by Ray Flynt
“Mission accomplished,” I said.
“Including Jim Westin?”
“Yep.” I tried not to gloat.
“Good. I need you to pick me up at the Hilton Head ferry dock. I have to visit Amanda and then we’re flying to Atlanta.”
I looked at my watch. “I should be there in a half-hour to forty minutes.”
I felt like a ping pong ball.
When I met Brad at the Hilton Head ferry landing he told me that—no surprise—the coroner had ruled Kathy Westin’s death a homicide. Josh Miller also alerted him that a slip of paper with a 404 area code phone number had been found at the murder scene.
However, the detective underestimated Brad’s abilities and resourcefulness. Brad knew the 404 area code was in Atlanta, and that information triggered the name of Craig Simmons. Brad announced that he’d chartered a jet for the forty minute flight to Atlanta, but asked me to drive him to Amanda’s studio first.
“I just came from there,” I protested.
“Good, then you know the way.”
“Amanda wasn’t there.”
Brad nodded. “She will be.”
Resistance was futile.
When we arrived at Amanda’s studio Peter Gibson spotted me and flashed a look like he was living out a scene from the movie Groundhog Day. It felt weird to me too. Amanda stood at her workbench wiping a muddy-looking slurry off her fingers. She managed a weak smile and Brad gave her a hug.
“Did you get in touch with Craig?” Brad asked.
Amanda nodded. “Yes, he’ll be expecting you.”
“Did he seem surprised to hear from you?” Brad asked.
A wisp of hair fell into Amanda’s eyes, and since her hands weren’t completely clean of the slurry she attempted to blow it away. “If he was, he didn’t say anything.”
“And you told him we were insurance investigators?”
“That’s right,” she said, “I told him exactly what you said.”
“We’re on our way to the airport right now,” Brad explained.
“Peter, would you bring me the celadon glaze, please.” Amanda shouted to her burly assistant, even though he stood only a few feet away. It looked like he was applying glaze to the vase I’d seen him take from the kiln earlier.
Amanda pointed proudly at his vase. “Look at the fine piece of pottery Peter designed.”
“It’s very nice.” Brad acknowledged, but quickly shifted back to Simmons. “Can you can tell me anything about the relationship between Craig and Kathy.”
“They were just friends.” I saw tears begin to well in her eyes. “Dana’s relationship with Kathy was unique,” Amanda said. “A lot of the boys who might have been attracted to her were turned off by how jealously Jim Westin guarded her activities. Dana was different because he grew up next door. By the time they were in high school, they were going steady. Most of Dana’s friends figured he and Kathy were going to be married.”
Amanda wiped the sleeve of her smock across her face. She dug for a cigarette in her purse, and Brad helped steady the match in her quivering hands as she lit it.
“Had Kathy dated anyone else that you knew?” Brad asked.
“Nobody I was aware of.”
“Describe Craig Simmons for me.”
“Nice boy. Good family.” Amanda gazed at Brad as if to ask what else he’d like to know. After a few seconds she added, “His parents own one of the development companies on Hilton Head. If he hadn’t been born into money I don’t know if he’d have any. Dana told me Craig was always spending money—buying a new car, stereo, expensive gifts. Craig always acted polite around me.”
Peter delivered the requested supplies to Amanda’s workstation.
“Thank you, Peter.” Turning back to Brad she said, “I’m not sure what good it will do to talk with Craig. Besides, it’ll be expensive to fly to Atlanta. I’m sure my $1,500 won’t cover it.”
Amanda had read my mind, and Brad already knew what I thought of his charity detective ventures.
“Don’t worry,” Brad said, “you’re covered.”
“About the hearing tomorrow,” she began tentatively.
“Yes,” Brad replied, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Could we get together... you know... before hand?”
Before we left Brad arranged for us to meet Amanda the following morning for breakfast.
Peter Gibson waved goodbye to me. The way my day was going he might see me again in another hour.
Chapter Thirty
Brad and Sharon were the only passengers on the chartered Gulfstream. With conventional seating Brad decided it could hold as many as eighteen people, but this aircraft had been configured to accommodate a half-dozen in luxury. He and Sharon slipped into cushioned first-class style leather lounge chairs opposite a rich mahogany coffee table. He couldn’t imagine the accommodations on Air Force One being any nicer.
He watched the two-man crew—the door still open to their cockpit—making their final preparations. No cabin attendant was included with the charter price, but the co-pilot advised that once they reached cruising altitude they could move around and help themselves to snacks, as well as sodas, booze and mixers in a nearby mini-fridge. Brad buckled his seat belt and glanced through a copy of Southern Living.
Even Sharon looked impressed.
Never a comfortable flyer, Brad tugged on his seatbelt as the plane taxied to the end of the runway at the Hilton Head airport. Through the window he could see that they were next in line for takeoff and gripped the arms of his chair and shut his eyes.
As the charter rumbled down the runway Brad began a silent count as he waited for the feel of the jet to become airborne. On commercial jets,
“wheels up” usually happened in twenty-five or thirty seconds, but on the Gulfstream it occurred in less than twenty seconds. Almost immediately he felt the plane bank to the right.
When Brad finally opened his eyes Sharon was staring at him. “You don’t like to fly?” she asked.
They’d flown together before, but she’d never sat across from him able to observe his tense take-off ritual.
When the pilot announced they’d reached cruising altitude of 18,000 feet Brad unbuckled his seatbelt and walked over to the snack tray. He held up a bag of Doritos and Sharon eagerly nodded. “Soda?”
“Sure, whatever diet you can find.”
Brad handed Sharon a cup of ice and a can of Sprite Zero then returned to his seat with a bag of salted cashews and his own can of soda.
Brad looked at Sharon and said, “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For sticking with me on this,” he explained. “Because of what happened with your dad, I understand your reluctance to delve into this case. You, better than I, know what Amanda has been through.”
Sharon nodded. “I’ve come to the realization that Dana was murdered. But Amanda has lived these last four years in the shadow of a ruling of suicide. I know what that feels like.”
They sat in silence for the remainder of the short flight.
It was three-forty p.m. when they landed at Atlanta’s Hartsfield Jackson International Airport. Craig Simmons met them as they stepped of the private plane.
“What the hell’s going on?!” he shouted above the waning noise of the jet engines, as they stepped on the tarmac. “The Atlanta police just called. They want to question me about the murder of Kathy Westin. Amanda never said anything about Kathy being dead. Who the hell are you guys?”
Simmon’s cheeks flushed red, and he clenched his jaw in a rage. His dark hair, which Brad guessed was usually styled, suffered from the repeated finger-combing.
Brad introduced Sharon and pointed toward the terminal.
Once inside the door, Craig turned to confront them. “Will you tell me what you’re doing here?”
He tugged nervously at the knot of his tie and caused the clip-on to dislodge. Sharon laughed, which only made Craig more furious.
“Is there someplace we
can talk privately?” Brad asked.
“Yeah. You can talk right here,” Craig shouted, pointing to the carpeted hallway. “I’ll tell you right now I didn’t kill Kathy, and nobody’s gonna say I did. I called my old man, and he’s sending one of his attorneys over here. Should be here any minute.”
“Calm down,” Brad said, forcefully. “We just want to talk with you. We came here as friends of Amanda Carothers.” Then he repeated, “Is there a place where we can talk privately?”
Brad knew he was a contemporary of Bob Kepner’s, but Craig looked older. He had a touch of gray at his temples and a spare tire at his waist.
Craig glanced up and down the corridor, then took off at a brisk clip motioning for them to follow. A hundred yards later, he led them into a small lounge next to one of the concession booths.
Brad and Sharon sat at a small table that he imagined served as part of an employee break room. Craig remained standing and persisted with his question: “What are you doin’ here?”
“Investigating Dana Carothers’ death,” Brad explained.
Craig looked puzzled. “Yeah, but he committed suicide.”
“We’re not so sure.”
Brad briefly recounted his involvement with the case from the time he received Amanda’s note to the discovery of Kathy’s body.
“I can’t believe she’s dead.” Craig took a seat at the table. “She was always the sweetest kid. Kathy called me the other day.”
“I thought she might have,” Brad said. “What did she want?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to her. She left a message, and when I called back there was no answer.”
“When was that?”
“Just yesterday… late afternoon. I picked up her message around three-thirty… maybe four o’clock. I tried to call her back about four-thirty.”
“She was already dead then,” Brad commented. “Where were you from three to three-thirty?”
Indignantly, Craig said, “Hey, I already told you, I didn’t have anything to do with killing Kathy.”
“I didn’t say you did. Where were you from three to three-thirty?” Brad repeated.
“In a staff meeting.”
“You’re a supervisor for one of the airlines?” Sharon asked.
“Not really.” Craig looked sheepish. “I’m a supervisor for a regional food service supplier. It’s just that,” his voice stammered, “sometimes I tell people I work for an airline. ‘Cause we really do work for them you know.”
“You’re young to be a supervisor,” Sharon said.
“Who cares?” he said, frostily. “I got connections. How I got my job is my business.”
Brad thought about the guidance counselor’s impressions of Craig, and they fit. “I’d like to know about your relationship with Dana Carothers.”
Craig leaned back in his seat. “We were friends. We shared an apartment at college. What else do you need to know?”
In spite of Craig’s occasional pushback on questions, he had gotten too comfortable; it was time for Brad to change that.
“Were you surprised to hear Dana had committed suicide?”
“Yes and no.”
“Don’t play games.” Brad glanced at his watch. “From what you said the police will be here any minute to question you on what you might know about Kathy Westin’s murder, and I need to get back to Hilton Head. Explain what you meant.”
“No, I didn’t think Dana was capable of committing suicide, but yes, he had been acting a little strange for a week or so before he died—so the news wasn’t as shocking as it might have been.”
“How did you hear about his death?”
“Bob called me… Bob Kepner.”
Brad leaned forward in his seat. “Do you remember when?”
“It was the day after Dana died. A Sunday I think. I had been in Jacksonville the previous day.”
“But the night before he died you hosted a party at your place.”
Craig stood up. “I don’t know why you need to talk with me. You have all the answers.”
Brad also stood. “When you said Dana had been acting strangely in the week before his death, what did you mean?”
Craig sounded exasperated. “You aren’t gonna give up are you?”
Brad shook his head.
“I didn’t see much of him the week before he died. We were on spring break, and he’d gone back home. But before he left he’d been acting peculiar. They both were.”
Brad and Sharon exchanged glances.
“You mean Kepner, too?”
“Yeah. Both of ‘em.”
“Can you elaborate?” Brad asked.
Craig stared into space as if trying to recall the details. “The three of us didn’t usually have secrets from each other, but suddenly the two of them had their heads together in whispered conversation. I mean, I tried not to get paranoid, but I wondered what was going on. And I spotted Dana reading a letter from Bob’s desk. They both acted jittery.”
Brad reached into his inside coat pocket and carefully extracted one of the black and white photos which he’d asked Sharon to show to suspects earlier in the day. Shoving it toward Craig, he asked, “Have you ever seen this guy before?”
“Nope,” Craig said quickly without grabbing the photo.
“It’s very important to Amanda,” Brad said, hoping to appeal to Craig’s better instincts. Once again he extended the photo toward him. “I’d really appreciate it if you would take a careful look.”
Sharon played along by shifting in her seat to get a better view of the photograph.
Finally, Craig grasped the photo with both hands, leaving clear prints in the lower corners. “No. I’ve never seen this guy.”
Gingerly pocketing the photo, Brad said, “Thanks for your help, Craig. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
“Wait a minute. What about Kathy?” Craig shouted, as Brad and Sharon marched down the corridor. “What am I supposed to tell the police?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Brad slipped on the same sports jacket that he wore the night he gave the ring to Beth at Bistro 17. He wanted to look good for the judge. He hadn’t packed a tie for the trip to the beach house, so Beth found one of her father’s old ties that would serve the purpose.
Beth drove the golf cart to the dock. As Sharon boarded the waiting ferry, Beth kissed him and wished him well, whispering, “No matter what happens I still love you.”
Sharon pulled her windbreaker tightly about her on the ferry ride. A chill had settled over the coastal areas of South Carolina. The temperatures were more moderate than Brad would have expected in Philadelphia on the fourth of October, but brisk in comparison to the super weather they’d had a day earlier.
As arranged, they met Amanda at a Shoney’s restaurant on the outskirts of Beaufort, and were directed to a booth in the rear. Brad sat on one side of the booth, facing Amanda, and Sharon sat on the other.
When he saw her, it seemed to Brad as though Amanda’s reasonably calm persona from the day before had frayed.
“I just don’t know anymore,” Amanda blurted out. “First Dana, now Kathy. I feel responsible for it all.”
“Feeling responsible isn’t going to bring either of them back,” Brad assured her. “I’m convinced Kathy’s death was related to Dana’s murder. She found out something which might point the way to finding the murderer. She may not have even been aware of the significance of what she knew, but she paid a price for it.”
Amanda clutched the top of her blouse with her left hand. “But if I… if I’d never asked you to investigate…” Amanda struggled to maintain her composure. “None of this would have happened.”
Sharon held Amanda’s hand. “You’ve got to be strong. I know what you’re going through. You had convictions that someone murdered your son.” Nodding toward Brad, she said, “He believes your convictions were right.” Sharon glanced at nearby tables before whispering, “Someone out there is committing murder. We don’t want that to continue.”
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An eerie silence descended on the table. Brad noticed that a lull had overtaken the sounds of the restaurant. The ebb and flow of conversation had reached a decrescendo before a clattering of plates started it up again.
“But what if Denton, Jr. …”
“Yes,” Sharon continued to whisper. “What if Denton Jr. killed his brother and blew half of Kathy Westin’s head off? Wouldn’t you want him brought to justice?”
It wasn’t the way Brad would have put it, but Sharon had a way of getting to the nub of an issue.
Amanda covered her face with her hands and sucked in gobs of air.
The waitress, a young woman with brown hair braided into a pony tail, chose that inopportune moment to approach and ask, “What’ll ya have folks?”
“We need a few more minutes.” Brad glanced at Sharon. “I think we’ll want coffee.”
“Decaf for me,” Sharon said.
“What about you, ma’am?” the waitress asked Amanda.
Amanda recovered her composure long enough to order. “Tea, please, with lemon.”
“Let me tell ya about our breakfast bar,” the waitress continued, oblivious to Amanda’s distress. “All ya can eat for seven-forty-nine. There’s scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, fresh biscuits, fruit, grits, country-gravy, hot apples—lots-a-good things.” The waitress paused and stared at Brad. Getting no reaction, she said, “I’ll be back with your coffee and tea in a minute. If ya decide ya want the buffet, just help yourselves.”
Amanda’s sighs punctuated the silence.
“I think I’ll get the buffet,” Sharon said, sliding out of the booth.
During her absence Brad decided to discuss strategy for the hearing.
“When in doubt, just stare at the judge. Don’t spend your time watching what Denton is doing,” Brad said.
“I know. My attorney already gave me that advice.”
The waitress returned at the same time Sharon did with her plate full from the buffet. It looked good, but Brad figured so much food would be too tempting.
“You folks ready to order?” the waitress asked.
