Lady on the Edge

by Ray Flynt

  Josh nodded. “Yeah, I noticed that Kathy’s finger is wrapped around the trigger like she’d be pulling it. To kill herself at that angle with that shotgun she would have had to push the trigger.”

  Josh radioed the sheriff’s office asking for techs to process a murder scene and an ambulance. “I’m sending the father of the victim to the hospital,” Josh explained. “Send an officer to the hospital to find out what they’re gonna do with him. If they release him, I want him held for questioning. Oh, and send the coroner too.” Josh shook his head as he listened. “I thought he wasn’t going to Ohio till next week. Never mind. Who’s the deputy coroner on call? Christ, we’ll be here all night.”

  Brad made a few observations to Josh about the shot patterns on the wall that looked to him as if she’d been standing facing her killer. He noted that the fact that the blood around her head had not yet congealed meant that death had been recent. Josh consulted his watch and nodded.

  “Your next promotion may be dependent on how well you analyze this case before the others get here. After all, we wouldn’t want to see the out-of-town detective come in and discover something you’d missed. That’s what the court hearing is all about on Wednesday, isn’t it?”

  “Get off my ass about that. I told you, I had nothing to do with dragging you into court.”

  Brad liked Josh and didn’t blame him for Denton’s legal action. “Kathy was only 5’ 2” with short arms, and that’s a long barrel on that shotgun.”

  “Thanks,” Josh said. “I already thought about that. And I noticed that the muzzle is clean.”

  Brad knew that meant it wasn’t a contact wound, but the muzzle could also have been wiped clean he speculated. “I knew there was a reason you got an ‘A’ in my seminar.”

  Brad heard a siren, probably from the ambulance sent to pick up Jim Westin. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

  A look of relief crossed Josh Miller’s face. “It’s a small town. You’re not being here will be one thing less for them to talk about.”

  “I have two favors.” Brad held up his cell phone. “I’m not receiving a signal. May I use the phone in the kitchen?”

  Josh nodded.

  “Thanks. Satisfy my curiosity and tell me who the deputy coroner is on this case.”

  “Horace Summerfield. The man is thorough to a fault, and slow to boot. I swear I’ll be here till midnight.”

  Brad stepped outside just as the EMT’s were loading Jim Westin’s gurney into the back of the ambulance. Sharon stood next to Westin, a comforting hand on his arm. Red lights pulsed urgently, reflecting off the front of the Westin home. Regardless of what happened with Josh’s investigation, Brad knew Westin’s life would never be the same.

  Brad and Sharon stood and watched as the ambulance pulled away.

  “I guess we have to walk back to Amanda’s,” Sharon said.

  In all the frenzy Brad had forgotten about the fact that Josh had driven them the short distance from Amanda’s house. They turned and started their trek across a bed of pine needles as the late October sun streamed through the trees.

  “Why would anyone want to kill Kathy Westin?” Sharon asked.

  She hadn’t been privy to any of the conversation he’d had with Josh Miller, yet she’d made the same observations and come to the same conclusions.

  Brad took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, I think it’s the same person who killed Dana. Our inquiry has stirred up more than a few memories—and passions—in this community.”

  They walked in silence for another minute before Sharon said, “You found out something else back there, didn’t you?”

  Sharon’s insights amazed him at times.

  “Yes. I asked if I could use the phone in the kitchen. It had a re-dial button, and I wanted to find out the last person called from the kitchen phone.

  “And?” Sharon asked.

  “It was Bob Kepner’s office.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Just when Brad thought that Beth was on board—if not totally copacetic—with his investigation of the death of Dana Carothers, she told him to stop using the kitchen island for strategy sessions with Sharon. Instead, Beth directed him toward a small space adjacent to the great room that he could use as his beach house office. It had previously served as an overflow bedroom for Beth’s family gatherings.

  Brad set up a card table on that Tuesday morning for use as a temporary desk and opened his laptop to see what details might have made the local news regarding the death of Kathy Westin. Following a brief search, he concluded that he already knew more about her death than the local media.

  Brad hadn’t slept well. He and Sharon had remained at Amanda’s until past midnight helping her cope with the news of Kathy Westin’s death. Regular ferry service to Daufuskie had ceased by that hour, and he’d had to arrange for a special water shuttle.

  Sharon clomped into Brad’s new office, shinnied past the bunk beds that remained in the room, and plopped into a chair. “How the hell,” she groused, “am I supposed to get caught up on sleep when your damn phone keeps ringing?”

  Brad covered a yawn with his hand. “Sorry.”

  “I swear your phone started at 6 a.m. Who called?”

  “Amanda rang first. She has misgivings about the court case, but I think I got her calmed down. Then Ben Slatpin checked in to see whether I’d heard about Kathy Westin. And finally, Linda Kepner called to ask if I knew where her husband was.”

  “How the fuck are you supposed to know?” Sharon snapped.

  Brad shrugged. “She said he’d been acting strange and wondered if he might have contacted me.”

  Sharon folded her arms across her chest and stared at Brad. “Did she specify what she meant by strange?”

  “Linda told me Bob didn’t get home until late, but she’s not sure exactly when. She tried waiting up for him but fell asleep around two a.m.”

  “I know the feeling.” Sharon brushed a limp strand of hair out of her eyes.

  “When Linda woke this morning,” Brad continued, “Bob was already dressed and on his way out the door an hour before he usually left for work. He offered no explanation for where he might be headed.”

  Brad’s cell chimed in his pocket.

  “Here we go again,” Brad muttered before answering.

  “Hello. Yes. How are you?”

  He pulled a scrap of paper in front of him and scribbled, Denton’s wife, before sliding the paper in Sharon’s direction.

  “Yes, Sarah. We heard. Quite a tragedy. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about,” Sarah began then paused. “There’s something I should tell you about Dana’s death,” she said, “But you can’t tell Denton I called you.”

  “That’s not a problem, Sarah. But I’d like to put you on speakerphone so that my associate, Sharon Porter can hear.” Brad made the adjustment on his phone and knew that he also had to lower the volume or risk feedback. He placed the phone on the table. “Okay, go ahead.”

  Sarah cleared her throat. “I didn’t think much about it back then, but as time went by I felt like I was holding back valuable information. After all the problems Amanda went through, I was never comfortable talking with her.”

  “I understand.” Brad used his most reassuring tone.

  After a long pause, Sarah said, “I was the last person to see Dana alive.”

  Brad and Sharon exchanged glances.

  “How can you be sure?” Brad asked

  “I saw Dana on that Saturday morning, the day he died. I was on my way to the dry cleaners and other errands, and I dropped by to see Amanda and invite her over for Sunday dinner.”

  “Do you remember what time that was?” Brad inquired.

  “Yes. I’ve gone over that day in my mind so often. It was shortly after nine, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes after. I knew Amanda usually left for the studio between nine and nine-thirty on Saturdays, and I hoped I would catch her.”

  Brad made a few notes. “What was D
ana doing when you got there?”

  “Well, at first I didn’t think anybody was home. Amanda’s van was gone and I realized I’d missed her. So I figured I’d leave the message with Dana. It took a long time for him to answer the door. He explained that he’d been in the shower.” Sarah added, “He wore a robe and I could see his hair was wet.”

  “How would you describe his mood?”

  “I didn’t think much about it at the time, but he seemed more talkative than I’d seen him in a while. Dana and I always got along well in spite of the tension between him and Denton. He treated me like a sister. Dana invited me to come in and have breakfast… there were cinnamon rolls on the kitchen counter. We chatted casually for a few minutes and I remarked about the lousy mood he’d been in at the movies the night before. He just shook his head and mumbled that he didn’t know what to do. I asked if he wanted to talk about it.”

  She stopped, and Brad muttered “uh huh” to encourage her. But hearing no reaction, he wondered if Denton Jr. had shown up and Sarah would have to cut the call short.

  “What did he say?” Brad prompted.

  “Dana said he had to dump his girlfriend, and didn’t know the best way to do it. I suggested maybe he could figure out a way for her to drop him.”

  “His reaction?”

  “None. Then I said something which—after everything happened—I couldn’t help but regret. I told him to go away on a long trip and sooner or later she’d forget about him.” Sarah heaved a sigh. “After the suicide I felt partially responsible.” Sarah’s voice, which had been firm lost its strength.

  Brad glanced at Sharon to gauge her reaction. She looked grumpy. Her eyes were closed and the corners of her mouth turned down.

  “How long were you there—at the house, Sarah—and what time did you leave?” Brad asked.

  “Uh, I don’t know precisely… not long… maybe fifteen minutes. I planned to spend the day shopping with friends. I met them around ten o’clock, so I would have left Amanda’s by nine-thirty at the latest. I recall offering to wash my dishes, but Dana said he’d take care of them.”

  “You said, ‘dishes.’ Did you have something other than a cinnamon roll?”

  “Dana offered me coffee, but I’d already had two cups, so I helped myself to juice from the refrigerator.”

  “Pineapple juice by any chance?” Brad asked.

  “Yes… yes, it was.” There was surprise in Sarah’s voice. “How did you know?”

  Brad looked at Sharon and smiled. “A lucky guess. Sarah, thank you for calling me.”

  “Mr. Frame, there’s something else.” Her voice sounded urgent. “Denton told you about the mail having been brought into Amanda’s on the day Dana died. He felt it proved Dana would have had shoes on.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I brought the mail in at Amanda’s. The postman dropped off the mail just as I was leaving, and I told Dana I’d grab it.”

  “Thanks for clearing up that detail,” Brad said.

  “Remember,” Sarah pleaded, “please don’t tell my husband I called.”

  “You can count on my discretion.”

  As Brad finished the call he noticed that Sharon looked perplexed. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I’ve been speculating that the murderer drank the pineapple juice. Which meant Dana knew him well enough to invite him into the house. Now we know it could be a stranger.”

  Brad didn’t think so, but chose not to comment.

  “I have an assignment for you.” Brad opened a manila envelope and dumped out a half-dozen black and white glossy prints, each one in its own clear plastic folder. All the photographs were the same, a bare-chested young man in a pair of tight jeans. “I’d like you to show this photograph to this list of people.” He handed Sharon a list of the potential suspects they’d discussed in the murder of Dana Carothers.

  “You can use the rental car since I won’t need it this morning. You should be able to get in touch with everyone on this list except for Jim Westin,” Brad explained. “Tell each person that I’ve developed a lead through the Savannah police, and ask if they’ve ever seen this person. When you remove the photo from the plastic bag hold it by the upper right hand corner. After you get back in the car, mark the plastic with the name of the person who handled the photo. Your objective is to get fingerprints. Make sure they take it in their hand.”

  Sharon waved one of the plastic bags holding a photo. “Who is this hunk, and when can I meet him?”

  “A gardener who used to work for me in Philadelphia.”

  “Mmm!” Sharon purred.

  “Last I heard he’d gotten two girlfriends pregnant.”

  Sharon shuddered like she had a bad case of the willies.

  “What are you doing this morning?” Sharon asked.

  “I’ll be right here on the phone.” Brad picked up his cell before Sharon left the office.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Piece of cake, I thought as I studied the list Brad gave me. I mapped out an efficient route for contacting each of the people and getting their prints on the bogus photograph. My only worry was how to handle it if anyone actually claimed to recognize the man who, I knew, had worked on Brad’s lawn crew.

  It was tougher than I expected to get on the Marine base at Parris Island to collect Denton Carothers’ fingerprint. I didn’t have an appointment, so I wasn’t on the pre-approved list for admission. Instead, the guard at the gate shack had to call “the Major” to announce me, and since I’d never met the man—and he wouldn’t know me from Eve—I explained that I worked for Brad Frame. I might as well have announced I worked for the KGB.

  Entrance denied.

  I persisted and said it had to do with the murder of Kathy Westin. The guard relayed the information and I received directions to the Major’s office.

  Beneath Denton’s crisply pressed uniform and buttoned up demeanor, I could sense his angst boiling below the surface. He seemed genuinely shocked to hear about Kathy’s death, and though he bristled every time I mentioned Brad’s name he dutifully grasped the photo with both hands and studied it for a long time before shaking his head and handing it back to me.

  First fingerprints captured!

  When Brad warned me I might not be able to see Jim Westin, he might as well have put a red flag in front of a bull. Westin was at the same hospital on Hilton Head where I’d spent a few wobbly days.

  I inquired at the information desk about his room and watched as the volunteer scanned the list of patients. I was told he wasn’t allowed visitors, but I’d been able to read his room number upside down on the list and saw that he’d been assigned to the same floor where I’d been. An idea percolated.

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “The minister asked me to look after a couple of our members. Could you tell me if Edna Steffler is still here?”

  That was the name of a woman across the hall from me that the nursing staff kept thinking was in my room. I prayed she was still there. Once more the volunteer scanned his list. He smiled up at me and said, “She’s in 218 North.”

  “Thanks,” I said and hustled over to the elevator.

  Ms. Steffler never received a visit from me, but I found Westin’s room and entered through the closed door. He looked catatonic with his eyes half open gazing into space. An IV line dripped into his arm. He also snored. I took a clean photograph out of its plastic sleeve and practically rolled his index and thumbprints on it, before dashing out of the hospital to the car.

  The rest of the fingerprint gathering went uneventfully. After Brad told me that Linda Kepner feared her husband had gone missing, I didn’t expect to find Bob at his architecture office. But he was there, met me in the lobby smiling, and I captured a couple of nice fingerprints, all in three minutes work.

  When I dropped by the Kepner’s home I conveniently neglected to inform Linda that she’d find her husband at the office.

  As had been the case a few days earlier, she juggled young Bobby u
nder one arm. She carried a tray of cookies in her other hand, and I never left the front stoop. She put the cookies on the table and Bobby on the carpeted floor so that she could study the photograph I handed her. I feigned my disappointment when she didn’t recognize the man, carefully placed the photo back in its plastic sleeve, marking it when I returned to the car and then headed for Amanda’s studio.

  Brad asked me to find Peter Gibson and the only place I knew he might be was at Amanda’s studio. Thanks to GPS I found it, just as Brad had described, nestled into a back street of Bluffton and looking slightly dilapidated at first glance. I approached the structure and witnessed a strapping young man lifting a ceramic vase from the kiln using a pair of tongs and depositing it in into a pile of wood chips in a hollowed out area of ground. The wood immediately smoldered and smoke began to billow from the pit. The man who I suspected was Peter backed away, all the time waving smoke from his eyes with an open hand. Then he spotted me. He recoiled in surprise.

  I remembered Brad telling me that Peter was deaf. I smiled, waved and shouted a greeting and he seemed to relax.

  “Aman… da’s not here,” he said.

  I strove to make myself understood above the noise of the exhaust fan and the crackle of the fire enveloping the ceramic piece. “I’m Sharon, and I work with Brad Frame who you met the other day.”

  Peter nodded that he understood.

  I grabbed a clean photograph by the upper right corner and handed it to him mouthing, “Have you ever seen this man?”

  Peter took the bait with both hands, cocked his head as he studied the photograph, and mumbled “Never seen him” before returning it.

  Retrieving the photograph without messing up fingerprints had, in every case, proven to be the difficult part. I extended my open left palm and he placed it there, then I could once again take hold of the upper right corner.

  “Thank you, Peter.”

  As I turned to leave, my phone buzzed. I waited until I climbed in the car to answer. I heard Brad’s voice, “How you doing?”

  “Mission accomplished,” I said.