Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6) Page 5

  “Thanks.” I aimed for the restroom.

  I knew I couldn’t stay in there forever. It would be at least ten minutes before the cab would arrive—if Phil made the call—but I couldn’t stand to stare at the Pepto-Bismol-pink walls for very long. It was obvious that a man had decorated the ladies’ room, sarting with his choice of the A League of Their Own poster framed above the toilet, the lack of curtains on the frosted-glass window, and the tiny mirror above the sink. A plastic deodorizer spewed sickeningly sweet floral odors to cover up the human ones. I flipped on the exhaust fan hoping to clear the air.

  The door handle jiggled from the outside. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I chirped and waited a little longer before flushing the toilet.

  I ran water in the sink and activated the electric hand dryer before I finally unlocked the door. A young woman elbowed past me and slammed the door shut.

  From the shadows of the narrow hallway, I eyed the pool table. Skull Sanders was bent over, lining up his shot at the eight ball. Nice ass. Axel faced me, but his focus was on the table. Detective Barkow’s back was toward me. I moved cautiously to retrieve my parka from the back of the chair where I’d been sitting, and waited for the right moment to head for the door.

  I winked at Phil.

  When I saw Skull pull back on the cue stick, I quickened my pace.

  I heard the cue ball hit its target. Skull roared, “Fuck, yeah!”

  Time to get out of here.

  Skull hoisted his stick in the air, twirled on his heels, and I found myself facing him about three feet away.

  Think. Quickly.

  I rushed up to Skull, spun him a quarter turn—so that my back was to Barkow—planted a kiss on his cheek and cooed, “I lost the bet. Guess your next beer is on me.”

  I dashed for the exit.

  As the door closed behind me, I heard Barkow ask, “Who was that?”

  I took a moment to catch my breath and walked to the end of the block while looking in both directions for the cab.

  A chilly wind swept over me, and I realized that I was still carrying my coat. I put it on to protect against the cold night air.

  Where’s the damn cab?

  I kept glancing toward the front door hoping no one would come after me.

  Lights approached, and I spotted the cab’s insignia atop the car. The taxi stopped in front of me and I climbed into the back seat.

  Once more, the driver flashed his gold-toothed grin in the rear-view mirror and asked, “Where to?”

  “Bryn Mawr,” I said, as I sank back into the seat and began to breathe normally.

  5

  Brad Frame walked the short distance from the kitchen to his office shortly after 10:00 a.m. The air was crisp and a hint of burning leaves pricked his nostrils as he crossed the pavers on the breezeway that separated his office from the mansion—built by his parents fifty years earlier. The addition, designed to look like a carriage house, had been his idea. An architect had replicated the stone façade and second-floor dormers of the main house.

  Brad noticed a log burning in the fireplace, smelled a fresh pot of coffee, and saw a copy of Sterling Haller’s obituary from that morning’s Philadelphia Inquirer next to a pile of mail on his desk. Sharon had already been at work.

  He wondered where she was until he heard the sound of the treadmill in the fitness center on the second floor of the carriage house.

  He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it while studying Haller’s death notice. Much of the information he already knew, such as his successful career as an investment banker with The Burnham Group, of which he’d been the managing partner. He’d known of Haller’s time in the Navy, but not that he’d been a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. Brad thought that Grace had been his only living relative and was surprised to see references to a nephew, Riley Truit. Since Haller’s parents were the only ones named in the “preceded in death” section, Brad wondered if Riley could be Grace’s son. Although Grace went by the last name of Haller, he had no idea if she’d ever been married.

  Brad looked up and saw Sharon watching him from across the oak partners’ desk that had once adorned his father’s office. She wore gray sweats and her hair looked damp from her workout.

  “You’re deep in thought,” she said.

  “I was reading the obituary.”

  “Who’s that mystery child?” Sharon asked.

  Brad smiled. “Don’t know, but I’m anxious to find out. He’s hardly a child. His spouse’s name—Christine—is printed next to his. How’d your visit to Ruddigore’s go last night?”

  Sharon wobbled her hand in a so-so gesture. “My trip cost the petty cash fund about a hundred and fifty for cab rides, refreshments, and a bet I made on a game of eightball.”

  Brad arched an eyebrow hoping for an explanation.

  “Skull and Barkow were both there last night.”

  “Did Barkow recognize you?”

  Sharon shook her head. “I made sure he didn’t. It seemed to me like they were bragging about what they did to Nick.”

  “Did Patty enjoy herself?”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “Patty was a no-show. Texted me that she was in an accident. I need to contact her this morning and make sure she’s alright.”

  Sharon filled him in on the details of her evening at Ruddigore’s.

  Brad made a note of the name Saul Kasheski. He didn’t know the man but would ask Nick about him.

  “The underage drinking aspect is interesting,” Brad said. “Nick thought he saw a table full of college students during his visit.”

  “I felt like Phil has more information about what happened with Nick. He kept saying he’d talked to Internal Affairs. You might want to speak with him.”

  “Sure. I’ll get more of Nick’s take on him before I do.” Brad sifted through the stack of mail on his desk. Most of it was junk, which included catalogs, advertisements, real estate offers, and requests for donations. It seemed like every charity in North America wished to test his generosity. He was tempted to write “deceased” on all the solicitations and return them to the post office. There were a couple of bills and two reminders about service to his car, but one envelope drew his attention.

  “What’s with the suit?” Sharon asked as she refilled his coffee mug.

  “I thought I’d go to Sterling Haller’s viewing this afternoon.” He pulled the number 10 white envelope in front of him. It was the kind that could be purchased at any office supply store.

  “Do you think his killer will be there?”

  Brad shrugged. “I guess there’s always a chance.” Brad sipped his coffee and studied the envelope. Written in block lettering with a felt tip pen, it said simply: L. Bradford Frame, % Frame Detective Agency at his Bryn Mawr address. Not many people used his first initial.

  Sharon stared at him expectantly.

  “I suspect Sterling Haller knew the person who killed him,” Brad said.

  “Why?”

  “I keep thinking about the circumstances of Haller’s death, including him being embalmed. Wes, the funeral director, said that there weren’t any defensive wounds. The killer got close enough to disable him. Nick had suggested that drugs might have been involved.”

  There was no return address on the envelope. A “forever” first-class stamp had been canceled the previous Saturday in the 19147 zip code. Brad would have to double-check but thought that was the same part of Philadelphia where Grace Haller lived.

  Shame it took three days for a letter to travel sixteen miles.

  “Whoever killed Haller would have had embalming training and access to facilities,” Sharon said. “Won’t that narrow our search?”

  “Huh?” Brad had been distracted by the envelope, but then realized he’d heard Sharon’s question. “Not according to Wes Taylor.” Brad then gave Sharon a detailed account of his visit to the funeral home, including the funeral director’s assessment that a poorly-skilled amateur had botched the embalming. “The odor of decomposi
tion still hung in the room.”

  Sharon pointed at the letter. “Read it. I’ll shut up.”

  Brad laughed.

  He reached for a silver letter opener with a jade handle that had been a favorite of his father, sliced open the envelope, and retrieved a single sheet of eight-and-one-half-by-eleven copy paper.

  The writing on the letter was in the same felt-tipped block lettering as the envelope.

  Brad glanced at the signature before reading the letter. It was a name he didn’t recognize.

  Dear Mr. Frame:

  You may not remember me, but I worked at Joedco’s headquarters as an assistant to Gertrude Lindstrom. I admired your father very much. Meant to contact you before this to say how much I have mourned his passing.

  I’ve kept in touch with a few of the old timers. Yesterday, I had lunch with Irene Del Greco, and she told me about her recent meeting with you concerning Grace Haller and her missing brother.

  Grace is another one of those employees I’ve stayed in contact with.

  I know nothing about her brother’s whereabouts.

  I’m not sure how to put this, except to “say it” and let you decide how important it is. I think Grace exaggerated her memory problems to get her brother to take care of her. A few years ago she told me that she had run out of money and didn’t know how she was going to live. I asked didn’t her brother have money, and a few months later I found out he’d moved in with her. Ever since then when I’ve tried to arrange meetings with her she refuses to see me.

  Not trying to open a hornet’s nest, but would hate to see Grace’s brother taken advantage of.

  Rhonda Lounsbury

  Brad passed the letter to Sharon for her to read.

  Sharon whistled.

  Brad nodded. “I couldn’t have said it any better.”

  The implication was that Grace had scammed her brother into taking care of her by faking dementia. Brad could think of more devious things a sister might do to her brother. He wondered if Grace was the beneficiary of Sterling’s estate, and if so, whether she’d now experience a remarkable recovery of her memory.

  “Why the sour expression?” Sharon asked.

  Brad tapped the letter, which Sharon had returned to his side of the desk. “I don’t remember Rhonda Lounsbury. I’ve observed Grace Haller with my own eyes three times. While I’m not a doctor, if she’s faking her dementia she’d rank right up there with Judi Dench and Maggie Smith as actors. What ax does Rhonda have to grind?”

  “Good point,” Sharon said.

  “I’ll go to Sterling’s wake and then decide if there are any other steps I need to take.”

  “Want company?” Sharon asked.

  Brad was surprised. “I thought funeral homes creeped you out?”

  “They do…but maybe it’s time I got over it.”

  Brad was sure he had astonishment plastered all over his face and tried to explain. “I know your parents’ deaths hit you hard. You don’t have to come with me.”

  “It wasn’t their deaths that gave me an aversion to funeral homes.”

  Brad looked across the desk at Sharon, all ears at what she’d say next.

  “It goes back to when my brother died.”

  “I don’t remember you mentioning a brother.”

  Sharon looked ill at ease. “I seldom talk about him. I was eight when Quentin died. He had a brain aneurysm. He collapsed at school. There was no hope of saving him, and they pronounced him dead when the ambulance arrived at the hospital.”

  “How old was he?” Brad asked.

  “Thirteen.” Sharon’s eyes glistened. She tilted her face toward the ceiling and blinked a few times. “I was devastated. My parents were, too. I needed more support than either of them were able to give me. That was my first experience with a funeral home. I hated it—from the permeating odor of the flowers to the cloying expressions of sympathy from people I didn’t even know. I sat there for two days staring at the casket. Quentin was laid out in his confirmation suit—even had a carnation in his lapel. I kept expecting him to jump up and shout, ‘Ha ha.’ I took it all in and vowed, ‘never again.’”

  After a pause, Brad said, “If you want to come along, I could use an extra set of eyes and ears,” adding, “but you don’t have to.”

  Sharon chuckled. “If I could manage to plant a kiss on Skull’s cheek last night, I think I’m ready to confront this fear.”

  Four hours of viewing had been scheduled at Taylor’s Funeral Home for Sterling Haller between 5:00 and 9:00 p.m. Brad and Sharon decided they would leave Bryn Mawr shortly after five.

  Heading into the city via the Schuylkill Expressway at that hour was a comparative breeze, as most of the traffic slogged outbound. Finding a parking spot close to the funeral home after commuters had returned home for the day was nearly impossible.

  Brad dropped Sharon out front and then circled four blocks before finding a parking place.

  Wes Taylor stood inside the front door greeting mourners, and he asked Brad and Sharon to sign the guest book before directing them into the same room Brad had passed through the previous afternoon.

  The first thing Brad noticed was how few people were there. Perhaps Mr. Haller’s colleagues from The Burnham Group will arrive later. He spotted Grace Haller dressed in black and seated in the front row. Carol Ferguson sat next to her. Sharon headed over to sit with them.

  Without asking her to do so, Brad knew Sharon would focus on the veracity of Grace’s mental state.

  In the back row of chairs sat Irene Del Greco. She was the woman who first contacted Brad with her concerns about Grace and her missing brother.

  He wanted to speak to her and inquire about Rhonda Lounsbury, but Irene’s head was bowed and she faintly prayed as rosary beads slipped between her fingers.

  Brad spotted a young man standing near the foot of the casket. He was dressed in a charcoal suit and wore a drab burgundy tie. Brad wondered if it might be Riley Truit and decided to approach.

  The man extended his hand. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m Kip Murray.”

  Brad shook his hand and introduced himself.

  “You’re the private detective,” Kip said. “Mr. Grayson mentioned you. I’m an associate with Federated Trust.” Kip lowered his voice. “We handled all the funeral arrangements.”

  Brad recognized Hamilton Grayson’s name. He’d been the contact person at the bank to whom Brad had reached out when alerted to the fact that Sterling Haller was missing.

  “Yes, I know. Mr. Taylor told me.” Brad glanced around the room as if looking for someone. “Is Hamilton here? I was hoping to see him this evening.”

  “Not yet. I’m expecting him later. If there’s something I can help you with I’ll be happy to.” After a pause, Kip added, “If you’re worried about payment for your services, I can assure you we’ll take care of it. We’re acting as the executor of his estate in addition to having served as power of attorney.”

  “I’m not worried in the least.” Brad looked over at Grace Haller and saw that Sharon had brought her a cup of tea. Nodding in her direction, he said, “I am concerned about Grace—given her mental state.”

  Kip looked solemn. “I can’t discuss the specifics, but Sterling Haller made provisions for his sister’s care.”

  Brad had never met Riley Truit, but Kip didn’t know that. Brad casually asked, “Has Riley been here? I don’t see him.”

  Kip looked at his watch. “His flight from Chicago should’ve arrived twenty minutes ago. Mr. Grayson was planning to pick him up and bring him directly here.”

  If a Trust Department officer is picking him up at the airport, Riley must be a key beneficiary of Sterling Haller’s estate.

  Brad saw a middle-aged couple approaching the casket, and since Kip seemed to be the self-appointed greeter, Brad thanked him and excused himself. He’d seen quite enough of Sterling Haller the previous afternoon in the embalming room. As he passed the body, he couldn’t help noticing how Wes Taylor transforme
d the gray pallor through the use of cosmetics. It gave him a better appreciation of the mortician’s craft.

  Brad approached the trio of Sharon, Grace, and Carol and found them engaged in rapt conversation. “Good evening, Grace. Carol, it’s good to see you again,” Brad said softly.

  Grace tugged at Carol’s sleeve. “Is this the mayor? Somebody said the mayor might be here.”

  Sharon turned to him and softly said, “Meryl Streep couldn’t be any more convincing.”

  She’d just confirmed what Brad already thought. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I want to have a few words with Irene.”

  Irene Del Greco had finished saying the Rosary and dabbed her eyes with a floral patterned handkerchief. Brad sidled into her row and sat next to her.

  “Oh, Mr. Frame. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “Please call me Brad.” Even though they were distant from other mourners, he kept his voice low. “I wanted to thank you for contacting me last week. I regret that we weren’t able to locate Sterling before his death.”

  Irene sniffled and nodded. “I don’t know why I’m so emotional. I feel bad for Grace. I barely knew her brother.”

  “From everything I’ve heard via the medical examiner’s office, Sterling may have died before you even contacted me.”

  Irene looked at him plaintively. “I’m sure you’ll find who did this.”

  “It’s out of my hands at this point. There’s an active police investigation.”

  “I’m so worried about Grace. I went to see her today right after that guy from the bank left. Carol—her caregiver—told me that they’re moving her into an assisted living facility in Bucks County. Her home is going to be sold and everything in it put up for auction.”

  “When?” Brad asked, surprised by that news.

  “They’re taking her on Friday. The day after the funeral. Of course, she’s oblivious to what’s happening.” Irene sighed. “It might be for the best. I feel bad ’cause I won’t get to visit her since I don’t drive.”

  Irene began to sob.