Lady on the Edge (Brad Frame Mysteries Book 4) Page 8

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I knew my son, Mr. Frame.”

  “I thought we agreed you would call me Brad.”

  “I’m sorry, Brad, but I knew my son. He wasn’t into drugs.” Amanda rummaged through her purse, extracting a cigarette and disposable lighter.

  Brad sat on a wooden crate opposite Amanda and stared, saying nothing, until her eyes locked with his.

  “I know my business too, Amanda. What are you holding back from me? If you can’t be absolutely honest with me, I’m afraid I can’t help.”

  Amanda brushed a tear out of the corner of her eye. “Drugs are something I understand very well.” Her thumb plucked at the lighter several times before a yellow flame appeared. Amanda’s hands shook as she mated the flame to the tip of the cigarette. “I’ve spent most of the last four years recovering from a drug dependency that started soon after Dana’s death. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this earlier. But I was afraid if you knew—you wouldn’t take my case.”

  She took a deep drag on the cigarette, slowly exhaling before continuing her story.

  “I was screwed up for a couple of years. It all started with medication the doctor prescribed to help me get through my grief. Then I visited more doctors, all of them willing to help ease my pain. I combined drugs with alcohol. It’s lucky I didn’t accidentally kill myself. I stopped working… couldn’t function really. Six months ago, with the help of a clinic in Miami, I managed to free myself from that misery. That’s why it’s taken me so long to ask for an investigation into my son’s death.” She smiled ruefully. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it already. Anyway, I’ve come to understand what drug dependency is, Brad. My son was not into drugs.”

  She sounded convinced.

  Amanda continued, “Oh, I’m not saying he might not have experimented once in a while. And drinking?” She rolled her eyes upward. “On more than one occasion he came home with liquor on his breath. But he knew better than to come home drunk.” She laughed nervously, and laid the cigarette in an ashtray on the table. “His father would never have tolerated it, and after Dent died I carried on the family tradition. We had an unspoken rule that if the boys could get home by curfew time and make it quietly into bed we wouldn’t say anything. Denton Jr. came home sick one night and threw up all over the kitchen. His father caught him as he was about to sneak into his room. As sick as Denton Jr. was that night, his father made him scrub down the kitchen and then grounded him for a month.” She reached for a fresh glob of clay on the work table.

  “Did Dana have any hassles with the local police?” Brad felt like he was grasping at straws, fairly certain that if Dana had a bad reputation, Josh Miller in the sheriff’s office would have told him.

  “No. Not that I ever heard.” Amanda kneaded the clay.

  “What about his social life?”

  “Dana was very popular. He had lots of friends. They were always showing up at the house or calling on the phone.”

  “I’ll need the names of these friends,” Brad said.

  “His best friend was Bob Kepner,” Amanda said. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger against her apron and then picked up her cigarette by the filter. She puffed on it in rapid succession and smoke billowed. “He’s an architect now—”

  Brad batted the approaching cloud of smoke away with his hand. “I already have his name.”

  “I’m sorry,” Amanda said. “My smoking is bothering you.”

  “No, it’s alright,” Brad said, trying to be tolerant. “Go ahead and smoke.”

  She crushed out the butt in an already half-filled ashtray on her worktable. “It’s a filthy habit, I know. Did I mention Craig Simmons? I think he’s up in Atlanta now.”

  “Heard about him, too,”

  “Let’s see, who else?” Amanda thought aloud, “There’s Mark McKinney, he runs an Exxon station over in Beaufort. Alan Caufield. He’s in the Navy now, but they were good friends in high school.”

  Brad wrote the last two names in his leather-covered notebook.

  “What about girls?” Brad inquired. “Any steady girlfriends?

  “He only had one girlfriend, Kathy Ann Westin. I believe I told you about her. She’s our next door neighbor. Her father found Dana’s body.”

  “You mentioned Mr. Westin, and you mentioned his daughter and her friendship with Dana, but I didn’t realize that Kathy was Dana’s girlfriend.”

  Amanda seemed flustered. “I liked Kathy.” Amanda reached in her purse for another cigarette, but quickly replaced the pack and resumed pummeling the clay in front of her.

  “What about other girls?”

  “There were a bunch he knew from school, none of which he dated seriously. He and Kathy used to double date with Bob Kepner and his girlfriend, Linda Reinhardt. She’s Linda Kepner now. She and Laura Simmons—Craig’s sister—used to tutor Dana in math.”

  “Do you ever see any of Dana’s friends?”

  “Not anymore. Right after he died a couple of them came to visit. Bob and Craig stopped by to offer their condolences and give me money their fraternity had collected to help with funeral expenses. I used that toward his gravestone.”

  “Has Kathy ever visited?”

  Amanda hesitated. “No. I don’t believe she has.”

  “Were there any problems between Dana and Kathy?” Brad asked. “Anything you were aware of? Especially near the time of his death?”

  “None that I knew of. Oh, I’m sure they had their difficulties, but they’d been going together for four years and they’d talked about getting married after they graduated.”

  Across the room Brad noticed Peter checked the temperature gauge on the side of the kiln, before turning a handle to adjust the heat.

  “Was Dana seeing a doctor about anything?” Brad asked.

  Amanda looked astonished at the question.

  “Not that I knew,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason, just trying to get a complete picture.”

  “But if he were seeing a doctor…” Amanda began.

  “As I told you before,” Brad interrupted, “we’re going to start contacting Dana’s friends. You may get calls.”

  “What should I…,” she started to ask.

  “Just explain an insurance policy has turned up, and that we’re investigating for the insurance company.”

  Amanda nodded her agreement and seemed composed.

  Brad paused, clasping his hands together in front of him. “I’m going to have to speak with your son, too, Amanda.”

  “Oh, do you have to?” Her eyes were wide, pleading.

  “If you’re interested in knowing what really happened, I need to interview him.”

  Amanda retrieved another cigarette from her purse and let it dangle from the corner of her mouth. “If you really think it’s necessary…” She hesitated before giving him the telephone number to contact Denton Jr., which Brad copied in his book.

  Brad stood. “Your car at the time of Dana’s death, was it a two door or four door?”

  “Four door.”

  “I see you currently own a Volvo. What kind of car did you have then?”

  “The same, a Volvo.” Grooves formed between her eyebrows.

  “The sheriff’s office told us the car doors were locked when they found your son,” Frame said. “I assume all four doors were locked.”

  “Yes.” Amanda picked at the clay imbedded under her fingernails.

  “You had a second vehicle?” Brad asked.

  “A van. I still have it. I use it to transport my work to local galleries.”

  Peter Gibson walked over and interrupted Amanda, struggling with his words. “Wha…what d.. do you waaaant me to w… work on n…now?

  She faced him and raised her voice. “Wait a minute, Peter. I’m not finished with my meeting.”

  Brad glanced at his watch realizing he needed to leave in order to make his lunch date with Beth. “It’s okay. I have the information I need t
o continue my investigation. I’ll be in touch.”

  As he slid into the driver’s seat of the rental car, Brad realized he’d gotten the green light on the investigation that he’d come for, but couldn’t understand why he felt just as anxious now as when Amanda said she wanted him off the case.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Sharon Porter?” the nurse asked as she approached my bed.

  I nodded and grimaced as I felt another spasm in my abdomen.

  “Need to check your wristband,” she muttered, as she placed an ice-filled glass and a bottle of cranberry-colored liquid on my tray table. Why did she even bother to ask who I was?

  I closed my eye lids so she couldn’t see my eyeballs rolling, and raised a limp wrist like a disjointed zombie marionette.

  I felt her touch the plastic name band, after which she announced, “Okay, you need to drink this laxative. You’ll get another bottle in about four hours. You’re scheduled for a colonoscopy in the morning.” My eyes were wide open as I watched her twist the cap and pour the liquid over the ice. “It goes down a little easier if it’s cold,” she added. Gee thanks!

  “When can I get out of here?”

  “You’ll have to ask the doctor.”

  Before disappearing down the hall, the nurse turned and said, “You’ll want to stay close to the restroom.”

  Ya think?

  I stared at the glass and repositioned myself in bed. I felt miserable, mostly due to confinement. Except for the occasional twinge, my stomach felt a lot better than it had overnight.

  I took a sip of the laxative. Whoa! A bitter piquancy, with earthy undertones. The woman who develops a chardonnay-flavored version, I thought, is destined for the Nobel Prize. I figured there was only one way to handle the treatment, in one-big-no-breath-gulp. Ugh.

  “Are you okay?” I heard Brad’s voice and looked up to see him and Beth looming in the doorway, concerned expressions on their faces.

  I shook off the taste—it could have been worse—set the empty glass on the tray table and tried to smile.

  “You looked…” Brad seemed speechless. “I’ve never seen that expression on your face before.”

  I pointed at the glass in front of me. “Just drank a laxative. I think I know how Socrates felt at the end.”

  Brad laughed.

  Beth slipped into a chair next to my hospital bed and leaned forward. “How are you feeling, Sharon?”

  I shrugged. “A little weak. They won’t tell me much until they’ve completed more tests. After X-rays and blood work this morning they did an upper GI. They’ve ruled out appendicitis, but said it could still be serious. They’re doing a colonoscopy tomorrow morning. What have you guys been up to? What’s happening with the case?”

  I saw Brad glance at Beth. There was something he didn’t want to share with me.

  “We’ve just come from a great lunch at a Mexican restaurant,” Beth said.

  “And the investigation?” I persisted, staring at Brad.

  After shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he finally said, “Our client wanted to pull us off the case, but things are back on track. No need for you to worry about the details.”

  I wasn’t worried. In my weakened condition, the fact that Beth obviously knew more than I did about the case bothered me. I realized that they were trying to spare me, but if I could down that horrid tasting laxative in one swill, I could digest the details of whatever had possessed Amanda Carothers to halt Brad’s investigation.

  “I’ve got a little time on my hands,” I explained, pointing at my surroundings. “If I can help… make a few calls… not make you sorry that I came all this way from Philadelphia—”

  “Relax,” Brad cut me off. “It’s been a dull day. You haven’t missed a thing.”

  Liar. I looked at Beth, who averted her gaze.

  “What are you gonna do now?” I asked.

  “I’m driving Beth to the water taxi and will try to chat with Kathy Westin this afternoon.”

  My chin dropped to my chest. Damn, I was hoping to be present when he talked with Kathy. I had a feeling she’d be key to solving the case.

  “I’ll call tonight to see how you’re doing,” Brad said, just as Beth stood.

  Beth cleared her throat. “We’d better let you catch up on your rest.”

  “When the doctors are ready to spring you, we’ll pick you up,” Brad promised.

  As they walked into the hallway I could hear Brad remark about the lost color in my cheeks. I slid open a drawer in the tray table and found a mirror. He was right; I looked like shit.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blinding autumn sun reflected off the rear window of the van in front of Brad. He reached for his sunglasses and scanned for a blues-rock song on the rental car’s radio that he knew Beth would like. The air conditioning felt good. He settled into the bucket seat and smiled when he glanced over and saw Beth tapping her fingers to the beat.

  They rode in silence, and Brad’s thoughts drifted from the strum of Steve Winwood’s guitar to the circumstances of Dana Carothers’ death. He played out the scenario he’d discussed with Sharon the previous evening suggesting that Dana and another person might have had a double-suicide pact. It would explain the anomaly of Dana being found with his keys in the wrong pocket. Sharon hadn’t bought his hypothesis, but in the process he’d convinced her that Dana had not committed suicide.

  Brad’s thumbs kept time to the music on the car’s steering wheel, as he reflected on the alleged suicide note.

  In his research on the subject he’d found a university report which studied the common elements in suicide notes. Dana’s note didn’t fit the usual profile. To him it sounded like an apology to a girlfriend.

  He hoped Kathy Westin would be able to shed light on that issue.

  Brad dropped Beth at the water taxi dock, and told her it would be late before he returned to the beach house. Beth seemed resigned to the fact that he was in full investigative mode, kissed him goodbye, and promised to “hold down the fort” until he returned.

  Brad drove back to Bluffton, where he maneuvered the rental car into the Westin’s driveway. As he emerged from the car, a blast of hot humid air fogged his sunglasses. He whipped them off as he made his way to the front door, and within seconds of knocking on it Kathy Westin invited him in.

  The Westin home was a reverse plan of the Carothers’ residence. Rounded plaster archways and wall to wall carpeting took the place of squared doorways and hardwood floors at Amanda’s place.

  “I’m glad you came back,” Kathy said, as she led him into the living room. She sat on the sofa, while directing Brad to a nearby recliner. She made no mention of her father, which Brad took to mean that Jim Westin was not at home. Just as well.

  The Westin’s taste in decorating was plain. Furnishings were neatly arranged; most covered with blue throws. A few photographs and wall ornaments broke up the expanse of blue on the walls. The most prominent feature of the room was an antique oak and leaded-glass gun cabinet with a half-dozen shotguns on display. Brad observed an empty space in the middle of the cabinet, where a weapon appeared to be missing.

  “I wanted to talk with you,” Brad began, “and the other day things seemed a little…”

  “Awkward,” Kathy completed his sentence.

  Brad nodded.

  “I apologize for the way my father acted,” Kathy said, in a soft voice. “He tries to protect me, even though I can take care of myself.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I understand you were close to Dana Carothers?”

  Kathy smiled at the mention of Dana’s name. “Yes. We planned to be married once we were out of college and Dana had a job. We’d been dating since we were sixteen. He was only two weeks older than me. He was a Taurus and I’m a Gemini.”

  “You knew him very well,” Brad commented, then watched Kathy fidget as if she might have thought it was a trick question.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Were there any spe
cific problems in your relationship, which you can recall, near the time of his death?” Brad asked.

  “What do you mean?” She said with an edge to her voice.

  “Changes in his attitude? Fights? The amount of time you spent together? Anything you can remember.”

  “We had a few squabbles.” Kathy picked at the cuticle on her thumb. “I don’t think they were different than what any couple goes through. Dana was very mature and responsible. I always thought we had our heads screwed on right.”

  “It’s tough dragging up unpleasant memories,” Brad began, “but can you recall your first reaction when you heard Dana had committed suicide?”

  Her eyes widened as if reliving the experience. “I couldn’t believe it,” she said. “I was in shock. My dad told me, and I started screaming. I was an absolute mess.”

  “You said you couldn’t believe it. What couldn’t you believe?” Brad asked. “That he was dead, or that he had committed suicide?”

  “That he was dead,” Kathy blurted out, then after a pause said, “Both.”

  A truck rumbled by the house, and the picture window hummed from the vibration.

  “When was the last time you saw Dana alive?” Brad asked.

  “The night before… before he died. We went out to a movie.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior on that occasion?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  Brad smiled at Kathy to encourage a further explanation.

  “He seemed rather distant, and he didn’t appear to be having a good time. I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Linda and Denton both mentioned something to me about Dana being moody.”

  “Linda—that was Bob Kepner’s girlfriend?”

  “Yes. They’re married now.”

  “And by Denton you mean Dana’s brother?”

  “Yes.”

  Brad pulled a small notebook from his pocket. “Give me a second.” He leafed through several pages hunting for notes he’d made of his original meeting with Amanda. She’d told him that Denton Jr. had seen his brother at the movies, but no mention had been made of Dana being moody.