ONLY A MATTER OF TIME … ONLY A MATTER OF TIME before we catch him,” I mumbled to Charles.
We had dropped Melinda off at her apartment, and Charles had suggested that we go to my house and get on the Internet. He said that Melinda may not have much more time around and we had to solve the murders before she went on to meet other angelic alcoholics in distilled-spirits heaven. He reminded me that I had mentioned that my calendar was clear for the next four days, and he planned to fill them with “killer-catchin’ stuff.”
It didn’t take long to find a photo of the late Nicole Sallee in the Valdosta Daily Times. The image was wrapped in the tragic story about the death of the beautiful master’s degree holder from Valdosta State University. The photo was a glamour shot pulled from her modeling portfolio. Nicole was as pretty as Kendra Corman-Eades. The article shed little additional light on her death. It did say that she had married right after college but that it had only lasted a year. He ex-husband said her death was “beyond belief” and that he hadn’t seen her in months. The Charleston police were not commenting on the death other than that foul play hadn’t been ruled out.
I printed a half-dozen copies of the photo. Charles also asked me to “copy it to a thumb thing.” He said that while I was at it, I could scan the photo of Ms. Corman-Eades he had received from Cindy and add it to the “thumb thing.” I asked why and he said, “You never know when you might need more copies.” I gave him a sideways glance and started to scan the image.
“Umm,” he said and pointed to the computer. “While you’re at it, could we use your computer magic and add some words?”
“We could,” I said and stared at him. The ball was in his court.
“Then why don’t we say something like, ‘Do you know anything about,’ and then you could add their names.”
I said, “We could.”
And then he mumbled, “Then under the photo we could add, ‘If so, please contact Charles Fowler at,’ and then you could put my phone number.”
“We could.”
“Great idea,” he said and then pointed at the keyboard. “Then you could stick all that on the thumb-thing doohickey, and we could go over to Pack & Mail and get a couple hundred flyers printed.”
I knew it was a terrible idea. Pursuing the issue was the wrong thing to do, and it could only lead to trouble. I also knew Charles.
“You bet,” I said and started Photoshop.
It took an hour before amateur graphic designer and faux detective Charles was satisfied with the layout. The photo of Kendra Corman-Eades was sharp but in black and white. The low-resolution image of Nicole Sallee taken from the newspaper website wasn’t as clear, but she was recognizable. Charles had urged me to add my name and phone number as a second contact, but I declined. I controlled the keyboard, so I won a minor victory.
An hour later, we were back on Folly Beach with two hundred and fifty flyers. Charles wanted to get started distributing them to every business on the island and attaching them to every light pole, announcement board, and store window. I wished him well and chose a nap over covering the island with images of the two deceased women.
Naps and I don’t get along. The phone rang before my eyes were closed, and I heard the calm, cheerful voice of Chief Brian Newman. “What in blue blazes is that damned friend of yours trying to do? Don’t answer!” he yelled. “I don’t want to know. Damn, go ahead and tell me. This had better be good.”
This would be a perfect time for me to play ignorant. “I’m sorry, Brian, what do you mean?”
“You … you know damned well what I mean. Frickin’ flyers stuck on poles down Center Street. Charles doesn’t have a computer or a way to make anything as nice as what’s stuck all over. You do.”
Brian wasn’t the chief by accident. “He wanted some flyers to see if anyone knew about the two women. He wanted to get information to turn over to the police. How’d you hear about it?”
He made a noise that sounded like a snarl and then said, “Oh, could be because in the last half hour I’ve received calls from two restaurants, one city council member, two of my officers, and, best of all, our mayor.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Brian. “And our mayor said that if he sees one of those blankety-blank flyers on any surface on his island after eight a.m. tomorrow, the world will come to a screeching halt for two people.”
“I’ll share that message with Charles,” I said.
“I would have told him myself, but the idiot who’s asking people to call doesn’t have an answering machine. He’s not sitting by the phone waiting for calls—probably still out plastering what’ll be my termination notice on telephone poles. I’d go looking for him, but I’m afraid if I found him, I’d shoot first and ask questions later. Oh yeah, when you find him, you might suggest that first he removes the two copies from the window at city hall. Damn, my head hurts.” The phone went dead.
I realized that my head didn’t feel so well either and headed to Bert’s to get something for it. I was tempted to seek relief in the wine department but instead headed down the medicine aisle.
“Yo, Christer,” came a squeaky voice from the next aisle. “Got datum for you.”
Dude and his glow-in-the-dark, peace-symbol-adorned, tie-dyed shirt were instantly recognizable, but hearing the surfer say “datum” threw me. I supposed he had gleaned it from the pages of Astronomy magazine. “Hey, Dude,” I said. “What would that be?”
Instead of answering, he scampered down the aisle and around to where I was standing in front of the headache medicines and then looked around. “Me be careful about who’s nosin’ in,” he whispered. He had a jar of mayonnaise in his left hand and a pack of fishhooks in his right. I wasn’t about to ask why. “Hear number of missin’ chicks be upped by fifty percent.”
I tried to grasp what that meant and ventured, “Someone else missing?”
“Be story going around-and-around.”
“What else did you hear?” I learned long ago that Dude often leaves out important parts of his stories.
“Heard at Planet F that parents from Peachtree town called local fuzz.” He set the jar of mayo on a shelf, looked at the ceiling, and then continued. “Offspring be missin’.”
I assumed Planet F was Planet Follywood. Peachtree town needed clarification, and I asked Dude to repeat where the call had come from.
“Atlanta,” he said and sighed. “Town where streets be named Peachtree this, Peachtree that.”
“Got it,” I said. “When did they know she was missing? What’s her name?”
“Me look like boob-tube reporter?” asked Dude.
I smiled. “Not even close. Just thought you might’ve heard.”
“You knowin’ all I be knowin’,” he said. Then he picked up the mayonnaise jar, waved it in front of my face and said, “Gotta scoot.”
He did, and I skipped the regular headache pills and looked for the extra-strength bottle. On the way out, I noticed that Charles had already taped two of his flyers on the glass door, one on each side. I tried to resist but couldn’t help smiling.
The smile didn’t last long when I thought of what Dude had said. Was it possible that a third woman was dead? Could all three be related? And could there be a serial killer running loose on Folly Beach? My mind rushed back to the half-dozen or so patrons in Bert’s and wondered if one of them could be a murderer.
Instead of being another citizen who called and got no answer at Charles’s, I called Cindy’s cell to see if she’d heard anything about a third missing girl. She said that she was in the middle of a traffic stop but that she had heard something and would call me back in a few minutes. Two extra-strength headache pills, a glass of Diet Pepsi, and fifteen minutes later, she called.
Dude’s information was accurate—although abbreviated. A twenty-four-year-old, Caucasian female from Buckhead, a wealthy suburb of Atlanta, had been reported missing by her parents. According to them, their daughter, Chelsea Hall, had told them she was going to Folly Beach for a long weekend with two of her friends from Emory University. The trip was not that unusual. The three friends had taken minivacations together before. This time, one of the girls Chelsea was supposed to be with called and asked her parents if they had seen her. They later found out that neither of the other girls knew about the trip. That was enough for Chelsea’s parents to call the Folly Beach police.
Cindy said that the call wasn’t that unusual. They received several like it each summer. Usually it’s because college students head to nearby beaches and “forget” to tell their parents things like where they are going, where they are staying, whom they are with, and when they are coming home—pesky details parents are hardwired to worry about. Because of the recent deaths, the local police were being extra vigilant in looking for Chelsea. I wished Cindy luck, hit end call, and then admitted to being impressed by Dude’s information.