Dying Embers (39 page)

In the center aisle near the podium someone had parked a wheelchair with a lump of old codger in it. An oxygen bottle fixed to the chair snaked a clear plastic tube to a face lost under a winter hat pulled down to cover the ears and all but a shag of gray hair at the collar. A brown knit shawl—folded to a triangle—rolled languidly off both sides of a humped back, but failed to hang low enough to conceal a urine collection bag hung from the armrest.

Leonard and Lorna took the far side. Shephart and I took the near. Lorna looked over to me when she made it to the rear corner on her side and gave one negative twist of her head. I hadn't seen our man either. Matty sat in the first row and had abandoned her FBI windbreaker for a cable-knit yellow cardigan with a rolled collar. My nameless benefactor from Washington had coiled up on the last chair on the left side of the center aisle, a bidder's paddle hovering over his fist like the hood of a cobra.

Klieg lights illuminated the stage. Sheldon Frampton stepped up to the podium—provincial in old tweed with patches at the elbow and cradling a meerschaum pipe—with his hair silver gray, parted high on the left, and brushed straight back from his face. He had affected bushy eyebrows and a grizzled guardsman's moustache.

Sheldon patted the microphone with his fingers and looked pleased at the noise it made. He settled the pipe into his pocket and produced his voice synthesizer.

“I-can-not-tell-you. How-pleased-I-am. That-you-have-come. To-day. Anne-so-loved-her-work. She-lives-on. In-each-piece. You-may-take-home.”

After a titter of polite applause Sheldon took a seat at the edge of the stage, the man with the gavel stepped up, and several cell phones leapt to ears from purses and pockets.

The sheer volume of money in the world often astounds me. I can remember a trip up the intracoastal in Miami. For a long stretch the yachts never shrunk to less than a hundred feet. The same sense of awe fell upon me as the items succumbed to the gavel. Casual waves of paddles and languid nods of the head signaled bids called at hundred-thousand dollar intervals.

The auctioneer—all nostrils, a pinky finger, and an affected highbrow accent—said, “Item twenty-two. An early work of Ms. Frampton's. Quite
frankly a decorator piece with a rather amusing photo-active aspect. I would like to start the bidding at fifty thousand dollars.”

No one stirred. I searched the crowd like a shipwrecked sailor looking for a raft. Nothing. My friend from Washington made an evil face at me. The auctioneer stepped away from the mike and bent close to Frampton for a whispered conference. When he returned to the microphone he said, “Very well, twenty-five thousand.”

After a pregnant silence the man from Washington flashed his paddle.

“Twenty-five, may I have thirty?”

I showed my paddle.

“Thirty, yes—now thirty-five.”

Matty bid.

“Thirty-five, thirty-five. Last call at thirty-five.” The auctioneer picked up his gavel, which was really a fat walnut wedge that lacked a handle.

Matty looked like she was going to poop in her chair.

“Forty,” said a woman in a green suit with gold buttons and some kind of red fur for a collar—her face hidden under the brim of a white felt hat.

“Forty-five.”

Being my caliber, I bid.

“Forty-five, forty-five, now at fifty.”

The codger in the wheelchair flashed a paddle.

“Fifty.”

An attendant in a white uniform shirt and pants stood up from beside the old man. He wore a freshly cut flattop and a walrus moustache, both nut brown. He pushed the paddle down and shook his head at the auctioneer.

“Just keep that in your lap, Mr. Farragutt,” he whispered. “Miss Molly only left it for you to hold, while she went to the dunny.”

The man with the gavel pointed at the old man in the chair. “Fifty-thousand.”

The attendant showed the auctioneer a shrug and his open palms.

“Fifty-thousand—once. Fifty-thou …”

“Fifty-five.” The man from Washington.

“Sixty.” The woman in the green suit.

I said, “Sixty-five.” And showed my paddle.

Shephart whispered toward my ear, “Are you nuts?”

“I like it,” I said.

Matty bid seventy.

The old man started to raise the paddle from his lap. The attendant thrust it down with both hands. The crowd made a nervous titter.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” said a clear strong male voice halfway up on the right. The paddle appeared over the right shoulder of a man whose blond hair formed a wreath around a bare flesh yarmulke.

Why hadn't I seen him? For that matter, why hadn't I seen the attendant in the ice cream suit? I side-stepped along the back row of chairs and had to nudge Shephart with my shoulder to get him started.

“
The Dutchman,
I have one hundred-thousand dollars. One hundred and ten?”

The man from Washington held up his paddle.

“One hundred and ten thousand,” said the gavel master, his face astonished. “Can I have one-twenty.”

Shephart nodded for me to go up the middle while he went for the side aisle. The man from Washington got to his feet and the brown shoes slouching at the doors came to attention.

“One hundred and ten thousand.
The Dutchman.
Can I have one hundred and fifteen?” He pointed the gavel at the woman in green. She shook her head. “One hundred ten thousand dollars once.”

The old man's paddle launched from his lap. He laughed, “
Heach, heach.”
Sounded like a child drawing carpenter's twine through a hole in a shirt cardboard.

The gavelist stared at the attendant. “One hundred and fifteen thousand dollars. Can I have one-twenty?”

I closed in on my quarry. As I drew even with his row of chairs he looked at me—a glass eye and a bulbous red nose. Definitely not my man Andy. He held up his paddle.

“
The Dutchman.
One hundred twenty-thousand dollars.”

I stood three feet from the attendant. He should have looked relieved. He didn't. He looked pissed and that is when I knew. Andy had dyed and cut his hair. I shook my head at Shephart.

The auctioneer said, “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

I looked up to the stage and said, “I am so sorry. My dog has wandered off.” I looked around the crowd. “A little Pomeranian, if you've seen him. He's such a scamp. Ko-ko, Ko-ko, Ko-ko.” I whistled twice.

“If you please, sir.”

I smiled. “Sorry. I'll… just be in the back here.”

The gavelmeister cleared his throat. Andy turned to look at him. I laid
a half nelson on Deliveryman/Andy and dragged him around the wheelchair, toward the stage. People exploded from their chairs and flew sideways like snow as the brown shoes plowed toward me and Andy.

I tilted my head to the side to defend my nose. I told him, “For God's sake man, don't fight, don't go for a weapon. They're here from Washington and looking to send you back as luggage.”

“Get stuffed,” he said.

The world suddenly consisted of hands and guns. I heard a thunder of retreating feet and screaming women. About a thousand angry men yelled, “You're under arrest,” and added a variety of obscenities concerning heritage, body parts, and at least one mention of sheep. We careened toward the stage and fell into a pile.

Someone pulled me to my feet. Turned out to be Bart Shephart. The gaggle of agents unpiled, jerking and dragging Deliveryman/Andy toward the door. Sheldon Frampton sat bemused in his chair at the edge of the stage. The auctioneer had fled and taken
The Dutchman
with him.

“Wait,” said the man from Washington.

The agents stopped like a power failure. They shoved their prize into a sitting position on the edge of the stage. Handguns on the ends of arms stuck in his face like a hound with a muzzle full of porcupine quills.

“Ask him,” said my nameless benefactor.

I moved my head until I could make eye contact through the crowd. “You saw the murder of Anne Frampton?”

“Right enough. Didn't do the job myself, mind you, but I did plant the tuft of hair in her hand.”

I pointed at Sheldon Frampton, “Was it him?”

Andy passed Sheldon a casual glance. “Nope, it was a woman. Kind of an older nag.”

I fished the photocopied booking picture of Shelly Frampton out of my breast pocket and passed it between the growls and grumbles from the agents I had to nudge aside. Deliveryman/Andy took it and turned it to the light, pushing the paper out to arm's length and squinting his eyes.

“Not a good picture,” he said, “But ‘at's her, right enough.”

“Sure?”

“Never forget. One stroke—real talent, she had. Women pushing men out of all the trades these days. Still jealous of the old bat's style, I am. The Frampton woman read her out, in right short fashion.” He folded the paper and chopped it at me. “She didn't say a word. Just set to her work
like Old Saint Nick and was off. Didn't stop to look. Didn't need to.”

Deliveryman/Andy moved to hand the paper back but thought better of it and lay it on the stage. He said, “About time isn't it, Andy?”

I heard the sound behind me.
Poowing.
The sweet metallic chime of the safety handle disengaging from a hand grenade. The veterans in the crowd were already a blur, the old man was out of the chair—no longer old and no longer a man, but a lithe twenty-something brunette with dark eyes and an Uzi.

I had already taken two steps and dove into the chairs when I heard the grenade hit the stage. It didn't have time to bounce. I'd wrapped my arms around my head for protection and they muffled the sound and concussion of the detonation. Suddenly dark, klieg lights rained onto the stage. The podium somersaulted down the center aisle.

Outside, short rips from the Uzi punctuated the sounds of running feet, cursing, screaming, and intermittent handgun fire. I looked at my hands, rubbed my arms, and pushed the padded folding metal chairs off of me as I sat up.

Detective Shephart lay with his face in the turf at the base of the stage. Sheldon Frampton's feet stuck in the air on the far side of the stage, pant legs wrinkled to the knees exposing hairless legs, wool socks and oxfords. Leonard and Lorna rose from the ground at the rear of the tent, and two last agents scampered from among the chairs and out the door.

I knelt next to Shephart and touched his neck with two fingers, looking for a pulse. He batted my hand away.

“Goddam it, Hardin,” he said without looking up. “This was my day off.”

“Are you all right?”

Shephart pushed himself up to his knees, sat on the stage, and brushed the turf off his suit. “Blast went over me, but some goddam moose stepped on me. Where's Frampton?”

“On the other side of the stage. Looks like he just sat there and watched it happen.”

“Or didn't know what was happening,” said Shephart.

Leonard and Lorna, hand-in-hand, walked toward us—Leonard nonplussed, but calm in contrast to Lorna's wide eyes and unsteady gait.

“Hardin, you're as good as your word,” said Leonard. “You got 'em, but I didn't expect justice to be this quick.”

One of Sheldon's legs kicked and slid along the edge of the stage until it fell out of sight. I scooted around to the back of the stage. Sheldon's face and
hands were peppered with measle spots. His hand worried a thin footlong shard of wood—a piece of the podium—protruding from his chest, which rose and fell with his labored breath. I pulled his hand away from the shard.

“Leave it be, for now,” I told him, holding his hand as it shook. “If you pull it out, your lung could collapse or you could bleed to death.”

He swallowed and his lips moved. I rummaged his coat pocket for the voice synthesizer and pressed it to his throat.

“What-what-hap-pened?” Sheldon's eyes searched. “I-can-not-see.”

“I'll get an ambulance,” said Lorna. She patted Leonard's shoulder. “Stay here.” She hurried off.

“Mr. Frampton,” said Shephart. “I'm a police officer. You are badly injured. We have summoned help. While we wait I need to talk to you. A man is in jail for a murder that he did not commit. Your statement could correct a horrible injustice.”

“My-rights.”

“If you recover, this statement won't be used against you.”

“Shel-ly,” said Frampton. “Shel-ly-did-it. Poor-Anne.”

“For God's sake, Frampton,” said Leonard, with a break in his voice. “Why?”

“I-loved-them-both. Anne-and-Shelly. My-fault. I-grabbed-the-wheel. Mother-told-me.”

“Anne Frampton?” said Shephart.

“Shel-ly-loved-her-too. A-fraid-she-would-leave. Anne-could-talk-so-mean,” said Frampton. He closed his eyes and his head fell to the side.

I patted the hand I was holding. “Hang on, Sheldon. Help is coming.”

“Was-hard-for-Shel-ly,” said Frampton without opening his eyes or turning his head. “Her-life. So-hard. Lived-with-aw-ful. De-cis-sions. She-did-not-want. She-did-not-make.”

Sheldon opened his eyes and turned his face to Shephart—squinting and blinking as if the light had returned. With his free hand he patted Shephart's bent knee.

“Shel-ly-is-gone. She-told-me. Be-fore-she-left. She-was-sor-ry.” He closed his eyes. Tears plowed the furrows under his eyes and he made a sigh that turned to a cough. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. “She-told-me. Not-to-be-lone-ly. Not-to-be-sad. She-said. Some-times. You-just-have-to. Start-over.”

Mr. and Mrs. Deliveryman/Andy—God knows who they were—left in the black wagon. Sheldon got the white wagon with the lights on it. Brian
Hemmings rode with him. I left Leonard and Lorna sitting in Annie-fannie's studio—clinging to life and one another—watching the wind and rain drive the waves from Lake Michigan to expend themselves on the shore.

The man from Washington departed without comment. Matty left a note in the Jag. “I'll be at my desk in the morning. Bring the money. There's a form you have to sign.”