Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  “My father’s first car, in England,” Nita elaborated with a smile.

  “Think he’ll know British cars?” Travis asked Jim.

  “I should get back to work. I don’t want Patti dealing with him by herself.”

  Travis looked at me. “Why not?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. Just silliness.”

  “There’s nothing silly about that man,” Nita said. “That’s the problem. He’s so deadly serious. Here, Jim. Take this.” She handed him her bag and slid across the bench.

  Travis was giving me a puzzled look. “There’s something wrong with Handleman? He seems well informed on automobiles and investments.”

  “Well informed, yes,” Nita answered. “He came for tea and he’s a gentleman.”

  But Jim knew. “It’s his eyes. Good man for interrogation work. We would’ve made a good team.”

  It gave me a little chill to hear him say things like that. Sometimes I thought I wouldn’t have wanted to know Jim Bergen in his prime.

  On the drive back to Fairhope, Nita previewed their plans. “We’re going to the concours in the morning, then staying home the rest of the weekend. What about you, Travis?”

  “I’m going down there right now. Want to go see some old cars, Jim?”

  Jim shook his head. “I’ve got paperwork waiting and Handleman’s photo session at three. I’ll miss the poker group today. Do you play poker, Travis?”

  “Not for a long time. I’ve moved on to other forms of gambling.”

  I wondered what he referred to but didn’t ask.

  Nita and Jim did ask about his family, including the sister-in-law they’d known when she worked at Fairhope. I’d heard all that already and let my thoughts drift away. The budget for the coming year was requiring me to prioritize appliance upgrades, roofing, and raises for staff. The coming year would be a critical one for our facility. I glanced at Travis, thinking of questions I should ask while he was there.

  Travis stopped in front of the Bergens’ apartment and walked around to assist Nita and Jim. I hopped out, too.

  “Thanks for lunch,” I told him. “I’m feeling much better now.”

  “We’ll see you at the lecture tonight,” Nita said.

  I nodded. “Are the show cars here already?”

  Travis answered. “Some of them, I understand. Want to go see?”

  “Lord, no. Have fun, though.”

  I waved to everyone and walked to the big house.

  Chapter 5

  Stewart was in the lobby when I went in, assessing the number of chairs. “How many people do we expect tonight?”

  I glanced around to see who was listening before I answered in a soft voice. “I can’t believe there’s been so much interest in these lectures. Can it go on another night? We could wait until the last minute and see if the ballroom chairs are sufficient. That assumes you’ll be here to bring in more chairs if there’s another overflow crowd.”

  “I’m enjoying his talks. I’ll be here. I heard you were the one who found Devon Wheat’s body.”

  “Yes, with Nita Bergen.” I sighed. “Poor man.”

  Stewart was wearing jeans and a denim shirt, worn work boots, and his tool belt. He shook his head sadly and got a faraway look in his eyes. “Tough.”

  “He was a friend of yours, I heard. I’m sorry.”

  His gaze swung to the koi pond. A butterfly flittered across the walkway and landed on a dill plant.

  “We were in Afghanistan together. Lately he’s been at the Bistro pretty much every time I go in there. Not the nicest guy. A smart-ass.”

  “Stewart, I didn’t know you went to Afghanistan. Army?”

  He nodded. “Lot of guys couldn’t take it. Devon covered up at first, but he was messed up.”

  “Drugs? Alcohol?”

  He shrugged. “He never came to meetings. Maybe he was always messed up. The little man complex, you know. A know-it-all compensating with money. Or trying to.”

  I nodded, trying to understand what he meant. Devon Wheat had been a small person in the physical sense, but there were other measures. Maybe Stewart meant dishonest?

  “His wife left him.”

  “I heard. Will there be a service here?”

  He shrugged. “The body hasn’t been released yet. And may not be for a while, depending on what they find. And I’m not sure who’s calling the shots, as far as family. The wife, I guess, since she’s got the kids.”

  He paused before slapping the back of a chair. The noise was surprisingly loud in the cavernous lobby. “Well, off to the salt mines. The ballroom’s set up the way Handleman wanted for this photo thing. I’ll rearrange it for tonight as soon as they finish up in there.”

  “Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘depending on what they find’ with Wheat? Do you know something?”

  He glanced at me and shrugged. “I know he wasn’t the nicest guy in town. I’m always suspicious when somebody like that just happens to croak. You know what I mean?” He touched the brim of his cap in a slouchy salute and headed down the hall, tool belt clanking.

  Maybe Stewart was another person who thought hoofbeats meant zebras.

  * * * *

  Marmalade is lost!

  That’s what the note on my office door said, in big, black letters.

  I assumed it explained why Patti’s desk was vacant, which was just as well, because through the window behind my desk, I could see Reg Handleman walking with big strides across the driveway, heading for the main entrance. It was early for the photo session, but perhaps he had preparations to make. I locked the office again and headed for Assisted Living to check on the orange kitten. If one of them disappeared, the residents would be frantic. Some of the staff, too.

  Handleman was coming across the lobby, aiming for Patti’s desk.

  “Everything going well?” I asked him.

  “Very. I was wondering as I walked down here, what do you get for these apartments?” He gestured toward Harbor Boulevard.

  I told him the rental rate. “That’s what I pay for two bedrooms with a screened porch and a space in the community garage. There are less expensive options if you want a smaller apartment, or no screened porch, or if you don’t mind being on the second floor. Would you like to meet Wilma, our rental agent?”

  “If it’s convenient, sure.”

  “Are you thinking about moving south?” I led him down the hall but when I could see the rental office, it was closed. “Apparently she’s out. She may be showing an apartment now.”

  We walked slowly back to the lobby.

  “What’s there to do here, normally? I mean, when there’s no auto show going on.” In spite of his eyes, he had a nice smile.

  “Everybody seems to find something that suits them. What do you like? Art, community theater, shopping?”

  “Well, I’d like to see an apartment while I’m here, if it’s not too much trouble. I’m familiar with the guest suite but I’d need one of the upscale models. I should’ve asked earlier, I know.”

  “I can show you mine right now, if you just want an idea of what they look like. Do you have time?” I looked at my watch and wondered if he hadn’t visited with his old friend Charlie Levine since he arrived. “I’m in the first building here.”

  He accepted immediately. “I’ve got some time before the photo revue.”

  I took out my key and headed for the door. “It’s not professionally decorated or anything. Not even cleaned up for company.”

  “Even better,” he said jovially and followed me. “I’m glad I didn’t have to ask your assistant.”

  I was glad, too, but didn’t admit it. “Patti’s a master at helping people.”

  We left the big house and I pointed to the sidewalk we’d be taking. “These two buildings, the ones nearest the administration building, have gara
ges. The other buildings have assigned parking and there are plenty of spaces for guests. Parking’s never a problem here, although it may be tomorrow.”

  He was interested in the shuttle service that would run Friday and Saturday, making loops from the car show to Harbor Village every thirty minutes.

  “The public will park in our lots or at the shopping center and ride down to the polo club. I think the charge is a dollar each direction. They’ve got buses running from the parking deck in town, too.”

  “There’s a parking deck in town? I missed that somehow, but I’ve tried several of your restaurants. Fairhope is a nice little community. I mentioned your assistant Patti. I wonder if it’s just me, or does she have a problem with black people? Do you have any black residents here?”

  “At Harbor Village? Well, I can’t think of any offhand.” His train of thought addled me, jumping from Patti to black residents. “I’ve only been here since August and I’m still meeting people who live here, and we don’t keep any records about race. Of course, you don’t always know—I don’t, at least. We do have several black staff members.”

  “Housekeepers and dishwashers, you mean?”

  “Well…housekeepers, yes. And some of the CNAs and a driver. We’d welcome black residents, though, if you know anyone interested.”

  He gave me one of his penetrating looks. “I’m black, Cleo. I thought Southerners could always tell.” He laughed, and I did, too. “May I still see your apartment?”

  “Here we are.”

  We entered through the screened porch and I gave him a tour of the apartment—living/dining combo, kitchen, two bedrooms, and two baths.

  Tinkerbelle was on the corner of my bed and Handleman stopped to pet her. “I see pets are allowed.”

  “Under thirty pounds. And there’s a pet fee.”

  “That’s good. People give up enough to move to a place like this. They shouldn’t have to give up their pets, too.”

  “I don’t see it that way at all.” I risked another of his probing looks. “Of course, I’m still working, but a retirement community is just a new phase, not necessarily a demotion or a winding down. Happier, maybe. Tinkerbelle lived here before I moved in.”

  He leaped to a conclusion. “You mean her owner died.”

  “No, moved off and left her. Tinkerbelle survived on her own, outside, for a month or two, but she was quite happy to return to domesticity.”

  He frowned while he gave Tinkerbelle a few more strokes. “We don’t have many strays in South Bend. Our winters are too severe, I guess. Fairhope cats have it easy.”

  Tinkerbelle was still purring but she narrowed her yellow eyes down to slits, and I rushed to defend her. “Fairhope cats are plenty tough. If they’re outside, they have to deal with hawks and eagles and coyotes and all the little vermin like fleas and ticks and internal parasites.”

  “Really? Well, Tinkerbelle, you’re a survivor. And you’ve got it easy now.”

  He seemed in no hurry to depart, but I didn’t really like men standing around in my bedroom. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

  He looked at his watch. “If it’s a quick one. You won’t be offended if I drink and run?”

  We went to the kitchen and I told him more about Harbor Village and answered a few questions. While the tea brewed, we went on a quick tour of the public parts of the building. I pointed out the mailboxes, the gas fireplace, and a table with a jigsaw puzzle in process.

  “This building and the one across the street have interior courtyards. All the apartment buildings have nice lounges with a kitchen, and residents get together there for bridge or potlucks or parties with their families.”

  Georgina came out of her apartment beside the entrance.

  “Mr. Handleman.” She recognized him from the lectures. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to move to Harbor Village?”

  He told her he was thinking about it and she asked the critical question, “Are you a single man?”

  “Not for the last forty-five years.” He laughed.

  Usually, the second question asked about a new man was whether he could still drive at night, but I hurried him back while the tea was hot and Georgina never got to that.

  We had tea and lemon thins on the screened porch and Handleman told me about his black mother, from Mississippi, and the white father he’d never known.

  “I suppose you wonder why, when I could live as a white person, I choose to say I’m black.”

  “Yes, I did wonder.”

  “I think about what black people have accomplished in the last hundred and fifty years, going from slavery to the presidency, attorney general, chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, successful work in chemistry and space science and medicine. The University of Alabama quarterback is black, can you believe that? I just can’t deny that part of myself. Or my mother, who worked so hard to give me a start in life.”

  Finally, he mentioned his wife. “She’s black, and she’s reluctant to move South. I thought you might give me some ammunition for persuading her.”

  I understood. “It’s more of an issue than people acknowledge, but most overt segregation is along economic lines, not color. I like to think that younger people won’t even know about racial divisions.”

  “Ha! I like to think about time travel but that doesn’t make it happen.”

  I shrugged. “What can I say? I’m an idealist.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’d like to be involved on the ground floor with this car show. It’s going to be big, you know. And Charlie Levine’s sitting here twiddling his thumbs, the lucky jerk. Have you been out to the polo field? Perfect setting. If only it won’t rain.”

  I looked at my watch, and he remembered his photo session. I took our dishes to the kitchen and locked up and we chatted as we walked back to the big house.

  “You know Mobile’s the rainiest place in the country most years,” I told him. “Rainier than Seattle, even. But this is the dry season, or what passes for dry. And the weather looks good right now.”

  There were at least twenty people waiting in the ballroom, clutching scrapbooks and photo albums or individual snapshots. I turned on the lights while Reg Handleman directed participants to one side of the long row of tables Stewart had arranged down the center of the room.

  “We’ll let you keep one table,” he told Lizzie, who was setting up a container of coffee and arranging cups and spoons and the usual additives for the afternoon session. “But we’ll need all the others. Now people, take a seat and stake out the table space you need to lay out your photographs in front of you. Everyone on the other side of the tables, please, facing me. I need a long runway here.”

  He opened his briefcase and removed a white disc, about the size of a thick bagel. He gave it a twist and it popped open, turning into a bright light, with no cord necessary. Then he laid out a variety of magnifying devices.

  “We’ll move right down the table. You can follow me if you like, but leave your photos in place so there are no delays. I may have to pay a return visit to the difficult ones. And maybe we’ll make a little display for tonight’s lecture, depending on what we find.”

  I went to stand with Mr. Levine beside the garden doors. “Everything under control?”

  He nodded morosely. “He’s staying until Sunday at least.”

  “Well, you’ve done a marvelous job. Everyone has enjoyed his talks.”

  “Hmph,” he said.

  “I thought you were friends.”

  Levine gave me a look of distaste bordering on pain.

  “He just told me you’re a lucky man.”

  Levine’s head snapped up. “Was he talking about Eloise?”

  What had I stepped into? “No, he didn’t mention Eloise. He just said you’re a lucky guy.”

  Levine looked toward Handleman, raised his eyebrows, and stood a little str
aighter.

  I smiled and looked back at our visitor. “I wonder how he learned about our lecture series. You must’ve mentioned it.”

  He shook his head. “No. Not me.”

  That left Eloise. I patted his shoulder and went out, around the koi pond, and across the drive to the Assisted Living building. The porch was empty and the automatic door slid open with a swoosh.

  There was a crowd in the sitting room, gathered around Patti. She was wearing green glasses today, and had Marmalade, the orange kitten, snuggled up against her cheek.

  Crisis averted.

  The kitten had grown since I last saw him and, at about six months of age, was in that gawky, teenage phase of cat life.

  “Here’s Cleo. Say hello to Auntie Cleo.” Patti waved his little white paw at me. “You’ll never guess where he was.”

  “Sleeping in my bed,” Joanie Ross crowed. “Just a big lump under the covers! Thinks he owns this whole building.”

  I rubbed his fuzzy, orange-striped head and he sniffed my fingers. “Where are your buddies?” I asked the kitten.

  Patti gestured around the room. “They’re all here.”

  I made a circuit of the sitting room, stroking the other three kittens and talking with residents. Ivy watched from the back hall. I ended my circuit beside her and asked how things were going.

  “Busy. We’re officially full. Got a couple of respites for a week, and Mrs. Hocutt for a few days, before she goes home. Come speak to her.” Ivy nodded toward a woman sitting in a wingback chair, a wheelchair beside her and the tuxedo kitten in her lap. She introduced me. “Mrs. Hocutt and her husband, Tom, live in the private houses on Andrews Street. She just had a hip replaced this week.”

  “And you can leave the hospital so soon?” I wouldn’t have thought so.

  “That’s what they say.” Mrs. Hocutt didn’t look like a convalescent. She wore gray sweatpants with a red tunic that matched her lipstick. She must’ve spent the morning having her hair done. “The therapists are coming here so I can be near Tom.”

  “Hips are easy compared to knees,” Ivy explained. “And she’s got a sweet husband at home who can help her. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Hocutt? You’ll be back with him in no time.”