Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  I walked out on dark concrete pavers and turned slowly, looking around.

  The wooden fence continued, with a tracing of vines here and there, and made up one long wall of the triangular courtyard. Beside us, the low gray building housed a doll shop, a candy shop, a nail salon, and a shop with a big mullioned window and a sign that said Lilliput. The adjacent wing of the L-shaped building was an art gallery, with more of the square windows, and a little shop that specialized in used paperbacks. A separate building, across the covered walkway, housed Boudreau’s Gumbo and a T-shirt shop. Chairs and umbrella tables, flags, benches, and fat, frog-shaped pots decorated the courtyard. I could see a little sliver of de la Mare Street through a filigreed archway opposite Skinny Alley.

  “Good morning, Nita,” a woman wielding a broom called from the entrance to Lilliput. She kept sweeping.

  “Evie, come meet my friend Cleo.”

  When Evie turned toward me, I realized she looked extraordinarily familiar. Not Ann, but close enough to mistake for her.

  “This is Ann’s sister,” Nita said. “She has this wonderful little shop full of dollhouses.” She rested a thin hand on Evie’s arm. “I know you don’t call them that, Evie. But I have to stop and think of their real name. Miniatures? Is that it?”

  “Right, but lots of people say dollhouse. It doesn’t bother me a bit.”

  “You look so much like Ann,” I said. “Especially your hair.”

  Evie preened, fingering her short, reddish hair. “It ought to look the same. Came out of the same bottle.” She laughed.

  “We’ll come look around in your shop before we leave,” Nita promised her. “It always puts me in a good mood to see your little treasures. Are you still making the needlepoint rugs? Cleo needs to see them.”

  “They sell fast but I’ve probably got one or two.” Evie picked up a doormat and swept under it.

  The knit shop was in the corner, angled between the building’s two wings, with display windows flanking the glass door. Nita pointed to the name, Royale Knit Shop, written across the windows in purple and green script with gold highlights. “Do you recognize the colors of Mardi Gras?”

  I wouldn’t have thought of the connection, but I’d already learned Fairhope had a tradition of celebrating Mardi Gras. Any holiday, in fact.

  Nita tried the doorknob without using the key. To our surprise, it opened. She hesitated and looked at me.

  “Jim says always check the knob first, to be sure it’s locked and no one’s lurking inside. But I’m sure Ann just left it open for us.” She looked at me.

  I nodded agreement and we entered the shop, exercising no particular caution. I wondered what life must be like for her, always conceding to Jim’s hypervigilance. Nita clicked the lights on and the knit shop sprang to life.

  A pink floral carpet covered much of the dark floor. The boxed-out display windows were decorated with stacks of luscious, jewel-toned yarns and mannequins outfitted in knitted garments. A wide purple stripe ran above the windows, around the walls and all the way to the high tin ceiling. On the side walls, bins of colorful yarns were topped with hat stands and plaster body parts displaying more knitted creations.

  There was a shorter row of shelving in the middle of the room, ending at a glass checkout counter that sparkled under pendant lights. In the back, a big wooden table and chairs reminded me of a college library. I could imagine it lined with chatty knitters sipping coffee or tea as they twisted cables and counted stitches. The lighting must’ve been some special bulb, chosen because it so perfectly mimicked daylight.

  At the very back of the shop, a pair of black Cracker Barrel rocking chairs held blue-and-white needlepoint pillows, and between the chairs, a mahogany table held a porcelain lamp glazed in the same colors.

  “Isn’t it an inviting place? Ann’s a real artist, you know.” Nita folded her gloves together and went to turn the lamp on. “The knitting group will be here soon. I’ll put the coffee on and you can look around.”

  I stopped to inspect an infinity scarf twirled with Mardi Gras beads and displayed on one of several mannequins. I was a tactile shopper who had to feel everything, and the infinity scarf was like a softer, fluffier Tinkerbelle.

  Evie came in the door. “Somebody’s locked me out of the bathroom. Mind if I go through and unlock the door?”

  “Of course not. I’ve done it myself.” Nita was at the coffee bar measuring out dark grounds, but she could explain the Royale Court layout to me while she worked. “The shops share bathrooms. This one is for the knit shop and Lilliput.”

  Evie approached the door beside the coffee bar. “This one is shared three ways, actually. Ann and me, plus the back office. And somebody’s forever leaving the door locked. I’ve got a key somewhere but it’s easier to run over here.” She opened the bathroom door, disappeared from view, and screamed.

  Nita and I bolted as Evie burst out of the bathroom, clutching her throat. “There’s a man!”

  She took a few more steps before turning to stare at us, horrified, hands clasped against her chest. “I think he’s dead.”

  “Call 911,” Nita ordered, and reached out to console Evie.

  My bag still hung from my shoulder. I pulled out my phone and punched in the number.

  But I needed to know what I was reporting, didn’t I? I opened the bathroom door.

  Nita was right behind me. “I want to see, too.”

  Chapter 4

  The dank, windowless bathroom had two doors, one from the knit shop and another directly across from it. A ceiling fixture high above cast a yellowish light on a white tile floor, a small vanity, and a toilet. I took in the entire scene in a single, quick glance. The seat was closed, but the man on the floor was the primary focus of my attention.

  I stepped closer. “Sir! Sir?”

  He was angled across the little bathroom on his back, one arm up like he was waving at somebody, knees bent slightly, feet against the vanity. Lying there, he looked like he’d fallen. He appeared to be about thirty and was wearing tight black shorts, running shoes, and a knit shirt. A bit of white fabric stuck out beneath his shoulder.

  “Who is he?” Nita asked from the doorway.

  I shook my head and the emergency dispatcher answered my call. I gave my name and squatted beside the man’s head. “I’m at the knit shop in Royale Court. There’s an injured man here.”

  As she passed the message to someone, I touched his neck, intending to feel for a pulse. But it wasn’t necessary. He was cold to the touch.

  “Deceased, I think.”

  I got to my feet, and in a flash of suspended animation, one of those moments that stick in your memory forever, I noticed the drone of an overhead exhaust fan.

  “Police and EMT responding.” The dispatcher snapped me back to the moment. A live person, speaking with a mechanical, unemotional voice, seemed oddly reassuring, a signal that the system was working.

  “Stay on the line.”

  I stepped away from the body and the dispatcher recited a coded message to someone.

  “Can you see him from where you are?”

  “Yes. He’s cold.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” she ordered, too late. “Is he breathing?”

  “No. He’s dead.”

  “Is this Ann Slump’s shop? Is Ann there?”

  “Yes, it’s Ann’s shop. She’s not here.”

  There were more voices on the phone. I backed toward Nita. How would Jim Bergen act in this situation? He noticed things and, by this point, would probably have a guess about the autopsy results. So, I looked around the bathroom once more. A shelf above the toilet tank was decorated with artificial flowers and an air freshener. There was a box of tissues on the tank top. The knob lock across the narrow room was locked, and the light switch beside it was in the up position. There was nothing else to see, and I was hearing voices
in the knit shop.

  “Is it Usher?” dispatch asked.

  “Usher?” I looked for Nita.

  She still held the bathroom door open but had moved back into the shop, looking away from me. A cop appeared beside her.

  I thanked dispatch and hung up.

  The next five minutes were a blur of activity. The officer ran us away from the bathroom and directed emergency responders, including a man and a woman in scrubs, who arrived with a gurney. They left it just inside the knit shop and sauntered to the bathroom.

  There were people outside, too, cordoning off the courtyard, talking into radios, holding people at bay. The emergency response felt active and organized and prompt, but there was no rushing about. There must be some code that told responders there was no life to be saved here.

  After the initial spurt of activity, Nita and Evie and I were led outside. The original cop went to one of the umbrella tables, pulled out a chair for Nita, and took our names.

  “Who is he?” he asked.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Nita had a worried look.

  The officer looked at me.

  I shrugged. “Never saw him before.”

  “Devon Wheat.” Evie’s voice was shaky.

  “You’re going to stay right here until I get back. Okay?” The officer went back inside.

  Nita turned to Evie. “Who is he?” She reached out a hand.

  “Devon Wheat.” Evie pointed toward the miniature shop, then took Nita’s hand. “He has the office behind my shop.”

  Nita seemed to recognize the name and shot me a worried look.

  “The financial planner.” Evie glanced over her shoulder, toward Skinny Alley.

  I looked, too, hoping Ann would appear. Had anyone called her?

  We’d been outside for a few chilly minutes when Lieutenant Mary Montgomery strode into the courtyard, entering by the walkway from Section Street. She stopped at the edge of the courtyard, planted both fists on her hips, and stared at me with narrowed eyes for several seconds before she turned and walked into the knit shop.

  Just when we were getting to be friends.

  “Are you warm enough?” Nita asked.

  “Warm enough,” I lied.

  She took red leather gloves out of her knitting bag. “Take these, Cleo.”

  “No, I’d stretch them. You wear them.”

  The chairs were metal and cold and maybe a little damp with morning dew.

  “I’ve got something.” Evie pushed her chair back and got up. “If they ask, tell them I’ll be right back.” She went into the miniature shop.

  Music still played from the courtyard speakers, one of which was mounted right above us in a leafless crape myrtle. Dr. John was singing about sweet confusion. I crossed my arms and balled my hands up in my armpits. Jazz and a dead man. Nothing sweet about it.

  Evie came back with fleece jackets, one for herself and one for me. I put it on and stuck my hands into the pockets.

  “Can we call Ann?” Nita asked.

  I didn’t see why not. “Do you know her number?”

  Evie called out her sister’s phone number. I entered the digits into my phone, then passed it to Nita and moved to the fourth chair at the table.

  I hitched it closer to Evie. “What happened to him?”

  Her gaze moved from the knit shop to Skinny Alley and back. “An aneurysm, do you think?”

  I had assumed cardiac, but Evie knew him. “Did he have any health problems?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing I know about. Always exercising, riding his bicycle.”

  That explained his clothing. I looked around the courtyard.

  “Where’s his bike?”

  Evie glanced around before she shook her head. “Around back, I guess. Sometimes he puts it in the storeroom, but it’s not there. That’s where I got the jackets.”

  A man wearing a white apron walked out of the gumbo house and looked around the courtyard, where twenty or thirty people milled about, many of them in uniform. “Who is it?” he called to Evie.

  “Devon,” she told him.

  The man looked around again and went back inside and Nita passed the phone back to me.

  “Ann’s already on the way.”

  We sat quietly for a few minutes, but my thoughts were flying. An aneurysm? Okay. Maybe he took an early bike ride and got to Royale Court before Evie arrived. I envisioned him entering the bathroom from the Lilliput side, turning the light on, and locking the door. But he didn’t lift the toilet seat? Fell with his feet against the vanity? No, that couldn’t be. Fell and writhed on the floor, then died with his feet against the vanity, knees bent? That didn’t quite work, either.

  I was glad to leave the investigation to the authorities and glad to have some observations to report when Jim Bergen began his inevitable grilling.

  A few minutes later, a young woman from the restaurant brought us coffee and a plate of beignets. “Adrian thought you could use something.”

  “Thank him for us, honey,” Evie told her.

  I tried to avoid caffeine, but this was the time to make an exception. The coffee was hot and the beignets still warm and sweet. Delicious, and the powdered sugar would wash out of my turquoise sweater. I did try to keep it off Evie’s jacket.

  Lieutenant Montgomery walked out of the knit shop giving directions. “Get some tape across these walkways.” She pointed. “And get statements from these ladies so they can go home. I’ll take Ms. Mack.”

  I put the last beignet on a napkin and handed it to her. We moved to the next table and I answered questions: why were we there, what time had we arrived, exactly what had we done in the interval before discovering the body?

  Other officers asked Nita and Evie questions.

  There was a little disturbance when Ann arrived. I was sitting with a view of Skinny Alley and saw her duck under a strand of yellow crime scene tape and charge across the courtyard with a cop following after her.

  “Evie!” Ann snapped. “What happened?”

  Evie hopped up and went to meet her.

  Montgomery got up, too, but I signaled to call her back. “The shop was supposed to be locked when we got here, but it wasn’t.”

  She gave me one of her famous scowls. “You said Ms. Slump was here when you arrived.”

  I pointed toward Skinny Alley. “She was in the parking lot back there. She asked if Nita had the key, and Nita showed it to her. But when we got to the door, it was unlocked. I’m certain. Nita’s husband is Jim Bergen. He has a—”

  “Oh, yes. Jim Bergen.” She nodded and glanced at Nita. “Yes, I know the Bergens. So, she tried the knob first?”

  I nodded. “We even talked about it when we saw it was unlocked. She said Jim taught her to always check.”

  She nodded again, somewhat wearily, then turned. “Ms. Slump, I’d like a word with you.” She pointed to a vacant table but glanced back and tapped my table.

  “You wait here.”

  Ann was too antsy to sit. She and Montgomery stood in front of the knit shop. I could hear Montgomery clearly, ten feet away, since conversation in the courtyard had dropped to almost nothing. Everyone was eavesdropping.

  “What time did you arrive this morning, and what did you do?”

  “Eight o’clock,” Ann answered quickly. “What happened?”

  “Did you see Mr. Wheat?”

  “No.” She pointed to the courtyard. “I blew the leaves off the pavers and watered the poinsettias. Straightened up the chairs and tables, too. Lot of good that did.” She scowled and pointed to the gumbo shop. “Boudreau was here but nobody else. What’s happened to Devon? Is he all right?”

  “And where’ve you been?”

  Ann looked annoyed and glanced at her sister. “Prissy and I had an appointment at the hotel at nine. We just got back. Devon wasn�
�t here, I can tell you that. He comes in at ten.”

  “Did you enter the bathroom?”

  “The bathroom? Don’t tell me he was in the bathroom. Is he dead?” She frowned. “One of my customers could’ve walked in there.” She looked at Nita. “Did the knitters come?”

  Nita shook her head.

  Montgomery stepped between Ann and Nita. “I’ll ask the questions, ladies.”

  We really didn’t know if the knitters had come or not. They didn’t get into the knit shop, but they might be standing behind the barriers right now. I glanced toward Skinny Alley and saw a young woman stoop and come under the yellow tape.

  “Here’s Prissy,” Ann said.

  Prissy was thirtysomething and resembled Ann in size and energy, but with a mass of reddish hair, shoulder length. She must’ve been waiting for the first cool day to break out high-heeled boots, which she wore with a narrow skirt and oversized jacket. She looked at Evie and pointed a finger as she went by, like she was giving the Pillsbury Doughboy a belly button.

  “Auntie Ann, what’s happened? Are you okay?”

  Ann turned back to Montgomery. “I guess the shop has to be closed for a while? What about the restaurant? He’s cooked already, and the servers count on tips.”

  Montgomery glanced toward the sidewalk on de la Mare, where a few people, perhaps the missing knitters, stood watching. Or perhaps they were customers arriving for an early lunch of gumbo.

  “Thursday and Friday are their big days.” Ann piled it on.

  Montgomery summoned a uniformed cop and gestured as she gave directions. “Move the tape this way so customers can get to the gumbo shop. Give them access to a few tables over there. But only if they’re actually eating. We don’t need more gawkers.”

  She turned her attention back to Ann. “They’re about to have a record day. Now, where were we? You went to the knit shop next?”

  “Well, let me think.” Ann watched the relocation of the crime scene tape. “I got to the courtyard before eight. Cleaned up out here, went around back, and put the leaf blower and hose in the toolshed. And kept going to the parking lot to meet my friends. That was at eight forty-five, wasn’t it, Nita?” She glanced at Nita, then back at Montgomery. “Is that what you asked, Mary? I’m a little distracted, naturally.”