Dying Embers

by Robert E. Bailey

  He picked up one of the bottles, twisted off the cap, and set it in front of Lorna. Lorna stared at the lip of the bottle and then at me—the top was not the twist-off variety.

  “Look, just leave her the message.… Then just tell her to call me.” His face went blank, and he took the handset off his shoulder and stared at it like Lorna had stared at her drink. He went over and hung up the telephone.

  “Houseman,” he said on his way back to the table. He sat and opened the other two bottles. “One of these days I’m going to drive out there so that we can discuss his manners.”

  “I’m a little confused,” said Lorna.

  “So am I,” said Leonard, “and I know the whole story.” He turned to look at me. “Tell you what,” he stuck his hand out, “give me one of your cards—a real one—and write the name and number of this person. I’ll see that she gets it.”

  I fished a card out of my ID case. Leonard watched me write the name and number on the back of the card.

  “That’s the guy?” he said.

  I clicked the pen and put it away. “That’s the guy,” I said and handed him the card.

  “I saw him on TV. The guy with the electric paint—turn the dial and make your car any color you want.”

  “Light and Energy Applications.”

  Leonard took a big slug of his Vernor’s, washed it around his palate, and chewed it like a piece of steak. His eyes went narrow. Finally, he swallowed and looked at me.

  “There was some whiz-kid who followed her around like a lovesick puppy at State.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Fancy that! I’m sure she’d remember him. Don’t know if she’d want to talk to him.”

  “If she’s married, my client feels that it would be best not to intrude.”

  He gave me a wry smile. “Not married. I’ll give you her address.”

  “I’ll tell her you said hello.”

  “Tell her she has a niece and two nephews who’d love to hear from her.”

  Leonard leaned back in his chair. “Tell her my door is always open. She doesn’t need an invitation. She doesn’t need to knock.” Lorna started to squirm in her chair.

  “Write her a note. I’ll give it to her.”

  “I’ve written several times,” he said, “the letters came back unopened.” He looked at his watch. “Not like it’s really that far. Want to go for a ride?”

  “Sure.” I said. “Where are we going?”

  “South Haven.”

  “Let’s go,” I said and swilled the rest of my Vernor’s. Lorna left hers half full.

  “We can take mine,” he said. “I don’t think either one of us will fit in the back seat of that little yellow thing you drove up in.”

  “Great,” I said, “I always wanted a ride in one of those. They came into service after I left active duty.”

  “Great,” Lorna said, but her tone wasn’t what I would call joyful. She took the shotgun seat to avoid the gale from Leonard’s unzipped window. The noise from the diesel engine would have drowned out the radio if Leonard had thought one was necessary. The suspension was tight and after every jolt Lorna turned to look evil at me. The Humvee filled the lane and lumbered around on the expressway as we headed west toward the eastern shore of Lake Michigan.

  “So why did you say that Anne wasn’t your sister?” asked Lorna. She had to raise her voice to be heard.

  “She was adopted,” he yelled back. “Broke my parents’ heart. Dad’s gone now and my mother moved out to the cottage at Whitmore.”

  Lorna looked at me and then back at Leonard. “Well, even if she were adopted,” said Lorna, “she was still, you know, like your sister. You certainly seem to care a great deal about her.”

  “Oh, she was my parents’ natural child. She just decided to be adopted.” He drove on in silence for a moment and went on, “My ex says that I have to respect her choices. My mother says that she decided not to be my sister.”

  Lorna closed her eyes and shook her head. She looked at me. I shrugged. She turned her attention back to Jones and patted the wide console between the front seats. “I haven’t got a clue,” she said.

  “Mr. Jones,” I said, “it really doesn’t matter to us. We wanted to speak with Anne. If the rest is—personal?” I fixed Lorna with a hard stare. “There’s no need to pry.”

  “Look over there,” he said, and pointed to a lake surrounded with million-dollar homes. “Frampton Lake. It’s only eight or nine hundred acres. The housing development around it is called Frampton Lake Estates, used to be the Frampton family farm, but it made a pretty poor farm—mostly sand and gravel. When they built this expressway, old man Frampton made a fortune selling sand and gravel to the government. When they finished the road, most of his farm was a hole filled with water. He subdivided the part that wasn’t underwater and made a bigger fortune. Most of the Framptons are gone now, just two heirs to the fortune—Anne and Shelly Frampton.”

  “Your sister is a lesbian?” Lorna asked, making it sound like a statement.

  Leonard shrugged. “Anne’s an artist, Shelly claims to be a patron of the arts. They met up at State. Shelly taught veterinary science. They were both active in politics.”

  No one could call the ride silent, but nothing more was said until we arrived in the city of South Haven. Leonard pulled into a supermarket and parked.

  Lorna said. “Your sister is Anne Frampton, the sculptor? Anne Frampton, who did the stainless steel sphinx in front of the Amway Pyramid.”

  Leonard said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Lorna staggered out into the parking lot and took stock of the vehicle. I fled for the gas station next door to use their facilities. Twenty ounces of iced tea with a ginger ale chaser doesn’t ride well on a stiff suspension.

  As I passed Lorna, she said, “I’m never buying one of these.”

  “You’re going to love them in the jungles when you’re tracking down smugglers and dope growers.”

  “That’s just in the movies.”

  I didn’t stop to argue. When I got back, Leonard had already returned. He’d placed a paper sack on the rear seat opposite mine. I looked inside and found a smoked picnic ham.

  “Soup bones for the soup hounds,” he said.

  “I guess this isn’t your first trip.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head.

  “What’s going on?” asked Lorna.

  “It appears that the Framptons are less than cordial hosts.”

  “Wouldn’t a bottle of wine be a little more appropriate?”

  “Not if you’re a dog,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, but the lights didn’t come on.

  “Under the passenger seat, there’s a tackle box,” said Leonard. “There’s a knife inside. I think we should unwrap our yard warming gift.”

  Nestled among some road flares, a compass, and some freeze-dried meal packages I found a Marine-issue reconnaissance knife in a metal sheath. Razor sharp. I liberated the ham from the shrink wrap and dropped it back in the bag. The scent of hickory smoke wafted through the truck. Considering my lunch, I was envious of the dogs.

  The Frampton residence turned out to be a rambling stone mansion located on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. A twelve-foot stone wall surrounded the property, and an iron gate guarded the entrance to a quarter mile of blacktop drive.

  Eight acres of neatly trimmed grass and carefully tended shrubbery surrounded the house. Just inside the gate stood a small stone house. Between the wall and the house a little girl with shining raven hair and dark cautious eyes studied us from her swing as we pushed the call button on the intercom mounted on the fence. She was barefoot and wore red cotton shorts and a floral cotton blouse. She pumped away on her swing and summoned her “Papa” in sing-song Spanish. A gruff male voice crackled out of the intercom.

  “Who is it and what do you want?”

  “Interstate Express,” I said, “I have a package for Anne Jones.”

  “Just leave it with th
e gardener at the gate house.”

  “It has to be signed for.”

  “The gardener will sign for it.”

  “Anne Jones has to sign for it.”

  “He’ll write whatever you want.”

  We heard a click, a hum, and then silence until a telephone rang inside the house near the gate. A small man—Hispanic with a sparse moustache, carrying an eight- or nine-month-old baby with a finger in her mouth and a pink T-shirt that didn’t quite make it all the way to her diaper—exited the house and walked out to the gate.

  “You have a package?” he said as he surveyed the three of us and took stock of the now-greasy paper grocery bag in my hand.

  “I want to see Anne Jones,” said Leonard.

  “You should go. In the house they don’t like visitors.”

  “Anne is my sister, and I need to see her.”

  “They can see the gate from the house. You should go. This can only be some trouble. They don’t want no visitors.” Up near the house a motor started. “Go now, and hurry.”

  He turned away like we were insane. Fright in his eyes, he hurried over to the child on the swing and seized her by the hand. A black and silver Dodge Ramcharger gunned away from the house and headed down the drive toward the gate. The gardener hustled into the house with his brood.

  “That’s probably Hemmings,” said Leonard. “Best back off the gate a step or two.”

  Hemmings loomed over the steering wheel. The top of the windshield obscured his face above the eyebrows. He pulled up to the gate and jammed the shift lever into park with an angry uppercut. Three one-hundred-pound brindle mastiffs with spiked collars preceded him out of the truck and charged the gate set on full nasty. They managed to get their heads a full foot and a half on our side before the bars stopped their massive chests and shoulders. The wrought-iron barrier groaned in its tracks as the dogs drove against it.

  4

  I HELD THE BAG OPEN. Leonard Jones pulled out the ham and waved it back and forth in front of the pulsing nostrils of the mastiffs until their snarls gave way to expectant eyes and dripping jowls.

  Six and a half feet and two hundred seventy hard and square pounds of Hemmings stepped out of the truck wearing jeans and canvas combat boots. He carried a satin nickel Desert Eagle in a tan leather shoulder rig, over a black T-shirt that revealed every ripple in his massive build. “Hey, knock it off,” he said.

  Hemmings’s shaved head revealed a mastoid scar behind his left ear and he wore the remnants of a black moustache that started just above the corners of his mouth and drooped to his chin with the consistency of braided rope. He glowered at Leonard. “I told you not to come around here anymore.”

  “Jesus, a cyclops,” said Lorna Kemp. Hemmings took it as a compliment and smiled at her.

  “Has two eyes,” I said.

  “A minor detail,” said Lorna. “He looks like he could snack on sheep like popcorn.”

  Leonard held the ham just close enough to the center mastiff for the creature to get a lick and try to snatch it with his stubby snout. The other two keened and strained quaking muscles against the fence.

  “I told you I wanted to see my sister,” said Leonard. “The people with me are detectives. They need to talk to Anne.”

  “I don’t care if they’re Santa’s little helpers. If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to rip off your head and shit down your neck.”

  Leonard threw the ham high over the gate, and the dogs bounded after it, snarling and tearing at the ham and each other.

  Hemmings looked at the dogs and then at Leonard. “Suit yourself, squid,” he said.

  Leonard said, “Can’t do a thing from in there, jarhead.” He smiled.

  Hemmings took a small black box out of his pocket and squeezed it with his thumb. The gate slid slowly sideways and in three steps Hemmings loomed over Leonard. Drilling his index finger into Leonard’s chest, he said, “Make your peace with God while you can still talk!”

  Leonard wrapped his fist around the finger and bent it back toward Hemmings’s wrist until I heard it snap. Hemmings went to his knees. He opened his mouth to speak and got out the word, “You—” The rest was a scream as Leonard twisted the broken digit.

  “Hup-up-up, not your turn to talk,” said Leonard. “You’d just say some more of that rude crap you learned in boot camp.”

  Hemmings started his left hand up to his pistol and earned another twist of the finger.

  “I sure wouldn’t do that,” said Leonard, his voice taking the even tone of friendly advice.

  Hemmings, his face contorted, eased his hand back down to his side.

  “Mr. Hardin,” said Leonard, “would you please relieve Mr. Hemmings of his hardware?”

  I took Hemmings’s Desert Eagle and patted him down. In his left pant leg, just above his boot, I found a six-inch dirk with a black textured rubber handle. I showed it to Leonard and gave it to Lorna to stash in the Humvee.

  “Here’s the problem you can help me with, Mr. Hemmings,” said Leonard. “Members of the Frampton family seem to keel over dead, drown, or die on the highway and I’ve not heard from my sister in two years. My letters are returned unopened and you’re rude on the telephone. Think maybe you can help me with that? Just nod your head.”

  • • •

  The fireplace was big enough to roast a spitted ox. Above the teak mantle, The Dutchman—a brass square-rigged sailing ship—took a starboard tack, emerging from the red brick as if it were a fog bank. An interesting decorator piece, I thought, but hardly the Lyin she’d parked out in front of the Amway Pyramid.

  The maid, Juanita—a young Mexican woman in full black livery, including a ruffled apron—had answered the door and showed us to the parlor. When she returned with Shelly Frampton the right side of the her face displayed a red handprint. She fled clutching her face and sobbing into her hands.

  “You-have-in-vay-ded-my-home,” said Shelly Frampton, holding a voice synthesizer to her throat. She had almond-shaped nails lacquered a pearlescent white and gave the appearance of being larger than her one hundred and sixty pounds. Could have been the spike heels, or maybe it was her double-D bosom strapped firm and high against the effects of gravity. She wore enough make-up to be the wife of a televangelist. Clad in a white silk blouse with black pearl buttons over a black leather A-line skirt, she had elegantly permed hair some shade of Lady Clairol auburn. Whatever the damage to her throat, the scars lay beneath a black scarf wrapped several turns around her neck.

  “And-you-have. In-jured. My-em-ploy-ee.” she said.

  Hard to guess her age, most of the clues being dyed, painted, or hidden. Late fifties, maybe—and that based solely on the slackness of the skin on the back of otherwise muscular hands.

  “Your employee got injured because he sicked a pack of dogs on us for announcing ourselves at the gate,” said Leonard.

  “I’m-cal-ling. The-po-lease.”

  “We already did—on the gardener’s telephone,” I said. “Mr. Hemmings assaulted Mr. Jones just prior to getting injured.”

  “Get-out-of-my-house.”

  “Last I heard,” said Leonard, “it was also my sister’s house and I’m not leaving until she tells us to go.”

  “You-are-tres-pass-ing.”

  “Your maid, Juanita, let us in and brought us here to wait for you,” I said.

  “Our-biz-ness. Is-con-clu-ded. Get-out.”

  “I’m afraid our business isn’t quite done, Ma’am,” I said. “Mr. Hemmings is handcuffed to the gate and my associate is waiting with him for the police to arrive. The police will take their statements, and then they’ll want to talk to us. I expect they will ask Mr. Jones to sign a complaint. I intend to have them speak to your maid. If Mr. Hemmings has any open warrants or unpaid child support you may both be guests of the county.”

  Shelly turned to Leonard; the muscles in her cheeks twitched as she prepared to speak. “Anne-does-not-live. In-this-house. She-has-a-suite. And-stu-dee-oh. In-the-boat house.”
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  “You don’t mind if we go down there?” I asked.

  “She-gets-angry. If-you-int-er-rupt. Her-work.”

  “So have Juanita give her a call,” I said. “Maybe Anne’s watching a talk show today.”

  “There-is-no-phone.”

  “Given Mr. Jones’s concerns, I’m sure that the police will ask you to take them down there. If you refuse, they might come back with a warrant.”

  Shelly constructed a malevolent smile. “Go-to-the-God-damn-boat house. Go-to-hell. If-you-come-back. My-broth-er. Will-deal-with-you.”

  Out of the corner of my eye The Dutchman caught my attention again. The edge of the ship, where it emerged from the fog, described the inside line of a three-quarter profile of a bearded man wearing a nautical cap. The bricks seemed to be sculpted into subtle suggestions of planks and waves. The facial features appeared as a shadow cast by the ship—the images opaquely laid one upon the other. I walked up to examine the piece more closely and the image disappeared. The bricks were neither sculpted nor painted. I shook my head and we left.

  We went out the veranda doors and across a marble patio to the edge of the bluff, where we found a weathered wooden stairwell. Halfway down, a deck provided a resting place and a view of the lake over the roof of the stone boat house, which had been built on a cement pier out into the lake. The boat house had a dock and was as big as a four-bedroom home. A foot pedal boat, a catamaran day sailer, and a fifty-foot Donzi with a canvas cockpit rested against fenders, tied up at the dock.

  I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked loud and hard until I got an answer.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” said a woman’s voice from inside the boat house. “Leave me the hell alone.”

  “There’s someone here to see you,” I said. “This’ll just take a minute.”

  “What language would you like to do this in, asshole? You don’t understand English? Get fucking lost!”

  “Please! This is important,” I said.

  Inside the house someone touched off a large hand cannon. The bullet ripped through the top of the door above our heads and gave us a shower of splinters and paint chips. Leonard and I stood for a frozen moment and examined a half-dozen similar ragged holes in the top of the door.