Boneyard Beach Page 5

  “Yes.”

  “So, that’s it. I’m getting this third hand. As usual, the high-and-mighty sheriff’s office is shutting out us little-ole-town, dumb-fuzz folks.”

  With roughly twenty-five employees, the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety wasn’t tiny, but was charged with providing police, fire, medical, and rescue services to the island that can swell to sixty thousand people during peak season; a daunting task that often overwhelms the department’s ability to meet its varied obligations. Nevertheless, considering the challenges, Cindy’s department performed admirably. There is not always an amiable working relationship between her department and the sheriff’s office and information was seldom effectively communicated, causing more conflict.

  I thanked her for what information she did have and asked if she could let me know if she found out anything else.

  “Chris, you know I live to share confidential public-safety information with you,” she said, in her East Tennessee sarcastic tone.

  “That’s why you’re my favorite law enforcement officer on Folly Beach,” I said.

  “Moose manure.” She hung up.

  Who told the police that I had been with Mel on his boat? Did the police believe Mel killed the student? Did they suspect that I was part of it?

  What have I gotten into?

  I was less successful with my next call. Mel’s answering machine informed me that he was unavailable and that if I left a number and a brief message that he might get back with me. I left him a Dude-like message saying, “Chris here, so was detective. Call,” and hoped that would have been enticing enough to get his attention.

  I called Charles and was less successful than with my call to Mel. Charles, to add to his list of idiosyncrasies didn’t own an answering machine or cell phone. I listened to his phone ring a half dozen times and gave up.

  My stomach began to growl; skirting questions from a detective and two unsuccessful phone calls made me hungry. My cupboard was in its usual state of bare, so I headed to the Lost Dog Café for a late breakfast. The Dog was a few blocks from the house and I could have walked but instead rationalized several reasons why I should drive instead of admitting that laziness trumped them all.

  The Dog was a block off Center Street and the most popular breakfast spot on Folly Beach. I expected a long wait after driving around the block twice trying to find an empty parking place. I lucked into a space two blocks from the restaurant and realized that I wasn’t much closer than if I’d left the car at home. The Dog was located in a former Laundromat, but you would never have known that the colorful restaurant had ever been anything but the place to get good food, stimulating conversation, and gossip galore. My luck changed when I saw Charles seated on the front deck.

  He reached down and picked up his cane and pointed it at the seat on the other side of the small table. He scooted his coffee mug, Folly Current newspaper, and Tilley hat over to his side of the table to make room for me.

  I said, “Good morning,” like most normal people I had known before moving to Folly would have done—remember, remarks like good morning, hi or hello, appeared to be borderline rude.

  He said, “Mel, what’s the deal? Larry, what’d he want? Dead guy, what do you know?”

  I rest my case. I delayed having to answer the master inquisitor when Brittany, one of the Dog’s more cheerful waitresses, noticed me and asked if I was ready to order. I looked at Charles’s half-eaten French toast, and said the same. She gave me one of her high-powered smiles, said she’d take care of it for one of her “more handsome” customers, and delivered the check to the table behind us.

  “Enough foodie talk,” Charles said before Brittany had time to put in my order. “What’s up with Mel?”

  “Why do you thing something’s up?”

  “You asked Cindy if he’d talked to her and when I asked you about it you said you’d tell me later.” He looked at his wrist where most normal people would wear a watch. Charles, not a full-time resident in the world of normal, didn’t own a timepiece but didn’t hesitate to imagine one like he imagined so many other things. He pointed his fork at me. “Later just arrived.”

  Charles was like darkness chasing sunset. At times it took longer to catch it, but it always did. There was no reason not to tell him everything; and perhaps he could shed light on what had happened. I began with Mel arriving at my door and our trip to Boneyard Beach. Charles gave me dirty looks twice and interrupted to castigate me for not calling him and taking him with us. I overlooked his whiny criticism. I proceeded to tell him about the visit by Detective Adair and how I limited my answers to the specific questions he had asked and even then being as brief as possible.

  Charles looked around the patio and then back at me. “Thomas Jefferson said, ‘The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do.’”

  Another of Charles’s quirks was quoting United States presidents. I had never known if the quotes were real, never cared enough to check, but did know that with the quantity of books he had in his apartment and his proclamation that he had read them all except the cookbooks, that his presidential utterances could be accurate—or not.

  I finished describing Detective Adair’s demeanor and how I skirted the whole truth in telling the detective why Mel wanted to return to Boneyard Beach, when Brittany arrived with my breakfast. I managed a couple of bites before Charles started with the questions.

  “Learn anything about the body?”

  I shared what Cindy had told me about Drew Casey.

  Charles huffed and leaned toward me. “And when were you going to tell me this?”

  My inpatient friend thought that I should tell him about anything that I ever learned that he didn’t already know within seconds, or less, of learning it.

  “Just did. And, for the record, I called you as soon as I got off the phone with the chief. Guess who didn’t answer?”

  A large construction truck drove past and the sound of its engine wiped out most of his words. I heard, “Excuses, excuses … forgive you this time.”

  I let him mumble as I watched a group of vacationers waiting in front of the restaurant for a table. I avoided eye contact with three different couples who kept looking our direction and wondering if we were ever going to vacate the valuable piece of real estate. Brittany returned with coffee for Charles. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee filled the air around the table and I continued to avoid eye contact with the antsy diner wannabes.

  “So what did Larry want to talk about?” Charles asked, finished for now with Mel’s story.

  “Seems an acquaintance from his past has come to Folly,” I shared what Larry had told me about Abraham Pottinger.

  “Is he about Larry’s age, wears fancy duds, and looks a little like George Clooney will when he’s sixty?”

  “Could be. All I know is that he’s about the same age as Larry and wore good clothes back when Larry knew him. Why?”

  “Seen a stranger around town a few times. The fellow’s out of place. Who here wears pressed khaki shorts?”

  “Could be,” I told Charles that Larry didn’t trust Pottinger regardless what he had professed about changing from his life of crime.

  “Larry doesn’t think leopard-Abe can change his spots?”

  “You got it.”

  “Does Larry remember that he changed his?”

  Charles was one of the few on Folly who knew about Larry’s past and his life-altering transition to a well-respected business owner.

  “Sure, but Larry can spot a problem a mile away. If he has a bad feeling about Pottinger, there’s something there.”

  “Then,” Charles tilted his head and nodded, “what does Larry want us to do?”

  Us, I thought, but didn’t say it because it would have been a waste of a word.

  “Cal told me that one of the members of the .5 group’s name was something like ‘Potsticker.’ Larry thinks it’s Pottinger.” I took a sip of coffee and continued, “If it is, Larry i
s convinced that he’s not in the group for exercise. He’s out to con members out of their false teeth, as Larry put it.”

  “And we’re supposed to do what about it?”

  “Larry asked me to join the walking group to try to figure out what Pottinger’s up to.”

  Charles chuckled. “You in a walking group. Didn’t know Larry was that funny.”

  I smiled and told Charles that if the group was headed by Chester, I wouldn’t have to worry about too much walking.

  “Sounds like what the group needs is someone to do some detectin’. When do we start?”

  Chapter Seven

  The .5 group gathered at the crack of dawn every other day at the Folly Pier. Their dedication impressed me until Chester confessed that “crack of dawn” was nine-o’clock, or two and a half hours after sunrise. Today would be the group’s next walk so Charles and I decided to stroll by Chester’s house around the time they should be finishing.

  My crack of dawn arrived hours earlier than Chester’s, and I had time to kill and used my culinary skills and fixed a bowl of Cheerios, and wondered what Charles and I were getting into. What were we supposed to do if the newcomer in the group was Abraham Pottinger? I could picture Charles sideling up to him and saying, “Abe, good buddy, how’re you planning to rip off these geezers?”

  Charles may not be that direct, but he wouldn’t burn too much daylight before finding a way to interrogate Abe. If he was as good at the con as Larry had said, Pottinger would see through Charles’s questions and if he had a less than legitimate motive for being here, he wouldn’t have to search far to learn that we were friends with Larry. The weather forecast called for scattered showers, so maybe I would luck out and it would rain on Chester’s parade and I wouldn’t have to face the alleged con artist.

  The rain gods had forsaken me and the sky was clear and the temperature mild as the walkers’ crack of dawn had come and gone. Chester lived on West Ashley Avenue, a block off Center Street, the location of most of the small island’s retail establishments, restaurants, and bars. I met Charles in front of St. James Gate, one of Folly’s newest restaurants, where today he wore an orange University of Texas San Antonio long-sleeve T-shirt with something that looked like a bird’s head on it, blue shorts with ravels on the legs, florescent-red tennis shoes, Tilley hat, and his cane. I was attired in my Folly summer uniform of a faded golf shirt, shorts, canvas Crocs, and a Tilley similar to the one he had that I had given Charles a few years back.

  He pointed to the logo on his shirt. “Get it?”

  “Get what? That bird’s head?

  “Chris, oh Chris,” He leaned against his cane. “I figured that since you’re a college graduate you’d know that it’s a roadrunner.” He smiled. “Walking group. Roadrunner.”

  I nodded, not because I cared, but to get him to shut up. I changed the subject. “I figure they’ve had time to get to Chester’s. Ready to stroll by?”

  “See if I get the plan.” He pointed his cane toward our destination. “We’re going to say, ‘Hey group, you look like you’ve been out for a walk. Can we stop and jabber a while. Oh, hi stranger, you look like the crook Larry said was over here swindling the life savings out of old folks. We’re here to make sure you get locked up for the rest of your dirty, rotten, lying, stealing life.”

  I bit my lip and tried to keep a straight face. “You’ve got it.”

  “Then lead on.”

  Moments later, Charles and I were strolling by Chester’s house when Charles glanced looked over at the screened-in porch where several people were gathered.

  He turned to me and in a stage whisper said, “Look, there’s Chester.” He then turned toward the porch. “Hey, Chester, how’re you doing?”

  Not inconspicuous, but better than yelling, “Hey, Chester, who’s that crook with you?”

  “Yo, Charles, Chris. Come join us.”

  So far our well-thought-out, highly-detailed plan was on track.

  Chester opened the screen door and waved us in. He was five-foot-six, mostly bald, chunky, his shape complemented by Coke-bottle-thick glasses, and in the words of Charles’s late aunt, “a spittin’ image of Mr. Magoo.”

  “Say hi to our little group of walkers,” Chester took a deep breath and gestured toward the five others. Sweat rolled down his face.

  “Wobbly Walkers,” said a short, attractive lady in a wooden rocking chair nearest the door.

  “Silly girl,” said a man leaning on the back of the woman’s rocker. “We’re senior strollers.” He leaned his head back, the bill of his black USS Yorktown ball cap pointed toward the ceiling. His way-off-white, sleeveless T-shirt slid off one shoulder as he tried to act insulted by the wobbly walker remark.

  “That’s ET,” Chester said by way of introduction as he pointed to the man who looked about 117, but was no older than 85.

  ET shuffled over and shook our hands. “Name’s Theodore Stoll, Theo to my friends.”

  “ET to everyone here,” interrupted the rocking-chair lady.

  Theo looked at her and said, “Huh?”

  She smiled at him and repeated what she had said. When he turned back toward us, the lady cupped her hand around her ear and nodded. Got it, Theo’s hard of hearing.

  Theo nodded and continued. “A term of endearment, after the loveable movie alien.” He pulled up his black, knee-high support stockings that now reached his shiny, green jogging shorts.

  The lady held her hand in front of her face and giggled.

  Theo pointed to the rocking chair. “That’s Connie DeWalt. Cute as a button, ain’t she?”

  Connie was in her mid-sixties but still had the figure of a fifty year old. She nodded in our direction, said “it’s a pleasure,” and winked at Theo.

  “Excuse our condition,” Chester said. “We just finished our longest walk ever.”

  “Where’d you go?” Charles asked.

  Chester wiped sweat off his left arm. “Started at the foot of the pier. Too many steps to start on the pier. Walked all the way up to city hall and back here.”

  It was a distance that could better be described in yards rather than in miles.

  “Come meet the rest of the group,” Chester said. He stepped around the rocking chair and led us to the wicker chair leaned against the window frame. “Meet David Darnell. He’s new to Folly. Moved here and opened an insurance agency.”

  David unfolded himself from the chair and towered over us with his six-foot-five or so frame and gave each of us a firm, insurance-salesman handshake, told us that he and Alice, his wife of forty years, had moved to Folly to get away from the rat race and frigid winters in Boston.

  “So what do you two do?” he asked.

  Charles told him that he was retired, and that I owned the island’s best and only photo gallery, but that it was open two days a week, and that quicker than a blink of the eye I was going to close it and deprive the photo-buying public of getting any more pictures. It wasn’t how I would have introduced myself but Charles didn’t give me time to answer.

  I saw a head peak around the talkative insurance agent.

  “A couple more to meet,” Chester said. “Harriet Grindstone, these are my friends Chris and Charles,” as if she hadn’t already heard our names three times in the last five minutes.

  Harriet managed to slip past David and firmly shake our hands. She was thin but had a strong grip for someone whom I judged to be around 70. I suspected that her walking clothes doubled her weight.

  “The weather’s terrible today, isn’t it?” she said as way of introduction.

  I thought the weather was perfect but I agreed. Charles, the chameleon, also agreed with her, Chester shrugged, and David who was standing behind her rolled his eyes.

  “Your friends William Hansel and Cal Bellew are usually with us along with two more irregulars. Life must have gotten in their way today,” Chester said, and led us to the other person on the porch we hadn’t met.”

  “Fellows, meet our newest member, Abraham
Pottinger.”

  Bingo.

  “Pleased to meet you gentlemen. Call me Abe, like Honest Abe,” Pottinger said, and rushed to shake our hands.

  At five-foot-seven, he was three inches shorter than me, not fat, not thin, had a full head of dyed black hair, and Charles was right, he had a strong resemblance to an older George Clooney.

  “Believe I’ve seen you around town,” Charles said.

  I didn’t tell Pottinger that Charles had remembered him because of his non-Folly attire, which today included Tide-white Nike tennis shoes, pressed khaki shorts, and a white, Brooks Brothers’ polo shirt. He looked as out of place as a Maserati at a moped rally.

  Abe turned to me. “Thought you looked familiar. Walked by your gallery a few times. I’ll stop in the next time I’m that way.”

  “That’s all of us,” Chester said, and scooted closer to Abe, Charles, and me. “Want some Kool-Aid? It’s our drink of choice. Got Fig Newtons too.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Prevents constipation, you know.” He pointed to a small round table between the door into the house and a rocking chairs.

  “Think I’ll have some,” Charles said. “Abe, can I get you more Kool-Aid or cookies?”

  Charles was already on the hunt.

  Abe declined and Charles made his way to the refreshment table. Chester reached for four chairs that were folded and leaning against the wall, unfolded two of them and said for us to take a load off.

  Abe’s chair was closest and Charles asked him how long he’d been on Folly. He said a couple of months, and then Charles asked, in a way only he could, “Why?”

  “Good question, my friend,” Abe said, clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned back. “I was in the theft-risk consulting business out west. Sure, I made plenty of money working with businesses helping them prevent theft from employees and outsiders, but it got old. Before that I was in financial planning and wealth management. Still dabble in it.” He paused and looked toward the ocean. “Found out that I had a friend or two in the Charleston area and decided to shred my business cards and move here and soak in the fresh salt air, sunshine, and fine people like the walking group here.” He waved his hand around the porch.