by Ray Flynt
The third notebook held a promising nugget.
“Hey, look at this.” I opened the notebook to an intriguing page and laid it on the desk.
Brad stopped what he was doing and came over for a look. He checked the cover, noting it was labeled for American Lit II class. Flipping back to the page I’d spotted, a hand-drawn calendar appeared in the space below a familiar quotation from J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.
Beginning with January 26th, days were circled until late March—the week before Dana’s death. Numbers were periodically logged at the margins of the notebook. Also scribbled on the page were the words, “Till Death We Part,” plus doodling.
“Maybe he was counting down the days till his suicide?” I commented.
Brad grunted and shook his head. “The numbers go forward in sequence, not backward,” Brad said.
“Wasn’t Till Death We Part the name of the library book Denton found under Dana’s bed?” I asked.
“I still don’t buy suicide in this case.” Brad non-answered my question.
“Uh, then you’re sure it was murder?”
Refusing to be pinned down, Brad said, “Keep looking for anything else you can find.”
I returned to the stack of notebooks Brad had given me and resumed my search.
“Hmmm, found something.” I held the notebook open to where only a sliver of paper remained next to the spiral binding. “I think this may be where the paper came from for Dana’s alleged suicide note.”
Brad inspected the page and mumbled, “Yup.” Seconds later he added, “Good work.”
Amanda arrived with Brad’s tea, and I quickly closed the notebook to spare her any unpleasant reminders. The cat joined us too, passing from ankle to ankle and giving each of us a rub. I reached down to pet the cuddly fur ball and he arched his back against my touch and purred.
As Brad reached for his tea, he asked, “What can you tell me about Dana’s relationship with your assistant Peter Gibson?”
Amanda looked astonished. “Surely you don’t think Peter would—”
“It’s not an accusation; just trying to cover all the bases.”
Amanda took a deep breath. “Dana worked with Peter in the studio. They helped each other. Dana seemed particularly sensitive to Peter’s deafness and did everything he could to encourage Peter’s art.”
“Any rivalry between them?”
“Not that I could tell.” Amanda’s right hand fidgeted near her chin. I noticed the tobacco stains on her fingers and suspected she was resisting the urge to light up a cigarette. “Dana was an intuitive craftsman, but Peter is an excellent learner. He’s working now at the level Dana was producing six or seven years ago.”
“Did Dana resent the attention you gave Peter?”
“Oh my.” Amanda stared into space. “You said this investigation could be difficult. You were right. I can’t imagine any serious jealousy between them. Dana teased me about it once in a while.” As if to convince herself, she repeated, “Teasing is all it was… but I’d have to say no.”
“Was Peter with you—”
“At my studio on the day Dana died?” Amanda finished Brad’s question. “Peter arrived before noon that morning, and was with me when the deputy sheriff arrived in mid-afternoon.”
Brad turned his attention to Dana’s stereo system and a shelf of cassette tapes. The electronics looked ancient to me, probably dating from the Reagan Administration.
“Are all of these tapes ones Dana recorded himself?” Brad asked, referring to the bank of cassettes.
“Yes. Dana liked bluegrass music. Every Saturday morning there was a two hour broadcast featuring bluegrass music. Dana always taped those.”
“Is there one from the day he died?” Brad asked.
“It should be here.” Amanda ran her finger along the edge of the plastic cases. “Here it is—April 6th. That was the last one.” She handed the cassette to Brad.
“Would you mind if we play it?”
“No. Go ahead.”
Glancing over Brad’s shoulder I could see it was a 120 minute cassette, which meant 60 minutes on each side. Brad turned on the sound system and inserted side B into the tape deck. “This is quite a piece of equipment,” Brad commented.
Amanda laughed. “I used to joke with Dana that we should take it to the Antiques Roadshow. He bought it from a friend for ten bucks,” Amanda explained, “because it had a built-in radio tuner and cassette recorder.”
Brad hit the play button, and the twang of bluegrass music filled the bedroom. He adjusted the volume so our voices could be heard above the music.
“After Dana died, do you recall whether the stereo was still on when you first visited his bedroom?”
Amanda hesitated. “I don’t remember.”
Brad fast-forwarded the tape to nearly the end of the second hour of music, but when he hit the play button there was a newscast in progress. “...at Camp David with his economic advisors, in preparation for the meeting later this month with leaders of the world’s economic powers. Low country weather today will be warm and breezy along the coast, and a chance of thundershowers inland. High today of 80 under mostly sunny skies. Tonight’s low will be fifty. Tomorrow, watch out for that liquid sunshine, with highs in the low 70’s.” This was followed by an “oldies” tune from the seventies.
Brad muttered, “He must have been delayed in starting the second side.”
Brad took the cassette out of the machine and returned it to its case. As he fingered the plastic case, I thought Brad looked puzzled. Amanda sensed it too, since she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I wouldn’t mind borrowing this tape, but I don’t have anything to play it on.”
Amanda reached into a nearby drawer and retrieved a portable cassette player. “You can use this.”
“Thanks. Do you recall what radio station Dana taped?”
“It might have been 92.7 FM.” Amanda hummed a few bars of a radio jingle, which seemed to refresh her memory. “Yes, 92.7.”
“I’ve seen all I need to see.” Brad exited Dana’s bedroom and returned to the living room.
“Have you been in touch with your attorney about the hearing next week?” Brad asked.
“Yes. She doesn’t expect any problems. Pam said I’m well within my rights.
“Pam?” I repeated.
“Pamela Gursten,” Amanda said. “She’s an old friend of mine. She lives in Charleston. I didn’t want a local attorney.”
Amanda busied herself picking up empty glasses, when Brad asked her to have a seat. He and I remained standing.
“What’s wrong?” Amanda asked, as she lowered herself into the rocker.
“Nothing’s wrong. I can tell you positively that your son did not commit suicide.”
“I knew it,” she whispered. “Who killed my son?”
“That I don’t know,” Brad said. “Not yet.”
“You have ideas?” Amanda asked, tentatively.
Brad nodded.
“Do you think it was—”
“I’m not going to speculate,” Brad interrupted. He signaled that I should head for the door. “I just wanted you to know that I’m certain Dana didn’t take his own life.”
Amanda stared back at him with moist, blinking eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brad rose before dawn on Sunday morning and made a fresh pot of coffee. He promised Beth that they would have the day to themselves, with no talk of suicide, murder or mayhem. To make good on that promise he’d hired the skipper of a small but luxurious yacht to pick them up at noon from the Daufuskie ferry dock for a day of travel on the Intracoastal Waterway. The day would culminate with a catered dinner onboard supplied by the restaurant he’d visited in Beaufort a few days earlier.
He knew Beth wouldn’t be awake for a few hours and that he’d have time to listen to the tape of Bluegrass music which Dana had recorded on the day of his death. Brad placed the portable cassette player Amanda had loaned him on the kitchen c
ounter and inserted the tape to play side B. He heard the radio station’s call letters and a time announcement for the start of the 10 o’clock hour of music. Amanda had been correct that the station was at 92.7 FM. Brad made a note of that information and sipped his coffee with the music playing in the background.
Bluegrass wasn’t his favorite, and he kept the volume low to avoid disturbing Beth or Sharon.
Twelve minutes into the tape he heard an unexpected shift in the music. An Earl Scruggs banjo tune abruptly ended and the music shifted to the middle of an Alison Krauss tune he recognized from O Brother, Where Art Thou. He closed his eyes as he continued to listen, and speculated on the reason for the change. So what happened at 10:12 a.m. to alter the tape? Did Dana have a visitor and turn off the player? That made no sense.
Brad knew that part of a news broadcast had been recorded at the end of the tape. The music ended and the noon news program for that April 6th began. Brad looked at his watch. Forty-five minutes had passed before the news began.
Brad heard footsteps and saw Sharon approaching. She held an oversized travel mug with the Phillies logo, and must have packed it in her suitcase.
She stared at the equipment and notebook in front of him and scowled as she reached for the carafe of coffee. “I thought you said we weren’t working today?”
“Good morning to you too!”
Sharon’s shoulders slumped. “But I’ve made plans.”
“We aren’t working.” Brad turned off the recorder. “I’ve been listening to the music Dana recorded while I wait for Beth to get up. We’re boating today.”
“Oh,” Sharon seemed surprised. “Good. I’m meeting a friend from my college sorority, and we’re traveling to Savannah for the day.” Sharon sat on a stool next to Brad and sipped her coffee.
A few minutes later, she asked, “Finding anything interesting?”
Brad smiled. “You’re on holiday today.”
Sharon’s green eyes flashed annoyance. “Don’t play games with me. What’s up?”
“Well, since you asked… something interrupted Dana’s recording session that morning for fifteen minutes,” Brad explained. “Taping stopped at 10:12 a.m., and since there’s fifteen minutes of news at the end we can assume it was interrupted for fifteen minutes.”
“Doesn’t that timing coincide with when the coroner estimated Dana died?”
“Yes.”
“But if Dana stopped the recording before he was killed, who resumed the taping session?”
“His killer…” Brad let that thought hang. “But I’m also thinking there may have been a power failure here or at that radio station. “Tomorrow, I’d like you to visit that station,” he pointed at the cassette, “and see if their records reflect a power failure on the day Dana died.”
As Brad drove to Beaufort for his Monday morning meeting with Ben Slatpin the images from his Sunday outing with Beth lingered in his mind. He’d arranged for the trip via the Internet. There was a photo of a yacht, and Brad hoped that all the testimonials from the site were accurate. He couldn’t find any statement that the boat pictured was the one he’d rented, and knew that one man’s self-described yacht could turn out to be an outboard motorboat with a canvas canopy.
Brad scored points with Beth by recognizing that she wore a new outfit purchased during her Saturday shopping spree.
Captain Talley greeted them at the Daufuskie ferry dock precisely at 11:30 a.m. Brad seldom used the word awesome, but it appropriately described the Hinckley Talaria, nearly fifty feet in length, its sleek lines painted robin’s egg blue and white. An American flag snapped in the breeze from a pole at the rear of the yacht.
“Welcome aboard mates,” Talley said, extending his hand to help Beth aboard. After a brief tour of the helm, galley and stateroom they settled onto padded benches at the stern.
“Do you mind if we begin on the ocean side of Hilton Head?” the skipper asked.
Brad glanced at Beth, who nodded. “That’d be great.”
The skipper headed south on Calibogue Sound toward the Tybee Island lighthouse before turning into the Atlantic. They veered north where they had a stunning view of Sunday beachgoers on Hilton Head, and the captain reached speeds of 35 knots before entering Port Royal Sound and taking a more leisurely pace through the Intracoastal Waterway.
Brad thought Beth looked so cute in her Winnie the Pooh cap and designer sunglasses. She beamed back at his admiring gaze. The tensions that had existed between them about the purchase of her dad’s beach house and the intrusion of his work on their private time melted away on that sunny Sunday afternoon, and Brad had felt twenty years younger.
Because of his reverie, Brad drove past Ben Slatpin’s office and had to circle the block. He found a parking spot two doors away.
Slatpin’s office was in the front of his home, accessible via a private entrance off the front porch. A sign on the door announced “Ring Bell and Walk-in.” Brad tried to recall where he’d seen that instruction recently and remembered that Summerfield’s Funeral Home had a similar greeting on their door.
Brad entered the sparsely furnished room containing a few leather-covered wooden chairs arranged in front of a desk piled high with legal briefs, yellow pads and law books. A stale smoky odor emanated from a wood burning stove that was connected to a fireplace on the outside wall. Behind Slatpin’s desk was a three window bay from which morning sun illuminated the room through open louvers of shutters.
A knock sounded on an inside door to the office and Slatpin entered. It reminded Brad of the last time he’d visited his doctor’s office for a checkup.
“You must be Mr. Frame.” Slatpin extended his hand and offered a gentle grip. “I expected to be waiting for you right here,” he said, as he slipped into his chair, “but my wife had a project for me. It’s the downside of working where you live.”
The attorney had skin the color and sheen of dark molasses, with dark bushy eyebrows and short graying hair surrounding a bald spot in the middle of his head.
Brad sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“What can I do for you?” Slatpin asked.
Brad handed him a copy of the court documents and launched into an explanation of his contacts with Amanda Carothers, and the few inquiries he’d made regarding Dana’s death. He elaborated on his meeting with Denton Carothers, Jr. since Denton initiated the legal action. He made it clear that Amanda had gotten her own counsel, and wanted to make sure Slatpin knew of her changeable emotional state.
Slatpin scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. But mostly this descendant of an African-born slave and a Native American sat erect in his chair, with the index finger of his left hand covering his upper lip as he listened.
When Brad finished his summary, Slatpin said, “I met Amanda Carothers once, at a gallery exhibit where I was present at my wife’s request.” He made air quotes as he said the word request.
Brad smiled.
“I doubt that she remembers me.” Slatpin slipped on a pair of half-lens wire rim reading glasses and studied the court document in front of him.
As he did so, Brad’s eyes wandered around the room. He noticed several framed diplomas, and while he couldn’t read the fine print, BEN SLATPIN stood out on each of them. Yet, on the front of the lawyer’s desk was a carved wooden plaque showing BENJAMIN as his first name.
After several minutes Slatpin peered at him over the top of the wire rim glasses.
“You could be vulnerable on the issue of your right to act as a private detective in the State of South Carolina,” Slatpin said. “From what you told me, any money she has given to you is to defray your expenses.”
Brad nodded. He’d left out the information about Denton’s close friendship with the Sheriff, and shared that with Slatpin.
“But this is Mr. Carothers’ action. If the Sheriff’s office wanted to charge you with practicing without a license they could do so.”
Brad drew a breath to speak, but the lawyer interrupted.
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“Yes, I know Mr. Frame. At the earliest possible moment you met with a representative of the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office...” He paused to consult his notes, “Detective Miller. You told him who you were, and made no false statements regarding your purpose in examining the facts surrounding the death of Dana Carothers. You promised to consult with the local authorities if you found anything which might indicate foul play was involved in Mr. Carothers’ death. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Brad replied.
“Give me another minute. I want to make certain I have everything I need.”
Brad found himself wondering how Sharon was making out at the radio station.
Slatpin removed the glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I don’t believe you have anything to worry about, Mr. Frame,” he finally announced.
“In your experience is there any chance the plaintiff will withdraw the suit when he sees that court action won’t deter us?” Brad asked.
Slatpin tightened the corners of his mouth. “Since the co-defendant is his mother, I think he’s already burned that bridge.”
“What can you tell me about the judge?” Brad asked.
“Lindsey is fair; the highest compliment an advocate can pay the judiciary. She will understand that while this is a legal matter, it is also a family dispute.”
“And what about Amanda Carothers’ attorney?”
Slatpin consulted his notes. “Pamela Gursten. I met her once at a State Bar convention. She has a good reputation but might have trouble with Judge Lindsey.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. Perhaps because he’d just been thinking about Sharon, he channeled what she might have asked. “Because she’s a sister in the law?”
Slatpin narrowed his eyes, and aimed a slender finger in Brad’s direction. “Justice may be depicted as blind, but in my experience that is not always the case. When I first practiced law, not here, but in another district, a Justice of the Peace would not let me speak in his courtroom. ‘No Negro will be permitted to practice law in this office,’ he said. “And this at the time when there were already Federal statutes prohibiting such discrimination.”