Chapter 35
Chantelle got off work at 5:30 PM. She headed straight back to the house on Castle Street that she shared with two other girls, both students at Cape Fear Community College.
They lucked into a great deal on the three-bedroom house, which was just outside the now-expensive, rapidly gentrifying, sign-designated historic district. It was in the old African American section of Wilmington, between 9th and 10th Streets. There was a great soul-food restaurant two hundred feet away, and the WAVE (local) bus station was just a block away. The community college was an easy eleven-minute bike ride, or seven minutes in the car when it was raining.
Chantelle arrived at 5:55 PM to an empty house. Her roommates were working. She got a bottled water from the refrigerator and sat down on the used, chocolate-brown, faux-felt couch that one of her roommates had scored. She flipped on the TV. The teasers for the 6:00 news were airing on Channel 8. Wonder if there are any new developments.
During the commercial break, Chantelle’s mind recalled David’s e-mail exchange with Cindy Santos. A ‘large wad of cash’? How large? David sure is interested in it. That’s why he’s down here; I can tell that this is the focus of his stay in Wilmington. But, why would he tip off a TV reporter, who surely would forward it to the police? Why wouldn’t he try to retrieve it for himself? Why does he want someone else to find the ‘large wad of cash’? Is it counterfeit? When it’s found, does one of his enemies go to jail? Or, is there some note with it that benefits him in some way? This is weird.
The 6:00 newscast began with the anchors telling the viewers that Cindy Santos had breaking news with regard to the murder of Dale Smite. Suddenly, Cindy Santos was back in front of 2393 Van Buren Street.
“I’ve just learned from an anonymous source that Dale Smite parked inside his privacy-walled back yard around ten yesterday morning. He closed the gate behind him, but left less than ten minutes later, only to return again at a quarter after one. Gerald arrived around two-thirty. Police tell me that they have not recovered anything of interest from the house or shed, from Gerald’s Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage, or from either vehicle. Gerald Zowen, the suspected murderer, is in custody at the city jail, but he is not talking.”
Cindy brushed her long black hair out of her eyes. It was gusty. A thunderstorm was now approaching. The fill-in anchorman had a question for her.
“Cindy, do they have a possible motive for this murder?”
“Tom, revenge for robbery is now being floated as a possible motive for this murder. However, the police are unsure as to what was actually stolen from Gerald Zowen by Dale Smite. Gerald Zowen is no help; he remains uncooperative. The Wilmington Police Department wants anyone with any information regarding this murder to call them at once. Cindy Santos reporting for Channel 8 News.”
The TV camera was focused on the privacy-wall gate at the end of the driveway, which was half open, as Cindy closed her on-location news segment. In the distance, the metal shed could be seen, which, too, had one of its doors open. A small shovel could be seen lying on the shed’s bare, sand-sprinkled, plywood floor. Hmmm …
Yellow crime-scene tape blew in the evening breeze; it draped over the wooden gate and around the house. Chantelle began to ponder the situation as it stood. So, they still haven’t found that ‘large wad of cash’ … I wonder where it could be. Maybe he buried it. But, the money would decompose in the soil. Is it really a ‘large wad of cash’? Maybe David just threw that false tidbit out to Cindy, just to see what she would do with it. Maybe he just wanted to have the house, shed, salvage-yard office, and vehicles searched by the police to rule out those possible hiding places. Maybe it’s really a very valuable object – an object that you could safely and quickly bury. I bet it’s buried somewhere in that back yard. When Dale pulled into the back yard, I bet that’s when he buried the object. Boy, I’d love to run a metal detector over that yard.
Chantelle turned on her tablet computer and went to Google Maps. She entered 2393 Van Buren Street, Wilmington, NC. She zoomed in on the parcel. She studied the overhead image of the back yard. It was devoid of any shrubs. One old-and-quite-large live oak was in a back corner. The shed that was just on the news sat in the other back corner of the small rectangular lot. Now if I was burying something and I wanted to stay out of view, where would I choose to bury it? Certainly not in the center of the yard as the neighboring two-story house would offer several vantage points. Probably along the privacy wall. In a corner. In the corner behind the shed! It looks like there’s just enough space. That’s got to be where that Dale guy buried the pièce de résistance – the supreme object of David’s desire. You would be shielded from view on three sides; the fourth side would not be an issue as the people in the single-story house could not see over the eight-foot-high privacy wall.
Images of various models and types of metal detectors soon filled Chantelle’s computer screen. Darn, there’s no metal detector store open at this time in Wilmington. Wait, Denise has one! That one her dad gave her. He told her to have fun combing the beaches for spare change. Where is it? I’ll just peek in her room. She won't mind. She won’t be back in until after eleven.
Chantelle entered Denise’s bedroom. She didn’t see it anywhere in plain view. She checked under the bed. Just a chocolate-flavored condom wrapper. Was David over here pumping Denise while I was at work? Oh, why do I think such crazy thoughts? Because I’m a female. She giggled.
Upon opening the closet, she was greeted with a hanger rod crammed with clothes. She parted some blouses, and there it was: a super-nice, high-end metal detector with the headphones still attached. She flipped it on; it chirped loudly. Yey! The battery is still good. She snagged it and walked back into the living room.
There she grabbed a pen from the coffee table. What should I say? ‘Denise, I borrowed your metal detector.’ ‘Oh, really?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And, exactly where did you go metal detecting, Chantelle?’ ‘Why do you want to know?’ Hmmm … Second thought, I better not leave a note. Denise won’t know that it’s gone tonight.
Chantelle fine-tuned the sensitivity and then placed it in the back seat of her silver VW bug. She drove away, heavy in thought. I’ll scout out that neighborhood first. Just get the lay of the land, as they say in America. Yeah, that’s it – I’ll familiarize myself first with the immediate vicinity. Find out what I need to look out for.
<><><>
Dusk was dusting the Spanish moss in Sunset Park as Chantelle turned right onto Central Boulevard. At Van Buren Street, she made a right. She slowed down. She was soon in front of 2393. She saw the shovel on the floor of the shed. Should I buy my own shovel, or wear gloves and use that one?
She continued down the street, making a right onto Northern Boulevard, followed by a right onto Jackson Street. Let’s get a rear view of the house and back yard, and see what kind of house backs up to 2393. Hopefully it’s not occupied by a family of eight. Please, not that.
At the modest, vacant, single-story house directly behind 2393 Van Buren, she stopped behind a parked, white, 2011 Ford Focus. She saw the back of a white male’s head in the car. She studied the shirt collar, hair and the ears a little closer. Holy shit! It’s David! What in the world is he doing here? How long has he been here?
David looked in his rear-view mirror; they made eye contact. David smiled. So, she knows more than I thought. / I guess I’m busted. I wonder if he’ll be mad – homicidally mad.
David got out of his car and walked back to Chantelle’s. She wasn’t sure what to expect.
“Why, hello there, Chantelle,” David said as he leaned in her car with a big smirk. “I didn’t see your text message about this evening rendezvous.”
“Was your phone turned off?” she sheepishly countered.
He let out a false chuckle. “Imagine meeting you here and now. What are the chances?” David eyed the metal detector in the back seat of her car.
“Improbable for sure,” Chantelle offered.
“Do you always go metal detecting in Sunset Park on Saturday evenings?” David gave her the raised eye.
“Let’s go somewhere and talk. Are you hungry?” I need to lower his ire a few levels.
“Not really. We can’t talk in a restaurant or a bar. It’s way too risky. Let’s go to Greenfield Park. Just follow me.” What?! Is he going to kill me and dump my body in that swampy lake?
As Chantelle followed David’s white Ford Focus in her silver VW Beetle, she noticed the dented trunk door. I wonder how that happened. It doesn’t look like an automobile collision caused that. Was it caused by a human body being slammed down on it? Was it from the body of the last girl he killed because she knew too much?
They pulled off into an empty parking lot on West Lake Shore Drive. No doors opened for several seconds. Gosh, I hope this isn’t where he kills me. Does he have a gun in his car?
After an eerily tense pause, they both got out of their cars, almost in unison, and walked down to a bench beside the dark-green-surfaced lake. There was a lone, mature, Spanish-moss-laced cypress tree on its own tiny island, about fifty feet in front of them.
“You see that cypress tree out there, Chantelle?” David asked her while pointing to it with his nose.
“Yes,” Chantelle cautiously responded.
“I feel like that cypress tree. I’m surrounded by dark water that I can’t trust. I don’t know what evil lurks beneath the surface. Maybe I’m already having my roots gnawed off.”
“Oh, I’m not that bad. I’m just a girl doing some more field research. Just gathering more data for my novel.”
“With a metal detector?” David blurted.
“Hey, the spare change along sidewalks adds up. This girl is a struggling student, remember?”
“I remember that I left my e-mail account open.” Oh, no.
Chantelle sighed and looked up at the ominous clouds. “Ok, let’s both come clean. I’ll even go first.”
“Fire away, ma belle romancière.” [‘my beautiful novelist’ in French] How much French does he know?
“I know that there’s something of great value on that parcel of land at 2393 Van Buren Street. I kind of doubt that it’s money. Maybe a gold trophy or small statue – maybe an Oscar! – or, maybe a sack of gold coins – something that can be buried easily and safely.”
“Well, you got the gold part right,” David said. Oh, hell, I may as well just tell her. I need her metal detector tonight. “There are two large gold nuggets.” There’s enough to share, and she won’t run to the police. Or, will she? I don’t think so. She wants some of that precious metal, too. Yeah, she’s got the fever.
“Buried in the back yard, right?” Chantelle’s face lit up. She loved the treasure-hunt aspect to this mystery.
“Yes, I truly believe that it’s buried somewhere in that back yard,” David concurred.
“Well, what’s the plan, captain?” Captain?
“I’ve got some good news: The house directly behind 2393 Van Buren on Jackson Street is not occupied, and as you may have noticed, it has no fences. I put on my white tech outfit – to look official for the neighbors – and walked back to the privacy wall. I noticed that with just a little bit of digging in the loose sand, one of us could slide under the wall with no problem – maybe both of us to speed up the metal detecting and digging.”
“What if a neighbor sees us going under the fence?”
“That’s a risk we’ll have to take. But, believe me, the payoff will blow your mind. You’ll be able to self-publish your novel. Have twenty thousand copies printed in the first run.”
“Wow! I’m in.” That was easy.
“I thought that was my line,” David said and began to laugh. Such a goof, he is.
“There are two large shrubs that will offer some cover when we dig under the privacy wall. We can dress in black attire to reduce our chances of being seen. I’ve got some black pants, black shoes, black socks, and I just bought a flat-black sweatshirt and a black ski mask. Do you have a black outfit, Chantelle?”
“My birthday suit,” she said with a wry smile.
“Your birthday suit is too sexy for this operation, ma belle. [‘my beautiful sweetheart’ in French] Yey! He still likes me.
“Sure, I can go back and get it from my house on Castle Street. How long do you think we’ll have to use the metal detector, searching for the burial spot?”
“I don’t think we’ll have to use it for more than five minutes, max. We’ll turn the audio signal off and just go by the LED light.”
“I’ve got headphones, too.”
“Chantelle, we need to be able to communicate at a low volume. If one of us has the headphones on, the other person will have to raise their voice. And then a neighbor or a dog could hear us.”
“Got it. That makes sense.” His brain seems to be working tonight.
“Plus, Chantelle, if someone sees the headphones on our ears, it’s game over.” That is true.
“What about dogs? They often bark, you know.”
“Great question. Luckily for us, the nearest dog is two houses away. He or she may go in at night. It was in and out of the house the past hour.”
“I sure hope that the canine is in tonight, David.” So do I.
“Either way, I think we’ll be ok, dog-wise.”
“Hey, do you watch the old Mission: Impossible reruns on TV Land, David?” Chantelle asked with a slight grin. “For some reason I remembered an episode involving a dog and some hidden treasure.”
“Yep, I think I saw that one. I watch MacGyver as well … for laughs.”
They both chortled. What are you in for, girl? / I can still use her, but she’ll bear watching from now on.
“Ok, back on-point. How heavy is this golden booty?” Booty.
“Between thirty-five and forty pounds. Just two, sexy, slender kidney-shaped nuggets. Hall-of-fame material. Trust me, pictures of these golden fillets will be going in the history books and littering Google Images. They’ll have names.”
“What about lighting? Do we need a flashlight?”
“No, it’s way too risky. The jerky beam of a flashlight is a dead giveaway. The neighbors would see it on or above the privacy wall and think there was a prowler. The cops would be here in four minutes. We’ve got a first-quarter moon tonight. That should be the perfect amount of light.”
“When do we commence this operation, commander?” What’s with these military ranks? Does she think this is some special-ops exercise?
“I was thinking three or three-thirty. The drunks should be home from the bars by then.”
“And, what do we do for the next seven-or-so hours, my golden corporal?” She wants to fuck. / I hope he gets my drift.
“Well, my hotel room has new linens.” Such a horndog, he is. / I hope I didn’t shock her.
They heard a thunderclap. The evening storm was upon them. Then there was a flash of lightning to the north. Heavy rain was on its way. A few, big, fat, leading-edge drops were beginning to go splat.
“I’ll go back to my house and get my flat-black spy outfit. I should be over at the inn around eight.”
“Eight is great, but don’t be late.” Because if you are …
“Spare me the lame poetry, Scrapalski. Gosh, your last name sounds like a hockey defenseman, Mr. Pittsburgher.”
They gave each other a long inquisitive look before separating. Both of them had the same thought: Will he/she try to take all of the gold as soon as I leave?
Chantelle drove straight home, convinced that David would not screw her out of a slice of the golden stash. I’ve got a good metal detector; he doesn’t even have one. And, David can’t even get one tonight. He absolutely needs my metal detector. He’ll wait for me.
<><><>
David tootled around the neighborhood until 7:45 PM. The thunderstorm gave him some cover, as he plied the same streets: Van Buren – Central – Jackson – Southern – Harrison – Northern – Monroe. It appeared to him that Chantelle had indeed gone home; he never saw her car. Maybe she’s actually trustworthy. No one else has been.
He then rushed back to the inn, making sure that he was there first. He was. I’m so glad that I didn’t see her car sitting here. That would have been awkward. Very awkward.
He looked at his cell phone. He noticed that he had received a text message at 7:39 PM from an unknown number. Strange, I never heard the text alert.