Overbrook Farms

by Neal Goldstein

  It was a beautiful Friday afternoon in May, and summer break was only a few weeks away. Haley was going to spend the weekend at Andrea’s home. Hunter and Lena had been invited to the Thurman’s for a Sunday cookout/birthday party for Desiree, the oldest of the sisters.

  “My mom’s going to pick us up at your house when she finishes her shift this afternoon,” Andrea said as she got in the car.

  “I know, she called and told me,” Hunter replied. He looked back at the two pre-teen girls, who were both tapping the keys on their smart phones, as they chatted with each other. On the surface it was a normal portrait of a father picking up his daughter and her friend. But, of course, things were not always as they appeared.

  Hunter had let things go for far too long, much longer than he had ever imagined. When they had first relocated to Philly, he spent all of his time trying to get to the bottom of the mystery of who had murdered Haley’s parents and targeted the child. He spent countless hours searching for a clue that would lead to a satisfactory conclusion to assure the girl’s safety.

  When the Colonel died, Hunter’s best potential source of information succumbed along with him. He found out from the press reports that Pirolli had suffered a massive heart attack, the timing of which was both good and bad. It was good for Hunter, since it prevented what would have been a painful and likely deadly encounter with the man. The loss of the information about who was behind the murders of Haley’s parents and continued to threaten her well-being had, however, stymied his investigation.

  As the days, and months, and years passed, Lena, Haley and Hunter had grown comfortable- perhaps too comfortable- in their situation. The fictitious family unit they had created, had become their reality. After all, he had the resources for them to live well. He loved both Lena and Haley. They lived in anonymity, and no one knew their true identities, their true past. It was all good. Why mess it up? Haley wanted for nothing, and never would.

  When he parked in the driveway, Lena stepped out to greet them. She was well into her ninth month. She embraced both girls, who gently hugged her, each taking turns placing their hand on her belly to feel the baby’s kick.

  Wasn’t this what he had wanted all of his life – a beautiful wife and daughter and soon a baby? Did it really matter that it was all built on a lie?

  An hour later Ophelia Thurman knocked on the garage door jam. Hunter was welding what looked like a part of an axel from an old car to other discarded odds and ends he found in scrap yards, and hadn’t heard her approach.

  He turned off the torch, removed the welder’s mask and gave her a broad smile. “The girls are in the backyard with Lena,” he said.

  Ophelia looked at the unfinished sculpture and asked, “What’s it going to be?”

  Hunter shrugged, “If I can find more parts, it’s a seesaw,” he said as he secured his tools and led her to the back of the property.

  He had graduated from making toys and smaller objects to larger works of art. Several of his creations were scattered around the yard. He knew that Ophelia’s favorite was a six-foot-tall sculpture of Haley and Andrea embracing.

  She stopped in front of the piece. “Your work should be in a museum. It’s breathtaking.”

  He blushed, “No. It’s just a hobby.”

  “Really, Walter agrees. He knows the Modern Arts curator at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. He told him about you.”

  “O, please. I’ve told you I’m just not interested in showing my work,” he said. There was an edge to his tone he had not intended.

  She held up her hands in mock surrender. “OK.”

  He smiled and added softly, “At least not now.”

  After Ophelia and the girls drove off, Hunter and Lena sat holding hands in the swing chair he had fashioned from the back bench-seat of an old Buick and a child’s broken swing-set someone had put out in the trash. He had reupholstered the car seat in soft leather, repaired, refinished and polished the frame of the swing-set, and welded together a footrest out of other parts from the Buick. The bench and footrest were suspended from pullies he had designed from bicycle chains and housed behind the car’s hubcaps.

  “I overhead O asking you to show your work again,” Lena said. “You know she means well.”

  “I know, but I can’t let that happen,” he squeezed her hand. “Besides, it’s not that good.”

  She shook her head, “No. You’re wrong; they’re wonderful.”

  “I tracked down Leonard Jarvis, Pirolli’s former chief of staff. He might know something that can help me find out who’s behind the plot to kill Montgomery’s heirs,” Hunter said changing the subject.

  He told her he had located the Colonel’s secretary. She had moved to North Carolina after Pirolli died; it took him two years to track her down. By the time he found out where she lived, the woman had passed away. Her daughter told him Jarvis would call her mother from time to time. They would talk about the Colonel and how difficult it had been to work for the man.

  “Jarvis lives in Indian Shores, a small town on the Gulf Coast of Florida, between St. Petersburg and Clearwater. After the baby comes, I’m gonna fly down and pay him a visit.”

  “How about Walter and Ophelia, you know they’re serious about your art,” Ophelia said returning to Hunter’s concerns about preserving their anonymity.

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  14

  Sunday, May 13, 2018, Overbrook Farms

  When Lena and Hunter arrived at the Thurman’s party for Desiree, all of the other guests had already arrived. The Thurman’s had introduced the Carson family to their special group of friends shortly after they moved to Overbrook Farms. The Bensons, Detective Frank Benson, whom everyone called Benny, and his wife Veronica, aka Nikki, and the Lomans, Jake and Samantha, warmly greeted Hunter, Lena and Haley.

  Ophelia and Benny had known each other since their time as recruits at the Philadelphia Police Academy. They had been close friends until Benson got hooked on opioids, when a police department doctor well past his prime misdiagnosed a concussion he had suffered on the job.

  When his addiction nearly cost a colleague his life, Benson refused to challenge the department’s charges. Ophelia interceded and insisted he go to rehab and fight for his job. Although Benson had been reinstated, their relationship was not immediately repaired, primarily because of Benny’s self-doubt and belief he had let Ophelia down.

  They were reunited when they were assigned to investigate the attempted assassination of Officer Jake Loman. Jake had survived an unprovoked attack by a man dressed in a thobe, an Arab robe, while he was parked in his patrol car filling out paperwork. Ophelia had been Jake’s training officer and was his platoon leader at the time of the attack. Due to a manpower shortage resulting from Pope Francis’ historic 2015 visit to Philadelphia, Ophelia was temporarily assigned to work the case with Benson.

  During Jake’s recovery, Ophelia noticed the interaction between Jake and his physical therapist Samantha. There was an obvious connection between them. When Samantha told her Jake’s doctors were ready to discharge him, but would not allow him to live alone, Ophelia told her Jake would be staying with her family. Ophelia assumed the role of matchmaker and invited Samantha to surprise Jake at a family cookout. The spark between the two quickly grew into a love affair.

  In the course of Benson and Ophelia’s investigation of the attack on Loman, the potential impact on the Pope’s visit attracted the attention of Secret Service Agent Veronica Cartwright. Nikki had grown up in Philly and had a teenage crush on Benson years before when he was dating her older sister. Fate and circumstances brought the two together as the investigation led them to a plot to murder the Pope.

  Jake Loman who was recovering from his gunshot wounds, was on a light duty assignment serving as part of the security detail at the Pope’s final public event, the celebration of the Mass on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in front of 100,000 celebrants. Primarily as a result of his quick thinking and bravery he single-handily th
warted an attempt to murder the Pope.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Lena said. She patted her belly and added, “I can’t wait till the baby gets here.”

  “You’re not alone,” Samantha Loman said as she approached. Both Samantha and Nikki Benson were also well along in their pregnancies, but not as far as Lena. Hunter smiled as he watched the three women commiserate over their plight.

  “Looks like a pregnant ladies’ convention,” Nikki’s husband Benny said and hugged Lena. The prospect of new babies further solidified their friendship.

  “What’s in the big box?” Walter asked Hunter.

  “Something for Desiree.”

  Thurman shook his head, “You know we said no gifts.”

  Hunter looked over at the pile of boxes and envelopes on the nearby table, “I guess everybody decided to ignore your instructions,” he said and placed the box beside the other gifts.

  The guest of honor, Desiree, made her appearance followed by her entourage of younger siblings, Andrea and Lucy, along with Haley, Chelsea, the Loman’s daughter, and a rail-thin young man.

  “Who’s the skinny kid?” Jake asked.

  “That’s Gerald, Desiree’s beau,” Walter replied. He noticed how his three friends gave the young man a protective once-over. “Relax guys, he’s a good kid. Besides I think he’s a little intimidated by O being a cop.”

  After everyone finished lunch Desiree opened her gifts. She left the large box from the Carsons’ for last.

  “Dad, can you help me, it’s a little heavy.”

  Walter removed the lid, looked inside and smiled. He carefully lifted the object out of the box and placed it on the table. It was a three-foot-high bust of Desiree. Hunter had fashioned it from scraps of copper and bronze he had welded together and affixed to a stand made from a piece of highly polished granite. The sculpture shined in the sunlight.

  “Oh my God! It’s so beautiful,” Desiree exclaimed and ran over to Hunter and Lena and embraced them. “Thank you.”

  Gerald took several pictures of Desiree standing next to the sculpture. The likeness was remarkable. Desiree insisted that Hunter stand next to her.

  “You know, all the girls will want one. And with the babies coming, you’ll be busy for a very long time,” Benson commented.

  Later that night, a sleeping Hunter felt an urgent shove on his shoulder. He awoke immediately. “What’s wrong?”

  “The baby’s coming,” Lena said. We need to take Haley to the Thurmans. I’ll call and let them know we’re on the way while you wake her up and get her ready.”

  Five hours later, at 4:17 am, Carlos Rafael Carson came into this world with an annoyed yelp at whoever had smacked his bottom.

  Hunter standing behind the obstetrician at the foot of the delivery table watched in awe at the miracle of the birth of his son. The baby was seven pounds and three ounces, with a full head of dark brown hair like his mother’s and gray-green eyes like his father. As the doctor and his nurse attended to the new-born infant, Hunter moved closer to Lena, leaned over and kissed her forehead. “He’s perfect,” he said.

  The nurse brought the baby to her, “Yes, your husband’s right,” and gently placed the infant in Lena’s embrace. The baby looked at her with curious eyes.

  Six hours later, Haley, and the Thurman family stood at the nursery window, smiling at the sleeping infant who was wearing a blue cap and wrapped in a blue blanket. “He looks like he’s smiling,” Haley said.

  “I think you’re right,” Ophelia said and gently patted the girl’s shoulder.

  Just then, Hunter turned the corner pushing Lena’s wheel-chair from the far end of the corridor towards the group. As if sensing his mother’s presence, the baby squirmed and opened his eyes.

  “He has Hunter’s eyes,” Haley exclaimed!

  15

  Wednesday, May 16, 2018

  Three days later, Hunter and Haley were waiting outside of Immigration in Terminal A at the Philadelphia International Airport when Don Carlos and Senora Dijonari emerged. Haley ran into Stephania’s arms. It had been more than a year since their last visit. “I missed you so much,” Haley said as she hugged her adopted grandmother. She left the woman’s embrace and turned to Don Carlos. “Wait till you see baby Carlos! He looks just like Lena,” she said as she embraced him.

  The Dijonaris would be staying with them for an extended period, much to the delight of Lena and Haley, not to mention relief to Hunter. “I’m glad both of you are here,” Hunter added.

  That evening Hunter and Don Carlos sat in the backyard drinking 25-year-old scotch. “I see you added to your collection,” the older man said as he surveyed the sculptures.

  He nodded.

  “They’re good.”

  Hunter shrugged, “Are things in Venezuela as bad as they appear in the press?”

  The older man responded with a weary smile, “There’s a saying, ‘The more things change, the more they remain the same.’ My country has a long history of corrupt leaders, supported by a privileged, greedy gentry, who have raped our resources without any concern for the consequences of their actions. In time, the current despot will be replaced with a new one, and things will return to the way it has always been.”

  “That’s a pessimistic point of view,” Hunter observed.

  Don Carlos nodded his head in acknowledgement and asked, “And how goes your investigation?”

  Hunter filled him in on locating Pirolli’s assistant Leonard Jarvis. “Now that you’re here, I’m going to fly down to Florida and see what he knows. I’ll be leaving at the end of the week.”

  “Good. I think you have let things go for too long. You need to end this thing,” Don Carlos said and took another sip of the whiskey.

  Saturday, May 19, 2018

  Saturday afternoon, Hunter was walking down Gulf Boulevard in Indian Shores, Florida to a dilapidated shanty-like structure that looked out of place among the upscale houses, condos and restaurants on the beach town’s main thoroughfare. His destination was Mahuffers, a dive bar that had been a landmark in the in the community for as long as anyone could remember. Hunter’s innkeeper told him the bar had been in Indian Shores long before the rest of the town had grown around it.

  The sign over the rundown entrance claimed the place had, ‘The Wurst Food on the Beach,’ and warned potential customers about the warm beer on tap. He walked inside to the sound of a Muddy Waters’ blues song blasting from a beat up 1950’s era Wurlitzer vinyl jukebox. The place was jammed. There must be a lot of people who like warm beer Hunter thought as he took the last vacant seat at the bar.

  The bartender, a guy with a weathered face topped with scraggy gray hair fashioned in a Willie Nelson ponytail, slowly sauntered over to him. “What can I get ya?” he asked.

  “Whatever you have on tap,” Hunter replied.

  The bartender made a face and said, “Obviously you’ve never been here before. The beer on tap tastes like piss. I’ll get you a bottle of Ortliebs.”

  Hunter gave him a curious look and said, “Hey, wait a minute; I’m pretty sure they stopped brewing Ortliebs around twenty years ago.”

  All the regulars at the bar smiled, and one of them said, “John’s been trying to get rid of that skunked bottle of beer forever. Pulls it on all the newbies.” Everyone at the bar laughed as the bartender pulled a pint from the tap and put it down in front of him.

  Hunter scanned the room as he drank his beer. The place was more of a shack than an actual building. There was a half wall opposite the bar lined with beat-up easy chairs, some with the stuffing leaking out of the worn cushions. Skinny posts above the wall held up the roof; the open space between the wall and the roof allowed the breeze from the canal into the bar.

  The bar and the walls were covered with graffiti, most of which contained graphic pictures and salacious comments about the host and the patrons. There were what he estimated to be several hundred one-dollar bills, probably intended as tips, hanging from pillars and stapled to the walls, and all m
anner of stuff - hats, license plates and random odds and ends dangling from the ceiling

  “Looking for someone in particular?” the bartender asked.

  Hunter smiled, “As a matter of fact I am. Everybody I spoke with told me if I wanted to get a line on anyone around here, I should see John at Mahuffers. I assume I’m speaking to him now.”

  The bartender nodded and asked, “You don’t look like a cop, and I hope you’re not looking for trouble, are you?”

  Hunter shook his head, “Not a cop, and definitely don’t want any trouble.”

  “So, who is it you’re trying to hook up with?”

  “A former associate of mine, Leonard Jarvis,” Hunter said. He tried to read the bartender’s face for a reaction; the guy was good - he gave nothing away.

  “Tell you what, “Why don’t you leave me your name and cell phone number, just in case this Jarvis guy shows up.”

  Later that night his cell phone chirped; the caller id read ‘Mahuffers.’ Hunter accepted the call.

  “Mr. Hunter, Leonard’s here. He said he’d wait for you. If I was you, I’d get here quick, before the old geezer passes out,” he said and disconnected the call.

  Hunter entered the bar to the soothing sound of Bonnie Raitt. John the bartender nodded in the direction of the easy chair under a size 40 double D brassiere that was hanging from the ceiling. He walked over, “Thanks for seeing me,” he said and sat down next to Jarvis.