Perplexity on P1/2 (Parson's Cove Mysteries) by Sharon Rose

guzzler than a wine connoisseur. It wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t let out a loud belch about now.”
         She stood up and leaned over to place the glass on the coffee table. “Oh, for goodness sake, you know I’d never do that.” She straightened up. “If you want me to bring over fresh cinnamon buns to the shop tomorrow, you’d better treat me really good.”
         “Enough said. You can down your wine any old way you please, my dear.”
         We hugged and Flori left for home. It was still early and I definitely wasn’t going to spend a beautiful warm spring evening sitting at home watching television.
         Phil jumped up on my lap and started purring. I scratched behind her ears and under her chin until my hand was wet with drool.
         “You’re as bad as Flori,” I said, and gently pushed her away. “But, you are one smart cat, Phil. So, who do you think might know what Esther was doing in the woods?” She gazed up at me (by the way, did I explain that her real name is Phyllis?) with such devotion that I had to start scratching her again. What’s a little drool between friends anyway?
         Sometimes I’m amazed how my brain works. Out of nowhere, a thought formed. There was one person in Parson’s Cove who knows what everyone is doing. There is someone who walks the streets at night, always somewhere in the darkness but never seen. Charlie Thompson. To top it all off, he was my friend.
         I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. Charlie would be sitting on the bench in front of the library now. That’s where he was sitting the day the bank was robbed a couple of years ago. If it hadn’t been for Charlie, the bank manager would now be living it up on some exotic island. Of course, if I hadn’t been Charlie’s friend, in whom he confided, no one would ever know.
         “Hi Charlie,” I called out as I neared the bench.
         Charlie didn’t answer or move. Sometimes, it isn’t easy talking to him because if you don’t get him in the exact right mood, he doesn’t say a thing. Also, if you happen to say the wrong thing or say too much, Charlie clams up. He’ll get up and walk away when you’re in the middle of a sentence. It takes a very patient person to converse with this man.
         Some of the older folk (I mean in their eighties) know Charlie’s story. His parents were already up in years when they moved to Parson’s Cove with a small boy. They claimed that Charlie was their son but the rumor was that he was, in fact, their grandson. A child born out of wedlock to one of their daughters. Who knows? It was juicy gossip for many years anyway. It soon became apparent that Charlie was a bit different from other children. All the teachers felt sorry for him so instead of keeping him in the first grade for years, they simply kept moving him ahead. I was already in high school but would walk to school with him whenever I could. At least, on those days, no one teased him. Maybe that’s why he’s my friend today. When his parents died, Parson’s Cove’s Town Council moved him from one home to another. No one wanted Charlie. Finally, when he was old enough to be on his own, they settled him into a little house at the end of Main Street. There he lives to this day, minding his own business and not bothering anyone. There are folks who think his place looks dumpy but personally, I think it looks like a small summer cottage. Besides, he keeps it as neat as a pin.
         I sat down beside him. He was staring into the western sky.
         “Beautiful, isn’t it, Charlie?”
         If he heard me, he didn’t let on.
         “The sunset, I mean.”
         Still no response.
         When was the last time I’d sat like this and watched the sun go down? I couldn’t even remember. No one does it anymore, it seems.
         “You know, Charlie, I should get Jake to build a deck or something in my backyard. I could sit outside