Unforgiving Shadows

by Ray Flynt

  “Did you see Aunt Harriet this morning?” Sharon asked.

  “Not yet,” Brad snapped, at the mention of her name. He was still peeved at his aunt for snooping through his mail.

  “Did you talk to your brother this morning?” she asked.

  “I tried. I called the Ritz-Carlton at six-thirty, but Andy had already checked out.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Sharon said. “Two of Paula’s Inquirer stories were followed by crimes—the fire in your office and her murder. In both instances the articles suggested information regarding a message from Frank Wilkie. We know what Wilkie’s message was. But only one person is going to commit murder to find out what the message says. And that is the real killer mentioned in Wilkie’s note.”

  Brad nodded. He’d already done a similar analysis. “Have I mentioned how glad I am that your going to continue to work for me?”

  “Only half-a-dozen times.” Sharon shifted her weight as she stood.

  Sensing her unease, Brad said, “There’s something else you want to say?”

  “You need to think about all possible suspects,” Sharon said softly.

  Brad nodded. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Your brother made a point about reading The Philadelphia Inquirer’s Web page for business news,” Sharon said. “If he regularly consulted its Web page he would have seen Paula’s articles too. We know Andrew was in Philadelphia yesterday. Can we find out if he was in the vicinity on the night of the arson?”

  Brad exhaled. He hated to admit it, but Andy’s name had floated through his brain as a suspect more than a few times during the past week. Recalling the events of the kidnapping, it was Andy who had delivered the ransom money. Brad recognized Andy as a brilliant corporate strategist, but could hardly imagine him planning his own family’s execution. The anguish they all shared during that horrible week eleven years ago was genuine, Brad knew. It had brought his dad, brother, and him closer than they had ever been, like planets pulled near by a powerful gravitational force before spinning away to their own distant orbits.

  Aunt Harriet cleared her throat. Brad turned and spotted her standing in the doorway to his office, wearing black slacks and a violet sweater and looking embarrassed. “I don’t want to bother you, Bradford, but I wanted to say that I’m sorry about last night.” She sounded chastened. “I was wrong to open your mail.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize, Aunt Harriet,” Brad said, getting up from his chair and walking over to hug her. “I was too harsh last night.”

  Their hug seemed to restore her effusiveness.

  “There is one more thing,” she said. “I was thinking about what Diane said last night about her meeting with Gertie. Joe always told me that Emerson Lindstrom still had the first dime he ever made, so I didn’t understand about the bankruptcy. I hope you don’t mind, Bradford,” she said, talking rapidly as if she thought he might stop her, “but I called an old friend of mine who is in the real estate business locally. I pretended to be interested in buying the Lindstrom’s house. They are asking $1.7 million, but Marge told me it likely would sell for $1.4 million—which would be a steal. I told her I’d heard a rumor the house might be tied up in bankruptcy, and I was interested in immediate possession. She assured me that wasn’t the case, and said the owners were even willing to self-finance the deal. I didn’t think you could do something like that if you were filing for bankruptcy. What do you think?” Aunt Harriet sounded out of breath.

  Brad frowned. “You’re not really thinking about moving next door, are you?” Harriet looked crestfallen until a big grin spread across Brad’s face.

  “I think I know which side of the family gave me my detective chromosomes.” Brad winked at her.

  Harriet beamed. “I’m going to pack my bag, now that I know my trip wasn’t wasted. I’ll call a cab to get to the station.”

  “I can drive you, Harriet,” Brad said, glancing at his watch.

  “No. No,” she protested. “You’ve got work to do.” Harriet disappeared down the hall.

  “Andy should be back in Houston by now,” Brad said. Picking up the receiver he dialed Joedco’s corporate headquarters, recognizing the charming efficiency in Andy’s secretary’s voice.

  “Hello, Doris. It’s Brad Frame here.”

  “Mr. Frame, it’s good to hear from you. My condolences on the death of your father.”

  “Thanks, Doris. If he’s available, I’d like to speak with Andy.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Frame. I’ll check.”

  “I’ll hold, but don’t put me into his voice mail. I want to speak with him personally.”

  Brad swiveled in his chair, accessing the notebook computer on his desk. He launched his e-mail program and started typing while he waited for his brother to pick up the line.

  “Mr. Frame, I’m sorry,” Doris said. “The privacy light is on his phone and when that happens the only option I have is his voice mail.”

  “Doris, do me a favor,” Brad said. “Go pound on his door and tell him to check his e-mail and respond to me A.S.A.P. or I’ll be selling my shares in the company. Say it exactly the way I told you.” Brad covered the receiver and told Sharon, “That should get his attention.”

  Resuming his conversation with Andy’s secretary, Brad said, “I’ll be waiting by the computer. Thanks, Doris.”

  Fifteen minutes later his computer played a short MIDI file of a vintage train whistle, the signal for incoming e-mail.

  Brad opened his Outlook program.

  “Let’s see. Oh, it’s from Andrew. What a surprise!” He glanced at Sharon and chuckled.

  Brad stroked his chin as he read the message, occasionally leaning toward the computer screen. His mouth hung open and he wet his lips with his tongue. When he finished reading he leaned back.

  Brad stood up, and motioned Sharon into his chair.

  “Call Experian and do a credit check on Emerson Lindstrom, while I touch base with Nick.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Nick Argostino’s number.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Century 21 FOR SALE sign had been planted at the head of the Lindstrom’s driveway, Brad noticed. Their house looked quiet. The wheelchair accessible van sat next to the garage and Brad pulled his Mercedes behind it. He and Sharon emerged from the car. April’s changeable weather had brought a cold front, with a temperature twenty degrees cooler than the day before when they’d visited Paula Thompson’s townhouse. A brisk wind stirred up dust, prompting Sharon to shield her eyes with a scarf. Brad found the garage door wide open and called out Em’s name before walking past the two-toned green antique Hudson toward a set of shelves at the back of the garage. There he examined the labels on several containers of paint solvent. Brad unscrewed the cap on one and detected a familiar pungent odor. He let Sharon, who had followed him, have a whiff. She turned up her nose.

  Brad then tried the door at the back of the garage, finding it unlocked. The two of them passed through the breezeway to the Lindstrom’s glass enclosed pool. “Hello,” he shouted as they entered.

  Em Lindstrom did backstroke laps, but not like an Olympic swimmer. He kicked wildly, matching the erratic sweeping motion of his arms as he propelled himself the length of the pool. Water lapped at the small fringe of white hairs that grew from the middle of his chest, and a white potbelly rose above the surface of the water, causing the elastic band on his beige swim trunks to flip forward.

  Brad didn’t think Em realized they were there, as he stood on the tile surround at the deep end of the lap lane. “Where’s Gertie?” Brad shouted as Em got closer.

  Em seemed nonchalant and continued doing laps. He bellowed, “She’s taking her afternoon nap.”

  Sharon shed her jacket, tossing it on one of the poolside chairs. The atmosphere was stifling, even more so than it had been a week earlier. The humid chlorinated odor reminded Brad of his mother’s laundry room when he was a kid. Light fog rose from the surface of the water as hot a
ir from the space heater warmed the air.

  “Please stay at this end.” Brad shouted. Em took his time making a turn at the shallow end of the pool near the entrance to the house, and slowly glided back toward where Brad and Sharon stood. “Why don’t you get out of the pool so we can talk?” Brad asked.

  Lindstrom remained on his back and moved his arms just enough to keep his head above water. “I’m fine right here.”

  “I’d really like to talk with both of you.” Brad turned to Sharon saying, “See if you can find Gertie.” Sharon started around the pool toward the house’s entrance at the opposite end.

  “No,” Emerson yelled, standing up in the water. Even in the deep end, the water only came up to his chest. “You don’t need to talk with her.”

  Sharon glanced at Brad, who held up his hand stopping her.

  “How much does Gertie know?” Brad asked.

  “About what?” Em splashed water on his shoulders, and took a few steps to his left. He cupped his hand over his eyes shielding them from the sunlight.

  “It’ll be easier for us to talk up here,” Brad said, squinting himself from the glare reflecting off the water’s surface. “We can see each other face-to-face.”

  Sharon returned and stood next to Brad.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” Em leaned back in the water and resumed paddling.

  “Let’s talk about bankruptcy,” Brad said, impatient with Em’s stalling tactics. He swiped the sweat from his brow before slipping off his sport jacket, and placed it around the back of one of the poolside chairs. “You’ve got a perfect credit rating; we checked. You’re not filing for bankruptcy and you don’t need to. I’m curious as to why you told me you were. I notice you’ve got the house up for sale, too.”

  “I don’t recall that I ever told you we were filing for bankruptcy. Gertie may have.”

  “But where did she get an idea like that if it wasn’t from you?”

  “I hate nosey neighbors,” Em said.

  Probably as much as I hate liars for neighbors, Brad thought, turning his back on Em and looking plaintively at Sharon. Struggling to maintain his professional demeanor, as the bile rose in his throat, he wanted to back off and counted on Sharon to take over for him. Brad pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

  “I think I’ll go find Gertie now,” Sharon said to Brad, loud enough for Emerson to hear. She turned once again toward the house entrance.

  “Wait,” Em said, trying to stop her. “For her own good, I’ve got to get Gertie out of here. She’s not doing well. She needs a warm climate. She can’t continue to stay here.”

  “She can’t or you can’t?” Sharon pointedly asked.

  Em closed his eyes, ignoring her.

  Brad had regained his composure and tried a different approach. “Joedco stock looked good this morning,” he said. “It opened at ninety-three dollars. Eleven years ago you bought 40,000 shares at half price. The stock sold then at $5.50 a share, but Gertie’s agreement with my dad let you buy the stock at $2.75. Your original investment was $110,000.”

  A bell mounted on the wall at the shallow end of the pool clanged loudly. The phone. Emerson once again stood facing them, trying to find his footing on the bottom of the pool. On the second ring Em snapped his head in that direction. By the third ring, clearly agitated, he turned toward the clanging bell. Brad and Sharon exchanged glances as they spotted the pink pattern on his otherwise pale back, and Brad realized why Em hadn’t wanted to get out of the pool. A large mottled area of sunburned skin extended from his right shoulder blade to the elastic band of his swim trunks.

  “What happened to your back?” Brad asked.

  The phone stopped ringing and Em calmly turned around in the water and faced Brad again. Em’s eyes had lost their focus.

  “I needed to know what that damned reporter knew, that’s all.” Pointing to his back, Em added, “She didn’t have to do this to me.”

  “And when you came and stole the Bible Wilkie had given me, you had to know what I knew, right? Then you set fire to the office, hoping we’d never know the Bible had been taken.”

  “I was afraid Wilkie had implicated me in the kidnapping of your mother and sister,” Em said. “He never knew my name, but a description would have been easy to figure out.”

  Brad and Sharon exchanged glances.

  “That reporter wouldn’t tell me anything until I finally flashed the gun at her. Then she said she’d cooperate and show me the message Frank Wilkie sent you. From a bookshelf in her kitchen she pulled out a notebook and then took a single sheet of paper out of it and laid it on the table. I bent over to look at the paper and it was blank. Before I could react she doused me with hot coffee.”

  Em calmly leaned back in the water and resumed his backstroke. “That’s when she had to die,” he said. “I... I couldn’t let her get away with that.”

  “Every time you thought you were covering your tracks you only managed to build a trail back to yourself,” Brad said, his own voice rising with emotion. The twisted reasoning in Lindstrom’s confession had sparked his anger. “You lied and told Gertie you had to declare bankruptcy, but then offered to finance the sale of your own house. This morning I found Toluene in your garage, the same accelerant used to start the fire in my office, and I’m guessing the police will be able to match the chemical composition exactly. When I saw the burn on your back, I knew you had gone after Paula Thompson, and were responsible for my mother’s and sister’s death. What I’d like to know is why?”

  Gertrude Lindstrom entered from the house; the whir from her motorized wheelchair prompted Emerson to turn around.

  “Oh, Brad,” Gertie said, her face brightening as she saw him. “A Captain Argostino from the Philadelphia police called and wanted you to know he’s on his way. Em, you didn’t tell me we were expecting company.”

  “I didn’t know,” he said flatly.

  Emerson Lindstrom faced Brad. “She doesn’t have to stay, does she?” Em pleaded with his eyes.

  Gertie rolled her motorized wheelchair toward where Brad and Sharon stood. “It’s hard to hear what you’re talking about at the other end.”

  “Why did you do it?” Brad repeated his question.

  “Not with her around,” Em said.

  “Let me guess,” Brad said, the anger rising in his voice. “As an investment banker, you knew that a kidnapping and murder in the family of a company’s executive would cause the stock to plummet. And then you could afford to buy even more.”

  Em glowered at Brad. “I said not with her around.”

  “What, Em?” Gertie asked. “What about our stock? Why are you so angry? Why don’t you want me around? What did I do?”

  “Nothing!” Em screamed at her. “You didn’t do anything.”

  “Then what’s going on? I want to know what’s going on.” She stared at Brad, asking, “Why are the police coming here?”

  “Your husband needs to talk to—.”

  Em cut him off. “I only wanted Gertie to have what was rightfully coming to her,” Em said. “I thought I could sweeten the deal, and the time was running out when she could exercise her stock option. I figured there’d be negative publicity and the stock price would drop on the uncertainty of everything. Then she could buy more of it. On my way to work, I always stopped at a shoeshine stand in Penn Station, next to my office building. That’s where I first met Wilkie. He stood around seeing what he could bum off of people; he did janitorial work in the building overnight. One day I asked him if he’d like to make some serious money.” Em lowered his voice. “I only wanted a kidnapping... get some headlines in the news. But I didn’t know who I was dealing with, and everything went wrong.” Em shook his head. “I paid them up front. That was my mistake. The whole thing got out of control.”

  “You made more than one mistake,” Brad said. He glanced at Gertie who looked dazed and confused.

  “Do you know what a son-of-a-bitch you’ve got for a brother?” Em asked. “
He deprived Gertie of the one joy of her life. For twenty-five years, ten... twelve hours a day, she helped your dad with the business. It was her whole life. Then Andrew came along and made it a living hell.” Em pointed at Gertie as she sat in her wheelchair listening intently. “She did everything she could to please him. And all Andrew ever did was try to drive her out of the business. He made her work until nine, ten… eleven o’clock at night. Gertie never complained to him. She wouldn’t get home until midnight and then I’d get an earful.”

  “Em, what are you saying?” Gertie asked. “I didn’t mind the work.”

  He turned and pointed at her, saying angrily, “Just shut up.”

  “If your gripe was with Andy,” Brad asked, “why take it out on innocent people? Mom and Lucy never did anything to you. Why make my dad suffer?”

  “He… He cou… could’ve done something about it, but he never did. The business was his responsibility. I tried to talk with Joe, but he never had time for me. I wanted to make him understand how Andrew was affecting Gertie’s health. It wasn’t right what Andrew did. It wasn’t right. He had to pay. I was gonna make him pay. I wanted to teach him a lesson, but then things got out of hand,” Em repeated, as his voice trailed off.

  Em wrapped his arms around his chest and appeared chilled, in spite of the humid warmth.

  Gertie looked to Brad for answers. “Edith and Lucy? What did he do to them? I know he was always jealous of Joe.” Gertie began quietly, seemingly talking to herself. “One time he accused me of having an affair with Joe. Em was jealous because I liked my work.”

  Em spoke, his ramblings overlapping his wife’s. “I sent Andrew warnings. His treatment of her gradually made her sick. No doctor would ever tell me that her working conditions caused her tumor, but I knew better. She wouldn’t be a cripple today if it wasn’t for your brother.”

  “Em, no. You don’t understand,” Gertie said, shaking her head. She rolled her wheelchair another three or four feet along the tile floor and turned it to face the pool. “Em, look at me,” she pleaded.