask for anything. Is it possible she’s sincere about wanting to be near her father-in-law, to be near me?”

  “It’s possible.” I repeated, “What’re you thinking?”

  He leaned over to pull up his black, knee-high support stockings. In such a faint voice, I nearly missed what he was saying. “Asking her if she wants to move in my house until she gets on her feet enough to get a place of her own.”

  “Oh.”

  “Think it’s a good idea?”

  I smiled at the thought of the incongruity of Theo’s house inhabited by an over-the-hills comedian, a half-Jamaican widow, and a retired engineer. All I said was, “I don’t know. You still aren’t sure what, if anything, she wants.”

  Theo watched a mini-van turn on West Hudson Avenue from Center Street. He then turned back to me. “I think it’s a good idea. I’ll call her tonight.”

  “What does Sal think?”

  “Don’t know, haven’t told him.”

  “That should be interesting.”

  “He’ll probably have a joke about a Jamaican, a comedian, and a geezer walking into a bar.”

  “Theo, you’re a tough audience.”

  He chuckled, the result I’d been hoping for. He turned serious. “Chris, I’m dominating the conversation. Have you heard anything else about the murder of the retired schoolteacher?”

  “Not much. Laurie called Charles, so we went to see her today.”

  “I didn’t know they were friends.”

  With everything going on with Theo, I didn’t need to discuss the attempt on her life. “She’d met him once before we found her in her car the day of her husband’s murder. Seems she’s bonded with him.”

  “That’s great. Charles is a good person to have on your side. When’s the husband’s funeral?”

  “In the morning.”

  “Should I go?”

  “Did you know them?”

  “Never met. I thought going to the funeral would be the Folly thing to do.”

  “I’m sure the widow would appreciate it.” I gave him the details. He said he’d better get home to call Grace.

  “Are you going to talk to Sal before you call her?”

  “No. If she says, “No,” he didn’t need to know I offered. If she says, ‘Yes,’ I can show him I may not know jokes, but I can spring a surprise.”

  Go, Theo, go!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anthony’s graveside service was to be held eight miles from Folly in the Holy Cross Cemetery on Ft. Johnson Road. The temperature was in the mid-eighties, with humidity pushing the heat index to near triple digits. A low cloud cover kept direct sun off the mourners. I was pleased by the number who attended considering how few people the Fitzsimmonses knew on Folly. Two rows of white folding chairs were in front of the coffin with Laurie, Gail and Dean Clark occupying the front row.

  Both ladies wore long, black dresses. Dean looked out of place in a navy, three-piece suit. Everyone else was casually dressed, including Charles in one of his few non-logoed, long-sleeved T-shirts. Good to his word, Theo was there and, as a concession to his age, was offered a seat in the second row. He was joined by William Hansel and three ladies I didn’t recognize. Stanley Kremitz and a woman I assumed to be his wife were standing with a group of six others behind the row of chairs. Charles and I joined that group.

  The service was brief, a good thing considering the stifling heat. The women beside Theo spent most of the service waving their faces with fans featuring an image of a church on them. The fans gave them away as regulars at Lowcountry outdoor funerals. I worried about Theo since he didn’t have a fan, and his face turned redder as the service progressed. Dean sat ramrod straight, and Gail kept her arm around Laurie’s shoulder while she had her head bowed the entire time.

  As the service ended, I moved behind Theo to see if he was okay. He said he would be as soon as he was in his air-conditioned car. Charles went to offer condolences to Laurie, William joined Theo and me for the short walk to our vehicles. I wanted to make sure Theo made it safely to his car before speaking to the widow. By the time Theo was resting in air-conditioned comfort, Laurie was walking toward the three elderly ladies who’d been seated behind her. She had on black, high heel shoes and gingerly traversed the bed of pine needles near her car. The ladies took turns hugging the widow before they became engrossed in conversation.

  Stanley led the woman he was with over to me. “Chris, allow me to introduce my better half, Veronica.”

  I said that it was nice to meet her and appreciated them attending.

  “I didn’t know the deceased,” Veronica said as she squeezed Stanley’s arm. “Stan had met them, so I thought it would be nice for the widow to see that her island neighbors were sympathetic to her loss.”

  Stanley nodded a couple of times. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  I was trying to come up with a cliché that meant, How do I get away from Stanley when Veronica said they were in a hurry to meet a friend in Charleston? I pretended I hated to see them go.

  Charles moved beside me. I told him that I wanted to speak to Laurie. He said that there was no need because we were meeting her, and the Clarks, for lunch at the Crab Shack.

  We got in the car, and I said, “Charles, I don’t want to infringe on Laurie’s time of grief.”

  “It was her idea. She insisted that we join them.”

  “We?”

  “Sure,” Charles said while adjusting the air-conditioning vent. “She asked me to have lunch with them. I told her you were driving. She nodded meaning she wanted both of us.”

  Not my interpretation. Arguing with Charles would have been as fruitful as arguing with the live oaks standing sentry around the perimeter of the cemetery.

  Charles wiped sweat from his neck as we pulled back on Ft. Johnson Road. He pointed his thumb toward the back window. “Ever been to Ft. Johnson? It’s a mile behind us.”

  “No.”

  “It goes back a long way. Named after Sir Nathaniel Johnson back in seventeen-something. He was the Proprietary Governor of the Carolinas, whatever that is.”

  Charles was somewhat of a history buff. My interest in history ended when I was in the ninth grade and the teacher, Old-B
itty Jenkins, asked me what Abe Lincoln and Jefferson Davis had in common. I said they were both dead. She threw a piece of chalk at me. Apparently, I was right, but also wrong.

  “Oh,” I said, showing little interest.

  He mumbled something about the fort’s role during the American Revolution, then during the Civil War, and how most of the land now belonged to the South Carolina Wildlife, and Marine Resources Department. I zoned out until I heard him finish the lesson with something about the College of Charleston having its Grice Marine Laboratory on part of the land.

  I knew Charles enough to know something was bothering him. He was using the history lesson to take his mind off whatever it was.

  The roar of the air conditioner lessened the temperature in the car until it reached a comfortable level. “What’s bothering you?”

  He readjusted the air vent again. “I’m worried about Laurie. Gail’s leaving tomorrow. She’ll be alone. She knows a few people at the most. She said that she’s still not over being shot at. What’s going to happen to her?”

  Was someone trying to kill her, or did she fire the gun to deflect suspicion that she killed her husband? I shared that question with Charles.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, she didn’t fake it. Did you see how torn up she was back there?”

  I didn’t remind him that she’d taught drama.

  “Charles, remember eight years ago when that guy who lived at the Edge shot himself in the arm with the crossbow?”

  The Edge was a large seaside boardinghouse owned by a lady who rented rooms to those who couldn’t afford the costlier condos along the beach. It was destroyed by a hurricane, a hurricane with the added assistance of a killer who came within moments of ending Charles’s and my lives.

  “Duh, nearly got us killed.”

  “Yes, he shot himself so the police would think he was a victim like the two people he’d killed.”

  “Did you miss the part about not forgetting what happened?”

  Then why was he being so dense about what I was suggesting?

  “Charles, don’t you see how this could be the same thing?”