by Ray Flynt
As Brad took in the surroundings, a man he took to be the proprietor appeared and greeted him in a somber tone, oozing with Southern charm and sympathy. “I’m Homer Summerfield. How may I be of service?”
Homer had a pudgy face and his portly figure strained against the buttons of the vest on his three-piece gray pinstripe. A swatch of fabric matching his tie protruded from his coat pocket. Summerfield’s brown eyes bulged beneath a high forehead, and thin dark hair was parted at the left and combed sideways across his scalp.
“How are you, sir?” Brad said, offering a strong handshake. “I’m Brad Frame.” He handed Homer his business card. “Back in Philadelphia I’m a private detective. I met with Amanda Carothers earlier, and she’s asked me to look into the death of her son, Dana. I understand you handled his funeral.”
If Homer was surprised by his inquiry, he never showed it, but held Brad’s card at arm’s length and studied it. “I’ll be happy to help you any way I can.” The funeral director stole a glance at his watch.
“If this is a bad time,” Brad said, “I can come back later. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll be glad to talk to you. We’ve got viewing hours this evening, but the family is coming in early and I’ve still got a little bit of work to do. If you don’t mind talking while I work, that’ll be just fine.”
Brad nodded.
Homer led him past the parlor and through a door to a larger room where a casket, angled in the farthest corner, was positioned for viewing. Homer scooped up two baskets of flowers and placed them onto stands at the foot of the bier. Torchères at either end of the casket cast a rosy glow.
“I need to put a little bit of makeup on Mrs. Loring,” Homer explained.
Brad stood next to him as Homer opened a fishing tackle-style box and retrieved brushes.
“Brad… May I call you Brad?”
“Sure.”
“How can I help?” Homer asked as he went to work applying blush to the face of the elderly woman lying peacefully before him.
“Well, as I said, Mrs. Carothers asked me to look into her son’s death.”
“I’m surprised she hired a Philadelphia detective.” Homer never looked up, and applied a pale pink lip color explaining, “I have to finish this under display lighting conditions; otherwise, Mrs. Loring wouldn’t look natural. We have fluorescent light in the embalming room.”
A moment later, Homer added, “Amanda must be better off financially than she lets on.”
He hadn’t even discussed a fee. “I’m doing this as a friend,” Brad said.
Homer leaned over the body continuing his work. “What’s Amanda’s concern?”
Brad didn’t want to use the word murder. “She thinks that with a few more facts, it might be easier to live with the thought of him committing suicide.”
Homer Summerfield grunted. “She took Dana’s death pretty hard. Not that I blame her, and of course there was that problem with her other son.”
Brad thought he might elaborate, but Homer changed the subject. “She was so confused when we talked about arrangements. Let’s see, that was about two and a half, three years ago.”
“Actually, it was almost four and a half years,” Brad corrected.
“That long?” he said, surprised.
“Do you remember anything about the body which might help explain his suicide?” Brad asked. “For example, any needle marks indicating he was into drugs? Maybe you noticed something else at the time?”
Homer looked puzzled. “I don’t recall anything like that. I think I’d remember if there were. I’ll double-check the file, but if we’d seen needle tracks I would’ve mentioned it to Mrs. Carothers.”
“Who signed the death certificate?”
“Doc Phillips,” he said.
Like an artist finishing a painting, Homer dabbed one more spot of rouge. He retrieved a few flower petals that had fallen onto her dress from the floral spray on the lid, before arranging rosary beads in the deceased’s hands.
“Is his office here in town?” Brad asked.
“He’s dead,” Homer announced matter-of-factly. “We buried him last February. Too bad, too, ‘cause now a lotta people have to travel all the way to Beaufort or down to Savannah to see a doctor. Big funeral though. We had more flowers for old Doc Phillips than I can ever remember. People are gettin’ away from sending flowers. There’s five baskets here, and twenty years ago we would have seen—”
Interrupting Floral Tributes 101, Brad said, “Mrs. Carothers told me that the sheriff’s department returned her son’s clothing and personal effects. I assume they got those from you.”
He nodded. “As I recall, we brought the body directly here to the preparation room. Detective Miller from the Sheriff’s Office came along, and he called Doc Phillips who came over and certified the death. If the sheriff took his clothes, I’ll have a receipt for ‘em. Give me just another minute here, and we’ll step in the office. I can check for sure.”
Homer retrieved a pair of circular, wire-rimmed, bifocals from his inside coat pocket. After wiping them clean with a tissue, he carefully placed the glasses on the bridge of the woman’s nose and hooked them over her ears. Homer stood back, gazed at his handiwork, and spoke to the deceased. “Well, Millicent, you’ll have a better look at Saint Peter with these glasses.”
“Funeral home humor?” Brad asked.
Homer laughed. “The truth is, if a person wore glasses in life we better put ‘em on in the casket. Otherwise, we get comments like ‘old so-and-so just didn’t look quite like herself.’ They think we didn’t do a good job. Bottom line: If the deceased doesn’t look natural, it’s not good for our reputation.”
Brad tucked that gem away as a bit of knowledge he’d never use again.
Homer led the way to his office where he fished a folder from the file cabinet and leafed through it.
“Yes, here’s a receipt for personal property from the Sheriff’s office. I’ll make you a copy.” Homer placed the document face down in the office desktop copier and pushed the start button. “And here’s an extra copy of the death certificate you can have. Seeing the file jogs my memory a bit.” Homer shoved the papers across the desk.
Brad looked at the property list, but nothing jumped out as out of place. The death certificate listed carbon monoxide poisoning as the cause and suicide as the manner of death. He folded the documents and put them in his pocket.
“Homer, was everything you saw in this case consistent with carbon monoxide poisoning?” Brad asked.
“There was no doubt about carbon monoxide.” Homer shrugged. “I’ve worked a few cases of suicide from car fumes. Usually a guy runs a hose from the exhaust pipe to the car window. The monoxide turns the blood a cherry-red, and causes no discoloration with the embalming process.”
Brad recalled hearing of that phenomenon at a seminar he’d once attended. “Were there any suspicious marks on the body?”
Homer consulted the file again. “There was a bruise on his forehead which was probably caused when he collapsed to the garage floor. And there was a scrape on his right knee. But no other unusual markings. I don’t think anyone would object if I showed this to you.”
Homer handed Brad a sheet of plain paper on which were two digital photographs. They showed the bruise and scrape Homer had just described. The photos were isolated to just those marks, and Dana’s face was not visible.
“Did you see the suicide note?”
“Yes,” Homer said in a more somber tone. “The officer found it in one of Dana’s pockets. He showed it to me and Doc Phillips.”
“Without an autopsy,” Brad speculated, “it would be impossible to know whether there were any drugs or alcohol present.”
Homer shook his head. “There was no autopsy, but the detective insisted Doc Phillips draw a blood sample for analysis. I never did hear the results.”
Over Homer’s shoulder Brad spotted a man who looked just like the fun
eral director, wearing the same style suit but different colored tie and handkerchief. The resemblance between them was uncanny, down to the sweep of thinning hair across their balding pates. When Amanda mentioned the Summerfield brothers, he hadn’t imagined twins.
The man cleared his throat and startled Homer. “Oh, Horace, I hope you haven’t been standing there long. This is Brad Frame from Philadelphia, making inquiries about the tragic death of the Carothers’ boy. This is my partner, Horace Summerfield.”
Brad overlooked Horace’s scowl and shook his hand. But Horace was all business as he impatiently said, “I hate to interrupt, but Mrs. Loring’s family is waiting in the parlor.”
“You go ahead and show them back, Horace,” Homer said. “Everything is ready. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Horace withdrew to attend to the family.
Brad realized he hadn’t made much headway and found his mind wandering to his dinner plans with Beth.
“I won’t hold you much longer,” Brad said. “Did you form any opinion about the time of Dana Carothers’ death?”
Homer again looked at the papers in front of him. “We picked up the body about 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I distinctly remember the presence of lividity, but no signs of rigor mortis at the jaw. I’d guess he died in the morning, probably before eleven o’clock.”
“One more thing, Homer,” Brad began. “Earlier you referenced problems with Mrs. Carothers’ other son. Could you explain what you meant?”
“I don’t want to make more of it than it was,” Homer said. “People react differently in their grief. Mrs. Carothers was in shock over her son’s death.” He closed the folder on his desk. “But Denton, Jr. wasn’t… how should I put it… wasn’t very supportive. He refused to spend time here during visiting hours. Lots of folks asked me what was wrong. Denton, Jr. finally showed up for the funeral though, and stood next to his mom on the day she needed him most.”
Brad debated whether to delve into the Carothers’ family dynamic, but since Homer seemed open and amenable he asked, “Can you tell me anything about Denton Carothers, Sr.?”
“He was a good man. Well respected here. Retired Marine, bird colonel, I think.”
“Do you know anything about his relationship with his two sons?”
“I don’t go poking into peoples’ business,” Homer began, “but from what I saw, Dent got along well with both of his sons. He was strict. Amanda told me that. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
Brad figured he’d accomplished as much as possible.
“Homer, you’ve been most helpful. I appreciate it, and I’ll make sure Mrs. Carothers knows it too.”
Summerfield beamed. “If we can ever be of service to you or anyone in your family, please let us know.” Homer pointed to a rear exit so Brad could avoid going through the viewing room where people were gathering to pay their last respects to the bespectacled Mrs. Loring.
Brad boarded the 5 o’clock ferry for the twenty-five minute journey back to Daufuskie Island, withdrawing to a seat in the rear. He hadn’t learned anything during his funeral home visit to support Amanda’s concern that her son had been murdered. Denton, Jr., her older son, had apparently been a jerk at the time of the funeral, but raising eyebrows wasn’t the same as raising suspicions. Brad had awakened that morning feeling relaxed and in full-blown vacation mode, but now Amanda’s story haunted him.
“Off to the left you might see dolphin,” the captain announced over the intercom as the ferry entered Calibogue Sound from Broad Creek.
“Look, there’s one,” a woman next to him shouted excitedly.
A shiny gray dolphin arched the crest of the water, while a second bottle-nosed mammal’s sleek body wriggled briefly on the surface before slipping out of sight. Over the next few minutes the two dolphins put on a playful show in the bow wave of the ferry.
Brad wished he could feel so carefree.
Chapter Four
Brad and Beth took the seven minute water taxi ride from Daufuskie to Hilton Head for dinner at the Harbour Town Grill. Over fennel-dusted scallops they smiled at each other, admired the perfect weather, and confessed how much they were looking forward to another week in paradise.
Brad knew what was preying on his mind, but he noticed too that Beth avoided any mention of her meetings with the real estate agents.
He hated to abandon Amanda based on what he learned on a short visit to Summerfield’s Funeral Home, and kept thinking about who else might have a better perspective on Dana or the circumstances surrounding his death. The neighbor who found his body—Jim Westin—would be a key witness, a school guidance counselor might have valuable information, as well as the Sheriff’s office. But making more inquiries would depend on Beth’s schedule; if she needed his help that would take precedence.
As they sipped espresso, Brad finally asked, “How did your meetings go with the real estate agents?”
Beth let out a sigh.
“That bad?”
She laughed. “There are so many things to think about. They’re eager for the listing, but Jack—he was a little pushy—thinks I need to hire a consultant to “stage” the house to make it more attractive to buyers.” Beth shook her head. “And Melinda from Gateway Realty suggested updating the kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Then Debbi from Re/Max called to say she was delayed at a closing and asked to reschedule. I’m afraid I’m going to be tied up again tomorrow.”
Brad thought that might give him the time he needed to make a few more inquiries. “What time?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“I’ll arrange a few meetings and stay out of your hair,” he said, matter-of-factly.
She regarded him skeptically. “That suicide case?”
“Yes.”
The frown on her lips grew from when he’d first inquired about her real estate meetings.
“Are they suggesting the price you’re looking for?” Brad asked, changing the subject.
“Nothing that will satisfy Daniel.”
Beth had three brothers, with Daniel being the oldest, so the proceeds would be divided four ways.
“Have you told him the average cost per square foot of real estate in the area?” Brad asked.
Beth shook her head. “After tomorrow I’ll send my brothers an e-mail summarizing the options.”
Brad could see the conflict on her face. He dropped the subject and they resumed innocuous chit chat.
Back at the beach house, Beth lit a candle on the coffee table. She gazed around the great room, and Brad saw tears fill her eyes. He went to her and enveloped her in his arms.
“I have so many happy memories here,” she blubbered. “Our whole family stayed for the month of August right before Mom died. I’ve watched my nieces and nephews grow into young men and women.”
He held her more tightly. “I know.”
After a few more whimpers, she said, “I wish we didn’t have to sell this place.”
Brad desperately wanted to make things better, and kissed her on the cheek.
Moments later she pulled away.
Beth bent down to blow out the candle. She reached for his hand and guided him through the darkness into the bedroom.
They lay beside one another after making love, staring into space. The ceiling fan cooled them, and outside Brad thought he heard a trawler navigating the Sound.
Beth drew circles on his bare chest with her fingers.
Perhaps it was the darkness or their intimacy which prompted it, but Brad would never underestimate the value of pillow talk as Beth blurted out, “Do you think that boy killed himself?”
Brad hadn’t realized she’d been giving it so much thought. “It looks like it. I feel his mother’s pain.”
“Can you help her?”
Tough question. “I’m not sure.”
In the quiet, Brad savored the aroma of Beth’s perfume—a hint of orange blossoms—and felt so comfortable lying next to her and a renewed assura
nce in his plans to propose. He’d made reservations for Friday night at Bistro 17, one of her favorite Hilton Head Island restaurants. He ordered flowers for their table and sent a list of Beth’s favorite songs to the restaurant’s pianist. Between dinner and dessert he would pop the big question. He knew he’d be nervous. They’d hinted around the subject of marriage for a while, but still he didn’t know what he would do if she said, “No.”
“When will you know for sure?” Beth asked.
It took him an instant to realize she was still focused on Amanda’s situation.
“Actually, I thought I might get together tomorrow with the man who found her son’s body, and also see if I could meet a school guidance counselor; you know, get another perspective on Dana’s personality.”
“That makes sense.” After a pause, she added, “Will that be it?”
It was Brad’s turn to sigh. She knew how he was when an issue gnawed at him.
“I’ll take that as a ‘No’.”
Brad laughed. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She snuggled closer.
There was an idea Brad had been thinking about, and the time seemed right to toss it out.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Uh huh.”
“How would you feel if I bought this beach house?”
Beth gasped.
“Really?” she said excitement in her voice.
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
Beth flipped over and lifted herself up on elbows. In the dim light of a partial moon Brad could see the smile on her face. “I love getting away at the beach.”
“And you wouldn’t have to worry about staging or replacing countertops,” Brad added, as if he had to sell her on the idea.
She bobbed her head, and an instant later worry washed over her face. “You’d make sure I had visitation rights?”
“That can be arranged.” He grinned broadly.
She leaned forward and kissed him. “That sounds like a proposal.”
It wasn’t how he’d planned that moment, but it all seemed right. He looked deep into her eyes. “Beth, will you marry me?”