Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6)

by Ray Flynt

“I appreciate you telling me,” Brad said.

  Brad thought about the revelation that Sterling Haller had cancer. Grace had never mentioned it, which wasn’t surprising given her mental state. He wondered if she even knew, or if Sterling Haller had shared that detail with anyone. Knowing that his death could have been imminent might help take the sting out of the grief at his murder.

  For however long his life might have been cut short, no one deserves to die on another person’s timetable.

  Brad found himself agreeing with a word Taylor had used—this case was a mess.

  4

  Patty Triola was my BFF, and I may have overstated her acting ability to Brad.

  It’s true she’d done theatre—twice. She played a nun in her high school’s production of The Sound of Music. That Tennessee Williams’ play I’d referenced for Brad? It consisted of two lines in Spanish muttering about flowers.

  I’d caught Patty’s closing night performance in A Streetcar Named Desire.

  What are friends for?

  “You were great.” At least that’s what I told her after the show. Later, Patty informed me that when she’d auditioned for the next play the director had said she couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag. Ouch!

  She’d sworn off theatre ever since.

  Too bad, because she could be a bit of a drama queen in real life. Which is why I thought she’d be perfect to join me for the undercover assignment at Ruddigore’s. Besides, sharing a table with a female friend would make it less likely guys would be hitting on me than if I were there alone.

  Patty and I had met at a Christmas cookie exchange when I was a new juvenile probation officer in Bucks County and Patty worked in the County Controller’s office. We’d formed an instant bond. Patty claims that Irish and Italians have a natural affinity. I’m not convinced. Patty claimed to be “this side of forty,” while I professed to “thirty-five and holding.”

  We communicated in shorthand, so when I invited her to meet me at Ruddigore’s at 9:00 p.m. and dress “age appropriate” I knew she’d look perfect.

  My challenge was to figure out how best to disguise myself in case Jack Barkow showed up.

  I found a long black wig that made me look like Cher. I’d need a deeper colored foundation than usual and to darken my eyebrows. I flung open my closet and pondered what to wear. I found a pair of loose-fitting jeans and laid them on my bed. The evening would be chilly. I held a red and white wool sweater in front of me and gazed in the mirror. I looked like a member of Norway’s Olympic slalom team. I finally selected a roomy gray cardigan to wear over an emerald green blouse.

  A noise outside drew me to the window of my efficiency apartment located above the detached garage on the grounds of Frame’s Bryn Mawr estate. I spread the slats of the mini blind and peered through the gap. Tree shadows lengthened against the cobblestone drive as the late afternoon sun prepared to set. Scattered leaves swirled in the wake of Brad’s Mercedes, and I realized he was returning from his visit to Taylor’s Funeral Home. I watched him dash under the front portico and into the house. I waited expectantly for him to call me with an update. He never did.

  I knew I’d be having a few beers that evening and called a taxi for the trip into the city. No use risking being pulled over for a DUI on my return trip.

  As the cabbie dropped me off in front of Ruddigore’s, I gave him a generous tip and asked for his card so that I could call him when I was ready to go home. He flashed a gold-toothed smile via the rearview mirror, handed back his card, and in a Jamaican accent said he’d be on duty till midnight.

  I stepped to the curb and surveyed the scene. Ruddigore’s Tavern occupied the middle of the block in a newly-gentrified area of South Philly surrounded by upscale boutiques, a Starbucks across the way, and a Philly cheesesteak purveyor at the corner. I drew my coat about me as a chilly breeze swept down the street. My watch said 8:50 p.m. The boutiques were closed, and except for a couple sitting in the coffee shop, I saw no one else. Maybe that’s not unusual for a Tuesday night.

  Ruddigore’s reminded me of a Tudor-style pub, with its façade of white stucco outlined by dark rough-hewn beams. A hand-painted sign in a wrought iron frame swung above the front door.

  I stepped inside and savored the warmth. Two guys at the pool table glanced in my direction. One wore a jean jacket opened to reveal a “wife beater” shirt. The taller one with a buzz cut and a black T-shirt flashed a smile. Don’t get your hopes up, buddy. A third guy—younger than either of them—plopped a quarter on the pool table and called dibs for the next game.

  Jack Barkow was nowhere to be seen, which was a relief.

  With a name like Ruddigore’s, I expected a décor right out of Gilbert and Sullivan—with a more theatrical feel—and A Wand’ring Minstrel I piped from the sound system. Instead, baseball bat ends formed a coat rack, posters of various stadiums and arenas covered the walls, and balls from every known sport hung from the ceiling. Behind the bar, a flat-screen TV was tuned to ESPN with closed-captioning, while Taylor Swift’s Love Story blared from speakers imbedded in the ceiling.

  I draped my parka over a chair in the back of the bar from which I could survey the entire room. The bartender, a lean man with gray hair in need of a cut, approached and placed a cardboard coaster on the polished surface of my table. He asked, “What can I get you, Miss?”

  “Yuengling Light.”

  I glanced at his chest looking for a name tag, spotted none, and wondered if he was the ex-cop who had worked on the night of Nick’s altercation with Skull Sanders and Jack Barkow. The bartender walked away and I saw him retrieve a bottle from a cooler behind the bar, pop the cap, and grab a frosty mug. When he placed the beer in front of me, I reached for my purse. “You can settle up later,” he said.

  “I’m waiting for a friend,” I explained.

  “We’ll let him settle up.” The bartender winked, then wandered in the direction of a customer seated at the bar, a fortyish guy in a business suit, his tie loosened.

  The man slipped off the bar stool and looked like he was trying to find his “sea” legs. “See you tomorrow night, Phil,” he muttered, before motoring unsteadily toward the front door. It is Phil. I recognized the bartender’s name from Brad’s account.

  It was after 9:00 and I hadn’t seen Patty yet. I checked my phone for any messages. None.

  Two young couples entered, shouted for an order of nachos and a pitcher of beer. Things were starting to pick up.

  The guy with the buzz cut who’d been playing pool lost the game amidst shouts of obscenities. He shoved his stick in the wall rack, threw his jacket on, and stormed out the front door flaunting a middle finger salute to the game’s winner.

  I watched as Phil emptied half a bag of Doritos on a plate and heated a bowl of chili con queso in the microwave.

  It was already 9:20 p.m. and I was getting antsy that I hadn’t heard from Patty. I texted her a question mark.

  After Phil served the nachos, he brought me a menu of snacks and cold sandwiches. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

  I asked for a soft pretzel with mustard on the side.

  He lingered and said, “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t card you, but you look legal.”

  I smiled, and he walked away. If that were a pick-up line, he could use more practice. Besides, I’m young enough to be his daughter.

  My phone beeped. Patty had texted: Sorry. Accident. Can’t make it.

  Damn it. In spite of my irritation at not having her help, I texted back: Hope UR OK

  #Abandoned

  A few minutes later Phil returned with my pretzel and picked up where he’d left off. “They ask us to card anybody who looks under thirty. Hope you won’t report us.”

  I would have thanked him for the compliment, but it dawned on me that he thought I was with the liquor control board. They’d run ads recently—following a series of deadly accidents caused by underage drunk drivers—promising to spot-check ID enforcement. I replied, “I got mo
re to worry about than underage drinking in this city.”

  “You work for Lenny?”

  I had no idea who Lenny was but sensed that Phil, the retired policeman, had pegged me as a fellow officer. Probably because I’m a newbie customer in a conservative outfit. Or maybe all those years of yearning to be a cop oozes from my pores. I knew Brad wouldn’t want me impersonating an officer, but I was anxious to see where the conversation might lead. I chose my words carefully.

  “Nah. I work downtown. I hear you had a little excitement here a couple weeks ago with Captain Argostino?

  Phil glanced toward the nearby pool table and whispered, “You with Internal Affairs?”

  I shook my head.

  “I talked to them last week.” Phil once more stared toward the pool table. After an awkward silence, he said, a little too loudly, “Yeah, I’m glad you asked. Let me show you.” He motioned for me to follow him.

  Seconds later I stood in front of the bar as Phil pointed at an autographed baseball in a plastic case hung above the top shelf of whiskey, bourbon, and vodka bottles. I strained to read the name on the ball and the engraved plate below the case. I can’t put off that optometrist visit any longer.

  “You recognize it?” he asked. I didn’t know much about baseball and offered a no-but-I’m-sure-you’ll-tell-me look.

  “In the sixth game of the 1980 World Series, with the bases loaded and one out in the top of the ninth, Pete Rose caught that foul ball,” Phil pointed at the case, “as it deflected off the mitt of catcher Bob Boone. The Phillies went on to clinch the game and the series from the Kansas City Royals.”

  Why is he telling me this? I could now read the autograph as Pete Rose’s, with broad ovals at the tops of the P and R. “Wow.” I tried to muster enthusiasm.

  The bell jingled as the front door opened and a college-aged couple entered the bar.

  Phil said softly, “Wait here,” and then traipsed over to take their order. I watched to see if he carded them. He didn’t.

  Once he’d served his newest customers, Phil returned to me and said, “Don’t stare, but that’s Skull Sanders at the pool table. It’s the first I’ve seen him since that night. I don’t care for the man.” Phil made a sour expression, and added, “He’s always treated me okay. Skull brings his buddies, which is good for business. He’s never been any trouble…well, until two weeks ago and the altercation with Nick.”

  Apparently, engaging me in a look at the foul ball Pete Rose caught was a ruse to draw me further away from the pool table so he could tell me about Skull.

  I stole a glance at the pool players and guessed that “Skull” was the guy in the denim jacket and “wife beater.” I wondered if the good-looking guy next to him was a cop. He had the hunky look but was too young to have been the third man at the bar with Sanders and Barkow. “You think Skull started the incident that night?” I asked.

  “Who did you say you work for?”

  I ignored Phil’s question. “I think I’d enjoy a game of pool.” I dug a quarter out of my purse, sauntered over to the pool table, and placed it on the rail.

  My gesture was met with derisive guffaws. The man identified as Skull said, “Well, Axel, looks like I’m gonna get to whoop a sweet ass after I’m done beating yours.”

  Axel laughed. “We’ll see whose ass gets whooped.”

  My dad had taught me the game after my older brother died. I hadn’t played eightball in four years, but fondly remembered my father’s coaching. I never had a love of the game, but I’d craved the attention he gave me. I’d since realized that whenever I’d won, Dad had let it happen to boost my confidence.

  I was rusty and didn’t have a prayer of winning against either of them. I had to even the odds and noticed their mugs were nearly empty. “Another round for these guys,” I shouted to Phil.

  Each man had four balls left on the table. Axel had the low-numbered ones and an easy shot at the red number three. Axel swaggered around the far side, chalked his stick, called the corner pocket for his shot, and took one-eyed aim. The cue ball struck the target, but the number three hit the bumper and careened toward the center of the table. “Shit.” He swatted his cue against the edge of the table.

  Phil delivered fresh mugs of brew.

  “You might as well drink your beer, ‘cause you‘re not gettin’ another shot,” Skull said, as he chalked his stick and studied the placement of the balls on the green felt. He strutted around the table and appeared to focus on the number eleven and number fourteen balls parked behind the eight ball near the side pocket.

  With me watching, these guys are showing off.

  Skull gulped beer from the new mug, then slipped off his jacket.

  Axel laughed. “Taking your jacket off won’t improve your shot.”

  “Don’t worry, asshole. You won’t be laughing when I run the table.”

  I stared at the tattoo on the bulging bicep of his right arm and knew why they called him Skull. A haunting image of a skull in black and beige surrounded by flowers practically leaped off his arm. I was used to seeing indigo-colored tattoos, or more recently multi-colored ones—like the Chinese dragon on Sterling Haller’s neck. This looked different and I wondered where he’d had the inking done.

  “Put up or shut up,” Axel said.

  I’d been at the bar for more than forty-five minutes and barely heard the players grunt between shots. My presence had bumped up their competitive juices.

  Skull called for the number eleven and number fourteen to land in the side and corner pockets respectively. He leaned into the table and drew back his stick. His shot slammed too hard pocketing the number eleven in the side pocket and sinking the cue ball too. “Fuck!” Skull banged the butt end of his stick on the wooden floor and turned his back to the table.

  I reached into my purse and retrieved a twenty-dollar bill. Time to raise the stakes. “Care to make a little wager?” I asked Skull, who turned around and spotted the bill on the table. I pointed at Axel. “My money’s on him.”

  Skull snorted. He reached in his hip pocket, produced a twenty from his wallet, and slapped it on top of mine.

  He glared at Axel. “You set her up didn’t you? Asshole!”

  “No.” Axel grinned and stepped up to the table to make his next shot. He looked cute when he smiled, and I smiled back hoping to inspire his best pool shooting. Skull’s hard slam had nudged Axel’s yellow ball closer to the side pocket. Axel called his shot and promptly sank the number one, then took aim at the blue number two, pocketing it in the corner. Only one shot stood between Axel and the eight ball—a tricky one at the green number six, tucked behind Skull’s number nine and fifteen near the rail. He stood back and studied the shot, which required bouncing the cue ball off the rail.

  In between chugs of beer, Skull stood with his arms folded across his chest and acted like he couldn’t care less how Axel’s game went.

  The bell tinkled as the front door opened and three men entered, glanced in the direction of the pool table, and made wolfish eyes at me.

  “Hey, Skull,” one of the men shouted. “Got a hot date tonight or is that your sister?” The other newcomers laughed, as did Axel.

  “Shut up, douchebag,” Skull fired back. Skull wore his ego close to the surface, and I decided to use that to my advantage.

  I pasted surprise on my face and pointed at Skull like I was seeing him for the first time. “Hey, it was you. I saw you that night…”

  A question formed on his expression, and I could tell that his interest was piqued. “A couple weeks ago,” I continued. “My boyfriend and I were sitting right over there.” I pointed at a table near where the card players sat. “You sure put that old guy in his place. What was his problem?”

  “He’s a jerk.” Skull eyed me warily. “You heard what he said that night?”

  I nodded, as I tried to remember the specifics of the encounter as Brad had told me.

  “Damn it,” Axel cursed, which drew my attention. He’d missed his shot and pockete
d Skull’s nine ball in the process.

  Skull seemed to forget he’d asked me a question, as he returned to the pool table and concentrated on his next shot. “You’re done, buddy. Might as well hang the cue stick back on the wall,” he taunted Axel. “I’ve got the rest of them.”

  I figured that I didn’t need to remember the details of Skull’s encounter with Nick. I could finesse my way through a vague account, as long as I confirmed that Nick had been the aggressor.

  I moved closer to Skull and in a confidential tone said, “I saw you fall when that old guy shoved you.”

  “Hold on.” He waved me off. “Let me finish this shot.”

  The front door opened. I spotted two young couples enter Ruddigore’s. It was shortly after 10:00 p.m., apparently the time when business started to pick up. A man followed the couples through the door—Jack Barkow.

  Barkow spotted Skull and strode toward him. He slapped him on the back and with a conspiratorial laugh said, “Back at the scene of the crime?” He glanced at me, then turned to Skull and asked, “What happened? Did you dump Tania?”

  Skull shushed him. “I need to concentrate.”

  I was confident Jack Barkow wouldn’t recognize me in my disguise, but he might remember my voice. My identity had piqued his curiosity, and when I saw him rounding the pool table heading in my direction I sidled up to Axel and announced, “Little girl’s room.”

  I headed toward the back of the bar, fished the taxi driver’s card and my cell phone from my purse. Shit. My phone had no signal.

  I grabbed a twenty from my wallet and stopped in front of Phil, who was on his way to serve the two couples. “This should take care of my tab.” I handed him the bill and the cab driver’s card. “And would you mind giving this guy a call to pick me up out front?”

  “Okay.” Phil stuffed the card in his shirt pocket.

  “One more question,” I whispered. “There was a third guy with Skull and Jack Barkow on the night of the Argostino incident. Big. Early forties. Can you tell me who he is?”

  Phil didn’t hesitate. “Saul Kasheski. He’s an arson investigator. I already told all this stuff to Internal—”