The Tattered Thread

By B. A. Braxton

Carlyle Kastenmeier is a successful businessman who routinely amuses himself by controlling the lives of his wife, his son, his brother, his mistress, and his many employees. He also has a nasty habit of belittling others, delighting in making them feel incompetent and insignificant. And he emphasizes this point by tying a piece of red thread around their fingers to humiliate them, and only he is allowed to take it off.

Lois, Carl’s wife, stays with him because he gives her everything she wants except his love. Carl’s employees stay with him because he pays them three times what their services are worth. Everyone justifies tolerating his abuse by telling themselves that the pay is good.

Witness the story’s events through the eyes of Elaine Kostas, a maid recently hired by the Kastenmeiers. She observes as Detective Rein Connery tries to figure out who beat Carl with his own walking stick, cut him with a straight razor, and then left him to bleed out on the bathroom floor.

It seems as if everyone is a suspect. Tasia McAvoy, Carl’s mistress, tried to leave him just months before his murder, but he forced her to come back. Carl’s bitter wife had to sign a prenuptial agreement relinquishing any right to his estate before he would marry her. Silas, their son, is a seven-year-old genius who certainly has the wherewithal, the intelligence, and the motives to kill his father. Vic Kastenmeier, Carl’s brilliant, alcoholic brother, had discovered a formula for an ideal oil paint varnish twenty years ago, but Carl took it away from him and built his fortune on the varnish’s manufacture and sale. Meanwhile, Vic is a pauper who depends on his brother’s assistance to live.

Nicolette Howard oversees the sale and distribution of Carl Kastenmeier’s varnish and related products. Of late, Carl has been threatening to take away many of her duties and give them to one of her colleagues, Marlon McGhee. Marlon is in no way as talented or as bright as Nicolette, but Carl loves to tease her by suggesting that Marlon could easily take her place. Marlon, on the other hand, believes that he is being promoted when really it’s just another one of Carl’s practical jokes. Cameron Dmytryk, Carl’s chauffeur, hates his boss for many reasons, but most especially because of his condescending attitude. Zachary Cutteridge is the Kastenmeier’s painter and landscaper who is fired after Carl discovers that Zach is having an affair with Tasia.

So, who killed Carlyle Kastenmeier? Read on as Detective Rein Connery sorts through the anger and animosity to get at the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. A. Braxton
• Release date: Apr 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301511372

B. A. Braxton

B. A. was born in Bridgeton, New Jersey and on a Friday the thirteenth for those who spook easily. She graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1981 with a bachelor’s degree in Natural Science, and with clusters in sociology, writing, and advanced writing courses. In 1987 she graduated from Fairleigh S. Dickinson Jr. College of Dental Medicine with a doctorate in general dentistry.Regardless of the paths that she has taken academically, B. A. has always continued to write. Her first books were written while she was in the seventh grade. Using classmates as characters seemed to put the books in high demand, and even as adults, those friends still ask to read them. By the ninth grade, she’d completed her first novel and although it was pretty bad, she was—and still is—extremely proud of that accomplishment. B. A. writes general fiction, mysteries, and historical fiction. Regardless of what else she has done in her life or how much the practice has been discouraged, writing has always been and always will be the center of her life.B.A. has been married since 1983 and has two children, a son and a daughter, and an aging cat named Salem. She first moved to Michigan in 1988. Her hobbies include hiking, kayaking, exercising on her beloved elliptical trainer, painting with oils, healthy cooking and baking, researching topics for stories, and being proud of her children’s many and varied accomplishments. She loves listening to any kind of music, especially if the lyrics are terrific, and learning as much as she can about people—their mannerisms, the way they speak, what they do, and why they do it. And she also loves watching western television series, especially those from the fifties and sixties. Her favorites are the early Gunsmoke episodes with Chester Goode in them, and that special father-son bond found in The Rifleman. Another favorite is the series The Virginian. The pilot for Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman is one of the most credible depictions of the nineteenth century American west that she has ever seen on celluloid, and several grimly realistic episodes from the first and second seasons are favorites of hers. And lately, Hell on Wheels is more than enough to satisfy her taste for the wild west.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: That Damn Thread

Elaine Kostas was intent on pressing the perfect crease down the length of her domestic’s trousers, when an explosion rocked all ninety-five rooms of the Kastenmeier manor house. A couple of books tumbled down from a shelf as the lights flickered. Rattling windows preceded the impending calm, which echoed through the room like hushed whispers against a hollow and most unforgiving heart. The shrill blaring of smoke detectors only added to the onslaught of anxious uncertainty. After unplugging the iron, Elaine went over to the chamber door and opened it, fearful even to peer out into the hallway. Cameron Dmytryk stepped from the men’s quarters at about the same time.

What in the world was that? Elaine asked as he pulled a white tee shirt on over his head and then coaxed the cotton cloth down with his hands.

Somebody has finally done the boss in, he said, his deep voice surprisingly tranquil. Afterward, he tried to reassure her with a smile as he added, Don’t worry. It’s probably just the furnace. As Cameron trotted off toward the commotion, he had to step around Tasia McAvoy as she came rushing up the stairs.

What in God’s name is going on? Elaine asked her. Did the furnace blow? Please don’t tell me it was Silas. Lord knows he’s much too sick to be working on any science experiments at this late hour.

Tasia stopped at the door, her chest rising and receding as if she’d just run from one end of the forty-five thousand square-foot lodging to the other. As she stared up at the coves in the ceiling, a red, swollen spot on her cheek stood out against her pearly skin. Curiously, the blonde hair on her head resembled a lion’s mane, but the effect only seemed to enhance her unabated good looks. In a breathless voice, she said, Carl’s been hurt.

Oh, my God! What happened to him?

Tasia entered the servants’ quarters and then grabbed a suitcase from the closet. She went to her dresser, threw open the top drawer, and then started packing some of her clothes. White gauze was still wrapped tight around her left wrist, a reminder of days not so long ago that had been just as disturbing as this one. Despite a nasty scar from the base of her right thumb to the middle half of her lower arm, she favored her right hand; the left had been injured beyond repair.

Where are you going? Elaine asked her.

I’m gettin’ the hell outta here. Tasia paused, turning around with a black satin chemise in her hand. Carl’s dyin’ and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be here when the police come a-calling, she said, her light blue eyes slicing the bare-bulb lighting like a razor blade. After putting the undergarment inside the suitcase, she then picked up several blouses. She sniffled, but there were no sign of tears.

Have you called for an ambulance?

Instead of answering, Tasia just rubbed her wet nose and kept on packing.

Does Mrs. Kastenmeier know what’s going on?

"Lo-o-ois? Tasia said, emphasizing that long ‘o’ with an easy, east Texas drawl. The southern inflection in her speech could best be heard whenever she was agitated, excited or upset. This house is her whole life, Elaine. She always knows what’s goin’ on in here. Well, she isn’t the only one. That damn thread’s not sittin’ right with somebody, but even you know that much. Tasia grabbed a beige overnight bag hanging from one of the bedposts and then concentrated on collecting some of her things from the top of the bureau. A speedball is exactly what I need right now. She paused. And I’m quite sure Carl could use one, too."

Off in the family room, the long-case clock started chiming three quarters of a verse from taps. Reconstructing the chime mechanism had been Silas’s idea: such a fertile mind for a boy of only seven. Too bad he’d fallen so ill, and now his father was dead or close to it. The news would devastate him.

Elaine watched as Tasia worked; she was wearing a short, red dress and maroon lipstick. The white wall gave her foreground image an almost angelic glow, but Tasia was no angel. She was a beautiful girl with a passion for make-up, especially mascara. Perhaps it was her high voice and her svelte, size-two figure which made her seem much younger than nineteen. Or perhaps it was her passivity, allowing others to take advantage of her almost daily. The illusion of youth seemed to be the only thing in her life over which she had any control.

As Tasia stuffed more clothes inside of a suitcase, her black beeper rested beside it; if the boss were dying, she sure wouldn’t have a need for that anymore. By now, the gauze around her left wrist was streaked with blood. While holding a purse open, She used her left arm to sweep the cosmetics resting on her nightstand into it. She flinched, perhaps reminding herself that the wrist was still in no condition to be taken so lightly. As she cradled her left arm with a right one also marred by multiple hesitation marks, she watched a maroon lipstick tube teeter on the edge of the stand and then fall to the floor, barely making a sound against the coral and gray carpeting.

I’m going downstairs, Elaine said.

Tasia looked up as if she’d just been slapped in the face. Funny, but for a fleeting moment she actually looked her age.

CHAPTER TWO: Where's John?

Elaine left the room and then walked off down the hall. The servants’ bedrooms had been built above the Kastenmeier’s six-car garage, which afforded all of their employees' easy access into the kitchen, pantry, and basement areas. Descending the stairs cautiously, Elaine peeked over into the kitchen; the lights were on, but no one was there. Woolen druggets cushioned her steps, silencing her approach. Tasia’s tall, white chef’s hat was in its usual place in the far corner. Leaving the dining room, Elaine breezed past the rotund, high-vaulted foyer and then went into the family room. Hearing the discharge of a fire extinguisher made her feel anxious again; fires must have still been resulting from the blast. Someone had disarmed the smoke alarms, but it was unnerving to realize that the danger wasn’t over.

Somebody had left the television and VCR on in the room, even though the movie had been stopped. A cigarette butt was in a crystal ashtray next to the pastel orange chaise longue, and an unfinished drink, perhaps Tasia’s usual sangría, had been left on the marble-topped coffee table. An orange, brown, and black glazed cotton cover lay against several matching silk cushions. Lois Kastenmeier would’ve fainted to see her finery so close to beverages and cigarette ash. Some banana bread was on a plate on the floor.

Glancing over at the wet bar, Elaine discovered where Tasia’s drink had been mixed. Nothing was out of the ordinary, except that there was a second glass on the counter and it was empty. Streaking the far wall and darkening a good deal of the carpeting beside the bar was a liquid reeking of wine and brandy. A slice of lemon and an apple wedge were lying close by. Drafts coming from unknown places lifted the bangs from Elaine’s forehead and chilled her arms, peppering her skin with goose flesh; a brown velvet portiere had been left open.

Displayed above the mantle was a life-sized portrait of Lois and Silas. Lois was sitting on a glorious Rococo Revival chair with a carved floral crest of gilded wood and curved legs. It was upholstered with a glistening, deep maroon fabric. The lady of the house’s good looks had not only been enhanced by the artist’s able hand, but also by a most stunning shade of chestnut hair coloring, and the assistance, no doubt, of one of the best plastic surgeons money could buy.

Even the youthful sparkle in Lois’s blue eyes couldn’t mask the approach of middle age. The artist surrendered to time’s hand as well; he reproduced her chin nobly, but doubled it ever so slightly. She presented herself like a queen sitting on that antique masterpiece with a chinchilla wrap covering her shoulders. Silas was on the floor at her feet, holding a stereoscopic viewer while dozens of three-dimensional, storytelling cards were at his knees. He couldn’t have been much older than three and already he looked sad.

The tick-tick of the long-case clock pendulum drew her attention. It was a nineteenth century, French inspired, towering walnut wonder, and it stood at least eight feet high and two feet wide. Silas loved tinkering with it. Rubbing her arms to warm them, Elaine finally mustered the courage to move on.

Katerina Waltke’s desk was as neat as always in the office reception room. Katerina was Carl’s personal secretary. A computer, ink-jet printer, and dictating machine were on a table beside her desk. Posted notes on a bulletin board were hanging on the wall behind her chair. Several telephone lines, a typewriter, office files, a calculator, and adding and copy machines were all handy. The low, steady hum of a Bernoulli drive could be heard.

When Elaine reached the door to Carl’s office, it was open. His usual Corona cigar was smoldering on an intricately carved ash receiver resting on a mahogany, flattop desk. Blue smoke rising from it stirred the air with a most aromatic blend of the best Cuban tobacco leaves in the world. Only about a third of the cigar was gone. A bottle of cognac was also on the desk, a three-star Napoleon waiting to be opened at his leisure. His favorite photograph of Tasia sitting beside him on a courtyard bench in happier days was in its usual place on a shelf behind his desk, as was a portrait of his son Silas in a silver frame. Lois’s likeness was nowhere to be seen.

Beyond the desk, the door to the smoking room stood open; it was a handsome, wood-paneled room with hardwood floors and art-glass windows. Carl’s favorite curios littered the walls and every nook and cranny of his private space, and his pub sofa was right in the center of the room. A mahogany humidor was on a small end table.

Polo pictures had been knocked off the wall behind the desk, and there was a dent in the wainscoting. The glass in the frame was shattered, as if the picture had been hit with great force. Fragments of glass made the brown floor sparkle, especially where the desk chair had been yanked away from where it should have been. One of the black leather armrests was gouged. About twenty-five vinyl badge holders were in a box on a table close to the desk with name cards in them. Two black-soled skid marks stretched a good six inches across the parquet floor, and a spool of red thread had toppled over onto a cream-colored area rug. The spool was wet with something tingeing the rug pink.

Just as Elaine noticed a purple velvet smoking cap also lying on the floor, she jumped when she heard the fire extinguisher again. Slipping past the desk and into the office hallway, Elaine was careful not to touch anything. People were standing by the bathroom door and gawking at the spectacle inside.

Cameron was among them, and he stood with his burly arms folded across his chest as he chewed the gum in his mouth. A fire extinguisher was tucked under one of his arms, and it had been used. He was looking in the bathroom as if amused by the less than straight-flush fate the headman had been dealt.

Lois, Carl’s wife, stood behind Cameron, a lavender, satin robe covering her athletic physique, a body still apropos for executing a perfect plié or arabesque despite its forty-three years. As always, she smelled fruity and floral, probably wearing Jean Patou’s Que Sais-Je? She waved a heavily bejeweled hand in front of her nose to ward off the puffs of gray smoke still billowing out of the room.

Betty Rhoades, the head housekeeper, stood close by, her hair in soft, pink rollers. Some kind of white moisturizer was on her face, as if the explosion had caught her as she’d been preparing for bed. Drawing a tissue from one of the pockets of her smock, she blew her nose. Far from being upset over Carl’s situation, her damn allergies must have been acting up again. All the vapors pouring out of the room certainly didn’t help, tearing her big, gray eyes.

Vic Kastenmeier burped and his body swayed as if he were thinking about collapsing beside his younger brother. Most days Vic would be stoned out of his mind by eleven in the evening, so Elaine could appreciate the effort he was putting forth to stay erect. Dark stubble covering his chin rose as high as the hair on his head, and his ears protruded away from his face like two fans. His cranium always appeared too big for his body, and his neck was short and thick. As he stood there, his wrinkled brow resembled a road map while sharp, distinctive bags hung over each of his cheeks like gunnysacks.

Where’s John? Vic asked, wiping his mouth with his hand. John Linton was Carl’s bodyguard, and he obviously hadn’t done the man any good at all tonight if what Tasia had said was true.

A gurgling sound came from the full, Victorian bath, as if someone was struggling to breathe. Elaine moved past the others and stuck her head inside the bathroom to see. She found Carl sprawled out against the side of the claw-footed bathtub. Plaster dust filtering through the air dulled his image as it settled on his clothes, skin, and powdered his hair. The explosion had shattered the frosted glass globe on the ceiling. Now the globe’s red and indigo remains were sprinkled all over like a hopeless jigsaw puzzle. Wall sconces on either side of an elaborate, gilt mirror hadn’t been affected by the blast, and still gave off a warm glow of light amid the piles of destruction.

Both of Carl’s arms were stretched out with each of his elbows resting against the mahogany surround of the porcelain overlaid tub, giving him an eerie semblance to a man nailed to a cross. It was there, however, that any similarities to deities ended. As he tried to say something, his legs moved as did his lips, and his eyes rolled up into his head. His left foot was mangled and the black leather shoe he’d been wearing had been blown off. The maroon and gray Argyle sock on it appeared burnt and bloody. His chest heaving, he fought ferociously for every breath.

Carl’s onyx and chased silver walking stick was lying in the bathtub behind him, the griffin-head handle flecked with skin and blood. A portion of his scalp had been pulled away from his head and now dangled vicariously over his right brow, graying hair still tacked to it. Mashed almost to the point of being unrecognizable, his face looked as if it had gotten caught in a vise. Also scorched and blood-soaked was a piece of protective plastic from a cleaning store nearby, which had been left on the floor behind the door.

The rim of a fractured mayonnaise jar was on the floor close beside him, and fragments of glass were scattered everywhere, mixed in with the remains of the globe. Pieces of glass had even been blown into Carl’s face, peppering his left cheek and chin with glistening dabs of blood. Blood streamed from his swelled right eye and from the side of his head. His left forearm and hand were black with burns, and the same side of his purple padded smoking jacket and trousers were smoldering. Despite the smell of soot and ash and one of Patou’s finest, the room also smelled like stale wine.

CHAPTER THREE: Tasia

Carl’s favorite straight razor had been dropped at his feet, the edge of the blade catching the tile on the floor. The tip of the brown and yellow handle was burning, the small flame greedily consuming the rest of the celluloid. Just two short weeks ago Tasia had used the same razor to cut her wrists.

Each step Elaine took crackled underfoot, the fragments of glass being spread out so far. Blood streamed down the right side of Carl’s body, spreading over the side of the tub like a red sheet. Edging down and collecting under his right thigh, the blood tacked the bathroom mat to the floor, and a tattered and well-worn piece of thread had been tied around the fingers of his right hand, netting them together like one impervious web. His fingers bled because the thread had been tied tight enough to cut them.

Parts of the bathroom had been reduced to rubble. The lion head, marble toilet bowl sat gray with plaster dust, and a roll of tissue was burning beside it. A mirror had shattered above the vanity. Once beige, the pressed-tin ceiling and cornice were blackened by flames and soot; the detail of the fleur-de-lis motif displayed above was enhanced by its having been torched, like a lead pencil shading. Floor tiles had lifted and broken where the blast had occurred, leaving a hole almost ten inches in diameter and six inches deep.

An enclosure under the black walnut sink was missing one of its doors; the door had been blown against the barber’s chair. The marble countertop had collapsed into the cabinet, taking the crosshandle taps and china basins down with it. One of the double vanity’s basins was cracked, but the thick slab of marble had been left unscathed. Exposed brass pipes beneath the sink gleamed in the meager light coming from the wall sconces. Water dripped from one of the crystal faucets, a slow, meandering motion drumming against the left oval basin. It blurred the pretty pink rose pattern painted on the ivory-colored china.

Tasia, Carl said woefully through a pair of battered lips. He could have mentioned his wife, but his mistress’s name was the only one he could manage. Lois took that declaration like a final affirmation of her insignificance; even as he lay dying, her husband had managed to embarrass her once again. She looked down at him with a scowl, her top lip twitching.

Elaine went inside the room, waving smoke and plaster dust away from her nose and eyes. Mr. Kastenmeier, she said, coughing as she knelt beside him. She opened his jacket and then eased him back to a more comfortable position against the tub. When she loosened his tie, he gazed up at her. Expecting to be thanked, she was surprised to see him start thrashing about as if he hadn’t wanted to be touched. She let go of him and then backed off, glancing over her shoulder at the others.

Go…! he mumbled, so she faced him again.

Yes, sir? Go, what?

"Go to hell! he said, straining to use his last energy to do what he did best. Bitch!" he proclaimed also, and then seemed proud to have mustered that much defiance while in such a horrible state. Then he ended the feat by pulling up the corners of his mouth to form enough of a smile for his intention to be understood. As he drew in a last breath and then exhaled slowly, the fingers of his left hand opened, exposing a piece of plastic in his palm.

Hah! Cameron said, standing behind Elaine.

Around the corner, where a Lady’s chair, settee, and an occasional table added Victorian plushness to an already well-furnished bathroom, the rose-patterned, stained-glass window flashed bright for a second. Did you see that? Elaine asked, but no one seemed to understand the question.

Sure did, Cameron said, staring down at Carl’s body while chewing the gum in his mouth a little faster. The boss just died. He blew a bubble. It’s like something you’d see in a dream.

No, no, Elaine said. Something was shining on that window.

An act of God, no doubt, Cameron said, taking note of Betty’s amused visage. His voice boomed off the scarred walls. No chance of redemption, an express ticket to hell…. Pleasantries for the rest of us to look back on fondly for the rest of our lives.

Silence ensued as Silas poked his head through the door. When Elaine saw him, she stood away from his father’s body. Coughing and wheezing a bit, Silas was still weak from the one-hundred-and-three-degree fever he’d had earlier in the day. His ashen complexion enhanced the redness of the rash covering his body, which was especially localized on his small, pallid chest. Dad? he said, entering and discovering Carl slumped dead at his feet. Silas knelt beside him and then checked for a carotid pulse.

Has anyone called for help? he asked, turning to look at his mother. Lois Kastenmeier