by Ray Flynt
Lady on the Edge
A Brad Frame Mystery
Ray Flynt
Copyright © 2014 Ray Flynt
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 149446568X
ISBN-13: 978-1494465681
Cover: Lady on the Edge of Spring
A raku fired ceramic relief
by Susan and Steven Kemenyffy
Photograph by Brian D. Collins
DEDICATION
In Loving Memory of Rebecca
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author appreciates the assistance of his writers’ group for their valuable edits, critiques and suggestions: Mary Ellen Hughes, Becky Hutchison, Debbi Mack, Sherriel Mattingly, Bonnie Settle, and Marcia Talley.
I am grateful to Robin Dile Cuneo, Sue Dirham, Kevin Filippelli, Marjie Klein, and David Matthews for offering useful comments on the completed manuscript.
From the first time that I began to write mysteries—more than twenty years ago—I had the support of my wife, Rebecca. Even when my early efforts weren’t very good, she found a way to encourage me, for which I will always be grateful. She accompanied me to Hilton Head Island for research visits on this novel. Rebecca died in January 2014. Even though it wasn’t “finished” before her death, she knew the ending, and said it was one of her favorite Brad Frame stories. This book is dedicated to her.
This is a work of fiction. Any errors or omissions are solely the responsibility of the author.
Chapter One
Tourism brochures described Daufuskie Island as “the paradise beyond.” As Brad Frame breathed deeply of the sea air on that late-September morning and watched the sun rise over Calibogue Sound, he felt closer to paradise than he had in a long time.
The chance to spend quality time with Beth Montgomery added to those idyllic feelings. She’d asked him to join her at the South Carolina vacation home that her father, Leland Montgomery, had owned on Haig Point since the early 90’s. As his executor, Beth had come to sort through her father’s belongings and make decisions about selling the property.
Brad heard his phone vibrating on a nearby table, but decided to ignore it as he stretched and then reached for his coffee. The sound of waves crashing to the shore during high tide had a hypnotic effect, and the sea breeze washed over him. Quietly sipping, he watched as sailboats slipped out of the Sound aimed for the Tybee Island lighthouse.
He didn’t hear the sliding glass door open, but suddenly Beth was there, leaning down to kiss him.
“You’re up early.” Beth eased into the neighboring chaise.
He smiled. “I love it here on the deck. Wanted to catch the sunrise. Hope I didn’t wake you?”
She shook her head. “I have a busy day; real estate agents are dropping by.”
Brad sighed and reached a hand across the table. “I wish we could stay here for the rest of our lives.”
“Is that a proposal?” she asked, as she wrapped her fingers around his hand.
Brad laughed.
Had she guessed what he had in mind? They’d been together for several years, sharing increasing amounts of time at his Bryn Mawr home outside of Philadelphia or in New York City where she worked for the Oring-Whitman engineering firm. They’d professed their love for each other, and Brad had decided several months earlier that he was ready to pop the question. Then her father’s health turned south, followed by his funeral at the end of August, and the timing never seemed right. He brought the ring with him and planned on proposing; however, not while they were lounging in their pajamas.
A cell phone chirped. Beth let go of his hand and reached for her phone parked next to his on the table. After checking the display she said, “Hi, Sharon.”
Sharon Porter, his associate in the Brad Frame detective business was calling. Brad furiously waved at Beth and mouthed I’m not here.
“Yeah, he’s sitting right here, hold on.” With a smirk, Beth shoved the phone in Brad’s direction before heading back inside the house.
“What’s up, Sharon?”
“Don’t sound so excited to hear from me,” she said.
“Sorry. It’s nice to hear from you,” he deadpanned. “What’s going on?”
“A woman called yesterday. She never identified herself, but wanted to talk with you. When I told her you were out of town she asked if I was also a private detective. I explained that you keep me on a short leash,” Sharon laughed, “but that I could probably help. She seemed a little flakey; kept wigging out as I tried to determine what kind of a case she had for us. She finally asked me for an e-mail address. I gave her mine. This morning her message arrived, but it was addressed to you. I forwarded it, of course, but your vacation response popped up, and I wasn’t sure if you’d be checking e-mail.”
“That’s because I’m on vacation.”
“I know,” Sharon huffed, “and ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of bothering you, but I checked Google and this woman is not far from you—in Bluffton, South Carolina.”
“I promise to check e-mail. How’s everything else?”
“Kinda quiet,” Sharon said. “But I’m holding down the fort.”
Brad ended the call just as Beth returned with fresh cups of coffee. Brad leaned back, closed his eyes, and inhaled more of the ocean-scented air. He’d promised to check his e-mail, but never specified when.
When the sun made the deck too hot for lounging, Brad moved to the kitchen table and opened his laptop. He found the e-mail Sharon had forwarded, titled I Need Your Help:
Dear Mr. Frame,
It’s been more than four years since my son, Dana, died. Those years have been the most painful of my life. You are my last hope to set the record straight and bring his killer to justice. Please help me. I’m not wealthy, but I’ll gladly pay you anything within reason. I pray I will hear from you.
Sincerely,
Amanda Carothers
Below her name was a signature line, including a web site and an address on Evergreen Road in Bluffton, South Carolina followed by a phone number.
Brad recognized Carothers’ name. Two days earlier he and Beth had visited Lowrey’s in Beaufort, where they spotted several stunning ceramic pieces. Beth liked one titled Lady on the Edge, and he bought it for her. The shop owner vouched for the artist, a well-known local whose work could be found in exclusive galleries in major cities along the east coast including Atlanta, Miami, and Washington, DC. Amanda Carothers.
Brad walked into the great room and found the thirty by twenty-four inch ceramic artwork where Beth had left it, cushioned by a blanket and leaning against bookshelves laden with her dad’s collection of first-edition mysteries by Agatha Christie, Ellery Queen, Erle Stanley Gardiner, S. S. Van Dine, Dashiell Hammett, and Dorothy L. Sayers. Beth had once confessed her dad’s fascination with the fact that she was dating a detective.
Beth emerged from the master bedroom looking perfect in khakis and a pale blue blouse. She absently twirled a finger through her hair while holding a phone to an ear. From what he could make out, she was having an argument with one of her brothers.
Brad studied the ceramic piece.
Etched into the clay and glazed in pastel shades, was a woman with pale, expressionless lips on a gaunt face, shaded by a floppy black hat. She wore a green blouse; her figure set amidst a field of spring flowers. A bony milk-white hand lay just beneath her breasts, while the other hand clutched a patterned burgundy jacket. The woman’s emerald eyes glanced toward the unseen in an artistic riddle; while excess glaze dripped a tear in the image’s left eye, adding an air of melancholy.
Beth ended her call and exhaled.
“Everything okay?”
“Not really. None of my brothers wants to lift a finger to help, but they all want to tell me what to do. Daniel said
he’s researched the market—which, trust me, means spending five minutes online—and he doesn’t think we should accept less than a million three.”
“Tell him to come down here and handle the sale then.”
“I did, and he backed off. The proceeds will be split four ways. I know where he’s coming from. Daniel has two boys in college, and is looking for a windfall.” Beth waved the air, like she’d stop worrying about it. Pointing at the ceramic raku, she said with concern, “Why are you staring at it? Is it chipped or something?”
“That e-mail Sharon called me about was from the artist.”
Beth’s eyes widened. “I hope there’s not a problem. I love this piece.”
“Apparently she discovered my line of work and wants me to investigate her son’s death.”
Beth’s mouth gaped. “Murdered?”
He nodded. “She asked me to find his killer.”
Too many seconds of silence passed, and Brad wondered how conflicted Beth would be if he spent part of his vacation time pursuing an investigation.
“Maybe it’s the plaintive look on the image that’s getting to me,” Brad finally said, indicating the raku. “I feel as if I should help Ms. Carothers achieve—at least—a little peace of mind.”
“You’re a sucker for an emotional appeal,” Beth said. “You know that.”
It was the brutal kidnapping and murder of Brad’s mother and sister nearly fifteen years earlier that had propelled him into the detective business. After living through his own family’s anguish, righting injustice had become his raison d’être.
“I only know that you appeal to all my emotions,” he said, eliciting a sympathetic smile. “I’m thinking I could at least meet with her.” He wasn’t able to read Beth’s reaction. “You’re going to be tied up in meetings today, anyway. I could visit Ms. Carothers, and maybe make a few phone calls.”
Beth cocked her head. Her face wore an I-know-you’ll-do-what-you-want expression. “Didn’t you tell me Sharon called her flakey?”
“Well, yes.” Brad bent down and touched the corner of the ceramic piece as it leaned against the bookcase. There, etched into the clay next to the artist’s signature was the title of the artwork. “But I think I’d call her a lady on the edge.”
Chapter Two
Brad convinced himself that Beth wouldn’t mind him disrupting his vacation to work on a case. After all, she was busy too, going through her dad’s personal items and making plans to sell the Daufuskie Island beach home. Beth would hardly notice he was gone. He could learn a few details about Amanda’s son’s death, and assess whether he had a shot at finding his killer.
He called Amanda and arranged to meet at her home at 1:30 p.m.
The primary reason for Daufuskie Island being labeled a “paradise beyond” referred to its location just across Calibogue Sound and slightly to the south of the better known Hilton Head Island. Beyond also conjured up images of time and distance as Brad began his trek to Amanda’s. With rare exceptions, there were no cars on Daufuskie; most of the residents in Haig Point used golf carts to get around. Brad borrowed one of the two carts Leland Montgomery had kept at his vacation home and drove to catch the 12:30 p.m. ferry from the Haig Point landing to Hilton Head. Waiting for him on the other end was a rental car for his trip to Bluffton.
Brad headed the opposite direction as a steady stream of in-bound traffic crossed the causeway for an afternoon on the Hilton Head beaches. As he turned onto State Highway 46, the elaborate entrances to vacation “plantations” with their stone walls and grand fountains gave way to the Historic District of the working community of Bluffton. After passing under a quarter-mile-long canopy formed by live oaks dripping with Spanish moss Brad found the turnoff for Evergreen Road on the west side of Bluffton.
Isolated from its neighbors, the Carothers’ one-story clapboard ranch sat about a hundred yards off the road, surrounded by the tallest pine trees he’d seen. He could barely make out the painted numbers on the rusty mailbox. At the end of the driveway was an attached double-car garage. Weeds and frequent bare and brown patches dotted the yard, along with mangy looking shrubs. Peeling yellow paint only confirmed the inattention.
Brad stepped from the car to the smell of pine wafting in on an easterly breeze. He spotted Amanda waiting at the open front door, an anxious smile on her lips.
“Welcome, Mr. Frame,” she said, “I’m so glad you came.”
“Call me Brad.”
Her cool green eyes were set broadly apart, highlighting the round shape of her face, while ash blonde hair was pulled into a braided bun. Amanda wore a cotton print sleeveless dress and sensible walking shoes. He guessed her age as mid-forties, but later learned she was nearly sixty.
“Come in, Brad, come in.” She motioned with both hands. “It’s good to meet you. Come have a seat. I’ve made iced tea. It will only take me a moment to get us a glass.”
As Amanda headed for the kitchen, Brad sat on an oversized lounger in the living room and surveyed the surroundings. If the outside looked unkempt, he found the inside of the Carothers’ home neatly organized. Her living room was cheerful; with light-colored slipcovers on the furniture and the curtains drawn back affording a full view through the picture window. A ceramic raku, smaller than the one Brad had purchased, and not nearly as striking, hung on the wall behind the sofa.
“Here we are,” she announced, returning from the kitchen with two glasses. “Hope you like mint tea.” She spoke with an accent unmistakably Southern in origin.
She handed him a tall frosted glass with a sprig of mint floating at the top, then sat in a rocking chair opposite Brad’s recliner.
As Brad tasted the tea she said, “It’s an old family recipe.”
Amanda fidgeted, and asked if it needed more sugar.
“It’s perfect,” Brad said. He’d only been there five minutes, but sensed her reluctance to talk about the reason she wanted to see him.
He set his glass on an adjacent table and cleared his throat. “As I told you on the phone, my trip to South Carolina is social. I’ve agreed to talk with you because of my admiration for your art.
“If there is anything I can do to bolster your peace of mind,” he added, “I’d like to try. In your e-mail you said that your son was killed. How was he killed?”
“Dana… well… I…,” she stammered.
Brad looked into her eyes. “I understand. It’s difficult. But just tell me what happened.”
“Dana’s death was very sudden—out in our garage. I had no warning whatsoever. The police said…” Once more she hesitated, and Brad saw tears well in her eyes before her words tumbled out. “…he took his own life.”
Amanda fumbled in her pocket for a tissue, while Brad pressed a fist to his mouth.
Amanda blew her nose, sucked in a breath and said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
She’d have to be the world’s best clairvoyant to know that, since his mind was pinging in a half-dozen directions. Her e-mail never mentioned suicide, or it is doubtful he would have come. Brad wondered what the medical examiner’s report would show. Yet, a part of him was curious as to why she thought her son had been murdered.
As Amanda regained her composure, Brad said, “Frankly, it may be difficult to make a murder case out of a four-year-old suicide.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his hand to stop her.
“I think it’s only fair for you to know my reservations,” Brad said. “First, in any death there’s a medically authorized certificate stating the presumptive cause of death before burial can take place. If a doctor ruled your son’s death a suicide, it must have been in the face of persuasive evidence.” Amanda fidgeted as he spoke. “Second, any suspicious or sudden death brings the involvement of the police. Police investigations aren’t always perfect, but they are trained to tell the difference between suicide and murder. If they aren’t sure, they’ll make inquiries about the mental state of the deceased. Finally, it’s typical for a pare
nt to deny the possibility of suicide. And since roughly half of the suicides in this country don’t leave a note, it’s even easier to understand how doubts can persist.”
Amanda calmly said, “Oh, but there was a note.”
Brad felt his eyes widen in surprise before he could disguise his shock. He’d have to see it first, but if there was a note that would hardly change his opinion.
Amanda smoothed her palms on her dress before continuing. “I appreciate your candor. You said you admired my work, Brad. I am equally an admirer of yours. I have a sister who lives in Philadelphia. She’s told me about your famous cases. When Mabel Lowrey told me that you had bought one of my ceramic pieces, I contacted your office and sent that e-mail. And when you called back it was like an answer to my prayers. I’m not looking for your sympathy.”
His curiosity got the better of him. “All right, Amanda, since we’re both going into this with open eyes, why don’t you tell me about your son’s death.”
Amanda took a sip of iced tea before placing the glass next to her on a table overflowing with newspapers, magazines and crumpled tissues. “It was four years ago last April 6th—a Saturday—and I was at my studio. We were firing about fifteen large pieces to get ready for an exhibition in Miami.”
“Where is your studio?”
“In Bluffton. An old blacksmith shop that we outfitted with a kiln, and there was plenty of room to work. My husband wanted me to get my own studio because I kept encroaching on his woodworking shop in the shed out back. We’ve had the studio about fifteen years, and it was a great boost to my career. Working at home I had the tendency to leave my art to do housework… you know, get distracted. The studio allowed me to focus.”
“Where is your husband now?”
“He died just about a year before my son; April 2nd to be exact. Dent—we called him that, but his full name was Denton—was a retired Marine. He had his first heart attack when he was forty-six, and got a medical discharge. He was fifty-seven when he died.”