Yard Goat (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 7)

by Ray Flynt

  A different siren blared. I snapped off the flashlight.

  As I began to move, my legs felt wobbly. The reality of Joel’s death hit me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Once again a distant siren reminded me there was work to do.

  I headed toward the roundhouse, wondering how two-hundred people would react to a murder in their midst.

  Aunt Harriet sat in the front row of folding chairs used for the auction. Her eyes glistened and lips quivered. Next to her, Cecilia pleaded, “Harriet, what is it? Where’s Brad?”

  Festive multi-colored lights overhead lent a surreal contrast to the shocking news I was about to deliver.

  I sat on the opposite side of Cecilia and touched her shoulder. She pivoted and saw my face. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Joel’s been murdered.”

  Her face contorted into a grotesque mask of shock and disbelief. “But I just...When? How?”

  “Sometime between when we saw him at the dunking pool and the end of the auction.”

  Multiple sirens grew closer.

  “Cecilia, the police will be here any minute. They’ll want to question you...anyone who might have seen or heard relevant information.” I paused. “I’ll need to share everything I’ve learned from Joel in the past week.”

  Her mouth tightened to a straight line, while her eyelids fluttered their understanding. Cecilia’s breathing wavered. “Oh, Jeremy needs to know.”

  “Who’s Jeremy?”

  “The museum’s administrator.”

  “I told the 9-1-1 operator that I would meet the detectives at the entrance. Let’s find Jeremy and bring him with us. The police will advise how they want to handle the crowd.”

  Cecilia clung to Harriet like a drowning man to a life preserver. Several people approached Cecilia as we walked through the roundhouse, past 18th and 19th century rail history, to the entrance. Perplexed looks ensued.

  The DJ finished playing “Macarena” and cued up “You’re Still the One” by Shania Twain. The crowd mingled around dessert tables oblivious to the crash about to befall the party.

  Three vehicles—two unmarked sedans, and one “rescue squad”—pulled in front of the building. A black man emerged from the driver’s seat of the lead car. He dwarfed my six-foot height. I stepped forward, identifying myself as the person who’d called 9-1-1, and handed him my card.

  “Dwayne Jackson. Detective, Baltimore Police. What’s going on?” His size intimidated, but the easy-going manner with which he spoke reassured me. I’d wager him having a past as a defensive lineman.

  I provided the Cliffs Notes’ version of events, introduced Cecilia, my aunt, and Jeremy Nulph, the museum’s administrator. I offered to escort Jackson to the murder site.

  As near as I could tell, a detective and two technicians accompanied Jackson. When the EMTs extracted a gurney from their vehicle, I piped up, “There’s nothing they can do. You’ll need the medical examiner.”

  Jackson frowned when he saw the museum’s patrons gathered in the roundhouse. He radioed the station, requesting a third detective, uniformed officers for “crowd control,” and the medical examiner.

  Music abruptly stopped. Jackson and the administrator approached a podium, where Jeremy broke the news of Joel’s death to the crowd. Patrons gasped and sympathetically gawked in Cecilia’s direction. Aunt Harriet plunged into the role of Cecilia’s protector, huddling next to her and keeping the curious at a distance.

  Detective Jackson asked everyone to stay until the police could question them regarding any knowledge they may have or if they’d seen anything suspicious.

  Grumbles rose from the crowd, eclipsed when Jeremy Nulph signaled the DJ to resume the music.

  Always suspicious whenever people dismissed crucial events as “a blur,” the next two hours caused me to reevaluate my skepticism.

  I accompanied Detective Jackson to the crime scene along with two technicians armed with evidence-gathering equipment and battery-powered lights. With illumination in place, I had an enhanced view. In addition to my earlier observations, I noticed Joel’s wingtips on the other side of the tracks and a blue bath towel, still neatly folded, near the bag with his clothes. A black plastic fork lay on the ground near his shoes.

  Jackson asked how I knew Joel. I explained our history back to prep school, and how I’d come to be at the museum. I held nothing back, including his affair with Megan Trambata, and Joel’s assessment that divorce from Cecilia would be imminent.

  The detective fired questions at me regarding the timeline of contacts with Joel that evening. I described visiting the dunking pool shortly after 7:30 p.m. and that a few more people were lined up to pitch balls when we left to take our seats at the auction. I reported the delay in the start of the auction past the 8 p.m. hour. When the auction concluded a half hour later, I searched for Joel and found his body. This led to questions of where I had stood. I assured him I hadn’t left the asphalt paved area next to the tracks.

  While a photographer snapped pictures, Jackson dismissed me, saying I could wait “with the others” at the roundhouse.

  After walking the length of a rail car, I looked back. Jackson paced along the line of trees separating the museum’s property from the neighboring street. Perhaps he surmised—as did I—that the killer escaped in a car parked nearby.

  The crowd had thinned out, so the police must have questioned quite a few and allowed them to leave. I found Aunt Harriet perched on a bench adjacent to the wooden turntable in the middle of the roundhouse—wringing her hands.

  “Are you okay?”

  She peered at me over the top of her glasses with disapproval. “I’m worried.”

  “About what?”

  “Cecilia.”

  I exhaled, not wanting to play twenty questions.

  “I don’t think she’s being truthful,” Harriet whispered. “Earlier, as we talked, she loosened her coat. I saw a reddish-brown stain on her dress.”

  “Where’s Cecilia now?”

  “One of the detectives took her into a room for questioning.” Harriet pointed. “She’s been in there for at least twenty minutes.”

  “Did a detective talk with you?”

  “Yes.” She grinned. “He called me his star witness.”

  I took the bait. “Why is that?”

  “Because I remembered the exact time when the delayed auction started.” She pointed at her watch. “8:08 p.m. I also told him about seeing the stab wound on Joel’s leg.”

  How did I miss that? “What stab wound?”

  “Right above his ankle.” She said it so matter-of-factly, further embarrassing me.

  She added, “I told the officer he must have tried to use karate.”

  “Perhaps you should take over my detective business.”

  Harriet wagged a scolding finger. “No way. This is exactly why your father and I worry about you. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

  When the imposing figure of Detective Jackson re-entered the roundhouse, remaining patrons gave him plenty of space to pass. He headed for the room where Harriet indicated the other detective was questioning Cecilia.

  A few minutes later, both detectives emerged with a handcuffed Cecilia Driscoll. People milling about gradually noticed. Jaws dropped as they alerted each other with pokes and pointing.

  I approached and asked the detective what was going on, but he waved me off. I followed them out the door and saw Jackson’s assistant putting Cecilia in the back seat of the unmarked cruiser. After the door closed, she stared at me with tears streaming from her eyes.

  18

  Tuesday, October 2, 2001

  Without a client—or financial interest—I had no business poking my nose into a Baltimore murder investigation. But that didn’t stop me.

  Poor Joel never left my mind. He’d got caught in somebody’s wrath, not deserving to have his life cut short.

  On Saturday night, following the murder, I drove back to Philadelphia, a capti
ve audience for Harriet’s complaints about seeing a dead body, “helping that poor woman,” and the evils of my chosen profession. Mostly the latter.

  Then on Sunday, Harriet took the 10 a.m. train to New York City, and for the next two days I puttered around the Bryn Mawr mansion worried about Cecilia and their kids, wishing I could be useful. She didn’t seem like a killer to me. Still, Harriet mentioned a reddish-brown stain on Cecilia’s dress.

  There were more questions than answers. Where had Sal Zalinski spent Saturday night? Did Megan, reportedly visiting Boca Raton, know of Joel’s murder? Had the police found the murder weapon?

  On Monday afternoon, I called Herron Industries and spoke with Tanesha Goodling. She confirmed Carlin Trambata’s return to the office. Unaware of what Tanesha knew about Joel’s affair with Megan Trambata, I informed her of Joel Driscoll’s death, suggesting her boss might want to know.

  The Baltimore Sun’s online edition reported nothing I didn’t already know, a phone message to Detective Jackson wasn’t returned, and I learned that Joel’s wake would be today from three to five and seven to nine at Baker’s Funeral Home in Roland Park.

  In the most impulsive move of my short detective career, I put on a grey suit and navy tie, jumped in the Mercedes, and headed for Baltimore—determined to satisfy my curiosity. I timed my arrival for late afternoon, near the end of the first round of visiting hours.

  Joel’s was one of two funerals at Baker’s. A somber-faced greeter directed me to a small parlor. Cecilia, wearing a charcoal suit and lavender blouse, shook hands with an elderly couple near the foot of the casket. First question answered: she was no longer in police custody. A half-dozen mourners sat scattered among five rows of chairs.

  The solemn music and overwhelming floral scent reminded me of Mom and Lucy’s double funeral.

  As the couple moved away, surprise registered on Cecilia’s face when she saw me. “Brad, thank you for coming.”

  “How are you doing? You’ve had quite an ordeal.” I was referring to her arrest along with the death of a husband she would have soon divorced.

  “Thank goodness for family and friends.”

  “Are the kids coping?”

  She bobbed her head. “They’re old enough to understand what happened. My mom’s with them. She’s been a godsend.”

  Conversation petered out. We stood there gazing down at Joel.

  He didn’t look natural, his mouth taut, and too much makeup under pink-tinted lights. His hand arranged across the middle of his chest, the same position in which I’d last seen him alive, minus the outstretched middle finger. I rarely found myself in his presence for this long without him exploding into colorful expletives. I smiled grimly, remembering the irreverent character I’d known for the past twenty years.

  Cecilia sniffled. “You meet somebody, get swept off your feet, march down the aisle together...a few years later kids arrive...you never stop to think how it’s all going to end.”

  Days earlier, she’d seen it ending in divorce.

  Over her shoulder, another mourner approached. I grasped her hand. “You have more visitors. I’m gonna grab a seat.”

  A man came up behind her and put his arm around her waist. When I focused on his face, I recognized Jeremy Nulph.

  Cecilia withdrew from Jeremy’s embrace. I couldn’t tell if his action was unwelcome or she didn’t want me to see the act of affection.

  “Jeremy, you remember Mr. Frame.” She gestured in my direction. “Joel’s friend...from the museum the other night.”

  Jeremy straightened up and extended his hand. “Yes. Good to see you again.”

  We exchanged a firm handshake. “Are things getting back to normal at the museum?”

  He exhaled and took half a step away from Cecilia. “Just came from there. Lots of curiosity seekers today. Not the kind of publicity we need. Under the circumstances, we closed Sunday and Monday.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Afternoon visiting hours are almost up. May I take you to dinner, Cecilia? I’ll bring you back before seven.”

  Cecilia and Jeremy exchanged nervous glances.

  “Uh, unless the two of you have plans.” They seemed to avoid each other’s gaze. I added, “Jeremy, you’d be welcome to come along.”

  Something was going on between the two of them, and I wanted to learn more.

  “No,” Cecilia blurted. “I mean, we don’t have plans. I should check with my mom.”

  Cecilia stepped away, found her purse, and retrieved her cell phone, leaving Jeremy and me standing in front of the casket. He rocked on his heels, staring any direction other than at Joel.

  “In spite of what happened, I trust your fundraiser was successful.”

  “Oh yes, we raised $110,000. The first time we’ve had such an event. I know we’ll do more of them.” Jeremy grew more at ease talking about work.

  Cecilia returned. “Mom says things are under control. Thanks for your invitation.” She turned to Jeremy. “Please come along.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll get my car and pick you up out front.”

  Cecilia liked the idea of Nevan’s Bistro, located in the same neighborhood as the funeral home. I followed her directions, hoping—due to the early hour—we’d have no trouble without reservations.

  They seated us at the same table where Joel, Megan, and I had lunch eleven days earlier, not surprising in such a cozy restaurant. However, I found it unnerving that Cecilia occupied the chair where Megan had sat, with Jeremy in Joel’s place.

  Dinner had costlier entrées than lunch, but also offered a prix fixe menu. The waiter quickly took our drink orders.

  “I was worried when they ushered you away Saturday night.”

  Cecilia rubbed her left wrist. “They kept me in handcuffs for two hours, even after we arrived at the police station. They thought I killed Joel. I kept telling them I had nothing to do with it.”

  “How long were you in custody?”

  “I didn’t get home until two in the morning. They kept saying they had a witness. Ridiculous.”

  Did they mean Aunt Harriet?

  She brought her fingers to her chest. “They were obsessed with a stain on my dress, saying it was blood. I carelessly dripped barbecue sauce at Ricardo’s booth and told them that.”

  Jeremy remained fixated on her, in the same way Joel gazed admiringly at Megan.

  “Did you have legal counsel?”

  She rolled her eyes. “For all the good he did.”

  The waiter appeared with our drinks and to take dinner orders. Cecilia claimed not to be hungry and ordered a spinach salad, while Jeremy and I ordered New York strip steaks, part of the prix fixe menu.

  “Who’s your attorney?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Mike McMillan. Joel’s law partner.”

  “He wasn’t helpful?”

  Cecilia shot a sideways glance, as if to see if Jeremy thought she should tell everything. “With Joel dead, Mike seemed the logical choice. They were partners, right? He’d help me, right?” Her tone turned caustic. “Mike was at the museum that evening. He should have stepped up on my behalf while we were still there. I’ll never forgive him.”

  Jeremy patted her arm.

  Our salads arrived, slowing the conversation.

  I prompted. “When did McMillan arrive?”

  “Nearly two hours after they took me into custody. I wouldn’t say anything until he got there—except to protest my innocence. The police just shrugged and kept me in handcuffs.” After a few bites of spinach salad, she added, “I’ll give him this, he had them take off the cuffs soon as he saw them.”

  Jeremy spoke. “Things might have been better if he hadn’t been drunk.”

  “From the fundraiser?”

  They both nodded.

  I turned to Jeremy. “Were you at the police station?”

  He shook his head. “She told me.”

  Cecilia picked at her salad. “Instead of trying to get to the bottom of why the police arrested me, M
ike launched into a sob story about how little the law firm was worth. He hoped I wasn’t counting on a lot from Joel’s share...intimating there were more debts than assets. I mean...is that crazy? Joel had just died and he’s fixated on money.”

  “Had Joel said anything about troubles with the business?”

  Words caught in her throat. She reached for a tissue. “No. But after what Mike said, I wondered if that’s what drove him to go after the heiress in Philadelphia.”

  I hadn’t associated Megan with the word heiress. As long as Carlin remained alive, she’d have few resources.

  “I’ve got a New York strip medium well,” the waiter called out behind me.

  I raised my hand.

  “Then this must be for you.” He put the other plate in front of Jeremy. “Can I bring you anything else?”

  We shook our heads. He left. We dug into our food. I tried to figure out other lines of inquiry.

  Cecilia blurted. “I mean, there I was locked up and he’s babbling on about what the law firm is worth.”

  Jeremy peddled his hand urging her to speak more softly.

  She scowled, but complied. “What really pissed me off was the police knew he was drunk. They thought he was funny. I could see them laughing. Mike didn’t have a clue.”

  “How did Mike finally convince them to let you go?”

  She pointed at her chest. “That was my doing. I kept telling them to test the stain on my dress. It wasn’t blood. I knew that. Finally, one of the detectives came in and swabbed the dress. Twenty minutes later, Detective Jackson told me I could leave, but that they might want to bring me back for further questioning.”

  “Did Mike drive you home?”

  She laughed. “I wasn’t about to get into a car with a drunken man. I called a taxi.”

  “I hate to pry, but are you going to be okay financially...at least in the short term?”