The Marsh Page 13

  Excitement outside our line of vision was all it took for Charles to follow the couples to the door. I followed on Charles’s heels. A police cruiser had blocked the street in front of the combination city hall and fire station. Officer Spencer, one of Folly’s finest, and youngest, public safety officers, blocked the street in front of GB’s and rerouted cars away from city hall, waving bystanders to our side of the road and away from the action. It was past sunset, but I could still see clouds of black smoke billowing into the air from the other side of city hall. The blue LED lights from the cruiser’s light bar bounced off the side of city hall; reflections of flames danced in the smoke.

  I motioned for Charles to sneak across the street with me; we scurried behind Spencer, who was distracted by drivers who resisted his rerouting. We walked around the back of the fire station and faced the rear of the burning building. Flames pushed out the second-floor rear windows of the weathered, wooden, two-story structure that inched up against the municipal building. City hall and its attached fire station formed the long side of an L with the flame-engulfed structure. The fire escape door flapped open from the fire’s pressure; smoke and flames spewed out.

  Charles and I moved to the back of the city hall parking lot and were directly behind the center of attention. The first-floor door was closed, and it didn’t appear that flames had reached the lower shop.

  “Hear that?” asked Charles. He pointed his cane at the first-floor door.

  “What?” I said. All I heard were the crackling of the fire and shouts of firefighters from the front of the building.

  Charles had already started to move closer to the burning structure.

  “Somebody’s in there.”

  We were some twenty feet from the building, and the heat felt like I was sticking my head in an open oven. Burning embers floated around my head. Two embers landed on my shirt sleeve, and I quickly brushed them off before I became part of the fire.

  Charles was oblivious to everything around him and continued to walk toward the door. Before I could yell, he reached for the knob.

  Shouts continued from the front of the building, and I still didn’t hear anything from inside.

  He looked over his shoulder at me. “Give me a hand.” He grabbed the knob and put his right foot on the frame and yanked. Nothing happened.

  I was about five feet behind him when I heard a muffled explosion and looked up. The entire second-floor door frame and door were engulfed in flames. The explosion had ripped the wooden frame from the building.

  I ducked and yelled, “Get back!”

  Charles was focused on the locked door and ignored everything except the knob.

  The flaming wooden door and frame bounced off the steel-grated, second-floor fire escape and over the edge. I lunged for Charles and grabbed him around the waist. He let go of the knob.

  “What the …” he muttered.

  I pulled him a few feet away from the building before I tripped on a smoldering board and fell backward. I hit the pavement hard, and Charles landed on me. Pain shot through my left leg.

  The heavy, flaming door crashed to the pavement. Sparks and embers shot in all directions. Charles had been in the exact spot where the door landed.

  “You okay?” I asked. I pulled my legs from under him. Sharp pain radiated to my thigh, but I didn’t think anything was broken.

  Charles turned to see where I was. “Yeah. I guess.” He slowly moved to a sitting position and stared at the broken, burning door at his feet. He turned back toward me and then back to the burning door. “Thanks,” he said without elaboration.

  I slowly pushed myself to my feet and tested my legs; both worked. Charles did the same. He grabbed his cane and hat. They had hit the parking lot farther from the flames than we had. My Tilley had managed to stay on my head the entire time.

  Burning embers floated lazily through the air around us; heat from the inferno was more intense than ever.

  This time, I didn’t have to tell Charles to move away from the building. We hobbled to the other side of the lot, away from the flames. I struggled to catch my breath and bent over and rested my hands on my knees. Charles stared at the first-floor door.

  I pointed to a fire truck that had carefully inched into the lot where we were. Two firefighters were pulling the heavy hoses off the truck and setting up to fight the blaze from the rear.

  “Tell them you heard something,” I said.

  Charles nodded and then took a deep breath. He leaned on his cane—one of the few times it served a real purpose. He nodded a second time and slowly hobbled toward the truck.

  Folly Beach had a skeleton crew of firefighters, and its public safety officers served a dual role—sworn law enforcement officials and when needed, firefighters. Tonight they were definitely needed.

  I still had trouble breathing and looked around for somewhere to sit. The parking lot was my best option, and I lowered myself to the surface.

  Charles had gotten the attention of one of the firefighters and was pointing his cane at the first floor door and waving his other arm in the air. The second firefighter joined the conversation and grabbed a fire axe from the truck and hurried to the door. He pointed for Charles to stay by the truck. His partner aimed the hose at the second floor while the axe-wielding firefighter attacked the door.

  It took a couple of well-placed swings, and the pick-shaped pointed edge of the axe shattered the door’s lock. The door swung open.

  Charles leaned against the fire engine. His eyes never left the door.

  The first responder pulled the door the rest of the way open. A small cloud of smoke rolled out from the top of the doorway, and a grateful, black-and-brown German shepherd bounded out.

  Charles broke into a huge smile and darted toward the dog. He seemed to have forgotten his injuries and direction to stay by the truck. I think he was happier to have saved the dog than he would have been to rescue a church choir. He was on his knees hugging his new best friend.

  I turned back to the burning structure and wondered what the odds were that the cause of the fire in the heavily engulfed building was accidental. After all, the sole occupant of the second floor was the Aker and Long Law Office.

  A white Crown Vic with its blue LED emergency lights flashing slid around the corner into the small lot; it almost hit the fire apparatus. Charles and his new canine friend realized that they weren’t in the safest place and hobbled toward me. A police-officer-turned-firefighter yelled at his colleague to be more careful but clearly needed the extra set of hands to help with the heavy, cumbersome hoses. Most of their efforts were focused on another small building behind the law offices and city hall. The firefighters kept a constant stream of water on the buildings to keep them safe from the flames and airborne embers. Charles, his new friend, and I stood under the roof of a carport in the back corner of the lot and away from the action. The appreciative canine panted as if it had run from downtown Charleston. We watched the harried activities unfold and tried to blend into the scenery.

  A tall, trim lady ran around the corner and looked at us. “Thank God! There you are,” she screamed.

  I didn’t recognize her and doubted she was that excited to see Charles or me. I was right. She was focused on the tail-wagging German shepherd that Charles still had his arms around.

  “Rex, Rex … Thank God … Oh, Rex,” she said. Tears filled her eyes, and she stooped to kiss the dog.

  After a few more tears, “Thank God,” and “Rex, oh Rex,” we learned that she owned the candy store and that Rex was her “soul mate” and “night watchdog.” She usually left him overnight in the small office in the rear. “To guard my loot,” she said. No one would have known he was there from the front of the store.

  The orange-and-red flames began to die down. They were replaced by a cloud of thick, black smoke. After Rex and his owner
left, we both sat on the lot and out of the way. I was exhausted, and I suspected Charles wasn’t far behind.

  Officer/Firefighter Cindy Ash scampered around the building to help the crew in the parking lot. I could only imagine how many people had gathered in front of the building along Center Street. I wondered how many of them would have enjoyed watching the dog rescue and near-death experience Charles and I had and, thank God, lived through. This was the most entertainment to hit the beach in years.

  I was relieved that the fire was out, the dog was saved, Charles and I had avoided major injuries, and the excitement was over.

  I was also badly mistaken.

  I was about to suggest to Charles that we join the masses along Center Street when a black, unmarked Crown Vic slowly pulled in the lot. “Oh, oh,” said Charles. He pointed his cane at the car. “The King has arrived.”

  The King was the acting director of public safety, Clarence King. Unlike Brian Newman, who was comfortable enough with himself to often wear civilian clothing while on duty, Acting Chief King was always in uniform—a uniform that was two sizes too small for his burly body. He was shaped like a manatee, but wasn’t nearly as attractive.

  Keep you eyes on the fire, Acting Chief, I wished. Don’t turn around.

  Another wish not answered. Instead of focusing on the heavily damaged building or his crew like any good chief would do, he looked over his right shoulder directly at Charles and me. The general consensus of his department, and anyone else who knew his professional skills, was that he was evil incarnate. I shouldn’t have been surprised that he failed to do what a good leader would do.

  “I thought I saw you slugs when I pulled in,” he said. He slammed his car door and made a beeline for us. The scowl on his face was illuminated by the parking lot light on a pole in front of our not-so-successful hiding place. An inch-long scar over his left eye looked like an exclamation point to his unhappiness.

  Charles smiled. “Hi, Chief King.”

  I had learned over the years to recognize the sincerity level of Charles’s smiles. If Chief King knew what I knew about the greeting, he would have pulled his gun and shot my friend.

  “Wipe that grin off your face,” said King. He was out of breath and looked like he would burst the buttons on his shirt as he gasped for air. He paused to catch his breath, but unfortunately for us, he was still breathing. “What the hell are you two doing on city property?” His right hand rested on the butt of his firearm.

  There weren’t many people in all my years that I’d come to hate, but Chief King was close to crossing that line.

  “We were over at GB’s and heard the commotion,” I said. “We walked over to see what was going on. One of your officers blocked everyone from going to Center Street, so we came here. Didn’t want to get in the way.”

  I didn’t see anything good about mentioning the dog rescue and thought my explanation sounded good. The acting chief must not have. “What do you troublemakers know about the fire? Any witnesses to you being in GB’s?”

  “Several people saw us,” said Charles. He still smiled but wasn’t working as hard to make it look real. “Check with Colleen, the waitress. We still have an unpaid tab. She’ll tell you we were there.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I told you before that if I catch you meddling in police business again, you’ll be spending a big part of the rest of your miserable life behind bars.” He turned toward the fire, hesitated, and then turned back to us. “If I find that you know anything about this, you’ll pray for only jail time.”

  He turned and started walking toward the fire engine and then stopped, turned back to the carport, and shouted, “Get off my property. Now!”

  “Pleasant,” said Charles. “How come you didn’t remind him that your taxes pay his salary?”

  Instead of wasting words with an answer, I started to walk the few yards to Erie Avenue and around the corner on Center Street to the front of the fire-ravaged building. My legs hurt with each step, and Charles sported a noticeable limp.

  I was right about a crowd. Two backup units from James Island had arrived and were trying to maneuver around the mass of bystanders. A ladder truck, the newest addition to Folly’s public safety arsenal, displayed its unique talent and allowed the firefighters access to areas of the building that they were previously unable to reach. The police were stretched thin and struggled to keep the curious onlookers on the opposite side of the street. There must have been a couple hundred or more vacationers and residents milling around; many carried plastic cups, a possible violation of the law, but I doubted the police had time to make sure that none of the cups contained adult beverages. There were a few familiar faces, but the one that got my attention belonged to Marlene, Sean’s receptionist. She stood directly across from her building with her small dog cradled in her arms. Her husband stood beside her with his arm wrapped around her waist.

  When I got closer, I could see tears streaming down her cheeks. The temperature was still in the eighties, but she trembled. We exchanged strained pleasantries, and then I asked her if anyone had been in the building. Charles quickly became engrossed in a conversation with Aaron, something about how to rebuild the building. Charles was trolling for paying part-time work.

  Marlene looked at me, but it appeared that she was having a difficult time focusing. “I don’t think there was anyone in there,” she said. “Someone said the candy store closed about fifteen minutes before the fire. It was empty.”

  I didn’t mention the candy store’s night watchdog.

  She squeezed her dog so tightly that I was afraid she would hurt the pooch. “I don’t think I started it.”

  That surprised me. “Why would anyone think you did?” I asked. I reached over and petted the shih tzu. She lessened her grip on the poor canine. It sniffed my fingers and cocked its head as if to say, “Who have you been petting?”

  “I was the last in there.” She nodded toward the building. “Sean was gone; he left about two.” She paused. “I closed up at five like I normally do. I know it was five because Aaron wanted us to go out on the boat and was irritated when I said I couldn’t leave even though Sean wasn’t there.” She looked around. “I kept thinking he would come back; he usually doesn’t leave that early, and he didn’t tell me where he was going.” She paused again and looked back at the building. “I think I turned the coffee off.”

  Charles had finished his conversation with Aaron and listened over my shoulder. “Would it be hard for someone to get in?” he asked.

  “Not really. A couple of times, I forgot my key and opened the lock with my credit card. The fire escape door’s just as easy. We keep all our papers in locked cabinets because it’s so easy to break in.” She looked at Charles, and her eyes opened wider. “Do you think someone set the fire?”

  “No idea,” said Charles. “Just something to think about.”

  I was no expert, but it looked like most of the fire damage was limited to the second floor, the law office.

  “Did Sean have keys to Tony’s filing cabinets?” I asked, but not sure why.

  “No,” said Marlene. “Neither did I. I asked him several times if he didn’t think I should have keys in case of an emergency. He didn’t get hostile but made it clear that that wasn’t going to happen.” She hesitated and looked around. “They weren’t those big, old, safe-like cabinets,” she said and hesitated again. “It wouldn’t have been hard to open them.”

  Cindy Ash worked her way through the crowd. Her hair was frazzled—helmet hair—and her shoulders were covered with ashes. The smell of beer was strong from three college students standing beside us who had been staggering to stay vertical. They held plastic cups and enjoyed themselves way too much. Cindy gave them a nasty look but turned her attention to us.

  “Mrs. Ryle,” she said in her most sympathetic voice, “the chief would like to talk to you. Could y
ou please come with me?” Cindy was already clearing a path for Marlene and Aaron. They wisely agreed to follow her.

  I turned to Charles. “Do you remember if anyone said they found Tony’s keys on his body?”

  “Good question,” said Charles. He tapped his cane on the sidewalk. “Maybe I’ll let you join my detective agency.”

  What a deal, I thought and then quickly changed it to, What was the deal?

  Pancakes, burritos, biscuits, and rumors were served in heaping helpings at the Dog the next morning.

  “Tony Long’s killer torched the law office to cover his tracks.”

  “The secretary was sick of putting up with lawyers and set the fire.”

  “A power surge caused it, and every building on Folly Beach could go up in flames any minute.”

  “A body was found in the rubble.”

  “Two bodies were found in the office.”

  “Three bodies were shot through the head and found under Tony Long’s desk.”

  Followed by a favorite of several diners, “God finally wised up and did what he should have done to lawyers long ago.”

  And I heard all of this in the first hour the restaurant was open. I must confess that I wasn’t much different from the others who hung out in the best breakfast spot on the island. I had arrived as soon as the doors opened to hear what was being said about the conflagration. I was seated at my favorite table, and Amber had already decided what I wanted to eat. She had placed a cup of fresh fruit parfait with fruit, granola, and yogurt in front of me, accompanied by a smile. Her concern for my healthy diet far exceeded mine. What she decided that I wanted would have ranked fourteenth on the Dog’s thirteen-item breakfast menu. Just because Amber was right didn’t make her right. I returned her smile and said, “Thank you.”

  I was eavesdropping on a couple at the next table speculating on the cause of the fire when Dude Sloan skipped through the door. He was dressed in his surf shop uniform, the multi-colored, tie-dyed T-shirt with a peace symbol on the front. He waved a rolled-up copy of Astronomy magazine over his head. I assumed that was what it was, since it was the only periodical I had ever seen him read.