South Carolina coastal islands are not what typically springs to mind when one hears the word island. Forget Tahiti and Bora Bora. Forget even the Bahamas. Yes, our islands have plenty of palm trees, but they are as flat as a putting green and are not set apart from the mainland by large expanses of water. Tidal creeks and salt marshes help define many of our islands, so that it is possible to drive from one island to another and not be aware that one is actually island-hopping.
The town of Folly Beach is on Folly Island, although the two are virtually synonymous. This gem of a community has managed to maintain much of its charm, and here, very simple cottages, some barely more than a shack, somehow mix harmoniously with much grander residences. The main axis is Ashley Avenue, which runs parallel to the coast and is, at most, just one block from the ocean’s fury. One might surmise that it was folly to build a settlement on a mere spit of sand, and that this is the origin of the name. For indeed, hurricanes do reshape the island, and from time to time the owners of a second row of homes suddenly find themselves with beachfront property. The name, however, derives from an Old English word meaning “heavily wooded.”
When I got to Folly Creek, I lowered my window in order to smell the tidal flats. Pluff mud is what we call the dark, odoriferous muck. It’s one of those love it or hate it scents, but to most Carolinians with early child beach experiences, it is definitely a love affair, a symbol of homecoming. The smell was particularly strong that morning, and I felt blessed to catch glimpses of crabs scuttling over the soft surface. Here and there, where rivulets of water remained, stately white egrets and blue herons were busily fishing.
I raised my window again after crossing over to the island so I could savor a few more minutes of air-conditioning. I needn’t have bothered. A strong breeze was blowing off the ocean, and its salty fingers caressed my face as soon as I stepped out of my car.
Folly Beach Edwin S. Taylor Fishing Pier, as it is officially called, extends over a thousand feet into the Atlantic. One gets the impression that if the pier was just double in length, it would be possible to walk all the way to Africa. A look back at the shoreline certainly offers one of the most impressive views in the country.
And while it is a great place to fish, it is also a popular spot to people-watch. Although tame by West Coast standards, the waves here are among the highest in the state, and it is a common sight to see surfers trying their luck on colorful boards. Even more common are the tourists, many of unsinkable proportions, who need only roll out of their hotel beds and onto the beach. One sees them even in the winter, when the locals are huddled around their fireplaces. In the summer, when the water temperature is eighty-five degrees, it gets harder to tell the natives from the visitors.
There are fishing stations at regular intervals along the pier, but I found Ed Crawford at the very end of the pier. He was leaning forward, half over the rail, as if he wanted to get as far away from land as possible.
“Hey Ed,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
He turned slowly. “Wynnell send you?”
“So you know?”
“How could I not? Every day that woman makes it clear what a big disappointment I am.”
Thank heavens I hadn’t yet spilled the beans. “Ed, I really doubt that’s true. She loves you very much.”
He glanced at his line, then turned back to me. “I worked hard all my life, but I never made the kind of money Wynnell wants. She doesn’t just want to keep up with the Joneses, she wants to keep up with you.”
“Me?”
“Living south of Broad, that’s all she talks about, Abby. We had a perfectly good house back in Charlotte which was already paid for. Unless we win the lottery, there’s no way we could ever afford one of those S.O.B. places.”
“Well, they’re not all they’re cracked up to be. A centuries-old-plus house can be a nightmare when it comes to upkeep. And most of the really old ones have to be shared with Apparition Americans.”
“What was that?”
“Ghosts. Apparition American is the p.c. term.”
He couldn’t even spare a chuckle. “Abby, back in Charlotte I had friends. Not just buddies, but guys I’d known my whole life. Guys I could trust like brothers. It’s hard for a man my age to make new friends, especially when your wife’s working all the time. Heck, I’ll just come out and say it—I’m lonely.”
I wouldn’t trust my brother with bringing in my junk mail. Even though Toy is now on course to become an Episcopal priest, and Mama worships the ground he walks on, his track record speaks for itself. When he left Rock Hill originally, to seek fame and fortune in Hollywood, he not only borrowed money from me, which he has yet to repay, but he borrowed my car—without permission. The congregation that eventually hires him better keep a close eye on the offering plate. But I digress.
As I was standing there, pretending to look at Ed’s face, but actually looking past him to the sea, I had an epiphany. My best friend needed help in her shop—especially now that she faced the threat of imprisonment—and her lonely husband needed human contact. The solution to both problems was as obvious as the eyebrow on Wynnell’s face.
“Guess what?” I said excitedly.
He pivoted. “Something on my line?”
“No, it’s about a job.”
“Abby, don’t go there. I didn’t work my butt off for forty years to take orders from some kid at Burger King.”
“That wasn’t going to be my suggestion. Ed, I think you should work in Wooden Wonders alongside Wynnell.”
That finally brought a laugh. “Good one.”
“I’m serious.”
He cocked his head, like a puppy hearing a particular sound for the first time. “Abby, selling antiques is ladies’ work.”
“The Rob-Bobs are great at it.”
“My point exactly.”
“Now that’s just mean. They’re every bit as manly as you are. You don’t see them roll over and whine when the going gets tough.”
He glared at me. “Wynnell can’t even make a go of it as it is. What the heck am I supposed to do at the store, stand around and twiddle my thumbs?’
“How about charm the customers?”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“You bet. But you could, you know. Turn on that Southern charm of yours—you’d have ladies offering to pay twice the asking price just to hang around you.”
“Shoot. You sure know how to spin one.” A twinkle had appeared in his eyes.
“I’m serious. A husband and wife team—you’d have all the bases covered.”
“Just one thing, Abby.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t mean to badmouth my wife, but most of the stuff she’s got for sale is pure crap. At least compared to what you and the boys handle.”
“That can be fixed. We can take you to auctions and point out the bargains—only quality stuff, of course.”
He sighed heavily. “Yeah, but that takes money. Serious money we don’t have.”
“I could spot you the money.”
“What does that mean?”
“I could loan you the money—I’d even charge interest if you prefer.”
He cogitated on my offer for moment. “What if we can’t pay it back?”
“Oh but you will. I’ll only let you buy merchandise that has a high probability of resale at a profit. Of course it can’t be all heavy wooden pieces, like Wynnell sells now. You need a little glitz in that shop. Some crystal chandeliers, original oil paintings, objects d’art—you know, a little pizzazz. My customers like to feel that they’re about to make an important discovery every time they walk through the door.”
Ed nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Like maybe they could take your stuff to the Antiques Road-show and find out it was worth a mint.”
“Exactly. So how about it, Ed? You want to give it a shot?”
He nodded more vigorously. “Yeah, I think I do. It could be fun at that. How do you think Wynnell will react to this idea, or have you already run it past her?”
“You’re the first. Say Ed, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I was going to fish for another hour or two—what the heck, I’ll quit now and run by her shop.” He started to reel in his line.
“No, don’t!”
Ed turned immediately. “Abby, what’s wrong? Is Wynnell in trouble?”
I knew he could read my face as well as my tone. The dang cat was already out of the bag. The only sensible thing to do was let him help. Besides, he had every right to know.
“She’s in jail, sweetie.”
“Not street-walking again!”
Who knew Ed could joke? “Murder,” I said quietly.
He made me repeat it. I did, then he asked, “Who is she accused of killing?”
“Marina Webbfingers. The woman for whom she did that landscaping job.”
“Where’s she being held?”
“City jail, I guess. I’ve already gotten her a lawyer—a Mr. Hammerhead on King Street.”
When he reeled his line in without saying another word, I knew I’d done the right thing. Edwin Crawford now had two projects to work on, of course one much more urgent than the other. But with Wynnell’s husband fully on board, I felt better about throwing myself into the investigation.
Even though he had his gear to pack, Ed made it out of the parking lot before I did. Although it was the middle of summer vacation, it was a late Tuesday morning, which meant it was the slowest time of the week for traffic. Mine was the only car I could see in my lane when I crossed the bridge over Folly River. Ahead of me lay Oak Island, with its tidal flats, and then Folly Creek. I lowered my window again to savor the smell of the pluff mud, but in the second or two it took to do so, a pickup truck appeared in my rearview mirror.
“What the heck?” Perhaps I used a stronger word, since one need not worry about being a lady while alone.
There was simply no reason why the truck couldn’t pass me. Didn’t the fool ever take driver’s education? Although there are only three people in the entire state of South Carolina who don’t tailgate—all three of them are nearsighted nuns—there is a limit to how close we follow cars. Less than one car length is just too close.
I stepped on the gas. So did the driver of the truck. Pushing the pedal further, I strained to get a better look in the rearview mirror. Faded blue overalls, no shirt, and a head the size of Crowders Mountain—before Granny Ledbetter dumped half of it into Lake Norman. Then he grinned, and I saw more spaces than teeth.
“I can ID you, you S.O.B,” I screamed. I was not, by the way, referring to Charleston’s choicest neighborhood.
He appeared to laugh. I am ashamed to say that I responded by flipping him the bird. In fact, I pumped my middle finger up and down several times for emphasis. For your information, this is not how I raised my children, Susan and Charlie. My excuse, feeble though it may be, is that I was pretty sure he would understand the gesture. And I was right, because he flipped the bird right back at me.
But what he did next came as a total surprise.