Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  Patti and I went down the ramp beside the PT department and walked in the middle of the street, talking about publicity for the lectures and the upcoming weekend lunches. We passed the recycling shed and the maintenance barn. Assisted Living was a single-level, yellow building dripping with white gingerbread trim and an open porch across the front.

  I always enjoyed meals with the Assisted Living residents. They had their own cook, got three meals a day, seven days a week, and the food was reliably good. The staff was funny and affectionate, too, so it was like eating with a big, happy family.

  The four kittens they’d adopted in the summer were half grown by November but still doted on by the residents. Patti and I stopped in the sitting room to pet them before we followed the crowd to the dining room.

  While we ate, Ivy told us what was going on in the program. I approved her plans, giving myself a mental pat on the back for hiring her.

  And Patti promised to give a little extra attention to Mr. Hocutt until his wife got home from the hospital. “I’ll drive him over there later and take her a little flower.”

  Travis called after lunch. “I’m leaving Tuscaloosa. Should be there by seven. Are you free for breakfast in the morning? I thought I’d ask if Stephanie and Barry want to ride down with me. I assume you’d like a couple of houseguests.” Travis always stayed at the motel a few blocks away.

  “Sure.” I answered before I thought what day it was. “No, I can’t do breakfast. The houseguests are fine, but I’ve got an early appointment in town.”

  “Then let’s have lunch. Somewhere nice. We can go over your budget.”

  I agreed, knowing we wouldn’t get much work done with Barry along.

  Twenty minutes later, Stephanie called, complaining about her father. “He doesn’t realize I’ve got responsibilities. Barry got up with the sniffles and I’m snowed under at the shop.” She wasn’t coming.

  I got some real work done in the afternoon. I looked over applications for CNA positions—certified nursing assistants—for Assisted Living and passed several options along to Ivy. Stewart stopped by the office and said he preferred to wait about finding an additional helper for maintenance and grounds. With grass-cutting season over, he could be picky and find just the right person. “We’re in people’s private space. And old folks are so trusting.”

  I liked Stewart.

  The community gardens group had sent a thank-you for Harbor Village’s cooperation with their program and wondered if they might increase the number of raised beds behind the big house next year. I thought it was a great idea and called the number they’d listed. We talked through the details and set the project into motion.

  Later, I glanced over the latest financial report from Emily, our business manager. The cost of electricity was up from the previous year, and there were all the additional costs of Patti’s porch furnishings, a project I hoped would pay for itself soon by reducing vacancies. Overall, we looked okay, due largely to personnel changes and some fraud-elimination steps I’d instituted. I went home for a quick dinner by myself and listened to CNN for a minute. All the news was about the election.

  The lecture audience was just as large on the second night, but we were better prepared this time. Extra chairs that had been against the back wall were gone, incorporated into the other rows. I sat in the last row and did a rough head count, then hoped the fire marshal wasn’t there.

  I didn’t know the fire marshal, I realized, and made a note to invite him to lunch sometime.

  Reg Handleman opened lecture two with a twist—a vintage music video featuring Duke Ellington playing “Take the ‘A’ Train” on a grand piano. The sound was good but lighting was poor. The camera focused on Ellington’s hands and the keyboard, then gradually moved up to reveal reflections on the glossy wood where Steinway & Sons was printed in gold leaf.

  Handleman froze the video. “What’s the connection to cars?”

  There were no answers, and I had no ideas.

  Handleman clicked and the image changed to something that resembled a four-wheeled bicycle. “What’s this?”

  There were answers but not the one he wanted. “Ever hear of a horseless carriage? Well, this is what it looked like.”

  He flipped back to the piano keyboard and put the two images side-by-side on a split screen. “Figured it out yet?”

  He had our attention but no one seemed to know the answer.

  “Here’s a hint, for any New Yorkers in the room. What Long Island factory manufactured a Daimler engine like the ones used in horseless carriages?” He paused and waited. “No ideas?”

  A photo appeared of a long, low shop with a big sign.

  “What’s the name of the factory?”

  Steinway & Sons, I read on a sign. The piano company made engines?

  While Handleman told the story, the glass door to the lobby swung open silently and Travis McKenzie slipped into the ballroom. Heads swiveled, and for a minute or so, Reg Handleman lost the feminine portion of his audience. Travis had always been a handsome devil but maturity and success had worked some serious magic. I looked back to the screen.

  After fifty minutes of early automobiles, our speaker looked at his watch. “Now, you’d probably like to stretch your legs, and I need water. Ten minutes, okay?”

  A dozen rows in front of me, Terry Wozniak stood up and looked around. I felt him spot me and start in my direction. Without looking directly at him, I zipped out to the opposite aisle and headed for the punch bowl, but he caught up with me there.

  “You haven’t signed up for my class yet.” He smiled and moved in too close, shoulder to shoulder.

  I smiled but took a step back and turned to face him. “I’m probably not going to make it this time, Terry. Still settling in here. When will you offer it again?”

  Wozniak narrowed his dark eyes. “Not for a whole year. Give it another thought, hon. Where’s this Mr. Levine I’m supposed to talk to?”

  I stood on my toes to look around and felt Wozniak’s hand touching my elbow, as if he were steadying me. “Over there,” I said when I spotted Levine. I stepped away from Wozniak. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”

  As soon as they were talking, I slipped away for a cup of foamy green punch, drank it down quickly, dropped the paper container into the trash, and started back to my seat. Travis was at the front of the room, deeply absorbed in conversation with Handleman, who was shaking his head stubbornly. It wouldn’t be a big stretch to say they were arguing, which was odd, considering they’d met only a couple of minutes before. I slipped past Jim Bergen and three or four other men who appeared to be paying close attention to Handleman’s discussion.

  I got to my chair, and after another minute or two, Handleman took center stage, wearing a tiny microphone on a headset. The last stragglers headed for their seats.

  Someone leaned over my right shoulder and planted a soft, tickling kiss on my cheek. I turned, expecting to see Travis.

  “I’m baa-ack.” Riley Meddors’s eyes twinkled.

  “Riley!” I hopped up to give him a hug.

  Instead of the clean-cut banker who’d left less than three weeks ago, Riley looked like a sailor, or a psychology professor who’d lost his razor. A short beard explained the tickle. I automatically reached to touch it, but caught myself at the last minute.

  “Go ahead.” He offered his cheek.

  I brushed the back of my fingers across dark hair, already past the prickly stage. “There must be a story behind this. Did you have a good trip?”

  He nodded. “Great trip. We got Joel married off. I saw the grandkids and had a nice reunion with Diane.”

  Diane was his ex-wife. She’d been a coworker of Nita’s years ago, and I’d heard Riley’s relationship with her described as cool or cordial or something of that sort. But he certainly looked happy after visiting her.

  Audience members we
re settling down. A few chairs scraped into better positions. I jumped to a conclusion and whispered, “Don’t tell me! You’re getting married again.”

  “No!”

  He recoiled, the smile startled off his face. Then he chuckled and whispered back, “Well, maybe. But not to Diane. I’ll tell you all about it. Can you go for coffee when this is over? Or dessert?”

  I shook my head, thinking about my morning plans and how I’d need to get to bed as early as possible. The speaker rapped for order.

  “I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”

  I looked around to see Travis watching me. I gave him a wave and a smile, which he returned, and he sat down in the front row near the Bergens.

  Vacant seats were more numerous than an hour earlier, but not necessarily because of any lack of interest in the lecture. Eight o’clock was bedtime for many Harbor Villagers.

  “I’m getting some questions about the value of certain vehicles,” Handleman began. “Save those for tomorrow night, when our topics will include some investment options in collectible and classic automobiles. There are major pitfalls there, so don’t sign anything between now and then.”

  His audience laughed.

  We seemed to be laughing at anything he said, as though he’d conditioned us. Which might be true. I should pay closer attention to his techniques, in case I ever returned to teaching.

  “And I’ve got a little added bonus for you,” Handleman said. “Tomorrow afternoon at three, I want you to bring your family photos to this room. I’ll be here for an hour or so and I’ll identify and date any cars in the photographs and tell you a little about them.”

  There were whispers and rustles and comments in the audience. I remembered seeing such photographs in my family. Harbor Village residents must have albums full of them, going back generations.

  “Genealogists find that type of information very useful,” Handleman was saying. “So, if you’re doing a family tree, you’ll want to come. We can tell a lot about people from the cars they drive. Now, I’m just assuming this room will be available tomorrow. Is the little lady from the reservation desk here? Patti?” He scanned the crowd.

  I joined with other voices in answering. “No!”

  Handleman shrugged. “Well, I’ll check with her first thing in the morning to be sure this room is available, and I’ll put a note outside if we have to go elsewhere. Now. Ready to jump back in?”

  A few people in my vicinity gave me inquiring looks, but I didn’t know what was scheduled for the ballroom this week. Music groups practiced there, clubs held meetings, there was an occasional wedding or reunion. So Handleman’s announcement caused me some distraction in the second half of the lecture. Patti would be by herself in the morning, while I went off with Nita. I didn’t know how she’d cope with a visit from Handleman.

  When the lecture ended, I spoke to Travis briefly, confirmed our Thursday lunch date, and thanked the speaker for a good presentation. “Do you have everything you need in the guest suite?”

  “It’s perfect.” His navy-blue eyes seemed to examine the thoughts rattling around inside my cranium. I turned away, wondering if he was really as good a speaker as I thought or if we’d all been mesmerized.

  Most of the audience left right away, chatting as they filed out of the ballroom, primarily through the parking lot exit. A few went through the lobby or out into the garden on their way around to the PT end of the big house.

  Carla and Ann were stripping away empty serving dishes and the punch bowl, stacking kitchen things on a cart. I didn’t see any leftover food. Lizzie pulled the filled trash bags out of containers, replaced them with fresh bags, then tied the full ones and hauled them out. They’d have the dishwasher going when they left for home.

  A few people, Travis and Jim and Terry Wozniak included, still milled around at the front, peppering Handleman with questions that seemed more and more contentious. What in the world were they discussing? Nita was watching from a chair on the front row, handbag on her lap.

  I gave her a wave.

  “Eight thirty?” she called.

  I nodded and looked around for Stewart just as he came in from the lobby and stopped, hands on hips, looking around.

  I took a few steps toward him and he spotted me. “I’ll lock up,” he volunteered without being asked.

  I thanked him and went home. It’d been a good day. And a long one.

  Stephanie called while I was in the closet, locating the turquoise sweater I wanted to wear the next day. I’d bought it from Etsy, but someone had knitted it by hand and I thought the knitters at Ann’s shop would enjoy examining it. Nita had said we could count on seeing six or eight knitters, women who came in every Thursday morning for what they called their knit fix.

  “What’s the temperature there?” Stephanie asked.

  While we talked, I untangled a silver and turquoise necklace from the jumble on the jewelry carousel. “I just walked home from the ballroom and it was pleasant out. Sixty, maybe sixty-five.”

  I found the shoes I wanted and set them out, along with thin, diamond-patterned trouser socks. Then I sat cross-legged on the bed. The cat jumped up and insinuated herself into my lap.

  “It’s forty-four degrees here and may freeze tonight.” Stephanie was at home in Birmingham.

  “Is that why you asked Patti about retail space in Fairhope?”

  “She didn’t need to tell you that. Can’t a girl even dream? Is Dad there?”

  “Not here, but I saw him at a lecture tonight.” I stroked the cat and she rolled over, exposing her tummy.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if all of us wound up living in Fairhope?”

  My hand dropped onto Tinkerbelle and she grabbed with all four feet, claws out. I flinched but didn’t scream.

  “Stephanie, your father lives in Houston.”

  I eased my hand out of the cat’s grasp. Hadn’t Stephanie been spared the reunion delusion? After all, she’d been a baby when Travis and I divorced.

  “But he’s in Fairhope an awful lot lately.” She almost sang the final words.

  “I’ve noticed that. But not for much longer, I hope. I’m feeling pretty confident with the job now.”

  I changed the subject and asked about my grandson, Barry, and Stephanie asked about some of my neighbors she’d gotten to know on previous visits. After a few more minutes of conversation, we told each other good night.

  * * * *

  Before eight Thursday morning, I had crossed the street to the office and was standing beside Patti’s desk, figuring out which key unlocked it. The piece of driftwood was in its usual place, but the psychic turtles were missing.

  I found the red reservation book in the top drawer. The only item scheduled for the ballroom was Handleman’s presentation at seven that night. I drew a diagonal across the afternoon hours and wrote Handleman above it, then looked up the phone number for Charlie and Eloise Levine and dialed it from Patti’s desk phone.

  No one answered. Probably in the shower. Or still asleep. I waited for voice mail and left a message that the ballroom was reserved for Handleman all afternoon. “I don’t have his phone number and I’m going to be out of the office this morning, so I’d appreciate it if you’d notify him.”

  If that didn’t work, Patti would just have to deal with him. I wrote her a note of explanation, stuck it to the desktop, and replaced the reservation book. As I was closing the drawer, my attention was drawn to a small monkeypod bowl inside. It held six or eight ceramic turtles in various sizes. I locked the desk.

  Nita was waiting on the sidewalk in front of her apartment. She wore a black jacket with a houndstooth scarf and red leather gloves, and carried a small canvas bag with knitting needles sticking out at the top. I looped around the median and stopped beside her.

  She greeted me cheerily as she got in and buckled her seat belt. “Ann always parks in th
e public lot behind Royale Court. Do you know about it?”

  I didn’t, but she pointed out the appropriate turns when we got into town.

  The lot was large and, since most stores wouldn’t open for another hour, almost empty. But Ann was already there, standing beside a silver SUV. She directed us to the next space. “Perfect timing.” She swung Nita’s door wide and held it. “Great program last night, wasn’t it? I do believe that man could sell ice to Eskimos.”

  Nita brought up a different cliché. “But we’re burning the candle at both ends, Ann. Staying out late and getting up early. I guess you do that every day, though.”

  “Don’t know how anybody sleeps late. Now, Prissy and I shouldn’t be more than an hour. We’re just signing the agreement with the hotel and giving them a deposit. You have the key, right?”

  Nita dangled a key for Ann to see, attached to a fat red pom-pom. “There’s no need for you to hurry. We’re going to enjoy looking at all the pretty yarns. I do hope some of the knitting ladies come in.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll be here. And you know where to find the coffee and filters?”

  “I do.” Nita nodded.

  “Take your time,” I encouraged Ann. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “You don’t have to leave when I get back. You can stay all day. I’d better go. I have my phone if you need me.”

  “We won’t,” Nita said confidently.

  Ann hiked herself into the SUV and slammed the door, and Nita took my arm to walk across an unpaved, uneven, graveled area.

  “They call this Skinny Alley.” She pointed me into a narrow walkway between the end of a building and a weathered fence. “You don’t want to meet someone going the other way.”

  “I see why it got that name.”

  The path was ten or twelve feet long and less than three feet wide. With Nita still holding my arm, we had to walk single file. At the end, we stepped out into a large, charming courtyard and the aroma of onions and garlic and spices. There were benches, a few crape myrtles that had lost most of their leaves, pots with red and white impatiens, and a splashing fountain. Dixieland jazz played softly.