by V. M. Burns
“Chris, I was wondering what you can tell me about him. If he treated everyone the way he treated me, I can only imagine the police have a long line of suspects.”
“I can’t say he treated everyone the same. If you were rich and a member of the country club or the yacht club, he could be really charming.” Chris paused. He seldom spoke ill of anyone. “At least that’s what I heard. I wasn’t born on the right side of the harbor for Parker, so I never got a chance to see that side of him.”
“So, you’re saying this Parker person was a South Harbor snob?” Nana Jo’s straight forwardness shocked many people, but Chris was accustomed to her.
“To put it simply, yeah, he was. Frankly, I’m surprised he even listed this building. I don’t recall him listing any other North Harbor properties, but the downtown area is turning around and money is money. I talked to one of the other local realtors, and he thought the Parker family used to own this building.”
“Really? That’s hard to believe.” I tried to imagine Clayton Parker appreciating this building. It wasn’t huge as far as square footage, but it was just the right size for a cozy bookstore.
“You have to remember, back in the day, North Harbor was where all of the wealthy people lived,” Nana Jo said. “That’s why we have so many big old Victorian houses. South Harbor was where the servants and working-class people lived.”
“True. After the race riots of the sixties, everything shifted. South Harbor became the preferred area, but North Harbor will turn around,” Chris said. “At least I hope so.”
“Especially now that we’re going to have a new mystery bookstore and tea room.” Nana Jo glowed with pride, and I couldn’t help but glow at the faith she had in me, even while my stomach clenched with fear.
Chris promised to ask his realtor friends if they knew of anyone with a grudge against Parker and promised to share anything he found out. He was a busy man, and soon, Nana Jo and I were left alone.
Lady Elizabeth had planned to send her regrets to Lady Dallyripple and decline her invitation to tea. More than fifteen minutes in the presence of Lady Amelia Dallyripple and her annoying, yipping, ankle-biting corgis made her want headache powder and a tall glass of Sherry. If she was totally honest, she preferred the company of the dogs to that of Lady Amelia. However, Victor was in trouble and one had to do distasteful things from time to time to help one’s family. She was comfortable with the thought of Victor Carlston as family. From the moment he took his first childhood steps in Wickfield Lodge, he was destined to unite the two families.
“Don’t you agree, Lady Elizabeth?” Lady Amelia asked.
She shook herself out of her reveries and tried to focus. The constant barking and growling of the three dogs, attempting to herd Lady Amelia’s grandson, made it nearly impossible to hear. One little beast intently nipped at the hem of Lady Elizabeth’s dress and snagged the lace. Clearly, drastic measures were needed. A knock at the door provided the required distraction. All eyes turned toward the newest arrival, and Elizabeth leaned forward. The plate of biscuits in her lap slid onto the floor. The little terror abandoned his hold on her dress and devoured the treats.
“Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry about the mess,” Lady Elizabeth said.
“No problem.” Lady Amelia’s voice was strained and her smile forced.
The other two dogs abandoned their attempts to herd and joined their sibling in licking crumbs from the carpet. The room was considerably quieter.
Lady Honorah Exeter leaned close and whispered, “Thank you. I wish I’d thought of that.”
“I’ve had some experience with these little ankle biters,” Lady Elizabeth said.
“Oh, yes. The king has corgis, doesn’t he? Have you seen them?”
Daughter of an American oil baron, the young and pleasantly plump Honorah Exeter sported delicate features. She married into an old and titled, but destitute, British family. Despite the arranged union, she and Lord Peter Exeter, 15th Viscount of Norwalk, had a comfortable relationship, which suited them both. For Lady Honorah, the only fly in the ointment was the Exeter’s lack of intimate terms with the Royal Family. Like many Americans, Lady Honorah was unfamiliar with the British peerage. When she arrived in England, she clearly believed a title would provide daily invitations to tea at Buckingham Palace and shooting trips to Windsor and Balmoral Castles. While that might have been true in years past, King George VI was shy and rarely entertained, preferring small, quiet dinners with his immediate family.
As a much loved second cousin, Lady Elizabeth was on familiar enough terms to call the king “Bertie.” The relationship brought her a large number of invitations to tea, in the hopes she’d share intimate details of the royal family. Lady Elizabeth remained tight-lipped and careful, ensuring her close relationship with her royal relations continued.
“Yes, I’ve seen the king’s dogs. They are better behaved.” Lady Elizabeth inclined her head toward the pack still sniffing for crumbs. “But then, the king does have a larger staff to look after and train them.”
Lady Honorah seemed eager to hear any royal news, no matter how mundane. Could Lady Elizabeth use it to her advantage?
“Police running all over the house and grounds. It’s a terrible shame.” Mrs. Baker, the Vicar’s wife, the slightest bit deaf in her right ear, had a tendency to speak louder than needed.
The Misses Marjorie and Octavia Wood had the decency to blush. Obviously, they were uncomfortable with gossip, especially with the object of the gossip present.
However, the Vicar’s wife had provided the opening Lady Elizabeth needed and she took advantage of it. “Oh my, yes. You are so right, Mrs. Baker,” she said loudly enough for Mrs. Baker to hear. “We were shocked and surprised to have such a horrible thing happen.”
The Wood sisters looked relieved that Lady Elizabeth took no offense and openly discussed the topic. Something as exciting as a murder—made more exciting having happened to an American—had to be on everyone’s minds.
“What was he about, I asked myself,” Miss Octavia Wood, the more talkative of the two spinster sisters, said.
“I’m sorry but I don’t understand your question.” Lady Elizabeth thought she must have missed part of the conversation.
“Getting himself killed like that. What was he about?” Miss Octavia looked from face to face. “Why travel all this way just to get stabbed?” She sipped her tea, and her sister nodded eagerly.
“I honestly don’t know.” Lady Elizabeth was indeed puzzled. “I don’t suppose he expected to get killed.”
“Rubbish.” Lady Amelia warmed to the subject. “Men like that always end up getting themselves killed. You’d think he would have the decency to get himself killed in his own country and not let it happen in someone else’s garden.” Everyone murmured their agreement, everyone except Lady Elizabeth and Lady Honorah.
Lady Honorah flushed and fidgeted with her teacup.
Time to intervene. Lady Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I don’t believe he intended to be killed, and I’m sure he didn’t mean to be killed in my garden. Since he did, I wonder if any of you noticed anything unusual?”
“By unusual, do you mean like a vagrant?” Miss Marjorie Wood asked timidly.
“Well, yes. I suppose, but anything unusual or out of the ordinary,” Lady Elizabeth said.
Everyone looked curious, but clueless. Everyone except Lady Honorah, who went from a pink flush to a deep red and dropped first her napkin, then her handbag, then a spoon, while avoiding eye contact with Lady Elizabeth.
“I didn’t suppose any of you did, but I thought I’d ask.” Lady Elizabeth skillfully turned the conversation in another direction. “Have any of you seen the latest collection by Norman Hartnell? Aren’t his gowns just marvelous? And, didn’t Princess Elizabeth look beautiful in that white concoction? Such a lovely girl.”
As predicted, the general conversation shifted to the latest in haute couture. Lady Elizabeth turned her attention on Lady Honorah and used the sam
e firm but motherly tone she used with Daphne and Penelope. “Now, dear, don’t you think you should tell me what’s on your mind?”
Chapter 11
The funeral services for Clayton Parker were held on Thursday at South Harbor Lutheran Church. Nana Jo, the girls, and I put in an appearance. Originally, the girls weren’t included in my plans, but when they found out Nana Jo and I were going to a funeral, they were upset about being excluded. Personally, I would have preferred to skip the event. Under normal circumstances, nothing could have compelled me to go to the funeral service for a man I disliked as much as I disliked Clayton Parker. Circumstances being what they were, I needed to attend. However, I refused to wear black and feign mourning. Instead, I wore my navy-blue suit, purchased more than a decade ago and worn to interviews and the annual teachers’ recognition dinner. Nana Jo also opted out of wearing black. She wore a bright, short, tight-fitting turquoise dress. Despite her age, she had a good figure, and the dress accentuated every bit of it. Nana Jo was stunning. Irma wore a black miniskirt, black lace camisole, a pillbox hat with a veil, and six-inch bright red hooker heels. Dorothy and Ruby Mae dressed more traditionally in dark suits with sensible shoes.
South Harbor Lutheran Church was the oldest, largest, and stateliest church in town. Its massive white steeple and traditional brick façade had graced South Harbor for well over a hundred years. The church sat atop a large expanse of lush green grass on the bluffs that overlooked the lake shore, a real estate gold mine with well over two acres of land. A vacant lot with views of the Lake Michigan shoreline was worth close to a million dollars. I’d bet every time Clayton Parker drove to church and saw the adjacent cemetery full of graves with high dollar, prime real estate lake views, he wanted to bang his head against a wall. I should have been ashamed at the joy the visual brought me. I wasn’t.
I dropped off Nana Jo and the girls at the front of the church and drove off in search of a parking space. The main lot was full, but the church had commandeered parking at a nearby bar. I supposed the arrangement suited both parties, since the bar didn’t open until late in the day, but my Baptist sensibilities bristled at the situation. My ten-year-old Honda CRV looked old and cheap in the sea of German vehicles crammed into the bar’s parking lot. I spotted a space between a Jaguar and a Mercedes and tried to avoid drooling.
By the time I’d parked and hiked back to the church, I was hot and sweaty. The seats in the main sanctuary were full, but the church had set up a video camera and huge screen in the basement. Wooden pews were uncomfortable, but foldaway metal chairs were worse. Nana Jo and the girls had saved me a seat. I flopped onto it and used the program I was handed when I entered to attempt to fan away my sweat and foul attitude.
Clayton Parker ran with the South Harbor elite, and they had all showed up to pay their respects. The mayor, a United States congressman, the chief of police, and a host of people I only saw during election season sat in positions of prominence at the front of the church, although I only saw them on the basement screen.
The service was long and dull. Each of the invited dignitaries stood and shared kind words about Clayton Parker. I tried to come up with nice things to say about him when I introduced myself to his widow. I didn’t have much luck. I was hard-pressed to come up with more than five kind words to say, other than backhanded compliments. His breath didn’t smell like garlic. I never smelled his body odor. His fingernails were always clean. I decided to ask Nana Jo for suggestions as soon as we were alone. She had more experience with that type of stuff.
It took almost the entire time for me to cool down from my hike from the bar parking lot. Just as the throbbing in my feet subsided and the kink in my neck relaxed, Nana Jo elbowed me in my side. Perhaps I was a bit too relaxed. I’d dozed off. I hoped I hadn’t snored. Nana Jo passed me a handkerchief. I certainly wasn’t crying. The dampness on my face must have meant I drooled in my sleep. How long had I been out?
“You better head out to get the car,” Nana Jo whispered.
I looked at the screen. The minister got up to deliver the eulogy. Geez, this had to have been the longest funeral service I had ever attended. The service lasted almost two hours.
I left and made the long walk back to the bar. If it had been open, I would have gone inside and had a glass of wine. Instead, I sat in my car and allowed the air-conditioning to blow away my bad mood.
By the time I drove back to the church, the service was over and cars were lining up for the caravan to the grave site. I spotted Nana Jo and pulled around the hearse. She and the girls hurried to get into the car. Off we sped, barely avoiding an attendant when he tried to stick a funeral flag onto my car.
“Well, that was a waste of time.” I headed toward the retirement village.
“What are you talking about?” Nana Jo looked at me as though I’d suddenly been taken over by aliens.
“We learned a lot in those two hours,” Dorothy said from the back seat.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Were we at the same funeral?” I looked at Dorothy, Ruby Mae, and Irma in my rearview mirror.
“Well, if you’d stayed awake, you might have learned as much as we did,” Ruby Mae said.
They had to be pulling my leg. “Like what?”
“Well, for starters, we learned that despite his horrible personality, Clayton Parker was either very well respected or his family was. A United States congressman, the mayor, and the lieutenant governor don’t come to just anybody’s funeral service,” Nana Jo said.
“We also learned Clayton Parker’s wife doesn’t appear to be the grieving widow,” Dorothy said. “Did you see the way she strutted into the church?”
“No, it must have been when I was out parking the car,” I said sarcastically.
Nana Jo and the girls tsked in sympathy.
“And that outfit,” Ruby Mae said. “Can you believe she wore that bright red dress to her husband’s funeral? The back was cut so low you could see the crack of her behind.”
“And her tramp stamp. Although, I did love those shoes. Louboutin’s. Eight hundred forty-five dollars at Chandlers.” Irma broke into a coughing fit.
“For a pair of shoes?” She had to be joking. I glanced at the mirror.
Irma took a swig from her flask.
“Who was that walking beside her?” Nana Jo asked.
“I don’t know, but did you see his hand around her waist? That was just plain tacky, if you ask me.” Ruby Mae sounded like she’d just tasted something sour.
“Maybe it was a relative?” I got snorts and harrumphs in response.
I nearly ran a red light when Ruby Mae said, “Honey, don’t no relative pat a woman’s backside like that unless he’s getting some.”
The others cracked up.
“Wow! You saw all that on the television screen in the basement of the church?” Obviously, the funeral was a lot more exciting than I thought.
“Of course not. We saw it all when we arrived and went snooping. Why do you think we had you drop us at the door?” Nana Jo said.
“We took positions and went on reconnaissance,” Irma croaked before she broke into another coughing fit. She really needed to see someone about that cough.
“Reconnaissance?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
Nana Jo turned to face me. “Irma is great at ferreting out information from elderly men. She went in and attached herself to the old geezer working the door.”
In the rearview mirror, Irma nodded.
Nana Jo continued, “Dorothy went to the ladies’ room.”
“You can find out a lot of information in the ladies’ room,” Dorothy said.
I thought Dorothy spent so much time in ladies’ rooms because she had weak kidneys. Who knew a ladies’ room was a newsroom?
“Ruby Mae knows so many people in this town, if she stands in one place more than thirty seconds, someone always comes up and starts talking. Even strangers talk to her.” Nana Jo glanced back at Ruby Mae. “And I went to the sign-in book and prete
nded I was a distant relative who wanted to get a picture of all of the signatures.” Nana Jo held up her cell phone.
“You guys couldn’t have had more than five or ten minutes before the processional started.” I was truly awed.
“Honey, this ain’t our first rodeo,” Ruby Mae said.
“Where are you going?” Nana Jo asked.
The drive to the retirement village was almost a straight shot from the church. Unless Nana Jo had suddenly gone senile, there was no way she didn’t recognize the route.
“I’m going back to the retirement village.”
“Why? We have to head to South Harbor Country Club. Didn’t you hear? Family and close friends are going there for refreshments.” Nana Jo spoke as if she was talking to a dim-witted child.
“But we aren’t family or close friends.” I answered Nana Jo like she was the one whose wits were less than bright.
“How do you suppose we’re going to get more information? Besides, I’m getting hungry. Turn around.”
She was right. If I wanted information, I needed to get over my dislike of Clayton Parker and start investigating. I hated it when she was right. I drove a few extra blocks before turning around in the parking lot of a nearby grocery store and heading back to South Harbor.
South Harbor Country Club represented the divide between South Harbor and North Harbor. Built in the 1960s, SHARC, as it was referred to by the locals, sat on the manicured lawn of an eighteen-hole golf course. The main building was white. Eight pillars supported a two-story porch that wrapped around the building and overlooked the greens in front and the St. Thomas River in back. It was an antebellum plantation house straight out of Gone with the Wind, and the country club symbolized the elitist, separatist attitude held by many of South Harbor’s residents.
A long winding drive led the way to the main entrance, where valets in red livery from a bygone era waited to park my car. I pretended to not notice the disappointment on the young man’s face when he took the keys to my CRV and handed me a ticket. His friend ran to attend to the Porsche that had pulled in behind me.
