Everybody Loved Roger Harden

by Cecil Murphey

  Everybody’s Suspect in Georgia: Book One

  Everybody Loved

  Roger Harden

  By

  Cecil Murphey

  Other Books by Cecil Murphey

  The Everybody’s Suspect in Georgia Series:

  Everybody Loved Roger Harden

  Everybody Wanted Room 623

  Everybody Called Her a Saint

  The Inspired Living Devotional Series:

  Devotions for Couples

  Devotions for Dieters

  Devotions for Runners

  Revitalize Your Prayer Life: Inspired Living Series Companion

  Table of Contents

  EVERYBODY LOVED ROGER HARDEN

  Other Books by Cecil Murphey

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Excerpt from EVERYBODY WANTED ROOM 623

  The Inspired Living Devotional Series

  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  One

  When I agreed to attend Roger Harden’s dinner party, how could I have known the terrible events that would take place on Palm Island and especially what would happen to Roger himself? I also had no idea that anyone would find out about my past. Roger knew, of course, but imagine—me voluntarily telling anyone my long-held secret.

  Sorry, there I go again. I’m getting ahead of myself. I do that a lot. I start telling a story and jump ahead to the best parts. I’ll try not to do that again. I’ve promised myself that I would write everything down exactly as it happened. So I can’t reveal anything about what took place on Palm Island before I reached Roger’s house, can I?

  I’m Julie West, and I decided to write down all the strange occurrences on Palm Island so that I don’t forget anything. There’s one part that Burton needs to explain because I wasn’t there. I asked him to note those events, exactly as I’m trying to do.

  So here is how it happened. I had barely reached the dockside, and it was exactly 7:51. It was late June, and the breeze along the Georgia coast made the evenings cool enough for a sweater or light jacket. I had worn a windbreaker and slacks, so I was all right. Sure, my hair was a mess, but everyone expected that. Because I keep my titian-colored hair short and it’s naturally curly, a comb was all I’d need anyway.

  I was more concerned about the time than my hair. When Roger said eight o’clock for dinner, he meant everyone was to be present, seated, hands in their laps, and silent—totally silent—when the large hall clock struck the hour. I knew the ritual, I’d been to dinner there three times previously.

  If anyone was late, Roger never said anything. He didn’t need to. His pale blue eyes glared in a way that made words unnecessary. Each time, I felt like a fourth grader on my first day of school when the teacher’s roving eyes intimidated me.

  I would have arrived at the dock at least fifteen minutes earlier if it hadn’t been for the heavy traffic along I-95. There must have been an accident near Savannah. Although I never saw the collision, I got jammed up in the snarled, stop-and-start trail of automobiles.

  When I finally arrived at the dock and caught sight of the boat, I sighed with relief, knowing I could reach the island in time. After I shut off the car engine at the dockside, I hurried around to the trunk of my Honda hybrid.

  A man I didn’t recognize struggled to get his suitcase wedged into the specially built hold on Roger Harden’s prized Boston Whaler. Alongside him, Simon Presswood, Roger’s handyman, pulled the bag from the man’s hand and deftly twisted the bulky suitcase so it slid with ease into the special compartment.

  “I need a little help over here,” I called to Simon.

  He got out of the Boston Whaler and came over to me. When he reached my car, he shrugged.

  I shrugged in return, but Simon ignored me. He walked directly to my opened car trunk and picked up the heaviest of my bags. He then offered his arm to help me into the Whaler.

  This time Roger hadn’t come along, which was unusual. He loved to give his guests such a detailed explanation of his boat, it almost sounded as if he had designed and built the craft himself. For someone like me, it was more fun to observe his excitement than it was to listen to him talk about a two-hundred-horsepower Mercury Verado four-cycle engine. He hated it when anyone called it a motor—as if the person had used profane language.

  At the beginning of my two previous trips, Roger had lectured us as he pointed out the remarkable features of the boat. “It will still float, even if ten people are inside and it’s filled with water.” (I refrained from asking him why ten people would stay inside a water-filled boat. Why wouldn’t they bail with their life jackets on?) Both times I cringed when he pointed out that the boat could withstand a thousand rounds of automatic weapon fire. That statement always puzzled me. Unless, of course, he expected South American terrorists to pursue him.

  The Boston Whaler was about eight feet wide, big enough to keep us dry, and it had an engine that worked well. Okay, it was nice to look at, and the boat shouted quality and money, but to me, a boat is a boat. On my previous trips, during Roger’s lectures, I’d stared at the ocean vessels streaming across the Atlantic while he droned on. Or I’d gazed at the sea oats along the sand dunes. Only about six inches tall (with roots as long as five feet), the sea oats not only protect the dunes from erosion, but I like to think they wave at me.

  I thought it was funny when Roger condescended and treated us like idiots, so I referred to the Whaler as a “rowboat with a motor.”

  Roger didn’t have a great sense of humor. He reminded me that the Whaler was “very stable, very dry, and very comfortable.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “And it has an engine, not a motor.”

  On my first trip, another passenger added, “It’s a quality boat for the obscenely rich.”

  Roger loved that remark, indicated by the swell of his chest. “Quite right,” he’d say. Yes, Roger liked to give his guests the best.

  But today Roger wasn’t present, and Simon was ready to leave. He had tied the Whaler to the small dock so no one had to get wet climbing inside.

  Without going into details of the boring introduction, the stranger’s name was Dr. James Burton, the minister at a church in Riverdale in Clayton County on Atlanta’s Southside—about ten minutes’ drive from my office. He told me he had arrived at the dock in Brunswick at 7:20—the time I was supposed to have gotten there. He mentioned that I was the last to arrive.

  If I had driven in by 7:20, that would have given us plenty of time to board the Whaler and arrive on Palm Island long before 8:00.

  I didn’t blame the minister for being irritated, though he didn’t say anything overly negative. His frown told me he wasn’t happy at being delayed.

  I thanked Simon for helping me. He’s tall—about half a foot over six feet—and always keeps his head shaved. I never could figure out why, because he doesn’t have that slick bald scalp that most men do who shave their heads. He has a large, barely visible scar on the left side of his face, running from his temple to the top of his lip. Simon would make a frightening appearance with his broad shoulders, dark coloring, and huge eyebrows—except for his soft brown ey
es. When he looked at me, I felt as if he were like a small boy trapped inside a huge body. He never revealed anything about himself and always ignored any personal questions. I assumed he didn’t understand English well because he rarely spoke. Mostly he shrugged or answered in terse statements.

  “Are all the others here?” I asked.

  Simon nodded.

  “How many are on the island?”

  He shrugged. “Nine. Also Mrs. Harden. Jason.” (Jason was Roger’s stepson).

  “He go,” Simon said, his chin jutted out to point to the man already seated in the red boat.

  Dr. Burton, or as he informed us with a grin that showed a set of teeth a Hollywood movie star would envy, said, “Just call me Burton. Everyone does.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” I laughed self-consciously and said, “Just like a woman, huh?”

  “You want to blame your whole gender because you’re late?”

  “Just trying to make it a joke,” I said. “Traffic problem around Savannah.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Or maybe I should blame it on the way we women drive or—”

  “Or that you could have started earlier.”

  “Tide soon full. Wait no longer.” Simon shrugged.

  It was my turn to shrug. This time his back was to me and he didn’t see my action. I like doing that with Simon. Sometimes he smiles when I imitate his gestures, especially the way he uses his chin to point at an object. It’s better than using fingers, I guess. I love that chin thing; it’s his best gesture.

  “We’re ready,” I said to Simon and smiled at Burton. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to smile at Simon.

  Burton sat on the far right side of the Whaler as if he wanted to give me three-fourths of the seat. I moved to the far left and figured a third person and perhaps a fourth could have sat between us. Instead, we both put our life jackets in the empty space even though we knew we were supposed to wear them.

  I could write another couple of pages about Dr. James Burton. I knew he was irritated—and as I was to learn, that wasn’t typical of him. He certainly had a right to be upset. I was upset at myself for being so late.

  Besides his perfect teeth, Burton is all-around good-looking. I’m five ten in my sneakers, and he was maybe less than an inch shorter. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and that made him look even better. I liked his dark blue eyes and those fabulous dark curls. He had two short ringlets right in the middle of his forehead. He was trim, and his arms made him look like a weight lifter. He didn’t have that football belly I’d seen in so many men his age—around thirty, I figured—and I liked that about him.

  Burton tried to talk to Simon as the engine caught hold and the Whaler pulled away from the shore. The ride was noisy, of course, but I could hear Burton’s questions easily enough. The answers came back with shrugs, nods, or shaking of the head. Simon was, well, just Simon.

  Palm Island was originally an isthmus, but billionaire Roger Harden had the land dug away from the mainland because he wanted isolation, and he got it. The gossip I heard said that isolation had cost him somewhere around twelve million dollars. I don’t know what power he had to exert to make the isthmus an island, but he did, and I assume part of those millions was to influence the right officials and politicians. Roger told me that once he separated it from the mainland, he had to give it a name, and he called it Palm Island. He laughed and said, “I planted three palm trees.”

  In the late 1990s, he had spent more money—a lot more money—to install an underground land telephone line. The telephone worked about 60 percent of the time.

  “Any Internet access from here?” Burton asked. “I brought my laptop. I thought I might use it.”

  “If the phone works.”

  “If the phone doesn’t?”

  Simon shrugged. “In two weeks, Wi-Fi.”

  “Cell phones? They work here?”

  This time I laughed. “About 1 percent of the time. Roger tried to explain it to me once, but I never understood the reason. Right, Simon?”

  Simon shrugged.

  Just then Simon nosed the Whaler expertly to the small dock at the island, turned off the engine, and jumped out. He held up his hand for Burton to remain seated. Simon was barefooted and wore loose, pale green shorts and a brown shirt that hung almost to the bottom of his shorts. From the side of the boat, he leaned forward, grabbed a rope from the dock, and effortlessly pulled the Whaler the last few feet. “Out,” he said. “Suitcases I bring.”

  The tide was rising fast, and I realized there was almost no beach left. Now I understood what Simon had meant about no time. In a few minutes, the fierce waves would have made it impossible to settle at the small dock, a T-shaped walkway.

  Simon jumped out and reached down to give me a hand. Once out of the Whaler, I hurried across the ten-foot walkway and up the steps. From the top, I paused to look into the west. I loved to watch the sun move slowly toward the horizon. I’m not one of those nature freaks, but sights at the coast dazzle me. Bright streams of red and gold sneaked across the sky as if they wanted to make an announcement of sunset. Dark clouds appeared in the east as if to promise rain before morning.

  I looked at my watch. It was 7:58. “Hurry. Roger hates it when anyone is late.”

  Behind me, Burton stumbled, so I grabbed his hand, and we raced toward the front entrance.

  “If I was rude to you,” he yelled, “I’m sorry.”

  “You were rude, but it’s all right because I didn’t hear you,” I yelled back to him as we raced ahead. I love it when I can give smart-mouthed answers.

  I didn’t knock but pushed the door open. We hurried through the foyer and straight toward the dining room, which was perhaps thirty feet and to the left. The minute hand on the large antique clock showed 7:59. I sighed and released Burton’s hand. We paused, and I smiled at him as he stepped back and I walked sedately into the room. I liked the feel of his hand—smooth but strong. Very masculine. I caught the barest whiff of his cologne—a strong, manly fragrance.

  Several people attempted to smile at us—or perhaps they only grimaced. I didn’t know anyone except Amanda Harden and her son, Jason. She indicated the place for me on her right, which left one space for Burton directly across the table and next to Jason. I liked that because I could look at Burton without being rude.

  The host’s chair, of course, was empty.

  “Hello, everyone,” I said as my gaze swept around the table. “I’m Julie West from Atlanta.”

  Across from me and down one on my right, a heavyset man smiled at me. “Hi there! Welcome to Palm Island! I’m Lenny Goss. This is my first time to meet with such a fun group of people.” He laughed as he lifted his hand in a kind of handshaking gesture. He looked around, but no one responded to his “fun group of people.” His smile melted into a small pout.

  No one else spoke or acknowledged me, but I wasn’t surprised. After all, this was Roger Harden’s house, and he knew exactly what he wanted. Obviously, the others—except Lenny—could see the large clock in the hallway, but I knew everyone strained to hear its ticking. Like most of them, I had been to Palm Island before, so I understood Roger’s odd behavior. It was simple: he did not want to hear any talking when he made his grand entrance into the immense dining room. I thought it was a bit eccentric but decided that when a man’s net worth is somewhere in the low billions, he could act as nutty as he wanted.

  The absolute silence seemed a bit weird and silly, but it was his house and we were his guests.

  No one else said a word. Just then the wind began to huff at the windows, and somewhere a loose shutter banged. I had checked the weather on the Internet before I left; the experts predicted rain before midnight along the coast.

  Burton started to say something to the middle-aged woman on his right. But she put her long, red-nailed index finger to her lips.

  Lenny’s eyes darted toward a tall bottle-blond across from him. She looked vaguely familiar. Her thick hair had fallen across
one eye. She pushed it away with her tapered and perfectly formed fingers. They were natural nails and painted a light pink. She wore a pink cotton-blend blouse and a dark blue Chanel suit, and her nails matched the shade of her blouse. Nice touch, I thought.

  Without trying to be obvious, I looked closely at Amanda, one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’d ever seen. She wore tight-fitting gold silk pants and a matching low-cut, cowl-neck, satin blouse that probably cost more than I earned in a month. Her shoulder-length golden earrings and heavy gold chain seemed a little overdone, even for Roger’s house. About a year ago she started dyeing her hair—and it looked great—into a slightly lighter shade of ash-blond than her natural color. I couldn’t detect one bit of gray. Amanda had always been trim and beautiful, although I noticed the seams of her silk pants now strained when she shifted her weight. She must have added ten pounds since I’d seen her last. She smiled at me, but it seemed slightly forced.

  While the other guests waited in silence, Burton looked across at me and arched his right brow. I shrugged in a perfect Simon-like gesture. He returned the Simon shrug—not quite perfect, but he’d get it right before we left.

  I put my napkin on my lap and imitated everyone by sitting with my hands folded. The seconds ticked away. We had fourteen seconds to go. I sighed in relief. I had made it on time.

  As we waited, I tried not to look around, because I never liked Roger’s taste in furniture. Everything in the house was done in the rococo style. While Roger thought it exuded delicacy and lightness—which I suppose it did—I thought it was too elaborately ornamented with shell motifs, serpentine curves, and cabriole legs, and not particularly comfortable. Finely done needlepoint of floral designs cushioned the seats and chair backs. I used to tell him I’d rather look at his chairs than sit on them. He didn’t like that part of my humor either.

  The grandfather clock began its first clang.

  No one moved. I closed my eyes so that I didn’t laugh. We were all adults, sitting in stiff obedience like kids in a military school. But then, that was Roger’s way.