Dead Center Page 6

  “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” said the interrupter. He cocked his head and snapped his fingers. “You’re the one who found the body. Heard about you; seems stumbling on the dead and who made them that way is something you do.”

  “No. It was bad luck finding him and worse luck for him.”

  “The murder was all people were talking about when I got back in town.”

  “Where’d you go?” nosy Charles asked.

  “Las Vegas.”

  “What’s in Vegas?” continued Charles’s inquisition.

  “Trade show. T-shirts, other logo wear. Boring.” Russ hesitated and looked at me. “Who killed him?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either,” Charles said. “I’ve known Chris since Justin Bieber was a babe in swaddling clothes. He used to have a photo gallery down the street. Now he’s a bum like me.”

  Russ leaned down and shook my hand. He had on a Folly Beach Forever T-shirt, tan Dockers, and scuffed deck shoes. “Nice to meet you.”

  Russ pointed to Charles’s T-shirt. “Story?”

  “Glad you asked,” Charles turned and winked at me, and looked at Russ. “Gaylord the Camel. Campbell University, up the road, Buies Creek, North Carolina.”

  “Cool,” Russ said.

  “Thanks,” Charles said, and then turned to me. “Russ owns the new T-shirt stores on Center Street. Wised up and moved here from Delaware to live happily ever after.”

  I hadn’t known who owned SML Shirts and Folly Tease although I wondered when they opened how the small island saturated with gift shops could support another one, much less two. Charles had said there could never be enough T-shirt stores. Since he had the largest collection outside their manufacturing plants in China, I wrote off his biased proclamation. SML Shirts selection was similar to the other island gift shops. Folly Tease’s slogan was “Folly’s finest shirts of all colors with off-color messages.” A niche, albeit a popular niche, market.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Again, good to meet you.” He then turned to Charles. “Gaylord, that’s good. Be sure and let me know.” He saluted at Charles, or at Gaylord, and headed to the exit.

  Charles watched Russ leave. “Nice fellow. Good to have someone to talk Ts with. Maybe he’ll take me with him to the T-shirt hootenanny next year.”

  That would be as close to heaven on earth as Charles could get. “Let him know what?”

  “Nothing,” Charles said.

  I didn’t believe him, but knew him well enough that if he didn’t want to tell me, he wouldn’t. “How’s his business? Seems like there were already enough shops.”

  Charles nodded. “I think SML Shirts is sucking wind. It has too many shirts like all the other stores. Folly Tease’s another story. Never a shortage of vacationers wanting shirts that say things like Tell your boobs to stop staring at my eyes.”

  Maybe Gaylord the Camel wasn’t so bad after all. After the unintentional interruption, I wanted to get Charles back on track. “You think Barb’s afraid of something?”

  “Yeah. Except, I don’t know what, other than she seemed nervous after talking about her ex.”

  “Have you seen her since the body was found?”

  “You mean since you found the body?”

  I sighed. “Yes.”

  “No.” He had finished his lunch and watched me pick at mine. “Tell you what. I’m going over there now to trade more books.” He pointed at the stack beside him. “Want to go?”

  I still had bad feelings about having to give up the gallery, and wasn’t ready to make an appearance in its former home. I couldn’t shake the feeling of loss.

  “Not today,” I said and took another bite.

  “How was Pluto?”

  I smiled and said fine. Of course, that wasn’t enough information for my canine-loving friend. I had to tell him about giving the dog water, about how he hadn’t shared in our breakfast Cheetos, and that he had on his red collar.

  Charles must have figured he’d milked me for all the Dude and Pluto details and headed to Barb’s Books.

  My head had stopped hurting, my stomach was full, and I still had no idea what I was supposed to do to allay Burl and Dude’s fears. So I did what I have been doing more of, I went home and took a nap. Inspiration didn’t often come while sleeping. I was determined to keep trying.

  Chapter Nine

  I wasn’t overwhelmed with inspiration about how to learn if the death in the alley was related to Burl or Dude. What I was inspired to do was overcome my irrational anxiety and visit Barb’s Books. That inspiration came after I had reduced the contents of a box of Oreos and stared at a reality show where ten contestants were dumped in Paris and had to survive French food, hostile locals, and an irritating host who kept throwing embarrassing challenges at them. I made a mental note not to apply for future seasons. I concluded that visiting Barb’s Books couldn’t be as bad as what the dimwitted contestants had to endure after they had subjected themselves to televised humiliation for a chance to win fifteen dollars after taxes, agent fees, and years of therapy.

  After a decent night’s sleep, I wasn’t as inspired to visit my former hangout, yet willed myself to do it anyway. I grabbed a lightweight jacket, my canvas Tilley, and headed out. It was before ten o’clock but the temperature was in the upper forties, and it should be a nice day; a nice day for a walk. Bert’s Market was next to the house so I stopped in for coffee and some local conversation. Bert’s was as well-known on the island as the Folly Pier and the view of the Morris Island Lighthouse. It billed itself as the grocery that never closes, although I’ll admit I don’t frequent groceries in the middle of the night, and couldn’t verify that claim. The smell of fresh coffee drew me to the back of the store where a coffee urn met the needs of even the most addicted coffee drinker. I got my morning’s first caffeine fix, talked to Ted, one of the store’s employees, about his latest boating misadventure, and headed to Barb’s.

  I took a deep breath, a sip of coffee, and entered the bookstore. I was jolted by how different the space looked than how it did the day I carried the last box out. During its tenure as Landrum Gallery, framed photos lining three walls, a couple of aluminum and canvas photo racks stood along the back wall, and little else. The center of the gallery was open and potential customers could see the framed images from anywhere in the room.

  Now, I faced a five foot high, four foot wide, pine-colored wood bookcase with six rows of shelves filled with books with their covers staring at me. It looked like a mix of new and used books. Ting into it was another bookcase, nine feet long; a walkthrough, and another nine foot section. There were two bookcases, each fifteen feet long and six feet high lining the wall to the right. They were crammed with used paperbacks, standing at attention, spines facing out. To my left, there was a waist-high counter. On top of the counter were two shell-shaped bookends sandwiching four books, and Barbara Deanelli perched on a bar-height chair behind it. Everything in the store, other than the used books and Barbara, looked new. The fixtures alone cost more than I took in the entire time I occupied the space.

  The proprietor stood and came around the front of the counter and held out her hand. I gave her soft hand a brief shake. “Welcome, Mr. Landrum. I’ve been wondering when you would make an appearance.” She wore another bright red blouse and black slacks, her face unsmiling, as she waved her hand around the room. “What do you think?”

  From my new vantage point, I saw twenty more feet of shelving along the left wall and two additional sections of bookshelves that matched the ones behind the front end cap.

  I hated to admit it, but I was impressed and told her so.

  She smiled. “Thank you. I suppose it looks a bit different than it did when you had it.”

  About as different as a kayak to an aircraft carrier. I smiled. “I’d hardly recognize it.”

  “I never saw the gallery. How did you have it laid out?”

  I walked her through an abbreviated descripti
on. If she cared, it didn’t show, but she’d been kind to ask.

  The door was closed to the back room and I didn’t feel comfortable asking to tour the small space that had been the unofficial meeting room for my friends. Back in the good-ole-days, it contained a Mr. Coffee, a refrigerator whose contents contained a high percentage of alcohol, and an old, beat-up table and chairs that held many memories—mostly good, but with a couple of horror stories mixed in.

  The front-section of the store was only nine hundred square feet so the entire tour and description of how it looked took two minutes.

  “Are there any books I could interest you in?” she asked, businesslike. Her smile had disappeared.

  “Afraid I’m not a big reader.”

  “That’s too bad. To my good fortune, there are several locals who are, and from what I understand, there should be many more when vacation season arrives.”

  “True. There are three or four places on the island where you can buy books, but they only carry a couple of local authors.”

  Since Charles didn’t generally sell his books, I didn’t mention his collection would exceed the number of books available in many small bookstores.

  She grinned. “That’s my hope.”

  “I hear you’re Dude, umm, Jim Sloan’s sister.”

  Her grin disappeared. “Yes.”

  I waited for more, but after an uncomfortable silence, I said I’d better be going. Where, I had no idea. I didn’t see an upside to staying.

  “Before you go, could you tell me how you regulated the heat? When it’s comfortable out here, it’s hot enough to melt plastic in back.”

  “Poorly.” I explained the furnace and ductwork were as old as the building and all I had figured to do was to block the vent in the back room to keep the temperature tolerable. She thanked me and I offered to answer other questions that might come up. She nodded and looked at me like it was a trick offer, yet still thanked me.

  I reached for the doorknob and she said, “One more thing, Mr. Landrum.”

  “Call me Chris.”

  She nodded and pointed toward the alley. “Have you learned anything else about the body?”

  “Nothing new. The detective on the case is good so it’s in capable hands.”

  She started to say something, but didn’t; her fist was clenched, and she gave a curt nod. “Good seeing you again.”

  Her message couldn’t have been clearer than if she’d shouted, “Go away.”

  I told her I hoped her business was a success and repeated my offer to share whatever I knew about the building.

  She shrugged.

  I closed the door behind me and shook my head. Strange, I thought. Ms. Deanelli was courteous, but not friendly, not something that will bode well for her success. Her total response to being Dude’s sister was, “Yes.” And, it was clear she wanted to learn more about the body. It was more than mere curiosity. Strange—strange and interesting.

  Chapter Ten

  Cindy LaMond called as I walked away from the bookstore and wanted to know if I could meet her on the Folly Pier. There are a few requests I wouldn’t turn down. A free meal, an invitation to attend a state dinner at the White House, and a request to meet the police chief were near the top of the list.

  It was an hour before we were to meet, and I had nothing to do so I headed to the thousand-foot iconic structure to take a stroll. There were several fishermen on the wood deck and an elderly couple walked hand in hand along the rail and was gazing toward the horizon. I was approaching their age and wondered what they were thinking. Were they seeing their past in the waves rolling in as regular as the beats on a metronome? Or, could they be pondering their future, regardless how few years may be remaining? I shook my head and refused to go down that same road.

  What I couldn’t shake was Barb’s terse acknowledgement of her brother, even if only half-brother, and her interest in the body. Did she know more than she was telling? Did she know the victim? I even wondered if she’d shot him; although, if she had, why come to the Dog to get his description?

  I had often ventured to the Atlantic end of the pier where I convinced myself that I’d done my best thinking. I had also spent hours there without a significant thought, and on occasion had found myself dozing after listening to the soothing waves and looking back on the island I called home. Today was to be a day without significant thoughts, so I headed to the beach. I nodded to the older couple who was still at the railing.

  The woman gave me a content smile that only one who has been around for many years can pull off. “Have a pleasant day, young man.”

  I smiled. “You, too.”

  I don’t know if it was from being called a young man, a salutation I hadn’t heard in years, or that I was going to meet one of my favorite people, but I felt lighter and my step quickened. Before I started down the stairs to the parking lot, I saw the chief headed my way.

  “Undercover?” I said and smiled. She was dressed in a white turtleneck sweater and jeans instead of a uniform.

  “Off work.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Get a day off every seven months whether I’ve earned it or not.”

  “Poor chief.”

  “Hell’s bells. I asked for this rodeo. Gotta take the bad with the badder.”

  “How come you’re not spending the day with Larry?”

  Cindy was married to another of my friends, the owner of Pewter Hardware store. Both Larry and his store were small in stature; Larry was 5’1” standing on a surfboard and if he weighed in triple digits it was the day after Thanksgiving. Cindy was a couple inches taller and outweighed her spouse by twenty-five pounds—a fact that wasn’t wise to mention in her presence.

  “The boy would rather work to make enough money to eat rather than hear his adorable wife gripe about work all day. Can you believe it?”

  “His loss.”

  She laughed. “Keep that up and I’ll dump the shrimp and run off with you.”

  Despite their differences, the LaMonds were the happiest couple I knew. I also knew Cindy didn’t ask to meet me to flirt. She suggested we find a vacant bench on the pier.

  “I don’t get out here as much as I’d like,” she said by way of explanation. She stared at the choppy waves and didn’t appear to want to get to the meat of the meeting and told me about how she and Officer Bishop had chased a middle-aged drunk two blocks down Erie Avenue before he decided he’d rather throw-up on a kid’s scooter that’s mistake was being parked near the man. The hardest part of the capture was holding him since he thought summer was up the block and all he had on was orange racing Speedo briefs. She took more delight in telling the story than a police chief should.

  She finished laughing about Speedo man, and asked, “How’s Karen? Haven’t seen her in a while.”

  Cindy still wasn’t ready to talk.

  Karen Lawson and I had dated for the last four years. She was a detective in the Charleston County sheriff’s office, which was how we had met several years before we’d started seeing each other socially. She had been lead detective on a murder I’d stumbled on. To compound our relationship, her father was Brian Newman, Folly’s mayor. He and I had been friends before his daughter and I had started dating. Prior to a shake-up in the sheriff’s office, Karen had been assigned major crimes on the island. Nearsighted governmental minds prevailed, and she was banned from investigating criminal activity on Folly.

  “I haven’t seen her in a while. Something about murderers not taking vacations and continuing to kill folks in Charleston.”

  Cindy tilted her head and glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “Speaking of murder, I learned the identity of the vic.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “Who was he?”

  She leaned forward and took a small, bent notebook out of her back pocket.

  She waved the book in my face. “Butt-contoured. Latest in police-chief fashion.” She flipped a couple of pages. “Lawrence Panella, age fifty-eight, Caucasian, five-foot
-eleven, currently deceased and residing in the coroner’s office in Charleston, previous residence Myrtle Beach. Retired from various sales jobs, lives with loving wife, Elaine.”

  “How’d you find out? You said his prints weren’t on file.”

  “Traced the gun. Hard to believe in this day and age, he bought it legally, registered it and had a South Carolina concealed weapons permit. All squeaky legal. Combine that with the fact his honey reported him missing the day before yesterday.”

  “Why not earlier?”

  “She said he was away on a part-time sales job, whatever that’s supposed to mean. He’d been gone a month. If that’s part-time, I’d hate to hear what his full-time job would’ve been. Anyway, she reported him missing. Now he ain’t.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Here’s where it gets interesting.” She hesitated and looked toward the beach.

  I waited.

  “Wifey-pooh doesn’t have a clue about the part-time gig. Said when he was working full-time he sold farm equipment, like big-ass tractors, combines, other things I haven’t heard of. Made a hay bale of money doing it.”

  “She didn’t know why he was here?”

  “Didn’t know he was. If you think that’s the interesting part, I’m gonna scramble your shriveling brain cells.” She grinned.

  I motioned for her to continue.

  “I’ll start with the pistol he was packin’. It’s a Browning 1011-22, compact rimfire semi-automatic, shoots 22 long rifle. Guess who’s a big fan of that handgun.”

  “Gandhi, or the Dalai Lama—”

  “Stop,” Cindy interrupted. “Don’t take the fun away by guessing it.”

  “Who?”

  “Hit men.”

  I remembered when Detective Adair saw the gun and started to say something and hesitated. Did he already know it?

  “Detective Adair said it was a popular gun. Don’t thousands of law-abiding citizens own them?”

  “No doubt. There’s a tad more you haven’t heard.”

  “That is?”