by Ray Flynt
Brad winked at Sharon. “Aunt Harriet, are you saying I need a decorator?”
Sharon played along, as he hoped she would. “I heard there’s a new interior design shop opening in Haverford.”
“No, not a decorator.” Harriet aimed her piercing eyes at Brad, and he could tell she saw through their impromptu performance. “I’m saying that you need a wife.”
Brad didn’t feel like he had to detail his social life to his aunt. There had been plenty of women, young, beautiful, exciting, but nothing ever lasted. And over the last decade he’d met too many gold diggers, or women whose biological clocks were racing, or those who seemed to enjoy the museum’s gala more than his company.
The grandfather’s clock came to life and Westminster chimes echoed through the foyer. Brad noted it was eleven forty five, and watched as Sharon ducked behind the curved stairway to a doorway that led to the office in the west wing.
“What time does your train leave, Aunt Harriet?” he asked.
His aunt puckered her mouth, furrowed her brow, and straightened her shoulders. “You'll be rid of me soon enough, Bradford.” Pointing toward her leather satchel and matching make-up case neatly piled next to the front door, she said, “I've already called for a cab. I know how to take care of myself.”
“I'm forty-three years old, Aunt Harriet,” he said, with growing impatience. “Please don't lecture me. I can take care of myself.”
Harriet drew in a breath and peeked at him over the top of reading glasses perched low on the bridge of her nose. “You cannot recapture the past by turning this house into a shrine.”
“Aunt Harriet, it’s still Dad’s house.”
“And when is he coming back here to live?” she snapped.
He knew she was right. Another one of Wilkie’s victims, his father would spend the rest of his days at the assisted living center. The first stroke was barely six months after the kidnapping. The doctors attributed it to acute stress. Then additional strokes, each progressively more debilitating until his dad required round-the-clock nursing care.
Harriet asked, “When did you last see your father?”
“A few days ago. Just before you arrived. I try to visit him at least twice a week.” Brad feared he sounded defensive.
A pained expression crept onto Harriet’s face. “Joe’s breathing seemed more shallow this time.”
“It’s been that way for a couple weeks,” Brad explained. “The doctors are concerned about his kidney function. They were doing blood tests yesterday. I’ll let you know when I get the results.”
Harriet extended a delicate arm, pulling him toward her, kissing his forehead. “Your father would want you to live your life in the present, Bradford—not in the past.”
Brad gave her a big hug, and leaned down to whisper in her ear: “I always appreciate your advice, Aunt Harriet,” adding, “But it’s still his place.”
Harriet turned and walked toward the window, alternately looking out onto the cobblestone drive and checking her diamond-studded watch. “Humph, I wonder if the cab driver even knows how to get here?”
“Give the driver a few more minutes.” Brad patted the seat of an Empire-style settee situated in the nook formed by the curved stairs. “Come sit with me, Aunt Harriet,” he beckoned, reassuringly. “I’ll wait with you until your cab comes.”
She sat next to Brad, a quiet truce between them. Brad noticed that Harriet rocked back and forth in her seat, absently tapping the arm of the sofa with her hand. Brad recalled all the times he had seen her on that same seat as she waited patiently for a cab to come at the end of her visits to Philadelphia. Widowed before the age of fifty, and with no children, his family was the only family Harriet had left.
“Do you remember your grandfather Frame?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Sure, I was sixteen when he died.”
“Your grandfather never wanted me to leave Philadelphia. Fifty-one years ago I met my future husband in a saloon in Hell’s Kitchen. I was only seventeen, and had taken a bus to New York City with three friends from Palmer school. If our parents only knew what we did that weekend!” She giggled and her voice trailed off. Uncle Oscar had been dead for more than twenty years, but Brad couldn’t picture him or his aunt in a saloon.
“I gave Oscar my address that weekend and he later wrote to me. We carried on a long-distance romance. I used to tell your grandpa that I was spending the weekend with a friend, when I was really visiting Oscar in New York.”
Brad covered his mouth and gasped in mock outrage at her story.
Harriet blushed. “Don’t I sound awful? Eventually my father—your grandfather—found out, and one Sunday night he met my train at 30th Street Station. He forbade me from any more trips to New York, but by that time Oscar and I already knew that we wanted to get married. I was almost eighteen and I told your grandfather that it was my life, not his. That’s why I’m telling you to live your life, don’t let the shadows from that horrible tragedy—or even your devotion to your father—prevent you from enjoying your own life.”
“You’ve convinced me,” Brad said, leaning over and gently kissing her on the cheek. “I’m gonna sell this house and move to New York, maybe search for a place in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“That wasn’t my point, and you know it,” she grumbled, pulling away from him and checking her watch again. “At least in New York when I call for a cab it comes.”
“Aunt Harriet,” Brad said, as he stood. “I’d like to hear more about your saloon-going days. I’ll drive you to the train station.”
Aunt Harriet beamed. “Oh, Bradford, would you? You’re a dear.”
Pacing behind his desk, Brad paused periodically to glance down at The Philadelphia Inquirer, open to the front page of the local section with Paula Thompson’s by-lined article about Wilkie’s execution. Damn her. The story began harmlessly, and even had a few facts in the first paragraph:
ROCKVIEW, PA Frank Wilkie, 39, under sentence of death for the last ten years, and with all his appeals exhausted, was executed late last night at the State Correctional Institution in Rockview, Centre County. L. Bradford Frame watched impassively as Frank Wilkie, the kidnapper and killer of his mother and sister, was put to death. Wilkie was the fourth man executed since Pennsylvania abandoned its electric chair in favor of death-by-lethal-injection.
The Governor rejected last minute pleas for clemency from attorneys representing Wilkie, and from interest groups charging the death penalty was cruel and unusual punishment. Dozens of demonstrators stood vigil on the fog shrouded road leading to the prison, singing hymns and heckling State Police dispatched to maintain order. At 9:23 p.m. the State Supreme Court lifted a temporary stay granted by a Commonwealth Court Judge, and the Philadelphia-based Third Circuit Court of Appeals refused to hear any further appeals in the Wilkie case, clearing the way for the 11 p.m. execution.
Led into the State’s death chamber, his eyes glistening with apprehension, Wilkie remained composed until a Bible he clutched in his hands was thrown to the floor by one of the guards. After screaming for the Bible’s return, Wilkie declined the warden’s offer to make a final public statement. The warden then signaled two Correction’s officers, who reportedly volunteered to serve as executioners, located behind a one-way mirror in the chemical injection room. Once the intravenous administration of lethal chemicals began, it took nearly ten minutes for the condemned man to die. Wilkie’s chest heaved repeatedly and his body convulsed in spasms before he lapsed into unconsciousness.
“The execution went as planned,” Warden Henry Dolewski announced to a small group of reporters waiting outside the prison. “Frank Alan Wilkie died at 11:32 p.m.” An ambulance sped from the prison grounds carrying Wilkie’s body to an undisclosed location for an autopsy.
L. Bradford Frame, heir to Joseph Frame’s immense fortune, and who operates a private detective agency from his Bryn Mawr mansion, was one of twelve witnesses to the execution. Often grist for gossip when seen in the company o
f prominent Main Line socialites, Frame said he was glad Wilkie “will never commit another murder.” Asked whether the appeals process had been fair to Wilkie, Frame asserted he never “argue(d) the law, only the facts.” One witness summed up the feeling of the others, uneasy at Brad Frame’s presence, “I hope it makes him feel better to see Wilkie die, I don’t think I could be here if it was one of my family he killed.”
Wilkie’s attorneys were reportedly handling funeral arrangements, which will be private.
What bothered Brad most was the continuation reference at the bottom of the page - See Brad Frame, 8B. Forget about Wilkie, the slug insinuated, enticing people to turn the pages and read more about him. Unfortunately, as he well knew, the death of a criminal wouldn’t sell newspapers, but maligning prominent Main Line families could. Damn her!
Wind rattled the three sets of French doors leading to his office patio. Turning his head, Brad saw a funnel of dried leaves swirling above the rubberized canvas covering the in-ground swimming pool. Aware of a chill, he grabbed both copies of the Inquirer and headed for the fireplace at the opposite end of the office. After stacking seasoned hickory logs on the wrought-iron grate, he gathered a large sheet of newsprint into a mass between his hands, gave it quick twist, and jammed it between the logs. Instant kindling. Brad found the process so therapeutic that he yanked a second sheet from the pile, imagining his hands around a certain reporter’s neck.
Taking his words out of context, Thompson had implied that he didn’t give a whit about the law and saw the execution as his own private vendetta. Brad continued wringing the paper, wishing he could as easily squeeze her half-truths and innuendo off the page. Thompson didn’t seem to have enough ink to mention his community service with several non-profit organizations on whose Boards of Directors he served, but found space to mention the gossip whenever he was spotted with an attractive woman.
“Damn her,” he cursed aloud, and bruised his knuckles as he shoved another wad of paper between the logs. Ouch.
Brad opened the damper and touched a flame from a butane lighter to the crumpled wads, watching as the paper burst into bright yellow flames. A confetti of newspaper ash curled up the flue. If only his anger would dissipate as easily.
He knelt in front of the stone hearth until the wood blazed on its own and the scent of burning hickory wafted into the room. The office was the one place where Brad felt completely at home. Built to his specifications and designed to look like an old carriage house; a covered breezeway connected it to a hallway behind the kitchen. He had taken pains to match the brick of his parents’ home, and placed dormers along the second floor roof to mirror the third floor of the Georgian-style main house.
Brad padded back across the thick green wool carpet and paused, resting his hand on the corner of the massive oak partners’ desk, large enough for two people to work—one on either side, facing each other. Originally his father’s, the desk brought back memories of his childhood when their mother took him and Andrew into Philadelphia’s center city to visit their dad’s office. Dad’s partner would reach deep into the bottom drawer on her side of the desk and produce Tootsie Roll Pops for them. Aunt Gertie, as they used to call her, served Brad first. But she always gave extra candy to his older brother, which caused more than a few tussles between them on the way home in the back seat of his dad’s old Buick. Brad pulled open the bottom drawer, half expecting to find an errant Tootsie Roll Pop. He chuckled to himself wondering what he would have done had he found one.
Brad returned to his seat behind the desk as Sharon bounded into the office with her cell phone glued to her ear. “What are you up to?” Sharon asked, adding, “I’m on hold.”
“I’ve been cremating the Inquirer,” Brad said. Spotting the sports section still on his desk, he flung the paper in her direction. “You’re on your feet. Take care of this, if you would please.”
“I have an idea,” Sharon said, as she pushed back the fireplace screen and tossed the crumpled paper on to the fire. “Why don’t you just buy the publishing company?”
Brad ignored her suggestion, and pointed toward her cell phone. “Who are you on hold for?”
“I’m chasing down a lead on David.”
Brad nodded as he thought about the runaway teen that they’d been hired to find.
“I went by his school yesterday and talked with his nerdy friend Lou.” Sharon plopped down on the leather sofa. “Lou said David chatted regularly with a girl on the Internet. She lives in Colorado, and Lou figures he’s heading that way. I’m on hold while Lou tries to locate the girl’s screen name.”
The phone rang.
Sharon picked up the extension on a table near her end of the sofa. Brad grimaced at the sight of her holding the receiver at her right ear and the cell phone at her left. “Brad Frame Agency,” she answered with the authority of a switchboard operator at a Fortune 500 company. Sharon held the receiver against her chest and whispered, “It's Superintendent Dolewski.”
Brad signaled for Sharon to listen on the extension.
He picked up the phone on his desk. “Superintendent, thanks for getting back to me.”
“No problem, Mr. Frame. What can I do for you?”
“What I have to ask may sound a little unusual,” Brad began.
“In my line of work hardly anything sounds unusual.” Dolewski laughed huskily.
“I bet. I was wondering if... as you gathered Frank Wilkie's personal effects... if you found any Biblical references?”
Dolewski responded, “You mean like a list of Bible verses?”
“Yes.” Brad looked hopefully toward Sharon, and noticed her glancing at her cell phone, grimacing, and folding it shut.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Dolewski replied. “I realized it must have fallen out of Wilkie’s Bible. It was a sheet of paper with chapters and verses from the Bible scribbled in pencil. I don’t remember them exactly.”
Brad ran his fingers through the hair on his left temple, sure that the list of verses would help make sense of the words Wilkie had written in the Bible. “I wonder if I might get a copy of that list?”
“Well, Mr. Frame, there’s a slight complication.” Dolewski’s voice seemed to turn more formal. “I had a visitor within the last hour. Mr. Wilkie’s attorney, Ronald Allessi, came to retrieve Frank Wilkie’s personal property. We had boxed up the prisoner’s stuff, like we always do, just in case anyone called for them. I put that list of Bible verses in the box.”
“I see,” Brad said, trying not to sound too disappointed. “I was just curious ...”
“I should warn you, Mr. Frame,” Dolewski continued, “Mr. Allessi is looking for you. Allessi asked me about an article in today’s Philadelphia Inquirer. We don’t get the Inquirer out here in the boonies, but I gathered that the newspaper reported Wilkie having a Bible at the execution. Mr. Allessi specifically asked about it because there wasn’t any Bible in a box of the prisoner’s possessions. So I phoned the Chaplain. He told me that he gave Wilkie’s Bible to you. Based on the fireworks Mr. Allessi put on while he was here, I’m guessing he’s calling directory assistance right about now for your phone number.”
Brad glanced over at Wilkie’s Bible, sitting safely on the edge of his desk.
“I appreciate the heads up,” Brad said. “And thanks for the information about the list.”
“I figure it can’t be a coincidence what with that lawyer looking for Wilkie’s Bible and you asking about a list of Bible verses.” The superintendent paused, and Brad weighed whether to share more information about the words written in Wilkie’s Bible, when he heard, “I made a photocopy of the list, Mr. Frame, if you’d still like to have it.”
“That would be great,” Brad said, trying not to sound too excited. “Here’s my fax number—”
“Unfortunately,” Dolewski interrupted, “our fax machine is broken. But I can mail it to you.”
“Don’t you have a Kinko’s or another store where you could use a fax machine?” Brad as
ked.
He could hear Dolewski sigh on the other end of the line.
“There’s a place about eight miles from here,” Dolewski said. “It’s on my way home, so I’ll fax it to you tonight.”
Brad thanked Dolewski and gave the superintendent his fax number before turning to Sharon and saying, “Too bad we have to wait, but that list should help us figure out what Wilkie was trying to tell us.”
Chapter Five
Brad found a visitor’s parking spot near the entrance to the Bairnes Care Center, a one-story brick building once home to an elementary school. He leaned momentarily against the trunk of his car and surveyed the tranquil setting, admiring the mature maple and elm trees, lush manicured lawns, and freshly tilled flowerbeds. He opened his trunk and retrieved two flats of daffodils he had bought at a nearby greenhouse, each planted in a small clay pot wrapped with green gingham fabric and tied with a yellow bow. He juggled them in his arms and pushed the trunk closed with his right elbow.
Tawana, the regular receptionist, wearing a pink pantsuit that matched the blush on her cheeks beamed when she saw him coming. She nudged a co-worker exclaiming, “Look what Mr. Frame’s brought for us today.”
“My mom always liked daffodils,” Brad explained. “I thought these would give everyone a taste of spring.”
“Now aren’t you sweet,” she said, lightly stroking the petals of one of the flowers.
“Make sure you keep one for yourself, Tawana.” Brad said, scooping up a pot. “I’ll take this one for Dad.”
After a short jaunt down the brightly-lit carpeted corridor, Brad arrived at room 117, where he pushed on the handle with his free hand.
“Hi, Dad! Look what I brought.” Brad placed the daffodil on the nightstand next to his father’s hospital-style bed, with the head elevated. All the other furnishings in the room were from their Bryn Mawr home, including a green and gold brocade chair that had always been his dad’s favorite.