Nite Bumps: A Mystery

By James Lightarm

When Brian Shane accepts an unusual offer to spy out his CEO's niece vacationing at a remote resort in the Everglades, he is confident that he can handle it, even though he is told that strange things are said to be happening there.

He is ready to turn on his youthful smile and stand apart from whatever games are being played. Or so it seems, until a storm cuts off the resort from the outside world and a series of murders begins, and Shane's challenge turns out to be something quite different from what he had originally expected, including saving his own life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Lightarm
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223404934

James Lightarm

James Lightarm is the author of the mystery thriller, Nite Bumps: A Mystery. He doesn’t particularly like allegators or pythons, but then again, who does?  He has lived in Florida, nevertheless, along with his imaginary cat, Godfrey, and has observed more than just those two loathsome creatures. The trick, he figures, is to keep your distance—and not just in Florida, and not just from things that crawl on the ground...

Book preview

TWO

Flairmont’s headquarters was in a mid-sized office tower, aluminum and glassy,   and on that cold morning more grey than ever. Bryan had seen the building before in photos and corporate videos, travelogue-type presentations carefully shot on warm, sunny days. Much like those familiar vacation buff pieces where every local bug and native resentment has been carefully photo-shopped away.

His curiosity was heightened as he entered the building through its revolving doors. In a burst of whimsy he disregarded the conventional practice of pushing against the door with the palm of his hand. Instead, he mischievously pushed against it with his right index finger, mimicking the action that a small child might take, waiting to see what would happen when an object was acted upon with physical force.

It’s was a display of childlike caprice. But its author was not a child, and his offbeat behavior quickly aroused the interest of Zack Harris, the building’s security guard who was stationed at the visitors desk. Harris liked to think he could spot interlopers simply by their body language, and in no way did the young male walking across the marble floor look like he belonged in the building. He immediately straightened up in his swivel chair.

Harris’ intuition, of course, was far from being spot on. He was about to make an unforced error.

Bryan Shane to see Mr. Caldwell, Bryan said with a bit of bravado. 

Huh?

Bryan Shane to see Mr. Caldwell. His secretary Janet called me. She said you’d have my name.

For a split-second Harris wondered if the request was some kind of practical joke. It would be a friggin’ joke if it were one.

He cleared his throat. Um-kay, he said, puzzling, and then bent forward to check the computer screen on his desk. Surprisingly, the guy’s name was there, Bryan Shane, third from the top on the visitors list. Damnit.

Over here, Zack said reluctantly, and escorted his visitor to a private elevator. Still, he could not understand how the long-haired young man could be on his visitors list, especially given the way he was dressed. Grungwear, he thought it was called. Reminded him of those rock musicians whose pictures his daughter used to paste on her bedroom wall when she was a teenager. Luckily, she had outgrown that fixation, except for her idiotic boyfriend Maxx who didn’t even know how to spell his name right.

He motioned Bryan into the cab, stood back, and then leaned in with his right hand and pushed several buttons on the elevator’s keyboard.  The door began to close slowly, and Bryan found himself on his way to the penthouse floor and presumably to his company’s CEO, Mr. Horace Caldwell.

For some, an elevator ride can be a claustrophobic experience, akin to being trapped in a metallic coffin. Bryan wasn’t worried about coffins, although he did feel a bit uneasy. Fortunately, he wasn’t a big sci-fi fan like his cousin Cory. Otherwise, he would already be having a panic attack.

The elevator looked innocent enough, yet he noticed a small screen at the top of the control panel, and just below it were three buttons labeled garage, lobby, and exit floor. There was also a tiny aperture just above the screen. It was not difficult to guess what it was. He was tempted to stare straight into it and say Hi, there, but decided against it. Sometimes it was best just to play dumb or at least refrain from appearing too inquisitive. Let the other fellow make the first move, an old card player once advised him. Let them come to you. Don’t you go to them.

Not bad advice, he thought, at least for the moment.

There was a soft chime and the elevator door opened, and he stepped out of the cab into a richly appointed reception room. The furnishings were anything but déclassé. There were several neo-impressionist paintings on the walls. One might have even been a Seurat original. His eyes lingered on the painting for a few seconds.

A young woman was seated ahead to his left behind a large desk, and across from her were four large, upholstered chairs surrounding a mahogany coffee table on which several museum magazines were neatly arranged. There was even a small built-in bar behind the chairs holding several bottles of mineral water and, of course, a small coffee machine.

The whole design was obviously meant to convey authority and wealth. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder what Jeremy Flatter, one of his music buddies, would have said if he were there—probably that the room needed a large, dented trash can to undercut the power narrative. But Jeremy was not there, and a moment later Bryan’s own attention shifted elsewhere.

Mr. Shane? The young woman asked as he approached her desk.

That’s me, he responded breezily.

Won’t you have a seat, the young woman said. Janet will be here in a minute. And feel free to have some refreshments, she added, motioning towards the bar. I know it’s very cold outside. Maybe some hot coffee? We have some really tasty gourmet blends.

Thanks, Bryan said and grabbed a couple of Italian bread sticks from a decorated porcelain bowl next to the coffee machine and sat down, waiting.

From what he could tell, the young woman’s primary task was handling paperwork, opening correspondence, sorting, and pre-filing various documents. Occasionally she looked up in his direction, momentarily smiled, and then returned to her paperwork. Twice she answered the phone on her desk, but he couldn’t make out the nature of the calls. So far no one else came into the office.

Finally, he began to wonder about the time and took out his phone to check his mail. Just then a tall, well dressed woman in her forties entered the reception area from a back corridor. He did not need to be told who she was.

He stood up.

Ah, Mr. Shane, she said. I’m Janet Burkley, Mr. Caldwell’s secretary. Sorry to keep you waiting. We’ve been very busy this morning.

No problem, he replied. A polite response but untrue.

She smiled. We’re going to the conference room now. Ah, she hesitated, I see you have a cell phone.

Yeah?

I’m going to ask you to leave it here.

Here?

Yes, it’s a matter of security, I’m afraid. Our cyber people have told us that unfortunately cell phones can be activated at a distance by unscrupulous people even without their owner’s knowledge. So I’ll have to ask you to leave yours here. Margie will take good care of it, won’t you Margie, she said, looking over at the young woman who smiled in return.

Their request seemed odd, but he was in their den, and without facial recognition his phone couldn’t be easily accessed, so why not? He handed the device to Margie.

Burkley nodded and escorted him down the corridor from which she had come. It’s still cold out, I suppose, she said as they pass a number of doors. The wind is horrible this morning.

Brutal, he said sympathetically, aware that they are both indulging in inconsequential small talk. He was tempted to ask her why he had been summoned but decided against it. His curiosity, however, was already off the wall.

Near the end of the corridor she opened a double door to a large, richly paneled board room. There was a long mahogany conference table in the middle with eight or ten leather chairs on each side. Colorful blowups of various greeting cards were displayed in amber frames on its side walls. At the far end, a large picture window overlooked Martin Luther King Street.

Have a seat, she said, motioning with an open hand. I’ll tell Mr. Caldwell you’re here.

He had barely a chance to scope out the room before he heard voices in the hallway. It had to be—and was—Horace Caldwell.

Hello there, Shane, Caldwell boomed in a loud, friendly voice as he walked in. This is Harold Pinter, our VP for planning, he said, introducing a thin, balding man with a pencil-thin mustache who had walked in with him. Pinter nodded and offered a reserved hello. He leaned over the table and mechanically shook Bryan’s hand. Nice to meet you, he said, somewhat woodenly.

His greeting was accompanied by a subtle, disapproving glare. His immediate problem was with Bryan’s dress. He imagined the kid differently. When he had talked to Bryan’s supervisor, nothing was said about the young man looking like a refugee from a rock concert. Yes, he was good looking, but he had obviously never learned how to dress properly for business. He wondered if that might be a red flag reflecting other critical deficiencies.

Caldwell began. Harold’s here to, um...

Provide some technical advice, Pinter cut in, finishing the sentence.

That’s right, Caldwell said, some technical advice.

"How long you have been with us, Shane?"

Eleven months.

Yes, yes, Harold showed me your file. Good evaluations, really good.

Um, he hesitated.

Pinter shot a glance at Caldwell and swiftly took up the verbal slack.

Mr. Caldwell wanted me to ask you, he said, as if trying to find the right words, if ah, if you’d be interested in doing some travelling for us—the company.  His voice stretched out the word travelling as he spoke. I know it’s not in your formal job description. But a lot of people in the business world, as you know, travel as part of their job. I began as a salesman myself.

Caldwell looked at his youthful employee over the top of his reading glasses. Traveling can be quite remunerative, he said, nodding his head.

Have you ever been to Florida?.

Yeah, once.

Ah, Pinter cut in abruptly, how was that?

Florida? Bryan thought. What was this all about? There wasn’t much to tell.

Oh, I went with a group of guys to Pensacola about four years ago, really tagging along. They played a gig down there over a weekend. Slept in the van during most of the day and was up late at night. So I really didn’t see much of the place, and it rained most of the time. He shrugged as if to say, that’s it.

Pinter appeared surprisingly satisfied with his humdrum explanation. Okay, he said slowly, as if thinking.

Caldwell, however, was ready to move on from small talk.

We better get to the point. Would you be willing to go down to Florida and do some, well, special work for the company? You would be paid well. Quite well.

Bryan’s ears perked up at the last phrase. What kind of money were they talking about? Given who they were, quite well might easily mean five figures. But what would he have to do to earn that kind of money?  The crossing-guard voice in the back of his mind was telling him to stop and look in both directions before crossing the street.

He hesitated. What kind of work?

Harold? Caldwell asked, turning toward the other man.

Pinter acknowledged his boss’s prompt with a responsive nod.

Um, he said to Bryan, we’re going to have to ask you to sign a non-disclosure agreement before we proceed any further. It’s one of those things. We will be discussing sensitive company matters, and I’m afraid that they need to be kept legally confidential.

Bryan’s mind quickly shifted into high gear. What was this all about? Exactly what were they telling him? They wanted to send him to Florida to do what? Count porpoises?  No, something more serious. Something high end. He’d be a fool to walk away without knowing more. But exactly what would he be agreeing to? He had to be sure the agreement didn’t obligate him to do something before he had a chance to walk away from the offer. 

"It won’t obligate me before I say yes or no to the...work?" he asked warily while enigmatically running his thumb back and forth against his cheek and then brushing back his hair with his right hand. 

Pinter was used to reading people, but this time he wasn’t quite sure. He looked at Bryan steadily, his eyes sharply focused. At this point, he said, "it will only obligate you never to discuss with anyone—that’s anyone, your friends, your family, your girlfriend, your shrink, whomever—the discussion we will have shortly. Okay?"

A yes likely meant Bryan would be venturing out into deep water. He knew how to swim, but how deep would the water be? And how far out would he be from land?  Would signing mean he would eventually end up sailing on the Pequod with Captain Ahab?  Or would his ticket merely mean a lazy voyage on the Good Ship Lollypop? The latter, unlikely. But why not grab the risk and ride it?

In any event, he already sensed the pleasure of the game even though he was not sure what the game would be. But he did know it would be a game. He was sure of that. He could feel it. His adrenaline was already pumping.

I’m willing, he said with an air of confidence or at least what appeared to be confidence. Deep inside, though, he wondered. He held his body motionless, but his eyes flit back and forth, and both Caldwell and Pinter smiled approvingly.

Let me get the legal form, Pinter said and got up and left the room.

Weather is probably a lot warmer in Florida right now, Caldwell remarked, and both men proceeded to engage in awkward small talk until Pinter returned two minutes later with the requisite form along with Ms. Burkley.

Here it is, Pinter announced, just as I said. Look it over.

The document wasn’t as long or as complicated as he had expected.  His name and the company’s had already been typed in. Agreement...entered into...not to publish, copy...otherwise disclose...any confidential...including...to the detriment..., and a few more items and then the place for signatures.

Okay?  Pinter said without emotion.

Yeah, no problem, Bryan answered, seemingly unconcerned about any sharks in the water. He signed.

Fine, fine.

Here, Janet, Caldwell said authoritatively, handing her the signed agreement. Have a copy ready for Mr. Shane. He then looked at the two men. I think we should go into my own conference room, gentlemen, where we can discuss things in complete privacy.

For some unexplained reason Bryan felt especially hungry, and as they entered Caldwell’s conference room he grabbed two protein bars from atop a small credenza near the door. The room itself was darkly paneled. It had a matching conference table and six russet-colored upholstered chairs. There were several recessed ceiling lights but noticeably no windows.

We can’t be eavesdropped on in here, Caldwell emphasized as he motioned for Bryan to take a seat. As a precaution, it’s periodically swept for devices. That other room has that damned window. Might as well be holding meetings on the public sidewalk.

As he continued, Bryan couldn’t help but wonder about the elevator camera, the requirement to leave his phone outside, and now this business about needing an electronically secure room. Why was a greeting card company so hyper about security?  Whatever it was, he suspected he was about to find out.

Caldwell, sitting at the head of the table, removed his reading glasses and looked directly at him. He had clasped his two hands together with his thumbs upraised. His elbows were resting on the arms of his chair.

Here’s the situation he said as if sharing a burden. I’ve got a niece, Margo Beauclare, my deceased sister’s daughter. Wonderful girl, twenty-two, a little younger than you. She’s a terrific student, good looking and smart. Sadly, though, her father is deceased, too. Lung cancer. Couldn’t give up smoking, he sighed, uncoupling his hands.

Well, she’s in Florida right now, he continued, as if considering his words. At a place called Grovnor’s Plantation, one of those out-of-the-way retreats in South Florida. You know, one of those get-away-from-it-all places. Well, I heard from her...a cryptic message really...sounded like something strange was going on down there. I—we—did some checking...not much to go by, you see, and it could be like voodoo...or who knows what. To be honest, I’m worried about her down there. She means a lot to me since her mother died last year. I’ve got a certain responsibility, he said reflectively, as if addressing his conscience.

But—and he stressed the word but—she’s what people in my generation call headstrong. She’s legally an adult, and I can’t tell her to do anything. And if I try to, she’s just as likely to do the opposite. If I tell her she needs to get out of that place, she’s more likely to stay.

Bryan continued to listen but remained silent.

So you see my problem, Caldwell exclaimed. He pressed his lips together and rubbed his forehead. Our relationship, he resumed awkwardly, is what you might call, well, fragile. He then pushed himself back in his chair and gave a dispirited glance in Pinter’s direction.

His second in command began slowly. There’s another angle, too, Shane, that I suppose you ought to know. Um, you’re probably aware, seems everyone is, that J. T. Schneider is trying to oust Horace—Mr. Crawford—as chairman of our company. Schneider is an unscrupulous bastard and will do anything to get his way. Just look at his record. You’ll see.

Caldwell nodded forcefully.

So here’s our additional problem, Pinter went on. "If there is something untoward, unconventional, especially something bizarre, going on down there in Florida and Horace’s niece is in any way involved in it, Schneider will have no hesitation in turning on his publicity machine to smear her and by tortured association Mr. Caldwell in whatever way he can. And, as you can understand, given the delicacy of the board vote, any bad publicity at all, even a false story, might be enough to swing things in Schneider’s direction with enough votes to give him his prize. And we can’t let that happen, so—"

So, Caldwell interrupted, I need someone to go down there and find out what’s going on. Who can discover what kind of danger she’s in or what’s she’s mistakenly involved in.  I don’t think it’s drugs. It’s something else, he said, with his voice trailing off in apparent bewilderment.

Pinter kept looking for a response. The kid was behaving like a sphinx. He was either clueless or a good poker player. Or maybe he was something in between. He continued on with Caldwell’s explanation of the assignment.

What we want you to do is to go down there incognito, find out exactly what is going on—if anything—and report it back there. That’s it. No intervention, no identifying yourself with the company or us, no grandstanding. You see, Shane, secrecy is absolutely necessary. So you can’t use any of your regular social media, no texting, no nothin’ like that. For all we know, you could have already been seen coming into the building. Unlikely, but that’s why we did it the way we did. We know that Schneider has been known to avail himself of hacking services—electronic intrusions—without being too specific. A lot is at stake.

Bryan had one major question yet to be answered. Why me? he said carefully and drew his head back.

Yeah, good question, Pinter replied. Well, to be truthful, because you’re not known. You’re clean. No relationship with any security agency. No background in any related field. And—he hesitated—you don’t look like, well, let me say it—a spy. No, let me rephrase it, a private investigator. That’s not exactly what you’re going to be doing, but it’s close enough.

Caldwell had been quiet, watching both men intensely. Now he chimed in.

Look, Shane, I’ve been around long enough to know that a twenty-two-year-old girl is much more likely to be open to a long-haired young guy like you than to some forty-year-old with a crew cut claiming he’s an aluminum salesman on vacation from Pittsburgh. I think you get my drift. Not that I want you to get involved physically, understand. I’m her uncle, remember. There are limits you will have to observe. But if you need to determine whether she’s personally involved in whatever is going on, you’ll doubtless need her cooperation or at least her openness. And you look like someone who can deliver on that score. Right?

Bryan wasn’t sure exactly how to answer. He wasn’t going to be another James Bond. Somebody else already had that role, but he couldn’t ignore the flattery. He liked to think that he could deliver when the other party was willing to cooperate, which was most of the time. He nodded ambiguously. 

Crunch time had come. To be or not to be.

He paused for only a millisecond.  I’m game, he said with a subtle smile.

He immediately realized the word he had used—game. He had already sensed that it would be a game. But what kind of a game would it be? Not a Manhattan Squealer, the kind of computer game his buddy Marty Kopple played on his souped-up laptop, but a real in-life game. And in that game he wasn’t going to be a preprogramed character but an independent character, a character that created its own identity. And if necessary, throw that identity away and pick up another. Now a tin man, now Genghis Khan, now even an aluminum siding salesman. Okay, the last was a stretch. No matter, he was ready to go for it. Yeah man, he told himself. Go for it.

The self-assuredness in his voice, however, annoyed Pinter. Caldwell’s second-in-command preferred simple compliance by subordinates rather than any display of self-confidence. Right now, however, he was ready to set aside his annoyance. He had got what he wanted—a positive response from the kid. It was another score for senior management.

Good, very good he said, and Caldwell smiled accordingly.

Now, down to work, he added quickly. A lot to do and very little time.

He began to rattle off specifics. Any communication will need to be by code. And no direct voice communication with the office. No exceptions, he emphasized. "None. Janet will give you a special contact number. We need to establish simple code references, something that’s easy to remember. Let’s see? If there’s something bad happening at Grovnor’s, not just some minor oddity, use the term bad business model. That should be easy to remember. For Margo, use the word—"

Investment, Caldwell broke in with authority.

Okay, Pinter said, "investment. Now if what we’ve heard is just so much nonsense and there’s nothing at all to be concerned about, then use the term good investment. He paused. But if there’s something to be really concerned about and Margo is personally involved in any negative way use the term bad investment."

Pinter thought for a minute. That should do the basics. Your supervisor says you’re a creative writer, and I’m—we’re—sure you can communicate understandably using code. Correct?

There was so much going on: the resort, the girl, Flairmont, his task. Now a code system for communication, something more appropriate for a retro, B-grade spy thriller. 

Yeah, he said, obviously considering.

You’ve got questions? Pinter asked, noticing his hesitation.

Well, what about logistics?

Good question, Pinter said without missing a beat. Janet will go over more when we’re finished. We’ve got your bank account for salary purposes. She can wire $15,000 this morning into your account. That should do for now and will take care of your hotel reservation and your plane fare. You can then put everything on your own credit card. We’ll need to get you down there quickly, though. 

Pinter grabbed his chin with his hand, trying to decide. It’ll be hard to get you out of here today. He paused. I think, however, we can get you on a flight early tomorrow morning.

Bryan took a silent breath. He was used to things moving fast but not this fast. It was as if he was on a thrill ride at an amusement park, but in this case Caldwell and Pinter were in control of the ride and were moving it with such speed that he had little choice but to move along with it. However, there would have to be a time when he was in control of the car, for he wasn’t going to allow himself to be transformed into a living version of a company-approved greeting card. Whether they realized it or not, he was going to proceed as a fully independent contractor and not as an employee.

Events continued to move swiftly. Janet was called, and he was given his final instructions. Pinter reiterated the security arrangements and repeated that he could not divulge his connection to Flairmont under any circumstances.  He also stressed that  whatever identity he chose to assume would be his own. Whatever it is, you must make it plausible. We could discuss it now, but we don’t have time. Work it up before you get there. Think it through.

I’m sure you’ll perform well, Caldwell said before handing him back to Janet Burkley to complete his travel arrangements.

In less than an hour and a half his job and much more than his job had changed.

What do you think? Caldwell said to Pinter after he had left.

I don’t know.

Do you think he suspects?

Nah, the kid’s green.

Well, for both our sakes, I hope you’re right.

Yeah, but if things go south, I think we’re protected.

We’d better be, Caldwell said. "We’d better be."  

Three

Who was he going to be? That was the question that immediately confronted Bryan as he stood on the street after leaving the 4300 Building.  Pinter had left the decision up to him. A lot was being left up to him, which was both good and bad. He glanced at the time. It was already after 10 a.m., and he had to quickly find out as much as he could about his target. On second thought, the term target was a bit too heavy as a descriptor, too weapon-oriented. Instead of his target, maybe his subject; no, his object. Yes, she was the object of his investigation. A woman. Yes, a woman. Fascinating.

In any event, he needed to get online.

Reaching for his phone, he remembered what he has agreed to, at least for now: no traceable electronic communications about the actual assignment. So how was he going to get background on Beauclare? 

His memory went back to the words Pinter had used. He had said your phone, your media. Why not someone else’s phone, or better yet a public account? Now he knew exactly what to do.

He crossed the street at Poplar and headed west.

His goal was the county library, a towering granite structure built in the early nineteen hundreds. It was built for books, but they were not what drew him.