by Ray Flynt
“And you wouldn’t be a millionaire if it weren’t for my brother. Andy reminded me that Joedco stock split three times in the last ten years. In response to a question from me, Andy e-mailed me this afternoon—the 40,000 shares you bought after my mother and sister were murdered are now 320,000 shares and worth about thirty million dollars. Unfortunately, where you’re going, it won’t do you much good.”
“Hello! Brad?” He heard Nick Argostino holler from the garage.
“We’re in here,” Brad shouted back.
Nick walked through the doorway from the garage and surveyed the scene. He wore a gray suit and almost immediately loosened his tie and wiped his brow in the humid atmosphere of the pool. Brad was glad to see him, greeting Nick with a firm handshake. In hushed tones, he briefly recounted to Nick what they’d learned so far.
Nick gazed at the man in the pool, and in an authoritarian tone asked, “You’re Emerson Lindstrom?”
Em nodded.
“Please get out of the pool,” Nick said. “I’d like you to come in for questioning in the death of Paula Thompson.”
Emerson ducked his head under the water, bobbing up a few seconds later and resumed floating on his back, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Say something, you bastard,” Brad shouted, his voice charged with eleven years of pent up anger. Sharon put her hand on his shoulder.
Gertrude peered over at Emerson from her wheelchair and pleaded, “Em, tell me what they’re saying isn’t true.”
“You got your ransom money,” Brad said, his voice quivering with emotion. “Why did you have my mother and Lucy killed?
Gertie shrieked! “My God, you didn’t kill anybody? Em, tell me you didn’t kill anybody.”
Em lifted his head and spoke softly. “It wasn’t about money. I told you, things got out of control. I never wanted them to kill anybody. A couple of days after the kidnapping I spotted Wilkie at the shoeshine stand. I told him to call it off. He said it was too late, that his partner had a sadistic streak. That’s all he said, but I knew… I could hardly live with myself. Believe me, I never expected anybody to die.” Em sounded remorseful, but then he smashed his fist into the water and shouted, “But that damned brother of yours had ruined her life. He created a living hell for Gertie. I wanted Joe’s attention, to make him realize what Andrew had done to my family.”
With her good hand, Gertie tugged at the wisps of thin hair on her forehead as her husband talked. “Oh, Em... You don’t understand.” Gertie screamed at him from her wheelchair. “Andrew is my son.”
Em stared over at her, marking the first time he seemed to pay any attention to what she had said. He took in her revelation with an expression of scorn and disbelief, then paddled around in the water turning his back to her.
Brad studied Gertie; her face flushed pink in anger, as she grasped the significance of her husband’s confession. Gertie swiveled her wheelchair sharply away from the pool. Her good hand seized the controls and she would not let go. She clamped her jaw tightly and wore a contorted mask of wretched anger.
Gertie jammed the joystick-style control forward and her wheelchair careened down the tiled surface surrounding the pool. It rolled quickly. She turned sharply to the right, the wheels coming perilously close to the edge of the pool. She toggled the switch and lined up the chair, taking aim at the electric space heater.
“Gertie, NO!”
When he heard Brad shout, Em turned his head. His eyes widened in fear. Em struggled to plant his feet on the bottom of the pool. The water came mid-way up his chest once he got his footing. He scrambled toward the ladder at the side of the pool, but the mass of water impeded his efforts, as he appeared to run in slow motion.
Like a battering ram, Gertie struck the electric heater with a quick thrust of her motorized chair. The heater sailed airborne toward the water. Em raised his left arm in a parrying motion to deflect the heater away, but instead it toppled over his arm and landed on his chest where it first made contact with the water.
Emerson screamed.
His agonizing cry echoed off the glass of the pool enclosure. His arms flailed about. Sparks flashed inside the heater. He lost his balance and fell backward. The electric chord tightened around his arm, pulling the metal casing of the heater in sizzling contact with his chest. Emerson’s body convulsed from the electric shock, and his mouth hung open but emitted no sound. Water churned around him from his struggle.
Sharon ran into the garage and unplugged the heater’s extension cord, but it was too late.
Nick extracted his cell phone, and Brad saw him punch a few buttons before announcing an emergency at the Lindstrom’s address.
Emerson Lindstrom’s lifeless body slipped beneath the surface then bobbed back up. A pink and white denture dislodged from his mouth and spiraled to the bottom of the pool. He floated on his back, seemingly suspended with his arms outstretched, mouth gaping. The waters stilled around him, Em’s violent encounter marked only by the ripple of the water against the sides of the pool in ever increasing rings.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brad turned away from the gruesome scene.
Gertrude Lindstrom sat transfixed in her wheelchair, gazing at Emerson’s body as it floated in the pool. Her hands lay limp in her lap, and her body began to shake. Brad knelt beside her, and pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. In the distance he heard warbling sirens. “It’s over, Gertie,” he said, then realized the words applied to him as well as to her. He reached behind the wheelchair and disconnected its battery, preventing any sudden decisions by Gertie to join her husband in a watery grave.
An ambulance arrived ahead of the police. Minutes later, a forensic photographer snapped pictures before the coroner’s staff fished Em’s limp body out of the pool.
Gertie, still in a state of shock, mumbled.
“What is it, Gertie?” Brad asked.
“The car,” she said. “Look in the Hudson. Em never let me get near that car.”
Brad stood and glanced at Sharon. She went to see Nick Argostino where he conferred with the officer in charge. Brad watched as the three of them headed for the garage.
Gertie reached out to Brad with her good arm, looking plaintively and signaling for him to come closer. In a hoarse whisper, she said, “Don’t tell Andrew. I don’t want him to know about me.”
“Mom and Dad kept your secret. It’ll be safe with me,” Brad said.
She shook her head. “Your parents never knew. There were so many times I wanted to tell Joe that Andrew was mine, but I never did. I was only seventeen when I got pregnant. My father sent me away, saying he would take care of everything. When I gave birth, they told me I had a son, but they whisked him away before I ever got to see him. Five years later, after my father died, I found a letter to him from the lawyer who handled the adoption. It mentioned your mother’s maiden name and the section of Bryn Mawr where your parents used to live. The attorney assured my father that he’d been given a good home. But I just had to know how my baby was doing, to see him, if only once. From the information in the letter I was able to figure out where he was.” Tears streamed down Gertie’s face. “Soon afterward I read that your mother would be hosting a tea at the museum. I went, with the intention of befriending her. She was pregnant with you at the time. My heart leapt when she talked about her five-year-old son that she’d named Andrew. When she spoke of wanting to build a new house… Well, I offered to sell them the land from my property.” Gertie seemed choked with emotion, her words came haltingly. “Then I knew I could watch my boy grow up. Becoming Joe’s business partner enabled me to see even more of Andrew. As he got older, he reminded me more and more of my father. Intense. Yes, overbearing at times, but still my son.”
An officer approached and announced, “We’re going to drive you to the police station, Mrs. Lindstrom.” She nodded.
The officer backed the wheelchair along the tiled-edge of the pool. Looking at Brad, Gertie lifted her now shaking l
eft hand and put two fingers across her lips. Brad raised two fingers to his own lips in a signal of silence.
Sharon returned with Nick.
“We found the revolver used to kill Paula Thompson, along with the Bible that Wilkie left you, in the trunk of Lindstrom’s car,” Nick announced. “And there’s a metal strong box with a lot of money in it. The local cops are counting it now, but based on what I saw—hundred dollar bills, and the age of the money—it’s probably the $500,000 in ransom.”
Brad’s eyes glistened. He felt a growing sense of perspective, if not closure, on the events that had transformed his life.
Brad, Sharon and Nick stood outside the Lindstrom’s house as the police drove their wheelchair accessible van to the base of the porch ramp. The cool temperatures and light breeze brought relief from the humid heat of the indoor pool.
“I’m guessing voluntary manslaughter will be the charge,” Nick said, as they watched two strapping officers hoist Gertie’s wheelchair into the van. “I doubt the DA will oppose bail. Besides they don’t really have the facilities at the county jail to take care of her.”
A persistent beep sounded, signaling reverse, as the van backed away from the Lindstrom’s porch, then made a wide turn before heading up the gravel drive.
Nick Argostino put his hand on Brad’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go. I don’t have a case here anymore. She took care of my prime suspect in the Thompson murder. Now I’ve got to go back to the office and remember where I put that damned case closed rubber stamp.” He winked.
“Thanks for all your help, Nick,” Brad said.
Nick climbed into his government-issued sedan. Rolling down his window, Nick said, “You’ll repay the favor for me someday.”
“We’re done here,” Brad said, with a sigh, after Nick’s car drove away.
Sharon pointed at Brad’s Mercedes. “They’ve got your car hemmed in.” The coroner’s vehicle, two unmarked cars, and a police cruiser blocked the way.
“Let’s walk,” Brad said. “I could use the fresh air. I’ll pick up the car later.”
The amber tones of approaching sunset washed over the foliage along their path, giving bark, twigs and even the underbrush a rich warm glow, while the new green of spring sparkled in the gentle radiance. Brad felt healing as the fresh smells of spring wafted over him. He could hear the birds warming up for their evening calls as he and Sharon wound their way up the hillside between the Lindstrom’s and his estate. Midway up the slope Brad stopped in front of a wooden bench at the side of the path.
“I’d almost forgotten about this,” he said, plopping on the middle of the rough-hewn bench, and stretching his legs while his arms draped across the back. “Mother asked Dad to make this for her. From this spot you can’t see any houses, only the trees. Mom wanted a place to escape. She even planted her favorite...”
Brad scrambled across the path, dropped to his knees and gently tore at the underbrush, which grew next to the trail. “I found one,” he shouted. Sharon looked on as Brad pushed away debris and dead leaves revealing the stem of a daffodil pushing its way out of the soil. “My mom planted these,” he said, delighting in his discovery.
Sharon knelt beside him, joining him as they raked away the moist flimsy-compost of last year’s leaves with their fingers, uncovering more tender shoots. She nodded when Brad said, “I’m gonna come back here more often.”
Read an excerpt from
TRANSPLANTED DEATH
A Brad Frame Mystery
Chapter One
2:00 p.m., Wednesday, January 10th
“You’re just in time for the autopsy,” Dr. Alan Fenimore announced.
No hello. No handshake. Alan hadn’t mentioned a death when he’d called, and Brad Frame wondered what other details he had neglected to tell him.
“It’s nasty out there,” Brad said, as he shook the snow from his overcoat.
The medical director of Philadelphia’s Strickland Memorial Hospital grunted, seemingly oblivious to the storm that churned just outside the lobby windows. He turned and headed down the tiled hospital corridor, which a tireless custodian had waxed and buffed to a high sheen.
Brad slipped off his fur-lined gloves, removed his wool overcoat and folded it over his arm. The doctor stopped and stared back at him impatiently, and Brad realized Alan hadn’t changed much since the days when they played tennis doubles at Princeton. Alan Fenimore always wore his drive and ambition close to his skin, with achievements to match—team captain, married to the prettiest Phi Beta Kappa on campus, and heart surgeon at the age of twenty-nine.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, and motioned for Brad to follow.
Brad kept pace a few steps behind Fenimore’s determined gait as they passed a coffee and gift shop on the right. The two of them had often been mistaken for brothers on the tennis court with their tall lean bodies, straight shoulders, and dark brown hair, but now Brad observed stooped shoulders and a bald spot encircling the back of his friend’s head. Brad was grateful he still had a thick head of hair.
At the end of the hall, Dr. Fenimore turned left into an elevator lobby with four sets of doors. He punched the down button, and the two men faced each other as they waited.
“What’s going on, Alan?” Brad asked. “I got here as soon as I could.”
“I appreciate it. We’ve got, ah … a situation with one of our transplant patients.”
Situation? Don’t call in a private detective, even one who is an old friend, and lay out facts in such a vague way.
An elderly couple with a teenager in tow joined them in the small elevator lobby. Dr. Fenimore stopped talking, cocked his head in their direction, and mouthed later.
Brad watched as the doctor once more jammed his finger into the down button, hard enough to make his hand quiver.
“Relax, Alan.”
A young couple arrived at the elevator, and Dr. Fenimore drew alarmed glances as he pounded the elevator’s call button with the side of his fist.
An up elevator arrived and everyone else hustled onto it. Next to him, Brad heard Alan emit a peevish groan.
Brad hadn’t expected his friend to be in quite this state. Not that one could shrug off the death of a spouse. Brad felt remorse that he had not done more when Marie died. After all, he knew first-hand how life could fall apart after a death in the family.
Brad put his hand on Alan’s shoulder and quietly said, “I’m sorry I haven’t visited you since the funeral. Beth and I were very busy over the Christmas holidays, and time got away from me.” Brad knew it was a lame excuse, and added, “I’m sure you’ve had a tough time.”
Alan blinked. “It’s okay,” he said, unconvincingly, as he rocked on his heels. “Marie’s sister and her family spent a week with me after Christmas, and I’ve been keeping busy here. Ken stops out about once a week.”
“That’s good.” It had been years since he’d seen their son, then a pimply-faced teen.
Alan ground his hands together. “Let’s use the stairs.” He bolted to the right and Brad kept pace as the doctor pulled open the door to the stairwell and raced downstairs.
At the first landing, Brad grabbed his friend by the arm. “Alan, stop. I’ve never seen you this uptight. What’s going on?”
Alan glared back at him, then at the spot where Brad held his arm. Brad released him and the doctor straightened the sleeve on his white lab coat.
“At approximately eleven o’clock this morning I got called to 7-West, one of our transplant units.” The doctor’s words echoed in the beige concrete block stairwell, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Dr. Wu, the head of the surgical team, told me that Michael Severns had been making an excellent recovery from a kidney transplant, but at 10 a.m. the duty nurse found him unconscious. Their attempts to revive him failed.”
“When was his surgery?” Brad asked.
“Two days ago,” Alan replied. “Actually, almost three days. It began late Sunday and ended early Monday morning. Dr. Wu, who just recently joined
our staff from the Mayo Clinic, was troubled by his patient’s sudden death. Then the duty nurse informed him that a heart-lung transplant patient had died earlier this morning on 7-South. That alarmed Dr. Wu and he contacted Dr. Peterson, who notified me.”
“Who’s Dr. Peterson?” Brad asked.
“Our chief transplant surgeon. He performed the heart-lung transplant. He’d been notified of his patient’s death early this morning. However, while any death is …” Alan paused, appearing to search for the right word. “… disturbing, Jack wasn’t unduly alarmed because he described the man as being ‘at death’s door’ before the very complicated heart-lung transplant, which carries more than double the risk.”
Brad thought he’d come for an hour or two of consultation with a college buddy, but now it might turn into a more complicated investigation. He wondered if he should alert Sharon, his associate in his private detective practice.
“It was then that you ordered the autopsies?” he asked, deciding to hold Sharon off for now.
“I ordered the post for Mr. Severns, but Mr. Esposito’s body had already been released to the mortuary. My office is trying to get his body back so we can do an autopsy. I understand we’ve contacted the funeral home, but had to leave a message with their answering service. I’m hoping we can have the body back here by the time Jamal finishes the autopsy on Mr. Severns.”
“Have you contacted the police?” Brad asked.
Alan frowned. “No, I contacted you. Until we get autopsy results, I’m only going on supposition. I’m reluctant to contact the police until we have more information.”
Brad digested the scenario; two deaths, one potentially suspicious. He studied Alan’s face. He hadn’t seen Alan since Marie’s funeral six weeks earlier when Brad had served as a pallbearer. The corners of Alan’s mouth were turned down, and a bowl of oatmeal had more color than his cheeks. His glasses, on a man renowned for his fastidious nature, were smudged.
