Mosquito beach, p.1
Mosquito Beach, page 1
MOSQUITO BEACH
A Folly Beach Mystery
BILL NOEL
Other Folly Beach Mysteries by Bill Noel
* * *
Folly
The Pier
Washout
The Edge
The Marsh
Ghosts
Missing
Final Cut
First Light
Boneyard Beach
Silent Night
Dead Center
Discord
A Folly Beach Mystery COLLECTION
Dark Horse
Joy
A Folly Beach Mystery COLLECTION II
No Joke
Relic
A Folly Beach Mystery COLLECTION III
Faith
A Folly Beach Christmas Mystery COLLECTION
Tipping Point
Sea Fog
Copyright © 2022 by Bill Noel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Front cover photo and design by Bill Noel
Author photo by Susan Noel
ISBN: 978-1-942212-58-4
Enigma House Press
Goshen, Kentucky 40026
www.enigmahousepress.com
First Edition
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
“Mr. Chris, this is Al. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
I didn’t tell my friend his call interrupted my exciting morning sitting on the screened-in porch watching cars speed by my cottage. What I did was ask if he was okay since during the years I’d known Al Washington, this was the first time he’d called. He also had spent much of his eighty-second year with serious health issues; for a time, it didn’t look like he’d survive.
He chuckled. “Sorry to startle you. I’m fine.”
I paused giving him time to elaborate but he didn’t, so I said, “What do I owe the pleasure of your call?” I thought that was subtler than reminding him he’d never called before.
“Have you heard anything about a body, umm, guess more like a skeleton, found on Mosquito Beach?”
I’d never been to Mosquito Beach but knew it was a quarter-mile strip of land off Sol Legare Road about four miles from my home on Folly Beach, South Carolina.
“No, should I have?”
“Blubber Bob says you know everything bad that happens on Folly. Mosquito Beach is near there, so I figured you might’ve heard.”
Bob Howard, occasionally called Blubber Bob or other unflattering names by Al, is a friend I’d met when I moved to Folly more than a decade ago. He was the realtor who helped me find my retirement home. He recently retired from his successful career and now owns Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill near downtown Charleston, ten miles from Folly. Al’s was previously owned by and named after my caller until Bob bought it, most likely preventing Al from dying from worry, stress, fatigue, and a huge debt on the neighborhood bar.
“When do you believe everything Bob tells you?”
“Good point, but I figure he can’t always be wrong.”
I smiled. Bob and Al had been friends for decades, yet they were as opposite as black and white; appropriate since Al was African American, Bob was as white as an albino polar bear.
“Al, what do you know about the body, the skeleton?”
“Thought I heard something on the news. Wasn’t paying attention until the news guy mentioned Mosquito Beach.”
“Why’d that get your attention?”
“Spent a lot of time there in the 1950s after I got back from Korea. Mosquito was one of two or three places Negroes, as we were called back then, could go to a beach. The ocean beaches were segregated.” He gave an audible sigh. “Had some good times out there, sure did.”
There was another long pause which told me there was more to Al’s curiosity than he’d shared.
“I don’t know much about Mosquito Beach other than seeing a sign for it on Sol Legare Road. What else did they say on the news?”
“Something about a man cutting across a field when he found bones. That’s all I got.”
“Want me to call Chief LaMond to see what she knows?”
Cindy LaMond was a friend who happened to be Folly Beach’s Director of Public Safety, informally known as Chief. Mosquito Beach wasn’t in Folly’s city limits, but Cindy could use her contacts to learn what was going on.
“Oh, no. Don’t bother her. Just thought you might’ve heard something.”
“It’s no bother. I’d be glad to ask.”
“No need, old man’s curiosity, that’s all.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Sorry to bother you. I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Yes, I’m so, so busy. Retirement’s a full-time job, but, Al, I can always find time for you.”
He laughed then repeated he was sorry to bother me. I still felt there was something on his mind about the news from Mosquito Beach.
“It’s great hearing from you. Let me know if you change your mind. Be sure to say hi to Bob for me.”
He laughed again; said he’d rather not incur Bob’s wrath by telling him he talked to me. Before ending the call, he suggested I could tell Bob myself the next time I visited Al’s.
What I didn’t tell him was my next call would be to Chief LaMond.
Cindy answered the phone with, “What are you going to do to ruin my day?”
Since I’d moved to Folly after retiring from a job in the human resources department with a large healthcare company in Kentucky, I’d stumbled on a few horrific situations involving the death of acquaintances. Through luck, being at the right place at the right time, and with the help of a cadre of friends, I’d helped the police bring the murderers to justice. Cindy had more than a few times accused me of being a murder magnet, a pain in her “shapely” posterior, but in weaker moments, a good friend who helped her catch some evil people.
I asked what she knew about a body found on Mosquito Beach.
“Chris Landrum, you’re going to be the death of me. Isn’t it enough for you to butt in every death my highly competent department led by a more highly-competent Chief investigates, now you stick your nose in things that happened decades ago?”
“Al Washington called to ask if I knew anything about the body. I hadn’t heard about it, but knew you, being highly competent, would have more information.”
She sighed. “Mr. Suck-Up, why’d Al want to know?”
I explained the little he’d shared then repeated my question about what Cindy knew.
She reminded me Mosquito Beach wasn’t in her jurisdiction. All she knew was what was reported in the media.
“I assume it’s being investigated by your good buddies in the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office. Think you could make a call and see what they have? I don’t know why Al is interested, but he’d appreciate learning more.”
The Sheriff’s Office investigates major crimes in Charleston County which includes Folly and Mosquito Beach.
“Tell you what, I’ll cut my afternoon nap short, and because I like Al, I’ll call the Sheriff’s Office. I’ll tell you what I learn; then you’ll tell Al. Now pay close attention, you’ll not, I repeat, not stick your nose where it don’t belong. Deal?”
“I have no plan to get involved.”
When I said it, I meant it. Honestly I did.
I hung up from my second call of the day thinking about the Yiddish proverb, “Man plans, God laughs.”
Chapter Two
I spent the next hour on the computer learning about Mosquito Beach. The problem I often have when researching something on the Internet is finding too much information. That wasn’t the case when it came to the small, James Island community located on the banks of a tidal creek. I was reminded that Mosquito Beach is the location of Island Breeze, a restaurant that I’d heard about after it’d been damaged by a hurricane that’d swept through the area a few years back. This might be a good chance to learn more about the nearby dining establishment.
Ten minutes later, Barb Deanelli agreed to accompany me to dinner. Three hours later, I picked her up at her oceanfront condo, and we were driving up Folly Road. Barb was three years younger than my sixty-nine years, at five-foot-ten my height
We turned left on Sol Legare Road at the Harris Teeter grocery when Barb, who’d been unusually quiet for the two-mile ride, said, “Don’t suppose Mosquito Beach was named after the Mosquito family, and not those pesky, biting troublemakers?”
It wasn’t. I smiled. “That’ll be a good question to ask at the restaurant.”
She glanced over at me, frowned. “That means it was named after the insect most of us try to avoid.”
Barb and I had dated a couple of years, so she was familiar with most of my quirky friends plus was game for most adventures. I was surprised by her reluctance to go somewhere named for mosquitos.
I patted her on the knee, smiled, then said, “Remember, you once told me you liked to try new restaurants.”
She glanced at a boy riding his bicycle in a front yard, turned back to me and said, “I also would like to go to Paris. Can we do that after recuperating from mosquito bites?”
Another mile up the road, I turned left on Mosquito Beach Road marked by a surfboard with Welcome to Mosquito Beach painted on it. It didn’t help my case that a mosquito the size of a condor was painted on the sign. A couple hundred yards farther, the pavement took a sharp right turn with the marsh and tidal creek fewer than twenty yards to our left and running parallel to the narrow road. Three small structures looking like they’d survived several hurricanes dotted the right side of the road. Small patches of grass resembled tiny islands in a sea of sand surrounded the structures. So far, the only living creature we’d seen since turning on Mosquito Beach Road was a tabby cat eyeing us with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
The lifeless landscape changed drastically as we came to a brightly painted yellow building. Island Breeze was painted on the front gable in letters large enough to be read from passing airliners. Umbrellas advertising Angry Orchard Hard Cider and Traveler Beer provided partial shade for three wooden, do-it-yourself tables made from cable spool holders. Each table was occupied. Three men leaned against the railing separating the restaurant from the screened-in patio. It was hot for mid-September, so I was surprised to see so many people outside enjoying food and drinks.
I parked across the street on a grass and sand parking area. We shared the parking area with three cars and two pickup trucks that from the dents and layers of dust and dried mud were workhorses used for what trucks were created for. Several vehicles were parked on the far side of the building. We walked across the street to the sounds of Bob Marley blaring from outdoor speakers. Animated conversations from groups seated at the tables mixed with the music. Most of the fifteen or so people appeared to pay little attention to us. A handful glanced at the newcomers. A couple of them smiled, but I didn’t recognize anyone. While the Sol Legare area was predominantly African American, several of the casually dressed patrons were white. Four men wore dusty jeans and work boots, most likely having arrived in the pickup trucks.
We went inside and moved to the bar lit by colorful Christmas lights strung along the backbar reflecting in the bourbon, rum, and gin bottles where we were greeted by a woman who told us to sit anywhere. I looked around the crowded room. The walls were painted light blue and the bourbon-barrel tables covered with round pieces of wood were occupied as were the seats in front of the restaurant. We chose bar-height chairs facing the creek at the long, foot-wide wooden table nudging the screened-in porch.
A middle-aged man seated two chairs away noticed me looking around for a menu.
He pointed his beer bottle over his shoulder toward the bar. “Menu’s on the chalk board.”
I thanked him. Barb and I saw where oxtail headed the menu. I didn’t know what that was, so I quickly skipped down the list and decided on barbecue. Barb chose the same.
“They’re short on help. Order at the bar,” our helpful neighbor offered.
I thanked him again then headed to the bar where the woman who first told us to sit took our order. I waited while she got a beer for Barb, a glass of house wine for me.
Before I could take a sip, the man moved one seat closer to us. “First time here?”
I said, “Yes.”
He reached his coal black, thin arm my direction. “I’m Terrell Jefferson.” He smiled. He wore black shorts, a black polo shirt with paint stains on the shoulder, a diamond stud earring, and a faded ARMY tattoo on his forearm.
We shook hands as I told him who we were. He said he was pleased to meet us. He glanced at my tan shorts and faded green polo shirt, then at Barb’s navy shorts and red T-shirt.
He took a sip of beer, and said, “From around here?”
Barb leaned forward so she could see Terrell past my head. “We live on Folly, if you consider that from around here.”
Terrell glanced around, leaned toward us. “Close enough. What brings you to Mosquito Beach?”
I had the feeling Terrell was almost irritated we were here. I shook the feeling off, reminding myself he was the one who initiated the conversation, the one who moved closer to us.
Barb nodded at me to respond.
I said, “Terrell, I’ve lived on Folly several years. Barb has been there a little over two years. We like visiting different restaurants, so we wanted to try Island Breeze. You from here?”
Terrell said something, but I was having trouble hearing. From the sound system, the Drifters were singing about having fun under the boardwalk. Three men standing near us were having a loud conversation about their boss who apparently was a “jerk.” I asked Terrell to repeat what he’d said.
“I live off Sol Legare Road a half mile or so from here but work on Folly. Cook at Rita’s. Do y’all work somewhere there?”
Rita’s is one of Folly’s nicer restaurants. Whenever I’m itching for a hamburger, it’s my on-island go-to spot.
Barb turned to face Terrell. “I have a used bookstore on Center Street, my friend here’s retired. He spends his time pestering us working folks.”
“Barb’s Books,” Terrell said. “Never been in but have seen it. Got any history books?”
The woman who took our order brought the food in paper baskets then asked if we needed another drink. I told her not yet. She said if we did, we knew where to find her.
I took a bite while Barb said, “I have several. They’re not my best sellers, but occasionally have someone looking for them. You a history buff?”
“Hang on,” he said and held up his hand, palm facing Barb. “I’ll be back.”
We watched our new acquaintance head toward the restrooms and Barb took a bite of sandwich.
I said, “Think he’d rather talk to you than me.”
Barb grinned. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Funny,” I said, although it was true.
“Seen any mosquitos yet?” Barb said then smacked me on the arm.
“Funny,” I repeated.
Terrell returned carrying another beer. This time he took the chair beside Barb.
She winked at me.
“Started getting into history a few years back after I mustered out of the army. My grandpa got me interested,” Terrell said, answering the question Barb asked ten minutes earlier.
Barb smiled, “Any particular history? US, world, ancient?”
“Never gave much thought to any of it until grandpa started telling me stories about the civil rights movement.” He took another sip then slowly shook his head. “Grandpa died a year ago. I miss him a bunch.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I said to reenter the conversation.
“Was ninety-three, led a good life. He lived next to my parents’ house, the house I inherited after they passed back before I entered the service.” He shook his head. “Enough about me. Did you say if you had books about the 1960s?”
