Relic Read online

  “What about him?”

  “I was peddling back to town from, delivering a wet suit for Dude. Took it to a chubby guy living out near the end of East Huron. Don’t know how he’s going to wiggle into the suit. He said—”

  “Charles, Abraham Gant?”

  “No wonder you never know what’s going on. Anyway, I parked my bike beside the Crab Shack, was headed in to enjoy a brew. Gant was standing on the corner by the bicycle rack. Did you know he preferred to be called Captain Gant?”

  “No. How do you know?”

  “Suppose because the first time I met him he said call me Captain Gant.” Charles smiled. “Thought it sounded silly. First thing I thought of was Captain America, Captain Hook, Captain D’s, Captain Midnight, Captain Crunch, Captain—”

  “Your point, Charles?”

  “Okay, okay. Captain was his last rank when he was a cop. Anyway, I said, “Howdy.’ That’s all it took.”

  “For what?”

  “For him to start ranting about relic hunters, scavengers. Now, here’s the important part, Anthony Fitzsimmons.”

  “Explain?”

  “Captain stuck his shriveled-up forefinger in my chest, said something like, ‘Did you hear that old, blankety-blank scoundrel was killed?’ He didn’t say blankety-blank.”

  “Was he talking about Anthony?”

  “Duh, of course. That’s my point. How did Captain know about the murder? We’d just stumbled on it.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “I’d heard he was eccentric, but didn’t know about what. Now, I do. The old boy gets all riled up on the topic of the past, about what kinds of things happened then.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ghosts, things, people from the past. Says what happened back there needed to stay back there. What’s buried should stay buried. He spouted off something about the past is the past because it’s not now. He said people who go digging up bones, or old stuff, are the scourge of the earth.”

  I was certain that what Charles said didn’t make sense. “So?”

  “Hang on, I’m getting to the good part. Captain Gant said those people who dig up the past should, now get this, be shot. Yep, that’s what he said. S.H.O.T.”

  Chapter Four

  I left the Dog after agreeing that Gant’s comment warranted a call to Chief LaMond. I didn’t believe his mini-rant amounted to a confession yet, unless I agreed to tell Cindy, I’d never hear the last of it. Of course, Charles could’ve called her. He said that she’d believe me before taking his word. History told me he was right.

  A stop at the post office rewarded me with a brochure offering a “deal of a lifetime” on a “miracle” hearing aid that was about the size of a gnat but would allow me to hear the tiniest sounds, or not miss important words spoken by family and friends. I didn’t know about hearing the tiniest sounds, something that seemed to be a distraction rather than an improvement, but knew my friends made sure they never let any of their “important words” get past me. I dropped the deal of a lifetime in the trash before calling Chief LaMond.

  She answered with, “What took you so long to pester me about this morning?”

  “Good afternoon, Cindy.”

  “Tell me one good thing about it. Come on, tell me one.”

  Cindy’s moods occasionally ranged from mad at the world to life’s grand. I was a good enough friend, so she didn’t hesitate sharing both ends of the spectrum. Her frustrations with her no-win job occasionally seeped into her relationship with those who knew her deeper than by title. There weren’t many of us in that category, so I gave her benefit of the doubt, if she appeared to be taking her frustrations out on me.

  “It’s a beautiful July afternoon.”

  “Oh, wait, let me get out of this rickety chair, stand on my tippy-toes so I can look over this damned pile of folders chock full of crap I need to review and, oh yeah, hang on while I throw the office phone in the trash so I don’t have to see the red light blinking, the screen showing I have twenty-seven voicemail messages.” She groaned. “Hell, yes, it does look like a beautiful day out there. Hope you’re enjoying the heck out of it. Back to my question, what took you so long to pester me about this morning?”

  I moved the phone away from my face, so she wouldn’t hear my chuckle.

  “Sorry to bother you. I was talking to Charles, who shared a conversation he had with Abraham Gant.”

  Cindy interrupted, “That’s Captain Gant to you.”

  “Yes, Captain Gant told Charles something about the past needing to stay in the past, that people who dig it up should be shot.”

  Cindy sighed. “Let me guess. Your faux detective friend used his faux detective skills to figure that Captain Gant killed Anthony Fitzsimmons.”

  “That was his thought.”

  “Chris, do you know how many people Captain Gant has shared his warped views with about relic hunters, grave robbers, heck, anyone who happens to stump their toe on a Civil War frying pan uncovered by a storm?”

  “No.”

  “Me, either. It’s a bunch. I’ve heard it from several of our fine citizens. He’s freely shared those views for years with anyone who’d listen. Tell Charles to go back to doing what he does best. That would be nothing, in case you’re not sure.”

  “I’ll do that, Cindy. Have you learned anything new about the murder?”

  “I’m disappointed it took you this long to butt in. If it would be any of your business, which it is not, the answer is, “No.’ ”

  “Have you heard how Laurie Fitzsimmons is doing?”

  “That I can answer. The hospital kept her a couple of hours. She was Ubered home after being told to drink plenty of liquids, get plenty of rest. One of the Sheriff’s Office detectives is going to talk to her this evening.”

  The Folly Beach Department of Public Safety was responsible for law enforcement, fire protection, even animal control on the island but, because of the size of the department, major crimes were investigated by the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office.

  “Which detective?” I asked, realizing how sad it was that this retired insurance company bureaucrat would even ask. Since moving to Folly, I’d, unfortunately, encountered several detectives and on a more positive note, had dated one.

  “Callahan.”

  I’d met Michael Callahan a few years ago, when he was lead detective in the murder investigation of a stockbroker. A friend of mine was the prime suspect before Charles and I stumbled on information that helped prove our friend innocent.

  “Good. So no suspects?”

  Before hanging up she said, “One, Abraham Gant.”

  I took part of the doctor’s advice to Laurie and took a nap before I was to meet Barbara Deanelli for supper at Rita’s. Barb owned Barb’s Books, a used bookstore which occupied the space that formerly housed Landrum Gallery, a photo gallery owned by, and creatively named for, yours truly. Owning a gallery featuring my photos had been a lifelong dream. Once it became reality, it turned to a nightmare, where costs exceeded income by amounts approaching the national debt. I shuttered the door two years ago. The space morphed into Barb’s Books.

  Barbara moved to Folly from Pennsylvania after her attorney husband, now ex-husband, was arrested for bribing state officials. Barb, also an attorney, had no knowledge of her hubby’s nefarious activities, yet was judged guilty by wedding ring. She moved to Folly to restart her life, and be near her half-brother, Dude Sloan. Dude and Barb were as alike as Viagra was to Venus, yet, over the last year, he had managed to find common ground to inch closer.

  To secure a table on the patio, I was at the restaurant a half hour before I was to meet Barb. Rita’s was on the corner of Center Street and East Arctic Avenue, a prime location on the island. It’s across the street from the Folly Beach Fishing Pier, cattycorner from the Tides Hotel, and across Center Street from the iconic Sand Dollar Social Club.

  I was sipping on the house Pinot Grigio when Barb appeared in the doorway. She was my height at
five-foot-nine, at sixty-five, three years younger than I, way thinner, with short black hair. She was wearing one of her trademark red blouses. Tonight, she had on tan shorts. Her perfectly coordinated, and probably expensive, attire contrasted with my faded blue polo shirt and wrinkled gray shorts. She didn’t seem to mind my scruffy clothes, as she kissed my forehead, pointed at my wineglass, and said, “Where’s mine?”

  Kim, the server, was quick to the table and said she would get Barb’s drink, “before you could say please.” It arrived before Barb could tell me how busy the bookstore had been this afternoon. I would have been hard-pressed to tell anyone that the gallery had been that busy, ever.

  Barb and I had been, as some of my friends called it, an item for a year or so. She had been slow to acclimate to the unhurried pace, and bohemian attitude, of many of the island’s residents. She wouldn’t admit it, yet I could see the mellowing in her hard-driving tendencies, and skepticism about the motives of others. Folly was becoming a part of her attitudes, and her behavior. It was a delight to see.

  “Got a rumor to bounce off you,” she said before looking around for Kim. “First, I have to get something to fill this empty stomach.” She waved to Kim. “Blue crab and artichoke dip, please. I’m starved.”

  Kim nodded and headed to the kitchen. Barb could out eat a sumo wrestler, yet she was model-thin. I fluctuated between envying, and hating, her metabolism.

  Barb told me about a customer who’d vacationed on Folly for the last nineteen years, staying at a different house, or condo, each year. I didn’t see what was so unusual, but Barb couldn’t imagine someone moving around that much. I wondered what that story had to do with the rumor she’d mentioned before she ordered the crab and artichoke dip.

  “Did she tell you the rumor you mentioned?”

  “No, I got off track. Now, for the rumor. This afternoon, one of my regulars told me a tale about a body the police found this morning at the old Coast Guard property. The customer didn’t know who he was, or the circumstances about his demise.”

  Kim set the appetizer in front of Barb.

  The story took a back seat to Barb’s need to fill her stomach. Two bites later, she continued. “The customer didn’t know anything about the body. Know what she did know?”

  I was afraid that I did. “What?”

  “An old geezer named Chris Landrum was the guy who called the police. Seems he was there with another geezer, Charles Fowler, plus a lady the customer didn’t know.” Barb pointed a fried tortilla chip at me. “It’s funny that I’d hear something like that from a stranger rather than from the person sitting across from me.”

  Her hazel eyes showed a glimmer of what I hoped was humor.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your day at the store. I figured I’d tell you tonight.” I stuffed a chip in my mouth.

  “So you thought a pleasant supper would be the perfect time to talk about a dead body and being out with another woman?”

  “Well, umm, I—”

  Barb laughed. “Kidding.” Her smile faded. “Are you okay?”

  I said that I was and proceeded to tell her about my fateful morning. Barb was a good listener, rare among my friends. She used her law school training, plus years of listening to clients, to grasp everything I said.

  She chewed another chip, wiped her mouth with her napkin, before saying, “I’ve only been out there once. It didn’t seem that large an area. Is it possible to be lost as long as Ms. Fitzsimmons said they were?”

  “It’s hard to understand, although she was a stranger to the area. That, combined with it being dark and stormy, could make it possible.”

  “You said they’re in their late fifties.”

  I nodded.

  “Did she seem in good health?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did she appear healthy? Any noticeable handicaps?”

  “As far as I could tell she was okay. Why?”

  “It’s strange that a person in good health who, after being separated from her husband in a strange place, not knowing what was going on, would, after finding her way back to the car, fall asleep. I’d be worried sick, wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

  “Putting it that way, yes, it’s strange. What’re you saying?”

  Kim returned to ask if we were ready to order. Barb quickly said that she was and ordered the flounder. I was a sucker for Rita’s hamburgers, so I ordered one.

  “What am I saying?” Barb said as Kim moved toward the kitchen. “Suppose I’m a bookstore owner playing lawyer. Usually, when things don’t make sense, there’s more to it than meets the eye. If I was a defense attorney representing someone who’d been accused of murdering Mr. Fitzsimmons, someone other than his wife, that is, I’d be looking for suspects to throw at the jury. Ms. Fitzsimmons would be number one. She may be as innocent as a newborn, yet her unlikely story would go a long way toward creating reasonable doubt for my client.”

  I told her that the police would see the same things.

  Barb said that she hoped so.

  “Speaking of suspects,” I said. “Do you know Abraham Gant?”

  She nodded. “Cranky guy, insists on being called Captain?”

  “So you know him?”

  “Little, other than he stops in the store about once a week. Cranky, feisty fellow. Why?”

  I told her about Gant’s encounter with Charles.

  “He’s a history buff, spends most of his time browsing the history, or biography, sections. He bought a few books about the Civil War, one on slavery. He may not want anyone to literally dig up things from the past, yet he reads a lot about the past. That seems to be a form of dredging up history.”

  I seldom read anything other than the newspaper, and that’s not often, so I didn’t know how many books Barb had on the Civil War. She gave one of her endearing laughs when I asked.

  “I’ve gotten several in, sold them as quickly to your friend William Hansel. He, like Gant, is a history buff.”

  “The Civil War?”

  “He stops every Friday on his way home from the College of Charleston. He said he’s a professor of Hospitality and Tourism, is deeply involved with Preserve the Past, the group with the goal of raising money to preserve the Morris Island Lighthouse. He always asks if I have anything new on the Civil War. William is one of my favorite customers. Others could learn a thing or two from him about politeness.”

  Our entrees arrived and the conversation, once again, took a back seat to eating. The sun was lowering itself behind the second story of St. James Gate up the street. While it was still in the upper eighties, we were in the shade, and comfortable. Neither Barb, nor I, returned to the topic of murder. We spent the next hour watching the steady stream of people walking along the nearby sidewalk, enjoying each other’s company.

  After leaving Rita’s, we walked four blocks up Center Street, listened to the live music coming from Snapper Jack’s upstairs outside bar, and the Crab Shack, before heading back down the street to her oceanfront condo. The day ended much more pleasantly than it had begun.

  Chapter Five

  Barb’s questions about Laurie’s actions stayed with me well into the next day. True, it was unusual that Laurie would find her way back to the car only to fall asleep while her husband’s whereabouts was in question or if he was with her at all, yet did it rise to the level of making her a murder suspect? It wasn’t my problem to solve, that was tasked to the capable hands of Detective Callahan from the Sheriff’s Office and Chief LaMond of the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety.

  Barb mentioning William Hansel reminded me that it had been several weeks since I’d talked to my friend. He was probably home from work so why not take the short, four-block walk to his house. I needed to lose a few pounds so, despite my aversion to exercise, the walk would do me good. Remember, I said to myself, it was simply me wanting to talk to an old friend, burning calories in the process, not anything to do with Anthony Fitzsimmons’ death. Honest.

  William’s
wife had died seventeen years ago, so he lived alone in a quaint, pre-Hurricane Hugo cottage on West Cooper Avenue, two blocks from Center Street. He greeted me at the door, like there was nothing unusual about me dropping by unexpectedly.

  “Ah, my friend,” he said in his deep bass voice as he waved me in. He was thin, roughly my height, and four years younger than I. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “On the contrary. I just arrived home and changed from professorial attire to my gardening wardrobe.”

  If you took my friend sentence-challenged Dude’s average words spoken, add it to William’s, then divide the sum by two, you would come close to a normal sentence. William was a wonderful person with the best intentions but, occasionally, it was hard to stay awake once he started talking.

  His gardening wardrobe consisted of jeans with a hole in the left knee, a long-sleeved denim shirt, and tennis shoes.

  “Don’t let me keep you from whatever you were going to do.”

  “Nonsense. The precocious, invasive weeds in my garden will wait until later for me to eradicate them. Is it possible that you have an agenda for today’s visit?”

  See my point?

  “No. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, so I thought I’d stop by.”

  “I’m pleased that you did. Could I interest you in iced tea?”

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  William headed to the kitchen, and I sat on the flower-patterned, wingback sofa facing a similarly-patterned wingback chair. I gazed around the room to, once again, be struck by the feminine touches. Cream-colored doilies topped each table with glass angel figurines strategically placed on the coffee table. I had never asked, nor had William offered, but I suspected the house looked exactly as it had before his wife’s death.

  William returned to hand me tea in a vintage, cut crystal drinking glass. He offered sugar from a white sugar bowl. I declined, and William took a seat in the wingback chair.