Jim gave her an embarrassed grin but hovered over the little plate and picked up his fork.
“It’s fine,” I assured Nita. “I’m not very hungry.”
She shook her head, still glaring at her husband.
I whispered, “You’re going to give him indigestion.”
She relaxed and laughed a little. “Myself, maybe. Not Jim.” She patted my knee. “Busy day?”
I nodded.
“You’re not working Saturday, are you?”
I shook my head. “I hope not. Why?”
“I’ll tell you later,” she whispered back.
Mr. Levine was watching me, waiting to regain the attention of his audience. “I’ve been telling people about our speaker, Reg Handleman. We grew up together. He worked in automobiles his whole career. Still edits books and consults with museums, all over the country, I understand.”
“And gives lectures,” Jim said between bites.
I wasn’t too excited about the upcoming automobile show, but I didn’t broadcast the fact. I told Charlie, “I’m looking forward to his talks.” And I was, in fact. I’d enjoyed every speaker we’d had so far. Maybe this one would measure up, too.
Carla handed me a glass of iced tea and waited until I took a sip. I nodded to her. Some days the unsweet got contaminated with sweet, but not today. Carla went back to work and I asked Charlie Levine, “The first lecture is tomorrow?”
He gave a series of slow nods. “Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Seven o’clock in the ballroom.”
That reminded me of Terry Wozniak’s business card. I got my bag off the chair back, fished the card out of the side pocket, and passed it down the table to Charlie. “He wants to give a talk about Fairhope history. Sometime soon.”
Levine read the card, nodded, stuck it in his shirt pocket, and went back to cars. “This year’s a trial run. The plan is to rival Amelia Island in five years and Pebble Beach in ten. Personally, I think we’ll make it before that.”
He was referring to the country’s two big automobile shows.
It seemed that all of Fairhope was suddenly obsessed with automobiles, even the residents of Harbor Village. People were dragging out old photograph albums, telling stories about suicide doors, or describing how they’d learned to drive with a floor shift. Jim Bergen had made up a list of every car he’d owned. Buicks and Cadillacs tied for first place. Charlie Levine had told us how his father couldn’t tell the front from the back of Studebakers in the late forties. And inspired by all the car talk, Dolly Webb had gone out and purchased a sporty little lime-green convertible.
“I’ve been at the Henry George Colony this morning,” I said at the next lull in conversation. “I see they’re sponsoring the show.”
Mr. Levine scowled, which made him look like Alfred Hitchcock. “Along with the Grand Hotel and Airbus. And the Mercedes plant in Tuscaloosa. Plus a few others I’m forgetting. This is a really big deal, you know. Really big.”
“Don’t forget the polo club.” Jim leaned back, his plate empty. “Out there manicuring their grounds right now, I suppose.”
“I never understood why everything has to be the biggest and best,” Nita complained. “Why can’t we have just a nice little car show, without the shuttles and crowds and news helicopters? The polo ponies will be scared silly.”
Her husband laughed and shook his head.
Ann didn’t share Nita’s negativity, either. “Well, I, for one, can’t wait. They’re expecting twenty thousand people, I hear. Imagine that. Twenty thousand! Just think what that means to all our little businesses.”
“My grandson’s coming from California,” Dolly said. “With a movie crew for that TV man, what’s his name?”
Jim was still shaking his head. “This show is not for our benefit, people. It’s a moneymaker. Tickets to get in, organizers and sponsors and awards, entry fees for the cars. There’s a banquet with prizes Saturday night. Big bucks.”
“They’ve hit up all the merchants for a silent auction.” Ann was working at her knitting again. She drew out a long strand of yarn. “But it’s to benefit the hospital, so I don’t really mind.”
“No,” Nita relented. “I hope the weather’s good.”
I caught Carla’s eye and gave her the yummy tummy signal about lunch. She flashed a big smile.
The car show would be held at the polo field, but I had no idea where that was. I asked.
“Near the pecan place.” Mr. Levine gave a vague sweep with his big head.
“Two miles south on Ninety-Eight.” Jim pointed with his fork toward the highway that passed in front of Harbor Village. “But don’t drive, Cleo. You won’t be able to park if you do. Use the shuttle service. Harbor Village is one of the stops.”
I’d forgotten about that.
“Does that mean our parking lots will be full all weekend?” Nita sighed.
“That’s why we have a garage, honey. The parking lot won’t affect us.” Jim grinned at me and took a sip of coffee.
“Cleo?” Mr. Levine leaned around Nita. “I left you a message this morning. Is the guest suite available? Reggie can quote specs of any automobile you name, but he can’t make a reservation. And now he expects me to do something.”
Harbor Village kept a furnished two-bedroom apartment for visitors, usually family members of residents. It was available for a modest fee on a first-come basis but I didn’t know its status for the week. I’d never even seen the suite, but it was near the front of the complex.
“I’ll check on it when I get back to the office,” I told him. “It’s in one of the front buildings, right?”
“Where Stewart is working on the porches,” Nita said. “They’re going to be so nice.”
“I think we’re calling it One South now,” Jim said. “First building, south side of the boulevard. Upstairs.” Jim was always precise. I attributed it to his military training. “That numbering system is an improvement over nothing, but I still think bird names were better.”
Nita smiled at me. We’d taken a poll to determine how Harbor Village buildings should be identified. Jim had campaigned hard but bird names lost out.
Mr. Levine was grumbling, too, and adjusting his collar. “Eloise thinks he should stay with us, but I’m not up to that. Anyway, the kids may come.”
“Who is this fellow?” Dolly asked. “Our next speaker? Why does he need a place to stay? I thought he lived here.”
“No, no,” Mr. Levine grumbled some more. “I just told you, Dolly, he’s Reg Handleman, an old classmate of mine. High school and college. We even worked at the same place for a while, but we lost touch. He was in engineering and I was management, you know.”
“And you invited him to visit us.” I thought it was obvious.
“No.” Levine had Wozniak’s card out, looking at it again. “Invited himself, actually. Like this fellow.”
“Automotive engineering? No wonder he knows details. He must’ve done well.” Jim rubbed thumb and forefingers together in the universal money sign and looked at Levine for confirmation.
Levine nodded. “Oh, yes. Yes, we both did. Couldn’t do better than Detroit, back in the day.”
I drained the last of my tea and pushed my chair back. “You want to walk to the office with me now, Charlie? We’ll see if the guest suite’s available.”
Levine shook his head. “Call me later. I’m going to have a little shut-eye right now.” He rocked forward and back and rolled up onto his feet, grabbing the edge of the table to steady himself.
Carla was circling the table, unobtrusively removing coffee cups and saucers and the remaining dishes, then passing the stacks to Lizzie.
Jim signaled for her attention. “Charlie says the motels are full. What would you think about opening the dining room this weekend? Every restaurant south of I-10 will have a line.”
She shook h
er head and took his plate and cup. “You know we’re closed Saturday and Sunday.” She headed for the kitchen and he called after her.
“That’s what I’m saying, Carla. Maybe you should make an exception.”
She glanced over her shoulder, gave him a sassy grin, and disappeared.
Charlie Levine had started for the exit. “I’ll bet the yachts are already down at the hotel marina. Maybe I’ll go have a look after my nap. Is Jay Leno really coming? He’s a big car collector, you know.” He looked at me.
I shrugged and stood, brushing crumbs off my black pants. “This is all new to me, Charlie.”
“New to all of us,” Nita muttered.
“Well, it won’t be next year. Just imagine what it’ll be like in ten years.” Levine looked up, spread his hands apart, and announced in a loud voice, as if he were reading a banner, “The Grand Concours of Fairhope and Point Clear.”
“I won’t be here to see it.” Nita’s voice was saturated with finality. She caught my hand. “Cleo, do you have a minute?”
I perched back on the edge of my chair. Nita was still a pretty woman and took pains with her appearance. Today she was wearing nice trousers in a fluid, menswear fabric and a high-necked, bright blue sweater that matched her eyes.
She patted my arm. “I wanted to tell you, I’m keeping Ann’s shop Saturday morning so she and her niece can go to a meeting. Would you like to go with me? It’s a beautiful shop and you’ve never even seen it.” Her voice sounded accusing.
I had knitted years ago but not recently. Ann and Nita wanted me to take it up again, and I’d promised I would as soon as I felt comfortable with my job. I hadn’t quite reached that point yet, but a visit to the knit shop sounded like fun.
“I’d love to go.”
“That’s wonderful. Saturday’s the main day of the car show, but you’ll probably want to go Friday, before the crowds come. Or you can still go in the afternoon, if you really prefer Saturday. I told Ann we’ll be at the shop by eight forty-five.”
We agreed I’d pick her up at eight thirty Saturday and I moved to depart, but Carla intercepted me before I reached the door. She turned her back to block Jim’s view and thrust a takeout box into my hands.
“Here’s your dessert. He’s had his already. And I didn’t mean we can’t prepare lunches this weekend. Not if you want us to.”
I gave the box a gentle shake and heard something slide inside. “Sounds like pie.”
She nodded but looked concerned. “We need to decide soon if we’re going to do it. I have to get the order in by Wednesday.”
I agreed. “We wanted to check out weekend demand, and this is a good opportunity. But let’s think about it overnight.”
Carla nodded, and I took my dessert and headed for the office.
Chapter 2
From the outside, the administration building at Harbor Village was a frothy confection of dormers and porches, with rocking chairs and ferns and red shutters gathered under a curvy black roof. It looked like a fairy tale come to life, but everyone called it the big house, which infuriated Nita.
“That sounds like a prison,” she often complained.
The two upper floors held twenty-four rental apartments and I seldom went up there. The main floor was divided into three sections housing administrative functions and services. One end contained the physical therapy clinic, a barbershop/hair salon, our dining room and kitchen, and elevators.
The middle section was a big lobby with tile floors and a soaring ceiling, where a web of beams supported a chandelier that, turned on, was probably visible from the space station.
As I walked through the lobby, heading for the office, I glanced toward the back window wall. The vegetable and ornamental gardens were still green, thanks to our near tropical climate. A few people sat on benches in the sunshine, and a man with a little boy tossed food pellets into the koi pond.
I dodged around an easel displaying an announcement for the lecture series and shifted my attention to the rugs we’d just purchased to anchor the lobby’s tables and couches. They provided spots of color and certainly softened the acoustics in the big space.
The third and smallest portion of the big house, accessed through a wide doorway, held a dozen or so offices, including mine. Outside of work hours, it was essential that this part of the building, holding personal and sensitive records, be secure. We used a metal gate for that purpose. It had fit in perfectly with the prison image until a month ago, when Stewart, our multi-talented, multi-tattooed handyman, fabricated a nine-foot giraffe to look down over the bars.
When I arrived after lunch, one of Nita’s neighbors was standing near the gate, showing the giraffe to her grandchildren. Or maybe they were great-grands.
“They think we should have a contest to give him a name,” the woman told me.
“And I know the best name.” The little girl’s voice was shrill. “Stilts!”
“Oh, good choice! And have you thought of a name?” I looked at the boy.
He frowned and stuck a finger up his nose.
“Let’s give him time to think about it,” I proposed. “But I do like the idea of a contest.”
I had originally joined the Harbor Village staff as part-time Director of Resident Services, but Patti Snyder had assumed that position when I was named Executive Director. Patti still worked from the reception desk but was nowhere to be seen at the moment. Instead, a young man stood beside her desk. His back was turned toward me.
I saw him hook a finger into the drawer pull and open the top drawer. Then he glanced around and saw me.
“Can I help you?”
He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms and trying to bump the drawer closed with his hip.
“Naw, I’m just looking for Patti.”
He was still a kid, twenty or so, tall and slim with a forelock of blond hair combed into a swirl. Thin lips, narrowed eyes, and a shadow of whiskers said wannabe tough guy. He gestured toward the still-open desk drawer.
“I was looking for some paper. To leave her a note.”
“Of course,” I said, with a smile I didn’t feel. “Or I’ll be glad to give her a message. What name shall I say?”
He shifted his weight and moved away. “Tell her Todd’s looking for her. She’ll know.”
He slowed his pace when he reached the lobby and I gave a sigh as he sauntered out the main door. I hoped Patti wasn’t involved with him. I’d liked her immediately, partly because she was so much like my daughter. They were the same age but Stephanie was married and had a two-year-old. Even as a kid, she’d been too lighthearted for a character like Todd. Maybe Patti would be, too. All that frivolity should have some advantages.
A note was propped against the vase of flowers on her desk. I bent closer to read it. Be right back. At the bottom was Patti’s trademark, a smiley face with a squiggle of curls. I smiled back at it.
There was another curiosity on her desk, too. A flat piece of driftwood held three little ceramic turtles, sitting in a row.
I walked down the side hall, shoes clunking on the tile floor. The door to the conference room stood open, and cans of paint and a raft of painting equipment had materialized in the time I’d been out. That would be Stewart’s next project, I supposed, when the screened porches were finished.
The next door was mine. Cleo Mack, the nameplate said, followed by a string of letters indicating my credentials. A second plaque identified me as Executive Director. This afternoon there was a third attachment, a note from Charlie Levine taped above the doorknob. I pulled it off and unlocked the door, and the blinking message light on the phone claimed my attention.
“Three new messages,” robo-voice said when I pressed the button.
Two calls from Travis McKenzie and one from the daughter we shared. Maybe it was something genetic. I took out my cell phone and punched in Stephanie’s
number. There was a lot of chatter in the background when she answered.
“Hi, Mom. I’m teaching. Can I call you back later?”
“I’m returning your call.”
“Oh, Patti answered my question. I should’ve told her there was no need for you to call. Let’s talk tonight.” She clicked off.
Stephanie, along with her son, Barry, were the lights of my life now that Robert was gone. She was part owner of a quilting shop in Birmingham and taught classes at this time of year. Right now, with the holidays approaching, the shop would be a madhouse of sewing students working overtime to complete table runners and handmade gifts. Stephanie had wanted me to move to Birmingham when I’d retired, and if I’d done that, I’d probably be in the class right now, stitching away. I shook off that image and felt like I’d avoided a small disaster.
Travis McKenzie, Harbor Village CEO and my ex-husband from long ago—Stephanie’s father—had persuaded me to take the Fairhope job. His two phone calls were probably follow-ups from our earlier discussion about the invoice from Henry George Colony. I’d known nothing about it when he called, irritated and complaining, but I’d hung up and arranged an emergency meeting with Terry Wozniak. Maybe he’d called to apologize? Probably not. I got out my notes and glanced over them as I hit redial on the office phone.
After a few rings, Travis’s assistant Yolanda answered at Houston headquarters.
“Harbor Health Services, Mr. McKenzie’s office. Good afternoon, Cleo.”
“Sorry to bother you,” I told her. “I’m returning a call from Travis.”
I’d gotten to know Yolanda on my two trips to Houston and liked her mellow, musical voice with its faint trace of England.
“He must have gone already, if he’s switched his phone to me.” She sounded cheery. Maybe because Travis was out of the office?
I was a little relieved myself, to miss him. “There’s no rush. Just say I called.”
“He’s going to be away for a few days. I think you’ll see him before I do.”
So much for my feeling of relief. “He’s coming here?”
Murder at Royale Court Page 2
