by Ray Flynt
“Dana and I were double-dating with Linda and Bob Kepner. They had been going together for about as long as we had, and Dana and Bob were best friends. The three of us were home on spring break, and we usually tried to get together at least once when we were home.”
“You said, ‘the three of you’ were home. Linda didn’t go to the University?”
“No. She went to business school for two years, and had a bookkeeping job over on Hilton Head. Her mother wanted her around to help at home. Bob and Linda picked up Dana and me here, and we drove to Beaufort for the opening of a new six-screen cinema. We arrived early and saw a double feature; they were previewing a new film along with the movie we wanted to see. Dana seemed extra quiet that evening, but I guess I didn’t think much about it till Linda said something to me in the ladies room between the two movies. She said, ‘Is everything okay between you two? I’ve never seen Dana look so unhappy.’ I must have gotten this peculiar look on my face, ‘cause then she said, ‘Don’t worry honey, by the time you tuck him in bed tonight I’m sure everything will be fine’.” Kathy laughed. “You have to know Linda to appreciate how she thinks sex solves every problem. Anyway, I guess that’s when I first noticed his somber mood. When we were coming out of the restroom, I saw Denton briefly. He and his wife were headed into a different movie. Denton said, ‘I wish you better luck with him than I just had’.”
It sounded as if she’d told this story a hundred times.
“That’s all he said?”
Kathy nodded.
Brad scribbled a few notes. “Was there anything else unusual about Dana’s behavior?”
“Dana and Bob were buying popcorn when I first came out of the ladies room. From a distance I thought they were having an argument. Bob’s hands were moving a lot, and he appeared agitated. As we got closer to them, I heard Bob say, ‘let’s talk about it tomorrow.’ After that, everything looked normal between the two of them. Linda must have noticed their argument too, ‘cause she had a funny expression on her face. I was staring at her, when she grabbed one of the popcorn boxes and announced we’d better get goin’ or we’ll miss the movie. The second feature was about to start, so I never had the chance to ask the guys if anything was wrong.”
“What about later that evening?” Brad asked.
“After the second movie we stopped by Craig Simmons’ house. Craig and Bob were Dana’s roommates at the University. He couldn’t get a date for the evening, but he invited us over for food and drinks after the movie.” Kathy appeared startled. “Oh, forgive me, may I offer you something to drink.”
Brad shook his head. “I’m fine. You were at Craig’s house? He had his own place?”
“No. I meant his parents’ house. But they spend half the year in the Bahamas. He’s an only child and has the place to himself when they’re away.”
“How was Dana’s demeanor when you were with Craig?”
“Dana seemed a little down,” Kathy said.
“Depressed?” Brad asked.
Kathy stared at the floor and squirmed on the sofa. “Oh, I don’t know.” She threw up her hands. “Maybe his behavior wasn’t really unusual. My perspective might have changed due to his suicide. Dana tended to be the quietest in our group. He was always sensitive to other’s feelings and usually went out of his way to do what the rest of us wanted even if he didn’t feel like it.”
“He didn’t want to go to Craig’s?”
“No. But Bob reminded us that we’d all chipped in on a keg. Thinking back, I guess Dana only went there because he felt obligated. I told him I felt like partying.” She choked up, and added, “He went for my sake.”
Kathy dabbed her eyes with a tissue and then held her head erect, as if steeling herself for his next question.
“Was there a lot of drinking that night?”
“Not really. We each had a couple beers.”
Brad stared at Kathy, and her eyes shifted between the ceiling and his gaze.
“Okay.” She shrugged. “Maybe we had more than a couple. But Dana didn’t have much. In fact, he insisted on driving us home.”
“You said Bob drove the group to the movies.”
“Yes, but Dana wouldn’t let Bob drive; he was too drunk. Dana drove Bob’s car to my place. Dana told him to wait, and that he would drive them home after he saw me to the door, but Bob just took off.”
“And what happened after Dana took you home.”
“He walked me to the door, and we kissed good night.”
“Did you invite him in?”
Kathy managed a smile. “With my father here?”
“Your father didn’t like Dana?” Brad asked.
“Oh, no. They got along surprisingly well, but my father wasn’t about to let a young man entertain me in our living room at one o’clock in the morning. That wasn’t part of the program.”
“That was the last you saw him alive?”
She nodded before dropping her chin.
Brad realized Dana could have walked the short distance home.
He felt an undercurrent of sadness about Kathy Westin, even when she smiled. She seemed to drift through the interview rather than taking an active part. He wished he had a better sense of what Dana and Kathy had been like as a couple. Clearly from her bent shoulders and wandering eyes, the events of four years ago had taken their toll.
“Can you think of anything else which may have been significant about his behavior on that Friday evening?” Brad asked.
“I’ve been over that day in my mind ten thousand times. I’ve already explained Dana was a little moody. But that wasn’t all that unusual. I mean, I’d seen him like that before. I keep re-playing the mental video of those last few minutes we spent together, trying to search for something he said or did that seemed prophetic of the events which happened later, but…” Her voice trailed off.
“Did you phone him on that Saturday morning?”
“No,” Kathy said.
“And you heard about—”
“No, wait,” she interrupted. “I tried to call him about eleven-fifteen in the morning, but there wasn’t any answer.”
“Eleven-fifteen,” Brad repeated, and made a note of it. “Did you ever see the note found on Dana’s body?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“I realize it might be painful for you, but if you want I’ll show you a copy. I don’t offer it to upset you; I’d appreciate your reaction to it.”
Kathy Ann Westin nodded. He extracted the copy from his wallet, unfolded it, and handed it to her. She held it gingerly, scanning the few brief lines. Her crying began softly. Glancing out the window Brad thought he saw a pick-up truck slowing in front of the house. Kathy’s sobbing became more noticeable as she gasped and her body heaved in an effort to control her emotions. A trickle of tears dripped onto the photocopied note. The sobbing didn’t stop till she covered her face with both hands, letting the note slip onto the sofa cushion next to her.
“It sounds like he wrote this to me,” she wailed, adding, “No one ever told me.”
It was the most inopportune time for her father to make his entrance. Jim Westin backed in the front door carrying a long package wrapped in brown paper. He stared at his weeping daughter, then lurched around and spotted Brad.
“What are you doing here?” Jim yelled, as he stripped the heavy brown paper off the package revealing a shotgun. Leveling the weapon toward Brad, he shouted, “What did you do to my daughter?”
“Daddy, it’s all right,” Kathy screamed. “We were just talking.”
He ignored her. “I thought we took care of you the other day. I want you out of here.”
Jim Westin gripped the shotgun with both hands.
Brad doubted it was loaded, since Westin had just taken off the paper wrapping, but he hated to rattle anyone with a weapon in their hands. He froze in place.
“I’m sorry if you feel I’ve intruded,” Brad said, in his most soothing baritone. “I wasn’t completely honest when I was here the
other day. I’m conducting an insurance investigation on the death of Dana Carothers. There is a sizable sum at stake for Amanda Carothers if we can prove her son didn’t commit suicide.”
So much for his when-in-doubt-tell-the-truth policy. Brad hoped it would work.
Jim glared at Brad before glancing at his daughter who stood frozen with her hands held to her face, her eyes puffy from crying. Jim looked back at Brad and lowered the shotgun to his side.
Brad resumed breathing, and after a few seconds, spoke, “I see you own a Lefever twelve-gauge. You must have quite a valuable collection if they’re all as expensive as that one.”
“Oh, this,” Jim said, indicating the shotgun. “I own two of them,” and motioned for Brad to join him at the display case as he returned the shotgun to its holder. Jim removed a second one, handing it to Brad.
Brad snapped open the weapon, and checked for any shells before he peered down the barrel and tried his hand at the trigger mechanism—testing its tension. After a few minutes of showing off his prized possession, Jim Westin acted almost human. His agitation had disappeared quicker than a late afternoon Carolina thunder shower.
To be certain, Brad continued showing interest in the intricately carved and inlaid wooden stock, commenting on the workmanship.
Kathy scurried behind her father and picked up the brown wrapping paper he left lying on the floor.
After replacing the shotgun in the cabinet, Jim mentioned the insurance case. “You said there was a lot of money involved. You think somebody murdered Dana.”
“I didn’t say it was murder, it could be an accidental death,” Brad clarified.
“What kind of money are we talking about?” Jim asked.
“A hundred thousand. With a double-indemnity clause in case of an accident.” Brad wondered how long it would take before the whole neighborhood was buzzing with the news.
“It’d be better then, if you found out it was an accident?” Jim asked.
“Yep,” Brad nodded. “For Amanda’s sake it sure would.”
Jim Westin stroked his chin. “I don’t know. That’s a lot of money. I’m afraid Mrs. Carothers is gonna be disappointed. But alright, if you want to talk to my daughter, go ahead.” As quickly as he had entered the room, Jim proceeded down the hall leading to the bedrooms and disappeared behind a closed door.
“I’m sorry about Daddy,” Kathy said. “Mother died when I was ten, and he’s tried so hard to make up for her loss. He’s overbearing at times, but he means well.”
“I was just about finished with our discussion, Kathy. If you can think of anything else that would be helpful, give me a call.” Brad handed her his card to which he had scribbled his local number. “If I need to reach you, would it be more convenient if I called you at work?”
“I don’t have a job,” Kathy replied. “I take care of Daddy. It’s alright. You can call me here.”
Brad cued up a classical music station for the drive home, but frowned at the harpsichord selection. His tastes ran more to full orchestral pieces.
Brad found the dynamics between Westin and his daughter interesting. She perceived her job as taking care of her father, while he overplayed the protective role. Had Dana lived, they’d probably have had a happy life together. Instead, she’d become an ancillary victim of his death, the trajectory of her life forever altered.
And Jim Westin’s eagerness to seize on the notion that Dana’s death might have been an accident surprised him and complicated a few theories he’d been percolating.
Brad appreciated Kathy’s confirmation that the suicide note sounded like it had been addressed to her. He wondered if it had been written on another occasion and Kathy had already seen it.
“Damn it.” Brad pounded the steering wheel with his left hand. He’d inadvertently left the copy of the suicide note Amanda had given him with Kathy.
Chapter Sixteen
Brad eased his foot off the accelerator, and the car began to slow.
Did he want to go back?
He could get another copy, Brad decided, but seeing that note had been hard on Kathy. He worried about her mental state with her now having the note as a constant reminder. He wondered if she’d confront her father with it asking why he hadn’t shared the details with her earlier.
He looked for a place to turn around, didn’t spot one, and decided to let Kathy keep the copy of the note.
Brad glanced at the dashboard clock. It was shortly after four. Earlier in the day he’d arranged a meeting with Denton Carothers, Jr., who wouldn’t be off-duty until after 8 p.m.
Nick Argostino had promised to send him information by late afternoon, so Brad pulled off to the side of the road and checked for messages on his smartphone. No signal. He decided to drive to Beaufort where he could find a café for Internet access and later have dinner before his meeting with Denton Carothers.
Beaufort was a charming coastal town. Building styles near the center of the business district and the harbor ranged from Victorian to Southern Colonial, most in immaculate condition.
He’d read about Beaufort being the location where The Great Santini had been filmed and recognized the distinctive house with its wrap-around porch and white columns as he drove in search of a Wi-Fi café.
Brad spotted a coffee shop and noticed one patron sitting at a small sidewalk table, her laptop opened in front of her. Then he saw the neon sign in the window—Wi-Fi Hotspot.
After easily finding parking, Brad entered the café, ordered a cappuccino, and was tempted to buy a cinnamon biscotti, but didn’t want to spoil dinner. He settled into a corner seat near the window and turned on his phone.
He chuckled as he read the brief e-mail from Nick Argostino. “Here’s what you requested. Do the South Carolina police know what jurisdiction means? More importantly, Brad, do you?”
Brad had reached out to his mentor and business partner to see if the Philadelphia police had any information on how long it would take for death by asphyxiation to occur with carbon monoxide. Attached to the e-mail were several charts detailing toxic levels by cubic feet and times to unconsciousness. Even as he enlarged his screen view to better see the information, Brad knew he would need to print out the charts at Beth’s beach house to study them properly.
He composed a quick reply thanking Nick for sending the information.
As he prepared to climb back into his car Brad noticed a hobby store across the street. Back home in Bryn Mawr, his entire attic was devoted to a major-league model train layout, and he never missed an opportunity to shop for additions.
A bell at the top of the door dinged as he entered the shop. A woman’s raspy voice sang out, “Make yourself at home.”
Brad took a few steps to his right and saw the shop’s proprietor, a plump middle-aged woman wearing thick glasses, ensconced on a wooden swivel chair in front of a battered roll-top desk laden with piles of paper. She rolled her chair back on its casters and peered over the top of her glasses. A scruffy-looking toy schnauzer cocked one ear in Brad’s direction without opening his eyes.
Brad waved and asked, “You carry any model trains?”
The woman coughed and wheezed before responding. “In the back, on the left side.” She paused to catch her breath and added, “We got a shipment from a shop that closed over in Greensboro a few weeks ago.”
The store was long and narrow, and Brad appeared to be the only customer. As promised, at the rear of the store he found four shelves piled high with dusty boxes of engines, cabooses and boxcars. Track, switches, model buildings and accessories were arrayed on the opposite side of the aisle.
“Look at this,” Brad found himself saying aloud. He brushed a thin layer of dust off a faded box with his handkerchief. The plastic view window was torn and puckered. He’d found a vintage Marx HO set, first produced sixty years ago. It included a New York Central tender and a green Sinclair tanker car. The shop in Greensboro must have specialized in second-hand items, since the set was clearly used but packed in its ori
ginal boxes.
Brad was shocked when he looked at the price. His dealer in Philadelphia would charge four times that much, if he could even find such a set. Brad had to have it.
Since the boxes were dusty, he didn’t want to pile the whole lot against his chest and risk dirtying his shirt, so he carried them in his hands, several at a time, to the proprietor’s desk. After his fourth trip to drop off his items for purchase even the schnauzer was taking notice.
Brad returned to the shelves of HO train equipment searching for similar nuggets but found none.
“That will be all today,” Brad told the clerk as he presented his American Express card.
She fingered the card and glanced up at him quizzically. Perhaps she’d never seen one of their black cards before. His brother had insisted he carry one of the prestige cards, but for an instant he wondered if the clerk would accept it.
She never rose from her seat, but prepared a tally on a manual adding machine, then opened a desk drawer and reached for a credit card imprint machine.
The proprietor packed up all the items in two sturdy plastic bags, handing them to Brad with a broad smile.
After storing his purchases in the trunk, grinning like a schoolboy, Brad found a quaint restaurant in a Queen Anne-style house facing the harbor where he enjoyed a leisurely appetizer of chilled apricot soup. This was followed by a house salad with generous amounts of crumbled blue cheese, and a main course of guinea hen with pecan stuffing served with parsnip-pear puree. He found the food fantastic and the setting idyllic, and he vowed to return there with Beth over the weekend.
It was nearly nine o’clock when Brad drove to Denton Jr.’s home on the south end of Beaufort not far from the Parris Island Marine Base. Denton met him at the door, still in uniform with a gold oak leaf insignia visible on the shoulder pad. He wore three rows of service medal bars, and his name badge bore the inscription: D. CAROTHERS.
The sole surviving Carothers’ son stood six feet tall with blonde hair barely long enough to comb. He had blue eyes beneath a wide brow, and his lips were as taut as his bearing. Brad noticed his resemblance to the photograph of Dana he’d seen at Amanda’s. Denton had the same fair features as his brother, but with his mother’s eyes.