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    Tipping Point: A Folly Beach Mystery, #19
    Tipping Point: A Folly Beach Mystery, #19
    Tipping Point: A Folly Beach Mystery, #19
    Ebook289 pages5 hours

    Tipping Point: A Folly Beach Mystery, #19

    By Bill Noel

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    About this ebook

    A peaceful kayak trip through the marsh suddenly turns terrifying for Chris Landrum and his friend, Charles Fowler, when a single-engine airplane plummets toward their watercraft. After coming inches from certain death, the kayakers' heroic efforts save two of the plane's occupants but failed to save the other two passengers. Learning the pilot had been poisoned and three of the plane's passengers live on Folly Beach, site of Chris and Charles's retirement homes, Charles, the self-proclaimed private detective, decides it's up to the two retirees to catch the killer. While no simple task, it's made more difficult when they realize they don't know the identity of the intended victim or victims. Further complicating their undertaking, Chris is detracted when he learns another of his friends comes face-to-face with a life-altering secret going back a half-century.

     

    Once again, Chris and his cast of quirky characters are challenged to solve a crime the police are unable to unravel before lives are lost, possibly their own. 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEnigma House Press
    Release dateApr 22, 2021
    ISBN9798201594381
    Tipping Point: A Folly Beach Mystery, #19
    Author

    Bill Noel

    As a college administrator and professional fine-art photographer, Bill Noel hasn?t experienced much in the way of murder and mystery, so he created his own. Folly is his debut novel. He lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with his wife, Susan.

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      Book preview

      Tipping Point - Bill Noel

      Chapter One

      Two extraordinary events occurred this morning. First, Charles Fowler convinced me to accompany him on a kayak adventure through the waterway as it weaves through the salt marsh separating Folly Island from the rest of South Carolina. The trip was extraordinary because of my fear of water, something there’s no shortage of on a kayak ride. By fear of water, I’m not talking about panicking over taking a shower or getting caught in an occasional rainstorm. My fear, or as I refer to it in less-dysfunctional terms, extreme caution, involves water containing three-and-a-half-percent salt and in my mind roughly twenty percent sharks gathering to savor me for lunch.

      I agreed to go because my friend said we’d rent a double kayak, plus he’d been kayaking many times on the same body of water. Nothing could possibly go wrong, or so he said. We’d paddled a couple hundred yards before he revised his kayaking experience saying this was the third time he’d been in one, but he’d thought many times about renting a kayak. I considered smacking him with my paddle or using my novice skills to turn the kayak around then head to shore. Either option would’ve capsized the vessel depositing me where the sharks were drooling over my meaty body. Falling for his story was on me since in the decade I’d known Charles, I couldn’t recall him mentioning kayaking. He was also a master embellisher.

      A few hundred yards later, I was feeling more comfortable using the fiberglass paddle, even started enjoying the scenery. It was early March, so the marsh grasses were beginning to change from winter brown to spring green. A handful of puffy cirrus clouds dotted the sky, the temperature a perfect seventy-two degrees. Large homes with walking piers ending at the river were to our right, where I recognized the residences of a couple of my friends. Even if I hadn’t, Charles shared the name of the home’s owner, who else lived in the house, including their pets. I became less comfortable when he insisted we take one of the tributaries branching to the left where the waterway narrowed. No manmade objects were in sight. The oyster-lined, eight-foot-wide passage appeared to become narrower with each paddle stroke. We came close to capsizing when a dolphin playfully arched out of the water close enough to splash me as it reentered the shark habitat. Charles thought it was way funnier than I had.

      The only sounds I heard for the next fifteen minutes were a couple of terns laughing at me for believing Charles’s story about how many times he’d been kayaking. I was beginning to relax, enjoy the marsh grasses, birds, and especially the dolphin gliding beside us.

      Then the second extraordinary event occurred. My enjoyment of nature abruptly ended when the pleasant sound of the birds was drowned out by the roar of an airplane engine. It didn’t take an aeronautical engineer to know the small, single-engine plane was in trouble. Its left wing dipped toward the water. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred feet off the ground, or more accurately, the water. The plane was losing altitude and heading directly at us.

      I didn’t know if the pilot would or could gain altitude. It wasn’t more than fifty feet from the marsh grasses when its nose pulled up. It still looked like it was going to crash. The deadly projectile was heading toward us when its front wheel caught in the thick marsh grasses, bounced once, then skipped across the narrow waterway. The aircraft continued in our direction. My fear of sharks was replaced by terror. I was about to be decapitated by the propeller with no time to paddle out of its way.

      I screamed for Charles to bail out of the kayak. I did the same. We hit the water at the same time the plane’s twisted landing gear filled the space our heads occupied seconds earlier. We were out of the overturned kayak in time to see the prop slam into the dense marsh three feet above the water. The nose of the aircraft burrowed in the pluff mud. The plane flipped and skidded, ripping a path through the grasses, before coming to a stop upside down and fewer than a hundred yards from where we were standing in waist-deep water.

      The near silence that followed was eerie and consisted of a flock of birds squawking and Charles splashing around trying to find his paddle and Tilley hat. I managed to hold on to my paddle, but my hat was floating behind me. I grabbed it and my next thought was how we would get to the plane. It was high tide, the marsh grasses along with the island of mud was a few feet higher than the water, so I could only see the upside-down landing gear. It would’ve been impossible to walk through the mud without slicing our legs open on razor-sharp oysters along the bank before we’d sink knee-deep in the mushy surface. The waterway we’d been navigating meandered close to the plane.

      Charles found his paddle and after what seemed like forever, we managed to climb back in the kayak, turned it around, then paddled to within six feet of the wreck. The right wing was above water and wedged into the side of the mud wall. That was all that prevented the cabin from being under water. Smoke was coming from the cowling, but there were no flames. That’s when I heard banging sounds from inside the partially submerged fuselage.

      Charles climbed out of the kayak to hold it stable while I gracelessly exited the vessel. I slogged through water and mud before grabbing a wing strut where I pulled myself up enough to see in the side window. Four men were in the cockpit, three upside down, held in place by seatbelts and shoulder harnesses. One was struggling with his harness; the other two, the pilot and the front seat passenger, were unmoving. Blood dripped from their heads. The cowling was mangled, the windshield shattered. Their heads had slammed into the upper section of the instrument panel. The fourth passenger had managed to get his restraints unhooked and knelt on the roof. He began shoving the unconscious man out of the way while ramming his shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge.

      Movement inside the cabin combined with my weight on the inverted wing dislodged part of the plane from the mud. It started tilting toward the water. If it slid much more, the cabin would be submerged.

      We had to get the passengers out, and fast.

      Chapter Two

      The top of the door was wedged in the mud with the weight of the plane pressed on it making it impossible to open. I yelled for Charles to go to the other door to see if the situation was better. The backseat passenger who’d struggled with his harness got it unhitched before Charles waded around the plane. The passenger fell, landed hard. His impact rocked the plane enough that it slid closer to the tipping point which would drown anyone who’d survived the crash. The man pushing the door turned to help his friend. Charles yelled the pilot’s door may open but he’d need help.

      The tail was sinking, the rest of the deathtrap not far behind. The men inside the aircraft were attempting to unbuckle the unmoving front seat passenger.

      Stop moving! I yelled, hoping to keep them from rocking the plane.

      I grabbed the strut then slid off the wing and splashed to Charles who fought to open the stubborn door. My thigh scraped the side of the pluff-mud island as I moved beside him and wrapped my hands around the edge of the door. Charles managed to force it open a few inches. Both of us pulled. Nothing. One more yank and it swung open a couple of feet. The plane groaned then slid six inches toward deeper water.

      The pilot, still strapped in his seat, blocked the escape route for the others. If we tried to free him, the movement could hasten the plane’s slide. If we left him suspended, there was no way the others could get out. The choices were bad and worse. I opted for bad.

      Charles, can you hold the pilot in place while I unbuckle his shoulder harness?

      I’ll try.

      Neither the pilot nor the front seat passenger had shown signs of life. From the unnatural way their heads were twisted, I didn’t hold out hope.

      The plane’s not going to stay where it is if there’s much movement or weight shift.

      What are we waiting for? Charles said, as he knelt under the pilot and pushed up.

      It took three tries before I unhooked the restraints. The pilot’s dead weight fell on Charles. He stumbled yet managed to lower the pilot. With help from the rear seat passenger, Charles and I dragged the pilot out of the aircraft and carried him through the water to where we could lay him on the mud. The other rear seat passenger scampered out behind his friend. He grabbed his shoulder cursing it was broken. It may be, but he was alive, climbing out under his own power. One unconscious passenger was still strapped upside down in a plane which was slipping with each passing second. The water was rising in the cabin and inches from covering his head.

      There wasn’t time to worry about him getting hurt if we unhooked his harness. Charles slid underwater then surfaced on the other side of the man. He pushed him up while I unhooked the harness. The man flopped down in the water filling the cockpit. I dragged him out of the wreck.

      The plane creaked then slid the rest of the way into the murky saltwater before we reached the muddy, cordgrass covered plot of land.

      We’d maneuvered the last man out toward a safe resting place when I heard the thump-thump sound of props. I looked up and saw a distinct orange and white Coast Guard helicopter swooping toward us. Someone must’ve seen the plane go down and called for help.

      The man who’d helped his fellow passengers out of the plane collapsed beside the pilot. The one with the injured arm sat in the mud staring at the mostly submerged aircraft. Both appeared in shock.

      I gasped to catch my breath as a Coast Guard crew member was lowered from the air-sea rescue chopper hovering directly over us. The rotor’s turbulence had the marsh grasses swaying like they were in a hurricane. Seconds later, I heard another engine and saw a black jet ski moving around the mostly sunken plane. The wave runner had OCEAN RESCUE in yellow on the front and was manned by a member of the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety. We weren’t in the ocean, but I wasn’t about to complain.

      I met the officer on the wave runner who asked if everyone was out of the plane. I told him yes then pointed to the two unmoving passengers. Folly Beach police officers doubled as firefighters; most were trained EMTs. He rushed to the closest passenger while the crew member from the helicopter was bent over the pilot. Charles was with the police officer and the unmoving passenger.

      I walked to the other two passengers who’d scooted close to each other. Both were dressed in bright-colored polo shirts, one in Kelly green slacks, the other in bright-red shorts.

      I knelt between them and asked what happened.

      The man in shorts shook his head, the other said, No idea. We were headed to Myrtle for a golfing weekend. Took off from Charleston Executive Airport. He pointed at the man being attended to by the Coast Guard member. Gary, the pilot over there, was in the plane when we arrived. We were running late. We threw our clubs in and took off. Oh, I’m Tom, by the way. Thanks for saving us.

      I’m Chris Landrum, I said before pointing at Charles. It’s fortunate my friend, Charles Fowler, and I were nearby.

      Sure was, said the man in the Kelly-green slacks, grimacing while holding his shoulder. I’m Richard.

      You took off, then what?

      Richard said, Gary didn’t say much. He had a cold, all stopped up, cranky. He was also mad because we were late. He’s anal like that. It was my fault, so I apologized. It didn’t help. He shook his head. We take these golf outings three times a year. Gary, Tom, and I live on Folly, so each time we head out, Gary goes out of the way to fly over our houses. It’s neat seeing Folly from the air. We took off then turned this direction. It’s a beautiful day. Gary said it should be a smooth flight. He looked at the still-unmoving pilot. Suddenly he turns chalk white. The plane starts down. He didn’t say another word. None of the rest of us knew anything about flying. He slowly shook his head. A couple of us screamed, not sure who. Umm, that’s all I remember until you helped us out of the plane. We didn’t … He stopped, grabbed his shoulder and winced.

      Tom said, You okay, Richard?

      Richard was in pain. He continued holding his shoulder. I will be.

      Tom said, Good. Back to your question, I couldn’t see Gary well, but he glanced back once. From where I was in the back seat it looked like his eyes glazed over. Then he turned, stared straight ahead. I could be mistaken, but it seems his head flopped forward seconds before we hit. Mark pulled up on the yolk, the steering-wheel looking thing in front of each front seat. It must’ve brought the nose up. That kept us from nosediving into the marsh. It saved our lives. He glanced at Charles and the police officer bending over the lifeless passenger. Some of our lives. He lowered his head then whispered, Mark’s a hero.

      Their stories were interrupted when Charles waved me over.

      He removed his soaked hat and held it over the Naval Academy blue logo on his long-sleeve T-shirt. He’s gone.

      The Coast Guardsman went over to the police officer and the deceased passenger. The two conferred as Charles and I slowly walked to the group. The Coast Guardsman then radioed the chopper, said there was nothing they could do, to send the harness down for him.

      The police officer watched the Coast Guard copter retrieve its crew member and moved close to Charles and me, so we could hear over the sound of the rotor. I’d seen him around town but didn’t know his name.

      Charles said, Chris, you know Officer Lane, don’t you?

      Charles had lived on Folly thirty-five years and knew many of its residents. I had been there a decade and knew several people, but nowhere near as many as my friend.

      Don’t believe I do.

      We shook hands, he pointed to the pilot, then sighed.

      The sound of an outboard motor got our attention as a white boat with Charleston County Rescue Squad on its side approached. It eased against the side of the elevated marsh mud. Two members of the volunteer rescue squad exited as the air filled with the thumping sounds of two approaching helicopters. They were marked with the logos of Charleston television stations and began circling the downed aircraft like buzzards preparing to descent on an animal’s carcass.

      Charles and I greeted the members of the rescue squad. The taller of the two asked if we needed medical assistance. I told him no, although I was feeling a sharp pain from a foot-long scratch on my thigh from when I scraped it on an oyster shell as I was helping Charles open the door. I pointed to the plane’s surviving passengers and the paramedics headed their way to see if they could help.

      The television choppers continued circling. They were so loud I didn’t hear two more boats approach until the familiar voice of Cindy LaMond yelled my name. Cindy, Folly Beach’s Director of Public Safety, was in the smaller of the two boats. The other watercraft held two more members of the rescue squad. Charles went to meet their boat while I helped Cindy out of hers.

      I’d known Cindy since she moved to Folly several years ago to join the police department. She was in her early fifties, a five-foot-three bundle of energy, with a quick smile, and an irreverent sense of humor. She became Director of Public Safety, commonly called police chief, three years ago after her predecessor ascended to the position of mayor. Cindy is also married to Larry LaMond, another friend who owns Folly’s tiny hardware store.

      She glanced at the downed aircraft, then toward the others gathered near the scene, before saying, Chris, what are the odds on you going anywhere without attracting a disaster?

      Cindy had exaggerated, although some would call it slight, at best. Since I moved from Kentucky, I’d stumbled across a few horrific situations. As unlikely as it had been, with the help of some friends I’d been involved in solving murders. What made it unusual was neither I nor any of my friends had worked in law enforcement, quite the opposite. Before retiring, I’d been employed in the human resource department of a large healthcare company. Most of my friends had equally unexciting careers.

      Cindy, Charles and I were—

      She waved her palm in my face. Don’t try to explain. Tell me what in the hell happened.

      I described the crash and what the survivors had shared about the pilot losing consciousness. She told me not to leave, as if there was a chance of that happening, before she walked over to the rescue squad staff, talked briefly before stepping away from the group, then calling dispatch. I wasn’t close enough to catch all her conversation but heard her mention the National Transportation Safety Board and the Federal Aviation Administration. Officer Lane stood a respectful distance from his boss until she finished her call, then cornered her as she approached the airplane.

      Charles moved to my side and said, What now?

      Good question. Let’s ask Cindy if there’s anything we can do to help.

      Cindy finished the conversation with her officer, shook her head, and said, You two look like you’ve been mud wrestling.

      Charles glanced at my soaked, mud-caked cut-off jeans and brown T-shirt, smiled at the chief, and said, I won.

      I ignored him. Cindy, anything we can do to help?

      She looked at the plane then to the group of rescue workers huddled with the two survivors. One of the rescue squad boats is going to take those two to an ambulance waiting at the dock. I suspect the one holding his shoulder and moaning will need more attention than the other guy. But, hey, I could be wrong. I dropped out of medical school. Wait, I never went to medical school. Anyway, I’ll need to stay until the coroner arrives. I’m also waiting for a call back from the FAA and the NTSB. Somebody from the FAA will probably get here later today. The NTSB guy has to come from their field office in Atlanta. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest.

      Charles said, So, there’s nothing we can do?

      Cindy glared at him. Did I say that?

      Umm, no.

      You two disaster magnets are going to hop in your cute little kayak and paddle back to wherever you got it. If you don’t stumble across another plane crash or a hostile submarine peeking its periscope out of the marsh, you’re going to go to a quiet place to write down what you saw, everything from when the plane headed your way until the cavalry arrived. When you’re done, drop it at my office.

      Charles let out a loud sigh before saying, I hate homework.

      Cindy wisely skipped over his comment. Do either of you know the three guys who live on Folly?

      I don’t, I said and turned to Charles.

      I’ve seen Tom Kale around town. He’s got a white poodle. Cute little thing, name’s Casper. I introduced myself to him once, the guy, not the poodle, although it did lick my face when I knelt to pet it.

      That didn’t surprise me. I’ve suspected Charles thought more of dogs than he did of people. That was saying something since he’s the best I’ve ever seen in getting along with almost everyone.

      Cindy shook her head. Other than having a dog named after a damned ghost, do you know anything else about him?

      Not really. We didn’t say much. He seems like a quiet guy.

      Neither of you know the other two who live here?

      We shook our heads.

      Hmm, that’s unusual. Charles, I thought you knew everybody.

      He sighed. They must not have dogs.

      Cindy rolled her eyes.

      I was tired, sore,

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