Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  “You were driving and didn’t tell me anything. What happened?”

  My laptop was ready and waiting. I clicked on the mail icon and watched messages tumble in as I told Stephanie all about Nita and the knit shop and the body on the floor.

  “And was it an aneurysm, like you thought?”

  “No. He was strangled.”

  There was a pause. I scanned the list of messages.

  “Strangled? Mom, do you mean murdered?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  Long pause. “You wouldn’t come to Birmingham because of crime and now you’re in the middle of a murder investigation, for the second time in six months. This isn’t normal.”

  I didn’t disagree. “You’re right. It’s not. But it’s not like I’m caught in a shootout or a drug bust or something. We have very civilized crime here. Murders for revenge, or jealousy, or…” Actually, I couldn’t imagine why somebody would want to kill a financial advisor. “Maybe he lost somebody’s savings in a shady investment. Or maybe a romance went wrong, although I can’t imagine a young woman strangling her lover.”

  “You do know I’m married to a financial analyst.” Stephanie got all huffy. “He doesn’t deal with clients directly, but he makes decisions that advisors repeat, that affect people’s wealth. I’d hate to think some maniac might start shooting at him.”

  “Devon Wheat was strangled, not shot.”

  “Oh, well. That’s totally different.” She was being sarcastic. “In his office, right?”

  “Hmm, probably. But the body was left in a bathroom.”

  “Oh, well then, that’s fine. I’ll just tell Boyd to avoid offices and bathrooms.”

  “Maybe it was an angry wife.”

  She snorted. “Or a sarcastic mother. I hear they’re especially deadly.”

  I saw a message from a former colleague and scanned it. “Kate Bradshaw sent me a note. One of the new grad students had a meltdown and had to be hospitalized. She’s got to rearrange a bunch of placements to preserve confidentiality.”

  “See what you’re missing, Mom? The campus can be dangerous, too. Maybe you can get a double dose, madness and murder. Exactly where is this knit shop where people get strangled? Is it in Fairhope? The one your neighbor’s involved with?”

  “Ann started it, but she’s turned it over to a niece to run. It’s in Royale Court, a cute little area in the middle of town. Have you seen it?”

  “Hmm. I think it’s for sale. Remember when I talked to Patti a few days ago and she thought I was moving to Fairhope?”

  “You never did tell me what that was about. But the knit shop wouldn’t be for sale.” I was confident. “Ann and her family own the whole complex.”

  “Well, don’t be too sure. One of my quilters heard me talking about Fairhope. Her husband’s in commercial real estate and has a listing for a quilting shop. Guess where? Fairhope. That’s what I was asking Patti about.”

  “A quilt shop’s not the same as a knit shop.”

  “I know that, Mom. The listing says it’s the perfect location for a knit shop or a quilt shop or an art gallery, anything like that.”

  “And it’s in Fairhope? Ann will hate that. There couldn’t be enough business for two knit shops here. She’s already complaining.”

  “Well, check it out. Not that I’m really interested. Just curious.”

  I told her about the Saturday night gala and threw in a little bitching about Travis. “After I arranged for a table, your father is backing out and going home early.”

  “I wish I were there. I’d go to the gala and you could stay home with Barry.”

  “And how is Barry?”

  “Teething. And he wants a dog.”

  “That’s funny. I was thinking about T-Bone Pickens earlier tonight. Do you remember him?” T-Bone was our little beagle mix when Stephanie was young.

  “Of course I do. Who could forget a dog with green poop? I don’t think Barry’s old enough for a dog so don’t tell him about T-Bone. I’m not admitting I ever had one. He was cute, though, wasn’t he? Remember those velvety ears? How’s Nita? And my buddy Riley. Is he back yet?”

  If she only knew. “I saw them tonight. They’re all going to the banquet Saturday. We got a table for Harbor Village.”

  “What’re you going to wear?”

  “I don’t have many options. Old faithful, I suppose.”

  “Definitely,” she said. “But now that you’re a big shot executive, you should have another fancy outfit. Several, in fact. Let’s shop next time you’re here. Okay, I take that back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you always weasel out of shopping trips. I’ll have to spring the idea on you.”

  She was right about that. And now with the black pants available from Amazon, I might never see the inside of a department store again.

  When we hung up, I clicked the TV on and watched the lead story on local news. Three different reporters had segments on Devon Wheat’s murder, and there was footage of Royale Court that made it look rather exotic. The camera stayed on Prissy a long time. She was a pretty young woman. I wondered how well she knew Devon Wheat.

  There was no report from Harbor Village about tonight’s lecture. That would probably come tomorrow.

  On a whim, I swiveled back to the computer and did a Google search, keying in a jumble of terms like commercial, for sale, knit shop, Alabama. I scrolled through a long list of items that went back years and had no relation to the topic but finally found one that looked promising. “Trendy Gulf Coast location.” That sounded like Fairhope, but to be honest, it could be anywhere from Tampa to Brownsville.

  Since I was looking up things, I keyed in Devon Wheat’s name and found a dozen sites listing his office location, age, and phone number. There was only one review of his performance as a financial advisor, and it was from three years ago. It gave him three stars out of five because he kept someone waiting twenty minutes. He had a Facebook page, too, but it was all about bicycles. There was a bunch of photos from bike races and a personal section that said he was single and interested in women. Judging by the comments posted on his page, he knew a lot of trivial, semi-literate people, but the last post was months ago. I didn’t see anything predicting murder.

  I shut down the computer and closed up the apartment for the night.

  In the bedroom, I pulled out clothes to put on in the morning, brushed Tinkerbelle, took my shower, and completed a Sudoku puzzle before I was finally ready to drop off to sleep. But as soon as I closed my eyes, I thought about Handleman’s little contest and popped wide awake.

  There was no chance Todd Barnwell would’ve known those cars. Not a kid like him, not even if he’d been a car buff. His memory might go as far back as PT Cruisers, but that was about it.

  And was I really likely to do much better—a middle-aged female social worker? I’d played over my head due to coincidence, like owning a Beetle and parking between two BMWs every workday for the last four or five years. And anyway, I was pretty sure Handleman had wanted Patti for the contest, and she would’ve known even less than Todd.

  No, our expert had selected his stooges very carefully. But why had he wanted Travis to win? What was the point of that? I couldn’t think of any.

  Chapter 9

  I got up Friday morning and fed the cat, started the coffee, and went back to the bedroom to dress. When I came out a second time, looking presentable for the office, I usually went around the apartment opening blinds and curtains and turning on CNN to get the morning news as I made breakfast. On Friday I got to the glass door that opened to the screened porch, opened the blinds, and saw a note taped to the outside. I retrieved it.

  “Help!” it said, in big letters. “Can you come for breakfast and give me some advice? Any time after six.” The note was from my neighbor, Ann Slump. Since the clock said it was almost seven
, I cut the coffee maker off, took the carafe along in case Ann didn’t have decaf, and went next door. This had never happened before and I was hoping nothing was wrong.

  There were six apartment buildings at Harbor Village, three on either side of the main boulevard. My building and the similar one across the street were now officially designated Three South and Three North, but they were called the donut buildings because they had central courtyards and looked a little like a square donut in aerial photos.

  To get from my apartment to Ann’s, I had a choice of the interior route, through the courtyard, or the outdoor route, which involved going through my screened porch, out onto the sidewalk, then in at Ann’s screened porch. That was the route I chose.

  Ann opened her door as soon as I stepped on the porch. She was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a patterned shirt, with one of Evie’s fleece jackets in a bright teal color that complemented her red hair.

  “I saw you called last night,” I told her. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  She took the carafe out of my hand.

  “It’s decaf.”

  She nodded. “I figured. I’ve about finished the regular.”

  “Then you’ve been up awhile. And you were out late last night.”

  “That’s why I need to talk to you. You’re the only person I know who’s experienced with the police.”

  “Well, thanks, Ann. You make me sound like a criminal.”

  “You know what I mean. Come sit at the table. Breakfast is in the kitchen, staying hot. I’ll get it.”

  Ann went to the kitchen and I looked around. Ann’s apartment was a lot like her knit shop, full of interesting things, warm colors, and intriguing textures, with cozy spots for sitting. This morning the apartment had some enticing aromas, too.

  The big, round table could seat eight or ten, or maybe twelve if they got along well. The couch looked like it had been expensive a long time ago. The apartment was clean but there were projects everywhere—books and magazines, baskets with yarn and knitting needles, a gallon jug half full of coins, a stack of quilted coasters, and an oval quilting frame with a lap quilt stretched tight. There was one of those rocker/glider chairs with a matching footstool, angled in front of the window. I could see that was where Ann sat most of the time. Not that she ever sat very much. A gooseneck floor lamp was close by, adjustable to illuminate knitting projects or quilting or books.

  There was a stack of unopened mail on the coffee table, catalogs in one stack, letters and bills in a shorter one with a brass letter opener lying on top. There was a stack of videos, too, most of them with stickers showing they came from the Fairhope library. The one on top was Fried Green Tomatoes. I knew the book, written by Fannie Flagg, a sometimes resident of Fairhope.

  Ann bustled in and out of the kitchen, bringing dishes to the table and muttering to herself.

  “Do you know Fannie Flagg?” I asked.

  “She looked at one of the houses back there but didn’t want to leave the bay.” She indicated the private houses on Andrews Street, across the fence from us.

  “Can I help with something?”

  “No. Just sit down.”

  She poured coffee for each of us, then itemized the components of breakfast, pointing things out as she named them. “There’s scrambled eggs and bacon, sausage, and grits. I made biscuits an hour ago, but they’re keeping hot. Two kinds of jelly, homemade. Fresh berries. I think they came from Florida but they’re tasty. Butter. Salt. Pepper. What else do you need?”

  “A few days in the gym after I eat. Now, tell me what’s bothering you.”

  She got the biscuits from the oven and took the chair closest to the kitchen. I sat across the round table.

  Soft cloth napkins. Had she made them, too?

  “My brother’s the problem.”

  “Usher,” I said.

  Ann looked at me. “You know him? I didn’t realize that.”

  “No, I haven’t met him. But Nita told me about the vowel names.”

  “Momma would die again if she knew how he’s acting.”

  The food was hot and good. I ground some black pepper on top of my eggs because I liked the way it looked, black spots on bright yellow. Then I added pepper to the grits because I didn’t usually like grits unless they had shrimp on top. But then I tried Ann’s. “What did you do to the grits?”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing. They’re tasty.”

  “Of course they’re tasty. And good for you, too. Something about the lye they use to make hominy. I forget the details. Did you put a little butter on them?”

  There was a rogue’s gallery of family photographs on the wall beside the table, maybe thirty in all. “Show me your siblings.”

  She smeared jelly on a biscuit, then took a bite and studied the photographs while she chewed. “Here’s a picture of the five of us together, but that was a long time ago. You can pick me out. We’re lined up by age. And Evie’s here a couple of times, right here and down there by you, on the bottom row. Irene’s dead, but here’s the last photo I have of her. Olivia, let’s see—here she is. Beautiful Olivia. She lives in England, you know.”

  I didn’t know. “She is beautiful. Do you see her often?”

  Olivia had large eyes and a solemn expression and was twice Ann’s size. She looked like Grace Kelly, if I remembered correctly.

  “Not often enough. She comes every February and stays six weeks. She’s married to a snob who won’t come here and thinks she shouldn’t.”

  “But she comes anyway?” I took a bite of crisp bacon. It wasn’t something I ate often but I’d never lost my appreciation.

  “Of course she does. This is her home. We have our business meeting while she’s here and she goes back with lots of money, so the snob’s happy again.”

  “What kind of business meeting?”

  “Royale Court, mostly. Evie and I developed it, you know. But we used family funds to get started, so it just seemed fair that the others should profit, too, and once it was set up that way, we were stuck. And they certainly have benefited. I thought it’d get everybody involved, you know, that we’d all stay here and work together. Well, we did for a while. Everybody did a stint at Royale Court, at least summers. Even Usher ran a shop for a while, but now we just say he’s the manager and let him do what he wants.”

  “How many shops are there?”

  “We’ve added on a couple of times and we have twelve now. I don’t want thirteen. Might be bad luck.” She laughed. “More bad luck, I mean.”

  “How can you look after twelve shops?”

  “Honey, we’ve cut way back. But not as much as we need to.”

  She got another biscuit, split it open, and slid in a pat of butter. I thought she seemed distracted and nervous, and I still didn’t know why she’d invited me.

  “The family attorney thought we should have a corporation and created one for the five of us. Or four, with Irene gone. It doesn’t matter to Prissy. She gets her money. She’s married to an IT guy with a big income. He wants her to travel with him instead of running a shop. And the family corporation does give Olivia an excuse to come for a long visit.”

  “You don’t have children, do you?”

  “No. Evie and I never married. Not that it’s a requirement for having children, but it used to be, back in our day. Irene had Prissy. Olivia has two, a boy and a girl, but I wouldn’t know them if they walked in here. And Usherr’s got two with different mamas.”

  “And where’s Usher’s photograph?”

  She looked at the photo display. “Don’t tell me he’s not up here. Well, he’s in the group photo. You can see what he looked like when he was six.” She laughed.

  He looked like a pale boy with a big head. I looked at my watch. “What’s your problem with the police?”

  She got up and brought the
coffee carafe from the kitchen before she answered. Stalling. “They questioned Usher about Devon Wheat.”

  I gave her a chance to say more but she didn’t. “They questioned me, too. Asked me some questions, anyway. Didn’t they talk with you?”

  She nodded. “Yes. But they picked Usher up and took him to the station. Didn’t let him go until almost midnight.”

  “Unless there’s something you haven’t told me, it still doesn’t sound very serious. Did Usher work closely with Devon Wheat? Were they friends? Or just landlord and tenant?”

  She shook her head. “Like I said, we call Usher the manager. He’s got problems, you know. He knew Devon Wheat, yes, but they weren’t friends. There’s an age difference, for one thing, but Usher’s emotionally unstable. I don’t think either one of them had friends.”

  “Is that a clinical diagnosis?”

  She nodded. “Emotionally unstable, impulsive, I forget what else. He saw a counselor once, I think, and never went back.”

  “Where was he Wednesday night? If he’s the manager, he must know everybody in the courtyard. What has he told you about the murder?”

  “Nothing. And that’s the problem, the reason I’m worried. He’s not talking, just says he was at home. I wonder if he’s drinking, but he’s admitting nothing. He’s just not himself. I was hoping you’d heard something, like maybe they already have a suspect.” She looked at me hopefully.

  I shook my head, sorry to disappoint her. “Does Usher have an attorney? You could find someone to advise him.”

  “Won’t the cops think that’s a sign of something? I don’t want to hire somebody if it’s going to make him look guilty.”

  “Ann, do you think he might be guilty?”

  She froze, watching me, and pressed her lips thin. My heart sank before she answered. “I don’t know.”

  It looked like she knew something she didn’t want to tell me. It was as though saying the words would make it true. How was I to advise her if she couldn’t tell me her suspicions?

  “What does Evie say?”