by Eileen Brady
“Hey, one thing you’re forgetting, Luke.” The warm mist from the tea smelled of oranges.
“What’s that?” He turned his attractively craggy face toward me.
“Delphina said Frank was going to die soon.”
The chief turned to me, an idea brewing in his eyes.
“She was right.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
If Frank Martindale’s death was murder, it was a very clever one. Because dependent on opiate painkillers and alcohol, it wouldn’t have taken much to push him over the edge. With a lot of free time I acted on something I should have done a long time ago. I decided to talk to Frank’s nearest neighbor, the woman who adopted his cat, Teddy.
Ann-Marie Gilderman’s family went all the way back to Dutch settlers who worked the land back in the 1700s. Those genes gave her clear blue eyes, a pleasant face, and a practical attitude. A sensible no-nonsense woman she’d been Frank’s neighbor for twenty years. It soon became apparent to me that although she implied that she rarely saw him, the truth turned out to be far more complicated.
“He was a good neighbor,” she told us. “Kept to himself.”
That was the first nice thing anyone had said about Frank.
It seems they often shared conversations while taking out the trash, weed-whacking along their shared fence, or watching the antics of their cats. This widow knew Frank could be a little “slippery” about money, her late husband had warned her, but that never came up between them.
Not sure how to approach getting the dirt on Frank, I simply decided to tell her how his death upset me and all about my Christmas wish on YouTube.
“Of course you feel terrible,” she agreed sympathetically as she poured me another cup of tea. “Who wouldn’t? But I’ve lived long enough not to be surprised by anything anymore.” She repositioned a book on the small table next to her. The inside of her home, painted in soft pastels and filled with plants, books, and artwork, felt calm and safe. We sat in a cupola with large windows on all sides, where geraniums and a Christmas cactus flowered in greedy abandon overlooking an icy garden.
I tiptoed around the next few questions about his many lawsuits.
“That’s the way he got his jollies,” Ann-Marie colorfully explained. “Frank sat around all year collecting disability payments for his on-the-job back injury. He had too much time on his hands. Too much time is the devil’s playground.”
“So, because of his situation he sued people or tricked them out of their money?”
“I don’t think Frank thought of it like that,” she explained, trying to put her thoughts into words. “To him it was a way to have fun. Frank liked to cause a bit of trouble, stir the pot up.” A fond smile gentled her face.
As a target of Frank’s and an example of stirring the pot, I didn’t see how she calmly sat there and justified his actions. He needlessly and willfully hurt people.
When I questioned Ann-Marie about that aspect, she answered, “I’m not saying I agreed with Frank, only that I understand what drove him to it. He was an angry person, angry at his life but not willing to change it. Men need some kind of work to do each day. Frank had been a roofer and skilled carpenter. After his fall he wasn’t able to lift his arms past his shoulders. Some days his back pain was so bad he’d sit in that chair all day—then other times you wouldn’t know anything was wrong with him. He never knew what kind of day he faced until he got out of bed.”
With her careful explanation I started to understand Frank Martindale a bit. “Chronic pain is very debilitating, both mentally and physically,” I agreed.
“Very debilitating. Many a night I brought him a hot meal, so he didn’t have to eat leftover pizza.”
That might be the reason his front door was unlocked the night he died. After Pinky left, if Frank went back to his chair without locking the door, he wouldn’t want to get up again. Then a simple miscalculation—too much whiskey and too many prescription pills—depressed his breathing and he died.
Simple and sad and all too common these days.
My other scenario about unknown killers sneaking into the house sounded far-fetched.
A few sunbeams fought through the clouds and shone into the room, making me forget for a moment the cold winter outside. How inviting this space was. I wondered how often Frank came over, or Ann-Marie visited him.
“By the way, Frank liked you, Dr. Turner. He thought you were an excellent veterinarian.” Ann-Marie smiled and reached over to pet Teddy, who was curled up on the sofa next to another sleeping cat. “Please don’t take his actions personally.”
Anger flared in me then slowly died down. I was about to tell her thank you when she added something even worse.
“You know, he only wanted a discount on his bill.”
* * *
While Ann-Marie reminisced, I fumed.
“His favorite of all my recipes was prune-stuffed pork loin. I’d prepare it over at his place and we’d sit together and watch our programs. Once the dishes were done, I’d make him comfortable and help him take his medication.”
“What do you mean,” I asked, “help him take his medicine?”
My question seemed to annoy her. Ann-Marie’s blue eyes shifted and her lips pinched in disapproval. “Frank found it hard to swallow large pills or capsules. I’d open them up and put them in his drink for him.”
Astonished, I realized it was the perfect way to commit a murder.
“He couldn’t do it himself?”
Wrinkles stood out around her lips, as if it hurt her to divulge any additional information. “His back and spine were damaged in the fall. Both shoulders and hands sometimes ached and tingled, depending on his activity level. On bad days he’d keep dropping his medication.”
That might account for all the pills scattered around his recliner.
“Every night I picked up five or six pills and put them in the bowl next to this chair for later. We knew which was which by looking at them.”
Every night? I looked more carefully at the woman sitting opposite me, attractive in a crisp white blouse and plaid skirt. Maybe the widow and the bachelor had a deeper relationship than they let on. Her white shirt gleamed in the sunlight. White enough to remind Pinky of an angel?
Ann-Marie paused. “Frank always predicted one day Dutch Schultz would make him rich. Guess he was wrong.”
“What about Dutch Schultz?”
* * *
Half an hour later Ann-Marie and I still sat in her cupola plant room. I was getting a fast update about one of the biggest treasure hunts on the Eastern Seaboard—the millions of dollars’ worth of gold coins, jewelry, money, or whatever the famous gangster Dutch Schultz hid somewhere outside of Phoenicia, New York, back in the 1930s.
“Phoenicia is right around the corner from here,” I said.
She stared at me when I said the obvious.
“Frank told you he had a copy of the map?”
“So he said.” Ann-Marie smoothed down her skirt with chapped hands. “But I took it as another one of his schemes. If he knew where the treasure was, he would have dug it up himself, believe me.”
That seemed obvious. So Frank was running a treasure map scam. I wondered who fell for it? When I asked my hostess, she abruptly stood up.
“I have no idea.” Ann-Marie firmly led me to the front door. “But there are plenty of suckers out there now, aren’t there? Thank you, Doctor, for coming by.”
* * *
Still in the driveway, I called Cindy from the truck and told her about Dutch Schultz. “What do you think?” Ann-Marie continued watching me from behind her parlor curtain. She didn’t care that I saw her. My gut told me if I wasn’t her veterinarian, this lady would have pulled out a shotgun and ordered me off her property.
My conversation with Ann-Marie tired me out. She radiated an unusual intensity, which I menti
oned to Cindy.
“Strange lady” was her pithy comment.
“This whole Dutch Schultz thing sounds far-fetched, don’t you think?” I backed the truck up and started back to the animal hospital.
“You might think so, but there are people digging up there near the Esopus River and outside Phoenicia all the time. It’s a standing joke around these parts. Someone even made a television documentary about it.”
As I got closer to my place, the trees lining the road were reduced to dark shadows blocking the weak winter sun. Ann-Marie had spun an intriguing tale. Was there really a treasure hidden in the Hudson Valley?
Might Frank have convinced someone too well? Enough to kill for it?
A treasure from the 1930s that involved gangsters, deadly ambushes, and FBI car chases in the streets of New York City. It sounded so far-fetched I figured I’d call an impeccable source of knowledge, my Gramps.
Born and raised in the city, he was an amateur historian, especially knowledgeable of those very years. His father, my great-grandfather, had run an Irish pub in Brooklyn and during Prohibition dealt with the gangs that smuggled alcohol into the city. I wondered if he knew the story of Dutch Schultz and his buried millions.
“Of course I know about Dutch Schultz,” he immediately answered when I finally got hold of him. “Vicious guy. You know, Dutch was a nickname—he was born Arthur Flegenheimer. Somebody been treasure-hunting up in Phoenicia?”
“How did you know that?” Often my Gramps astonished me.
“Katie, it’s the only valuable thing Dutch left behind.” After a deep breath, he continued. “That safe or iron box of his is supposed to be buried somewhere near you. But I doubt it’s still there.”
That confused me. “Everyone I talk to says the treasure has never been found.”
He laughed and said, “There are also a million different stories about what happened to the map.”
“My client, Frank Martindale, said he had the map.”
“Him and a couple of hundred other people. It’s more likely that the mob dug it up shortly after Dutch was murdered. They had to be pretty quiet about it. You may not realize it, but the IRS and the FBI were after Dutch for tax fraud. They wanted to confiscate whatever Dutch buried. Even back then, no one wanted to be targeted by the Feds.”
“Well, that puts a damper on one motive for murder.”
“What do you mean, Katie?”
When I told him about Frank and his Dutch Schultz map scam, Gramps chuckled.
“Glad to bring so much fun into your life,” I said.
“Sorry, but a scam about Dutch’s map…those have been around for years.”
“Well, Frank had a bunch of irons in the fire, like nuisance lawsuits, trying to get discounts on bills and, of course, the map scam.”
“Guys like him don’t stop at one scam. He probably had a few running. You’d be surprised how many people fall for stunts like this. But, Katie, his luck might have run out.”
“How so?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he? Maybe he scammed the wrong guy.”
* * *
Gramps had a great idea, of course. I’d forgotten about Frank’s victims—the people he’d sued or scammed. What if someone had a grudge against Frank and when he saw the YouTube video figured he could kill Frank and tie his death in to that? Eloise may not have been murdered. And Raeleen? Most likely her death had nothing to do with Eloise and Frank.
Back to square one. All these permutations were too much for my brain and did nothing to help solve Raeleen’s murder.
* * *
Fighting off another headache, I sat in silence, my eyes closed. I visualized spider webs. Spun of almost transparent threads the net the spider creates grows larger and larger, ensnaring any that come too close—an indiscriminate trap. Each victim held by only a few interconnected silken threads. Were our three deaths random events, or did a hidden spider cleverly weave an intricate web for all the victims to share?
* * *
Luke touched base with me a half an hour later. “I didn’t want to discuss it in front of the chief,” he began, “but one of my professors is friends with Frank’s longtime lawyer. Maybe I can get an introduction.”
“That’s wonderful. Meanwhile, Mari and I want to interview some of her dog-breeding friends.”
“Want to be there when I talk to the lawyer? I thought I’d invite him out for a drink, and you can be my date. Make it casual, less like an interrogation.” The last part of the sentence he said pretty fast.
“Pretend date, you mean?”
After a big sigh for my benefit, he agreed.
“Make it soon if you can. I’ve got spiders on the brain, and it’s getting creepy.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Just as we were closing the next day, I got a call from Luke.
“Remember me talking about getting together with Frank’s main lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Can you meet us by seven?” He named a popular after-work place in town. Considering it was 6:15, I had a quick change and drive in front of me. At warp speed I showered, dressed, and jumped into the truck, arriving only five minutes late.
A cheerful rumble of voices enveloped me when I entered That Place, a new casual dining place in town. A sign announced Happy Hour weekdays from 5:30 to 7:30. Luke waved at me from a table close by.
Kissing me on the cheek, he pulled out a chair and made the introduction.
“Kate, this is Anthony Lorretti.”
A somewhat attractive but morose man with glasses and a worried look shook our hands. “Sorry to ask this, but you don’t have a lawsuit pending with Frank, do you?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“Good,” he said, taking a quick sip of his martini. “You’d be amazed at how many people he antagonized and sued over the last ten or fifteen years.”
While looking over the menu, I stole a glance at Anthony. In his late thirties, early forties, he had gray patches under his eyes that indicated lack of sleep or something weighing on him. “Were you close to the deceased?” I asked. Each time I spoke to a lawyer I sounded like an episode of Law & Order.
That made him grimace. I realized that the martini in front of him wasn’t his first of the night. When he spoke, however, his words were carefully measured.
“Frank was my client several times over the last few years. Occasionally, he hired other lawyers when I was too busy to take on another case. We had a professional relationship. As with most lawyers, I try to keep my professional and personal lives separate.”
A lot of words, but no real answer. He’d skillfully bypassed my question.
When the waiter reappeared, we all ordered, and Luke brought up the reason for this meeting.
“First, let me say that Professor Brackenberg thinks very highly of you.”
A slight smile crossed his face. “That’s very kind of him. I clerked for him for three years. He was a truly dedicated judge.”
“There has been some talk that Frank’s death was not an accident. What are your feelings about that?”
“There certainly were enough people around who wanted to kill him. I eventually found him too unpleasant to deal with.”
Luke agreed. “Law enforcement has several concerns.”
He nodded as though concern was anticipated. “I spoke to a detective about this twice, I believe. The day they found him I was in court talking to Sal Tragari, the lawyer representing him in a nuisance suit. Ironically, we were both complaining about Frank, especially since he owed me quite a bit of money from the last case. When he didn’t show up for court, Sal and I suggested a wellness check to the judge citing concerns about his health.”
Luke persisted. “What about his health?”
“I believe he told me he had high blood pressure and kidney issues.” Another
sip of martini must have jogged his memory because he added, “Oh, and back pain. That dated from his disability case. He took painkillers for his back. I often wonder if all the pills contributed to his aggressive personality. Possibly to his death, also.”
That’s what my opinion was too. I’d seen it for myself the day Mari and I discovered his body. Frank mixed opiate medications with alcohol and easily may have accidentally overdosed. I kept quiet about Ann-Marie Gilderman’s disturbing habit of helping Frank swallow his pills.
We stopped for a moment when the waiter brought our food and another round of drinks to the men.
“Was there any merit to the case?”
“You’re training to be a lawyer, Luke. You know the answer to that.” Anthony sounded slightly exasperated. “If you are arguing a case before a judge, it must have merit.”
From the look on both men’s faces I assumed that was a legal term for cover your ass. I took pity on them and changed the subject. “You look tired,” I said sympathetically, hoping he’d continue talking.
“I’ve had to put up with countless questions from Sal. He’s pissed I dumped Frank on him. The judge ordered him temporarily to oversee Frank’s estate until it goes to probate and an executor can be appointed. To get even with me, Sal roped me in to search for a will.”
“And?” Luke asked.
“An initial computer search was negative, so we went to his home. The place is a hoarder’s paradise. One trip over there and I gave up. An impossible task. Poor Sal.” The mirth that came with the last statement negated the words.
* * *
After getting all the info we could, we settled into dinner and the evening passed very pleasantly. Luke and Anthony traded stories about law school, and with his third martini, the mildly inebriated lawyer revealed the names of several people entangled in lawsuits with Frank, all of which would most likely be dismissed. I was surprised to hear Raeleen’s and Devin’s names.
“Another small claims court case having to do with a car repair.”
