The handwritten letter from William was altogether a different story. More than his father’s death, or the inheritance of the house, it was this letter that shifted Frank’s curiosity into high gear. He hadn’t been able to make much sense of it, but he couldn’t deny that its message and short poem intrigued him enough to at least consider a personal investigation. A small piece of a mystery, or a shard of a larger truth, pumped up Frank’s gumshoe instincts. He’d never been posed a conundrum he didn’t want to solve, but to search for clues he needed to visit the scene where the puzzle pointed. Besides, he yearned to stay at the old place again even if it turned out to be a decrepit, termite repository, falling down from decades of his father’s lack of care.
Frank had grown up in a row home in Windsor Heights, a quarter-mile inside the Baltimore City line on the west side of town. Catonsville was only a few miles farther west, but, at that time, a world away in social strata and level of living. Frank hated his home life in Windsor Heights, and longed to be able to leave it. After graduation from high school, he enlisted in the marines and, immediately after training, was shipped to Iraq to fight the Republican Guard forces of Saddam Hussein.
When Operation Desert Storm concluded, he was transferred to Camp Pendleton in San Diego. Frank liked the California weather so much he decided to live there. When he was discharged at twenty-two, he joined the San Diego Police Department, where he worked his way up to detective in only four years. When a personal tragedy struck him in his late twenties, he returned to Maryland, rented a refurbished carriage house in Catonsville to be near his grandparents’ estate. The house at Elm Terrace was occupied then by his mother Cynthia and his father Joseph, a sergeant in the Baltimore Police Department, who got Frank a personal interview with his superiors. Frank joined the BPD a week later as a detective.
Frank loved his grandfather, the figure he treated as his true dad, since the man stepped in to rear him while his biological father took off on drinking binges and gambling sprees in Atlantic City. William was a just man, imbued with an inordinately strong sense of fairness. Often, William intervened in Joe’s abuse on young Frank when Joe stumbled home broke and drunk, and wanted to take out his bum luck on his young son. Unfortunately, William wasn’t always there to intercede. Frank’s mother, Cynthia, silently deferred to her husband in all decisions, leaving their boy at Joe’s disposal and ill temper.
William had been dead for almost two decades, but Frank thought of him often. His letter vividly brought back William’s dignified manner and magnetic voice.
Frank,
I wanted you to have this little puzzle in verse. I could lay things all out for you, but that could include my personal bias in what I might choose to reveal. Uncover things on your own, or leave them to die with us, the choice is yours.
Powerful knowledge awaits, and awesome power requires huge responsibility. Remember, wisdom always trumps riches or political gain in the hearts of seekers of the truth. What you do with what you find, expose, ignore, or bury forever, will determine how history will judge the others and me, but it was never my wish to be either greater or less in death than I was in life.
You were always superb at solving puzzles, so I’m certain you can handle this one.
Your loving grandfather,
William
The poem that followed played over and over in Frank’s head like a looped recording.
Treasure comes not only from gold,
Nor from chattel stately and old,
Brains on paper and acts preserved,
And still Martian men Are swell served,
As secrets lie dormant, never told.
There was no way to accurately determine when the letter had been written, but the once white, laid stationery appeared to be yellowing, and the words in blue-black ink were made by a broad-nib fountain pen, both from a long ago era. Frank recognized the beautiful cursive script of his grandfather who had the penmanship of John Hancock. William died and had evidently left the letter and pen with his will, and had instructed his lawyers to pass it on to Frank when the time came. Joseph’s death must have meant the time had come ― for a lot of things.
Frank stared at the poem for a long moment. From the grave, William was challenging his grandson one last time. It was as irresistible to Frank as a “triple dog dare” was to a schoolboy in a Jean Shepherd short story. There were two flashing neon elements in the letter that keened the detective’s interest beyond casual curiosity, and beckoned the adventuresome boy in him to accept the challenge ― treasure and secrets.
Chapter 9
The next day, Frank steered the Hyundai rental into the driveway at Elm Terrace and drove the 80 yards back to the three-car garage behind the Victorian mansion in Oak Forest. He parked and stepped out of the car and paused to take it all in; two acres, three stories, and 85 years of it. Alasdair MacGowan lumbered his 6-foot-5 frame out from the passenger side and leaned back against the car to look up at the towering height of the house.
“Be a bitch to air-condition,” Alasdair said.
“CSI guys finished up yesterday and gave me a brief report,” Frank said. “Only thing unusual they found were several size 16 footprints in the cellar dust and a couple of reddish fibers in the parlor. The kind used in cheap wigs. Recent impressions in the old rugs indicated there had been three or more people recently in the parlor, where they determined the crime was committed. Found a lot of spillage on the floor. Booze mostly, but trace urine too.”
“Fingerprints?” Alasdair asked.
“They’re working on it, but so far all they pulled belonged to Joe. Place was pretty clean.”
“You want me to go inside with you?”
“Yeah, come on. You’ll see how people lived who occasionally spent some of their money,” Frank said.
Alasdair followed Frank and they both panned the neglected exterior of the house and overgrown grounds, their eyes moving from the street to the huge oaks that shaded the house to the thick woods surrounding the rear and lateral boundaries of the property.
The natural cedar shingles that Frank remembered from childhood visits covered most of the exterior of the house, but they had since been painted a battleship gray with aging white accents on the busy gingerbread trim. The color seemed fitting since the place looked like a mothballed warship rusting past its prime with her enamel skin cracked and peeling. It saddened him to see the site of so many childhood memories in decay, struggling to fight off the neglect of so many years. It was once a vibrant home, and now it was a dying building trying to hide in the cover of the broadleaf trees and put off the arrival of the formidable bulldozer.
He made his way to the front of the house, rubbed his hand on its weathered shingles, and climbed the nine steps to the porch. A metal glider and table sat to the right of the front door, and a large planter countered it on the left with the dried skeleton of a long-dead fern. The windows seemed mostly intact and the wide oak door looked as sturdy and secure as ever. His father had lived there until a few days ago, so there was no reason to suspect the inside wasn’t at least livable. He didn’t, however, expect to encounter surgically precise housekeeping from the likes of a career drunk like Joe Dugan.
The heyday of the residence occurred under William’s ownership and care. Those were the days Frank happily replayed in his memory as his eyes passed over the grass: chasing and wrestling with Erich, their German shepherd, firing BBs into imaginary bears in the woods and grabbing garter snakes from crawlspace under the house to use later to terrify his grandparents’ maid.
The key fitted the lock in the front door and turned with minimum effort. The door whined as it swung inward on its huge brass hinges reminding Frank of his grandfather’s instruction that those hinges were never to be oiled. Frank could hear the exchange as if it took place yesterday.
“If you oil the hinges, Grandpa, the door won’t squeak,” young Frank said.
“You always want to know,” William said, “when anyone enters your ho
use.”
Frank led Alasdair into the vestibule, which served as a kind of air-lock, keeping out the winters’ cold from the rest of the house and providing a separate room where wet or muddy boots could be removed without tromping on the Oriental rugs in the main rooms farther in. Within the vestibule, a bronze umbrella stand in the shape of a hollow elephant’s foot held two black umbrellas and a hickory walking cane, an item Frank remembered, which concealed a thin, razor-sharp sword he was warned never to touch. On the right was a small closet for coats. A cherry, demilune table was against the left wall under a tall, gilt-framed mirror. On the table was a large bowl with a small notepad and two pencils. The family called this table “the leaving table” since it was where one put keys, messages and anything else you didn’t want to forget as you left the house. This idea worked so efficiently Frank never failed to install a similar one in every place he’d lived since. When Frank found a system that worked, he stuck with it.
Frank’s rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the glazed terra cotta tiles as he crossed to open the inner door of the vestibule, which led to the main hallway of the house. Alasdair followed Frank inside.
“Could use a bit of dusting,” Alasdair said.
“Yeah. The old man was no Adrian Monk.”
An ornate, cherry grandfather clock drew the eye to the widest area of the hall leading to a staircase clad with an Oriental rug runner. The clock’s pendulum was still and the time on the brass and silver clock face was stopped at ten past six. Frank remembered William winding up the three chained weights of the clock every Sunday morning while the mixed aromas of breakfast bacon, maple syrup and coffee drifted from the kitchen throughout the house. The lilt of the Westminster chimes rang out every quarter hour and bonged at the top of the hour like Big Ben. Frank found the absence of the clock’s sounds and movement more conspicuous than when it was running.
“Ever notice,” Frank said, “how when something’s missing you’re aware of it more than when it was there?”
“The clock?” Alasdair said and stared at it. “Had an uncle once who lost a finger. Thought about it all the time.”
“Yeah, like that.”
Frank moved into the parlor and library off the long hall and let his eyes remember the large room. On all but one wall, there were the familiar stacks of bookcases, where William often hid surprises for Frank to find. The deal was, Frank could pull out a book to see what treat might be hidden behind it, but he had to dust the book, even if nothing was found. There was always something delightful planted in the bookcases, but Frank often had to wipe down a hundred books or more to locate it. An added bonus was that William encouraged Frank to read his freshly-dusted collection, which widened his grandson’s view of the world and helped him immeasurably in school.
“You have an earthquake here recently?” Frank asked, pointing to the books on the floor.
“In Maryland?” Alasdair said. “You serious?”
“Something sure as shit dumped them off the shelves, but I’m betting that something had two legs. CSI said almost all the books appeared to have been moved. And obviously not all put back.”
Between the stacks of bookcases, on a wall by itself, was a wide bay window that looked out over the front lawn and tree-lined driveway. Near the house were overgrown grass plots dotted with dandelions, and forgotten flowerbeds, which once contained purple rows of irises, cerise azaleas, and arrays of pansies of every shade. Wild chicory, that normally adorned roadsides with their periwinkle flowers, had immigrated onto the lawn, spread all the way to the house, and seemed to be applying for domestic status.
“The old man was a regular Luther Burbank in the landscaping department too,” Frank said.
“You going to keep the place?”
“I want to get landscaping and home improvement people out here to put this property in shape to go on the market.”
“I know a few excellent ones.”
“Good. Call them in. Get the joint painted and manicured. Send me their bills.”
“What’s next?” Alasdair said. “Upstairs?”
“The garage.”
* * * * *
Frank led Alasdair out the back door of the kitchen to a walkway that ended at the garage. The two men reached the side door on the three-car building where Frank jangled through a ring of keys and plucked the one that opened the door. Inside they saw three bays containing two vintage cars and a ten-year-old Ford Explorer. One of the classic oldies was a white, 1959 Chevrolet Corvette; the other was a Nile green, 1936 Reo Flying Cloud, both in showroom condition.
The Reo had sweptback, teardrop fenders with bullet-shaped headlamps mounted on either side of its narrow hood. White sidewall tires with chrome hubcaps supported the car’s sleek body that ended with a down-sloping trunk. A small silver rocket framed in a circle sat atop a shiny chrome grille that ran down to a wrap-around bumper.
Alasdair slid behind the wheel of the Corvette and ran his hand over the red leather upholstery as Frank got in on the passenger side. Frank looked over the instrument panel and leaned in close to the odometer.
“This baby only has 35,000 miles on her,” Frank said.
“Barely broken in,” Alasdair said. “Give you ten grand for it. I’ll leave you the money in my will.”
“Get your cheap ass out of my car.”
The back of the garage served as a shop complete with a generous oak workbench, neatly displayed socket wrench sets, hammers, power tools, welding equipment, banks of overhead cabinets spaced on either side of an industrial clock, and a huge bench vise with wide steel jaws. Clenched in the vise was the head of an antique golf club.
A wooden stairway on one side of the garage led up to a spacious overhead loft where boxes, several chairs and a table were stored. Chainfall hoists on large pulleys hung from massive beams and extended down through narrow openings in the loft’s floor and dangled over the vehicle bays below.
“This is some shop,” Alasdair said.
“William did all his own work on his cars.”
Alasdair picked up an ancient golf club with a hickory shaft that leaned against the workbench.
“Now this is more my speed,” Alasdair said and made a slow arc with the club as though hitting an imaginary ball. “We Scots invented the game, you know.”
Frank took the club from Alasdair and carefully examined it.
“This one’s an antique brassie once owned by Bobby Jones, but William made his own clubs; state-of-the-art designs back in the ‘50s. He could’ve driven Callaway and Ping out of business if he’d gone industrial, no pun intended.”
“What’s the green car?” Alasdair said and sauntered over to the car’s rear door and peered inside.
“A ’36 Reo. My grandfather’s favorite. Once owned by Clark Gable.”
“Clark didn’t take good care of the upholstery.”
“What do you mean?” Frank said and stepped over to Alasdair.
“The rear seat is pulled up and is sitting upside down on the floor. I can see into the trunk. Ransacked, I’d say.”
Frank moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk. The rubber matting was pulled up and the spare tire lay flat on the trunk floor and not in its recessed pocket.
Frank slammed the trunk lid closed and looked at Alasdair.
“Did CSI do this?” Alasdair asked.
“Their report said the garage was untouched.”
“Well, somebody sure as hell touched this car.”
“What the hell were they were searching for?”
Chapter 10
Most of the drive back to Alasdair’s was a quiet one. Frank stared straight ahead at the road, his thoughts flying to imagined scenarios surrounding Joe’s murder, which included guesses at what his father’s killers had come there for. He was certain about killers, plural. A single individual would've had a tough time subduing and injecting his father. Even though he was a senior and drunk, Joe was feisty and tough. He would’ve had to be heavily overpowered to let an
yone stick needles in him. Other than that, nothing useful was surfacing. There was so much missing in the case, and so little evidence on which to anchor a starting point.
“Maybe you should stay at my place tonight,” Alasdair said.
Frank cast a look at Alasdair, then back at the road.
“What the hell were they trying to get out of Joe?” Frank asked.
“You said he was a big gambler and even called you for money.”
“Who uses truth serum to get a gambling debt? No. They wanted something else. Something important enough to kill for.”
Silence reigned in the car once again. Ten minutes passed until Alasdair broke the dead air.
“Did I tell you I got married?” Alasdair said.
Frank pulled the car over to the shoulder and stopped.
“You what?” Frank said.
“Yeah. Got hitched. Jumped the broom. It was time.”
“Who’d be nuts enough to marry you?”
“Ah, she’s a lovely lass. Worked for the NSA. You’ll love her.”
“How did you meet her?”
“She called my production company to solicit a bid on an employment video NSA was promoting. I didn’t get the bid, but I got the girl. We got married three months later.”
“I have to meet his woman.”
“You’ll meet her soon enough. She runs our production company now.”
Frank rolled down the window, stuck his head outside the car, and looked to the sky.
“What are you looking for out there?” Alasdair asked.
“I’m checking to see if the world has ended.”
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 4