Dying for an Heir: The Desire for an Uncomplicated Romance Turns Into a Deadly Affair

By Gene Epstein

Ed Sawyer, a young, handsome, self-made millionaire bachelor, seeks a no-strings attached romance that turns deadly. Love, greed and murder intertwine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Dec 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684711215

Gene Epstein

Gene Epstein is Economics and Books Editor at Barron's, the financial weekly.

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EPSTEIN

Copyright © 2019 Gene Epstein.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The acceptance of this book releases the author and all persons involved in this book from liability. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE AUTHOR NOR PERSONS INVOLVED IN THIS BOOK BE LIABLE FOR ANY DAMAGES WHETHER DIRECT OR INDIRECT, OR INCIDENTAL OR CONSEQUENTIAL, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO LOSS OF REVENUE.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1106-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1121-5 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover design: The Steve Williams Design Office

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 12/04/2019

Also by Gene Epstein

Lemon Juice

All proceeds realized by the author from the sale

of this book go directly to charity.

DEDICATION

To my dearest wife Marlene, who has stood by my side from the day we met in 1955 and is my best friend. Nothing in life would be possible for me without her.

And to my exceptional children, Ellen and Robert, whom I love dearly.

PREFACE

This fictional work was written purely for entertainment purposes. The story contained within was fabricated for the readers’ enjoyment. In addition, any names in this book relating to living or deceased people are purely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

My grateful appreciation, posthumously, to my dear friend, Jan de Hartog, world renowned Dutch novelist and playwright, for encouraging me to try my hand at writing this novel. It is to Jan that I owe my deepest thanks.

And my deepest gratitude, posthumously, to my high school homeroom and English teacher, Mrs. Sara Joffe, for standing up for me and encouraging me to always do my very best.

PROLOGUE

At a bar on the outskirts of Palm Beach, Florida were two detectives from the West Palm Beach Homicide Division.

Detective Ted Mahorn was six feet, two inches tall with an athlete’s broad frame. His hair was silver gray and full. Ted was fifty years old and just beginning to show signs of too many beers over the past weeks by exhibiting a paunch that was, for the first time in his life, hanging over his belt.

As he and his partner, Roy Williams, silently drank side by side, it was easy to see that Ted was deeply troubled. Ted signaled the bartender for another round. Deep into his own thoughts, Ted shook his head sadly. Roy understood the reason for Ted’s despair and remarked:

You wanna talk about it again? But I’m telling you now, you gotta stop beating yourself up. Listen Ted, I get where you’re at, but you know as well as I do there wasn’t enough evidence in this case and there’s nothing we can do about it.

I don’t buy that. We’re missing something and it’s been eating away at me. Said Ted despondently. Deep inside my gut, I know how this went down. I just can’t prove it.

Well, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? The evidence just wasn’t there. How many times are you going to go over this case in your head? It’s enough already. Let it go.

But Ted couldn’t let it go. This case gnawed at him around the clock.

I’ll tell you something Roy, after working the homicide division for a good twenty years, I can smell a killer from a mile away. I know I’m not wrong on this one, but I just couldn’t nail it and that’s annoying the crap out of me.

His face started to turn ruddy from too many beers coupled with an abundance of agitation and frustration.

Ted drained his mug of beer as a new one was set in front of him.

Despite having heard this complaint a dozen times before, Roy empathized with his partner. He too had a gut feeling about this case and felt the killer had slipped out of their grasp. As veteran detectives, both Ted and Roy knew every angle of the criminal mind and Ted had a particularly innate sixth sense when it came to solving crimes.

Neither Ted or Roy liked to see criminals get away with their crimes, especially cold blooded killers, but they both had to admit, that’s exactly what happened.

They knew there is no such thing as the prefect crime, that sooner or later even the most skillful perpetrator will slip up. There’s always that telltale piece of evidence, no matter how minuscule, that can be the crucial piece to complete the puzzle. So, where is that infinitesimal piece of evidence? How was it possible this case went unsolved? Where did they go wrong? They each ruminated on this thought in silence as they continued drinking their beers.

DYING

FOR AN

HEIR

CHAPTER ONE

Hit and Run

Ed Sawyer, known for years as Palm Beach’s most eligible bachelor, left his spacious penthouse apartment overlooking Lake Worth and headed to the parking garage. There, he waited for the attendant to bring his Mercedes to him. Ed looked forward to this day. It was one of the last business meetings he would have to attend. He waited patiently skimming through the Wall Street Journal. After a few moments he headed toward the pavement to wait outside in the radiant Florida sunshine since the dampness of the parking garage was penetrating. The sun glistened and continued to enhance Ed’s handsome tan. There was a cool breeze. The winter was colder than usual but to see the sun minus the depressing clouds was an uplifting experience. He opened his newspaper, intent on yesterday’s action in the stock market and continued to read.

Diagonally across the streets - and unbeknownst to Ed, a man with red hair, a mustache, glasses and wearing gloves, sat behind the wheel of an old beat-up Ford. The driver revved up the engine. Under his gloves, his hands sweated profusely and he was a bundle of nerves. The adrenalin was pumping furiously through his body. This was the day he had meticulously planned for weeks. Three times previously he had parked there waiting and each time something had forced him to cancel the plan. But now, as he looked up and down the street, he was relieved to see there was no one in either direction. He continued racing the powerful V8 engine. Once more he checked the street for pedestrians, it was empty. The anxious driver released the handbrake and headed for Ed, five hundred feet away reading his Wall Street Journal.

In seconds the 1964 Ford was across the street and on target. The right front bumper and fender smashed directly into Ed, hurling his body into the cement wall adjacent to the garage entrance. Just as the car smashed Ed’s body the parking attendant pulled out of the garage with Ed’s Mercedes Benz. The attendant, who was wearing a Walkman headset, was deeply involved in the latest Rap hit and neither saw nor heard a thing. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed some sort of blurred movement. When he hopped out of the car and looked for Ed, he noticed a vehicle speeding off down the street. He saw Ed’s broken body and nearly passed out. Blood was everywhere and Ed’s lifeless body was lying in the middle of it. The attendant began screaming for help as he ran wildly to his office and dialed 911. Babbling incoherently, he shouted for help. The operator spoke to him calmly and little by little, she obtained the needed information.

Brusquely, she ordered the garage attendant to stand guard by the body until the police and ambulance arrived. By the time the parking attendant returned to the street, a crowd had gathered. He quickly ordered them to stand back and not to touch anything. Minutes later, the police arrived and cleared the area. When the attendant and the police leaned over Ed’s body, the attendant saw the blood oozing from Ed’s head and he became nauseous. One of the policemen helped him to a chair in his office and took his statement.

CHAPTER TWO

Ed’s Scheme

Some months prior to Ed Sawyer’s hit and run, Ed had leaned back in his easy chair in front of the computer and studied his handiwork. ‘Looks like a job application’ he thought to himself and was pleased with the results.

After two hours, plus one and a half Stoly martinis worth of effort. ‘Let me see,’ he muttered to himself,

‘Name,’

‘Address,’

‘Phone,’ he ruminated on it for another moment, ‘the usual stuff. It looks perfectly legal.’

The list was his version of a typical employment questionnaire, which took on darker tones as the reader read on and encountered inquiries such as:

‘Health Condition,’

‘Tests for diseases,’

‘Spouse’s name,’ and

‘How many years married?’

‘I agree to have my health background checked.’

He would have a few of those printed up in a day or two, probably after he obtained his $150,000 letter of credit issued in the name of ‘To Whom It May Concern,’ then the letter of agreement - and he would be on his way.

Satisfied, he picked up his drink, wrapping his robe about his naked frame and walked barefoot through the double doors of his palatial penthouse apartment and out onto the terrace.

Lake Worth stretched out below him glistening in the sun and he breathed deeply savoring the sea breezes high above Palm Beach on the other side of the lake. Further out he was able to see the white caps in the Atlantic rolling towards the Palm Beach shore. Seagulls circled the air above schools of fish and at various times a pelican, wings locked against its body, long beak aimed straight ahead like a dive bomber stalking a target, would lunge into the water and immediately zoom upwards toward the sky, his prey flapping desperately within his beak.

Ed moved into the building not long after it was built. A luxurious apartment complex, it was actually located in Lake Worth, not in Palm Beach proper as the original owners had earlier advertised. Consequently, few tenants moved in and the establishment eventually went bankrupt. It was soon after that Ed met Carole Whitman at a charity luncheon in Palm Beach. Carole dabbled in real estate in the area and always seemed to be the first to know which house or condominium was for sale or where one might rent an apartment for the season. She was also the first to know about a great many other things. She knew instantly who Ed Sawyer was and how much he was worth due to his interest in local affairs and his many charitable donations. Carole had a friend at Dunn and Bradstreet. Acquaintances jokingly referred to Carole as the ‘Auntie Mame’ of Palm Beach.

Carole Whitman was an attractive and stylish blonde of undeterminable age, who remained that way by constant exercise, dieting and weekly visits to the ‘emergency room’ at Elizabeth Arden, as she laughingly phrased it. At the same time she made no attempt to conceal her attractive and single thirty year old daughter from the world and, when she knew Ed better, tried her hand at a bit of matchmaking, but with no success due to his dating and romance paranoia.

Carole was aware, however that Ed only rented when in Palm Beach, or would register at hotels. When she mentioned this at their first meeting, Ed informed her that he was not positive he wanted to settle permanently in the area and politely begged her not to try and sell him anything.

Some time later, Ed encountered Carole in the lobby of the hotel in which he was staying at the time. She complained that her automobile would not start and that it was vitally important that she get to the other side of Lake Worth in order to check on an apartment in a building now owned by the Trump organization. Ed gallantly offered to drive her there and enjoyed the trip immensely as Carole regaled him with a variety of stories regarding the latest escapades of the jet set.

Once there, she wondered if he would mind helping her with the lock that she claimed tended to be tricky. Again, Ed pitched in to help. He easily unlocked the door and walked into his future.

The penthouse was a bachelor’s dream consisting of a suite of spacious rooms surrounded by a wide terrace. The views were spectacular in all directions and while not exactly located in Palm Beach, the city lay at his feet just across Lake Worth. Ed had never been one to cater to the right side of the tracks when it came to something he desired. By an odd coincidence, the condominium was for sale and Ed wanted it. He genially chided Carole for leading him into a trap.

You knew it all the time, you temptress, you! he added happily.

Less than two weeks later he made an offer, which was nearly one-half the original price. Ed was turned down and decided to forget the idea when Carole intervened on his behalf. She succeeded in convincing the management that his offer meant an immediate sale. After a hasty board meeting, the owners decided in his favor and the place became his Florida home.

Now holding his glass high, he proudly proclaimed: ‘Here’s to ‘no strings attached sex and happy birthday to me! Yeah, I’ll drink to that! Why not?’

On this his fortieth birthday, Ed Sawyer felt more like thirty. He knew he was an attractive man with his dark blonde hair, refined face and sturdy body. A figure molded not from jogging or gymnastics but from an avid preference for tennis and golf, enjoying the competitive aspect of those hobbies almost as much as the social contacts he maintained because of them.

Ed Sawyer was a self-made millionaire. He was the foremost importer of gift shop quality items from Taiwan, a business founded and comfortably run in New Jersey by his late father from whom he had inherited it.

Ed’s business acumen surpassed that of the elder Sawyer and he eventually built the business into the largest of its kind. in the country; so large in fact that he was at that moment pondering an offer initiated by a conglomerate to purchase the company for a sum of thirty million dollars. Though this was a tidy amount, to say the least, he felt it was worth a good deal more. His company dealt with a list of clients who paid cash for their purchases. This arrangement enabled Ed to offer them more attractive prices and in return these sales were never recorded. The Sawyer company books merely reflected a ‘loss’ due to theft, which accounted for a depleted inventory from year to year. These private deals paid Ed several hundred thousand in untaxed dollars annually and supplied him with the magnificent antique furniture and museum quality paintings that adorned his spacious apartment.

Surrounded by the luxurious and priceless fruits of his labor, he should have been happy and contented but he was not. On his fortieth birthday, Ed Sawyer remained a lonely bachelor and he reminded himself’ time was passing by quickly. The years of dining and dancing with the world’s most beautiful women were gone now and sometimes he cursed the energy and drive that had put him on top. Since his high school days, Ed had been obsessed by sex. Over the years his conquests, like his present mania for golf and tennis, had become almost a sport or game of chance, with Ed usually the winner.

Now, as he watched two seagulls courting in mid-air, he longed for the thrill of the chase and the love of a beautiful woman. The ringing of the intercom rudely interrupted these daydreams. He dismissed them and went inside.

Ed knew before Tillman, the doorman, buzzed that it was Tom Gustafson, his close friend who was on the way up. Tom, a few years older than Ed, was a retired designer and manufacturer of porcelain commodes.

Toilets we called them in The Bronx, Ed had stated when they first met.

Gustafson became rich in the sixties and seventies with the advent of Pop-Art Andy Warhol’s soup cans and ‘yuppies’ when he devised a new concept in bathroom fixtures. His varied shapes, sizes and abstract art work cradled some of the most famous derrieres among the rich and famous. It was stated that his pièce de résistance was a tartan plaid on leather fashioned in the manner of a music box which played ‘Danny Boy’ whenever the Minister from Ireland felt compelled to catch up on the morning news via the New York Times.

Ed and his confreres at the club fondly referred to Tom as ‘Flush’ which failed to amuse Tom.

Tom had phoned Ed earlier in the day and invited him to play golf. Instead, Ed asked him to stop by the penthouse and offer his advice regarding what Ed felt was a brilliant idea - one that occurred to him in the middle of a restless night alone in his king size bed.

Ed was mixing himself a fresh martini when Gustafson hit the door with his fist. Tom never bothered with door bells. When Ed threw open the door, his friend barged into the room like a prohibition cop from the twenties.

Tom’s face was flushed, Ed assumed, because of the excess weight he had added around his middle, rather than from a round of golf. Tom leaped straight for the bar and helped himself to a neat Scotch.

Have a drink Tom, Ed offered in lieu of such amenities as ‘Hello,’ ‘How are you’ - or the usual ‘Up yours.’

It’s okay, I got one, said Tom missing the sarcasm. He tasted the liquor, nodded his approval and continued. "Now, what do you say we sit and talk? You said