Yard Goat

by Ray Flynt

  I pocketed my phone, with the added comfort that, should anything happen to me, cell records would document the day and time of my call.

  Sal returned, minus the cocky bravado he had displayed at the Indian restaurant.

  He carried a tray with two cups of coffee and a piece of carrot cake.

  I stared at the dessert. Only one fork. He didn’t plan on sharing.

  “It called to me,” he explained, as he placed a Styrofoam cup in front of me. “I won’t complicate your life. Don’t complicate mine.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “Carlin Trambata wants you to know that he is alive and well. Your contract on behalf of Herron Industries is finished.”

  “You expect me to take your word?”

  Sal laughed. “I told Mr. Trambata you’d never buy it. When you get back to your hotel this evening, you’ll have a message waiting from Todd Vicary confirming what I’ve just told you.”

  “Where is Carlin?”

  “None of your business.” Sal warmed his hands on his coffee cup. “He’s where he chooses to be.”

  The light from the street lamp shadowed the bags under Sal’s eyes making him appear older. The years had not been kind. A prospect we all face.

  “Your limp? What happened?”

  Sal swatted his finger across the tip of his nose. “Occupational hazard. Same fight that gave me this crooked beak.” After a pause, he added, “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

  I took a sip of coffee. “I guess we’re done here.”

  “Appears so. I’ll give you free advice you can share with your Baltimore friend: He should be more careful into which ink well he’s dipping his pen.”

  His old-fashioned analogy was laughable.

  “Carlin must have an army of investigators.”

  Sal shook his head. “One of the servants planted a tracking device on Mr. Driscoll’s car. We know every move he’s made for the last three weeks.”

  “I’ll pass along your advice.”

  Sal stared at me, as if wanting to say more. It surprised me that he made no attempt to deny that Carlin was behind the effort at tracking Joel. Cabs passed by frequently as we sat at the café. Finding my way back to the hotel would not be difficult.

  I stood.

  Sal held up his hand. “Before you go, the last time we had a run in, I didn’t think you were going to amount to much as a private detective. You were green back then. I’m impressed by all the leads you put together on short notice: DC cops, Pentagon, and Tandoori House, and all while dealing with your dad. I might have been wrong about you.”

  His manner of speaking suggested ridicule more than flattery.

  “Sounds like a crew of investigators was keeping track of me, too.”

  “Nah, I told you back at the restaurant, I don’t work that hard anymore.” Sal leaned back in his chair, wearing the same smug expression I’d seen earlier. “Not when I can bug a fruit basket.”

  It took all my willpower not to douse him with the rest of my hot coffee. I was pissed. Mostly at myself. Along with his faint praise on my seasoning, Sal reminded me I’d made a rookie mistake.

  Marching to the curb I stuck out my arm to flag down an approaching cab with its in-service light on.

  I didn’t look back.

  At The Hay-Adams the message light flashed on my phone. I listened to Todd Vicary’s voice. “I’m not sure what you did, Mr. Frame, but we’ve heard from Mr. Trambata. All is well. He expects to return to the office next week. We appreciate your efforts.”

  The customer might be satisfied, but I wasn’t. At least Nick could keep the new tires for his car. They weren’t asking for their money back.

  I attacked the fruit basket, ripping off the cellophane and removing the contents. After pulling out the straw, I spotted the listening device, the size of my thumbnail, affixed to the side of the basket. I flushed the bug down the toilet.

  An evening for exterminating. I called Joel to alert him to the tracking device on his car, and told him to watch his back.

  16

  Saturday, September 29, 2001

  Hanging around for my date on a Saturday night was once par for the course. In recent years, I’d managed to court women who had the virtue of punctuality. Cooling my heels waiting for Aunt Harriet frustrated me.

  The museum event started at 6 p.m. It would take nearly two hours—barring traffic backups—to get there. We needed to leave by four.

  I glanced at my watch. 4:10 p.m.

  “Aunt Harriet. Please hurry.” I shouted up the stairs.

  A few moments later: “I’m coming.” She apologized. “I was ready when you said. But then I decided more comfortable shoes were in order—you told me we’d be standing quite a bit—and no sooner did I switch my shoes, I found a run in my stockings and had to change them.”

  With the car already positioned in the drive, I moved toward the front door as she talked.

  A classic music station we’d both enjoy whiled away the duration of our ride time. We arrived at the valet station outside the B&O Railroad Museum at 6:15 p.m.

  Harriet flashed a demure smile. “Fashionably late.”

  She knew what she was doing all along.

  The museum fundraiser featured twenty local chefs dispensing appetizer-sized portions. At check-in, just inside the roundhouse entry, we received a souvenir program for the event and color-coded tickets on which to record our first, second, and third favorite appetizer. All chefs were accorded a portion of the proceeds for food costs. Winning chefs would receive handsome cash prizes along with trophies.

  Joel was nowhere to be seen. I dreaded running into Cecilia, not sure what I’d say.

  Aunt Harriet studied the map provided to identify the types of food and their location.

  “Let’s try the pierogis. They should be right over there.” She pointed toward a nineteenth century steam engine.

  We sampled our way through the four stations inside before heading into the train yard. Harriet steamed toward the chicken croquettes, which was fine with me since their booth sat adjacent to a model train layout.

  As I admired the scenic details in the garden-scale train, a woman’s voice interrupted. “Joel said you were coming. I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  I turned to see Cecilia resplendent in a floral print party dress.

  Next to her stood Adam and Annie. I marveled at how much Adam resembled Joel from the days when we’d first met. He even sported Joel’s cocky smile. Both of the pre-teens were dressed like adults, including a bow tie on Adam.

  Cecilia caught me gazing at them. “My sister will be taking them home shortly. I wanted them to experience the party.”

  “They’ve gotten big.”

  Cecilia and I hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years—a backyard party at their place if I remembered correctly. Except for a new hairstyle, she looked the same. Joel’s comment about her living the part of “queen bee” came to mind. Neither her face nor voice gave a hint to the turmoil in her life. Her embrace, tight and lasting a few seconds longer than might be expected, said it all. When we unclenched, she wiped a tear from her eye.

  Eagle-eyed Aunt Harriet, witnessing our hug and always eager to find me an eligible spouse, raced to my side. I made introductions, including the fact that Cecilia married a friend of mine from prep school days.

  I glanced around. “I haven’t seen Joel.”

  Cecilia looked at her watch. “It might be his turn in the dunking pool...across from the restored B&O Pullman car. Former Governor Schaefer promised me he’d hit the bullseye.” She winked.

  “We’ll try to find him.”

  I steered Harriet in that direction, sampling three more appetizers on the way: Swedish meatballs, mini Quiche Lorraine, and pretzel ham and cheese bites.

  Harriet groaned. “Thank goodness the portions are small.”

  Several hundred men and women roamed the walkways, total strangers to us. All were friendly and, based on the looks on the
ir faces, having an enjoyable time.

  After sunset, temperatures dropped into the high fifties. My jacket felt comfortable. Harriet draped a knitted shawl over her shoulders.

  Food booths lined three sets of parallel tracks next to the roundhouse and, in the opposite direction, under the train sheds. A few of the cooks had shills in front of their booths exhorting the crowd to “sample and vote” their food as number one.

  Multi-colored lights strung between antique rail cars lent a festive atmosphere. Top 40 tunes blared from speakers. Full, I passed on pizza squares and pigs in a blanket. One chef served up macaroni and cheese balls. Harriet sighed and clutched her stomach.

  I investigated an old red caboose open for tours. A line snaked from a fifty’s-era passenger car, which housed a cash bar.

  We found the games at the back of the rail yard in front of a row of trees bordering the property. They included inflatable racing slides and a whipped cream pie toss.

  Joel, perched above a tank of water protected by a screen of chain link fence, wore an orange and black Orioles sweatshirt and grey sweat pants. Persons could pay $10 for two tries at hitting the target with a baseball. A direct hit would cause the seat to collapse sending Joel for a soaking in the tank.

  Joel waved when he saw me.

  As we moved closer, I introduced my Aunt Harriet.

  “Hey Joel. Looks like a chilly assignment.”

  “I’ve avoided the drink so far. Bunch of wimps if you ask me.” He cackled. “They’re stopping the games in fifteen minutes so everyone can attend the auction. Why don’t you cough up a few bucks and buy your aunt a chance to dunk me? I’ll even let her stand twenty feet away rather than the usual twenty-five.”

  “Sold.” I pulled a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to the attendant. “Oh, Joel...I forgot to mention my aunt’s time as captain of the Baldwin School’s varsity softball team in nineteen—”

  “Uh, uh.” Harriet wagged a finger at me. “I’m sure he gets the picture. Besides, I’m a lot younger than I look.”

  Joel rolled his eyes.

  She passed me her shawl. “Where did you say I could stand?”

  The attendant couldn’t stop laughing, and pointed at a second hash mark made from duct tape on the pavement closer to the target.

  She palmed the ball like Curt Schilling, running her thumb over its stitching. I gestured toward her moves hoping to make Joel nervous. My optimism was short-lived. Her windup added new meaning to the expression throwing like a girl and the ball hit way off the mark—a certified wild pitch.

  Joel roared with laughter, taunting, “Baldwin School softball my ass.”

  Fire rose in Harriet’s eyes. She launched a he’s-a-friend-of-yours glare at me. Her next pitch hit the center of the bullseye. Joel stopped laughing as the seat dropped out from under him and he splashed into the tank. He sputtered in the shallow water, dark hair limp against his forehead, before climbing out and toweling off.

  Aunt Harriet’s feat brought cheers from onlookers and a few more pitchers stepped forward eager to try their hand. Shivering, Joel climbed back onto the re-positioned seat.

  “We’ll catch up with you later.” I waved at Joel. “Stay warm.”

  He held his hand in front of his chest and gave me the finger.

  Music stopped, and an announcer’s voice urged patrons to gather on the south side of the roundhouse for the live auction, which would begin at 8 p.m.

  Harriet, who complained earlier of being stuffed, decided to sample a skewer of chicken satay.

  “All that pitching make you hungry?”

  She elbowed me in the ribs.

  Folding chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of a podium filled quickly. The din ebbed and flowed, and when everyone had taken their places and the program hadn’t yet begun, talk around us quickly turned to what was the holdup.

  Cecilia, wearing a rain coat, rushed to the podium to the relief of the crowd. After searching through a stack of papers, she returned to the roundhouse, emerging two minutes later accompanied by the auctioneer. I didn’t recognize him, but she gave Jim Edwards—likely a pseudonym—a buildup worthy of a local celebrity, or in this case, the weeknight newscaster on WBAL-TV, local NBC affiliate.

  “I want to thank our sponsors for their donations of our fabulous auction items. We have weekend getaways, cruises, and travel packages, including,” Cecilia grinned at the auctioneer, “a cabin-suite for two on the Orient Express from Paris to Vienna.”

  Harriet’s sigh blended with the oohs and ahhs from the crowd.

  When Cecilia announced that all bids would start at one thousand dollars, I understood why Joel had provided complimentary tickets. He could count on me to go home with one or more of the items.

  “When we’re finished, you’re all invited inside for a dessert buffet and the exciting announcement of which local chef is your favorite. Don’t forget to drop off your voting tickets or hand them to one of our magnificent volunteers. Now, welcome Jim. Let’s get this auction started.”

  The first item, dubbed Windy-City Weekend, featured a three-day, two-night stay at the Drake Hotel, and roundtrip airfare. Valerie loved Chicago, often talked about her college years at Northwestern. I made the opening bid and hung back to see where the ceiling might land. Bidding slowed as the price neared $2,500. I raised my hand with an offer of $3,000.

  Cecilia mouthed “thank you” when I was declared the winner.

  I kept looking for Joel. Maybe he wanted to stay out of her spotlight or just get into dry clothes; still we had promised to catch up later.

  The Orient Express travel package for two came up last. A man in the front row drew gasps when he opened the bidding at $4,000.

  I countered with $5,000.

  Harriet tugged on my arm and shook her head like my bid was a bad idea.

  “This trip is for you,” I whispered. “Do you know someone who can go with you?”

  Harriet brought her hands in front of her face and bobbed her head.

  My final bid of $8,000 won the day. The audience cheered and Harriet threw her arms around me.

  The auctioneer proclaimed, “It’s all for a good cause folks.”

  We stood, prepared to attend the dessert reception. A small cadre of Baltimore society approached me wanting to know more about the crazy spender in their midst.

  Still no Joel. I began to worry. I urged Harriet to keep her seat, telling her I would return.

  I walked past four railroad cars toward the dunking booth where I’d last seen him. His bright orange sweatshirt hung from a railing on the side of the old Yard Goat I’d seen during my previous museum visit—Octoraro Rwy #3—its chassis rusting through the original yellow paint job.

  “Joel.” I called out.

  On the ground near the drive wheel of the switch engine lay Joel’s grey sweatpants.

  “Joel.” Louder this time.

  Rounding the corner at the end of the track, I spotted him clothed only in swim trunks. His body in the shadows beyond the reach of the lights for the fundraiser. A truck traversed the neighboring street, just past the line of trees. Its headlights illuminated beads of water clinging to Joel’s chest hair.

  The beam of light caught the gash in his abdomen, right below the sternum.

  17

  I froze in my tracks.

  Joel looked dead. I had to be sure without compromising the crime scene. His left arm extended across a rail. I crouched to feel for a pulse. None. His body temperature didn’t feel noticeably cooler. I felt sick to my stomach.

  Behind me, a gasp. I turned to see Aunt Harriet.

  “Oh...oh.” She recoiled in horror.

  I put myself between her and Joel’s body and clutched her elbow, realizing I needed to keep my own emotions in check while managing my aunt. “You don’t need to see this. Go back to the auction site and wait for me.”

  She didn’t move. “Is he...dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Harriet trembled. I guided her a fe
w steps away. “Wait right here.”

  I pulled out my phone and called 9-1-1. Asked if I had a police or fire emergency, I responded police, and seconds later she connected me to a dispatcher. As succinctly as possible, I reported a homicide at the museum’s location, gave the victim’s name, and identified myself as a private investigator. I explained a fundraising gala with nearly two hundred people was in progress at the scene, and that I would meet the police at the museum’s entrance.

  Returning to where Joel’s body lay in the shadow of the yard goat, I couldn’t make out much more. “Damn, I wish it was brighter.”

  Beyond the immediate scene, a paper bag lay ten feet on the opposite side of the body.

  Harriet spoke softly. “Would this help?”

  I turned. She waved a small flashlight she’d extracted from her open purse.

  “God bless you!”

  I took the light and once again urged Harriet to return to the auction site. “The police will be here shortly. I should speak with Cecilia before they arrive. Perhaps you can locate her for me, and I’ll meet the two of you.”

  Giving her an assignment rid her eyes of their glazed-over appearance. She nodded and proceeded toward the roundhouse.

  With the aid of the flashlight, I surveyed the crime scene while not contaminating the area. Joel’s body stretched across the gravel and wooden ties. His head lay beneath the engines’ coupler, with eyelids open and pupils dilated. Blood matted in the hair above his left ear. His right hand formed into a fist.

  Aiming the light at the gash on Joel’s abdomen revealed a two-inch cut with very little blood. There was no knife in the immediate vicinity.

  A siren warbled in the distance.

  Not much time.

  Beads of water on his chest suggested he hadn’t been out of the dunking pool long before confronted by his attacker.

  I focused the beam toward the torn paper bag. A pair of boxers, striped shirt with button-down collar, and dress pants scattered next to it. The sweatshirt hanging from the yard goat and sweatpants on the ground reinforced the notion that Joel was accosted while changing out of his wet clothes for the dessert reception. A hasty timeline formed in my brain.