East Beach

By WF Ranew

FBI Agent Joseph Trammell retires to a beachfront home on a Georgia island.

Six months later, PI Red Farlow finds him dying in a pool of blood. Someone shot him four times. Five shell casings litter the floor. Drops of blood lead out of the house and onto East Beach on St. Simons Island. Red sets out to find out who killed Joe Trammell and why.

Did the local drug and arms smuggler hire a hit? And who caught the fifth bullet?

Farlow wades into the murky water of intrigue, conflicting love affairs, and danger as he tracks down the killer. It’s not exactly a relaxing day at the beach.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005216436

WF Ranew

W.F. Ranew is a former newspaper reporter, editor, and communication executive. He started his journalism career covering sports, police, and city council meetings at his hometown newspaper, The Quitman Free Press. He also worked as a reporter and editor for several regional dailies: The Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle, The Florida Times-Union, and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.Ranew has written two previous novels: Schoolhouse Man and Candyman’s Sorrow.He lives with his wife in Atlanta and St. Simons Island, Ga.

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Part I

Pardon, goddess of the night,

Those that slew thy virgin knight;

For the which, with songs of woe,

Round about her tomb they go.

—William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

Chapter One

JANUARY 2019

Red Farlow resisted following his wife, Leigh, to bed. He’d slept fitfully of late. Instead, he walked to his front porch overlooking the beach and St. Simons Sound.

He sat and listened to the water and waves, cloaked in a fog teased by a gentle winter breeze.

The mist had drifted in earlier that evening and thickened into a likeness comparable to Brunswick stew. The cloud blanketed Red’s neighborhood.

His nostrils flared. A southwesterly wind ushered in the rotten egg stink from the paper mills on the mainland.

A freighter hauling across St. Simons Sound to Brunswick’s port sounded its foghorn. Red watched as the ghostly hulk cruised past. Gulls danced in the breeze over the beach’s surf line. All was right with the world. Or was it?

Red looked down at his cell phone. How did I miss a call? He noticed the time—half past midnight.

He listened to the voice message.

Red, ah...Tram. Now!

The short, clipped message alarmed. Red’s friend was a talker by nature. He recalled Joseph Trammell’s older brother relating how he burst forth from their mother’s womb, chatting up a storm. Tram didn’t deny that. He just grinned upon hearing the story.

At times as a federal agent, Tram faced predicaments that would dent anyone’s proclivity toward conversation.

Red considered what the trouble might be as he went in to tell Leigh he was going out. He put on a windbreaker, walked through the mist to his truck, and drove up the road to Tram’s house.

He parked on the street and walked to the front door, which stood half-open. A lone lamp glowed in the living room and an upstairs hall light sprayed the stairwell with its softness. He stepped into the house, down the hall by the stairs, and to the brightest lit room—the kitchen.

Tram!

Joseph Trammell sprawled, barely alive, in a pool of his blood on the floor. Red kneeled over and cupped the back of his friend’s head and shoulders.

Tram’s eyes fought hard to open.

Red, he managed to utter.

Yeah, man. It’s me, Red said. Tram, help will be on the way soon.

Red dialed for an ambulance.

The former FBI agent fought for breath. He managed to say, Key West. Tram tried to heave more air, but the rattle denied it. His eyelids opened and shut several times.

It was the last time Red saw his old boss and friend he called Tram. Someone put four bullets in him. Looking at Tram on the floor, the private investigator feared the EMTs could do little to save him.

Joseph Trammell exhaled a final faint whoosh of breath, and his head slumped to one side. He died.

That was too bad. Red loved the guy. Damned.

* * *

Tram retired from the FBI late the previous summer and moved into a house on St. Simons Island’s East Beach.

Red and his wife Leigh had passed the house on the road a dozen times. They walked by it on the beachfront that many or more. The night Red got the call, he finally went inside the cottage.

It’s not that they weren’t welcome. Tram had invited them to visit his house twice. Both times they had conflicts and couldn’t make it, so Red was long overdue in dropping by to see him and his pride in homeownership. He and Leigh did manage to meet Tram once for dinner at a restaurant on the island.

The sad part about not having visited Tram’s new house was Red had a home a mile away in St. Simons Island’s Village on the Georgia coast.

Busy lives got in the way. Leigh had her psychotherapy practice on Chippewa Square in Savannah. They went to Europe for three weeks that autumn. On and on the reasons mounted. But Red knew he should have visited Tram as soon as he moved in on that hot day in August. He didn’t.

* * *

Red looked around the kitchen and concentrated on everything in a quick view. A large pool of blood under his friend. Five shots fired, as indicated by the collection of brass casings on the floor five feet from Tram’s body. He’d taken four bullets. Someone else got the fifth. A trail of blood drops speckled the floor.

Red saw no gun but noted a butcher knife on the kitchen counter near the sink.

He remained still, not wanting to disturb the evidence there—someone who was bleeding escaped out the back. Anyone could see that much. Small puddles of blood found three to four feet apart led from the kitchen to the porch, out the screen door, and onto the sand of East Beach.

Red took out his cell phone and shot a dozen photos of the scene. When a siren sounded a few blocks away, he gingerly stepped out of the kitchen and left through the front door. While waiting on the small patch of grass, he watched as a lone woman approached the house from down the street. A couple walked up the road that dead-ended into Tram’s property.

Minutes later, an ambulance pulled onto the short pebble driveway, followed by a county police car. Two EMTs ran to the house. Red directed them and the cops to the kitchen.

The hubbub began.

Other neighbors appeared. Two more cops arrived and started asking questions of everyone there. An officer talked to one woman—the early arrival—who said she lived several cottages down. Red wondered what the cops would learn from her and the others.

In the middle of the night, gunshots tended to raise alarms, particularly in high-end neighborhoods with million-dollar beachfront houses. Of course, many were vacation homes and unoccupied much of the time. Still, there were plenty of full-timers on the stretch of East Beach.

Red walked back into the house. As the ambulance guy and woman examined Tram’s body, two sheriff’s officers came in and started asking questions. Soon, a county homicide detective appeared in a sedan. Red spoke to him, explaining that after Tram’s voice message, he came over and found his friend dying on the kitchen floor.

Red saw no need to tell them what Tram uttered in his last moments. No one asked.

* * *

After dispensing with the police interviews, Red realized Tram’s ex-wife, Jessica Maramore, needed to know about his death. Where was she?

Jessica married Tram when she was twenty, and he was forty-two. He’d just joined the FBI and landed an adjunct teaching job near Washington at St. Mark’s College. She was a junior majoring in criminology.

She glided up to him after class to ask a question. That led to a coffee, which turned into dinner and ended in a late evening rendezvous between the sheets in Tram’s Georgetown efficiency.

Jessica told Red years later that women in her family had a tendency to get pregnant merely by breathing the air around a handsome man, and Tram was oh so good looking. She took in more than his breath that night, and the result was a son born nine months later. They hastily married and established a home in a larger apartment in the DC suburbs, in Chevy Chase, Maryland. By the time Joseph Trammel Jr. entered the world, they’d settled into domestic life.

That lasted fourteen years, more or less. Tram never had a good relationship with his son, which marred his relationship with Jessica. Work intervened. He rarely went to Joe’s school orchestra concerts, in which the lad played the violin. Tram dabbled some as a youth sports coach. But by the time Joe turned eleven, Tram vanished from the soccer pitches, baseball diamonds, and basketball courts. He also missed the classical music competition where Joe Jr.—thirteen years old by then—took top place and won a scholarship.

Jessica and Tram had heated words over Joe’s neglect. The boy watched as tempers flared, and arguments roared. He loved his mother; she was there for him, after all. His resentment toward his father mounted with every parental spat, and every week Tram traveled for the Bureau, with every missed opportunity for a dad to participate in his son’s life.

The divorce became final three days before Joe Jr.’s fourteenth birthday. The boy showed his relief to his mother’s chagrin. Not as apparent were his regret and sadness over never really having a father.

* * *

Red hadn’t talked with Jessica for months, maybe years. But he finally found her number by scrolling through his contacts. It popped up under Jess Trammell, a name she’d never taken.

He dialed it. A sleepy, breathy woman’s voice answered.

Jess, sorry to wake you up. Red Farlow.

Oh, damned, Red. What’s happened?

Tram’s been shot. He just died, Jess.

Red heard nothing on the other end of the call.

Jessica finally broke the silence with shit, followed by fuck, damn, hell, crap. Her comments devolved into shoulder shaking, lip quivering tears. Red sensed the rollercoaster of emotions over the phone line.

I’m sorry, Jess. What else could he say?

Several minutes passed. Jess blew her nose and collected herself.

You bastard, Red Farlow. How could you let this happen? she said.

Well, ah, Jess. I didn’t shoot the man.

He was shot?

I’m afraid he was, as I said. Four times. Found him dying on his kitchen floor.

But you knew they were after him.

What? Now, wait. Who was that?

Oh, shit. You didn’t know, did you? She practically screamed this over the phone. Where did it happen?

At his house on East Beach, Red said.

Long pause. I’m flying down. I’ll take a company jet and land at McKinnon, probably around five or six this morning.

Red glanced at his watch. A few hours.

OK, let me know exactly, and I’ll pick you up. You can bunk at our place.

I’ll call you when we’re twenty minutes out, she said.

OK.

Another pause. Garbled movement over the phone indicated Jess wiped more tears.

After a moment, she spoke again. Red. Sorry I was rough on you. Please forgive me. See you later. Bye, friend.

Goodbye, lovely lady. Safe flight.

* * *

At three that morning, Red went home and crashed for a nap in his crumpled khakis and T-shirt. Arising around five, he prepared to leave, after tucking Leigh back into bed. She wanted to come with him but needed to get some rest for the long day ahead.

Lovely Leigh Wallace, the lady and wife she was, popped a bagel into the toaster and set out non-fat cream cheese while Red got dressed. She also brewed a four-shot espresso, his one necessity for surviving among the living that early in the morning.

Stepping out the house, Red put on his windbreaker. He cranked his four-by-four truck and pulled out of the sandy driveway. He had a short drive up Demere Road to McKinnon field, the local airstrip used mainly to ferry billionaires from far off spots to their luxurious cottages on Sea Island.

Jess called as he drove past the AA clubhouse next to the airport.

Hey, Red. We’re making excellent time flying this hour of night. Should be landing, I’m told, in about fifteen minutes, she said.

I’m on my way. See you in a few.

Thanks, friend.

He rolled down the window and listened for the hum of the executive jet banking over East Beach and out over St. Simons Sound. He looked over to see a plane flying in from the northeast for its approach to McKinnon. He felt a cool breeze, which blew a bit balmy for the cold January weather of late.

The plane’s graceful flight glided over the pine and oak treetops of the Kings Terrace and Mallery Park neighborhoods and the Village. The craft headed south-southwest out over the sound. Soon enough, the plane turned to the north and aligned for touchdown. The runway lights and the plane’s navigation beams gave a ghostly techno beauty to the fog-shrouded morning.

He parked the truck and walked toward the FBO terminal.

A few minutes later, Jessica stepped down from the airplane, dressed in a perfectly pressed linen suit, white silk blouse, and black pumps. Adorned to the beautiful nines, as usual. She carried a slim black attaché case and a designer messenger bag with a stylized embossed H on the side.

Inside the reception area, they hugged. Jessica nudged her head into Red’s shoulder for a moment before lightly kissing his right cheek.

He took her roller board and escorted her to the truck.

You’re going to tell me everything, but not now, Jessica said. I just want to see Leigh, crash for an hour or so, and then get down to business.

Red remembered that as totally Jessica. A woman of business and one of some means.

She and Tram were married three years when she went back to school. Four years and an MBA degree later, she started working for the government in a part of bureaucracy she would never discuss. Red had it on competent authority it was either NSA or CIA, but neither Jessica nor Tram ever confirmed which one.

Wherever she worked inside or around the Beltway, the career track led to her own consulting company, which grew into a sizeable specialty security and defense enterprise. Five years into the firm’s fast growth, she got an offer to sell from a big defense contractor. She took it, became an executive officer of the corporate division, and built it into a powerhouse. She also accumulated a lot of wealth.

With Joe Jr. out of college and established as a second-chair violin for a London orchestra, Jessica had plenty of time to devote to her work. Red knew she enjoyed it, even though she periodically expressed disdain for the corporate world. Who doesn’t?

She and Red said little as they rode to his house.

Death can generate difficult comments of sympathy, all well-intended. Other times, it leaves people speechless. Genuine concern, however, speaks a great deal—usually, the bereaved welcome kind words.

Nearing the cottage, Red and Jessica broke into tears.

Chapter Two

The work of grieving mounted that morning. I would help Jessica arranging the cremation and memorial services later. First came contacting kinfolks and friends. Jessica notified Tram’s relatives. She began this duty with a call to their son in England.

I talked to friends closest to Tram.

Death demands this. When grieving should take front and center, God or somebody provided the busy tasks of taking care of the dead person as a diversion from anguish, sadness, and always regret.

I told the gathering that Sunday morning about the experience of my friend Thomas Bartow. The man took care of his father during the last year of the older man’s life with Alzheimer’s. During that year, he had many conversations daily with his father, during which the older man asked his son, Hey, have you seen my boy Thomas lately? He ought to be coming around to see me. I sure miss him. While those comments crushed Thomas, he knew his father didn’t mean them. The disease was talking. When the father died, Thomas said he felt a great relief the end had finally arrived.

"Red, we buried him, and I never shed a tear, Thomas told me. Then, about three months later, my business took me to New York. Midway in the flight, the fact of my father’s death jolted me out of nowhere. I broke down and cried like a baby. Men and women in nearby seats consoled me."

That’s how grief works. No one can predict its vagaries. It goes on forever, in ways we cannot avoid or fully get over.

—Red Farlow, case notes

* * *

Red held some regrets about his friendship with Tram. Mostly those were more immediate, such as why he hadn’t gotten together with Tram more often after he moved to the island. Their island.

Right then, he put those thoughts aside. He had to call someone else.

Red hesitated to dial his number since James McAuliffe likely was just waking up as his cell phone vibrated. He would want it to go away. Who the hell is calling at nine on a Sunday morning?

Eventually, being the newshound that he was, James answered. Red heard him mumble something on the order of hello.

James, my boy. Sorry to wake you this early, Red said.

Red Farlow? What the…?

Hey, you know I wouldn’t call you unless it was news.

OK. What’s going on?

Last night, I got a text from our friend Joe Trammell, Red told the reporter. It was just before he died of four gunshot wounds.

Damned to hell and back, James said very clearly. He cupped the cell phone and yelled to his wife. Hey, Maria, come in here.

Red told him what happened. I went over to his place soon as I read the cryptic message. Something was wrong. Got there and walked into the open front door. A light was on in the kitchen, where he was on the floor in a pool of blood. He passed away soon after my arrival.

That is just the worst news I’ve heard since Daddy died, James said. Who would kill Tram? And why?

Among the many questions. We’re all in a muddle, Red said. Jessica flew in this morning and is staying at our house. She just got up. Why don’t you and Maria come over and let’s huddle. I’ll tell you everything I know. Jess knows something about who might have wanted him dead.

James hesitated. Red heard movement, and the shower started.

Hey, Red, I’ll get over there soon as I get cleaned up and dressed.

Just before their call ended, in the background Maria asked what was going on.

* * *

James McAuliffe got to know Tram well. The agent proved to be a good source over the years. At the time, James worked as a young reporter in the Belvedere News Service’s Washington bureau.

James and his wife Maria met when both covered the Mariel boatlift in 1980. Now, she and James ran an investigative reporting firm they’d recently relocated from Tallahassee, Florida, to Sea Island, Georgia. They lived with James’ mother, Irene Gibbons, who held a steady hand in her three Georgia newspapers. While she turned over management to other people years ago, Irene wrote a weekly column considered the most progressive editorial voice in a conservative state.

Maria Flores-Balzan was born in Cuba and immigrated to Mexico City with her family in the early sixties, just after Castro’s regime took hold. She studied journalism at university and started working part-time for La Prensa, Mexico’s largest circulation daily newspaper.

La Prensa's international editor assigned her, at the young age of twenty-two and fresh out of school, to Miami as the lead Marielito boatlift reporter. The months-long saga held great interest in Mexico, especially among its Cuban community. Maria relished the chance to work in the United States.

* * *

James and Maria arrived at Red’s place around ten-thirty that morning. Red noticed that James had put on some weight in the several months since they’d seen each other. And he’d grown a beard, short and neat.

Red didn’t say anything about the gut or the facial hair. He had a belly roll himself of late.

As everyone prepared their bagels, Maria ground the beans she brought and brewed Cuban espresso. As she served, the group talked about Tram and what happened to him. They all knew him and were grieving. But as seasoned professionals, the friends also started the process of finding out who killed him and why.

Clearly, there are some complicating points to this, James said. I mean, somebody else was shot and got away.

A good starting point, Red said. Who is the person? But we have another more important question. We should consider if there were three people present when Tram was shot. Maybe more. Who were they?

That’s logical, Jess said, wiping a tear. I just have no idea who else could have been there, other than the shooter. And there’re few clues as to whom the killers might be. Hired assassins? But why? And why didn’t pros anticipate somebody else being there when they went in to kill Tram? Any ideas? Anyone?

They looked at each other. Maria spoke first.

In Mexico, all of this would present a pretty simple assumption, she said. The diminutive Latino wore a tight white jogging top and light brown miniskirt that hugged her hips and upper thighs. James fell for a beautiful lady, who at about sixty years old looked more like a woman in her mid-thirties.

What might that be? Red asked.

Maria smiled. Well, there was Joseph. In his home on a Saturday evening. In Mexico or anywhere in Latin America, a single man with Joseph’s good looks would likely have his lover there for the weekend. She glanced at Jessica and continued. "So, the assumption is this person was present at the wrong place during the right time, as you norteamericanos might say. She got the last bullet, or the first, but somehow got away."

Yes, perhaps she was shot darting out the door. A bad aim at a fast target, Jess said.

Except there were blood spots on the kitchen floor and out the back, Red reminded her.

True, good point, she said.

Here’s something else, the PI speculated. What if that person was allowed to get away? Maybe she or he was shot by mistake and simply turned and ran. Could that person have known the assailant?

You mean, Red, the accidental shooting of an accomplice? Maria asked.

Yes, that’s another possibility, Red said.

Any word from the local cops on blood and footprints in the sand? How far the person went onto the beach? Maria asked.

As much speculation runs through your mind after a close friend dies, I chewed on this one through the night, Red said. One thing is for certain. The person who left the scene bleeding had two ways to go along the beach. Or three, if you consider they had access to a boat. Highly unlikely, but not out of the question.

Why not so likely? James asked.

The newsman had finally woken enough to join the conversation.

Let’s consider the big picture and access, Red suggested. You can only get onto and off the island three ways. One is by air to or from McKinnon airport. Two, by water. Three, by car, bicycle, or foot over the Torras Causeway to the mainland. A boat could be a problem since the tide was incoming at that time, or so I believe. Have to double-check. The easiest and quickest route is by auto over the causeway.

Red stood up, walked to the dining table to the coffee carafe, and poured more espresso.

I’d say that possibility is the most reasonable, James said. However, I think we have to keep the water theory open. Also, it’s easy enough to check on flight information. If this were a high-level hit, a plane might be used to remove the shooter. But even in that case, the practicality of it seems a bit of a stretch.

Silence fell over the group. People were exhausted. Even though the clock approached early afternoon, no one seemed to want lunch.

Finally, the group launched into Tram stories. There were so many. Some brought tears, but mostly people laughed. Tram was that kind of guy, the kind who induced levity more than sorrow.

Around two that afternoon, the gathering broke