The Birnbaum Case

By Fallton Havenstonne

Stanley Birnbaum Jr. is a physics professor at Glebe University who is working on groundbreaking technology in the field of optics. But one day, he and his family disappear. Neither the police nor his sister, Melinda, can find them.

After 2 months, there are still no leads or suspects.

Desperate to find out what happened, Melinda hires a private detective, Corbin Forester, who has the unique ability to communicate with spirits in his dreams. Through each dream, he unravels the mystery behind their disappearance, and discovers that Stanley's disappearance might not be what it seems . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fallton Havenstonne
• Release date: Mar 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393274421

Book preview

1

It was dusk when Corbin Forester reached the iron wrought gates of the Birnbaum estate. It had been a long drive from Jacksonville, Florida. He took a long look at the poplar trees that covered this patch of Winchester, Virginia. He gazed at the stone angels perched beside the gate. They seemed to bade him in.

With the gates already open, he drove up the hill and parked at the roundabout. Corbin got out slowly, taking his duffel bag and briefcase with him. He went up to the door, then used the doorknocker with a resounding blare. He waited outside the Victorian house in the bitter cold of February.

A woman with a watchful eye opened the double doors. She had creases along her mouth and eyes, and she appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. She had on a gray cardigan, and her dark hair was in a bun. She had a morose and weary disposition. She seemed glum, or maybe there was something about the house that made her queasy.

Can I help you?

Corbin showed his PI badge. I’m Private Detective Forester, ma’am. Are you Melinda Birnbaum?

Yes. She smiled faintly. I’ve been expecting you, Detective. Please come in.

He stepped inside with his duffel bag and briefcase. He kept his long black coat on despite her effort to hang it.

I’m still getting used to the weather, he said.

Suit yourself. This way.

He followed her down the dim corridor. Large portrait paintings hung on both sides of the wall. The patriarch, Stanley Birnbaum Sr., appeared like a gargoyle in the portraits, looming over his family like a shadow. He had a moustache and wispy gray hair, and he had a stern expression that displayed power and prestige. He was a man of wealth and he wanted to imprint this on guests as they came in.

Melinda showed Corbin to the living room with a short gesticulation of the hand. Ornamental furniture, such as handcrafted chairs and cabinetry, gave the décor an antique feel. The flames of the fireplace glowed effulgently, giving the spacious room warmth. Paintings dotted the walls in place of photographs, some of the Birnbaums, some of flowers and landscapes bought at auctions by late masters of the eighteenth or nineteenth century. Delicate china displayed from the cabinets, and trinkets glistened on the fireplace mantle.

Corbin researched the Birnbaums prior to his drive from Florida. He knew that Stanley Birnbaum Sr. had owned a factory properly titled Stanley Birnbaum’s Machine Factory. There, his workers manufactured machine parts for jetliners such as turbines and compressors. The factory closed its doors a decade ago, but only after Stanley Birnbaum Sr. sold the company to a large conglomerate. Corbin also knew that this estate had been in the family for two generations. The house was built in the early twentieth century, renovated in the 1970s, and then remodeled in the ’90s. It looked new inside compared to its Victorian exterior.

Would you like some tea? Melinda asked.

No, thank you, Corbin said.

Suit yourself. She poured a cup for herself at the sideboard. Why don’t you have a seat?

He sat in an ornamental chair near the fireplace, setting his duffle bag and briefcase down beside him. The heat did wonders for his frigid hands and feet. He hadn’t been to Virginia since he had left nine years ago. The climate in Florida was a cakewalk compared to this. Besides, the house felt chilly. The heat must’ve been turned off.

I appreciate your coming out here on such short notice. I know it must’ve been a long drive from Jacksonville.

I didn’t mind it. I could use some cold weather, he said dryly.

His joke fell on deaf ears.

You must be tired, she said. Did you want to talk tomorrow?

No. I could start today. I’m used to long distance traveling, anyway . . . kind of like a traveling salesman if you know what I mean.

She sipped her green tea slowly, then set the cup down on the saucer. I can reserve a hotel room for you during your stay.

No. I actually plan to stay here.

Here? she said, eyes widened.

"Yes. It’s part of the method."

I can appreciate that, Detective. But if you change your mind—

I won’t.

Melinda nodded. The last detective I hired had no luck finding Stan. It’s like he and his family vanished out of thin air.

I thought his name was Stanley? Corbin said.

We call him Stan.

Right. So it’s been two months since he and his family disappeared?

Yes. The police have searched every square inch of Winchester, interviewed everyone that might’ve been a suspect. They found no leads, no evidence of forced entry or burglary.

Have you considered that it might be a kidnapping? Corbin said.

She shook her head despondently. If it was, why hasn’t anyone called or demanded a ransom? Especially after two months.

He drew out his pocket notepad. It was filled from top to bottom with notes from their last phone conversation. So they disappeared on December 5?

Yes.

And you called the police that night to file a missing person’s report?

Normally you have to wait forty eight hours, but given the circumstances, I called the police the following morning.

He jotted that down. Stan Birnbaum Jr. is your oldest, brother?

Yes.

You have a younger brother, Grier Birnbaum?

She curled her lip at the sound of his name. He’s four years my junior.

And Stan?

He’s three years older than me.

Right. And what made you call the police? Maybe he went on vacation and didn’t tell anyone.

No, Detective. There’s something you must understand about Stan. He is a punctual person, just like Father was. He couldn’t host his customary Thanksgiving feast, since he was away for a work conference in California, so he wanted to make it up to us. He sent both of us an invitation.

She handed Corbin the invitation card. It read:

You are cordially invited to join the Birnbaums for dinner on December 5, 2019, at seven p.m.. Arrive on time. NS, NL.

I’m sorry. What do those initials mean?

No sooner, no later.

Uh huh. So what happened that night?

Grier and I both live in New York, Melinda said. I live in Buffalo, and he lives in New York City. Gosh, I can’t stand New York City. I don’t know how he tolerates it. Anyway, neither of us had seen Stan since he threw Thanksgiving dinner a year ago. He runs things like clockwork, just like Father did. That night, Grier and I parked outside the gate a few minutes before seven. We waited until it was time to buzz the gate. When I did, there was no reply. I kept buzzing until Grier lost his patience.

What did he do?

Acting like Grier always does. He climbed over the seven-foot gate and then opened it from the inside. We drove up to the roundabout at the front of the house. The lights were on, but no one was inside.

What did you do? Corbin asked.

When we were kids, Father showed us where an extra pair of keys to the house was in case he or Mother were gone. He left them by the lilies in the garden so that we could find them. Father and Mother never warned us when they left, even when we were playing out in the woods, she said with a melancholy expression.

So I hurried to the garden and grabbed the keys from the lilies as I had done countless times. Aspen usually greets us at the door. . . .

Wait. Who’s Aspen? he said, raising his eyebrows.

She’s Stan’s dog. She’s adorable, really. A gentle and sweet dog. They’ve had her for a few years now. I think she’s seven.

So Aspen was gone too? Corbin said.

Yes. We didn’t hear her when we went inside the house. The food was set on the table, as well as the cups and silverware neatly squared away. The turkey, rolls, mashed potatoes . . . they were still warm. We searched everywhere in the house, but they were nowhere to be found. There was no note, no phone call, and no text. They just . . . disappeared.

Did they have a butler?

Yes. Ezra Linton.

Corbin wrote that name down.

Where was he?

He was gone on vacation that week. I know what you’re thinking, Detective. But it couldn’t have been him, though. Stan had given him the week off to spend time with his family in Canada. We knew this prior to our arrival.

Where is Ezra now?

I have relieved him of his duties, of course. There’s no point of him being here.

I mean where does he live?

In Berryville, which isn’t far from here.

I assume the police drilled him pretty hard, searched his place. He had to be a key suspect. The PI you hired drilled him, too, right?

Yes. Both he and the police have interviewed him already. Ezra has an airtight alibi, Detective.

Call me Corbin.

Okay. Corbin. They checked his plane ticket, his passport, even his hotel reservation in Toronto. He was there the whole time. And they searched his place, too. They couldn’t find anything to pin him with.

Did your brother have any enemies?

Not that I know of. I don’t know of anyone that would want to harm him. He’s a gentle and kind person.

He’s rich, Melinda. Being rich can be an occupational hazard.

Melinda had a sour expression on her face. Stan doesn’t care for money.

But he has money, correct? Did your brother wrong anyone? Was there a business deal that went sour, someone he might’ve ticked off? Underlings?

She shook her head. Stan’s not a businessman. He’s a man of science. He’s been teaching physics at Glebe University for years. Father sold his company before he died and made a fortune out of it. In his will, he left the estate to Stan—gave him power of attorney—as well as a large percentage of his wealth.

Why Stan?

Because he was Father’s favorite, she said coldly. Besides, Stan said he needed money for his research and experiments. He set up a laboratory in the basement after Father passed away, got things squared away so that he could work on his inventions.

I didn’t realize he was an inventor.

Yes. She took off her watch and handed it to Corbin. It had a thin metallic band with a convex lens that depressed when he pushed it. The effect was that the lens would pop in and out.

When I was about thirteen, Melinda said, "I was playing with my best friend Anne in the woods and we walked to the creek. We jumped in the water and started running in it, splashing water all about. And as I ran, I tripped over a rock, scraping my knees and palms. I was wearing this watch at the time, and it must’ve hit the rock on the fall. I was so embarrassed, and I knew Father would be upset with me. When I returned home, Father was absolutely livid. He was furious that I broke the watch he had given me for my birthday. He said I was careless and shouldn’t have been wearing it at the creek. He called me foolish, ignorant, and a bunch of other names I don’t care to mention. At the end of it, he grounded me for a few days, prohibiting me from playing with Anne.

"That evening, Stan came to my room to console me after what had happened. He examined the broken watch, said he’d repair it. Well, a couple days later, he came back with that watch as if it was brand new. He made it work again, and replaced the cracked glass with a different lens. He said that every time I popped this new lens in, it would reset to its original time. So if I changed the time in a different time zone and needed to change it back, all I would have to do is press it in and it would reset the time back to the last setting.

"Of course, if I pressed it on accident, I just had to press it again to return it to the original time. The lens he put in