Dead Center Read online

  “Business be slow last sunshine,” he said and shrugged.

  “Oh,” I said, my common comment either when I had no idea what a person was talking about or didn’t care to get in a discussion about it.

  “No board bidness today. Rocky be back after spendin’ lotto fortune. He plus Stephon be handlin’ no customers.”

  “Oh,” I repeated, as Amber delivered coffee, water, and a smile. She asked if I wanted to order and I said not yet.

  “Didn’t think so. Could tell since you look like you’ve been run over by a shrimp boat.” Her smile faded. “You okay?”

  I thanked her for her kind comment and said I was tired.

  She looked at me like I had told her the sun wasn’t coming up today, but nodded and didn’t push about my condition.

  Amber went to greet another tired looking couple, and Dude said, “Hear you be visitin’ fractional-sis.”

  “She tell you?”

  Dude grinned. “No. Have bookshop bugged.”

  He had the ability to bug the bookstore as much as I could calculate the square root of seventy-three. It was safe to ask the next question.

  “You seeing much of each other?”

  “More than since she surfed off to grade thirteen.”

  “How does she like it here?” I’d heard her version and curious about what she’d told her fractional brother.

  “She be adjustin’ slow, but not warmin’ to Dudester.”

  “Why not?”

  “She don’t appreciate smarts, charm, and wit of fifty-percent bro.”

  I smiled. “That explains it.”

  “That, plus she not accustomed to small berg. She be hanging with lawyersters too long. She be pleasanter with Stephon than be with bro.”

  “Your employee?” I tried not to show disbelief.

  “Employee like people train cats—no can do, but he and Rocky be on job each day.”

  “Showing up’s half the job nowadays. Haven’t they been with you for years?”

  “Who else be hirin’ them? Yes, been around many moons. Some days, want to blast them with my AK-47. Other days, man hug them.”

  I didn’t know Dude had an AK-47 and cringed at the image of him hugging anyone, man hug or not.

  “Where’d they come from?”

  “Earth moms,” Dude said with a straight face.

  “You sure?” I said with an equally straight face.

  “No.”

  “They have a past?”

  “Odds and biology say yes. Be at tat-shop being inked, but that be all. Me don’t know it—don’t ask; they don’t tell. Both take fondness for part-sis, like they did for Aunt M. Look like puppies around Barb. Tat-covered pit bull pups, but pups.”

  Dude was spouting more words than usual, and was trying to figure them out when Russ Vick arrived. I waited for him to say he hated to interrupt. He didn’t have to, because Dude invited him to join us.

  “You know Russter?” Dude asked as he moved his magazine for the newcomer to sit.

  I said I’d met him a few days ago.

  Russ shook my hand and said he hoped he wasn’t interrupting anything important. With Dude I never knew what was important and told him no.

  Russ turned to Dude. “Question, Dude.”

  “Answer, Russter.”

  Russ gave me a huh? glance and turned to Dude. “You’ve run a business here for a long time—”

  Dude waved his finger above his head. “Many a moon.”

  This time Russ shared his huh look with Dude. “Anyway, I’m trying to do things right. I’ve joined the business-owners group. I’ve kept my prices competitive with other stores. I’ve participated in city events, even gave away T-shirts for that auction the women’s group had in December. I’ve not badmouthed anyone—tempted once or twice. Never did.” He paused and looked at me and back at Dude.

  Dude said, “What be question?”

  I was on the same wave with Dude.

  “It seems like others in the business community are treating me like a piranha. They’re not saying anything, and when I ask a question, I get one-word answers. I hear grumbling behind my back. I feel I’m not wanted.”

  I was amused he complained to Dude about one-word answers. It wasn’t the time to point out the irony.

  Dude rubbed his straggly beard and nodded. “Stealin’ money from other businesses be frowned on.”

  Russ jerked his head back like he’d been punched by an invisible fist. “Stealing?”

  “Old saying competition be good be wipeout. Two-bucks-in-wallet vacationster spend at place already here, store get two bucks. If two places, store get one buckaroo. Store one be pissed. You be store two, the piss-causer.”

  That’s a lesson you won’t find in marketing textbooks. The frightening thing was I understood what he meant. Dude was making my headache disappear. I glanced at Russ.

  “Are you saying they’re afraid of competition?” Russ asked.

  The piss-causer was quicker than I’d given him credit for.

  Dude gave a thumbs-up.

  “Your sister’s new to town. How’s she doing? Is she being snubbed?”

  “She be selling libros. Who else doing that?” Dude asked as he looked around the restaurant like he expected to find someone selling books, umm, libros, in the corner.

  “Point taken,” Russ said. “So there’s nothing I can do?”

  Marketing 101 by Professor Dude was sinking in.

  “Stop hawking T-shirts. Sell penguin suits or totem poles,” Dude said. “Be only one in town—be a mono polly.”

  Russ looked at me.

  “Monoply,” I said.

  To his credit, Russ laughed. “Good suggestion. I’ll pass. You’re nothing like your sister.”

  “She be log taller, times two smarter, and chick.”

  Russ nodded.

  I started to say a store named Tuxes and Totems had a nice ring to it, but knew Russ was serious. I said, “Newcomers to Folly, especially if they’re opening a business similar to one already here, go through a period feeling like they’re being snubbed, or worse, ignored. It’s the nature of most businesses. It sounds like you’re doing what you can. After a while, you’ll be accepted as another business struggling to make it. It takes time to overcome rejection.”

  Russ frowned. “I hope you’re right.” He turned to Dude. “Sorry to take up so much time. I’d better get back to not selling T-shirts.” He stood, looked around the restaurant, and headed for the door.

  Dude watched him go. “Okeydokey hombre. FB need new T-shirt bidness like need nuclear power plant.”

  I agreed and told Amber I was ready to order. She looked at me and said, “French toast?”

  I grinned.

  “Barb be okay,” Dude said.

  It had been ten minutes since Russ had asked how the bookstore was doing, and two minutes since Russ had departed.

  I told him I had visited her store and had a pleasant conversation.

  “Fractional sis say be afrearin’ ex?”

  “No. Is she?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Why?”

  “You know she be art major?”

  I didn’t and wondered what that had to do with her being afraid. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes sir. She be makin’ clay sculpture thingees before headin’ to legal school. Me never grasped vector change.”

  “Dude, what does that have to do with her being afraid of her ex-husband?”

  “Nada. Be trivia.”

  I wondered if Dude was taking Spanish lessons during the off season.

  “Why is she afraid of her husband?”

  “Ex. Don’t know. Think has to do with him crossing legal lines and bribin’ bureau-krats. Be frowned on by fuzz.”

  “Is that why they got a divorce?”

  Dude shrugged. “Hope so.”

  “Does she think he would harm her?”

  He nodded.

  “Would it help if I shared this with Chief LaMond? She could t
alk to Barb and keep a closer eye on her.”

  “Barb would kill if you do. Not real kill, figure-like kill. Wants no one to know her bidness. What happen in Harrisburg stay in Harrisburg.”

  “It’s your call, Dude.”

  “I be watchin’ over her. You no worry.” Dude grabbed his magazine and started to stand. “Thanks for offerin’. You be good amigo.”

  Dude headed for the door. I hadn’t thought about it for a couple of hours, but realized my head hurt. I took a deep breath and wondered what the Spanish word was for headache.

  Chapter Nineteen

  French toast and a half-hour without talking or listening had worked wonders for my head. Its ache was reduced to a dull thud and stayed that way until I tried to make sense out of the death in the alley. I wanted to push it aside, yet, regardless how hard I tried, it lingered. The more I thought about, the more questions and scenarios came to mind.

  If Lawrence Panella was on Folly to ply his trade, was Barbara the subject of his attention? Did her ex hire Panella to kill her? Did she find out and kill him instead? Were Burl’s fears about Douglas Garfield valid? Was Panella here for Garfield? If so, did Garfield find out and get to him first?

  Did the break-in at my house have something to do with Panella’s death or was it simply a burglary I had interrupted? The note on the bed all but eliminated burglary. On the other hand, I couldn’t imagine anyone would think I had something there related to the murder or had any reason to leave the note.

  Was the alleged hit man walking through the alley and found himself in an argument with someone who settled it with a bullet; a senseless killing that had nothing to do with Barb, Garfield, Burl, or me. Was I thinking about it to avoid thinking about Karen and Charles’s possible moves?

  I looked around the near-full restaurant, and, as incredulous as it may seem, not a diner had ventured over and answered my questions. It was up to me, and so I did what many wise people on Folly did when they had difficult questions or wanted to hear the latest rumor. I waved for Amber.

  She returned with a coffee pot and a smile. “And how may I be of assistance, Chris?”

  Her smile was infectious and I’ve never stopped looking forward to seeing her. “Ms. Amber, I have a question?”

  She continued to smile. “Make it easy.”

  “I’ll try. Do you know Douglas Garfield?” I realized with that question I had told her everything I knew about him except what Burl had confided to me.

  “Chemically-induced thin, six-foot-three, long black, greasy hair, with evil-looking, dark-brown eyes?”

  “Don’t know, never met him. How do you know him?”

  Amber shrugged. “We’re engaged.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yep. Seeing if you were paying attention.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “I always pay attention to you.”

  She batted her eyes. “That’s why I’ve always loved you.”

  “Am I blushing?” I teased.

  “Not enough. What else do you want to know about Douglas?”

  “Everything you know.”

  “That’s about it. He’s been in a few times. His breath smelled like bad habits and beer, and it was eight in the morning. He’s familiar with the brew. He’s a hundred pounds shy of a beer belly, so I figure drugs are a staple in his diet. He’s tried to be hospitable. My gut tells me it doesn’t come easy. He could be as mean as a snake without working up a sweat.”

  “Does he work over here?”

  “He never said and from his clothes he could work in any store, or sit at home and watch soaps all day. He’s been in at different times, so I don’t think he works off-island. That help?”

  I smiled. “Not much. Know where he lives?”

  “No, but if you wanted to find him, I’d start at the bars. A dollar to a donut, I bet you’d catch him at one of them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, I’ve got a question. Why the interest?”

  I skirted the question and said I was talking to Burl who said Douglas was one of his flock and he was concerned about him and thought I might talk to him.

  Amber stared at me and her eyes narrowed, but didn’t pursue it. Instead, she said, “I lied about asking one question. Think Charles will leave with Heather?”

  “What I want to happen or what I think will happen?”

  Her smile faded. “Crap.”

  Two men at a nearby table waved for Amber so she patted my arm and left to see how she could be of assistance.

  It was almost lunchtime and since I had nothing else to do, decided to peek in on some of Folly’s bars in hopes of finding someone who fit the sketchy description of Douglas Garfield. There were at least a dozen bars and restaurants with bars so finding him was a longshot, although the odds were better than waiting at home in hopes Mr. Garfield stopped by selling Girl Scout cookies.

  After twenty minutes of looking in doors and saying, “No thanks. Looking for someone,” I hadn’t found Douglas, but knew seven of the town’s watering holes where he wasn’t. Luck, and the law of averages, smiled at me when I stuck my head in Loggerhead’s Beach Grill. If the weather was warmer, its elevated deck would have been packed, but it was cool and a crisp wind rolled in off the ocean a block away, so the deck was deserted. The inside bar was near the door and where I spotted a man who fit Garfield’s description.

  A half-dozen customers were seated along the bar on the right side of the restaurant. Sitting alone, with three seats separating him from the others, sat a tall gentleman, wearing a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black work boots. To compliment his attire, he had shoulder-length black hair that looked like it’d been dipped in motor oil. He was in his late forties and was studying the bottle of Miller he held in a death grip. I had the impression it wasn’t his first beer of the day.

  I took a deep breath and sat in the stool beside him. He glanced over and gave a dismissive look like he would if a fly had perched on the stool. I ordered a glass of Cabernet and waited for it to arrive before speaking.

  “Are you Douglas Garfield?”

  He was staring at a car commercial on a flat-screen television behind the bar. “Why?” He didn’t turn from the TV.

  This was going to be fun, I thought. “I’m Chris Landrum, I—”

  “Who gives a rip,” he mumbled, still without taking his eye off what must be a mesmerizing commercial.

  He hadn’t denied it, so I assumed he was the right person.

  “Your preacher is a friend of mine and he asked me to talk to you.”

  “Buttin’-in Burl, excuse me, Preacher Burl,” he slurred and finished off the beer. He waved for the bartender and pointed at his empty bottle.

  She said nothing and headed to the cooler. I waited to see if he had anything to say.

  “The man gives me one ride home and thinks he’s my guardian angel—preachers, guess we need them.” He took a sip of his replacement beer and turned toward me. “I know who you are. Hear you stick your mug into as much of other people’s business as the preacher does. Seen you walking from your house to Bert’s. So why prey tell are you supposed to talk to me?” He smiled at his pathetic attempt at humor.

  “Preacher Burl is worried. He shared a little about your, umm, situation and was afraid the man who was killed may have something to do with your past. Thought he may have been here to cause you harm.”

  He took a drag on his beer, slammed the bottle down on the bar, and twisted on the barstool and faced me. His beer breath assaulted my face. “I didn’t ask the preacher for help. I didn’t give him permission to tell anyone what I told him. And, I freakin’ don’t need help from some damn do-gooder stickin’ his nose where it don’t belong. I can take care of myself.” He pivoted back to facing his beer and stared at the bottle.

  It didn’t take my degree in psychology to grasp that Douglas Garfield didn’t share Preacher Burl’s concern he may need help. I finished my drink, slipped off the barstool, and started to leave and let Douglas
stew in his brew, when he twisted back to me.

  “Who did you blab to?”

  I stared at him. “No one.”

  “Keep it that way,” he growled, and returned to his drink.

  Not only was that my plan, I was trying to think of a way to erase him from my memory. Other than learning I wouldn’t want to share a meal with Douglas and without knowing what he had done in his pre-witness protection life, but assuming it had nothing to do with running a charm school, I learned nothing from the brief encounter. What I did begin wondering was whether he was the person who ended Panella’s life. It was a short hop to think the answer was yes.

  The headache began to return when I realized if I was right about him, he could consider me a threat and could have already left a love note on my bed. Scary, I thought and headed home.

  Chapter Twenty

  Despite seeing Douglas Garfield’s frightening scowl and penetrating dark-brown eyes when I closed mine, I managed a good night’s sleep. As has almost become a regular event, knocking on the door jolted me out of what should have been the peaceful period between sleep and my first sip of coffee.

  Charles stood in the doorway in a navy blue sweatshirt, with Belmont Bruins in red on the front, jeans with a hole in the right knee, his canvas Tilley cocked at an angle on his head, and carrying his handmade cane. “Let’s walk.”

  “Where and why?”

  “Bert’s for caffeine, anywhere for exercise, somewhere quiet to talk.”

  For years I had tried to avoid asking him about his massive collection of logo-wear, but knew Belmont University was in Nashville. I hoped his shirt wasn’t an omen. The way to find out was to go with him.

  Our stop at Bert’s coffee urn was followed by a brief conversation with one of the employees. We left the grocery and Charles pointing toward the beach. The temperature was in the low fifties, so the coffee was a pleasant walking companion; so far, better than Charles. Something was on his mind and he wasn’t ready to talk. I wasn’t ready to ask.

  There weren’t more than a ten people on the beach. Three surfers in their black wetsuits sat on surfboards waiting for the perfect wave that seldom appeared. Two couples were walking dogs, and a lady with a young child was throwing a stick in the surf and watching her enthusiastic Golden Retriever scamper into the water to fetch the priceless piece of driftwood.